‘Ah’ve lost it, Mr Sheffield,’ said eleven-year-old Darrell Topper. He looked close to tears.
‘Lost it?’ I repeated in surprise. ‘But it’s bright yellow and as tall as you.’
‘Ah know, Mr Sheffield, but it went over that ’igh ’edge where them old people live an’ ah daren’t go in there.’
I looked across the Ragley cricket field. A sturdy wooden gate was set into the hedge like a castle portcullis.
Jo Hunter walked over to me. ‘One’s gone over the hedge, Jack,’ she said. ‘Do you want me to go and ask for it back?’
It was Friday lunchtime, 27 March, and Jo and I had taken the children in my class into the village to test out their new kites as part of our Flight project. Earlier in the week we had enjoyed an exciting art and craft lesson making weird and wonderful kite creations of all shapes and sizes, each with a long tail of streamers that looked like a string of bow ties. Timothy Pratt had provided a collection of garden canes for the framework and a huge ball of fine garden twine. After using up all the left-over crêpe and tissue paper from Christmas, twenty-three kites had been launched successfully but now only twenty-two were in the air.
I looked at the formidable hedge. The other side was unknown. ‘No, I’ll go. You take over, Jo, and I’ll be back in five minutes.’
Darrell walked with me to the gate. I looked up and there on the first floor, leaning over a wrought-iron Juliet balcony, was an aristocratic lady with grey hair tied in a neat bun, a warm cardigan covering a smart cream blouse, a calf-length tweed skirt, thick stockings and smart leather brogue shoes. The string of pearls around her neck sparkled in the bright sunshine.
She waved a delicate hand. ‘Hello,’ she said with a weak smile.
‘Good afternoon,’ I shouted up to her. ‘I’m Jack Sheffield, the village school headteacher. A kite belonging to one of my pupils has blown over the hedge.’
‘Yes, I can see it,’ she said.
‘I wondered if I might be allowed to collect it?’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll come down.’
She reappeared a few moments later at the French windows that led from the house to the garden. The kite was tangled above our heads halfway up the high hedge.
‘There’s a pair of step-ladders in the gardener’s store.’ She pointed to an old brick outbuilding. The large wooden doors were open and gardening tools were stacked neatly inside.
After collecting the kite, I returned the step-ladders. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Darrell will be thrilled to get it back.’
‘I’m Mrs Tinkle, by the way, Mr Sheffield – Violet Tinkle,’ she said with a gentle smile. ‘I do believe I’m the only Violet in the village,’ she said proudly.
‘I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs Tinkle,’ I said.
She looked around her as if it was a new experience. Snowdrops were like pearls in the sunshine. ‘I’d almost forgotten how beautiful springtime is,’ she said. Young sprouting leaves of hawthorn had brought new life to the skeleton hedgerows and spears of daffodil buds, surrounded by their blue-green leaves, thrust their heads above the grass.
‘Would you like to meet Darrell?’ I said. ‘I’m sure he’d like to say thank you.’ I beckoned to him to join us.
‘You have a fine kite, Darrell,’ said Violet.
‘Thank you,’ he said, looking relieved.
‘I used to make kites when I was a girl,’ she said.
Darrell looked in surprise. ‘Did you?’
‘And … are you working hard at school?’ she asked.
His cheeks flushed. ‘Ah’m trying m’best but reading’s ’ard,’ he replied with refreshing honesty.
Violet smiled, we said goodbye and she went back inside. Suddenly, a tall athletic young woman in a Cambridge-blue polo shirt, with a Hartford oak tree logo, jeans and trainers, came out carrying a clipboard. She smiled at me in recognition.
‘Oh, hello, Mr Sheffield. I’m Janet Ollerenshaw, one of the carers here. My sister Katy is in your class.’ She looked at Darrell’s kite and grinned. ‘Can I help?’
‘Pleased to meet you, Janet,’ I said as we shook hands. ‘We’ve just retrieved Darrell’s kite. Mrs Tinkle helped us find a ladder.’
‘That’s a good sign,’ Janet said thoughtfully. ‘Her curtains are open at last.’
‘She’s a nice lady,’ said Darrell.
‘She is,’ said Janet. ‘Just a bit lonely since her sister passed on.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said.
We walked to the gate and looked out on to the cricket field. Jo had gathered all the children together with their kites ready to walk back to school. Janet waved to her sister and the tall willowy Katy waved back. The likeness was striking.
‘She’s like I was,’ said Janet reflectively. ‘I was netball captain just like our Katy when Mr Pruett was headteacher.’
Darrell and I joined the end of the straggling line of kite-bearers.
‘I could write ’er a thank-you letter, Mr Sheffield,’ said Darrell. ‘That might cheer ’er up.’
I looked at him in surprise. Writing wasn’t his favourite pastime. ‘Well done, Darrell,’ I said enthusiastically. ‘That’s a great idea – let’s do it this afternoon.’
Back in school, Vera was typing a notice for parents entitled ‘READING WORKSHOP – Monday, 30 March’.
At the last staff meeting, Valerie Flint had come up with the idea. It was aimed at promoting reading throughout the school and everyone decided to give it a try. Ruby agreed to put out the dining tables in the school hall at ten o’clock each day and parents, grandparents and friends of Ragley School would be invited to come and listen to children read. On a card inside the book they would note down the number of pages read and any words that had caused difficulty. Then the class teacher would check this information on their return to the classroom. We thought it would be good for the children, increase the frequency of reading and further develop our school as a centre of the village community.
At the end of school I was in the office, completing my governors’ report, when the telephone rang. It was Richard Gomersall, Senior Primary Adviser from County Hall.
‘Hello, Jack. Glad I’ve caught you. I have something to tell you that may be of interest,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘Barry Prior, headteacher at Gorse Manor Primary School in Scarborough, is retiring at Christmas. It’s a large school, Jack – four hundred and fifty rising to five hundred.’
‘Yes. I know Barry,’ I said. ‘I’ve met him on various courses – a lovely man.’
‘That’s right, Jack … but the school is ready for taking forward into the Eighties. We’ll be advertising next term.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘Well, I hope Barry will be very happy in his retirement.’
There was a pause and I heard a riffling of papers. ‘You see, Jack, I’m at High Sutton Hall leading the curriculum course and, as you know, Beth is here.’
‘Yes?’ I was surprised at the direction the conversation was taking.
‘She mentioned you were thinking of a move to a bigger school.’
‘Did she?’ I was shocked.
‘So I thought I’d bring this to your attention, particularly with the fate of some of our smaller schools uncertain at present.’
I was determined to cover up my surprise. ‘Well, I appreciate your letting me know, Richard.’
‘You’ve built up a good reputation, Jack, and we always like to develop and promote our own, so to speak.’
‘I see.’
‘I’ll call in when I can.’
‘Thanks, Richard.’
The line went dead and I was still staring at the receiver when Vera walked in.
‘Anything urgent, Mr Sheffield? You looked concerned,’ she said as she filed away the latest reading test results.
‘No, Vera,’ I replied quickly, perhaps a little too quickly, and she looked at me curiously.
On my way home I delivered Darrell’s letter for Mrs Tinkle bu
t my mind was buzzing after the telephone conversation. I needed to speak to Beth – in private.
On Sunday morning I gave my Morris Minor Traveller a quick polish. It was Mother’s Day, Beth had returned from High Sutton to her home in Morton and Diane Henderson had driven up from Hampshire to spend the weekend with her. We had agreed to attend the Mothering Sunday service at St Mary’s followed by lunch at The Royal Oak.
As I drove out of Kirkby Steepleton I sensed a faint stirring of wind and soil. The season was turning. Cow parsley had begun to invade the verges at the side of the back road to Ragley village and blackbirds were making their nests. Above me, among the purple elm buds in the high branches, the high-pitched cawing of rooks shattered the silence whenever a precious twig was stolen to repair a nest. The nearby woods were carpeted with primroses and soon the children of Ragley would be excited by the first signs of frogspawn.
After a lovely service we pulled up outside The Royal Oak. Beth held my hand as we walked in and the slim, elegant Diane Henderson looked stunning in a cream two-piece trouser suit. As always, they turned heads and I felt good to be accompanied by two such beautiful women.
Sheila’s Sunday roast dinners were always a treat and both bars were filling quickly as we found a table.
Diane glanced at the pile of Sunday newspapers on the reception table. ‘I see the wedding date has been confirmed,’ she said.
I looked at her in surprise. ‘Pardon?’
Beth grinned. ‘Mother means the royal wedding, Jack.’
‘Yes,’ said Diane. ‘It said in the paper that Charles and Diana will marry on the twenty-ninth of July.’
‘Just after the end of the summer term,’ said Beth.
‘Good job we didn’t pick that date,’ I said.
‘Beth was saying it will probably be next year,’ said Diane.
‘You know, Jack … when things are more settled,’ added Beth a little hurriedly.
I stood up. ‘I’ll order, shall I?’
Big Dave and Little Malcolm were staring up at the television above the bar and watching highlights of the first London Marathon organized by Chris Brasher, the former Olympic steeplechaser. The American Dick Beardsley and Norwegian Inge Simonsen had shared first place by crossing the finishing line holding hands in a little over two hours, eleven minutes. Joyce Smith was the winner of the ladies race in just under two and a half hours and, remarkably, eighty per cent of the seven-and-a-half-thousand competitors completed the course.
‘It’ll never catch on,’ said Big Dave.
‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm.
‘Did y’see who won?’ asked Clint Ramsbottom.
‘It were a dead ’eat,’ said Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough.
‘A dead ’eat!’ exclaimed Big Dave. ‘ ’Ow can it be a dead ’eat after twenty-six miles?’
‘It were won by two fellers an’ one were a Norwegian,’ said Stevie.
‘They were ’olding ’ands,’ added Chris ‘Kojak’ Wojciechowski knowingly.
‘Y’know what they say about Norwegians,’ said Big Dave darkly and everyone nodded.
‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ agreed Little Malcolm, although, apart from Norwegian seamen knitting their own socks, he didn’t entirely follow his giant cousin’s train of thought.
‘Ah don’t see much point in it,’ said Shane Ramsbottom, ‘jus’ running.’
‘Y’spot-on there, Shane,’ said his brother Clint. ‘It’s not like y’running for summat … like a bus.’
‘Or running away from summat,’ added Kojak, ‘… like a woman.’
‘Women are no good at running,’ said Nutter Neilsen with authority. ‘They’re not built t’same as us.’
Puzzled, everyone looked at Nutter, who usually added very little to their conversations.
Sheila rose to the challenge. ‘An’ what’s wrong wi’ women running?’ Her sequinned boob tube stretched tight under the strain of her risen chest. At that exact moment every man around stared at her prodigious bosom and, unaware everyone else was thinking the same thought, considered it was a good thing that women weren’t built the same as men.
‘Well, ah’ve ’eard they’d lose weight from all t’wrong places,’ explained Nutter hastily.
Sheila glanced down at her main asset. ‘Oh, ah see,’ said Sheila. ‘Well, Nutter, mebbe y’ve gorra point there.’
‘Anyway, ah’d speed it up,’ he continued.
‘ ’Ow?’ asked Big Dave.
‘Ah’d give ’em all a ten-minute start an’ then ah’d set t’major’s ’ounds after ’em. Y’wunt want t’be in t’back o’ one o’ them pantomime ’orses then, ah reckon.’
Everyone nodded, impressed at Nutter’s new-found ability for divergent thinking.
Beth was sitting alone when I returned to our table with three glasses of red wine.
‘My mother has gone to get something from the car,’ she said.
I plunged in. ‘Richard Gomersall said you had told him I was thinking of another headship.’
Beth sipped her wine and looked at me steadily. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘It came as a bit of a surprise.’
Beth seemed unflustered. ‘It seemed a good opportunity to mention it,’ she said.
‘It’s just that I have never said I wanted a bigger headship and I felt a bit … awkward.’
‘I was just trying to help, Jack. Come the summer term, decisions will have to be made, whether we like it or not. If you’re not proactive you may miss your chance.’
I was becoming increasingly aware of a steely resolve to Beth that until recently I hadn’t realized was there. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.
Diane came back in, carrying a large creased envelope. ‘Sorry to be so long.’ She pulled out a Mother’s Day card and pointed to the handwritten message. ‘Here it is, Beth,’ said Diane. ‘Laura says she’s coming up to see you at Easter.’
Sheila served us with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and I sat back and drank my wine. My appetite had disappeared. Life was becoming more complicated.
On Monday morning Vera was on the telephone when I walked into the office.
‘Yes, of course, Janet,’ she said. ‘It’s a wonderful idea and it will be good for Violet to get out again at last.’ She put down the receiver and looked at me. ‘Good news, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘That was Janet Ollerenshaw. She’s bringing Violet Tinkle to the reading workshop.’
‘And I know just the person who would like to read to her,’ I said.
It was during morning break that Vera told me the story of Violet Tinkle.
* * *
Violet was born in Portsmouth in 1909 and, twenty years later, had married William Tinkle. They had two sons, John and Edward. In October 1940 Violet and her boys had listened to the wireless and heard the sixteen-year-old Princess Elizabeth’s broadcast to the children of Britain and the Empire. It was to be the last night she spent with her sons. Of Portsmouth’s seventy thousand homes, sixty-three thousand were damaged by German bombs. The sound and the fury of the blast lived with Violet for the rest of her life and she grieved that she had been spared while her sons had been killed instantly. William never returned from the war and she didn’t remarry.
So it was that Violet came to live with her sister, Mavis, in a little cottage on the Morton Road and soon the pair of them were immersed in the war effort. They coordinated the local Dig for Victory campaign during the time German U-boats in the Atlantic were preventing food imports from reaching our shores from other parts of the Empire. Then they taught children how to garden and began a pig and poultry club. The children performed plays to raise money for the war effort and collected scrap metal and silver paper to help the government make more Spitfires.
Evacuees continued to arrive from the cities, each child carrying a cardboard box containing a pair of spare shoes and socks, a change of underwear, pyjamas, towel, soap, toothbrush and a warm coat. Brothers and sisters were kept together, and they never forgot the day
Mrs Tinkle took them to see Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz. Very soon they called her Auntie Violet.
* * *
At ten o’clock, Violet was sitting at a table in the school hall. Darrell was reading to her from his Ginn Reading 360 book. At first he struggled, but slowly, his confidence increasing, he made progress.
Violet looked carefully at Darrell. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said quietly. ‘Those who have never failed have never really tried.’
Darrell nodded, not fully understanding.
‘Tell me,’ said Violet, ‘what do you like reading?’
‘Ah love football, Mrs Tinkle, speshully Roy Race.’
‘Roy Race?’
‘Yes,’e’s in t’Roy of the Rovers comic every Monday. ’E’s player-manager of Melchester Rovers an’ they’re ’aving a tough time.’
‘Oh, are they?’
The bell went for morning break and I joined Darrell and a few of his friends at Violet’s table. Alongside her was a battered Cadbury’s Milk Tray box.
‘What’s that for, Mrs Tinkle?’ asked Darrell.
‘I keep all my memories in a chocolate box,’ said Violet simply. Inside were photographs of her past life, including one of a young and beautiful woman. It was a long-ago world of long dresses and starched collars, a time of uncut loaves and creamy milk, of brass bands and gramophone records – and a time of war and countless soldiers who never came home.
More children gathered round and were fascinated by Violet’s memories of Bisto and Bovril, Ford and Austin, Lyons Corner Houses and tea dances. Anne, Vera and Valerie came and sat down beside me to enjoy the company of this remarkable lady. There was grace and lightness to her movements and the raven hair that had once cascaded around her shoulders was now a tight silver-grey bun on the top of her head and held in place by a bird’s nest of metal hair grips.
‘We were told to Dig for Victory,’ said Violet, ‘and if one and a half million homes saved a small bucket of coal each day it would provide enough fuel to build a destroyer.’
Shirley came out of the kitchen and looked at Violet’s old ration book.
‘We never wasted our vegetable water,’ she said to Shirley. ‘Instead we used it to make soup the Oxo way and I learnt how to make a cake without eggs.’ Shirley’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘We used saccharine instead.’ She held up an old savings book. ‘I used to buy National Savings Certificates at the Post Office. If I saved fifteen shillings, after five years it would be worth seventeen shillings and sixpence,’ she said proudly. ‘We were also told that life would be wonderful after the war. The drawings in my Good Housekeeping magazine showed a land of high-rise flats, new shopping centres and Rufflette tape for new curtains to brighten our windows after the blackout.’
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