‘He’s a Yuppie,’ said Pat.
‘A Yuppie?’
Sally laughed and winked at Pat. ‘You’re out of touch, Jack. It’s an acronym.’
‘A young urban professional,’ explained Pat.
‘There was an article in my Cosmopolitan,’ said Sally. ‘Young urban professionals are supposed to be ambitious, ruthless and they love buying so-called great stuff.’
‘Great stuff?’
‘Yes,’ said Sally. ‘Cars, clothes, gadgets, houses.’
‘The image is a sharp suit and a flashy car,’ went on Pat, ‘and that guy certainly fits the bill.’
‘Having said that,’ mused Sally, ‘when I’ve got Colin to go home to, a world of glamour, wine bars and nightclubs does have its appeal.’
‘Yes,’ said Pat thoughtfully, ‘but it’s generally regarded as the shallow side of the materialistic eighties and, sadly, there’s a ruthlessness and selfishness that goes hand in hand with it.’
Sally looked towards the closed office door and lowered her voice. ‘Don’t tell Vera,’ she added conspiratorially, ‘but they’re also known as Thatcher’s children.’
After break Mrs Spittlehouse had arrived to take Rosie to the dentist. Her daughter was staring at her mother’s bright red blouse with padded shoulders, orange cord trousers and Chris Evert trainers. Mrs Spittlehouse had dressed hastily that morning.
‘Mummy, why do my clothes have to match and yours don’t?’
During the lunch break in the staff-room the talk was of the Yuppie.
I was puzzled. ‘I didn’t understand half of what he was talking about. Marcus, what’s a green screen?’
Marcus grinned. ‘Well, computers include a cathode ray so, as the screen is green with white writing, it’s known as a green screen.’
‘So now you know, Jack,’ whispered Anne with a smile.
Meanwhile, in The Royal Oak, Old Tommy Piercy was sitting on his favourite stool at the bar.
‘Ah don’t know what t’world’s comin’ to,’ he said. ‘Ah couldn’t believe m’eyes this morning. Y’could ’ave knocked me down wi’ a feather.’
‘What was it, Tommy?’ asked Don, putting down a pint of frothing beer in front of our curmudgeonly butcher.
‘It were Ernie Morgetroyd on ’is milk float, large as life – a milkman selling WATER!’
‘Water?’ repeated Don from behind the bar. ‘Y’mus’ be jokin’.’
‘No, as true as ah’m standing ’ere,’ insisted Old Tommy defiantly.
No one dared mention he was actually sitting.
‘So ’ow come Ernie is selling water?’ asked Don.
‘Ah asked ’im that very question an’ ’e said t’world were changin’ an’ they were importin’ it from across t’Channel. So it’s not even proper Yorkshire water. It’s foreign muck.’
‘Teks all sorts,’ said Don.
Old Tommy supped deeply on his pint. ‘Daft, I call it – bloody daft!’
By afternoon break Candice had settled in well and I soon realized she was a bright girl. She approached my desk with her new friend, Michelle Gawthorpe.
‘Show it to Mr Sheffield,’ urged Michelle.
Candice rummaged in her satchel. ‘It’s called Rubik’s Magic, Mr Sheffield.’
I later discovered from Marcus that sales of this latest puzzle had passed over £1.5 million and it was expected to out-sell its famous forerunner, the Rubik’s Cube. The task appeared to involve rearranging a series of rings printed on hinged pieces of flat plastic so that the rings become interlocked. It had captured the imagination of children throughout the country and the Rubik’s Magic National Championship was due to take place next week on ITV’s Get Fresh.
Candice solved the puzzle in only ten seconds, but the incessant clicking was getting on my nerves so I suggested she took it outside.
A crowd of girls gathered round her on the playground.
‘Are they expensive?’ asked Michelle.
‘Yes, but my father’s rich,’ replied Candice.
Michelle considered this. ‘My dad says ’e used to be rich … but then ’e married m’mother.’
In the staff-room the talk had turned to Yuppies and ‘Thatcherism’.
‘Maggie’s promotion of privatization concerns me,’ said Sally, ‘and have you noticed how important designer labels are?’
‘They’ve become status symbols,’ said Marcus.
‘There’s certainly a lot of fashion designer goods in the new shopping centres,’ said Pat.
Sally sensed she had acquired an ally. ‘The idea that “greed is good” is gaining credence. I just don’t like it.’
Vera stood by the sink and kept quiet. She loved Margaret’s power suits; for her they were the symbol of the Prime Minister’s success in the eighties. Mrs Thatcher had also called for a General Election on 11 June and Vera gave a secret smile.
Back in my class I had planned a project aimed at broadening the children’s geographical understanding. I had used Tolkien’s The Hobbit to describe a journey through a wild countryside of mountains, valleys and rivers. I had developed the task to encourage their knowledge of contour lines on Ordnance Survey maps. A group of children including Rosie Appleby, Jemima Poole, Candice Collingwood, Michelle Gawthorpe, George Frith and Barry Stonehouse had completed a relief model of the Lonely Mountain. They had made a three-dimensional contour map using a layer of polystyrene for each 100-metre contour. The result was quite dramatic and I wished I had thought of this before. You never stopped learning as a teacher and this was another of those light-bulb moments.
Just before the end of school, a sleek Audi 100 purred into the car park and a tall, slim woman with long dark hair stepped out and walked into the entrance hall.
Candice Collingwood looked up. ‘That’s my mother, Mr Sheffield.’
‘Go and meet her, Candice, and say I’ll be there in a moment.’
It was noticeable that Mrs Collingwood did not share her husband’s world of excess, but was calm, sensible and charming.
She greeted me with a smile. ‘Thank you so much, Mr Sheffield. Candice has already made friends and is clearly happy in your school.’ Her daughter was sitting at the far end of the library engrossed in a copy of The Hobbit. ‘I’m really grateful – life has been rather hectic lately.’
‘I understood that from your husband.’
There was a pause and she lowered her voice. ‘Yes, you will have gathered that Jonny is obsessed with financial success.’ I kept a respectful silence. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Sheffield, it’s patently obvious.’ She sighed. ‘I just want Candice to be normal, but it’s difficult sometimes.’ She let it linger until she saw Sally arranging the children’s artwork into a huge folder. ‘Oh I love art – I try to paint myself.’
‘It’s for a display in the village hall,’ said Sally. ‘Do come along – it starts at seven thirty.’
Mrs Collingwood looked at her daughter and smiled. ‘Yes, we must, and it will give us a chance to meet other people.’
When they left Sally and I carried the folder of work to her car. ‘Lovely lady,’ said Sally. ‘Pity she’s married to a Yuppie.’
By seven thirty the village hall was busy. The paintings of local artists filled the walls while villagers assessed their work. Sally’s display of the children’s pictures was next to the refreshment area and had created lots of interest.
I joined the crowd and viewed the wide range of paintings. On the bottom right-hand corner of each one was a small peel-off sticky label indicating the price. These ranged from Lollipop Lil’s York Minster in the Mist at £2.50 and Joyce Davenport’s Ragley High Street at Dawn at £5, up to the pièce de résistance, Mary Attersthwaite’s magnificent Mrs Thatcher with Blue Bow at the top price of £50.
I was keen to show support, so I selected Joyce Davenport’s watercolour for a modest £5, which was as much as I could afford. Elsie Crapper was in charge of collecting the money and she peeled off the price label, wrapped the painting in brown paper
and tied it with baling twine.
Our road-crossing patrol officer, Lillian Figgins, was staring at her painting. She had copied a photograph of York Minster but, after she had pegged it on her washing line to dry, the paint had run horribly and it was smeared badly.
Dallas Sue-Ellen Earnshaw and Suzi-Quatro Ricketts came to stand beside her. ‘What’s the matter, Mrs Figgins?’ asked Dallas.
Lollipop Lil’ gave the girls a wry smile. ‘Nothing really, Dallas, it’s just that ah like paintin’ but mine’s ’opeless compared to all t’rest – that’s why it’s t’cheapest.’
‘Well, ah think it’s lovely,’ said Suzi-Quatro.
‘That’s kind of you t’say,’ replied Lillian and wandered off to the far end of the hall to share a cup of tea with the other artists.
‘Ah like Mrs Figgins,’ said Dallas.
‘Me too,’ agreed Suzi-Quatro. ‘She gave me a ’umbug once.’
Dallas shook her head. ‘Ah wish we could cheer ’er up.’
Suzi-Quatro looked thoughtful. ‘Ah know ’ow,’ and with a quick glance to make sure no one was looking she peeled off the price label.
‘What y’doin’?’ asked Dallas.
‘Mekkin’ Mrs Figgins’ paintin’ more expensive,’ said Suzi-Quatro with a grin.
I saw Mr and Mrs Collingwood arrive with their daughter Candice. Mrs Collingwood gave me a wave while Candice offered a shy smile. They went to study the display of children’s work and talk to Sally and a few of the other mothers. Mr Collingwood had changed from his airforce-blue ‘power suit’ and arrived wearing a preppy-style seersucker blazer with a distinctive and quite deliberate wrinkled appearance, along with a white Oxford shirt and baggy cream trousers.
He came to stand beside me and looked down at the brown-paper package under my arm. ‘A bargain I hope,’ he said.
‘Yes, thanks,’ I said.
We stood there staring at the paintings. Partly to make conversation, I asked, ‘Just a thought – how do they get the stripes in Signal toothpaste?’
He gave that familiar self-satisfied smirk. ‘Well, it’s not exactly rocket science … they put the red in first and the cap has grooves in it. So the white flows through the cap and drags the stripe on to it.’
With that air of irritating confidence he walked away to look at the paintings and I went to the refreshment stall to talk to Vera and Rupert.
Jonny Collingwood wasn’t the visions delivery manager for nothing. He made a rapid assessment of the paintings, picked up the one by Lollipop Lil’, looked at the price and took it to Elsie Crapper at the table. Elsie blinked as she peeled off the label. ‘That will be fifty pounds, please.’
He took out his wallet, removed five £10 notes and Elsie put them in her metal money box. She was puzzled that someone would pay so much for a painting that looked as though it had been put through a quick rinse in a washing machine. She wrapped it up and Mr Collingwood went to find his wife.
‘I see you’ve bought a painting, Mr Collingwood,’ remarked Vera.
‘Yes, Mrs Forbes-Kitchener,’ he replied with a smug smile. ‘You’ve either got an eye for a bargain or not. The world isn’t standing still and you have to be ahead of the game.’
‘Really? What have you purchased?’
‘A superb abstract – York Minster in the Mist. Clearly a talented artist.’
Vera’s eyes widened. She was familiar with the artistic disaster that was the lowest-priced item on display. ‘An interesting choice, Mr Collingwood.’
‘It comes naturally.’ He tucked the painting under his arm, beckoned to his wife and daughter and turned back to Vera. ‘You simply need vision, Mrs Forbes-Kitchener.’
‘And you have clearly got it, Mr Collingwood,’ said Vera without a hint of sarcasm.
That evening in Morton Manor Vera had a surprise. Before they had left the village hall, Rupert had spotted the painting Mrs Thatcher with Blue Bow for a bargain price and knew Vera would appreciate it. He secreted it into the boot of her car before they left and went out to retrieve it after their evening meal.
‘I bought this for you, my dear.’
Vera was thrilled when she unwrapped her unexpected gift. ‘It’s wonderful, Rupert. What a kind thought.’ She was also aware that at £50 it was the highlight of the show. ‘And so generous.’
Rupert was slightly puzzled that Vera was so impressed with a painting that had cost him a mere £2.50.
Vera looked up at her husband in sheer admiration.
Now there is a man with vision, she thought.
Chapter Seventeen
Maggie For Ever
School will close tomorrow for one day and will reopen on Friday, 12 June. The hall is being used as a polling station for the General Election on Thursday, 11 June.
Extract from the Ragley & Morton School Logbook:
Wednesday, 10 June 1987
It was a perfect morning on Wednesday, 10 June. In the back garden of Bilbo Cottage bright-winged butterflies were hovering above the buddleia bushes, while the drone of bees could be heard in their never-ending search for pollen. Cuckoo spit nestled in the lavender leaves, sparkling like bright foam. The scent of roses hung in the air like a lover’s embrace and the sun was warm on my back as I drove into school.
‘Everything is in place for tomorrow, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera.
Our school had been selected as a polling station and would be closed for the General Election. ‘The voting booths have been delivered and Ruby said she will erect them at the end of school.’
A big day was in store for Vera. She was the officer in charge of our polling station and her beloved Mrs Thatcher was seeking a third term in office.
It was a busy day in school and everyone enjoyed morning assembly. The little ones in Anne’s class showed off their paintings and read their wonderful poems.
At the end, Anne sat at the piano, opened her Count Me In songbook and led the children in a lively rendition of an old favourite:
Six sticky buns in a baker’s shop,
Big and brown with a currant on top.
A boy came along with a penny one day,
He paid one penny and took a bun away.
After lunch the children in my class were busy exploring an aspect of physical science through the study of cranes. My intention was to encourage them to develop a greater understanding of structure, stress and mass. They had looked at a selection of photographs of cranes used in building work in the centre of York and, as a follow-up, we were making balsa-wood models. After much trial and error, we discovered the relationship between the weight of a load and the length of a jib.
When the bell rang for afternoon break no one moved.
‘Can we stay in t’finish it, sir?’ asked Barry Stonehouse, ‘’cause our model’s brilliant.’
‘An’ it works,’ added an eager George Frith.
A cup of tea would have been welcome, but as the children were so keen to continue we carried on. I recalled that Sally had mentioned this work was now known as ‘design technology’, which sounded rather grand. However, whatever we chose to call it, the opportunity to develop scientific and mathematical knowledge was clear to see.
It was at times like this I realized I had the best job in the world. If I had sought the headship of a larger school, experiences such as this would likely be limited and I reflected on the excitement of children’s learning.
At the end of school Ruby transformed a flat-pack construction kit into a set of three voting booths. Finally, she walked down the drive with Vera and fixed a large sign to the school gate. It read ‘POLLING STATION’ with an arrow pointing towards the school. Then Vera hurried home. A busy evening was in store.
By 7.30 the village hall was full and the ladies of the Ragley & Morton Women’s Institute had gathered in large numbers. Vera had invited a local beekeeper, Lofthouse Grimble, to give a talk. However, it wasn’t so much that the ladies were interested in beekeeping, rather that it provided a good opportunity to discuss the co
ntrasting fortunes of Neil Kinnock and Margaret Thatcher prior to the General Election.
‘Margaret will prevail,’ declared Vera with confidence. ‘We can’t let that vociferous little Welshman into Number Ten.’
‘I think his wife, Glenys, was a teacher,’ said Bronwyn Bickerstaff evenly.
Vera considered this for a moment. ‘Well in that case she can’t be that bad,’ she conceded. ‘However,’ she added, ‘it still remains a pity she married a ginger-haired activist.’
It wasn’t clear whether it was Neil Kinnock’s ginger hair or his politics that proved the final straw. Whatever it was, Vera was determined not to show a shred of compassion for the leader of the Labour Party.
Lofthouse Grimble resided with his wife, Pearl, in the tiny hamlet of Cold Hampton close to the local airfield. His neighbour was Lillian Figgins, our road-crossing patrol officer. They both lived in pretty thatched cottages and kept themselves to themselves.
One of the reasons for this was that Lollipop Lil’ had little time for men. Many years ago she had succumbed to the charms of a diminutive bookmaker from Batley. His Brylcreem quiff and the back seat of his Hillman Imp were indelibly etched on her memory but, after he had run off with a leggy usherette, she had decided that, as far as men were concerned, enough was enough. Nevertheless, as a show of support, Lillian had found a seat in the front row next to Vera.
Vera thought very highly of Lillian, who was in charge of the church-cleaning rota. It was a thankless task, but Lillian was a dedicated soul and each week the dark mahogany pews shone with the lustre of her furniture polish.
It was Vera’s job as events secretary to introduce the speaker and she tried hard to ignore the fact that with his ginger hair he looked like Neil Kinnock’s twin brother.
‘So, ladies, please welcome our speaker for this evening, Mr Lofthouse Grimble, the president of the North Yorkshire Beekeepers Society, who will provide an illustrated talk entitled “A Taste of Honey”.’
Pearl switched on the carousel slide projector, adjusted the focus and the audience settled back to an insight into the life of bees. The majority of the ladies considered the industrious little insects were fine in their place – namely outside and not in their kitchens. Vera was content in the knowledge that they pollinated her fruit trees. However, woe betide any stray bee that came in through the window of Morton Manor. It received short shrift along with an eye-watering spray of Timothy Pratt’s finest insecticide. For the meantime, though, Vera put this thought to the back of her mind as she stared at the first slide showing a picture of Mr Grimble’s back garden. It was full to bursting with beehives.
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