‘Oh, did she?’
‘An’ she said when you married Dad y’didn’t ’ave y’thinkin’ cap on.’
‘Well, she’s no business t’say that,’ said Mrs Gawthorpe.
Alison shook her head. ‘Well I’m not gettin’ married,’ she declared.
‘Why not?’
‘Well, you’d ’ave t’share y’toys.’
Ruby had called in to the office with an unexpected announcement. ‘Ah were thinkin’ o’ slimmin’, Mrs F,’ she declared.
Vera put down her fountain pen. Now this is a surprise, she thought.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, ah were thinkin’ ah’d let m’self go a bit.’
‘You’re fine, Ruby,’ said Vera cautiously. ‘Is this something to do with Mr Dainty?’
Ruby’s cheeks flushed. ‘Well, mebbe a bit.’
‘Has he mentioned this?’ enquired Vera.
‘No, Mrs F,’ said Ruby hurriedly, ‘but ah jus’ thought George might prefer me if ah weren’t such a big lass.’
‘I’m sure Mr Dainty prefers you as you are, Ruby, never fear,’ Vera assured her with a gentle smile. It was clear to everyone that George Dainty worshipped the ground that Ruby walked upon.
Ruby looked down at her triple-X overall, stuffed her chamois leather in her pocket and ran her hands over her hips. ‘Mebbe so, but ah were jus’ thinkin’ o’ losin’ a few pounds. ’Avin’ said that, ah don’t want t’be jus’ skin an’ bone an’ look emancipated like them models.’
It was late morning when Ruby walked out to the village green. A bench had been positioned outside The Royal Oak under the welcome shade of a weeping willow tree and next to the duck pond. A brass plaque screwed to the back of the bench commemorated the life of Ronnie. It read:
In memory of
RONALD GLADSTONE SMITH
1931–1983
‘Abide With Me’
Ruby sat down and thought of her children. Thirty-five-year-old Andy was a sergeant in the Army; thirty-three-year-old Racquel was the mother of Ruby’s pride and joy; and thirty-one-year-old Duggie was an assistant to Septimus Flagstaff, the undertaker. Twenty-six-year-old Sharon had moved in with her long-term boyfriend, Rodney Morgetroyd, the local milkman, with the Duran Duran hairstyle. Natasha, now twenty-four years old, worked part-time at Diane’s Hair Salon, with occasional babysitting as a sideline. Meanwhile, the baby of the family, thirteen-year-old Hazel, was in her third year at Easington Comprehensive School.
Maurice Tupham walked by on his way to the Post Office. ‘How are you, Ruby?’ he asked, raising his flat cap.
‘Fair t’middlin’, Maurice,’ said Ruby.
He stopped and looked at her. ‘Y’look miles away.’
‘Ah were jus’ thinkin’ ’bout m’granddaughter. Our Krystal’s growin’ up quicker than your rhubarb,’ said Ruby proudly.
Maurice Tupham’s prize-winning forced rhubarb was famous in North Yorkshire and his life was devoted to the creation of perfect Rheum rhabarbarum. However, success had come at a cost and his marriage had suffered. Maurice’s wife had left him long ago, as he spent more time in his forcing sheds than in their bedroom. She had run off with a man who worked for Bird’s Custard. Consequently, every time she sat down to a pudding of rhubarb crumble and custard she reflected on the two men in her life.
‘Y’look troubled,’ observed Maurice.
Ruby sighed. ‘Sometimes ah feel ah can’t do right f’doin’ wrong.’
‘It’ll be right as rain, never you fear,’ Maurice reassured her and crossed the road to the village Pharmacy.
Betty Buttle suddenly sat down next to Ruby.
‘’Ello, Ruby,’ she said. ‘What y’doin’?’
‘Ah were jus’ thinkin’ ’bout Ronnie.’
‘Well, like m’mother allus used t’say,’ said Betty, ‘your Ronnie were as much use as a choc’late teapot.’ Betty never minced her words.
‘An’ she were right,’ agreed Ruby.
‘An’ now you’ve got that lovely Mr Dainty,’ continued Betty. She squeezed her friend’s hand gently. ‘Things are lookin’ up for you.’
Ruby smiled. ‘Y’right there, Betty, there’s light at the end of t’funnel.’
Betty set off for Diane’s Hair Salon and Ruby was left alone once again.
Her daughter Natasha had arrived for her shift at the hairdresser’s and the local bobby, PC Julian Pike, was waiting to greet her.
Ruby saw them and smiled. Young love, she thought. It was good to enjoy their budding romance.
Julian was a mere five feet eight inches tall, but with double insoles, an extra heel of shoe leather and his policeman’s helmet he cut a fine figure. Natasha had fallen in love with his moustache, fashioned on Robert Redford’s Sundance Kid. It tickled when she kissed him.
‘It’s good of you t’wait f’me, Julio,’ she said.
Julian blushed as he always did when she called him by his new nickname. On their first night out at the local Berni Inn, Julio Iglesias had sung his hit record ‘Begin the Beguine’ in between their melon boat starter and their main course of gammon steak, chips and peas. By the time the Black Forest gateau arrived Natasha had decided Julian was the one. Meanwhile, as he sipped Irish coffee and nibbled an After Eight mint, Julian knew his card would be stamped that night. Next day, for the first time, the usually punctual police constable was late for duty.
‘It’s a busy day,’ said Julian adoringly, ‘but I shall always find time for you.’
Natasha sighed deeply. Like her mother, she was completely unaware of her affinity for mixed metaphors. ‘Well y’know what they say, Julio – a rollin’ stone is worth two in the bush,’ and she didn’t need to stretch up to peck him on the cheek. She remembered it was agreed that kissing on the lips was not permitted when he was on duty.
During lunch break in the staff-room, Vera was thinking about Ruby.
‘Sally,’ she said, ‘Ruby needs cheering up. She has a lot on her mind.’
Sally looked up. ‘What was it you were thinking of, Vera?’
‘Do you still go to Weight Watchers?’
Sally blushed slightly. ‘You know I do.’
‘Well, I was thinking …’
Up the High Street in Diane’s Hair Salon, Betty Buttle was pleased with her recent purchase, the latest issue of Cosmopolitan.
‘Ah’ve brought this posh magazine for you to ’ave a look,’ she said to Diane. ‘Y’get some really good articles.’ She held it up at a page with the heading ‘Vivat Vagina’.
‘Bloody ’ell!’ said Diane. ‘Ah see what y’mean.’
Betty was pleased with the reaction. ‘It sez ’ere, “Every woman owes it to herself to be on good terms with her vagina”, an’ y’can’t say fairer than that.’
It occurred to Diane that she had never even been on bad terms with her private parts, but decided to light up another cigarette and seek refuge in her box of giant rollers.
In The Royal Oak George Dainty was having a drink with Deke Ramsbottom.
George was a short man in his early fifties with ruddy cheeks and a ready smile. Beneath his flat cap he had a balding head. He had left the village many years ago as a teenager and his fish-and-chip shop, The Codfather in Alicante, had turned him into a millionaire, thanks in part to the quality of his famous batter but largely because of his capacity for hard work and honest toil.
‘Y’must ’ave ’ad a good fish-an’-chip shop, George,’ said Deke.
‘It were t’best,’ agreed George. ‘Ah ’eard there’s a new fish-an’-chip shop in Easington.’
Deke shook his head and frowned. ‘Ah don’t go there since Big Bad Bob took over.’
‘’Ow come?’
‘Well it put me off when ah saw ’ow ’e tests t’see if ’is oil is ’ot enough.’
‘What does ’e do?’
‘’E spits in it. If it bounces back, then it’s ready. ’E never were into ’ygiene, were Big Bad Bob.’
‘Ah see what y’mean.’
Deke pointed at his Sun newspaper. ‘’Ave you ’eard, George?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Littlewoods ’ave said t’jackpot will go up to one million pounds in November.’
‘That’s a lot of money.’
‘Y’not kiddin’,’ said Deke. ‘Only thing is, t’cost for a full perm for eight draws from ten picks is goin’ up from thirty-six pence to forty pence.’
‘That’s not much,’ said George, not wishing to dampen the enthusiasm of Ragley’s favourite cowboy.
‘Jus’ think,’ mused Deke, staring into space, ‘ah could be a millionaire an’ ’ave anything ah want.’
Not everything, thought George. He was thinking of Ruby.
Behind the bar, Don Bradshaw, the publican, turned up the volume control on the television. Diego Maradona was giving an interview. The little Argentinian footballer insisted he did not handle the ball for his infamous ‘Hand of God’ goal against England in Mexico.
‘Turn it off!’ yelled Deke. ‘Cheatin’ little bugger.’
Don switched channels quickly, turned down the sound and smiled. He was pleased it had had the desired effect as the men in the tap room supped their pints and resumed their secret thoughts of Angela Rippon’s long legs.
The highlight of the afternoon was the arrival of the children from Morton School.
It was only for an hour but the visit went well and twenty-seven children attended. The only absentee was George Frith, one of the ten-year-olds due to join my class. That apart, all the children enjoyed meeting the teachers, seeing their classrooms and making new friends with the Ragley children.
They left during afternoon break and several Morton parents stayed to talk to Anne and Pat, as they were to receive the majority of the new intake.
In the office, Joseph had called in to see his sister.
‘I’ve just been talking to Albert Jenkins,’ he said. Albert, as well as serving as a local councillor for more than twenty-five years, had been a trusted governor when I first arrived at Ragley. He had also been instrumental in removing Stan Coe from the governing body.
‘Oh yes?’
‘Albert said he had heard that Stan Coe was up to no good.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ said Vera. ‘Do we know what it is?’
‘Something to do with buying land.’
‘Oh dear.’ Vera stared out of the window. ‘Whoever sows injustice will reap calamity, and the rod of his fury will fail.’
‘Proverbs twenty-two, verse eight,’ murmured Joseph, almost to himself.
‘Quite right, Joseph,’ said Vera. ‘I’ll mention it to Rupert – he may know something.’
‘I wonder Stan bothers,’ mused Joseph. ‘There are better things to do with our time.’
‘Very true, Joseph,’ agreed Vera. ‘Man is like a mere breath; his days are like a passing shadow.’
Joseph hesitated.
‘Psalm a hundred and forty-four,’ Vera informed him with a smile.
‘You always were better than me in our Bible studies,’ he muttered.
The bell rang for the end of school and there was excitement in the cloakroom area. Stuart Ormroyd and Tom Burgess were hurrying to collect their coats. ‘Sir, me an’ Tom are meeting ’is big brother. We’re off apple scrumping and then ’e says we’re going t’stand outside the fish-and-chip shop in Easington for a free bag of scraps.’
‘Does your mother know?’ I asked.
Mrs Gawthorpe was standing nearby with her daughter, Alison, and had overheard the conversation. ‘It’s all right, Mr Sheffield, I’ve just seen their mothers at t’school gate.’
‘Thanks, Mrs Gawthorpe,’ I said.
She looked down at her daughter. ‘So why do you want t’go t’your friend’s ’ouse? Is it because she ’as a computer?’
‘No, Mam,’ said Alison, ‘it’s ’cause ’er ’ouse is cleaner than ours.’
Mrs Gawthorpe blushed and looked at me. ‘Out of the mouths of babes, Mr Sheffield.’
George had called in at the village Pharmacy and was speaking to Star Trek fan Eugene Scrimshaw.
‘Eugene, ah’m a bit worried about Ruby,’ he confided. ‘She’s lookin’ a bit run down t’me, y’know – proper peaky. Ah think she’s workin’ too ’ard.’
Eugene smiled. ‘Ah’ve got jus’ the thing, George.’ He rummaged in a box behind the counter. ‘’Ere it is,’ and he put a packet on the counter. The label read Carnation Build-up. ‘Jus’ add some milk an’ it’s a proper tonic – proteins, vitamins an’ minerals, it’s got the lot. Gets y’back on y’feet in no time.’
‘Thanks, Eugene,’ said George, ‘ah’ll tek it.’
Eugene’s wife, Peggy, had overheard the conversation. ‘She’s a lovely lady, is Ruby,’ she said. ‘Good to hear someone is looking after her after all this time.’ She gave George a stern look. Peggy wasn’t a woman to mess with.
George paid quickly, nodded gratefully and walked out of the shop.
The school was quiet now and I was alone in the office. A busy night lay ahead. It was my second evening class at Leeds University. In three years’ time it would lead to a Masters Degree in Educational Management. The course comprised two years of weekly modules to be followed by a final year devoted to completing a dissertation.
I rang Beth at her school.
‘So what is it tonight?’ she asked.
I glanced down at my notes from last week. ‘“The Education Acts of the Twentieth Century”. Tonight it’s a history of educational legislation.’
My tutor, Evan Pugh, was an elderly, grey-haired man in a bright bow tie and waistcoat. He was a walking encyclopedia of dusty facts and somehow brought it all to life. I had noticed I appeared to be one of the older students in the group and reflected on my career path so far. Perhaps Beth was right and I ought to think beyond being a village school headmaster. It just happened to be the job I loved.
Last week’s discussion had been dominated by the more recent changes in education. Dr Pugh believed we were entering a time of ‘seismic change’ with a common curriculum for all our children on the near horizon.
‘I’ve got some property brochures,’ said Beth suddenly.
It was a quick change of subject but, as always, her ideas refreshed me like spring water.
‘I thought we had decided to improve Bilbo Cottage,’ I said.
‘Yes, we did, Jack … but there’s no harm in looking.’
‘Fine, see you later tonight,’ I said.
‘Love you,’ she said and ended the call.
As usual, Beth had added a scattering of stardust.
I climbed into my car and switched on the radio. The number-one record, ‘Don’t Leave Me This Way’ by the Communards, was playing and, as I drove down the High Street, I hummed along.
It was early evening and George Dainty and Ruby were sitting on Ronnie’s bench.
‘Ah got this for you from t’chemist,’ said George.
‘What is it?’ asked Ruby, looking suspiciously at the packet.
‘It’s chocolate flavour, Ruby, an’ ah know y’like chocolate.’
‘Mebbe too much, George – ah’m gettin’ a bit on the ’eavy side.’
‘Y’look fine t’me,’ said George graciously. ‘It’s got proteins an’ stuff t’give you a bit of extra get-up-an’-go, so t’speak.’
‘Ah could do with that, George,’ acknowledged Ruby. ‘Ah’ve ’ad t’do that boiler t’day an’ clean toilets an’ polish that ol’ piano. Ah ’ate Tuesdays.’
There was a pause as if George were searching for the right words. ‘Ah’ve been thinkin’, Ruby … in fac’ ah’ve been thinkin’ a lot these days.’
‘’Bout what?’ asked Ruby.
‘You an’ me, Ruby.’
Ruby paused and looked up at the branches of the willow tree above their heads. They swayed in the rhythm of the gentle breeze. ‘So what’s on y’mind, George?’
‘Ah’m in love,’ said George.
‘Oh ’eck,�
�� said Ruby.
‘Ah’ve been in love since ah were seventeen years old … wi’ a girl what was t’village May Queen. She’s allus been light o’ my life an’ she’s sittin’ ’ere right next t’me.’
‘Them’s nice words, George.’
‘So ah’ve got a question – an important question.’
‘Well, y’better ask it,’ said Ruby quietly.
George stood up from the bench and got down on one knee. He took Ruby’s hand in his and said, ‘Ruby, my love, will you marry me?’
And Ruby smiled.
Perhaps Tuesdays weren’t so bad after all, she thought.
Chapter Four
Every Loser Wins
School closed today for the half-term holiday and will reopen on Monday, 10 November. The new furniture arrived for the temporary classroom. There was a meeting of the governing body at 7.00 p.m.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 31 October 1986
It was a perfect autumn morning and bright sunshine lit up the trees as I drove towards Ragley village. Around me russet leaves swirled across the road and bared their fragile skeletons. Now was the time of the gathering of leaves, a time for reflecting on misty memories. The season was changing and in the hedgerows teardrop cobwebs shivered in the sharp breeze.
The number-one record, ‘Every Loser Wins’ sung by the EastEnders star Nick Berry, was on the radio once again. The BBC soap opera was Ruby’s favourite programme. I recalled she had told me that the song was performed by Nick Berry’s character, Simon ‘Wicksy’ Wicks, along with his backing group, The Banned. It had dominated the charts and I listened to the words as I drove along.
On the council estate Nellie Robinson was washing up the breakfast pots as her husband, Big Dave, got ready to leave in his bin lorry to collect Little Malcolm.
‘Ah’m off t’see Dorothy this mornin’,’ she shouted after him. ‘She’s not ’erself.’
Big Dave grunted a reply. He had his own problems.
‘Neither is Malc’,’ he said. ‘’E’s been a pain in t’bum this las’ week.’
His diminutive cousin was definitely out of sorts and he didn’t know why.
‘Well, ask ’im what’s up,’ said Nellie firmly. ‘You’ve known ’im long enough.’
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