Starting Over

by Jack Sheffield

  In John Pruett’s class all the children were busy copying out a note to take home to their parents.

  John had written on the blackboard: ‘School closed today for the Easter holiday and will reopen on Monday, 13th April.’

  Every child had to write it out twice, with the second copy being taken home by the younger children in Lily’s class.

  After the first hour Lily soon appreciated that Anne had the makings of a good teacher. She communicated well with the children and responded to their requests for help. It was the beginning of a positive partnership. Lily was even more impressed when Anne volunteered to play the piano in assembly.

  However, when Anne opened her songbook to Albert Midlane’s popular hymn ‘There’s a Friend for Little Children’ and began to play, Lily stared out of the window. John Pruett observed how she was suddenly in a world of her own. Also, he was sure he noticed a tear in her eye and wondered why.

  After morning milk Lily and Anne were on playground duty during break. They were each sipping a cup of tea and watching Reggie Bamforth play the part of Robin Hood with a group of boys. He had been to Phoebe Fawnswater’s house to watch the new weekly series of Robin Hood. Patrick Troughton had become the first actor to play the role on television and Reggie was shooting imaginary arrows at Norman Fazackerly, who kept falling down and pretending to die.

  Lily and Anne were soon in conversation. Anne lived with her parents on the Easington road and she intended to get married to John Grainger during the summer holidays, as soon as she had qualified. She was proud of her engagement ring, a small opal in a gold setting, and held it up in the morning light. ‘It belonged to John’s grandmother, so it’s been passed down through the generations.’

  According to Anne, John was a tall, handsome trainee woodcarver. After completing his National Service he had secured employment with a local furniture maker specializing in oak sideboards, tables and chairs. She said he always took a pride in his work, often adding a finishing touch of a beautifully carved acorn. However, it was when he was in his shed at home on his father’s farm carving models of shire horses that he felt like a craftsman of old, creating wonderful shapes from a simple block of seasoned oak.

  As the bell rang for the end of playtime, Anne noticed there were no rings on Lily’s finger.

  It was midday and the doctor and midwife had done their work. Ruby was holding a beautiful baby girl in her arms. ‘Ah did it, Mam,’ she said.

  ‘An’ she’s lovely … jus’ perfec’ like ’er mother,’ said Agnes. ‘C’mon, let me ’old ’er.’

  Ruby was too tired to lift the small child, so Agnes picked her up and held her close. The familiar softness and scent of a new-born baby reminded her of Ruby all those years ago. ‘You’ve gorra gran’ that loves you, my sweet,’ she whispered, ‘and a mam who will always be there for you.’

  When she looked back at the bed, the exhausted Ruby was asleep and Agnes stood there gazing down at her daughter and listening to her soft breathing. The sibilant sounds brought comfort to her soul.

  However, the moment was shattered when Ronnie opened the bedroom door.

  ‘Do you want to ’old y’daughter?’ asked Agnes, a little reluctantly.

  ‘Bit later, when ah get back.’

  ‘Get back? Where y’goin’?’

  ‘Pub o’ course, t’celebrate … it’s tradition,’ and Ronnie clattered down the stairs.

  Anne Watson was sitting next to an inquisitive Rosie Finn and an intrigued Phoebe Fawnswater at lunchtime.

  ‘What’s that, Miss?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘It’s my engagement ring.’

  ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘It’s to show I’ve promised to marry my boyfriend.’

  ‘When are you getting married, Miss?’ asked Phoebe.

  ‘In the summer holidays.’

  Rosie considered the implications. ‘And will you have a pretty dress?’

  ‘Yes, I shall – a lovely white dress.’

  ‘I went to my aunty’s wedding and she wore a white dress,’ said Phoebe. ‘Why are they always white?’

  Anne considered this for a moment, seeking a suitable response. ‘I think it’s because white is the colour of happiness and your wedding day is the happiest day of your life.’

  Phoebe frowned. ‘So why does the groom wear black?’

  Good question, thought Anne.

  When Ronnie walked into The Royal Oak he was disappointed that the tap room was almost empty. A few retired farmers were sitting at the table next to the bay window drinking bottles of stout while playing a fives-and-threes dominoes game. Clarence Higginbottom pulled Ronnie the obligatory free pint to ‘wet the baby’s head’ and Ronnie raised his glass. ‘To m’daughter,’ he said.

  One of the farmers looked up. ‘A daughter? ’Ard luck. Y’need sons t’earn money.’

  There was unanimous approval among the domino players and they returned to their game shaking their heads as if there had been a death in the village.

  ‘’Ello, Ronnie, ah saw y’comin’ in.’ It was Thelma, the local flirt.

  ‘’Ello, Thelma. Ruby’s just ’ad a baby – little girl.’

  ‘Well, y’better buy me a drink t’celebrate. Ah’ll ’ave a Cinzano Bianco – ah like them erotic drinks. Remember, Ronnie, y’bought me one in Morecambe.’

  In the summer of 1951 Ronnie had enjoyed an illicit day trip with the voluptuous eighteen-year-old Thelma when he was on leave from his National Service. She had brought a camera and he had taken her photo leaning against the seafront railings and smiling seductively. She had been wearing her new Terylene pleated skirt and had just paid one shilling and ninepence for a pair of Twinco sunglasses.

  As she smoked her Capstan cigarette she had felt like a film star.

  Back in the staff-room Lily and Anne were discussing projects for the summer term when John walked in carrying his cane and a long leather strap.

  ‘I thought it worth mentioning our policy regarding discipline,’ he said. ‘If anyone misbehaves, then obviously I would expect you to deal with it immediately and you may send a child to me for punishment.’ He held up the cane. ‘This is for six of the best, usually for fighting, bullying, swearing and smoking. However, I try to keep that to a minimum and use this instead. It’s an old barber’s strop and ideal for lashing an outstretched hand.’

  Lily pursed her lips and remained silent.

  Anne looked concerned. ‘I would hope there would be no need for that, Mr Pruett, as I intend to provide a relevant curriculum that excites the children and keeps them interested. That has worked so far on my previous teaching practices.’

  Well said, thought Lily.

  John sat back a little perplexed, and unsure if there was a hint of implicit criticism.

  Anne saw his reaction. ‘And as this is such a lovely school, I can’t foresee a problem.’

  John seemed sufficiently placated. ‘Well, you will appreciate it has to be done or they’ll think there’s no discipline – and, come to think of it, it didn’t do me any harm.’

  Afternoon school went well for Lily and Anne, though it was clear they were unimpressed by John’s old-fashioned style of teaching. Lily kept a professional silence.

  During his physical training lesson his pupils stood in pairs throwing a beanbag to each other across the hall in a desultory fashion. Likewise, his craft lesson comprised the girls making identical peg bags while the boys made long cylinders from thick cardboard for storing spills. It was uninspiring.

  In contrast, at the end of the day the children sat in rapt silence during Anne’s story time. She read from her copy of Beatrix Potter’s The Tale of Peter Rabbit and brought the story of the mischievous and disobedient Peter to life. The children held their breath when he was chased by Mr McGregor and sighed with relief when his mother finally put him to bed with a dose of camomile tea.

  It was the last day of the spring term and for the children a two-week Easter holiday beckoned, with thoughts of climbing tree
s, pond dipping and Easter eggs. After school a relaxed John Pruett and Lily met in the staff-room with Anne for a cup of tea.

  ‘Well done,’ said Lily when the children had gone home. Then a thought struck her. ‘By the way, there’s a dance tomorrow night in the village hall.’

  By late afternoon the news of Ruby’s baby had filtered through to the local Pharmacy and Herbert Grinchley made sure it was soon all around the village.

  Meanwhile, Nora Pratt was at the counter with her best friend, Shirley Makin. Fourteen-year-old Shirley was regarded as the best teenage cook in the village and both girls were excited about the Saturday night dance.

  ‘Y’need t’try this, girls,’ said Herbert. He held up a bottle of the new Silvikrin Cream Shampoo. ‘Ah ’eard it said Britain’s up-an’-comin’ girls are rushin’ t’buy it.’

  ‘Why’s that, Mr Gwinchley?’ asked Nora.

  ‘’Cause it gives you poise an’ confidence.’

  ‘Ah’d like t’be confident,’ said Shirley, who tended to hide her light under a bushel. She picked up the bottle and studied it carefully. ‘Hey, Nora, it says it gives you “sheer beauty”.’

  ‘’Ow much is it, Mr Gwinchley?’ asked Nora.

  ‘One shillin’ an’ threepence, an’ that’ll give y’three shampoos.’

  Then Herbert produced a large bottle from under the counter like a magician. ‘Or y’could get double in t’big bottle for two shillings.’

  ‘That’s thwee shampoos each if we spend a shilling each,’ said Nora quickly. She was top in mathematics in her class.

  Shirley nodded. ‘Meks sense t’me.’

  On her way home Lily had called in to the General Stores and bought a tin of Ovaltine. That night before going to bed she smiled when she prepared a steaming mug. On the side of the tin it said ‘The World’s Best Nightcap’, and as she climbed the stairs she gave a secret smile and thought of Tom.

  There was a watercolour painting hanging above her bed. Painted with care and precision, it showed a village scene in high summer. A beaten track led up to a white-fronted farmhouse with a riot of wisteria clambering up its walls. Two burly farm labourers were leaning against an old Ford tractor, apparently deep in conversation, while the distant fields of barley shimmered in the sunlight. Lily stroked a delicate finger down the side of the wooden frame and studied the picture carefully. It brought back memories of warm summer days in the Land Army, gathering in a bountiful harvest … and special times.

  On Saturday morning, at the age of twenty, Diane Wigglesworth was thinking about her life. She and her mother were in the hairdresser’s shop waiting for their first customers.

  Diane had met a suave physiotherapist from the hospital in York and he had suggested that she would make a perfect nurse. He had told her there were training allowances starting at £200 per year, plus twenty-eight days’ holiday with pay. A professional career in the arms of the handsome health worker stretched out before Diane. However, all was not what it seemed. He had given her a copy of ‘A Nurse’s Life’ from the Ministry of Labour & National Service and then asked her to sleep with him on their second date.

  Unknown to Diane, Bernard was a sexual predator with a string of conquests. Sadly, it was the first disappointment of many that were to befall the Ragley village hairdresser. Her mother offered her a cigarette and some advice. ‘Don’t trust men,’ she said. ‘They’re only after one thing.’

  Their first customer arrived. It was Violet Fawnswater.

  ‘I thought I would try that beauty treatment shampoo you mentioned, Diane,’ said Violet.

  ‘White Rain,’ said Diane, ‘new from America. A sachet f’ninepence or t’economy bottle for ’alf a crown. Meks ’air shiny, silky an’ beautiful, an’ preserves y’natural oils.’

  Diane was better with her products than with her choice of men.

  ‘Ronnie, ah want t’call ’er Racquel,’ said Ruby.

  ‘Racquel? ’Ow come?’ Ronnie was pleased. He had no recollection of a previous girlfriend called Racquel and it occurred to him it could have been a lot worse. It could have been Thelma.

  ‘Ah were readin’ that Gipsy Fortuna what does star signs,’ said Ruby. ‘She tells y’fortune in t’Erald an’ she said yesterday were a lucky day.’

  ‘Star signs?’

  ‘Yes, Ronnie. She’s called Racquel Fortuna. Sounds posh.’

  The new astrologer had started a weekly column in the Easington Herald & Pioneer and many of the ladies in the village had become avid followers. The fact that Gipsy Fortuna was actually Brenda from the bread shop in Thirkby who needed extra cash for a new wardrobe was not common knowledge.

  The Saturday Spring Dance was a great success. The village hall was full, and chairs and tables had been placed around the outside to leave plenty of room for dancing. Clarence Higginbottom had set up a bar on a huge trestle table stacked high with barrels of beer and soft drinks. Then he returned to The Royal Oak, leaving his wife and daughter in charge. Meanwhile, young men were hoping to catch the eye of one of the girls while old-timers swapped stories.

  John Pruett had brought a gramophone and set about selecting appropriate records for the various dances. It wasn’t long before Vera gave up trying to guide Joseph through the basic steps of a waltz, but Lily was impressed with Tom. She was a good dancer herself, and he proved surprisingly adept and coped wonderfully with the quickstep.

  Unknown to Lily and Vera, John Pruett had been attending Edith Fortesque’s Ballroom Dancing Class in Easington and had been practising a wide range of dances. Lily agreed to be his partner for the valeta, which was a demanding ballroom dance in triple time. However, John’s feet skipped across the floor with effortless ease.

  ‘That was wonderful, John,’ said a breathless Lily, and he glowed with pleasure. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for – a chance to engage his beautiful colleague in stimulating conversation.

  ‘Valeta is the Spanish for weather vane,’ he said, which seemed a little incongruous to Lily.

  ‘That’s interesting,’ she said without conviction. ‘Thanks for the dance, John,’ and wandered off back to Tom.

  After a while Tommy Piercy took his seat at the piano and took out a packet of Player’s Navy Cut Medium cigarettes. He stared affectionately at the picture of the bearded sailor on the front of the packet and recalled his own days in the Royal Navy. It was a change from his pipe, and he lit a cigarette, puffed contentedly and opened the piano lid. Soon everyone was enjoying a selection of their favourite wartime songs, including ‘The Lambeth Walk’, ‘White Cliffs of Dover’, ‘We’ll Meet Again’ and ‘Don’t Dilly Dally on the Way’.

  Lily watched Tom singing along with gusto and wondered if anyone noticed when she didn’t join in.

  To Vera’s surprise, Ronnie Smith made an appearance at the dance. Vera had visited Ruby during the afternoon and delivered a bunch of flowers and a knitted cardigan for baby Racquel. Ruby had been so grateful, and there were tears in her eyes at the acts of kindness from friends and neighbours.

  Vera marched up to Ronnie, who had just ordered a pint from Mavis behind the bar. ‘How is Ruby?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine thanks, Miss Evans,’ replied Ronnie, unconcerned. ‘Jus’ restin’.’

  ‘I’m a little surprised you’re here, Ronald. Is there someone with Ruby?’

  ‘’Er mother,’ said Ronnie and he supped deeply on his pint. ‘So ah’m wettin’ t’baby’s ’ead like ah did wi’ Andy,’ and he walked away, sat down next to Thelma and offered her a cigarette.

  Herbert Grinchley leaned over to Alfie Kershaw and nodded towards Ronnie. ‘’E ought t’be careful wi’ ’er.’

  ‘Y’reight there, ’Erbert,’ said Alfie. ‘She knows all there is t’know in t’bedroom department does that one, so ah’ve ’eard.’

  Towards the end of the evening Lily saw Anne looking a little distressed and walking out of the front door towards the High Street. She followed and saw Anne stubbing out a cigarette with a grimace. When she noticed
Lily she gave a wan smile. ‘I hate cigarettes.’

  ‘Then why smoke them?’ asked Lily.

  ‘Because my John buys them for me. All his favourite film stars smoke.’

  ‘Just tell him you don’t like them.’

  Anne looked a little forlorn. ‘It’s difficult.’

  ‘Why?’

  Anne sighed. ‘He’s got set ideas about us. Just a typical man, I suppose.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he says after we’re married he’ll be the husband and I’ll be the homemaker.’

  ‘What about your profession? You’ll be a teacher. That must come first.’

  Anne shook her head. ‘He doesn’t see it like that. He’ll expect me to be at home tidying the house, making his meals and warming his slippers.’

  ‘Anne – it’s not my place to interfere, but you need to tell him how you feel and you need to do it soon.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Anne. ‘I’ll try.’

  Lily watched the young student walk away looking thoughtful.

  Lily was staring up at the scudding clouds when Tom appeared. ‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Just trying to point Anne in the right direction.’

  ‘Really? She seems fine to me.’

  ‘Apparently John Grainger has some old-fashioned ideas.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Married life. The roles of men and women. Husbands and homemakers.’

  ‘I see.’ He put his arm around her shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t see marriage like that. You’re too good a teacher.’

  Lily looked up at him quizzically. ‘Sometimes, Tom Feather, you say just the right thing.’

  He stroked her cheek gently. ‘That’s the problem with love, Lily. You can’t choose. It picks you.’

  She stretched up and kissed him, but said nothing.

  ‘One day I’ll understand you,’ he said quietly.

  Lily shivered.

  ‘Shall we go back inside?’ Tom asked. ‘I don’t want you to get cold.’

  It was last orders and Mavis was serving John Grainger and Tom Feather, making sure they had every opportunity to admire her prodigious cleavage as she pulled the pints. She looked up at the young woodcarver. ‘Ah ’ear y’gettin’ married.’