05 Please Sir!

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘Oh, ah see,’ said Little Malcolm … but he didn’t.

  ‘Ah know who will be close up,’ said Nora triumphantly: ‘that Mr Cwapper who’s doing our Timothy’s books.’E ’elps out at t’Wailway Museum an’ ’e’ll be there tomowwow.’

  ‘What does ’e do, then?’ asked Dorothy.

  ‘’E looks after Stephenson’s Wocket,’ said Nora.

  Dorothy looked blank.

  ‘It’s a twain, Dowothy.’

  ‘Oy! ‘Urry up wi’ them teas, Casanova,’ shouted Big Dave, giving Little Malcolm his big-girl’s-blouse look.

  Little Malcolm recoiled but composed himself sufficiently to put three spoonfuls of sugar into both mugs and retreat to the table.

  On my way home to Kirkby Steepleton, I noticed the lights were still on at Pratt’s Garage and I pulled up by the single pump. Victor Pratt, elder brother of Nora and Timothy, lumbered out to serve me, wiping his oil-smeared hands on his filthy overalls. ‘Now then, Mr Sheffield,’ said Victor in a gruff voice.

  ‘Hello, Victor. Could you fill her up, please?’ He unscrewed my filler cap and, with some foreboding, I asked him the usual question, ‘And how are you, Victor?’ Victor’s ailments usually defied all logic and were wonders of modern science.

  ‘Ah’ve been stung by summat,’ replied Victor with a pained expression.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Victor,’ I said with feeling.

  He pointed to a lump on his elbow as if it was a war wound. ‘Ah’ve been t’Dr Davenport an’ ah asked’im for an anecdote.’

  ‘An anecdote?’ I said, trying to suppress a grin. ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘Nothing really,’ said Victor looking puzzled. ‘’E jus’ ’ad this sudden fit o’ coughing.’E does it reg’lar when ah go t’see’im … ah don’t know why.’

  I gave Victor a ten-pound note and he wandered slowly back inside to resume battle with an ancient till that looked like something from a museum. When he returned to give me my change I noticed he was limping slightly. ‘An’ t’mek matters worse,’ he grumbled, ‘ah’ve got onions on m’feet.’

  ‘Oh dear, Victor,’ I said with feeling, ‘I bet that brings tears to your eyes.’

  ‘Y’reight there, Mr Sheffield,’ said Victor. ‘In fac’, that’s jus’ what Dr Davenport said.’

  In Kirkby Steepleton I bought a fish-and-chips supper and sat down at seven o’clock to watch This is Your Life on ITV. Eamonn Andrews had just surprised Cannon and Ball with his famous red book when the telephone rang.

  ‘I’ve just finished at school,’ said Beth. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Just about to start my fish-and-chips supper,’ I said.

  ‘Sounds lovely.’

  ‘Why not join me?’ I said.

  ‘I think I will,’ said Beth. ‘Shall I pick some up on the way?’

  ‘No. You come straight here and I’ll nip into the village and buy some more.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Beth. ‘See you soon.’

  Four hours later, after an evening of wedding-talk, Michael Parkinson was having a tête-à-tête with Joanna Lumley when we finally walked upstairs hand in hand.

  On Thursday morning the first frost of winter had arrived and Vera put on her best suit, pinned on her grandmother’s Victorian brooch and selected a warm scarf and a woollen royal-blue coat. Radio 3 was switched on in the kitchen and she hummed along to the music of Gershwin. Then, after scraping the ice off the windscreen of her Austin A40, she set off down Morton Road, through Ragley and on to the city of York, the jewel in Yorkshire’s crown. She parked near Micklegate Bar, walked briskly to the railway station and selected a good vantage point in Tea-Room Square. Gradually the crowds began to grow around her and she leant against the metal barrier, waited patiently and smiled. She was about to see her future queen.

  Timothy and Walter had already arrived. They were on first-name terms now and Timothy could barely contain his excitement. He had never met anyone as interesting as Walter in his whole life and the invitation to go with him to the Railway Museum simply couldn’t be refused. After asking Deke Ramsbottom to look after his shop he had put on his best suit and Yorkshire county tie, featuring a single ‘Tudor’ white rose on a green background, and loaded his old camera with a roll of film.

  ‘Good luck, Walter,’ said Tidy Tim from behind the crowd barrier as Walter donned his spotlessly clean blue boiler suit.

  ‘Thank you, Timothy,’ said Walter and he took his place in the line of nervous museum volunteers.

  At last the royal train arrived in bright sunshine and everyone cheered as the Prince and Princess of Wales stepped out of the carriage. They were due to become parents next June and there was much excited chatter among the ladies in the crowd. Princess Diana was radiant and looked stunning in her moss-green, woollen caped coat and a black Spanish-style hat. Vera was pleased to see she showed no sign of the illness that caused her to cancel engagements earlier in the week.

  Immediately, Princess Diana mingled with the crowd and shook hands with as many people as she could, while Charles, Vera noticed, was more reserved and hung back. The princess received gifts of flowers with a smile and made sure she took time to speak with the old folk who had waited many hours. She appeared completely at ease, whereas Charles observed the formal protocol and walked stiffly alongside the Lord Lieutenant of North Yorkshire, the Marquis of Normandy, who was leading the prince towards the official welcoming party.

  Suddenly Princess Diana was opposite Vera, who dropped an automatic curtsy. The princess smiled at the gesture and shook Vera’s hand. It was a brief meeting of youth and experience. Both tall, elegant women, there was a moment when they looked levelly into each other’s eyes.

  ‘Do you want a boy or a girl, Your Highness?’ Vera found herself whispering in their private cocoon of space.

  Princess Diana looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I don’t mind so long as it’s healthy,’ she said. Vera nodded in approval and, with her cool fingers, gave the princess’s hand a gentle squeeze. ‘God bless you, my dear,’ said Vera as the princess was whisked away and presented to the director of the museum. Meanwhile, Vera took her tiny lace handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed away a few tears.

  At last Walter’s moment had arrived. As an official museum volunteer he had spent many hours polishing the miniature steam engine, a replica working model of Stephenson’s Rocket. Princess Diana had been told by the museum director that many of the volunteer helpers had worked there for over twenty years.

  ‘And how long have you been here?’ she asked Walter, who was first in line.

  ‘Since eight o’clock this morning, Your Highness,’ replied Walter with a low bow.

  The princess smiled, the shutter of Timothy Pratt’s camera clicked and the moment that Walter Clarence Crapper met the princess was recorded for posterity.

  Then, much to the delight of the crowd, this was followed by an unscheduled ride on the miniature train, and the princess, showing a good deal of her long, shapely legs as she crouched on the narrow seat, shouted, ‘Perhaps I should have worn trousers, Charles!’ The future king’s sombre look suggested that he agreed.

  It had been an exciting day and that evening I settled down with some marking and switched on the television for company. A new brand of superglue was being advertised. A man in overalls, looking unusually relaxed, had been stuck to a large board that was dangling from a helicopter. Whatever they were paying him wasn’t enough.

  At half past eight Judith Chalmers introduced the Miss World Competition from the Royal Albert Hall. It was won by an eighteen-year-old Venezuelan mathematics student who, in my opinion, didn’t compare to Beth. Later I switched to BBC1 to watch Tenko, about a group of women prisoners in a camp in Singapore during the Second World War. I knew it was a series Beth enjoyed and I looked forward to the day we could relax together as a married couple.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, in the vicarage, Vera was listening to a concert on Radio 3 and was at peace with the m
usic of Delius and Bizet. She was reading the front page of the York Evening Press. The headline read ‘Isn’t she lovely!’ above a photograph of Princess Diana waving to the crowd. Vera smiled and reflected on her day and her brief meeting with the beautiful princess, a meeting she knew she would remember for the rest of her life.

  On Easington Road, in Walter Crapper’s garage, Timothy and Walter were looking at the same newspaper and remembering their very special day.

  ‘Congratulations, Walter,’ said Timothy.

  ‘Thank you, Timothy,’ said Walter. ‘I’ll never forget today.’

  ‘And when ah’ve taken t’other thirty-five photos on this roll o’ film, Walter, I’ll take it t’Boots and we can see you being presented to t’princess.’

  ‘That will be wonderful, Timothy,’ said Walter. ‘And now … would you like to see my undercarriage?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said the eager Timothy, looking around at the wonderland that was Walter’s workshop. Hanging from the ceiling was his Hi-Boy high-wing trainer and on his home-made wooden stand, supporting a half-finished model aircraft, was a fuel pump driven by a twelve-volt lead acetate battery.

  ‘The fuel is made up of eighty per cent methanol, fifteen per cent castor oil and five per cent nitro methane which I can increase for competition flying,’ said Walter.

  ‘Competition flying?’ said Timothy.

  ‘Yes. In fact, there’s a competition this Sunday,’ said Walter. ‘Would you like to come?’

  ‘Ooh, yes, please,’ said Timothy and he knew he had arrived in aero-modelling heaven when Walter let him cover the rib and spar wings in Solarfilm and then use an electric hot iron to allow the covering to shrink into place. Finally, he fitted the wheels with split pins and finished it off with a soldering iron. They both stood back in admiration. It was complete.

  That evening as they each drank a cup of cocoa, Timothy felt that perhaps for the first time in his life he might have a real friend.

  ‘Walter,’ he said tentatively, ‘one day, would you like t’see my Meccano set?’

  On Sunday morning the weather was calm and the members of the Easington and District Aero Modellers’ Club had gathered alongside their runway. It was one hundred and thirty yards long and twenty-five yards wide and the grass had been mown so it looked like a championship bowling green.

  Walter had let Timothy help him attach the wings with six heavy-duty elastic bands to his pride and joy, a WOT 4 model aircraft. Then he picked up his transmitter and, attached to the aerial, his channel number fluttered on an orange and white pennant. ‘I’m using a thirty-five megahertz waveband, Timothy,’ said Walter, ‘and the receiver in the aircraft has an identical crystal to the one in the transmitter,’ he explained and Timothy looked on in fascination.

  After a few final adjustments Walter looked at Timothy. ‘Right, stand back,’ he said. ‘This is it.’

  It was a moment that would live long in the memory of Timothy Pratt as the aircraft sped down the runway and lifted off into a cobalt-blue sky. He looked at Walter and smiled … and Walter smiled back. His heart soared like the tiny aircraft.

  That evening Timothy Pratt surveyed the organized world of his Hardware Emporium. ‘Create order from chaos,’ he recited quietly to himself. Then he turned out the lights and gave a contented sigh in the inky darkness. No longer was there something missing in his life … he had a friend.

  Chapter Six

  Separate Lives

  Following a request from County Hall I updated our history and geography schemes of work.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Thursday, 19 November 1981

  ‘Ah’ll tell y’summat f’nowt, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby, as she scattered salt on the frozen steps of the school entrance porch.

  It was clearly an offer I couldn’t refuse. ‘And what’s that, Ruby?’

  ‘Y’look like death warmed up,’ she said bluntly.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I mumbled without conviction but with a hint of martyrdom. ‘Just a bit of a cold.’

  ‘Get some goose grease on y’chest, Mr Sheffield. My Auntie Gladys swears by it.’

  ‘OK, Ruby,’ I said and sneezed loudly.

  ‘Huh, men!’ she muttered under her breath as I walked into the welcome warmth of the school office.

  It was 8.00 a.m. on Thursday, 19 November, and, as I sat down at my desk, I sighed. Then I reached for the telephone and dialled Beth’s school number. I needed some sympathy.

  Meanwhile, across the High Street, Big Dave and Little Malcolm had parked their dustcart outside Nora’s Coffee Shop for their usual before-work large mug of tea and two rounds of toast. The juke-box was playing the new number one, ‘Under Pressure’ by Queen and David Bowie.

  ‘Hey, laughin’ boy, you’re quiet,’ said Big Dave, stirring his tea vigorously and biting savagely into a doorstep-sized slice of slightly burnt toast. Fortunately, Dorothy Humpleby knew exactly how Little Malcolm and Big Dave liked their toast and for the binmen of Ragley slightly burnt was perfection.

  ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm, staring into his mug of tea and ignoring his toast. ‘It’s ’cause ah don’t know ’ow t’say it.’

  Big Dave looked puzzled. ‘How d’y’mean?’

  ‘It’s Match o’ t’Day on Sat’day neight, Dave, an’ ah can’t watch it.’

  Big Dave nearly choked over his tea. He was thirty-nine years old, a year older than his diminutive cousin, and for all their adult life they had shared a council house in Ragley. He could barely believe what he was hearing. ‘But we allus watch Match o’ t’Day.’

  ‘Ah know, Dave,’ mumbled Little Malcolm, ‘but this Sat’day ah can’t.’

  Big Dave shook his head. ‘But it’s Sat’day … We ’ave telly warmed up, a couple o’ cans an’ a bag o’ chips … It’s our ritual.’

  Dorothy Humpleby walked to their table with a huge teapot and topped up their mugs. ‘’Ave y’told’im, then, Malcolm?’

  Big Dave looked up sharply. ‘Told me what?’

  ‘We’re off to t’pictures in York on Sat’day neight, Dave,’ said a tense-looking Malcolm, ‘an’ we won’t be back till late.’

  ‘That’s reight,’ said Dorothy. ‘We’re off t’see them Chariots o’ Fire.’

  ‘What’s that abart when it’s at ‘ome?’ said Dave gruffly.

  ‘Dunno, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm, ‘but Stevie sez there’s a bloke in it called Abraham an’ ’e can run reight fast.’

  ‘Sounds like Ben ’Ur wi’ Abraham an’ chariots an’ all,’ grumbled Big Dave. ‘It’ll be one o’ them Bible epics, not a patch on Match o’ t’Day.’

  ‘Mebbe so, Dave, but ah promised,’ pleaded Little Malcolm. He knew he was breaking his big cousin’s heart but it was too late to back out. Dorothy was the girl of his dreams. She only had to flutter her eyelashes and Jimmy Hill came a poor second.

  Dorothy leant over the table and fixed Big Dave with a stare. ‘Dave, mebbe you ought t’think abart gettin’ a girlfriend.’

  Big Dave was speechless. It wasn’t until Little Malcolm picked up the empty mugs and took them back to the counter that a thought crossed his mind. Slowly a smile creased his stubbly face and it occurred to him that maybe Dorothy wasn’t as daft as she looked. Perhaps there was more to life than beer, football and cricket.

  He took his creased copy of the York Evening Press out of the pocket of his council donkey jacket, opened it and, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t intending to read the sports page.

  In Ragley School, just before morning assembly, Heathcliffe and Elisabeth Amelia were queuing in the corridor, waiting to walk into the hall in complete silence, while, on there cord deck of our Contiboard music trolley, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was about to sprinkle over them like cultural confetti. This was their last chance to speak and they appeared to be concluding an argument about which was the best – cinder toffee, Pontefract cakes or liquorice bootlaces.

  ‘Ah’m reight,’ said Heathclif
fe defiantly.

  ‘Well,’ responded Elisabeth Amelia, seeing an opportunity to take the higher ground, ‘my mummy says it’s better to be kind than right.’

  Heathcliffe was dumbstruck. It was on occasions like this it occurred to him that girls appeared to be higher in the intellectual pecking order and it wasn’t a comfortable feeling.

  On this freezing cold day, at morning break, Vera had prepared welcome hot milky coffees for all the staff. Anne wrapped up warm and went out on playground duty, while Jo and Sally sat near the gas fire. Sally had picked up Vera’s Daily Telegraph and had begun to read an article about Princess Margaret, sixth in line to the throne. Life seemed turbulent for the Queen’s younger sister. ‘I wonder if she’ll ever have peace in her life,’ murmured Sally philosophically.

  Jo looked across the staff-room at me. I was deep in my own thoughts. ‘So have you and Beth picked a wedding date yet, Jack?’

  It came out of the blue and I was unprepared. ‘Er, not exactly, Jo, but we’re getting there,’ I said. ‘We’ll be discussing it with her mother and father over the Christmas holiday.’

  Vera sensed my discomfort and went to stand by the window. The howling north wind battered the windows and they shook in their Victorian casements. ‘The children are always a bit giddy when the wind blows so strongly,’ she said. Then she smiled and said gently, ‘More coffee, Mr Sheffield?’

  ‘Thank you, Vera,’ I said. It struck me that with her pince-nez spectacles perched on the end of her nose she looked like a wise owl.

  During lunchbreak, ten miles away, Big Dave had travelled into York and was standing in the newspaper office of the York Press. In front of him in the queue was Mary Brakespeare, the matriarch of an Easington farming family.

  ‘’Ullo, Mrs Brakespeare,’ said Big Dave a little sheepishly. He was hoping to make his visit short and sweet – and anonymous.