Happiest Days

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘Can I drive the engine please, Grandad?’ he asked.

  I thought my father-in-law was about to burst into tears. ‘One day, John,’ he said. ‘Maybe one day.’

  We stepped up into a 1950s coach with a corridor down the side and sliding doors that opened into individual compartments that seated six passengers. It took me back to journeys to the seaside when I was a small boy. The guard asked the onlookers to stand back to ensure a line of sight for the driver. Then he waved his flag and with a shrill whistle we were off, and smoke and steam wafted past our window. The ticket inspector punched our tickets and had a friendly word with young John. He knew my father-in-law, smiled in acknowledgement and explained there were four stations on the line – Alton, Medstead and Four Marks, Ropley, and Alresford.

  When we stopped at Ropley station there was a large engine shed with three railway lines running through it. John explained that he was working with a team of volunteers on the steam locomotive T9 30120 and his job was to repair the ash pan in the boiler. He said it was a 0-8-0, which referred to the pairs of wheels, and, as I listened to him, it was clear that the volunteers were creating a marvellous return to the age of steam following the Beeching cuts of the sixties. It was a wonderful day, with much to reflect upon when we returned to the cottage.

  On Sunday we all went to the lovely church in nearby Medstead for their Easter service, followed by lunch in Winchester. It was a happy end to our visit and on the morning of Easter Monday we packed the car and set off to return to Yorkshire.

  The miles swept by as we travelled north and John nodded off in the back seat. The radio was murmuring away. A sports reporter announced that a promising teenage cricketer, Michael Atherton, had rescued Cambridge University from humiliation with a battling 73 not out when he defied County Champions Essex at Fenners.

  ‘John loved the steam train,’ I said.

  ‘It’s been a good holiday for all of us,’ said Beth, ‘and it’s opened my eyes.’

  ‘So, what’s on your mind?’

  There was silence for a while. I sensed Beth was choosing her words carefully.

  ‘John will be four in the summer. He will be starting school before we know it.’

  I wondered where this was going. ‘He’s certainly well prepared,’ I said. ‘Nursery has done him a world of good.’

  ‘Jack, I was thinking over what you said about Cambridge.’

  I had guessed this was coming. ‘It simply struck me it could be the perfect place to settle as a family.’

  Beth took a deep breath. ‘You have a new headship, I’ve just been appointed to a new post, your Masters degree is progressing well and, in case you’ve forgotten, there are builders extending the cottage.’

  ‘I’m aware of all this. You know that. It’s just that I thought … is this it?’

  We settled back as the miles sped by and listened to the news on the radio. There was talk of industrial action by teachers’ unions in protest against teachers having to cover for absent colleagues. The work-to-contract guidelines had caused unrest and teachers were urged to count their hours and stop work when they had completed their annual quota of 1,265 hours.

  Meanwhile, at the teachers’ conference in Eastbourne, delegates voted overwhelmingly to support the scheme to give more spending power to schools.

  ‘But who pays for sick teachers?’ asked Beth and turned down the volume control. It was becoming too depressing.

  ‘So many changes,’ I muttered.

  It was later that Beth spoke up again. ‘Tell me – why the change of heart?’

  ‘Having to reapply for my job hit me harder than I realized.’

  ‘Are you unhappy?’

  ‘Not exactly. I love my new job, but …’

  ‘Do you feel you could be doing more?’

  We were getting to the heart of it. ‘I’m one of the older students on my uni course and there’s a new generation of teachers who will be overtaking me. It occurred to me I was being left behind.’

  ‘You mean left behind in a job you love.’

  I smiled. ‘I suppose so.’

  There was a heavy shower as we drove through South Yorkshire and we were silent as the rain pattered against the windscreen.

  Eventually, Beth said, ‘Let’s leave it for now and think again before the end of the holiday.’

  Finally, as we approached the plain of York and drove through familiar villages, Beth said, ‘I think Marcus is in love.’

  ‘Perhaps he is.’

  ‘It’s obvious, Jack. He dotes on that young woman, but he’s being left in her slipstream. He needs to be more active and make the running. The poor man has the Cambridge Blues.’

  ‘It sounds familiar,’ I said and we drove on in silence.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hogging the Headlines

  School will close on Friday for the May Day holiday and will reopen on Tuesday, 5 May. Mrs Grainger and Mrs Pringle held a rehearsal for the display of maypole dancing.

  Extract from the Ragley & Morton School Logbook:

  Wednesday, 29 April 1987

  The first soft kiss of sunlight caressed the distant hills and lit up the horizon. Like a thin band of gold the hills shimmered beneath a ring of fire. It was Wednesday, 29 April and the countryside around me lifted the spirits as I pulled up on the forecourt of Pratt’s garage.

  Almond trees were in blossom, the heavy scent of wallflowers was in the air and, across the road, darting swallows had returned to their nesting sites in the eaves of Stan Coe’s outbuildings. The annual May Day holiday beckoned and all seemed well – that is, until Victor ambled out to greet me.

  ‘A lovely morning, Victor,’ I said.

  ‘Mebbe so, but not f’one o’ those poor buggers,’ he replied as he unscrewed my petrol cap. He nodded towards Stan Coe’s farm.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Ah mean one o’ them pigs, Mr Sheffield.’

  The penny dropped. Old Tommy Piercy’s hog roast was a highlight of the May Day activities on the village green. ‘Oh, I see,’ I said lamely, wishing I didn’t enjoy crackling quite so much.

  As I drove off I saw Mrs Higginbottom and Mrs Gawthorpe chatting by the fence that bordered Stan Coe’s farm. They waved as I passed, while their daughters, Tracey and Alison, stood on one of the bars of the wooden fence watching the pigs. I smiled. It was always fascinating to watch young children observe the wonders of nature within the bounty of our North Yorkshire countryside.

  However, the girls seemed to be attracted to an unlikely companion. A particularly large pig was snuffling around a clump of thistles on the other side of the fence. I slowed up and smiled. It appeared they had made a friend. As I drove off towards the High Street I had little idea of the chain of events that was to follow and was destined to be the talk of the village for many months to come.

  Alison, meanwhile, leaned over the fence to look more closely at the smiling pig. Then she took a biscuit from her pocket and, on cue, the eager animal waddled over to her.

  It was a ritual that had taken place for over a month, ever since Alison had received a camera for her seventh birthday. After that she had become an eager photographer and her first roll of film had been processed in Boots the Chemist in York. The twenty-four exposures included a photo of her big sister, Michelle, playing on the swings, one of her mother feeding their cat, ten more of their cat in various poses, while the remaining twelve comprised studies of her favourite pig eating, sleeping and, on occasions, rolling in the mud.

  ‘Ah call ’im Peaches,’ she said, ‘’cause ’is cheeks are soft an’ rosy.’

  ‘Peaches,’ echoed Tracey, nodding in agreement. ‘That’s a lovely name.’

  At that moment Heathcliffe Earnshaw arrived on his bicycle with an empty satchel swinging from his shoulder. Fifteen-year-old Heathcliffe had just delivered his last newspaper of the morning and was on his way back to Prudence Golightly’s General Stores.

  He parked his bicycle against the fence, took a half-eaten
apple from his pocket and held it up by the stalk. ‘Here y’are, piggy,’ he said and stretched out his hand. Peaches rumbled forward, collected the grubby core with a slap of its wet tongue and swallowed it in an instant.

  ‘That were brave, ’Eathcliffe,’ said an admiring Tracey.

  Heathcliffe accepted the hero-worship with a modest smile.

  ‘’E’s a fast eater,’ said Alison in admiration.

  ‘We’ve got some apples at ’ome,’ said Tracey.

  ‘An’ we’ve got a bag of pears,’ said Alison. ‘I bet Peaches likes pears as well.’

  ‘Peaches?’ queried Heathcliffe.

  ‘Yes, Alison calls ’im Peaches,’ explained Tracey.

  ‘’E’s our favourite,’ added Alison.

  ‘’E’s my favourite an’ all,’ agreed Heathcliffe. ‘’E’s best of t’lot. Ah allus give ’im a treat when ah’m passin’.’

  The three of them stared at Peaches.

  Tracey sighed. ‘’E’s got a lovely smile.’

  ‘An’ that’s what meks ’im diff’rent to t’others,’ said Alison.

  ‘Well, ah can pick ’im out dead easy,’ said Heathcliffe with confidence.

  ‘’Ow come?’ said Alison.

  ‘’Cause of ’is droopy ear.’

  It was true. One ear pointed towards the heavens while the other hung down towards the ground – incongruous but endearing.

  Meanwhile, Peaches seemed to revel in the attention and gave them what they took to be another vacant smile. However, the huge pig had been hoping for another tasty titbit from the strange humans. Eventually, with a grunt and a snort, he waddled off to join his brothers and sisters at the trough to enjoy his third helping of breakfast.

  Sadly, Peaches was completely unaware that he weighed exactly ninety pounds. In his contented world of eating, sleeping and snuffling, this would have meant little to this friendly pig. But according to Old Tommy Piercy, Ragley’s champion butcher, it was the perfect weight for a spit roast.

  Sally and Vera were in the entrance hall when I walked into school. Sally was holding an armful of colourful streamers provided by Vera in readiness for the maypole-dancing practice on the village green.

  ‘I thought we would nip out after morning break, Jack,’ she said. ‘I’ve arranged with Anne for the rest of my class to be supervised. She’ll be doing some music in the hall. Also, Val Flint said she would call round to give me a hand.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said, ‘and thanks for all your efforts. It will be the highlight of the day.’

  ‘Along with the Women’s Institute tent with our special cream teas,’ said Vera without a hint of modesty.

  ‘And Old Tommy’s hog roast,’ added Sally with a grin. ‘That always goes down well.’

  On the High Street, a group of pupils from Easington Comprehensive School had gathered at the bus stop. Heathcliffe and Terry Earnshaw were standing outside the General Stores, staring at the large jars of sweets in the window.

  Heathcliffe was completely unaware of an ardent admirer. Maureen Hartley had just become a teenager and was wearing her big sister’s cast-off school blazer. She was staring at her spiky-haired hero in rapt adoration. Little Mo, as she was known to her friends, had no idea what hormones were, but they had begun to make their presence felt in this happy, carefree girl. She was the youngest of five daughters and her father worked tirelessly to support them following the death of his wife after a long illness.

  Outside the butcher’s shop next door, Stan Coe was in conversation with one of his duck-shooting friends, Boris Drudgeon, the landlord of The Pig & Ferret.

  ‘Ah’m sellin’ one o’ m’pigs t’night for t’May Day ’og roast,’ said Stan.

  Heathcliffe forgot the mouthwatering display of his favourite sweets and listened in.

  ‘You allus pick a good un,’ said Boris with a bucktoothed smile, unaware that he was known as Bugs Bunny to many of his regulars.

  Stan took a final puff of his cigarette and flicked the stub on to the pavement. ‘’Erbert’s comin’ round in ’is van t’night t’collect it,’ he said. ‘Ah’ve got one that’s t’perfec’ weight.’

  ‘’Ow d’you know which one?’ asked Boris.

  Stan gave an evil grin. ‘You can’t miss ’im – big bugger’s gorra droopy ear.’

  Boris wandered off up the High Street while Stan returned to his filthy, mud-streaked Land Rover, leaving Heathcliffe looking thoughtful.

  ‘What’s t’matter, ’Eath?’ asked Terry.

  Heathcliffe gave his kid brother a determined look. ‘We’ve gorra job t’do straight after school.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We’re gonna save a pig,’ said Heathcliffe.

  ‘A pig?’

  ‘That’s right, Terry – a pig called Peaches.’

  It had been a busy morning in school and in our Reading Workshop Mrs Gawthorpe was listening to her daughter Alison reading her Ginn Reading 360 story book and jotting down the words with which she was struggling.

  ‘Ah’ve got loads o’ photos of a pig, Mummy,’ said Alison.

  ‘Ah’ve seen ’em,’ said Mrs Gawthorpe. ‘An’ that camera o’ yours’ll be t’death of me!’

  Meanwhile, in his butcher’s shop, Old Tommy Piercy was waxing lyrical to Deke Ramsbottom. The singing cowboy had called in for a pork pie.

  ‘Ah’m lookin’ forward to the ’og roast,’ said Deke. ‘Best treat o’ May Day f’me.’

  Old Tommy glanced up at his calendar on the tiled wall. ‘It’ll need to be slaughtered soon.’

  ‘Ah s’ppose it will.’

  ‘Y’see, Deke,’ explained Old Tommy, ‘young pigs are hung longer than old pigs.’

  ‘’Ow come?’

  ‘It’s to allow time for t’muscles to relax after t’rigor mortis has set in!’

  ‘Bloody ’ell,’ said Deke. ‘Sounds ’orrible.’

  Old Tommy merely smiled. ‘That’s slaughterin’ for you. It’s normally one week from slaughter to roasting, but ah’ve gorrit down to a fine art.’

  ‘Ah guess you ’ave, Tommy,’ said Deke. ‘Practice meks perfec’.’

  It was shortly after four o’clock when the school bus returned to the High Street. As soon as it pulled up, Heathcliffe and Terry hurried towards Stan Coe’s farm. Heathcliffe stopped to break off two sticks from the copse of trees next to the fence.

  ‘Here y’are, Terry,’ he said. ‘We need these t’encourage Peaches to shift ’imself.’

  After checking no one was around, our two intrepid heroes jumped over the fence and persuaded Peaches to amble at his own speed towards the gate that led to freedom.

  ‘Where we tekkin’ ’im, ’Eath?’ asked the faithful Terry, who had always been Robin to his big brother’s Batman.

  ‘Ah reckon that ol’ barn in Twenty Acre Field,’ said Heathcliffe. ‘No one ever goes there an’ Peaches’ll be out o’ sight.’

  It was shortly before six o’clock that Herbert Cronk drove his rusty white van into Stan Coe’s farmyard. On the side of the van were the words:

  PERFECT PIGS

  Cronk’s Crackling:

  Quality Hog Roast Supplier

  Herbert’s van was well known in Ragley village and I had seen it many times. The sign always appeared to me to be a perfect porcine oxymoron: there was certainly nothing perfect about a healthy and happy pig who was about to be spit-roasted.

  Deirdre Coe came to the door. ‘’E’s jus’ comin’, ’Erbert,’ she said. ‘Jus’ gettin’ ’is wellies on.’

  Stan emerged, puffing a cigarette and with a smile on his face. There was no doubt that, with his heavy jowls, he bore a strong resemblance to his precious pigs. ‘Ah’ve gorra a real beauty this time, ’Erbert,’ he said.

  Together they walked towards the pig pens.

  ‘Where’s that bloody pig gone?’ shouted Stan.

  On Thursday morning Heathcliffe and Terry arrived at the old barn in Twenty Acre Field. They had brought some scraps of food plus a couple of apples. Ho
wever, the door was ajar, presumably opened by a powerful snout in a bid for freedom. Peaches had escaped!

  ‘Bloomin’ ’eck, Terry,’ exclaimed Heathcliffe, aghast, ‘’e’s done a runner – ’e’s gone!’

  ‘What we gonna do, ’Eath?’

  Heathcliffe heard the church clock strike half past eight. It was time to get to the bus stop. ‘We’ll come back after school an’ find ’im then.’

  It was just before morning assembly when Stuart Ormroyd called out, ‘Mr Coe comin’ up t’drive, Mr Sheffield, wi’ that copper.’

  ‘That’s Police Constable Pike, Stuart,’ I said. ‘He won’t appreciate you calling him a copper.’

  ‘OK, sir, but they don’t look too pleased.’

  Vera’s manner was almost glacial as she kept both men in the entrance hall to await my arrival.

  ‘Ah want t’see that ’eadmaster o’ yours,’ demanded Stan bluntly.

  ‘Only when it’s convenient, Mrs Forbes-Kitchener,’ interjected Julian Pike quickly. He looked sternly at Stan. ‘I suggest you sit down, Mr Coe, and remember we’re guests in the school.’ He glanced apologetically at Vera. ‘Sorry, you’ll appreciate I’m just doing my job at present.’

  ‘Of course, Julian,’ said Vera with calm assurance. ‘And how is your mother – well, I hope?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ replied the nervous bobby. He was out of his depth with our dominant school secretary and he knew it.

  Meanwhile, the children were gathering in the school hall. When they were all seated, Anne played the opening bars of ‘Morning Has Broken’ and Sally stood up to lead the assembly.

  I arrived in the entrance hall to find Vera standing there in a determined fashion, her lips pursed. There was obviously a problem.

  ‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ I asked.

  ‘It’ll be some of ’is kids be’ind all this. They’re allus ’angin’ abart near my land,’ said Stan angrily.

  This was the old Stan Coe – the one we knew so well.

  ‘I suggest you remain silent for now, Mr Coe,’ warned PC Pike sternly. He looked up at me. ‘I’ve been asked to investigate the disappearance of one of Mr Coe’s pigs.’