How can I ever forget that first morning and the events that were to follow?
I was twenty-three and facing my first class in Wrenton village infant school. I soon discovered eighteen five to ten-year olds ooze enthusiasm. I hardly had time to draw breath before a hand shot up and a pretty pigtailed seven-year-old asked, “Please miss, do you believe in magic?”
“Well Jennifer, there are conjurers and magicians, is that what you have in mind?”
“No miss, it’s my kitten Mitchy, she was sick. I took her to Mr Gifford’s house and next day she was great again. I think Mr Gifford is magic.”
I was then treated to a number of tales about pets visiting Mr Gifford and emerging fit and well until Eddie said, “I took a dead rabbit to Mr Gifford miss.”
With a racing pulse, I asked, “And what happened Eddie?” His grin that told me ‘there’s one in every class’ as he said, “He ate it miss, it was in a pie.”
I’d have to keep an eye on that young man, but more importantly I had to find out more about the mysterious Mr Gifford. I went to see Elsie Holliday, who had lived in the village a long time. Relaxing with a cuppa in her bungalow, I told her what had transpired at school.
She laughed and said, “All on account of what happened with Brigham.” Brigham, she explained, was a prize bull.
“One Saturday morning he refused to leave his pen and go into the paddock. The vet was called but could not find anything wrong with him. On that same day, Vic Gifford went missing. He was not at his home, the door was locked and the windows closed. He did not turn up at the village pub as usual on Saturday evening and wasn’t in church Sunday morning.”
Elsie poured us a refill and continued, “To cut a long story short, Ted Alcott found him, or rather heard him, when he went to feed the pigs on Sunday afternoon. Vic was in the back of the pen, whispering and patting the bull. He’d been there all day and night and could have been crushed to death. But then, Ted told us, Vic and the bull emerged together and headed for the paddock like a master taking his dog for a walk. The vet later admitted Brigham was fine, so that’s why the children think Vic Gifford is magic.”
Incredible I thought. Did Elsie know Mr. Gifford well?
“As well as any I suppose,” she nodded. “Keeps to himself most of the time but he comes round here every Wednesday and Friday to watch Barley Mow, the soap on Anglia TV. You may know it, it’s based on life in a village like this but somewhat more dramatic.” She chuckled. “His favourite character is the district nurse, Monica Simmons, probably because she has a pet poodle.”
Apparently, Elsie told me, Vic Gifford turned up one day in Wrenton, nobody knew from where but he has a sister living in Felixstowe who he goes to see from time to time. Blokes on the farm say he’s a willing and good worker, a sort of odd job man. Lives alone at number eleven, enjoys a pint and that’s about it.
As if the Brigham story was not shock enough there was a bigger one to come in the summer. For years, Wrenton and three other villages combined to run a summer fete. That year there was a new attraction, Pets Corner. Who better to run that than Vic Gifford? He turned up on the day with a young lady assistant. As far as I knew, she was not from any of the villages. She was dressed in jeans, a colourful T-shirt, boots and headscarf and for some reason, I thought I had seen her somewhere before. I mentioned it casually to Elsie Holliday who was running the cake stall at the time.
About an hour later Elsie ran towards me. “Mandy,” she gasped, “you won’t believe this. I went over to see that young lady with Vic. My goodness, she’s Nurse Simmons from Barley Mow.”
Astounding, how on earth?
Word spread like wildfire and soon Pets Corner was engulfed. The young lady removed her headscarf, smiled and now there was no doubt. Calmly she said if we’d like to assemble in the big marquee when the fete closed, she would explain.
It was packed but you could have heard a pin drop. With Vic Gifford standing next to her she began, “Ladies, gentlemen and children. Some of you may know my real name is Cheryl Williams and in Barley Mow I have a poodle. It’s my dog, Bubbles. Two years ago I was visiting my parents, they live in Felixstowe. I was walking Bubbles along a busy street when she slipped her lead and dashed into the road. From out of nowhere, Mr Gifford appeared.” She reached across to take his hand. “He ran into the road, plucking Bubbles from almost under the wheels of an oncoming lorry and carried her to the far side. Poor Bubbles was shaking, whimpering and crying. For the next two hours, Mr Gifford held her in his arms patting, coaxing and most of all whispering to her until she was fully recovered. I told Mr. Gifford then that if I could ever do anything for him......well, here I am.”
The crowd broke into deafening applause.
“Thank you,” the actress smiled. “Mr Gifford says, and Nurse Simmons agrees, animals are just like us. When feeling down, they too need quiet comforting words, a pat and a hug.” She paused for a second or two and said, “I say this not in a whisper but loud and clear. Mr Vic Gifford is magic.”
Image by Kristýna Mothejzíková
I was twenty-three and facing my first class in Wrenton village infant school. I soon discovered eighteen five to ten-year olds ooze enthusiasm. I hardly had time to draw breath before a hand shot up and a pretty pigtailed seven-year-old asked, “Please miss, do you believe in magic?”
“Well Jennifer, there are conjurers and magicians, is that what you have in mind?”
“No miss, it’s my kitten Mitchy, she was sick. I took her to Mr Gifford’s house and next day she was great again. I think Mr Gifford is magic.”
I was then treated to a number of tales about pets visiting Mr Gifford and emerging fit and well until Eddie said, “I took a dead rabbit to Mr Gifford miss.”
With a racing pulse, I asked, “And what happened Eddie?” His grin that told me ‘there’s one in every class’ as he said, “He ate it miss, it was in a pie.”
I’d have to keep an eye on that young man, but more importantly I had to find out more about the mysterious Mr Gifford. I went to see Elsie Holliday, who had lived in the village a long time. Relaxing with a cuppa in her bungalow, I told her what had transpired at school.
She laughed and said, “All on account of what happened with Brigham.” Brigham, she explained, was a prize bull.
“One Saturday morning he refused to leave his pen and go into the paddock. The vet was called but could not find anything wrong with him. On that same day, Vic Gifford went missing. He was not at his home, the door was locked and the windows closed. He did not turn up at the village pub as usual on Saturday evening and wasn’t in church Sunday morning.”
Elsie poured us a refill and continued, “To cut a long story short, Ted Alcott found him, or rather heard him, when he went to feed the pigs on Sunday afternoon. Vic was in the back of the pen, whispering and patting the bull. He’d been there all day and night and could have been crushed to death. But then, Ted told us, Vic and the bull emerged together and headed for the paddock like a master taking his dog for a walk. The vet later admitted Brigham was fine, so that’s why the children think Vic Gifford is magic.”
Incredible I thought. Did Elsie know Mr. Gifford well?
“As well as any I suppose,” she nodded. “Keeps to himself most of the time but he comes round here every Wednesday and Friday to watch Barley Mow, the soap on Anglia TV. You may know it, it’s based on life in a village like this but somewhat more dramatic.” She chuckled. “His favourite character is the district nurse, Monica Simmons, probably because she has a pet poodle.”
Apparently, Elsie told me, Vic Gifford turned up one day in Wrenton, nobody knew from where but he has a sister living in Felixstowe who he goes to see from time to time. Blokes on the farm say he’s a willing and good worker, a sort of odd job man. Lives alone at number eleven, enjoys a pint and that’s about it.
As if the Brigham story was not shock enough there was a bigger one to come in the summer. For years, Wrenton and three other villages combined to run a summer fete. That year there was a new attraction, Pets Corner. Who better to run that than Vic Gifford? He turned up on the day with a young lady assistant. As far as I knew, she was not from any of the villages. She was dressed in jeans, a colourful T-shirt, boots and headscarf and for some reason, I thought I had seen her somewhere before. I mentioned it casually to Elsie Holliday who was running the cake stall at the time.
About an hour later Elsie ran towards me. “Mandy,” she gasped, “you won’t believe this. I went over to see that young lady with Vic. My goodness, she’s Nurse Simmons from Barley Mow.”
Astounding, how on earth?
Word spread like wildfire and soon Pets Corner was engulfed. The young lady removed her headscarf, smiled and now there was no doubt. Calmly she said if we’d like to assemble in the big marquee when the fete closed, she would explain.
It was packed but you could have heard a pin drop. With Vic Gifford standing next to her she began, “Ladies, gentlemen and children. Some of you may know my real name is Cheryl Williams and in Barley Mow I have a poodle. It’s my dog, Bubbles. Two years ago I was visiting my parents, they live in Felixstowe. I was walking Bubbles along a busy street when she slipped her lead and dashed into the road. From out of nowhere, Mr Gifford appeared.” She reached across to take his hand. “He ran into the road, plucking Bubbles from almost under the wheels of an oncoming lorry and carried her to the far side. Poor Bubbles was shaking, whimpering and crying. For the next two hours, Mr Gifford held her in his arms patting, coaxing and most of all whispering to her until she was fully recovered. I told Mr. Gifford then that if I could ever do anything for him......well, here I am.”
The crowd broke into deafening applause.
“Thank you,” the actress smiled. “Mr Gifford says, and Nurse Simmons agrees, animals are just like us. When feeling down, they too need quiet comforting words, a pat and a hug.” She paused for a second or two and said, “I say this not in a whisper but loud and clear. Mr Vic Gifford is magic.”
Image by Kristýna Mothejzíková