08 Silent Night

by Jack Sheffield

  Now Betty was selecting a book for Elfrida, her sister-in-law. Elfrida was in bed having succumbed to ‘what was going round’. She had decided to miss her weekly visit to the library as she didn’t want to spread whatever it was. This made sense to everyone and demonstrated a level of community spirit that always went down well among Ragley’s literary set. After selecting Chances by Jackie Collins, Betty walked to the Coffee Shop and stared at the bright poster.

  ‘Well, ah’m definitely goin’ t’that,’ she said.

  It read:

  The Coffee Shop will be hosting a ladies only night

  Friday 19th April at 8.00 p.m.

  Belly Dancing for Beginners

  Tuition by Yorkshire’s leading belly dancer

  Brenda Crackett of Thirkby

  No previous experience necessary

  Good for your health and keeping slim

  Followed by coffee and cakes

  Admission £1.00

  Then Betty walked into Prudence Golightly’s General Stores and rummaged in her purse. ‘An’ a packet o’ that Typhoon tea,’ she said.

  ‘That should blow the cobwebs away,’ said Prudence lightly, but the attempt at a joke was lost on Betty. The farmer’s wife was wondering what to wear for an evening of belly dancing.

  At lunchtime in the staff-room Sally had boiled some water for her Batchelors Chicken and Leek Slim a Soup. ‘Only forty calories,’ she reminded us yet again with forced enthusiasm. Meanwhile, Vera had brought in a packet of McVitie’s Cherry and Coconut Country Cookies and we all revelled in the pleasure of our secretary’s superior biscuits. After a split second of soul-searching, Sally selected one. ‘Not quite in my diet regime,’ she said with a wry smile, ‘but lovely anyway.’

  Ted Coggins was having similar concerns about his diet. In the dinner queue he was looking dubiously at his plate of cold ham and salad. The lettuce had been carefully shredded by Mrs Mapplebeck.

  ‘But ah don’t like grass, Miss,’ he said, ‘jus’ proper food.’

  At the end of school I left Vera and Sally chatting in the school office and drove to my meeting in York. I was looking forward to it. The notion of passing on my knowledge of the primary curriculum and classroom management to students appealed to me.

  Ruby came into the office to empty the bin. It was clear that she needed cheering up.

  ‘How are you, Ruby?’ asked Sally.

  ‘Ah’m not ’xactly full o’ t’joys o’ spring, Mrs P,’ said Ruby, shaking her head of chestnut curls, ‘but y’could say ah’m getting’ there,’ she added as an afterthought.

  ‘I’ve got the weekly bags of groceries for your mother,’ said Vera.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs F,’ said Ruby.

  The food was supplied by the Church Support Group, organized by Vera and aimed at helping old folk in need in the village. Ruby’s mother, Agnes, was an appreciative recipient.

  Sally decided to take the initiative. ‘If you give them to me, Vera, I could deliver them on my way home.’

  ‘That’s kind, Sally,’ said Vera. ‘They are in my car.’

  ‘Perhaps Ruby would like to come along with me,’ suggested Sally.

  Ruby smiled. ‘Ah’m reight grateful, Mrs P.’

  Later, when Ruby had finished her cleaning and Sally had marked a pile of topic folders, they set off to Ruby’s mother’s house.

  Agnes was sitting in her battered armchair. Ruby’s mother had spent the afternoon knitting dishcloths. These were regarded with genuine awe and wonder among the villagers of Ragley. Commercially produced dishcloths from the new supermarket on the York ring road were fine, but lacked the substance and cleaning power of Agnes’s rugged, close-knit marvels.

  ‘Mrs Pringle from school ’as give me a lift, Mam,’ said Ruby as she unpacked the groceries.

  ‘And how are you?’ asked Sally.

  ‘M’legs ’ave gone all funny,’ said Agnes.

  However, there was nothing humorous about arthritic knees and Dr Davenport was doing his best for her with a course of painkillers. Even so, Agnes firmly believed her steady improvement was down to Ruby’s regular application of goose grease.

  ‘So y’won’t be goin’ to t’belly dancin’ at Nora’s t’night, Mam?’ said Ruby with a smile.

  ‘M’belly dancin’ days are over,’ she said forlornly. Ruby flushed noticeably with embarrassment as she guessed her mother was recalling other activities in her youth.

  ‘It should be good fun,’ said Sally, but Agnes was going down another track. She looked sternly at Ruby. ‘Well, ah told ’er straight when she were a teenager. If y’go out wi’ boys . . . allus wear a vest.’

  When they left, Sally parked outside 7 School View.

  ‘Thanks, Mrs P,’ said Ruby.

  Sally studied Ruby for a moment. ‘What are you doing tonight, Ruby?’

  ‘Nothing, ah s’ppose,’ said Ruby. ‘Mebbe a bit o’ telly.’

  ‘Right,’ said Sally with conviction. ‘I’ll pick you up at ten to eight and we’ll go to the belly dancing. It should be fun.’

  Ruby’s eyes lit up. ‘Thanks, Mrs P,’ she said. ‘Ah’ll be ready.’

  In the Spraggon household young Alfie was reflecting on an interesting conversation with the relatively worldly-wise Dallas Sue-Ellen Earnshaw.

  ‘Dad,’ he said, ‘where do babies come from?’

  ‘Ask y’mam,’ answered Mr Spraggon without raising his head from the paper.

  ‘Mam, where do babies come from?’

  ‘Ask y’dad,’ said Mrs Spraggon while she flipped over the fish fingers in haste.

  ‘That’s no good, Mam,’ said Alfie, shaking his head, ‘’cause ’e dunt know either.’

  Mr Spraggon looked up from his paper at his wife as she slapped the plates on the table. ‘What’s all t’rush?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah ’ave t’get ready,’ said Mrs Spraggon.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Belly dancin’,’ said Mrs Spraggon.

  In the Earnshaw’s house Mr Earnshaw was more phlegmatic about his wife going out.

  ‘Where’s Mam goin’, Dad?’ asked Terry.

  ‘She’s off to summat t’do wi’ dancin’ in t’Coffee Shop. Ah s’ppose it’s a change from them Tupperware parties she goes to,’ said Mr Earnshaw.

  ‘What’s a Tupperware party, Dad?’ asked Terry.

  ‘Well, women all go t’someone’s ’ouse an’ they look at plastic boxes an’ mebbe buy ’em.’

  Terry smiled. He knew when his dad was pulling his leg. ‘Go on, Dad,’ he said, ‘tell us what they really do.’

  Meanwhile, in The Royal Oak, Big Dave and Little Malcolm had decided on a night in the pub as both Nellie and Dorothy were involved in the belly-dancing event. However, at that moment they had some serious news for Deke Ramsbottom, the Ragley cowboy.

  ‘Deke, we need a word,’ said Big Dave sheepishly, while Little Malcolm shuffled uncomfortably.

  ‘What’s that, lads?’ asked Deke as he supped the last dregs from his tankard and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Big Dave looked left and right and, satisfied no one was within earshot, spoke quietly. ‘It’s personal, Deke.’

  ‘An’ a bit awkward,’ added Little Malcolm.

  Deke put his empty tankard on the bar and frowned. ‘’Ow do y’mean?’

  ‘It’s ’bout Duggie,’ said Big Dave.

  ‘That’s reight,’ added Little Malcolm.

  Big Dave sighed, clearly in difficulty. ‘Malc, get another pint in f’Deke.’

  Little Malcolm took Deke’s tankard to the far end of the bar and Don pulled on the handpump to produce another frothing pint of Tetley’s bitter.

  ‘Spit it out then, Dave,’ said Deke. ‘What about Duggie?’

  ‘Well,’ said Big Dave, ‘since Ronnie passed – God rest ’is soul – your t’nearest thing to a dad to ’im.’

  ‘Ah s’ppose,’ said Deke with an assured nod devoid of all modesty.

  Big Dave coughed, searching for the right words. �
�So y’need t’know what we saw this morning on us rounds.’

  ‘An’ what were that then?’

  Little Malcolm placed the full tankard in front of Deke.

  ‘’Ave a sup first,’ suggested Big Dave.

  The enormity of this conversation was beginning to dawn on Deke and he took a nervous sip. ‘Go on then . . . ’it me with it.’

  ‘We were outside that woman’s house that ’e’s seein’,’ said Big Dave.

  ‘An’ ah could see in t’window,’ said Little Malcolm.

  ‘An’ we saw ’im,’ said Big Dave.

  ‘But ’e couldn’t see us,’ added Little Malcolm conspiratorially.

  ‘An’ we saw ’im doin’ it,’ said Big Dave.

  ‘Large as life – and wi’ t’curtains wide open,’ added Little Malcolm.

  ‘Y’mean a bit of y’know,’ said Deke, ‘. . .’ow’s y’father . . . Umpty Dumpty?’

  Big Dave looked confused. ‘No, nowt like that . . . a lot worse than that.’

  ‘It were terrible t’be’old,’ said Little Malcolm.

  ‘So come on, lads, tell me straight. What were Duggie doin’?’

  Big Dave took a deep breath. ‘’E were ’ooverin’ t’carpet.’

  ‘’Ooverin’ . . .’ooverin’?’ said Deke. ‘Y’mean wi’ a vacuum cleaner?’ Deke was almost apoplectic. ‘Bloody ’ell – in broad daylight?’ He drank deeply and shook his head in disbelief. ‘Lads, ah’m glad y’told me. She’s got ’im under t’thumb. Ah’ll ’ave a stern word wi’ ’im.’ He looked at the members of the Ragley Rovers FC propping up the tap-room bar. ‘T’football team ’as standards – we ’ave a reputation . . . She’ll ’ave ’im washin’ an’ ironin’ next.’

  It’s was Big Dave and Little Malcolm’s turn to recoil. As the eighties progressed, being a male chauvinist was suddenly becoming more difficult. They had survived the first woman prime minister and even the female bus driver in Easington, but this was more than they could bear.

  ‘Anyway, Deke, we thought you ought t’know,’ said Big Dave.

  ‘That’s reight,’ added Little Malcolm.

  Deke picked up his tankard and swigged the final mouthful. ‘Leave it t’me, lads,’ he said confidently. ‘Poor kid’s gone off t’straight an’ narrow. Consider it sorted,’ and he walked out.

  Back at Deke’s home his two eldest sons, Shane and Clint, were about to leave and walk down to the pub.

  ‘’Urry up, Nancy,’ shouted Shane up the stairs. With his skinhead haircut and a grubby Iron Maiden T-shirt he felt well-dressed for the taproom of The Royal Oak.

  Clint was in his bedroom and winced when Shane called him ‘Nancy’. Not for the first time he wished he hadn’t got a psychopathic brother. However, he was pleased with his brand-new colourful ‘Purple Rain’ T-shirt with a picture of Prince on the front, but his Boy George Fashion & Make-up Book had provoked serious thought. Experimenting with different shades of eye shadow took a long time. Life is full of difficult choices, he thought as he stared in the mirror.

  Shortly before eight o’clock Beth arrived at The Royal Oak and was sitting at a bay window table as I walked in.

  I kissed her on the cheek. ‘White wine?’

  ‘Yes please,’ she said and glanced up at the ‘Dish of the Day’ on the chalkboard. It was fish, chips and mushy peas, ‘and the special’.

  At the bar I placed my order and Don pulled a pint of Chestnut for me.

  ‘So where’s Sheila tonight?’ I asked.

  ‘Out,’ said Don abruptly. It was Friday night and The Oak was busy. ‘Gone t’that belly dancing at Nora’s,’ he said in a loud and slightly irritated voice. The image of the shapely and scantily clad Sheila gyrating her substantial bits and pieces around the floor of the Coffee Shop briefly flickered through the minds of the Ragley Rovers football team.

  ‘There were a lot o’ laughin’ an’ gigglin’ an’ suchlike when ah walked past,’ said Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough, ‘but ah couldn’t see in ’cause curtains were shut.’

  Up the Morton Road, Petula Dudley-Palmer was about to leave for the Coffee Shop, and Geoffrey, much to his annoyance, had to stay in to make sure Elisabeth Amelia and Victoria Alice went to bed on time.

  ‘What time will you be back?’ he asked not once but twice.

  Petula was looking forward to her night out, as it was rare for her to go anywhere with Geoffrey. She had taken advantage of her Radio Times Reader Offer and purchased a burgundy velour leisure suit. With its elasticated waist, ribbed crew neck and raglan sleeves, along with her Chris Evert trainers, she knew she looked like a modern eighties woman. She picked up her Jane Fonda ethnic shoulder bag and set off full of anticipation.

  In the Post Office, Amelia Duff was sitting behind her counter, sipping tea from her 1935 King George V Silver Jubilee mug, a present from her father, and thinking of Ted Postlethwaite. Last night he had asked her a question, an important one, and she was wondering how to respond.

  It was after Ted had fallen asleep that she had looked at his weather-worn face and thought in the stillness of the night that love is not finding someone you want to live with . . . love is finding someone you can’t live without.

  Amelia had been the Ragley village postmistress since 1965 but close friends were few. There were no confidantes with whom to share a special secret. She sighed. It was at times like this that she missed her father, Athol Duff, and his quiet manner and good advice. She wondered what he would have thought of the Ragley postman with his thoughtful gestures and kind words . . . and companionship.

  Finally, deep in thought, she set off for the Coffee Shop.

  By the time Sally and Ruby arrived the place was packed.

  Nora stood up. ‘Thanks f’comin’, ladies,’ she said, ‘an’ please give a weally big Wagley welcome to Bwenda.’

  Brenda was wearing a chiffon-topped crop, complete with tassles that seemed to rotate indiscriminately, plus bright purple harem trousers with an elasticated waist that accentuated her prodigious tummy.

  ‘Bloomin’ ’eck,’ whispered Betty Buttle to Margery Ackroyd. ‘Ah’ve seen some legs in m’time, but them are like tree trunks.’

  ‘An’ look at that bra,’ added Margery in astonishment.

  ‘Like a couple o’ buckets,’ said Betty.

  Brenda stubbed out her Castella cigar, put on some music that she was reliably informed was popular in a Turkish brothel and began the demonstration.

  ‘It all comes from yer knees, ladies,’ she explained, ‘an’ that meks yer ’ips rotate.’

  ‘She sounds ’usky,’ observed Betty.

  ‘Dorothy said she’d ’eard she’d ’ad an operation at back of ’er throat,’ said Margery, ‘be’ind ’er tonsils.’

  ‘She’s mebbe ’ad ’er haemorrhoids out,’ suggested Betty helpfully.

  Nora and Dorothy were the first to volunteer to belly dance.

  ‘Ah’m not weally sure about wotatin’ ’ips,’ said Nora. ‘Mine can go left an’ wight, but not wownd an’ wownd.’

  As the night wore on the ladies of Ragley relaxed and soon they were all trying to master the art of belly dancing. It was generally agreed that Ruby was a natural and when Sally drove her home our school caretaker was like her old self again.

  ‘Thanks for askin’ me, Mrs P,’ said Ruby. ‘Best night ah can remember for ages,’ and she slept the sleep of the peaceful mind.

  It was very late when Petula arrived home. The house was dark and she walked quietly into the bedroom. Geoffrey’s shirt had been discarded on the bedroom floor.

  She picked it up and buried her face in its folds.

  A silly habit, she thought, but the scent always helped her recall happy times when they were first married.

  She was surprised. The scent wasn’t one she recognized. It didn’t seem to smell of Geoffrey any more.

  Perhaps I’ve just forgotten, she thought.

  Back at Bilbo Cottage we paid Natasha and I drove her home.

  Beth was stirring two m
ugs of milky coffee when I returned.

  ‘So how are you now?’ I asked. We had talked about her initial disappointment at not getting an interview.

  Beth smiled. ‘I was a bit down,’ she said, ‘but I’m fine now. It’ll happen when it’s the right time.’

  ‘Disappointed you didn’t go to belly dancing for beginners?’ I teased.

  Beth smiled and her green eyes were mirrors of my thoughts.

  I sipped the coffee. ‘This will keep me awake.’

  Beth stretched up and kissed me on the lips. ‘John sleeps right through the night now,’ she said with that mischievous look I knew so well. ‘So we could have an early night.’

  Two hours later we were both lying naked on the bed. Beth was resting her head on the crook of my arm and breathing softly.

  She murmured something.

  ‘What did you say?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m just glad you’re not a beginner.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Only a Girl

  School closed today for the May Day Bank Holiday weekend and will reopen on Tuesday, 7 May.

  The school cricket team will be playing against Morton School on Saturday, 4 May. Members of staff will be supporting the village VE celebrations.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 3 May 1985

  It was Friday, 3 May and the swallows had returned to their familiar nesting places in the eaves of Bilbo Cottage. The season was moving on and in the distance a gentle breeze stirred the sea of grass. I opened the bedroom window and heard the bleating of lambs while the fragrant scents of a perfect May morning hung in the air. The woods were carpeted with bluebells and a thrush with its speckled breast trilled a song of spring. It was the end of the third week of the summer term and an eventful Bank Holiday weekend was in store.

  Vera was already busy on the telephone when I arrived in the school office. ‘Yes, Winnie,’ she said. ‘That’s wonderful news. Come to the WI tent tomorrow morning and I’ll be there to help you with the display.’

  She put down the receiver. ‘That was Winifred Buttershaw, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘A formidable lady . . . she was a Land Girl during the war.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to meeting her,’ I said.