Happiest Days

by Jack Sheffield

  As I drove to school I wound down my window to welcome a refreshing breeze. Honeysuckle and wild roses intertwined in the hedgerows and in the fields cattle were chewing the cud in the shade of the sycamores. The end of my tenth year as headteacher had arrived and an eventful day awaited me.

  It wasn’t simply a summer storm that was heading my way. The old saying that everything comes to him who waits was about to be realized.

  The High Street was coming alive and I felt happy that after all these years I was finally part of the fabric of this beautiful village.

  In the General Stores Prudence Golightly had dressed Jeremy Bear in a white sailor suit and a straw boater. She gave me a wave as she watered her hanging baskets. Next door, in the butcher’s shop, Old Tommy Piercy was telling his grandson that one day this empire would be his and that he planned to expand his home-delivery service to the neighbouring villages. To this end, Old Tommy had purchased a white van, which was parked outside. In the thick dust on the rear doors Terry Earnshaw had written ‘NO PIES ARE LEFT IN THIS VAN OVERNIGHT’. Meanwhile, outside the village Pharmacy, Eugene Scrimshaw, with his Captain Kirk uniform hidden discreetly under his white coat, had been reprimanded by his wife, Peggy. He was sweeping the forecourt while swearing in Klingon under his breath.

  In the doorway of his Hardware Emporium, Timothy Pratt was talking to his best friend, Walter Crapper. Between them they had purchased a new Sprite Finesse touring caravan for £2,850 and had planned a holiday together in Skegness. A week away from boot-scrapers, countersunk screws and garden gnomes awaited the pernickety Timothy and he couldn’t wait to type out a detailed itinerary.

  In the Coffee Shop there was a celebration going on. Both Dorothy and Nellie had discovered they were pregnant and Big Dave and Little Malcolm had taken the morning off work to learn a new skill: talking to their wives about something other than football.

  In the Hair Salon Diane Wigglesworth had opened early to cater for the constant flow of ladies who wanted to look their best at tomorrow’s wedding. In contrast, it was a more relaxed start to the day in the Post Office. Ted Postlethwaite had finished his first delivery and Amelia was in the kitchen frying bacon. The smiling postmistress was wearing nothing but an apron and Ted was relishing the smell of the bacon and, of course, the view.

  Outside The Royal Oak, Deke Ramsbottom was checking arrangements for the wedding with Don and Sheila Bradshaw. The singing cowboy was taking his role as George Dainty’s best man very seriously. In fact, he had used most of a tin of Brasso on his sheriff’s badge and spurs.

  ‘So ’ave y’got entertainment as well as a bar in t’village ’all?’ asked Deke.

  Sheila put her hands on her hips and stuck out her chest, which, momentarily, made Deke forget his question. ‘We’re trying something a bit different, Deke. Don’s bought in a group from Cleckheaton, Harvey Coleclough and the Wallbangers. ’E’s gorra wonderful voice – jus’ like that Placebo Domingo.’

  ‘Were they expensive?’

  ‘Well,’ said Don, ‘we’re givin’ ’em a free pea and pie supper an’ a bottle o’ stout.’

  ‘So a top group then, Don,’ said Deke with absolute sincerity.

  Ruby was talking to Vera in the entrance hall when I walked in.

  ‘G’mornin’, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby. ‘Ah were jus’ tellin’ Mrs F that ah’m all set for m’big day.’

  ‘We’re all looking forward to it,’ I said.

  ‘Ruby got her wish, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera, ‘and she and George will be going to a lovely hotel in Whitby tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Then on Monday we’re goin’ t’London f’three days t’see all t’sights.’ Ruby’s face was flushed with excitement. ‘George says ’e’ll tek me to Nelson’s Colon, Piccalilly Circus an’ that A an’ E Museum.’

  Vera gave me a conspiratorial smile.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy London,’ I said and I walked into the office to check the morning mail.

  Ruby picked up her galvanized bucket and mop and looked searchingly at Vera. ‘An’ all m’children will be there.’

  ‘It will be a day to remember,’ Vera assured her.

  Our caretaker breathed a huge sigh and looked thoughtful. ‘It were a big decision.’

  ‘And the right one.’

  ‘Are y’sure?’ She rubbed a tear from her eye. ‘Mrs F – am ah doin’ right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Vera softly, ‘you are.’

  It was the Leavers’ Assembly and by ten o’clock the hall was full of excited children, with rows of parents and grandparents seated at the back. Anne was at the piano and Pat and Marcus were sitting next to their classes. Sally was with her choir and orchestra at the front of the hall, while I was sitting with Rupert, who was about to present each school leaver with a book.

  Shirley and Doreen were standing by the kitchen door in their best summer frocks, and Vera was sitting next to a tearful Ruby by the double doors that led to the entrance hall. Our final assembly of the school year was always a special time in the school calendar. It was a time of exits and entrances and there were a few tears as the eleven-year-olds walked out one by one to collect their books. I called out their names. ‘Rosie Appleby, Claire Buttershaw, Candice Collingwood.’

  I watched each child as they shook hands with the major. Every one of them had a story to tell. I glanced down at my list: ‘George Frith, Michelle Gawthorpe, Sigourney Longbottom, Jemima Poole,’ and so it went on. Each one collected their prize full of optimism. A summer holiday stretched out in front of them, followed by a new school with forty-minute lessons, exams, new teachers and teenage acne. For them life was a never-ending stream and they knew with the certainty of youth that they would live for ever.

  The ceremony was followed by a presentation to Ruby and it was fitting that her closest friend, Vera, handed over a gift of a fine vase and a bunch of roses, Ruby’s favourite flower.

  After assembly Joseph used the opportunity to call in to Class 3 and tell the story of how God created the world. ‘He made the bees, whales and slippery snails,’ he said with a benevolent smile.

  It was during morning break that he read some of the follow-up poems. Jeremy Urquhart had written:

  God made the bees,

  Bees make the honey,

  Children do the work,

  While teachers get the money.

  Joseph frowned and wondered if he had communicated the right message.

  I was on duty and I stood by the school wall under the welcome shade of the horse chestnut trees. As I sipped my tea I watched events on the other side of the village green. The local thatcher, Neville Crump from Morton, had pulled up in his van with ‘Maggie’s Thatchers’ painted on the side. His son Noel had gone into Pat’s class back in January and Pat had organized a class visit to watch the thatcher at work. His wife, Maggie Crump, was a domineering woman who kept Neville firmly in check, ran the business with shrewd accountancy and in a manner that didn’t suffer fools. While she often dreamed of those carefree times in the sixties when Adam Faith was top of the charts, the price of a home was £2,500 and a pint of milk cost threepence, she had embraced the reality of eighties Britain. Business was booming and Neville was in great demand, with a two-year waiting list.

  It was Stuart Ormroyd who called out to me, ‘Look, sir, it’s that car again.’

  The familiar green Citroën drove past quickly towards the end of the High Street … or perhaps to Coe Farm. I noticed he was followed by PC Pike and a fellow officer in his little grey van. They too appeared to be in a hurry.

  In the Coffee Shop Nora was sitting behind the counter while the rest of her customers were congratulating Dorothy and Nellie. Nora was reading an article in her TV Times while thinking back on her acting career. The highlight had been the time she was a non-speaking extra in the television soap opera Crossroads. Sadly, it was being axed and would come to an end next spring after twenty-four years. The new producer had taken drastic steps, killing off many of the main characters and
giving the motel a new look; however, more viewers were turning to EastEnders. Nora felt a little sad as another small piece of her life slipped away.

  When Ruby arrived to clear away the dining tables she popped her head round the office door. ‘There’s summat goin’ on at Stan Coe’s farm by all accounts.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Vera.

  ‘Dunno, but Old Tommy said t’police were there.’

  Vera pursed her lips. ‘As you sow, so shall you reap.’

  ‘Y’right there, Mrs F. Like they say, ev’ry silver linin’ ’as a cloud.’

  Both incorrect and correct, thought Vera with a wry smile and set off for the staff-room to prepare a pot of tea.

  In the staff-room Pat was examining her most recent North Yorkshire County Council payslip. Her total pay for the month was a little over £900. After tax, superannuation and National Insurance, it left her with £600 and she wondered about the elusive dream of buying a home.

  Also, she had received a number of thank-you cards from the children who were leaving her class and moving up to Class 3 next September. However, one in particular was a mixed blessing. It read:

  Dear Miss Brookside, you are my second best teacher ever.

  Love Suzi-Quatro

  As Anne had been her only previous teacher, Pat knew where she came in the pecking order.

  I was at my desk as the telephone rang. It was Beth.

  ‘Are you alone in the office?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  She lowered her voice. ‘Jack, I’m only suggesting this because of how you felt about having to apply for your own job.’

  ‘Yes, it was a difficult time.’

  ‘I’m also thinking about our conversation in Cambridge when you said you were … unsettled.’

  ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Well … I’ve just heard that there’s a headship coming up – a big one in York. John Foggety will be retiring from Ousebank Primary in a year’s time. He’s told his governors and Miss B-H knows.’

  This was out of the blue. ‘Oh, I see … well, thanks for letting me know.’

  ‘If you were interested, perhaps it’s something to consider for the future and it wouldn’t mean we would have to move, particularly after the house extension. Bilbo Cottage has been transformed – it’s lovely now.’

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean.’

  ‘I’m sure Miss B-H would see you as an excellent candidate, particularly now you’re doing your Masters degree. Come to think of it, so would Richard Gomersall and the other advisers.’

  There had been times when I wondered if I was my own man or merely one who walked in Beth’s shadow – but not any more. It was good we could share and plan together.

  ‘Something else cropped up today,’ I said. ‘We can discuss it tonight.’

  ‘Very well, let’s do that,’ she said and there was a moment of quiet while she waited for my response. ‘And don’t forget John’s party.’

  In a spinning world there was only stillness in our cocoon of silence.

  ‘See you tonight,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Love you,’ she whispered and I knew she was alone in her office.

  It was then that there was a tap on the door. ‘Someone’s here, Beth, I’ll have to go.’

  ‘OK, bye.’

  Ruby appeared in the doorway. ‘Ah’m jus’ clearin’ away now, Mr Sheffield, an’ then ah’ll be off.’

  ‘Thanks for all your work, Ruby, and good luck for tomorrow.’

  ‘Ah’m all excited.’ She looked up at the clock. ‘Ah’ve got t’call in t’see m’mother t’mek sure she’s got everything she needs for the mornin’.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘’Er eyesight’s gone, Mr Sheffield. Ah think she’s gorra detached rectum or summat.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said and I meant it.

  Vera was putting on her coat. ‘Another year over,’ she said.

  There was the clatter of a galvanized bucket outside as Ruby cleared away. She was singing ‘Edelweiss’ at the top of her voice.

  Vera smiled. ‘Just like old times.’

  ‘Well, I hope all goes well tomorrow. You have an important job.’

  ‘Yes, a special day, and I’m so pleased for Ruby.’ She picked up her handbag and stood there looking at her desk. ‘I wonder what she will decide to do next term. She won’t really need to work any more.’

  ‘I think she loves the job – and the children.’

  ‘She does, but it must be a temptation not to have to clean floors and toilets and keep that old boiler going, particularly on cold mornings. She suffers a lot now with her hands.’

  ‘Well, let’s see what she decides.’

  Vera was standing by the door as if there was something else she wanted to say.

  ‘And what about you, Vera? We’ve completed a decade of service together.’

  Vera looked at the photographs that filled the walls and sighed. ‘We all have to move on at some stage, Jack. All good things come to an end and my time is coming soon.’

  Vera didn’t often call me Jack and the significance was not lost on me.

  She walked out and closed the door quietly behind her.

  I sat back in my chair and, once again, I pondered my future … to stay or to go.

  All good things come to an end.

  Perhaps I had been a flame in a shuttered lamp for too long.

  I was about to leave when suddenly there was a firm knock on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was PC Pike. ‘Could I have a private word, Mr Sheffield?’

  With him was a tall man in a smart suit. ‘This is Mr Stafford Bywater of the York Planning Department. He was keen to meet you and visit the school.’

  He shook my hand. It was a firm handshake. ‘I used to attend Ragley School fifty years ago.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Bywater. What can I do to help?’

  Julian Pike was clearly in professional mode. ‘I thought it appropriate to speak to you, as it will be all round the village tomorrow morning and the local press are already on the case.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Also, as Mr Stan Coe is a school governor here, it seemed important to let you know.’

  ‘What about?’ I asked.

  ‘Mr Coe was arrested this afternoon and is currently down at York Police Station.’

  I was speechless.

  ‘Perhaps I can explain, Mr Sheffield,’ said Mr Bywater. ‘Mr Coe gave a cash bribe of five thousand pounds to a member of my planning department. He wanted to make land purchases at agricultural prices in the knowledge that planning permission would be granted. He even had plans for twelve properties on the Ragley cricket field. It promised to make a profit of half a million pounds for your local pig farmer.’

  ‘I see,’ I said as the full seriousness dawned.

  ‘Mr Coe has been unscrupulous in his dealings,’ added PC Pike, ‘and the evidence against him is overwhelming.’

  Mr Bywater smiled. ‘I’ve been acting as the go-between, rather like Robert Redford and Paul Newman in The Sting, but not quite so dramatic. I’m afraid it’s been a sordid story from the start. There was a moment when we almost lost the opportunity, but I recall there was an incident with a cat that laid him low. It gave us time to regroup and put another plan into operation.’

  I smiled. ‘That was Oscar.’

  ‘Oscar?’

  ‘His cat – it bit him.’

  ‘Well, Oscar did us a favour.’

  ‘I appreciate you letting me know,’ I said, ‘and there will be implications for the governing body after I’ve contacted County Hall.’

  PC Pike looked at his watch. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to leave now.’ His cheeks coloured slightly and I presumed another date with Natasha Smith awaited the young policeman. He hurried off while I walked down the drive with Mr Bywater.

  We paused in the playground while he stared up at the bell tower and grinned as he reminisced about his time here as a young boy.
‘I climbed that once. The headteacher was not pleased. I never did it again.’

  We reached the school gate. ‘I sense there was more at stake here, Mr Bywater.’

  He gave me a shrewd glance and nodded. ‘An astute observation. It’s a long story, but suffice to say I’m off to visit my mother, Victoria. She is eighty-three and a resident here at the local retirement home. She was impressed by the children singing at Christmas.’

  ‘We do our best.’

  ‘It’s good of you to go out into the community in this way.’

  We walked on to his car. ‘How is your mother?’

  He considered his reply. ‘My mother is a plain-speaking woman, Mr Sheffield, and she says it’s a lovely place for a group of coffin-dodgers.’

  I laughed. ‘She sounds quite a lady.’

  ‘With an interesting life.’ His craggy face softened a little at the memory. ‘She was born in Sheffield on the fourth of May nineteen hundred and four. It was the day of the unveiling of Queen Victoria’s statue in the city centre. At the age of ten she moved to Doncaster because her father found work at Edlington Colliery. His shift at the coal face earned him eight shillings and threepence. So it was a hard life. Then in nineteen twenty-five she married a miner, my dad, Tom Bywater.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘I’m told he was a tough, uncompromising Yorkshireman and they had a daughter and a son.’

  ‘You have a sister?’

  ‘Yes, Evelyn. She is healthy and well now but she had a very difficult childhood. She was a victim of polio.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, that must have been terrible.’

  ‘So little was known about it when we were children. There were large epidemics in the thirties and forties, so it was an anxious time. Public places like cinemas and swimming pools were closed to try to control it. I recall hearing it was caused by an infectious pathogen, but it wasn’t until the nineteen fifties that we knew how it was transmitted.’

  I thought back to my childhood. ‘I had a polio vaccination when I was at primary school in Leeds. I remember queuing up for it full of trepidation.’

  ‘You were lucky, Mr Sheffield. That wasn’t available to my sister. She had a metal brace on her leg and needed a crutch for support. That’s when we first came into contact with Stan Coe. Evelyn and I attended this school while we stayed in rented accommodation before moving to a pit village in Nottingham. We were only here for a few weeks, but I never forgot this school.’