‘So … is there any news of the cow?’ I asked, keen to bring everyone back to the here and now.
‘I’m afraid not,’ he said and looked down sadly at his grass-stained boots. ‘She’s proving elusive, so I’m going to ask around in the village. I presume we don’t know who the owner might be?’
‘No idea,’ I said.
‘Well I’ve been told to work by the book,’ he said.
‘Oh dear, Julian,’ said Vera, ‘you mustn’t be a pedant.’
Julian was confused. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or hurt, as the word was unfamiliar. So he gave what he thought was a knowing nod of acknowledgement. It was the mannerism he had perfected after watching ninety-one episodes of Skippy the Bush Kangaroo. As the super-intelligent Skippy explained that, three miles away, two boys had fallen down a disused mine shaft that was slowly filling with water at the rate of six inches per hour, the head ranger of Waratah National Park used to give that familiar, all-knowing nod. To Julian that really was the sign of a leader of men.
‘Well, I’ll get on and report back later,’ he said.
During playtime all the children were out enjoying the sunshine, with the exception of three. Sally had given permission for Debbie Harrison, Mary Scrimshaw and Barry Ollerenshaw to remain in class to complete a special task.
Next to the sink, the three children were busy making an Easter Tree, as it was Debbie’s last day at Ragley. Sally had provided a block of oasis and cuttings from her garden so that Debbie could take home a present for her mother. The girls were arranging branches of pussy willow, forsythia and blackthorn while Barry Ollerenshaw looked on. He was impressed. ‘Y’could ’ang little choc’late eggs from them twigs.’
‘That’s a good idea, Barry,’ said Debbie.
Barry liked Debbie – she wasn’t frightened of worms. ‘So … what did y’think o’ Mr Evans’ story ’bout Jesus?’ he asked.
‘Bit scary,’ said Debbie.
‘A miracle,’ said Mary.
Barry nodded knowingly. ‘Well, when t’vicar said it were a miracle that Jesus rose from t’dead ah thought it were good – but ah were more impressed as to ’ow ’e got that big ’eavy stone away from t’cave entrance.’
The pecking order of miracles was a lot to think about, so the two girls simply carried on arranging the branches.
PC Pike was standing outside Prudence Golightly’s General Stores, wondering where to go next. Prudence was an advocate of free local advertising but Julian was too busy thinking to be distracted by the three postcards on the noticeboard.
They read:
Antique desk – suitable for lady with thick legs and large drawers.
Let us oil your sewing machine and adjust tension in your house.
Dog for sale – eats anything – likes children.
He walked in and introduced himself to Prudence, who suggested he visit the butcher’s shop next door. In the hope this did not forebode the demise of the missing cow, he went in.
Old Tommy Piercy’s grandson, Young Tommy, was displaying pigs’ trotters on metal trays in the shop window. One of Old Tommy’s specialities, they had been cleaned, brined and ready-cooked. Old Tommy, a long-standing member of the Guild of Butchers, was also particularly proud to be a member of the Sausage Appreciation Society and he was in the back room of the shop wrapping up £2 worth for Betty Buttle.
Betty was in animated conversation with Margery Ackroyd, telling her about her wonderful new John Moore’s catalogue. ‘It’s reight good, Margery,’ she said. ‘Ah jus’ filled in t’Freepost coupon in m’magazine an’ ah got a free automatic coffee maker wi’ m’first order.’
‘But nobody drinks coffee in your ’ouse,’ said Margery. ‘They all drink tea.’
Undeterred, Betty just grinned. ‘Ah know, but it might come in if America declares war wi’ Russia like it says in t’paper. Then t’Yanks’ll be ’ere again an’ accordin’ to m’mother they all gave ’er coffee an’ chocolate an’ cigarettes.’
And that’s not all thought Margery, but said nothing.
PC Pike popped his head round the door. ‘Excuse me, but has anyone seen a runaway cow this morning?’
George Dainty was at the back of the queue. ‘Funny y’should mention that, officer,’ he said, ‘there was a cow walkin’ through my back garden, large as life, but when ah went out it ’ad gone.’
‘When was that, sir?’ asked PC Pike.
George looked at his expensive duty-free wristwatch. ‘Only ten minutes back, ah reckon,’ he said.
He took out his notebook. ‘And what’s your address, sir?’
‘Big bungalow, number thirty-six,’ said George, ‘on t’right up t’Morton Road.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Julian and rushed off to his little grey van.
‘Coppers are getting smaller,’ said Betty.
‘And younger,’ added Margery with a sigh.
Old Tommy reappeared. ‘Did someone mention a missing cow? Billy Icklethwaite were lookin’ for ’is Clarissa this morning, so Deke Ramsbottom said. Ah’d best ring ’im.’
PC Pike was driving like Nigel Mansell along the Morton Road. He had once done ninety-six miles an hour at 5.00 a.m. on a summer’s morning in a Hillman Minx on an empty downhill stretch of the M1 between Leeds and Sheffield – so he had known excitement. In fact, he recalled he had almost wet himself.
However, Julian was also a sensitive soul. He had cried when the Waltons shouted goodnight to each other at the end of each episode and there had been times he wished he had been christened John-Boy rather than Julian. So, with caution in mind, he slowed up, parked outside a spacious modern bungalow and walked stealthily into the back garden of number 36.
Back on Ragley High Street, after George had bought his lamb chops, he met Ruby and raised his flat cap. ‘Ruby, luv, ah’m sorry about your Ronnie … ’ow y’keeping?’
‘’Ello, George. Ah ’eard y’were back … Ah’m fine, thanks, all things considerin’,’ she said with a tired smile. ‘You ’ave t’keep goin’ for t’children’s sake, don’t you?’
George had retired from his fish-and-chip shop in Alicante in Spain and, after making his fortune, had returned to the little Yorkshire village he had known as a boy and he had bought a smart bungalow on Morton Road. ‘Life’s tough, Ruby, but you’re tougher,’ he said.
‘Ah miss ’im ev’ry day – in spite of all ’is faults,’ sighed Ruby.
‘That were allus t’problem wi’ love, Ruby,’ said George. ‘Y’don’t pick who y’love – it chooses you.’
‘Mebbe so, George … an’ ah’m sorry ah didn’t recognize you at t’funeral. Ah’ve gorra memory like a sieve some days,’ she said, pushing her chestnut curls from her face.
‘Never you mind, Ruby,’ he said with a gentle smile and he squeezed her hand. ‘Good memories are worth waiting for,’ and he walked off up the High Street.
Ruby looked after him and wondered what he meant.
At number 38, Morton Road, in the privacy of the new Scandinavian log cabin built in their back garden, Petula Dudley-Palmer stripped naked, donned a pair of sunglasses and prepared to relax in her private cocoon of warmth.
She had purchased a revolutionary Classic Regency-style Solarspeed Sunbed using Geoffrey’s new American Express credit card. It had been hand-built to her specifications and came with a two-year guarantee. An all-year, all-over tan was clearly the answer to the depression she had begun to feel. Now she would look like a million dollars and be the envy of all the mothers in the village. She would be brown and they would be green.
With that comforting thought she opened the slatted wooden doors to the morning sunshine and the view of the very private and professionally landscaped garden. However, clumping over the Japanese bridge next to the lily pond and the Acer palmatum was a large black-and-white cow. With a scream she turned and ran back into the house.
Julian had never seen a full-frontal naked woman before. His girlfriend, Monica, a prim waitress in Betty’s Tea
Rooms in York, had always insisted that a top-half-only pre-nuptial relationship was sufficient and he had gone along with it. All good things come to he who waits, she had told him. Now he was pleased that the dense avenue of perfectly manicured variegated conifers hid him from view. However, he did feel a little voyeuristic as he stared through a small gap in the hedge at the retreating bare backsides of both Petula and a cow he would come to know as Clarissa.
Betsy Icklethwaite was completing the last in a series of workcards about percentages. ‘Ah’m good at fractions an’ percentages now, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘an’ it’s just as well.’
‘Why’s that, Betsy?’
‘Well, when ah read that letter an’ ah found out what they were goin’ t’do t’our Clarissa.’
‘Clarissa?’
‘Yes, Mr Sheffield, Clarissa, our cow – ah ’elped ’er escape this morning.’
And the little girl told me the whole story.
After a few telephone calls Billy Icklethwaite arrived in the school office looking embarrassed. ‘Ah’m sorry for all t’fuss, Mr Sheffield.’
‘Don’t worry, Billy,’ I said. The poor farmer was clearly distraught.
‘Ah ’eard y’met my Clarissa this morning, Mr Sheffield,’ he continued. ‘Ah milked ’er at t’crack o’ dawn like ah usually do an’ then ah went t’look at a pig in Thirkby. When ah got back Clarissa ’ad gone. Then Deke an’ Old Tommy were ringing round saying one ’ad turned up at school an’ it were on t’loose in t’village. So ah’ ’pologize for t’inconvenience.’
‘We’ll need to have a word with Betsy so she doesn’t do it again,’ I said cautiously.
‘O’ course, Mr Sheffield. Mrs F explained and ah’ve brought t’letter that she found on t’table.’ He passed it over. It was printed on very official headed notepaper and stated that Mr Icklethwaite must reduce his herd by 50 per cent to keep in line with regulations issued by the EEC. ‘Reduce my ’erd by ’alf it says … but ah’ve only got one cow.’
I heard the church clock in the distance striking one. ‘Well, Mr Icklethwaite, the new village bobby is out searching for her now so I’m sure Clarissa will soon turn up.’
Beyond the terraced cottages on the High Street, clumps of daffodils studded the grassy banks and in the fields anxious ewes were keeping a close vigil on their newborn lambs. Sadly, PC Pike was too tired to appreciate the beauty of the North Yorkshire countryside. He had run miles through the lanes, forests and byways of this little village. ‘I’m knackered,’ he mumbled to himself … and his feet were killing him. The church clock struck one as he leaned against the village hall noticeboard. Sadly, he was too tired to appreciate the latest notices. They might have raised his spirits.
The first read: The Low Self Esteem Support Group will meet in the church hall … please use the back door.
The second was equally poignant. It read: The sixth form drama group from Easington School are presenting Hamlet by William Shakespeare. You are all invited to attend this tragedy.
Across the road he spotted the village pharmacy. Inside, Nine-Fingers Freddie, the pianist who played Russ Conway hits in The Royal Oak, was at the front of the queue. ‘Jus’ m’prescription, Eugene,’ said Freddie.
‘Here y’are,’ said Eugene. ‘One tablet twice a day wi’ meals. Y’lookin’ a bit down, Freddie,’ he added.
Freddie picked up his tablets. He sounded distraught. ‘Well – that tonic ah bought las’ week for m’wife’s nerves didn’t work.’ He walked to the door.
‘What makes y’think that?’ asked Eugene.
‘Well,’ said the disconsolate Freddie, ‘she’s jus’ packed ’er case an’ left me,’ and the bell above the door rang madly as he left.
Everything went quiet.
Norman Critchley, husband of our formidable kitchen assistant, was next in line and behind him was Ernie Brown, husband of Winifred, the village battleaxe.
Finally Norman spoke up. ‘Ah’ll ’ave a bottle o’ that tonic, Eugene.’
‘An’ so will I,’ echoed Ernie and they wandered off with hope in their hearts.
It was PC Pike’s turn. ‘Excuse me, but have you got anything for blisters?’ he asked.
‘Tek y’boots off an’ let’s ’ave a look,’ said Eugene.
Julian removed his boots and gingerly peeled off his socks.
‘Bloody ’ell,’ said Eugene. ‘They’re t’worst ah’ve seen.’ Eugene believed in telling people how it was. After applying a variety of cushioned plasters, Julian settled up and departed. ‘Live long and prosper,’ said Eugene, his version of Mr Spock’s Vulcan salute. Julian was puzzled – he didn’t watch Star Trek. ‘An’ by the way,’ shouted Eugene as he reached the door, ‘was it you looking for Billy Icklethwaite’s cow? ’Cause she found ’er way ’ome, so Deke Ramsbottom said.’
PC Pike took out his notebook. He was on to his third page. ‘And where’s that, sir?’
‘Cokes Bottom Farm,’ said Eugene, ‘far end of Morton Road, on t’right beyond t’posh bungalows.’
At Cokes Bottom Farm the local press were already there. News travels fast in a small village. Clarissa looked none the worse for her tour of the village and Betsy Icklethwaite’s decision to release her was being treated sympathetically.
‘So you’re the new bobby,’ said the keen young reporter. ‘It appears you somehow managed to guide Clarissa home again.’
‘I was just doing my job,’ said Julian modestly. ‘We’re trained to do things by the book,’ he thought of Sergeant Hunter, ‘and you can quote me if you like.’
At afternoon break the telephone rang in the office and Vera smiled. She passed the receiver to me. ‘Mrs Sheffield,’ she said and then walked through the little passageway to the staff-room to enjoy a cup of tea.
‘Hello, Jack,’ said Beth, ‘how’s it going? I’ve not heard from you since you rushed off this morning.’
‘It’s a long story,’ I said. ‘We got all the end-of-term reports out on time and, oh yes, there was a runaway cow on school premises – but it’s sorted now and we got a call saying it was back in its own field.’
As a headteacher’s wife, Beth was completely unfazed by the occasional incongruous message. ‘I’m ringing about Laura – and Tom,’ she said in a whisper.
‘Oh … I see.’
‘I’ve just spoken to her and she’s going back to London for Easter.’
‘So how is Tom involved?’
‘Laura has invited him down there. She said it was just to show him the sights.’
‘It could be quite innocent,’ I said.
There was a silence as we each tried to read the other’s thoughts.
‘I think Tom likes Laura,’ said Beth.
‘He’s far too young for her,’ I replied, perhaps a little too sharply. ‘He needs to be more sensible.’
‘So does my sister,’ said Beth. There was the sound of John crying in the background. ‘Must go,’ she said and rang off.
As the school day neared its end the four classes were enjoying their traditional end-of-day story time. Anne was reading the story of Chicken Licken to her class and they sat there open-mouthed as the drama unfolded. ‘Chicken Licken shouted to the farmer, “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!” – so, girls and boys, what do you think the farmer said?’
There was silence as the group of small children pondered the problem. Suddenly, Billy Ricketts put up his hand.
‘Yes, Billy?’ asked Anne.
‘Well, Miss, ah reckon t’farmer might o’ said, “Bloomin’ ’eck, we gorra talkin’ chicken,”’ and Anne was reminded why she chose to teach the youngest children in Ragley School.
Meanwhile I was reading our class story, The Silver Sword by Ian Serraillier, a tear-jerking tale of a family trying to be reunited.
‘A bit like Clarissa, Mr Sheffield,’ said Harold Bustard, ‘y’know – trying t’get ’ome again.’ The story had swept around the school like a jungle telegraph.
‘I suppose it is, Harold,’ I said
and Betsy Icklethwaite gave me a shy look.
It was a happy group of children that ran down the drive with thoughts of holidays and Easter eggs, while a slightly less exuberant group of teachers tidied their classrooms and did a stock check.
The following week, the new edition of the Easington Herald & Pioneer was delivered to Bilbo Cottage and I cut out the front-page article for the staff-room noticeboard.
Over a photograph of Clarissa the cow, flanked by a smiling PC Pike on one side and a perplexed Mr Icklethwaite on the other, was the banner headline ‘New Bobby Rescues Runaway Cow – The Full Story of Clarissa, the Friesian Fugitive’. It reported that the Ministry of Agriculture had sent a letter of apology to Mr Icklethwaite stating, ‘Obviously there has been a mistake and Clarissa will remain as she is.’ The article also added the view of his wife: ‘“Percentages can cause a lot of problems,” said Mrs Icklethwaite, 45, of Cokes Bottom Farm. “When I was at school we did fractions.”’
It occurred to me that you can’t please all the people all the time … only 50 per cent of them!
Chapter Sixteen
Terry Earnshaw’s Bob-a-Job
Mrs Grainger and Mrs Pringle have agreed to display an exhibition of children’s art work in the refreshment marquee at the May Day Fair on the village green on Monday, 7 May. School closed today for the Bank Holiday and will reopen on Tuesday, 8 May.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 4 May 1984
‘YOU WERE SUPPOSED to look for fauna and flora,’ said Raymond the Scout leader.
Terry Earnshaw and a few of the youngest members of the Ragley Scout Troop had spent the last hour climbing trees, playing Red Indians and generally having a good time. ‘Ah’ve gorra Aunty Flora,’ said Terry helpfully. ‘She lives at t’seaside in Skegness.’
Raymond shook his head and sighed. There were over 600,000 Scouts in the country and he had finished up with Terry Earnshaw. Sometimes it was tough to communicate with the youngest members of the Ragley Scout Troop, particularly this son of Barnsley in South Yorkshire. He was one of a kind – or maybe not, Raymond thought. His big brother, Heathcliffe, turned up occasionally and he was definitely unconventional.
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