Starting Over

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘But you don’t know owt about pigeons.’

  ‘What’s there t’know? Jus’ a bit o’ seed an’ water an’ mek sure they don’t escape.’

  ‘Sounds a cushy job.’

  ‘Cushy job! Ah’ll tell you who’s gorra cushy job, Ruby. That Peter Brough what you listen to on t’radio wi’ ’is dummy, Archie Andrews.’

  ‘’Ow come?’

  ‘A ventriloquist on t’radio!’ exclaimed Ronnie. ‘Y’can’t see if ’is lips move.’

  ‘But that’s entertainment, Ronnie, an’ you ’ave t’use y’imagination.’

  ‘Imagination, imagination,’ said Ronnie. ‘What’s that when it’s at ’ome?’ And he went inside the shop to buy a packet of cigarettes.

  Well it’s a start, thought Ruby.

  It was afternoon break and Lily picked up Vera’s Woman & Home magazine, which she had left behind in the staff-room.

  ‘Anne, have a look at this.’

  There was an article entitled ‘Marriage Survey’.

  ‘It says here that a successful marriage all depends on the wife creating an atmosphere of happiness in the home. When a wife produces a family, she feels she has achieved her destiny.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Anne. ‘I don’t want to have children … well, not immediately. I want to teach first.’

  Lily closed the magazine and wondered how Anne’s future husband would respond. She also reflected on her own life.

  Vera had called in to the General Stores. ‘We need to give the pews a good polish,’ she said.

  Prudence rummaged around in the back room and reappeared with a cardboard box full of tins of furniture wax. ‘We have a good selection, Vera,’ she said. ‘There’s Johnson’s Pride in a large economy size.’ Prudence knew Vera well. ‘Or you might prefer the scented lavender wax.’

  Vera smiled and dreamed of Sunday’s congregation breathing in the delicate scent of her favourite flower. ‘I’ll take the lavender, please, Prudence.’ She looked in her purse, selected a shiny shilling and a threepenny bit and placed the coins on the counter.

  The till rang with a high-pitched ding and Prudence relaxed with the knowledge of another satisfied customer. She was pleased she hadn’t produced the huge bottle of Pride liquid wax at five shillings, as that would certainly have been too common for the vicar’s sister.

  Meanwhile, George Hardcastle, the bank manager from Easington, had taken a different sort of shine to Vera and he was parked outside the General Stores in his Rover P4. It was a car that George believed reflected his solid and sensible image, the epitome of respectability.

  Indeed, Vera approved. Handsome but not flashy, she thought. While the third headlamp in the middle of the grille looked odd, George was proud that the aluminium body panels were the result of the surplus stock of wartime aircraft.

  George clearly admired the slim, graceful Vera and had made hesitant and stumbling overtures in the past. They had, however, been met with an icy calm by the aloof school secretary – not least because Mrs Wilhelmena Hardcastle, a portly and vociferous lady, was the current president of the Ragley Women’s Institute.

  A passing AA patrolman on his motorbike glanced at the shiny AA badge on the grille of George’s car and gave a smart salute. George nodded back in appreciation. It was good to feel valued as a motorist of note, and he smiled at the recognition of his status in the community.

  However, this feeling of wellbeing soon vanished.

  ‘Can I offer you a lift, Miss Evans?’

  Vera reflected on his use of the English language. You can, but you may not, she thought.

  ‘No thank you, Mr Hardcastle,’ she said. ‘But thank you for the offer.’

  At the end of the school day John Pruett asked all the children to stand quietly and recite the school prayer. Then, after a reminder not to swing on the school gates on their way home, they walked out in single file.

  John noticed that Big Dave and Little Malcolm appeared more eager than usual.

  ‘Are you in a hurry, boys?’

  ‘Yes, sir, we’re off t’play Subbuteo.’

  John’s eyes lit up. ‘The table soccer game? On that green cloth marked out like a football pitch?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And little footballers that you flick with fingertip control? I’ve seen the box in the shops. It looks good.’

  ‘Is is, sir, it’s great. Tonight it’s Ragley Rovers versus Leeds United.’

  ‘Should be a good game.’

  ‘Y’can come an’ play if y’like, sir,’ offered Dave.

  There was a moment when John would have loved to have said yes, but professional restraint won over. ‘Another time, boys,’ he said sadly.

  Sometimes being a headteacher is no fun, he thought.

  Prudence Golightly looked up when the bell rang again. She was serving Millicent Merryweather as Deirdre Coe strode up to the counter. For Prudence the gloomy and formidable presence of Stan Coe’s sister was unwelcome, but as always she remembered her manners.

  ‘Good afternoon, Deirdre. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

  Deirdre frowned and glanced at Millicent. ‘Life’s too short for idle talk,’ she muttered, ‘an’ ah need summat sharpish.’

  Prudence ignored the rebuke and began packing Millicent’s basket. ‘Was there anything else, Milly?’

  Millicent checked her list. ‘Well, I do need some soap powder, please, Prudence.’

  ‘There’s plenty to choose from. We’ve got Tide, or have you tried Persil?’

  Millicent picked up the box. ‘Actually, I haven’t, although my sister uses it.’ She studied the label. ‘The Herald & Pioneer said that three hundred housewives in London all agreed it was the best.’

  ‘Well, ah’m not convinced,’ said Deirdre sharply, ‘an’ what do southerners know abart cleaning my Stan’s overalls after ’e’s mucked out t’pigs?’

  ‘Fair point, Deirdre,’ said Millicent, although she didn’t agree. Her sister lived in London and her smalls were always spotless.

  At the end of the school day and before the meeting in the village hall, Lily and Anne walked in the sunshine to the Tea Rooms to enjoy a cup of tea and a sandwich.

  Both Nora Pratt and her friend Shirley Makin were assisting Doris after returning from Easington Secondary School. They were wearing their navy-blue school uniforms plus the obligatory white apron and sailor hat.

  It was almost closing time when most of the customers had departed and Nora and Shirley were able to enjoy a conversation with Lily and Anne.

  ‘How’s school, Nora?’ asked Lily.

  ‘Fwustwatin’, Miss Bwiggs,’ said Nora. ‘This new GCE’s a pwoblem.’

  The General Certificate of Education, introduced in 1951, hadn’t proved popular with many of those who weren’t in a grammar school.

  ‘It’s all changed now,’ said Shirley. ‘We’re like guinea pigs. Me an’ Nora would ’ave got our School Certificate, but they changed things t’mek it ’arder.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Anne. ‘I know what you mean. Now that they’ve raised the pass mark from thirty-three to forty-five per cent half the pupils fail.’

  Lily nodded. ‘Also, you need five GCEs to get into the sixth form, including mathematics and English. It’s tough.’

  ‘Weally depwessin’,’ said Nora.

  ‘So we’re leavin’ nex’ year. Ah’m goin’ on a cookery course an’ Nora’s goin’ t’work for Mrs Clutterbuck.’

  Lily sat back with her cheese and lettuce sandwich and contemplated opportunities for young women. Only 5 per cent of pupils went on to university and most of them were men.

  The forthcoming talk in the village hall should prove to be interesting.

  In Morton Manor Captain Rupert Forbes-Kitchener was looking forward to the Coronation. He had been put in charge of coordinating the village celebrations. He had a distinguished team, including Mrs Hardcastle, the formidable president of the Women’s Institute; Albert Jenkins, the school governor; and Vera Evans, the schoo
l secretary, who without doubt was a woman of substance and rare intelligence.

  As he was writing the proposal for a brass band to support the grand afternoon tea in the High Street, he was listening to his new wireless. He had spent the remarkable sum of £16.16s.3d on the latest in modern technology – namely, a portable radio.

  The state-of-the-art All-Dry radio used Ever Ready batteries and needed no aerial, earth or mains wires. In its smart walnut cabinet it was sitting on the kitchen worktop while his wife, Alexandra, relaxed and listened to the Light Programme.

  Meanwhile, the grocer’s boy with the unfortunate stutter had cycled up the long drive that morning and delivered a box of provisions, including a bottle of Lucozade. Rupert considered it to be an expensive luxury, but had kept quiet after Alexandra had declared it replaced lost energy, and there was threepence back on the empty bottle. At least that’s what it said on the label and Rupert had ceased to argue over his wife’s little idiosyncrasies.

  Even so, he was concerned about her failing health and, with a new baby to care for, he was considering hiring a nanny. Someone needed to look after his daughter – and after all, he thought, I’m a man.

  At seven o’clock the village hall was packed and Vera stood up to make the introduction.

  ‘Ladies, it gives me great pleasure to introduce a remarkable woman who describes herself as a disciple of the French writer and philosopher Simone de Beauvoir. Clarice Culpepper was educated here in North Yorkshire and went on to study at Oxford. Much has changed since the war, and perhaps we are approaching a time in our lives when we need to reconsider our role as women. We proved during the war that we could do the work of men …’ Vera paused while there was a ripple of applause.

  ‘And we were better!’ exclaimed Millicent Merryweather from the back row.

  There was muttered approval. Clarice liked what she saw.

  She lived in Stoke Hammond in Buckinghamshire and during the war had worked in a nearby village called Bletchley, but no one knew what she had done, nor did she ever discuss it. Since then she had been a supporter of women’s rights and was currently on a nationwide tour. She liked Vera Evans, recognizing her as another woman who knew her own mind and didn’t suffer fools gladly. Vera also had an excellent speaking voice.

  ‘So,’ continued Vera, ‘welcome to the ladies from Morton who have joined us for an enlightening evening of information and insight. Please show your appreciation for a distinguished lady of our age, the emerging feminist Clarice Culpepper.’

  There was sustained applause as the tall, imposing lady stood up.

  Emerging feminist, thought Clarice. I must use that.

  ‘Ladies of Ragley and Morton, good evening and thank you for the welcome – and, of course, to the equally distinguished Miss Evans for the invitation.’

  Vera gave a nod of acknowledgement; her Christian faith permitted no more.

  Clarice took a step forward and a silence descended. ‘Let me begin by saying, we’re special … we’re different.’

  She held up a well-thumbed copy of a book. ‘This is the groundbreaking nineteen forty-nine work by Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex. It sold more than twenty thousand copies in its first week. It’s written in French, but the English version will soon be in all the bookshops and I urge you all to read it.’

  Her direct, almost confrontational, style had grabbed everyone’s attention. It was also the first time a speaker had used the word ‘sex’ in a WI meeting since Isaac Crumble explained the mating ritual of tortoises back in 1947. That had been a slow evening in more ways than one.

  ‘Simone de Beauvoir’s book describes the treatment and position of women through history to the present day. We have been second-class citizens for long enough and it’s time to do something about it.’

  There were murmurs of ‘Here, here!’ and it was immediately clear the audience was captivated by this dynamic woman.

  ‘In the interest of the propagation of the species, we are biologically different to males.’

  ‘What’s she mean?’ whispered Sylvia Icklethwaite to Gertie Robinson.

  ‘Men ’ave bits an’ we don’t,’ said Gertie, who always told it how it was.

  ‘For example,’ said Clarice, extending her slim arms in a pose like a ballerina, ‘females have a more difficult time building up muscle mass.’

  Gertie Robinson looked down at her massive biceps. Well, some of us don’t, she thought.

  For the next thirty minutes Clarice held the audience spellbound with her detailed analysis of women’s oppression. She described a work of anthropology and sociology, a modern feminist upsurge. It was so captivating that Joyce Davenport almost forgot to switch on their recently purchased Baby Burco boiler, another wonder of the modern age.

  Clarice had reached the grand finale. ‘Let me be honest, when I first read this book I thought that it rambled on a bit, but the message is powerful.’ She paused for dramatic effect. ‘Remember this, ladies – one is not born, but rather becomes a woman.’

  The applause was tumultuous.

  The talk afterwards over a superb cream tea was of the countless hours of housework every week. Gertie Robinson was telling Clarice that all her washing was done in the sink with the occasional drop of Lux liquid to clean the dirty pans.

  ‘Problem isn’t so much us,’ said Gertie. ‘It’s men.’

  How true, thought Clarice.

  Tom was waiting to collect Lily after the meeting. She had arranged to leave her bicycle at school. After climbing into his car they set off for Kirkby Steepleton.

  ‘How did it go?’ he asked.

  Lily was cautious with her reply. ‘Fine, simply discussing the role of women.’

  Tom was astute enough to read behind the neutral statement. They drove on, each with their own thoughts, until Tom suddenly opened up. ‘I think society is changing. Women showed during the war what they can do. They drove ambulances and kept the factories running.’

  ‘And worked the land and drove tractors,’ added Lily.

  Tom nodded as they reached Kirkby Steepleton and pulled up outside Laurel Cottage.

  ‘It will take time, but eventually society will see that women are equal to men – or does that sound too patronizing?’

  ‘No, Tom, you’re making sense and I’m hopeful you can spread the message.’

  ‘You mean with Neanderthals like Stan Coe?’

  ‘He’s a lost cause, but perhaps you could nudge John Pruett a little.’

  Lily could see that Tom was searching for the right words. ‘John is a fine man,’ he said at last, ‘but simply a product of his generation. He’s more than ten years older than me.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to criticize my colleague. It’s unprofessional, and John has been very helpful to me.’

  ‘He’s a lucky man to have you alongside him.’

  Lily smiled, then leaned across and kissed him on the cheek. ‘You say all the right things.’

  ‘Not always.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Occasionally my sense of timing is poor.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, there’s something I want to ask you and it’s been on my mind for a long time.’

  Lily stared up at his honest face. ‘Go on, just say it.’

  ‘Well … I was wondering what you thought about … you know … marriage.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Crowned at Last!

  It was Tuesday, 2 June, Coronation Day, and Ragley village was decked out for a carnival. Union Jacks hung from every upstairs window on the High Street and colourful bunting stretched across the road as Lily cycled into school. She had agreed to meet John Pruett and Edna Trott in the school hall to collect all the dining tables and carry them outside for the party tea on the High Street that afternoon.

  Lily had arranged with her mother that she would help with the preparations in Ragley during the morning and then return to Kirkby Steepleton to spend time with Freddie at his school party du
ring the afternoon. The evening was another matter, and she hoped it involved Tom. A busy time was in store, a national holiday and a day of celebration.

  Little did she know it was destined to be a day of surprises – a day she would never forget.

  In the vicarage Vera was enjoying an early-morning cup of tea as she listened to the radio. Billy Cotton and his Band was playing ‘In a Golden Coach’, their new record to celebrate the Coronation.

  As she sipped her tea, Vera thought of the day ahead. She was about to set off for the village hall to assist the ladies of the Women’s Institute prepare the grand party tea. Trestle tables were to be lined up on the High Street and Tom Feather had ensured the road would be closed to motor traffic. She and Joseph would be together in the vicarage from half past ten onwards, watching the Coronation on their new television set. She checked the timings in the Radio Times and the route of the royal coach.

  Around the country an extra one hundred thousand television sets had been sold so that people could watch the event. Vera glanced at her radio and then at the television set that was destined to become the focus of family entertainment. The world as she knew it was changing.

  Meanwhile, in London thirty thousand people had been drenched overnight. Following heavy rain and a drop in temperature, they huddled under blankets and umbrellas in Whitehall and Piccadilly, determined not to miss out on a chance to see the Queen in her coach of burnished gold.

  Princess Elizabeth had been proclaimed queen in February 1952, immediately after the death of her father, King George VI, but the British public had had to wait for over a year for her actual Coronation, which had required months of meticulous planning. Now three million people lined the streets of London while in Ragley village Vera checked the quality of her scones.

  In the General Stores Elsie Crapper had bought a copy of the Daily Express. There was a reminder that to celebrate the Coronation everyone was allowed an additional pound of sugar and four ounces of margarine.

  ‘A special day, Elsie,’ said Prudence, as she handed over the extra allowance.

  ‘It is indeed, Prudence,’ said Elsie, ‘and may I say how distinguished Jeremy looks this morning?’