Happiest Days

by Jack Sheffield

  Anne and Pat gave me that familiar ‘boys’ toys’ look.

  ‘Perhaps it will smooth some of his rough edges,’ mused Anne. She had hidden it in her wardrobe for wrapping at a future date. However, it was a different future date that was on her mind. She had arranged to bump accidentally into Edward Clifton at next week’s Easington market.

  After lunch Vera served tea in the staff-room. It was a quiet gathering as we were all immersed in our own tasks, marking books and checking proposed acquisitions in the Yorkshire Purchasing Organization catalogue, while Pat scanned my morning paper.

  She looked up and broke the silence. ‘Did you watch the Weekend World interview with Kenneth Baker?’

  Suddenly there was a flurry of interest and everyone stopped what they were doing. It had been compulsive viewing. We all nodded with the exception of Sally. Her weekend had been dominated by her daughter’s high temperature.

  ‘Yes,’ said Anne, ‘Matthew Parris certainly asked the right questions and the Education Secretary sounded very determined.’

  ‘He certainly did,’ I said. ‘Beth and I watched it and I remember Kenneth Baker saying that the present system was seriously flawed. He wants to move to something called a “national curriculum”.’

  ‘National curriculum,’ mused Anne. ‘That could catch on.’

  ‘He said he would lay down what every child should learn in primary and secondary schools,’ said Pat. ‘Sounds very far reaching.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ retorted a determined Sally, ‘and the government would have to win the next election to push it through.’

  Vera looked up sharply but decided to say nothing. She didn’t want to rouse the determined Sally any more than was necessary.

  Anne was scanning the article. ‘It says here that they would set attainment targets so that teachers, parents and pupils would know exactly what should have been learned in each subject at specific ages.’

  ‘Impossible,’ murmured Sally as she reached for another custard cream. This wasn’t the moment to adhere to her diet.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Anne shaking her head. ‘It says they might vary teachers’ rates of pay.’

  ‘Surely not!’ exclaimed Pat. ‘Think of the upset that would cause.’

  ‘Pie in the sky,’ said Sally. She munched on her biscuit and headed for the door. ‘Time for my recorder group.’

  ‘More tea anyone?’ asked Vera and we settled down again to our various tasks. The proposed national curriculum would keep for another day.

  At the end of school I was in the entrance hall talking to Joseph and Vera about the progress made in the temporary classroom since the fire when Ruby arrived with her galvanized bucket and mop.

  ‘’Ave you ’eard?’ she said. ‘There’s been a right shoutin’ match on the ’Igh Street. Everybody ’eard it.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ sighed Joseph.

  ‘Stan Coe ’ad offered to buy some of Maurice Tupham’s land and Maurice wasn’t int’rested.’

  Ruby set off to clean the classrooms.

  ‘A public row on the High Street,’ I marvelled.

  Vera shook her head. ‘So much for our smiling school governor.’

  ‘But I say unto you,’ quoted Joseph, ‘that every idle word that men may speak …’

  Vera smiled up at him and continued, ‘… they shall give account thereof in the day of judgement.’ She squeezed his arm affectionately. Brother and sister had always enjoyed exchanging familiar quotations from the King James Bible. ‘Matthew twelve,’ added Vera, ‘verse thirty-six.’

  Joseph nodded. ‘It will come to us all one day,’ he said, ‘and certainly to Stan Coe,’ and he walked out to his car.

  Vera looked up at me with a wry smile. ‘Until we reach the final judgement day,’ and she followed her brother out to the car park.

  It was a lowering sky and darkness had fallen, a time of bare branches and frosty nights. The light and dark of a forthcoming festive season was a special time of the year. Christmas in school would be followed by a family Christmas with crackling log fires and twinkling stars.

  However, I reflected on Vera’s words as I drove home.

  A Judgement Day in court had come and gone but there was another on the horizon … and not just for Stan Coe.

  Chapter Seven

  A Carol for Christmas

  School closed today for the Christmas holiday with 105 children on roll and will reopen on Monday, 5 January 1987. The children in Classes 1 and 2 rehearsed their Nativity play to be performed in the Crib Service at St Mary’s Church on Wednesday, 24 December. The school choir will visit the local retirement home tomorrow, Saturday, to sing a selection of Christmas carols to the residents.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Friday, 19 December 1986

  Her name was Eileen Kimber and she was alone.

  For the most part it had been a solitary life and now she was a resident at the Hartford Home for Retired Gentlefolk or, as she preferred to call it, ‘God’s Waiting Room’.

  She stared out of her bedroom window at the winter world beyond. A fresh snowfall covered the tall yew hedge and the distant fields. Wisps of smoke rose from the high chimney pots of Ragley village and floated in diagonal pathways towards a wolf-grey sky. She smiled grimly. The world outside resembled her heart – cold as iron, still as stone.

  Her walking frame squeaked on the polished floor and she looked down at its pair of aluminium legs. Mobility was more difficult now. It was thirty years since she had read George Orwell’s allegorical novella Animal Farm, but she recalled a famous line, ‘Four legs good, two legs bad’, and she grimaced. Once again she would eat breakfast in her own room and not in the communal dining room.

  Only the rattling of the letter box when Ted the postman delivered the morning mail or the clatter of bottles when Rodney Morgetroyd arrived on his milk float had become familiar sounds of her morning routine. Her belief in the old adage that time was a healer had faded long ago. The silent days had become weeks of solitude while time merely ticked on remorselessly. There was no respite from a never-ending anguish – no respite from a pain that was always there in the core of her being.

  At first she had savoured the peace and privacy, but widowhood had proved a heavy burden. For more than forty years she had kept her late husband’s flat cap as an affectionate reminder of his presence. Finally she had moved into the retirement home but found it difficult to make friends. Solitude and silence were her companions in this private space.

  Destiny, however, moves in mysterious ways.

  It was early morning on Friday, 19 December and, unknown to Eileen, her world was about to change.

  In Bilbo Cottage Beth and I were both at the kitchen table writing a last-minute memo for our final day of term while John was enjoying a hearty breakfast of juice, cereal and buttered toast soldiers. There was much to do, with parties, letters to parents followed by, in my case, final preparations for the amalgamation of Morton and Ragley. There was also a rehearsal of our Nativity play to be performed at the Crib Service in St Mary’s Church on Christmas Eve. John was polishing off his breakfast while the current top of the pops, ‘Caravan Of Love’ by The Housemartins, was playing on the radio and the disc jockey wondered if it would be the Christmas number one.

  The road to Ragley was a blue thread of crystal and the hedgerows were rimed with frost. Soon the sun broke through the mist and lit up the sprinkling of snow on the branches of the bare trees. In the sharp sunshine they resembled a charcoal and chalk drawing by a small child. Holly berries sparkled in the diamond light and a crust of frost had settled on each fleur-de-lis on the school railings. Ragley School looked like a scene from a Victorian Christmas card as I drove up the cobbled drive.

  When I walked into the entrance hall Vera and Ruby were standing together staring out of the window. ‘The north wind doth blow an’ we shall ’ave snow,’ recited Ruby.

  ‘And what will poor robin do then, poor thing?’ continued Vera.

&n
bsp; They both looked up. ‘Well, ah’d best get on,’ said Ruby and she hurried off with her brush and shovel.

  Vera nodded towards the office. ‘Miss Cleverley has arrived unannounced from County Hall, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. It was clear that Vera did not approve of our visitor. ‘She is sitting at my desk and checking the list of children who are coming here from Morton.’ Miss Cleverley was assistant to the chair of the Education Committee, Miss Barrington-Huntley, and had been a dominant force last July on the interviewing panel for the Ragley and Morton headship.

  When I walked in she didn’t look up immediately but rather continued to check the list in front of her. I recalled her manner at our earlier meeting and wondered about the purpose of her visit. I hadn’t seen her since that day, when she had been abrupt, analytical and unpleasant. I was soon to learn that little seemed to have changed in the interim.

  Finally she spoke. ‘I knew the last day of term would be busy for you, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘so I thought I should meet with you before the start of school.’ She gestured towards my desk. ‘Do sit down.’

  For the next thirty minutes she reviewed our arrangements for the amalgamation of the two schools. We discussed safety, transport, communication with parents and the role of the governing body. Then she looked at her wristwatch. ‘Must go,’ she said, ‘time is precious.’

  The class timetable on the noticeboard caught her eye and she tapped it with a perfectly manicured fingernail. ‘I must point out to you that Kenneth Baker’s national curriculum will improve this overnight.’ With that she strode out, ignoring Vera, and hurried to her brand-new Ford Sierra 2.0i GLS. She turned on the four-speaker sound system to full blast, flicked on the tailgate wash/wipe, made a minute adjustment to her remote-control door mirrors and roared off.

  ‘What an unpleasant lady,’ remarked Vera.

  ‘Miss Cleverley is certainly very forthright,’ I said with a fixed smile.

  Vera shook her head. ‘If that’s the future of education I want no part of it. The thought of her succeeding Miss Barrington-Huntley is a great worry. She lacks the human touch. It is very disappointing.’

  I decided to leave it at that. It concerned me that Vera spoke of possible retirement more frequently these days and I wondered if she had made a final decision.

  In the school hall Anne and Pat were busy with a few supportive mothers preparing for the forthcoming Nativity play.

  Five-year-old Kylie Ogden was proud to be holding a bamboo cane with a large cardboard star fixed to the top. She had covered it in kitchen foil and was pleased with the result.

  ‘This is my star, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.

  ‘It’s lovely, Kylie.’

  ‘It’s that big star that comes out ev’ry Christmas.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘An’ Cheyenne, Joe an’ Dylan ’ave t’follow me with their presents for Jesus.’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’

  ‘An’ when we go t’church we’ll ’ave a proper Jesus.’

  ‘A proper Jesus?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Sheffield, ’cause we’ve only got Emily’s Cabbage Patch doll t’be goin’ on with.’

  I looked at the appropriately named Madonna Fazackerly who was playing Mary. She was holding the Cabbage Patch doll with great tenderness and wrapped in so-called swaddling clothes – namely, a grubby M&S tea towel.

  When I called in to Pat’s class she was gathering the children in the school entrance hall to post their cards to Father Christmas in our cardboard postbox.

  Six-year-old Alfie Spraggon had a tendency to reverse his letters and numbers. Pat Brookside was trying hard through regular practice to help this friendly little boy to correct this familiar anomaly with left-handed pupils, and he had worked hard to produce a classic that read:

  Dear Santa, Please can I have a yo-yo and no sprouts.

  Thank you, your friend, Alfie Spraggon

  The letters to Santa from other six-year-olds were all priceless and included:

  Dear Santa, I can’t find my list so anything left over will do. Karl Tomkins

  Dear Santa, Mummy won’t let me bring straw into the front room so what shall I leave for Rudolph?

  Love Hermione Jackson

  Dear Santa, Daddy has just put in a burglar alarm. The code is 2346. Hope this helps.

  Love Honeysuckle Jackson

  Dear Santa, Just one of everything please.

  Best wishes, Emily Snodgrass

  I followed the queue of children waiting to put their cards in the postbox and made sure the letters from the Jackson twins were redirected to their mother.

  It was morning assembly and Joseph had reminded the children of the Christmas story.

  ‘So, boys and girls,’ he said encouragingly, ‘what do you think Mary and Joseph were thinking when the innkeeper kindly offered them room in his stable?’

  Hermione Jackson’s hand shot up at the same moment as her twin sister’s. The girls lived in one of the most luxurious and expensive houses on the Morton Road.

  ‘Yes, Hermione?’ asked Joseph.

  ‘Has it got a downstairs toilet?’ suggested Hermione.

  ‘That’s what I was going to say,’ added Honeysuckle for good measure.

  Joseph ground his teeth. ‘Good try,’ he said without conviction, ‘but has anyone else got a suggestion?’

  ‘Ah felt a bit sorry f’Jesus, Mr Evans,’ said eight-year-old Scott Higginbottom.

  ‘And why is that, Scott?’ asked Joseph, pleased at the obvious compassion shown by this freckle-faced little boy.

  ‘’Cause ’e didn’t get any proper presents … jus’ a bit o’ gold an’ that other stuff.’

  Joseph sighed and wondered if he should have chosen a different career … maybe a librarian; after all he understood books.

  At morning break we gathered in the staff-room. Sally had spent 64p on a TV Times Christmas & New Year Double Issue. There was a dramatic picture of Torvill and Dean, the world’s most exciting ice dancers, on the front cover advertising their ‘Fire and Ice’ spectacular.

  Vera said she would be watching Aled Jones, her favourite boy treble, on Christmas Eve, while I earmarked the Christmas Day Disney film Dumbo to share with young John. Pat was determined to watch the James Bond film The Spy Who Loved Me on Boxing Day, with the suave Roger Moore and co-starring Barbara Bach as a Russian agent. Sally went for Jools Holland’s new year’s eve show and a bottle of Baileys. We all agreed she had made the best choice.

  On Friday afternoon the children were excited. It was time for the end-of-term Christmas party.

  By half past one they were sitting on their chairs around the edge of the hall. We played Statues and Musical Chairs, danced to records and, when the children looked suitably exhausted, we sent them out to play while Ruby came in and supervised the arrangement of the dining tables for our party tea. Members of the PTA had called in to help Shirley and Doreen in the kitchen and soon the tables were covered in bright red crêpe paper. Plates piled with crab-paste sandwiches, sponge cakes, jammy dodgers and mince pies were arranged, while Shirley and Doreen wheeled out a trolley with enough jelly and ice cream to feed an army.

  By three o’clock the food had been devoured, sticky fingers and faces wiped and the tables put away. The afternoon ended with the children sitting next to the Christmas tree while Sally played a selection of Christmas songs on her guitar, including ‘Frosty the Snowman’ and ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’. Parents drifted in to collect their children along with a small gift of sweets from Ruby, a balloon and a Christmas card.

  It was a weary but happy group of teachers that gathered in the staff-room for a final cup of coffee.

  In the entrance hall Ruby was talking to Vera.

  ‘Ah’ve med up m’mind at last, Mrs F,’ she said with a tired smile. ‘In the end it were our ’Azel who asked if ah were goin’ t’marry Mr Dainty.’

  ‘And what did you say, Ruby?’

  ‘Ah said ah’d allus love her Dad … but ah were ’ap
py wi’ George an’ ah loved ’im in a diff’rent way. She gave me a kiss an’ said ’e’d mek a lovely new dad.’

  Vera took Ruby’s hand and smiled at her friend. ‘That’s wonderful news, Ruby.’

  ‘So we’re goin’ into York tomorrow t’buy an engagement ring.’

  ‘How exciting. Can we go and tell the rest of the staff? They will be thrilled.’

  We gathered with Ruby in a crowded staff-room and, while we had to imagine the orange juice was Bucks Fizz, it was a wonderful celebration.

  On Saturday morning the carol singing event at the Hartford Home for Retired Gentlefolk was due to begin at eleven o’clock. Beth and I secured John in his child seat and drove into Ragley.

  When we pulled up outside the General Stores, Karl Tomkins and Jimmy Poole were both out with their dogs. Karl had a French poodle named Flossie and hated taking it for a walk.

  ‘D’you want t’swap, Jimmy?’ he asked, staring in admiration at Scargill, the lively Yorkshire terrier.

  Jimmy, now aged thirteen, still had his familiar lisp. ‘No thankth, Karl,’ he replied. ‘Thcargill ith my friend.’

  ‘Mebbe they could play together,’ suggested Karl.

  Jimmy looked down at the perfectly coiffured little poodle, sporting a bright pink bow, and then at his lean, hungry and occasionally savage terrier, the scourge of our local postman. ‘Ah don’t think tho,’ he concluded. ‘Thcargill geth exthited,’ and Karl wandered off.

  Jimmy, with his ginger curls and black button eyes, smiled up at me. ‘’Ello, Mr Theffield, would y’like t’thee my Tharp Thientific calculator?’

  New technology had changed his life. Complicated mathematical conundrums were suddenly easy to solve. His fingers sped across the buttons with well-practised familiarity and it made me reflect on my insistence on teaching mental arithmetic each morning and learning tables by rote.

  ‘It’s excellent, Jimmy,’ I said, while keeping my distance from Scargill’s jaws.

  ‘Thankth,’ he said, ‘an’ a ’appy Chrithmuth,’ and he ran off with an eager Scargill yapping at his heels.