Two seventeen-year-olds, Claire Bradshaw and Anita Cuthbertson, were sitting at the table next to the jukebox singing along to Cindi Lauper’s ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun’. Claire and Anita had been in my class when I first arrived in Ragley. ‘’Ello, Sir,’ they shouted in unison. Claire had her Chegger’s Jogger headphone radio hanging round her neck. Anita had spent sixteen pence on a Jackie magazine and they were drooling over a picture of Wham! on the front cover after reading articles on Tears for Fears and Boy George.
I had just sat down with my coffee and a bacon sandwich at a table by the window when Little Malcolm walked in to spend a couple of minutes with the woman of his dreams while Big Dave called into the chemist.
‘Malcolm,’ said Dorothy in a loud voice, ‘does my stomach look flatter when ah’m lying on m’back?’
Little Malcolm looked round, hoping no one could overhear this conversation and also wondering where it was heading. ‘Yer allus look slim an’ beautiful t’me, Dorothy.’ Malcolm might be a vertically challenged refuse collector but he had learned a lot about female psychology during his time with Dorothy and he nodded in a self-congratulatory way.
‘Well ah’m not sure it does, Malcolm,’ said Dorothy.
‘Y’reight there, Dorothy,’ agreed Little Malcolm hurriedly. Dorothy frowned at him and Little Malcolm fleetingly considered that maybe his intuitive empathy for female psychology wasn’t quite what he had imagined it was.
‘What d’you mean, ah’m right?’ demanded Dorothy.
‘Well, ah think y’beautiful,’ said Little Malcolm, resorting to a previously successful strategy.
Dorothy frowned again at Little Malcolm, only partially forgiving. Meanwhile, Nora, eager to get involved, left the task of arranging a plateful of two-day-old meringues and picked up Dorothy’s magazine. ‘“Have a body like Victowia Pwincipal for only twenty-five pence,”’ she read. ‘“Get into shape. Feel and look gweat.”’
‘You ’ave t’send a postal order t’Newton Abbot in Devon,’ said Dorothy. ‘What d’you think, Nora?’
‘That Victowia Pwincipal is weally beautiful,’ said Nora, ‘an’ it says it’s a wevolutionawy new pwogwamme so it mus’ be good.’
Dorothy turned the article round so Little Malcolm got a perfect view of the television star’s shapely curves. ‘An’ it sez ’ere,’ said Dorothy, ‘that it’s isometric.’
Malcolm shook his head. ‘Me an’ Dave don’t use metric,’ he said, ‘jus’ feet an’ inches – an’ furlongs an’ miles, o’ course, when w’go t’York races.’
Dorothy gave Malcolm her well he’s only a man look and turned away to slice a crusty loaf.
Further down the High Street in Prudence Golightly’s General Stores a topical conversation was taking place. ‘Prudence,’ said Freda Fazackerly in her usual no-nonsense manner, ‘will y’be taking the ’alfpence off t’price of a loaf or roundin’ it up?’
The Times had announced, ‘Britain’s least loved currency, the halfpence has now left the nation’s purses after thirteen years of unpopularity,’ and added that the Conservative MP Anthony Beaumont-Dark considered that most people didn’t even pick them up when they dropped them! However, this wasn’t the case in Ragley village, particularly for pensioners or anyone on a small budget, when even a halfpence counted.
‘Well, it depends on the price I have to buy it,’ said Prudence after consideration, ‘but I’ll always do my best to keep prices down whenever I can.’
‘Ah bet they’ll put price of a second-class stamp up,’ said Margery Ackroyd. ‘It’s twelve and a half pence now. Pound to a penny it’ll be thirteen pence in no time.’
There were grumblings further down the queue. ‘Ah pay thirty-seven and a half pence f’me dog licence,’ said Betty Buttle. ‘Ah bet that’ll go up as well.’
Amelia Duff made no complaint. When the shop had emptied, for the first time in her life she purchased a Valentine’s card. Then she took it home, propped it on the mantelpiece behind her Women’s Institute Potato Champion trophy and realized she had a week to consider how to post it to a postman.
The dance was a great success. Beth and I left careful instructions for Natasha Smith, our babysitter, but she was clearly very capable after helping to bring up her little sister Hazel. I had finally decided upon an unadventurous checked shirt and jeans, while Beth looked stunning in a Doris Day outfit.
Little Malcolm looked the part in his drainpipe trousers, brocade waistcoat, bootlace tie and brothel-creeper shoes and spent most of the evening with his face pressed between Dorothy’s breasts, swaying to Pat Boone records. Dave didn’t like dressing up, so he wore one of his old suits and, as his fiancée Nellie was visiting her mother in Barnsley, he sat with Deke Ramsbottom, who had also arrived in his normal everyday clothes. Even so, as he looked like a cross between Roy Rogers and an extra from Wagon Train, he blended in well.
Clint Ramsbottom’s Disco Experience comprised three coloured light bulbs and a scratchy record deck, but as he was working for nothing we couldn’t complain. He played lots of Buddy Holly classics, including ‘That’ll Be the Day’, ‘Oh, Boy!’ and ‘True Love Ways’, and everybody danced. Laura had come in a slinky Brigitte Bardot outfit and had immediately attracted the attention of Tom Dalton, dressed as a teenage rocker. They danced together briefly and, for the first time, Laura seemed to take an interest.
Later in the evening, Troy Phoenix sang a few songs minus his two Whalers, who had to work overtime at the bakery in York. When, much to everyone’s relief, he finally took a break, he tried hard to impress Claire Bradshaw and Anita Cuthbertson. The five-foot-two-inch fishmonger, known locally as Norman Barraclough, told them, ‘Ah were so good lookin’ ah ’ad t’tek ugly tablets.’ However, they remained unimpressed, not least because after driving his little white fish van all day he stank of Whitby cod.
‘They’re giving a free rock bun with every frothy coffee,’ said Claire, in the hope of a free drink. Unfortunately, as Troy was only receiving the price of a fish supper for his efforts, it fell on deaf ears.
I tried to have a word with everyone who had supported the event and met up with Old Tommy Piercy. He nodded towards Vera and Ruby, who were together on the other side of the hall. ‘Don’t you fret about Ruby, young Mr Sheffield,’ he said. ‘That’s t’way o’ things. Bairns are born, old uns die an’ life goes on. Ruby’ll be fine. It’s time f’grievin’, but one day sun’ll rise an’ she’ll smile again, you mark my words.’
Meanwhile, the bring-and-buy stall was creating considerable interest. Not for sale but on display was Prudence Golightly’s ration book and her 1953 Coronation scrap album. However, considerable bartering was going on between the stall-holder, Sue Phillips, and her customers.
John Grainger, for a reason beyond Anne’s comprehension, had bought an October 1957 edition of the new Practical Money Maker Magazine, originally priced at one shilling and threepence, for twenty-five pence. On the cover, much to Anne’s amusement, was a picture of an ecstatic father painting wooden toys, a not-quite-so-thrilled mother cutting up pieces of leather for a handbag, and a strange but perfectly coiffured little boy who must have spent every waking hour weaving baskets.
‘There’ll be some good ideas in here,’ said John, but basket-weaving was not Anne’s idea of renewing the spark in their marriage. She bought an old Horlicks poster but guessed the banner headline ‘Guards Against Night Starvation’ would be lost on John.
There was a brisk trade for the many artefacts, which included an empty tin of Lyons Green Label Tea, a Rupert Bear Annual, a collection of Eagle, Tiger, Bunty and Girl comics, a Philip Harben cookery set, a Magic Robot that always pointed to the right answers, a box of Dinky toys and an Emergency – Ward 10 nurse’s uniform. The lonely bachelor, Maurice Tupham, bought the Archie Andrews ventriloquist doll, presumably for company, while Timothy Pratt purchased a Dan Dare spaceship kit, apparently a working model and powered by a Jetex motor, for his dear friend Walter Crapper.
After the la
st dance, a smooch to ‘Raining in My Heart’, Beth went to help Anne, Sally and Vera to clear up. Laura was in conversation with Tom in the middle of the dance floor and then looked up and caught my eye. After a hurried farewell that left Tom looking a little crestfallen, she collected her long leather fur-lined coat and came over to me. ‘I’m going now, Jack,’ she said. She searched in her pocket and took out her car keys. ‘I’m parked on the High Street – will you walk me to my car?’
‘Of course,’ I said.
As we stepped out in the freezing darkness a monochrome world of grey ice stretched out before us and we walked in silence down the cobbled drive. Above us, over the vast plain of York, the clouds were a silver shroud in the moonlight. Laura was deep in thought and when we reached her car she stood there as still as her moon-shadow. Then, true to her quixotic character, she took my hand and looked up at the sky where the stars, like far-off fireflies, held steadfast in the firmament. ‘Do you ever wonder, Jack?’
‘Wonder?’
She turned to face me. ‘About how everything has worked out. You and me and Beth … a cosy solution.’
‘What do you mean?’
She squeezed my hand. ‘Jack, be the man you want to be – life is slipping away.’
‘Laura … I don’t understand.’
We stood there under the deep purple sky, two souls in a world of confusion. She stretched up and kissed me gently on the cheek. ‘You never did, Jack … you never did.’
‘I always thought of us as friends.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes, of course, what else would we be?’
‘What else would you like it to be, Jack?’ Her eyes shone in the moonlight.
‘Laura – I’m happily married … and I love Beth.’
‘I thought you loved me once.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes, and I loved you.’
There was silence. The full moon, like an oculus in the dark heavens, lit up the bare trees above us and cast sharp, ghostly shadows at our feet with an eerie light.
‘Your turn will come, Laura,’ I said. ‘The right man is out there waiting for you and you’ll know it when you meet him.’
‘Maybe I already have, Jack.’
I watched the lights of her car slowly fade as she drove down the High Street and back to York.
When I walked back up the drive I saw Nora Pratt standing alone, deep in thought. She appeared upset. ‘What’s the matter, Nora?’ I asked quietly.
‘Ah’m fine, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘don’t mind me. It were jus’ that “Waining in My ’aht” bwought back memowies of my Fwank.’
‘Frank?’
‘’E were my boyfwiend an’ ah loved ’im.’
‘And what happened, Nora?’
‘’E thought ’e loved someone else.’
I watched her walk away under a vast sky studded with sentinel stars and I reflected that life was complicated.
There were loose ends … and unfulfilled promises.
Chapter Thirteen
Dorothy’s Dirty Weekend
County Hall sent invitations for two members of staff to attend the weekend conference in the summer term at High Sutton Hall entitled ‘A Vision of the Curriculum’.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 2 March 1984
IT WAS EARLY Friday morning, 2 March, and in Nora’s Coffee Shop Queen’s ‘Radio Ga Ga’ was blasting out from the red and chrome juke-box.
‘Ah love that “Wadio Ga Ga”,’ said Nora, ‘’specially that Fweddie Me’cuwy,’ but Dorothy didn’t reply. Usually she would sing along and file her nails in time to the beat, but this morning was different. Her Smash Hits magazine lay unopened on the counter. It featured photos of Culture Club, Duran Duran, Michael Jackson, David Bowie, Billy Joel and The Police – but Dorothy’s mind was elsewhere. She had a book.
It was rare for Dorothy to be seen with a book and Nora looked up from scraping the residue of a cheese sandwich from the Breville toaster and peered myopically at the cover. Then she gave a gasp. The title read The Dirty Weekend Book and Nora hurried to the stool next to Dorothy to share in its delights. Soon they were reading the tips for young lovers.
‘Lots o’ ideas ’ere,’ said Dorothy as she began to read chapter one. ‘Ah wanted t’pick one an’ s’prise my Malcolm wi’ it.’
‘Sounds weally womantic, Dowothy,’ said Nora. ‘Wonder who wote it?’
Unknown to them, five women had collaborated to write a sexy hotel guide for a perfect dirty weekend. One of the authors, Charlotte Du Cann, niece of the Tory MP Edward Du Cann, said, ‘It’s not a smutty book and all the boyfriends we took knew they were taking part in the research.’ It was also reported that Mrs Pamela Nell, who ran the Highbullen Hotel in Chittlehamholt in Devon, after appearing in the guide, said, ‘Thirty years ago we would never have accepted an unmarried couple – but nowadays, who cares!’
‘Dunno, Nora,’ said Dorothy, ‘but ah thought a weekend away from Big Dave would do ’im good. Ah wanted it t’be diff’rent an’ exciting an’ it’d be a bit o’ private time, if y’get m’meanin.’
‘Oooh, ah do,’ said Nora, ‘an’ y’never know – ’e might pwopose.’
Three miles away, as I drove on the back road from Kirkby Steepleton to Ragley village, the heavy mist that had hung over the countryside slowly cleared and the distant Hambleton hills came into view.
The season was changing. The last of the snow had gone and early spring sunshine promised warmer times ahead. Snowdrops, aconites and crocuses brightened the new grass in the fields with a splash of colour and the sticky buds on the horse chestnut trees were cracking open. Soon new shoots of lime and ash would burst into life. Rooks cawed loudly in the elm-tops and the first primroses brightened Ragley village green. In the General Stores, Margery Ackroyd was telling a disbelieving Prudence Golightly that she had heard the first cuckoo. The days of winter were over. The dark days were behind us.
When I drove up the High Street the local refuse wagon was parked outside Nora’s Coffee Shop and Big Dave and Little Malcolm were hurrying in for a mug of tea and a hot buttered teacake before work. They waved a cheery greeting as my familiar Morris Minor Traveller trundled past.
Tom Dalton was in the school office with Anne and they were checking a list on a clipboard. Our new member of staff had settled in well. He was clearly a very good teacher and had begun to take on extra responsibility. Since Jo Hunter had left Tom had become our unofficial staff entertainment officer.
‘I’ve checked with the Odeon Cinema, Jack,’ he said ‘and we’ve got a block booking.’ A night out for staff and partners had been organized and we were going to see Educating Rita, starring Michael Caine and Julie Walters.
‘Thanks, Tom. Let me know if I can help with transport,’ I offered.
‘All sorted, Jack,’ he said with a smile.
Meanwhile, across the High Street in Nora’s Coffee Shop, Big Dave went to sit at his usual table while Little Malcolm approached the counter and looked up at the woman of his dreams.
Dorothy hid The Dirty Weekend Book under the counter. ‘’Ello, Malcolm,’ she said.
‘’Ow are you, Dorothy?’ he asked.
‘Well, Malcolm, ’ah’ve been thinking about this weekend,’ she said, recalling one of the tips in the book, ‘when Dave goes t’stay wi’ Nellie in York.’
‘We can ’ave the ’ouse to ourselves,’ said Malcolm hopefully.
‘Ah know, Malcolm – an’ ah’m gonna ’ave one o’ them posh baths wi’ bubbles an’ foam an’ all that,’ said Dorothy.
Little Malcolm’s eyes widened and he almost forgot to order two toasted teacakes with their teas. ‘It sounds reight wonderful, Dorothy.’
‘Ah’ve got m’Tahiti Foam Bath,’ she said, reaching down behind the counter and selecting a bottle from her overflowing Fame shoulder bag. She read the label and nodded in satisfaction. ‘It sez it’s got monoï in it.’
‘Money?’
‘No, Ma
lcolm, monoï … it’s why women in Tahiti ’ave smooth skin.’
‘So ’xactly, er, what is it?’ asked Little Malcolm.
‘Dunno, Malcolm, but it’ll mek me like them women in t’South Seas.’
‘But ah like you jus’ t’way you are, Dorothy,’ he said.
In Dorothy’s eyes Little Malcolm had just pressed the right button and she looked at him as if he were the perfect man – namely, Shakin’ Stevens with a Donny Osmond smile.
‘Oy, lover-boy!’ shouted Big Dave. ‘Gerra move on. Y’like love’s young dream. Where’s m’tea?’
The spell was broken and Dorothy poured the tea.
The squeaky castors of our music centre could be heard as Anne wheeled it across the floor. From the box of her and Sally’s carefully selected collection of LPs, Anne chose ‘Spring’ from Antonio Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, slid it carefully out of its cardboard sleeve and then placed it on the circular rubber mat on the revolving turntable. She adjusted the dial to 33 revolutions per minute, then lowered the plastic arm until the stylus settled into the black grooves at the beginning of the track and the opening bars drifted through the still air of our crowded school hall.
At the end of Joseph’s assembly, on the theme of asking for forgiveness for wrongdoings, a thoughtful Harold Bustard approached him. Harold had been envious of the Raleigh BMX Burner that Ben Roberts had got for Christmas.
‘’Scuse me, Mr Evans,’ he said politely.
‘What is it, Harold?’ asked Joseph, pleased to be asked a question by this curious little boy with hair like a shoe-brush and ears like the FA Cup.
‘Well, ah’d like t’ask God for a bike,’ confided Harold.
‘Ah well – I don’t think He would want you to do that,’ said Joseph with a reassuring smile.
‘Well, ’ow about ah steal one an’ ask f’forgiveness?’
It was at times like this that Joseph considered his communication skills with young children were not what they used to be.
At morning break in the staff-room Vera frowned as she looked at the front page of her Daily Telegraph. There was plenty of news. England soccer fans had run riot in France and Mick Jagger was about to become a father for the third time as Jerry Hall was rushed into a New York hospital.
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