08 Silent Night

by Jack Sheffield

  At six o’clock Beth and I were ready to leave. As a treat we had decided to have a drink and a bite to eat in The Royal Oak before the pantomime.

  ‘Don’t hurry back,’ said Diane. She was about to give our son his bath.

  ‘Have a good time,’ said John.

  ‘Dad, it’s the Ragley pantomime – not exactly the West End,’ said Beth.

  ‘Well, good luck, Jack. Let’s hope your Sultan’s Palace survives the stampede of rats,’ said John with a smile.

  The bright orange lights of The Royal Oak were a welcome sight as we parked in the High Street. The bar was filling up with villagers seeking a pre-pantomime drink and some hot food and when we walked in the evening’s entertainment was warming up in the corner. The sign above the dartboard read: ‘The Troy Phoenix Trio’ but, sadly, it had been severely depleted. Troy, also known as Norman Barraclough, the local entertainer who sold fish from a white van, wasn’t happy. His lead guitarist had to work late cleaning toilets in York and his drummer could only use one stick after trapping his fingers in the door of his girlfriend’s Reliant Robin.

  Beth sat down at a bay-window table while I went to the bar. ‘A glass of white wine and a half of Chestnut, please, Sheila.’ I glanced up at the menu chalked on the blackboard. ‘And two giant Yorkshire puddings with beef and onions, please.’

  ‘An’ plenty o’ my special gravy, Mr Sheffield, jus’ ’ow y’like it,’ added Sheila with a flutter of her false eyelashes.

  Old Tommy Piercy was sitting on his favourite stool by the bar next to the autographed photograph of Geoffrey Boycott. He was wearing his faded baggy suit and was proudly displaying his war medals on his chest. Old Tommy always made an effort for the New Year’s Eve pantomime. ‘And a pint of Tetley’s for Mr Piercy as well, please, Sheila,’ I added.

  Old Tommy was incorrigibly content with his life. After all, his sausages were now famous across North Yorkshire and his lifetime of endeavour seemed complete. ‘Good evenin’, Mr Sheffield, and, if ah may say, Mrs Sheffield is lookin’ reight bonnie t’night,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Piercy, and good evening to you,’ I replied.

  ‘It’s a fine night for t’village panto,’ he said.

  ‘Y’love this village, don’t you, Tommy?’ said Sheila as she pulled his pint.

  ‘Ragley village,’ he murmured wistfully, tamping the bowl of his briar pipe with a gnarled thumb. ‘Ah were born ’ere an’ ah’ll die ’ere. Best place on God’s earth. In t’scheme o’life ah were blessed, Mr Sheffield.’ He stood up and patted me on the shoulder. ‘Enjoy it while it lasts, ’cause there’s folk out there who thrive on change . . . change for change’s sake.’

  I kept my thoughts to myself.

  Half an hour later Beth and I walked down the High Street to the village hall. Our local bobby, the recently qualified PC Pike, was standing at the door smiling at everyone as they walked in. It was his intention to get to know the locals. ‘Hello, Mr Sheffield, Mrs Sheffield,’ he greeted us as we walked in and gave Elsie Crapper our fifty pences.

  As we took our seats it occurred to me that, as each year went by, policemen were beginning to look younger.

  The pantomime was up to its usual standard, which wasn’t saying much. Nora was playing the part of Alice. According to the programme she was the beautiful, young, lissom daughter of Alderman Fitzwarren, played by Peter Miles-Humphreys, the stuttering bank clerk. The fact that her Alpine corset was straining at the seams was overlooked by the partisan audience. Likewise, when Nora sang ‘You Can’t Huwwy Love’ it was almost unrecognizable as the Supremes’ classic, but she received generous applause.

  Ruby, as always, was in the front row with her daughters. However, this year she occasionally dabbed her eyes as she recalled the dreadful conclusion to last year’s pantomime when Ronnie died.

  During the interval Scott Higginbottom was sitting next to Ted Coggins and complaining bitterly while indulging in one of his favourite occupations, picking his nose with a grubby forefinger.

  ‘What’s matter, Scott?’ asked Ted.

  ‘Ah’m fed up wi’ m’grandad,’ said Scott.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Well, ’e makes me wear ’is old gas mask from t’Second World War when ah pick m’nose.’

  ‘Does it work?’ asked Ted.

  Scott considered this for a moment and shook his head. ‘No, ah can get m’little finger up t’side.’

  The second half was marginally better than the first half, even when Nora sang ‘I Have A Dweam’. Dick Whittington, played by a thigh-slapping Claire Bradshaw, the daughter of Don and Sheila in The Royal Oak, was by some distance the star of the show. Claire had her mother’s confidence and was cheered to the rafters in the underwater scene in King Neptune’s Kingdom. Her battle in almost total darkness with Kenny Kershaw’s octopus was dramatic to say the least. The fact that one of his mother’s tissue-filled tights had torn off in the dress rehearsal did not diminish the enjoyment.

  ‘S’only got seven legs,’ observed Big Dave in the back row.

  ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ agreed Little Malcolm.

  ‘Nice tights though,’ said Dorothy.

  Alderman Fitzwarren tended to delay the proceedings owing to his unfortunate stutter. However, the audience showed considerable support.

  ‘Yes, D-Dick, you c-can marry my d-d-d—’

  ‘Daughter!’ shouted the football team in the back row. After all, good drinking time was being wasted.

  The comic figure Idle Jack, played by Young Tommy Piercy, Old Tommy’s grandson, was cheered throughout, while Stan Coe, appropriately cast as the villainous King Rat, was booed so loudly no one could hear a word he said. His sister, Deirdre, was equally booed in spite of her playing the part of the Dame – according to the script ‘the endearing and friendly Sarah the Cook’.

  At the end a relieved audience clapped Nora, who received the traditional three curtain-calls and a huge bouquet of flowers, while Tommy the Cat went home in a huff after the audience had cheered the rats instead of him throughout Act Two.

  Before we left, Ruby gave Beth a short lecture on ‘gripe water’ and how to prevent thumb-sucking in young infants. She was clearly returning to normal. However, one regular aspect of her character had sadly departed: namely, her wonderful singing. I had not heard any of her favourite songs from The Sound of Music for a long time now . . . in fact, since Ronnie’s funeral.

  I took one last look at my Sultan’s Palace and was pleased it had survived intact, but not as pleased as Fairy Bowbells, played by Amelia Duff, who received a large bunch of flowers from Ted Postlethwaite, followed later by a night of unrestrained passion.

  As the crowds disappeared into the night and parents collected their children, Beth and I stayed to help clear up with Joseph and Vera, plus various members of the cast. Finally, Vera ushered Felicity out of the door with instructions to have ‘a good lie-down’ and we turned out the lights.

  There was a new notice on the inside of the door, but in the darkness it was impossible to read.

  ‘Could be important,’ I said anxiously.

  ‘Bother,’ said Vera. ‘We shall have to go back to put the lights on.’

  I felt my way back, found the light switch and, once again, the entrance was bathed in light.

  The notice read:

  PLEASE TURN OUT THE LIGHTS BEFORE YOU LEAVE.

  ‘Which nincompoop put that there?’ asked Vera.

  There was a nervous cough behind us. ‘Actually, it was me,’ confessed Joseph.

  We said goodnight and I walked hand in hand with Beth up the High Street and across the village green to my car. Under a frozen sky we walked together, the brittle grass cracking beneath our feet.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ I said.

  ‘Just thinking, Jack,’ replied Beth softly.

  ‘I wonder what the New Year will bring,’ I said.

  I looked at her classic English beauty and held her in my arms as we reached the car. We kissed and he
r hair was soft against my face. Ours was a love forged in fire, set in stone. Her journey was also mine, and I knew I was destined to follow in her footsteps.

  When we arrived home I stared up at the cold night sky. A pallid moon shone down on Bilbo Cottage and the north wind created a sibilant whispering in the eaves of the pantiled roof. It seemed to be saying ‘Change is coming’.

  We walked into our home and I closed the floral curtains and shut out the night . . . but not my thoughts.

  Chapter Ten

  Viva Las Ragley

  The school sound system was loaned to the village hall committee for their Elvis competition on Saturday, 5 January.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 4 January 1985

  It was Friday, 4 January, our second day of the spring term, and on the morning news the Education Secretary, Sir Keith Joseph, announced that another six thousand teaching jobs would go this year. Life at the chalkface at the outset of 1985 was getting tougher.

  However, that wasn’t uppermost on Deke Ramsbottom’s mind.

  Ragley’s singing cowboy had parked his snowplough by the village green and was waiting for me in the school entrance hall. He removed his cowboy hat as I walked in.

  ‘Mornin’, Mr Sheffield. Sorry t’trouble you, but ah was wond’rin’ if y’could see y’way to ’elpin’ us out.’

  ‘Of course, Deke.’

  ‘It’s for t’Elvis night,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, all the staff will be there to support,’ I assured him, ‘and it’s for a good cause.’ I nodded towards the poster on the General Notices board:

  Viva Las Ragley

  Elvis Presley – the King of Rock ’n’ Roll

  Talent Competition

  Ragley Village Hall

  Saturday 5th January 1985

  Entry 50p

  Proceeds towards the Ethiopian Famine Relief Fund

  It was the weekend before the fiftieth anniversary of Elvis’s birth and the village hall committee had decided to celebrate it in style. Deke was the chairman and he was determined it would be a successful evening. It was also one of many village events planned to support the starving people of Ethiopia.

  ‘We’re struggling f’speakers,’ explained Deke. ‘We’ve got our Clint’s microphone but we need plenty o’ volume, if y’get m’meanin’.’

  I took Deke into the school hall. ‘You’re welcome to use these, Deke.’ I pointed to the two large speakers underneath the record deck on our Contiboard music trolley.

  ‘Champion,’ said Deke. ‘Ah’ll send our Shane an’ Clint t’collect ’em after school if that’s all right.’

  ‘That’s fine, Deke, and I’ll let Ruby know.’

  He shook my hand, absent-mindedly polished his sheriff’s badge, replaced his stetson and walked out. At the door he paused and grinned. ‘Word ’as it Malcolm’s ’aving a go – ’e’s been practisin’.’

  An hour later Little Malcolm Robinson was in Eugene Scrimshaw’s village pharmacy.

  ‘What’s wrong, Malcolm?’ asked Eugene. ‘Y’lookin’ a bit peaky.’

  ‘It’s Dorothy,’ said Little Malcolm, rubbing his stubbly chin thoughtfully and sinking deeper into his donkey jacket. ‘She wants me t’sing tonight.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ said Eugene by way of encouragement.

  Little Malcolm shook his head sadly. ‘Thing is, Eugene, ah’m ’usky.’

  ‘’Usky?’

  ‘Yes – an’ coughin’ an’ suchlike.’

  ‘This is best f’coughs,’ said Eugene. ‘It’ll clear y’tubes an’ it won’t mek y’drowsy.’ He handed over a bottle of Covonia Original Bronchial Balsam with menthol.

  ‘Thanks, Eugene, yer a pal,’ said Little Malcolm.

  ‘What y’singing?’

  Little Malcolm looked sheepish. ‘It’s Dorothy’s fav’rite – “Burning Love”. She said it were ’is biggest hit of t’seventies.’

  ‘Could be a winner,’ said Eugene.

  ‘No, likely as not that’ll be Lionel ’Igginbottom,’ said Little Malcolm.

  ‘T’Prudential Insurance man?’

  ‘Yes, an’ ’e’s a proper Elvis lookalike – a dead ringer.’

  ‘Well, do y’best, Malcolm,’ said Eugene. ‘Ah’ll b’rootin’ for yer.’

  ‘Thanks, Eugene,’ said Little Malcolm, and he picked up his medicine and went out to join Big Dave in their refuse wagon.

  It was morning break and Sally picked up her January issue of Cosmopolitan magazine and smiled. ‘So, everyone, would you like to hear what’s predicted to be in and out in 1985?’

  Everyone looked up in expectation.

  ‘Well, this is what’s in . . . styling mousse, Jackie Collins, condoms, Escort XR3, expense accounts and older men.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Vera. ‘What’s the world coming to?’

  ‘It’s very direct,’ added Anne cautiously.

  ‘Not sure about older men,’ said Tom with a smile in my direction.

  ‘So what’s out?’ I asked.

  Sally read on. ‘The pill, Joan Collins, Roland Rat, water biscuits, chocolate mousse and leg warmers.’

  There was silence as we weighed the perceived enormity of these changes in our lives, then with a sigh we returned to the Yorkshire Purchasing Organization catalogue and the price of HB pencils.

  Just before lunchtime I called in to Class 1. Anne had clearly had a mammoth art session and all the children had completed a painting of their family, each on a sheet of thick cream A3 paper.

  The result was that the wet paintings were now hanging, like a Monday wash day, on a length of baling twine. It stretched from the door frame that led to the toilets, diagonally across the classroom to the Home Corner. In this carpeted area Madonna Fazackerly was ironing a soft toy monkey and Julie Tricklebank was acting out the preparation of a full Sunday roast dinner on the plywood worktops.

  At lunchtime Sally and Anne had given the school dinner a miss and, while the smell of cabbage lingered, they were still sticking to their January diet plan. Anne was boiling the kettle for their packets of Batchelors Slim a Soup. Sally had selected Beef and Tomato while Anne had gone for Chicken and Leek.

  ‘Only forty calories per serving,’ said Sally with forced enthusiasm.

  Meanwhile Tom was reading his Daily Mail and pondering the fate of soccer star George Best. He had been moved to Ford Open Prison in Sussex and was hoping to get in the prison football team. How are the mighty fallen, thought Tom. Then he frowned while reading about the dreadful accident that had befallen the Def Leppard rock drummer, Rick Allen. After crashing his sports car his left arm had been severed and he was fighting for his life.

  Seeking relief from the gloom he looked around the staff-room to check no one was looking over his shoulder and opened his newspaper to June Penn’s horoscope page. His stars looked promising. June had announced that ‘a new friend plays an important part in your life’ and he wondered who it might be.

  Meanwhile, Vera was reading her Daily Telegraph. ‘Oh dear,’ she said out loud. ‘It can’t be . . . Margaret will never believe it.’ Arthur Scargill had been voted ‘Man of the Year’ on Radio 4’s Today programme and Vera closed her newspaper in disgust.

  At afternoon break I was on playground duty and, nearby, Stacey Bryant and Hayley Spraggon were in conversation.

  ‘Do you know what love is?’ asked Stacey.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Hayley. ‘’Cept my mummy and daddy are in love.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘’Cause they can’t ’elp it,’ retorted Hayley.

  ‘’Ow come?’

  ‘Ah think it’s like cabbage.’

  ‘’Ow d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, when Mrs Mapplebeck serves it f’school dinner, you’ve no choice.’ And they ran off to play ‘What’s the Time, Mr Wolf?’ near the welcome shelter of the boiler-house doors.

  I stood by the school wall and surveyed the children playing contentedly in the snow. Dazzling shards of light lanced between the scurrying clo
uds and lit up the school building, with bright white snow curving gently against the bell tower.

  Suddenly I spotted Tom Dalton walking out to join me. He waded through excited children who were apparently impervious to the bitter north wind. A scattering of snowflakes had settled on his long black hair and the shoulders of his Barbour jacket. He stood beside me and leaned against the wall. Behind him the metal railings, topped with decorative fleurs-de-lis, looked like candles on a birthday cake. He wrapped his hands round his coffee cup as if he wanted to borrow its warmth before giving it back to the world.

  Eventually Tom spoke quietly. ‘Jack . . . she wrote to me before she left.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ I replied guardedly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘So maybe there is some hope.’

  I thought I would start the afternoon with a few simple general knowledge questions just to blow away the cobwebs. ‘What’s the capital of France?’ I asked.

  To my surprise, Harold Bustard’s hand shot up.

  ‘Yes, Harold?’

  ‘F, Mr Sheffield – it’s F,’ he said excitedly.

  ‘Er, yes, Harold. Well done,’ I said hesitantly.

  I noticed his hands looked grubby. ‘Have you washed your hands?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, Mr Sheffield,’ said Harold quick as a flash. He held up his hands. ‘They’re quick-dry.’

  Sometimes, as a teacher, you just had to smile.

  When the bell finally rang for the end of school, Harold came up to me with a big smile on his face. ‘Guess what, Mr Sheffield,’ he said. ‘Ah’m gettin’ a bike jus’ like Ben’s.’

  The bestselling bicycle in the January sales was the BMX at £39.99 and Mr and Mrs Bustard wanted to reward their son for trying hard at school.

  ‘That’s great news, Harold,’ I said.

  I recalled my first Raleigh bicycle in 1955 and the feeling of freedom it gave me. As he ran off, it reminded me that when you’re ten years old life is an adventure waiting to happen.

  In the entrance hall Deke’s two eldest sons, Shane and Clint, had arrived. The two farmworkers were very different. Shane was a skinhead psychopath with the initials H-A-R-D tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand, while Clint was a fashion-conscious young man with a liking for David Bowie haircuts, frilly shirts and, on special occasions, eyeliner.