Free 05 Please Sir! by Jack Sheffield

really understand the noble sport of conkers.
    ‘Ah’m ready when you are,’ said Alice.
    Heathcliffe turned to his little brother Terry and whispered, ‘Don’t worry, ah’ve gorra coupla laggies.’ These so-called ‘laggies’ were conkers from the previous year and left to harden in a tin in his father’s garden shed. ‘Ah’ve baked one in t’oven and t’other ah’ve soaked in vinegar.’ His father had put the conkers in a vice and bored a small hole with his hand-drill. A length of orange unbreakable baling twine provided the final touch. Heathcliffe took his conkers very seriously.
    However, Alice’s father, Campbell Baxter – already nicknamed ‘Two Soups’ in the village – had also been a conker champion in his day. Every October he bought his unsuspecting wife a supply of a special brand of nail varnish and every year he used it to give his conker selection a rock hard, if shiny, finish.
    To Heathcliffe’s surprise, it was over in minutes. Alice made short work of his ‘laggies’ and their shattered remnants lay at his feet. However, she was gracious in victory and explained to Heathcliffe that she had been ‘lucky’. Heathcliffe readily agreed and by the start of afternoon school he thought that perhaps for the first time in his young life it might be possible to be friends with a girl .
    Meanwhile, Ruby and Ronnie were carrying the trestle tables from the entrance hall to the school hall and Vera was covering them with snowy-white tablecloths.
    ‘We have to show decorum when the bishop arrives,’ said Vera to Ruby and Ronnie.
    ‘Dick who?’ asked the bemused Ronnie.
    ‘No, it means yer ’ave t’be polite, Ronnie,’ explained Ruby. ‘This bishop’s really himportant.’
    ‘Ah see,’ said Ronnie. ‘Well, ’ave no fear, Miss Evans, we’ll watch us p’s and q’s an’ ah’ll do as ah’m told, even though me back is ’urting.’
    Vera looked at Ruby and shook her head sadly. Then she returned to the hall to arrange the trestle tables while the nervous Joseph stood by the window, rehearsing his first prayer.
    Back in my classroom the sharp-eyed Theresa said, ‘Big flash car coming up t’drive, Mr Sheffield.’
    A large white 1979 Volvo 245 Estate pulled up in the car park and a short, cherubic, bespectacled man wearing a bishop’s ankle-length purple cassock walked into the entrance hall. He was carrying his chimere, an outer, blood-red garment with snowy-white cuffs, his pectoral cross and a long thin case that looked as if he was going to a snooker tournament. We were later to discover it contained his solid silver pastoral staff in the shape of a shepherd’s crook.
    Joseph rushed to the entrance hall to meet him. ‘Ah, Neil, Neil!’ he exclaimed.
    Ronnie immediately did as he was told. He knelt down on one knee, bowed his head and removed his bobble hat. After all, thought Ronnie, it was the bishop.
    ‘Gerrup, y’soft ha’porth,’ hissed Ruby in his ear. She gave a hesitant curtsy. ‘Scuse us, your severance,’ she said and exited quickly into the school hall, dragging Ronnie with one hand and a trestle table with the other.
    ‘Good afternoon, Joseph,’ said Bishop Neil, unperturbed by the unorthodox welcome. Joseph nodded nervously and gulped.
    Vera suddenly appeared and smiled calmly. ‘Welcome to Ragley, Bishop,’ she said. ‘I’m Vera Evans.’
    ‘Hello, Miss Evans,’ said Bishop Neil. ‘I’ve heard so much about your good work in the parish.’
    ‘Thank you, Bishop … I do what I can,’ said Vera with, she hoped, sufficient modesty. ‘Perhaps you would like some tea and then I’ll let the headteacher, Mr Sheffield, know you have arrived?’
    ‘That would be very welcome, Miss Evans,’ said the bishop, with a charming smile. The thick lenses in his spectacles gave him the look of a friendly owl.
    ‘I’ll put the kettle on in the staff-room: it’s more comfortable in there,’ she said.
    While Joseph and Bishop Neil talked in the entrance