Happiest Days

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘I wonder what he might bring?’ replied Prudence with an encouraging smile.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Suzi-Quatro. ‘Mebbe another doll.’

  Mrs Ricketts looked down sharply. ‘Another doll?’

  ‘Yes, Mam, jus’ like the one hidin’ under your bed.’

  ‘What were y’doin’ under my bed?’ asked Mrs Ricketts crossly.

  ‘Playin’ ’ide an’ seek wi’ our Billy.’

  ‘Don’t you go there again,’ said Mrs Ricketts firmly. ‘Play downstairs in future.’

  ‘OK, Mam,’ said the little girl cheerfully as she began to chew her Black Jack and the colour of her tongue changed from pink to black. After all, why should she mind if her mother went to bed to play with dolls of her own?

  Prudence moved up to a higher step to serve me. ‘Here’s your newspaper, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘and it sounds as if that politician with the greasy hair is trying to make a name for himself.’

  Beneath the headline ‘Baker Unfolds Far-reaching School Reform’ it read: ‘Plans to introduce the biggest changes in schools for more than 40 years were outlined yesterday by Kenneth Baker, Secretary of State for Education & Science.’

  I sighed. ‘Yes, more changes ahead it would seem.’ I always felt it prudent to be cautious, as I knew the other shoppers might repeat my comments.

  As I drove up the High Street, a distinctive green Citroën passed me, heading towards Coe Farm and the back road to York, and I tried to recall where I had seen it before. The school car park was a welcome sight and I locked my car with frozen fingers. A bitter wind brought tears to my eyes as I hurried towards the entrance porch.

  ‘Good luck in court t’day, Mr Sheffield,’ shouted Ruby from the far side of the playground. She walked over to the entrance porch, clearly not feeling the freezing wind as I did. ‘Ah ’ope it gets sorted, but t’way it’s goin’ it could snowball into a right can o’ worms.’

  Regardless of mixed metaphors, I knew that Ruby was right – it could. I was entering a new world of cross-examinations and important judgements.

  The warmth inside school was a relief as I walked into the office.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘Valerie called to say she will be here at lunchtime to cover for you this afternoon.’

  Valerie Flint always helped us out in an emergency and I knew my class would be well looked after during my absence.

  ‘Thank you, Vera,’ I said, as I hung up my old college scarf and duffel coat. She noticed I was dressed in my best grey three-piece suit.

  ‘And very smart indeed, if I may be so bold,’ she added with a twinkling smile. Vera was trying to boost my spirits on a difficult day. ‘Also, there’s a letter from County Hall saying the replacement furniture for the temporary classroom will arrive next week. Then, no doubt, Mr Potts will have to start all over again. The poor man … all that work.’

  ‘Yes, thank goodness it wasn’t worse,’ I said, thinking over the events of that fateful evening.

  It had been a frightening few minutes after Ted Postlethwaite raised the alarm. Marcus and I had run out of The Royal Oak, followed by Deke Ramsbottom and his sons, with Don the barman close behind. As we dashed across the village green I saw that one of the temporary classroom windows was broken and smoke was pouring out. Flames could be seen where Marcus had prepared his book corner. Moments later, Deke Ramsbottom had located the hosepipe next to Sally’s classroom and sprayed water in through the broken window, and this had an instant effect. Fortunately, Amelia at the Post Office had alerted the emergency services and within minutes they arrived, so Marcus unlocked the door and stood back.

  The firemen from Easington had taken control in a calm, well-rehearsed manner. Everyone seemed to know their job and the fire was quickly extinguished. Then they sprayed the shell of the Portakabin with powerful jets of water from long hoses, while dark pools of water spread across the tarmac playground and the crowd looked on. The sound of their siren had attracted many villagers out of their homes, including Ruby with her son Duggie and daughters Natasha and Hazel.

  PC Julian Pike had arrived on the scene quickly and cordoned off the area. He had taken charge of crowd control and, in the eyes of Natasha Smith, he was a hero. Soon his uniform was soaked and covered in ash. Finally, when the firemen were satisfied all was safe, they secured the building and I was left talking to PC Pike and the fire officer. They said they would return in the morning to continue their investigations.

  ‘You were lucky,’ said the chief fireman. ‘We caught it early.’

  ‘Looks deliberate,’ said PC Pike, pointing at the broken window.

  ‘We think it was a firework,’ added the fireman.

  Fifteen-year-old Billy McNeill, once a Ragley pupil, had approached us out of the crowd. ‘Ah saw who did it, sir. It were that Dean Skinner from Morton. ’E’s in my class, but ’e didn’t come in today.’

  PC Pike looked at me and raised his eyebrows. He took Billy to one side and began to write in his notebook. Later that evening, Dean Skinner was taken to the police station in York with his mother and admitted to the charge of arson. ‘Ah were jus’ bored,’ he told the investigating officer.

  The following day my friend Sergeant Dan Hunter, who had been best man at my wedding, had arrived from the station in York with another colleague. Their uniformed presence was reassuring. Dan wanted a quiet word. ‘You’ll have to go to court, Jack,’ he said, ‘but don’t worry, they just need to know the extent of the damage.’

  For the rest of the week there were various visits from County Hall officers. Industrial cleaning of the smoke-blackened walls was arranged, followed by a complete redecoration, while the damaged furniture had to be replaced. For me, the saddest memory was sifting through the fire-damaged classroom with Marcus and seeing all his hard work destroyed.

  That was over three weeks ago and, after the sound of the school bell, the children in Anne’s class had other things on their mind. Class 1 was a hive of activity, with parents arriving with rolled-up curtains, tea-towel headdresses and assorted sandals in preparation for our forthcoming Nativity play.

  Mrs Buttershaw had wrapped up three boxes for the Kings’ presents for baby Jesus. These included an empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label Whisky covered in silver foil, an empty packet of Kellogg’s All-Bran wrapped in red Christmas paper, and a box of multi-wormer (for cats with roundworm and tapeworm) beautifully wrapped in gold tissue paper. They looked very impressive, particularly the whisky bottle with its silver bow.

  Anne gave me that ‘Here we go again’ look and sat down with a group of children to make a large star from thick cardboard and gold foil.

  At morning break Vera heated a pan of milk, opened a new jar of Nescafé Gold Blend and we settled down for a welcome cup of coffee.

  Anne was sitting next to the gas fire and staring out of the window.

  ‘Penny for them,’ said Pat, and Anne looked up guiltily, making us wonder what might be on her mind. From the way she reacted, it didn’t appear to be the Nativity. That morning she had exchanged sharp words with her DIY-obsessed husband about the hours he spent creating unwanted wooden constructions. Anne felt her life was drifting away. She wanted excitement and new experiences instead of boring routines. It was only in her teaching that she retained her zest for life. She had smiled while decorating the Christmas tree when Kylie Ogden said, ‘I like being a girl, Miss, but sometimes I wish I was a fairy.’

  At lunchtime Valerie Flint arrived. She was our ‘safe pair of hands’. A tall, slim lady dressed in a familiar trouser suit, Valerie was very experienced and a close friend of Vera’s.

  As usual she approached me with confidence. ‘I’m well prepared for the afternoon, unless there’s something in particular you want me to progress.’

  We discussed the current topic work and the opportunities to stretch some of the most able children. Miss Flint took all this in her stride. The saying concerning old dog and new tricks crossed my mind, but I didn’t d
are repeat it.

  After a lunch of Spam fritters, mashed potatoes and carrots, followed by jam roly-poly and the thickest custard known to man, I walked out to my car. The A19 was busy and I passed the local chocolate factory and the hospital in a queue of traffic on my way to the magistrates’ court. I thought of Marcus and hoped the whole sorry incident would be resolved if only for our new teacher. He had been a regular visitor since the fire and it was encouraging to see his reaction when the classroom was painted again. The smell of smoke had disappeared and his bright posters once again filled the display boards.

  I parked and, entering the building, followed signs for the courtroom and was directed towards a waiting room. In the corridor outside I spotted Dean Skinner. He was dressed in his best suit and tie and I presumed it was his mother standing beside him. She glowered at me, then returned to berating her son.

  Shortly before 2 p.m. I was summoned and I walked into a courtroom for the first time. It was a new and strange experience. I was asked to stand and repeat the oath, then a kindly old judge explained that I would be required to answer a few questions. Opposite me, on the other side of the room, stood Dean Skinner. He looked nervous. The youngster was definitely out of his comfort zone and all the false bravado had gone.

  I was asked to describe briefly the damage and the cost of refurbishment. I explained that the furniture had been new and that tables and chairs plus two eighteen-drawer storage units had had to be re-ordered. Also, the classroom had been redecorated and County Hall had informed me by letter that the costs would be in the region of £800.

  Following a brief cross-examination, it was over in a few minutes. The judge summed up quickly and stated that he had taken the family’s financial situation into account. With a severe look at Dean Skinner, he declared the boy’s parents would have to repay the costs at the rate of £20 per week for the next forty weeks.

  When I walked out of the court towards the car park I saw a man in a shabby suit sitting on a bench with his head in his hands. He was rocking forwards and backwards in clear distress.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘Can I help?’

  He looked up at me. ‘You’re that teacher what got ’is classroom set on fire.’

  ‘Yes I am,’ I replied, wondering where this conversation was going.

  He sighed deeply. ‘It were my stepson what did it.’

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  ‘Twenty quid a week for best part of a year,’ he moaned, ‘an’ all ’cause of ’er stupid boy.’

  ‘You seem to have taken this very hard,’ I said, trying to offer some sympathy.

  He was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Y’not jokin’,’ he said. ‘Ah only married ’is bloody mother six weeks ago.’

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  When I reached the car park I looked back to see that his new wife had arrived with her teenage son and they were in animated conversation. As I drove out of York and back up the A19 it struck me that sometimes life simply wasn’t fair.

  That evening at seven o’clock Ruby and George were in George’s luxury bungalow watching Bruce Forsyth’s Play Your Cards Right.

  ‘Mr Sheffield said that boy got sentenced in court t’day an’ ’is mam an’ dad will ’ave t’pay for all t’damage.’

  ‘That’ll set ’em back,’ said George as he sipped on his cup of tea. His mind was on something else.

  ‘Ah’ll ’ave t’get back after this,’ said Ruby. ‘Natasha got tea ready for our ’Azel an’ Duggie, but she’s goin’ out and our Duggie’s still seein’ that mature woman so our ’Azel’ll be on ’er own.’

  George sighed. He loved it when Ruby shared his sofa and they watched television together. ‘OK, Ruby, ah’ll tek y’back.’

  ‘That’s all right, George, ah’m used t’walkin’.’

  ‘No, it’s freezin’ out there, luv, an’ t’pavements are slippy. Ah’d never forgive m’self if y’fell.’

  Ruby smiled. It was good that there was someone to care.

  George held her hand. ‘Ah was wond’ring if you’d made up y’mind about, y’know … us.’

  Ruby thought it’s now or never.

  ‘Yes, ah’ve spoken to our Andy on t’telephone an’ ’e said ’e jus’ wants me t’be ’appy … an’ our Duggie said t’same.’

  ‘An’ what about y’girls?’ asked George.

  ‘They all think you’re a lovely man, George, ’xcept for our ’Azel.’

  ‘Bloomin’ ’eck,’ said George. ‘What about ’Azel?’

  ‘She took it ’ardest of t’lot of ’em when my Ronnie died, so it’s a matter of pickin’ t’right time. She’s only a little lass … but ah do know she likes you.’

  They stood up and George kissed her gently on the cheek. ‘Well, ah’ve waited this long, Ruby. A bit longer won’t mek a lot o’ diff’rence ah s’ppose.’

  When they pulled up outside 7 School View, Hazel heard the car and was staring out of the window. It occurred to her that her mother looked happy – and, finally, she understood why.

  It was Saturday morning and in her Coffee Shop Nora was reading her Woman’s Weekly magazine.

  ‘Dowothy,’ she said, ‘there’s an article ’ere on bweastfeedin’ an’ it looks int’westin’.’

  ‘What’s it say, Nora?’ asked Dorothy.

  ‘Well, it says this formula milk pwovides all t’nutwition a baby needs an’ at six months y’can go on t’cow’s milk.’

  Dorothy shook her head in a determined fashion. ‘No, Nora, ah want t’give our baby proper nat’ral milk. It’ll only ’ave t’best … so ah’ll be breastfeeding.’

  Nora looked at the young woman who had become her dearest friend and knew how much this baby meant to her. Then she sighed and wondered what it was like to be a mother. As she closed the magazine and began to load up the display cabinet with fruit scones, it occurred to her that, in her own way, she had been a parent of sorts since Dorothy was eighteen years old. So perhaps she had experienced the next best thing.

  I had taken the opportunity to drive to Easington market to buy some Christmas gifts while Beth looked after John. The market square was busy when I arrived. Music from two loudspeakers next to the war memorial boomed out ‘Take My Breath Away’ by Berlin. It had topped the charts during November and the shoppers hummed along.

  I saw Mrs Gawthorpe buy a Cabbage Patch Baby for £15.87, complete with a nappy and blanket plus its birth certificate and adoption papers! Dolls had certainly come a long way in the eighties.

  At Shady Stevo’s stall I joined a large crowd. Clint Ramsbottom had just purchased some Carlton-style heated curling tongs amid general laughter. ‘It’s a top-quality styling brush,’ said Stevo, ‘wi’ a non-stick barrel for easy stylin’. Y’girlfriend’ll love it.’ Stevo was on a roll. ‘Wi’ change out of four pound, y’lookin’ at a bargain.’

  Clint didn’t mention it was a gift for himself.

  Stevo waved a large box in the air. ‘Now ’ere’s y’chance f’summat special an’ a perfec’ gift for Christmas,’ he shouted. ‘In Hoxford Street down in London this state-of-the-art Transformer Metroplex is selling for twenty poun’. It can change from a city into a battle station and then a giant robot.’ Stevo could see interest was growing. ‘It’s sellin’ like ’ot cakes all over t’country – but am ah askin’ fifteen? No, ah’m askin’ only twelve poun’. So who’s first t’spot t’best bargain on t’market?’

  On impulse I raised my hand. It looked like a toy John and I could enjoy, although I wasn’t sure about Beth’s reaction to encouraging our son to build a battle station. I passed over the money to Stevo’s lady assistant and relaxed in the thought that John would have something special for Christmas.

  Big Dave and Little Malcolm had arrived and each of the intrepid duo had £10 to spend. Little Malcolm was looking for something sophisticated for Dorothy and Big Dave wasn’t too fussy so long as he didn’t spend more than his allocated sum.

  ‘’Ow’s this for a bargain?’
asked Stevo. ‘In them posh shops that southerners go to, this would set y’back twelve quid. It’s a Clairol Beauty Line Ladyshave. Y’can use it wet or dry, an’ it’s ideal for them close shaves, ladies. Ah’m even throwin’ in free batteries.’

  The anticipation was mounting. ‘Ah’m not askin’ ten, an’ ah’m not askin’ nine.’ You could almost hear the roll of the drums. ‘So, who fancies a bit a quality for only eight poun’?’

  Dave’s hand shot up, followed by more laughter among the ladies in the crowd.

  Undeterred, Big Dave handed over his £10 note and collected his box plus change. Christmas sorted, he thought.

  Shady Stevo knew his customers and eyed up Little Malcolm. He held up a set of Ultra-Glow Super Duster Make-Up Brushes. ‘Now then, ’ere’s a bit o’ ’igh class for a sophisticated lady – an’ only six quid,’ he said. ‘An’ t’mek a perfec’ matchin’ pair, ’ow about a genuine Mary Quant toilet bag for three poun’?’

  Little Malcolm took out his £10 note and stared at it … decision time. Stevo decided to deliver the final coup de grâce. ‘Y’can ’ave both of ’em for eight poun’.’

  ‘A deal,’ shouted Little Malcolm and he passed over his £10 note, collected the carrier bag and stared at his change. ‘Enough for a bacon butty, Dave, an’ a mug o’ tea,’ he said triumphantly. For the bin men of Ragley their Christmas shopping was completed and it had been ten minutes well spent.

  On Monday morning at break we gathered round the gas fire in the staff-room. Sally was on playground duty and I shared the news with Anne and Pat about the Transformer for John. The response wasn’t as enthusiastic as I had hoped.

  ‘So what about you, Anne?’ asked Pat. ‘What have you got for your John?’

  Anne sighed deeply. ‘Not very exciting, I’m afraid, although I’m sure he will be in seventh heaven. I spent thirty-one pounds on a Black and Decker Orbital Sander.’

  I was impressed. ‘I’ve seen them and they’re really good.’