“Thanks for coming,” he said, “and don’t worry about us. We’ll make out.”
As an afterthought, he smiled and stretched out his hand to shake mine. “Merry Christmas,” he said.
“Merry Christmas, and good luck,” I replied.
Good luck was indeed to come his way although he did not know it then.
In early January, Mr Bryant got a driving job in York and the family prospered. They were soon to become one of the most cheerful and popular families in the village.
Back at school, a familiar Mercedes was waiting in the car park. A complacent and portly Mrs Dudley-Palmer was just about to leave after collecting Elisabeth Amelia.
“Ah, Mr Sheffield, you will be pleased to know my business was completed successfully,” she said.
I recalled the expensive Christmas present.
“What have you bought, Mummy?” asked a little voice from the back seat.
With a self-satisfied grin, Mrs Dudley-Palmer replied, loud enough for me to hear, “You’ll see, my dear. It’s the very best Christmas present in the world.”
Snow began to fall again and settle on my shoulders as I watched the bright red lights of the Mercedes move slowly down the drive. I shook my head slowly as I reflected on Mrs Dudley-Palmer’s final words. She was quite wrong, of course.
Debbie Bryant’s Christmas present was worth much, much more.
Her gift was priceless for she knew she had the love of her father and mother.
Nine
Snow White and the Six Dwarfs
30 children from all classes will be supporting the annual Ragley village pantomime on 31 December.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Thursday 22 December 1977
“H
appy’s upset,” said Sally Pringle.
She pointed her Wicked Queen’s wand at a group of six-year-olds clustered around their mothers.
“Look at Grumpy,” said Anne, “he’s delighted.”
“It’s mumps!” said Sally.
“Who’s got mumps?” I asked.
“Happy’s got a fever and his glands are swollen,” explained Anne, “and Grumpy’s pleased because he knows everybody’s lines off by heart and he’s going to play both parts.”
It was five o’clock on New Year’s Eve and the village hall was a hive of activity. The annual pantomime was only two hours away and another crisis had struck.
“So what you’re saying is, we’re a dwarf short,” I added lamely. With some relief, I recalled that I had mumps when I was a child.
“I suppose it’s too late to get a replacement,” said Sally as she donned her queen’s crown, picked up the hem of her flowing black cape and set off backstage.
A large lady wearing a flowing kaftan and a bright red headband that held back her alarmingly frizzy hair burst into the conversation.
“Well, they’ll just have to keep moving around to confuse the audience,” said Mrs Miles-Humphreys in desperation. As producer of the village pantomime the need for Valium to ease her shredded nerves was increasing with every disaster.
Anne put her arm around Mrs Miles-Humphreys’ shoulders and gave her an encouraging hug.
“Don’t worry, Felicity,” she said, “this pantomime will be just as good as all the others.”
Not for the first time I thought Anne would have made a good politician.
“Thank you, my dear. I really don’t know what I’d do without your loyal support each year,” said Felicity with a pained expression. Then she hurried off, waving her clipboard in the air at Timothy Pratt, electrician and owner of Pratt’s Hardware Emporium. He was on a rickety stepladder, fixing the solitary spotlight to a metal bracket attached to one of the wooden beams.
“More to the left please, Timothy,” shouted Felicity. “You know, where we had it for Mother Goose.”
Timothy Pratt knew exactly where the spotlight had been for every previous pantomime and checked the neat ruled lines that he had drawn each year on the supporting beam.
Tidy Tim, as he was known in the village, was always very precise. Not a single countersunk screw was ever out of place in his shop window and the spouts of his galvanized watering cans were always exactly in line, just like the formation dancers in his favourite television programme, Come Dancing.
Tidy Tim had recently paid thirty-five pence to become a member of the Airfix Modellers Club, and when he received the unwelcome call from Mrs Miles-Humphreys he had almost completed his Crusader Mark III Tank to a scale of one to thirty-two.
He nodded morosely and shifted the ancient spotlight precisely two inches to the left. Then he screwed the butterfly nut tightly so the spotlight was fixed exactly at right angles to the beam. Tidy Tim liked right angles. Unfortunately, his sense of humour was even less than that of his elder brother Victor who owned the garage at the bottom of the High Street. Each year he was asked to ‘do the lights’ and each year he grumbled but eventually turned up on the day to do his bit. He was here because his younger sister, Nora Pratt, was once again the leading lady. “She’s the Pratt with talent,” he boasted regularly to his customers.
Anne picked up a bag of different coloured hats and tunics, along with a handful of white beards.
“So, what were the other pantomimes like?” I whispered in her ear.
“Don’t ask, Jack,” said Anne firmly and marched off to help the noisy group of children in her class who were destined to be the slightly diminished band of dwarfs.
John Grainger had explained to me that it was a tradition in Ragley to have a family pantomime in the village hall on New Year’s Eve that included children of all ages. It always started at seven o’clock and was followed by a village party that included an old-fashioned singsong around the piano plus a late-night disco.
I had volunteered to arrive early and help erect the scenery. Peter Miles-Humphreys had spent the last month in his garden shed constructing a backdrop to the dwarfs’ house. He was now on his hands and knees screwing on the hinged flaps to enable it to stand up. His two sons, ten-year-old Nigel, who was in my class, and seventeen-year-old Rupert, who was studying A-level Drama and Art, were holding the various pieces of plywood in place. Rupert was getting upset.
“My tights are getting laddered, Dad,” he shouted in annoyance.
Rupert had a star part. In fact, he had had a star part every year since his mother became artistic director of the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society. On this occasion, he was the prince.
“H-Hang on, j-just one m-more s-s-s – ” stuttered Mr Miles-Humphreys.
“Screw, Dad,” said Nigel, who was an expert at finishing his father’s sentences, usually correctly.
The final screw inserted, Mr Miles-Humphreys stood up to admire his handiwork and Rupert dashed backstage like a frightened stick insect to repair the damage to his bright green tights and to apply some more Leichner 5 and 9 make-up to hide his teenage acne.
I helped father and son to carry the new piece of scenery backstage. Mr Miles-Humphreys pointed to a convenient storage place against the back wall behind the curtains.
“Let’s l-l-leave it h-h – ” he stuttered.
“Here,” said Nigel confidently.
Mr Miles-Humphreys covered his masterpiece with the curtain.
“We d-don’t w-want anyone t-to f-f-f – ”
“Forget it,” I added helpfully.
He shook his head and looked imploringly at his son.
“Fall over,” said Nigel with authority.
Mr Miles-Humphreys nodded and forced a smile. This was clearly a stressful time for him. Once again he shook visibly as his wife screeched more instructions from the stage.
“Timothy, Timothy!” she yelled. “Perhaps you and Mr Sheffield could arrange the seating?”
Two hundred plastic chairs were stacked in an alcove at the back of the hall. I collected a few and began to arrange them in rows. Meanwhile Tidy Tim had taken a stick of chalk and a metal retractable tape measure from the pocket of his brown overall
and began to mark an accurate line of white crosses on the floor exactly three feet apart. He frowned in my direction and shook his head, clearly not pleased.
“We need to get the end seats on either side of the central aisle in perfect alignment first, Mr Sheffield,” said Tidy Tim in his monotone voice.
I agreed and hastily rearranged the front row. After a while I gave up as Tidy Tim followed me around making minute adjustments to every single chair. It was clear to me that his talents were wasted in the twentieth century. King Khufu of Egypt would have made him chief architect of the Great Pyramids of Giza and provided an army of assistants who, unlike me, would not have sloped off to Nora’s Coffee Shop in the middle of a job.
Tidy Tim looked relieved when I told him I intended to take a break and I left him crouched on his haunches, studying the exact sightline of each row of chairs.
Backstage, I looked for Anne to see if she wanted to join me. She was standing alongside Felicity Miles-Humphreys and both of them were busy applying the finishing touches to Snow White’s opening costume.
Nora Pratt put on her hand-stitched Alpine leather corset, looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror and imagined she saw someone who resembled a slim, youthful Julie Andrews standing on an Austrian mountaintop. Felicity Miles-Humphreys looked at the same reflection and saw a fat forty-year-old with too much make-up and hips the size of a forklift truck. She shook her head sadly but knew this was Nora’s big night and decided flattery was the best form of deception.
“You look a picture, darling,” said Felicity. “And the pretty little waistcoat provides the finishing touch.”
Nora had been on the founding committee of the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society. In consequence, every year she voted herself to be leading lady. Nora had been particularly proud of her Goldilocks, Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella, but she believed this part was easily the best. Fifteen years earlier Nora had hoped that her performances would provide a stepping-stone to the York Amateur Dramatic Society but her inability to sing in key and her short, portly figure had resulted in many failed auditions. In spite of being a non-speaking extra in one episode of Crossroads, it was soon obvious that speaking parts would always prove elusive. The vital shortcoming that stunted Nora’s theatrical ambitions was her complete inability to pronounce the letter ‘R’.
Nora looked anxiously at Felicity.
“Where’s Wupert?” asked Nora.
“He’s rehearsing in the gents, darling,” said Felicity.
“Tell him to come wight away,” demanded Nora. “That opening dance woutine is wubbish.”
Anne gave me a wide-eyed stare. It was my cue to depart and I decided to walk across the High Street to Ragley’s most popular meeting place.
Nora’s Coffee Shop still lived in the sixties with its draughtboard tiled floor and bright red plastic tables, but even though its decor was stuck in a time warp, if you wanted the latest village gossip it was the place to go. The old jukebox in the corner was thumping out a crackly rendition of the Bee Gees singing ‘How Deep is Your Love’ as I approached the white plastic counter. Curvaceous Dorothy Humpleby, whose ambition was to be a fashion model, served me with a frothy coffee and a thick slab of seed cake. She nodded towards the huge poster behind the counter.
“Are y’going to t’panto, Mr Sheffield?” she asked, fluttering her false eyelashes and selecting a moderately clean teaspoon and fork from the grubby cutlery tray.
I glanced at the blurred photo of Nora Pratt in her Alpine corset and surrounded by a full complement of dwarfs.
“Thank you, Dorothy, yes I am,” I replied. “I see Nora has the main part.”
“She always ‘as, Mr Sheffield,” said Dorothy, fingering her huge earrings with her bright silver-painted false nails. “She’s been singing ‘Someday My Prince Will Come’ since bloody October. Ah’ll be glad when it’s all over.”
In spite of the poor quality of the food and drink, as usual the place was almost full. I sat down at the nearest table, cleaned my fork on a serviette and began an archaeological exploration of the seed cake that on close inspection appeared well past its best. The bell above the door jingled again and I glanced up. To my surprise, Beth Henderson walked in looking stunning in a light grey overcoat over a white polo neck jumper and a black A-line maxi-length skirt.
I felt the familiar pounding in my chest and was about to wave in acknowledgement when I saw she was not alone. My heart sank when a tall slim blond-haired man in a striped open-necked Van Heusen shirt and a smart charcoal-grey lounge suit held the door open for her. He was the man I had seen walking with her on the city walls. They made a striking couple and looked relaxed together as they placed their order with the gum-chewing Dorothy and found the only remaining table on the far side of the coffee bar. Beth sat with her back to me and was so engrossed in conversation with her handsome companion that she didn’t notice me. She had spoken to me once on the telephone since the dramatic cremation of Miss Barrington-Huntley’s hat in order to reassure me that I had no need to worry. She had also sent a letter of thanks to the staff plus a few hints on how to improve aspects of our school paperwork. That apart, there had been no contact.
I looked enviously at her stylishly dressed partner and then glanced down at my crumpled duffel coat and sighed. I certainly would have no chance with Beth if I dressed like a protester on a Ban the Bomb march.
At ten minutes to seven they left ahead of me, crossed the road and walked down towards the bottom of the High Street to the village hall. Crowds were gathering outside the entrance and thrusting their fifty-pence admission tickets at Mr Miles-Humphreys who was attempting to tear the tickets in half whilst directing people to their seats.
“On the r-r-r – ” said Mr Miles-Humphreys.
“Right,” said Nigel, standing alongside.
I found myself three rows behind Beth and her partner who were still deep in animated conversation. Ruby Smith, much to the dismay of the people sitting directly behind her, was on the front row along with all her family, including her husband Ronnie who had made a special effort to look smart in his Leeds United Supporters Club tie as well as the obligatory bobble hat.
Ronnie was manager of Ragley Rovers, the village football team, and he had persuaded the rest of the team to leave the taproom of The Oak and join in the fun. The huge figure of Dave Robinson, the team captain, led the way, followed as always by his tiny cousin, Malcolm Robinson. ‘Big Dave’ and ‘Little Malcolm’ were both local refuse collectors and had been inseparable friends since their schooldays in Ragley, when Big Dave had always protected his little cousin. They took their seats on the back row with pint pots in hand. The rest of the team sounded well lubricated already.
At seven o’clock the three-piece band struck up a rendition of ‘Hi-Ho’ and the curtains opened. Big Dave was the first to spot the problem with the numerically challenged band of dwarfs.
“There’s only six dwarfs,” he shouted.
“Y’reight there, Dave,” agreed Little Malcolm.
“Ah want a refund,” yelled Kojak, the Bald-Headed Ball Wizard.
“Gerrup there, Malcolm, an’ mek up t’numbers,” shouted Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough, raising his pint tankard in the air.
“Ssshhh!” said Vera Evans, looking over her shoulder from the centre row with a face like thunder. Her brother, Joseph, sitting alongside, went slightly pink with embarrassment and with a fixed stare looked straight ahead.
The pantomime limped along with its uncoordinated dance routines and the audience was generous with its applause. They clapped everything and anything, even when Sneezy and Dopey had to go to the toilet in the middle of one of their songs and the complement of dwarfs was reduced to four. They also cheered and booed vociferously, unfortunately not always in the right places. Snow White was booed when she said, “Shall I eat this bwight wed apple?” and Sally Pringle, who made a brilliant Wicked Queen, was cheered to the rafters by all the school children every time she appeared.
Sadly, when the prince asked the audience if he should kiss the sleeping Snow White to wake her from her slumbers, the football team, with one united voice, yelled, “No!” and this received the biggest laugh of the night.
Remarkably, the whole audience showed considerable restraint when Nora Pratt, dressed in a huge ball gown big enough for a five-ring circus, sang ‘Someday My Pwince Will Come’, slightly off-key. After the finale came the speeches and both Nora and Felicity Miles-Humphreys were presented with a huge bunch of flowers.
Minutes later it was all change as Big Dave and his footballers rearranged the chairs around the edge of the large hall, parents hurried home with young children, John Grainger and Ronnie Smith began to put up trestle tables for a bar and Clint Ramsbottom, sporting sparkly highlights in his Kevin Keegan permed hair, set up his portable disco.
As I walked out into the cold night air I tried to catch a glimpse of Beth Henderson but she had disappeared into the crowds. Suddenly a familiar voice attracted my attention.
“Jack, Jack, hello again.”
It was Beth with her handsome chaperone.
“Hello, Beth, good to see you again,” I said.
The firm handshake was as I remembered it.
“Did you enjoy the pantomime?” I asked with a grin.
“Yes, Snow White and the Six Dwarfs has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?” said Beth with a chuckle. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, would we, David?” She looked up at her elegant companion. “I try to come every year and the party afterwards is even better. Are you coming?”
“Well, I intended to go,” I said, glancing hesitantly at David.
“Oh, where are my manners?” said Beth. “Let me introduce my friend, David Senior. He’s over from his luxury capitalist flat in Leeds. David, this is Jack Sheffield, the local headmaster from Ragley School.”
We shook hands and he gave me a quizzical stare. I sensed he noticed my reaction when I discovered his relationship to Beth.
“Pleased to meet you, Jack, and take no notice of my little socialist girlfriend,” said David with a slightly arrogant air. “She has a hang-up about me working for Unilever in Leeds and putting in long hours to improve the company profits, without the benefit of lenthy school holidays,” he added with sarcasm.
01 Teacher, Teacher! Page 10