Happiest Days

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘A pig?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Sheffield. It’s a serious matter. The pig in question was due to be sold yesterday evening, so a significant amount of money is involved.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘It’s assembly time now, so would you like me to ask the children if they have seen anything?’

  ‘An’ who stole it,’ muttered Stan.

  I ignored him completely and shook hands with our local constable. ‘I’ll do what I can and let you know.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Sheffield, and in the meantime I’ll organize a search.’ Julian looked at Vera. ‘Sorry to have bothered you, Mrs Forbes-Kitchener.’

  Vera smiled at the young policeman, turned on her heel and disappeared into the sanctuary of the office.

  They left with Stan grumbling loudly, ‘Ah’ll ’ave t’give ’Erbert a diff’rent pig.’

  Back in the school hall, my announcement concerning the missing pig caused a buzz of conversation among the children. Tracey Higginbottom and Alison Gawthorpe stayed behind to have a word with me.

  ‘Ah think the missing pig is Peaches, Mr Sheffield,’ said Alison. ‘’E weren’t there this morning when we passed.’

  ‘Ah brought him some fruit to eat,’ added a concerned Tracey.

  ‘Peaches?’

  ‘No, apples, Mr Sheffield.’

  ‘I mean you said the pig’s name was Peaches?’

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s what we call ’im ’cause of ’is pink cheeks.’

  ‘An’ ’e’s got a droopy ear,’ added Tracey. ‘Y’can’t miss ’im.’

  Word got round the village very quickly and Joseph called in to speak to his sister.

  ‘There’s a lot of fuss about this missing pig,’ he said, ‘and I heard PC Pike is on the case.’

  ‘He is a charming and determined young man, Joseph, so I’m sure he will sort it out so long as Mr Coe doesn’t interfere. He was very rude when he visited school.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t mean it – he was probably upset,’ ventured Joseph, who always tried to find a little bit of goodness in everyone.

  Vera looked at her brother and shook her head. ‘You are one of the most caring and honourable men I have ever known.’ Joseph would have smiled, but he knew when there was a ‘but’ coming. ‘But on occasions,’ continued Vera, ‘you can be so naive.’

  Later, during morning break, Vera took a telephone call.

  ‘It’s for you, Mr Sheffield,’ she said and added with a cautious smile, ‘a gentleman of the press.’

  ‘Hello again, Mr Sheffield, Merry here, features editor from the Herald.’ It hadn’t taken our local newspaper, the Easington Herald & Pioneer, long to spot an emerging story in the locality. ‘I wondered if I might call in? Word has it there’s a pig missing and a couple of young girls in your school may know something about it.’

  ‘I have no objection to you calling in, but if you wish to speak to any of the children their parents would have to give permission and also be present.’

  ‘In that case I’ll call on them at their homes,’ he said. Mr Merry was used to cutting corners.

  It was late afternoon when the Earnshaw brothers returned to the scene of the crime.

  ‘’E’s definitely gone,’ said Heathcliffe. He scanned the distant field, but there was no sign of the pig.

  ‘What we gonna do, ’Eath?’

  ‘Nowt,’ said Heathcliffe. ‘Peaches is a free pig now.’

  ‘Mebbe ’e’ll think ’e’s on ’oliday.’

  Heathcliffe considered this for a moment. He wasn’t sure PC Pike would agree. ‘Y’right, Terry, everybody deserves a ’oliday … even pigs.’

  It was late when I drove home that evening. Above me the stars shone down like celestial guardians, a million watchtowers in a vast purple sky. Although my headlights picked out a few small creatures, there was no sign of the errant pig and I wondered where he might be and what would become of him. By the time I got out of my car at home, all that was left was silence, except for the distant sounds of the night – a hooting owl, bats beating their leathery wings and the strange cry of a solitary fox.

  In the meantime, Peaches was free.

  By Friday lunchtime it was the talk of the village – and, as no one liked Stan Coe, there was huge local support for the fugitive pig.

  The previous evening Mr Merry, the features editor, had interviewed Tracey and Alison and had enough photographs of Peaches in various poses to capture the imagination of his readers with a double-page spread.

  He also spoke to Petula Dudley-Palmer, who had seen a large pig enter her garden, rumble across the Japanese bridge and stop by her lily pond for a quick drink. Ted Postlethwaite was next on his list: our local postman had spotted a pig peeping over the hedge at him when he was delivering mail up Chauntsinger Lane. Everyone had an opinion and Mr Merry was happy to print them all.

  On Friday evening the newspaper featured a large front-page photograph of Peaches looking up from a trough of food with a quizzical expression. Under the banner headline ‘A Pig Called Peaches’, Mr Merry had written, ‘Support is increasing for Ragley’s fugitive pig. Peaches has been spotted on several occasions but he continues his flight for freedom.’ There was also a plan of Ragley village and the sightings were indicated with more crosses than a treasure map.

  However, it was Saturday’s newspaper that finally brought closure and an unexpected finale to the dramatic tale. An even bigger photograph of Ragley’s most famous pig giving a lop-sided grin was splashed across the front page. Peaches had at last been cornered near the cricket field by a team of volunteers from the local animal sanctuary. Mr Merry’s report read as follows:

  A certain benevolent lady, Lady Emmeline de Courcy, Chair of the North Yorkshire Animal Sanctuary, has taken it upon herself to provide Peaches with the freedom he so desires. The brave pig that has captured the hearts of the people of North Yorkshire is to be saved. The eminent animal rights campaigner has given Mr Coe of Coe Farm nominal compensation and Peaches will enjoy a lifetime of food, fun and frolics.

  Mr Merry was always pleased with his alliteration.

  Prudence Golightly was also pleased. She had never sold so many copies of our local paper.

  Outside the shop, Heathcliffe had followed the story.

  ‘Did we do owt wrong, ’Eath?’ asked Terry.

  Heathcliffe studied his brother’s innocent expression and gave a considered response. ‘Well, it were illegal … but we didn’t do owt wrong.’

  It was May Day and I held John’s hand as Beth and I walked across the village green. It was a fine sunny day and we had heard our first cuckoo.

  As usual it seemed as though the whole village had turned out to watch the maypole dancing and sample the delights of the cream teas in the Women’s Institute tent. John enjoyed Captain Fantastic’s Punch & Judy Show, Big Dave won the Wellington-boot-throwing competition and Shane and Clint Ramsbottom were the first to complete the pram race around the village, finishing at The Royal Oak.

  George and Ruby were sitting on Ronnie’s bench, where George had shared a new plan for their honeymoon.

  ‘George Dainty, m’mother used t’say nothin’ ventured nothing gained. So ah’ll do it. Ah’ve never been out o’ Yorkshire but there’s a first time for ev’rythin’. Ah can’t wait t’tell Mrs F we’ll be goin’ t’London on t’train.’

  ‘Go tell ’er now if y’like,’ urged George.

  ‘Ah will,’ said Ruby, ‘an’ ah’ll tell ’er we’ve picked a wedding day on Saturday the twenty-fifth of July, first day of t’summer ’oliday.’ And she kissed George on his cheek and hurried off towards the Women’s Institute marquee.

  Later that afternoon, as I sat on the grass with John eating ice-cream cornets, I looked around me at the scene. Everyone seemed relaxed and happy except for one person.

  Old Tommy Piercy’s hog roast was having a quiet day.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Yuppie

  The school supported the Village Hall Committee’s fundraising e
vent this evening to promote the work of local artists. Mrs Pringle organized a selection of children’s artwork to be displayed.

  Extract from the Ragley & Morton School Logbook:

  Friday, 22 May 1987

  In the kitchen of Morton Manor only the cawing of the rooks in the high elms disturbed Vera’s peaceful start to her day. It was Friday, 22 May and our school secretary was at peace in her world. She sipped Earl Grey tea from a china cup and stared out of the window.

  In the far distance, beyond the hawthorn hedgerows, cattle were grazing contentedly in the open pasture land. The warmer days had broadened the leaves of an avenue of sycamore trees and they sheltered beneath the welcome shade. Rupert had left earlier for his morning ‘constitutional’ with a brisk walk to meet his daughter, Virginia Anastasia, at the nearby stables and Vera reflected on the changes in her life. Finally, she washed and dried her cup and saucer, switched off Radio 3’s Morning Concert, said goodbye to her cats, collected her handbag and car keys from the hall table, donned a silk scarf and walked out of the front door.

  On the spacious driveway the gravel crunched beneath her feet as she walked past the wild raspberry canes that covered the Victorian brick walls. Soft pink petals from the cherry trees drifted in the gentle breeze, while above her head a flock of black-headed gulls swept across the sky in graceful formation. Vera gave a contented smile as she climbed into her car and set off for school.

  In her working life, however, Vera was aware that you never knew what might be in store. No two days were the same. Occasionally, one stood out from the others – and such a day awaited our intrepid secretary today.

  At Bilbo Cottage rapid progress was being made, as the walls of the extension had been completed and work on the roof had begun. The builders had started early and gave me a wave as I set off for school.

  As I passed Pratt’s garage I noticed the now familiar green Citroën once again parked outside. Standing next to it was a tall, distinguished gentleman staring across the fields towards Stan Coe’s farm.

  Vera was very busy when I walked into the office. ‘It’s a special night in the village hall this evening, Mr Sheffield. I do hope you might be able to come. We need to support our local artists and all the proceeds are going to the Village Hall Preservation Fund. So it’s a worthy cause.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be there.’

  ‘Also,’ added Vera, ‘Sally is taking the opportunity to show off some of the children’s artwork.’

  It had been well advertised in the Herald that twenty-five local artists had each donated a painting, with all the proceeds going towards the redecoration of the village hall.

  It was just before morning break when Stuart Ormroyd made his first announcement of the day.

  ‘Flash car comin’ up t’drive, Mr Sheffield.’

  A cranberry-red metallic Jaguar XJ6 had screeched to a halt in front of the NO PARKING sign outside the boiler house and a tall man wearing an airforce-blue suit stepped out confidently. He looked as if he were auditioning for Miami Vice. He was joined in the car park by a dark-haired girl, who had emerged nervously from the passenger seat. She was smartly dressed and clutching a new leather satchel.

  The man checked his reflection in his car window, picked up a Filofax and a mobile phone that resembled a large brick, depressed its aerial, beckoned to his daughter and strode confidently towards the entrance porch.

  At that moment Tom Burgess rang the bell for morning break and the children poured out of school to enjoy the sunshine.

  When I walked into the office there was an overpowering scent of strong aftershave and Vera was adding a name to her admissions register.

  ‘Mr Sheffield, this is Mr Collingwood and his daughter, Candice. They have moved into the area from Leeds. You may remember we had a telephone call from Mrs Collingwood last week and we have received all the relevant paperwork from the previous school. So all is in order.’ She glanced down at her neat copperplate writing. ‘Candice is ten years old and will go into Class Five.’

  I noted a hint of disapproval in Vera’s tone but merely went into professional mode. ‘Welcome to Ragley School, Mr Collingwood,’ and I shook his hand. It was soft and limp. ‘And hello, Candice. I’m Mr Sheffield and I will be your new teacher.’

  The young girl fiddled with the buttons of her new cardigan and gave me a cautious smile.

  Mr Collingwood ran his fingers through his slicked-back hair and smiled. ‘We’re renting on the outskirts of the village, so Candice won’t be here long,’ he said. ‘Just until the end of term. We’ve got her name down for the Time School for Girls in York.’

  He placed his mobile phone on Vera’s desk. In doing so he disturbed the photograph of her three cats. Vera was not impressed and moved the photograph to the other side. I looked curiously at the mobile phone and considered it would have made a good door stop. I could never imagine owning one myself. It looked to be such a cumbersome accessory.

  ‘We’re awaiting the completion of one of the exec’ properties on the York Road. Apparently there’s a hold-up with the indoor swimming pool.’ He gave a disparaging smile. ‘You know what builders are like.’ Unperturbed, he took an expensive-looking wallet from his pocket. ‘My card,’ he said and proffered it between the first two fingers of his right hand, ‘in case you need to get in touch.’

  I looked down. It read:

  JONNY COLLINGWOOD

  VISIONS DELIVERY MANAGER

  UNILEVER

  It was followed by a Leeds telephone number.

  ‘Visions delivery?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I’m the visions delivery manager at Unilever.’

  ‘Really?’ I was no wiser.

  ‘You know – tomorrow’s ideas today.’

  ‘I see,’ I replied … but I didn’t, and he knew it.

  ‘The present project is Signal toothpaste. You’ll recall it was introduced way back in the early sixties, then we extended it to the fluoride label. Last year we introduced the anti-tartar formula, so it’s cutting-edge stuff.’

  ‘I’ve never really thought about it,’ I admitted.

  ‘You ought to,’ he said. ‘This is the new world of business.’ He glanced down at Vera’s electric typewriter. ‘Computer technology is the key. I work on an IBM green screen PC with twin floppies using Coral 66 or maybe Delta – you know, a Cobol generator. So I write everything myself, no packages of course.’

  I could see Vera was bored by this incomprehensible computer-speak. ‘Mr Collingwood’s rented property is in our catchment area,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he responded brightly, ‘just a temporary measure. It’s convenient for my early-morning train into Leeds or London.’ He gave a cursory nod towards Vera. ‘So, according to your PA, we appear to be in the most convenient school.’

  I saw Vera stiffen in her seat at being called my ‘PA’.

  ‘Yes, that’s correct,’ I said.

  He looked down at Vera. ‘The end of term is when?’

  Vera opened her drawer and took out the latest school newsletter. ‘All the relevant dates and events are listed here.’

  He folded it roughly and put it in his inside jacket pocket. Then, much to Vera’s dismay, he tossed his Filofax Personal Organiser on to her desk. I recalled an article in the paper saying that the Filofax was an ‘indispensable organiser and a must-have status symbol for the ’80s executive’. He fingered through the loose-leaf pages. ‘So the last day of term is … when?’

  Vera pointed towards the academic-year calendar on the wall. ‘July the twenty-fourth,’ she replied coldly.

  When he reached July he added a note to the busy scrawl. ‘And what time do you finish?’

  ‘The children are dismissed at three forty-five,’ replied Vera.

  ‘Really?’ He added the time. ‘And with homework, I hope.’

  I saw his daughter frown.

  ‘We can discuss that once Candice is settled in,’ I said.

  He picked up his Filofax and mobile phone. ‘My wife, JJ,
said she would call in at the end of school, so you’ll meet her then.’

  ‘JJ?’ said Vera.

  ‘Jackie Jane,’ he said. ‘I call her JJ. In future, she will bring in Candice at eight forty-five a.m.,’ he gave a self-satisfied smile, ‘as I’ll have been working for over an hour by then.’

  I ignored the implied criticism. ‘Would you like to come with Candice to my classroom?’ I asked.

  He held up his wrist and turned the face of his watch towards me. It was a stainless-steel Omega Constellation. ‘Sorry, things to do … another time.’ He bent down, kissed Candice on the forehead, flicked his foppish hair out of his eyes and headed for the door.

  In the entrance hall Anne and Pat were helping Sally to prepare a folder of children’s artwork. They looked with interest as our visitors emerged and Anne reacted quickly. ‘Ah, you must be Candice,’ she said with a friendly smile. ‘We’ve been expecting you. I’m Mrs Grainger, the deputy headteacher.’ She glanced up at Mr Collingwood. ‘Would you like to look around the school?’

  ‘You go,’ said Mr Collingwood and gave his daughter a gentle push. Anne caught my eye and I nodded.

  ‘Come on, Candice,’ said Anne, ‘we’ll visit your classroom first.’

  ‘You appear to be a busy man,’ I said.

  That self-satisfied smile appeared once again. ‘I work hard and play hard.’

  He hurried out to the car park, unlocked his car and settled into the biscuit-leather seat. Then he started the engine, flicked a switch on the walnut dashboard to open the electric sunroof and, with the full-throated hum of six-cylinder power, he drove out of the school gate and turned left towards York.

  When I looked round the office door Vera said, ‘What an unusual and slightly irritating man – in fact, a dreadful show-off.’

  ‘Well, he’s certainly different.’

  ‘Visions, indeed,’ muttered Vera and I closed the door quietly.

  Pat and Sally were sharing a joke. ‘What is it?’ I asked.