08 Silent Night

by Jack Sheffield

  Beth had travelled down to Hampshire last weekend to stay with her parents in Little Chawton, and John and Diane Henderson were thrilled to have their daughter and grandson to stay for a few days. Apparently our son was enjoying all the attention and, according to last night’s telephone call from Beth, looking forward to his first ride on a steam train. Tomorrow would be his birthday, two years old, and I intended to drive down there, making sure I arrived in time for his party.

  Beth had telephoned while I was having an early breakfast. ‘I’ll ring you tonight at seven from my parents’ home,’ she had said, ‘when it’s all over – and when I’ve had time to gather myself and think.’

  ‘I’ll still be at school,’ I said, ‘clearing some paperwork, so I’ll take your call there. And good luck . . . I love you.’

  ‘You too,’ she said and rang off.

  I had a bright, determined and ambitious wife and this was her time. It had been a surprise last night when Beth said she wouldn’t be travelling back to Yorkshire for the last day of the school year. Neither of us had expected she would be called back for the final selection process. The competition sounded strong, including the current deputy headteacher and two experienced headteachers from Kent and Surrey . . . all men. However, Beth had stressed that the post she was keen on was the York headship and her experiences in Hampshire would prove helpful when that interview came around.

  As I packed my brown leather satchel, I recalled a little girl singing ‘Silent Night’, followed by relaxed conversations over a glass of Merlot with Sarah Mancini. That evening, seeds had been sown and Miss Barrington-Huntley had let it be known that Beth was definitely ‘one for the future’. A long career in North Yorkshire beckoned.

  It was much earlier than usual when I set off for school. Paul Young was singing ‘Every Time You Go Away’ on the radio and I hummed along. On the back road to Ragley I pulled in to the side of the road and got out of my car. I paused under the welcome shade of sycamores, standing tall like sentinels, and stood on the moist earth to drink in the resinous scent of the ancient woodland. Beyond the hedgerows swathes of July wheat stirred with a sinuous rhythm in the oppressive heat. The countryside was sleeping, the wind was almost still and the land was holding its breath. Low clouds rolled over the distant hills like a surging sea and the faint echo of thunder rolled over the countryside.

  I could smell the rain.

  As I drove towards school I experienced that familiar feeling of anticipation. The world beyond the fields and streams of Ragley was changing, but in our tiny corner of North Yorkshire our village was fixed in its own time, steadfast and true, with its church, school and shops. Seasons came and went and our children moved on, but the school remained the cornerstone of our village.

  I pulled up outside the General Stores.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Golightly.’

  ‘Exciting times, Mr Sheffield,’ said Prudence. ‘We’re going on holiday for a week in Scotland – up to the Isle of Skye.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ I said.

  I glanced up at Jeremy Bear on his familiar shelf. ‘And good morning to you, Jeremy.’ He was wearing a tartan waistcoat and matching kilt, complete with sporran, plus neat leather ghillie brogues, all beautifully made by Prudence.

  ‘I’ve never seen him look so smart,’ I said.

  Prudence beamed. ‘Thank you, Mr Sheffield. Jeremy always likes to look the part.’

  ‘Well, have a good holiday, Jeremy,’ I said.

  Prudence smiled. ‘Here’s your paper, Mr Sheffield, and best wishes for the last day of term.’

  At the school gate Kenny Kershaw walked past and waved. I pulled up and wound down my window. He was a strapping young man now, but I could still see the ten-year-old that I knew when I first arrived at Ragley School. It only seemed five minutes ago.

  ‘’Ow do, Mr Sheffield,’ he shouted. ‘T’school looks fine on a mornin’ like this.’

  ‘It certainly does, Kenny,’ I agreed.

  ‘We ’ad some good times,’ he said wistfully. ‘Remember when ah were sick when we went on t’school camp in t’Dales?’

  ‘I’ll never forget it, Kenny,’ I assured him with a smile.

  ‘Neither will I, Mr Sheffield!’ And with a cheery wave he walked to the bus stop.

  He was right – memories . . . so many schooldays, so many children.

  When I parked my car excited voices filled the air as children skipped up the school drive. I smiled at their love of life and their world of here and now. There were races to be run, trees to climb, streams to dam, secrets to share, friendships to be forged, and I envied their innocence.

  On their pathway through life, adolescence was still a distant journey. A six-week summer holiday stretched out before them and their carefree laughter lingered in the air long after they had disappeared from view to play on the school field.

  The annual Leavers’ Assembly was always a poignant time in the school calendar. The Parent Teacher Association contributed funds to enable each child to be presented with a dedicated book. It was a special moment for the pupil and their parents as they walked out to receive their gift and, as always, a few tears were shed. Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener did the honours and I almost expected the children to salute when they stood before him.

  Charlotte Ackroyd and Ben Roberts, the tuck shop duo, received generous applause. The tall Danny Hardacre gave me a grin and mimed cleaning the blackboard as he walked to the front, and Harold Bustard moved with his usual lightning speed when he was called out. Mo Hartley simply smiled at her father. George Hartley looked down at his clasped hands as the youngest of his five daughters said farewell to her primary school. He wished his late wife could have seen her looking so confident. Little Mo was the image of her mother and he bowed his head for a long time recalling happy days.

  They came up one by one: Sam Borthwick, Louise Briers and Callum Myler . . . and so it went on. The next step in their lives at the local comprehensive awaited them, along with adolescence, new friends, a host of teachers for every subject, a uniform that would probably fit in a year’s time, homework and examinations – perhaps even a new curriculum.

  It was different for Victoria Alice Dudley-Palmer. She was destined to join her sister at a private school in York after the summer break, so today she would be saying goodbye to her Ragley friends. In the back row, her mother, Petula, shed a tear, but not simply for her daughter . . . there were other concerns.

  The Major gave a speech saying he wanted the children to remember the good start they had enjoyed at Ragley School and always to be proud of their village. We finished with our final hymn, ‘Lord Of All Hopefulness’, followed by our traditional school prayer, read beautifully by Victoria Alice:

  Dear Lord,

  This is our school, let peace dwell here,

  Let the room be full of contentment, let love abide here,

  Love of one another, love of life itself,

  And love of God.

  Amen.

  It was at times like this that I felt we were more than a school. We were a family.

  It was then that Joseph stood up to say a formal thank-you to Tom Dalton, who was leaving us today. The PTA had bought him a year’s subscription to his favourite computer magazine and the staff had purchased a beautiful book about the history of North Yorkshire villages with photographs of Ragley-on-the-Forest, including one of the village school taken in 1946.

  Tom responded with a short speech that grew in confidence. He thanked us all for giving him the opportunity to work in Ragley School and reassured everyone that he would keep in touch. This was greeted warmly by all assembled and he shook hands with Joseph. As he returned to his seat he nodded in my direction.

  On a lighter note, Shirley the Cook had presented him with one of her excellent apple and blackberry pies and, much to our delight, he immediately shared it in the staffroom during morning break.

  Shirley was soon back in her kitchen, topping and tailing gooseberries in prepar
ation for my favourite fruit crumble. The gooseberries were a gift from the bountiful garden of Mary Hardisty, whose husband George had been groundsman when I first arrived at Ragley. We missed him and his dedicated service, especially on the days the county groundsmen team arrived with their functional gang mower, lopped off a few inches of lank grass from our school field before hurrying off to the next school. Times were changing.

  It was at lunchtime that I received an unexpected visitor in the entrance hall. Mark Appleby, Rosie Sparrow’s father, arrived in his gas-fitter’s boilersuit.

  ‘Ah jus’ came t’say thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ he said and shook my hand.

  ‘We’re here to do the best we can,’ I said. ‘Rosie is a very talented young girl. You must be so proud.’

  ‘I am that,’ he said. ‘When she sang “Silent Night” on that television programme I could have wept it were so beautiful. It changed my life – brought us back t’gether, so t’speak.’ He paused, searching for the right words. ‘Ah wanted t’let y’know that Maggie an’ me are getting wed nex’ month.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news!’ I said. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Ah’ve got a family now an’ it’s a good feeling.’

  ‘Yes . . . it is,’ I agreed.

  He left quickly, but paused by the entrance door. ‘An’ if you ever need y’gas boiler repairing, jus’ give me a call.’ He grinned and left.

  I watched from the window as he drove away to his new life.

  To the west, in the far distance, there was a rainbow in the sky piercing the dark clouds.

  In the Coffee Shop Nora and Tyrone were staring out of the window.

  ‘It’s red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet,’ said Tyrone.

  ‘The colours of the wainbow,’ said Nora.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Tyrone. ‘Richard of York gave battle in vain – it’s a mnemonic.’

  ‘Is that an orchestwa?’

  ‘No, you remember it by the first letters,’ explained Tyrone.

  ‘Ah love wainbows,’ said Nora.

  ‘It’s a result of the refraction of the sun’s rays by light or water droplets,’ recited Tyrone in his monotonous voice.

  Nora stopped him suddenly. ‘Ah always dweamed of a pot o’ gold at t’end of a wainbow.’

  ‘Perhaps there is, Nora,’ said Tyrone. He held her hand. ‘And it’s waiting there for you and me.’

  Petula Dudley-Palmer wasn’t thinking of rainbows. She had returned home, gone upstairs to her bedroom, changed into her rose-pink leisure suit and lain down on the bed. In her Woman’s Weekly was an advertisement for a seventeen-day discovery holiday in Australia at £1,189.00. Perhaps it would be good for me and the girls, she thought.

  ‘Life’s not a rehearsal,’ her mother had once said to her when she was a teenager. How true.

  Petula had a tall feather bed with a rift valley of a depression in the soft mattress that exactly matched her prone figure. She lay back and thought of her life.

  Geoffrey’s shirt lay discarded next to his pillow.

  She didn’t smell the soft linen any more.

  She didn’t press it to her face to remember happy times.

  The scent that was embedded in the fibres was not hers.

  She had remembered.

  The scent was the one that lingered in his secretary’s office.

  At the end of school I said goodbye to the school leavers and watched them walk out of the school gate. The halcyon days of a seemingly endless summer stretched out before them. For children who lived in the here-and-now it was a never-ending pathway.

  I walked into the school office and sat at my desk. Vera was busy completing the leavers’ record cards ready for transfer to secondary school. In the entrance hall I heard Ruby clattering past with her electric floor cleaner prior to the annual ‘holiday polish’ of the school hall. Ruby’s wedding ring had now slipped down her finger to the knuckle and she twisted it whenever she had a quiet moment. That morning it had dropped off and rolled under a radiator. She had picked it up guiltily and said ‘Sorry’ out loud. Then she had smiled and muttered, ‘Y’daft ha’porth,’ and carried on.

  I heard her moving the hall furniture – and then to my surprise she began to sing one of her favourite songs from The Sound of Music. It reminded me of my first day at Ragley when Ruby sang so sweetly as she swept and polished and mopped.

  I smiled and started to wade through the latest North Yorkshire curriculum document.

  Tom called in and we shook hands. It was a brief parting. A new direction awaited him, a fresh start – and I wondered if it would include Laura.

  Sally popped her head round the door. ‘Must rush, Jack,’ she said. ‘Colin’s taking me out for a meal. Ring me if you want anything doing in the holidays.’

  Anne came in with the Yorkshire Purchasing Organization catalogue and smiled. ‘A little light reading, Jack,’ she said. ‘Come round for a casserole one night soon and we can catch up with Beth’s news. Anyway, thanks again – we’ve survived another year.’

  Finally, Vera tidied her desk.

  I was staring out of the window. ‘Beth is being interviewed for a new headship,’ I said, ‘a big one . . . down south.’

  Vera looked up and nodded. ‘Yes, Beth told me.’ She picked up her bag and walked to the door. ‘Thank you for your support once again, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘It means so much.’

  ‘The school would be lost without you, Vera . . . I would be lost without you.’

  She studied me for a moment. ‘All things come to an end, Mr Sheffield.’

  Then she walked back to the window. She put her hand on my shoulder. ‘Jack,’ she said quietly, ‘all we can do is our best while it is happening . . . and then look forward to the next adventure.’

  Is she thinking of retiring? I wondered.

  The school was quiet apart from the ticking of the clock. I decided to go outside for some fresh air and return in time for Beth’s telephone call.

  When I reached the school gate I stared thoughtfully at the sign fixed to the tall stone gatepost. It read:

  Ragley Church of England Primary School

  North Yorkshire County Council

  Headteacher – Mr J. Sheffield

  The letters were fading now and I recalled the first time I had stood here in the late summer of 1977. Then I had been full of excitement and eager for the challenge ahead. This old building with its clock tower and high arched windows had become an integral part of my life. A generation of children had come and gone since I’d arrived – Anita Cuthbertson, Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer, Ping the Vietnamese Boat Girl, Debbie Harrison the miner’s daughter, Heathcliffe Earnshaw, Claire Bradshaw . . . So many faces . . . so many young lives. A generation had come and gone in the ever-turning cycle of village life.

  I leaned back against the gate and stared up at the mirror in the sky, but the only reflection was a William Turner cloudscape, a grey wash of turbulence and confusion. Suddenly life wasn’t quite so simple any more.

  I walked across the green, sat on Ronnie’s bench and looked back at the school. Time passed, until a dark ebony sky descended over the vast plain of York. The breeze died and the branches of the weeping willow above me rustled gently before coming to rest in the humid air. It was sultry and overcast and, in the near distance, storm clouds were gathering pace and rolling towards Ragley.

  Suddenly the Earnshaw boys approached. Heathcliffe was pushing a wheelbarrow full of empty bottles. ‘’Ello, Mr Sheffield,’ he said.

  ‘’Ello, Sir,’ said Terry.

  ‘We’re c’llectin’ empties, Mr Sheffield, an’ then we tek ’em back t’Miss Golightly an’ she gives us some money.’

  ‘An’ a bag o’ sherbet lemons,’ added Terry.

  They eyed up the bench. This wasn’t the time to use it as a step-up to the willow tree. They loved to climb up to the top branches and look out on Ragley High Street above the scurrying shoppers and the workers in the fields beyond – to f
eel the wind trying to pluck you off your perch and to feel that sense of danger and for a few dizzy moments to be king of all you survey.

  It was an experience they would share and one that the two brothers would eventually recall in their old age, but not now . . . not now.

  There was too much living to do and too many bottles to collect.

  Alone again, I thought of Beth and our shared journey.

  Let us go then, you and I,

  When the evening is spread out against the sky . . .

  It was a strange time for my favourite poet, T. S. Eliot, to join me on Ronnie’s bench, but his words came into my mind and seemed appropriate. This precious corner of North Yorkshire had been my home now for eight years and I had come to love the ebb and flow of village life. Ragley School was part of the very fabric of my being.

  Over the Hambleton hills the rain was beating down like steel rods and smearing the sky in diagonal shafts of grey fury. The arrow on the cast-iron weathervane on top of the village hall creaked and turned towards the west. Clouds were piling up, magenta and indigo, and in the fading light the air had become close and stuffy. An early night was gradually falling over the plain of York and the sky was turning slowly from red to purple and finally, in the distance, to a Stygian darkness.

  A storm was almost upon us – a big storm.

  I walked back into school, sat at my desk, took out the school logbook, filled my fountain pen with Quink ink and began to write.

  The clock ticked on.

  It was good to be indoors as the first heavy drops of rain drummed against the windowpanes – a comfortable, secure feeling, warm and cosy.

  For a brief moment, between the first flash of lightning and the crash of thunder, all was still. It was as if the world were holding its breath as a dark and silent night settled on the land.

  Then the telephone rang, shrill and urgent.