“Yours, Jack,” screamed Big Dave.
“Yours, Jack,” echoed Little Malcolm.
I stared up into the bright sunshine and saw a tiny black dot growing gradually bigger like an earth-bound meteorite. I began to run around the boundary edge and in the split-second before the ball sailed over the boundary rope, I leaped in the air, stuck out my left hand and clasped the ball tight as it smacked into my palm. At the same moment I landed on something soft and slippery.
One solitary cowpat had been overlooked in the clean-up operation and as I landed flat on my back and slid like a runaway toboggan, I proceeded to reduce it to the consistency of lumpy gravy. When I came to a halt the ball was still in my hand and I held it aloft in triumph.
The Ragley team shouted, “Howzat?” and John Pruett raised his umpire’s finger. An explosion of cheers shook the corrugated roof of the pavilion. Ragley had won the cricket match.
Big Dave was the first to reach me.
“Great catch, Jack,” he said and held out his hand to help me up. When he saw what I had landed in he withdrew his hand quickly.
“Flippin’ ‘eck, Jack,” said Big Dave, “ah’d wipe meself down with grass afore y’shek ‘ands if I were you.”
We walked up the pavilion steps in triumph with cheers ringing in our ears. The single shower wasn’t functioning so I changed out of the filthy flannels and shirt, stuffed them in a carrier bag, rinsed my hands in a bucket and headed for the marquee.
Beth was there, grinning hugely. At last it seemed I had made a good impression.
“Over here, Jack, and well done,” she said with a wave.
As I joined her at the bar, I saw her wrinkle her nose.
“Sorry,” I apologized, “the showers weren’t working.”
“Don’t worry,” said Beth, trying hard not to laugh, “it’s supposed to be lucky.”
“Is it, really?” I asked, finding it hard to believe.
“Yes, something about being lucky in love,” she explained.
I looked into her eyes and they were shining.
Before I could respond, the barman walked over to take our order and a roar went up as Big Dave and Little Malcolm arrived at the head of a triumphant group of Ragley cricketers.
Big Dave slapped me on the back.
“What a fantastic catch, Jack. Yurra ‘ero,” shouted Big Dave above the din.
“Aye, yurra ‘ero all reight,” confirmed Little Malcolm.
I looked up and then down at the two cousins. This was praise indeed. At last I had achieved something in front of Beth. The moment soon passed as Big Dave brought me back down to earth.
“By ‘eck, Jack, y’stink like a bloody sewer!” he said.
“Sshh!” said Beth sternly to the giant captain.
Little Malcom nodded back politely in acknowledgement.
“Y’right there, luv, ‘e smells like that an’ all!”
Beth looked at me in wide-eyed amazement and then burst into peals of laughter.
We took our drinks outside and sat on the grass. I recalled Beth’s words before the match.
“So, are you cooking me a meal tonight?” I asked eagerly.
Before Beth could reply, Ruby and Vera suddenly appeared.
“Congratulations, Mr Sheffield,” said Vera with a smile. “We’re all proud of you.”
“Thank you, Vera, that’s kind of you,” I replied modestly.
“I bet y’young lady’s proud as well,” said Ruby with a cheeky grin.
“Excuse us,” said Vera hastily and tugged Ruby’s sleeve as they made off.
Beth looked thoughtful again.
“Is that what I am?” she asked quietly. “Your young lady?”
“I couldn’t wish for anything better,” I said and clinked her glass as if it was a toast.
“There’s just one condition, Jack.”
I looked concerned, wondering what she was about to say.
“What is it, Beth? You must know I’d do anything for you.”
She appeared to be weighing up the words.
“It’s important,” she said.
“Anything at all,” I replied. “Just name it.”
“Before I make you my special pork chops in orange sauce there’s something you must do for me.”
“Just tell me, Beth. I’ll do anything.”
She held my hand and looked into my eyes.
“Please have a bath!”
Eighteen
Sports Day
School Sports Day 1.45 p.m. – 3.00 p.m.
Excellent event with good attendance.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Wednesday 14 June 1978
“Y
ou’ll have to keep an eye on the egg and spoon race, Jack,” said Anne as she scanned the list of races. “Mrs Brown cheats every year.”
“That’s right,” agreed Sally indignantly. “She holds the pottery egg on with her thumb. Mr Pruett never noticed.”
“Why not use long-handled wooden spoons with a paper collar halfway down the shaft?” said Jo. “That’s what they did at my school.”
Vera, Anne and Sally stared at Jo as if she had just discovered a slimming course that actually worked.
“Let’s do it,” said Anne. “Sounds revolutionary but worth a try.”
She ticked her list and went off with Jo to count bean-bags.
High summer was upon us. It was Wednesday morning, 14 June, and my first school sports day at Ragley beckoned. Sun streamed in the window and George Hardisty had borrowed Mr Dudley-Palmer’s top-of-the-range mower to give the running track an extra short unofficial trim. Clint and Shane Ramsbottom had arrived early with string and a bucket of whitewash and they were marking out running lanes. Shirley had filled the school fridge with choc-ices and Ruby had dragged her husband Ronnie away from his racing pigeons to rake the sand pit and mark out a run-up for the long jump. The children were excited and little work was done during morning school.
When the bell rang for morning playtime the white lines on the field had a magnetic attraction for the children. Five-year-olds balanced on them as if they were tightrope walkers and ten-year-olds ran up and down the lanes practising relay races.
In the staff-room Anne had a look of disappointment on her face.
“That’s a pity,” she said. “Little Theresa Buttle is going to miss Sports Day. There’s another classic letter here from her mother.”
She passed it over to Sally who read it out loud: “Dear Miss, Pleese execute our Theresa as she has verookas. Betty Buttle.”
“Sounds a bit extreme,” said Vera.
The rattle of a galvanized mop bucket announced the arrival of Ruby just outside the room. There was a gentle tap on the door.
Vera went out into the corridor to talk to Ruby.
“I’ve just bought these, Miss Evans,” said Ruby proudly, pointing down to her new shoes. Ruby had purchased a pair of wide-fitting ‘Diana’ shoes from a cut-price shop in Micklegate for £3.00.
“They’re really comfortable,” said Ruby, “and I won’t trip up in the egg and spoon race.”
“They look ideal,” said Vera generously, “and we’ll all be cheering you on this afternoon.” Vera was determined to do all she could to help Ruby. “And is Ronnie running in the fathers’ race this year?” asked Vera.
“I ‘ope so,” said Ruby. “Our ‘azel’s in the ‘oop race, I’m in the Ladies’ egg an’ spoon race and our Ronnie is down for the Dads’ race. It’s the full set.”
“Well, good luck, Ruby,” said Vera, “and the shoes are a really good choice.”
Ruby walked away, proud of her purchase and pleased that Vera had given them the seal of approval. Meanwhile, Vera looked at Ruby and felt a touch of sadness for this large lady with the generous heart for whom a £3 pair of shoes was the highlight of the month.
Back in the staff-room, Sally had made a list of the races, including the sprints for each age group, relay races, high jump and long jump for the older children, a sack race
, obstacle race, hoop race, skipping race, three-legged race plus the races for mothers and fathers.
Sally filled the Roneo Spirit Duplicator with fluid, took a metal-tipped stylus pen, selected a smooth white master sheet, put a blue sheet of carbon paper underneath and began to print neatly. When she had completed the list, she attached the master sheet to the cylindrical drum, loaded the tray with white paper and turned the handle one hundred times. As Sally turned the handle, she dreamed of having a photocopier in school like the one at her husband’s office but, deep down, she knew they would always be too expensive for primary schools.
By half past one, Shirley the Cook was already doing a roaring trade selling choc-ices outside the back door of the kitchen. A large number of mothers and grandparents had turned up, along with a small number of fathers. The chairs from the school hall had been arranged in a straight line along the length of the track and many parents were settling themselves down for an enjoyable afternoon. Sheila Bradshaw, dressed in a bikini top and hot pants, was rubbing a liberal supply of sun cream over her bare tummy whilst Ruby’s mother, Agnes, fastened a few more buttons on her mackintosh and tightened the knot on her headscarf.
At a quarter to two the Sports Day began. I had borrowed an electric loud hailer from the Ragley Scout Troop and my job was to announce each event and the results.
“Good afternoon, everybody,” I said and the echo of my voice bounced off the school wall and rebounded into my ears. I realized I would have to pause after every few words. “Welcome to Sports Day.”
A ripple of applause ran along the line of parents and was taken up by the children who were sitting in their class groups on the opposite side of the track.
“Races will be started by our official starter, the Revd Joseph Evans, and will be judged at the finish by Mrs Pringle and Miss Maddison.”
The vicar bowed a little self-consciously and Sally and Jo waved enthusiastically. More applause rang out as I announced the first race.
“The first race on your programme is the running race for five-year-olds.”
And so it went on. Everybody ran, skipped, jumped and hopped. Claire Phillips ran an astonishingly quick last leg of the boys versus girls relay race and, much to the delight of Ruby, little Hazel Smith upheld family tradition and won the hoop race for five-year-olds. A few impromptu races took place including a mothers and toddlers race with every competitor receiving a free choc-ice. The athletic Sue Phillips won the mothers’ race narrowly from the scantily clad Sheila Bradshaw. Then there were only two races left: the egg and spoon race for ladies and the sprint for men.
The tension in the crowd suddenly increased as the fearsome sight of Mrs Winifred Brown appeared confidently on the start line. This was followed by a resounding cheer as Ruby lined up alongside her. They eyed each other like two Sumo wrestlers. A few other mothers tentatively gathered around the collection of wooden spoons and pottery eggs and looked curiously at the long-handled wooden spoons with the paper collars halfway down the handle.
“What’s all this then?” shouted Mrs Brown. “Where’s proper spoons?”
“These are the ones we are using this year,” said Anne Grainger firmly, fixing Mrs Brown with a stare that brooked no argument.
“You start with your spoon and egg on the ground and one hand behind your back,” said Anne. “If you drop the egg, you must pick it up with the spoon. If you use your other hand to pick up the egg or to stop the egg from dropping off your spoon, you will be immediately disqualified.”
Winifred Brown gave me a piercing stare.
“Trust ‘im t’make changes,” she grumbled.
Anne walked jauntily away and as she passed me she whispered, “I’ve waited years to put that woman in her place.”
The cheers of “C’mon Mum,” reached a crescendo as Joseph blew his whistle.
I recalled telling a children’s story during one assembly about a race between a tortoise and a hare. Deep down I never really believed in it. But before everyone’s eyes a parody was being acted out. Most of the mothers struggled to pick up their eggs with the unwieldy spoons and, when they did, the pottery eggs quickly tumbled to the ground again. Mrs Brown, although she was the last person everybody wanted to win, at least did have some idea and she would run a few yards, drop the egg, kick it another yard and pick it up again with the spoon. In this way she gradually moved into first place with a series of sprints and stalls.
Ruby, on the other hand, picked up her egg on the spoon, stood for a few moments like a tightrope walker getting her balance, and then set off with slow, steady, short strides. Years of carrying saucepans and boiling chip pans in her obstacle course of a kitchen had prepared her for this moment. The spoon was rock steady in her hand. It was as if her egg was glued to it. Perspiration ran down her bright red cheeks as she moved inexorably towards the finish line and the cheers were by far the loudest of the afternoon.
Sally and Jo on the finish line forgot all sense of teacher decorum and screamed, “Come on, Ruby, you can do it!”
With two yards to go Winifred Brown’s egg parted company with her spoon for the last time and Ruby sailed by to win the race.
It gave me the greatest pleasure to announce, “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the winner of the Ladies’ Egg and Spoon Race for 1978 is Ragley’s own, Mrs Ruby Smith.”
Little Hazel could not restrain her joy and bounded over to her mother, jumped into her arms and gave her a big kiss. No prize could have been greater for Ruby as she lifted Hazel and beamed at Vera who walked over and gave her a hug. Ronnie Smith walked over to Ruby and gave her a self-conscious peck on the cheek.
“Well done, our lass,” he said graciously.
Ruby fixed Ronnie with a stare he knew only too well.
“Ifs your turn now, Ronnie, show us what y’can do.”
Ronnie went grey.
With cheers still ringing around me, I announced the final race. After Ruby’s triumph, the fathers’ race looked as though it would be an anti-climax. Traditionally, very few men turned up for Sports Day because they were out at work. Today, when I announced the dads’ race, only four men walked to the start line. In the long and noble history of human endeavour, it was hard to imagine a more diverse group of athletes. In order of height, tallest first, they were Geoffrey Dudley-Palmer, Peter Miles-Humphreys, Ronnie Smith and Eddie Brown.
Geoffrey Dudley-Palmer had called in at the request of his daughter on his way to a board meeting at the Rowntree factory. His pin-stripe shirt echoed his pin-stripe suit and his cuff links and matching tiepin sparkled in the bright sunshine. He surveyed the opposition and concluded he was the hot favourite as, in his mind, his privileged upbringing meant he was taller, slimmer and more confident than his competitors. He glanced down at his brand-new leather-soled black shoes and wished he had brought more suitable footwear but he knew that once he got into his stride he would leave these unfit members of the proletariat far behind. As a casual gesture that he was taking this seriously, he slipped off his jacket to reveal its silk lining and its hand-stitched ticket pocket. He took to his mark and stared down the track as if he was Harold Abrahams in the 1924 Olympics. For Geoffrey Dudley-Palmer, the track had become a tunnel and he was going to fly through it and burst out of the other end a winner. He mentally rehearsed the classic lean forward with arms outstretched behind him as he broke the finishing tape, which was, in fact, an unbreakable length of baling twine from Pratt’s Hardware Emporium.
Peter Miles-Humphreys was having trouble with his new trousers. Mrs Miles-Humphreys had always wanted to marry a film star but had settled for a shy bank clerk with an unfortunate stutter. Even so, she was determined that, with a little prompting, he could look like a cross between Charlton Heston and David Soul. With this in mind, she had been to Mackinder’s clothes shop in York to purchase a stylish pair of flared ‘Ewaprest fashion trousers’ at £8.95. Peter Miles-Humphreys was an analytical man and, as he stood on the starting line with a brisk breeze in his face, h
e had quickly concluded that flared trousers would produce more wind resistance and, in consequence, he had tucked his trouser bottoms into his long, green, diamond-patterned golfing socks. His wife looked on in horror as her husband committed fashion suicide and, looking like a 1920s American golfer, he took his mark behind the white line.
Ronnie Smith was sad. Fifteen years previously as a Ragley Rovers right-winger and with his whippetlike frame, he would have won this race easily. Unfortunately, the regular intake of Tetley’s bitter had reduced his muscle tone and the delight he experienced, after the years of saving enough coupons to qualify for a garden swing and a dartboard from Kensitas cigarettes, was in inverse proportion to the damage done to his lungs by the cigarettes themselves. Ronnie was the oldest competitor in the race and his sharp, tactical, devious brain told him that his only chance of avoiding humiliation was to set off fractionally before the starter’s whistle signalled the start of the race.
Eddie Brown had the misfortune to be married to Winifred. His workmates at the warehouse in York, who regularly described him as one sandwich short of a pack-up, looked at him with a mixture of admiration and sadness. No one could imagine what it must be like married to such a battleaxe as Winifred. Like a punch-drunk boxer, Eddie would boast, “When she sez it’s Thursday, it’s Thursday.” That was probably his longest ever sentence, as Eddie was known as a man of few words. His usual responses were “Y’what?”, which provided him with much needed thinking time and “Oh-kay, oh-kay”, which meant he understood and there was no need to keep going on about it.
It was said in the village that if his belly got any bigger he would need a wheelbarrow to cart it around. From a distance, in his pink and silver Bay City Rollers track-suit with half-mast trouser legs, he looked like a giant candyfloss on a stick. Eddie wasn’t bright enough to understand he had no chance. He vaguely remembered that he used to run for a bus to get home from work but now he was the proud owner of a three-wheeled, 1975 Reliant Robin complete with upgraded 850cc engine with the remarkable acceleration of 0-60mph in 16.1 seconds. As his son Dominic tied his father’s shoelaces each morning, Eddie would sit at the kitchen table and imagine sinking into the comfort of his leopard-skin-covered seats and roaring off towards York with his fluffy dice bouncing madly in the front window. Eddie loved speed, and on the narrow country roads around Ragley village, no one ever passed his Reliant Robin with its customized flame-red speed-stripe down the side. Today would be no different. When he looked at his fellow competitors he thought, “Easy, two puffs an’ clapped-out Ronnie,” but when Joseph Evans said, “Take your marks,” Eddie could only retort, “Y’what?”
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