08 Silent Night

by Jack Sheffield

  Perhaps my life isn’t quite so complicated after all, thought Sally.

  After lunch Ruby came in to stack away the dining tables. She was carrying a metal bucket. Another little ritual for our good-hearted caretaker was to collect all the metal foil tops from milk bottles in the school kitchen. After rinsing them clean she passed them on to her daughter Racquel to take to the charity shop in York.

  ‘What are y’doin’ that for, Mrs Smith?’ asked Charlie Cartwright.

  ‘It’s f’blind dogs, luv,’ explained Ruby and hurried off with the precious bucket.

  Ted Coggins looked puzzled. ‘Seems a shame, Charlie,’ he said.

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Well, they won’t be able t’see ’em,’ said Ted.

  With another problem solved in their young lives they ran off with a stick of chalk to see who could take a running jump at the boiler-house wall and make the highest chalk mark.

  To everyone’s surprise, the sun came out and a bright rainbow split the sky to the wonderment of the children. It was a perfect opportunity for a nature walk and some fresh air for the boys and girls in my class.

  Vera and Ruby were called upon to help with the supervision and soon we were walking down the High Street towards the woods near the cricket pitch. A few villagers waved as we went by. They looked busy and it seemed that the folk of Ragley had begun to do their spring cleaning. The children were full of interest. In the hedgerows, honeysuckle and primroses were bursting into life and birds were building nests with frantic activity.

  We stopped under the shade of a huge, graceful ash tree.

  ‘We found a dead squirrel just ’ere, Mr Sheffield,’ said Callum Myler.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said.

  ‘Ah were wi’ m’dad an’ we buried it,’ said Callum.

  ‘Oh well, that was thoughtful,’ I said.

  ‘After ’e’d cut ’is tail off.’

  ‘And what happened to the tail?’ I asked in bewilderment.

  ‘’E stuck it on m’nan’s fur ’at.’

  ‘Why did he do that?’

  ‘’E said it made a perfec’ Davy Crockett ’at, Mr Sheffield.’

  ‘Davy Crockett?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Sheffield, then ’e put it on an’ started singing “Davy, Davy Crockett, King of the wild frontier”, an’ m’mam said ’e were a sandwich short of a picnic an’ closed t’kitchen door.’

  ‘Will t’squirrel ’ave gone to ’eaven yet, Mr Sheffield?’ asked Mo Hartley, ‘or will ’e ’ave t’wait ’til ’is body’s all decomposed?’

  I was impressed with the word ‘decomposed’ and was about to attempt a reply when everyone seemed to be speaking at once.

  ‘Y’wouldn’t get squirrels in ’eaven,’ declared Harold Bustard.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Victoria Alice Dudley-Palmer.

  ‘’Cause there’s no trees for ’em t’swing on,’ said Harold with conviction.

  ‘’Ow d’you know?’ interjected Sonia Tricklebank.

  ‘Stands t’reason,’ said Harold and pointed to the sky. ‘There’s nowt but clouds.’

  And some of them look dark, I thought.

  ‘Come on, boys and girls,’ I said. ‘It’s going to rain again. Let’s get back to school.’

  It was only another brief shower and by afternoon playtime spring sunshine lit up the bright faces of the children as they ran and chased on the playground. Their conversations concerned the forthcoming two-week holiday . . . but mainly Easter eggs.

  Tom was on duty and I noticed he was standing in the shade. He looked preoccupied. When the bell rang for the end of break he approached me as I left the staff-room.

  ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘can I have a word after school if you can spare the time?’

  ‘That’s fine, Tom,’ I said. ‘See you then.’

  Meanwhile, Sally hurried out and in her haste she left her copy of Cosmopolitan open on the coffee table. Vera glanced down at the article as she cleared away. The heading in bold letters read: ‘How to Have a Multiple Orgasm’ and, with flushed cheeks, she closed it quickly, put it under the pile of Art & Craft magazines and proceeded to rearrange the tea cups on the tiny worktop.

  At the end of school there was much to do. After saying goodbye to the children I called into the office and telephoned Beth. I told her I would be later than usual as we had a staff meeting. Also Tom wanted to see me.

  ‘Well, don’t be too late,’ she said. ‘I’m preparing something special to celebrate the end of term.’

  The staff got to work and we cleared our classrooms, updated the children’s records and then settled down to discuss forthcoming events for the summer term. We planned dates for sports day, parent-teacher interviews and class visits. Sally suggested a trip to Hornsea for the children in her class and mine and we pencilled in 7 June.

  Finally Vera and I were in the school office and Vera was putting the cover on her typewriter and leaving her desk in its usual immaculate state of tidiness.

  ‘Have a good holiday, Mr Sheffield,’ she said as she put on her coat.

  ‘You too, Vera,’ I said, ‘and, of course, we won’t see you at the Easter service.’

  Vera smiled. ‘Yes, enjoy Oxford,’ she said. Beth and I had planned a short holiday.

  I glanced up at the clock. ‘Tom wants to see me.’

  Vera looked concerned. ‘I do hope he finds some peace in his life. He’s a lovely young man, but clearly troubled. I hope he’s all right.’

  ‘Yes, so do I.’

  It was almost seven o’clock and I had completed a mountain of paperwork for County Hall and updated the school logbook when there was a tap on the door. It was Tom.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Jack,’ he said. ‘I’m going to London first thing tomorrow and I wanted to get the children’s reading records up to date . . . I’ve got lots to do during the holiday.’

  Then he went strangely quiet. It seemed that, for Tom, conversations had become strangers in a lonely world of silent thoughts. I glanced at the clock and made a decision. ‘I’ll lock up, then let’s walk across to The Oak. We can have half an hour over a drink.’

  ‘Thanks, Jack,’ he said, ‘good idea,’ and I was encouraged by his response.

  When we walked in I asked Tom to find a table while I bought the drinks.

  Behind the bar Sheila only had eyes for Ragley’s youngest teacher. ‘’E’s a proper looker, that Mr Dalton,’ she said appreciatively.

  I smiled. ‘Two pints of Chestnut please, Sheila,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll bring ’em over, Mr Sheffield.’

  Tommy Piercy was propping up the bar from his usual seat. ‘Mixed weather today, Mr Piercy,’ I said.

  ‘We breed ’em tough up in t’North tha knaws,’ said Old Tommy proudly. ‘Three months winter an’ nine months bad weather,’ and he chuckled loudly.

  Sheila delivered the drinks and made sure Tom Dalton had every opportunity to assess her curvaceous figure. She put down the tray, smoothed her black-leather miniskirt and tugged the top of her pink boob-tube a little lower. Then she leaned over and placed our drinks in front of us and for a brief moment Tom was treated to an eye-watering glimpse of Sheila’s magnificent chest. Then she winked at him. She always believed in giving full value.

  However, Tom’s mind was elsewhere and she tottered off on her high heels.

  ‘Jack,’ he began hesitantly, ‘you know how much I appreciated you giving me this job.’

  ‘You’ve done well,’ I said guardedly.

  He nodded. ‘Thanks. Ragley’s a great school and everyone has been supportive.’

  I sensed there was a but coming. ‘Well, we’re a good team,’ I added quietly.

  ‘And I’m proud to be part of that team,’ he said, ‘. . . and I’ve only been here just over a year.’

  ‘It’s important you’re happy in your work,’ I said.

  He smiled and ran his fingers through his long, black, wavy hair. ‘That’s the point, Jack. I love teaching – and I’
m looking forward to the future.’

  We were skirting round the subject and we both knew it. ‘You need to explain,’ I said.

  He stared at the ceiling trying to find the right words. ‘You know why.’

  ‘So tell me.’

  Finally he looked at me squarely and said simply, ‘Laura.’

  When we parted woodsmoke was creeping down Ragley High Street like a grey wolf while the drizzle was on the cusp of turning to steady rain. Tom drove off in his rusty royal blue Renault 4 and headed up the Morton Road rather than towards his flat in York.

  Silver strands of fleeting clouds drifted across a pale crescent moon like wraiths in the night and I reflected on our short conversation.

  When I arrived home Beth was preparing her speciality dish – pork chops in wine with herbs. She was preoccupied, chopping green apples and slicing spring onions. A generous glass of white wine was on the worktop and she paused occasionally to take a sip. I stood in the doorway admiring her slim figure while mischievous thoughts flickered through my mind.

  The cassette player was plugged in and she was playing her favourite double-cassette collection of fifty love songs featuring Barry Manilow, Elton John, Michael Jackson, Cliff Richard, Abba, the Carpenters, Diana Ross, Gladys Knight, the Everly Brothers, the Three Degrees, Stevie Wonder and Lionel Richie.

  ‘Happy holidays,’ she said with a smile. I wrapped my arms around her and nuzzled her neck. It was good to be home. ‘Had a good day?’ she asked.

  ‘Just had a chat with Tom.’

  She paused, turned and looked at me and, as always, she understood me better than I knew. ‘And I presume there are decisions to make.’

  I sighed and nodded. Beth’s world appeared to be driven by ambition and achievement, whereas mine meandered in the here and now.

  ‘Jack, people don’t need to stand still to live – there are challenges out there for everyone, a new world to explore.’ She kissed me gently. ‘Now, pour me another glass of wine and make yourself useful.’

  We were relaxing by the fire after a wonderful meal when the telephone rang.

  ‘Bit late,’ I said to Beth.

  It was Joseph. ‘Sorry to trouble you, Jack.’

  ‘Not a problem, Joseph. How can I help?’

  ‘I’m ringing as the chair of governors,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, that sounds very formal.’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ said Joseph quietly.

  ‘So what is it?’

  ‘I regret to inform you that I’ve received an official correspondence from Mr Dalton.’ There was a hesitant silence over the telephone. ‘Jack . . . it’s a letter of resignation.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Oxford Blues

  School will reopen on Monday, 15 April.

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

  I parked my Morris Minor Traveller just outside Oxford and paused to drink in the spectacular view. It was Good Friday, 5 April, and a holiday weekend beckoned in one of the great university cities of the world.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ said Beth.

  Our son was with her parents. It was John and Diane’s fortieth wedding anniversary and they had decided to visit Woodstock, a place of happy memories for them. We had agreed they would take our lively toddler with them, leaving us free to wander the streets of Oxford and meet up again at their home in Hampshire on Easter Sunday. A couple of days of complete freedom stretched out before us.

  I smiled and squeezed her hand. ‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘It feels like being on honeymoon again.’

  The expectation in my voice was not lost on Beth as she gave a whimsical look. ‘Not far now to the hotel,’ she said.

  John and Diane had surprised us with the gift of two nights at their favourite hotel, the prestigious Randolph Hotel in the centre of Oxford. They explained it was partly a birthday present for Beth and would also give them precious time with their grandson. Whatever the case, it was welcome and there was a hint that they recognized we could both do with a break away from schoolwork and childcare.

  So it had been fun to sit down and plan our mini-break. We were determined to sample the many colleges with their quadrangles of manicured lawns and honeyed stone, along with the galleries, bookshops and roadside cafés. It was an opportunity simply to wander along the cobbled streets where the domes, rotundas, bell towers and slim spires formed a skyline of ancient beauty.

  The sun was low as we drove into this wonderful city and drank in its history. Many centuries had passed since a Saxon princess, Frideswide, established a monastery where teams of oxen could cross the River Thames at ‘Oxenford’. By the twelfth century it had become a seat of learning and in the thirteenth century halls of residence had been built for the students along with the first of the great colleges, University College, Merton and Balliol. However, for now the Randolph beckoned and we soon realized why John and Diane had spoken so highly of this very special hotel. Built in 1864 to a grand design, it was the perfect base for our holiday.

  After settling into our room, we showered, changed and went downstairs to the dining room for a welcome meal. Beth knew Oxford well and soon, refreshed and relaxed, we left the hotel and walked hand in hand up St Giles’.

  We stopped outside The Eagle and Child public house, known locally as The Bird and Baby. ‘A famous landmark,’ said Beth. ‘You’re treading in the footsteps of your favourite author.’ We walked in, bought a bottle of local beer and a glass of white wine and squeezed into a little booth of dark wood in a smoky corner. It was where a group of Oxford writers, known affectionately as the Inklings and including J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis, used to meet – no doubt to discuss Middle Earth and Narnia. This was precious time, just the two of us, anonymous among the tourists and, so it seemed, without a care in the world.

  It was very late when we returned to the hotel. Our room was spacious and I sat on the bed. ‘Nice and soft,’ I said expectantly and Beth just smiled.

  Early on Saturday morning Beth’s naked body was lying beside mine and she was breathing deeply. I slid quietly out of bed and explored the tea-making facilities. Beth stirred as the kettle boiled.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said sleepily.

  ‘Tea?’ I asked.

  ‘Lovely,’ she replied, leaning on one elbow and looking up at me, ‘. . . unless of course you want to come back to bed.’

  I didn’t need asking twice.

  When we finally opened the curtains the sun was shining and Oxford was waking to a new day. After a magnificent breakfast we walked out of the hotel into Beaumont Street. Beth’s father had given us a local guide book and a street map.

  ‘I know this place well,’ said Beth, taking in the wonderful architecture around us. ‘My parents brought us here when we were children. I’ve so many happy memories. I remember Laura saying the buildings were like fairy castles.’

  ‘How is she?’ I asked.

  ‘Fine, by all accounts,’ said Beth. ‘Dad says they love her in Australia and she’s enjoying her new lifestyle in the Sydney fashion world.’

  Laura had rushed off to Australia like a moth to a new flame and for a moment I reflected on the lovestruck Tom Dalton. I had been saddened when he confirmed he had decided to leave Ragley and I wondered if one day he would follow Laura to the other side of the world. I recalled the effervescent and enigmatic woman I had come to know so well. Her departure had been sudden, impetuous and typical of my dynamic sister-in-law.

  Meanwhile, across the road, the grand neo-classical Ashmolean Museum and its collection of art and antiquities beckoned. ‘So where shall we start?’ I asked.

  Beth had made up her mind. She was eager to see the Sheldonian, so we walked hand in hand up Broad Street. I could understand her enthusiasm when we arrived at this early Christopher Wren masterpiece. Beth’s green eyes were alive with excitement. She loved her history. ‘Isn’t it spectacular, Jack?’ she said as, above our heads, the April sunlight lit up the bearded faces of the carved statu
es that stared out like imposing Roman Caesars.

  ‘A timeless world,’ I said as I relaxed at last and enjoyed this private cocoon of space I shared with the woman I loved. I had brought my camera and had just put in a new roll of film with thirty-six transparencies, enough for a full day of photography, and Beth posed for the first one.

  Across the road was the famous Blackwell’s Bookshop. It was one of the largest in the world and, for me, a literary heaven. Beth immediately recognized my interest. ‘Come on,’ she said with a smile, ‘I know you love your books.’

  After half an hour of browsing, Beth purchased a book of poems by Robert Browning as a gift for me and a brightly illustrated copy of Alice in Wonderland for her school library. We walked out again into the sunshine and stopped by the bridge across New College Lane that linked the Old and New Quads of Hertford College. A passing student happily agreed to take our photograph standing under the ‘Bridge of Sighs’, aptly named owing to the close resemblance to its Venetian namesake.

  ‘Happy?’ I asked and Beth kissed me on the cheek as the young man clicked the shutter.

  Beth’s historical knowledge far exceeded mine and she gave an informative commentary as we meandered into Radcliffe Square. It was dominated by the domed, circular Radcliffe Camera, the great rotunda built to hold the unique library of Dr John Radcliffe, the learned physician to Queen Anne. Then we followed a party of American tourists across the Old Schools Quadrangle outside the world-famous Bodleian Library, said to contain a copy of every book published in Britain.

  When we reached Brasenose College we stared in amazement. Steven Spielberg was filming Young Sherlock Holmes and had arranged for huge quantities of magnesium sulphate to be sprinkled on the windowsills to represent snow. Sadly, there was no sign of the talented American film director, perhaps wearing an ‘ET Phone Home’ T-shirt. So we continued to the High Street, or simply The High as the locals appeared to call it, where we bought two newspapers, an Oxford Times for me and a Times Educational Supplement for Beth.

  ‘How about a coffee?’ suggested Beth.

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘I know just the place,’ she said, taking my hand and leading me into Oriel Street towards three more of Oxford’s beautiful old colleges. We passed Oriel with its Gothic-style front quad and Corpus Christi. It was as if we had stepped back in time as our footsteps echoed on the ancient cobbled stones outside Merton College. The Grand Café beckoned and we stopped for refreshment in this elegant, historic coffee house.