08 Silent Night

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘We’re ’ere for t’speakers, Mr Sheffield,’ said Shane.

  ‘In the hall,’ I said. ‘Help yourselves.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Sheffield,’ said Clint, glancing at his reflection in the window and carefully checking that his spiky orange hair was in place.

  They collected the speakers, put them in the back of Deke’s pig trailer and drove off.

  Meanwhile, in the staff-room, Vera was chatting with Anne and Sally. ‘Joseph’s sixtieth birthday is in a few weeks,’ she said. ‘I’m thinking about a gift for him.’

  ‘And we must get him something from the staff,’ said Anne.

  ‘Or maybe a book on wine-making,’ said Sally.

  Vera gave us all a quizzical look over her steel-framed spectacles. ‘Yes, I bought him a beginner’s guide a while ago. It didn’t go down well.’

  I nodded. ‘A bit like his wine, Vera.’

  We all saw the funny side and laughed, just as Joseph walked in.

  ‘Well, they say laughter is the best medicine,’ he said with an encouraging smile. He looked puzzled as we burst out laughing again.

  That evening in Bilbo Cottage, Beth and I had settled down after getting John off to sleep. Our son was an energetic little boy and growing fast. It was always comforting when he finally closed his eyes and we had time together.

  Beth was in a reflective mood. ‘Do you recall that chat I had with Miss Barrington-Huntley? It was in your school hall after Rosie Sparrow’s “Silent Night” on television.’

  I put another log on the fire and knelt on the hearthrug. ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘She mentioned that a few larger headships were coming up in North Yorkshire.’

  I glanced at the fireplace as the log crackled into life. ‘So . . . are you thinking you might try for one?’

  ‘Well, I should be in a stronger position once I’ve got my Masters degree.’

  ‘You know I’ll support you,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks – but I’ll have to be cautious about the size of the school.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Beth smiled. ‘Well, being a woman doesn’t help. We both know in this day and age women simply aren’t considered for the larger headships.’

  ‘Sadly, you may be right . . . In fact, I can’t think of one in North Yorkshire.’

  ‘So . . . would you think of a larger headship?’

  I sighed. This was familiar ground. ‘I’m happy where I am as a village-school teacher – and we earn enough to be comfortable. I’d rather be in a job where I’m happy than one where I’m bombarded with daily problems.’

  Beth looked at me curiously. ‘Is that how you see it?’

  ‘Maybe . . . But, either way, I’ll support you if that’s what you want.’

  She smiled and got up to search for something in the Welsh dresser. ‘Left over from Christmas,’ she announced, opening a bottle of Royal Mint Chocolate Liqueur, and we sipped it like contented kittens in front of a roaring fire.

  It was Saturday evening and Natasha Smith was childminding for us again. Beth and I left early for the Elvis night and called in at The Royal Oak. On the jukebox Paul McCartney and the Frog Chorus were singing ‘We All Stand Together’. As we approached the bar, the conversation turned to Ian Botham, who had been arrested on a drugs charge. However, the cricket star’s fall from grace didn’t concern Ragley’s favourite binmen.

  ‘We’ve supped some stuff t’neight, Mr Sheffield,’ said a bleary-eyed Big Dave.

  ‘Dutch courage, Mr Sheffield,’ said Little Malcolm. He sounded as if he had a sore throat.

  ‘Good luck tonight, Malcolm,’ said Beth. It was well known that Malcolm was entering the competition.

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Sheffield, ah’ll need it,’ he spluttered.

  Big Dave and Little Malcolm took their drinks back to the bench seat under the dartboard where Nellie and Dorothy were sharing the news of the Rolling Stones. Ronnie Wood had married his lover Jo Howard and had given her a pair of gold pistols as a wedding gift. Apparently, best man Keith Richards had arrived in his Rolls-Royce eating fish and chips and swigging light ale.

  ‘An’ what about Barbara Windsor?’ said Nellie.

  The forty-seven-year-old Carry On star had divorced her husband, Ronnie Knight, who lived in Spain and was wanted for questioning regarding two robberies.

  ‘She’s gonna marry her boyfriend,’ added Nellie. ‘’E’s a chef an’ ’e’s only twenty-nine.’

  ‘Good luck to ’er,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘Ah’ve allus liked ’er since ’er bra bust in Carry On Camping,’ said Big Dave.

  Little Malcolm was about to agree but wisely kept quiet after a warning glance from Dorothy.

  Beth had found a table near the bay window while I ordered drinks at the bar. Sheila was pulling pints and Don the barman was talking to Old Tommy.

  ‘They said there would be ten centimetres of snow,’ said Sheila.

  ‘That sounds deep,’ said Don.

  ‘What’s that in real money?’ asked Old Tommy.

  ‘Four inches, Mr Piercy,’ I said.

  Old Tommy considered this for a moment. ‘Ah prefer inches,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t sound as deep.’

  ‘Are you going to the village hall, Mr Piercy?’ I asked.

  ‘Ah’ll go t’support them little bairns in Africa but not t’see t’so-called talent, ’cept for m’grandson o’course,’ said Old Tommy. ‘If Elvis were alive ’e’d be turnin’ in ’is grave.’

  ‘That’s a bit ’arsh,’ said Sheila.

  ‘Ah speak as ah find an’ ah say it as it is,’ stated Old Tommy with a contented puff of his old briar pipe. According to our local butcher, as a straight-talking Yorkshireman, this was the mantra of his life.

  ‘Well, ah don’t rate that Clint Ramsbottom’s chances,’ shouted an inebriated Lionel Higginbottom from further down the bar. ‘’E can’t sing a note.’

  ‘Oy, button y’lip,’ shouted Shane. He raised his fist. ‘No one calls my Nancy-boy brother names.’

  Clint looked dubiously at his brother. After all, he meant well.

  Old Tommy took a thoughtful puff on his briar pipe. ‘Y’know what they say, Clint – a friend in need is a pain in the arse.’

  Everyone laughed, the conversation resumed and Don pulled a pint of Chestnut.

  ‘’E couldn’t knock t’skin off a rice pudding, Mr Piercy,’ said Shane disdainfully, ‘but ’e’s m’brother.’

  ‘Think on, young Shane,’ advised Old Tommy, ‘an’ listen t’one what knows . . . fighting get’s y’nowhere, but loving does. So find y’self a nice young woman.’

  ‘That’s not easy, Mr Piercy,’ said Shane.

  ‘That were allus my problem when ah were young like you,’ said Old Tommy.

  ‘What were that then, Tommy?’ asked Don.

  Old Tommy’s eyes twinkled as he replied. ‘Slow ’orses an’ fast women.’

  Don glanced at Sheila in her fluorescent pink boob-tube. ‘Ah know what y’mean.’

  Shane looked up at the clock. ‘Oy, drama queen!’ he shouted to Clint. ‘Shape thissen – we’re off.’

  At 7 School View Sharon Smith looked at the clock. ‘C’mon, Mam, let’s go to t’village ’all. It’ll do y’good. It’s a bit o’ culture.’

  Ruby sighed. ‘’E were never int’ culture were y’dad. Ah remember ah wanted t’go t’that A an’ E museum in London what Queen Victoria built . . . but ’e never took me.’

  Our school caretaker seemed to spend all her evenings now watching television with her daughters. She had enjoyed the most recent episode of Dallas, although she was concerned that Miss Ellie was haunted by her dead husband . . . and Ruby thought of Ronnie. She had also admired Judith Chalmers showing off her permanent suntan on the island of St Lucia in the Caribbean in Wish You Were Here and she reflected on the holidays she had never had. Even the escapades of Benny Hill couldn’t cheer her up.

  But perhaps an evening in the village hall would, and Sharon helped her into her war
mest cardigan and coat.

  The evening was a lively affair.

  The local entertainer Troy Phoenix, in his sparkly flares, was the Master of Ceremonies. He had plugged in Timothy Pratt’s famous ‘clapometer’ – a peculiar invention that the fastidious owner of the Hardware Emporium had knocked up in his shop. It responded to the sound of the audience clapping and measured a reading on a shaky dial. Backstage, Wayne Ramsbottom was in charge of the backing tracks on his brother Clint’s ghetto-blaster.

  By midway through the contest, Grimsby Gerry was emerging as the favourite with his version of Elvis’s 1962 hit ‘Return To Sender’.

  ‘It’s about a poor lad an’ ’is girlfriend’s not comin’ back,’ explained Troy. ‘Y’know t’feelin’, lads, don’t you?’ He winked at Claire Bradshaw in the front row. ‘’Cept it’s never ’appened t’me.’ He looked down at his list. ‘An’ now we ’ave another Ragley favourite – Young Tommy Piercy, singin’ t’second single Elvis released after returning from t’army. It sold more than twenty-five million copies. So let’s ’ear it f’Young Tommy wi’ “It’s Now Or Never”.’

  Sadly, it turned out to be never for the young butcher, although he received a generous round of applause from all his customers, particularly those who had received a free box of Paxo stuffing at Christmas.

  Chris ‘Kojak’ Wojciechowski, the Ragley Rovers’ Bald-Headed Ball-Wizard, caused some debate among the audience. Troy had done his homework and told us that the 1961 Blue Hawaii track ‘Can’t Help Falling In Love’ was probably Elvis’s greatest love ballad.

  Kojak started singing about wise men rushing in, sadly completely off key.

  ‘Y’can’t ’ave a bald Elvis,’ shouted Big Dave. ‘It jus’ ain’t right.’

  ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ agreed a nervous Little Malcolm as his big moment approached.

  Next was Clint Ramsbottom. ‘Clint’s gonna sing the 1957 song, “All Shook Up”, that topped the pop, country an’ R&B charts,’ said Troy.

  ‘That’s weally special, Tywone,’ said Nora Pratt in the third row.

  Tyrone gave Nora his trivia look. ‘That’s known as a trifecta,’ he whispered into her ear. Then he edged a little closer and held her hand.

  ‘It’s t’favourite now, Tywone,’ said Nora, ‘that Pwudential Insuwance man. ’E’s singin’ “Jailhouse Wock”.’

  ‘An ’ere we go again wi’ a 1957 classic,’ said Troy, ‘and t’name of Elvis’s third film. It’s “Jail’ouse Rock” an’ t’Elvis lookalike, Lionel ’Igginbottom.’

  The problem was that Lionel was no longer a lookalike. His beautifully styled Elvis wig was missing and he was sure he had put it on top of his executive briefcase before leaving home. Unknown to Lionel, it had slipped on to the kitchen floor and his deaf and increasingly shortsighted mother had thought it was next door’s kitten. It was only after Lionel had left for the village hall that she noticed it hadn’t touched its saucer of milk.

  Lionel began to sing about a party in the county jail, but his heart just wasn’t in it. The wig had been the crowning glory of the complete ensemble, right down to his Cuban-heeled sequinned shoes, and he received muted applause.

  ‘Ah’ve told ’im ’til cows come ’ome t’check ’is case,’ said Lionel’s mother, ‘but does ’e tek any notice? Does ’e ’eck.’

  Finally it was Little Malcolm’s turn. ‘So put yer ’ands t’gether for Little Malcolm Robinson who will be singin’ Elvis’s biggest ’it of t’seventies, reachin’ number one in 1972 – ’is twentieth number one and ’is fortieth Top Ten ’it, “Burning Love”.’

  Little Malcolm walked on in his Elvis outfit and picked up the microphone.

  ‘Ah’m dedicatin’ this song t’my beautiful wife,’ he said and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

  ‘C’mon my Malcolm!’ shouted Dorothy.

  ‘Gi’ it some welly!’ yelled Big Dave.

  Little Malcolm puffed out his chest and began to sing in a throaty, husky voice that had the ladies of Ragley swooning in the aisles as he informed them that he was a hunk of burning love.

  It was a foregone conclusion before he reached the end. The dial on the clapometer went nearly off the scale and Little Malcolm was declared the winner.

  When Beth and I drove home the moon was a broken crescent, cracked like porcelain, as scattered clouds hurried across the sky.

  ‘Wasn’t Malcolm really good?’ said a surprised Beth.

  ‘And what a voice!’ I said.

  ‘They say good things come in little packages,’ said Beth and then smiled. ‘Pity you’re six feet one!’

  Outside the village hall Eugene Scrimshaw was congratulating Little Malcolm.

  ‘Well done, Malcolm,’ he said. ‘Medicine must ’ave worked.’

  Little Malcolm, deep down, was a kindly soul and he didn’t want to upset Ragley’s Captain Kirk. ‘Y’reight there, Eugene,’ he agreed.

  However, when he got home he threw the cough mixture in the bin. Ah like bein’ ’usky, he thought.

  ‘Ah we gettin’ up t’bed,’ said Malcolm, ‘or d’you want a coffee?’

  ‘Oooh Malcolm, y’voice is real sexy,’ swooned Dorothy. ‘Let’s f’get t’coffee.’

  Half an hour later Nora was looking for her earplugs.

  Chapter Eleven

  Just Another Day

  County Hall requested responses to their questionnaire ‘A Policy for the Efficient Heating of Village Schools’. The school optician carried out eye tests. Repairs were completed to the roof above the school office. Boiler repairs were arranged for next week. School closed today for the half-term holiday and will reopen on Monday, 25 February.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 15 February 1985

  A bleak and bitter day had dawned. When I peered through the bedroom window of Bilbo Cottage, the stillness of winter lay heavy on the countryside. It was as if we were frozen in time in an everlasting Narnia winter. It was Friday morning, 15 February, and the world was still as stone under its smooth white blanket. The temperature in North Yorkshire had dropped to minus ten degrees on the high moors and the land was held fast in the grip of winter. In the distance, over the Hambleton hills, dark clouds were rolling towards us and the rooks squawked their danger cries as the wind began to rattle the branches where they nested.

  In the garden of Bilbo Cottage, sparrows and chaffinches were busy in the hedgerow while a solitary robin, its feathers ruffled in the stiff breeze, perched forlornly on my garden seat, looking hopefully for a few crumbs.

  ‘I think I’ve got a cold coming on,’ said Beth.

  She looked tired. It occurred to me that it must be serious as, like most women I knew, she battled on through coughs and colds without mentioning them.

  ‘Well, you’ll have time to recover during half-term,’ I said in an attempt to be positive.

  ‘Sadly, I’ve got to complete my dissertation, so I’ll be busy,’ she said with a sigh and a sneeze.

  We were both weary after a sleepless night, as our son had been awake for most of it. I helped her strap John into his car seat. ‘Good luck and have a good day,’ I said.

  ‘You too,’ she replied and kissed me lightly on the cheek. ‘Is there anything special today?’

  ‘Thankfully, no,’ I said. ‘Just a quiet day ahead.’

  I should have known better.

  On my journey from Kirkby Steepleton the wind gusted around me and my Morris Minor shook in protest. The fuel gauge showed nearly empty so, reluctantly, I pulled in at Victor Pratt’s garage.

  Victor looked more weary than usual as he lumbered out to meet me.

  ‘Ah’ve gorra problem, Mr Sheffield,’ he said, as his hand holding the petrol pump turned purple with cold.

  ‘Oh dear, Victor,’ I replied, ‘and what might that be?’

  ‘Ah’ve got that insom— insom—’

  ‘Insomnia,’ I said.

  ‘That’s it, Mr Sheffield,’ he said, wiping his hands on a greasy cloth and taking the ten-p
ound note from my hand. ‘In fac’, ah can’t sleep f’worryin’ about it.’

  I know the feeling, I thought.

  As I pulled up outside the General Stores I recalled it was my turn to replenish the staff-room biscuit tin.

  ‘And some biscuits for the staff-room please, Miss Golightly,’ I said.

  ‘Garibaldi, Mr Sheffield?’ asked Prudence.

  Barry Ollerenshaw was standing in the queue behind me. ‘My gran calls ’em “flies’ graveyard” biscuits, Mr Sheffield,’ he said with an encouraging smile.

  Prudence paused and we both looked at this popular biscuit with a new appreciation. ‘Perhaps a packet of digestives,’ she said with a smile.

  When I arrived at school Ruby was pouring salt on the steps of the entrance porch. She didn’t look pleased. ‘We’ve gorra problem, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. The fierce north-east wind was freezing the side of my face, whereas Ruby’s only concession to the weather was an old headscarf double-knotted beneath her chin.

  ‘What’s that, Ruby?’ I yelled above the gale.

  She pointed to the grey slate tiles on the roof above the office. ‘Couple o’ tiles ’ave shifted wi’ t’wind. Weather’ll get in if we don’t gerrit fixed sharpish. Ah’ve told Mrs F.’

  ‘Thanks, Ruby,’ I said and hurried up the steps.

  In the shelter of the entrance porch Hayley Spraggon and her little brother, Alfie, had brought in their pets for our morning assembly. Sally’s theme was ‘Kindness to Animals’ and eight-year-old Hayley had volunteered to contribute.

  Alfie was holding a shoe box which had been filled with miscellaneous vegetation and ripe fruit. ‘This is Boycott, Mr Sheffield,’ he said proudly, ‘an’ ’e can poke ’is ’ead out of ’is shell.’

  I peered in. ‘That’s a fine tortoise, Alfie,’ I said. Boycott, named presumably after the Yorkshire and England cricketer who accumulated runs at his own steady pace, looked content in his box.

  ‘An’ would y’like t’see my gerbil, Mr Sheffield?’ asked Hayley. She was holding a wire cage and staring at her small furry friend.