08 Silent Night

by Jack Sheffield

  Seven-year-old Ted Coggins was in animated conversation with five-year-old Billy Ricketts. ‘’Ello, Mr Sheffield,’ shouted Ted. ‘Ah’m showin’ Billy ’ow t’play conkers.’

  ‘Well done, Ted,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘An’ then ah’ll teach ’im ’ow t’whistle.’ Young Ted was famous for his ear-piercing whistle, achieved by putting the second finger of each hand in his mouth and blowing ferociously.

  ‘Ah, yes, Ted,’ I replied with caution and hurried on, recollecting that a whistle that resembled a high-speed train in a tunnel was not something to relish.

  I stopped at the gate and drank in the view. Above my head an avenue of majestic horse chestnut trees, heavy in leaf, shaded the school wall and, at their feet, a group of small boys searched in the detritus of leaves and branches for the precious spiky fruits. Behind me our Victorian school of reddish-brown brick was bathed in the early autumn sunlight. It was a severe, striking building, with a steep grey-slate roof, high arched windows with pointed tops and a tall Gothic bell tower. For over one hundred years it had been the seat of learning for the children of the village and I felt proud to play my small part in its long history.

  Suddenly a short, plump, expensively dressed lady I didn’t recognize approached with two little girls. They were clearly identical twins, with golden ringlets, shining faces and cherubic smiles.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ said the woman confidently. ‘I’m Pippa Jackson. We’ve just moved in next door to the Dudley-Palmers on the Morton Road. They were full of praise for your school.’

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ I said, reassured by the seal of approval.

  ‘Yes,’ continued this voluble lady. ‘They mentioned the school’s academic achievement and, of course, the emphasis on good behaviour, which is dear to my heart . . . So I’m enrolling my daughters today.’

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ I replied. ‘Welcome to Ragley School.’

  ‘And these are my daughters, Honeysuckle and Hermione.’ I looked down at her angelic offspring: they were dressed alike in matching pink gingham dresses, brown leather sandals and white ankle socks. ‘Say good morning to Mr Sheffield, girls,’ she instructed.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ they said in perfect unison.

  ‘Good morning,’ I replied, ‘and I hope you will enjoy your new school.’ I smiled at Mrs Jackson. ‘So perhaps you would like to go into the school office and register the girls with our secretary, Mrs Forbes-Kitchener?’

  ‘Certainly,’ she said. ‘We’ve heard of your excellent secretary and we are delighted such an impressive Christian lady is on the staff.’ She hurried off with her girls and I prayed they would have a good first day.

  Meanwhile Ragley village was coming alive. Opposite the school was the village green with a duck pond that teemed with life. Under the shade of a weeping-willow tree stood an ancient wooden bench and on it sat some of the mothers with their rising fives, excited yet apprehensive at the thought of their children starting school. To my right was the white-fronted public house, The Royal Oak, standing in the centre of a row of cottages with pantile roofs and tall brick chimneys. Sheila Bradshaw, the buxom landlady, was watering the tubs of pelargoniums and trailing lobelia and she gave me a friendly wave before smoothing her tight, black-leather miniskirt and tottering back inside on her high heels.

  Off to my left, down the High Street, was a row of shops. Miss Amelia Duff was outside her village Post Office, chatting with the love of her life, our local postman Ted Postlethwaite, while Diane Wigglesworth was Sellotaping a poster of Madonna to the window of her Hair Salon. In the doorway of Nora’s Coffee Shop the assistant, Dorothy Humpleby, was swaying her hips in time to Stevie Wonder’s ‘I Just Called To Say I Love You’. It was playing at full volume on the old red-and-chrome jukebox and Timothy Pratt frowned at the noise as he arranged a neat row of garden gnomes on a trestle table outside his Hardware Emporium. Eugene Scrimshaw was sweeping the forecourt of the village pharmacy and Old Tommy Piercy was admiring the display of prize-winning sausages in his butcher’s shop. Finally, Miss Prudence Golightly had already done over an hour’s business in her General Stores & Newsagent and was discussing some of the popular topics of the day, including the price of bread and Arthur Scargill’s hairstyle, with one of her regular customers, Betty Buttle.

  I sighed, happy with my lot in this beautiful corner of God’s Own Country. Our school was a focal point of the village, a centre of the community, and here I had found peace in my professional life. Finally, I breathed in the clean air and walked back up the drive. The first day of a school year was always special. It was a time of hope and expectation and I wondered what might be in store.

  For this was 1984. It was the time of the miners’ strike and the first Apple Macintosh computer. Virgin Atlantic had made its first flight and Trivial Pursuit was destined to become the most successful board game of all time. The one-pound note was to be withdrawn from circulation, moon boots would become a winter fashion and Spitting Image appeared on our screens. Band Aid’s ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’ was to be the year’s bestselling UK single and countless children were destined to find happiness by adopting a Cabbage Patch doll. However, less happy was Michael Jackson, who had been burned while filming a Pepsi advert.

  It was announced that O levels and CSEs were to be replaced by GCSEs, an IRA bomb shook the Grand Hotel in Brighton and Australia introduced the one-dollar coin. Meanwhile, L’Oréal introduced the first hair mousse and, in doing so, predicted an end to hair gel. It was also the year we said a sad farewell to Eric Morecambe, Richard Burton, J. B. Priestley and Tommy Cooper.

  However, on this sunny morning, the villagers of Ragley-on-the-Forest were going about their usual business as the school bell summoned the children to their classrooms.

  In Class 4 our main topic of conversation after registration concerned monitor jobs. For the oldest pupils in the school these tasks held a certain status and were valued. After asking for volunteers it was decided that Mo Hartley would follow in her elder sister’s footsteps and become the official bellringer. Victoria Alice Dudley-Palmer, who always prided herself on possessing the cleanest hands in school, became hymn-book monitor. Charlotte Ackroyd and Ben Roberts, both good at arithmetic and, significantly, both on the orange and most difficult box of workcards in our School Mathematics Project, were thrilled to run the school tuck shop. Louise Briers and Sam Borthwick, who spent most of their spare time reading, jumped at the chance to be library monitors. Harold Bustard, a happy little boy with a crew cut, sticking out ears and a constantly cheerful disposition, grinned when selected to be the pupil who hurried from one classroom to the next delivering messages. Finally, Danny Hardacre, probably the tallest ten-year-old I had ever taught, gave me a knowing look when he agreed to be blackboard monitor.

  Soon we were under way. Each pupil had a reading record card, an Oxford First Dictionary, a library book, a Berol pen, a ruler, an HB pencil with a rubber on the end, a new tin of Lakeland crayons and a collection of exercise books.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of the school hall, Anne’s reception class was suddenly very busy. A group of mothers had brought their new starters into school and were helping them to hang up their coats on the labelled pegs. Mrs Ricketts made sure she had the chance to speak to Anne first. ‘Ah’ve done t’paperwork wi’ Mrs Forbes-Kitchener, so she knows about the ’yphen in Suzi-Quatro,’ she explained with confident assurance.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Ricketts,’ said Anne patiently. ‘I’m sure Suzi will be fine.’

  ‘An’ she knows ’er manners, Mrs Grainger,’ announced Mrs Ricketts in a loud voice to the assembled throng of mothers. ‘We brought ’er up proper.’ She looked down at little Suzi-Quatro. ‘Isn’t that right, Suzi?’ However, Suzi-Quatro had started hopping from one foot to another. ‘Oh – do you need a wee-wee, my little chuckle-bunny?’ asked Mrs Ricketts with affected politeness.

  ‘No thanks, Mam,’ said Suzi-Quatro, and Mrs Ricke
tts looked around her with a saintly expression. However, the agitated Suzi-Quatro hadn’t finished, ‘’cause ah already did one in m’pants.’

  Here we go again, thought Anne.

  By mid-morning Anne’s class was a hive of activity. Dallas Sue-Ellen Earnshaw was sitting at a table with a group of children including the Jackson twins, who were modelling identical farm animals. Dallas, meanwhile, was beating a lump of brown plasticine with her clenched fist into the shape of a substantial cowpat. Anne crouched down next to her. She noticed that the little girl was wearing an incongruous multi-layered skirt, a sort of tutu that had been rescued from an exploding paint factory. ‘That’s a pretty dress, Dallas,’ said Anne softly.

  Dallas didn’t look up.

  ‘It’s all frilly,’ added Anne with an encouraging smile.

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ she said, ‘but it’s a bloody pain to iron.’

  There was an intake of breath from Anne and a puzzled look from the other farm-builders.

  ‘Dallas,’ said Anne firmly, ‘you mustn’t say that.’

  ‘What – “bloody pain”?’ asked Dallas, nonchalantly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Anne forcefully.

  ‘OK,’ agreed Dallas, unconcerned.

  ‘So where did you hear that?’ asked Anne.

  Dallas looked up and smiled innocently at her frowning teacher. ‘It’s what m’mam allus calls m’dad.’

  Out of the mouths of babes, thought Anne.

  Later, when the bell rang for morning break, I called in to Tom’s class where seven-year-old Charlie Cartwright was drawing a picture of what appeared to be a huge pig in a field. His left hand sported a heavily bandaged index finger and it was clear he was keen for me to see it. He held it upright in front of him as if it were an Olympic torch. ‘It dunt ’alf ’urt, Mr Sheffield,’ he said bravely.

  I crouched down next to his desk. ‘What happened to your finger, Charlie?’ I asked.

  ‘Ah broke it, Mr Sheffield,’ he replied with a sad shake of his head.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘and how did you do that?’

  ‘Cleanin’ m’teef,’ he said, pointing with the end of his crayon to his collection of wobbly teeth.

  ‘Cleaning your teeth?’ I asked in surprise.

  ‘It were awful,’ he said reflectively, ‘it really ’urt.’ Charlie was emerging as a master of pathos.

  ‘But how did you break your finger while cleaning your teeth?’ I asked, still perplexed.

  ‘Ah fell off t’stool, Mr Sheffield,’ he explained, picking up a pink wax crayon and colouring in the pig.

  ‘Oh well, let’s hope it gets better soon,’ I said. I cast a glance at the bright pink pig in the field. ‘Lovely drawing, Charlie,’ I added supportively.

  Charlie stood back to admire his creation. ‘Thanks, Mr Sheffield,’ he said proudly. ‘It’s m’mam sunbathin’ in t’back garden.’

  In the staff-room Vera had prepared five mugs of milky coffee and I hurried to collect mine as I had volunteered to do the first playground duty. Anne appeared from her classroom as I headed for the entrance door.

  ‘How’s it going, Anne?’

  ‘Mixed,’ she replied cautiously, but I could tell she had a lot on her mind. However, as the day progressed, in spite of the demands of making sure Dallas Sue-Ellen didn’t wreck the classroom Home Corner, Anne found time for an occasional smile.

  Just before lunchtime the children were gathered round her feet and Anne was showing them brightly coloured pictures from a book of farm animals. ‘What sound does a cow make?’ she asked.

  ‘Mooo, Miss,’ said five-year-old Julie Tricklebank.

  ‘Well done, Julie,’ said Anne. ‘And what sound does a sheep make?’

  ‘Baaa, Miss,’ volunteered Sam Whittaker.

  Anne was on a roll. ‘And what sound does a mouse make?’

  ‘Click, Miss,’ said Emily Borthwick. After all, only last night she had watched her father working on his new Apple Macintosh personal computer.

  It was during lunchbreak when my wife, Beth, telephoned.

  ‘How’s your first day?’ I asked. Beth was also a local village-school headteacher in Hartingdale Primary School.

  ‘Busy, Jack, but fine,’ she said. ‘How about you?’

  ‘The same,’ I replied. ‘We’ve certainly got some interesting new starters.’

  There was a chuckle down the line. ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘And how was John?’ We had arranged for our year-old son to be looked after by a childminder in Hartingdale close to Beth’s school. She had come highly recommended – caring, loving and completely trustworthy, with a teenage son at Easington Comprehensive School.

  ‘Perfect, Jack. He looked happy enough and I can always nip out in an emergency.’ There was a pause. ‘Although it broke my heart to leave him.’

  This was the downside of us both working, but we hoped it would work out. It certainly made the time we spent with him away from school even more precious.

  ‘Well, have a good day,’ I said.

  ‘You too, Jack.’ The line went dead and I was reminded that love can be a tough journey.

  Meanwhile, on the playground two nine-year-olds, Sonia Tricklebank and Mary Scrimshaw, were twirling a long skipping rope and Hermione and Honeysuckle Jackson were watching Dallas Sue-Ellen as she jumped up and down. Dallas made sure there were no boys involved. ‘Boys are a bloody pain,’ she had told the twins. Dallas had retained a deep mistrust of all boys ever since her brother Terry had carefully removed the silver foil from the back of her advent calendar and eaten the chocolates.

  The twins were happy. They had skipped, fallen, skinned knees and elbows, and had followed Dallas everywhere. They had never come across a girl like her before at their ballet class or piano lessons.

  Suddenly Mrs Earnshaw appeared on the other side of the school wall. She put down her bag of shopping and peered through the bars. ‘Ah’m jus’ passin’ by,’ she shouted to Dallas. ‘’Ow y’gettin’ on?’

  Dallas jumped out of the whirling rope and yelled back at her mother, ‘Mam, Mam, what’s a virgin?’

  Mrs Earnshaw stared in astonishment and mouthed, ‘Bloody ’ell.’

  Sonia stopped turning the rope. ‘Don’t y’know what a virgin is?’ she asked confidently.

  ‘No, ah don’t,’ said Dallas.

  ‘They sell records,’ explained Sonia and resumed the skipping game.

  That were a close ’un, thought a relieved Mrs Earnshaw and hurried home.

  That afternoon I called into Sally’s class.

  ‘Cor, that’s a big ’un!’ exclaimed eight-year-old Hayley Spraggon in a loud voice, staring at her Animals of the World reference book.

  ‘What is it, Hayley?’ asked Sally, encouraged by the little girl’s enthusiasm.

  ‘It’s a frickin’ elephant, Miss,’ said Hayley, full of awe and wonder.

  ‘Pardon?’ replied Sally, alarmed at the industrial language.

  ‘A frickin’ elephant, Miss,’ repeated Hayley.

  I looked at the picture. Under it were the words ‘AFRICAN ELEPHANT’ and I smiled and hurried back to my class.

  It was near the end of the day when I opened Anne’s classroom door to check all had gone well with her new starters.

  I noticed the Jackson twins were making perfect hexagons from six coloured sticky-paper triangles and it appeared they clearly enjoyed the taste of the glue, as they licked each piece with obvious relish and stuck it down on the sheet of card. It was at times like this that I wondered about the Health & Safety at Work Act and the mass of documents that appeared in the post each day . . . perhaps I had missed something important.

  When the bell rang for the end of school, parents hurried into the reception class to collect their children while Ruby the caretaker arrived and retrieved her mop and bucket from the cleaner’s store.

  In the cloakroom area the Jackson twins, like mirror images, were helping each other into their coats. Close by, Mrs Earnshaw was chatting with Mrs F
reda Fazackerly.

  ‘Only seems five minutes since they were babies,’ said Freda.

  ‘Y’reight, Freda,’ confirmed Mrs Earnshaw. ‘They grow up too fast these days.’ She nodded towards our caretaker. ‘In fac’, ah ’eard Ruby’s youngest is wearin’ a bra.’

  When Pippa Jackson arrived at the school gate she looked with an expression of alarm at the sticking plasters applied to Hermione’s skinned knees and Honeysuckle’s grazed elbow. However, that apart, they seemed healthy enough with their rosy cheeks and slightly grubby faces.

  ‘So, girls, have you had a good day?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mummy,’ said Hermione.

  ‘And we’ve learned a lot,’ said Honeysuckle.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ replied Pippa.

  ‘We’ve both got a reading book,’ said Hermione.

  ‘And we made hexagonal shapes,’ said Honeysuckle.

  ‘Well done!’ exclaimed Pippa, clearly encouraged.

  ‘And we modelled with plasticine,’ continued Hermione.

  ‘And made farm animals,’ added Honeysuckle.

  ‘Impressive,’ said Pippa. ‘So it sounds as if you like your new school?’

  ‘Oh yes, Mummy,’ said Hermione.

  ‘And we’ve got lots of friends,’ said Honeysuckle.

  ‘New friends?’ Pippa looked thoughtful.

  ‘Yes, there’s a big girl called Sonia and she let us play skipping,’ said Hermione.

  ‘And she told us what a virgin is,’ added Honeysuckle.

  Pippa’s jaw dropped. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘But Dallas is our special friend, Mummy,’ explained Hermione.

  ‘Who’s Dallas?’ asked Pippa with a growing sense of dismay.