08 Silent Night

by Jack Sheffield

I was curious to ask him why but refrained, as I knew it would provoke a lengthy diatribe regarding his recent ailments. He glanced down at his steel-capped footwear. ‘An’ bunions in y’boots is no fun either,’ he added as a parting shot.

  In Ragley High Street I pulled up outside Prudence Golightly’s General Stores & Newsagent. The frost-hardened snow crunched beneath my feet as I crossed the forecourt and my breath steamed in the freezing air. The villagers hurried by, wrapped in scarves and heavy coats. Winter had come to Ragley village and plumes of woodsmoke from a hundred log fires drifted into a steel-grey sky that promised more snow.

  The bell over the door jingled cheerily as I walked in and the diminutive Miss Golightly stepped up on to a higher wooden step behind the counter to serve me at something of a comparable height. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ she said brightly and handed me my newspaper. ‘A little chilly this morning.’

  I had grown used to the tough locals who didn’t seem to feel the cold. ‘Good morning, Miss Golightly,’ I replied with difficulty. My jaw seemed to have frozen during the short walk from the car.

  Miss Golightly was animated. ‘Everyone is talking about the choir being recorded for the television, Mr Sheffield. How exciting! You must call in tomorrow and tell me how it went.’

  ‘It will be a pleasure, Miss Golightly,’ I said.

  ‘And Jeremy will be watching, of course, when the broadcast goes out,’ she added, glancing up at her lifelong friend.

  ‘Good morning, Jeremy,’ I said. It always pleased Miss Golightly when her customers treated Ragley’s best-dressed teddy bear as something other than an inanimate object. He was sitting on his usual shelf next to a tin of loose-leaf Lyons Tea and an old advertisement for Hudson’s Soap and Carter’s Little Liver Pills. Prudence took great pride in making sure he was always well turned out. Today, appropriately, he was dressed in a purple choir robe with a frilly white collar and on his feet he wore smart black leather shoes. ‘Jeremy wanted to be part of the occasion,’ explained Prudence. ‘He was thrilled with his new outfit.’ She looked up at him with deep affection. ‘I think he’s a baritone,’ she mused.

  I smiled at this remarkable lady and wondered about her life. The slightly stooped figure was that of a tiny grey-haired lady, but the eyes were those of a young woman, bright, alive . . . and still in love. For Prudence, the memories of that magical time in 1940 were still sharp and clear: a clasping of hands, a walk in a Kentish orchard, a seat of tree roots and a final conversation. The young Spitfire pilot had never returned . . . but he lived on.

  For Prudence, years would come and go but Jeremy’s words would last for ever, undiminished, set in stone.

  Ragley’s favourite bear wasn’t the only one sporting a new outfit. When I arrived at school Anne and Vera were in the entrance hall admiring Sally’s new dress.

  ‘Terrific!’ exclaimed Anne.

  ‘I thought I’d treat myself to something special for the occasion,’ said Sally.

  ‘It’s just right, Sally,’ said Vera, ‘absolutely perfect.’

  This was the first time I could recall Vera praising Sally’s very individual dress sense. The long velvet skirt, flattering with unpressed pleats, plus a matching round-necked bolero bound with a matching satin trim, was just right for her television début. The plain blouse with baggy sleeves and neat cuffs completed the ensemble to perfection.

  ‘So elegant,’ added Anne approvingly. ‘You really look the part.’

  ‘Classical – and yet artistic, with a certain joie de vivre,’ said Vera thoughtfully.

  Sally was moved by the unexpected praise and she gave her a hug. ‘Thanks, Vera.’

  ‘It’s your day, Sally,’ said Vera, ‘so live it.’

  No one mentioned my outfit.

  I had put on my best suit for the occasion and my old St John’s College tie. However, I was relieved it wouldn’t be me in front of the camera. My grey three-piece was beginning to look a little baggy around the knees and threadbare at the cuffs. Any links with sartorial elegance were tenuous to say the least.

  During morning assembly the children were excited and those in my class and Sally’s had all dressed for the occasion. They looked smart in their school uniform of blue polo shirt, V-neck sweater, with a grey skirt for the girls and trousers for the boys. Their faces were well scrubbed, many of the girls wore pretty ribbons in their hair, shoes had been polished and, surprisingly, Damian Brown appeared at long last to have discovered the customary use of a handkerchief.

  Sally had restrung her guitar and the first carol seemed to be going well until I heard Billy Ricketts recalling his alternative version. He was singing ‘While shepherds washed their socks by night’ and I frowned in his direction. He responded with an impish grin and I had to look down at my carol sheet to avoid smiling.

  When all the children had settled and were sitting cross-legged on the floor, I outlined the arrangements for the day. ‘Classes 3 and 4 will leave by coach from outside school at 12.45 p.m., and I’m pleased to say Miss Flint and Mrs Forbes-Kitchener will be coming along to support.’

  The careful supervision of the children in York was paramount and two extra adults were required for such a large party, particularly for our walk from the coach to the church and back again.

  ‘Remember, boys and girls, you are Ragley School on display so you must be on your best behaviour.’ The children nodded as if to say we’ve heard it all before. ‘And, while I’m away, Mrs Grainger will be in charge, supported by Mr Dalton.’

  Tom suddenly smiled and whispered to Anne, ‘That makes me Acting Deputy Head for the afternoon,’ and throughout the morning he kept reminding us of the fact.

  Joseph Evans had called in to wish us luck, but also to take Class 2 for a religious education lesson. The theme was ‘Prayers’ and this promoted some interesting discussion at the end.

  The six- and seven-year-olds began to chatter.

  ‘What is it, Zoe?’ asked Joseph.

  Little Zoe Book looked puzzled. ‘Please, Mr Evans – why do we have to pray?’ she asked politely.

  ‘So we can talk to God,’ said Joseph.

  Scott Higginbottom put up his hand. ‘But, Sir . . . why can’t we use t’telephone?’ he asked.

  Joseph realized he was having another of his alternative universe experiences. For a moment he was lost for words.

  More conversations broke out. ‘You’d think that God would have telephones in heaven,’ said Jeremy Urquhart.

  ‘Stand t’reason,’ said Katie Icklethwaite, eager to support the indisputable logic.

  ‘They’d ’ave t’be one o’ them new mobile phones that they ’ave on t’telly,’ added Rufus Snodgrass, ‘’cause y’can’t ’ave telegraph poles on clouds.’

  An animated discussion continued, with the children staring out of the window and up at the sky and, once again, Joseph was grateful for the sound of the bell for morning break.

  While I was shivering on playground duty and the children were charging around as if it were a summer’s day, in the staff-room Tom was reading my Times, mainly for the rugby articles, and Anne was flicking through Tom’s Daily Mail. Sally was reading her Guardian and complaining about the typing errors, while Vera was immersed in her Daily Telegraph. The miners’ strike was still continuing and she was concerned that, in spite of her faithful support for the Prime Minister, many of the mining communities were enduring severe hardship.

  Difficult times, thought Vera, and Christmas is coming.

  At the end of break I dropped into Anne’s classroom and recalled that the beauty of being a primary-school teacher is that you get two Christmases, one with the pupils and one at home.

  Two four-year-olds, Alfie Spraggon and Karl Tomkins, were making coloured paper-chains as if it were a matter of life and death. It was a veritable factory of industry on their table. Meanwhile, in the wet area near the sink, five-year-old Julie Tricklebank was standing in front of a paint-splattered easel. She had painted a picture of a robin on a landsca
pe-format A3 sheet of white sugar paper. It had a huge, fat red body and no legs.

  ‘That’s a lovely robin,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Julie as she stood back to admire her masterpiece.

  ‘It hasn’t got any legs,’ I added helpfully.

  ‘Paper weren’t tall enough, Mr Sheffield,’ explained the logical Julie.

  As an afterthought, she added two rapid horizontal brushstrokes, one on each side of the body. ‘There y’are, Mr Sheffield – it’s a sitting-down robin.’

  I was reminded that problem-solving comes easy to five-year-olds.

  Something else obviously occurred to Julie and she put down her bristle brush, wiped her hands on her back-to-front painting shirt and looked up at me. ‘Mr Sheffield, our Sonia says she’s goin’ t’see Santa in Easington Market. Are you going?’

  Posters advertising the Easington Christmas Market, including Santa’s grotto, sponsored by the local Rotary Club, were everywhere in the village.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I said. ‘Are you?’

  Julie considered this carefully. ‘No, Mr Sheffield, ah’m goin’ t’wait and see ’im on Christmas Eve . . . when ’e comes down t’chimney.’

  It was shortly before midday and in my class you could hear a pin drop. I always loved story time and the children were completely immersed in The Box of Delights, the classic novel by John Masefield. They had been watching the series each week on BBC television and the discussion was fascinating. Their view of this fantasy drama reminded me that childhood is often a magical world of make-believe that sadly seems to disappear with the onset of adolescence.

  Lunchbreak was a hurried affair. I attached a checklist of the children on a wooden clipboard and the experienced Sally put a couple of sick bags in her music case with that be prepared look.

  After a warming school dinner of fish pie, mashed potatoes and carrots, followed by jam roly-poly and lurid pink custard, the children pulled on their coats and we trudged through the snow down the school drive. William Featherstone had parked his cream-and-green Reliance bus next to the village green and the children clambered aboard, clutching their recorders, bags of throat lozenges and clean handkerchiefs. Our driver was his usual polite and smart self in his collar and tie and navy blue jacket. ‘Grand day for a bit o’ singin’, Mrs Pringle, Mr Sheffield,’ he said, touching the neb of his cap.

  We left on time, with a few excited mothers waving us off as William double de-clutched into first gear and we set off down the High Street and then along the B-road towards York. It was a steady journey as we travelled south over the railway line and towards the huge redbrick Rowntree’s factory with its familiar smell of cocoa. I sat at the front next to Vera, while Sally was at the back with Miss Flint, who sought out any signs of inappropriate behaviour with a gimlet eye.

  Vera, as always, filled me in on the local knowledge regarding our destination, the church of St Michael le Belfrey. Apparently, in recent years it had grown in prominence thanks in the main to David Watson, who, according to Vera, had led a remarkable life. ‘He was one of the great Christian leaders of our time,’ she said. ‘He became curate-in-charge of the nearby St Cuthbert’s Church in 1965 and at that time there were only a dozen people attending services. However, David attracted so many new followers that they moved to the larger St Michael le Belfrey, where the congregation grew to many hundreds.’

  It was then that Vera gave a deep sigh and stared out of the coach window. ‘Sadly, David died of cancer earlier this year,’ she said quietly. ‘He wrote a wonderful book entitled Fear No Evil concerning his fight against the disease. I’ll loan it to you if you wish.’

  ‘Thank you, Vera,’ I said, ‘I should like that.’

  We parked on Lord Mayor’s Walk and then escorted the crocodile of children up Gillygate with its eclectic collection of shops, including a tattoo parlour with the incongruous sign in the window: ‘Tattoos while-u-wait’.

  As we turned left into Duncombe Place the carved stone West Towers of York Minster, the largest medieval cathedral in Britain, reared into view, etched against a winter sky. The Anglican church of St Michael le Belfrey occupied a broad plot of land on the southern side of Minster Yard, immediately alongside the Minster itself. It was a spectacular building, built between 1525 and 1536 during the period of the English Reformation, and was the largest parish church in the city. Guy Fawkes was baptized there in 1570 and I wondered what he would have made of the scene today.

  Large vans were parked outside and long electrical cables stretched everywhere, while bearded technicians in jeans, woolly jumpers and lumberjack boots hurried around. A large sign, ‘Christmas Voices – Recording Today’, had been pinned to an easel next to the doorway.

  It was with a feeling of awe and wonder that I stepped into this special place. However, inside it didn’t feel like a church – more a film set with lighting engineers hurrying here and there and cameras being wheeled into position.

  ‘Jack, Sally – you made it on time, well done.’ It was Sarah Mancini, looking flushed with excitement. She gestured towards a handsome, denim-clad man who was issuing orders. He looked like a swarthy Bob Dylan with a Doctor Who scarf draped round his neck. ‘And that’s my brother Phil,’ she added.

  ‘We appreciate you coming,’ said Phil, ‘and we’re all ready for you.’

  ‘Well, thanks to Sally, the children are well rehearsed,’ I said.

  Phil turned to Sally. ‘I’ve heard great things from my sister. You’ve obviously worked hard with your choir.’

  ‘I’m new to all this,’ said Sally, somewhat overawed as she looked around at the production crew.

  ‘Just do what you normally do, Sally,’ said Phil gently, ‘and ignore us. We’ll start with “Ding Dong”, which is bright and lively, and then do some shots of the church interior. We’ve got tiered stage blocks for the children and you’re centre stage, so to speak. They need to look at you, not the cameras.’ He stood back and studied Sally for a moment. ‘And by the way . . . your outfit is terrific.’

  Sally blushed visibly and Vera, sitting on the front pew, nodded in approval.

  ‘All set?’ I said to Sally.

  She smiled. ‘I must say, Jack, I’m really looking forward to this . . . a new experience.’

  ‘Good luck,’ I whispered and took a seat in the darkness, away from the bright lights.

  The children lined up in position, the recorders tried out a few notes, Sally took her guitar out of its case and Phil Mancini told the cameras to roll.

  Sarah Mancini, in a stunning black dress, looked confidently into the camera lens. ‘Here we are in the city of York in the beautiful church of St Michael le Belfrey. Our final school choir of the week is from Ragley Church of England Primary School and is led by their teacher, Sally Pringle. The children are all between eight and eleven years old and their first carol is “Ding Dong Merrily On High”.’

  Sally strummed the first line, nodding in time, and the children came in at precisely the right moment. Practice makes perfect, thought Sally as the children sang their hearts out. Phil Mancini asked for the final verse to be repeated as one of the cameras focused on the stained glass, and the children performed like professionals. I had rarely felt so proud.

  ‘Now for “Silent Night”,’ said Phil and there was a discussion involving Phil, Sarah and Sally. The children were rearranged so that Rosie Sparrow was now centre stage. She would sing the first verse and then everyone would join in. Sally moved to a raised stool at the side, next to the recorder group. She placed her Carol, Gaily Carol Christmas songbook on a music stand and opened it to ‘Silent Night’.

  Sarah Mancini introduced our second carol and then came the moment I shall never forget. The cameras rolled again, Sally strummed a chord and Rosie Sparrow, bathed in bright light and with a red ribbon in her hair, began to sing.

  Silent night, holy night,

  All is calm, all is bright . . .

  Sarah Mancini looked at her brother curiously – she had
never seen him react like this before. He was standing in the semi-darkness next to a camera as if hit by a thunderbolt. When it was over there was a stunned silence among the crew and then someone began to clap, then another and another. Phil Mancini gave his sister a hug and I heard him say, ‘You were right, little sister . . . the voice of an angel.’

  Sarah Mancini told the children how proud she was of all of them, then she crouched down next to Rosie. ‘Well done, Rosie,’ she said. ‘That was simply wonderful,’ and the little girl smiled.

  When the children had donned their coats and Phil Mancini had given a vote of thanks, Sally lined everyone up to leave the church, with Vera and Miss Flint bringing up the rear.

  I was standing in the darkness of the church entrance when, to my surprise, I saw Maggie Sparrow standing there.

  ‘Mr Sheffield, hope you don’t mind.’ She sounded out of breath. ‘I know there was no room for parents, but I thought I would come into York and collect Rosie . . . so long as it’s all right with you. I wanted to give her a treat and take her round the shops.’

  ‘Of course, Ms Sparrow,’ I said. ‘And she sang beautifully. You’ll be so proud when you see her on television.’

  I thought she was going to burst into tears. ‘Thank you for saying so, Mr Sheffield.’ She stared into the darkness at the crowds of shoppers and the Christmas lights beyond. I collected Rosie from the line of children and took her to her mother. ‘Well done, my poppet,’ said Maggie.

  ‘The nice man said I was good, Mummy,’ said Rosie and, hand in hand, they walked into the gathering dusk as snow fell on their shoulders.

  Late that evening Beth and I were sitting by a log fire in Bilbo Cottage. Beth had put aside her dissertation and we were sharing a bottle of Merlot.

  ‘Vera rang just after I got home, Jack, and said all went well.’

  ‘And you’ll love Sally’s new outfit when you see the programme,’ I told her with a grin.

  ‘Yes,’ said Beth with a smile, ‘Vera filled me in with the details.’

  We sipped our wine and stared at the dying embers in the fire grate.