Terry Wogan’s fifteen-year-old son had been found wandering on the hard shoulder of the motorway at midnight suffering from the stress of his O-level examinations. Meanwhile Michael Jackson had bought a new house in California. For £7 million it came complete with a fairytale castle and a railway track from his tennis court to his front door.
By eleven o’clock the sun was shining brightly and Anne had taken the children in her class up the Morton Road, accompanied by Miss Flint, to look around St Mary’s Church. Joseph was in attendance and a little self-conscious of the fact that the ridge of his prominent Roman nose had been burnt in the sun.
‘What’s matter with y’nose, Mr Evans?’ asked Billy Ricketts.
‘It’s all red,’ said Madonna Fazackerly.
‘Like Rudolph,’ added Julie Tricklebank.
‘Er, yes, children,’ said Joseph. ‘Welcome to our beautiful church.’
Alfie Spraggon and Sam Whittaker were soon doing some gravestone rubbings using wax crayons and large sheets of kitchen paper.
‘Good to see you working so hard,’ said Joseph with a smile of encouragement.
Alfie looked around him curiously at the ancient gravestones. ‘Mr Evans . . . are there real bodies ’ere?’ he asked.
Sam’s eyes lit up. ‘An’ can we dig one up?’
Anne came to the rescue. ‘Come on, boys, time to go back,’ she said and Joseph leaned against the church wall and sighed.
In my class we were studying the poetry of William Wordsworth. I thought it was going well until Ben Roberts suddenly put up his hand. ‘Seems a bit of a shame t’do poetry, Mr Sheffield,’ he said wistfully.
‘Why is that, Ben?’ I asked, slightly surprised.
He looked out of the classroom window. ‘Well, t’sun’s shinin’ an’ buttercups are out on t’village green.’
There are occasions when, as a teacher, the lesson plan goes literally out of the window. I smiled, made a quick decision and, to everyone’s astonishment, made an unexpected announcement. ‘Boys and girls, bring your pencils. Sam and Louise, please carry the box of clipboards and follow me.’ I picked up a ream of A4 paper and a poetry book. ‘Harold, please tell Mrs Forbes-Kitchener we’re going across to the village green and then let Mrs Grainger know as well.’ He shot off like Seb Coe.
When we sat down on the green Ben plucked a long blade of grass and held it between his cupped hands. Then he blew it to make a sharp whistle and looked around for praise from his audience. I smiled and reflected on my own childhood, growing up on a northeast Leeds council estate. Here in North Yorkshire the joys of the countryside were a blessing for our children, with trees to climb, jam jars of frogspawn to investigate and hedgerows rich in bird and animal life.
‘Ah like being outside, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ben. ‘Outside is t’best classroom . . . there’s no walls.’ It occurred to me that he had a point.
The resulting work was a pleasure to behold. The drawings, poems and descriptions of the buttercups, the pond and the weeping willow were of such a high standard I was pleased I had forsaken my original lesson.
That evening Joseph Evans found himself chairing another meeting. This time it was the quarterly meeting of the Parish Church Council. Vera, predictably, was the secretary. The points discussed ranged from the serious to the farcical.
Albert Jenkins noted that the smart new church post box, complete with mortise lock on its cast-iron door, had been fitted to the wall of the church hall as agreed at the last meeting. However, the young man from Handy Andy – the Builder-U-Can-Trust, who had completed the job, had put the new set of keys in an envelope and posted them . . . in the new box. Now no one could retrieve them as the box was locked. However, Oscar Woodcock, president of the Ragley Shed Society, said he collected old keys and was happy to spend an hour or two seeing if any of them fitted. Vera noted this down, albeit with gritted teeth.
Gerald Attersthwaite recommended that bat boxes be installed in the belfry ‘to preserve these wonderful creatures’. This was countered quickly by the ever-efficient and fastidious churchwarden Wilfred Noggs, who said, ‘Beggin’ y’pardon, Vicar, but Gerald doesn’t ’ave t’clear up the shitty droppings,’ and Vera reworded this appropriately for the minutes.
Meanwhile, Elsie Crapper had noticed that the photograph of the church on the front cover of the latest Parish News magazine was back to front, although in her opinion it looked better that way, and Doris Oates, cook at Morton Manor, complained that the locum vicar’s prayers were too long and put the timing of her Sunday dinner at risk.
There was some debate about the annual show, particularly the flower, vegetable and cake competitions, and the forthcoming Live Aid concert on 13 July. It was agreed that the money raised at the show would go towards helping the starving in Ethiopia.
‘This Band Aid is on t’same day as our village fête,’ pointed out Oscar.
‘It’s all them rock ’n’ roll singers on t’telly,’ said Elsie Crapper.
‘Like that Freddie Mulberry,’ said Oscar, ‘an’ Status summat and The What.’
‘Who,’ said Elsie.
‘Them ah’ve jus’ said,’ reaffirmed Oscar.
‘No, they’re called The Who,’ corrected Elsie.
‘Well, it’s them . . . an’ a lot more in t’Easington ’Erald. Ah read about it. There were a long list an’ they’re all famous.’
‘Perhaps we can combine the two,’ said Vera. ‘Then the young folk will want to come along rather than staying at home.’
‘You mean use the big television in the village hall?’ asked Joseph.
‘Good idea,’ said Wilfred Noggs.
And so it went on.
Back at Bilbo Cottage Beth was thrilled and we were celebrating. A letter had arrived in the post with a Leeds postmark to confirm she had passed her Masters degree. The graduation ceremony would take place in the autumn.
‘All that work,’ I said. ‘Well done – I’m so proud of you.’
‘I’m just pleased and relieved,’ said Beth and we raised a glass.
Five minutes later she was poring over the Times Educational Supplement.
‘It’s here, Jack!’ said Beth excitedly. ‘The York headship! I think maybe this was the one Miss Barrington-Huntley was hinting at when she came to see your choir last Christmas.’
I recalled the chair of the Education Committee saying she wanted to speak with Beth on the evening that Rosie Sparrow sang ‘Silent Night’.
I leaned over her shoulder. ‘So, are you going to apply?’
‘Definitely – it’s worth a try.’
I scanned the page. ‘Then, as I said before, why not go for one or two of the big ones in the interim? The shortlisting for the York headship is likely to be the last in the queue according to these dates.’
‘I probably wouldn’t get an interview, but maybe it’s worth filling in an application form.’
‘For example, there’s a large headship here in North Yorkshire.’
Beth looked closely. ‘And that huge one in Hampshire.’
‘But that would mean moving.’
Beth shook her head. ‘Unlikely, Jack. There’s no chance of me getting a school of that size for my second headship.’
I smiled. ‘But if the interview came off it would be ideal experience.’
We finished our celebratory drinks and went to bed early. It was an evening of golden light and a time of peaceful reflection at the closing of the day.
On Friday morning Vera was up early. She read a little more of The Diary of an Edwardian Lady over a cup of tea and then looked out of the window. A gardener was clipping a cone-shaped topiary hedge with surgical precision and Vera mused to herself that perhaps the grounds were just too perfect. The rambling blackberry canes and the riot of raspberries in the vicarage garden now seemed like a forgotten friend. There, Mother Nature governed the patterns of plants and winding pathways, whereas here the Major’s love of military precision was reflected in the perfect symmetry of the ornamental g
ardens.
She sighed and prepared for a busy day by the seaside.
William Featherstone was on time as always and we boarded the Reliance bus. I sat behind the driver and across the aisle Vera and Miss Flint shared the other front seat. Petula Dudley-Palmer and Sue Phillips had offered to support and they sat behind me. Sue, as a nurse, took it in her stride to be in charge of the box of sick bags.
In one of the rear seats Sally sat next to Pat Brookside and they were soon engaged in conversation. Pat had seen the Christmas television broadcast and was full of admiration for Sally’s work with the choir. However, by the time we were passing through Market Weighton on the A1079, their discussion had moved on to men. Apparently Pat had recently met the man of her dreams, a doctor in Easington. Before we got to Hornsea Mere on the B1244 Sally knew everything about him apart from perhaps his inside leg measurement.
It was a day to remember and one of the happiest school visits I can recall.
We had lunch in the Mere café, where the children in Pat Brookside’s group stared in amazement at a glass case on the wall.
‘Miss, it’s biggest fish ah’ve ever seen, ’cept on telly,’ said Mo Hartley.
‘Is it a shark, Miss?’ asked Harold Bustard.
‘No, it’s norra shark,’ said Ryan Halfpenny, who recalled fishing trips with his grandad.
‘Miss – who caught it?’ asked Frankie Spraggon.
‘There’s a small plaque on top of the case, Miss,’ said Victoria Alice Dudley-Palmer, straining to read the engraved sign.
‘It’s a fish called a pike and it was caught almost eighty years ago,’ recited Pat, smiling at the eager faces around her. ‘It weighed twenty-seven pounds.’
‘Just over twelve kilograms,’ said the mathematically astute Charlotte Ackroyd.
‘More than thirteen bags of sugar,’ added Ben Roberts for good measure.
‘Well done,’ said Pat.
‘An’ what’s ’e called, Miss?’ asked Harold.
‘Walter,’ said Pat. ‘He’s called Walter.’
In their notebooks the children completed writing about the boat trip, sketched the swans, plotted the route from Ragley to Hornsea and drew pictures of Walter.
We finished with games of cricket and rounders on the beach.
‘Miss can ’it it further than you, Sir,’ said Mary Scrimshaw as Pat Brookside hit the rounders ball with perfect timing, and Pat gave me an apologetic smile.
Back at school we were welcomed like conquering heroes by a large group of parents lined up by the school wall. Pat Brookside caused great interest, as word had got round that she was to be our new teacher.
Mo Hartley was standing at the school entrance showing the Jackson twins the drawings in her notebook. ‘Miss Brookside is lovely,’ she said. ‘She knew a lot about Hornsea. We went to a café and there was the biggest fish in the world there. It was in a glass case and Miss Brookside said it was called Walter.’
The twins were really impressed.
Pippa Jackson hurried up the drive and welcomed her daughters.
‘We’re getting a new teacher,’ said Hermione.
‘She’s called Miss Brookside,’ said Honeysuckle.
‘That’s interesting,’ replied Mrs Jackson.
‘She starts next September,’ said Honeysuckle.
‘What’s she like?’ asked Mrs Jackson.
‘She’s tall,’ said Hermione.
‘And pretty,’ said Honeysuckle.
‘That’s good,’ said Mrs Jackson. ‘But I hope she will be a good teacher.’
‘I think she will, Mummy,’ said Hermione.
‘And why is that?’ asked Mrs Jackson.
Hermione and Honeysuckle gave each other that special smile.
Mrs Jackson immediately recognized it.
It was the one they shared when they knew the other twin was thinking the same thought.
‘Well,’ said the twins in unison, ‘she knows a fish called Walter.’
Chapter Eighteen
Mangetout and Marmalade
Pupils’ flower paintings will be displayed in the village hall on Saturday, 13 July as part of the Ragley Village Fête.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 12 July 1985
A sliver of golden light crested the horizon and dawn raced across the land, touching treetops and caressing the fields. It swept over the village of Kirkby Steepleton, bathing Bilbo Cottage in the sunshine of a new day.
It was Friday morning, 12 July, and Beth and I were in the kitchen reflecting on her interview. Yesterday she had spent the day at County Hall in Northallerton after being shortlisted for the headship of one of North Yorkshire’s largest primary schools. It was a rigorous two-day process, but Beth hadn’t been asked to return for the second day and the final round of interviews.
‘There were six of us,’ said Beth, ‘including two women, but three men went through to today.’
‘Well, you did well to get this far,’ I said, ‘and you’ve still got the York headship to come.’
‘Yes, in fact as I left Miss Barrington-Huntley said I had done well and made a point of saying she looked forward to the interview for the school in York.’
‘That’s encouraging,’ I said. ‘I always did say she thought a lot of you. My guess is they wanted to have a look at you before your next interview.’
After being rejected for the Scarborough headship, Beth had applied for three more and, to our surprise, had been shortlisted for them all. This first attempt had been unsuccessful, but the experience would prove invaluable. The second was for the headship of a huge school in Hampshire, with two days of interviews scheduled to commence on 22 July. The third was the clear favourite – namely, the headship of a Group 4 primary school in York, with interviews at the beginning of the autumn term.
‘So let’s see how the Hampshire interview goes,’ said Beth. ‘The good news is I’ll be back for the last day of term.’
Beth had been granted leave of absence to attend the interview commencing Monday, 22 July. The following day was the final day of the school year, but we both anticipated she would be back in Hartingdale by then.
‘You never know, you might make the second day, and that would be really good experience for the September interview,’ I said.
‘And pigs might fly, Jack,’ said Beth with a smile.
Just before the bell for the start of the school day, everyone had gathered in the office.
‘Sally and I are mounting the children’s flower paintings on stiff sugar paper,’ said Anne, ‘and then we’re walking round to the village hall with them after school.’
‘Thanks, Anne,’ I said, ‘I’ll come along.’
‘And I’ll help,’ volunteered Tom.
‘Also, Miss Flint called to say she would offer assistance at lunchtime,’ said Vera.
Everyone was rallying round for an important day in the social calendar. The Ragley Village Fête was supported by all the villagers and featured the hotly contested flower, vegetable and cake competitions. Reputations were at stake and there were prizes to be won.
‘Marquee’s goin’ up, Mr Sheffield,’ said the ever-vigilant Charlotte Ackroyd.
It was just before morning break and the children were excited. The fête meant candyfloss and toffee apples, donkey rides and prizes. I glanced out of the window. Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener was issuing orders to his team of groundsmen and, with military precision, the giant tent rose towards the heavens on the village green.
At playtime Tom and I joined in a game of rounders on the field and the children were quick to make comparisons. ‘Mr Dalton is faster than you, Sir,’ said Charlotte.
‘But Sir is better at catchin’,’ conceded the ever-faithful Mo Hartley.
Meanwhile, in the staff-room, Sally was reading her July edition of Cosmopolitan and studying an article entitled ‘Sex on the Job’. It read ‘Choose your working lover with care’. She glanced across the room at Vera, Anne and Miss Flint and thought, Some hop
e! After putting the magazine on the coffee table, she picked up Tom’s Daily Mail. It saddened her to read that the Greenpeace flagship Rainbow Warrior had been sunk and Sally wondered if all common sense had finally deserted the politics of France.
At the end of school I loaded up all the children’s paintings in my Morris Minor Traveller while Anne, Tom and Sally walked down the High Street to the village hall. Every child in school had chosen a flower and painted it in his or her own inimitable style. It was remarkable to see the progression through the year groups. However, for my part, I simply loved the bright, bold, uninhibited artwork of Anne’s reception children.
We mounted it all on the noticeboards on each side of the hall, labelled the paintings carefully and stood back to admire our work. It was a job well done. Tomorrow, families would drift in and out of here to watch the Live Aid concert on the large television set but also to enjoy the efforts of the children of Ragley School.
Tom and Sally drove home while Anne and I called in to Old Tommy Piercy’s butcher’s shop to buy some bacon and sausages for the weekend. When we walked in Betty Buttle was complaining about the heat.
Old Tommy wiped his brow with the back of his hand and returned to chopping a pound of braising steak. ‘There’s ’ot and there’s ’ot,’ he said with a glance out of the window, ‘an’ this is ’ot.’
He recited this maxim as if declaring peace in our time and everyone in the queue nodded in subservient agreement. The oracle had spoken. However, we did wonder if we had missed something significant – perhaps a hidden meaning beyond the wit of mere mortals.
On Saturday morning Beth and I drove into York, parked on Lord Mayor’s Walk and, after strapping John in his pushchair, walked up Gillygate and into the city to do some shopping.
A Canda jersey-knit dress caught Beth’s attention in Woman at C&A. It had black, white and grey diagonal stripes. She tried it on and when she emerged from the changing room she looked cool and elegant and wore it with confidence.
Beth had a Visa card, which I didn’t fully understand, and she used it to pay the £17.99. It seemed to be a simple transaction, completed with the minimum of fuss and no money changing hands. Even so, I could never imagine owning one of the new credit cards myself.
08 Silent Night Page 24