Ruby was fiercely proud of her children. Thirty-three-year-old Andy was a sergeant in the army and thirty-one-year-old Racquel was the proud mother of Krystal Carrington Ruby Entwhistle who at two years old was the apple of Ruby’s eye. Her other four children shared Ruby’s home on the council estate at 7 School View. Twenty-nine-year-old Duggie, nicknamed ‘Deadly’ as he worked for the local undertaker, had a bed in the attic; twenty-four-year-old Sharon was engaged to Rodney Morgetroyd, the Morton village milkman; and twenty-two-year-old Natasha worked part-time in Diane’s Hair Salon. Finally, the youngest in the family, eleven-year-old Hazel, was in her first year at Easington Comprehensive School. As Ruby often said, ‘First an’ las’ were an accident – but ah love ’em all.’ For Ruby it had proved a sad moment when, last summer, Hazel had left Ragley School, as all her children had attended there. It was the end of an era.
When Ruby sat on the bench surrounded by her family there was another round of spontaneous applause from the crowd. It was a poignant moment and a scene that will live with me for ever. Anne Grainger’s husband, John, a burly, bearded man, stepped forward and took a photograph that Ruby was destined to put in a frame and treasure for the rest of her life. John, the local craftsman, looked on with satisfaction. He was quietly pleased with the bench he had created, and the carved acorn that adorned each armrest was his unique signature.
The finishing touch was a shiny brass plaque attached to the backrest. It read:
In memory of
RONALD GLADSTONE SMITH
1931–1983
‘Abide With Me’
Up the Morton Road the church clock struck ten o’clock.
‘For whom the bell tolls,’ said Tom Dalton quietly. The words of John Donne seemed particularly appropriate at that moment and I nodded in acknowledgement. I looked around me at the faces I knew so well, all deep in their own thoughts. We had lost one of our own and for Ragley village this was an event that affected everyone. In a small community it touched all our lives.
Suddenly the raucous cries of rooks in the high elms shattered the silence, the crowds dispersed and everyone returned to the business of the day.
Ruby immediately shooed off her children. ‘Ah want a bit o’ peace,’ she said, ‘on y’dad’s bench.’ Then she looked up to where I was standing with Beth under the weeping willow tree while, at our feet, John was stretching up to grasp the green leaves. ‘Come an’ tek weight off y’feet, Mr Sheffield.’
Beth gave me a gentle nudge. ‘Go on, Jack – you talk to Ruby and I’ll get some shopping done with John.’ She lifted him into his pushchair and they set off down the High Street.
I sat down. ‘A special day, Ruby,’ I said and touched the brass plate. ‘It’s a wonderful tribute to Ronnie.’
‘Ah were jus’ thinkin’ about ’im.’
I nodded. ‘I’m sure you have a lot of happy memories.’
‘Well, ah did enjoy m’courtin’ days,’ said Ruby wistfully. ‘’E bought me a Babycham an’ a bag o’ crisps an’ ah were smitten. An’ ’e ’ad that lovely Bill ’Aley kiss-curl.’
I recalled Bill Haley and His Comets singing ‘Rock Around The Clock’ in my distant youth and the lead singer’s distinctive hairstyle, which incorporated a lock of hair on his forehead in the shape of an inverted question mark. For me, it had never caught on.
Hazel Smith was playing with little Krystal on the grass. ‘Good to see them playing together, Ruby,’ I said.
‘They’re good girls, Mr Sheffield, never any bother – tho’ it’s been a bit of a struggle t’mek ends meet with our ’Azel needing a uniform an’ ’xpensive stuff for t’big school. An’ ah think our Krystal might ’ave one o’ them elegies. She were sneezing summat rotten in church.’
I recalled studying Thomas Gray’s ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’ for A level but guessed we were talking about something completely different.
‘Anyway,’ continued Ruby, ‘Mrs F says Dr Davenport knows a lot about elegies so it’ll be fine.’
‘Here she comes now,’ I said and got up to leave. ‘Good to talk to you, Ruby. I’ll go and find Beth and John.’ I waved to Vera as she walked across the green towards Ronnie’s bench.
Ruby patted the space next to her. ‘Come an’ join me, Mrs F,’ she called out. ‘It’s a comfy seat.’
‘And a lovely reminder of Ronnie,’ said Vera as she sat down.
‘Thank you, Mrs F,’ said Ruby. ‘Ah’m so grateful you’re ’ere.’
Vera looked down at Ruby’s dumpy, work-red hands and thought she noticed the first signs of arthritis. She stretched out her long, cool, elegant fingers and gently laid a hand on them. ‘Ruby,’ she asked softly, ‘how are you?’
‘Ah’m all cried out, Mrs F,’ replied Ruby, ‘. . . all cried out.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ said Vera soothingly.
‘Ah keep thinkin’ o’ daft things – like when ’e said he’d tek me abroad t’foreign places, t’that Cistern Chapel an’ that leanin’ tower o’ Pizza . . . but ’e never did. ’E were like that wi’ promises were my Ronnie.’
‘Perhaps he meant well,’ said Vera.
There was a long silence as Ruby stared at her two sons sitting outside The Royal Oak and swapping stories. ‘Our Andy’s spittin’ image of ’im but, as true as ah’m sittin’ ’ere, ’e’ll turn out a better man.’
‘I’m sure he will,’ agreed Vera.
‘But ah’m still worried, Mrs F, ’bout our Duggie goin’ out wi’ that mature woman.’ Ruby removed her favourite straw hat and stared at it. There were six pressed roses attached to the headband. She touched her chestnut curls and, as the morning sun broke through the gauze of mist, Vera noticed the first signs of grey. ‘She prances up an’ down like t’Queen o’ Sheba – an’ she won’t see forty again,’ complained Ruby.
‘Perhaps it will simply come to a natural conclusion, Ruby,’ said Vera without conviction.
‘Ah thought it were jus’ one o’ them phrases ’e were goin’ through an’ ’e’d o’ got over it by now. Problem is, one flutter o’ them false eyelashes an’ ’e goes runnin’ after ’er. Then it’s goodnight Vienna.’
‘I’m sure it will work out, Ruby. Douglas is still a young man finding his way in the world.’
‘An’ there’s another,’ said Ruby. Tom Dalton had waved a hurried farewell as he climbed into his rusty royal blue Renault 4 and roared off home down the High Street towards York. ‘Ah reckon there’s summat up wi’ that Mr Dalton, you mark my words. ’E’s like a cat on a ’ot tin roof,’ continued Ruby.
Vera kept her own counsel and remained silent.
On the far side of the village green George Dainty was talking to Old Tommy Piercy. ‘An’ what do you think o’ George Dainty, Mrs F?’
‘He appears to be a very polite and considerate man,’ said Vera.
‘’E’s certainly a diff’rent kettle o’ fish t’my Ronnie,’ said Ruby, ‘an’ that’s a fact.’
‘Yes, he is . . . but we’re all different, Ruby.’
Suddenly Dr Davenport limped by, clearly in some discomfort. His wife, Joyce, was one of Vera’s dearest friends in the Women’s Institute.
‘Richard,’ Vera greeted him, ‘whatever is the matter?’
‘I tripped over the cat, Vera,’ said the good doctor forlornly.
Vera looked suitably concerned. ‘Oh dear, how is it?’
‘Well, I’m trying not to put too much weight on it,’ he replied with a brave smile.
‘No, Richard,’ said Vera a little sharply, ‘I meant Tibbles.’
‘Oh, I see,’ he said as understanding dawned. ‘He’s fine, I think,’ and with a nervous smile he struggled away to find his wife.
Ruby chuckled. ‘Men,’ she said.
‘Very true,’ said Vera, glancing at her watch, ‘and I have some shopping to do, Ruby, so I’ll see you later.’
George Dainty saw the opportunity to sit with Ruby. A short, rotund man with a ruddy face and a gentle smile, he stepped forward a
nd raised his flat cap. ‘’Ello, Ruby,’ he said. ‘May ah sit down?’
‘O’ course, George,’ said Ruby.
George had retired from his lucrative fish-and-chip shop in Alicante in Spain and had returned to his home village of Ragley, where he had bought a luxury bungalow on the Morton Road.
He sat down and removed his cap. ‘So, Ruby, ’ow’s it goin’?’
Ruby sighed. ‘Ah were jus’ telling Mrs F that ah don’t know if ah’m comin’ or goin’ wi’ our Duggie,’ she said forlornly. ‘’E’s still goin’ out wi’ that mature woman. Ah don’t know what ’e sees in ’er.’
George kept his thoughts to himself. He could guess exactly what Duggie saw in the curvaceous, confident, worldly-wise assistant from the shoe shop in Easington. She was definitely a head-turner.
‘So . . . are y’thinkin’ about Ronnie?’
Ruby sighed. ‘M’mother used t’say, “What the eye don’t see, the ’eart don’t grieve for”, but ah’m not so sure, George – ah still miss ’im.’
‘Ah’m sure y’do, Ruby,’ replied George quietly. ‘Don’t fret.’
‘You needn’t be so polite, George Dainty,’ said Ruby. ‘We all know ’e were a useless article, ’xcept ah did love ’im in spite of ’is ways.’
George smiled. ‘Thing is, Ruby, you always did tell t’truth.’
Ruby nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Speak t’truth an’ shame t’devil, my mother used t’say – an’ she were right.’
‘Ah well,’ said George and he shuffled a little closer, ‘least said soonest mended.’
‘Ah reckon ’e did love me, George . . . in ’is own way. An’ ’e gave me six children an’ ah worship t’ground they walk on.’
‘Ah’m sure y’do, Ruby.’ And he patted her hand very gently.
‘It’s jus’. . .’
‘Jus’ what, Ruby?’ asked George.
Ruby wiped away a tear with one of Vera’s beautifully embroidered lace handkerchiefs. ‘Ah feel as though ah’m wastin’ m’life.’
‘Surely not,’ said George.
‘An’ ah’m wond’rin’ what comes next.’
‘It’s what y’choose,’ said George.
‘But there’s a pain that won’t go away,’ said Ruby.
‘Don’t worry – it will one day.’
‘When, George?’
‘When you decide.’
‘But what about t’milk o’ ’uman kindness, ah used t’ask m’self,’ said Ruby, ‘’cause it never seemed t’flow on me – jus’ on other folks.’
‘C’mon, Ruby,’ said George firmly. ‘No more ifs or buts. It’s not end of t’world. Let’s get on wi’ life.’
Ruby gave a faint smile. ‘Mebbe so, George.’
‘Look ’ere, Ruby, remember when you were May Queen? Well, ah won t’bakin’ prize for m’wholemeal loaf. Ah can still mek a fine loaf . . . ah’ll mek one f’you if y’like.’
‘Ah’d like that, George,’ replied Ruby.
George was wearing his expensive duty-free wristwatch. He glanced at it. ‘’Ow about we ’ave a nice cup o’ tea in Nora’s?’
Ruby smiled and together they walked down the High Street with George keeping a respectful distance.
Beth was shopping in Prudence Golightly’s General Stores and I took advantage of Ronnie’s bench. I relaxed in the sunshine as John played on the grass at my feet and stroked the recently cut grass with great interest.
Meanwhile, I indulged in the gentle art of people-watching. Stan Coe, local pig farmer, itinerant bully and elder brother of Deirdre, was berating Lillian Figgins, our road-crossing patrol officer, about her supervision of the zebra crossing during the week. ‘Y’like a little ’Itler on that zebra, ’olding up us workin’ folk,’ shouted Stan from his grime-covered Land Rover. Lillian responded with an icy smile. You messed with Lollipop Lil at your peril. You could see it in her eyes – the day of judgement is nigh.
Ruby’s daughter Racquel was sitting on the village green with her daughter Krystal, and she beckoned to John to toddle over to join them. I smiled as John and the little girl developed an early concept of sharing as a handful of new-mown grass was passed from one tiny hand to another. They were a new generation, born in the eighties, and I wondered how life would turn out for them.
Suddenly Beth appeared carrying a bag of shopping in one hand and John’s comfort shawl over her other arm. She sat down next to me. ‘John looks happy,’ she said. It was a welcome change to see Beth looking relaxed. Our lives had moved on from nightly vigils and we were both getting a good night’s sleep again. Occasionally I wondered about a second child, but Beth’s life seemed so full with her headship, university work and caring for John that I decided to leave that discussion for another day.
Beth rummaged in her handbag and brought out a newspaper cutting. ‘Jack, I’ve been thinking,’ she said.
‘About what?’
‘Financial planning,’ she said with a stare that meant ‘pay attention’.
‘Financial planning?’ I asked. ‘I thought we were doing fine on two salaries again.’
‘No, Jack, I’m thinking long-term.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. There’s an article here about pensions. They’re being reviewed again. It says the basic state pension is £35.80 per week and £57.30 for married couples from the end of next month.’
‘Pensions – but that’s a lifetime away.’
Beth sighed. ‘Jack, someone’s got to think about planning for the future – and it’s never too early to think about boosting our pensions.’ She held up the cutting. ‘So, I’m going to check this out. It’s a Barclays Personal Pension Plan and we could build up an investment.’
‘How about a sandwich in the Coffee Shop?’ I suggested suddenly.
Beth smiled in recognition that financial planning was not on my immediate agenda. We collected John and strolled into Nora’s where Tina Turner was belting out ‘What’s Love Got To Do With It’ on the jukebox.
Diane the hairdresser had slipped out between appointments for a quick break and she headed for Ronnie’s bench. Diane had spent eighteen pence that morning on a Daily Mail at Prudence Golightly’s General Stores. She sat down, lit up a John Player King Size Extra Mild cigarette, took a contented puff and opened her newspaper.
October was proving a busy month. In the world beyond Ragley village there were now three and a quarter million people out of work. Also, Neil Kinnock had taken Norman Tebbit’s advice and arrived on a bicycle at the Labour Party Conference in Blackpool. The debate was dominated by Arthur Scargill and the miners’ strike, so it proved not such an easy ride for the ginger-haired Welshman. The miners had put their own peace plan to the Coal Board boss, Ian MacGregor, for bringing an end to the seven months of the miners’ strike, but in the meantime the Home Secretary, Leon Brittan, was considering making picketing by more than six people an illegal act. Something had to give.
Diane smiled when she saw a photograph of David Gower, the golden boy of English cricket, relaxing with his fiancée, Vicki Stewart, in the Seychelles. Lucky girl, she thought. Then she skimmed through the article on Julie Tullis, a forty-five-year-old mother of two from Sussex, who was the first woman to attempt to climb Everest and, not for the first time, Diane considered giving up smoking.
Meanwhile, on the television page, Coronation Street was experiencing the usual ups and downs of northern life. Fate was being unkind to Jack Duckworth while his wife, Vera, was having all the luck. In To the Manor Born Peter Bowles had surprised Penelope Keith by moving his multi-million-pound business to the manor.
Diane thought the best story was undoubtedly the one about Carol Thatcher, the Prime Minister’s daughter. The thirty-one-year-old journalist was on a three-week press trip to the Far East and was reported to have gone on stage in a Bangkok sex show. However, she did not admit to holding a green balloon between the thighs of a naked woman prior to it being burst with a popgun. The undeterred Mrs Thatcher had commented, ‘Carol is a hard-working
journalist and behaves accordingly.’
‘Oh yes?’ murmured Diane to herself as she pinched the end of her cigarette, put it in the pocket of her overall and set off to give Margery Ackroyd a Bonnie Tyler with blonde highlights.
Margery was standing outside the hairdresser’s and sharing the local gossip with Betty Buttle.
‘Good send-off f’Ronnie,’ said Betty.
Margery nodded. ‘Mind you, ’e were allus a useless article.’
‘Neither use nor ornament,’ added Betty for good measure.
Personal affairs are laid bare in a small village and Miss Duff, the Ragley postmistress, had set a few tongues wagging over her passionate affair with our popular local postman, Ted Postlethwaite. Eyebrows were raised when Amelia ordered a huge double bed for delivery from the Cavendish furniture store in York. Whenever Ted finished his round and called into the Post Office, the ladies in the queue nodded knowingly as Amelia invited him to call back for a cup of tea. When Ted replied, ‘Yes please, Amelia – with milk and two sugars,’ the euphemism did not go unnoticed.
The two ladies exchanged glances when they saw Ted walking into the Post Office.
‘’Bout time she ’ad a bit o’ ’appiness,’ said Margery.
‘Y’reight there, Margery,’ agreed Betty.
‘An’ what about that dishy Mr Dalton at t’school?’ continued Margery. ‘’E could leave ’is slippers at t’end o’my bed any time.’
‘Mine as well,’ added Betty and she set off to the General Stores to buy a fresh crusty bloomer.
Diane appeared. ‘Come on, Margery,’ she said.
‘Ah’ve changed m’mind, Diane,’ said Margery. ‘Ah’d prefer a Tina Turner.’
‘No problem,’ said Diane. A delivery of hairspray had arrived only that morning.
On the other side of the village green twelve-year-old Heathcliffe Earnshaw and his eleven-year-old brother Terry were leaning against the school wall and watching the world go by. The two boys had attended Ragley School and were both now at the comprehensive school in Easington. These sons of Barnsley in South Yorkshire were inseparable friends.
08 Silent Night Page 5