“Hello,” I said, “I’m sorry to bother you but our wagon has broken down. I wondered if I might use your telephone?”
The old farmer smiled.
“Nay, lad. Baint got no telephone ‘ere. No use for them fancy things,” he said.
I nodded towards the dry-stone wall.
“That’s a good wall,” I said appreciatively.
“Aye, it’ll last a ‘undred years, will this,” he said, modestly. “Mi father taught me, tha knows. Ah work end in an’ end out. One upon two an’ two upon one.”
He stood up, wiped his palms on his rough cord trousers and we shook hands.
He could sense my concern and walked down the track with me back towards the gate. His name was Samuel and he was one of the hard breed of Yorkshire hill farmers. I explained about the camp for the children.
“Ah well, don’t fret, young man. We’ll sithee reight.”
An hour later we had transferred all the equipment from the wagon to Samuel’s flat-topped trailer and hitched it to his tractor. As we bumped through the gateway into the camping field in Skythorns village, Deke and his sons were leaning on their Land Rover talking to the other parents. They looked up in surprise as we jumped down from the trailer.
“What’s ‘appened, Jack?” asked Deke. “Where’s Victor’s wagon?”
I explained about the diesel.
“Yon garage lad knows nowt,” said Deke. “It’ll be pinking. Y’know, when fuel’s not going through proper like. My lads’ll drain it an’ bring it back. Don’t worry, Jack.”
Shane and Clint drove off in the Land Rover while John Grainger took charge of unloading the trailer.
I thanked Samuel for all his help.
“We’re having a campfire and a barbecue on Friday night, Samuel. You’re welcome to come along and join us.”
“Aye, mebbe ah’ll sithee, then,” said Samuel with a smile. “Ah’m glad y’bairns won’t be disappointed.” His dog jumped up on the tractor seat alongside him and together they chugged out of the field with the empty trailer bouncing behind them.
The campsite soon took shape once the marquee was erected. I felt like a travelling circus performer as we pulled on the thick guy ropes and raised the vast roof of canvas. Deke and John hammered wooden pegs into the ground and suddenly the campsite had a focal point. A group of parents carried the folding trestle tables and benches inside and arranged them alongside a set of gas cylinders and a cooking range. A gas-fired water boiler was soon whistling and a welcome tea-break followed.
Four tents for the children were erected near the stream that ran through the corner of the field and two tents for the staff were pitched close by. By late afternoon grease pits had been dug and toilet tents that looked like sentry boxes had been discretely positioned in amongst the clumps of trees. Everything was ready and it was time to relax.
John had agreed to stay in camp over the weekend, leaving me free to drive back to Ragley on Sunday morning in Victor Pratt’s wagon and return on Monday morning in the coach carrying the children, the staff and the students.
Before he left, Deke wandered over with a small rucksack. It clinked as he walked. “Here’s a nightcap f’you lads, ‘ave a good week an’ ah’ll sithee on Friday.”
The sun was low in the sky as his Land Rover disappeared down the track and John and I took our bottles of Yorkshire Pale Ale onto the nearby hillside. We leaned back against a tree, drank deeply and looked at the beauty of the dale below us. This indeed was a little piece of heaven.
“I’m reminded of my Scripture lessons, Jack, when I see the earth and sky in such perfect harmony,” said John, stroking his beard thoughtfully with his strong woodcarver’s fingers.
It was strange to hear this quiet man wax so lyrical.
I nodded in acknowledgement and watched the fiery orb of the sun slowly sink behind the distant hills. Briefly, the high clouds were crimson and the surface of the stream resembled hammered bronze.
“The Book of Job says, ‘Speak to the earth and it shall teach thee,’” said John. He grinned in my direction. “Don’t worry, Jack, I won’t start talking to the trees. It just came back to me. I think I understand what it means now.”
He stood up, supped the dregs from the bottle and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his rough Arran sweater. “Come on, Jack,” he said, “it’s been a long day.”
I slept like a log and next morning, after a brief shower of rain, it dawned bright and clear. When I opened the tent flap, the new day burst in with a rush of scents and sounds. It felt good to be alive.
In the woodland clearing, the misty blue carpets of bluebells had given way to early foxgloves and the pale yellow blossoms of wood sage. Bird’s eye primroses and early purple orchids sparkled like jewels on the rain-washed grass and the pure air was filled with the evocative scent of broad-leaved garlic. The baa-ing of lambs and the cry of curlews echoed across the dale.
“This really is God’s own country,” shouted John as he carried two mugs of tea from the marquee.
♦
Back in Ragley, early on Monday morning, it was a hive of activity in the schoolyard. Anne Grainger, Jo Maddison and Sally Pringle were in the centre of a throng of parents collecting last-minute medication for a host of potential ailments. At last, twelve girls and ten boys clambered aboard the bus clutching teddy bears, rucksacks and bags of sweets. The staff sat on the front seats, sorting through boxes of clipboards, half the stock of Boots the Chemist and various sizes of sick bags.
The children cheered when Miss Twigg and the other female students boarded the bus. Midst much waving of tear-stained handkerchiefs, the parents scurried alongside the sides of the coach and we were off. Within minutes the children had struck up a rapport with the students and were discussing the chores list. Each student had been nominated to supervise a daily chore and the four groups of children rotated each day. ‘The Drips’ had to collect water in a milk churn and transport it on a small trailer to the marquee. ‘The Lumberjacks’ had to collect fallen wood for the Friday-night bonfire. ‘The Soapsuds’ had to wash up after breakfast and evening meal and ‘The Litterbugs’ had to pick up every scrap of litter around the site. The coach driver turned on the radio and Boney M belted out their top-ten hit, ‘Rivers of Babylon’. Everyone joined in and the miles flew by.
Soon the flat plain of York gave way to the stunning scenery of the Yorkshire Dales with its rugged hills and winding valleys, criss-crossed with dry-stone walls.
John Grainger waved as we all clambered off the coach in Skythorns and walked up the track to the campsite. He had boiled water for a hot drink and Samuel and his wife, Rose, had driven by and delivered a wicker basket of freshly baked scones and two large jars of homemade jam.
Within minutes, the boys had unpacked their sleeping bags and set up a game of cricket in the big open space between the tents. Gradually, the girls joined in and Miss Twigg made up a new set of rules including one-handed catches when the tennis ball rolled off the roof of the marquee.
Claire Malarky, after hitting the ball over the marquee, for ‘a six and out’ according to Miss Twigg’s rules, shouted at the top of her voice, “This is better than telly, miss.”
Anne walked over to me, sipping the scalding tea. “It really is worth all the effort, isn’t it, Jack?”
I smiled and nodded. “This is almost too good to be true, Anne. All the children look so relaxed and happy. It’s a good start.”
New and spontaneous activities were beginning as children tired of the cricket game. Sally Pringle was sitting under the trees with Claire Phillips and Claire Bradshaw. They were in a little private world of their own, sketching an early purple orchid. Jo Maddison was supervising the students’ first attempt at cooking stew and boiled potatoes for thirty-one people. John Grainger was working with Wayne Ramsbottom and Kenny Flanaghan by the stream. They were constructing a makeshift washstand from branches and baling twine.
Soon a pattern developed to our new lives, free of alarm clock
s, television sets and parents. Long walks, chores, games, meals and sleep filled our lives. New friendships were formed, especially between boys and girls who barely communicated in the school playground. It surprised the boys that Claire Phillips could out-walk any of them and the female students reported that Wayne Ramsbottom knew more about cooking for large numbers than they did.
On Wednesday we booked a local coach to take us to Malham village. From there we walked by the beck that ran down to Janet’s Foss. We sat in silence as Sally Pringle told a captivating story about a fairy called Jennet who was supposed to live in this enchanting place.
John Grainger led the way up Gordale Scar, the great chasm carved out in the Ice Age. The children clambered up the rocks like mountain goats into the dry valley of Gordale Beck. By the quiet banks of Malham Tarn, we ate our packed lunches.
“Food tastes better ‘ere, miss,” said Claire Bradshaw to Miss Twigg.
“And this spring water tastes like wine,” said Miss Twigg, holding her water bottle aloft.
As we sat earing our ham and cheese sandwiches, Sally, who was proving a fount of knowledge, told all the children about life in the Middle Ages when the monks from Fountains Abbey would come to fish for trout in the Tarn.
Tired but happy, we descended slowly into Malham Beck with the sheer cliffs of Malham Cove providing a stunning backdrop. With red faces from the sun and wind, we sat on the grass outside the Lister’s Arms in Malham sipping lemonade until the coach arrived to take us back to camp. That evening, after washing in the stream, we enjoyed a superb meal prepared by the students and slept like logs. I should have known it was too good to last.
A loud voice shattered the peace of my dreams.
“Jack, Jack! There’s been a cloudburst!” It was John Grainger. In the dawn light of Thursday morning, I peered out of the tent. Dark clouds filled the sky and sheets of water poured down the hillside and threatened to swamp our campsite. I struggled into my clothes, pulled on an anorak and boots and ran to where John was trying to dig a shallow ditch alongside the first of the six tents.
“We’ve got to divert this water, Jack, or the tents will be flooded,” he yelled as he dug frantically at the waterlogged earth.
At that moment, Samuel arrived on his tractor. The rain bounced off his sou’wester as he pulled up alongside.
“Jack, dust tha want to get the bairns under cover? They can shelter in my barn while we tackle this job,” he shouted.
Samuel knew the weather and had summed up the seriousness of the situation. Fifteen rain-soaked minutes later, Anne, Sally and Jo had gathered the children in the marquee, all dressed in cagoules and Wellington boots. Then they marched them all across the field to Samuel’s barn, followed quickly by the students who carried carrier bags of loaves, butter, jars of jam, plastic mugs and a bucket of boiled eggs.
With Samuel directing, he, John and I dug a drainage ditch, a spade’s depth along the line of the tents towards the stream. After two hours of hard labour, soaked and tired we leaned on our spades.
“That’ll do t’job,” said Samuel, barely breathing heavily after such massive exertion. John and I could hardly stand, never mind reply. We nodded and watched in triumph as the water ran into the ditch and gurgled around the tents and into the stream.
“C’mon, get some dry clothes and we’ll get to t’barn,” said Samuel.
John and I changed in Samuel’s front room while his wife, Rose, made a huge pot of soup. Soon we were all sitting on dry bales of hay in the barn, enjoying a mug of soup and a hunk of bread. The children were undeterred and had obviously enjoyed the adventure. The students had worked hard making sure everyone had something to eat and Anne, Sally and Jo were checking on those children who needed medicines and tablets. It looked like a refugee camp but everyone was safe and dry.
As the rain eased outside, everyone relaxed in the dark barn and by the flickering light of half a dozen hurricane lamps, the children gathered around Samuel and his sheepdog. They began to ask him questions about his life in this bleak but beautiful part of Yorkshire. He told them a tale of the savage winter of 1940 when fifteen feet of snow covered Spiggot Hill and Tarn Moss. His flock of sheep had huddled together, covered by a crust of snow that froze in the bitter winds. The children cheered when he told them how the Royal Air Force had come to his rescue in the equally severe winter of 1947, dropping fodder from the sky to save his starving sheep.
It was a very sleepy group of children and teachers that walked back to the tents. After a makeshift lunch the drizzle returned and dampened our spirits again.
Chores that were completed at the beginning of the week without a problem began to be overlooked, not least my daily tent inspection. This was to provide a rude awakening for me.
Early on Friday morning the rain had stopped and the sun came out. Anne and I rushed around the children’s tents to open them up and let the warm fresh air circulate once again. When I approached Kenny Flanaghan’s tent an unpleasant aroma filled the air.
I untied the tent flap and looked inside. Five grubby faces grinned up at me from the jumble of sleeping bags and rucksacks.
“Hello, sir. Are y’coming in? We’re ‘aving a game o’ three-card brag,” said one of the little chimney sweeps.
I squeezed my head and shoulders inside the tent and, with the force of a physical blow, a terrible smell of rancid cheese and sour milk hit me and caused me to withdraw my head quickly.
“What a smell,” I yelled. “How can you stand it?”
“Y’get used to it after a while, sir,” said Tony Ackroyd.
“But what is it?” I asked. “It smells like a sheep’s died.”
Kenny crawled over to the tent flap and stepped out onto the wet grass.
“Mr Sheffield,” he whispered hoarsely, “I’m reight sorry but it were me. Ah’ve been sick.”
“You’ve been sick?” I exclaimed. “Where?”
Kenny glanced behind him furtively and then whispered again, “Under t’groundsheet.”
“Under the groundsheet?” I repeated in alarm. “Well, you had better take all your friends into the marquee. Take your cards with you, then come back to me and we’ll clean it up.”
The five boys, dressed in odd socks, odd Wellington boots and muddy jerseys inside out, walked cheerfully over to the marquee, blissfully unaware of the wet grass, the pungent smell and sartorial elegance.
Moments later, Kenny was back beside me.
“Ah’m sorry, sir, ah didn’t mean it,” said Kenny.
“Don’t worry, Kenny,” I said, ruffling his damp hair. “Now, show me where it is.”
“Well, sir,” explained Kenny. “Ah were tekken short in t’night so ah pulled back groundsheet reight quick an’ ah were sick.”
“I think we’ll move the whole tent, Kenny. Let’s put it on a clean piece of ground.”
Kenny proved a good worker and twenty minutes later the tent had been re-erected and the groundsheet was clean again. I disinfected the ground and buried the evidence and we walked to the stream to wash our hands.
“Thanks, Kenny, we’ve done a good job there.”
Kenny looked up a little nervously.
“Y’won’t tell, will yer, sir?” said Kenny.
“Don’t worry, Kenny. Just let me know in future if you feel sick,” I said.
A thought suddenly occurred to me.
“By the way, Kenny, when exactly were you sick?”
Kenny screwed up his face in concentration.
“Er, it were Wednesday, sir.”
I walked away, shaking my head in disbelief.
The campfire and barbecue proved to be one of the best nights of the year. The weather was perfect and everyone agreed that sausages cooked on an open fire and eaten outdoors tasted far better than those cooked indoors. Samuel and Rose came along and none of the children could resist their sheepdog as he begged for food. Sally had brought her guitar and we all sang countless verses of ‘You’ll Never Go To Heaven’. It was a tired b
ut happy group of campers who spent their last night under the stars.
The next day the children left on the bus with Anne, Sally and Jo. Deke Ramsbottom arrived at the campsite in his Land Rover followed by his sons, Clint and Shane, who had brought Victor Pratt’s empty wagon. We loaded up the equipment and set off home. Deke drove off with his sons in the Land Rover and John and I drove back in the wagon. Close to Skipton I pulled into the forecourt of the same garage that we had visited on our outward journey.
A portly man came out to serve us and I climbed down from the wagon.
“Fill her up please,” I said, “with petrol.”
He nodded and unscrewed the petrol cap.
“Is the young man who served us last Saturday in?” I asked.
“That’d be young Paul,” he replied. “He were a Saturday lad. We got shut of him after one day, he were reight dozy.”
John leaned out of the wagon and winked at me.
“Y’right there,” said John, “definitely dozy!”
Seventeen
The Cricket Match
Reading Tests completed.
Previous HT, Mr J. Pruett, visited school and asked HT to continue the tradition of umpiring the annual Ragley and Morton cricket match.
The school nurse visited school and showed a film on ‘Growing Up’ to the girls who move on to secondary education next term.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday 2 June 1978
“T
hem cow claps’ll ‘ave t’be shifted,” said Big Dave as he cast an experienced eye over the village cricket field.
“Y’reight there, Dave, an’ there’s plenty of ‘em an’ all,” agreed Little Malcolm, nodding vigorously.
It was the first Saturday in June, the day of the annual cricket match between the rival villages of Ragley and Morton, and the warm sun and blue skies promised a perfect day. Big Dave had summoned the whole Ragley team to the cricket pavilion at nine o’clock on the morning of the match.
I had been asked to follow in the footsteps of the previous headmaster, John Pruett, and be one of the umpires. As I arrived, Big Dave was giving his usual motivational team talk.
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