05 Please Sir!

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘It was a tough decision at the time,’ I said. ‘We had to tread carefully.’

  ‘Well, all’s well now. I’ve got a wonderful job, a lovely lass and my writing.’

  ‘Ah, yes, your writing,’ I said. ‘Your stories were always beautifully written and your poetry was exceptional.’ He smiled modestly. ‘That reminds me, Nathan. I brought this for you.’ I handed him an old paperback of mine that I had taken from my bookshelf that morning. It was a book of Roger McGough’s poetry of the sixties.

  ‘One of my favourite poets,’ he said, flicking through the pages: ‘a real man of the people … Humour and humility, a good combination.’

  ‘I remembered you loved your poetry, Nathan,’ I said.

  ‘I still do,’ he said, ‘and it helped a lot.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  He smiled. ‘When my stepdad was around, Mr Sheffield, life was a series of frightening moments. It felt like a world of tall fences, no escape … But now I feel free.’

  I nodded in acknowledgement. The nervous little boy I had known all those years ago had gone now and been replaced by the confident young man who sat before me.

  ‘I learnt to open my box of secrets,’ he said knowingly. Then he slipped out of his pocket an old leather wallet. Inside was a small photograph, which he took out and passed to me. It was Nathan with a young dark-haired woman and they were standing in front of a small cottage in the Dales. ‘That’s my Susan,’ he said simply.

  When we left the pub he shook my hand in farewell and, to my surprise, leant into his Land-Rover and drew out a package. ‘For you, Mr Sheffield,’ he said and thrust it into my hand. ‘I did what you said: I stuck at it.’

  Then he climbed into the driver’s seat and, with a wave, drove off across the frozen cobbles of the market square. As he disappeared into the distance I recalled a long-ago December day when a troubled nine-year-old had walked down the driveway of Ragley School and disappeared into the darkness for the last time.

  Finally, I opened the parcel and smiled. It was a book of published poetry and the words on the front cover read

  THE LATCHKEY BOY

  and other poems

  by

  Nathan Penny

  Chapter Eight

  A Doll Called Jesus

  Three new admissions arrived today so our number on roll passed ninety for the first time in Ragley’s history. The school Christmas party was enjoyed by a full attendance and was supported by the PTA.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Friday, 18 December 1981

  ‘So remember, boys and girls, it’s better to give than receive,’ said the Revd Joseph Evans.

  Most of the children in the school hall stared back at our friendly local vicar and looked bemused. It was Friday morning, 18 December, the last day of the autumn term, and our final assembly of 1981 was almost at an end. It had been a busy week with a successful nativity play on Wednesday, a carol service on Thursday and, finally, this afternoon, came the Christmas party. Excitement knew no bounds and the children fidgeted with anticipation of the forthcoming festivities.

  Afterwards Joseph wondered if his message had fallen on deaf ears when his follow-up discussion about giving and receiving didn’t go as he had anticipated.

  ‘Ah don’t reckon much t’Jesus’s presents, Mr Evans,’ said Terry Earnshaw defiantly. ‘All this gold an’ frankenstein an’ t’other one. Ah reckon’e would’ve rather ’ad a Darth Vader ’elmet an’ a light sabre – or, if it ’ad been a girl, mebbe jus’ the ’elmet.’

  Joseph sighed but managed to smile at this forthright son of Barnsley with his spiky blond crewcut, runny nose and determined expression. However, he didn’t notice that, next to Terry, little Victoria Alice Dudley-Palmer was looking distinctly thoughtful.

  At morning break in the staff-room, Vera held up her copy of the Easington Herald & Pioneer. The headline read: ‘York white Christmas on the cards’.

  ‘I mustn’t leave my Christmas food shopping too late,’ said Vera, looking concerned. ‘Morton Road soon gets blocked with snow.’

  Jo glanced up from adding a seventh layer of newsprint to her Pass the Parcel prize. ‘I just gave a list to my Dan and he said he would do it all.’

  Sally and Anne looked at her as if she had just returned from the Galapagos Islands with a new species of man and decided to keep their thoughts to themselves. They returned to preparing their Pin the Tail on the Donkey game with an appropriate division of labour. Sally was drawing the donkey on an A2 piece of white card, as she had achieved a B grade in A-level Art. Anne was drawing the tail on a card offcut as she had failed Art but passed A-level Geography, so at least she would know where to pin it.

  I collected my hot drink, put on my duffel coat and old college scarf and walked outside. The playground was full of excited children who appeared to show no concern for the bitter cold as they ran red-faced and with bare knees. I sipped my mug of milky coffee and watched them sliding, throwing snowballs on the school field and playing ‘What Time is it, Mr Wolf?’ in the sheltered alcove by the boiler house.

  I wandered over to the school gates and looked across to the village green. It resembled a picture from a Yorkshire calendar with the pantile roofs of the cottages covered in wavy snow patterns and woodsmoke drifting into the slate-grey sky. The boughs of the trees hung heavy with the weight of snow and the pond was frozen over. In the centre of the green had been erected the village Christmas tree, an annual gift from Major Forbes-Kitchener, and his gardeners had completed their task by setting a circle of hay bales around its base to prevent daring children from climbing it.

  Down the High Street, outside Piercy’s Butcher’s Shop, Young Tommy was hanging up this year’s batch of plump turkeys and Timothy Pratt was up a ladder checking the alignment of the perfectly horizontal chain of coloured lights that lit up his shop sign. Diane Wigglesworth had put a small Christmas tree in her window and was decorating it with small photographs of Farrah Fawcett, Kate Bush, Julie Christie, Twiggy and Wonder Woman. Ted Postlethwaite, the village postman, was shifting snow and had somehow found time to clear a path from the front door of the Post Office to the post-box, while in the doorway Amelia Duff, the postmistress, was watching, full of admiration.

  Meanwhile Prudence Golightly’s General Stores was doing a roaring trade with her newly acquired supply of mistletoe. Easington Comprehensive School had closed for Christmas a day before the local primary schools and teenagers Wayne Ramsbottom and Kenny Kershaw had risked life and limb to climb the tall lime trees on Easington Road, where huge round bunches of the parasitic plant populated the high branches. They were now returning their hard-earned money to Prudence by spending it on chocolate.

  I was interrupted from my peaceful reverie by a shout from Terry Earnshaw. ‘Ah’m froz’, Mr Sheffield,’ he said.

  Victoria Alice was standing alongside Terry. ‘So am I, Mr Sheffield. I’m froz’ as well,’ she said, with an admiring look at the Barnsley boy with the spiky blond hair and unconventional manners.

  ‘Oh no,’ I said, ‘it’s … I’m frozen.’

  Terry gazed up at me sympathetically. ‘Looks like we’re all froz’, Mr Sheffield.’

  ‘Would you like to ring the bell for the end of playtime?’ I said.

  It was as if I had just offered them the crown jewels and they hurried off into the warmth of the school.

  At the school gate a familiar face suddenly appeared. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield.’ It was Barbara Bryant clutching the hand of her six-year-old daughter. ‘I’ve just brought Stacey back from the dentist,’ she said with a smile and crouched down next to her rosy-cheeked infant. ‘She was desperate not to miss the Christmas party.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Bryant,’ I said. ‘How are things with you?’ I recalled our first meeting a few Christmases ago. Her husband, Stephen, had been unemployed and it had been a difficult time for the family.

  ‘Our Debbie’s enjoying the big school and I’m still selling Avon c
osmetics,’ she said with a knowing smile, ‘and my Stephen’s doing really well now with his driving job, so everything’s fine.’

  This was good news. ‘So you’re OK, then?’

  Barbara Bryant was a perceptive woman. She knew what I meant. ‘We are now …’ and she hugged her daughter. ‘Anyway, must fly, Mr Sheffield – unless you’re interested in some Avon cosmetics?’ She laughed, kissed the little girl goodbye and walked back to her car.

  Stacey waved after her mother and then looked up at me. ‘Mr Sheffield, can I tell you something?’

  ‘Yes, Stacey. What is it?’

  ‘Every night I write a note to my mummy saying “I love you”,’ she said, ‘and she keeps them in a tin in the sideboard and she thinks I don’t know.’

  As she ran off to play with her friends, it occurred to me that Stacey had just described the best Christmas present of all.

  After morning break the children in my class found it hard to concentrate on their final lessons of the term. They couldn’t finish their English exercises quickly enough. In response to the instruction ‘Name five Arctic animals’, Theresa Ackroyd had scribbled: ‘Four polar bears and a seal.’ I hadn’t the heart to mark it incorrect, particularly when, bursting with excitement, she asked breathlessly, ‘Are we playing Musical Chairs this afternoon, Mr Sheffield?’

  At twelve o’clock Vera popped her head round my door. ‘There’s a gentleman to see you, Mr Sheffield.’

  In the entrance hall a huge, burly man wearing a boiler suit and a donkey jacket was waiting for me. He removed his thick scarf, gave me a shy smile and we shook hands. ‘Pleased t’meet yer, Mr Sheffield, an’ thanks f’seeing me at short notice,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said, ‘and welcome to Ragley.’

  ‘Ah wondered if y’could spare me a few minutes?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Come in and sit down.’ I opened the office door and gestured towards the visitor’s chair.

  ‘Well … ah’m John Hartley from Keighley, Mr Sheffield. Factory where ah worked closed down an’ ah were made redundant.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said.

  ‘Ah’ve just moved into Ragley – into School View, number eleven,’ he said, glancing out of the window and nodding towards the council estate. ‘Ah’ve managed t’get a ware’ouse job at Rowntree’s, mostly forklift-truck driving.’

  ‘You’ve done well to find employment so quickly,’ I said.

  ‘Ah were first in t’queue, Mr Sheffield: early bird an’ all that.’

  I smiled and began to take a liking to this giant of a man. ‘So, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, ah’ve got five girls,’ he said, taking out a sheet of notepaper from his rough donkey jacket and placing it on the table in front of me. It was a list of five girls’ names with their dates of birth alongside. ‘Ah wanted a rugby team an’ ah finished up wi’ a sewing class,’ he added with a grin.

  My eyes widened. Our number on roll was about to pass ninety for the first time.

  ‘As y’can see, there’s two teenagers, our Jean and Joanne, an’ they’re looking after t’three little ‘uns – that’s Tracy an’ Louise, they’re ten an’ eight, an’ then there’s little Mo.’

  I looked down at the list. The last name was Maureen and she was seven years old. ‘Ah, I see,’ I said: ‘that would be Maureen.’

  ‘She were named after’er mother,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I understand,’ I said.

  ‘That’s reight, Mr Sheffield, ‘cept, like’er mother,’ he looked down at the carpet, ‘she’s allus gone by little Mo.’

  ‘I see,’ and I sensed something had been left unsaid.

  ‘Well, y’see, my wife died three year back. It were cancer.’ There was anguish in his voice and a long silence while he regained his composure.

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr Hartley,’ I said, ‘and we’ll make your girls welcome in Ragley. We have a lovely school and I’m sure they’ll be happy here.’

  ‘So ah’ve ‘eard, Mr Sheffield. Y’caretaker lives next door but one – a nice lady, med us reight welcome.’

  ‘Ruby’s a good neighbour,’ I said, ‘and our secretary, Miss Evans, will take all the details and sort out which class they’re in.’

  Vera, ever perceptive, arrived and summed up the situation quickly. A few minutes later she had completed the admissions register and thanked Mr Hartley for being so efficient. She stood up and looked at me quizzically over her pince-nez spectacles. ‘I was just thinking, Mr Sheffield, it’s the school Christmas party this afternoon so perhaps Mr Hartley’s daughters would like to come along.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I said.

  Vera looked expectantly at Mr Hartley. ‘It would break the ice, so to speak, and they could meet their new classmates in a relaxed way.’

  I glanced up at the faded Roman numerals of the office clock. ‘The party starts at half past one, Mr Hartley.’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind of you,’ he said; ‘proper spirit o’ Christmas. Ah’ll be back then,’ and he walked out and set off home with a spring in his step.

  School lunch was a hurried affair even though Shirley had made one of my all-time favourite school dinners: mince and dumplings followed by gooseberry crumble and custard. Time was of the essence and all the staff, plus a few members of the Parent–Teacher Association, were already busy making preparations for the afternoon’s party. Finally, at half past one, all the children were sitting on their chairs round the edge of the school hall and Jo was explaining the rules of the first game, Statues. Each class took its turn and was cheered on by friends in other classes and by brothers and sisters.

  John Hartley’s girls had soon settled in. Ten-year-old Tracy had found a friend in Theresa Ackroyd, eight-year-old Louise was in animated conversation with Betsy Icklethwaite, while little Mo was sitting next to Victoria Alice Dudley-Palmer. Victoria Alice had brought her favourite doll to the party. It had been beautifully made and had a pretty porcelain face with ruby-red lips and long eyelashes. However, her long blue dress was slightly the worse for wear and needed stitching.

  Little Mo Hartley was watching her. ‘She’s very pretty,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Victoria Alice.

  ‘What’s she called?’ asked little Mo.

  ‘Well, her real name is Annabelle Alexandra Dudley-Palmer and she’s one of my favourite dolls, but last week she was Jesus.’

  ‘Jesus?’

  ‘Yes. In our nativity play.’

  ‘Ah thought Jesus were a boy,’ said Mo.

  ‘Yes, he was, so Annabelle had to pretend,’ said Victoria Alice.

  ‘Did she get a clap when she was Jesus?’ asked Mo. ‘At my las’ school, Jesus allus got a good clap.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Victoria Alice, ‘and my mummy was crying and so was Mrs Earnshaw because Terry was a shepherd with a cough.’

  ‘Ah ‘ope Jesus didn’t get a cough,’ said Mo.

  ‘No,’ said Victoria Alice. ‘I wrapped a tea towel round her face so she wouldn’t get any germs.’

  ‘What’s germs?’ asked Mo.

  ‘Nasty things that give you a cold,’ said Victoria Alice, proud of her medical knowledge.

  ‘Please can ah ’old ’er?’ asked Mo.

  ‘Yes,’ said Victoria Alice, ‘because you’re my friend.’

  Little Mo beamed. ‘Thank you … and you’re my friend.’

  The two tiny girls sat side by side. Mo rocked the doll gently and began to sing ‘Rock-a-bye Jesus in a tree top’. Victoria Alice joined in and, totally oblivious to the noise of the party around them, they shared the peace of their private space and the sweetness of joint protectorship of a doll called Jesus.

  After the games, while the children were enjoying afternoon break on the playground, we all helped Ruby to put out the dining tables. A few mothers had called in to help Shirley and Doreen in the kitchen to serve up jelly and ice cream following the crab-paste sandwiches, fairy cakes, jammy dodgers, mince pies and P
enguin biscuits. The children considered this to be a feast and Doreen flexed her magnificent biceps as she walked around with a huge bowl of strawberry jelly, dolloping out second helpings as a reward to anyone who had actually eaten a crab-paste sandwich.

  As usual, Ruby had been very generous and, with the help of daughter Racquel, she had bought a small gift for every child and these were hung on the Christmas tree. Early that morning, Jo had roped in Dan to blow up a hundred balloons and John Grainger had attached each one to a length of baling twine, ready to give out at the end of the day. At three o’clock when the last of the jelly had been devoured and the tables were put away, the children gathered round the Christmas tree to sing carols accompanied by Sally on her guitar.

  When parents drifted into the hall to collect their children and those belonging to friends and neighbours, Vera carefully checked off every pupil on her list to make sure each one went home safely and carrying a gift, a balloon, a miscellaneous collection of Christmas cards and any decorations they may have made. Slowly the hall emptied and Petula Dudley-Palmer collected Elisabeth Amelia and then sought out her younger daughter. She saw that Victoria Alice was sitting next to a little girl she did not recognize.

  ‘Hello, Mummy. This is my new friend, she’s going to be in my class and her name is Maureen but everyone calls her Mo,’ said Victoria Alice breathlessly.

  Petula crouched down. ‘Hello, Mo,’ she said and noticed that the little girl was hugging one of Victoria Alice’s dolls. ‘And do you like Annabelle?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Mo politely, ‘but ah call’er Jesus because it’s Christmas time.’

  ‘Ah yes, she was Jesus on Wednesday,’ said Petula with a smile. She was also thinking that this little girl was very polite even if her clothing suggested she came from the council estate. Petula looked around at the throng of parents filling the hall. ‘Where’s your mummy?’ she asked.