07 School's Out!

by Jack Sheffield

  Across the High Street, in Nora’s Coffee Shop, Dorothy Humpleby was in an equally reflective mood. She had put Lionel Richie’s ‘All Night Long’ on the juke-box and was putting extra sugar in Little Malcolm’s tea.

  Dorothy was beginning to consider that horoscopes weren’t all they were cracked up to be. She fingered the chunky signs of the zodiac on her charm bracelet and gazed at Little Malcolm Robinson, the Ragley refuse collector, with new appreciation.

  She recalled that Gypsy Fortuna in the Easington Herald & Pioneer had reliably stated that her Aquarius sun sign would be in sexual accord with Leo rising because they were opposite signs of the zodiac. She assumed this was because one went up while the other went down. However, unknown to Dorothy was the fact that Gypsy Fortuna was actually Brenda from the bread shop in Thirkby. So it was that, after reading that she would marry a tall, dark and very rich stranger, she had eventually settled on an impecunious and vertically challenged Gemini binman with a heart of gold.

  Relationships were also the focus of attention for Ruby and Vera at the end of school. Ruby was concerned about her son Duggie.

  ‘Ah’m worried about our Duggie, Mrs F,’ she said, as she absent-mindedly polished the brass handle of the office door.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Vera, looking up from her filing.

  ‘Ah ’ave a dickie-fit ev’ry time ’e goes out now,’ said Ruby, shaking her chestnut curls. ‘Ah don’t know if ah’m comin’ o’ goin’ some nights when ’e dunt come ’ome.’

  ‘I see,’ said Vera, closing the heavy metal drawer of the filing cabinet.

  ‘It’s still that mature woman from t’shoe shop in Easington. ’E dunt think o’ nowt else these days – she’s a reight extraction. ’E’s even tekken down ’is poster o’ that blonde lass in Abba ’cause ’e sez ’e dunt want t’be unfaithful.’

  Vera sat down behind her desk and looked up at her dear and obviously very troubled friend. ‘Well, he is twenty-eight years old now, Ruby,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Problem is she’s forty-summat – an’ she’s ’ad more men than ah’ve ’ad ’ot dinners.’

  ‘Perhaps he will be able to work this out for himself.’

  ‘Ah won’t be ’oldin’ m’breath, Mrs F,’ said Ruby forlornly.

  As she left the office, she paused by the door. ‘An’ she’s allus done up like a dog’s dinner,’ she added for good measure. As Vera returned to her work she reflected that on occasions friendship is a stony pathway.

  After school I worked on a school maintenance document in preparation for the next governors’ meeting. The school slowly fell silent and by seven o’ clock I was ready for some hot food and a little companionship. The bright orange lights of The Royal Oak were a welcome sight on this cold November night.

  Old Tommy Piercy was sitting on his usual stool by the bar when I walked in. He was clearly upset after reading the front page of his Yorkshire Post. ‘It’ll never be t’same again,’ he said mournfully. The headline read ‘Boycott Out After 21 Years With Yorkshire’. Old Tommy’s beloved Yorkshire Cricket Club had finished bottom of the county cricket championship for the first time. The forty-three-year-old Geoffrey Boycott had departed and the youthful thirty-two-year-old David Bairstow had been named to succeed Raymond Illingworth as the club captain.

  ‘Evening, young Mr Sheffield,’ said Old Tommy. ‘Poor do is this abart Sir Geoffrey.’ As far as Old Tommy was concerned, Geoffrey Boycott should have received a knighthood long ago.

  ‘I agree, Mr Piercy,’ I said.

  ‘What’s it t’be, Mr Sheffield?’ asked Don the barman.

  ‘A pint of Chestnut and …’ I glanced at the menu board, ‘something hot, please.’

  ‘Sounds like y’wouldn’t go far wrong wi’ Duggie’s girlfriend,’ said Don with a deep chuckle.

  ‘Be’ave y’self,’ said Sheila, swatting him with a tea towel. ‘Tek no notice of ’im, Mr Sheffield.’

  I found a table within earshot of the tap-room conversation and settled to enjoy a welcome drink, the warmth of this friendly pub, a plate of lamb casserole and, of course, the lively banter.

  ‘’E puts it abart a bit, does our Duggie,’ said Ronnie Smith. ‘’E’s still ’avin’ it away wi’ that mature woman from Easington.’

  ‘Mature?’ chorused Big Dave and Little Malcolm.

  ‘Well, let’s put it this way,’ said Ronnie, ‘she won’t see forty again.’

  ‘Mind you, ah expec’ she knows what she’s abart in t’bedroom department, if y’get m’meaning,’ said Don knowingly.

  Ronnie pondered this for a moment. ‘’Spec’ so,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Women over forty do – well, so ah’ve ’eard.’

  ‘Ah’m not so sure,’ said Little Malcolm. Dorothy was only twenty-six and what she didn’t know about the ‘bedroom department’ wasn’t worth knowing.

  ‘Ah, but remember this, young Malcolm,’ said Old Tommy. ‘T’early bird allus gets t’worm,’ he paused and puffed on his briar pipe, ‘… but it’s t’second mouse what gets t’cheese.’

  Like most things in life, this went above Little Malcolm’s head.

  Then Old Tommy looked sternly at Duggie Smith. ‘Tek my advice, young Douglas,’ said Old Tommy, ‘y’want t’stay a bachelor.’

  ‘’Ow come, Mr Piercy?’ asked Duggie.

  Old Tommy waited a moment for the hubbub around him to cease. The football team all put down their pint pots to await his words of wisdom. ‘Well, if y’think on it,’ said Old Tommy, ‘a bachelor never makes t’same mistake once.’

  It was during the raucous laughter that Derek ‘Deke’ Ramsbottom, local farmhand and occasional snowplough driver, came in with two of his sons, Shane and Clint. As usual, Deke was wearing a cowboy hat, checked shirt, a knotted neckerchief, leather waistcoat complete with sheriff’s badge, blue jeans and cowboy boots. Shane was a skinhead psychopath with the letters H-A-R-D tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand and his muscles bulged under his favourite Sex Pistols T-shirt. Meanwhile, his younger brother Clint looked like a cross between Boy George and an extra from Mutiny on the Bounty.

  ‘’Ow come y’dressed like that?’ asked Sheila.

  ‘Well, ah’m a sort o’ pirate an’ a plunderer,’ said Clint, looking down in admiration at his baggy shirt.

  ‘Ah see,’ said Sheila, unconvinced. She remembered Clint stealing apples from the major’s fruit trees when he was a boy, but there hadn’t been much plundering since then. ‘So that’s why y’dress like Captain ’Ook, is it?’

  ‘Well, we’ve moved on a bit since Sid Vicious an’ Adam Ant,’ he replied, pleased that Sheila was showing interest.

  ‘’Ow d’you mean, Clint?’ asked Sheila.

  ‘It’s New Wave, Sheila,’ said Clint. ‘It’s cuttin’ edge o’fashion,’ and he wandered off to watch the television above the bar.

  ‘Ah don’t know where ’e gets it from,’ said Deke, supping deeply on his tankard of Tetley’s. ‘Mus’ be on ’is mother’s side,’ he added as a reassuring afterthought.

  ‘Y’reight there, Deke,’ said Big Dave. ‘’S’not nat’ral, a bloke wi’ an earring.’

  ‘An’ black eyeliner,’ added Little Malcolm for good measure.

  They looked Clint up and down, staring curiously at his black jeans, which sported a variety of zips for no apparent reason.

  ‘’E’s a big Mary-Ellen is our Clint,’ said Deke sadly. ‘Allus ’as been.’

  ‘Mus’ be a worry, Deke,’ sympathized Don.

  Deke settled on a bar stool, polished his sheriff’s badge reflectively and leaned over towards Don. ‘Between you an’ me, Don, ah’m gettin’ a bit worried abart ’im,’ he confided.

  ‘’Ow d’you mean?’ asked Don, pausing in wiping a glass tankard with his York City tea towel.

  ‘Well ’e’s not ’xactly what y’d call, y’know … normal.’

  ‘Y’don’t mean …?’

  ‘Ah do.’

  Don mouthed the words rather than actually saying them: ‘Y’mean ’e
might be … one o’ them?’

  Deke sighed and nodded. ‘’E’s allus been a bit light across t’carpet, ’as our Clint.’

  ‘Hmmn, mebbe so, Deke, mebbe so,’ mused Don.

  Sheila looked up from pulling my pint of Chestnut mild. ‘Well, ah won’t ’ear nowt against young Clint,’ she said with feeling. ‘’E’s a lovely lad an’ ’e teks a pride in ’is ’ppearance and ’e allus smells nice.’

  ‘A bit too nice, Sheila,’ replied Deke.

  Clint, unaware that he was the centre of attention, had concerns of his own. He was becoming increasingly anxious about the dangers of smoking. In the doctor’s surgery he had read that it could cause cancer and he definitely didn’t fancy that. To calm his nerves, he lit up a John Player King Size Extra Mild cigarette, took a contented puff and relaxed back in his seat.

  ‘By ’eck,’ he said, ‘ah needed that.’

  Shane flexed his neck muscles at the bar and stared at his younger brother in dismay. ‘’E’s a reight nancy boy is our Clint, what wi’ ’is poncy shirts an’ coloured ’air,’ he said.

  ‘An’ an earring,’ added Don once again.

  ‘An’ eyeliner,’ repeated Little Malcolm.

  ‘’E’s as camp as a row o’ tents,’ said Big Dave with emphasis.

  ‘Y’spot on there,’ said Shane, ‘but e’s m’brother an’ ah won’t ’ave nowt said against t’little nancy-boy poofter.’

  ‘Well said, Shane,’ said Deke.

  ‘’Ere, ’ere,’ said Don.

  ‘Yer ’ave t’stan’ by yer family,’ agreed Big Dave.

  ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm.

  Clint finished his drink and came to join them. ‘Ah’m off int’York,’ he said cheerfully, ‘t’meet a mate. ’’E said they’ve got one o’ them new video juke-boxes. It’s reight modern.’

  ‘Sounds more like bloody Star Trek,’ shouted Don as Clint hurried out.

  ‘What’ll they think of nex’?’ grumbled Deke.

  ‘An’ ah wonder what ’is mate’s like,’ said Shane.

  ‘Yes … ah wonder,’ murmured Deke, and they all nodded knowingly.

  On Sunday morning Walter Clarence Crapper, an accountant from Easington, was Turtle Waxing his 1977 Toyota Corolla Estate while glancing anxiously at the scudding clouds. He returned his chamois leather to the exact place in his box of cleaning materials, cleared up and went inside. It was time to set off to Pratt’s Hardware Emporium to meet his friend Timothy.

  In his mid-forties, Walter was the younger brother of Ernest Crapper, the Ragley encyclopaedia salesman, and his hobby was making model aircraft. Thanks to Timothy, Walter had recently enjoyed a Eureka moment – he had discovered how to make perfect dummy rivets.

  He was approaching the end of a two-year project to build a one-sixth scale model of a United States Army Air Force World War II aerobatic training aircraft – a Fairchild PT-19 Cornell. With a wingspan of seventy inches it was Walter’s greatest creation so far. The problem was how to apply the finishing touches and attach tiny artificial rivets to the smooth body.

  It was then that Timothy came up with the idea of using some of the minute dome-shaped sequins from his late mother’s Victorian sewing box. At a fifth of an inch in diameter and with a small central hole, they were perfect.

  So it was that on this quiet Sunday morning Walter and Timothy were sitting at Timothy’s kitchen table, each holding a delicate artist’s brush and painting sequins with bright yellow fuel-proof paint. Each rivet was then left to dry on an upturned jam-jar lid.

  ‘How many more, Walter?’ asked Timothy enthusiastically. He was enjoying himself. The work required immense attention to detail, which, of course, was right up Timothy’s street.

  ‘One hundred and eight please, Timothy,’ answered Walter without raising his head, ‘plus twelve dark blue ones for the rear end of the fuselage.’

  Timothy smiled at his trusted friend. Walter was always so precise, and precision was one of the cornerstones of Timothy’s organized life.

  When they had finished they enjoyed a cup of tea together.

  ‘It’s been a wonderful day, Walter,’ said Timothy.

  There was silence between them as Walter came to a decision and looked inside his leather satchel. ‘I’ve bought you a present, Timothy,’ he said. He took out a small attractive carrier bag with the words ‘Browns Department Store’ on the side.

  Timothy was almost too excited to speak. ‘Th-thank you, Walter,’ he said. However, when he looked inside he really was speechless. It was a pair of socks.

  ‘Do you like them, Timothy?’ asked Walter eagerly.

  Timothy took a deep breath. ‘Yes, thank you, Walter. They’re, er, perfect.’

  Walter gave a sigh of relief. ‘I guessed the size,’ he said.

  ‘Well, y’know what they say, Walter,’ said Timothy.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Walter.

  ‘A friend in need …’ said Timothy.

  ‘Is a friend indeed,’ said Walter.

  Then, very slowly, Timothy rested his hand on top of Walter’s … and Walter let him leave it there.

  That night, when the villagers of Ragley were sleeping and all was quiet, one light shone brightly from above Pratt’s Hardware Emporium. Timothy had walked thoughtfully up the stairs, taking care as always to step evenly up the left-hand side of each carpet tread. When he came down he would reverse the process on the other side. Even wear of his stair carpet would thus be achieved and the equilibrium of Timothy’s well-ordered life would be maintained.

  Once in his bedroom he opened his sock drawer. There they were, neatly in line as always – black, blue and grey, familiar and comforting. He knew it would take an effort of will, but with the utmost concentration he pushed the blue socks nearer to the black ones and the grey ones a little more to the left. Then he placed his new pair of socks in the space that remained and stood back to admire the new configuration. It was a strange feeling, one he couldn’t recall experiencing before, a sort of a cross between an optical migraine and a hot flush. Then a thought occurred to him. Perhaps this was what it felt like to fall in love.

  Timothy looked one last time at his sock drawer before he turned out the light. He had socks for all seasons, but when would he wear the new ones?

  And then he understood … friendship came at a price.

  Chapter Six

  Sewing for Boys

  Our Activities afternoon was reintroduced to the weekly timetable with the support of parents and friends of school.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Tuesday, 22 November 1983

  TERRY EARNSHAW LOVED being a boy. Life was one long sequence of adventures. Yesterday he was a pirate and today he was a secret agent. It was Tuesday, 22 November and the harsh frosts and smoking chimneys of Ragley village heralded the coming of winter. However, the freezing weather did not deter this intrepid son of Barnsley as a new day stretched out before him.

  After saying goodbye to his mother and little sister, Dallas Sue-Ellen, he walked with his brother Heathcliffe to the bus stop in the High Street. The two boys had chosen their usual circuitous route alongside the muddy ditch at the back of the council estate. They had balanced on a fallen tree, tracked imaginary wild animals, made a grass trumpet and skimmed flat stones on the village pond before being shouted at by Sheila Bradshaw from her bedroom window above The Royal Oak.

  Finally the brothers had parted and Heathcliffe boarded the bus to Easington Comprehensive School. Terry waved goodbye, then sought out a favourite vantage point by clambering up the lower branches of the weeping willow tree on the village green. From there he could look out for mysterious strangers and the occasional foreign spy. He was completely undeterred when Ted Postlethwaite, the village postman, told him to get down before he fell in the pond and became duck food.

  Terry waved back to Ted in acknowledgement. He liked the village postman and thought it was a job he might do when he grew up; so he added it to his current list, which
included professional footballer, butcher, shepherd, strawberry-picker, cowboy and Arctic explorer. Terry had also recently discovered, following a conversation with the knowledgeable and articulate Victoria Alice Dudley-Palmer, that boys didn’t have babies and, in that moment, he knew that in the game of life he had shaken a six. Fortune had smiled on him and exciting times lay ahead.

  Being a boy was, well … just perfect.

  Meanwhile, at the other end of the High Street I had reached the front of the queue in the General Stores & Newsagent. ‘Good morning, Miss Golightly.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ said Prudence, ‘and here’s your newspaper.’ She moved on to the highest wooden step behind the counter to be on the same level as me. The diminutive sixty-five-year-old shopkeeper was a sprightly lady.

  ‘Sad news I’m afraid, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Some dreadful person has vandalized the Blue Peter garden. What’s the world coming to?’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said.

  I glanced at the front page. It looked as if someone was trying to rule the world. A fifty-two-year-old Australian by the name of Rupert Murdoch, owner of the Sun and News of the World newspapers, had just bought one of America’s largest newspapers for a small fortune. I shook my head in disbelief and then remembered my manners. ‘And a very good morning to you too, Jeremy,’ I said.

  Miss Golightly had lost the love of her life in 1940 when her fiancé Jeremy, a young fighter pilot, had been killed in the Battle of Britain. Since then she had named her teddy bear after him and he had become her lifelong friend. Today he was wearing a hand-knitted scarf and a bobble hat, a thick Aran sweater, cord trousers and brown leather boots.