Tale From a Village Graveyard

TALE FROM A VILLAGE CHURCHYARD
(Something different. Written in 1972 when at S. Martin’s College Lancaster. On a creative writing trip up Lune Valley, I walked round the cemetery in Wray village and came up with this idea)
“Why yessir, I remember schoolmaster well. Twenty-nine years he taught school in this village, and was organist and choirmaster come Sunday too. A strict man? I suppose he was; leastaways no lad thought twice to cross him on a bad morning in class. But he was fond of a joke too and, all in all, he served this village well. You’ll not hear many that got their learning at his hands complaining of ‘is treatment of ’em. You’ve got to realize, times was different then. Schoolmaster, just like parson, ‘ad a position to maintain and, whether they liked it or not, they ‘ad to be pretty strict and set example. Never a Sunday but ‘e wasn’t there in church, wearing ‘is smartest suit and stiffest collar, eyeing the congregation and never a detail missed his eye. We youngsters used to reckon how he ‘ad eyes in the back of ‘is ‘ead – you could never get away with nothing in his class. Why, bless me, he even knowed you’d been after old Isaac Bargh’s apples on a summer evening though he was nowhere near on hand. No you couldn’t fool Old Smithy – that’s what we called him Sir – and many a lad ‘as felt his cane for stumbling on his psalms or numbers. But you didn’t ‘old it against him. Though we were pretty terrified of ‘im in school, it all seemed worth it when you’d grown and ‘e greeted you on the street as Mister so-and-so, or when you put your own lad into school and knew Old Smithy’d teach ‘im right.
My most unforgettable memory of ‘im? Why. yes Sir, I remember it now as though it were yesterday. We watched ‘im leave ‘is house from the classroom window, same as always. We’d try to guess what was in store by the way ‘e walked and swung ‘is cane, whether ‘e smiled or frowned, and we could usually tell what sort of day we were in for. Well, he walked on down those steps with ne’er a backward glance, straight as a ram-rod as ‘e always was. He eyed us all and sat us down, himself sitting at that old high stool of his layin’ ‘is cane across the top. In a way there was nothing really special about that day. We said our prayers – for Queen Victoria them days – and sang our hymns, and Smithy ‘ad us writing on our slates, and woe betide anyone who made a mess. He was just the same as ever, strict but just, ready to help a lad if ‘e saw that he was really trying but quick to frown and silence any noise or disturbance in ‘s class. At the end of the day we ran off home, same as ever, leaving ‘im to close up his desk and climb those steps back to School House. It was only when I got ‘ome that night that I ‘eard how ‘s little boy Robert had died that morning before breakfast. Old Smithy’s only son, just two years old. Course ‘e had a daughter too, Fanny, and she lived on in Wray for years, but somehow we knew that no-one could ever fill the gap that little Robert filled for Old Smithy. I mind ‘im, in later years, still straight as a die, a stern old chap but with a twinkle in ‘is eye, sitting in the sun or taking ‘is evening walk along the river. But I remember him best that day in school with ne’er a word or hint let slip of what had happened in School House that very night, or off the grief that choked ‘im.