Read 04 Village Teacher for Free Online

he said and patted me on the back.
    I watched him tap gently on the office door and walk in.
    ‘Good afternoon, Vera,’ he said.
    ‘Oh, Rupert!’ Vera’s cheeks reddened slightly.
    ‘Please excuse the intrusion, Vera,’ he said.
    ‘Of course,’ said Vera, quickly removing an error-strewn letter from the typewriter. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
    He took a large brass timepiece from his waistcoat pocket. ‘I’m afraid duty calls, Vera. I only called in to catch up on the latest school closure news.’
    Vera stood up and took a file from her beautifully organized filing cabinet. ‘It’s all in here, Rupert. Perhaps you can let me have it back next week.’
    ‘Why not call round for tea on Saturday and I can return it then?’ said the major.
    Vera reddened again. ‘Well … perhaps, Rupert. I’ll let you know.’
    The major stroked his neatly trimmed moustache thoughtfully, studied her strained appearance and quickly summed up the situation. ‘My word, what’s this?’ he said.
    ‘It’s my new typewriter,’ said Vera, ‘and I’m afraid it’s proving rather difficult to handle.’
    ‘But, Vera, you are a remarkable woman.’
    ‘That’s kind of you to say so, Rupert,’ she said.
    ‘I am confident you can master this blighter, my dear.’
    ‘Yes, of course, I shall do my best.’
    ‘I know you will,’ he said.
    ‘It’s just … you know … different routines and changes.’
    He leant forward and held her hand. ‘Vera, some things never change.’
    She looked into his unwavering steel-blue eyes and felt like a young woman again. ‘I know, Rupert.’
    He stood up, opened the office door and looked back. ‘So, then … tea on Saturday, what?’
    Vera took a deep breath, gave the typewriter a fixed stare and replied softly, ‘That would be lovely.’
    The major closed the door and marched away.
    Slowly, but with huge determination, Vera showed she would not be beaten and began to make progress. She forced herself to cock her wrists at a different angle and use the pads of her fingers rather than the tips. While her new typewriter was very sensitive and had a mind of its own, occasionally printing out a line of full stops, it also had the benefit of an extra ribbon to correct mistakes. Vera smiled. A world free of Tippex stretched out in front of her. By Friday afternoon, she was entirely competent in using the new typewriter and, apart from casting the odd wistful glance in the direction of her old machine, now consigned to the top shelf of the stationery cupboard, she had moved on in her life.
    On my way home that Thursday I stopped on the High Street and called into Piercy’s Butcher’s Shop. The owner, Old Tommy, was chatting with the customers, and his grandson, Young Tommy, was busy serving them. The Ragley refuse collectors, Big Dave Robinson and his diminutive cousin, Little Malcolm Robinson, known locally as ‘the bin men’, were being served. Two farmworkers, Shane Ramsbottom and his younger brother Clint, were leaning on the counter, waiting for their weekly joint of beef.
    ‘ ’Ow’s t’school, young Mr Sheffield?’ said Old Tommy.
    ‘Fine, thank you, Mr Piercy,’ I replied.
    ‘We’ve been ’earing about these killer-metres an’ killer-grams y’learning ’em,’ said Old Tommy. He pronounced the units as if they were in the same family as killer sharks. ‘Ah don’t ’old wi’ it m’self.’
    ‘I can understand that, Mr Piercy,’ I said. ‘It’s just that the world is changing and children will need to understand metrication as they grow up.’
    Old Tommy shook his head. He was a firm believer in the system of avoirdupois weights, traditionally used throughout the English-speaking world and based on sixteen ounces to the pound. ‘Well, ah’ll tell y’summat,’ he said. Everyone in the shop looked with reverence at Old Tommy. ‘Twenty-two yards will allus be t’length of a cricket pitch.’
    ‘Y’reight there,’ said Little Malcolm.
    ‘Can’t be