‘Ah, yes,’ I said, searching in the in-tray on my desk. ‘I have it here.’ It comprised four sides of small printing on a folded A3 sheet of paper – a sort of mini Domesday Book. ‘I’m busy with it now,’ I said unconvincingly.
‘Make sure it’s posted back to us immediately,’ instructed Jobsworth. ‘We can’t complete our records without it. You must appreciate, Mr Sheffield, that this information is important.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ I said, without, I hoped, a hint of sarcasm.
There was a riffle of papers. ‘And it would appear the chief culprits are most of the village schools in the Easington area.’
‘Where the headteachers have a full-time teaching commitment, I expect,’ I said with feeling.
Jobsworth was unimpressed. ‘And your reference number is NYCC 85/607,’ he added.
‘Reference number?’
‘Yes, for the roof repair you mentioned this morning,’ he said. ‘You will need to fill this in and send it back to us for authorization,’ and the line went dead.
I didn’t mention that Whistling John had completed the job for the price of a hot pie.
Then I picked up the form and wrote ‘Ragley Church of England Primary School’ on the top line before my pen ran out of ink.
An hour later I had completed the questionnaire and, wearily, I locked up the school and drove down the cobbled drive. A baleful crescent moon emerged from behind the tattered rags of clouds and the shadows of the giant horse chestnut trees draped the frozen playground.
I posted the questionnaire in the post box on the High Street and drove home. When I walked in, Beth was standing at the kitchen table making marmalade.
‘My mother’s recipe,’ she said with a grin. ‘Never fails.’
She had chopped twenty Seville oranges and six lemons in half and squeezed the juice into her largest pan. While I went to see John she added four bags of sugar and, after cutting the oranges into quarters and trimming off the ends, she sliced every segment really finely. Everything that was left on the chopping board, including the pith, pips and bits of rind, was put in a muslin bag along with some pectin. The bag was then tied up and put in the pan. When I returned the mixture was boiling.
‘So how did your day go?’ I asked.
‘Fine,’ said Beth. ‘I got home early, so I thought I would do something completely different.’
‘Did you complete that wretched heating questionnaire?’ I asked.
Beth thought for a moment. ‘Oh, that . . . I delegated that to my caretaker.’
Feeling slightly crushed that I hadn’t thought of that, I put the kettle on.
Beth looked up. ‘So, how was it for you?’
I reflected on the hole in the school roof, boiler trouble, freezing conditions, the demise of Sparky the First, Harold’s cut head and Jobsworth’s questionnaire, and I sighed.
‘Just another day,’ I said.
Chapter Twelve
Thatcher’s Children
Final repairs to the school boiler will be completed on Saturday, 2 March. A new floor polisher will be delivered tomorrow morning and Mrs Smith has agreed to take delivery.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 1 March 1985
The weather had changed dramatically in the last few days. The snow had gone and warmth began to spread over the land. On the high moors the clacking of grouse and the high-pitched call of curlews sought attention and announced the first signs of a distant spring.
It was Saturday morning, 2 March, and in Ragley the village green was waking from a long winter. The pond was full of new life and the willow was turning green. On the grassy bank outside the village hall the first signs of the blue-grey bullet heads of daffodils had begun to spear through the hard, frozen earth and lift the spirits. It was a morning full of optimism and a time for the entrepreneurs of the future to begin their journey . . . perhaps even the Earnshaw brothers.
‘Mam, please can we ’ave some pocket money?’ asked Heathcliffe Earnshaw plaintively.
‘No, y’can’t,’ said Julie Earnshaw. She was standing by the stove frying bacon. ‘Ask y’dad.’
Heathcliffe looked at his brother Terry. ‘You ask ’im,’ said Heathcliffe quietly. ‘Ah broke that window las’ week.’
Mr Earnshaw was reading his Racing Post while Dallas Sue-Ellen was playing with a Barbie doll behind the sofa.
‘Dad,’ said Terry, ‘please can we ’ave a bit o’ pocket money?’
Mr Earnshaw didn’t look up.
‘It’s t’go to t’pictures, Dad,’ added Heathcliffe. ‘Everybody else is goin’.’
‘It’s Gremlins,’ continued Terry. ‘It’s on in York this afternoon.’
‘Bus goes at one o’clock, Dad,’ said Heathcliffe with a sense of urgency.
Mr Earnshaw peered over his paper. ‘Ask y’mam,’ he said curtly.
The television was chattering away in the corner. A lady standing outside the Houses of Parliament was announcing that the miners’ strike might be close to an end after almost a year of struggle. Then they moved smoothly back to the studio and a brief cameo of some of Margaret Thatcher’s famous speeches.
‘You turn if you want to. The lady’s not for turning,’ said the Prime Minister to thunderous applause.
‘She said that a few years back,’ said Mrs Earnshaw knowingly as she turned the rashers in the spitting fat. ‘Ah voted for ’er.’
‘Well ah didn’t,’ said Mr Earnshaw in disgust. ‘Ah’m unemployed ’cause of ’er.’
‘Well get off y’backside then an’ find a job,’ snapped Mrs Earnshaw.
Mr Earnshaw winced under the verbal assault and buried himself further in his paper.
‘Human dignity and self-respect are undermined when men and women are condemned to idleness,’ said the Prime Minister in a strident voice.
‘There y’are,’ shouted Julie Earnshaw above the spitting fat of the frying pan. She looked at her two boys. ‘Heath’, Terry – listen t’yer mother. Money doesn’t grow on trees.’ She turned off the gas and began to cut thick slices of bread. ‘Y’need t’work ’ard jus’ like that plumber in t’village. Luke Walmsley started ’is own business an’ ’e’s doin’ well for ’imself. ’E’s jus’ got a new van.’
On the television Margaret Thatcher was saying that she wanted council tenants to have the chance to buy their homes.
‘One day ’e might own ’is own ’ouse,’ continued Mrs Earnshaw.
‘Y’mean not payin’ rent?’ asked Heathcliffe in surprise.
‘That’s right. An’ you an’ Terry could do that.’
Margaret Thatcher began to talk about a ‘free economy’.
‘Turn it off!’ yelled Mr Earnshaw.
Mrs Earnshaw pointed the spatula at her husband. ‘Ah don’t want you boys t’grow up like ’im,’ she said with feeling. ‘Now, ’ere’s y’breakfast,’ she went on as she put the bacon sandwiches on the table. ‘An’ if y’want money y’need t’go out an’ earn it. You ’ave t’provide a service that other folks want an’ will pay for.’
This was a new concept for Heathcliffe, and thoughts began to stir in this son of Barnsley. He bit hungrily into his bacon sandwich. ‘’Urry up, Terry,’ he said. ‘We’re goin’ out.’
Vera looked from her kitchen window at the magnificent grounds of Morton Manor. Snowdrops and crocuses lifted the spirit and, against the Yorkshire stone walls of the stable block, japonica buds were waiting to burst into life.
Her life had changed since she had married Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener and moved into her new home. Her three cats, Treacle, Jess and Maggie, the latter named after her political heroine Margaret Thatcher, had soon settled in, but for Vera it had been a trying experience. Her twice-weekly Cross-stitch Club, church flowers and Women’s Institute meetings kept her busy, but she was slowly making her mark on her new home. The kitchen had proved to be the biggest challenge. She was writing a shopping list when her attention was drawn to the television set on the worktop. A news programme feat
uring Margaret Thatcher’s famous speeches had begun with one of Vera’s favourites about the lady’s not for turning. She remembered it well. It was about the time she recalled noticing Rupert. She heard his footsteps approaching the kitchen door.
‘Any plans today, my dear?’ he asked as he sat down at the kitchen table and Vera poured him a cup of Earl Grey tea.
A tall, imposing man in his mid-sixties, Rupert was immaculate as ever in a tweed suit, crisp white shirt, East Yorkshire regimental tie and brown heavy brogues polished to a military shine.
‘Yes,’ said Vera, ‘I’ve got some shopping to do in Boots in York.’
‘Jolly good,’ said Rupert vaguely.
‘It’s for that microwave we discussed.’ Vera showed Rupert her list. It read ‘Sharp 541 microwave oven – £159.95 – Boots Credit Card’.
Rupert was completely unconcerned about the cost but frowned when he saw the reference to the credit card. ‘A credit card, Vera?’
‘Yes, dear,’ said Vera. ‘Don’t concern yourself . . . They are useful to have and I won’t be getting into debt.’
Rupert smiled and kissed her lightly on the forehead. ‘Of course.’ Then he sipped his tea thoughtfully. ‘Virginia didn’t come home last night.’
‘I think she went off with her current boyfriend,’ said Vera. ‘It’s that Timmy Farquharson from that horsey set near Pickering.’
Rupert frowned. ‘My daughter can do better than that,’ he said firmly.
Vera nodded. ‘I agree . . . but she’s a young woman now and she has to make her own choices.’
Rupert always admired Vera for her wisdom and her elegance. It was also apparent that Vera’s hair was no longer grey. The silver strands at her temples had changed subtly over a period of time to a more youthful brunette since Diane the hairdresser had begun to make more frequent home visits. ‘You know best, my dear,’ he said.
Vera picked up the list and stood up. ‘And on my way home I’m calling in with some flowers for Dot Howard. I heard she’d been burgled again.’
‘Bad business, what?’ said Rupert, shaking his head in annoyance.
‘Yes indeed,’ agreed Vera.
In Bilbo Cottage I was in the kitchen finishing an appetizing bowl of hot porridge while Beth was reading Jack and the Beanstalk to John. The school boiler had proved problematic, but the repair man was making his last visit this morning and I needed to call in and check all was well.
The television was on and a news reporter was explaining that Thatcher’s free market economics had strengthened the overall economy and created a growing middle class, but had widened the gap between rich and poor. In the same breath he mentioned that social unrest was growing and I wondered where it would all end.
I looked at my watch. ‘The boiler man said he’d be in mid-morning.’
‘Can you pick up some groceries?’ asked Beth. ‘Your son eats like a horse,’ she added with a grin and pointed to a list on the table. Beth looked more relaxed. She had just finished her dissertation and was due to hand it in to her tutor the following week. It was a huge weight off her shoulders. She was the carefree Beth again that I knew so well and for a brief moment I daydreamed. The silent music of our love echoed throughout our tiny cottage and the memories of our time together were vivid.
I washed my porridge bowl in the sink. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be, so I’ll see you later,’ I said, kissing her on the cheek.
The newsreader had moved on to an item about the new BBC twice-weekly soap. ‘You were wrong about EastEnders,’ said Beth with a smile. ‘It seems to have been well received.’
Last month seventeen million viewers had tuned in to the new series in order to share the daily lives of people living in Albert Square in the London borough of Walford. It had caught the imagination of the villagers and in the local shops it was a source of gossip and anticipation.
Gossip was certainly the order of the day in Nora’s Coffee Shop – along with a good helping of anticipation. Chaka Khan’s ‘I Feel For You’ was on the jukebox and Nora was writing a special offer on the chalkboard. Dorothy was serving frothy coffees to eighteen-year-olds Claire Bradshaw and Anita Cuthbertson at a corner table – and they were discussing sex.
The two girls saw Dorothy as an experienced woman.
‘Dorothy – I’m getting a thing for older men,’ whispered Anita.
‘We both are,’ added Claire knowingly.
‘Ah know what y’mean,’ said Dorothy. ‘Shakin’ Stevens’ll be thirty-four nex’ week an’ ’e’s jus’ dishy.’
The teenagers had moved on from 1978 when they left my class to attend Easington Comprehensive School. They had fallen in love with the American pop idol David Cassidy. After his boyish good looks had appeared on the side of their breakfast Weetabix box, they had worshipped the ground he walked on. However, with experience came a new beginning.
‘I’m thinking of going on t’pill,’ confided Claire.
‘Flippin’ ’eck!’ said Dorothy and began wiping the table with a tea towel to stall for time.
‘Y’mother’ll kill you,’ said Anita, suitably aghast but secretly envious.
‘Ah know, but ah fancy Kenny.’
‘But ’e’s only eighteen.’
‘Ah know,’ said Claire.
‘So what ’appened to older men?’ asked Dorothy.
‘Well, you’ve got t’start somewhere,’ protested Claire.
The bell above the door jingled and Claire looked up expectantly, hoping it might be Kenny Kershaw, but it was only the Earnshaw boys. With a sigh they returned to studying Anita’s fold-up poster of Tears for Fears and discussing new techniques for ironing their hair.
The brothers walked confidently to the counter, where Nora was admiring her neat printing on the ‘Today’s Specials’ board.
‘’Ello, Miss Pratt,’ said Heathcliffe politely. ‘We’ve started a business.’
Heathcliffe and Terry pointed to their cardboard badges, which read ‘Earnshaw Delivery Services’.
‘So what y’delivewin’?’ asked Nora, replacing the stick of chalk in her apron pocket.
‘Food,’ said Heathcliffe, ‘’cause everyone’s got to eat. If you mek t’food, Miss Pratt, we’ll deliver it . . . and we’ve got transport.’
‘Twanspo’t?’
‘Yes,’ said Terry, ‘Ben Roberts ’as lent us ’is bike an’ we’ve gorra basket on t’front.’
Nora smiled. ‘Good idea, Tewwy – but ah jus’ pwepare food an’ people eat it in t’shop.’ She studied the two eager faces. ‘Why not twy Miss Golightly?’
‘We will, Miss Pratt. Thanks f’list’ning,’ said Heathcliffe and they hurried out.
In the General Stores Prudence Golightly was more receptive. She was a kindly lady and always willing to support young people and their initiatives.
‘Take this to Mrs Poole, please, boys,’ she said. ‘She forgot her tins of dog meat for Scargill.’ She pointed to four tins of PAL with marrowbone jelly. ‘Here’s five pence each.’ She looked up at Jeremy the bear. ‘And Jeremy says you can have a barley sugar.’
‘Thanks, Miss Golightly,’ said Heathcliffe.
‘. . . an’ Jeremy,’ added Terry as they hurried out to make their first delivery.
In the school boiler house Jim the boilerman stroked the black oven doors with affection. Jim loved his boilers and he had travelled over from Harrogate to complete the final repairs.
‘That’ll see y’reight, Jack,’ he said. ‘It’ll las’ you a few more years.’ He looked at his watch. ‘’Ow about a coffee in Nora’s?’
‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘I’ll just check that Ruby will lock up.’
Ruby had taken delivery of a new floor polisher and she was trying it out in the hall. Meanwhile, Vera had called in and they were in conversation as we washed our hands and set off across the High Street for some refreshment.
Heathcliffe and Terry had arrived at Mrs Poole’s house and Scargill the Yorkshire terrier was about to enjoy a good meal. He
athcliffe explained to Mrs Poole about their new business while Terry waited outside the front gate with the precious bicycle. It was widely known that there had been a few burglaries in the area and Heathcliffe had instructed Terry to stand guard. Jemima Poole walked down the path to talk to Terry. She was holding a half-eaten sugar mouse by its string tail after Scargill had bitten off the head and slavered over the rest of its pink sugar body.
Terry looked apprehensively at Jemima. After all, she was a girl. Terry was in the Ragley Scout Troop and what he didn’t know about birds’ eggs, clove hitches and how to cook sausages using a primus stove wasn’t worth knowing – but he didn’t understand girls.
Jemima stared at a worm in the hedgerow. ‘If you eat that worm ah’ll give you this mouse.’
Terry loved sugar mice, even half-eaten ones. Without hesitation he picked up the worm, popped it in his mouth, crunched it to pieces and swallowed quickly. Then he opened his mouth wide so Jemima could see it had gone.
Jemima was impressed and repulsed at the same time. She handed over the decapitated mouse and Terry ate it, including the string.
Heathcliffe appeared and shut the garden gate behind him. He stared suspiciously at Jemima. ‘What y’talking to ’er for?’ he asked. ‘She’s a girl.’
‘Sorry, ’Eath,’ said Terry and they returned to the High Street to seek out their next delivery.
When Jim and I walked into the Coffee Shop the jukebox was on full volume. Pete Burns of Dead or Alive was singing the new number one record, ‘You Spin Me Round’. Dorothy was sitting on a stool behind the counter. She had just spent forty pence on the latest Smash Hits magazine and, after reading an article on Alison Moyet, she was trying to memorize all the words of Madonna’s ‘Material Girl’.
She looked up. ‘’Ello, Mr Sheffield.’
‘What’s it to be, Jim?’ I asked.
Jim scanned the menu. ‘Scrambled eggs on toast an’ a mug o’ coffee, please.’
‘And the same for me, please, Dorothy,’ I said.
We sat at a corner table as Big Dave and Little Malcolm walked in. Big Dave reacted with surprise. ‘Why ’ave y’changed y’counter?’ he asked. ‘That’s where y’pork pies used t’be.’
08 Silent Night Page 17