‘What is it, Vera?’ I asked.
Vera glanced down at her spiral-bound notepad. ‘It’s the new temporary admission, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘… the miner’s daughter.’
As they say in Yorkshire, Doreen Critchley was never backwards in coming forwards. With a confident rat-a-tat on the office door she walked in.
‘G’morning, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘This is m’sister, Meg ’Arrison from Barnsley. She’s staying with us ’til t’Easter ’olidays.’
The likeness between the two sisters was obvious, but whereas Doreen had the physique of a night-club bouncer, Meg Harrison was slim and gaunt. ‘Ah spoke t’Mrs F a while back about young Debbie coming ’ere for a couple o’ weeks,’ added Doreen.
‘Yes, it’s all in order,’ I said.
‘That’s correct,’ confirmed Vera, holding up the file. ‘All the paperwork has been completed.’
‘So welcome to Ragley, Mrs Harrison,’ I said and we shook hands. ‘I’m Jack Sheffield, the headteacher, and this is our secretary, Mrs Forbes-Kitchener.’
Vera glanced at Doreen. ‘As it’s a bit of a mouthful, I answer to Mrs F,’ she said with a smile.
Meg Harrison nodded shyly in response. ‘An’ this is my Debbie,’ she said.
I looked at the little girl. Her clothes were old and faded but spotlessly clean and her hair was perfect in two neat plaits. It was evident that Mrs Harrison took pride in her daughter’s appearance. ‘And I’m sure you will be happy here, Debbie.’
‘Say thank you t’Mr Sheffield,’ prompted Mrs Harrison.
‘Thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ said Debbie politely.
Earlier in the week I had contacted the headteacher of Debbie Harrison’s school in the South Yorkshire authority. It had been an interesting conversation. Then I had discussed Debbie’s temporary admission with our Education Welfare Officer, Roy Davidson, and he had confirmed the arrangement.
‘Ah’m really grateful, Mr Sheffield,’ said Mrs Harrison as she removed her headscarf. ‘Y’look to ’ave a lovely school.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, genuinely touched by the compliment. ‘One thing is certain,’ I looked at the towering presence of Doreen and smiled, ‘we have the best school dinners in North Yorkshire.’
Doreen nodded. ‘It’s a fact is that,’ she said – and she meant it. ‘Well, ah best get on, Mr Sheffield,’ she went on, glancing at her sister. ‘Y’know where I am, Meg,’ and she walked out into the entrance hall.
‘Well, Mrs Harrison,’ I said, ‘there are a few things we need to discuss.’
She looked down at her daughter. ‘It’s awkward, Mr Sheffield.’
‘I understand, so we’ll get Debbie settled first.’
Vera responded as I knew she would. ‘I’ll ask Mrs Pringle to call in, Mr Sheffield,’ she said and hurried out.
Moments later Sally tapped on the door and walked in with eight-year-old Mary Scrimshaw. She introduced herself to Mrs Harrison and then crouched down.
‘Hello, Debbie, I’m Mrs Pringle and I’m going to be your teacher,’ she said, ‘and this is Mary. She’s the same age as you and you’ll be sitting on her table.’
The two girls, both the same height, looked at each other and smiled. Sally had chosen well. ‘Would y’like to see where t’put your coat?’ asked Mary. ‘We’ve got t’names above our coat pegs and we can make a label f’yours.’
‘Yes, please,’ said Debbie.
‘Call in to class before you go, Mrs Harrison,’ said Sally as she was leaving, ‘so you can see that Debbie is fine.’ The ice was broken and Debbie held hands with Mary as they followed Sally back to class.
‘Mrs Harrison,’ I said, ‘we’ll do everything we can to make sure your daughter is happy here for the short time she is with us. The headteacher of Debbie’s school in Cortonwood explained the situation to me and we understand why you’re here. I know these are difficult times for you and we’ll do our best.’
‘Ah’m extremely grateful, Mr Sheffield,’ she said and clearly meant it.
‘I have to get back to my class now,’ I said, glancing up at the clock, ‘so I’ll leave you with Mrs Forbes-Kitchener to sort out arrangements for school dinners and any queries you may have.’ I set off back to class as the bell rang to begin another school day.
Mrs Harrison looked at Vera. ‘Ah’m sorry for the extra work we’ve caused you, Mrs F, but my ’usband insisted we come t’live wi’ Doreen for a bit ’til things ’ave settled down, an’ it’s probably for t’best.’
‘Do sit down, Mrs Harrison, and don’t worry,’ Vera said quietly. ‘Debbie will be well looked after in Ragley School.’
Meg Harrison looked at Vera nervously. ‘Debbie doesn’t know yet,’ she said.
‘Doesn’t know?’ asked Vera.
She sighed as if she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. ‘Yes, Mrs F – she doesn’t know ’er dad was one o’ t’thirty-seven pickets arrested last Monday.’
Vera recognized a troubled soul when she saw one. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she said.
Little did we know it, but at that moment Sergeant Dan Hunter was in a packed minibus driving south on the A1 to provide police reinforcements against the miners.
He was reflecting how fast everything had escalated. At the beginning of March the Coal Board chiefs had announced, ‘Cortonwood Colliery must close in five weeks’ and, in doing so, had lit the blue touchpaper for strike action throughout the British coalfields. A few days later the Yorkshire branch of the National Union of Miners announced strike action for its fifty-eight thousand members following the last shift on Friday, 9 March. The following day the chairman, Ian MacGregor, issued his infamous closure programme, demanding a cut of twenty thousand jobs in the coming year. Durham, Kent and South Wales miners met and called their miners out, while Yorkshire miners from Armthorpe departed to pits in Nottinghamshire and, in doing so, defied a High Court injunction banning flying pickets.
The first martyr of the strike was David Gareth Jones, a twenty-four-year-old miner at Ackton Hall pit in Yorkshire, when he was killed on the picket line at Ollerton. Five thousand miners from all over the country attended an emotional funeral at South Kirkby on 23 March. Later, busloads of police were drafted in and at an illegal road block thirty-seven men were arrested. John Harrison was one of them.
Margaret Thatcher had spoken in Birmingham about ‘rolling back the frontiers of socialism’ and Dan Hunter knew the situation would get worse before a resolution was achieved. As they rumbled along he glanced up at a flapping bedsheet draped over a roadbridge. Large letters had been painted on it and the message for the police was clear. It read ‘Thatcher’s Thugs’.
Dan settled back in his seat and worried about the day’s work that lay ahead. As the miles sped by he thought of his upbringing in the village of Pity Me in County Durham, where his brother Tom still lived. The name of the village had caused amusement in the past. Now, sadly, it appeared ironic – Tom was a miner.
In the school office Mrs Harrison was sipping tea and feeling more relaxed. ‘I appreciate this, Mrs F,’ she said.
Vera glanced down at the notes from the Education Welfare Officer attached to Debbie’s admission form. ‘So he was arrested,’ she said quietly.
‘John’s strong as an ox,’ said Meg Harrison with obvious pride, ‘but ’e’s never raised a finger t’me or Debbie, or anyone f’that matter. ’E’s a good man but t’best of us can get desperate.’
‘I understand,’ said Vera.
‘’E jus’ stood there chanting,’ said Mrs Harrison. Her voice was breaking. ‘Ah’m afraid ’e ’ates Margaret Thatcher.’
There was an intake of breath from Vera. ‘“Hate” is a strong word,’ she said pointedly.
‘Ah know – but that’s ’ow ’e feels,’ said Meg Harrison. ‘As for m’self, ah jus’ think there mus’ be a better way.’
‘I’m sure there is,’ said Vera. ‘Perhaps the miners don’t understand what Mrs Thatcher is trying to do
.’
Mrs Harrison shook her head. ‘My John is a fourth-generation miner in our village an’ ’e’s a proud man. ’E believes she’s destroying our community.’
‘I suppose Mrs Thatcher is thinking what’s best for the whole country,’ said Vera.
‘Mebbe so, but me an’ John jus’ want our Debbie to ’ave a good life an’ do well at school. That’s what’s important to us – but we need t’earn a living first.’ Mrs Harrison clasped her fingers together as if in prayer. ‘We’re prepared t’work ’ard, but my John knows nowt else but working in t’pit. That’s all ’e’s’ done since ’e were a lad.’
‘We’ll all do our best to help, Mrs Harrison,’ said Vera, ‘and have no fear, your daughter will be fine at Ragley School.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Morning assembly is about to start. Let’s go in and sit at the back and then you’ll be able to see that Debbie is settled.’
Vera took Mrs Harrison into the school hall, where Sally’s choir were singing a song from her new large spiral-bound singing book entitled Game Songs. Much to Meg Harrison’s delight, her daughter Debbie was sharing a printed copy of the words with Mary Scrimshaw and they were singing in loud confident voices:
Take a little bit of yellow
And a little bit of blue,
Put it in a bowl and mix it up do,
We’ve got a colour we’ve never had before,
What have we got? We’ve got green.
Vera and Mrs Harrison stayed for a few minutes, then crept out. Debbie gave a little wave that meant I’m all right and Meg Harrison looked relieved.
‘Call back before the end of school, Mrs Harrison,’ said Vera, ‘and I’ll take you to Debbie’s classroom to collect her.’
‘You’ve been very kind, Mrs F,’ she said and hurried off, leaving Vera deep in thought.
After assembly Joseph was in my class, telling the Easter story. He had explained in some detail the idea of Lent, the period from Ash Wednesday to Good Friday. However, it was the notion of doing without something you liked that provoked immediate discussion.
‘Ah ’ave t’do wi’out choc’late, Mr Evans, an’ ah love choc’late,’ said Ben Roberts plaintively.
‘I do understand, Benjamin,’ said Joseph, ‘but it is an important sacrifice.’
‘But ah ’ad t’do wi’out crisps las’ year an’ ah love crisps an’ all,’ added Ben for good measure. Ben didn’t know what pathos meant, but it underpinned every utterance.
‘Er, well, that’s good as well,’ said Joseph, slightly concerned that Ben was rapidly becoming the class martyr.
However, Ben wasn’t finished. ‘An’ nex’ year ah’ll prob’ly ’ave t’do wi’out summat else that ah like.’
‘Yes, that’s very likely,’ said Joseph. ‘We have to do without something every year.’
‘For t’rest of our lives?’ asked Ben in astonishment.
‘Well, er, yes,’ mumbled Joseph.
‘Dunt seem fair t’me, Mr Evans,’ said Ben.
‘Why not?’ asked Joseph.
‘Well, Jesus only ’ad t’go wi’out once – an’ we’ve gorrit every bloomin’ year.’
It wasn’t so much the misplaced logic that concerned Joseph, rather the enthusiastic applause that greeted Ben’s conclusion.
It was during an impromptu staff meeting at lunchtime that it was decided that Sally and I would take up the invitation from the Jorvik Centre in York to send two teachers from each local school on Saturday morning to visit this wonderful new tourist attraction.
‘I’ll meet you here in the school car park, Jack,’ said Sally, ‘and we can travel in together.’ She was really enthusiastic and had already arranged to take parties of children when it opened officially next month.
The staff-room emptied, leaving just Anne and me listing the books we needed to supplement our Ginn Reading 360 reading scheme. ‘Jack, I think I know why Tom didn’t volunteer for tomorrow’s visit,’ she said.
I was puzzled. ‘Why’s that?’ I asked.
‘He’s meeting Laura in York for coffee. I heard him telling Sally.’ She gave me a long lingering and knowing look, and I prayed this wasn’t going to become a problem.
At afternoon break Tom was on duty and I wandered out to the playground. He gave me that familiar relaxed smile. ‘Season’s changing, Jack,’ he commented, glancing up at the branches of the horse chestnut trees above our heads.
I sighed. It was hard to know how to begin. ‘Tom … you don’t seem to be short of ladies to help you in the classroom.’
‘There’s a lot of support in the village,’ he said, ‘and, as the vicar mentioned in interview, we need to utilize the skills of the community.’
‘That’s right, we do,’ I agreed, ‘but we also need to be aware of the possible problems of becoming … well, over familiar.’
Light was dawning in his keen blue eyes. ‘I would never do anything unprofessional, Jack,’ he said hurriedly.
‘I know that, Tom,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s just friendly concern on my part. We always have to be careful in our dealings with parents. We need to listen but keep a professional distance – if you take my meaning.’
He stared into his mug of tea. ‘Yes, Jack, I understand.’
There was an awkward silence as the children skipped and played around us. ‘Anyway, thanks for listening, Tom, and do talk to me if you have any problems. I’m here to help whenever I can.’ I looked at my watch. ‘Time for the bell,’ I said and walked back towards school.
‘Jack,’ he called after me, ‘… this has nothing to do with Laura, I suppose?’
‘No, it hasn’t,’ I said without breaking my stride.
At the end of school Vera took Meg Harrison to Sally’s classroom and Debbie hurried out clutching a card for Mothering Sunday.
‘Ah’ve ’ad a smashing day, Mam,’ she said, ‘and ah made a card f’you f’Sunday but y’can’t see it yet.’
Meg Harrison gave her daughter a big hug and then smiled at Vera. ‘Thanks, Mrs F. Ev’ryone’s been so kind.’
‘Come and see me on Monday if you want to talk,’ said Vera.
‘We might see you before then at church,’ said Meg. ‘Ah’ve been talking to our Doreen.’
‘That would be wonderful,’ said Vera. ‘There’s a family service at St Mary’s at eleven o’ clock and lots of the children will be there.’
‘We ’ave a small gospel ’all in our village an’ ah ’elp t’run it,’ she said proudly. ‘Our Debbie knows ’er Bible, Mrs F.’
As she left she held open the door for Ruby and then mother and daughter set off for home. Ruby smiled and paused with her mop and galvanized bucket. It was reassuring to note that as time passed she seemed to be getting back to her old self. ‘She’s a nice lady, Mrs F … Doreen says she meks a lovely egg custard.’ Ruby said this with the reverence accorded to an Oscar-winner and trundled off to clean the girls’ toilets.
On Saturday morning Vera was sitting in her kitchen reading her Daily Telegraph and sipping a cup of Earl Grey tea. Morton Manor was silent as Rupert and his daughter, thirty-one-year-old Virginia Anastasia, had gone to look at a new pony for her riding school.
The miners’ strike dominated the front pages. It appeared to be gathering momentum. Vera read on and shook her head in dismay. The Association of Chief Police Officers had gathered on the thirteenth floor of Scotland Yard to prepare plans to prevent pickets talking to Nottinghamshire miners and setting up road blocks. Also, thousands more police had been drafted in from other county forces to prevent miners entering nonstriking areas. The seeds of a long-running battle had been sown – and she thought of Meg Harrison and her daughter.
Sally and I arrived in York and followed a group of teachers into the remarkable £2.6 million centre under the Coppergate shopping precinct.
A distinguished gentleman greeted us. ‘Welcome to the Jorvik Viking Centre,’ he said, ‘described by the Chairman of the English Tourist Board, Michael Montague, as “The most exciting tourism proje
ct yet seen in the country”, and this morning you will see why.’ I was encouraged by his obvious enthusiasm. ‘We plan to open to the public on Saturday, April fourteenth, but we wanted local teachers to have the opportunity to see it for themselves prior to planning visits for their schools.’
We had arrived at a line of small vehicles that resembled four-seater dodgem cars from the seaside. ‘Visitors will travel through the centre in these electronically guided cars, which have internal speakers with a commentary by Magnus Magnusson plus voice tracks in a language similar to Old Norse. However, for this visit you are welcome to browse on foot at your leisure.’
There was a mixed response as most of us would have enjoyed the ride, but we knew this gave us a unique opportunity to explore the centre more fully. We followed him through the growing darkness of a ‘time tunnel’ to a remarkable world we could barely imagine.
‘So this is it,’ he said. ‘We have travelled back over one thousand years to the year 948 to the middle of a Viking township we have called Jorvik. The street we have created is actual size and you will see a jeweller at work, a wood-turner and children beside a weaving loom. There are herrings, skins and hides being unloaded from a boat, plus a host of artefacts including cooking pots, antler combs, ice-skates made from cattle bones and a magnificent Anglo-Saxon helmet.’ He gestured with a wave of his arm. ‘So please feel free to explore.’
Sally, as always, was a veritable mine of information. There were literally hundreds of relics, including boots, padlocks and stone lamps that, according to Sally, had once been filled with floating wicks. I was puzzled by the double-ended spoons, but Sally told me they were used for measuring rare and expensive herbs.
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