A long silence followed.
Finally, Terry raised his head from the pillow and whispered, ‘So … y’not gonna be a modern man then.’
‘No,’ said Heathcliffe, ‘ah’m gonna be like Dad – a bloody dinosaur.’
Chapter Seven
Broken Blossoms
Mrs Pringle invited a visiting speaker into assembly as part of her Senses project. Miss Lillian De Vere spoke to the children about the work of the Royal National Institute of Blind People (RNIB). Class 1 began rehearsals for their Nativity play.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 9 December 1983
THERE ARE DAYS that stay long in the memory. Friday, 9 December 1983 was such a day. It was the time I met Lillian De Vere and she was a very special lady.
The early morning had begun as usual, with Beth and me sitting at our old pine table in the kitchen. John was strapped into his baby seat while Beth spooned food into his mouth and I sipped black tea while scribbling a memo for the day ahead. At four and a half months old our son was growing fast and he smiled cheerily, showing off his first two teeth, as the mushy mixture dribbled down his chin.
It was snug and warm in the cottage, while outside on the far hillside the dense forests had lost their colour and skeletal leaves formed dank piles of leaf mould round the gnarled trunks. Beth was the constant in my life, and now, with the arrival of baby John, we had become a family. It had been a journey I would never forget.
‘I think we made the right decision, Beth,’ I said.
She looked up at me and smiled – but it was a tired smile. Looking after John was hard work and there was no respite.
‘You mean staying at home?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and John’s getting the best possible care.’
She refastened the elastic bobble that held back her hair. ‘But I shall want to get back to my headship next September, Jack, and then we really do need to rethink our careers.’ This was becoming a recurring theme.
For my part I simply wanted to be true to myself. ‘I love being a village school teacher, Beth, and I’m not sure I want to be the head of a large school.’
‘Just keep an open mind,’ she said quietly.
I sighed. ‘I’d miss the teaching, Beth – that’s what I’m good at. I don’t really see myself as a manager, like you or Vera.’
‘I understand, Jack,’ and she looked at me with the hint of concern in her green eyes. ‘But there’s a bigger picture to think of – and we have John now.’
I looked at the clock and could feel irritation building. ‘Sorry, I have to go. I offered to help Sally get the hall ready for assembly.’ Beth nodded knowingly and turned her attention back to our son and his growing appetite. I walked into the hallway and put on my duffel coat and scarf. ‘I promise we’ll talk about this tonight. It’s the carol concert at the Hartford Home after school so I should be home around seven.’
‘Try not to be later, Jack – you’re babysitting tonight,’ Beth called after me as she scraped the food from John’s bib with a plastic spoon. ‘It’s Jo’s girls’ night in York.’
I had forgotten that Anne and Sally had planned a farewell party for Jo Hunter to include female staff and a few girlfriends. ‘Where are you going?’ I asked, looking back round the door.
‘We’ve booked a room in the Dean Court. Very upmarket – and private,’ she added with a mischievous grin.
‘Sounds a good evening,’ I said.
Beth picked up John and we stood by the door as I kissed them both on the cheek. ‘Have a good day,’ she said.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t be late,’ and I opened the door and hurried out into a frozen world and the silence of snow.
Beth called after me, ‘Oh, and by the way – Laura’s coming.’
And suddenly my mind was elsewhere.
Three miles away on the Crescent in Ragley village, twelve-year-old Heathcliffe Earnshaw was delivering the morning papers. He paused in the lighted porch outside Barry Ollerenshaw’s house, breathed on his frozen hands and from his bulky bag took out a copy of the Beano. It was rare for him to have twelve pence to purchase his second-favourite comic, so this was a great opportunity to catch up on the latest exploits of Dennis the Menace and Gnasher on the front page. He smiled as he read. Being a paper boy had its advantages, particularly if, like this son of Barnsley in South Yorkshire, you didn’t feel the cold. He pushed a Daily Mail and the comic through the letter-box and strode on.
A fresh snowfall settled on Heathcliffe’s hand-knitted balaclava as he paused under a street lamp and took out Frankie Kershaw’s Eagle comic. This was his favourite comic of all time, but at twenty-two pence it was way out of his reach and, in any case, he was saving up to buy his mother a Christmas present. He had seen a pendant on a chain on Shady Stevo’s market stall that Stevo had said was twenty-four-carat gold and a bargain at ninety-nine pence. Meanwhile, his brow furrowed as he read the front page. Dan Dare, Pilot of the Future, was clearly having problems in an alien space camp.
The church clock struck half past seven and Heathcliffe hurried back to the General Stores with his empty bag. On the way he waved a cheery greeting to the other early birds – namely the milkmen Ernie and Rodney Morgetroyd, and the postman, Ted Postlethwaite. Then it was time for a quick breakfast before boarding the school bus to Easington Comprehensive. Little did he know it then, but for Heathcliffe getting up at the crack of dawn to go to work was to be the norm for the next thirty years.
As I drove up the High Street, winter had gripped Ragley in its cold fist and a bitter sleet rattled against my windscreen. The villagers stooped like a group of matchstick millworkers from an L. S. Lowry painting as they bowed into the cutting wind and hurried towards the General Stores to buy a bag of logs for the fire or vegetables for a warming soup. Above their heads, the clouds were ripped like tattered rags as they raced across a steel-grey sky.
When I got out of my car and hurried across the playground Ruby was pegging down our rickety school bird table with makeshift guy ropes of orange baling twine to prevent it from blowing over. As she raised a heavy wooden mallet to drive in a tent peg, apparently oblivious to the sub-zero world around her, she smiled up at me. ‘Posh lady jus’ arrived, Mr Sheffield, wi’ a little feller ’elpin’ ’er.’
I glanced over my shoulder. On the driveway, parents and children emerged like wraiths from the darkness towards the lights of the entrance porch and the welcome warmth within. ‘Thanks, Ruby,’ I yelled, but my voice was lost in the wind.
Sally was hurrying through the entrance hall when I walked in. ‘Just getting another table for assembly, Jack,’ she said. ‘The speaker, Miss De Vere, is here and she’s got a huge box of artefacts for her talk.’
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ I said and hung up my duffel coat and scarf in the office. The children in Sally’s class were doing a project on ‘The Senses’ and this morning was to be an exciting addition to their practical work, with follow-up research, discussion and writing.
We carried the heavy pine table from the entrance area into the school hall, where a small, frail-looking, grey-haired lady was standing behind one of the dining tables and arranging a variety of interesting objects. She turned to an equally elderly man standing alongside, then picked up a ball and shook the bell inside.
‘John,’ she said confidently, ‘let’s put the Braille books on the extra table and I’ll use this one for everything else.’ She began to arrange her collection in neat order from left to right, including something that looked like a doorbell and a set of Braille salt and pepper shakers.
‘Miss De Vere,’ said Sally, ‘this is the headteacher, Mr Sheffield.’ We put the table down in front of them and Miss De Vere looked up and gave me a friendly smile, extending a delicate hand. We shook hands and I turned to the gentleman beside her, who appeared a little lost and was holding a stack of large manuscripts, each page punched in raised dots. He seemed to be looking over my shoulder. He was wearing a badge with the letters
RNIB and I presumed he was blind or partially sighted.
‘Jack,’ continued Sally, ‘this is John, Miss De Vere’s colleague from the RNIB.’
I took his hand to shake it.
Vera suddenly appeared at the double doors that led back into the entrance hall. ‘Telephone, Mr Sheffield,’ she called. ‘Miss Barrington-Huntley.’
‘Please excuse me, I’ll see you later – and thanks for coming, it will be a wonderful experience for the children.’ I hurried off. Our chair of the Education Committee at County Hall didn’t like to be kept waiting.
When I took my class into morning assembly Sally had arranged the children so that they were seated on three sides of the hall with a performance space in the middle. Miss De Vere was standing behind a table at the front with her colleague sitting beside her.
Sally gave a confident introduction. ‘We have five senses, girls and boys. Who can tell me what they are?’ Hands shot up everywhere and she pointed to six-year-old Rufus Snodgrass.
‘Hearing, Miss, when y’list’ning t’things,’ said Rufus confidently.
‘Well done, Rufus,’ said Sally. ‘And another one?’
Eight-year-old Dawn Phillips raised her hand hesitantly. Dawn was a quiet girl and the daughter of the chairman of the PTA. ‘Touch, Miss,’ and she wiggled her fingers in the air as if to demonstrate.
‘Excellent, Dawn,’ said Sally and the tall fair-haired girl flushed with pride. ‘That’s two. Who can give me another one?’ She pointed to eight-year-old Ryan Halfpenny, who was about to internally combust with the effort of not shouting out his answer.
‘Smell, Miss,’ said Ryan, ‘like flowers an’ chocolate an’ that stuff they put on roads.’
‘And what do we call that?’ followed up Sally, looking at Terry Earnshaw, our building materials expert.
‘Bitumen,’ said Terry confidently. ‘An’ ah know another, Miss.’
‘Go on.’
‘Tasting things, like sweets – an’ Mrs Mapplebeck’s cabbage,’ said Terry with feeling.
Sally wisely didn’t pursue the cabbage theme and moved on. ‘And one more – a very important sense and the one we shall be talking about this morning.’
Ten-year-old Victoria Alice Dudley-Palmer was waiting patiently, her hand raised in the air.
‘Victoria Alice?’ said Sally.
‘Sight, Miss,’ said Victoria Alice, ‘and I know what RNIB stands for on the poster.’
‘And what’s that?’ asked Sally.
‘The Royal National Institute of Blind People,’ said Victoria Alice clearly and I saw Miss De Vere smile and nod in appreciation.
‘That’s right, well done,’ said Sally. ‘So please give a warm welcome to our speaker this morning – Miss De Vere.’
After the applause the confident Miss De Vere spoke clearly. ‘Good morning, boys and girls,’ she said, ‘it’s exciting to be here in your lovely school. My name is Lillian De Vere. I am seventy years old … and I am blind.’
There was silence.
‘There are more than one million people in the country who have suffered from sight loss,’ she said. The cadence of her words flowed like a gentle stream, soft and clear in harmonic resolution. ‘I am one of those people, boys and girls … I am blind.’ You could have heard a pin drop. I suddenly realized I had made a wrong assumption. When this elegant lady was arranging the artefacts in front of her with absolute confidence I assumed she could see. I was wrong. ‘This is why my friend John is with me,’ explained Miss De Vere. ‘He can see just like you and he helps me to get around. So I’m a very lucky lady and I have had a wonderful life.’
The assembly was superb. Miss De Vere spoke eloquently to the children and demonstrated a clever device that alerted you to bring your washing in off the line if it started raining. There were games that fascinated the children, including dominoes and a large Braille dice. Then John blindfolded lots of willing volunteers and rolled a ball towards them with a ringing bell inside. Miss De Vere finished with the story of The Selfish Giant from a Braille book and we all watched in amazement as her fingers interpreted the sequences of raised dots that she explained had been invented by Louis Braille almost two hundred years ago. The children were full of questions and Miss De Vere was thrilled with the response.
At the end she said, ‘I shall be hearing some of you after school today as I live at the Hartford Home and I know Mrs Pringle is bringing her choir to sing for us.’
At morning break she took her leave and John guided her to the car park, although it seemed she could have managed it herself. The children lined the path and waved goodbye and I wondered if she knew … I guessed she did. Back in class the children wrote about their experiences of the morning as I reflected on my life and how lucky I was.
At lunchtime, when I walked into the staff-room, Joseph Evans had arrived and was in animated conversation with Anne. The previous day he had attended an ecclesiastical conference in York. ‘It was a wonderful event,’ he said enthusiastically.
‘What was the conference?’ I asked.
Joseph rummaged in his pocket and pulled out the programme for the day. Above a photograph of Canon Henry Fodder was the bold title ‘The Prayer and Fasting Annual Conference’.
‘Yes,’ said Joseph with a shy smile, ‘it was very lively.’
‘So what did you do?’ asked Anne.
Joseph made that familiar steeple of fingers as if he were about to pray. ‘Well, we prayed a lot and discussed the importance of fasting – and of course we always get a lovely lunch.’
Anne gave me that familiar wide-eyed smile and hurried off to her classroom.
Following Joseph’s lesson with Jo’s class about the birth of Jesus he returned to the staff-room with a collection of children’s writing. Everybody was busy with preparing end-of-term reports and the beginning of the run-up to Christmas, but we all found time to share some of the children’s responses.
Seven-year-old Stacey Bryant had written, ‘Jesus was born in Bethlehem which is a long way from Ragley.’ Jemima Poole was almost correct in her understanding of the gifts to baby Jesus: ‘I’m glad one of the kings gave Jesus some Franky Scent because I like perfume.’ Meanwhile, Ted Coggins had his own opinion: ‘It’s a shame the kings didn’t give Jesus a tin of biscuits or a Wagon Wheel. I get a Wagon Wheel at Christmas if I’m good and eat all my horrible sprouts.’
During afternoon school the rehearsal for our forthcoming Christmas Carol Service was going well. After school Sally had arranged a trial run at the local Hartford Home for Retired Gentlefolk, which was an annual treat for the residents. Parents had completed a reply slip saying they would bring the children in her choir and makeshift orchestra to the venue at five o’clock and collect them an hour later.
In the school hall Sally propped her Carol, Gaily Carol Christmas songbook on a music stand and selected number 9, ‘Baby Jesus, Sleeping Softly’. As I tiptoed across the floor she began to strum gently on her guitar while the children sang:
Baby Jesus, sleeping softly
On the warm and fragrant hay,
Children all the wide world over
Think of you on Christmas Day.
The choir was accompanied by an enthusiastic orchestra that included treble and tenor recorders, Indian bells, castanets, a tambourine and triangles. Seven-year-old Rosie Sparrow, who possessed a perfect sense of rhythm, had been given the responsibility of playing chime bar F on the first beat of each of the four bars. It sounded wonderful and I marvelled at how Sally, year after year, managed to take a disparate group of children from all walks of life and transform them into a coherent and unified whole. This was followed by Anne guiding her children, with the patience of a saint, through a first rehearsal of their Nativity play. For the parents this was a highlight of their year and expectations were always high.
Towards the end of the day, when I walked into the school office, Vera was taking yet another obtuse telephone call from an anxious parent.
‘Did you say a leo
pard, Mrs Crapper?’ said Vera. ‘No, I can assure you that Patience does not require a leopard costume for the Christmas play.’
There was a prolonged silence during which Vera adopted her Mother Teresa pose. ‘Yes, I agree there isn’t a leopard in the Christmas story.’
More mumblings from Mrs Crapper followed.
‘No, it’s actually a shepherd costume, Mrs Crapper.’
A happy resolution had been achieved.
‘Yes, I’m sure you are relieved,’ agreed Vera calmly.
Vera replaced the receiver and looked up at me. ‘Don’t ask, Mr Sheffield.’
Finally school came to a close. It was the time of the fading of the day and a cold December mist swirled over the High Street and the smoking chimneys. In the distance, over the purple bulk of the Hambleton hills, the setting sun glittered like beaten bronze.
I decided to call in to Prudence Golightly’s General Stores. After the concert I had a quiet night ahead of me, at least I hoped so, and it was an opportunity to write a few Christmas cards. With winter coming on Vera had decided to buy a bottle of Sanatogen tonic wine and was standing at the counter ahead of me. She also purchased a large tin of Whiskas for thirty-three pence and a bottle of Robinsons Orange Barley Water for fifty-nine pence.
‘Good luck this evening, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be with you. Rupert and I have to go to Pickering.’
I bought a pack of twenty-five Christmas cards for ninety-nine pence and walked up the High Street for a welcome hot drink in Nora’s Coffee Shop. As I walked in Dorothy Humpleby was filing her nails behind the counter and singing along to Billy Joel’s ‘Uptown Girl’. I ordered a coffee, sat by the window, watched the world go by and listened to Dorothy and Nora chatting in their usual inimitable way.
Breaking off from frying eight thick rashers of bacon for two of her special Belly Buster Bacon Butties, Nora picked up her latest copy of Woman’s Weekly from under the counter, flicked through the pages and hurried over to Dorothy.
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