On the small card that came with the painting was the message ‘To all at Ragley School, with happy memories, from the Busby Girl’.
Chapter Seventeen
The Enemy Within
The PTA authorized the purchase of a new football and netball strip prior to the Annual Small Schools Football & Netball Tournament at Easington on Saturday, 8 May.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Wednesday, 5 May 1982
It was Wednesday morning, 5 May, and Ruby the caretaker was leaning against the pine table in the entrance hall. A mop and bucket lay discarded at her feet. It wasn’t like Ruby to just sit around and I wondered what could be the problem. Then I realized as she held up her newspaper. The headline on the front page of the Sun simply read: ‘GOTCHA!’
‘Ah’m worried about our Andy,’ said Ruby. Her eyes were red with recent tears.
I looked at her newspaper. In its inimitable style the Sun had reported the sinking of the Belgrano. Under the headline ‘The navy had the Argies on their knees last night after a devastating double punch … Wallop’ it read: ‘Our lads sink gunboat and hole cruiser’.
‘I’m sure he’ll come home safe and sound, Ruby,’ I said with as much conviction as I could muster.
‘Not like them poor Argies, Mr Sheffield. There’ll be a lot o’ mothers who won’t ‘ave their sons coming ’ome.’
I had to agree, but others would say it was unpatriotic to do so. I recalled my grandfather, killed at the age of twenty-one on the first terrible day of the Battle of the Somme, and my father, floundering in the South China Sea while being strafed by Japanese fighter pilots. War was a bloody business and I had been one of the fortunate generation who had lived during a time of peace.
Vera suddenly appeared from the school office and quickly summed up the situation. She put her arm round Ruby’s shoulders. ‘Come into the staff-room and have a cup of tea, Ruby,’ she said gently.
There had been a surprise escalation of political events. In early April, Argentina had occupied the Falklands with ten thousand troops and, in response, Margaret Thatcher had sent a large British task force on a 7,500 mile journey to liberate this tiny group of windswept islands in the South Atlantic. It was the biggest naval action since the Second World War and included the 5th Infantry Brigade and the British 3rd Commando Brigade. Sergeant Andy Smith was among them.
We didn’t know it then but the war was destined to last seventy-four days and account for the lives of two hundred and fifty-five British and six hundred and forty-nine Argentine soldiers, sailors and airmen and three civilian Falklanders. But in Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School in a quiet corner of England, life simply went on as normal and the milk continued to be delivered on time.
As I sat at my desk, it seemed trivial to be thinking about a new football strip.
On Saturday it was the Annual Small Schools Football and Netball Tournament in the spacious grounds of Easington Primary School. Our Parent–Teacher Association had recently purchased a new netball strip with blue skirts, white polo shirts and smart bibs with large letters on them such as GK and GA, denoting their positions. The girls looked really smart and were thrilled with their new outfits. However, our football team regularly turned out in blue shirts of widely different shades, scruffy shorts and multicoloured socks. As Eric Earnshaw, father of Heathcliffe and Terry, commented in his broad Barnsley accent at our last football match, ‘They look a reight ragtag ’n’ bobtail, Mr Sheffield.’
The telephone rang as I sat at my desk. It was Sue Phillips, the Chair of our Parent–Teacher Association. ‘It’s about a new football strip, Jack,’ she said. ‘My husband plays golf with the man who owns that new sports shop in Goodramgate in York and they’ve got an offer on at present. I could call in after my shift at the hospital and check it out if you like.’
‘Thanks, Sue, that’s really helpful,’ I said. ‘I appreciate your support.’
‘Oh, and by the way, Jack,’ added Sue before she rang off, ‘I’ve just bought the most wonderful hat for the wedding.’
I glanced at the calendar on the wall. Sally had circled 29 May in red felt pen. In a little over three weeks I would be marrying Beth Henderson.
It was morning break when Vera raised the Falklands problem. Anne was on playground duty while the rest of us met in the staff-room. ‘Ruby was very upset this morning,’ said Vera as she handed out the milky drinks. ‘It’s sad that all this has suddenly flared up again.’
‘We’ve been in dispute over these islands for centuries,’ said Sally. ‘Apparently they were named after Lord Falkland, Treasurer to the Navy, by Captain Strong, who landed there almost three hundred years ago to replenish his water supplies.’
‘So when did the Argentinians get involved?’ I asked.
‘Well, I seem to recall it was in the early nineteenth century that Argentina claimed the islands,’ said Sally, ‘but then they were quickly repossessed by Britain in 1833.’
‘And presumably this General Galtieri has stirred it all up again,’ said Jo, scanning Vera’s Daily Telegraph. ‘It says here that after taking over the presidency of Argentina in a coup in 1981 he immediately set about planning to retake what he calls Las Malvinas.’
‘Yes … That’s their name for the Falklands,’ said Sally.
‘And Margaret definitely won’t back down,’ said Vera, shaking her head in dismay. ‘She’s not the type.’ It was a dilemma for Vera: she hated war but always supported the venerable Margaret.
During the afternoon in my class we looked at a selection of newspapers as part of our Communication project. The children had brought in a copy of the newspaper their parents bought each day and we examined how the same story was reported by the different journalists. It threw up some interesting discussion, particularly relating to the promise of extra television channels. The BBC had announced that direct broadcasting by satellite channels would be introduced in 1986 and all the children were most enthusiastic. For my part, as I only ever watched BBC1, BBC2 and ITV, I couldn’t imagine the need for more choice.
However, it appeared that Dean Kershaw hadn’t completely grasped some of the arguments. In answer to the question ‘What is the meaning of “free press”?’ he wrote, ‘When your mother irons your shirts’, and I put a red exclamation mark in the margin.
On the way home that evening I bought a fish-and-chips supper and ate it on my lap while watching Frank Bough and Sue Lawley in Nationwide. They reported that the Tottenham Hotspur team manager, Keith Burtenshaw, had announced that the Argentinian Ricky Villa was to be left out of the FA Cup Final team due to play Queen’s Park Rangers at Wembley later this month. Fed up with Argentina, I decided to change channels. It was a choice between snooker from the Crucible on BBC2 or a programme on post-natal depression on ITV. It wasn’t difficult: I went for David Vine and the snooker.
On Thursday morning as I drove out of Kirkby Steepleton, the first rays of sunshine were gilding the high cirrus clouds. Wisps of mist caressed the distant fields with ghostly fingertips and the vast sky over the plain of York was washed clean. It was a pink dawn, a new day and, on my car radio, I hummed along to Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder’s ‘Ebony and Ivory’.
Even Ruby looked a little more cheerful when I arrived at school. ‘Our Duggie’s painting t’kitchen t’brighten t’place up f’when our Andy comes ’ome, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby. She looked really excited.
‘That’s great news, Ruby,’ I said, ‘and what colour will it be?’
‘Well,’e gorrit cheap off Tidy Tim – some old stock,’ said Ruby. ‘It’s gonna be Mongolian and white.’
I couldn’t wait to see it.
Our History lesson went well apart from a few of the usual howlers. In answer to the question ‘What was the Romans’ greatest achievement?’ Tracy Hartley had written, ‘Learning Latin’, and Dean Kershaw thought that ‘Round his garden’ was the perfect answer to ‘Where was Hadrian’s wall built?’ Neither did Amanda Pickles he
sitate in her response to the question ‘Where was the Magna Carta signed?’ She wrote, ‘At the bottom of the page’, and, once again, I couldn’t fault her logic.
It was lunchtime when Sue Phillips popped her smiling face round the staff-room door. ‘I’ve got the shirts, Jack,’ she said, ‘and they look great.’
She put a cardboard box on the coffee table and held up a football shirt with pale-blue and white vertical stripes.
‘Terrific,’ I said. ‘We’ll be the smartest team at the tournament.’
‘Well done, Sue,’ said Anne. ‘What about shorts and socks?’
‘Marion Greening is going into the Co-op this afternoon for the shorts and Freddie Kershaw knows a market trader in Thirkby and he’s picking up a set of socks. I’ve asked them to bring all the kit to the tournament and the boys can change there.’
‘Good idea, Sue, and thanks again,’ I said.
‘So we’re all set,’ she said, ‘and with everything at rock-bottom price.’
She settled down for a well-earned coffee and struck up a conversation with Vera, Anne, Sally and Jo about wedding hats, at which point I made a hasty exit.
That evening, in fine weather, I decided to get some fresh air and began work on my vegetable plot in the back garden of Bilbo Cottage. After an hour of digging I took a breather on the old bench and thought about my new life with Beth in this lovely old cottage. Around me were the sights and sounds of this picturesque part of North Yorkshire. The swallows had returned with their familiar acrobatics, a sign of the summer months that stretched ahead. They had migrated from southern Africa after spending winter there and had survived the five-thousand mile journey to return to the eaves of Bilbo Cottage and I welcomed them like long-lost friends. They swooped down to their familiar nesting site in order to produce the first of their broods. I had learnt not to mistake them for house martins any more and reflected that my knowledge of country life was increasing with each passing year.
‘So this is what you get up to,’ said a familiar voice. It was Beth. She looked casual and relaxed in a crew-necked raglan jumper, stone-washed jeans and Chris Evert trainers.
‘This is a surprise,’ I said.
‘Well, I’ve got another car-load,’ she said. ‘It’s more books and a few knick-knacks.’
‘Perhaps we need a new bookcase,’ I said, trying to be positive but realizing with some concern that my home was changing before my eyes.
‘There’s no perhaps about it, Jack,’ said Beth with a grin. ‘I thought we could nip into York on Saturday after the netball tournament.’
I glanced at my watch. ‘Do you fancy a drink?’
‘After we’ve unloaded,’ said Beth. ‘Don’t try to put me off.’
Somehow we found a place for all the boxes, including Beth’s complete set of Jane Austen novels and a surprisingly large collection of sports trophies from her schooldays in Hampshire. ‘Looks like you were quite athletic in your day,’ I said.
‘I still am, Jack,’ said Beth with a knowing look.
Married life promised to be fun.
The Royal Oak was busy as usual and ‘Town Called Malice’ by The Jam was playing on the juke-box.
‘Hey, Mr Sheffield,’ said Don from the other end of the bar, ‘’ave a dekko at this.’ He held up today’s edition of the Sun with the slightly more sensitive headline ‘Did 1,200 Argies Drown?’ which was a distinct improvement on ‘GOTCHA!’ ‘Looks like we’re giving them Argies a reight pasting,’ he said triumphantly.
I nodded in acknowledgement as we walked to a quiet corner. ‘Difficult times, Jack,’ said Beth thoughtfully as we sipped our drinks.
‘So, how about the wedding … Are you looking forward to it?’ I asked, eager to change the subject.
She smiled. ‘Very much. How about you?’
I raised my glass of Chestnut Mild. ‘To us,’ I said.
‘To us,’ she replied and she sipped her white wine.
‘Your parents have been very generous,’ I said.
‘It’s dominated my mother’s life,’ said Beth. ‘She rings me every night with updates on flowers and what everyone is wearing.’
‘How’s your father bearing up?’
‘He’s his usual laid-back self – apart from concern about giving a speech at the reception. That’s not really his forte.’
‘Are you still happy with the village hall for the evening party? I thought you wanted something a bit, well, more grand.’
‘No, it’s worked out fine, Jack, now that we’ve booked the Dean Court for a formal Wedding Breakfast for family and the main guests. So the hall will be perfect for all our friends from Ragley, Morton and Hartingdale.’
‘And have you heard about the major’s offer?’ I asked.
‘What’s that?’
‘He’s offered us his chauffeur-driven Bentley to take you to the church and for the Sunday morning to the railway station.’
‘Well done Rupert,’ said Beth. ‘I wonder if Vera twisted his arm.’
For our honeymoon, Beth and I had decided on a London theatre holiday and we had spent an enjoyable evening planning which shows to see. It was all coming together.
‘And the dress?’ I asked.
‘It’s all sorted, Jack. Laura gave me some great advice during our trip to the Harrogate Fashion Fair. So the dress is lovely … but you won’t see it of course until the day.’
‘I’m pleased Laura’s OK,’ I said.
‘That’s just my sister, Jack – always blowing hot and cold, never anything in between. She and Jo will make super bridesmaids and they’ve both been really supportive.’
I finished my drink, put down the glass and looked into her green eyes. ‘I love you,’ I whispered quietly.
‘Yes, but will you still love me when I bring another collect ion of boxes to the cottage tomorrow?’ She squeezed my hand and we walked out into the darkness.
On Friday morning, as I drove on the back road to Ragley village, it was good to be alive on this fine Yorkshire day. The hedgerows were coming alive, the air was warm and the sweet scent of wallflowers drifted on a gentle breeze. Early purple orchids lit up the woodland floor alongside the swathes of bluebells, and the lambs in the fields were still drowsy with sleep. Around me, the peace of the countryside and the soft sound of wood pigeons soothed the soul and healed the scars of winter.
However, harsh reality was an unwelcome companion as I gave Prudence Golightly twenty pence for my copy of The Times and read the front page. It said that the Queen was ‘deeply concerned’ following the sinking of HMS Sheffield in the South Atlantic. It also included a graphic account of the moment when Captain Sam Salt, Commander of the Sheffield, gave the order to abandon ship as the paint peeled off the hull following a direct hit by an Argentine missile.
With a heavy heart I walked into the entrance hall, where Sally and Vera were doing their best to cheer up Ruby.
‘You smell lovely, Ruby – what’s the perfume?’ asked Sally.
‘It’s summat Frenchified, Mrs Pringle,’ said Ruby. ‘Our Andy bought it for me las’ Christmas.’
‘He made a good choice, Ruby,’ said Vera quietly.
‘Ah sed ah’d only wear it on special occasions, but then ah thought that might never come. So ah’m wearing it ev’ry day for’im … till’e comes ‘ome safe.’
‘That’s a lovely thought, Ruby,’ said Vera.
‘I pray he does come ‘ome safe ‘n’ sound,’ said Ruby, ‘… and all t’other young men an’ women. War’s a terrible thing.’
We stood there quietly, all with our own thoughts.
Ruby put down her box of paper towels. ‘Life’s tough, Miss Evans.’
‘Yes, Ruby,’ said Vera firmly, ‘but you’re tougher,’ and she handed her a lace-edged handkerchief. Ruby rubbed the tears from her eyes, blew her nose vigorously and offered the handkerchief back to Vera. ‘You keep it, Ruby,’ said Vera.
Then Ruby picked up the box and set off for the staff toilets and Vera walked into t
he office, removed the cover from her electric typewriter and began to write a thankyou letter to parents following the purchase of our new football strip.
Love is impatient. It doesn’t respect the hands of time. So it was with my feelings for Beth. Occasionally, a carefree, reck less urgency scattered my senses. Logic was cast aside, which is why I set off to Morton very early on Saturday morning. Beth and I had arranged to travel to Easington together for the tournament. When I knocked on her door, above my head a parliament of rooks shattered the silence of the sycamores as they wheeled in a balmy blue sky and fed their young.
Beth was in her dressing gown. ‘You’re early,’ she said, glancing at her watch. ‘I haven’t put my tracksuit on yet.’
‘I noticed,’ I said. ‘I just couldn’t wait to see you.’
‘You’d better come in,’ she said with a smile.
An hour later in the General Stores Ruby was waiting to be served behind Vera, who was collecting her Daily Telegraph. Prudence had been upset by her previous customer, the aggressively rude Deirdre Coe, Stan Coe’s bossy sister.
‘She’s always complaining, Vera,’ said Prudence. ‘I don’t know what to make of her.’
Ruby was the only other person in the shop, waiting to buy a bag of sugar, and she was listening in.
‘At times she can be a most dreadful woman,’ said Vera, ‘an absolute virago.’
Ruby was puzzled. She knew for a fact that Deirdre was a Gemini. However, she would never dream of contradicting Miss Evans and kept her thoughts to herself.
‘And how are you, Ruby?’ asked Prudence.
‘Only middlin’, Prudence,’ said Ruby. ‘Ah’m all at sea t’day wi’ all t’worry.’
‘I hope your Andrew will be safe,’ she said.
Ruby gave a big sigh. ‘Ah’d like t’pray for’im, y’know, proper-like, but ah don’t really know ‘ow.’
Vera stood for a moment, looking thoughtful. ‘Ruby,’ she said quietly, ‘I think I can help.’
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