Happiest Days

by Jack Sheffield

  When his mother arrived she looked at him in dismay. ‘Why is it y’get so dirty?’

  ‘’Cause ah’m closer to t’ground than you are, Mam,’ he replied, quick as a flash.

  Mrs Fazackerly pondered this for a moment. Getting more like his daft father every day, she thought.

  Half an hour later, Mrs Longbottom also arrived, clutching her long-overdue dinner money. She called in to the office to see Vera with Sigourney at her side. ‘If y’made me a packed lunch, Mam, you wouldn’t ’ave t’pay dinner money.’

  Mrs Longbottom looked at Vera in triumph. ‘She’s not backwards in comin’ forwards, is our Sigourney,’ she said as she turned on her heel and strode out. ‘In fac’, she’s that sharp you’d think she’d been in t’knife drawer.’

  Vera wondered where these sayings came from as she took out her late-dinner-money register.

  It was 4.30 p.m. and I was at my desk in the school office. I had discovered that Beth was correct: the National Curriculum questionnaire looked formidable but had taken only a few minutes to complete. I sensed it was a token gesture on the part of our local authority, as the big decisions had already been made, and I left it on Vera’s desk for posting.

  I was about to leave when the telephone rang. It was good news from our builder, Mr Spittall.

  ‘It’s all sorted, Mr Sheffield. Planning permission is fine and the quote is as we agreed. We can start at t’end of first week in April when ah’ve finished my present job.’

  ‘That’s good news.’

  ‘You’ll ’ave y’new kitchen an’ y’third bedroom wi’ facilities by t’summer. It’ll look lovely.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it, Mr Spittall. Many thanks for the call.’

  I donned my coat and scarf and ventured out to the High Street. Old Tommy Piercy’s butcher’s shop seemed a good option for an evening meal.

  ‘A pound of sausages please, Mr Piercy.’

  ‘Comin’ up, Mr Sheffield,’ he said. ‘Yorkshire’s finest,’ he added without a hint of modesty.

  ‘I heard there was some excitement this morning,’ I said, ‘concerning Mr Coe.’

  ‘Y’right there. Eugene told me all about it when ’e called by. Deirdre was all of a lather an’ done up like a dog’s dinner like she were seein’ someone important. She went an’ left ’er ’andbag so ah thought ah’d drop it off on m’rounds.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She weren’t there – probably still visitin’ ’er brother. Funny thing was, there was a posh feller standin’ outside t’farm gate. Looked all agitated at being kept waitin’. So ah told ’im what ’ad ’appened an’ ’e drove off, p’lite like.’ Old Tommy thought for a moment. ‘’E ’ad a car ah’ve not seen in a while. Green it were an’ foreign-lookin’.’

  He parcelled up the sausages after adding an extra one for young John.

  ‘Ah ’eard there were some daft story ’bout Stan wanting t’buy some land in t’village includin’ t’cricket field. Ah nearly fell over wi’ laughin’. Cricket field, ah ask you – over my dead body, ah said.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Piercy. I’ll say goodnight.’

  ‘Well, regards t’Mrs Sheffield, an’ don’t forget t’enjoy t’good times, Mr Sheffield, ’cause they never come back.’ He chuckled to himself and returned to his chopping bench and a rack of ribs.

  Just round the corner beyond the end of the High Street, in Coe Farm, Stan was sitting next to the hearth with a face like thunder. ‘All ’cause o’ your cat,’ he muttered, looking down at his bandaged hand.

  ‘Y’need t’get some rest, now,’ advised Deirdre. ‘Doctor said swelling’ll go down in a few days.’

  ‘If ah see it again ah’ll kill it.’

  ‘Oscar didn’t mean it, Stan. ’E were jus’ agitated.’

  ‘Ah’ll give ’im summat t’be agitated abart. ’E’s cost me a lot o’ money. M’meeting t’day were important an’ ah might ’ave missed m’chance. Ah’ve spent ages gettin’ this deal set up.’

  ‘What deal?’

  ‘Never you mind.’

  For Stan Coe, this day had been a disaster. Schemes, like a eulogy of bitter experience, withered in the wind and crumbled like brittle leaves … and all because of a cat. Deirdre had no idea what her brother was talking about and hurried off to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. It was then that Stan took a bulky envelope from the pocket of his oilskin coat and locked it away in his desk.

  As I drove past Coe Farm on my way home, above me the North Star shone out brightly and the seven stars of the Plough guided my way. Around me spectral shadows reared and pranced in the swaying branches, a ghostly vision of moonlit confusion.

  Suddenly, in the sharp light of my headlamps, a familiar cat leapt across the road and I braked slightly. It disappeared into the hedgerow and I drove on, completely unaware that Oscar’s revenge could not have arrived at a better moment.

  Chapter Twelve

  Gone Fishing

  We received a follow-up document from North Yorkshire County Council requesting headteachers to respond to the possible consequences of the proposed National Curriculum.

  Extract from the Ragley & Morton School Logbook:

  Friday, 13 March 1987

  It was Friday, 13 March and winter no longer held Ragley village in its iron grip. While in the far distance the Hambleton hills appeared bleak and grey against a wind-driven sky, beneath the hard crust of earth new life was stirring. The dark days were becoming a distant memory and spring was just around the corner.

  So it was with hope in my heart and a feeling of expectation that I drove along Ragley High Street. That is until I caught sight of Big Dave and Little Malcolm. They were emerging from the Coffee Shop and walking towards their refuse wagon. Big Dave had his arm draped over his cousin’s shoulders while Little Malcolm stared disconsolately at the ground. It was a sad scene.

  However, it was then I noticed they were both carrying fishing rods.

  In the room above the Coffee Shop Nellie and Dorothy were in conversation.

  ‘Listen t’me, Dorothy,’ said Nellie firmly, ‘you’ve got t’shake y’self out o’ this. Life goes on an’ y’need t’start thinkin’ about your Malcolm. ’E’s walkin’ around like a lost soul.’

  ‘Ah don’t know what t’say to ’im,’ said Dorothy forlornly.

  Nellie stretched forward and took Dorothy’s hand. ‘But your Malcolm thinks t’world o’ you.’

  ‘Ah know that deep down,’ said Dorothy. She fingered her chunky signs-of-the-zodiac bracelet. ‘But ah jus’ feel ah’ve let ev’rybody down.’

  ‘Don’t be soft,’ said Nellie quietly. ‘It ’appens t’lots o’ women, all over t’world … an’ y’can try again.’

  ‘Mebbe so, but ah feel, well … awkward … wi’ Malcolm.’ Dorothy looked up with tears in her eyes. ‘Y’know what ah’m sayin’. Ah can’t relax wi’ ’im like ah used to.’

  Nellie stood up. ‘Trust me – it’ll ’appen when t’time is right.’

  ‘D’you think so?’

  ‘Ah do.’

  Then Nellie took Dorothy’s coat from the peg behind the door. ‘Come on, let’s ’ave a treat.’

  ‘A treat?’

  ‘Yes, let’s go t’Diane’s an’ book in for gettin’ our ’air done. Ah’m certainly due.’ Nellie looked at her reflection in the mirror. ‘Flippin’ ’eck, ah look like t’wreck o’ the ’Esperus.’

  ‘’Esper who?’ asked a puzzled Dorothy, who had never been acquainted with the American poet Longfellow. Neither did she equate Nellie’s familiar saying with the fact that she looked as though she had been sitting on the back of a motorbike in a high wind.

  ‘Never mind, luv,’ said Nellie. ‘Jus’ wash y’face an’ let’s go out.’

  Meanwhile, their husbands had the morning off work, a rarity in their busy lives, and Big Dave wanted to make sure that he and Little Malcolm could have some private time together. So they drove up the Morton Road towards the local canal, where Dave selected a fami
liar spot and they unloaded, placed their cane baskets on the grassy bank at the side of the canal and sat down. Dave looked anxiously at his best friend. ‘So …’ow y’feeling, Malc’?’

  Little Malcolm sighed and stared forlornly into the slow-moving waters. ‘Ah’m fed up wi’ life,’ he muttered.

  ‘Mebbe so,’ replied Big Dave, ‘but time’s a ’ealer … so ’ow y’really feelin’?’

  ‘Well, middlin’, ah s’ppose,’ said Malcolm. ‘Not as bad as it was.’

  For Big Dave this sounded encouraging. ‘So, y’comin’ on then, bit at a time, so t’speak. There’s light at t’end of t’tunnel.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Mebbe,’ said Little Malcolm quietly.

  Big Dave looked thoughtfully at his lifelong friend. His diminutive cousin was a proud man, tough as teak, hard as nails. In the tap room of The Royal Oak it was said that Malcolm was so tough, even his spit had muscles. He would want to hide his weakness, but Big Dave knew how to bide his time.

  Both men had followed in the footsteps of their respective fathers and carried on the tradition of coarse fishing. This stretch of canal was their favourite spot. A year ago Big Dave had moved upmarket in the fishing world and had purchased a smart eighties Leeda fibreglass rod. In contrast, Little Malcolm had continued with his old-fashioned split-cane rod, which had been his dad’s.

  They followed a familiar routine, settling down on their old cane hamper boxes on a patch of ground by a copse of trees that would protect them from the stiff breeze. However, these rugged Yorkshiremen were used to an outdoor life and their thick work jackets provided sufficient warmth as they sat on the cold bank of the canal. Big Dave glanced at his cousin and hoped that the solitude of this private space would dull the pain that was etched on Little Malcolm’s face. In silence they began to prepare for a morning’s fishing.

  In the temporary classroom, life was equally trying for our local vicar. Joseph was doing his best to get the children to write their own prayers.

  ‘God is always listening.’

  ‘’E wouldn’t get a chance in our ’ouse,’ said Tyler Longbottom. ‘It’s too noisy ’cause m’sister never shuts up.’

  The children were invited to take turns to read out their prayers.

  Ben Nobbs, aged seven, stood up first and in a clear voice read, ‘Dear God, please take care of my mam and my dad and my hamster and my gran. And please take care of yourself because if anything happens to you we’re all in trouble.’

  Joseph nodded in appreciation.

  Then it was Tyler Longbottom’s turn. ‘Dear God,’ he recited, ‘you don’t have to worry about me because I always use the zebra crossing.’

  The contributions concluded with eight-year-old Rosie Spittlehouse. ‘Please God, who looks after the world when you are on holiday?’ It seemed a logical question, but not necessarily so to the careworn Joseph.

  However, there were other concerns in the wider world and we shared these in morning assembly. It was a subdued ending when Joseph invited us all to pray. Our final prayer was for the poor souls who had been on board the Townsend Thoresen roll-on, roll-off ferry, the Herald of Free Enterprise. Last Friday it had capsized moments after leaving the Belgian port of Zeebrugge, killing 193 passengers and crew. The bow-door had been left open and its departure from the harbour had catastrophic results. The sea immediately flooded the decks and within minutes she was lying on her side in shallow water. When the children chorused a final ‘Amen’ I noticed that Vera had crept in from the office and was dabbing away a tear with a tiny lace handkerchief.

  I also noticed that Rosie Spittlehouse kept her eyes closed for a few moments longer than the children around her. I recalled Rosie telling me she missed her late grandmother and always added on a special prayer for her.

  Big Dave and Little Malcolm had what they called their routine. Fishing followed a pattern they had perfected over the years. They began by mixing ground bait – namely, crumbs of stale bread recently discarded at Prudence Golightly’s General Stores – along with a supply of maggots from Timothy Pratt’s Hardware Emporium. Then they added water and rolled the sticky mixture into golf-ball-size lumps. With a sure aim, they would throw this appetizing bait upstream to attract the fish.

  After attaching their reels with great care, they threaded a mono-filament line through the eyes on their rods. It was a well-practised procedure and Big Dave was pleased that Little Malcolm seemed preoccupied with something other than his turbulent love life.

  Finally, they attached a float with lead shot and tied a hook to the line with a blood knot. Then, satisfied all was well, they began to fish. An added bonus for our impecunious bin men was that fishing on the canal was completely free. Also, it was very private. The tow path was completely quiet and, passed only by the occasional dog walker, they settled down in peace to enjoy one of their favourite sports.

  Big Dave fixed their keep net to the bank with a stick and propped their landing net against a nearby bush. They would use this to collect fish and transfer them to the keep net. Then, after the obligatory photography session to record their catch, they would return the fish to the canal.

  ‘Jus’ minnows and gudgeon so far,’ remarked Big Dave after the first half hour.

  ‘Remember that roach y’caught, Dave?’ asked Little Malcolm with the first hint of enthusiasm. ‘It weighed one and a half pounds.’

  ‘Postie Ted’s dad caught one that were nearly four pounds,’ recalled Big Dave.

  The reputation of George Postlethwaite, the one-armed fisherman, was legendary.

  Little Malcolm nodded. ‘Must ’ave been a record.’

  ‘This could be your day, Malc’,’ said Big Dave. ‘Ah’ve gorra feeling. In fac’, it’s time t’start lookin’ towards t’future.’

  ‘’Ow d’you mean, Dave?’

  Dave looked across at his cousin. ‘Well, Malc’, life doesn’t ’ave rear-view mirrors.’

  Little Malcolm stared into the water and gave an imperceptible nod.

  Up the Morton Road, Petula Dudley-Palmer was reflecting on her date with John Parsons, her charming new companion. He had asked if they could meet again for lunch at the Dean Court Hotel and she was considering a response. Meanwhile, that morning she had switched on BBC1 shortly after 9 a.m. and had enjoyed watching her other favourite man, Robert Kilroy-Silk. He was handsome, confident and, unlike her husband, he didn’t look the type to be unfaithful.

  It was eleven o’clock and in Sally’s class the children were following up a geography lesson with mixed results.

  Jeremy Urquhart had written, ‘In geography we learned that countries surrounded by sea are called islands and the ones without are called incontinents.’

  Patience Crapper had recorded that ‘In Scandinavia, the Danish people come from Denmark, Norwegians come from Norway and Lapdancers come from Lapland.’

  Charlie Cartwright had shared the information that ‘The closest town to France is Dover. My Aunty Jean went there on a fairy.’

  While Sally pondered these responses she considered that, although the content left a little to be desired, at least the sentence construction was improving.

  Down the High Street, outside the General Stores, Betty Buttle tugged Margery Ackroyd’s sleeve and nodded towards Petula Dudley-Palmer, who was driving steadily down the road. ‘Jus’ look at Lady Fancy-knickers,’ said Betty, ‘all ’igh an’ mighty.’

  ‘Hoity-toity,’ muttered Margery.

  ‘Not normal like you an’ me,’ added Betty for good measure.

  ‘’Ave y’noticed she looks ’appier these days?’ asked Margery.

  Betty considered this for a moment. ‘Well she certainly deserves a bit o’ ’appiness after the way ’er ’usband’s been gallivantin’ about.’

  They stared after the car as it disappeared from view on the York Road.

  ‘An’ she’s slimmed off a lot recently,’ observed Margery.

  ‘Mebbe she’s givin’ ’im a bit of ’is own medicine,’
speculated Betty.

  They both smiled at a secret shared and walked into the village shop.

  Walter Popple had got some new socks for his sixth birthday. They were bright yellow and he was very proud of his new image. In the dinner queue he was showing them to our school cook.

  ‘Mrs Mapplebeck, ah’ve gorra s’prise,’ he announced.

  Shirley smiled down at the little ginger-haired boy with the freckled face.

  He stood on one leg and lifted the other. ‘These are m’birthday socks an’ Ted Coggins said they were magic,’ said the eager little boy.

  ‘Magic?’

  ‘’E said if ah say “Shazam” one thousand times then y’can fly.’

  ‘Fly? Why is that?’

  ‘’Cause it’s in Ted’s comic book, so it mus’ be right.’

  ‘Does y’mother know they’re magic socks, Walter?’ asked Shirley. She was concerned he might try something dangerous.

  ‘Don’t know, Mrs Mapplebeck,’ said Walter.

  ‘Best to tell ’er when y’get ’ome.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Walter.

  ‘’Cause she’ll be thrilled.’

  Walter smiled, received his large helping of rhubarb crumble and was pleased his socks were brighter than the custard.

  Next in the queue, Karl Tomkins was pulling faces at Madonna Fazackerly.

  ‘Ah don’t want t’see you do that again, Karl Tomkins,’ warned Mrs Critchley firmly. Her biceps flexed as she lifted the huge jug of custard with effortless ease.

  Six-year-old Karl thought about this for a moment and then his little face cheered up. ‘Well, Miss, can ah do it again if ah pull nicer faces?’

  Mrs Critchley didn’t have time to reply. There was another immediate problem. Rufus Snodgrass and Barry Stonehouse had been swapping their Dukes of Hazzard bubble-gum stickers and had forgotten to pick up their trays.

  Sally was in the staff-room, reading her Daily Mirror while munching on an oatmeal biscuit. She was still sticking to the ‘Oxford Diet’ from her copy of The Healthy Heart Diet Book. However, she was getting tired of muesli, oatmeal and vegetable soup. The freshly baked fruit scones prepared by Shirley in the kitchen looked particularly appetizing and she was the only one not enjoying the treat.