Starting Over

by Jack Sheffield

‘Let’s ’ope m’dad doesn’t notice ah nicked a couple,’ Dave mumbled.

  Malcolm’s eyes lit up and he smiled at his giant cousin. ‘Where to, Dave?’

  ‘Be’ind t’bike shed,’ said Dave knowingly. ‘Ol’ Pruett’ll never see us there.’

  A minute later they were leaning back against the wall of the cycle shed, puffing away contentedly. Dave took out a torn scrap of paper from his crumpled jacket. ‘’Ave a look at this, Malc.’

  It was a page from a magazine with a photograph of Stanley Matthews. The Blackpool and England footballer was smiling while smoking a cigarette. Malcolm stared at the picture in awe. ‘M’favourite footballer, Dave, Stanley Matthews. Ah wanna be like ’im.’ His ruddy face screwed up in concentration. ‘Big words. You read it. What’s it say?’

  Dave took a final puff of his cigarette and tried unsuccessfully to blow a smoke ring. Then he studied the tiny print. ‘It sez ’ere that t’wizard of t’dribble smokes Craven A cigarettes f’smooth, clean smoking.’

  Malcolm nodded. ‘Ah’m gonna smoke Craven A when ah’m bigger.’

  ‘So am I,’ replied Dave. ‘Mind you, ah’m bigger now.’

  Riding her bicycle on the back road from Kirkby Steepleton, Lily passed Twenty Acre Field. Two men were completing the thatching of the hayricks to protect the precious straw over winter. The season was changing and the villagers were checking their woodpiles in preparation for a long, cold North Yorkshire winter.

  It was Wednesday, 15 October and in the hedgerows teardrop cobwebs shivered in the bitter wind and the red hips of dog roses were a forerunner of darker days ahead. Lily’s face glowed with health as she raced along and, as she cycled towards Ragley High Street, russet leaves blew across the road, while goldfinches pecked at the seeds of the tall teasels.

  Lily dismounted at the school gate and walked up the cobbled drive. As she parked her bicycle the Robinson boys appeared, smelling of cigarettes and looking guilty.

  ‘Have you been smoking?’

  ‘Oh ’eck … yes, Miss,’ confessed Dave.

  ‘Well, at least that’s an honest answer.’

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ agreed Dave.

  ‘You know what Mr Pruett will do, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  ‘What did he say about smoking?’

  ‘It’ll be t’cane, Miss,’ said Dave. Secretly he was thinking there was a rule for teachers and a rule for pupils. He recalled seeing the headteacher smoking by the open window of his office.

  ‘We wanted t’be like ’im, Miss,’ said Malcolm forlornly, holding out the magazine cutting of the England footballer looking relaxed with his cigarette.

  Lily took it from him, studied it and considered the power of advertising.

  ‘Boys, on this occasion, if you promise not to smoke again, I’ll let you off.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss,’ said Dave and Malcolm nodded vigorously.

  ‘Come to my classroom at playtime and I’ll give you some work to do.’

  The boys breathed a sigh of relief and ran off.

  In John Pruett’s class, after the children had chanted their tables, it was time for handwriting practice. John poured the precious black ink into twenty inkwells and made sure every child had a wooden pen holder with a broad metal nib. Then everyone was issued with a square of blotting paper and a sheet of lined paper.

  ‘Now I want you to copy this poem in your best handwriting.’ The children stared at the blackboard. The lines of William Wordsworth’s famous ‘Daffodils’ had been written neatly in white chalk. ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud,’ it read, ‘that floats on high o’er vales and hills.’

  Reggie Bamforth put up his hand. ‘Please, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Reggie?’

  ‘What’s a vale please?’

  Edie Stubbs shot her hand in the air. ‘Please, sir!’

  ‘Yes, Edie?’ said John, encouraged by the girl’s positive response.

  ‘It’s what m’big sister ’ad t’cover ’er face when she got married.’

  Good try, thought John.

  For the next half-hour the children toiled laboriously over their attempts at copperplate writing. They all knew to take extra care. Pushed in the wrong direction, the nib would spray tiny spots of ink over their work, so they wrote a single word very carefully and then dipped the pen in the inkwell once again. Using blotting paper was fun. After pressing it on the damp ink, the writing appeared reversed. Mr Pruett told them if they held it up in front of a mirror they could read it again the right way round. Sadly, there were no mirrors.

  During the few minutes before morning playtime there was time for a few more demanding mental arithmetic problems. The various units of imperial measures were chanted repeatedly. ‘Sixteen ounces in a pound,’ they chorused, ‘twenty-two yards in a chain, eight furlongs in a mile,’ and so on. Finally John collected his cup of tea and went out on the playground to supervise playtime.

  In the staff-room Vera had prepared a pot of tea. News of the end of tea rationing at the start of October had been well received and meant unlimited ‘cuppas’ for the first time in twelve years. Major Gwilym Lloyd George, the Minister of Food, had announced an improvement in supplies of tea since the end of the war. However, rationing would continue for sweets, eggs, butter and sugar.

  Vera settled down to read her Woman & Home magazine. It had been a shilling well spent and came complete with articles on sewing, embroidery, knitting and crochet. There were exciting transfers between the middle pages on the theme of fairies and she wondered how she might use them. Vera also wondered why Lily had not arrived for her morning beverage.

  Lily gave Dave and Malcolm a large sheet of paper, a pencil and some coloured crayons.

  ‘Now, boys, I want you to draw something interesting you have done today … and that doesn’t include smoking,’ she added, resisting a smile.

  Dave looked forlorn. He was hopeless at drawing, whereas Malcolm was thrilled. He loved art and the detail in his sketches was always a joy to behold.

  ‘I’ll be back at the end of playtime,’ said Lily and walked out.

  ‘Bloody ’ell,’ muttered Dave.

  ‘Hooray!’ said Malcolm, picking up his pencil with a smile. He knew exactly what to draw. That morning, high in one of the tallest trees near Mrs Uppington’s house, he had spotted something that looked like a tiny alien spacecraft. It was hanging from a topmost branch and completely out of reach. He had wondered what it might be.

  It was almost twelve o’clock and Joseph had completed his lesson with the older pupils. His talk on ‘Creation’ had proved demanding, but at least the persistent Edie Stubbs appeared animated.

  ‘Well, ah believe in God an’ ’eaven an’ suchlike,’ she declared.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ said Joseph with a beatific smile. Perhaps the lesson hadn’t been a failure after all.

  Edie frowned. ‘Jus’ that – y’know …’

  ‘What?’ asked a perplexed Joseph.

  ‘Y’said ’E created t’whole world in less than a week an’ that teks some believin’.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Joseph, ‘and why is that?’

  ‘Well, m’dad’s pigeon loft took over a fortnight.’

  Joseph’s shoulders slumped.

  ‘An’ there’s summat else, Mr Evans,’ added Norman Fazackerly.

  ‘Yes, Norman?’ asked Joseph a little wearily.

  ‘Where do babies come from?’

  A flurry of hands went up. ‘Ah know,’ shouted Eddie Brown. ‘My mam says t’stork delivers ’em.’ He held up a picture from his reading book. It showed a stork flying among fluffy clouds in a sunlit blue sky. In its bright-yellow beak it was carrying a new-born baby wrapped in a big white blanket.

  ‘Well, my dad sez ’e found me under a gooseberry bush,’ said Celia Etheringshaw with utter conviction.

  Norman looked concerned. ‘Ah wouldn’t like that wi’ all them thorns an’ sharp prickles,’ he retorted.

  ‘Well, ah know where they come from,�
�� said Winnie Pickles with an assured smile, ‘an’ ’ow they mek ’em.’

  The bell rang and Joseph hoped his sister had made a pot of camomile tea.

  It was lunchtime and Lily was showing Malcolm Robinson’s drawing to Vera. ‘He has a wonderful talent, don’t you think?’

  ‘Definitely,’ agreed Vera. ‘Mr Pruett, do look at this excellent drawing.’

  John put down his fountain pen and picked up the colourful sketch.

  ‘It’s Malcolm’s impression of Chauntsinger Woods this morning. Apparently the boys climb trees there,’ said Lily.

  John studied it carefully and then stood up suddenly. His face was ashen.

  ‘Vera, Lily, please don’t be alarmed, but I have to go out of school.’ He was staring at the drawing. ‘This may be urgent.’ He glanced up at the clock. ‘Lily, please ring the bell and gather all the children in the hall.’ He turned to Vera. ‘And the registers need to be checked to ensure everyone is present. Keep them together and don’t let anyone leave until I return.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Vera, immediately recognizing the seriousness of the situation but not knowing what it might be.

  John took out a notebook from the top drawer of his desk and riffled through the pages, then picked up the receiver.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Lily.

  ‘To Chauntsinger Woods.’ He held up Malcolm’s drawing and pointed to the carefully drawn shape in the treetop. It looked like a tin can with metal wings.

  ‘This is exactly the shape of a wartime explosive device.’

  Lily stepped back. ‘You mean … a bomb!’

  ‘Yes,’ said John. ‘If this drawing is accurate – and, knowing young Malcolm, I suspect it is – then this is a butterfly bomb.’

  Without another word, Lily and Vera hurried out as John dialled a number.

  ‘Bob – John Pruett here, and this may be urgent.’

  Captain Bob Hastings immediately recognized the voice of his old colleague. ‘Good to hear from you again, John. How can I help?’

  ‘There is a possibility two of my pupils have come across an SD2 in the local woods.’

  ‘An SD2? A butterfly bomb?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘It’s inevitable there are still a few scattered around in inaccessible places.’ There was a pause. ‘John, I’ll muster a couple of my team and we’ll be with you in thirty minutes. What’s the location?’

  ‘Here in Ragley village, the woods at the end of Chauntsinger Lane.’

  ‘I know it. Beyond the blacksmith’s.’

  ‘That’s right. In the meantime I’ll contact the local police to cordon off the area.’

  Tom Feather answered his telephone on the second ring and listened intently to John’s message. ‘I’ll come now with Harry and I’ll need the two boys to tell me the exact location.’

  The children were gathered in the hall getting on with writing and drawing. Vera had checked off every name and the school cook, Mrs Irene Gubbins, was helping to supervise.

  ‘So are you saying that during the war John was in bomb disposal?’ asked Lily.

  ‘Yes,’ said Vera, ‘he was in the Royal Engineers, a member of the bomb disposal section. It’s well known in the village, but he tends to keep the details to himself.’

  ‘It sounds to have been very dangerous work,’ said Lily.

  Vera looked thoughtful. ‘I remember reading that the life expectancy during the war for these men was sixteen weeks.’

  Suddenly Lily was seeing the quiet, unassuming headteacher in a new light. ‘So we’re lucky he survived,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Yes, we are,’ said Vera. ‘I remember being up at Morton Manor a few years ago and Captain Forbes-Kitchener mentioned that in nineteen forty there were ten thousand involved in this work and almost five hundred were killed. Apparently the anti-handling devices dropped by the Luftwaffe were deadly.’

  Out of the high arched window Lily could see John at the school gate talking to Tom Feather and Harry Dewhirst. The constable was making careful notes while Tom and John questioned Dave and Malcolm. The two boys were pointing towards the High Street. Finally, John walked with the Robinson boys back up the school drive and into the hall, where he left them with Lily and Vera, then he rejoined the policemen and set off towards Chauntsinger Lane.

  ‘Please let them be safe,’ whispered Lily.

  Vera squeezed her hand gently. ‘Don’t worry – good will prevail.’

  PC Dewhirst began knocking on doors and Mrs Uppington was taken away with the other residents as Captain Bob Hastings arrived with two members of his bomb disposal team. John told them the location and they made their way into the wood. The boys had given perfect directions and soon the men were staring at a rusted metal canister high in the trees.

  ‘It’s been out of sight for years,’ said Tom.

  John looked thoughtful. ‘They keep turning up, like bad pennies.’

  Captain Hastings took out his powerful binoculars and studied the device carefully. Then he passed them to John Pruett. ‘Like old times, John.’

  There was a serious expression on John’s face as he stared up into the branches. He nodded briefly. ‘An SD2, Bob, no doubt – but which type? That’s the question.’

  ‘Usual procedure,’ said Bob in a matter-of-fact tone. He turned to his colleagues. ‘Get the sandbags and two lengths of the thin rope.’

  The two young soldiers leaped into action.

  ‘What can I do?’ asked Tom.

  ‘You need to go back to help Harry,’ said John, ‘and make sure no one approaches.’

  Tom realized it was sensible advice and walked away.

  Captain Hastings turned to the Ragley headmaster. ‘John, you don’t need to stay.’

  ‘You might need me,’ he replied quietly.

  Bob looked at his former colleague and recognized the determination in his face. There had been many times in the past when their lives had hung by a thread. ‘You of all people know the risks,’ he said.

  John nodded towards the two men stacking a circle of sandbags under the tree. ‘Do they?’

  ‘They’re the best I’ve got.’

  John said quietly, ‘They look so young.’

  Bob put his hand on John’s shoulder. ‘We were once.’

  John closed his eyes for a moment and recalled the horrors of war. The faces of friends long gone flashed through his mind. Then he sighed. ‘I’m staying,’ he said simply.

  It was a matter of minutes for the athletic soldiers to climb the tree and, with the greatest care, tie a length of string to the spindle above the casing of the bomb. It was a well-rehearsed procedure. Next, a second string with a noose in the free end was looped around a branch. The first string attached to the bomb was then threaded through the noose. Then the two soldiers stood at the base of the tree, one of them holding the taut string as if his life depended on it … which of course it did.

  The critical moment had arrived.

  ‘Our turn now,’ ordered Bob Hastings in a commanding voice.

  There was a moment’s hesitation as the two young men realized their captain and the quiet, unassuming civilian were about to complete the most dangerous part of the procedure.

  With infinite care John grasped the string and took the weight of the bomb. ‘Mine now,’ he said. The soldier released his grip and took a step back.

  Bob Hastings stared up as the bomb swayed above their heads. ‘You two stand back,’ he said quietly to the soldiers beside him. With infinite patience John lowered the bomb towards the ground while Bob guided the descent inch by inch. They knew that one slip now would be their last.

  There was a moment when the string snagged on a branch and the bomb revolved like a spinning top, but John’s grip never wavered until finally it was lowered gently to the circle of sandbags. From a distance the two soldiers watched with grudging respect as the quiet man in the three-piece suit completed the operation with consummate skill.

  ‘Back ten,’ murmured
Bob, and he and John retreated to a safe distance with careful, measured steps. All was silent apart from the crunching of leaves beneath their feet, while a shaft of sunlight flickered through the treetops. Then came a controlled explosion, with everyone at a safe distance, and by mid-afternoon all was calm and back to normal.

  Bob Hastings told Tom Feather that it would be wise to cordon off the area while a thorough search was completed. Then he shook hands with John. There were few words, merely a shared respect and harsh memories of a conflict that had taken its toll. Both men had ended the war clearing British beaches of emplacement mines that had been put there in case of invasion.

  Harry Dewhirst was left to guard the cordoned area while Tom and John walked back to school. ‘Eventful times, John,’ said Tom. ‘Now back to the day job,’ he added with a grin.

  ‘What time do you get off duty?’ asked John.

  ‘Five o’clock,’ said Tom.

  ‘That’s an hour before opening time at The Oak. We could celebrate with a drink.’

  ‘You’re on,’ said Tom. ‘See you then.’

  At the end of school Lily telephoned Mrs Merryweather in Kirkby Steepleton to ask her to let her mother know she would be late home. Millicent offered to drive to Ragley to give Lily a lift rather than have her cycle in the dark. Lily said she would let her know. She also telephoned Vera, but couldn’t persuade her to set foot in a public house. However, she did ask Lily to congratulate John Pruett on his action and commended the brave bomb disposal team.

  Meanwhile, news had travelled around the village and Big Dave and Little Malcolm had become local heroes. A reporter from the Easington Herald & Pioneer appeared on their doorstep for an interview and photograph. In Ragley it was destined to be the main topic of conversation for weeks to come and Malcolm’s drawing was exhibited in the village hall.

  At six o’clock Lily walked with John across the village green, where the welcoming lights of The Royal Oak shone brightly. Tom, now out of uniform in baggy flannels and a thick sweater, was waiting outside. The three of them found a quiet table by the bay window and John bought two pints of Chestnut and a gin and tonic.

  Lily sipped her drink and felt the tension ease. ‘So what’s a butterfly bomb?’ she asked.