‘You can’t let girls use a saw,’ he declared in horror.
It was at times like this that she hoped one day to become a headteacher herself and have the authority to plan her own curriculum.
Ruby was outside the Pharmacy talking once more to her next-door neighbour, Betty. They were smiling at little Racquel in her pram when Deirdre Coe appeared.
‘Ah saw you ’angin’ out y’washin’ this mornin’. Ah’ve got one o’ them new ’Oover ’lectric washin’ machines,’ she announced. ‘Does a whole family wash.’
‘But you ’aven’t gorra family,’ said Betty.
‘Ah know, but my Stanley meks up f’that wi’ ’is mucky overalls.’
‘Ah’m ’appy wi’ m’posser tub,’ retorted Ruby without conviction.
‘Well, no more washday drudgery f’me. My Stanley looks after me – not like your Ronnie,’ and she walked away.
Ruby felt as though she had been slapped and had no immediate response. Deep down she knew Deirdre was right, but she pursed her lips and said nothing.
‘Never mind,’ said Betty. ‘Let’s go an’ see ’Erbert in t’Pharmacy an’ catch up wi’ t’gossip.’
Ruby nodded, but Betty could see she was still shaken by Deirdre’s unkind comments.
‘Did y’know ’Erbert were a member o’ t’Home Guard?’
‘A Local Defence Volunteer?’ said Ruby.
‘That’s right – the LDV,’ added Betty and smiled ruefully. ‘’Cept we called ’em Look, Duck an’ Vanish.’
Ruby laughed and they walked in together to collect some castor oil for young Andy.
At the end of school John Pruett was talking to Mrs Knutsford in the school office. ‘You’ll need to start saving up for a uniform,’ he said. ‘Robin is almost certain to pass his Eleven-plus.’
‘An’ pigs might fly, Mr Pruett. Ah’m only jus’ gettin’ by as it is.’
John Pruett sighed deeply. He hated to see talent wasted and Robin was one of the brightest boys he had ever taught.
He looked out of the window and saw Robin leaning against the school wall reading a book. As usual he was wearing old clothes and hobnail boots. You could always hear him coming from far away. Predictably, he was known as ‘Ginger Nut’ among the other children, but he accepted this with good grace and was a popular pupil. His regular nosebleeds were counteracted by his mother, who would drop a large key down the back of his shirt. It was an old wives’ tale that John could never recall being disproved.
‘Perhaps there will be a grant,’ he said. ‘I’ll enquire for you.’
Mrs Knutsford smiled knowingly. ‘Thank you for tryin’, Mr Pruett.’
The next few days turned out to be a dreadful experience for Joseph. Men he had known for years as valued members of the village community regressed to nothing short of eccentric when they retired to the privacy of their sheds.
Late on Tuesday evening he discovered that Archibald Pike used his shed for weaving bell ropes for the church. When he entered the shed in the cold moonlight, shapes resembling hangman’s nooses hung from the rafters and turned Joseph’s blood to ice.
‘Naturally I would expect to win, Vicar,’ said Archibald with a fixed smile, ‘as my shed is dedicated to the church.’
On Wednesday he entered the dark and secret world of Maurice Tupham, where in an eerie light he was introduced to the art of forcing rhubarb. Maurice also had high expectations. ‘Ah’m presuming ah’ll get at least a commendation as ah provide such ’igh-quality rhubarb for t’village. It’s a labour o’ love, Mr Evans.’
On Thursday Alfie Kershaw’s shed stank like a brewery and Joseph recoiled when he opened the door. The stench was like a physical blow. ‘Finest c’llection o’ beer bottles on God’s earth,’ announced Alfie. ‘If that dunt win, nothin’ will.’
On Friday Joseph could have wept following an insight into a man he regarded as a pillar of the local community. Aloysius Pratt waxed lyrical about his collection of nuts and bolts through the ages. They were displayed in old jam jars on wooden shelves that lined his shed. However, it was when Aloysius selected a dome-headed screw and held it up to the light as if it were a thing of beauty that Joseph made a swift departure.
Back at the vicarage, Vera was following a pattern from her Woman & Home magazine. She was knitting a cardigan in midnight blue embroidered with Tyrolean flowers – namely her favourite, starry-white edelweiss. Vera was always very precise. She had been into York to purchase seven ounces of Lister’s 3-ply wool and was working at a tension of seven stitches to the inch with No. 8 needles. Although the pattern suggested it would fit a bust of up to thirty-seven inches, Vera had made the necessary adjustment and reduced it appropriately. After all, she liked a slim, close fit.
When her brother walked in she could see he was severely stressed. He was staring forlornly at his list. ‘Only two more sheds to go.’
Vera put her arm around his shoulder. ‘Remember, Joseph, you can’t add years to your life with worry – but it can steal life away.’
‘I’m in a fix, Vera. I shouldn’t have taken it on.’
‘God will guide you.’
‘Yes, I’m sure he will … but He didn’t have a shed.’
As Lily left school on Friday, Tom walked up the drive to meet her and stood next to her bicycle. He handed her a brown paper bag.
‘I thought you would like this, both for yourself and then for the children.’
Lily looked inside. It was the newest novel by C. S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.
‘That’s a wonderful gift, Tom. Really thoughtful. Thank you so much.’
‘And are we still fine for this evening?’
They had taken to going to the cinema on a regular basis now. Tonight it was Singing in the Rain with Gene Kelly. As he walked away, she thought how lucky she was to have found such a fine man, faithful, true … and honest.
Honesty, she thought – an important virtue. Perhaps she was close to sharing what was on her mind with Tom. She stared down at the book and felt like a small boat on a troubled sea, not knowing if the next big wave would take her to shore or dash her to pieces.
By six o’clock on Friday Joseph also felt as though he were sinking fast. All the men he met appeared perfectly normal until they set foot in their sheds.
Men and sheds, he thought, as the realization crept over him that tomorrow he would have to choose the winner. He sat down on the bench under the weeping willow on the village green, put his weary head in his hands and contemplated an uncertain future.
‘What’s t’do, Vicar? Are y’frettin’?’ It was Gertie Robinson.
‘Oh hello, Mrs Robinson, I’m fine thank you.’
‘Y’look proper peaky t’me.’
‘It may be a slight migraine coming on,’ he said weakly.
Gertie stared down at the frail figure, who looked as though a stiff breeze would blow him away. She made a decision.
‘Mr Evans, come wi’ me. Ah’ll soon ’ave y’fettled.’ Gertie had arms like tree trunks and almost lifted him from the seat before frogmarching him down School View. ‘Y’need a quick pick-me-up an’ ah’ve got jus’ the thing.’
A few minutes later Joseph found himself at the bottom of the Robinsons’ back garden, sitting on an upturned box in the corner of an old wooden shed.
‘Now, Vicar, try a drop o’ this.’
Judgment Day arrived on Saturday morning when Joseph announced to the Ragley Shed Committee that the winner of the Best Shed competition for 1953 was Mrs Gertie Robinson. The men retired to their sheds in a state of bewilderment. Their shed world had been turned upside down.
‘But she’s a woman …’ said Archibald Pike in bewilderment.
‘Ah wouldn’t allow a woman in my shed,’ declared Maurice Tupham defiantly.
‘Whatever next?’ grumbled Alfie Kershaw. ‘A woman Prime Minister?’
Everyone laughed. ‘Not in my lifetime,’ muttered Aloysius Pratt.
That afternoon the committee held an emergency meeting. Billy
Two-Sheds proposed that the vicar should stand down as the judge and that future competition entries should be restricted to members of the committee – comprised entirely of men.
The motion was carried unanimously.
Gertie’s Devil’s Brew, meanwhile, was suitably named. It was genuinely evil, with a kick like a mule and an aftertaste of red-hot coals with the merest hint of paint stripper.
After one glass there was a feeling of bonhomie. A second glass made you feel distinctly euphoric. After that you were simply floating in the clouds.
However, for Joseph it had been shed heaven.
Chapter Fifteen
The Second Sex
It was a slow dawn and as Lily looked out of her bedroom window the scent of wallflowers and cherry blossom made her feel this was a time of renewal. The flower spikes on the horse chestnut trees gave promise of summer and a preening sparrow stared up with beady eyes full of anticipation for the new day.
It was Wednesday, 20 May and sunlight caressed her skin like a lover’s kiss. The distant hills shimmered beneath a ring of fire and a thin band of gold lit up the horizon. Above her head only the cawing of the rooks in the high elms disturbed the peace of this perfect morning.
Lily sighed. It was good to be alive on a day such as this.
As she cycled along the back road to Ragley village, Lily was at peace in her world. In Twenty Acre Field the green unripe barley swayed in sinuous patterns in the gentle breeze. Misty carpets of bluebells and the pale-yellow blossom of wood sage brought splashes of colour to the woodland clearings. The baa-ing of lambs and the distant cry of a curlew were sounds of a familiar countryside.
When she reached the High Street a flock of starlings wheeled in sharp formation towards St Mary’s Church and Lily thought of Tom and the words he had spoken last night. She smiled as a day of new promise and expectation stretched out before her.
However, life is full of the unexpected, and as she approached the village hall she saw Vera pinning a poster on the noticeboard and pulled up. ‘Good morning, Vera.’
‘Good morning, Lily. This should cause a stir.’
Lily dismounted and read the poster. ‘I see what you mean,’ she said with a smile.
‘Definitely a first,’ said Vera. ‘I can’t imagine the word “sex” has appeared too often on a poster in Ragley. It will certainly get the ladies of the Women’s Institute interested.’
The poster read:
Ragley & Morton W.I.
Wednesday, 20th May 1953 at 7.00 p.m.
‘The Second Sex’
A talk by Clarice Culpepper
Based on the book by Simone de Beauvoir
A cream tea will be served.
‘It’s about time women stood up to be heard,’ said Vera. ‘The suffragettes did it and now it’s our turn.’
With that, a determined Vera and a curious Lily walked side by side towards the school gate.
On the playground Reggie Bamforth and Phoebe Fawnswater were both reading their weekly comics. Reggie was absorbed in his Eagle and enjoying the adventures of Dan Dare, Pilot of the Future.
He glanced across at his friend. ‘What y’readin’ that for, Phoebe?’
‘It’s exciting,’ said Phoebe. She was clearly engrossed. Phoebe was reading Girl, her ‘super-colour’ sister comic to the Eagle.
Each week Phoebe called in at the General Stores, placed four pennies and a ha’penny on the counter and collected her comic. She loved reading about Kitty Hawke and her ‘all-girl air crew’. Phoebe had decided she wanted to be a pilot when she grew up. However, there was much to achieve before then. She had to pass her Eleven-plus, go to the Time School for Girls in York and then on to university. It was a pathway planned years ago by her mother.
She thought she would tell Miss Briggs of her ambitions. All she needed was advice and Miss Briggs knew everything.
Anne Watson’s teaching practice was going well. She was clearly an exceptional teacher, as even Miss Trimble, the Ripon Rottweiler, agreed after observing her lessons. Her copious file was always detailed and included the time, age group, equipment, aim of each lesson and how it was expected to develop.
Lily and Anne were on playground duty during morning break and Billy Icklethwaite was showing Anne his new belt. It was striped red and green, with a snake clip. He had attached a loop of baling twine and was clearly proud of this new item in an ensemble that otherwise appeared decidedly scruffy.
‘What’s the twine for, Billy?’ asked Anne.
Billy was surprised at such a question, as the answer was obvious.
‘For m’sword, Miss.’ He held up his hazel branch and ran towards Reggie Bamforth, who had been persuaded to act the part of the Sheriff of Nottingham.
Anne looked at the children playing their various games. ‘Fascinating, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘The only limit appears to be the extent of their imagination.’
Two piles of coats represented the goalposts at Wembley Stadium, while a rope tied to the hook on the wall of the boiler house became an opportunity to be Tarzan the Ape Man along with his ear-shattering jungle cry – that is, until Edna Trott shooed you away with her yard broom.
As well as the school playground, all the side roads off the High Street were solely for play, as there were few cars, and here too the children of Ragley acted out their fantasies, often as footballers at a time when English football was the envy of the world, with stars such as Stanley Matthews and Billy Wright. Newsreels at the pictures of the England football team kept everyone in touch with the latest matches.
Few games were shared among boys and girls except hopscotch, which was particularly popular on the High Street, where the flagstones were the ideal size to draw around when marking out the numbered boxes with a stick of chalk. This morning Robin Knutsford and Edie Stubbs were playing the game happily on the school playground.
Dominating the large spaces of the playground, boys were acting out cowboys and Indians or cops and robbers. Little Malcolm was lying on the ground, completely still.
‘Oh dear, Malcolm, what’s the matter?’ shouted Anne.
‘Ah’ve been shot, Miss.’
‘Shot!’
‘Yes Miss, by t’sheriff.’
It was time for the bell, and Anne and Lily walked back into school.
‘You do wonder if it’s psychologically damaging for boys to spend their playtimes killing each other,’ observed Lily.
In contrast, many of the girls were acting out motherhood with dolls.
‘That reminds me,’ said Lily, ‘why not come along to the talk in the village hall tonight? It’s about women and their role in society today. You could get some tips for dealing with your chauvinist husband-to-be.’
Anne grinned. ‘Good idea.’
In the village Pharmacy, Herbert Grinchley was serving Mrs Alice Dlambulo, who had arrived in Ragley with her husband from Jamaica three years ago. After taking jobs no one else wanted, her husband had finally found regular employment as a bus conductor in York. Her hard-working son, Clyde, had done better with a job at Morrisey’s Motor Cycle Mart.
Mrs Dlambulo was a happy lady with a sense of fun and she was used to Herbert’s sales technique. This morning she wanted some hand cream, as her hands were chapped after washing Clyde’s overalls twice a week.
Herbert put a jar of Pacquins Hand Cream on the counter. ‘This’ll do t’job, Mrs Dlambulo.’
‘Ah s’ppose so.’ She picked up the jar and read the label. ‘It might even work miracles,’ she said with a quizzical look.
‘What might that be?’ asked Herbert.
‘Well, it says soft white hands after washing up.’ She held up her black hands and smiled.
‘Oh ’eck,’ said Herbert and his cheeks flushed.
Next in the queue was Joseph Evans, looking distinctly grey around the gills.
‘I need something to settle my stomach,’ said Joseph. ‘I’m feeling a little queasy.’
‘What brought that on, Vicar?’
&
nbsp; ‘Possibly my Honeysuckle Supreme wasn’t quite ready.’
Herbert smiled. The vicar’s home-made wine had a reputation in the village. He slapped a quarter-pound tin of Andrews Liver Salts on the counter. ‘Here y’are, Mr Evans, a refreshing and pleasant fizzy laxative for inner cleanliness. Settles the stomach and tones the liver.’
Joseph didn’t need the sales patter – just some relief. ‘Thank you, Herbert,’ he said and staggered back to the vicarage.
The talk in the staff-room at lunchtime was of televisions. More people in the village were buying or renting them. It seemed everyone wanted to view the forthcoming Coronation in their own homes and sales had rocketed. The ardent royalist Vera had surprised Joseph by sending him to York to make an immediate purchase, and Tom proposed to buy one for his mother this coming weekend. John Pruett was ahead of them all and had rented one from the store in York three weeks ago.
‘Are you enjoying your television, Mr Pruett?’ asked Anne.
‘I certainly am,’ said John. ‘I watched the FA Cup Final.’
‘So did I,’ said Anne. ‘It was a wonderful game. I saw it at my parents’ house. Blackpool beat Bolton four–three. Stan Mortensen scored a hat-trick and Stanley Matthews was the star of the match – at the age of thirty-eight.’
John looked surprised. ‘For a woman you seem to know a lot about football.’
‘Of course, I enjoy all sports,’ said Anne, looking slightly bemused. ‘It didn’t occur to me that it depended on whether I was a woman or not.’
Lily looked up sharply. It was important to avoid friction in the staff-room. ‘I’m sure Mr Pruett meant that these days it is unusual for women to be knowledgeable about sports that have traditionally been supported by men. Isn’t that so, John?’
Vera picked up the teapot. ‘Another cup of tea, Mr Pruett?’
Ruby was outside the General Stores when Ronnie suddenly appeared.
‘Where ’ave you been?’ she asked.
‘Ah’ve gorra job,’ said Ronnie proudly.
‘Flippin’ eck, Ronnie, wonders never cease! What’s t’job?’
‘Racin’ pigeons – ah’m lookin’ after ’em f’Billy Two-Sheds.’
Starting Over Page 20