Happiest Days

by Jack Sheffield

  The PTA had joined with the Village Hall Social Committee to arrange a ‘70s Gala Night’ and it had captured the imagination of the village, with one or two exceptions.

  ‘It promises to be a lively evening.’

  ‘Not really my sort of music, Mr Sheffield, but it’s important to demonstrate support,’ said Vera pointedly as she walked out to deliver a set of report books to Class 3.

  Joseph had arrived and was striding towards the entrance hall with a new feeling of anticipation. The harsh days of winter were over. In the vicarage garden the arrowheads of daffodils were appearing in the bare hedgerows, while primroses splashed their colour on the grassy banks. Early-morning sunshine washed over his stooping figure and he smiled at Ruby, who was putting a few crumbs on the bird table.

  ‘G’mornin’, Mr Evans,’ she said.

  ‘And good morning to you, Ruby, on this fine day. I’ve just passed Mr Dainty in the High Street and he looks as though he is walking on air. I imagine this is a wonderful time for you.’

  Ruby’s engagement had been the talk of the village since Christmas and everyone was waiting for news of the proposed wedding, but it had not been forthcoming.

  ‘That’s good to ’ear,’ said Ruby cautiously.

  ‘Easter is a time of new life,’ enthused Joseph, ‘and this is your time. You’re like a beautiful butterfly emerging from a chrysalis.’

  ‘A what, vicar?’ asked a puzzled Ruby.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Joseph. ‘Just take it that an exciting future awaits.’

  Feeling he had imparted sufficient joie de vivre, he hurried to Sally’s class to discuss music for the Easter services at St Mary’s.

  It was a few minutes later that Ruby tapped on the office door.

  ‘Hello, Ruby,’ said Vera and immediately saw the concern on her friend’s face. ‘Come in and sit down.’

  Ruby sighed deeply, shut the door and sat down in the visitor’s chair.

  ‘So, what’s troubling you?’

  Ruby was wringing her chamois leather as if her life depended on it. ‘This an’ that,’ she said hesitantly.

  ‘You can tell me,’ said Vera quietly.

  Ruby nodded. ‘You’re allus a good listener, Mrs F, an’ in fac’ y’brother were jus’ tryin’ t’be kind t’me an’ sayin’ nice things.’

  ‘That’s lovely. What did he have to say?’

  ‘It were about me bein’ a butterfly ’mergin’ from a clitoris … or summat.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Vera … and wished she didn’t.

  ‘Y’see, ah’ve kept it to m’self, an’ ah don’t know what t’do.’

  Vera leaned forward. ‘Just say it, Ruby.’

  Ruby took a deep breath and brushed her chestnut curls from her eyes. ‘It’s the ’oneymoon, Mrs F.’

  ‘Honeymoon?’

  ‘Yes, ’e says ’e wants me t’explore ’is foreign parts.’

  ‘Foreign parts?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs F,’ said Ruby. ‘’E wants me t’see ’is fish shop.’

  ‘In Spain?’

  ‘Yes, in that Alicante place where ’e used t’live.’

  ‘Well, that sounds very exciting, Ruby.’

  ‘Mebbe so, but ah’m frightened.’

  ‘Oh dear, Ruby – why?’

  ‘Flyin’, Mrs F – goin’ up in a plane. Ah’ve never done that. In fac’, ah’ve never been out o’ Yorkshire.’

  Vera sighed and thought carefully about her response. ‘Ruby, you need to tell him. George needs to know how you feel. He’s a considerate man and would never want to do anything that would cause you any upset.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs F.’ Ruby returned her chamois leather to the pocket of her apron. ‘Ah’ll ’ave t’pick m’moment.’

  ‘Perhaps at the village hall tonight.’

  Ruby got up to leave but paused by the office door. ‘Y’know … ah still think about my Ronnie when we were young. We used to lie back, look up at t’sky an’ count t’stars,’ and she walked out and closed the door.

  I used to count the stars as well, thought Vera. She recalled the words of her father long ago: ‘We all have our time in the light before our departure towards an unknown eternity.’

  Vera resolved she must help Ruby – and the time was now. She would have a word in George Dainty’s ear.

  After break the children in my class completed their project folders in preparation for taking them home to show their parents.

  Last week Sally and I had taken Classes 4 and 5 to Eden Camp, a museum near the market town of Malton. It was part of our joint Second World War European history project and had proved an informative experience for the children. The camp had been open for only a few weeks and we were one of the first school parties to visit.

  It had begun with an eventful journey. The April sunshine had reflected brightly on the windows of William Featherstone’s cream-and-green Reliance coach and the children were excited as they clambered aboard. Although many people in Ragley thought it now belonged in a motor museum, William was proud of his ancient bus. With old-fashioned charm he welcomed each passenger and doffed his peaked cap. In his neatly ironed brown bus driver’s jacket, white shirt and ex-regimental tie, he certainly looked the part.

  It was no empty gesture that the words ‘You Can Rely on Reliance’ had been painted in bright red letters under the rear window. In the midst of waving mothers, and to the accompaniment of Scargill the Yorkshire terrier’s frantic barking, we had set off on the Easington Road and proceeded at a sedate pace through the byways of North Yorkshire towards Malton.

  ‘Will there be any Germans there, sir?’ asked an eager Rufus Snodgrass, clearly anticipating the adventure ahead.

  ‘There may be, Rufus,’ I said, ‘but they will probably be visitors just like us.’

  Rufus considered this for a moment and nodded, but appeared unconvinced.

  It proved to be a memorable visit. The guide explained that in 1942 the plot of land had been requisitioned by the War Office to build a camp for German and Italian prisoners of war captured from the battlefields of Africa and Europe. However, recently the collection of huts had been expertly equipped to tell the story of the Second World War through the use of sights, sounds and smells.

  We had followed this up back in school with a special visitor. Seventy-five-year-old Albert Jenkins had called in to share his wartime experiences. Dressed in a familiar three-piece suit, complete with watch chain, Albert had told an enthralled audience how he had attended the village school shortly after the First World War. He spoke of a bygone age over sixty years ago when he had been taken out of school to become a fire tender worker for the railway in York.

  ‘What’s that, sir?’ asked Tom Burgess.

  ‘It was a sort of chimney sweep for the railways and I was not much older than you,’ explained Albert with a smile.

  Charlie Cartwright raised his hand. ‘Ah’d like t’be a chimney sweep, sir.’

  Albert gave a wry smile. ‘It wasn’t a pleasant job,’ he said. ‘I had to climb inside the firebox and clean it out with my bare hands and an old brush, while all the time I was surrounded by dangerous asbestos. My ambition was to become a train driver and twenty-six years later I fulfilled my ambition.’

  Albert had brought with him lots of old photographs of the giant steam engines and his time in the Army. He also recounted his memories of listening to the radio and recalled the nightly adventures of Dick Barton, Special Agent, on the BBC’s Light Programme. Remarkably, he was one of fifteen million listeners and the children were puzzled why so many people would want to listen to the radio.

  There were many questions, and it was only after he had left that Vera told us Albert was a very sick man. For many months he had walked with a serious illness as his constant companion.

  That had been a week ago and now it was time for our final assembly of the spring term. The children sat attentively while Joseph told the familiar Easter story, then went on to share another Bible story from St John’s Gospe
l concerning a man named Nicodemus who was keen to ask questions.

  ‘Don’t be afraid to ask a question,’ said Joseph, ‘because then you will reach an understanding.’ I saw Vera looking at her brother thoughtfully and wondered what was on her mind.

  There was a surprise at the end when, instead of the Lord’s Prayer, Joseph invited Marcus to come out to the front to recite a prayer in Latin from his old college. Marcus explained that Latin was an old Roman language relating to its people and culture. He had written the translation on an acetate and he placed it on our overhead projector and encouraged the children to follow it carefully. It read:

  Let all thy works give thanks to thee, O Lord, and let thy saints bless thee. We give thanks to thee, almighty God, for all thy goodness, who livest and reignest as God for ever and ever. Amen.

  Then he spoke clearly and recited the prayer, which he knew from memory:

  ‘Confiteantur tibi, Domine, omnia opera tua,

  et sancti tui benedicant te.

  Agimus tibi gratias, omnipotens Deus,

  pro universis beneficiis tuis,

  Qui vivis et regnas Deus per omnia saecula saeculorum. Amen.’

  ‘Well, that’s a first,’ said Anne with a smile as we returned to our classrooms.

  At morning break Sally was on duty and, although she enjoyed the sunshine and fresh air while supervising the children, her mind was on something else. She had applied to be one of the five hundred volunteers required for a sponsored slim on the That’s Life! television programme. The intention was to test different diets over a six-week period and Sally wondered if this would be the answer to her expanding waistline.

  During the lunch break Marcus expressed his disappointment that Oxford had beaten Cambridge in last month’s University Boat Race, particularly as Cambridge had been the favourites.

  Marcus described at great length his passion for the annual race on the River Thames from Putney to Mortlake, a course of over four miles. He had expected a Cambridge victory, particularly after a so-called ‘mutiny’ among the Oxford crew. However, Oxford won by four lengths in spite of the American members of their crew being replaced following a dispute with their coach, Dan Topolski.

  Vera considered the Boat Race to be a triumph for clean-living young sportsmen and Marcus wisely kept to himself that the race was sponsored by Beefeater Gin.

  ‘What are you doing over the holiday?’ asked Sally.

  Marcus smiled. ‘I’m spending Easter in Cambridge with my parents, so if any of you want to meet up that would be good. I could offer a tour of Emmanuel College if you wish.’

  ‘I may take you up on that,’ I said. ‘We’ll be visiting Beth’s parents in Hampshire, so we could call in on the way.’

  ‘That’s fine, Jack,’ he said, ‘and I’m also meeting up with Fiona.’

  Suddenly the ladies in the staff-room all sat up quickly. ‘Fiona?’ asked Sally and Pat in unison.

  Marcus blushed slightly. ‘Yes, Fiona Beckwith – we were at uni together and she’s … well, a friend.’

  The ladies shared unspoken thoughts, smiled and returned to their cups of tea.

  Just before the bell for afternoon school a group of ladies from the Village Hall Social Committee called in to borrow our crockery and Baby Burco boiler for that evening’s Gala Night. Shirley and Doreen appeared from the kitchen to give them a hand, while Ruby seemed to be directing operations.

  ‘Word ’as it,’ said Doreen, ‘that your Duggie is goin’ as John Travolta wi’ ’is new girlfriend, that Sonia from t’shoe shop.’

  ‘New girlfriend!’ exclaimed Ruby. ‘Bloomin’ ’eck. ’Ere we go again.’

  After lunch I completed the last of my reading tests. The final reader was George Frith, who surprised me by reading ‘oblivion’, ‘scintillate’, ‘satirical’, ‘sabre’ and ‘beguile’ on the Schonell Graded Word Recognition Test to give him a reading age two years above his chronological age.

  He smiled when I praised him.

  ‘Ah love reading, sir,’ he said. ‘It takes you into another world.’ He had just begun to read The Queen’s Brooch, an excellent historical novel by Henry Treece, and had become engrossed in the battles of Queen Boudicca. I reflected that he had come a long way since that snowy morning back in January. Also, George and Barry Stonehouse had become inseparable friends and it was good to see both boys growing in confidence.

  It was George who made an announcement shortly after two o’clock. ‘Sir, me an Barry were lookin’ in t’village pond this morning and it’s teeming wi’ life.’

  ‘Can we go an’ see it, Mr Sheffield?’ shouted out Stuart Ormroyd.

  I glanced at my watch. On occasions, it seemed to be a good idea to leave the planned timetable, particularly on the last afternoon of term.

  ‘Come on then,’ I agreed. ‘Get your coats on.’

  The sun shone from a powder-blue sky as we walked out to the village green and the scent of wallflowers was refreshing after the overnight rain. The new leaves on the weeping willow weighed down the graceful branches and, on the far side of the pond in front of The Royal Oak, Albert Jenkins was sitting on a bench and feeding the ducks.

  We gathered around the edge of the pond and soon there were excited discoveries as the children spotted lots of tiny creatures, including water boatmen balancing precariously on the surface tension of the still water.

  ‘It’s like their world in our world,’ said Michelle Gawthorpe.

  When it was time for afternoon break we returned to school and Albert walked beside me. He had always maintained his great interest in our school and his wisdom and support were sorely missed on the governing body.

  ‘Takes me back,’ he said as he watched the children full of animated chatter after their experience by the pond.

  ‘Schooldays,’ I mused, ‘the happiest days of your life.’

  Albert smiled. ‘That’s what R. C. Sheriff said a long time ago.’ I remembered that Albert was one of the best-read scholars in Ragley.

  ‘I’m not familiar with the name.’

  ‘He was a captain in the First World War and he wrote successful plays and award-winning screenplays – a remarkable man. I recall that was one of his quotes.’

  ‘He was right,’ I said, ‘but just occasionally it’s a rocky road.’

  Albert wasn’t regarded as the shrewdest man in the village without reason. ‘You mean Stan Coe,’ he said quietly.

  I nodded.

  ‘Yes, Jack, keep your eye out for him. There’s rumours in the village among those in the know. I’ll report back when I have more information. In the meantime, watch your back.’

  ‘Thanks, Albert.’

  ‘It is excellent to have a giant’s strength; but it is tyrannous to use it like a giant,’ he quoted. Albert loved his Shakespeare.

  ‘Measure for Measure,’ I murmured with some hesitation.

  Albert nodded. ‘If it’s the last thing I do I’ll make sure that dreadful man doesn’t spoil this village for ever.’

  The children were excited when the bell rang for the end of school. I walked out with them and opened the giant oak door.

  ‘Guess what, sir,’ said an enthusiastic George Frith. ‘We saw a robin’s nest, sir. All mossy it was an’ there were eggs. Four white uns, sir, wi’ pink spots.’

  ‘But we never touched ’em, sir,’ added Barry Stonehouse.

  I found myself reminiscing as I watched them scamper down the worn stone steps towards the freedom of a school holiday. The river of life had pattered down these steps for more than a century. So many children … so many faces. It was a time for expectation and a different sort of eggs – chocolate ones.

  At seven o’clock Natasha Smith arrived to look after John while Beth stood in the hallway admiring her new coat. It was a fully lined grey trenchcoat, double-breasted and with button-down epaulettes. It stretched down to her calves and looked terrific.

  I put my arms around her waist and stared at her reflection in the mirror. ‘The picture of
the modern woman,’ I said and she smiled up at me.

  The village hall was packed by the time we arrived. Don Bradshaw had set up a bar and Clint Ramsbottom, dressed as Michael Jackson, was disc jockey for the evening. Clint’s ‘Disco Experience’ comprised three coloured light bulbs and a scratchy record deck, but as he was working for nothing we couldn’t complain.

  He had a good record collection and suddenly we were transported back to the previous decade. Clint opened up with Pink Floyd’s ‘Another Brick in the Wall’, followed by Queen’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, Blondie’s ‘Heart of Glass’ and ‘Sultans of Swing’ by Dire Straits.

  The ladies of the Social Committee, with reinforcements from the Women’s Institute, had prepared a refreshments table. They were discussing the treats displayed inside Jane Asher’s Quick Party Cakes, a recent purchase from her book club by Petula Dudley-Palmer, which everyone agreed was 75p well spent.

  The dancing was energetic to say the least. Duggie Smith and his new partner, Sonia from the shoe shop in Easington, were doing their impression of Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta in Grease, while Old Tommy Piercy watched in amazement from the trestle-table bar at the back of the hall. Ruby was pleased that Sonia was comfortably twenty years younger than Duggie’s previous partner and hoped he was returning to the straight and narrow.

  Mrs Ricketts, predictably, had come as Suzi Quatro and was dancing with her daughter, Suzi-Quatro, who had come as herself. The liveliest group was undoubtedly Big Dave, Nellie, Little Malcolm and Dorothy. They had hired Abba outfits and Dorothy in particular was proud of her Agnetha Fältskog hair-do.

  Betty Buttle was sitting with her husband, Harry. ‘They look ’appy again,’ she said. ‘Dorothy’s been through a tough time.’

  Harry, who had come as Alice Cooper, shook his head. ‘Ah ’adn’t noticed.’

  ‘That’s t’trouble wi’ you, y’great lump, y’never do.’ Harry’s wig had made him too hot and Betty used it to wipe beer spillage from their table top. ‘Men,’ she muttered. ‘No idea.’

  Beth and I hadn’t considered fancy dress, but many people had found outfits for the occasion. Deke Ramsbottom picked up the microphone to announce that Sheila from The Royal Oak had donated prizes for the best costumes. Kenny Kershaw and Claire Bradshaw were thrilled to come first in their Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia outfits and received a bottle of Tia Maria coffee liqueur.