08 Silent Night

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘Ah see what y’mean, Dave . . . so ’e’s fast then?’

  ‘Fast . . . fast!’ exclaimed Big Dave. ‘’E’s like shit off a shovel.’

  Little Malcolm nodded in appreciation. ‘Well, y’can’t get faster than that.’

  Meanwhile, Fast Eddie was getting into full swing. ‘C’mon, ladies,’ he yelled. ‘’Ere’s y’chance t’spice up y’sex life.’

  There was a stunned silence. Fast Eddie held up a video and on the cardboard sleeve was a photograph of a nubile woman under the title Lyn Marshall’s Everyday Yoga. ‘It works on VHS, it works on Betamax an’, ladies,’ Fast Eddie lowered his voice to a stage whisper, ‘it works in t’bedroom.’

  Before he could say how much he wanted, Betty Buttle shouted, ‘Ah’ll ’ave one,’ and everyone laughed.

  I decided to give Fast Eddie a miss. More often than not, I had picked up a bargain at the slightly more reputable Shady Stevo’s stall so I wandered over and stood next to Mrs Earnshaw, who smiled in acknowledgement. She was holding on to Dallas Sue-Ellen while Heathcliffe and his brother Terry were in earnest conversation.

  ‘Ah’ve asked for an Eric Bristow Darts Game,’ said Heathcliffe. He’d seen them in Woolworths for £7.99. Stevo was selling them for a fiver.

  ‘But we ’aven’t gorra dartboard,’ said Terry.

  ‘No, ah know we ’aven’t. So that’s why you’ve got t’ask our mam f’one.’

  ‘OK, ’Eath,’ agreed Terry.

  ‘An’ another thing,’ said Heathcliffe sternly. ‘Don’t tell Mam ’er diet isn’t working . . . else y’ll get nowt.’

  After some deliberation, I bought a box of four Memorex C90 videotapes to record some of the Christmas Day and Boxing Day programmes, including The Man with the Golden Gun with Roger Moore as James Bond; the ballet Giselle – a special request from Beth; Elton John in Central Park and A Tribute to Eric Morecambe.

  There were many contented shoppers. Nora Pratt was showing Tyrone Crabtree a gift she had bought for Dorothy. She held up the box on which was printed the words ‘Elizabeth Arden – Eye Fix Primer’, read the small print and smiled. ‘An’ it’s fwagwence fwee, Tywone . . . Dowothy will love it.’

  Mrs Coggins gave me a wave. She had been into York and had bought a Batman playsuit from British Home Stores and was wishing she had come to the market first. She bought a Remington Popcorn Maker for £15, an MB Pac-Man game for a fiver and an Etch-a-Sketch for £3.50.

  That evening Little Malcolm was wrapping his Christmas gift for Dorothy. As far as he was concerned, it was the perfect gift for the love of his life and, at half price from Fast Eddie, definitely a bargain.

  He picked up the box and studied it carefully. It was a Clinique with Love set. He removed the lid, stroked his stubbly chin and nodded in appreciation at the extravaganza of beauty products. They included protective shampoo, nail-treatment cream, a wide-tooth comb, soft-beige extra-help make-up, pink berry-stain semi-lipstick, and moisturizing lotion. He finished the wrapping with copious strands of Sellotape and wrote in neat printing on a piece of card ‘to my wunderfull wife from yor Malcolm x’ and stood back in satisfaction. He was proud of his neat printing.

  Sunday morning dawned clear and cold, and a crowd of parents and grandparents trudged through the snow towards St Mary’s Church for the annual Crib Service. It was one of the highlights of the festive calendar, and Beth and I bumped John’s pushchair over the crushed ribbon of frozen footprints through the church gates to the haven of the entrance porch.

  The Crib Service was different this year, with a request from the Ragley Playgroup to perform their Nativity play. It made a change from Anne’s class and we were all looking forward to the spectacle of seeing much younger children performing.

  Fiona Shaw was the playgroup leader and prided herself on being an innovative free-thinker. In consequence, the children had chosen their own parts, so we were treated to five Marys, three Josephs, six kings, one Snow White pulling a toy lamb on wheels and an ominous and strangely incongruous Darth Vader. The explanation for the latter was that it was his birthday and he was keen to wear his present.

  Mrs Spraggon was sitting in front of me with her three-year-old daughter, Kirsty. The little girl was wearing cardboard donkey ears and grey furry pyjamas. ‘You’ll be on soon,’ said Mrs Spraggon.

  Kirsty looked up at the wooden cross mounted on the wall. ‘What’s that, Mummy?’

  ‘Jesus’s cross, darling,’ she said softly.

  Kirsty looked concerned. ‘Why is he cross, Mummy?’

  Suddenly, Fiona Shaw gave the signal. ‘Donkey and Mary please.’

  The first bars of ‘Little Donkey’ were played by Elsie Crapper on the organ and the children began to sing.

  Unfortunately, Kirsty chose that moment to hop from one leg to the other. ‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Spraggon. ‘Sorry everyone – the donkey needs the loo,’ and she hurried out to the church hall.

  ‘I wonder if they understand what’s going on?’ whispered Beth as an eclectic group of children wandered aimlessly towards the bale of straw and cardboard manger placed in front of the altar.

  ‘It’ll be John’s turn next year,’ I said.

  Beth looked down in horror. ‘Lord help them,’ she said. John was ripping up a carol sheet with his strong little fingers and chewing the pieces.

  At the end there was an unexpected treat. Fiona Shaw had asked Sally if she would accompany Rosie Sparrow on her guitar at the end of the Nativity scene. So it was that, after Fiona had arranged the children in preparation for parents to take photographs, Sally strummed the first few chords and Rosie sang ‘Silent Night’. It was a perfect conclusion and applause rang out as cameras flashed.

  When Rosie went back to her pew she sat down next to her mother and a man I hadn’t seen before. As we left the church, I asked Vera who it might be.

  ‘It’s Rosie’s father, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera quietly. ‘He’s come home.’

  We stood for a moment and watched the three of them walk down the path towards a small van with a gas logo on the side. Rosie was being held aloft by her father and she was smiling.

  Vera tugged my sleeve and whispered, ‘Jack . . .’ It was rare for her to call me by my first name. ‘Winter is the darkest season,’ she said, ‘but there is light in the world.’ It was at times like this that I realized that Vera was not just the voice of Ragley School but also the soul.

  I looked back at Rosie Sparrow and her parents.

  It was a lasting image of a family who would share Christmas together.

  Chapter Nine

  Dick Whittington and His Pratt

  Mrs Grainger and Mrs Pringle, with children from the reception class and the school choir and orchestra, will be supporting the Ragley annual village pantomime, Dick Whittington and His Cat, in the village hall on 31 December.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Monday, 31 December 1984

  ‘He can’t crouch down all the time,’ said Felicity Miles-Humphreys. She was desperate. As artistic director and production manager of the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society, life was always tense during the dress rehearsal for the annual village pantomime.

  It was Monday morning, 31 December, and the production of Dick Whittington and His Cat was experiencing problems. Felicity ran her fingers through her long, frizzy, suspiciously jet-black hair, adjusted her scarlet headband and hurried towards the stage with her flowing white kaftan billowing like a spinnaker. ‘After all, darling, he is showing wonderful feline grace.’

  Felicity’s son, Rupert, a shelf-stacker in the local supermarket with delusions of theatrical stardom, was playing the part of Tommy, Dick Whittington’s cat. At six feet four inches tall he towered over the diminutive Nora and their partnership appeared incongruous to say the least.

  ‘But ah can’t weach ’is ’ead,’ pleaded Nora Pratt, ‘an’ ah ’ave t’pat it when ah sing “Anothe’ Wock and Woll Chwistmas”.’

  ‘Let’s take five,’ announced Felicity and she hurried to t
he kitchen to check her handbag and the diminishing supply of Valium.

  Three miles away in Kirkby Steepleton, life was more peaceful. I stared out of the kitchen window of Bilbo Cottage at a desolate monochrome snowscape. A blanket of snow covered the bone-hard land and all sound appeared to be absorbed in this frigid world. There was no wind, just lazy swirling flakes of snow drifting down from a grey sky. On the radio Paul Young was singing ‘Everything Must Change’ and I wondered what the New Year might bring.

  Beth’s parents, John and Diane Henderson, had driven up from Hampshire to spend a week with us. They had arrived the day after Boxing Day and moved into our second bedroom. John’s cot was now at the foot of our bed, so everything felt a little cramped.

  While I was enjoying a cup of tea and a slice of toast in the kitchen, Diane, a slim, attractive blonde, was kneeling on the carpet in the lounge, spending precious time with her grandson. She had bought a jar of Matthews’ Fullers Earth Cream to help reduce John’s nappy rash and our son was rolling about on his changing mat, enjoying the extra attention. ‘He’ll be fine now, Beth,’ said Diane. She picked him up, sat down in an armchair and rocked him gently.

  ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ said Beth. ‘He never plays up with you.’

  Diane gave an understanding smile. ‘I had plenty of practice with you and your sister.’

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’ asked Beth, wanting to feel useful.

  ‘Yes please,’ said Diane, kissing John gently on his forehead. ‘I just wish you lived a little closer, then I could do this more often.’

  Beth walked into the kitchen and stepped over my outstretched legs. As she filled the kettle she stared at the cluttered worktops and sighed. ‘We need a new kitchen, Jack,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You can’t swing a cat in here.’

  ‘Yes, it is compact, I suppose,’ I said, looking around unconcerned.

  The first hint of annoyance flickered across Beth’s face. She shut the kitchen door and spoke quietly. ‘Eventually we have to either build an extension or move house. We can’t go on like this. It’s impossible when we have visitors.’

  ‘It’s a lovely cottage, Beth. We’ve had some good times here.’

  Beth sighed as she added milk to Diane’s coffee. ‘I know . . . but we need to move on – and maybe talk about a bigger headship in the New Year.’

  It seemed we had gone from new kitchens to new jobs in a trice. The forces that shaped our world no longer appeared to be in my control. I put my hands on her shoulders and kissed her. ‘Beth . . . a village-school headteacher can be a difficult job, but it’s the life I love. A headteacher of a large school becomes a manager. First and foremost, I’m a teacher. Ragley School is perfect for me. So maybe the headship of a large school has to be your goal, not mine, and if it is I’ll support you.’

  Beth picked up the mug of steaming coffee and paused by the door. ‘Thanks . . . but do you really want to be a village headteacher for the rest of your career?’

  The simple answer was yes, but I decided on another tack. ‘I did think that one day I might train teachers – perhaps at the college in York – so that I could pass on the knowledge I’ve gained.’

  Beth looked at me quizzically. ‘Well, both suggestions may well be for the best, I suppose.’ It seemed faint praise, but a possible altercation had been avoided. I could see her slip into a quiet reverie of private thoughts and I wondered where her ambition might take us. Beth was clearly a very determined lady. She opened the door as John Henderson appeared in the hallway.

  ‘The Land Rover’s warming up, Jack, so we can go when you’re ready,’ he said, blowing into his hands for warmth. ‘It’s right what they say,’ he added with a grin. ‘It’s cold up north.’

  John Henderson was tall and lean with steel-grey hair and a relaxed, laid-back manner. I liked my father-in-law, who always seemed at peace in his world. He was dressed in a country-checked shirt, warm Aran sweater and thick cord trousers, tough brogue shoes and a heavy woollen overcoat. He looked much younger than his sixty-one years.

  ‘Thanks, John,’ I said. ‘Maybe you can give me a hand with King Neptune’s Kingdom.’

  ‘I’d rather have a bacon sandwich in that nice little coffee shop,’ he whispered in my ear.

  I had volunteered to help out with the scenery for the Ragley pantomime and John appeared keen to get out of the house for a while. His Land Rover was an ideal vehicle for the journey into Ragley on this bitter morning and I enjoyed the drive and his companionship. It was a grey world and the skeletal branches of the high elms were coated in frost.

  ‘Lovely part of the country, Jack,’ said John, staring out at the dramatic North Yorkshire landscape. The back road out of Kirkby Steepleton was a snowy ribbon of light as, gradually, a pale winter sun emerged from the high cirrus clouds.

  ‘Yes, John,’ I said reflectively.

  It’s my home, I thought.

  A few miles away, Sally Pringle wasn’t admiring the spectacular scenery. As she pulled on her coat and picked up her guitar case prior to helping out with the dress rehearsal, she stared at the biscuit barrel on the kitchen worktop.

  Sally had begun her post-Christmas ‘Thinking Woman’s Diet’. She had started the day with a Kellogg’s Special K breakfast at 250 calories per serving, having been swayed by the strapline ‘You’ll end up sliding into your jeans and pinching nothing but compliments’.

  However, there was a problem: it wasn’t working.

  Sally grabbed her car keys and, as an afterthought, selected a couple of custard creams and put them in her pocket. She set off for the Crescent to pick up Anne en route to the village hall.

  Up the Morton Road, Petula Dudley-Palmer was eating her breakfast alone. Like Sally, she had selected Kellogg’s Special K and she stared at the text on the box of cereal. It was described as the ‘Thinking Woman’s Diet’ and it occurred to Petula that she did a lot of thinking these days, mainly about her life with Geoffrey and why he spent so many evenings away from home . . . on business.

  ‘It goes with the territory,’ he often said. Then she looked around at her beautifully furnished conservatory and the carefully manicured lawns beyond the double glazing and thought, This is my territory . . . and it’s lonely. Although, of course, she had her girls; they were the light of her life.

  She glanced through her latest catalogue and noted the Dreamland Electric Underblanket. Perhaps that would encourage Geoffrey to share their double bed on these bitterly cold nights.

  ‘Come on, girls, time to go to the village hall,’ she shouted, ‘and bring your turbans for the Sultan’s Palace scene.’

  Meanwhile, Anne Grainger was keeping her figure-conscious thoughts to herself.

  Before Christmas she had posted a cheque to a company with an impressive-sounding name: Needletrade International in Surrey. She had purchased a B-Slim Pantie Corselet that included double extra-front supports. It claimed to flatten the tummy by up to four inches, smooth bulges and give the wearer a trim bottom. Sadly, Anne realized it came at a cost. When she had crouched down to admire the cover of her David Soul LP something had definitely twanged and the substantial cheeks of her shapely bottom had taken on a life of their own in an attempt to escape their corselet prison. So Anne had bowed to the inevitable that morning and put on the baggy tracksuit she wore for her housework.

  After all, she thought, I’m only fixing safety pins on a dozen rats’ tails and making the tea.

  John parked outside Prudence Golightly’s General Stores. Diane had given us a shopping list and we bought a few groceries for the New Year’s Day holiday. As we left I held the door open for Mrs Tricklebank and her two daughters, Sonia and little Julie.

  ‘We’re looking for a present for my great-grandma,’ announced Sonia.

  ‘That’s a kind thought, Sonia,’ said Prudence. ‘And how old is she?’

  Sonia thought about this for a moment. ‘Well, really old,’ she said.

  Julie peered up into the kind face of the
Ragley shopkeeper. ‘But not as old as you,’ she added as a helpful afterthought.

  Mrs Tricklebank blushed profusely as she bought a box of lace handkerchiefs and a card that read ‘70 years young’.

  Prudence, with true Christian spirit, gave each of the girls a gift of a tiny stick of barley sugar and a kind smile. However, after mother and daughters had hurried out and the jangling bell became silent, she looked in the mirror hanging on the back of the stockroom door and remembered the younger woman that used to stare back at her.

  Outside, peering in the window at the jars of liquorice torpedoes, sherbet lemons and coconut whirls, were the two Earnshaw brothers.

  ‘’Eath, ah’m not gettin’ married,’ said Terry thoughtfully. ‘Ah’m gonna stay single.’

  ‘Well, ah’m not,’ replied Heathcliffe decisively.

  ‘Why’s that then?’ asked Terry.

  ‘Ah want someone t’tidy up after me.’

  Terry nodded. He knew if you listened to your big brother you could learn a lot. They walked in to buy two ounces of aniseed balls and Terry hoped there would be an even number in the bag.

  Two hours later, after bacon sandwiches in Nora’s Coffee Shop and the hectic construction of a slightly shaky Sultan’s Palace, John and I drove back to Kirkby Steepleton. He seemed strangely quiet as the wipers of his Land Rover cleared the berms of snow in slow, lazy sweeps.

  Suddenly he broke the silence. ‘I still worry about Laura,’ he said and his brow furrowed. ‘She writes from Australia but I can’t imagine her settling there.’

  ‘How is she, John?’ I asked.

  ‘Fine, according to her letters . . . but who knows with Laura? She never seems to settle and the fling she had with that young teacher on your staff was the final straw.’ He took a deep breath. ‘She had words with her mother – strong words.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Within a week she had packed her bags and gone.’

  As we drove back to Bilbo Cottage, the vast stillness of winter descended like a silent shroud.