She took out a stiff cardboard container that resembled a box of After Eight mints but was filled with small cards. ‘There are six categories of questions,’ she explained. ‘Geography, Entertainment, History, Art & Literature, Science & Nature and Sport & Leisure. It’s a board game, but we only need these question-and-answer cards, so Albert can use them for the quiz.’
‘Well done, Sue,’ I said.
‘We’ve got posters in the High Street and teams can be two couples, so we should have a full house. Members of the committee are bringing raffle prizes and I’ve spread the word that all the proceeds will go towards new books for the school library.’
‘Brilliant,’ I said, admiring her energy. If you want something doing ask a busy woman, Vera had once said.
Sue glanced at her watch. ‘Must rush, Jack . . . on duty in York,’ she said and hurried out.
It was 6.30 p.m. and Nora was ready. Dorothy had inspected the dubious lace attachment, hastily stitched to Nora’s best dress, and Little Malcolm had insisted on driving her into York. As the man of the house he felt it was his responsibility and, in any case, Dorothy was adamant she wanted to be one of the first to hear about what the mysterious stranger was like.
‘Where shall ah drop you off, Nora?’ he asked.
‘Wowntwee’s Theat’e, please, Malcolm – next to t’factowy. Tywone is tekkin’ me t’see t’Opewatic Society. They’re doin’ Songs from the Shows.’
‘Ow will y’know it’s ’im?’ said Little Malcolm as they approached the local chocolate factory and the smell of cocoa drifted in the air.
‘’E’ll be weawing a wed wose and ah’m weawing a white wose,’ said Nora.
Tyrone Crabtree was standing outside the entrance to Rowntree’s Theatre, looking expectantly at the traffic coming in from the north of the city. He was a short, tubby, balding man with a Bobby Charlton comb-over and a checked sports coat that should have come with a government health warning. The knife-edge creases in his cavalry twills, black shoes polished to a mirror shine and bright red tie with the yellow initials RQM completed the ensemble. Now in his fifties, he had finally begun to wonder about companionship.
He spent most of his time reading, particularly the Encyclopædia Britannica, and, of course, watching every Mastermind programme. He recalled three lady friends, as he called them, in his life. Two of the relationships had lasted less than a week. Michelle, the usherette from the Odeon Cinema, said he didn’t come up to expectations in the daylight and Mabel, one of the secretaries in the accounts department at Rowntree’s, told him he was utterly boring. The liaison that did last was with Audrey Gawthorpe, who worked in the reference library in York. Audrey was an authority on the history of the French Revolution. It was her fascination with guillotines and whether a severed head retained the capacity to utter a last word that finally persuaded Tyrone to have his library card stamped elsewhere.
Little Malcolm pulled up just past the theatre where the road widened out before the railway bridge and looked in his nearside wing mirror. ‘That’s ’im, Nora,’ he said. ‘’E looks smart.’
‘An’ on t’questionnaire it said ’e’s two inches taller than me,’ said Nora.
Little Malcolm did a quick calculation and beamed. He was an inch taller than Nora’s new boyfriend. For a vertically challenged binman this was manna from heaven. ‘Looks all reight t’me, Nora,’ he said then drove off back to Ragley.
Nora touched her white rose and smiled.
‘Hello, Nora,’ said Tyrone. ‘Thank you for coming. These Smarties are for you. I didn’t want anything too ostentatious with us going to the theatre,’ he added.
I like a man who uses big words, thought Nora. ‘Thank you, Tywone,’ she said. ‘That’s weally kind.’
Tyrone noticed Nora’s difficulty with the letter R but thought it wise not to mention it. After all, not many of us are perfect, he thought.
‘I like y’wed tie,’ said Nora.
‘I’m the Rowntree’s Quiz Master,’ said Tyrone proudly and pointed to the initials. ‘One of the managers had this made up for me. He supports my monthly quiz night for the retired employees of Rowntree’s and provides the prizes.’ Tyrone was suddenly animated. ‘We had a bumper box of Lion bars last month . . . mis-shapes, mind you, but still – it’s the thought that counts.’
He’s intelligent as well, thought Nora and she smiled.
She was still smiling when Little Malcolm collected her from outside the theatre at 10.15 p.m.
Early on Saturday morning in Ragley High Street, Harold Bustard looked at Ben Roberts riding past on his Raleigh BMX Burner and wished he still believed in Father Christmas and recalled a time when Christmas wishes came true.
Ben pulled up at the kerb. ‘’Ello, ’Arold, what’s matter? Y’look fed up.’
Harold sighed deeply. ‘My girlfriend doesn’t like me.’
‘What’s ’er name?’ asked Ben, suddenly full of interest.
‘Ah don’t know,’ said Harold mournfully. ‘She goes t’Morton School an’ she comes t’Brownies in Ragley . . . an’ she won’t tell me ’er name.’
Ben was a good-hearted little boy and he recognized a soul in torment. ‘D’you want to ’ave a go on m’bike?’ he offered.
‘Cor, yes please,’ said Harold.
Ben dismounted. ‘Jump on an’ ah’ll give you a push,’ he said. ‘In fac’, let’s go in t’schoolyard an’ do wheelies.’
Harold set off with Ben in hot pursuit. Thoughts of girls were forgotten. After all, what do girls know about bikes? thought Harold.
Beth had fastened John in his car seat, put two large shopping bags in the boot of her VW Beetle and we set off for Ragley to do our weekly shopping. Loyalty to the local shopkeepers prevented us going to the new supermarket on the ring road. Even so, we were beginning to feel the days of our village shops were numbered.
As we approached the school car park Harold Bustard appeared, cycling for all he was worth, with Ben Roberts running behind. They disappeared up School View, so all was quiet when we drove through the school gate. Tendrils of mist hung like ghostly cobwebs in the bare branches of the horse chestnut trees and behind them, against a wolf-grey sky, the school lay still like a house of secrets.
‘I’ll go to the General Stores if you post this parcel to Laura,’ said Beth.
It was a Christmas present for her sister in Australia. Post early for Christmas it said on the poster on the door of the Post Office. Betty Buttle and Margery Ackroyd were walking out as I went in. ‘She’s gettin’ a bit scatterbrained is that Miss Duff,’ said Betty in frustration. ‘She got m’savins book mixed up.’
‘Ah blame that postman,’ said Margery knowingly. ‘’E’s turned ’er ’ead.’
This sounded decidedly painful, but I made no comment and hurried into the Post Office to get the parcel weighed.
As it disappeared behind the wire grille I wondered what Laura might be doing for Christmas . . . Perhaps a beach barbecue with her new friends, whoever they may be.
Meanwhile, Nora had invited Tyrone to sample the delights of her Coffee Shop and he was standing at the counter sorting out some change. ‘I save fivepenny coins in my Coronation mug,’ he said proudly. ‘It used to be threepenny bits . . . I was sad to see them go,’ he added forlornly.
‘’Ere’s y’fwothy coffee, Tywone,’ said Nora.
A poster advertising the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society’s annual pantomime, Dick Whittington and His Cat, was on the wall behind the counter.
‘Ah’m playing t’lead wole,’ said Nora proudly.
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Tyrone. ‘I can’t wait to see it.’
Nora frowned. ‘Ah’m weally wowwied, Tywone, ’bout wemembewing m’lines.’
‘Nora, it takes more muscles to frown than to smile,’ said Tyrone knowingly, ‘so smile.’
Nora smiled.
‘We’re synoptic,’ said Tyrone with gravitas.
‘Weally?’ said Nora.
‘Yes, my dear,’ said Tyrone.
Tyrone raised his cup of coffee as if proposing a toast. ‘It means we see with the same eyes.’
Nora’s eyes were like saucers. ‘Oooh, Tywone,’ she said breathlessly.
Nora was not a sports fan, but she always tried to take her Saturday break when Grandstand was introduced by her heart-throb, Des Lynam, on BBC1. She loved his sexy moustache, second only to Omar Sharif’s, and when he kissed her in her dreams . . . it tickled.
However, Nora’s thoughts were elsewhere. When Tyrone had heard about the quiz night at the school his eyes had lit up. Malcolm and Dorothy had agreed to join them to make up a team of four. Life had suddenly become exciting for Nora and she switched off Des Lynam in full flow.
After all, there was a new man in her life.
Albert Jenkins was one of the wisest men I knew. He had always done his best for the school and the village community and had taken over as the bellringer at St Mary’s Church following the death of Archibald Pike. Ragley born and bred, and now in his seventies, he was well respected and the perfect quiz master. The school hall was full by the time he was testing the microphone.
He looked at the school clock. Albert liked punctuality.
‘Well . . . it’s seven o’clock, Albert,’ I said.
‘Procrastination is the thief of time, Jack,’ he said with a gentle smile.
‘Charles Dickens?’ I ventured, thinking hard and recalling my English studies at college.
‘Well done,’ he said. ‘In David Copperfield . . . but originally the eighteenth-century poet Edward Young.’
It occurred to me that I could learn a lot from this modest, well-educated man who ploughed a quiet and lonely furrow through this life.
‘Pity that’s not one of the questions,’ I said with a grin.
Sue Phillips introduced the evening and I sat down with my team. Ruby’s daughter, Natasha, was babysitting for us and Beth and I were joined by Sally Pringle and her husband Colin.
‘I hope we don’t come last, Jack,’ said Sally, looking around at all the other eager teams, pencils poised and waiting for the first question. ‘We’ll never live it down.’
‘Number one is a Science and Nature question,’ said Albert. ‘Who invented the arch?’
Sally smiled. ‘The Romans,’ she said with confidence. Around the hall discussions broke out and the first heated argument of the evening began.
‘Number two is a Sport and Leisure question,’ said Albert. ‘What board game is called “checkers” in North America?’
‘Draughts,’ whispered Colin.
‘That’s right,’ said Beth and, as I had been voted to be team scribe, I wrote ‘Draughts’ next to No. 2.
‘Geography now,’ continued Albert. ‘Where is the Marianas Trench?’
‘No idea,’ I said. There was silence. Everyone shook their heads. I looked around the room. No one was responding with the exception of Nora’s new boyfriend, Tyrone, on the next table, who had been welcomed with significant interest by the other villagers. ‘I heard him say “The Pacific Ocean”,’ I said.
‘We can’t put that down,’ said Beth. ‘It’s cheating.’
Reluctantly I left it blank.
‘Art and Literature,’ said Albert. ‘Where was King Arthur’s Court?’
‘Camelot,’ said Beth and the two women exchanged a smile.
And so it went on. Nora’s boyfriend was a little distracting as, after each question, he not only appeared to know the answer but also provided an encyclopaedic summary of additional facts.
We did reasonably well. Sally knew that the Paul McCartney album cover on which the actor James Coburn appeared was Band on the Run and I knew that ‘Agatha Christie’ was the answer to ‘What mystery writer’s disappearance in 1926 prompted a nationwide search?’
Half an hour later we reached the final two questions.
On Nora’s table Tyrone looked quietly confident and Nora was proud he knew all the answers.
‘Science and Nature,’ announced Albert. ‘What’s the best way to pick up a rabbit?’
Tyrone went grey. He knew everything about rabbit feeding habits, burrow-engineering and had seen Water-ship Down three times, but he had never handled a rabbit.
Little Malcolm smiled. ‘Y’pick ’em up by t’scruff of its neck,’ he said. ‘Not by t’ears like them magicians.’
‘Well done, Malcolm,’ said Nora.
‘Y’can rely on my Malcolm for t’difficult ones,’ said Dorothy.
Malcolm beamed. He loved it when Dorothy said my Malcolm.
Tyrone wrote down the answer, much relieved.
‘Last question,’ said Albert. ‘What did the Wicked Witch of the West write in the sky over the Emerald City?’
Tyrone was silent. He didn’t know the answer.
Dorothy suddenly became animated. ‘It were “Surrender Dorothy”,’ she said. ‘Nora was in t’Wizard of Oz in t’las’ panto an’ she shouted it out loud. Ah remember ’cause it were my name.’
Tyrone felt as if he had just won the Pools as he wrote down the answer and Malcolm looked at the woman he loved with pride.
Sue Phillips collected all the answer sheets and we enjoyed tea and cake while the marking was completed.
Finally Sue thanked everyone for their support and announced the results. My team got a cheer for coming third and won a bag of KitKat bars, provided by Ruby. Vera and Joseph had teamed up with the doctor and his wife and they were delighted to come second, but not too thrilled with their prize – a bottle of Joseph’s homemade wine. ‘And the winning team, to receive this magnificent hamper donated by Prudence Golightly,’ announced Sue, ‘is the one led by the owner of Ragley’s favourite Coffee Shop – Nora Pratt.’
There was tumultuous applause for a popular winner.
Raffle prizes were distributed and, much to everyone’s amusement, Vera won the Barbie’s Mansion that Mrs Ackroyd had cleared out of her loft that morning.
The crowd dispersed, we locked up the school and Tyrone walked Nora back to the Coffee Shop.
‘So what’s your job at Wowntwee’s Factowy?’ asked Nora.
‘I’m in charge of cardboard boxes – thousands of them.’
‘Weally?’
‘Yes, Nora, it’s an important job,’ replied Tyrone.
‘An’ you’ve got a good memowy, Tywone,’ said Nora. ‘You must do a lot o’ weading.’
Tyrone pulled himself up to his full height. ‘I’m known in the packaging department as a master of trivia,’ he said proudly.
‘Twivia?’
‘Yes, Nora,’ said Tyrone, ‘but it’s interesting.’
‘Intewestin’ twivia?’
‘Yes, Nora . . . an’ ah want you t’share my world of trivia with me.’
‘Oooh, Tywone,’ said Nora. Her cheeks flushed and she felt like a teenager once again.
Chapter Seven
Little Sparrow
All the children in Classes 3 and 4, including the school choir and recorder group, travelled by coach with Mrs Pringle and Mr Sheffield to St Michael le Belfrey Church in York for the television broadcast recording of Christmas Voices, a celebration of music and carols. Miss Flint and Mrs Forbes-Kitchener accompanied the party.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 7 December 1984
It was early morning on Friday, 7 December and, outside the bedroom window of Bilbo Cottage, the world looked different. The first snow of winter had settled on the distant land and the ploughed fields had been transformed into a washboard of smooth white folds. Nature had gripped the frozen earth in an iron fist and no life or sound penetrated its hardness. It would be a tough journey to school on this special day, but it had to be made. A television recording in York awaited the children and in Ragley village the excitement was building.
Beth and I were busy with our usual routine and John was sitting in his high chair polishing off a hearty breakfast of juice, cereal and buttered toast soldiers
. At sixteen and a half months our son was a sturdy and energetic toddler and he yelled ‘Ma-ma’ and ‘Da-da’ with insistent regularity. Beth tried to eat her bowl of porridge at the same time and I sipped a steaming mug of black tea while jotting down a few notes for the day ahead.
‘Good luck, Jack,’ said Beth with a tired smile. Her workload was beginning to tell and I thought that Christmas couldn’t come soon enough to give her a well-earned break.
I washed the breakfast dishes as Beth put on her coat and scarf in the hallway. There were curve-stitching patterns of frost on the windowpanes. ‘Drive carefully, Beth,’ I shouted from the kitchen.
‘Deke Ramsbottom will have been out with his snowplough, Jack, so don’t worry.’
After she had wrapped John up like an Eskimo and strapped him into the child seat in her car she hurried back to give me a reassuring peck on the cheek. ‘Hope it goes well, Jack.’
‘Love you,’ I said, ‘. . . and keep safe.’
I felt that familiar sadness as they drove off.
Soon it was my turn and I breathed on my key and inserted it into the frozen lock of my Morris Minor Traveller. My trusty little car, although beginning to show signs of age, never seemed to let me down and soon I was on the back road from Kirkby Steepleton. The world was silent and cold, and a patchwork of bitter snow covered the hedgerows on this bleak morning. As I entered Ragley village I peered through my misty windscreen, pulled up on to the forecourt of Pratt’s Garage and stopped by the single pump.
Victor Pratt, elder brother of Nora and Timothy, lumbered out covered in grease and oil and wearing a multicoloured balaclava, presumably knitted by a colour-blind aunty keen to use up the leftovers in her spare-wool basket.
‘Fill her up please, Victor,’ I said cheerily, hoping to lighten the aura of gloom that always seemed to surround our local garage owner and car mechanic.
‘M’chilblains are back, Mr Sheffield,’ he said wearily as he removed my petrol cap and shoved in the nozzle of the pump. Then he rested a greasy, oil-covered hand on the window and I pretended not to notice. ‘They come ev’ry winter,’ he added forlornly, ‘. . . ah blame t’government.’
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