08 Silent Night

by Jack Sheffield

‘That’s wonderful,’ Miss Mancini said, radiating enthusiasm. ‘Actually, that’s why I’m here.’ She looked at the children again as if she wished to soak up the atmosphere. Most of them were busy completing their School Mathematics Project workcards, while others were finishing off a vocabulary exercise using their dictionaries. ‘I’ve heard so much about your wonderful choir from the chair of the Education Committee.’

  ‘Miss Barrington-Huntley?’ I said in surprise.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Miss Mancini with a wry grin, ‘I’ve discovered there’s not much Miss Barrington-Huntley doesn’t know.’

  ‘Well, that’s good to hear,’ I said. ‘So . . . welcome to Ragley School, and I hope you may have time to meet our music specialist, Mrs Pringle. It’s Sally who teaches the choir.’

  She considered this for a moment. ‘Perhaps I could have a word with both of you,’ she said quietly. ‘You see, I have an interesting project in mind.’

  Intrigued, I glanced at the clock. ‘Well, it’s time for morning break so we can go to the staff-room if you wish.’ I looked at the eager Harold Bustard. ‘Harold, please ask Mrs Pringle to come to the staff-room as we have a visitor who would like to meet her.’ Harold was gone in the blink of an eye, while Mo Hartley went to ring the bell, Charlotte and Ben set off to open up their tuck shop and Danny Hardacre cleaned the chalkboard. Sarah Mancini nodded in approval as, like a well-oiled machine, the children tidied away their books and walked out to the cloakroom to put on their coats before going out to play.

  We strolled across the hall together and Sarah Mancini paused by each display of work. ‘You have a lovely school, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.

  ‘Please . . . call me Jack.’

  She smiled. ‘And I’m Sarah, of course.’

  The formalities were over and my curiosity was aroused. ‘And, if I may say, Mancini is an interesting surname.’

  ‘Yes, an English mother and an Italian father – and they both love music,’ she added with a smile.

  I nodded in appreciation. She was a striking woman, an Italian beauty but with the fair skin of her mother.

  The staff-room was welcoming on this cold day. Vera had prepared mugs of milky coffee and turned on the gas fire. Introductions were completed and Sally, Vera and Anne sat down while Tom was on playground duty.

  ‘So, Sarah, I’m intrigued,’ I said. ‘What’s the project you mentioned?’

  Sarah Mancini opened her black leather shoulder bag and took out a printed sheet of A4 paper with an impressive letterhead. ‘Let me explain,’ she said. ‘My brother, Phil Mancini, works for Yorkshire Television, based in Leeds. He’s in charge of an outside broadcast team for a project entitled Christmas Voices. It comprises five short items of no more than ten minutes each to go out next month, featuring children’s school choirs in Yorkshire. He’s busy recording the fourth in the series at present in Harrogate. The last one will take place at St Michael le Belfrey Church in York.’

  ‘Right next to the Minster,’ said Sally.

  ‘A beautiful church,’ said Anne.

  ‘And it’s thriving these days,’ added Vera.

  ‘Yes, it really is the perfect venue,’ said Sarah, glancing down at the typed notes, ‘and we’re recording on Friday, 7 December for proposed transmission during the early evening on Friday, 21 December.’

  ‘Our last day of term,’ I said, looking at the calendar on the staff-room noticeboard.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sarah. ‘The intention is that the series will go out towards the end of the local evening-news slot from Monday to Friday – a sort of feel-good Christmas finale to the programme. Here’s the preliminary running order.’ She handed over a photocopied sheet and we passed it round. The list included a ten-minute slot with the heading ‘School Choir’ and an empty box alongside. ‘It’s simply a Yorkshire Television mini-version of Songs of Praise.’

  ‘I love that Sally Magnusson on Songs of Praise,’ mused Vera. ‘She takes after her father . . . lovely clear diction.’

  ‘And Cliff Michelmore,’ added Anne, who was another avid viewer. ‘I loved his programme from Clifton Cathedral. He’s always so elegant and calm.’ For Anne, the perfect man had the voice of Cliff Michelmore and the body of David Soul, but she kept this latter thought to herself.

  There was a short silence as we gradually took in all the information we’d been given. Finally, Sally asked the question on everyone’s lips: ‘Sarah . . . where do we fit in?’

  Sarah surveyed our expectant faces. ‘Well, before making a definite commitment, I should like to hear your choir first, with a view to Ragley School taking part. I’ve heard such great things from colleagues at County Hall.’

  Everyone seemed to react at once.

  ‘What a surprise!’ exclaimed Sally. ‘Fame at last!’

  ‘How exciting!’ said Anne.

  ‘Well,’ added Vera cautiously, ‘if selected, the children will be thrilled.’

  The bell rang for the end of morning break. ‘So, Sarah,’ I asked, ‘when would you like to hear the choir?’

  Sarah Mancini looked at her wristwatch. ‘I have a meeting in Northallerton at twelve, so is it convenient to call back this afternoon?’

  ‘What do you think, Sally?’ I asked.

  Sally glanced at the hall timetable on the noticeboard. ‘Well, I could do a choir practice at two,’ she said, ‘if you take the rest of the children, Jack.’

  ‘We could come in and listen,’ I said. I looked at Sarah Mancini. ‘All the children in the choir are in the top two classes,’ I explained. ‘The oldest children.’

  ‘How many are in the choir?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘Thirty-six, including the recorder group,’ said Sally. ‘I take anyone in the top two classes who would like to join.’

  ‘And how many are in the two classes?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘Twenty-five in mine and twenty-three in Class 3,’ I said.

  ‘Why not include them all?’ she suggested. ‘It seems a shame to leave a dozen children behind.’

  Sally grinned. ‘Well, as long as the other forty-seven can drown out Damian Brown we should be fine.’

  I considered the implications. ‘We would need to give the children the choice,’ I said.

  ‘Good idea,’ agreed Sally.

  ‘And we would have to send a note home to parents to ensure they want their child involved,’ I added and everyone agreed.

  ‘Well, that sounds fine to me,’ said Sarah as she collected her coat from the little cloakroom area between the staff-room and the office.

  ‘Just a thought,’ said Sally, ‘but I also have a truly gifted little girl who will be singing a solo at the Christmas Crib Service in church.’

  ‘You mean Rosie Sparrow?’ asked Vera.

  Sarah Mancini paused in buttoning up her coat, clearly interested. ‘Rosie Sparrow?’

  ‘Yes, a lovely girl,’ I said. ‘She arrived here two years ago.’

  ‘How old is Rosie?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘She’s not nine yet,’ said Sally, ‘but, as I said to Jack when she first arrived, she has the voice of an angel.’

  ‘It’s my turn to be intrigued,’ said Sarah as she picked up her shoulder bag. ‘So until this afternoon – and I’ll aim to be back shortly after two o’clock.’

  At lunchtime in the staff-room Vera was reading the front page of her Daily Telegraph and smiling.

  The handsome ex-movie star Ronald Reagan had recently won his second term as President of the USA with a landslide victory. The slogan ‘It’s morning in America’ had reflected the mood of the nation and he had settled once again into the Oval Office and enjoyed another friendly chat with Margaret Thatcher in Downing Street. Vera studied the two photographs and was pleased to see that Margaret was wearing a blouse with a large flamboyant bow that suited her so well. Meanwhile, cowboy Ronnie was looking his usual dapper self, although his hair was suspiciously darker than usual.

  Eternal youth, thought Vera as she touched her carefully permed hair.

 
Meanwhile Sally and I were in the school office discussing the events of the morning.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, Jack,’ she said thoughtfully, pointing out of the window towards a group of girls.

  ‘What about?’ I asked as I followed the direction of her gaze.

  ‘Rosie Sparrow,’ she said.

  Rosie and her best friend, Jemima Poole, were turning a skipping rope and the twins, Hermione and Honeysuckle, oblivious to the biting wind, were jumping in and out. Rosie and Jemima were chanting:

  Make friends,

  Make friends,

  Never ever break friends.

  If you do, you’ll catch the flu

  And that will be the end of you.

  ‘What about Rosie?’ I asked.

  ‘I was just thinking how well she had settled in given the difficulties she faced before she came here.’

  At two o’clock Charlotte Ackroyd announced, ‘That posh car’s comin’ up t’drive again, Mr Sheffield.’ It was Sarah Mancini, on time, and by ten past two all the children in the top two classes had carried their chairs into the hall.

  ‘Now, boys and girls,’ said Sally. ‘Please would the recorders sit here,’ she pointed to her left, ‘and choir – sit in your usual places in the middle of the hall.’ Sally smiled at me. ‘And would those of you not in the choir sit here with Mr Sheffield.’ She pointed to her right.

  She set up her music stand and picked up her guitar. ‘Boys and girls, we have an important visitor here today. Her name is Miss Mancini and she loves music and has come to hear you sing and play your recorders.’ The children stared with interest at our visitor. ‘So would anyone like to choose a song?’

  Ryan Halfpenny and Sonia Tricklebank put up their hands. ‘Yes, Ryan?’ asked Sally.

  ‘“Kumbaya”, Miss,’ he said.

  ‘Good choice,’ said Sally, ‘and what would you like, Sonia?’

  ‘“Bright Eyes”, Miss,’ said Sonia.

  ‘Excellent choice,’ said Sally as she fixed a capo in place and then took a plectrum from the pocket of her waistcoat. She strummed a chord. ‘So let’s warm up with “Kumbaya”, and the children who are not in the choir do join in. Recorders, you know your part. So . . . all stand.’

  The children sang with their usual gusto and I watched Sarah Mancini as she relaxed in her seat and began to smile.

  ‘Now for “Bright Eyes”,’ said Sally. She opened her new Jukebox song book, selected number 29 and strummed an F chord. ‘Let’s really concentrate and show Miss Mancini just how good we are.’

  The children stood up straight. All the faces of the choir were visible as they were arranged in three rows in order of height.

  ‘So . . . we’ll have the recorders first, then those of you in the middle sing the tune and the rest of the choir please sing your usual descant.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Rosie,’ she said quietly, ‘you often sing a solo here. Would you mind doing it for Miss Mancini?’

  Rosie’s cheeks flushed slightly. She looked at Sarah Mancini, who gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Yes, Mrs Pringle,’ she said confidently.

  The children performed superbly, the recorders held their notes beautifully and little Rosie Sparrow sang as she always did – with a purity that stirred the soul. I watched Sarah Mancini as she leaned forward on her chair, her hands as if in prayer against her lips, still, statuesque, a picture of concentration. Finally, there was an imperceptible nod of the head.

  ‘Well done, everybody,’ said Sally and looked towards Sarah, who stood up and applauded.

  ‘Thank you so much, children,’ she said. ‘That was simply wonderful.’

  It was afternoon break and when the children had gone out to play Sarah asked if she could use the telephone in the office and then for us to join her in a few minutes.

  When Sally and I walked in she was sitting at Vera’s desk and studying some scribbled notes in her spiral-bound notebook. ‘Well, that exceeded expectations,’ she said. ‘Congratulations, Sally – you’ve obviously worked very hard with the choir and the recorders were excellent.’

  Sally beamed in delight and we sat down.

  ‘I’ve just telephoned my brother and he’s as excited as I am about the Ragley choir. So we should definitely like to arrange for you to come into York for the recording session next month.’

  ‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ I said.

  ‘My brother suggested you rehearse two carols, beginning with a lively one of your choice and including the recorder group.’

  Sally nodded in appreciation. ‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘We’ll practise a few and come up with a favourite.’

  ‘But for the second,’ said Sarah with gravitas, ‘I told Phil about Rosie. It’s obvious she has a wonderful voice and she sings with confidence . . . a definite presence. You really do have a gifted pupil.’

  I thought back to my teacher-training days of the sixties when my tutor, Jim Fairbank, had discussed the fact that so-called ‘gifted’ children in the creative arts could go unnoticed in the busy day-to-day life of a primary-school classroom. He gave us examples of the creative thinking tests of the American psychologists Getzels and Jackson and the lateral thinking tests of Edward de Bono. At the time they meant little to me, but gradually the reality dawned. ‘Jack, all children have talent,’ he had said to me during a teaching practice. ‘It is up to you to identify that talent and nurture it.’

  ‘So, Sarah, what have you in mind?’ I asked.

  ‘He said he would like a first-verse solo for the big finish.’

  Sally looked at me thoughtfully. ‘We could do with having a chat with her mother, Jack.’

  ‘I agree,’ I said. ‘Let’s see if we can catch her at the end of school when she picks up Rosie.’

  ‘And what carol were you thinking of, Sarah?’ asked Sally.

  ‘This one,’ said Sarah. She took some sheet music from her shoulder bag and put it on the desk.

  We leaned over and read the title . . . ‘Silent Night’.

  Maggie Sparrow, a slim woman in her twenties with long fair hair and sea-grey eyes, was standing by the school gate when Sally walked across the playground with Rosie. A look of concern crossed her face, but Sally’s warm smile put her at ease again.

  ‘Ms Sparrow,’ said Sally, ‘I’ve got some good news to share with you about Rosie. Can you spare a few minutes?’

  Maggie Sparrow looked puzzled but pleased. ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘Mr Sheffield was hoping to have a word in the school office. Perhaps Rosie could help me clear up in my classroom?’

  ‘Yes, go on, poppet,’ said Maggie, ‘you go with Mrs Pringle and I’ll see you soon.’

  Maggie walked into the school office. ‘Hello, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. She was clearly confused by the invitation.

  ‘Thank you for calling in, Ms Sparrow,’ I said, ‘and please don’t be concerned: it’s good news . . . in fact, quite exciting news.’

  ‘Really?’ said Maggie Sparrow, looking relieved.

  We chatted for five minutes and I described the events of the day, including the proposal for Rosie to sing a solo.

  ‘So, you can see why we wanted to discuss it with you first,’ I said. ‘All the children in my class and Mrs Pringle’s class are involved and a note will go out to parents tomorrow.’

  ‘Wonderful news, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘and we’re always singing at home. In fact, her father was a good singer . . .’ She stared down at her hands as if it was a painful memory.

  Vera had filled in the background long ago. As a teenager in Leeds, Maggie Sparrow was a fan of a local rock band. Rosie was the result of a relationship with the lead singer. There were problems and it hadn’t worked out. Eventually she had met a new partner, a drifter who had proved abusive and violent and, two years ago, he had abandoned her and social services had picked up the pieces.

  However, Maggie and her daughter were now happily settled in one of the old rented dwellings in Cold Kirkby, a tiny hamlet between Ragley and Ki
rkby Steepleton which was just in our catchment area. Each day they arrived at school on William Featherstone’s Reliance bus and Maggie continued on to Easington, where she had regular part-time employment in the library. Life had moved on from the dark days of her past. ‘My mother deserted me and put me into foster care. I don’t want that to happen to my Rosie,’ she had said when she first arrived at Ragley.

  Now Maggie stared out of the window. ‘She’s always been a determined child . . . just like her father.’ She sighed and smiled. ‘I suppose she’s like me, nursing an unspoken need in her heart.’

  I was captivated by her honest flow of words, thoughts that came from the very soul. She got up to leave and we shook hands. I had always admired this young woman. She bristled with fierce determination, and she exuded the strength of a mother.

  Maggie collected Rosie and as they walked down the drive hand in hand she looked at her watch. It would be half an hour before the next bus. ‘Let’s call in at Mrs Poole’s house,’ she suggested. This had become a regular event, particularly as Jemima Poole and Rosie were best friends.

  ‘Jemima said her great-grandma had died, Mummy,’ said Rosie.

  ‘I know. Mrs Poole told me,’ replied Maggie.

  There was a thoughtful pause. ‘Where did her great-grandma go, Mummy?’

  ‘She went to heaven, my poppet,’ said Maggie softly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she was poorly.’

  ‘How did she get to heaven?’

  ‘Jesus took her.’

  ‘Can we go to see her?’

  ‘No . . . she’s sleeping now.’

  ‘When she wakes up, will she be better?’

  ‘Yes, she will.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right then.’

  Maggie smiled. ‘I heard you were singing today.’

  ‘Yes, Mummy, a tall lady came to hear the choir.’

  ‘And did you sing well?’

  ‘I think so, Mummy . . . because she smiled at me.’

  When I got home Beth was in the kitchen using her Moulinex Multi Chef – an inspired gift for Christmas last year – to prepare some homemade carrot and parsnip soup.

  I put my arms around her and nuzzled her neck. ‘That smells good,’ I said.