Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Wednesday 21 December 1977
T
he alarm was ringing. It penetrated the layers of sleep like a dentist’s drill. My attempts to stop it without having to open my eyes had failed. There was nothing else for it. I would have to face the new day.
The windows were covered with a frozen tracery of feather-like, curve-stitching patterns and I peered through them at the white world beyond. The snow was still falling and not a sound of traffic could be heard. That could only mean that Deke Ramsbottom’s council snowplough had not reached Kirkby Steepleton and we were cut off. A long walk was in store and it was the day of the Christmas Party!
My worst fears were realized when I went downstairs. A deep drift of snow curved gracefully up to the front door and any attempt to open the heavy wooden garage door was out of question. In any case, my Morris Minor Traveller would not have managed these severe conditions.
I pulled on my thickest socks, laced up my walking boots, grabbed a shovel and cleared a pathway from the front door of the cottage to the gate. Margaret and May were in the kitchen and had prepared a large bowl of hot porridge for me. It was laced with golden syrup and I finished it quickly. Ten minutes later, wrapped in my duffel coat, college scarf and gloves, I set off.
“Good luck, Jack,” yelled my mother from the doorway, “ring me when y’get t’school.”
Just out of Kirkby Steepleton I reached virgin snow and felt the old childhood thrill of making the first footprints. It always seemed incredible that one night of snow could transform everyday scenery into such weird, alien shapes. A white desert stretched out in front of me and the back road to Ragley village was just a scooped channel in the snowscape ahead. Hedgerows had become mini-cliffs and only the spiky crowns of cow parsley stabbed through the smooth crust of snow.
The reflected light hurt my eyes and I pulled my woolly hat further down to reduce the glare. By the time I reached the Ragley road, I realized a hard slog was ahead. The snow was already over knee-deep and I had almost three miles to go. I tightened my college scarf around my head, hunched my shoulders and pressed forward through the snow.
After two miles I was a walking snowman and a dull, incessant rumbling in my ears was becoming gradually more disconcerting. I finally paused to draw breath. Loosening my thick scarf I was suddenly aware of a monstrous roaring noise immediately behind me. It sounded like an avalanche! I spun round to see an enormous snowplough only yards away and slicing towards me like the prow of a ship. With self-preservation the spur, I leaped sideways into the snow-bank that filled the ditch to my right. The snow-plough crunched to a halt alongside.
“Nah then, ah’ve been following thee since Roseberry ‘ill.”
It was Deke Ramsbottom, ruddy face wreathed in smiles and collarless shirt flapping open at the neck in spite of the biting wind and gusting snow.
I was too breathless to reply.
“C’mon, Mr ‘eadteacher, jump up else tha’ll be ower late f’school,” he shouted.
Deke was clearly highly amused and my neat dive into the snow-filled ditch was obviously forming the basis for another of his famous stories. I could see him now in the taproom of The Oak describing my plight. I jumped up into the cab and finally arrived at school in grand style just before nine o’clock. A crowd of waving children filing into school greeted us like conquering heroes and I clambered down like a returning astronaut.
Anne Grainger was busy on the telephone in the office.
“Yes, we are open, Mrs Dudley-Palmer. The boiler has been repaired and the party is still on,” she explained.
Anne had compiled a long list on her spiral-bound notebook and was coping with a difficult morning in her usual unflappable style. She possessed the remarkable gift of patience, an asset to anyone involved in caring for young children.
“Jack!” shouted Anne in surprise, replacing the receiver. “How on earth did you manage to get here?”
I shook the droplets of snow from my scarf.
“Would you believe a snowplough, Anne?”
She grinned and revealed that infectious sense of humour that bubbled just beneath the surface of her sober, schoolma’am appearance. I looked over her shoulder at the list of names.
“What’s the situation, Anne?”
Anne glanced down at her notes.
“Seventy-two have arrived and six are on their way. Theresa Buttle and Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer are expected to be here by party time and one is unaccounted for. That’s Debbie Bryant, the new girl who arrived last week. They’re not on the phone. That adds up to eighty-one.”
I pondered for a moment. A picture of a nervous little eight-year-old girl with a bruise on the back of her skinny little arm flashed across my mind.
“Thanks, Anne. I’ll try to find out about Debbie. I don’t want her to miss the party if I can help it. What about the rest of the staff?”
“Well, living in the village, everyone made it. Sally’s taking assembly and Jo’s checking the jellies.”
The strains of ‘Morning Has Broken’ filtered through from the school hall and the slam of a fridge door in the kitchen confirmed this arrangement.
“Thanks, Anne, well done. Any other messages?”
“Only another priceless letter from Mrs Buttle.”
Mrs Buttle was our favourite letter writer. The strange assortment of ailments and allergies that affected her many children was a constant source of amazement. But it was her original writing style, totally devoid of grammatical accuracy and correct spelling that made her letters collector’s items. I looked at the crumpled piece of paper, obviously torn from a child’s exercise book. It read simply, in a scrawled infant script:
Dear Sir. Plese excus Theresa from scool. She hasent come cos she is in pane under the doctor.
Yours truly,
Betty Buttle
“Shall I add it to the collection?” asked Anne.
“Yes please,” I replied, “and can you give me Debbie Bryant’s address? I’ll call round during lunch break and see if she’s coming.”
I put Anne’s scribbled note in my pocket and walked into assembly just as prayers had been completed.
Once again I revelled in the happy, family atmosphere that existed in our school assemblies. Our school was small enough for everyone to know everyone else and ten-year-olds sat alongside rising five-year-olds. If anyone had a special piece of news everyone listened respectfully and made appropriate observations. The children were so excited at the prospect of our party afternoon and the deep snow yet to be explored on the school field.
Little Tony Ackroyd was defiantly pursuing a point.
“But you can build a left-handed igloo. I saw it on TV.”
“Well, perhaps we can try to build one during morning playtime,” I suggested.
“I heard shouting last night,” exclaimed Anita, her hand waving in the air for attention.
“Where was that?” I asked.
“Next door,” said Anita. “That’s Debbie Bryant’s house.”
Concerned, I probed further. “Have you seen Debbie this morning, Anita?”
“No, Mr Sheffield, the house was all closed and the curtains were shut when I came to school.”
I hardly heard Sarah Louise Tait telling everyone about how she taught her rabbit, Nibbles, to high jump, or the children filing back into their classrooms. I thought back to my brief encounter with Debbie and her father.
Mr Bryant had arrived a short while ago and moved into rented accommodation on the edge of Ragley. He looked a sorry figure with a pale, sallow complexion and the creased brow of a worried man. His wife was unable to come into school as she was a sales representative for Avon cosmetics and was out at work. He was unemployed but was hopeful of finding a job as a wagon driver in York. The little girl, Debbie, was quiet throughout our brief interview and clung to her father’s jacket sleeve. Yesterday, she had arrived with a large purplish bruise on her arm and not a particularly convincing explana
tion of how it happened. In spite of persistent telephone calls from Vera, her school records had not yet arrived from her previous education authority. I made a mental note to discuss the matter further with Roy Davidson, our Education Welfare Officer, when he made his weekly visit to school.
Lunchtime couldn’t come quickly enough for me. Midst the mounting excitement and party preparations, my thoughts were elsewhere. I couldn’t get Debbie off my mind. I decided to miss lunch, leave Anne in charge, and visit Debbie’s home in order to satisfy my curiosity. I had to know if anything had happened to the girl and if I should have acted more positively to her bruised arm.
As I crunched my way down the school drive, deep in thought, a large shiny Mercedes purred into the gateway. It was Mrs Dudley-Palmer, by far the richest lady in the neighbourhood. Sadly, she went to great pains to make sure that everyone was aware of it. She was sending her daughter, Elisabeth Amelia, to our state school until, at the age of eight, she was old enough to attend a local private school. Mrs Dudley-Palmer obviously felt she was doing us a great favour by sending her daughter to our humble seat of learning.
She beckoned me over to the car window as Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer scuttled over to school in her expensive fur boots.
“Ah, Mr Sheffield, I decided to bring my Elisabeth to your party as I have important business this afternoon. I’m going to buy her a horse at the Thirkby sale for a Christmas present. It’s a secret, of course, though she knows I’m buying her something. I wanted to get her the best possible present and this will be it. As I shall not be back until around five, I assume she will be allowed to stay at school until I pick her up?”
I tried not to let my irritation show.
“I suppose so, Mrs Dudley-Palmer. The staff will be clearing up after the party so someone will keep an eye on her.”
“Also, as a special favour,” she paused to let this sink in, “could you please ensure that Elisabeth wins one of the games? She gets so unhappy when she loses.”
“I’m afraid not, Mrs Dudley-Palmer,” I said firmly. “In any case, there are no special prizes for games and we have simple gifts for all the children at the end.”
“Oh, how unfortunate, Mr Sheffield.” She obviously disapproved of my methods. “Good afternoon.”
The conversation was terminated abruptly and the electrically operated window narrowly missed my nose as it slid smoothly shut. As the car eased its way into the road, I realized that Mrs Dudley-Palmer was going my way.
The Bryants’ house looked deserted as I approached but when I knocked I heard a shuffle of feet from within. The door opened and there stood Mr Bryant, unshaven and deathly pale, and wearing a threadbare dressing gown. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery and the hand that held the door trembled slightly. He did not recognize me.
“Are you the Welfare?” he asked weakly.
“No, Mr Bryant, I’m Jack Sheffield from the village school. I was wondering if Debbie was coming to the Christmas party.”
Recognition slowly dawned on his haggard face.
“You’d better come in,” he said.
I stepped inside the gloomy kitchen. Unwashed crockery filled the sink and empty beer cans were scattered on the Formica table.
Mr Bryant sat down and put his head in his hands.
“Where’s Debbie, Mr Bryant? Is she at home?” I asked.
“No,” he mumbled, staring blankly at the table and running his bony fingers through the greying streaks in his hair.
“She’s with her mother. They left this morning.”
I looked at him, weighing the situation.
“I heard there was some shouting last night.”
He looked as if he was about to cry. “That was me,” he said.
There was a long pause as we both tried to find the right words.
I sat down beside him.
“Do you want to talk?” I asked quietly.
For the next twenty minutes, Stephen Bryant opened his heart. Simply the act of sharing his anguish seemed to ease the pain reflected in his eyes. The tension that stretched taut the muscles in his neck appeared to slacken and he relaxed with the release of confidences. He had fought a recurring struggle with the pressures of unemployment. Moving into this derelict property had told on him. He said he felt a sense of shame that he could not support his wife and daughter. His wife was working long hours to supplement their meagre income.
Their problems had reached crisis point the evening before last when Debbie had fallen on the broken stairwell, causing her to cry and his wife to shout at him in frustration. A fierce argument followed. The next morning his wife had left for work still deeply upset and Debbie had left quietly for school nursing a bruised arm. He had spent the morning full of remorse and had finally resorted to drinking what alcohol was left in the house. Another night of arguments with his wife had followed, which had only been brought to a halt when they heard Debbie crying. Husband and wife had not spoken since.
“Just look at this place,” he said, as if noticing the untidy state of the house for the first time. “No trimmings, no presents, not even a tree.”
He looked me in the eyes for the first time.
“Thanks for listening,” he said with a new determination. “Don’t worry; I’ll be all right. I’d better start clearing up before they come back.”
I stood up and buttoned my duffel coat.
“I’ll call back after school if you like.”
He opened the door to let me out.
“Thanks,” he said and then looked thoughtful. “I’ll manage. I just hope I haven’t lost them.”
Back in school, a smart woman in her mid-thirties was waiting for me in the entrance hall. Debbie Bryant, in a printed cotton party dress, was holding her hand and staring in wonderment at the colourful Christmas tree.
“Isn’t it lovely, Mummy?” said Debbie.
“Yes, darling, it’s just like you said it was,” said Mrs Bryant.
“Debbie made lots of decorations for it,” I joined in.
Mrs Bryant smiled at me. Her red eyes revealed recent tears.
“Hello, Mr Sheffield. I’m Barbara Bryant, Debbie’s mother. I’m sorry she’s late for school. We’ve had some difficulties and she was a bit upset. I thought she better stay with me this morning but she was so keen to come to the party. I couldn’t disappoint her, so I took her to York to get a party dress. I hope you don’t mind.”
I understood why and I also knew it would have been difficult for her to afford.
“No, I don’t mind at all,” I said, weighing up the moment. “I wondered if we might have a brief word in the office before you go, Mrs Bryant?” I asked.
I bent down and smiled at Debbie. “And I bet Debbie would like to join her class in the party preparations.”
Debbie almost jumped for joy. Then she gave her mother a hug and ran off to her classroom.
Mrs Bryant, like her husband, welcomed the opportunity to talk. She told me of her problems and I related my lunchtime conversation with her husband.
“He needs to get his confidence back,” she said.
There was a long silence.
“He needs you, Mrs Bryant,” I said simply.
She sighed and nodded.
“I know,” she whispered almost to herself, “I know.”
The sounds of children entering the hall for the party games filtered through the door.
With a new determination, she stood up.
“I know you’re a very busy man, Mr Sheffield, and I thank you for your time.”
“Are you going home?” I asked.
She smiled gently. “Yes, I am. I’m going home.”
For the next two hours I was in the midst of dancing, cheering and balloon-bursting children while a posse of mums prepared a superb party tea. When the last of the jelly and ice cream had disappeared we finished up singing Christmas carols in the hall. Mothers arrived and tired children slowly dispersed, each clutching a Christmas card, a balloon on a string and a paper ba
g of small gifts from the staff.
It was when I saw Debbie Bryant staring once again at the Christmas tree that the idea struck me. As her mother helped her into her coat the coloured lights reflected in the little girl’s shining eyes.
Ten minutes later I carried a mountain of crockery into the kitchen. Anne, Jo and Shirley were putting on aprons.
“Anne, we’ve no plans for the Christmas tree, have we?” I asked.
“No, Jack, but it needs to come down soon before school is cleared for Ruby’s Christmas cleaning. Why do you ask?”
“I thought I’d take it round to the Bryants’ house. They need some Christmas spirit at the moment.”
Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer proved most adept at helping me remove the lights and baubles and these were put safely in a box. Then she went happily to scrape jelly off plates in the kitchen, a chore she was never permitted to enjoy at home.
With the box under one arm and the tree dragging behind, I walked through the darkness to the Bryants’ house. Christmas lights illuminated the windows of all the houses except Debbie’s home, where chinks of light could just be seen behind the closed curtains.
Mrs Bryant opened the door.
“Come in, Mr Sheffield, what a nice surprise.”
The strain had gone from her face and I stepped into the sparse but tidy kitchen. The smell of cooking was rich and appetizing. Mr Bryant came in holding Debbie’s hand. He was clean-shaven and looked greatly recovered. “We had to clear out the school entrance and it seemed a pity to throw out such a lovely tree,” I explained and stepped to one side so that the tree was visible in the doorway.
For a moment I thought he was going to cry but he just picked up Debbie and held her very tight. The little girl spoke for all of them. “Oh, lovely, can we decorate it tonight please, Daddy?”
Mrs Bryant took the box from me and looked up at her husband.
“Of course, darling, we can all help,” she said, smiling.
I looked at the three of them. They were a family again.
As I left, Mr Bryant stepped out onto the snowy footpath.
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