‘Then, come on,’ said George, taking her hand, ‘an’ cheer up, it might never ’appen.’
‘An’ pigs might fly,’ retorted Ruby with a smile.
Last month’s number one, David Bowie and Mick Jagger’s ‘Dancing in the Street’, was playing on the jukebox when they walked into the Coffee Shop. Ruby sat down while George bought two frothy coffees. He seemed to spend an age adding sugar and stirring his coffee.
Finally Ruby broke the silence. ‘C’mon, out wi’ it. Or ’as t’cat got y’tongue?’
George sipped his coffee, looked up and took a deep breath. ‘Ruby luv … ah were seventeen an’ you were sixteen,’ he began. ‘You were t’most beautiful girl in Ragley and ah were smitten. Then when ah plucked up t’courage to ask you out y’mother wouldn’t ’ave none of it … an’ ah got m’marchin’ orders.’
Ruby put down her cup and looked into the eyes of this quiet, gentle man while Bonnie Tyler’s ‘Holding Out for a Hero’ started up on the juke-box.
‘Ah believe you, George, but thousands wouldn’t,’ she said.
There was a long silence.
‘Do y’miss ’im?’ asked George.
‘’E were like blisters, were my Ronnie,’ said Ruby with a mournful shake of her chestnut curls.
‘Blisters?’
‘Yes, y’know … ’e never turned up ’til work were done.’
‘Ah see,’ said George.
‘If ah said it once ah’ve said it a thousand times … ’e were neither use nor ornament, were my Ronnie.’ Then a smile crossed Ruby’s flushed face. ‘’Cept ah were blessed wi’ six lovely children.’
As Bonnie Tyler finally faded into the distance the Coffee Shop went quiet for a few moments.
Finally George spoke up. ‘Ah were saddened when y’married Ronnie.’
‘Ah didn’t know that, George,’ replied Ruby thoughtfully.
She had begun to wonder what might have been.
At lunchtime Vera was flicking through her newspaper. The Labour Party Conference was taking place in Bournemouth and she frowned. Nor was she interested in Frank Bruno, the Wandsworth heavyweight, who was due to fight at Wembley to take the European crown from Anders Eklund of Sweden. However, the ladies’ tennis news caught her attention. In women’s tennis her favourite player, forty-year-old Virginia Wade, had lost her latest match. All good things come to an end, thought Vera. Meanwhile, though she missed Sue Barker, she was confident that the teenager Annabel Croft showed promise.
Her friend, Miss Valerie Flint, had arrived to take my class during afternoon school. Now in her early sixties, she was an imposing teacher and renowned for her excellent classroom management and strict but fair discipline. We were fortunate to have such a ‘safe pair of hands’ as our supply teacher.
She was chatting with Pat and recalling that, at six feet tall, she had been an enthusiastic netball player in her younger days. Valerie was an elegant figure in a beautifully tailored trouser suit, her favoured style of dress. While the traditional Vera still frowned at female staff wearing trousers, Miss Flint had become a firm ally of mine on my first day at Ragley when I had ended this particular outdated restriction on female clothing implemented by my predecessor.
Finally it was time to leave for the headteachers’ meeting.
‘Good luck, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera and I wondered just how much she knew. Her husband, Rupert, mixed in higher circles and was familiar with local politics.
It had been difficult not to reveal the professional confidence shared by Richard Gomersall. The possible amalgamation of Ragley and Morton would have a huge impact on our school and community. However, soon I was driving along the Ripon Road in the hope that all could be resolved.
The wheels of my car crunched along the winding gravel driveway towards a magnificent Georgian mansion set in five hundred acres of the finest Yorkshire countryside. High Sutton Hall was a distinctive country house with a lake and a walled garden, and was a superb venue for meetings. It provided a welcome retreat for teachers to talk and share ideas, and the cuisine was always excellent.
The room was filling with men and women in grey suits and sombre expressions. I collected my package of booklets and leaflets and wondered how many trees had been sacrificed to facilitate this gathering. I found a seat and it wasn’t long before Rufus Timmings, the headteacher of Morton Primary School, sought me out.
Rufus was a short, squat, barrel-chested man, more a bulldog than a greyhound, although he moved at a surprisingly fast pace through the crowd when he spotted me. Although only in his early thirties, he was balding prematurely and reminded me of the irrepressible Gerald Campion, the actor who played the part of Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School.
He immediately engaged me in conversation. ‘Hello, Jack, how are you?’
I noticed that his smart grey three-piece suit made me look a little shabby in comparison. ‘Fine, thank you, Rufus,’ I said. ‘So, have you settled in?’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said with confidence. Then he lowered his voice and added in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘But Miss Tripps had let things slide rather badly and I’m restoring order.’
I wasn’t happy about him criticizing his predecessor, a dedicated lady who had always given her best for the children in her care. ‘Miss Tripps was a wonderful servant to Morton village,’ I said, ‘but change is inevitable, I suppose.’
‘Too true, Jack, and never more than now. My school will almost certainly be closed with such a small number on roll.’
‘That’s difficult news for the village,’ I said.
‘Yes, but it doesn’t make economic sense to keep it open.’ He tapped the cover of his spiral-bound booklet. ‘That’s why we’re here today.’
His candour puzzled me. There was an obvious vibrancy and vigour about this young man. He spoke with an outgoing confidence, clearly comfortable in his own skin. I was surprised at his relaxed manner.
‘You don’t seem too concerned,’ I observed.
He sniggered rather than laughed and tapped the side of his nose with a stubby forefinger. ‘Well, the Morton headship is just a stepping stone for me … simply the first rung on the ladder towards a bigger headship.’
‘I see,’ I said. The bell rang to signal the commencement of the conference. ‘Well, good luck, I hope it works out for you.’
We shook hands and he hurried off to claim a seat in the front row.
Richard Gomersall introduced the agenda for the afternoon and began by emphasizing the finite resources at the disposal of the County Council. ‘Maggie has tightened her purse strings,’ he joked, but no one laughed. It was depressing to hear his view that we were becoming ‘the poor neighbours of public service’ while the salaries of Britain’s senior company directors had risen by seventeen per cent this year.
There was a variety of speakers, mostly grey men in dark suits with degrees in economics, who ground down our spirits as the afternoon wore on. Finally Richard Gomersall reappeared to sum up. ‘I’ve managed to visit the schools for whom the impact will be most felt,’ he concluded. ‘We must handle the coming events with particular sensitivity as the decisions we are making will affect many facets of local communities.’ There were imperceptible nods of reluctant agreement from those around me.
Miss Barrington-Huntley sought me out as the meeting closed. ‘I was delighted for Beth,’ she said with enthusiasm. ‘She will do well at King’s Manor.’
‘I know she’s looking forward to it,’ I said.
‘Yes, Hartingdale’s loss is King’s Manor’s gain,’ she replied.
‘In the meantime, I’m obviously wondering about the future of Ragley,’ I said pointedly.
I could see her considering her response. ‘I understand your concern, Jack, and I’m aware Richard has spoken to you.’
‘Yes, he mentioned the possible amalgamation of Ragley and Morton, and I haven’t discussed this with anyone else … as he requested.’
‘Yes, all very hush-hush at present,’ she sai
d. ‘We must proceed with caution.’
She gave me a searching look as we shook hands and I wondered what else there was that I didn’t know.
As I left I saw Rufus Timmings engaged in animated conversation with some of the senior figures who had spoken during the afternoon. There was a lot to ponder as I drove back to Ragley.
Fortunately there was some good news when I walked into the school entrance hall. Genghis the racing pigeon had been found.
‘Ah’m thrilled t’bits, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby, ‘an’ it’s all thanks t’that young policeman. Genghis were in Deke Ramsbottom’s pig trailer.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘You should celebrate.’
Ruby went quiet for a moment. ‘’Appen ah will, Mr Sheffield, an’ ’appen ah won’t,’ but I guessed she had something else on her mind.
The bell rang out to mark the end of school and I returned to the cloakroom area outside my classroom. The children in my class filed out and it was clear they had enjoyed their afternoon. Sonia Tricklebank and Lucy Eckersley were hurrying off hand in hand.
‘We’ve done loads wi’ Miss,’ said Sonia.
‘Paintin’ an’ modellin’,’ added Lucy.
‘An’ t’story about King Arthur was brilliant,’ enthused Sonia.
‘And where are you rushing off to?’ I asked.
‘We’re off blackberryin’, Mr Sheffield,’ said Sonia. ‘Lucy says there’s loads in the ’edgerow up Chauntsinger Lane round t’back o’ t’blacksmith’s.’
The sensible Lucy anticipated my next question. ‘An’ don’t worry, Mr Sheffield, my mam is coming with us.’
I smiled as they ran down the drive where Mrs Eckersley, complete with a variety of Tupperware tubs, was waiting for them.
Half an hour later the staff were completing end-of-the-day tasks. When Ruby called into the office to empty the wastepaper basket, Vera looked up from her desk and saw the concern etched on our caretaker’s face. ‘What’s the matter, Ruby?’ she asked.
‘Ah’m frettin’ summat rotten, Mrs F,’ said Ruby. ‘In fac’, ah’m worried sick.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Vera.
‘Don’t you worry, Mrs F, we’ve all got crosses t’bear,’ said Ruby with feeling, ‘it’s jus’ that mine’s a reight ’eavy one.’
‘So what exactly is the problem?’ asked Vera.
‘Well … it’s m’motions, Mrs F.’
‘Motions!’ exclaimed Vera. Ruby was a dear friend, but bowel movements were not an ideal topic for discussion.
‘Yes, Mrs F. Ah don’t know if ah’m comin’ or goin’.’
‘Really?’ said Vera with forced sympathy.
‘Yes, it’s m’motions … like ah used to ’ave when ah were courtin’ my Ronnie. Y’know, all them ’ot flushes and feelin’ giddy an’ suchlike.’
The penny dropped. ‘Ah, your emotions!’ Vera looked at her friend with a new intensity. ‘Come and sit down,’ she said, smiling and nodding knowingly. She knew what it was that was causing concern for Ruby … and it had nothing to do with bodily functions.
I was in the entrance hall after thanking Valerie Flint for her work when Vera stepped out of the office and gently closed the door behind her.
‘I’ll say goodnight now, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘I’m having a chat with Ruby – she’s got things on her mind.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Not really. It’s more to do with, well … affairs of the heart.’
‘So, Ruby’s not unwell?’
‘No, she’s fine.’
‘I see,’ I said … though I didn’t.
As she turned to go back into the office Vera paused and smiled. ‘Let’s just say, Mr Sheffield, that you can’t beat a fine romance.’
I was none the wiser as I drove home.
Chapter Four
The Solitude of Secrets
A staff meeting was held following Mr Gomersall’s visit to school to discuss the issues relating to the proposed closure of Morton School.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 25 October 1985
Vera was in her kitchen staring out of the window beyond the manicured lawns of Morton Manor. The cool fingers of autumn had touched the trees and the leaves shone bronze in the morning sun. Teardrop cobwebs were strung like pearls through the hedgerows while the gauze of mist caressed the soft earth like a soul stretched tight in sorrow.
Fantasie in F Minor was playing on her radio and its heartbreaking opening melody always brought tears to her eyes. For Vera, Schubert’s piano duets were among his finest works, but on this particular morning it did not soothe her troubled mind. There were decisions to make … important ones. However, for now they would have to remain a secret.
She glanced at her wristwatch, checked her appearance in the hall mirror, made a minute adjustment to the Victorian brooch above the top button of her silk blouse, smoothed the seat of her pin-striped business suit, picked up her royal-blue leather handbag, said goodbye to her three cats and then to Rupert, in that order, and strode out to her Austin Metro.
It was 8.15 a.m. on Friday, 25 October and Vera had something important on her mind.
On my way to school I called into Victor Pratt’s garage to fill up with petrol. I parked next to the single pump and Victor, elder brother of Timothy and Nora, lumbered out.
‘Fill her up, please, Victor,’ I said and handed over a £10 note. ‘And how are you?’ I added, then wished I hadn’t. As usual, he had an ailment.
‘Not good, Mr Sheffield,’ he said with a grimace. ‘Ah’ve got shootin’ pains in m’shoulder.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Ah’m in agony,’ he went on. ‘In fac’, ah’m a martyr t’me misery.’
I considered this to be somewhat melodramatic, but pressed on regardless. ‘Perhaps it’s sciatica,’ I suggested in an attempt to be both informative and sympathetic.
‘No, it’s definitely like ah said … shootin’ pains.’
‘Shooting pains?’
‘Yes – cos of t’recoil on m’shotgun when ah were shootin’ rabbits on Twenty Acre Field.’
‘Oh dear, I see,’ I said with feeling. Having recently watched Watership Down, my sympathy diminished rapidly while Victor trundled away to get my change.
When I walked into the school office Vera looked up from her late-dinner-money register. She appeared concerned. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.
‘Good morning, Vera,’ I replied. ‘A lovely day.’ I gestured towards the window, from where we could see the children playing in the late-autumn sunshine.
‘Yes,’ said Vera without looking out of the window. ‘I wonder if we can have a word at some time today?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Anne is preparing morning assembly so I’ve got a few minutes now if that helps.’
‘Yes, thank you.’ She got up and closed the door.
Suddenly the telephone rang and Vera hurried back to her desk. ‘Yes, Mr Gomersall,’ she said in her precise, clipped tone, ‘he’s here now,’ and she passed the receiver to me and dashed out of the office.
Richard Gomersall sounded a little anxious. ‘I need to pass on some news, Jack,’ he said.
‘Yes, go ahead, Richard.’ There was a pause.
‘I really need to call in … perhaps at lunchtime?’
‘Fine,’ I said, ‘I’ll see you then.’
‘Thanks. Say around twelve thirty.’
‘By the way, what’s it about?’
There was another long pause. ‘Well, Jack … I’m afraid it’s confidential.’ And he rang off.
As I walked out into the entrance hall Vera was in conversation with Anne.
‘Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘before you go back to class could I have a word?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry we got interrupted. How can I help?’
It was strange, but for once Vera seemed lost for words. After a few hesitant moments she said quie
tly, ‘I wondered if you could spare me a few minutes at the end of the day? There’s a matter that has arisen recently that I should like to discuss with you … in private if at all possible.’
‘Of course, Vera,’ I said. ‘Let’s meet in the office after school.’
She looked preoccupied as she nodded in acknowledgement and hurried back to her desk.
It was a busy morning and the immediacy of the needs of the children in my care meant that the concerns of Richard Gomersall and Vera were soon far from my mind.
I completed reading tests for all the children and was pleased to see that Damian Brown had finally achieved a reading age that matched his chronological age. The range of ability was remarkable and my best readers, the two ten-year-olds Stacey Bryant and Dawn Phillips, could read the final line of the Schonell Graded Word Reading Test: namely, rescind, metamorphosis, somnambulist, bibliography and idiosyncrasy.
Meanwhile, next door in Class 3, Sally was developing the concept of history in her ‘Modern World’ topic.
‘Can you think of something really important that wasn’t here ten years ago?’ she asked expectantly. A host of hands shot in the air.
‘Yes, Miss,’ said Ted Coggins eagerly, ‘… me!’ Sally reflected that it was moments like this that made the job worthwhile.
During morning break Pat was on playground duty and the rest of us gathered in the staff-room. Vera appeared to be in a world of her own and Anne, always quick to notice the concerns of others, asked, ‘How is Rupert these days?’
Vera folded her Flowers of the Forest tea towel, sat down and picked up her Daily Telegraph. She smiled as if recalling a happy memory. ‘He’s taking me to see Les Misérables in London during half-term,’ she said. The new musical by the Royal Shakespeare Company had opened at the Barbican Centre earlier in the month. ‘Sadly, it’s had poor reviews.’ She pointed to the arts section in her newspaper. ‘“A lurid Victorian melodrama”, it says here.’
‘Never mind,’ said Anne, ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.’
‘I’m hoping it will cheer him up,’ said Vera. ‘He’s been like a bear with a sore head since he read that foreign cars will be built here in the United Kingdom.’ I looked up, remembering the news that Peugeot had begun to construct their new 309 in the plant that was famous for the Hillman, Humber, Singer, Sunbeam and Talbot. ‘Rupert says it will be the death knell of the British car industry.’
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