05 Please Sir!

by Jack Sheffield

  Stan turned in surprise. ‘Who’s asking?’ he said gruffly.

  Lily Makepiece bristled and walked to face him. ‘You don’t remember me, do you, Stanley?’

  ‘No, ah don’t.’

  ‘I’m Miss Makepiece.’

  ‘Bloody ’ell!’ exclaimed Stan, taking a step back. He looked as if he’d just come face to face with the Ghost of Christmas Past.

  ‘Yes, Stanley, I was your teacher when you bullied all those girls. As I recall, you were excluded for three days in November 1932.’ Stan took a step back towards the entrance door in alarm. ‘I rarely forget a face and I could never forget yours, Stanley Coe,’ said Miss Makepiece firmly. ‘So you had better go home and stop all this nonsense before I alert the local police that you’re bullying again.’

  Stan Coe ran out and we heard the skid of tyres as he raced down the drive.

  Spontaneous applause broke out. Miss Makepiece turned to me, eyes bright with mischief. ‘Thank you for a lovely day, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘I’m pleased to see that Ragley School is still in good hands,’ and, with that, she walked out with Sally into the darkness.

  An hour later I was alone in school. Anne, Vera and Jo had set off home with Ruby, while Mrs Cathcart, after a successful trip to York, had collected Michelle. It had been a day of long hours and the ticking of the school clock echoed mournfully around Ragley’s Victorian rafters as the casements shook in the bitter wind.

  I was surprised by another knock on the door. It was Beth. She looked tired. ‘Wondered if you’d like a drink and a meal in the Oak,’ she said.

  ‘Great idea,’ I said, clearing my desk.

  ‘What sort of day have you had?’

  I thought for a moment as I grabbed my coat and scarf. ‘Well … you know … the usual.’

  Chapter Twelve

  The Leeds Pals

  Two First World War veterans visited school as part of Class 4’s Food project. Miss Evans sent a revised copy of our history syllabus to County Hall for the attention of their ‘common curriculum’ working party.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Friday, 29 January 1982

  There are times in the life of a village headteacher that live long in the memory. The day I met Billy and Harry Gaskin was such a time. It was during the bitter winter of 1981/82 and it began with a loaf of bread.

  The last Friday morning in January was one of the coldest I had known during my time in Ragley village. Outside my classroom was a frozen bird table constructed from an old tree branch and the oak seat of a broken chair. It was primitive but effective and each morning three ‘bird-table monitors’ from various classes took turns to load it with scraps from Shirley’s kitchen and the bacon rind left-overs from Ruby’s regular breakfast fry-ups. This morning it was the turn of children in my class and three ten-year-olds, Sarah Tait, Amanda Pickles and Theresa Ackroyd, wrapped in scarves, gloves and bobble hats walked out on to the playground and waved back at the school windows as if they were intrepid Antarctic explorers. A large thermometer, a recent purchase from the Yorkshire Purchasing Organization catalogue, hung from the bird table, swaying in the bitter wind. Sarah, by far the most able of the three, noted the line of mercury, and remembered the reading.

  ‘It’s minus fourteen degrees Celsius, Mr Sheffield,’ said Sarah excitedly when she came back into class.

  ‘Could you record it please, Sarah?’ I asked and she trotted off to our temperature chart on the display board above the bookcase in our Reading Corner and put a small cross close to the bottom edge of the squared paper.

  ‘Any colder an’ we’ll ‘ave t’move t’bookcase,’ remarked eleven-year-old Jonathan Greening, the ever-practical farmer’s son.

  It was a busy morning during which I managed to complete the mid-year reading tests using the Schonell Word Recognition Test. The children applied themselves to their School Mathematics Project workcards followed by written work in their English exercise books. This often produced some imaginative responses, not least from Amanda Pickles, who, in answer to the question ‘What was Sir Walter Raleigh famous for?’ had written, ‘He invented bicycles,’ and I put a tiny red question mark in the margin.

  When the bell went for morning playtime, Joseph, who had just completed his weekly Bible stories lesson with Class 3, was in the corridor in animated discussion with Heathcliffe Earnshaw.

  ‘If we can’t see God, ‘ow do we know what’E looks like?’ asked an indignant Heathcliffe.

  ‘God is all around us,’ said the Revd Joseph Evans in a knowing voice.

  ‘Well, ah can’t see’im,’ said Heathcliffe with conviction, ‘an’ anyway, my dad said if God were from Barnsley, ‘E’d ‘ave knocked Satan into t’middle o’ nex’ week an’ ‘ad Sat’day off as well as Sunday.’

  Joseph smiled uncertainly, pleased that his lessons were having some impact on young minds, but too nonplussed to reply.

  In the school office, Vera had completed her late dinner-money register.

  ‘Any messages, Vera?’ I asked when I walked in.

  ‘Yes, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera, checking the shorthand notes on her pad. ‘County Hall want yet another updated history syllabus, Shirley’s got everything organized for the bread-making demonstration and the major is bringing the Gaskin brothers into school after lunch to support your Food topic.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting them.’

  ‘They’re both sidesmen at church, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera; ‘lovely men, both in their eighties, and inseparable friends. Both of them lost their wives a few years ago and they moved from Leeds into one of the little cottages on Morton Road.’

  I noticed that Vera was especially elegant today with yesterday afternoon’s perm at Diane’s Hair Salon looking especially striking. It crossed my mind that perhaps it wasn’t a coincidence as the major was visiting school today.

  It was just before twelve o’clock when the ever-watchful Theresa Ackroyd made her latest announcement. ‘Major’s posh car comin’ up t’drive, Mr Sheffield.’ Theresa never missed a trick. It was just a shame that her observational skills outweighed the written work in her Health Education project folder. The questions had been set by Staff Nurse Sue Phillips after a recent talk to the class. In answer to the question ‘What is a fibula?’ Theresa had written ‘a small lie’. However, next to her, the new girl Tracy Hartley was displaying an interesting view of human development. She had written: ‘My big sisters say when we grow up, the next stage is puberty and the one after that is adultery.’

  Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener smiled when he walked into the school office and his steel-blue eyes twinkled when he saw Vera. ‘Good afternoon, Vera,’ he said, ‘and how are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, Rupert, in spite of this dreadfully cold weather.’

  ‘Too true my dear,’ he said and his gaze softened but he didn’t reveal what had passed through his mind. Behind him were two elderly men who looked remarkably similar: both short, balding and wiry and more like twins than brothers a year apart. They wore thick tweed three-piece suits, huge old-fashioned greatcoats and each carried an old leather bag. When they smiled there was laughter in their eyes.

  ‘And I’ve brought two jolly brave men with me, Vera, who I believe you know … Mr Billy Gaskin and Mr Harry Gaskin,’ he said.

  The two men bowed. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Evans,’ said Harry, ‘and thank you for t’invitation. Billy’s been practisin’ ‘is speech all mornin’ for t’bread-making. ‘E’s more of a do-er than a talker, is our Billy.’

  ‘An’, er, this is f’you, Miss Evans,’ said Billy Gaskin, reaching into his leather bag, and he held out a freshly baked loaf wrapped in tissue paper. ‘Oh, what a treat, Mr Gaskin,’ said Vera, looking as if she’d just been presented with the crown jewels.

  ‘An’ one for t’ ’eadmaster,’ said Harry, and Billy produced another loaf from his bag.

  ‘That’s very kind, Mr Gaskin,’ I said. ‘It looks … and sme
lls wonderful.’ I weighed it in my hands. The loaf was dark and surprisingly heavy. It lacked the symmetry of mass-produced loaves and the smell was scrumptious. ‘Perfect,’ I said appreciatively.

  ‘Mr Gaskin is known as “Billy the Bread” in church, Mr Sheffield, and he and his brother are great supporters,’ said Vera. ‘Every week, Billy gives Elsie, the organist, a loaf of home-made bread.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you, Billy,’ I said.

  ‘Well, my way o’ thinkin’ is that we pass this way but once,’ said Billy, ‘so we might as well do a bit o’ good on t’journey.’

  ‘’E’s reight there,’ said Harry.

  ‘Well said, that man,’ said the major, ‘and what’s the recipe? I’ll give it to my cook.’

  ‘Well, Rupert,’ said Vera, ‘Mr Sheffield is going to write Mr Gaskin’s recipe on the blackboard so that the children can copy it into their “Food” folders … I’ll make a copy for you.’

  ‘Jolly good show, Vera. Well, duty calls, what?’ said the major, lifting his brass timepiece from his waistcoat pocket. ‘See you chaps later at the end of school.’

  Billy and Harry stiffened automatically to attention. ‘Yes, Major,’ they said in unison.

  ‘At ease, men,’ said Rupert with a smile. ‘Old habits die hard, what?’ He walked out to his classic Bentley while Vera and I led the two men through the little corridor from the office to the staff-room for a cup of tea. Anne, Sally and Jo were there. Anne was helping Sally refill the Roneo Spirit Duplicator and Jo was immersed in a new North Yorkshire booklet, Computers in Primary Schools, by our adviser Gilford Eccles.

  ‘These are our visitors,’ I announced, ‘Billy and Harry Gaskin – and look what they’ve brought.’ I put the loaf on the coffee table and everyone gathered round.

  ‘What a lovely gift!’ said Anne.

  Billy and Harry smiled shyly.

  ‘You can’t beat the smell of fresh bread,’ said Sally.

  ‘We’ll share it out later today,’ I said.

  ‘Oooh, thanks,’ said Jo. ‘I love newly baked bread. There’s something, you know, special about it.’

  ‘The colour’s interesting,’ said Anne, intrigued.

  ‘That’ll be t’treacle,’ said Billy with a modest smile.

  * * *

  After a cup of tea, Shirley the cook came in and took Billy and Harry to the kitchen to collect the mixing bowls and set up the demonstration table in the school hall. It was Vera, of course, who knew the story of their lives and we all gathered round to hear about the two brothers.

  Billy had been born in a terraced house in a soot-blackened street in Leeds in January 1895 and Harry arrived a year later. They were best friends as well as brothers, sharing a tough working-class experience. However, though they were often hungry, they were regularly reminded by their grandmother that they were the luckiest boys in the world because they were children of the Empire and Queen Victoria was on the throne. It was a simple, frugal life of bread-and-dripping sandwiches, cobbled streets and the expectation of work in one of the local mills.

  However, the brief pleasures of childhood soon passed and in 1914 they stood side by side at the foot of the statue of the Black Prince in Leeds City Square and stared up at Kitchener’s poster appeal ‘Your Country Needs You’. Above their heads an armada of high cirrus clouds sped across a cornflower-blue sky towards the distant Pennines. It was a day of hope and expectation, a day of daring and defiance, but, for Harry and Billy, it was the day they signed up for a date with destiny. They were about to enter a conflict that would shape the rest of their lives and, with tens of other volunteers, they queued to serve their country.

  Billy and Harry joined the 15th West York shire Battalion following Earl Kitchener’s idea that units of men should be drawn from one town or city. After signing up they were all treated to a large helping of the famous Woolton pie, including diced potatoes, cauliflower, swede, carrots, onions and oatmeal under a pastry crust. It had been named after Lord Woolton, the Minister of Food and a member of the family who owned the famous Lewis’s department store in Leeds. For Billy and Harry it was the best meal they had eaten in weeks.

  So it was they became part of a band of brothers, a regiment known as the ‘Leeds Pals’.

  In the school hall at a quarter past one, the children were wide-eyed with excitement as they watched Billy and Harry, assisted by Shirley the cook, begin their demonstration. ‘Well, ah weigh out one and a ‘alf pounds of wholemeal flour,’ said Billy, ‘and ah add yeast and salt …’

  ‘Let me write this down,’ I said and I noted the first part of the process on the blackboard.

  ‘After that,’ continued Billy, ‘ah add a ‘alf pound of malted brown flour, then ah dissolve a tablespoon of treacle in ‘alf a pint of hot water and add it and another ‘alf a pint of cold water. Then ah mix in a tablespoon of olive oil.’ I scribbled furiously as the children took turns to weigh and measure the ingredients. ‘I knead the dough and then ah put it, covered with a tea towel, in a warm place to rise for an ‘our,’ said Billy.

  While this was going on, the children prepared a collection of much smaller individual loaves that were destined to be taken home. Vera had already sent a letter explaining this to parents. Aprons were passed from boy to girl and hands were scrubbed. Jonathan Greening stared in amazement at his hands. ‘Ah’ve never seen ’em look so clean, Mr Sheffield,’ he said. ‘Me mam’ll be thrilled.’

  ‘After oiling a few bread tins,’ continued Billy, ‘ah knead t’dough again, put it in t’tins and allow it to rise for a second time for ‘alf an ‘our in a warm oven. Then ah bake’em for ‘alf an ‘our at 190 degrees Celsius. Last of all ah cool t’loaves on a tray.’

  ‘And that’s ‘ow t’make a perfect loaf, Mr Sheffield,’ said Harry, with an admiring glance at his elder brother.

  When the bell rang for afternoon playtime, the children went out to play in the snow and Shirley began baking the bread in her ovens. Vera had prepared a large pot of tea and some dainty slices of Billy’s bread, spread with fresh butter from Prudence Golightly’s General Stores. Jo was on duty and we could see her helping to build an igloo with some of the older children. Meanwhile, we all settled down to our feast of fresh bread and butter and soon Billy and Harry were regaling us with their stories.

  ‘So what was it really like in the war?’ I asked. ‘My grandfather never came back to tell me.’

  ‘Well, it were s’pposed t’be t’war to end all wars, but it wasn’t t’be,’ said Harry thoughtfully.

  ‘Y’reight there, ‘Arry,’ said Billy.

  ‘Ah recall t’16th and 18th Battalions of t’Prince of Wales Own West Yorkshire Regiment – all brave lads.’

  ‘Then some general got it wrong,’ said Billy.

  ‘It were first of July, 1916,’ said Harry, ‘a day we’ll never forget.’

  There was silence in the staff-room as both men struggled to find the words.

  ‘You mean the Battle of the Somme?’ said Sally.

  ‘That’s reight, luv,’ said Billy. ‘It were a massacre.’

  There was silence as they reflected on their world of ghosts and shadows.

  ‘T’ Leeds Pals were cut down by t’German machine guns,’ continued Harry, ‘an’ then t’Bradford Pals were shot to pieces.’

  ‘T’ Leeds Pals lost twenty-four officers an’ five ‘undred an’ four men,’ said Billy. ‘T’nex’ day there were only forty-seven of us f’roll call.’

  ‘How terribly sad,’ said Anne.

  ‘It robbed our community of a generation of young men,’ said Vera.

  ‘Over fifty-seven thousand men lay dead and wounded on the uplands of Picardy,’ said Sally softly.

  ‘Anyway, we’re still ‘ere,’ said Billy, ‘an’ it’s a real treat t’come t’your school, Miss Evans.’

  I smiled. Ragley really was Vera’s school.

  ‘Mind you, we’re gettin’ on a bit now,’ said Harry with a grin. ‘There’s seven ages t’man: “spill
s, drills, thrills, hills, ills, pills and wills”. Ah’m up to t’last one, Mr Sheffield.’

  ‘Y’know what they say,’ said Billy with a smile: ‘where there’s a will, there’s a relative.’

  We all laughed. The spell was broken, the bell rang out and we all hurried back to our work.

  It was a different end to the school week. Parents came in to collect their children and finished up talking to Billy and Harry. Many of them looked with interest at the collection of tiny loaves as, one by one, they were wrapped in tissue and taken home.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Gaskin,’ said Theresa Buttle. ‘That were a great afternoon.’

  ‘Y’welcome, luv,’ said Billy.

  ‘Can I give you a lift, Vera?’ asked Rupert.

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Vera and she hurried off to get her coat and scarf.

  The Bentley drove smoothly over the crusted snow through the gateway to the vicarage and pulled up outside the entrance porch. The north wind whipped up a fresh flurry of snow and Rupert and Vera stared out at the bleak but beautiful landscape. ‘Another year, Vera,’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes, Rupert,’ said Vera: ‘1982 … I wonder what it will bring.’

  ‘A wedding in the village,’ he said.

  Vera glanced at the major and thought how handsome he looked. ‘You mean Mr Sheffield and Miss Henderson?’

  ‘Yes, my dear. They will make a good couple.’

  ‘I’m glad they’ve both found happiness,’ said Vera.

  The major turned back to look at her. ‘Vera … it makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  ‘What’s that, Rupert?’

  ‘About what those two old soldiers said about growing old,’ said Rupert quietly. ‘Maybe it would be good to have a companion to share happy times.’

  ‘It might,’ said Vera, unwilling to commit herself further.

  ‘Vera, you are a wonderful lady,’ said Rupert with sudden intensity, ‘and you must know that I hold you in great esteem.’