‘Can I buy you a drink, Ruby?’ I asked, ‘And perhaps one for Mr Dainty?’
George Dainty was chatting with Old Tommy next to his hog roast.
‘Thank you, kindly, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby and she hurried off with two large glasses of Vera’s home-made elderflower lemonade.
Suddenly Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener’s voice could be heard over the microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, your attention please. Gather round … it’s time to hear the results of the scarecrow competition, to be announced by our esteemed judge, Mr Drinkwater.’
Clarence Drinkwater stood up and tucked his shirt into his underpants. His moment of fame had arrived.
‘Thank you, everybody, an’ it’s wonderful t’see so many scarecrows ’ere t’day.’ He stared into the distance. ‘There’s no sight more satisfying than a scarecrow flappin’ in t’breeze in t’English countryside.’ There was no doubt Clarence loved his scarecrows.
‘So in third place are t’Girl Guides an’ t’Scouts, who combined t’mek t’scarecrow from t’Wizard of Oz.’
Everybody clapped.
Clarence took a deep breath. ‘Second an’ first were difficult to sep’rate cos they were both so good. They were what ah would call authentic, in t’true spirit of scarecrow construction.’ He surveyed the crowd. ‘An’ ah mus’ say at this point … ah don’t alt’gether ’old wi’ usin’ mannequins.’
‘Oh dear,’ whispered Vera.
Deirdre Coe leered from a distance.
‘Nor do ah ’old wi’ ’irin’ costumes like that King ’Enry.’
Deirdre looked as if she were about to explode.
‘So, in second place is … Mr Ramsbottom’s cowboy scarecrow.’
Cheers echoed around the village green and Clarence knew he was guaranteed an evening of free drinks.
‘’Owever, after much deliberation an’ wi’ a lot o’ thought, the winner is … Heathcliffe Earnshaw and his brother Terry with their excellent likeness of our local ’eadmaster, Mr Sheffield.’
Midst thunderous applause, Heathcliffe and Terry, wreathed in smiles, walked forward to receive the first prize of £5.
‘Cor, we’re rich, ’Eath’,’ said Terry.
We returned to our car with the Earnshaw brothers. Terry had taken charge of John in his pushchair.
‘Well done, boys,’ I said.
‘Thanks, sir,’ said Heathcliffe.
John stared once again at the scarecrow propped against the school gate. ‘Daddy,’ he said again. He clambered out of the pushchair, stretched up, grabbed the cardboard spectacles and put them on.
‘Like father, like son,’ said Beth and everyone laughed.
The Herald photographer captured the moment and it is a photograph I treasured in the years to come … but not the headline by a certain Mr Merry that read ‘Local Headteacher Looks Like a Scarecrow!’
Chapter Sixteen
A Pratt Called Bismarck
School closed today for the Spring Bank Holiday and will reopen on Monday, 9 June.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 23 May 1986
It was Friday, 23 May, the final day before school closed for the two-week Spring Bank Holiday, and I was in good spirits as I drove to Ragley. In Twenty Acre Field the sunlight on the green, unripe barley created sinuous shadows and the distant hills were streaked with purple heather. Above my head a flock of starlings wheeled in close formation over the vast tableland of the North Yorkshire moors. It was good to be alive on a morning such as this.
When I pulled up outside the General Stores Timothy Pratt was admiring the huge poster that dominated the window of his Hardware Emporium. It read:
GRAND DUCK RACE
In aid of the Village Pond Restoration Fund
Meet on Upper Foss Bridge at 1.00 p.m.
Spring Bank Holiday Monday, 26th May
Buy your official plastic duck from
Pratt’s Hardware Emporium
Adults 20p Children 10p
‘Fine morning, Mr Sheffield,’ shouted Timothy. As always he was smart in his collar and tie, neatly pressed trousers, shiny black shoes and a brown overall with three pens in his top pocket.
‘It certainly is,’ I replied.
‘Are you entering the duck race?’
‘Yes, I need to buy one for John,’ I said. ‘He’ll love to see all the ducks bobbing down the river.’
‘I’ll put one aside for you. They’re all numbered.’
‘Thanks, Timothy,’ I said. ‘It should be a good event.’
‘Well, we ’ave t’keep t’village pond in good order an’ safe for all t’children.’
‘Quite right,’ I agreed. I was always impressed by this conscientious, pernickety little man and his devotion to his village. ‘And how are you?’
‘Fine thanks, jus’ gettin’ everything shipshape for m’cousin visitin’ from down south.’
‘Oh yes, and who is that?’
‘Our Bismarck.’
‘Bismarck?’
‘Yes, ’e’s a sailor.’
I suppose he would be, I thought.
I walked into the General Stores, where Prudence was serving Old Tommy Piercy with his weekly supply of Old Holborn tobacco. He had also spent eighteen pence on today’s Daily Mirror and was scanning the news while he passed the time of day with his next-door neighbour, Miss Golightly.
A photograph of Joan Collins at the Empire Theatre in London’s West End had caught his eye. ‘Now there’s a fine woman,’ he said. The Dynasty soap queen had tried to upstage Princess Di in a sexy, split-skirted green dress, complete with glittering jewels. Prudence had no doubt who had carried the day, but kept her opinion to herself.
‘An’ that Ian Botham’s at it again,’ went on Old Tommy, who admired the England cricketer in spite of him playing for a southern team. The larger-than-life sportsman had been smoking pot.
Old Tommy looked up at me. ‘Tha’ knaws secret o’ long life, Mr Sheffield.’
‘What’s that, Mr Piercy?’ I asked.
‘Well, for m’dad it were wine, women ’n’ whisky … but f’me ah didn’t bother wi’ t’wine an’ whisky,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye and walked out to his butcher’s shop.
Prudence handed me my newspaper with flushed cheeks. It was time to change the subject. ‘And I need a card for our wedding anniversary, please.’
Prudence smiled. ‘How many years now?’
‘Four next week.’
‘I remember it well, Mr Sheffield.’ She pulled out a drawer of various cards, rummaged through them and selected one. ‘How about this one?’
It featured two people sitting on a bench, looking out to a distant sun-kissed horizon. It seemed appropriate.
After driving up the High Street I paused by a familiar road sign next to the village green and smiled. Beneath a red warning triangle it carried a stark message: ‘BEWARE OF THE DUCKS’.
The villagers of Ragley were proud of their duck population, even though they occasionally caused traffic holdups as they waddled in line and entirely unconcerned across the High Street. The exception was when Stan Coe hurtled by in his Land Rover, scattering ducks and feathers in every direction. The pond was one of the focal points of the village, but now it needed to be cleaned. There was also a proposal for a paved pathway around it if funds could be found. On this sunny morning Albert Jenkins, our retired school governor, was sitting on the bench feeding the ducks and he gave me a wave as I drove towards the school gate.
This week my class had completed a ‘Pond Life’ project and we had visited our village pond to study its teeming life. Environmental studies were always a popular aspect of the curriculum and the children loved to explore the outdoors. They were fortunate to live in such a beautiful part of North Yorkshire. Each day we had set out with nets, jam jars, notebooks, sketchpads and magnifying glasses. The resulting work was displayed in the school entrance hall and featured the children’s writing and many wonderful illustra
tions and paintings.
After registration this morning we had an earlier assembly than usual as Anne had arranged for Mrs Tomkins to bring her baby, six-month-old Kylie, into Class 1 at 9.30 a.m. as part of their ‘Growing-up’ project. In the hall Anne played the opening bars of ‘Morning Has Broken’ and the children sang with gusto. As I surveyed their faces I was aware of how quickly the youngest children had settled into the routines of our school life. The twins, Hermione and Honeysuckle, held hands as they sang, word-perfect and in harmony.
I told the story of Noah’s Ark, with regular contributions from the excited children.
‘Elephants would ’ave tekken up a lot o’ space, Mr Sheffield,’ said the practical Scott Higginbottom, ‘an’ cleaning up after ’em,’ he added as an afterthought.
‘Ah know summat Noah wouldn’t ’ave tekken on ’is wooden boat, sir,’ exclaimed Tom Burgess at the end of the story.
‘And what would that be, Tom?’ I asked.
‘Woodpeckers, Mr Sheffield.’
I looked across to Anne, who gave me a wide-eyed look as if to say ask a daft question.
Sally picked up her guitar, opened her Tinderbox songs for children, turned to number 50 and strummed the chords of ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’. We finished with the Lord’s Prayer and I was pleased to see that Gary Spittall could now recite all the words.
As we filed out to go back to our classrooms, a thoughtful Rosie Spittlehouse said, ‘Ah wish ah could tell m’grandma ’ow much ah miss ’er, Mr Sheffield,’ and I reflected on the power of prayer.
In Anne’s class the children were so interested in their ‘Growing-up’ project that, when the bell rang at half past ten, they didn’t want to go out to play. I called in on my way to the staff-room. A crowd had gathered round Mrs Tomkins and baby Kylie. The little girl had been fed, changed, weighed, measured, wiped clean until her face shone and was gurgling happily at all the attention. Her big brother, five-year-old Karl, had borrowed the cassette recorder from Sally’s classroom and was displaying considerable expertise with the ‘Record’ button and a microphone as he taped the baby noises made by his sister.
‘What are you doing, Karl?’ I asked.
‘Ah’m going to play it back when she grows up, Mr Sheffield, an’ ask ’er what she meant.’
In the staff-room it wasn’t often that Sally read Vera’s Daily Telegraph, but this morning she was engrossed. ‘Well, let’s hope for the best – he can’t be any worse than what’s gone before.’
Kenneth Baker had become Secretary of State for Education and was promising reform. We all wondered what that might be.
The telephone rang and it was Norman Knight, the art adviser.
‘Just completing the programme, Jack, for the art display, and I’ve got that lovely painting by Charlie Cartwright that I collected from your school.’
‘Yes, Norman,’ I said and looked towards Anne. ‘It’s about Charlie Cartwright.’
‘And just checking the title is A Pig in a Field,’ said Norman.
‘A pig in a field!’ I exclaimed.
Anne almost spilt her coffee as recognition dawned.
‘No, it’s not, Norman,’ I said. ‘It’s his mother sunbathing in the back garden!’
‘Really? It looks like a pig.’
‘No, it’s definitely his mother,’ I insisted. ‘I remember my conversation with him and I made the same mistake.’
‘Thanks, Jack,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I’ll change it to My Garden.’
He rang off and Anne recalled scribbling the name and assumed title during the course of a busy day. We both breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs Cartwright would not have been pleased.
Meanwhile, on the High Street, Stan Coe was returning from The Pig & Ferret following lunch with his duck-shooting friends. After a large portion of fish, chips and mushy peas, washed down with four pints of Tetley’s bitter, he pulled up outside Timothy Pratt’s Hardware Emporium.
As a pupil at Ragley School back in 1933 Stan had been suspended for persistent bullying. After a lifetime of shady land deals and building contracts he was still causing trouble in his quest to become the most powerful man in the village. For Stan I had become public enemy number one and he was determined to get rid of me, using whatever tools were at his disposal.
‘Ah need some four-inch nails,’ he said gruffly.
‘Coming up, Mr Coe,’ said Timothy.
‘An’ ’urry up abart it.’
‘’Ow many?’ asked Timothy.
‘A bagful.’
Timothy was used to Stan’s rudeness. He weighed out the nails and tipped them into a heavy-duty paper bag. ‘That’ll be—’
‘Fifty pence should cover it,’ announced Stan and slapped a coin on the counter. He turned to leave.
‘Would you like a duck for the duck race, Mr Coe?’ Stan turned back to the counter and took the plastic duck from Timothy’s outstretched hand.
‘Only twenty pence,’ said Timothy.
Stan dropped the duck on to the wooden floor and crunched it beneath his large boot. ‘Ah don’t think so,’ he sneered. ‘Ah ’ate ’em.’
Timothy sighed and reached for his brush and shovel as Stan Coe walked out.
When the bell rang at 1.15 p.m. for afternoon school, Ted Coggins came in from the school field covered from head to toe in mud. I was standing on the playground checking that every child returned into school when he approached me.
‘Who am I?’ he asked with a mischievous grin.
I decided to go along with the charade. ‘I don’t know … who are you?’
‘Cor, Mrs Critchley were right, Mr Sheffield,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Well, she said ah were so dirty even t’teachers wouldn’t recognize me.’
Afternoon school went well and ended with the last chapter of our class story, Stig of the Dump by Clive King.
‘Great story, Mr Sheffield,’ said Damian Brown. ‘Ah’d like t’live in a cave.’
And there are times when your mother would agree, I thought.
In the cloakroom area Julie Tricklebank’s grandmother was checking the lost-property box. Her granddaughter came up to me, excited about the holiday but, more particularly, about her wobbly tooth. One by one, she was saying goodbye to her milk teeth. To prove the point she opened her mouth wide and, with the tip of her tongue, flicked one of her front teeth. It responded like an obliging cat flap. ‘There y’are, Mr Sheffield!’ she said in triumph. ‘What d’you think o’ that?’
‘Well I think the Tooth Fairy might be coming tonight,’ said her grandma with a knowing wink in my direction.
‘What’s the going rate these days?’ I asked.
‘Five pence for every tooth,’ she said.
Little Julie looked up at her expectantly. ‘Grandma, please can ah borrow y’false teeth tonight?’
On Saturday morning Beth and I set off for Ragley. I had a few jobs to complete in school and Beth was going on to Easington to take John to the popular ‘Story Time’ session in the library, followed by some food shopping.
It was a fine morning and we drove in Beth’s new car. It was a blue 1981 VW Golf CD Diesel and I felt a little strange being a passenger. John was excited and wanted to wind the handle for the sunroof. It looked really smart with its five doors and blue trim.
We had exchanged our views in a determined fashion last night about my Morris Minor Traveller, which, although showing signs of age, was ideal for me. Beth wanted me to change it but soon recognized there were some things in life that were too important to men like me.
She dropped me off on the High Street, where I was going to call into the Hardware Emporium to buy some hanging-basket containers for school. ‘I’ll collect you later,’ she said and drove off up the Easington Road.
Timothy was arranging his new range of boot-scrapers on a trestle table outside his shop.
‘Ah’ve got that duck f’your son, Mr Sheffield,’ he said.
‘Thanks, Timoth
y. I’ll collect it now.’
We walked into the shop and I selected two metal hanging baskets. A large tin bath full of yellow plastic ducks was propped on a barrel next to the counter. Each duck had been neatly painted with a number.
‘Here’s yours,’ said Timothy, ‘number forty-eight.’ He printed ‘48, John Sheffield’ on the sheet attached to a clipboard and I passed over ten pence.
As I stood at the counter a man I didn’t recognize appeared from the back room. ‘Just going to Nora’s for a coffee and a bite to eat, Timothy,’ he said.
Timothy smiled. ‘An’ this is m’cousin, Bismarck.’
Bismarck was a slim, fit, athletic man with the tanned complexion of someone who loved the outdoor life. He was dressed casually in a bright-yellow waterproof coat with a fleece lining, blue roll-neck sweater, faded jeans and boat shoes.
‘Mr Sheffield is our local ’eadteacher,’ said Timothy.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Sheffield,’ he said with an engaging smile as he gripped my hand in a firm handshake.
‘Welcome to Ragley,’ I said.
‘Lovely place,’ replied Bismarck with a soft Hampshire accent. ‘I’ve been meaning to come up here for a while now.’
As we were both going to the Coffee Shop it seemed natural for us to share a table. We bought a coffee and a sandwich while ‘Lessons in Love’ by Level 42 played on the juke-box and some of the local teenagers hummed along.
Bismarck slipped off his coat, sat down and pushed up his sleeves. On his right forearm he sported an interesting tattoo. Under a picture of an anchor were the Latin words ‘Fortes fortuna adjuvat’.
He glanced down and smiled. ‘Fortune favours the brave,’ he translated. ‘A little immodest perhaps, but I studied Latin at university and it seemed appropriate at the time.’
This was clearly a well-educated man and during the next half-hour I learned a lot about his background.
Bismarck Pratt had been born in Southall, London, in 1947, the illegitimate son of a German prisoner-of-war and Timothy’s aunt, Cortina Pratt. He had kept his mother’s surname and, by the time he was a young man, he had reconciled himself to the fact that, with parents called Wolfgang and Cortina, being named after a German battleship was not so unlikely. He lived with his mother in Gosport during the sixties and worked for Camper & Nicholsons in their boatyard while studying at university. It was a healthy, active life for young Bismarck, building large yachts for rich people and establishing himself as a fine carpenter. In the seventies he progressed to fibreglass boats, including sleek thirty-six-foot cruisers. He was often asked to be a member of the crew during Cowes Week, when he would spend four or five hours racing on the Solent. He became a valuable crew member and relished the hard continuous work when the boat was tacking to and fro. He was skilled at operating a winch to pull up the halyard, could tie a sheet-bend knot with his eyes closed and developed into an expert navigator. His knowledge of the shifting tides and currents around the sandbanks of the Solent was second to none.
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