08 Silent Night

by Jack Sheffield

Afternoon school went well and, while the children in my class were filling in their weather charts and making anemometers, I began looking through the programme of reading tests that would eventually be passed on to Easington Comprehensive School. I was pleased with Louise Briers, who now had a reading age of over eleven. Louise had read seventy-six correct words out of one hundred on the Schonell Word Recognition Test, finally failing on the line ‘oblivion, scintillate, satirical, sabre and beguile’.

  From Sally’s classroom I could hear the strains of music. She was playing a cassette tape of Ludwig van Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 5 in E-flat major. Although Beethoven had dedicated it to his patron, the Archduke Rudolf, it is unlikely that the archduke would have appreciated this stirring piece more than the eight- and nine-year-olds in Class 3. Sally had turned her ghetto-blaster up to full volume and the children were listening in awe and wonder.

  When it came to an end and the windows ceased to rattle, nine-year-old Ryan Halfpenny put up his hand.

  ‘Yes, Ryan?’ asked Sally.

  ‘It says ’ere,’ said Ryan, looking down at his book of famous composers, ‘that Beethoven was deaf.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Sally, pleased at Ryan’s interest, ‘he was.’

  Ryan nodded with an air of authority. ‘Mebbe that’s why ’e wrote loud music, Miss,’ and Sally recalled why she so enjoyed teaching this age group.

  Suddenly everyone started talking at once about deaf grandparents, with, as usual, Damian Brown drowning out the others. Sally was annoyed with his ceaseless chatter. ‘Damian, what do you call someone who keeps on talking when other people aren’t listening?’

  ‘A teacher, Miss,’ said Damian, quick as a flash, and even Sally had to smile. She also made a mental note to phrase her questions a little differently in future.

  At the end of school I was in the office completing the curriculum questionnaire for County Hall. The day of a common scheme of work for all schools in North Yorkshire, and maybe even the whole country, seemed to be drawing closer and I wondered if we would still be able to enjoy our camping trips, museum visits, pond-dipping and taking time out to watch Deke Ramsbottom ploughing Twenty Acre Field.

  Finally it was done and ready for posting. At six o’clock I wrote in the logbook, ‘The headteacher forwarded the school’s response to County Hall’s discussion document “A Common Curriculum for North Yorkshire Schools”.’ Then I locked up the school, climbed in my Morris Minor Traveller and drove the three miles home to Kirkby Steepleton, where Bilbo Cottage looked welcoming on this autumn evening.

  In the hallway Beth was putting on her beige Cagney & Lacey coat. It had padded shoulders and a long belt looped in a casual knot at her waist, emphasizing her slim figure.

  ‘John’s been fed and he’s fine,’ she said. She glanced at her watch and anxiously pushed a lock of honey-blonde hair away from her forehead. With her high cheekbones and clear skin she looked the perfect English beauty and I stood back to admire the view. ‘Jack, I’m running late and it’s my dissertation tutorial tonight.’ Beth was in the final year of her part-time Masters Degree in Education at Leeds University. Her special study, ‘Leadership in the Primary School’, was well advanced and had received considerable praise from her tutor. It was clear my wife was a very bright and highly motivated lady.

  ‘Drive safely,’ I said. ‘Love you,’ and I kissed her on the cheek.

  She smiled and her green eyes surveyed me steadily. ‘You too,’ she said, ‘and there’s a casserole in the oven.’

  Not for the first time it occurred to me that I had clearly married an angel.

  On Saturday morning Vera was reorganizing her kitchen and had cleared out a corner floor cupboard. The difficult task of rummaging in it’s dark recesses for a casserole dish was destined to be a thankless chore no longer.

  She had purchased a Marks & Spencer Revolving Storage System with nine plastic, air-tight containers on a cream-coloured carousel. It resembled a merry-go-round of Tupperware and provided a home for dried fruits, nuts, rice, pasta and cereals. At £14.99 it was a bargain and Vera spun it round in delight. These were small steps, but the beginning of a significant journey. Since marrying Rupert, Morton Manor was changing as Vera put her identity on their world.

  Rupert had driven off to Pickering at the crack of dawn with Virginia Anastasia, his thirty-two-year-old daughter by his first marriage, in order to buy a new pony for her riding stables. Vera had the kitchen to herself and she luxuriated in her private space.

  When the grandfather clock in the spacious entrance hall chimed nine o’clock she put on her coat and picked up her wickerwork trug basket. It was time to make preparations for the Flower Festival. There were occasions when Vera missed the vicarage where she had lived for so many years with her brother. However, one of the joys of Morton Manor was its magnificent hothouse, which increased the range of flowers available to her.

  With loving care, she collected sunflowers, chrysanthemums, lilies, carnations and of course alchemilla, the florist’s best friend, otherwise known as lady’s mantle. Vera had always admired this acid green, fluffy-flowered plant and regarded it as one of the best foliage plants for the vase and garden. She would cut it back after its early-summer flowering and then feed it with potash so that its leaves always returned fresh and beautiful and ready to flower again in early autumn.

  Then she collected a few yellow, fragrant floribunda ‘peace’ roses with their bronze and gold petals, along with some variegated ivy to add some greenery, and loaded everything into the back of her new Austin Metro, a gift from Rupert. Vera left nothing to chance and the flowers were carefully arranged in buckets of hot water so that they would last longer. Finally, after putting an aluminium watering can, a small roll of chicken wire and a pair of secateurs in the well of the front seat, she drove off very steadily for St Mary’s Church and a weekend she would never forget.

  It was mid-morning when I left Bilbo Cottage and set off for St Mary’s. There was a special quality to the light at this time of day, a golden hue. September mists had descended again over the plain of York and on Ragley High Street the villagers appeared like wraiths in a Lowry mill scene.

  The church was full of chattering ladies, with Vera leading the organizing. Other visitors had arrived to do their voluntary jobs. Albert Jenkins, one of our school governors, was there to wind the clock, and Lillian Figgins, our road-crossing patrol officer, known affectionately as Lollipop Lil, was polishing the pews. I never ceased to be amazed by the love of the locals for our church and their willingness to support its upkeep.

  There were occasions when the Flower Committee and the Church Fabric Committee did not see eye to eye, particularly following the spillage of water on the faded carpets in the vicinity of the pulpit and, much worse, the pine needles that blocked up the vacuum-cleaner bag each Christmas . . . but today was different. Everyone was working in harmony and soon Tom and I had erected a few stage blocks at the back of the church and Anne and Sally had covered them with oatmeal-coloured hessian.

  Vera was supervising a floral display-in-a-toolbox at the base of the font prepared by the more green-fingered members of the Ragley Shed Society.

  ‘The church looks magnificent, Vera,’ I said.

  ‘We work wonders daily, Mr Sheffield,’ she replied with a smile. ‘However, miracles take a little longer.’

  ‘The arrangements look . . . well, just perfect,’ said Sally.

  Vera nodded in acknowledgement. ‘There’s a subtle difference between a florist and a flower arranger.’

  ‘It’s a gift,’ said Anne, gazing around in admiration.

  ‘Yes, we don’t simply plonk them in a vase,’ said Vera proudly. She didn’t mention that she was a disciple of Constance Spry, the famous flower arranger whose book, The Constance Spry Book of Flower Arranging, was Vera’s second Bible.

  Soon she was offering encouragement to Anne and Sally while I worked with Tom. We were acting as willing but clearly hopeless assistants to c
reate a display on behalf of the staff of Ragley School. I was sent to fetch a wrought-iron pedestal and a dish of water while Tom snipped pieces of chicken wire.

  Sally began by cutting laurel to the required lengths to provide height and structure to our arrangement and Anne added trailing ivy, apparently to soften the base. With blooms in place, Vera walked halfway down the aisle to look back and assess our work. ‘Excellent,’ she said, ‘and of course it’s cool in church so the display will last longer.’ For Vera, as the years went by, experience and wisdom had become steadfast companions.

  Meanwhile the Cub pack had arrived and were lining up their shoe-box miniature gardens on the stage blocks like a long goods train. The Brownies were also busy. The girls had worked in pairs to make garden-in-a-cake-tins and these were arranged side by side on the shelf above the hymn books.

  Eventually the work was done and we returned to our homes. The purple shades of evening had begun to caress the flanks of the distant hills and, where the rim of the earth met the sky, it was tinged with golden light. The sun was setting and the creatures of the night were emerging from their slumber. In the churchyard bats zigzagged with pulsing flight while the hedgerows were filled with the chitter of insects, and in the quiet kitchen of Morton Manor, as darkness fell, Vera was busy with one final task.

  It was early on Sunday morning when Vera entered the quiet sanctuary of the silent church. She was carrying her own contribution – a small, elegant and unassuming, but very pretty, basket of flowers.

  Before she reached the altar she stopped and looked to her right. There was an east window and the morning sun shone through the stained glass and lit up the lectern and the front pews. Beneath it was a corbel, a stone carving of a basket of flowers, with a wide stone shelf above it. Perfect, she thought. So with great care she placed her arrangement on the shelf and stood back to admire it.

  It was then that she heard heavy footsteps.

  ‘Well, that piddlin’ little effort won’t win, Miss ’Igh an’ Mighty,’ shouted Deirdre Coe. She was carrying the most magnificent flower arrangement, a bounty of blooms set to perfection in a large wicker basket.

  Vera had to admit it outshone the humble efforts around her. ‘It’s lovely, Deirdre,’ she said in true Christian spirit.

  ‘It’s more than that,’ replied Deirdre disdainfully. ‘It’s a winner.’ She thrust it triumphantly next to Vera’s display and walked out.

  At half past ten Beth put John in his car seat in her light blue Volkswagen Beetle and we drove off along the back road out of Kirkby Steepleton. Above our heads a skein of honking, frantic geese flew arrow-straight on their magnetic pathway against the darkening clouds and towards the spire of St Mary’s. Ragley High Street was full of parents and children, a few carrying shoe boxes containing their tiny garden creations, as they made their way up the Morton Road. Charlie Cartwright was among them and he gave me a wave.

  As was the custom, many of the villagers had brought in gifts for the display in front of the altar, including produce to be distributed around the village after the service. Vera had contributed a huge basket of Victoria plums from her garden, Deke Ramsbottom carried in a large sheaf of corn and this was flanked by a pair of George Hardisty’s magnificent marrows.

  We sang ‘We Plough The Fields And Scatter’ at a brisk pace. However, Elsie was playing the new tune she had rehearsed and the congregation was determined to sing the one they knew. It was a close-run thing but it was generally acknowledged that our sparky organist had won by a short head.

  During the offertory hymn the collecting plate was passed along the pew. ‘Y’don’t ’ave t’pay f’me, Mam,’ said Alfie Spraggon,’ ‘’cause ah’m under five.’

  After the service Joseph introduced Miss Thyck, who placed a shiny trophy on the lid of the font. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, our festival of flowers has certainly brought the village together,’ she said proudly. ‘Flowers are part of our journey towards perfect harmony. They bring peace and contentment. So see your work as an act of creation, a perfect juxtaposition of natural forms.’

  The adults nodded politely and the children looked puzzled. Deirdre Coe, sitting in the pew alongside her floral masterpiece, gave a smug grin.

  ‘First of all,’ Miss Thyck announced, ‘congratulations to the children. Your miniature gardens are simply splendid,’ and all the children beamed with pleasure. ‘And well done to all the grown-ups. While some of us are simply born with the gift of flower arranging,’ she added without a hint of modesty, ‘these are worthy efforts.’ She turned towards Deirdre’s arrangement. ‘Who brought this display?’ and Deirdre’s hand shot up eagerly. ‘It is, of course, magnificent and an example to us all.’ Deirdre relaxed, content in the knowledge that the trophy was as good as hers. ‘You will probably not be aware that I own the Blushing Blooms florist shop in Northallerton,’ Miss Thyck continued, ‘where the window displays are created by the internationally renowned flower arranger Anthony Cleaver CBE. This is from his prize-winning “Harvest Gold” collection . . . so thank you for including it as an example to us all.’

  Deirdre Coe’s florid face turned to grey. The stares of reprimand from the members of the Women’s Institute were like daggers to her heart and the craven Deirdre appeared to wilt visibly under the crossfire. Vera tried hard not to smile.

  Miss Thyck’s voice had reached a crescendo. ‘So, in conclusion, it gives me great pleasure to present the trophy to both the Cubs and the Brownies for their imaginative gardens.’ Everyone applauded except Deirdre.

  Charlie Cartwright in his Cub uniform and Jemima Poole in her Brownie outfit walked to the front of the church and, to huge cheers from the children, held aloft the Thyck Trophy.

  Joseph gave a vote of thanks and, as his hobby was wine-making, he offered Miss Thyck a bottle of his ‘Cowslip Creation’. Miss Thyck appeared genuinely pleased with the gesture, whereas the rest of us believed the pretty cowslips should have remained in their natural habitat and not been transformed into a concoction that more often than not resembled rotting seaweed.

  As everyone left the church Charlie Cartwright picked up his shoe box. ‘Is that your garden?’ asked Miss Thyck.

  ‘No, Miss, it’s ’Itler.’

  ‘Hitler?’

  ‘Yes, Miss – my ’amster.’

  He removed the lid and Miss Thyck stared in surprise. ‘What a delightful hamster,’ she said. ‘When I was your age I had a hamster and he was my best friend.’

  ‘’Itler’s my best friend,’ said Charlie with a sincerity that was almost heartbreaking. ‘But ’e’s got ’iccups.’

  Right on cue, Hitler squeaked.

  ‘No, young man,’ explained Miss Thyck kindly. ‘Never fear – it simply means he’s happy and greeting a new day. It’s actually related to something called the “oestrus cycle” which occurs every four days, so no need to worry.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss,’ said Charlie and he put the lid on the box and set off home.

  Vera had heard the conversation. ‘That was very thoughtful of you, Gardenia,’ she said.

  Miss Thyck surveyed the church and breathed in the fragrance of a thousand flowers. ‘Well, Vera . . . flowers really do make friends,’ she said.

  Vera looked down the path outside where Deirdre Coe was staring at them with thoughts of retribution in her heart. ‘Yes, Gardenia,’ she said with a smile, ‘I agree.’

  Chapter Three

  Ronnie’s Bench

  The Parent Teacher Association and school governors have bought a bench to commemorate the life of Mr Ronald Smith, late husband of our caretaker Mrs Ruby Smith. The presentation will take place on the village green at 10.00 a.m. on Saturday, 6 October. County Hall requested copies of our Health & Safety policy in preparation for their working paper.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 5 October 1984

  ‘So, on behalf of the Parent Teacher Association and the governing body of Ragley School,’ said the Revd Joseph Evans, ‘it gives me
great pleasure to declare Ronnie’s bench well and truly open.’

  There was loud applause, especially from the Ragley Rovers football team. Our caretaker’s late husband, Ronnie Smith, had been their manager prior to his untimely death last New Year’s Eve. The team captain and local refuse collector, six-feet-four-inch Big Dave Robinson, shouted, ‘Three cheers f’Ronnie.’

  ‘’Ooray!’ yelled his diminutive five-feet-four-inch cousin and fellow binman Little Malcolm Robinson, accompanied by the rest of the football team.

  It seemed that everyone had come to support this special event. All the High Street shopkeepers had recruited temporary staff to enable them to attend and they were lined up next to the Ragley School staff, along with Don and Sheila Bradshaw from The Royal Oak. The rest of the crowd included the majority of the villagers plus the members of the Easington & District Pigeon Club, along with Lucky Lennie the bookmaker from York, who had been sad to lose one of his favourite customers.

  It was Saturday, 6 October, a morning of autumn mists, amber hues and fragile shadows. The distant fields were still, waiting for the sun to burn off the droplets of dew on the corn stubble. However, on Ragley’s village green russet leaves were falling like countryside confetti and, after the cheering, the large crowd stood in silence for a few moments as Joseph gestured our caretaker towards a beautiful, solid oak, hand-crafted bench.

  So it was that Ruby Smith, with her six children gathered around her and her granddaughter on her lap, was the first to sit on Ronnie’s bench.

  Ruby was a popular member of the Ragley community. At twenty stone and in her extra-large bright orange overall she had always been a cheerful sight skipping round the school with her mop and galvanized bucket and singing songs from her favourite film, The Sound of Music. That was until Ronnie’s death; since then she had often remained very quiet, as if she was hanging on to the past. Throughout her married life, with six children to clothe and feed, the beer-swilling, chain-smoking, regularly unemployed Ronnie had been little help. Life had always been a struggle for Ruby but she had faced it bravely . . . never more so than now.