‘So ah’ve ’eard,’ said Sheila. ‘It’s that Tina … an’ if ah know ’er she won’t tek that lyin’ down.’
‘She works in t’mattress factory,’ said Clint.
‘So mebbe she will tek it lying down,’ said Don from the far end of the bar.
Clint smiled, picked up the tray of pints and walked back to his brother. Always a fashion icon, Clint had progressed to his Michael Jackson phase. He was wearing an oversized, slouch-shouldered, faded leather jacket with puffy sleeves, black leather trousers and sunglasses. In contrast, Shane was still part of punk subculture, with ripped jeans, a Sex Pistols T-shirt and a denim jacket decorated with safety pins. His Doc Marten boots with air-cushioned soles were his pride and joy. The letters H-A-R-D tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand caught the eye as he lifted his tankard.
Deke looked forlornly at his two sons and whispered to Don, ‘’E’s allus in t’shit, is our Shane – it’s only t’depth that varies.’
‘Y’reight there, Deke,’ agreed Don.
‘All ah wanted were normal,’ said Deke with a whimsical smile, ‘an’ ah finished up wi’ a psychopath an’ a poofter.’
‘Well your Wayne’s a lovely lad, p’lite an’ ’ardworkin’,’ Don consoled him.
Deke nodded thoughtfully. ‘’E’s t’only one what teks after me.’
Sheila, with a knowing smile, kept her thoughts to herself.
‘Anyway,’ said Big Dave, ‘our Malcolm will be a star t’night.’
Little Malcolm was having his doubts. ‘But ah’m only a bin man,’ he said.
Big Dave put down his pint. ‘As ah see it, Malc’,’ he said, ‘mebbe in t’scheme o’ things an’ lookin’ at it objectively so t’speak … y’reight at t’bottom o’ t’pile.’
‘Bloomin’ ’eck,’ sighed Little Malcolm.
‘So t’only way is up,’ said Big Dave with an encouraging slap on his back.
The afternoon dress rehearsal in the village hall was not going well. I was putting the finishing touches to a sheet of plywood on which I had painted a stormy sea with the deck of a sinking ship in the foreground. I was quite proud of the result, considering I only had a four-inch brush, two tins of matt emulsion, blue and white, and some leftover brown Ronseal paint.
Around me it was the usual chaos, with few of the cast having a suitable costume, while Ted Postlethwaite as Dromio of Syracuse had not turned up because he was still busy delivering post.
In desperation, Felicity announced, ‘Let’s take five,’ which turned out to be twenty minutes of drinking sweet tea and eating Elsie Crapper’s dubious home-made flapjack with the consistency of damp cardboard.
Felicity’s lanky son, Rupert, was playing the part of one of the twins, Antipholus of Syracuse. ‘I’m not happy, Mother,’ he declared, hitching up his baggy green tights. ‘Do you think it was wise to select a Shakespeare play?’ He had given this a lot of thought recently while deciding on which side to wear a pair of rolled-up socks in his string underpants.
‘Of course, darling,’ said Felicity with forced enthusiasm. ‘We owe it to our calling to educate the proletariat.’
Elsie Crapper had vacated her prompter’s chair behind the curtain and Rupert sat down. ‘But what about Nora?’ he asked. ‘She can’t say her Rs,’ he said in disgust. ‘It’s just not professional.’
‘I know, darling,’ said Felicity, ‘but we have to make allowances.’
‘And that bin man who’s supposed to be my twin brother is twenty years older than me,’ protested Rupert.
‘A little make-up has solved that, my dear.’
Rupert shook his head. ‘But he’s a foot shorter … the audience will notice.’
Felicity looked at her gangling son, the supermarket shelf-stacker and would-be actor, and wondered where she had gone wrong. Then she adjusted her scarlet headband and desperately ran her fingers through her long, frizzy, jet-black hair. She stared at the protrusion in his tights and leaned forward. ‘And please remove that unlikely bulge, Rupert,’ she whispered. ‘The shape is unnatural.’ She didn’t mention that a chipolata would have been more appropriate and hurried off to the kitchen, her tie-dyed kaftan flowing behind her. A camomile tea beckoned.
The curtains fluttered and Elsie Crapper returned to find Rupert rummaging in his tights. Her cheeks flushed and she went to find her handbag and her new supply of Valium.
By seven o’clock the village hall was full to bursting and a few extra folding picnic chairs had appeared, carried by the latecomers without tickets. A Shakespeare play was definitely something different and not to be missed. Beth and I had left Natasha Smith looking after John back at Bilbo Cottage and we joined Vera and her husband on the third row. The sense of anticipation was considerable.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ said Vera. ‘Shakespeare comes to Ragley.’
Having seen the dress rehearsal, I responded with a polite smile.
As usual, the well-lubricated Ragley football team had vacated the tap room of The Royal Oak and occupied the back row.
Timothy Pratt’s big moment arrived as he turned up the brightness on his single spotlight, the curtains fluttered and Felicity Miles-Humphreys appeared, looking fraught. ‘Welcome to the annual production of the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society,’ she announced.
This was greeted by guarded applause. As Old Tommy had reminded his customers, ‘Shakespeare isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.’ The only consolation was that the cost of tickets had remained at fifty pence.
‘This evening we embark on a new pathway for the thespians of our village,’ continued Felicity.
Ruby was on the front row with her daughter Hazel. ‘What’s a thespian, Mam?’ whispered Hazel.
‘Never you mind, luv,’ said Ruby cautiously, misunderstanding the word ‘thespians’. ‘Everybody’s different.’
Felicity pressed on. ‘I thought it would help to set the scene, as this is different to past years.’ Previous productions were done and dusted in an hour and a half, including an interval. Time was of the essence, so Felicity had decided to cut to the chase and act as narrator for the abbreviated version of the play.
‘Aegeon, a merchant of Syracuse, has been condemned to death,’ she announced.
‘Bloody ’ell!’ said Old Tommy. ‘Ah thought it were s’pposed t’be a comedy.’
Felicity was undeterred. ‘But he has been granted one day to raise the thousand-mark ransom.’
This was greeted by cheers.
‘There is also a confusion of identities with two sets of twins,’ explained Felicity, ‘and all this will become apparent … So, enjoy the show.’
The curtains opened and the prompter Elsie Crapper turned to her script at Act 1, Scene 1. It was at about this time that Felicity regretted selecting her husband, Peter, the stuttering bank clerk, to play the part of Aegeon. ‘The p-pleasing p-p-punishment that w-women b-bear,’ he said.
Members of the football team were quick to offer muttered opinions.
‘Get on wi’ it,’ mumbled Kojak Wojciechowski, the Bald-Headed Ball Wizard.
‘Give t’daft bugger a chance,’ said Nutter Neilson. ‘’E’s tryin’ ’is best.’
‘But ah’ve paid f’this rubbish,’ complained Kojak. ‘Ah’m entitled t’me money’s worth.’
Big Dave’s wife, Nellie, gave Kojak a withering look. ‘Shurrup, Kojak, or ah’ll tell everyone what ah over’eard las’ time y’went t’Doctor Davenport.’
Kojak’s bald pate flushed crimson and he settled back into his seat without another word.
As Rupert Miles-Humphreys had anticipated, it took some time for the audience to realize that he and Little Malcolm were meant to be twins.
‘Clear as mud,’ said Deke Ramsbottom. ‘You’d have thought they’d ’ave been given different names at least.’
Little Malcolm was turning out to be the star of the performance, with thunderous applause from the football team every time he appeared. In complete contrast, his so-called twin brother recited his line
s in an affected pose that he thought was theatrical. ‘I to the world am like a drop of water.’
‘Ah allus said ’e were a big drip,’ said Deke and Rupert glowered at Ragley’s singing cowboy.
Meanwhile, Nora Pratt, playing the part of Adriana, was definitely taking the play seriously and knew her words to perfection. It was just a pity she had difficulty in pronouncing them. ‘A wetched soul, bwuised with adve’sity. We bid be quiet when we hear it cwy.’
In Act 2, Scene 2, when Ted Postlethwaite as Dromio of Syracuse said, ‘Ev’ry why ’as a wherefore,’ the performance was halted when all the villagers who lived on School View continued their applause for longer than was expected. They hoped Ted would occasionally reverse his round to deliver post to them first instead of last, and Ted acknowledged this display of overt favouritism with a thumbs-up.
By Act 3, Scene 1, the audience was roaring in sympathy at the sight of Little Malcolm being excluded from his own home while his twin, Rupert, was inside dining with Nora, Malcolm’s wife, who had mistaken him for her husband. As the plot unravelled everyone resorted to pantomime mode and cheered or hissed at appropriate moments. Likewise, Dorothy, as Nora’s serving wench, enjoyed her moment of fame and strutted around the stage in her Wonder Woman boots, showing off the longest legs in Ragley to great effect.
Finally in Act 5, Scene 1, the confusions were explained and everyone was destined to live happily ever after.
At the end Nora received her usual bouquet of flowers, Felicity thanked everyone for supporting this new venture and Little Malcolm was toasted as the new Richard Burton.
Beth and I joined the crowd in The Royal Oak for a post-performance celebration.
‘Well, it were better than 1973,’ said Old Tommy grudgingly. He still had vivid recollections of the time when the audience had demanded their fifty-pence admission be refunded following a disastrous performance of Goldilocks and the Two Bears.
Nora and Tyrone were sitting on the bench seat under the dartboard.
‘You’re a star,’ said Tyrone.
‘Thank you, y’big soft thing,’ said Nora, loosening the laces on her Alpine corset.
Tyrone smiled. ‘Y’right there, Nora, ah’m jus’ like a meringue – ’ard on t’outside an’ soft on t’inside.’
‘Oooh, Tywone,’ purred Nora, ‘ah love mewingues.’
‘Take on Me’ by A-Ha was blasting out on the juke-box and Little Malcolm was standing at the bar with Dorothy. She was still in her serving-wench outfit.
‘You’re a star,’ said Dorothy, ‘t’man o’ my dreams.’
Little Malcolm felt ten feet tall. He raised himself up to his full height and pressed his face into Dorothy’s cleavage. ‘Thanks, Dorothy,’ he mumbled.
It was late when Beth and I returned home.
The stars were shining like celestial fireflies, scattering the sky with stardust.
A new year had dawned.
Chapter Nine
Changing Times
School reopened today for the spring term with 98 children on roll.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Monday, 6 January 1986
A frozen world greeted the first school day of 1986. It was Monday, 6 January and Nature held the land in its iron fist. A bitter wind had scoured the countryside and the small creatures of the woodland were sheltering.
‘Good luck,’ I said, kissing Beth gently on the cheek.
She looked smart in her new charcoal-grey business suit. ‘Will I do?’ she asked as she checked her appearance in the hall mirror.
‘Perfect,’ I said and helped her with her winter coat.
It was seven o’clock as she stepped out into the darkness. On the driveway she stopped and glanced up at John William’s bedroom window. ‘I wonder how he is,’ she said wistfully. ‘I miss him already.’
At the weekend we had visited Beth’s parents down in Hampshire for a few days and our son had remained with them. The intention was to give Beth the chance to settle into her new headship during her first busy week. It seemed strange to share an early breakfast together without him.
‘Drive carefully,’ I said as I scraped the frost from her windscreen.
‘I’ll be late home tonight,’ she said, ‘probably very late.’ With that she drove off, determined to be first in school and, presumably, last out.
I watched her rear lights fade into the distance. It was the beginning of a new chapter for both of us.
In Morton Manor Vera was listening to the news while she cleared the breakfast dishes. She had been pleased to hear that Arthur Scargill’s one-time left-wing allies appeared to be forming up against him.
How are the mighty fallen, mused Vera as she put on her coat to face the new term.
As I drove away from Bilbo Cottage a silent shroud of fresh snow covered the North Yorkshire countryside and all sound was muted. Overnight the back road out of Kirkby Steepleton had become a smooth white channel between the desolation of the brittle hedgerows and the sleeping trees. It was a hazardous journey to Ragley village along a silver ribbon of ice and I breathed a sigh of relief as I reached the High Street.
It was a gloomy sight, and a wolf-grey cloud of wood smoke hung heavy over the pantile roofs. Inside their homes the villagers of Ragley were stoking their log fires. A bitter winter had greeted the new year.
I pulled up outside Prudence Golightly’s General Stores and hurried inside. Mrs Tomkins was in front of me with five-year-old Karl. He was staring at Maurice Tupham, who had called in for a bag of sugar. Maurice had stubbed his eye on a stick of rhubarb and was wearing a large black eye-patch.
‘Are you a pirate, Mr Tupham?’ asked Karl.
‘No, ah’m not,’ said Maurice gruffly.
‘C’mon, Karl,’ said his mother. She picked up her tin of Pedigree Chum. It said on the tin it was ‘recommended by Top Breeders’ and nothing was too good for Flossie, her French poodle.
‘But ’e looks like a pirate, Mam,’ insisted Karl as they followed Ragley’s famous rhubarb-grower out of the shop.
‘Your paper, Mr Sheffield,’ said Prudence, ‘and a happy New Year.’
‘And to you too, Miss Golightly,’ I said, ‘and, of course, to Jeremy.’
Ragley’s favourite bear was well wrapped up in a bobble cap, an Arran sweater, cord trousers and green wellington boots.
Prudence looked up at her little friend and smiled. ‘He says he’s going sledging later and is so excited.’
I nodded in acknowledgement. It was well known that Jeremy enjoyed his winter sports.
The display of newspapers all featured the same surprising headline. Four test-tube babies had been born on New Year’s Day and there were now around three hundred and fifty of these remarkable children in Britain. Science and technology were moving forward at a great pace. I needed to make sure I wouldn’t be left behind in the race to create a brave new world.
It was 1986 and times were changing.
As I drove off, Deke Ramsbottom pulled in behind me. The villagers of Ragley preferred burning logs to smokeless fuel and Deke was dropping off another trailer-load at the General Stores.
In the school car park I collected my leather satchel and stared up at our village school. A short term lay ahead, only ten weeks owing to an early Easter. There was much to do: mid-year reports, reading tests and, not least, keeping the school warm enough for the children to work in comfort.
Our hardy school caretaker was sprinkling salt on the steps to the entrance porch.
‘Happy New Year, Ruby.’
‘An’ t’you too, Mr Sheffield,’ she replied. ‘Let’s ’ope it’s a good un.’
‘I’m sure it will be,’ I said without conviction.
Ruby stared longingly at my Morris Minor Traveller. ‘It mus’ be lovely to be able t’drive,’ she said. ‘You’d be … well … free.’
‘Yes, there is that,’ I agreed, recognizing the eagerness in her voice, ‘and it’s never too late to learn.’
Rub
y smiled. ‘No … not for t’likes o’ me, Mr Sheffield.’
She put her carton of Saxa salt against the school wall and picked up her broom. ‘’Ealth an’ safety man called in early this morning, Mr Sheffield, checkin’ doors an’ winders an’ that fire distinguisher in Shirley’s kitchen.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘An’ ’e signed a form an’ left it wi’ Mrs F.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’m sure all was well.’
‘’E looked ’appy enough when ’e left wi’ one o’ Shirley’s ’ot scones.’
I smiled. The Health & Safety officer from County Hall was a frequent visitor and I guessed the fire extinguisher in our school kitchen received more attention than any other appliance in North Yorkshire. He always left with a slice of parkin or one of Shirley’s famous fruit scones.
I shivered and looked back at the cleared path and the entrance steps now free of frost. ‘Thanks for all your work,’ I said.
‘Allus a pleasure,’ replied Ruby simply, but she looked preoccupied. Her yard broom was light in her work-red hands, but secrets were a heavy burden.
The office door was open and I hung up my coat and scarf. Vera was at her desk, talking to Mrs Freda Fazackerly, mother of six-year-old Madonna, and adding the name of her son to the admissions register.
Vera looked up and smiled. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield.’
‘Good morning, Vera,’ I said, ‘and hello, Mrs Fazackerly.’
‘’Ello, Mr Sheffield.’
Freda Fazackerly looked down at the little boy nervously clutching her threadbare coat. She rummaged in her pocket and pulled out a dusty wine gum. He accepted it gratefully, wiped the snot from his nose with the back of his sleeve and proceeded to masticate the sweet with enthusiasm.
‘So, Mrs F, this is our Dylan,’ said Mrs Fazackerly.
‘Dylan?’ queried Vera. ‘As in Dylan Thomas?’
Mrs Fazackerly shook her head. ‘No, it’s jus’ Dylan – there’s no Thomas. Y’know, after Bob Dylan,’ she added by way of explanation.
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