little uncertainly. ‘The temporary secretary arrives tomorrow.’
‘Well, there’s the list of all the jobs I would have done,’ said Vera. She pointed to a neatly typed list on a single sheet of paper in the exact centre of her immaculately tidy desk. ‘And I’ll see you all soon.’
‘Come on, Vera,’ I said. ‘Let’s walk you out to your car.’
We all processed out to the car park and watched as Vera climbed into her car. She drove slowly down the cobbled school drive and we waved goodbye. Above our heads, pale amber sunlight caressed the autumn leaves as they fell gently on to the village green, soon to form a shroud for the sleeping earth. I stared at her car and realized just how much I relied on her. For the first time since I had become headmaster of Ragley, Vera’s reassuring presence would not be in the school office. I breathed in the clean Yorkshire air and sighed.
Vera drove past The Royal Oak and pulled up at the junction. Beneath a sky of wheeling swallows we watched her turn right up the Morton Road and head north. Then, as we walked back into school, a chill breeze swept through the branches of the horse-chestnut trees above our heads. We can survive three days without Vera, I thought to myself without conviction. I should have known that life is never that simple.
The following morning I looked out of the leaded pane windows of Bilbo Cottage. The dew, like untouched diamonds, sparkled in the morning sunlight. In the far corner of the garden, harvest mice were weaving their nests of grass and in the hedgerow the red hips of dog roses were providing valuable food for hungry voles. The nights were drawing in now and the earth was cooling but it was a fine autumn day.
As I walked out of my front door I glanced up at the porch where spiders were making their webs and beads of moisture, trapped on the silken threads, were glistening in the sunlight. It felt good to be alive on this bracing Yorkshire morning, until a thought crossed my mind. The new secretary was due to start work today.
According to the telephone call from County Hall, Rita Plumtree had attended the North of England Higher Secretarial College in Leeds and had emerged with a host of Pitman’s shorthand and typing qualifications. So everything appeared to be fine and I was relaxed as I drove into the dappled sunlight of Ragley High Street and pulled up outside Prudence Golightly’s General Stores & Newsagent to buy my copy of
The Times
. Outside the shop window, the usual morning rush of children had gathered with what was left of their pocket money. There were difficult decisions to make about the conflicting merits of aniseed balls, bull’s-eyes, gobstoppers, sherbet dips, coconut lumps, treacle toffee and liquorice laces.
The High Street was filling with cars and Mrs Dudley-Palmer had pulled up in her Rolls-Royce after dropping off her daughters earlier than usual. She was on her way to Harrogate to order a kidney-shaped swimming pool, an indoor sauna and a spa bath.
Just before nine o’clock the sound of a misfiring car engine shattered the silence of the school office and I looked out of the window. Our new temporary secretary had finally arrived. A battered royal-blue 1968 Renault 4, with sliding windows on runners, pulled up in the No Parking area immediately outside the boilerhouse doors. From it emerged a tall lady wearing green cord trousers, sturdy brown shoes and a shapeless Arran sweater. She walked round to the strange tin-can bonnet, undid the catch and tipped it forward. Then, after stooping to stare at the engine, she shook her head in disgust, slammed down the bonnet and strode confidently towards the school entrance in a determined manner.
She walked into the school office without knocking. At six-feet-one-inch tall she gave me a level stare. ‘Good morning. I’m Rita Plumtree,’ she said. Her slate-grey eyes were unblinking.
‘Oh, hello, Miss Plumtree,’ I said. ‘Thank you for helping us out this
‘Well, there’s the list of all the jobs I would have done,’ said Vera. She pointed to a neatly typed list on a single sheet of paper in the exact centre of her immaculately tidy desk. ‘And I’ll see you all soon.’
‘Come on, Vera,’ I said. ‘Let’s walk you out to your car.’
We all processed out to the car park and watched as Vera climbed into her car. She drove slowly down the cobbled school drive and we waved goodbye. Above our heads, pale amber sunlight caressed the autumn leaves as they fell gently on to the village green, soon to form a shroud for the sleeping earth. I stared at her car and realized just how much I relied on her. For the first time since I had become headmaster of Ragley, Vera’s reassuring presence would not be in the school office. I breathed in the clean Yorkshire air and sighed.
Vera drove past The Royal Oak and pulled up at the junction. Beneath a sky of wheeling swallows we watched her turn right up the Morton Road and head north. Then, as we walked back into school, a chill breeze swept through the branches of the horse-chestnut trees above our heads. We can survive three days without Vera, I thought to myself without conviction. I should have known that life is never that simple.
The following morning I looked out of the leaded pane windows of Bilbo Cottage. The dew, like untouched diamonds, sparkled in the morning sunlight. In the far corner of the garden, harvest mice were weaving their nests of grass and in the hedgerow the red hips of dog roses were providing valuable food for hungry voles. The nights were drawing in now and the earth was cooling but it was a fine autumn day.
As I walked out of my front door I glanced up at the porch where spiders were making their webs and beads of moisture, trapped on the silken threads, were glistening in the sunlight. It felt good to be alive on this bracing Yorkshire morning, until a thought crossed my mind. The new secretary was due to start work today.
According to the telephone call from County Hall, Rita Plumtree had attended the North of England Higher Secretarial College in Leeds and had emerged with a host of Pitman’s shorthand and typing qualifications. So everything appeared to be fine and I was relaxed as I drove into the dappled sunlight of Ragley High Street and pulled up outside Prudence Golightly’s General Stores & Newsagent to buy my copy of
The Times
. Outside the shop window, the usual morning rush of children had gathered with what was left of their pocket money. There were difficult decisions to make about the conflicting merits of aniseed balls, bull’s-eyes, gobstoppers, sherbet dips, coconut lumps, treacle toffee and liquorice laces.
The High Street was filling with cars and Mrs Dudley-Palmer had pulled up in her Rolls-Royce after dropping off her daughters earlier than usual. She was on her way to Harrogate to order a kidney-shaped swimming pool, an indoor sauna and a spa bath.
Just before nine o’clock the sound of a misfiring car engine shattered the silence of the school office and I looked out of the window. Our new temporary secretary had finally arrived. A battered royal-blue 1968 Renault 4, with sliding windows on runners, pulled up in the No Parking area immediately outside the boilerhouse doors. From it emerged a tall lady wearing green cord trousers, sturdy brown shoes and a shapeless Arran sweater. She walked round to the strange tin-can bonnet, undid the catch and tipped it forward. Then, after stooping to stare at the engine, she shook her head in disgust, slammed down the bonnet and strode confidently towards the school entrance in a determined manner.
She walked into the school office without knocking. At six-feet-one-inch tall she gave me a level stare. ‘Good morning. I’m Rita Plumtree,’ she said. Her slate-grey eyes were unblinking.
‘Oh, hello, Miss Plumtree,’ I said. ‘Thank you for helping us out this
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