08 Silent Night

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘We’re movin’ wi’ t’times, Dave,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘’Ow come?’ asked Little Malcolm. ‘An’ why ’ave y’changed t’menu?’ he added, staring up at the chalkboard. In big letters it read:

  TRY OUR NEW VEGGIE ROLLS.

  Nora was scrambling eggs and toasting bread. ‘Ah’m makin’ it vawied,’ she said.

  Big Dave peered suspiciously at a plate of what looked like sausage rolls but had a different label. ‘But what’s them?’ he asked.

  ‘Veggie wolls,’ said Nora.

  ‘Veggie rolls?’ said Little Malcolm. He looked dubiously at the log cabin of pastries. ‘So . . . is there any meat in ’em?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Malcolm,’ replied Dorothy, ‘o’ course there’s no meat in ’em.’

  ‘We’ve made ’em f’vegetawians,’ said Nora defiantly.

  ‘Well, don’t tell Old Tommy,’ said Big Dave. ‘’E’ll ’ave ’eart attack.’

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

  Nora served up our scrambled eggs on toast and put the plates on a tray on the counter.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Big Dave, pointing a grubby finger.

  ‘Parsley,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘We put a spwig on top,’ said Nora.

  ‘It’s t’mek it look posh,’ added Dorothy for good measure.

  Big Dave stared at it in disgust. ‘Ah don’t want no green stuff on m’breakfast – it’s not nat’ral.’

  ‘So what’s it t’be then?’ asked Dorothy.

  ‘Two pork pies an’ two mugs o’ tea,’ said Big Dave defiantly. ‘We need energy t’shift bins.’

  ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ added Little Malcolm, ‘an’ we need some protein t’keep us ’ealthy.’ He had been reading one of Dorothy’s diet books.

  ‘Y’can get pwotein in my veggie wolls,’ retorted Nora as a parting shot, but Dave and Malcolm had retired to their usual table.

  Heathcliffe and Terry were doing well. Old Tommy Piercy had given them a list of deliveries and at five pence for each one they had enough for a visit to the cinema plus bus fare and some to spare.

  ‘’Ere’s y’las’ delivery, boys,’ said Old Tommy. ‘Tek these pig’s trotters t’Mr Tup’am an’ then go t’Mrs ’Oward wi’ these sausages. Tell ’er it’s a gift. Poor lady got burgled again by all accounts an’ she’s all on ’er own now ’er ’usband passed on.’

  ‘Mrs ’Oward?’ said Heathcliffe.

  ‘Chauntsinger Cottage,’ said Old Tommy, ‘jus’ pas’ Virgil the blacksmith . . . gorra red door.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Piercy,’ said Heathcliffe.

  The church clock struck eleven o’clock and Heathcliffe made a strategic decision. ‘You go t’Mr Tup’am while ah tek t’bike and go to Mrs ’Oward. Then ah’ll meet y’back ’ere before we go ’ome an’ tell Mam we’ve earned some money. Then we’ll go an’ see Gremlins.’

  Heathcliffe cycled up Chauntsinger Lane and walked his bike to the red door.

  In the past year, since her husband died, Dot Howard had been targeted by an unscrupulous thief not once but three times. Finally, in despair, she had pinned a postcard to her front door. It bore a poignant message:

  COME IN

  THERE’S NOTHING LEFT BUT MEMORIES

  Heathcliffe read it without understanding and knocked gently on the door.

  An elderly, careworn lady answered and gave him a gentle smile. ‘Hello, young man,’ she said.

  ‘Mr Piercy sent y’these, Mrs ’Oward,’ said Heathcliffe. ‘’E says no charge . . . it’s a gift.’

  Heathcliffe thought the old lady was about to burst into tears.

  ‘Would you like a drink of orange juice?’ she asked with a tearful smile.

  ‘Ah ’ave t’get back,’ said Heathcliffe.

  ‘Oh well, another time.’

  But Heathcliffe had a good heart and recognized loneliness when he saw it. ‘All right, jus’ a quick one, thank you.’

  Vera and Ruby were standing by the school gate. Ruby was delighted with her new North Yorkshire County Council floor polisher and Vera was now the proud owner of a microwave.

  Ruby’s son Duggie drove past speedily after finishing his morning shift at the funeral director’s in Easington. ‘’E’s allus been an erotic driver, ’as our Duggie,’ said Ruby. ‘’E thinks ’e’s James ’Unt.’

  ‘How is he these days?’ asked Vera.

  ‘’E’s fit as a fiddle an’ twice as ’andsome, is my Duggie,’ said Ruby proudly. Then she frowned. ‘Jus’ a shame ’e can’t find a nice girl ’is own age ’stead o’ courtin’ that mature woman.’

  ‘Have you met her yet?’ asked Vera.

  ‘Yes, an’ she’s a strange one,’ said Ruby, lowering her voice. ‘She’s told ’im she’s got that Gloucester-phobia an’ she wouldn’t cope in a small coffin wi’ nowhere t’move or breathe.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Vera.

  ‘So my Duggie said ’e’d make sure she were cremated – an’ ’e’d do it at cost price. She were ever so grateful.’

  Vera recalled the bunch of flowers on the passenger seat of her car. ‘Well, Ruby, I must go. I wanted to call in to see Dot Howard.’

  ‘Give ’er my best, Mrs F,’ said Ruby.

  ‘Very well, Ruby.’

  ‘Poor lass is like me now,’ said Ruby, ‘. . . a widow.’

  Vera simply nodded and gave Ruby a hug. ‘I think I’ll walk. It will do me good.’

  Heathcliffe was standing by the mantelpiece and sipping his beaker of orange juice. It was clear Dot Howard was enjoying the company.

  ‘It wasn’t just a robbery – it was a violation of the soul,’ she said.

  Heathcliffe didn’t fully understand but he knew the lady was upset.

  She picked up a broken picture frame. Next to it was a photograph of Mr and Mrs Howard smiling in the sunshine while on holiday in Portmeirion in Wales. ‘They even trod on my favourite picture,’ she said.

  Heathcliffe finished his drink and departed; he had a lot on his mind as he cycled back to the main street. Terry was waiting for him outside the General Stores.

  Heathcliffe parked his bicycle, took the coins from his pocket and counted their earnings.

  ‘What we gonna do nex’, Heath’?’ asked Terry.

  Heathcliffe took a creased school exercise book from his back pocket and jotted down some figures.

  ‘Well . . . we’ve got one poun’ an’ five pence. We could buy a lolly f’Dallas, a posh ’anky f’our mam, a box o’ matches f’Dad, go to t’pictures an’ invest t’rest into t’company.’

  ‘That sounds good, ’Eath,’ said Terry.

  Heathcliffe sighed and shook his head. ‘But we’re not gonna do that. Ah’ve gorra better idea,’ and he walked back into the General Stores.

  In Chauntsinger Cottage, Vera and Dot Howard were sitting in the kitchen drinking tea. ‘I was listening to the wireless this morning, Vera, and Margaret Thatcher was talking in that strident voice of hers.’

  Vera restrained herself. She knew Dot Howard wasn’t a fan of the Prime Minister. They moved on to talking about the younger generation.

  ‘Children today aren’t what they used to be,’ said Dot reflectively.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Vera. ‘There are some lovely boys and girls at the school.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ conceded Dot grudgingly.

  Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Another visitor,’ said Dot in surprise. ‘They’re like buses today.’

  Heathcliffe was standing there. His face was red after a speedy cycle ride. He took a small parcel out of his pocket. ‘This is f’you, Mrs ’Oward,’ he said simply, then jumped back on his bicycle and rode off.

  Dot walked back into the kitchen. She removed the brown paper and stared in delight. It was a picture frame. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmured to herself and removed the glass to put her precious photograph in place. When she turned it round she noticed a small sticky label on the back. ‘The kind boy f
orgot to take the price off,’ she said with a smile. It read ‘£1.00’.

  At one o’clock William Featherstone’s bus left the top of the High Street for York. Heathcliffe and Terry were sitting on the back seat.

  ‘It was good of Mam t’give us t’money,’ said Terry. ‘Ah wonder why she changed ’er mind?’

  ‘Dunno, Terry,’ said Heathcliffe. ‘Mebbe summat t’do wi’ Mrs F calling round t’talk to ’er.’

  ‘What are we deliv’rin’ t’morrow, ’Eath?’ asked Terry.

  ‘Dunno . . . but t’business did well t’day,’ said Heathcliffe proudly. ‘We might try summat else, then maybe one day we’ll own our own ’ouse, jus’ like t’Prime Minister said.’

  This was too complicated for Terry. He stared out of the window as the medieval city of York came into view. ‘’Eath . . . what’s gremlins?’

  ‘Bit like you only better lookin’,’ said Heathcliffe and he ruffled his little brother’s spiky blond hair. Then he settled back in his seat and smiled . . . and dreamed of big houses and flashy cars.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Decision for Tom

  Our Senior Primary Adviser, Richard Gomersall, visited school this morning. School closed today for the Easter holiday and will reopen on Monday, 15 April.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 29 March 1985

  It was the pre-dawn of a day when the first breath of spring hung in the air, tenuous and tantalizing, the merest hint of a new season. The promise of light and colour and warmth stretched out before us. It had been a long, cold winter and life had come full circle, but now the season had changed. It was Friday, 29 March, the last day of term, and spring had returned once more to Ragley village.

  I opened the bedroom window of Bilbo Cottage. The first light of a pale sun gilded the distant hills and the scent of wallflowers was in the air. The new season that lay ahead filled my thoughts and I turned to look at Beth. She was asleep and I stood there listening to her soft breathing. The sibilant sounds brought comfort to my soul. I loved this woman with a fierce passion, but recently she had seemed different somehow. There was a new energy within her, vibrant and visible. Beth’s work filled her waking hours. She clearly revelled in the daily challenge of her professional life.

  When I arrived at school it was clear that Easter was in sight. It was a farewell to dark nights and runny noses.

  The entrance hall looked welcoming. Anne and Sally had draped the large pine table with mint-green hessian and created a wonderful display of spring flowers. Children’s poems had been carefully mounted on the noticeboard alongside. Vera was there adding the final touch – a bunch of catkins brought in by Sonia Tricklebank and she arranged them expertly in a brown earthenware vase.

  Sally and Anne had also agreed to help Vera with the Lenten lunches during the holiday by providing bread and cheese. This was a very special annual event that took place in the church hall and was always well supported. While religion played a significant part, it didn’t go unnoticed that the soup was prepared by Mary Hardisty to her own special recipe handed down through generations of the wives of Yorkshire hill farmers. It was scrumptious.

  Our English lesson to start the day reminded me why I loved teaching. Some of the children had brought in primroses and pansies and we carried these to the display in the entrance hall. While we were there, we discussed the distinctive shape of the petals and why they heralded the coming of spring. Chalk drawings, poems and paintings followed and the writing and artwork showed me once again just how creative young children can be. It also occurred to me that, while it was demanding to be a headteacher with a full-time teaching commitment, on occasions such as these it was the best job in the world.

  ‘Smart Ford Sierra coming up t’drive, Mr Sheffield,’ said Charlotte Ackroyd suddenly.

  It proved an opportune time for our Senior Primary Adviser, Richard Gomersall, to call in. He looked round my classroom with its inviting carpeted book corner, stories written in neat handwriting, our nature table teeming with life and information books, the colourful displays and vivid artwork . . . and he sighed. ‘Jack,’ he said, shaking his head in resignation, ‘I hate to say this but the educational world as we know it will change in the next few years. This common curriculum idea is gathering political momentum at County Hall and in London. I’m not sure you’ll be doing your wonderful pond studies and visits to the local farm in quite the same way ever again.’

  I reflected on his words. ‘It’s been coming for some time now,’ I said. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t prevent us from encouraging children to love learning.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Richard, ‘and by the way, corporal punishment was on the agenda this week and looks as though it’s on the way out as well. Eventually, they’ll make it a law – and that will appeal to the European Parliament.’ He surveyed the well-behaved, responsible children who were busy getting on with their various tasks. They were sharing, discussing their work and using dictionaries to look up new words. He smiled and shook his head. ‘Not entirely relevant in Ragley, Jack, but it was different in my day.’ He put his hand on my shoulder and grinned. ‘In fact, a good thrashing was considered to be character building!’

  I looked at my wristwatch. ‘Richard, morning assembly is in a few minutes if you’d like to stay.’

  ‘Sorry, Jack, I’m doing the grand whistle-stop tour so must dash. I’ll just check out Mr Dalton’s class before I go. How’s he doing, by the way?’

  I considered my response. ‘He’s an excellent teacher but has been a little unsure about his future,’ I said cautiously. ‘Although he seems more settled now.’

  ‘Fine, Jack. See you next term,’ and we shook hands as he hurried off to Class 2, where Tom was reading to the children. When Richard walked in you could have heard a pin drop such was the intense interest, and he smiled in appreciation.

  As a Church of England Primary School, it was the norm for Joseph to lead our Easter assembly and he was soon imparting his wisdom. ‘The annual feast of Easter isn’t just a single day,’ he said, ‘but rather fifty days from Holy Saturday until the feast of Pentecost.’

  Danny Hardacre in my class suddenly looked interested at the sound of the word ‘feast’. Joseph went on to tell the story of ‘doubting’ Thomas, the apostle, who represented recurrent scepticism and I recalled Richard’s words about the school curriculum.

  There was a sudden change in the weather and heavy rain began to fall, so a wet playtime was announced and the children would return to their classrooms. As they walked out of the hall Joseph was surrounded by eager faces. ‘That were a good story, Mr Evans,’ said Ryan Halfpenny cheerfully. A flurry of hailstones battered against the hall windows and Ryan smiled. ‘Y’can’t beat a bit o’ Jesus on a wet playtime.’

  ‘My mam would ’ave soon sorted out that doubting Thomas, Mr Evans,’ said Frankie Spraggon. ‘She would’ve said mek y’mind up sharpish else you’ll get no pudding.’ He wandered off, pleased to have imparted such wisdom, and began to whistle loudly.

  ‘Frankie – why are you whistling in school?’ Joseph called after him.

  ‘Well, Mr Evans,’ replied Frankie cheerfully, ‘ah asked God t’teach me t’whistle jus’ like Ted Coggins – an’ ’E did!’

  Outside, the fierce hailstone shower fell from the heavens like a shimmering steel curtain. The children pressed their noses to the windows and stared at its frightening ferocity.

  ‘Is God angry, Mr Evans?’ asked Lucy Eckersley.

  Before he could reply, Damian Brown chipped in. ‘No,’ he said with the confidence of youth. ‘’E’s jus’ ’aving a quick clean-up.’

  Joseph smiled. Damian had a point. Dust, debris and twigs were cascading from the sloping tarmac playground down the cobbled drive and away to the High Street.

  By lunchtime the shower had passed and a fitful sun was trying to pierce the iron-grey clouds. I picked up a plastic tray and joined the school dinner queue.

  It was an appetizing hot meal: braised
local beef, boiled potatoes and cabbage. This was followed by pink sponge pudding and bright yellow custard – a technicolor sweet course that almost required a pair of sunglasses!

  After lunch I spotted Mrs Spittlehouse with her six-year-old daughter in the entrance hall. She had called in with Rosie’s wellington boots.

  The little girl smiled up at me. Her front teeth were missing.

  ‘The tooth fairy came last night, didn’t she, luv?’ said Mrs Spittlehouse with the smile of a caring mother.

  ‘She left me a note, Mr Sheffield,’ said Rosie.

  ‘And what did it say?’ I asked.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Rosie, ‘ah couldn’t read t’squiggly writing. Ah reckon t’tooth fairy needs t’practise ’er ’andwriting like we do.’

  Mrs Spittlehouse blushed furiously and I was reminded why teaching young children had its moments.

  When we gathered in the staff-room Vera was reading her Daily Telegraph. The miners’ strike had ended after almost a year of industrial action. Many had returned to work marching behind brass bands while their wives stood at the pit gates and distributed carnations as a symbol of returning heroes.

  Vera was saddened to read that during the hardship, some families had resorted to scavenging for coal on the very dangerous spoil heaps and this had resulted in the deaths of three children. Arthur Scargill had the last word: ‘We face not an employer but a government aided and abetted by the judiciary, the police and you people in the media.’ The conflict had ended, but you sensed another was about to begin.

  Meanwhile, Sally was flicking through the pages of her March issue of Cosmopolitan. Under a heading ‘The Bran-Slim Diet Plan’ a particularly happy lady was reported to have said, ‘I lost thirteen pounds in four weeks,’ and the rebellious Sally selected a second custard cream. She moved on to Irma Kurtz’s agony column where problems were clearly rife among her readers. They included a twenty-year-old who was madly in love with Michael Jackson and a woman whose husband kept naked photos of his first wife and she wondered if she should be concerned.