05 Please Sir!

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘What a beautiful dress,’ said Shirley the cook to Doreen Critchley. ‘Ah knew she’d pick a good ’un.’

  ‘Must ’ave cost a fortune,’ retorted the practical Doreen.

  Beth looked beautiful. The dress had a white fitted bodice with a scooped neckline and was covered in delicate lace. The long narrow sleeves reached to her wrists and the full skirt, of a lighter material, extended at the back to a small train that fluttered behind her. The bouquet of delicate spring flowers was perfect.

  It was typical Beth: no flamboyance … simply understated beauty.

  Laura and Jo had pinned a beautiful circlet of flowers to her ringlets of honey-blonde hair and the full-length veil lifted in the slight breeze as she walked on the gravel path to the church. Behind Beth came Laura and Jo, both slim and stunning in matching long lilac dresses, bare shoulders and each capped with a headband of tiny flowers.

  ‘She’s marrying our teacher,’ shouted five-year-old Jemima Poole from the crowd.

  Four-year-old Katie Icklethwaite looked puzzled. ‘Will she teach me when I start school, Jemima?’

  ‘Who?’ replied Jemima.

  ‘That lady – Mrs Teacher,’ said Katie.

  ‘No,’ said Jemima. ‘She teaches somewhere else. You’ll ’ave my teacher, Mrs Grainger. She’s old but she’s nice.’

  ‘She’s got a pretty dress,’ said Katie thoughtfully, ‘jus’ like my Barbie.’

  A hushed whisper amongst the congregation and a turning of heads indicated the arrival of the bride. The bridal party had gathered in the porch and Laura and Jo were making final adjustments to Beth’s dress.

  Dan gave me a nudge and we stepped out from our pew and took our places in front of Joseph. Vera gave a signal to Elsie at the organ and the first bars of the ‘Bridal March’ echoed round the ancient walls. As I looked around I saw Diane Henderson wiping away a tear as she glanced back at John leading her elder daughter down the aisle. It was an image I shall never forget: John looking so straight and proud with Beth on his arm and, in a halo of sunlight from the open church door, she looking more beautiful than I could imagine.

  Suddenly Beth was beside me and she looked up and smiled. All sound around me seemed hushed, and in that moment we were in our private cocoon, just the two of us. In a spinning world we had found a moment of stillness and there was a special intimacy in our sheltered space.

  I had come to realize that love was no easy journey; rather, a pathway of ice and fire. My relationship with Beth had been steadfast but never safe. In the past few years my emotions had been heated and hammered in the forge of life but now the first journey had ended and a new one was beginning. As I stood beside her there was only a gentle peace in my heart and time for cool reflection.

  The service seemed to pass by in a dream. We sang two of our favourite hymns, ‘Love divine, all loves excelling’ and ‘Lord of all hopefulness’.

  Joseph led us calmly through each stage of the service with practised ease and we gave our responses with confidence. ‘Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?’ he asked, ‘… and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?’

  ‘I will,’ I said.

  I had chosen my destiny and I was bound to its promise.

  When we emerged once again into the sunshine the world around us exploded with cheers and confetti.

  Beth squeezed my hand as we gathered on the lawn for the official photographs. ‘Wasn’t that wonderful, Jack?’ she said.

  ‘I love you, Beth,’ I whispered in her ear.

  The harassed photographer was going through his ritual of interchanging parents for the family photographs. John Henderson stood next to my mother and she held his arm as if she never wanted the moment to end. Predictably Aunt May insisted on clutching his other arm and there he was, sandwiched between two smiling ladies of Scotland. Diane had Dan, the Adonis of the police force, beside her and didn’t complain when the giant policeman slipped his arm round her waist. It was a time of joy and tears in equal measure and it seemed as if the whole village had turned out to share our day.

  ‘Jolly fine wedding, what?’ said a familiar voice. The major was at my elbow and he was pointing towards a gleaming Bentley and a smartly dressed chauffeur. ‘Your carriage awaits … Mr and Mrs Sheffield.’

  When we pulled up outside the Dean Court Hotel in the shadow of York Minster we were welcomed by the maître d’hôtel. As always, the service was impeccable, the table settings were perfect and the champagne flowed.

  It was a happy and relaxed occasion for family and close friends and everyone applauded the speeches and the cutting of the cake. Again, it seemed to pass by in a blur, for I had eyes only for Beth and longed to be alone with her.

  At last the opportunity came when our chauffeur-driven Bentley returned us to Bilbo Cottage and I carried Beth over the threshold. Above our heads, a rook cawed in the high elms and a mouse scuttled in the moss-covered eaves. In the cool of the hallway I kissed my bride and then we walked into the lounge and collapsed on the sofa in each other’s arms.

  It was an hour later when Beth said, ‘Jack, I haven’t packed yet.’

  ‘Do it tomorrow morning,’ I said, reluctant to move.

  ‘Have you packed?’ she asked a little sleepily.

  ‘No, but I’ve got all the rail and theatre tickets.’

  As we only had a one-week spring bank holiday we had decided to go to London the following morning for a short theatre break. Beth had planned it to begin on Monday with The Pirates of Penzance featuring Tim Curry, George Cole and Pamela Stephenson. Then on Tuesday it was Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap, now in its thirtieth year, followed by a real treat on Wednesday: namely, Glenda Jackson in a new comedy, Summit Conference.

  We were due to return to Bilbo Cottage on Thursday and miss the historic occasion on the bank holiday Monday when one hundred thousand pilgrims were due to gather on the Knavesmire to welcome the visit of the Pope. However, thoughts of papal helicopters and popemobiles were far from my mind. I had just married the woman I loved.

  When we arrived in the village hall, Clint Ramsbottom was playing the new hit record ‘House of Fun’ by Madness, and Old Tommy Piercy was complaining that we ought to have some proper music.

  It was a night to remember. It seemed as though everyone we knew had turned up and Don and Big Dave returned to The Royal Oak for a second barrel. As dusk finally arrived and coloured lights flickered around the hall, Beth went off to dance with her father. Suddenly, Laura was in front of me. She stood close and gently stroked out the creases in my jacket. I could smell her perfume, Opium by Yves Saint Laurent.

  ‘Congratulations, Jack,’ she said, smoothing the wide lapels. ‘Great suit, by the way.’ Then she looked at me with questioning green eyes. ‘Make my sister happy, Jack,’ she said.

  ‘I shall, Laura,’ I said.

  Clint Ramsbottom put on Abba’s ‘The Winner Takes It All’ and Laura smiled wistfully. Her long hair was hanging free over her bare, suntanned shoulders and, as always, she looked lovely. ‘One last dance?’ she said quietly and took my hand.

  After the dance, Beth arrived and gave her sister a hug. ‘Thanks, Laura,’ she said, ‘… for everything.’

  ‘Have a good life, big sister,’ said Laura. ‘You have the love of a man who will never break your heart.’ Then she reached up, kissed my cheek and walked away into the crowd.

  It was midnight when we made our escape and our chauffeur delivered us back to a silent Bilbo Cottage.

  The road to love has many pathways and I had reached my destination. No more the ache of distance and the silence of spaces. We were together at last and her hair was on my pillow. It was the beginning of a new life and the end of a perfect day.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Summer Ball

  The children completed paintings for the children’s art display at the Annual Morton and Ragley Agricultural Show in the grounds of Morton Manor on Saturday, 26th June. The 4th-year jun
iors in Class 4 visited Easington Comprehensive School prior to transfer in September.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday,

  25 June 1982

  Vera held up her Daily Telegraph in delight. ‘Isn’t it wonderful,’ she said, ‘a son for Charles and Diana, and it says here that he weighed just over seven pounds and that he “cried lustily”.’

  It was the last Friday in June, a new school day was about to begin and Vera was flushed with excitement.

  ‘So is he second in line to the throne?’ asked Jo.

  ‘Yes,’ said Vera, who had become our unofficial royal correspondent ever since Princess Diana had given birth earlier in the week.

  ‘Personally, I’d get rid of the lot of them,’ said Sally rather grumpily, ‘and let them survive on a teacher’s salary.’

  ‘Actually, I think Di is a breath of fresh air for the royal family,’ said Anne.

  ‘And it says here that Prince Andrew is still flying “round the clock” during operations, based on HMS Invincible – so he’s doing his bit for Queen and country,’ said Vera.

  Sally picked up her register from Vera’s desk. ‘Yes, you’re probably right, Anne, and … I do like Diana,’ she said with a tired smile. ‘Sorry, Vera,’ she added as she paused in the doorway. ‘I’m not quite feeling myself today. My new diet is making me grumpy.’

  ‘Sally,’ Vera said, trying to change the subject, ‘I hope that you and Colin will be coming to the Manor House on Saturday evening.’

  Sally smiled. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Vera. The Summer Ball will be just the thing to cheer me up.’

  The social gathering of the year was only one day away and the major had invited all the staff to attend a grand ball at his manor house on the evening of the Annual Morton and Ragley Agricultural Show. As Anne Grainger had insisted to her husband, John, when he complained he couldn’t dance and asked did he really have to go, ‘These tickets are like gold dust!’

  At nine o’clock the bell rang for morning school but the fifteen children in their final year at Ragley lined up by the school gate to board William Featherstone’s Reliance bus. It was a special day for them and they were all full of anticipation at the prospect of visiting Easington Comprehensive School prior to their transfer to secondary education in September.

  ‘Mr Sheffield, ah’ve ‘eard they ‘ave science labs an’ woodwork an’ a big canteen an’ a trampoline like on t’Olympics,’ said Jonathan Greening as he boarded the bus. The words tumbled out. He was about to discover a new world of uniforms, examinations and adolescence and his eyes were bright with excitement.

  It was morning playtime when Ruby made a surprise entrance. I hadn’t seen much of her recently as Racquel’s baby was due in a few weeks and she had been spending all her spare time sewing furiously and making a decorative christening shawl. Her twice-weekly cross-stitch class had provided the opportunity to apply the finishing touches.

  ‘Ah’ve finished m’shawl, Miss Evans,’ said Ruby, holding it up for all to see, ‘an’ ah’ve got some good news.’

  ‘Oh, well done, Ruby,’ said Vera.

  ‘What beautiful stitching!’ said Anne.

  ‘And what’s the news?’ asked Sally.

  Ruby looked around the staff-room at our expectant faces. ‘Our Andy’s comin’ ‘ome,’ she said triumphantly.

  It was true. The war with Argentina was over. After Argentine planes had killed forty-three British troops at Bluff Cove, over eleven thousand Argentinian soldiers had surrendered in a final battle at Port Stanley. ‘White flags are flying,’ Mrs Thatcher had announced to a cheering House of Commons.

  Everyone jumped up and there was a burst of spontaneous applause. ‘Oh, Ruby,’ said Anne, ‘that’s wonderful news.’

  ‘And do you know when he’s coming home?’ I asked.

  ‘Some time next month, so ah’ve ‘eard,’ said Ruby.

  Vera got up from her chair, put her arms round our tearful caretaker and gave her a hug. ‘I’m so pleased for you,’ she said.

  ‘An’ thanks t’you, Miss Evans,’ said Ruby quietly. ‘A bit o’ prayin’ didn’t do no ‘arm, did it?’

  Vera smiled. ‘It never does, Ruby … It never does.’

  Meanwhile, outside on the school field, the concept of life and death was being accommodated at a different level. Terry Earnshaw’s understanding of life and girls, but not necessarily in that order, continued to be a little fragile.

  ‘Oh!’ shouted Victoria Alice, ‘a wasp!’ She jumped back as the fierce little insect landed on the grass in front of her. Terry saw his moment had come to demonstrate he was a true super-hero and he promptly stamped on it.

  Victoria Alice stared in horror. ‘Oh, Terry, you’ve killed it!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Ah know,’ said Terry puffing out his chest, ‘an’ ah weren’t frit either.’ Past tenses had always eluded young Terry.

  ‘Mummy says when you die you go to heaven,’ said Victoria Alice.

  They both stared at the dead wasp for what seemed like an eternity, until Terry, becoming restless, broke the silence. ‘Well, it’s tekkin’ its time abart it,’ he said testily.

  * * *

  At lunchtime, in the corner of the staff-room, Sally had taken out a bag of muesli and was munching away as if her life depended on it. She clearly wasn’t her usual cheery self. Her daughter, Grace, was now over sixteen months old and was toddling around, opening cupboard doors and giving Sally a few sleepless nights because of teething problems. Also, it appeared that Sally had begun yet another diet.

  ‘I’m starving,’ she said mournfully while eyeing up the box of biscuits on the coffee table. She took out of her shoulder bag a small Penguin paperback with the words Audrey Eyton’s Extraordinary F-PLAN Diet emblazoned on the front cover. The sub-text read: ‘At last! Look great and feel fabulous with this effective and healthy new diet’.

  ‘This is my new slimming book,’ she said, ‘and the idea is you have a high-fibre diet, so you should feel satisfied on fewer calories.’

  Anne and Jo suddenly looked interested. ‘What do you do?’ asked Anne.

  ‘Well, every day I drink half a pint of skimmed milk and never go beyond fifteen hundred calories,’ said Sally, holding up another little paperback, this one entitled F-PLAN: Calorie and Fibre Chart, ‘and I check the calorie count in this book.’

  ‘So, is it working?’ asked Jo and then immediately wished she hadn’t as Vera and Anne gave her a stern look.

  Sally grinned. ‘Hope so … but I could murder a custard cream.’

  * * *

  On Friday evening Beth and I went into York to the Odeon cinema and settled down to share a bag of Liquorice Allsorts and enjoy On Golden Pond, with Jane Fonda, Henry Fonda and Katharine Hepburn. Beth explained that, apparently, the father–daughter rift in the film was echoed in real life and, as I carefully selected all the coconut whirls in the pitch darkness, I wondered if that made acting the part easier.

  It was Saturday morning and a dawn of pearl grey crested the distant hills as the first fingers of sharp shadows spread across the land. A new day had begun.

  The rattle of the letter-box woke Beth. Since getting married, I had begun to have a newspaper delivered at the weekend. ‘The paper’s here,’ she said sleepily, ‘and I’d love a cup of tea if you’re going downstairs to collect it,’ she added coyly. Married life had seemed to suit us both and, with the exception of my having no wardrobe space any more, life was bliss.

  When Beth emerged, in her dressing gown and with tousled hair, I was eating my Weetabix and reading the paper. There was the usual mixed bag of news. Arthur Scargill and forty thousand miners had brought forty-four Yorkshire pits to a halt and the American President, ex-film star Ronald Reagan, had told the House of Commons that Britain’s young men had fought in the Falklands ‘not for mere real estate’. Meanwhile, on the back page, Bobby Robson said he would consider replacing Ron Greenwood as the England manager … if he was offered the job. Also, the price
of four-star petrol had gone up again by 7p to 169p per gallon. It was tough keeping pace with inflation.

  Beth looked up at the kitchen clock. ‘I’m having my hair done at nine,’ she said, ‘so shall we go into Ragley together?’ Diane’s Hair Salon was fully booked this day of the Summer Ball.

  ‘Yes, fine,’ I said through a mouthful of cereal. ‘I’ll drop you off on my way to the barber’s.’ My hairdressing experience was due to be in complete contrast to Beth’s two hours of pampering. Trev the barber, known locally as ‘Chainsaw Trev’, was an old-fashioned, no-frills barber who provided a standard ‘short back and sides’ and a shave that involved an executioner’s chair, copious lathering, stropping a cut-throat razor, followed by a styptic pencil to stop the inevitable bleeding and a boiling-hot towel held up with tongs and dropped on the patient’s face – in other words, ten minutes of hell.

  Shortly before nine o’clock, I dropped Beth off in Ragley High Street. ‘See you in the Coffee Shop around eleven,’ she said and I drove off to Easington for my appointment with Chainsaw Trev.

  In the meantime, Ragley village went on as normal. In her back garden, Amelia Duff, the Ragley postmistress, was feeding her chickens with an interesting mix of chickweed, dandelions and stale bread. Tidy Tim had just finished cutting his lawn in regimented rows of perfect, weed-free parallel stripes. ‘Nature’s all reight, Mr Sheffield,’ Timothy had once explained to me, ‘so long as she’s kept in’er place, if y’get m’meaning.’ In Pepperpot Cottage on Morton Road, Joyce Davenport, the doctor’s wife and Vera’s dearest friend, was assembling a bowl of nettle tops, vegetable stock, peas and coriander to make her famous chilled pea and nettle soup, and, incongruously, she was humming along to the latest Bucks Fizz record.