Finally, when we emerged back into the bright light of the twentieth century, I realized I had experienced a rare glimpse of our history and our changing times. It was yet another jewel in the crown of York’s tourism industry.
Outside a party of Americans were looking on with interest.
‘Hi,’ said one of them, a tall man with perfectly even teeth usually only encountered in a toothpaste advertiseent. The badge on his zip-up bomber jacket read ‘Hootie Spurlock II’ from a place with an interesting name – Boring, Oregon, USA. His wife, Mabeline, was holding his hand and clearly used the same ultra-white toothpaste.
‘Is this lil’ place open yet, mah friend?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid not,’ I said. ‘It opens to the public in two weeks.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Mabeline, ‘we’ll be in Paris, France, by then.’
‘So are you doing a tour?’ asked Sally politely.
‘We sure are,’ said Hootie. ‘We were in London, England, yesterday and we saw the Tower.’
Mabeline shook her head sadly. ‘Shame they built it right in the flight path of Heathrow Airport.’
‘That’s surely true,’ said Hootie and with a friendly wave they hurried off to catch their coach to Edinburgh, Scotland, leaving Sally and I shaking our heads.
‘Wonder what it’s like to live in a place called Boring?’ mused Sally with a grin.
Back in Ragley village Emily Cade had pushed her mother’s wheelchair into Prudence Golightly’s General Stores. Ada, the oldest lady in the village, smiled up at Prudence.
‘You seem to be doing well, Mrs Cade,’ said Prudence in a loud voice.
‘Well, ah must be seventy by now,’ shouted Ada in response.
‘No, Mother,’ said Emily, ‘you’re ninety-seven.’
‘Ninety-seven – ninety-seven!’ exclaimed Ada. ‘If ah’d known that ah wouldn’t ’ave come out!’
After buying a jar of Heinz sandwich spread, Emily hurried out with her mother as Meg and Debbie Harrison walked in. Meanwhile, at the door, Mary Cartwright, mother of six-year-old Charlie, was muttering to Freda Fazackerly.
‘That vicar wants lockin’ up,’ she said. ‘It were that lesson ’e did about gettin’ baptized.’
‘Why, what happened?’ asked Freda.
‘Well, our Charlie took ’im lit’rally and tried t’baptize our cat in t’kitchen sink. Poor little sod nearly drowned.’
At the counter, Meg Harrison was served promptly by Prudence, who picked up each item from the counter and rang the amount into her old-fashioned till. ‘That’s Heinz Baked Beans at twenty and a half pence, a tin of Princes corned beef at sixty-nine pence, a tub of Stork margarine at seventeen and a half pence and a loaf of bread at thirty-two pence.’ She smiled at Meg. ‘That’s one pound thirty-nine, please.’ Then, while Mrs Harrison looked in her purse, Prudence rummaged under the counter and produced a pack of six Penguin biscuits, priced at thirty pence. She added it to the collection of shopping. ‘And a small gift for you and the little girl,’ she said with a gentle smile.
There was an intake of breath from this tough lady from South Yorkshire. ‘No offence intended, Miss Golightly,’ said Meg, ‘but ah’m reluctant t’accept … wi’ it being charity, so t’speak.’
‘But we always give something to new children in the village,’ explained Prudence.
‘Ah don’t know,’ said Meg, not wishing to offend this kind lady.
‘Please accept it in the spirit it is given,’ said Prudence.
There was a long silence broken eventually by Meg. ‘Thank you,’ she said and looked down at Debbie. ‘Looks like you’ve got a treat f’after tea, Debbie. So thank the kind lady.’
‘Thank you,’ said Debbie, who was staring up in wonderment at Jeremy the bear on his shelf, dressed in his gardening outfit, complete with tiny gloves and a small pair of pruning shears.
‘And one more thing,’ said Meg, ‘ah’m planning t’make a cake an’ ’ere’s t’list of ingredients. Ah wondered if ah could call back later t’collect ’em?’
‘Of course,’ said Prudence and smiled when she looked at the list. ‘It looks interesting.’
‘It’s f’summat special,’ said Meg.
It was Sunday morning and when I looked out of the bedroom window of Bilbo Cottage a pale sun was rising in the eastern sky and silver-grey clouds, back-lit with golden light, heralded a new dawn. A thin mist was rising and, spread out before me, a sinuous pattern of flickering sunshine brought the distant countryside to life. It was a time of regeneration, with nest-building in the hedgerows and new shoots of wheat and barley in Twenty-acre Field.
John was eight and a half months old and had developed new ways of travelling. Beth and I laughed as he rolled over in an attempt to get to another place on the carpet and then pulled himself up the side of the sofa and shuffled along the length of it. Clearly pleased with himself, he clapped his hands and said, ‘Dadda, dadda.’ My heart almost burst with pride.
When Beth and I parked on Morton Road outside St Mary’s Church it was clear the Mothering Sunday Service was one of the most popular in the church calendar. Parents and children were hurrying through the lych gate in large numbers. Sally was already there with Anne, organizing our school choir and recorder group.
Beth grinned as she parked John’s pushchair alongside the glass-fronted church noticeboard. Elsie Crapper had been at work again. Her latest additions read:
Please come along and sing with the choir – they need all the help they can get. The choir require a few new choir robes owing to new members and the deterioration of the older ones.
Underneath, the second notice read:
BRING AND BUY SALE
Saturday 7th April at 2.30 p.m. Ladies … get rid of all the unwanted items that clutter up the house … bring your husbands.
Before the service began, Joseph caused a little humour when he read out the wedding banns for two young people in the village, Carl Briers and Louise Longbottom. He declared the date of their wedding followed by the announcement, ‘Their marriage will, of course, finally bring to an end their friendship that began at school,’ and Vera on the front pew went red with embarrassment.
It was a happy occasion, with a lovely performance by Sally’s choir that included Debbie Harrison sharing a song sheet with her new best friend, Mary Scrimshaw. The service was shorter than usual with so many young children in the congregation and Joseph moved briskly to a final prayer. When it was over everyone filed out and shook hands with Joseph as the usual parting greeting. In the church Vera was collecting the hymn books and stacking them away neatly when she heard footsteps behind her. It was Meg Harrison with Debbie beside her. ‘Hello again, Mrs F,’ she said.
Vera had thought long and hard since their previous conversation, particularly about the views regarding her favourite politician. However, first and foremost Vera thought of herself as a Christian and she reached out without hesitation to shake hands with this lady of South Yorkshire. ‘Good to see you,’ she said and looked down at Debbie. ‘Where your treasure is, there shall be your heart also,’ she added with a knowing smile.
‘St Matthew, chapter six,’ said Meg simply.
‘Verse twenty-one,’ added Vera for good measure.
Meg Harrison had a cake tin under her arm. ‘Ah’ve brought you a gift, Mrs F,’ she said, ‘t’share out in t’staff-room.’ She placed the tin on the front pew and removed the lid. ‘Jus’ a light fruit cake,’ she went on, ‘an’ ah’ve covered it wi’ a layer of marzipan an’ there’s another layer of marzipan baked into t’middle.’ It was also decorated with balls of marzipan. ‘As y’can see, there’s eleven of ’em, Mrs F.’
Vera gave a knowing smile. ‘Representing the eleven disciples,’ she said.
‘It’s a tradition in our family,’ explained Meg, ‘t’mek a simnel cake on Mothering Sunday.’
‘This is a lovely gesture and I’m very grateful. The teachers will be thrilled.’
‘Well, you’ve all bee
n very kind,’ said Meg.
Vera studied the face of this lady. ‘And you’ve been very brave,’ she said softly.
They were both quiet as they looked at each other.
‘Mebbe there’s different ways t’be brave, Mrs F,’ said Meg with gravitas.
So it was, in the quiet of this lovely church, the heavy silence was a cloak of comfort as two women, separated by pride and politics, embraced for the first and last time.
Chapter Fifteen
A Cow Called Clarissa
School closed today for the two-week Easter holidays and will reopen on Monday, 30 April. The new village policeman visited school.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 13 April 1984
‘MR SHEFFIELD,’ SAID Ruby, ‘there’s a cow in t’cycle shed.’
The unexpected, by its very nature, takes you by surprise. However, some surprises are bigger than others. So it was that on Friday, 13 April at 7.00 a.m. I found myself answering a telephone call at Bilbo Cottage from Ruby the caretaker.
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can, Ruby,’ I said. ‘In the meantime, close the school gate so the children don’t go near it and ring the police. If it gets on to the road there might be an accident.’ I rang off and rushed into the bathroom. My morning routine usually took thirty minutes – shave, shower, dress. Today I did it in fifteen. By half past seven I had parked outside school and arrived at the gate where Ruby was waiting for me, holding her yard broom like a trident.
‘Ah rang Mrs ’Unter in York, Mr Sheffield, an’ she said she’d tell ’er ’usband an’ ’e would send someone out. An’ ah rang Deke Ramsbottom ’cause ’e knows all t’local farmers.’
‘Well done, Ruby, that’s excellent,’ I said and she beamed with pride. So, like a latter-day Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, we closed the school gate, crept up the drive and stopped outside the large Victorian cycle shed.
‘Go on, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby, leaning defiantly on her broom, ‘’ave a look for y’self.’
A black-and-white Friesian cow with a short rope dangling from its neck was scratching itself against one of the ancient wooden pillars. It gave me a lugubrious look with its big soulful eyes and chewed in a relaxed, contented fashion. I enjoy looking at a herd of cows grazing peacefully in a far-off field. However, standing face to face with a cow that weighs around half a ton in a confined space did not immediately bring to mind the aesthetic delights of the English countryside.
‘Ruby, I’ll stay here to make sure it doesn’t get on the playground and you go and wait outside the school gate.’ My caretaker’s safety was obviously my first concern … my own came a close second.
Ruby ran down the drive at a surprising speed.
Presumably startled by this twenty-stone figure in a bright orange overall, the cow decided to bolt for freedom. It barged me out of the way, trod on my foot, lumbered through the back entrance of the shed, charged down the leafy path that bordered School View and disappeared out of sight as it headed for the football field and the wooded area beyond.
‘Shit!’ I shouted as I hopped on one foot – and I wasn’t referring to the cow claps that decorated the concrete floor. My foot hurt like hell.
Meanwhile, Julian Montgomery Pike parked his little grey police van by the village green outside The Royal Oak, picked up his helmet from the passenger seat and stepped out.
He took a deep breath. This was it – his first day going solo. PC Pike was twenty-two years old and had just completed his two-year probationary period. Early that morning Sergeant Dan Hunter at the station in York had given him the directions to Ragley-on-the-Forest. ‘Start at the school,’ Dan had said, ‘introduce yourself, be polite, don’t do anything daft, make sure this runaway cow is returned to its owner safely and do everything by the book. Remember – it’s a lovely, quiet village.’
Julian stretched up to his full height of five feet eight and a half inches, although with two pairs of thick insoles in his big black boots and a tall helmet he actually felt like a six-footer. He checked his uniform, made sure his shiny new Hiatt handcuffs were secure in their pouch on his leather belt, wondered if he should have put his truncheon in his truncheon pocket rather than his rolled-up copy of Karate Illustrated monthly magazine and looked across the village green at the school.
It was at that moment he spotted a tall, gangling man in strange, old-fashioned black-framed spectacles outside one of the school outbuildings, hopping on one leg and appearing to utter obscenities. There was also a very large lady carrying a yard broom and running towards the school gate as if her bum was on fire.
PC Pike moved smoothly into action. Always remain calm in a crisis he thought and marched swiftly across the village green.
‘G’morning, madam,’ he said. ‘Having trouble?’
‘Ah’m guardin’ t’gate,’ said Ruby. She was taking her sentry duty seriously.
‘We had a call about an escaped cow,’ said PC Pike.
‘That were me,’ said Ruby. ‘Ah’m t’school caretaker,’ she pointed at me, ‘an’ that’s t’eadteacher.’ I was still doing my impression of Zebedee from the Magic Roundabout. ‘Y’better talk to ’im,’ and she opened the gate.
When I saw a young policeman walking up the drive I curtailed my impromptu morris dancing. ‘Hello – you’re a welcome sight,’ I said. ‘I’m Jack Sheffield, the headteacher.’
‘I’m the new village bobby,’ he said, ‘PC Pike,’ and we shook hands.
I gestured towards the cycle shed. ‘We discovered a cow on our school premises this morning, but it’s just bolted for freedom towards the fields at the back of school.’
He took out his notebook and opened it to the first page. ‘Can you give me a description?’
‘A description?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said PC Pike, licking the end of his sharp new HB pencil. He had seen policemen do this on Bergerac.
‘Well, it was a cow.’
He wrote ‘cow’ and paused.
‘A Friesian,’ I added for clarification.
‘A what, sir?’
‘A Friesian – it was black and white. Oh, yes, and it had a rope round its neck.’
‘Ah, that’s good,’ he said and continued scribbling. Then he smiled when he realized that an unexpected opportunity to shine had fallen in his lap. ‘Just leave it t’me, sir, I’ll apprehend the animal and I’ll call back later,’ and he set off at a brisk trot towards the football pitch.
‘Fine, thanks,’ I called after him, feeling very relieved. Then I limped down to the school gate to retrieve my car. ‘You can open the gate now, Ruby,’ I said and looked at my wristwatch. It was 7.45 a.m. and the last day of the spring term had begun.
By the time the rest of the staff arrived everything was back to normal. The cow story caused amusement in the staff-room, particularly the part when it stepped on my foot. I wondered when PC Pike would reappear, but there was no sign of him. However, there were children to teach and soon we were busy again.
In my class we were using descriptions of animals to encourage the development of vocabulary. The Buttle twins, Rowena and Katrina, had both chosen to write about a dog. When I marked their books I called them to my desk for a quiet word.
‘Rowena, did you copy?’ I asked.
‘No, Mr Sheffield,’ said Rowena.
‘What about you, Katrina?’
‘No, Mr Sheffield,’ echoed Katrina.
‘Well, why is your description identical to your sister’s?’ I asked.
‘It’s t’same dog, Mr Sheffield,’ said Katrina, quick as a flash.
I smiled. There was something special about twins.
Fortunately their mathematics work was more convincing. They were working with Betsy Icklethwaite on a problem-solving task that involved converting fractions to decimals and it was clear they understood the concept, particularly Betsy, who tried to get a percentage in every sentence.
‘Three minutes to morning break, boys and girls,’ I said.
�
��Only five per cent of an hour,’ said Betsy with a grin.
When the bell rang for morning playtime, Charlotte Ackroyd made another announcement. ‘Little copper comin’ up t’drive, Mr Sheffield.’ She was writing up her experiment after making copper sulphate crystals and once again her eyes never flickered from her work. I looked up from my desk and peered out of the window. I could see a small grey police van parked outside the school gate and a diminutive, slightly dishevelled policeman staring around him.
Vera had spent twenty-five pence that morning on her Woman’s Weekly magazine and, when I walked into the office, she was admiring the attractive photograph of Lady Di on the front cover. ‘The white hat with the blue band is perfect for her,’ she said. She proceeded to flick through the pages and I was treated to a parade of hats as worn by Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother, Princess Margaret and the Duchess of Kent.
‘They’re all wonderful, Vera,’ I said without conviction.
‘It’s all down to good taste, Mr Sheffield,’ she added. Then there was a knock on the door and PC Pike came in and gave us a shy smile.
‘Hello again, PC Pike,’ I said. ‘This is Mrs Forbes-Kitchener, our school secretary.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Forbes-Kitchener,’ he said politely. ‘I’m the new village policeman, Julian Pike.’
‘I’m delighted to meet you, Julian,’ said Vera, ‘and I’m sure you’ve spoken to Sergeant Hunter, who gave considerable support to the school.’
‘Yes, of course, and I hope to do the same,’ he said.
Vera studied him for a moment. ‘I recall your mother, Emily Montgomery, as she was then,’ she said. This should have surprised me, but Vera’s local knowledge was unsurpassed. ‘A lovely lady. She helped with the school library van … very keen on Enid Blyton, I recall.’
‘Particularly the Famous Five, I’m afraid,’ said PC Pike and his cheeks flushed, ‘which is why I’m called Julian. She thought it was distinguished – “a leader of men”, she used to say.’
‘Yes, that’s definitely Emily,’ said Vera.
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