Claire thought that Diane was talking from bitter experience and wondered what had happened in her early life. ‘But Kenny’s not like that,’ she pleaded. ‘’E’s carin’ an’ kind an’ ’e’ll ’ave a proper job one day an’ mebbe even a car.’
Diane sighed and lit a cigarette. ‘Fair enough, luv, but don’t say ah didn’t give you fair warnin’.’
Claire nodded and they both stared in the mirror. Diane took a puff of her cigarette and put it in the ashtray next to the closed window. ‘So, what’s it t’be this week – Bonnie Tyler or Kate Bush?’
Next door in the Coffee Shop, Nora was also considering the future. She was reading her Woman’s Own and thinking about the royal wedding.
‘In this ’owoscope it says Pwince Andwew an’ Sawah will make a lovely match.’
‘’Ow come?’ said Dorothy.
‘It’s cos ’e’s a Pisces an’ she’s a Libwan,’ explained Nora.
Dorothy stared down at her chunky signs-of-the-zodiac charm bracelet. ‘That’s jus’ perfec’, Nora,’ she said. ‘If it’s written in t’stars then it mus’ be right.’
Nora nodded knowingly and looked down again at the text. ‘This astwologer says they’ll ’ave two kids, the odd wow, a few tears, but they’ll be weally ’appy.’
‘Jus’ like me an’ Malcolm,’ said Dorothy, ‘… ’cept wi’out the rows and the kids.’
At the end of school lunch Vera came to find me in the school hall. ‘Telephone call, Mr Sheffield. It’s Mr Fairbank from the college in York.’
I closed the office door and settled behind my desk.
‘Hello, Jack. Have you got a few minutes to spare?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll come straight to the point. We have a staffing vacancy in the Education Department for next term. I was hoping you might be interested. Your course in the spring term was well received and, with your background of primary-school headship, it could be an ideal move for you.’
‘Thanks, Jim,’ I said. ‘I’m obviously flattered that you have thought of me.’
‘I ought to mention that I’m aware of the forthcoming headship interviews for Ragley and Morton.’
‘Yes, although I’ve not heard yet if I’ve been shortlisted.’
There was a pause. I suspected Jim knew more than he was saying. ‘I’m sure you will have a good chance, but it was, after all, an open advertisement and the school will be a popular one. The shortlist will no doubt include some strong candidates.’
‘Perhaps it will, Jim, but I couldn’t comment.’
‘Of course, I understand.’
‘What exactly is the college post?’
There was a shuffle of papers. ‘The official title is Senior Lecturer in Primary Education and it will include all the usual duties, including lectures, pastoral duties and teaching-practice supervision, where you will obviously have considerable credibility. The salary is higher than your current pay scale and in time, at your age, there would be a significant opportunity for promotion to Principal Lecturer.’
‘It sounds attractive,’ I said.
‘Yes, give it some thought, but I need to know as soon as possible and certainly before we close for the summer break.’
‘Thank you, I’ll do that.’
‘Well, good luck, Jack. I hope it goes well for you and, if it doesn’t, at least there is the possibility of an alternative professional future.’
I put down the receiver and stared out of the window.
It was encouraging news, but not what I really wanted. Deep down I knew I needed to keep the job I loved.
It was lunchtime in The Royal Oak and Chris de Burgh was singing ‘The Lady in Red’ on the juke-box when Deke Ramsbottom arrived. He had arranged to meet his sons for a lunchtime pint. The television was on above the tap-room bar and they were discussing the recent World Cup.
‘Turn down that warblin’, please, Don,’ said Deke. ‘It’s ’ard t’concentrate.’
‘What’s t’matter?’ asked Don and he turned down the volume control on the juke-box.
Deke pointed up at the television set. ‘It’s that bloody Maradona.’
‘Should be banned,’ said Don shaking his head.
Diego Maradona’s ‘Hand of God’ goal, which had helped Argentina to beat England 2–1 in the World Cup, was being replayed. Even though Gary Lineker had followed up his hat-trick against Poland in Monterrey with a goal for England, it had been in vain. The little curly-haired Argentinian had scored both goals and Argentina had gone on to beat West Germany in the final, much to the disgust of the Ragley Rovers football team.
‘In fac’, turn it off, Don,’ said Deke. ‘Ah’d rather ’ear that warblin’.’
Clint Ramsbottom arrived at The Royal Oak in a state of blissful harmony. He was listening to a Boy George compilation on his Sony Walkman. New technology had changed the life of this fashion-conscious farmhand ever since he had witnessed the sight of the Ragley ladies’ jogging group trundling down the High Street a few years ago. On that memorable day he had stared in amazement at Petula Dudley-Palmer in her fashionable Olivia Newton-John headband, but not because of her skintight Lycra jogging bottoms. Instead he was captivated by the pair of thin wires that culminated in tiny earpieces. Petula had been jogging in time to Abba’s ‘Mamma Mia’, while Clint had been carrying his ghetto blaster over his shoulder. It was the size of a small chest of drawers and he had put it down on the pavement. In that moment his life had changed and he had joined the music revolution of the eighties.
There was a familiar swishing sound as Clint entered the bar in his nylon fluorescent lime-green shellsuit. It had a round collar, a zip down the front, puffy sleeves and elasticated wrists. Down the front were pink arrows. His Nike trainers were worn with the tongues sticking out. Clint was inspired by David Bowie and Duran Duran, with a bit of Michael Jackson thrown in for good measure. Most evenings he practised his moonwalk on the linoleum kitchen floor, grabbing his crotch in a suggestive manner. Although he looked like a prisoner from a futuristic science-fiction film, Clint thought he was the coolest man in Ragley.
Deke looked at his son in despair. ‘Where’s y’brother?’ he asked.
‘Jus’ pulled up outside on ’is tractor, Dad,’ replied Clint.
When his eldest son walked in Deke looked at him with equal puzzlement. Shane had splashed his stonewashed jeans with bleach to make them look even more distressed. His baseball cap, worn back to front, sported the word ‘BAD’. Shane had also taken to shoving a shuttlecock down the front of his jeans to impress the girls who frequented the bars outside York station. Sadly, it didn’t seem to have the desired effect … in fact, his private parts had suffered a severe chafing.
Deke wondered again why he had been blessed with such dysfunctional sons. Don came up to serve them. ‘Right, lads,’ said Deke, ‘what you ’avin’?’
‘Pint,’ said Shane.
‘Lager an’ lime,’ said Clint, and Don gave Deke a knowing glance.
On the High Street Margery Ackroyd was passing the time of day with Betty Buttle when Deirdre Coe stopped to look in the window of Old Tommy Piercy’s butcher’s shop.
‘Ah wouldn’t trust ’er as far as ah could throw ’er,’ said Betty.
‘She’s too knowin’ by ’alf, is that Deirdre,’ said Margery.
Betty nodded. In the pecking order of gossipmongers, this was damnation indeed.
Ruby and George had pulled up by the Post Office and Ruby got out of the driver’s side. George took her place and, as he drove up the Morton Road, Betty and Margery watched Ruby as she waved goodbye.
‘’E’s not ’xactly what you’d call a ’eart-throb, is ’e?’ remarked Betty.
‘Accordin’ to Ruby’s mother, ’e med a fortune in Spain,’ said Margery.
‘Old Tommy said t’batter on ’is fish were t’nectar of t’gods,’ said Betty.
Margery nodded. ‘Well ’e should know.’
‘She’s allus ’ad t’count ’er pennies, ’a
s Ruby,’ continued Betty.
‘An’ ’er mother could stretch a shillin’,’ added Margery for good measure.
On the other side of the road, the new, slimline Petula jogged by in her latest leisure suit and matching headband.
‘An’ ’ere comes Miss Moneybags,’ said Betty.
‘She’s all parquet floors an’ shag-pile rugs,’ contributed Margery.
‘Very true,’ agreed Betty, ‘but word ’as it ’er ’usband is beggin’ for forgiveness.’
They watched as Petula disappeared up the Morton Road.
‘Well … good for ’er,’ said Margery.
‘Mebbe she’s not so bad after all,’ acknowledged Betty.
In the centre of York Geoffrey Dudley-Palmer was looking for an expensive gift for his wife in Dixons camera shop. He had left his executive office at the Rowntree’s factory and for once he hadn’t sent out his secretary to buy the present for him. He was approached by a young male assistant with a ponytail and a nose that rivalled both Barry Manilow and Concorde. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘I’m interested in this,’ said Geoffrey, pointing to the display case.
‘Yes, it’s our top-of-the-range Auto-Focus Camcorder,’ said Ponytail, ‘a bargain at one thousand one hundred and ninety-nine pounds.’
It was rather more than Geoffrey had anticipated, but he had to do something extravagant to regain Petula’s attention.
‘Why is it so expensive?’ he asked.
Ponytail had rehearsed his sales pitch. ‘It’s got three hours of playback, a batt’ry an’ a carry case, sir.’
‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, unconvinced.
Ponytail moved effortlessly into another gear. ‘Sir, wi’ point-an’-shoot technology an’ eight-millimetre video, plus a six-times power lens, y’looking at t’future.’ It was time for the ace in the pack. ‘An’ sale ends t’morrow, sir.’
Geoffrey nodded. ‘I’ll take it,’ he said.
Ponytail was delighted. ‘Good choice, sir.’ He began to wrap up the gift. ‘And don’t f’get, we ’ave forty years of experience in photography at Dixons.’
‘And how long have you worked here?’ asked Geoffrey.
Ponytail smiled. ‘Since Tuesday, sir.’
It was two o’clock and Ruby had enjoyed a successful driving lesson with George. They had practised reversing and she was enjoying a new confidence.
She was sitting on Ronnie’s bench and the tranquil peace on the village green had become a cloak of comfort for her. It was good to pause and reflect on the few happy times in her life. Around her, butterflies landed on clumps of nettles in the hedgerow and spread their delicate wings. Tall lupins swayed in the gentle breeze and trailing pelargoniums and lobelia brightened the colourful tubs outside The Royal Oak. As her thoughts drifted she began to hum ‘Edelweiss’ from The Sound of Music softly to herself.
It was then that Ruby noticed the glowering sky in the distance. Dark clouds were gathering over the Hambleton hills and suddenly the air seemed full of menace. She stood up and hurried back towards her home on School View.
In school, Ryan Halfpenny rang the bell for afternoon break while all the staff closed their classroom windows and made preparations for an indoor playtime.
When the storm arrived, forked lightning split the sky and thunder shook the earth. It was a hailstorm from hell, a malevolent torrent. Rain battered the school roof like steel shards. The bright white lightning was followed almost immediately by the boom of heaven’s fury. We were at the centre of the storm and the school drive had become a channel of rushing water. Lightning flashed again.
‘Mr Sheffield, is that God takin’ a picture?’ asked little Alison Gawthorpe.
It passed over as soon as it had begun. Finally, sharp orange sunlight gilded the distant hillside like molten gold and our world was silent once again.
‘Thank goodness we didn’t have to drive through that,’ said Pat. She had organized another staff night out at the cinema and a relaxing start to the weekend was in store.
It was six thirty, Natasha was babysitting and we had set off for York. Beth was driving and Rod Stewart was singing ‘Every Beat of My Heart’ on her car radio. During the ten-mile journey we discussed Jim Fairbank’s proposal for the lectureship at the college and Beth was encouraged. ‘This is positive news, Jack,’ she said. ‘Things are looking up.’
We parked outside a launderette with a big sign in the window, ‘Drop Your Pants Here’, smiled and walked on hand in hand. All the staff had assembled, but their partners were otherwise engaged. Rupert was attending a Rotary Club meeting, Pat’s partner was on call at the surgery, Colin Pringle was looking after daughter Grace, and John Grainger was varnishing his new tool rack. The film was Back to the Future and proved to be light-hearted escapism. Michael J. Fox played the main character, Marty McFly, who travelled back in time to 1955 in ‘Doc’ Emmett Brown’s DeLorean car. There he met his parents as teenagers in Hill Valley. The car had something called a ‘flux capacitor’ and the speed of 88 m.p.h. was critical for its success in travelling through time.
It was an enjoyable evening and good to catch up with news on this balmy summer evening. When we returned to the car and drove north on the A19 I found myself thinking about my own past. Arriving in Ragley village and taking on my first headship had provided both challenge and purpose.
‘You’re quiet,’ observed Beth.
‘Just thinking,’ I said.
‘About time travel?’ she quipped.
‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘Although hindsight is useful.’
Meeting Beth back in 1977 had been life-changing. In that moment it seemed as though a future had been determined for us both. However, during this academic year external forces over which I had little control had been at work.
It was a different world and the rules had changed.
On Saturday morning I rose early and made a decision that would go towards determining my own future. I filled my pen with black Quink ink and began to complete an application form for the Master of Education degree at York University beginning in the autumn term.
It was a part-time Educational Management course over three years, including two years of evening tutorials and a final year during which a dissertation had to be undertaken under the supervision of a personal tutor. I was busy with it when Beth appeared with John. She peered over my shoulder.
‘That’s good,’ she said quietly and kissed me on the cheek. Then she took John outside into the garden to pick strawberries, but mainly to leave me in peace.
I had just finished it and read it through carefully when the morning post arrived. Beth came back into the kitchen, sifted through the letters, paused and passed over a large cream envelope with the crest of North Yorkshire County Council. I opened it quickly, scanned the letter and smiled.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Good news … I’ve got an interview for the Ragley and Morton headship. It’s on Thursday, twenty-fourth July in Northallerton,’ I glanced up at the calendar on the wall, ‘the day before the end of term.’
Beth stretched over the table and squeezed my hand. ‘Well done,’ she said. ‘And so it begins …’
Chapter Eighteen
For Whom the Bell Tolls
The school supported the royal wedding celebrations in the village hall. The pupils’ report books were completed prior to being sent home at the end of term.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Wednesday, 23 July 1986
It was Wednesday, 23 July and, as I drove up the High Street, colourful bunting was displayed outside the village hall and the parade of shops. The royal wedding had captured the imagination and, even though it was officially a normal working day, much was being done for the folk of Ragley to join in the celebrations. The owners of each of the village shops had made their own unique contribution to this special day.
Prudence Golightly was giving away small cardboard Union Jacks with every newspaper and Jeremy Bear was sporti
ng his new sailor suit. Old Tommy Piercy had displayed a large tray of ‘Royal Wedding Sausages’ in his window that looked very much like the usual tray of pork sausages that were there every day of the week. In the Pharmacy, Peggy Scrimshaw had draped a string of flags of St George over her new range of cod liver oil capsules and Neutrogena hand cream. Timothy Pratt was displaying a royal family of garden gnomes on a trestle table outside his Hardware Emporium, including one of Prince Charles with particularly large ears. Nora Pratt had advertised ‘Prince Andrew Cream Horns’ in her Coffee Shop, while Dorothy was standing in the doorway, swaying her hips and singing along to Robert Palmer’s ‘Addicted to Love’. Diane Wigglesworth had put a photograph of Sarah Ferguson on the door of her Hair Salon under the words ‘Would you like Titian locks?’ Diane wasn’t entirely clear who Titian was, but she had read that particular description of Sarah Ferguson’s flowing red hair in an old Cosmopolitan magazine. Finally, outside the Post Office, Ted Postlethwaite and Amelia Duff had draped a huge Union Jack around the postbox prior to returning to the back room and their well-thumbed copy of The Joy of Sex.
On the village green, Shane and Clint Ramsbottom were unloading the Ragley Scouts’ marquee from the back of a trailer, while Rupert Forbes-Kitchener supervised the raising of the flag of St George on the flagpole in the centre of the village green. Meanwhile, Sheila Bradshaw, in a bright red boob tube, blue skintight hot pants and white high heels, was putting up a parasol above each of the picnic tables outside The Royal Oak and she blew me an extravagant kiss as I drove by.
There was no doubt that Ragley village loved a wedding.
Ruby was emptying the playground litter bin when I walked in from the car park.
‘Good morning, Ruby. How are you?’ I asked. It was noticeable that she was looking a lot happier these days.
‘Fair t’middlin’,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘Ah’ve gorra drivin’ lesson wi’ George this mornin’.’
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