As it ran off, Stan could be heard blaspheming. ‘Deirdre,’ he shouted, ‘ah’ll drown the little bastard if it gets under my feet again.’
Kenny shook his head. ‘’E doesn’t get better with age, does ’e, Mr Sheffield?’
I gave a rueful smile, shook my head and gave Kenny a £10 note.
The weather had improved by the time I arrived on Ragley High Street under a powder-blue winter sky. A sprinkling of fresh snow crunched under my wheels as I stopped outside the General Stores.
When I walked in, Alison Gawthorpe and Tracey Higginbottom were at the counter. The two little girls were agonizing over the choice between love hearts, aniseed balls and marzipan tea cakes, while Prudence Golightly was displaying the patience of a saint. They finally decided to share a bag of love hearts.
‘How’s Trio, Miss Golightly?’ asked Alison politely.
The three-legged cat was always an interesting sight for the children in the shop as it hopped in and out of the sacks of potatoes.
‘He’s fine, thank you,’ said Prudence as she handed over the sweets. ‘He’s just had his breakfast.’
‘Can cats grow another leg?’ asked Alison.
Prudence thought about this. ‘I don’t think that’s possible yet, but one day in the future a clever scientist will work out how to do it.’ She counted out their change carefully and placed it on the counter.
‘I’d like t’be a scientist,’ said Tracey.
‘Well, that’s wonderful,’ said Prudence. She glanced up at Jeremy Bear, paused and then nodded. ‘And Jeremy says you can achieve anything if you work hard at school.’
The girls stared up at Ragley’s favourite furry friend. ‘OK, Jeremy,’ said Tracey. The two girls walked out and the bell above the door jingled merrily.
Prudence gave me a mischievous grin, passed over my morning paper and I walked out to my car.
Across the High Street, outside the village hall ‘Deadly’ Duggie Smith, the undertaker’s assistant, was dressed smartly in his black suit and overcoat. He was polishing the chromium headlamps of his hearse, a beautifully restored 1957 Austin FX3 and the pride of the fleet. His boss, the funeral director Septimus Bernard Flagstaff, watched in admiration.
The car looked stark in our monochrome world of snow and ice.
‘Hello, Duggie,’ I said. ‘You look busy.’
‘Allus good business in cold winters, Mr Sheffield,’ replied Duggie almost apologetically.
It occurred to me that, regardless of the bitter weather, at least someone was happy.
As I drove past the Post Office Kelvin Froggat, the local chimney sweep, was parked outside and unloading his brushes prior to unblocking Amelia Postlethwaite’s chimney. It was the talk of the village, particularly among the customers in Diane’s Hairdresser’s, that Amelia and her husband Ted preferred the hearthrug in front of a roaring log fire for their regular and very noisy lovemaking. Kelvin nodded in my direction with a startling white-toothed smile and I noticed his face was already blackened with soot. Either this wasn’t his first appointment or he had gone to bed like that.
At the school gate I slowed to take in the sight. Our Victorian building looked dramatic with its roof covered in snow, icicles hanging from the gutters and frosty curved stitching patterns decorating each window pane. I parked and walked towards the entrance porch, where an agitated Ruby was waving her yard broom.
‘Go on, shoo away,’ she shouted. Rodney Morgetroyd had delivered two crates of milk for the infants and a layer of ice covered the bottles. A pair of blue tits were pecking furiously at the foil tops to reach the head of cream. ‘There’s crumbs on t’bird table f’you,’ Ruby scolded, and they flew away with a flutter of wings.
Ruby resumed clearing snow from the entrance porch steps. ‘Mornin’, Mr Sheffield.’
‘Good morning, Ruby, and how are you?’
‘Ah’ll be fine once that boiler gets fettled.’
‘Yes, we need it working in this weather.’
‘Well ah’ve got it goin’ full blast an’ it’s gettin’ serviced t’day. It’ll be Jim, t’boiler man from ’Arrogate, so ah’ll see to ’im.’
‘Thanks, Ruby.’
She pointed the handle of her broom towards our bird table. ‘Jus’ look at that.’ A robin had perched there searching for some of the tasty titbits that Ruby provided each morning. However, a large cat was crouched nearby, presumably looking for a tasty breakfast. When it saw us it ran out of the gate and we watched as it disappeared up the road to the council estate. It looked vaguely familiar.
‘That’s Oscar, Deirdre Coe’s cat,’ said Ruby. ‘Ah sometimes give it a saucer o’ milk ’cause she don’t feed it proper.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said and hurried in. There was much to do and inquisitive cats were not uppermost on my mind.
Sally and Vera were in the entrance hall and Vera was holding a birthday card in a smart lilac envelope.
‘This is for Grace,’ she said with a smile.
Sally’s daughter, Grace Eleanor Pringle, was about to celebrate her sixth birthday the following day.
‘You remembered!’ said Sally. ‘That’s really thoughtful – thank you so much.’ Grace was now in an infant class at Easington County Primary School and Sally dropped her off each morning on her way to Ragley. She took the card and gave Vera a hug. In spite of their political differences, they remained firm friends and loyal companions.
‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera and pointed to a parcel on the pine table. ‘The new atlases have arrived.’
‘At last,’ I said. ‘They’re long overdue.’
‘In more ways than one,’ agreed Sally with a smile. ‘Perhaps the children will now realize the British Empire isn’t quite what it was.’ Sally was right: our ancient atlases with many countries coloured in pink made it appear as though we ruled the world. She glanced at her wristwatch. ‘An assembly to prepare, Jack,’ and she hurried off clutching her Okki-Tokki-Unga songbook and her guitar.
At 10.15 a.m. Joseph called in to lead morning assembly and take a short lesson with the children in Pat’s class. Sally opened her songbook to number 25, ‘Do Your Ears Hang Low?’, and strummed the opening chord.
Her orchestra comprised an assortment of children from all classes playing a variety of instruments, including castanets, triangles, tambourines, recorders, Indian bells and cymbals. Katie Icklethwaite had been trusted with the large wooden xylophone, while Billy Ricketts had once again managed to secure the drum and was beating it with rather too much enthusiasm.
After this, Joseph told a story about Jesus and his life before he went to heaven. It clearly had an impact on Alfie Spraggon, who was staring at Joseph trying to make sense of the concept. It was only after Joseph’s lesson with Class 2 that the little boy pursued it further.
When the bell went for morning break, Joseph was sitting at Pat’s desk and reading some of the prayers that the children had written.
Billy Ricketts had written, ‘Dear God, Thank you for making dinosaurs extinct because it would be scary if you hadn’t.’
Tracey Higginbottom presumably had future relationships on her mind when she wrote, ‘Dear God, Is it you who decides who we are going to marry ’cause I definitely don’t want Billy Ricketts?’
Emily Snodgrass was more concerned with God’s potential errors. She had written, ‘Dear God, Mr Evans says you made all the animals but were giraffes an accident?’
Joseph was struggling with the logic of young children once again when he noticed six-year-old Alfie Spraggon was still in the classroom. ‘That were a good story ’bout Jesus, Mr Evans,’ he said with sincerity. Alfie liked a good story.
‘Thank you, Alfie,’ replied Joseph. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’
Alfie shuffled from one foot to the other.
‘Was there a question?’ asked Joseph.
Alfie frowned and looked out of the window. ‘Is Jesus up there?’ he asked, pointing to the sky.
Joseph considered this for
a moment. ‘Well, Alfie,’ he said quietly and with a voice that was intended to convey considerable gravitas, ‘Jesus is everywhere.’
‘Ev’rywhere?’ repeated Alfie, who at his tender age was not familiar with gravitas and wondered why this man with his shirt collar turned the wrong way round was talking as if he had a sore throat.
‘Yes,’ said Joseph with a beatific smile. ‘In fact, He is with us in this room.’
Alfie looked around the classroom in surprise. Then his little face lit up in perceived understanding. ‘So … are you Jesus?’
It was Joseph’s turn to look surprised. ‘No, I’m not Jesus.’
Alfie studied every corner of the classroom. ‘Then … am I Jesus?’
The sound of children playing came to Joseph’s rescue and childhood logic was put to one side.
Alfie looked out of the window and smiled at Joseph as he hurried out to the playground. Then he caught sight of Scott Higginbottom making a snowman and thoughts of the whereabouts of Jesus were put to one side.
Shortly after the bell for morning break I walked into the office just as the telephone rang. Vera beckoned me to her desk. ‘It’s Beth,’ she said and hurried off to the staff-room to prepare morning coffee.
Beth seemed to be in a hurry. ‘I’ve got a staff meeting after school.’
‘Oh well,’ I said. ‘See you later this evening.’
‘I’ve asked Mrs Roberts to stay a little later and she was fine with that.’
‘I shouldn’t be too late, although there’s that County Hall questionnaire to complete.’ It had arrived in the morning post requesting an immediate response. The title, ‘A Working Paper Towards a National Curriculum’, reflected a sign of the times.
‘Oh, I’ve done mine. It’s quite straightforward.’
I didn’t mention that in a larger school Beth didn’t have a full-time teaching commitment.
‘Oh yes, Jack, just one more thing. Can you collect something for tea on your way home – something simple?’
‘Fine,’ I said and she rang off while I removed the smart four-page questionnaire from its envelope, opened it to page one and sighed deeply. I decided I needed some fresh air.
On the playground Rosie Appleby and Jemima Poole were huddled next to the boiler-house doors. Rosie had been taught a new rhyme by her mother. ‘It’s called a tongue-twister,’ she explained. ‘Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers; a peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked. If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, where’s the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?’
Jemima was so impressed she forgot the bitter cold. ‘Tell me again,’ she said eagerly.
Rosie sighed. Tongue-twisters were hard work. She produced a length of string from her pocket. ‘Why don’t we play cat’s cradle?’
It was time for school dinner and Shirley Mapplebeck and Doreen Critchley were serving a warming meal of mince and carrots followed by sponge pudding and purple custard.
In the queue Karl Tomkins was pushing and shoving his way to the front.
Mrs Critchley narrowed her eyes in his direction. ‘Behave, Karl Tomkins.’
Karl looked indignant and, as always, he took the words of adults literally. ‘I am being HAVED!’ Then he gave the dinner ladies a dazzling smile.
Mrs Critchley was thrown for a moment, then carried on serving her pudding. ‘’E’ll go far that one,’ she muttered.
Meanwhile, in the staff-room, Vera opened her Daily Telegraph. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Still no sign of Terry Waite.’
The forty-seven-year-old Church of England envoy, Terry Waite, had been kidnapped by an Islamic militia group. He had disappeared on 20 January, eight days after arriving in Beirut in an attempt to negotiate the release of four British hostages, including the journalist John McCarthy.
‘It’s worrying,’ said Anne quietly.
‘Such a good man,’ murmured Vera. ‘I’ll ask Joseph to pray for him.’
On the other side of the staff-room, huddled near the gas fire, Sally had spent 18p on a Daily Mirror that morning. She wasn’t particularly interested in the article about Gary Lineker, who had been hailed as the ‘King of Spanish football’ following his Barcelona hat-trick in the 3–2 defeat of Real Madrid. She sighed, however, when she read that a ten-year-old boy had died of AIDS following a contaminated blood transfusion. She replaced the newspaper on the coffee table and thought of her daughter, Grace. Then she walked pensively back to her classroom to prepare for afternoon school while quietly praying there was a heaven.
At the end of lunch break Ruby arrived to clear away the dining tables, but called in to the office in a state of high anxiety. She was bursting with news. Vera was busy at her desk counting the dinner money prior to taking it to the bank.
‘Mrs F,’ said Ruby breathlessly, ‘you’ll never guess.’
Vera sat back. ‘Goodness me, Ruby, come in and sit down – you’ve been running.’
‘You’ll never guess, Mrs F!’
‘What on earth is it?’
‘It’s that Stan Coe – ’e’s in ’ospital.’
‘Hospital?’ said Vera, slightly concerned with her innermost feelings at that moment.
‘Ah ’eard it from Peggy in t’chemist’s. Word ’as it ’im an’ Deirdre ’ad jus’ been in ’cause Stan had been bitten on ’is ’and – ’e were after some cream.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘But ’ccordin’ t’Peggy it were right bad an’ swellin’ up like there was no t’morrow.’
‘That sounds serious.’
‘It mus’ be, Mrs F, ’cause she said ’e’d been tekken.’
‘Taken?’
‘Yes, to the ’ospital.’
‘So he was bitten?’ asked Vera. ‘On his hand?’
‘Yes, by Deirdre’s cat, Oscar. That Stan is allus givin’ it a kick up its backside when it gets under ’is feet. Then when ’e bent down t’chuck it out it sunk its teeth into ’im an’ ran off.’
‘That must have been painful,’ said Vera with a little forced sympathy.
‘Let’s ’ope so,’ added Ruby without any shred of remorse. ‘Peggy said ’is ’and swelled twice the size an’ ’e were yellin’ like a stuffed pig.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Vera, wincing at the thought. She looked at the clock. ‘I’ll make you some tea while you clear the tables.’
‘Thanks, Mrs F,’ said the red-faced Ruby, ‘you’re a saint.’
Outside Pratt’s garage, a smart racing-green Citroën DS pulled in and Kenny hurried out to serve the driver.
A tall, grey-haired gentleman in a beautifully cut dark grey coat, silk scarf and immaculate collar and tie stepped out and stared across the road at Coe Farm.
‘Do you know where Mr Coe might be? I was due to meet him this afternoon.’
‘Sorry, sir, no idea,’ said Kenny, ‘but ’is Land Rover’s gone so ’e mus’ be out.’
‘Very well,’ said the gentleman. ‘Please fill her up.’
He walked round to the passenger seat. Then he picked up a leather briefcase and took out a spiral-bound booklet. He studied it for a few moments, sighed and shook his head.
Kenny watched him drive away. Posh bloke, posh car, he thought.
Meanwhile, ten miles away, Stan Coe was sitting in a waiting room at the hospital complaining bitterly to Deirdre.
At afternoon break Sally was on duty and Anne and I were in the staff-room drinking tea as we studied the Yorkshire Purchasing Organization catalogue and the price of squared paper. The chatter from the other side of the coffee table was animated. Marcus and Pat were really excited: our new computer had proved even better than they had hoped.
‘The built-in software packages are really special,’ said Marcus.
‘Have you seen them, Anne?’ asked Pat.
‘There’s a spreadsheet,’ explained Marcus.
Anne smiled but was no wiser.
‘And just look at this,’ enthused Marcus. He pointed to the booklet, which might as well hav
e been written in hieroglyphics as far as I was concerned. ‘That ADFS feature I told you about is outstanding – you can do so much with it.’
‘And it’s got lots more memory,’ added Pat for good measure.
Anne and I left them to it and walked back to our classrooms.
‘Do you ever feel like a dinosaur, Jack?’ she asked.
‘I know what you mean,’ I said. ‘I think another computer course beckons.’
‘Or you could simply spend time with Rufus Snodgrass,’ she said forlornly. ‘At ten years old he’s not far behind Marcus.’
‘It’s a new world,’ I sighed.
‘I’m not sure I want to be part of it,’ said Anne as she stepped into her classroom, picked up The Tale of Mrs Tiggy-Winkle and thanked the Lord for Beatrix Potter.
Up the Morton Road Petula Dudley-Palmer was in her state-of-the-art conservatory and had put aside her needlework. The Ragley & Morton Women’s Institute had asked all members to contribute to knitting the largest blanket in the world. It would then be divided into blanket-sized strips and distributed among homeless people.
Petula was keen to do her bit, but now it was time to watch one of her favourite programmes, The Onedin Line. Then the telephone rang.
It was John Parsons, a handsome and recently divorced solicitor, with an invitation to join him for afternoon tea in Bettys Tea Rooms in York. They had met at a charity event in St William’s College and had struck up a friendship. Petula had been attracted to this tall, engaging and well-educated man. She looked at the clock. The timing was perfect, as she could go on from there to collect her daughters from the Time School. Before donning her favourite dress and fur coat she switched off the television. The sailing saga could wait for another day.
The infants in Anne’s and Pat’s classes finished school at 3.15 p.m., whereas the older children finished at 3.45 p.m. This was a cause of concern for Dylan Fazackerly, who had recently moved up to Pat’s class. He had to wait in the library area with his mother for half an hour until it was time for his big sister, Madonna, to get out of school. Dylan was a big fan of Postman Pat on BBC1 and it was due to start at 3.50 p.m., so he was anxious to run home with his friend Cheyenne Blenkinsop to watch the latest episode of their favourite postman and Jess, his lively cat.
Happiest Days Page 16