08 Silent Night

by Jack Sheffield

‘Girls, during the Second World War two hundred thousand women joined the Women’s Land Army and I was one of them,’ said Winifred. ‘In 1939 we were importing sixty per cent of our food. We had to produce more eggs, milk, fruit and vegetables to feed the nation and many of our male farmworkers had gone off to war. So the female population responded to the challenge.’ It was a rousing speech.

  Charlotte Ackroyd raised her hand. ‘What did y’do before that, Miss?’

  ‘We were typists and shop girls. I was a trainee window-dresser in Busby’s department store in Bradford.’

  ‘An’ what were it like workin’ on a farm?’ asked Sonia Tricklebank.

  ‘It was a good life,’ said Winifred with a smile, ‘although rat-catching and muck-spreading weren’t to my liking.’

  All the girls grimaced at the thought.

  ‘But I drove a combine harvester and felt very grand,’ said Winifred proudly. She pointed to an old, faded pair of brown dungarees. ‘And these were made in Leeds at the Montague Burton store, the clothing manufacturer, so we were dressed to cope with the work and the weather.’

  ‘Did it make you a different person?’ asked Charlotte.

  Winifred studied the intense stare of the leggy young girl and considered her answer. ‘They said I couldn’t do men’s work because I was only a girl . . . but I showed ’em.’

  The girls wandered off to get some orange juice and a slice of Mary Hardisty’s plum cake, but Charlotte hung back. ‘I’m playing in t’cricket wi’ all t’boys,’ she said simply. ‘Mr Sheffield made me captain.’

  Winifred smiled. ‘Then you must be good, so go out and do your best.’

  On my way to join Beth and John in the refreshment tent I stopped to talk to Ruby. George Dainty had brought two folding chairs and a small picnic table and he and Ruby had settled with a cool drink to watch the cricket. As the Ragley children walked out on to the field we joined in the applause.

  Deirdre Coe and her brother Stan walked by. ‘’S’all right f’some,’ sneered Deirdre with a fierce scowl in Ruby’s direction.

  ‘Who burst your balloon?’ shouted Ruby with a speedy riposte.

  Stan Coe and I had history . . . ever since he was removed from the school’s governing body. ‘You’ve done it this time, Mr ’Eadteacher,’ he sneered. ‘A girl as cricket captain.’

  Deirdre grabbed his arm before I could reply and they walked off to the beer tent.

  ‘Y’know what she’s like,’ said Ruby. ‘She can ’ave an argument wi’out speakin’.’

  ‘Tek no notice, Ruby,’ said George.

  ‘She’s a reight frosty chops is that one,’ Ruby went on. ‘Not a civil word in ’er . . . never gives yer t’time o’ day.’

  ‘Never mind, Ruby, let’s enjoy the cricket,’ I said.

  ‘An’ ’er brother’s no better,’ continued Ruby. ‘Word ’as it ’e’s buyin’ land at t’back of t’council estate . . . ’E mus’know summat.’

  George suddenly looked concerned and gave me a knowing look.

  ‘As sure as eggs is eggs, ’e’s up t’no good an’ she’s a proper ’ussy, Mr Sheffield,’ concluded Ruby. ‘Ah wouldn’t trust ’er as far as ah could throw ’er.’

  Judging by the breadth and girth of Deirdre Coe, that wouldn’t have been far, but I declined to air a view that lacked true Christian spirit.

  The cricket match between the children of Ragley and Morton proved a great success and the umpires, Old Tommy Piercy and Albert Jenkins, did their job with sensitivity and lots of support for the children. The teams were well matched, with the exception of Charlotte Ackroyd, who took five wickets with her fast bowling, made a couple of good catches and, when Ragley batted, she crashed a speedy twenty-five runs to win the game.

  At the end both teams were clapped off the field and I spotted Winifred walk up to Charlotte. ‘Well done,’ she said.

  ‘Like y’said, Miss,’ said Charlotte, ‘ah showed ’em.’

  Back in the beer tent I noticed Stan and Deirdre Coe had made a hasty retreat. Beth had wheeled John’s pushchair up to the makeshift bar where Sheila was serving in her skin-tight leather trousers, bare midriff and sparkly boob-tube.

  ‘’Ow’s young John these days, Mrs Sheffield?’ asked Sheila as she poured a glass of white wine and an orange juice.

  ‘Very lively,’ said Beth with a grin. ‘Into all the cupboards and generally running us ragged.’

  Then Sheila pulled a half of Chestnut for me. ‘That’s t’problem,’ she said. ‘Babies don’t come wi’ manuals. Y’jus’ go along an’ do what y’think is right,’ and Beth smiled.

  Back in Bilbo Cottage Beth prepared an evening meal while I played with John on the lounge carpet. The television in the corner was advertising this evening’s Eurovision Song Contest. Our hopes were pinned on ‘Love is’ by Vikki, but no one appeared too optimistic. When The Keith Harris Show with Orville the Duck appeared, John put down his building bricks, stared in fascination at the green duck and smiled.

  It was long after John’s bedtime when Beth said, ‘Can we talk?’

  A little reluctantly I switched off Match of the Day with Jimmy Hill and turned to face her.

  ‘I’m going to apply for another headship,’ she said and passed over her copy of the Times Educational Supplement.

  She had my full attention now.

  ‘There are a number of really big schools similar to the Scarborough headship,’ she said, ‘but there’s one coming up in York. It’s a medium-sized school, so I would stand a better chance. Perhaps I ought to wait for that one.’

  ‘Sounds a good idea,’ I said, ‘but it’s a shame you can’t get some interview experience first. That would be helpful.’ I looked at the page of headship posts. ‘There’s a large North Yorkshire school here in Pickering,’ I suggested, pointing at the list.

  ‘And an even larger one down in Hampshire,’ said Beth.

  My heart sank. ‘Hampshire?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Beth. She looked doubtful. ‘The chances of getting an interview are so remote.’

  ‘I agree,’ I said. ‘The Hampshire one really is a long shot, but they’re all for a January start, so if the interview for the North Yorkshire post comes up first they may want to check you out before they shortlist the one in York.’

  ‘I suppose it might work out that way,’ said Beth. She was clearly toying with the idea.

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘I’m going to keep trying,’ she said with determination.

  ‘Good for you,’ I said.

  ‘Even though I’m only a woman,’ she added for good measure.

  I just smiled.

  It had been that sort of day.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A Fish Called Walter

  Interviews took place today for the post of Class 2 teacher. Preparations were made for the visit to Hornsea by Classes 1 and 2 on Friday, 7 June.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Wednesday, 5 June 1985

  It was a new dawn. Behind the distant hills a shimmering disc of golden light emerged in the eastern sky. The countryside was waking and an eventful day was in store. It was Wednesday, 5 June and interviews for the post of Class 2 teacher were due to take place in the afternoon.

  The sun was warm as I drove on the back road to Ragley. In Twenty Acre Field tall stalks of green, unripe barley rippled in the gentle breeze and sinuous shadows danced across the land. Above me the starlings wheeled in close formation and, beyond the tableland of the North Yorkshire moors, the distant hills were daubed with purple heather like the broad streaks of a child’s painting.

  I parked my Morris Minor Traveller and looked back with satisfaction as the yellow-and-chrome AA badge sparkled in the morning sunlight. Then I paused in the car park and soaked up the warmth. The school looked a picture on this fine morning and the pinks bordering the flower bed outside Sally’s classroom were opening up. Across the village green and above the distant pantile rooftops the sharp screaming of swifts could be h
eard before they swooped up the Morton Road towards the church. It was a perfect North Yorkshire morning and the world felt clean and new.

  A group of children whose parents worked in York were always in the playground half an hour before school started. In the entrance porch Sally was working with a group of them, planting trailing geraniums, purple lobelia and bright mesembryanthemums in two large wooden tubs.

  Vera looked up when I walked into the office. ‘We’re all set for the interviews, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘and the candidates have all confirmed they will arrive in time for lunch.’ She looked at her notepad. ‘Also, Mr Featherstone rang back to say he’ll be outside school in his coach at nine o’clock on Friday for the trip to Hornsea.’

  ‘Thanks, Vera,’ I said. ‘An interesting few days.’

  Sally came in, removing her gardening gloves. ‘And the weather forecast is perfect for the rest of the week.’

  It was a busy morning. The children were excited about their school journey to the east coast and we spent some time studying road maps of the route and talking about what we might see in Hornsea. Sally had prepared a series of worksheets with information about the planned activities, including a boat trip, seeing the Mute swans on Hornsea Mere and visiting the coastline.

  When the bell went for morning break I called in to Tom’s class. He had been talking about family trees and the discussion had moved on to grandparents. Tom had followed this up with a writing exercise and he hurried from one child to another to assist with spellings and punctuation. I walked around reading some of the responses. They were all enlightening.

  Scott Higginbottom had written in neat printing, ‘Grandparents are old people and they don’t have any children. They just have grandchildren.’ Mandy Kerslake clearly wasn’t too impressed: ‘My grandad and grandma don’t do anything. They just sit at home and wait for us to visit.’ Jeremy Urquhart was much more complimentary: ‘When they take us for a walk they are different to my mummy and daddy cos they stop next to interesting things like flowers and trees and gravestones and buildings and streets with cobbles and butterflies and robins and those birds that fly dead still over roads looking for mice.’

  Charlie Cartwright wrote, ‘I like it when my great-grandma helps me read. She never says hurry up, like my mummy does, and she doesn’t miss bits out of the story. At night she takes out her teeth and gums and puts them in a glass of water. It must be easy for her to clean her teeth. I wish I could do this, it would be a lot easier than brushing them.’

  Katie Icklethwaite was particularly appreciative: ‘They never say hurry up and they always button up my coat to the top.’ Rufus Snodgrass wrote on a similar theme: ‘My grandma reads stories to me lots of times and she never gets fed up. I like Three Billy Goats Gruff and she does the troll really scary. She’s better than the telly because she answers my questions.’

  Finally, Ted Coggins took a graphic approach. ‘Last time we went to visit I saw my grandma’s big knickers on the radiator and her teeth and gums were in a big jam jar behind the telly.’

  In my class it was just before lunch when Charlotte Ackroyd made a predictable announcement without appearing to look up from the map of Yorkshire’s east coast in her topic book: ‘Mini Clubman Estate coming up t’drive, Mr Sheffield.’

  The first of the interviewees had arrived. It was Ms Pat Brookside.

  She was a tall, slim, leggy twenty-seven-year-old blonde who had taught the infant age range for the past five years at Thirkby Primary School. Ms Brookside was a strong candidate who had made the shortlist last year when Tom had been appointed.

  Charlie Cartwright met her as she walked from the car park towards the entrance steps. ‘’Ello, Miss, ah saw you las’ year,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘Oh yes?’ replied Pat, somewhat confused.

  ‘That were when Mr Dalton ’elped me wi’ m’spider ’cause it only ’ad seven legs,’ said Charlie with a sad shake of his head. The memory was clearly still sharp and vivid.

  ‘Seven legs?’ repeated Pat, none the wiser.

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ said Charlie. ‘M’spider ’ad lost a leg an’ Mr Dalton put ’im back in t’school ’edgerow t’get better.’

  ‘That sounds a good idea,’ said Pat.

  They had reached the entrance steps but Charlie wasn’t quite finished. ‘Y’see, Miss, ah love spiders an’ worms an’ beetles an’ frogs an’ suchlike . . . but spiders are m’favourite.’

  He wandered off, content with his life, to practise three-legged racing with Rufus Snodgrass on the school field. Pat Brookside smiled and walked in.

  The other interviewees arrived in quick succession. John Birk, a science student from St John’s College in York appeared on a motorbike that caused great interest from the children on the playground. Sandra Collins, a recently qualified teacher from a primary school in Malton, bounced up the cobbled drive in a Citroën 2CV with its bungee suspension, while Dawn Freeman, an experienced infant teacher from Easington Primary School, was dropped off at the school gate by her husband driving a swish two-door Opel Manta.

  Vera had cleared my desk so that it was as tidy as hers and then borrowed a tin of furniture polish from Ruby’s store to restore a shine to both surfaces. Then, in neat alignment, she laid out a manila folder, an A4 notepad and a new Berol rollerball pen for each member of the interviewing panel. This comprised Joseph, as chair of governors; Rupert, representing the rest of the governing body; our local adviser, Richard Gomersall, from County Hall; Anne and myself.

  The interviews went smoothly and, as usual, we saw the candidates in alphabetical order. John Birk, with his wavy thatch of uncontrollable brown hair and black-framed spectacles, looked scarily like a boyish version of me when he walked in and Anne caught my eye with a knowing wide-eyed smile. He was keen and articulate and certainly ‘one for the future’, as Richard Gomersall later described him.

  Pat Brookside was outstanding. We had interviewed her a year before but this time she appeared much more confident. She had been on a computer course and her knowledge of the curriculum was good. She offered to support extra-curricular activities and run the netball team if appointed. As a county-standard player herself, this seemed appropriate. At the end of the interview Joseph asked why she wanted to move from Thirkby. ‘I’ve just moved in with a new partner,’ she said, ‘and he lives in Easington.’

  Joseph blinked at the directness of this positive and forthright young woman.

  Sandra Collins was another determined candidate. She had clearly formulated a career structure and experience in a small village school was part of that progression before she would move on. I was impressed.

  Dawn Freeman from Easington was something of a disappointment. She was simply looking for a change and criticized her current school in a disparaging manner. She clearly believed she would be doing us a great favour if appointed. Richard Gomersall and the Major were unimpressed. However, her knowledge of recent changes in the primary curriculum was very good.

  The post-interview discussion centred on two candidates.

  ‘Pat Brookside and Sandra Collins appear to be strong candidates, Jack,’ said Richard. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I agree,’ I said and looked towards Anne, who nodded.

  ‘Two determined young women, what?’ added Rupert. ‘I like them both.’

  ‘We could do with a bit of stability after Mr Dalton’s short stay,’ said Joseph, ‘so I would favour Ms Brookside.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Anne, ‘and she has the computer skills we would lose when Tom goes.’

  I underlined a name on the list of candidates in front of me. ‘So, if we’re agreed,’ I said, ‘it looks like Ms Brookside will be our new teacher.’

  Anne stood up and looked at each of us in turn. ‘I’ll go and invite Ms Brookside to come back in, shall I?’

  ‘Yes please, Anne,’ I said, ‘and Joseph can confirm that she definitely wants the post . . . and then I’ll have a word with the others.’

  I glanced up at th
e clock. It was five o’clock; the interviews were over.

  Pat Brookside came back in and, as chair of the school governors, Joseph offered her the permanent teaching post to commence in the autumn term.

  She smiled and said, ‘Yes.’

  On Thursday morning I awoke early. The first pink glow of dawn backlit the distant hills in sharp relief as a troubled night became a new day. I should have felt confident, but the experience with Tom had left me uncertain and I hoped we had made the right decision.

  I felt more relieved when at 8.30 a.m. I received an unexpected call.

  ‘Morning, Jack, it’s Frank here from Thirkby Primary School.’

  I recalled meeting him on various North Yorkshire education conferences. ‘Morning, Frank. Is it about Pat Brookside?’

  ‘Yes, Jack,’ he said. ‘Just to confirm, I’ve spoken to Richard Gomersall and there’s no problem about Pat coming to you in September. You’ve got a very good teacher and I’ll be sorry to lose her, but she has personal reasons for wanting to move into your area.’

  ‘Yes, I gathered that,’ I said.

  ‘However, the main reason for ringing this morning is that Pat mentioned she heard from the children that you’re going on a school trip to Hornsea tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s right. My top two classes are going.’

  ‘Well, coincidentally, Pat is from Hornsea and knows the area well. If it’s any help I could release her to come with you and it would give you a chance to get to know her a little better. Your call, Jack – I don’t mind either way.’

  ‘Excellent idea, Frank, and yes, please ask Pat to join us. The coach leaves at nine.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll tell her. And have a good day.’

  I rang off.

  ‘You look pleased, Mr Sheffield,’ remarked Vera.

  ‘Ms Brookside is coming to Hornsea with us tomorrow.’

  ‘Excellent news,’ said Vera. ‘Perhaps she can organize the beach rounders. I’m not as young as I was.’

  I was first in the staff-room at morning break. Tom had spent twenty pence on his Daily Mail and I picked it up and glanced through the diverse headlines.