Anita Dobson (Claire Buttershaw) Tuna Crêpe Cake
Jimmy Greaves (George Frith) Gladstone Hotpot
Lenny Henry (Rufus Snodgrass) Killer Chilli
Nigel Mansell (Charlie Cartwright) Normandy Chicken
Su Pollard (Rosie Appleby) Cheese Omelette
President Reagan (Tom Burgess) Pumpkin Pecan Pie
Anneka Rice (Hayley Spraggon) Almond & Mushroom Bake
Cliff Richard (Ted Coggins) Beef Curry
Phillip Schofield (Michelle Gawthorpe) Potato Cakes
Delia Smith (Mandy Sedgewick) Carrot Cake
David Steel (Stuart Ormroyd) Welsh Rarebit
Margaret Thatcher (Katie Parrish) Orange & Walnut Cake
Daley Thompson (Barry Stonehouse) Pear Crumble
Wincey Willis (Siobhan Sharp) Chinese Chicken
Please note that Delia Smith has requested that the recipe for her Carrot Cake should be kept exactly as printed.
The recipe chosen as the favourite will be prepared for our next PTA event by our school cook, Mrs Mapplebeck.
Yours sincerely
Mrs V. Forbes-Kitchener
School Secretary
Vera smiled. It was no contest. The venerable Margaret had produced the best recipe.
It was just before the lunch break that Vera set up the Gestetner duplicating machine, filled it carefully with ink, fixed the master sheet in place without a single crease and began to turn the handle.
When I returned to my classroom Ruby was setting out the tables in the school hall for our daily Reading Workshop. I was surprised to see George Dainty coming up the drive. He called in to the school office.
‘Excuse me, Mrs F,’ said George, ‘I was ’opin’ ah might jus’ catch Ruby afore she left.’
Vera smiled. ‘Of course, George, it will be a lovely surprise for her.’
George blinked. ‘Ah wanted t’tek ’er into York.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Vera nodding, ‘to see young Krystal, I presume.’
George began to blush. ‘Well, not ’xactly … summat else.’
Vera was curious but didn’t pursue the point.
Ruby arrived, her cheeks flushed with the exertion of shifting the heavy tables. ‘Well, George, ah thought it were a pigment o’ my imagination,’ she said looking surprised. ‘What y’doin’ ’ere?’
‘I want t’tek you int’ York f’summat special, so t’speak … summat private between you an’ me.’
‘What’s that then?’
George hesitated. ‘Don’t be offended, Ruby, but ah wanted t’buy you a new coat.’
Ruby wasn’t sure how to respond. She certainly needed a new coat, but this felt a little like charity. However, she didn’t want to upset George’s feelings. ‘That’s very kind, George – thank you.’
In our Reading Workshop six-year-old Emily Snodgrass was sitting next to her mother. We had encouraged parents to bring in items of interest that would promote language development. Mrs Snodgrass took out of her handbag an old photograph of herself when she was ten years old.
‘Now, Emily, who’s that, do you think?’
Emily studied it carefully and then her face lit up with excitement. ‘It’s me, Mummy,’ she said. ‘But when I’m bigger,’ she added as an afterthought.
Mrs Snodgrass smiled and nodded. It made sense in a peculiar way.
‘Mam, ah’ve been thinkin’,’ confided Emily.
‘What about, luv?’
‘Can we get a cat?’
Mrs Snodgrass shook her head. ‘We can’t – your gran is allergic t’cats.’
Emily considered this for a moment. ‘Well … when she dies can we get a cat?’
Mrs Snodgrass turned the next page of the Ginn Reading 360 book. ‘C’mon,’ she said, ‘gerron wi’ y’readin’.’
It was lunchtime and on the High Street in Diane’s Hair Salon Claire Bradshaw was reading an article in the January edition of Cosmopolitan.
Diane had already flicked through the pages and had paused thoughtfully at the double-page advertisement for Benson and Hedges Special Filter – Middle Tar. It included a warning that more than thirty thousand people died each year from lung cancer and she hoped it wouldn’t include her one day.
Claire’s attention had been caught by the article ‘Smart Girls Carry Condoms’. As she scanned the text she realized that the battle against AIDS had become a serious matter and she determined to discuss this with the car mechanic of her dreams, Kenny Kershaw. Now that Kenny had found regular employment at Victor’s garage, she often imagined a life with her handsome lover.
‘So what’s it t’be, Claire?’ asked Diane.
Claire opened her shopping bag and pulled out a page torn from the TV Times. ‘Like ’er please, Diane – Charlene in Neighbours.’
Diane was puzzled. She wasn’t an avid viewer of the Australian soap and was unaware of the budding romance between the feisty tomboy Charlene and Scott Robinson, played by the popular young actors Kylie Minogue and Jason Donovan. ‘So what y’sayin’, Claire – a sort o’ Blondie without t’perm?’
Claire grinned. ‘Ah s’ppose so.’
‘No problem,’ said Diane. She took a final puff of her cigarette, blew the smoke towards the closed window and headed for her tray of rollers.
In the Coffee Shop life had not yet returned to normal. Dorothy had been very quiet since leaving hospital and was resting upstairs. Nora had employed Natasha Smith on a part-time basis and had taken a cup of coffee and a warm meat pie up to Malcolm and Dorothy’s bedroom.
‘Ah bwought y’this as well,’ said Nora, trying hard to be positive. ‘It’s a TV Times diawy wi’ ’elpful ’ints from Katie Boyle an’ a Wussell Gwant ’owwoscope. It pwomises good times, Dowothy.’
Dorothy tried to smile, but she had forgotten how.
Deke Ramsbottom had called in to Old Tommy Piercy’s butcher’s shop.
‘Ah’ll ’ave a growler please, Tommy,’ said Deke.
‘Jus’ med ’em fresh,’ replied Old Tommy. He disappeared into the back room and from the warm oven selected one of his famous meat pies, known as ‘growlers’. He double-wrapped it in a brown paper bag to keep in the warmth and handed it to Ragley’s favourite cowboy.
‘Thanks, Tommy,’ said Deke. ‘Jus’ t’job on a cold day.’ He put the pie inside his shirt, buttoned up his coat and paused by the door. ‘Jus’ thought o’ summat,’ he added.
‘What’s that?’
‘Ah’ve just seen that Stan Coe leanin’ on t’fence nex’ t’your cricket field, Tommy. ’E looked shifty, if y’know what ah mean.’
Over the years, in spite of the fact that Old Tommy did not own any of the fields around Ragley, such was his devotion to his precious cricket square the locals always referred to it as Tommy’s cricket pitch.
‘Shifty?’
‘An’ ’e were talkin’ t’some posh bloke,’ continued Deke.
‘Posh bloke?’
‘Yeah, ’e were tall wi’ a smart coat an’ a trilby ’at.’
‘Can’t say ah know ’im,’ said Old Tommy thoughtfully.
‘They were pointin’ at t’cricket field and t’woods beyond, an’ ah don’t ’xpect they were admirin’ t’view.’
‘’E’ll be up t’no good ah reckon,’ said Old Tommy.
‘Mebbe so, Tommy.’
‘Mark my words, Deke, summat’s afoot. Ah may not allus be right … but ah’m nivver wrong,’ he added defiantly.
The children were playing on the playground and Mrs Critchley, our fierce dinner lady, was supervising. Alfie Spraggon stared at her appealingly.
‘Look, Mrs Critchley,’ he said, pointing up at the roof, ‘there’s testicles ’angin’ down. Can we throw snowballs at ’em?’
‘No y’can’t,’ replied Mrs Critchley, ‘an’ another thing – they’re icicles, not what you said.’
Alfie stood there picking his nose.
‘An’ stop that, Alfie,’ she said. ‘Ah don’t ever want t’see y’do that again.’
; Alfie looked up with a smile that would have melted a heart of stone. ‘OK, Mrs Critchley – jus’ close your eyes.’
In the staff-room all was quiet and everyone appeared lost in their own thoughts. Anne was reading Vera’s newspaper. She bypassed the gloomy news that inflation was now running at 4.2 per cent and turned to an interesting recent film. When the Wind Blows was based on the book by Raymond Briggs, and was a cartoon concerning the aftermath of a nuclear disaster and the heartbreaking response of an ordinary couple, Jim and Hilda Bloggs, who try to survive. The soundtrack for the film had been composed and recorded by leading musicians, including David Bowie singing the title song to great acclaim. However, Anne’s mind wandered as she considered how she would survive … but, of course, she was thinking of her marriage.
On the other side of the staff-room, Sally was reading her Guardian newspaper.
‘Well, Prince Edward didn’t last long,’ she commented.
‘What’s that?’ asked Vera rather sharply.
‘He’s left the Royal Marines after only three months.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Vera, ‘perhaps it didn’t suit him. He has so many other talents.’
‘Really?’ asked Sally dismissively.
Vera didn’t respond, nor did she mention that she had read Joseph’s Christmas present to her from cover to cover – namely, Alastair Burnet’s In Person: The Prince and Princess of Wales. However, she had decided not to bring it into the staff-room for fear that reactions might be less than positive.
In Prudence Golightly’s General Stores, Yvonne Higginbottom was looking in her purse. Mrs Higginbottom was the mother of eight-year-old Scott, six-year-old Tracey and four-year-old Chantal, who had just started full-time education in Anne’s class.
‘We’re ’avin’ a kids’ party for our Chantal after school, so ah thought ah’d push t’boat out an’ ’ave a few treats.’
‘That’s a lovely idea,’ said Prudence.
Yvonne scanned the tightly packed shelves. ‘Ah’ll ’ave some KitKats, please, Prudence, one o’ them family packs wi’ six in, an’ a tube o’ them Cadbury’s Stackers.’
‘They’re on offer, Yvonne,’ said Prudence, ‘as well as Chivers black cherry jelly – two for the price of one.’
‘Ah’ll ’ave two please.’
‘And how is Lionel?’ asked Prudence.
Yvonne shook her head and smiled. ‘Still doin’ ’is Prudential wi’ a bit o’ Elvis,’ she said. Her husband was a Prudential Insurance man who spent his spare time doing impersonations of Elvis Presley.
‘Ah’d better take some of m’posh ciggies as well,’ Yvonne added with a smile.
Prudence turned to the shelf behind her and selected a packet of twenty John Player Superkings, distinctive cigarettes that were ten centimetres long.
‘That’ll do f’now, thanks Prudence.’ She paid and Prudence selected a few coins from the till and passed over the change. Mrs Higginbottom walked out, opened her packet of cigarettes, lit up and inhaled deeply. It was then that she saw Stan Coe driving past in his filthy Land Rover. A thought occurred to her and she popped her head back round the door.
‘Prudence,’ she called out, ‘my Lionel ’eard from ’is contacts in York that Stan Coe is after buying t’cricket field … finger in ev’ry pie that one.’
She closed the door, the bell jingled again and the shop was silent once more. Prudence looked up at Jeremy Bear and frowned. ‘No good will come of that.’ At that moment it seemed that her beloved bear gave an imperceptible nod of agreement and she adjusted his red scarf with loving care.
The bell was about to ring for afternoon school and I was in the kitchen.
‘So what do you think, Shirley?’ I asked.
‘Well, Mr Sheffield, there’s a lot of ’em,’ said Shirley.
‘Too many cooks, if yer ask me,’ retorted Mrs Critchley gruffly.
‘Well, we ’ave t’pick jus’ one, Doreen,’ said Shirley, trying diplomatically to find some middle ground. ‘That’s what t’PTA wanted.’
‘Mebbe so,’ replied Doreen, ‘so long as it’s not Mrs Milk-Snatcher.’
I crept out and left them to it.
Trouble’s brewing, crossed my mind.
It was just before afternoon break when Stuart Ormroyd announced, ‘Big Volvo 245 comin’ up t’drive, Mr Sheffield.’ Stuart knew his cars.
The steel-grey, rubber-bumpered 245 looked like the one used by Jerry Leadbetter in the 1970s Surbiton-based sit-com The Good Life. It was the delivery of our new school computer. A grant from County Hall, augmented by funds from the PTA, had provided us with a state-of-the-art BBC Master computer, an upgraded version of our original BBC Model B.
In the staff-room over afternoon tea, Marcus and Pat were thrilled and animatedly discussed the benefits of the new technology.
‘Lots more memory,’ enthused Pat, ‘and something called a Viewsheet, which I guess is a spreadsheet.’
Marcus nodded. ‘Twin cartridge sockets plus sideways and private RAM.’
Anne glanced up at me with a wide-eyed stare. I knew what she was thinking.
Marcus looked across at Vera, who was pouring a pan of hot milk into our coffee cups. ‘It’s got ADFS, Vera,’ he said enthusiastically.
‘ADFS?’ queried Vera without looking up.
‘Advanced Filing System,’ explained Marcus.
‘My filing system is perfectly adequate,’ replied Vera crisply.
Pat gave Marcus a stern look and shook her head. Marcus accepted his coffee with particular politeness and distinctly flushed cheeks.
After the bell had announced the end of the school day I was in the office when Beth rang.
‘I’ve got that book we were looking for,’ I said.
‘Postman Pat Goes Sledging?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘By the way, I’ll be late home tonight, there’s a primary heads’ meeting here in York.’
‘Fine,’ I said, ‘thanks for letting me know.’
Ruby and Vera arrived in the office engaged in animated conversation.
‘Well ah know summat,’ said Ruby.
‘What’s that, Ruby?’ asked Vera.
‘Ah ’eard Prudence talkin’ in t’shop this morning about ‘im who’s been ’angin’ around wi’ Stan Coe, ’cause ’e called in t’buy a paper.’
‘And what did Prudence say?’ I asked.
‘She reckoned ’e mus’ work for t’government … so mebbe ’e’s one o’ them civil serpents.’
Vera smiled. ‘You may well be right there,’ and she looked knowingly in my direction.
I sat and thought about Stan Coe. His attitude appeared to have changed in the last few weeks and I couldn’t understand why. I recalled that my mother had always encouraged me to see the good in people. Even so, the kernel of dislike I felt for this man was overpowering. It was as if he had been wrapped in bitterness since birth and I didn’t know why. For a time I carried my anger into the night like a cloak of darkness.
It was five o’clock when Vera finally put on her coat and cleared her desk. She had worked later than usual trying to prepare the Celebrity Cookbook. Meanwhile, I was studying the letter to parents that Vera had prepared. It was certainly an interesting set of celebrities with a few surprises, not least Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan.
‘I’ve had a word with Shirley and pointed out that she really must select Mrs Thatcher’s recipe,’ Vera said, ‘as it would be unthinkable not to do so.’
‘Really? What did she say?’
‘She said it would be better if the PTA made the selection, so, reluctantly, I’ve gone along with that.’
Well done, Shirley, I thought. Finally we’re all singing from the same hymn sheet.
It occurred to me that in this world where everyone had an opinion, we had one school cook and that was enough.
Chapter Eleven
Oscar’s Revenge
The headteacher completed responses to the document from County Hall, ‘A Working Pa
per Towards a National Curriculum’. The annual service on the school boiler was completed.
Extract from the Ragley & Morton School Logbook:
Monday, 2 February 1987
It was Monday, 2 February and the morning was bright and bitterly cold while a thin light bathed the frozen land.
In our kitchen, Beth was watching John dip his toast soldiers into the runny yolk of a boiled egg, I was eating a bowl of porridge and, on the tiny television set on the worktop, BBC Breakfast Time was murmuring away. Frank Bough, Sally Magnusson and Jeremy Paxman were busy with the national news and Bob Wilson made a brief appearance to present his sports item. At 7.25 a.m. on the weather forecast, Francis Wilson began to tell the nation it was freezing up north, but I could have told him that. Fortunately it didn’t prevent Mrs Roberts arriving on time to look after John. Five minutes later I set off for school, completely unaware that a certain feline friend was about to make an impact on the life of Ragley village …
On the journey into Ragley a fitful sun was trying to break through the iron-grey clouds that were being swept away by a brisk and bitter wind. The land seemed bare of life and beyond the hedgerows the furrows of the fields were frozen hard. Only the raucous cries of the rooks in the high elms disturbed the silence. Suddenly the distant hills were rimed with golden fire and I chased the dawn light as it raced across the land.
I pulled on to the forecourt of Victor Pratt’s garage, where his apprentice, Kenny Kershaw, oblivious to the cold, hurried out to serve me.
‘Mornin’, Mr Sheffield,’ he greeted me with a smile and proceeded to fill up my Morris Minor Traveller with petrol.
‘Morning, Kenny.’ I spotted Victor tinkering under the bonnet of an old Ford Granada. He looked up with a pained expression, pointed to his left leg and shook his head. Personal martyrdom was a way of life for Victor.
‘How’s Victor?’ I asked Kenny.
‘Sez ’is legs ’ave flared up again, Mr Sheffield,’ he said with a grin.
I was about to respond when there was a roar from behind me.
Across the road a huge commotion had erupted outside the front door of Stan Coe’s farmhouse. Stan had been in the act of walking out to his mud-smeared Land Rover when a mangy cat ran across his path and tripped him up. With a bellow like an enraged buffalo, Stan staggered to his feet and aimed a prodigious kick in the direction of the frightened cat.
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