Starting Over

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘They’re not my boots, Miss.’

  ‘Not your boots!’ exclaimed Lily.

  ‘No, Miss.’

  ‘Then whose are they?’

  ‘M’brother’s, an’ m’mam said ah ’ad t’wear ’em ’cause she can’t afford new uns.’

  ‘So these are your brother’s boots?’

  ‘Yes, Miss, ’e only ’ad small feet before ’e died.’

  Lily stared hard at the little girl, taking in the ragged clothing and the knots in her hair.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rosie … When was this?’

  ‘Last year, Miss. Our Derek ’ad a poorly chest. ’E’s in ’eaven now.’ Rosie stared up out of the high arched window at the scudding clouds. ‘So ’e won’t need no shoes, so m’mam says.’

  Joseph was collecting his books from the classroom and heard the conversation. He was silent for a long time while an idea formed.

  A few minutes later he was discussing it with his sister. After searching through the ‘Emergency Clothing Box’, Vera gave him a large brown paper bag. Then she watched him as he walked his bicycle down to the school gate and rode off along the High Street. Not for the first time, she realized that her brother had a kind heart. He simply needed pointing in the right direction.

  Joseph cycled to Chauntsinger Lane, past the blacksmith’s and on to Badger’s Row. He parked his bicycle against the wall of the last cottage and knocked on the door. Mary Finn opened it and the flour on her hands suggested she was making bread.

  ‘Mr Evans,’ she said. ‘This is a surprise.’

  ‘May I have a brief word, Mary? It won’t take long. I have something for you.’

  Mary looked suspiciously at the paper bag.

  Joseph glanced around the cramped room. The furniture was sparse and the pantry door was open. It had a stone shelf opening to the outside and protected by a wire grille, and it necessitated regular shopping for perishables.

  He held up the bag. ‘There are some boots in here for Rosie. They’re her size, and there’s a pair of sandals as well.’

  Mary rubbed the flour from her hands on her pinny and folded her arms in a determined fashion. ‘Ah don’t want no charity, Mr Evans, but ah thank you kindly.’

  Joseph recalled his sister’s advice and chose his words carefully. ‘I’m not offering charity, Mary,’ said Joseph firmly. ‘I want you to pay for them. In fact, I insist.’

  Mary smiled. ‘You’ve come to t’wrong ’ouse, Vicar. There’s no spare money.’

  ‘I don’t want money. I want your labour. An hour on Sunday morning working with the Holy Dusters. The team needs a reliable woman like you.’

  Mary drew herself to her full height and stepped forward. ‘So long as it’s not charity.’

  Joseph put the bag of footwear on the table and turned to go.

  ‘Eight o’clock, Sunday, Mary – and bring Rosie. She can help my sister make some sandwiches. The ladies always have some tea and sandwiches and cake afterwards. Nothing special – just a little ritual.’

  He didn’t look back as he strode out.

  Mary watched him attach his cycle clips and ride off on his ancient bicycle.

  Before she left school Vera called into the kitchen where Irene Gubbins the cook was tackling the pots and pans she had used for today’s school dinner of boiled beef, carrots, cabbage and potatoes.

  ‘It’s a struggle is this, Miss Evans,’ she said, her face flushed with effort.

  Vera watched Irene as she sighed and crouched down to clean the kitchen cooker. It was another problem in Vera’s busy day, but she had an idea.

  At the school gate she met Mrs Riley, mother of eight-year-old Gordon. Her son was a free spirit, reciting his twelve times table in a sing-song voice and ending with a smile that would have melted the heart of the meanest Scrooge.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Riley,’ said Vera. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘Bit flustered, to be ’onest, Miss Evans. It were a difficult night with our Gordon’s breathin’ an’ ah thought ah’d jus’ call in t’see ’ow ’e’s gettin’ on.’

  ‘It’s almost certainly asthma,’ said Vera, clearly concerned. ‘You need to take him to see Doctor Davenport.’

  ‘Ah’m not comfortable wi’ doctors,’ said Mrs Riley with a frown. ‘Ah’ve ’ad some bad experiences.’

  ‘The school nurse will be here next week and she will help, I’m sure.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Evans, ah know y’mean well an’ ah want my Gordon to ’ave a better chance than ah ’ad … but life’s a bit difficult sometimes.’

  Vera was concerned at Mrs Riley’s reticence to seek medical support. ‘Well, I’ll mention it to Mr Pruett and Miss Briggs and we’ll keep an eye on him.’

  Vera hurried across the road to the General Stores.

  ‘Just a few things for now, please, Prudence.’

  Prudence stepped up behind the counter to be on a level with the tall school secretary. ‘Yes, Vera?’

  ‘A pad of your Basildon Bond writing paper – blue, please.’

  ‘The sign of quality,’ said Prudence with a knowing glance at her dear friend.

  ‘And matching envelopes, of course.’

  Prudence placed them on the counter.

  ‘Also, I need some of your Ajax Cleanser. Irene in the kitchen needs a bit of help with her cleaning.’

  Vera hurried back to school and Irene was thrilled with her new cleaning agent. ‘Thank you, Miss Evans,’ she said. ‘What will they think of next?’

  Ruby Smith was in Tommy Piercy’s butcher’s shop again.

  ‘’Ave y’got a bit o’ scrag end for a stew please, Mr Piercy?’

  ‘Ah ’ave jus’ the very thing.’ He slapped a generous slice on the counter and charged the minimum. ‘’Ow are you, Ruby? Y’mus’ be gettin’ close now.’

  Ruby’s face was flushed. ‘Mebbe a couple o’ weeks, Mr Piercy, but m’mam’s keepin’ an eye on me so ah’ll be fine.’

  It should be Ronnie, thought Tommy.

  Ruby’s next call was to the General Stores. ‘Ah need a box o’ cereal, please, Prudence.’

  ‘You can’t beat Kellogg’s Cornflakes, Ruby,’ said Prudence, ‘with plenty of sugar and milk.’

  ‘Sounds lovely,’ said Ruby, but doubted there would be much sugar in the house.

  ‘And here’s a treat for young Andrew.’ Prudence selected a packet of Rowntree’s Sunripe Jelly from the shelf behind the counter.

  ‘That’s really kind, Prudence,’ said Ruby. ‘’E’ll be thrilled when ’e sees this.’

  Ruby was crossing the High Street when Stan Coe screeched past in his Land Rover. She stepped out of the way quickly, put her hand on her swollen tummy and paused while she gathered herself.

  Vera witnessed the incident and called out, ‘Are you all right, Ruby?’

  Ruby had dropped her shopping bag and Tommy Piercy rushed from his shop to pick it up. He looked angrily after the speeding Land Rover as it tore round the bend at the end of the High Street. ‘’E drives like bloomin’ Stirlin’ Moss, does that Stan Coe. Wants lockin’ up.’

  ‘Shall I walk you home, Ruby?’ asked Vera.

  ‘Ah’ll be fine, jus’ a bit of a shock, that’s all.’

  ‘Would y’like t’sit down?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘Thanks, but ah’ll get off ’ome,’ and she crossed the road.

  Tommy was annoyed. ‘Ah saw ’im through m’window. Gorra face like a blind cobbler’s thumb.’

  Vera, although puzzled by the description, got the message. She spotted Albert Jenkins, the school governor, coming out of the Post Office. Albert was an intelligent man and always supportive of the local school. He listened intently to what Vera had to say and decided to stop by the school to have a brief word with John Pruett during afternoon break.

  John was on playground duty when Albert called to him from the other side of the school wall. The conversation was brief and to the point.

  ‘You mark my words, John,’ concluded Albert forcefully, ‘one day that Stan Coe w
ill go to hell in a handcart.’

  John Pruett gave a wistful smile as Albert turned and set off across the village green. Let’s hope so, he thought, but said nothing.

  Agnes was concerned when Ruby returned home and told her about Stan Coe.

  ‘Sit down, Ruby, an’ ah’ll mek some tea. Andy’s asleep, so y’can put y’feet up.’

  ‘Thanks, Mam,’ said Ruby.

  She looked at the contents of Ruby’s shopping bag and sighed. Their income didn’t go far now that Ruby couldn’t do any cleaning. Also the house was distinctly chilly – cold enough for Agnes to have to put on a second pair of cotton lisle stockings to protect her legs.

  As she picked up the kettle from the trivet in the hearth she muttered, ‘’E’s allus been a wolf in cheap clothin’, ’as that Stan Coe, an’ ’e were a bully at school as well, so ah’ve ’eard.’

  Lily had finally agreed to join the church choir and after school she walked up to St Mary’s Church to join in the practice. Vera was in the process of solving yet another problem. The choir stalls were on either side of the chancel floor and, as usual, Davinia Grint, the lead soprano, was threatening the stained-glass windows with her highest notes. In contrast, Gerald Crimpton was the sole member of the bass section and it was to his eternal misfortune that he suffered from severe nasal problems. In consequence, his contribution had all the subtlety of a creaking door.

  An argument had broken out between the two and Vera intervened to introduce Lily.

  ‘Please welcome Miss Briggs, the teacher from our village school.’ Vera looked at Davinia with a firm expression. ‘Lily is a mezzo-soprano and should complement your beautiful voice, Davinia.’ The self-important soprano was sufficiently flattered to calm down. ‘And Gerald, I’ve brought a nasal spray for you from the chemist.’ Gerald looked delighted and Davinia smiled in triumph while Lily looked bemused.

  ‘You’ll like Gerald,’ whispered Vera to Lily. ‘He’s the strong silent type – rather like your policeman,’ she added with a knowing glance.

  Lily blushed as she recalled the tenderness of Tom’s goodnight kisses.

  It was late afternoon in the vicarage and Vera had completed a letter to Mrs Riley on her new Basildon Bond writing paper. As a result, Mrs Riley took Vera’s advice and visited the doctor and local Pharmacy. From then on, each evening, she opened her tin of Potter’s Asthma Cure, sprinkled some of the precious powder into a bowl and then lit it carefully. Gordon stooped over the bowl and inhaled, and, slowly but surely, his breathing became easier.

  Vera turned to her next task. She was making a hassock for church and embroidering it with loving care. The date 1952 had been stitched carefully above the name of the late King. She looked across at Joseph, who was preparing his next sermon, and felt a great surge of pride in her younger brother. It had been a demanding day, but he had done well.

  Joseph looked up, concerned. ‘I’m worried about this sermon, Vera.’ He put down his pen in despair.

  Vera smiled. ‘Don’t worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries,’ she quoted.

  Joseph sat back. ‘Yes, I know that one … Matthew, chapter six, verse thirty-four, as I recall.’

  ‘Well done, Joseph.’ She sat back as the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece measured out the moments of their lives. ‘I’m pleased you could help Mary Finn and her daughter. That was a job well done.’

  ‘Thank you, Vera. We could celebrate with a glass of my home-made wine.’

  Oh dear, thought Vera. ‘Perhaps a little later, Joseph,’ and she bowed her head to her stitchcraft.

  Darkness had fallen on Badger’s Row and Mary Finn was preparing a meagre meal. Rosie was trying on her new footwear, first the sandals, then the boots and finally back to the sandals to wear around the house.

  She walked over to the window and stared up at the dark sky and the cold moon. ‘Mam, is our Derek in ’eaven?’

  Mary paused in chopping the half onion. ‘Yes, luv, an’ God will be watchin’ over ’im.’

  ‘Ah ’ope so, Mam. An’ will there be angels?’

  Mary scooped the onion into the pan. ‘Yes, Rosie, lots of angels, an’ they’re up there in ’eaven lookin’ after y’brother.’

  ‘Mam, ah asked Mr Evans a question, but ah don’t think ’e knew t’answer.’

  Mary stirred the slices of bacon and chopped onion. ‘An’ what were that?’

  ‘Ah said do angels ’ave wings?’

  ‘Wings?’

  ‘Yes, Mam.’

  ‘Well, ah’m sure they do, luv.’ She looked out of the window and recalled the retreating figure of the local vicar as he pedalled down the lane.

  And some ride bicycles, she thought.

  Chapter Twelve

  Husbands and Homemakers

  As Ruby Smith stared out of her bedroom window the first light of a pale sun gilded the distant hills and the scent of wallflowers was in the air. It was the pre-dawn of a day when the breath of spring hung in the air, tenuous and tantalizing, the merest hint of a new season. While in the far distance the Hambleton hills appeared bleak against a wind-driven sky, beneath the hard crust of earth new life was stirring. It had been a long, cold winter, but life had come full circle. It was Friday, 27 March and spring had returned once more to Ragley village.

  However, the wonder of the seasons was far from the mind of the teenage Ruby. She recognized the pain.

  ‘Mam … Mam!’ she shouted in anguish. ‘Baby’s comin’.’

  After getting off the bus Lily felt refreshed on this spring morning. In the hedgerows the sharp buds of hawthorn guarded the arrowheads of daffodils and on Ragley High Street the primroses splashed the grassy banks with colour.

  It was the end of a busy week and a student teacher was due to arrive today for her preliminary visit prior to her teaching practice in the summer. Lily thought back to her days as a student in training and vowed she would do her best to mentor the newcomer.

  She walked across the road to look at the poster on the noticeboard outside the village hall. Tom had asked her to accompany him to the Annual Spring Dance tomorrow evening. This year it was one of the events to raise funds to replace the railings on the school wall, plus contributing to a shelter for the bus stop. The villagers of Ragley were keen to support. Removing the railings had been a symbolic gesture towards the war effort and everyone was keen to move on and return the image of the school to its pre-war days.

  The poster read:

  Ragley Village Hall Committee

  ANNUAL SPRING DANCE

  Saturday, 28th March 1953

  7.30 p.m.

  Admission: One shilling

  Lily felt comfortable and smart in her new cardigan suit. Her mother had made it for her and the pleated skirt, now only twelve inches from the ground, was the height of fashion. With her last salary she had bought a pair of Brevitt Casuals, slip-on shoes with a cushioned soft tread and perfect for a busy day in school. It was enough to turn heads as she walked up the High Street towards school.

  At 7 School View Ronnie Smith had never got out of bed so quickly. Agnes was in no mood to take prisoners. She wanted action … and she wanted it fast.

  ‘Ronnie, move y’self and go t’Doctor Davenport!’ she shouted. ‘Tell ’im t’baby’s on its way an’ ah’m ’ere but ah need some ’elp.’

  Ronnie dragged on his clothes and ran out of the front door and up the Morton road as if the hounds of hell were chasing him.

  In the bedroom Agnes mopped Ruby’s forehead with a damp flannel. ‘Now then, Ruby luv,’ she said, ‘ah think this one might be comin’ a bit quicker.’ Ruby groaned and began to breathe fast. Her contractions were already getting stronger, longer and closer together.

  ‘Oh Mam, it ’urts,’ she gasped as she gripped her mother’s hand.

  ‘Don’t worry, luv – ah’m ’ere.’

  When Lily walked into the staff-room the student teacher had already arrived and had introduced herself to John and Vera. It was clear that they b
oth approved of this enthusiastic and purposeful young woman.

  ‘Hello, Lily,’ said John. ‘This is Anne Watson, our student from the college in Ripon.’ Anne was a tall, slim brunette, twenty years old and lissom in her movements. From the outset Lily recognized she was keen to succeed.

  ‘Welcome to Ragley,’ said Lily, ‘and I shall do my best to help. Feel free to ask any questions.’

  ‘I need to get to know the children,’ Anne said, ‘and confirm my timetable. Then I have to prepare my lessons over the Easter break and present them to my tutor, Miss Trimble.’

  ‘You will be working with the children in my class,’ said Lily, ‘and they’re hard-working and responsive. The summer term will give us the opportunity to do some work outdoors. This is a wonderful place, with the woods, fields and animals. We need to make use of them.’

  John was listening intently. ‘As well as learning our tables and handwriting,’ he interjected.

  Anne got the message. ‘Of course … and Miss Trimble would expect nothing less.’

  John smiled. He knew Miss Trimble. Her nickname of the Ripon Rottweiler was appropriate for this fierce lady.

  ‘Let’s go into the classroom,’ said Lily.

  Anne picked up her bulky satchel of children’s books and a cumbersome ring-binder of lesson notes.

  That was when Lily noticed the ring on the third finger of her left hand.

  The arrival of a breathless Ronnie attempting to hammer down his door was something Dr Davenport took in his stride. He asked his wife, Joyce, to telephone the local midwife, then he picked up his black bag and hurried out of the house. As always, Joyce was calm. A friend of Vera’s since their school days, she was already admired in the local Women’s Institute for the excellence of her sponge cakes and her cold-cure remedies.

  Dr Davenport and the midwife, Eileen Goodbody, a buxom, no-nonsense Yorkshirewoman for whom childbirth was like shelling peas, arrived at 7 School View at the same time and set to work in the blink of an eye. Agnes was reassured and answered their calls for hot water and clean towels while keeping an eye on young Andy.

  Ronnie remained downstairs in the kitchen, chain smoking and gagging for a pint of Tetley’s. ‘Another bloody mouth t’feed,’ he muttered.