In Coney Street we bought a small box on wheels full of colourful wooden cubes for John and a gardening book for me from W.H.Smith. My vegetable plot had improved over the years and I had a bumper crop of early carrots and mangetout waiting to be harvested.
Then we walked up Stonegate and High Petergate to York Minster. There was peace and cool air in this magnificent place. Work was well under way following last year’s great fire and soon this majestic building would be restored to its former glory.
‘I love it here, Jack,’ said Beth quietly.
We stood in front of the stone quire screen fronted by fifteen near life-size statues of the kings of England. Above them a row of angels were playing musical instruments.
‘And I love you,’ I said. The great windows of the clerestory suddenly filled the nave with shafts of summer light. ‘I loved you from the first moment I saw you . . . all those years ago in Ragley.’
Beth smiled at the memory. ‘You were wearing an old boilersuit and sweeping the school drive.’
John disturbed our peaceful thoughts. ‘I think he’s getting hungry,’ I said.
Beth looked at her watch. ‘Let’s get back, feed John and then go to the village fête. Also I want to dig out a jar of my marmalade for the competition. It’s probably the best I’ve made.’
I had been putting it on my morning toast for the past few months and hadn’t really noticed. ‘Good idea,’ I said.
‘You ought to enter something,’ said Beth.
‘Such as?’
‘Your mangetout look about ready – take a bag of those.’
On our way home we spotted Petula Dudley-Palmer’s Rolls-Royce in the car park of the chocolate factory. She had called in with a message for Geoffrey and had seen his new secretary for the first time – a young, dynamic, long-legged beauty. She appeared studied and sure, yet moved with the confident grace of a panther. When Petula spoke to her she was aware of a scent, distinct yet elusive. She knew it . . . but couldn’t quite remember from where.
Back at Bilbo Cottage Beth put a smart new label on a jar of her homemade marmalade and I went into the garden. It was high summer and butterflies hovered over the buddleia bushes amidst the murmur of the bees that sought their precious nectar.
I collected a handful of my mangetout and cleaned them under the outside tap. Then I put them in a plastic bag, selected a white plate and we set off for Ragley village. The sturdy stems of cow parsley stood tall on the grassy banks and under a primrose-blue sky the shrill screams of swifts were faint in the distance as they swirled around the clock tower of St Mary’s Church.
The Revd Joseph Evans was in his cluttered pantry. When Vera had lived there it had been organized beautifully, with serried ranks of fruit in large jars. Now it was in disarray, with a jumble of bottles of homemade wine featuring dubious labels such as ‘Damson Delight’ and ‘Dream of Dandelion’.
However, Joseph was a happy soul and his wine-making gave him great pleasure. His generosity of spirit could never be faulted and it was rare for a friend or clerical colleague to leave the vicarage without a complimentary bottle or two. The fact they never drank it was another matter.
He selected a bottle, put it in his little Austin A40 and set off down the Morton Road to the Ragley Village Fête.
The green was a riot of colourful bunting and lively stalls. In the marquee Vera and the ladies of the Women’s Institute were covering the trestle tables with snowy-white cloths and arranging the exhibits for the various competitions. Soon the scent of roses filled the air and, with affected modesty, I handed over my plate of mangetout. I had arranged them in a spiral, like a living ammonite, and interest was aroused.
‘Quite magnificent, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘Perfect mangetout arranged with artistry – definitely a strong contender.’
A name card was placed in front of my entry and I went to the far trestle table where Beth’s marmalade was lined up with countless others. ‘It’ll tek me a while t’taste all these,’ said Mary Hardisty. Her husband, George, Ragley’s champion gardener, would be judging the vegetables, while the effervescent Miss Gardenia Rose Thyck was already patrolling the contenders for the ‘Vase of Sweet Peas’ class.
I walked out into the sunshine where Charlotte Ackroyd had just won a prize on the coconut shy and Ben Roberts was spending his hard-earned pocket money in a futile effort to win a goldfish on the hoopla stall.
Meanwhile, the Ramsbottom boys, Shane, Clint and Wayne, were busy down the street in the village hall, where a large television set had been tuned in to the Live Aid concert at Wembley Stadium in London. It was to prove a remarkable event, watched by 1.5 billion people on television and destined to raise over £50 million for those in need in Africa.
Shane was a little worse for wear after a night’s hard drinking.
‘’Ow are y’today, Shane?’ asked a concerned Clint. There was some heavy lifting in front of them.
‘Well, Nancy,’ said Shane with bravado, ‘las’ night ah were sick as a Cleethorpes donkey, but now ah’m right as rain,’ and they set to work.
A lot of the young folk were intending to watch the Live Aid concert with its all-star cast. On a chalkboard at the side of the television, Clint had printed:
Status Quo, Sting, Queen, David Bowie,
Paul McCartney, Elton John, Joan Baez, Madonna,
Eric Clapton, Mick Jagger, Led Zeppelin, Duran Duran
and Bob Dylan.
Plus Phil Collins × 2!
Apparently Phil Collins was to complete the extraordinary feat of performing both at Wembley and then at the American Live Aid concert at the JFK Stadium in Philadelphia, thanks to the speed of Concorde.
I saw Sally and Colin coming out of the village hall with their daughter Grace. Sally was disappointed the Rolling Stones weren’t taking part. Long ago, on 5 July 1969, she had been to their concert in London. It had been a tribute to guitarist Brian Jones, who had died two days earlier at the age of twenty-seven, and Sally had shed silent tears. She waved and shouted, ‘Good luck with the mangetout,’ while Colin merely looked puzzled.
Beth and I stood next to a popular stall called Billy’s Balloons, where the stallholder had a novel idea. You could buy a helium-filled balloon for five pence and write on the attached label a message to a loved one before letting it fly up into the sky. We bought one for John, who scrawled a big circle on the card before watching it fly away with wonder in his eyes.
I saw Mo Hartley and her sisters sitting on the grass writing carefully chosen words to their late mother. It was a poignant scene, made even more moving when Hazel Smith joined them and wrote ‘Missing you, Dad’ with a Berol marker pen before launching a red balloon towards heaven.
Victor Pratt was exhibiting his steam-driven tractor and was proudly polishing it as I walked past.
‘Ah’ve been t’see Dr Davenport,’ said Victor.
‘Oh dear,’ I said, wondering what was coming next.
‘Ah went wi’ both me ’ands.’ He held them out to show me. ‘Y’see – they sheck summat rotten. Ah told ’im ah’d got a nervous supposition.’
‘What did he do, Victor?’ I asked.
‘’E gave me some tablets t’calm me down.’
‘Are they working?’ I asked.
‘Yes, thanks, Mr Sheffield, but ah can’t fry chips like ah used to.’
Poor Victor looked broken-hearted. This was obviously a tough price to pay.
Timothy Pratt had locked up his Hardware Emporium for a couple of hours and, with his best friend Walter Crapper, was looking after the Bowling for a Pig stall. It was proving popular and, according to the scoreboard, Deke Ramsbottom was clearly the one to beat. I felt a twinge of sadness for the unsuspecting little pig frolicking around in its pen and being fed everything from apple cores to candyfloss by the crowd of children.
‘Meks m’feel ’ungry,’ said Betty Buttle.
‘Meks me want t’be a vegetarian,’ said Margery Ackroyd.
Outside The Royal Oak
Old Tommy Piercy was staring in admiration at his hog roast while his grandson, Young Tommy, carved generous slices for the members of the Ragley cricket team, who were first in the queue.
‘Y’can’t beat a bit o’ pork cracklin’,’ said Big Dave, licking his lips. ‘Ah’ll ’ave a bit f’me please, Tommy, and a bit f’my Nellie.’
‘And t’same f’me an’ my Dorothy,’ added Little Malcolm, thrusting forward two plastic plates.
‘It would be lovely wi’ apple sauce,’ said Big Dave.
‘An’ some o’ my Dorothy’s gravy,’ added Little Malcolm with true loyalty.
Dorothy and Nellie were sitting nearby at one of the wooden picnic tables. Nora had come to join them and they wanted to know how life with Tyrone was progressing.
‘This might be t’weal thing, Dowothy,’ said Nora, ‘an’ in m’ ’owwoscope it said Awies was wising.’
‘That’s good news, Nora,’ said Dorothy.
‘So what yer ’avin’, Nora?’ asked Nellie, getting up with her purse.
‘Ah feel like celebwatin’,’ said Nora. ‘Ah’ll ’ave a snowball.’
I was brought up not to listen in to other people’s conversations, but sometimes it can’t be helped. I was inside the WI tent while Sheila Bradshaw was standing just outside talking to Audrey Cuthbertson. They watched their teenage daughters Claire and Anita, down the High Street, walk into the village hall to see the concert.
‘They’ve been friends a long time, Sheila,’ said Audrey wistfully.
‘They ’ave that,’ agreed Sheila.
‘Ah think we brought ’em up right,’ said Audrey.
‘Let’s ’ope so,’ said Sheila.
Audrey looked across the green. ‘At least they ’ad a good start in t’village school,’ she said.
‘Y’reight there,’ said Sheila. ‘Ah’ve allus liked that ’ead-teacher. ’E don’t jus’ teach ’em t’ABCs, ’e learns ’em right from wrong.’
‘An’ manners,’ added Audrey, for good measure.
I pretended not to hear but couldn’t resist a smile as I studied the class of ‘Three Onions’ with new intensity.
Meanwhile, Beth was in conversation with Joseph, who was eyeing up the competition in the homemade wines class.
‘I’ve called this “Parsnip Perfection”,’ he said without a hint of modesty. ‘My “Sloe Surprise” isn’t quite there yet,’ he added pensively. Wherever there was, no one dared to ask; but we all knew he meant well and the journey of his wine remained a mystery. What was certain was that when it did eventually arrive in a wine glass it tasted like a mixture of decaying vegetation with a subtle hint of Domestos.
Outside, Frankie Spraggon wanted to buy an ice lolly. He saw Sonia Tricklebank looking in her pink Barbie purse and had an idea.
After scrabbling in Maurice Tupham’s garden he returned to the village green and approached Sonia. He held up a glistening fat earthworm that writhed in his fingers. Frankie was desperate. ‘Sonia,’ he said, ‘ah’ll eat a worm for five pence.’
Sonia recoiled. ‘Ah’ll give you twopence to let it go,’ she said with a sense of righteous indignation.
Frankie thought about this. ‘’Ow ’bout for threepence ah eat ’alf an’ let t’other ’alf go?’ he asked.
Sonia shook her head, walked away and wondered why boys were so repulsive.
Vera and Ruby were standing outside the WI tent in the sunshine and George Dainty was beckoning to them. He had a jug of elderflower cordial and two tumblers. ‘I think Mr Dainty would like you to sit with him, Ruby,’ said Vera with a smile.
‘Will you come as well, Mrs F?’
‘Sorry, Ruby,’ said Vera, ‘I have to help with the arrangements for the judges,’ and she hurried off.
Ruby went to sit with George and he poured some cordial for her. Soon they were chatting about old times and the fact that George had retired and returned to Ragley. ‘Ah’m pleased you’ve done well for y’self, George,’ said Ruby. ‘You allus did work ’ard.’
George’s shop, ‘The Codfather II’, in Alicante had proved a roaring success.
‘It were all ’cause of m’batter, Ruby,’ he said with pride. ‘It were m’special recipe,’ he added knowingly, tapping the side of his nose with a stubby forefinger. Then he looked thoughtful and leaned back to stare up into the graceful branches of the weeping willow above their heads. After a while he said, ‘Thing is, Ruby . . . money don’t mek yer ’appy.’
‘’Ow d’you mean?’ asked Ruby.
‘Well,’ said George, ‘can y’recall that Yorkshire miner’s wife, Viv Nicholson? She won over ’undred an’ fifty thousand pounds on Littlewoods Pools way back in 1961 when a pound were worth a pound.’
Ruby nodded and wondered why George had brought this up. ‘Ah remember,’ she said, ‘she were gonna “spend, spend, spend”.’
‘That’s reight, Ruby, she did – an’ what ’appened?’
Ruby shook her head.
‘She ended up penniless. She couldn’t even afford t’pay for ’er fourth ’usband’s funeral.’
The sound of a clatter of beer crates came from the open trapdoor that led to the cellar of The Royal Oak.
‘Sounds like they’ll be settin’ up t’bar soon ’ere outside t’pub,’ said Ruby. ‘My Ronnie would ’ave been first in t’queue.’
‘’Appen ’e would,’ said George with a wry smile.
‘’E were all mouth an’ trousers, were my Ronnie,’ said Ruby. ‘All airs an’ no graces – y’know t’type – but ah still loved ’im.’
‘Ah know y’did, Ruby,’ said George, ‘an’ there’s nowt wrong wi’ that.’
Ruby stared down into her lap and tried to flex her fingers. ‘My ’ands ’ave started to ’urt, George.’
‘Y’can tell a lot from a woman’s ’ands,’ he replied, and he stroked the back of her hand, fingertip softly.
Ruby didn’t withdraw it.
Joyce Davenport, the doctor’s wife, had set up a ‘Yorkshire’ stall with tea towels, white rose flags and ‘God’s Own Country’ mugs, notepads and pencils. Patience Crapper and Madonna Fazackerly were staring with great interest and Joyce took pity on them. They probably haven’t got a halfpenny between them, she thought.
‘Now, girls,’ she said, ‘if you’re really good then at the end of the afternoon you can come back to my stall and I’ll give you a souvenir.’
The two little girls said, ‘Thank you,’ and ran off. They stopped by the WI tent and sat on the grass. ‘What’s a souvenir?’ wondered Patience.
‘Dunno,’ said Madonna with blissful ignorance, ‘but ah know ah want one.’
‘Same ’ere,’ agreed Patience and, after spotting a gap under the canvas wall of the marquee, decided this was a more interesting entry point. They crawled through and emerged with dirty knees into a sea of floral dresses, summer stockings, sensible shoes – and tasty things to eat.
In the tent the crowds had cleared and the judges were in attendance. Miss Gardenia Rose Thyck was scrutinizing the flowers and George Hardisty was judging the vegetables while his wife, Mary, Ragley village’s champion cake-maker, was sampling the cakes and preserves. Finally she awarded a ‘First Prize’ card to Vera Forbes-Kitchener’s Queen Mother’s Cake and a ‘Second Prize’ to Maggie Sparrow’s Never-fail Sponge. Then she moved on to the preserves.
Meanwhile, George Hardisty had placed a ‘First Prize’ card next to the bunch of carrots submitted by Albert Jenkins and a ‘With Merit’ card alongside Tobias Speight’s ‘Peas in a Pod’. He was distinctly puzzled by some of the other entries. There had been a brief hiatus when two small girls were discovered under the table of vegetables . . . and they looked very guilty.
Eventually the judges emerged from the tent and the villagers hurried in to see where they had placed the ‘First’, ‘Second’ and ‘Third’, ‘Highly Commended’ and ‘With Merit’ cards.
Beth was suddenly animated. ‘Look at this, Jack!’ she said.
A large white card with gold edging
was alongside Beth’s jar of marmalade. It read:
1st prize
Beth Sheffield
An outstanding marmalade –
good colour, perfect consistency,
fine texture and excellent flavour.
‘Congratulations, Beth,’ said Vera. ‘A wonderful achievement.’
A delighted Joseph suddenly arrived holding a ‘With Merit’ card on which the judge had written ‘a distinctive taste’. When he saw me he patted me on the shoulder. ‘Never mind, Jack,’ he said, ‘there’s always next year.’ He pointed to the table of vegetables and I walked over to learn my fate.
Where I had left my entry was an almost empty plate with a single part-nibbled mangetout in the centre. Next to it was a brown card that simply read ‘Unplaced’.
The fact it was causing such hilarity among my nearest and dearest didn’t help. ‘Sorry,’ said Vera. ‘Apparently a couple of naughty children ate them.’
‘Well, I hope they enjoyed them,’ I said with feeling.
‘Jack,’ said Vera quietly, ‘the scent of roses lingers on the heart that gives.’
Both chuckling happily, Vera and Beth went to collect their prizes.
Chapter Nineteen
Silent Night
99 children were registered on roll on the last day of the school year. 14 fourth-year juniors left today. 13 will commence full-time education at Easington Comprehensive School in September and 1, Victoria Alice Dudley-Palmer, will begin her secondary education in York at the Time School for Girls. School closed today for the summer holiday and will reopen on Wednesday, 4 September.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Tuesday, 23 July 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. A shaft of golden sunlight streamed into the kitchen of Bilbo Cottage and motes of dust hovered like tiny fireflies. The air was humid and warm, waiting for a breeze . . . a wind of change.
It was Tuesday, 23 July, the last day of the school year, and my home was strangely quiet. The usual bustle of activity wasn’t there. It was the second day of Beth’s two-stage interview and today she would be preparing for the formal interrogation by Hampshire’s Education Committee. I didn’t envy her and prayed the experience wouldn’t prove too stressful.
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