08 Silent Night

by Jack Sheffield

‘You certainly won’t forget her,’ said Vera with a smile. ‘She’s had an interesting life.’ Then she glanced down at her notepad. ‘Mr Dalton has offered to help erect the WI tent, I’ve prepared a note to go out asking for wartime memorabilia and Mr Piercy and Mr Jenkins have volunteered to umpire the cricket match against Morton. So it’s good that the school is seen to be supporting the VE celebrations.’

  ‘Thank you, Vera,’ I said and reflected on how lucky we were to have such a dedicated secretary.

  An exciting weekend was in store. The village was gearing up to celebrate the fortieth anniversary of Victory in Europe Day. On the BBC news we were reminded that on 30 April 1945 Adolf Hitler had killed himself, rapidly followed on 7 May by the surrender of all the German forces in the West to General Eisenhower. The next day, on 8 May, England celebrated Victory in Europe Day. Forty years later, the ladies of the Ragley Women’s Institute were unravelling colourful bunting from the wickerwork baskets in the village hall and seeking out old wartime recipes for a few days of nostalgia in the village.

  There was a knock on the door. It was Danny Hardacre with his right arm in a sling and his mother looking as crestfallen as her son.

  ‘Bad news, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Danny fell off his bike last night. We took him to A & E in York and the X-ray showed a broken collarbone.’

  ‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘How are you feeling, Danny?’

  ‘It’s a bit sore, Mr Sheffield, and I won’t be able t’play tomorrow . . . but I can clean the blackboard left-handed.’ Danny always took his monitor job very seriously.

  ‘Well, perhaps not for quite a while yet,’ said Mrs Hardacre.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ I said. ‘What is important is that you get better.’ Danny was quiet but he was a sensible boy and I knew he understood. ‘So what would you like Danny to do today?’

  ‘Probably best he stays with me, but perhaps you could let him take some maths and English home and I’ll bring it back next week.’

  ‘That’s fine, Mrs Hardacre,’ I said. ‘Just go into the classroom and help yourself.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Sheffield.’ She paused in the doorway. ‘He’s so disappointed. You’ll need a new opening batsman, I’m afraid.’

  And a new captain, I thought.

  It was just before morning break that I spoke to Charlotte. She had completed a series of algebraic equations and was standing by my desk as I wrote ‘Excellent’ at the foot of the page.

  ‘Charlotte,’ I said quietly, ‘I’m afraid Danny can’t play in the cricket match tomorrow. He fell off his bicycle and injured himself. So would you like to be captain?’

  Charlotte was disappointed to hear the news about Danny but thrilled to be made captain of the team. ‘Oooh, yes please, Mr Sheffield!’ It was a joy to see her excitement. ‘Can ah tell m’mam? She’ll be so ’appy.’

  ‘Go to the office and tell Mrs Forbes-Kitchener that I’ve asked you to use the telephone to ring your mother.’

  Charlotte was gone in a flash and I was pleased that I had made it a special day for this hard-working and positive girl. The fact that Mrs Ackroyd was the village gossip wasn’t uppermost in my mind at that moment.

  After morning break our local bobby, PC Julian Pike, arrived to take charge of the first weekly session of Cycling Proficiency. The children were taught to ride safely and look after their bicycles. A certificate and a metal badge was the prize at the end of the course.

  He had arrived in his little van and unloaded cardboard traffic lights and old hosepipes to mark out the ‘roads’. A row of plastic cones had been arranged so that the children could weave in and out of them. It was serious business, but PC Pike made it great fun.

  At lunchtime I supervised the preparations for our games afternoon. Today it included the oldest children in the school, in Sally’s class and mine.

  Our programme of summer sport had begun well. With the support of a few parents we had been able to offer a range of activities so that the children could choose their preferred summer sport. I was in charge of cricket with John Grainger, Anne and Kitty Eckersley supervised rounders and hockey, while Miss Flint and Petula Dudley-Palmer came in to support the children who wanted to play a short form of tennis on the playground.

  Our cricket team had already been a great success, probably the best I had ever known, thanks in the main to the bowling of Danny Hardacre and the hard-hitting batting of Charlotte Ackroyd, the only girl in the team. Charlotte could also throw a ball with astonishing accuracy and bowl like the wind. She was the primary-school equivalent of Ian Botham. Best of all, she simply loved to play. They were all looking forward to tomorrow’s cricket match against Morton on the hallowed square of Ragley’s cricket ground.

  Sadly, as always, a few children missed out owing to medical problems. Two letters excusing their children from physical education were particularly noteworthy. The first read, ‘Dear Mr Sheffield, Please excuse our Hayley from PE as she has bazookers on her right foot.’ The second was almost as graphic. ‘Dear Mr Sheffield, Ryan had better miss PE. He had a problem with his chest but we shifted it.’

  The games lesson went well and Charlotte managed to hit a ball over the cycle-shed roof. While the children were getting changed afterwards I called in to Anne’s classroom.

  In the carpeted Home Corner children were busy playing while imitating the tasks of their parents. Madonna Fazackerly and Julie Tricklebank were ironing clothes on the tiny ironing board, Hermione Jackson was preparing a meal and her sister, Honeysuckle, was setting the table. However, little Alfie Spraggon was sitting on a beanbag and staring blankly at the wall.

  ‘What are you doing, Alfie?’ I asked.

  He continued to stare into space. ‘Ah’m watchin’ t’football, Mr Sheffield, an’ waiting for m’tea.’

  It occurred to me that the equality of the sexes still had some way to go in this tiny corner of North Yorkshire. I was about to suggest that young Alfie should help with the chores when Vera looked round the door. ‘There’s a parent to see you, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera with a wary look. ‘I’ve put him in the staff-room.’

  It was George Spraggon, father of Frankie in my class.

  ‘Ah’ve jus ’eard t’news about Danny,’ he said. ‘Bad business.’

  ‘Yes, we’re all hoping he recovers soon.’

  ‘Thing is, Mr Sheffield, word’s goin’ round t’village you’ve made young Charlotte captain o’ t’cricket team.’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Spraggon, I have.’

  He looked aghast. ‘So it’s true, then?’

  ‘Yes, Charlotte is an outstanding player.’

  ‘So y’didn’t think o’ my Frankie, then?’

  ‘Frankie is a good player. I’m sure you must be very proud of him and, of course, he’s still got another year in my class.’

  ‘Ah’ve been ’ere in Ragley man an’ boy, long afore you arrived, Mr Sheffield,’ he said with feeling, ‘an’ we’ve allus been proud of t’sports teams.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

  ‘But can’t y’see, you’ll mek us a laughin’ stock. Cricket is f’boys an’ rounders is f’girls. That’s ’ow it’s allus been.’

  ‘I’m afraid I disagree. That’s why we give boys and girls a chance.’

  ‘So y’won’t change y’mind, then?’

  ‘No, Mr Spraggon, there’s no need. Charlotte is a fine all-round cricketer.’

  He turned away in disgust and paused. ‘But, she’s only a girl.’

  He left the door swinging on its hinges.

  Vera came in and began to prepare our cups of afternoon tea. ‘Everything all right, Mr Sheffield? I heard Mr Spraggon’s raised voice.’

  ‘Fine, thank you, Vera,’ I said. ‘Just a misunderstanding.’

  ‘But not on your part,’ said Vera with a reassuring smile and I settled down with a welcome cup of tea.

  By the open window, Sally was reading her Woman magazine. Jane Fonda, the forty-seven-year-old actress with th
e body of a much younger woman, was describing how to survive the mid-life crisis. Sally sighed deeply and moved swiftly on to Miriam Stoppard’s responses to the health problems of concerned readers. Finally, undeterred, she had spent twelve pence on a Cadbury’s Skippy bar as her afternoon treat and, following a moment’s hesitation, she ate it quickly to lessen the guilt.

  It was evening and darkness had fallen on the Crescent. Anne Grainger had found a few items for the Second World War display, including a ration book and John’s old gas mask. Then she settled down in her favourite armchair to relax with a good book and a glass of white wine.

  Anne had recently joined the Literary Guild Book Club and her first two purchases had arrived recently. For John she had selected The Complete Encyclopedia of DIY and Home Maintenance, while for herself she had chosen The Complete Book of Love and Sex. It occurred to her that she might as well make up for what she was missing by reading about it. As usual, John appeared oblivious to everything around him as he immersed himself in his new book.

  Meanwhile, the television was murmuring away in the corner, advertising the new series of Thora Hird’s Praise Be! followed by a reminder of Sunday evening’s episode of Juliet Bravo, starring Anna Carteret as Inspector Kate Longton. Anne couldn’t help but notice the speed with which John suddenly bookmarked the section on ceramic tiling to ogle at the slim policewoman as she solved another case. It crossed Anne’s mind that John’s sex drive might be stimulated by women in uniforms and she vaguely wondered if her mother’s 1950s nurse’s outfit was still in a suitcase in the loft.

  On Saturday morning the radios of Ragley were switched on to greet the new day. Ruby’s daughters were listening to Peter Powell’s Radio 1 show and joining in with Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Dancing In The Dark’. Anne Grainger had tuned in to David Jacobs on Radio 2 and was humming along to the Phil Collins hit ‘One More Night’ while Vera, faithful to Radio 3, found Delius’s ‘Song Of The High Hills’ as soothing as her cup of Earl Grey.

  When I drove up Ragley High Street the first pink blossom on the cherry trees was bursting into life. I parked in the school car park and walked down to the village hall. It was good to be alive on this lovely day. The month of May was always a joy and the village hall looked a picture with an early-flowering honeysuckle scrambling over the entrance porch.

  Inside, Vera was working with a slim, grey-haired lady preparing a display of Land Army memorabilia. ‘This is my friend Winnie, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘She was in the Land Army and has brought in some photographs of her time working on a farm in Buckinghamshire.’

  I helped them erect the display boards, during which time I learned much about Winifred Buttershaw, who was keen to talk about her life. Winnie, as she was known affectionately to her friends, lived alongside the Ragley sports field in the Hartford Home for Retired Gentlefolk, an imposing red-brick Victorian building. Hidden behind a tall yew hedge, it was set in two acres of attractive private land. In its former glory it had served as a military hospital during the Second World War and here the injured members of the armed forces were nursed back to health.

  ‘I lived in the Park Hill flats in Sheffield,’ said Winifred. ‘It was the architect’s vision of the future – practical, cheap, high-density housing in the centre of a city. It was a utopian dream and modern communal living for the working classes.’ Her eyes were shining, the memories vivid. ‘They made sure that neighbours stayed together after they pulled down the back-to-back slums and they used the old street names. It was a mini-village. Whoever designed it thought of everything – newsagents, clothes shops, hairdressers, a café.’

  ‘It sounds a good place to bring up a family,’ I said.

  ‘It was, Mr Sheffield,’ agreed Winnie. ‘We learned about friendship, helping each other, and we did our courting there.’ Her cheeks flushed at the memory. ‘I worked in Dempsey’s Shoe Shop and I met my Stanley in The Scottish Queen pub. He was a steelworker and after we were married I thought it was paradise. We had hot water, central heating, three bedrooms – it was like a palace.’

  ‘Good memories,’ I said.

  She smiled the warmest of smiles. ‘There was a name for where we lived.’

  ‘And what was that?’ I asked.

  ‘Streets in the sky, Mr Sheffield – streets in the sky.’

  Across the High Street the first customers were filling the tables in Nora’s Coffee Shop and it was clear that teenagers Claire Bradshaw and Anita Cuthbertson had long since left their Jackie magazines far behind.

  Claire had picked up a spare copy of a Woman magazine. It was advertising a good sex guide for inexperienced couples, Make It Happy by Jane Cousins. Readers were invited to write to Virginia Ironside to discuss their sexual problems.

  ‘It sez ’ere summat about vaginismus,’ said Anita.

  ‘What’s that when it’s at ’ome?’ asked Claire. ‘It sounds painful.’

  ‘It sez “tensing of the vaginal muscles”,’ Anita read out. ‘Mebbe that’s what ah’ve got.’

  ‘You’ll ’ave t’tell me,’ said Claire, ‘’cause me an’ Kenny ’aven’t done it yet.’

  ‘An’ ah y’gonna let ’im?’ asked Anita.

  ‘Mebbe nex’ month, when ’is mam an’ dad go t’Skegness.’

  Meanwhile, behind the counter, Nora kept popping into the back room to see Desmond Lynam on Saturday Grandstand. Nora’s pin-up was introducing the Rugby League Silk Cut Challenge Cup Final between Wigan and Hull from Wembley Stadium and she decided to ask Tyrone if he would mind growing a moustache.

  Down the street in Old Tommy Piercy’s butcher’s shop, Betty Buttle’s farmer husband, Harry, was delivering his wife’s shopping list before catching the bus to Easington market.

  ‘’Ere’s Betty’s order t’collect later, Tommy,’ he said.

  ‘So where y’goin’ in such a ’urry?’ asked Old Tommy.

  ‘Ah’m tekkin m’wife t’market,’ said Harry.

  ‘Ah ’ope y’get a good price for ’er,’ retorted Old Tommy quick as a flash.

  Harry grinned until he saw Betty walking purposefully past the shop window and his smile faded. ‘So do I,’ he said with feeling.

  Old Tommy smiled wistfully. It was a long time now since his wife had died and he had never fancied another woman. As far as Old Tommy was concerned, he was an old dog and it was too late for new tricks.

  William Featherstone’s Reliance bus was parked by the village green and, in the queue, mothers and children were enjoying the sunshine and in no hurry to clamber aboard. As was his way, William, in his brown bus driver’s jacket, welcomed each passenger by doffing his peaked cap and chatting with his regulars.

  ‘That’s right, Mrs Whittaker,’ he said with a friendly smile, ‘it’s free for young Sam if he’s still five.’

  Next in the queue was Mrs Ricketts with six-year-old Billy. She crouched down and whispered in Billy’s ear, ‘If t’driver asks, tell ’im you’re five.’

  ‘Why, Mam?’ asked Billy.

  ‘Jus’ shurrup an’ do as y’told,’ ordered Mrs Ricketts.

  ‘’Ello, Mrs Ricketts, an’ ’ow are you today?’

  ‘Fine thank you, Mr Featherstone,’ said Mrs Ricketts as she pushed young Billy up the steps of the bus.

  ‘’Ello, Billy,’ said William, staring down at the strapping young boy. ‘And how old are you?’

  Billy glanced nervously at his mother. ‘Ah’m five.’

  ‘And when will you be six?’ asked William.

  Billy pondered this for a moment. ‘When ah get off t’bus,’ he said. William gave Mrs Ricketts a knowing look and said nothing.

  Petula Dudley-Palmer was shopping in Brown’s department store in York. She had begun to take Pro Plus tablets. They were supposed to ‘give you go’ and she needed a pick-me-up. Geoffrey hadn’t come home last night. He had said there was a crisis at the Rowntree factory and all the management team needed to be there. ‘Trust me,’ he had said . . . but she didn’t.

  ‘I’m not sleepin
g well,’ said Petula to the young assistant in the bedroom department.

  ‘This is t’answer t’your prayers, Miss,’ said Dennis, the trainee of the year. ‘It’s a Dreamland Electric Underblanket.’

  It was a long time since she had been called ‘Miss’ and Petula smiled at the spotty youth. ‘Yes, I saw it in my catalogue.’

  ‘It’s gorra padded lining,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Jus’ feel that.’

  ‘Lovely and soft,’ said Petula appreciatively.

  ‘An’ it’ll warm y’bed jus’ perfec’,’ said Dennis.

  ‘Is it easy to use?’ asked Petula.

  ‘Simple as y’twelve times table,’ said Dennis, recalling his C grade in O-level mathematics. His mother had been so proud of his certificate she had framed it and hung it in the downstairs toilet.

  Petula wished he had selected a better example. She had always had trouble with nine times twelve. It was not the moment to reveal she would have been a non-starter on The Krypton Factor.

  ‘Y’jus’ set t’independent comfort control,’ said Dennis, ‘an’ Bob’s yer uncle.’

  ‘Really?’ said Petula, still not entirely convinced.

  However, Dennis had saved the best until last. ‘It ’as revolutionary safety features – you’ll be at t’cuttin’ edge of modern living. T’nineties ’as arrived, Miss . . . in t’eighties.’

  Petula smiled. ‘I’ll take two,’ she said. After all, a spare would be welcome in the guest bedroom. The fact that no one ever came to stay never crossed her mind.

  Back on the sports field Tom and I had helped the Earnshaw boys to erect the huge WI refreshment marquee. Don and Sheila Bradshaw set up a makeshift bar on trestle tables at one end and Vera and a group of WI ladies were preparing their refreshment stall with a Baby Burco boiler plus sandwiches and cakes of all shapes and sizes. The excitement was building.

  In the village hall, Winifred Buttershaw was sitting next to her Land Army display with a group of girls from Ragley School, including Charlotte Ackroyd. They were looking at a poster of the iconic image of the Land Girl in her corduroy breeches, green jumper and brown felt hat.