Changing Times

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘Yes, please, Vera,’ said John. ‘It’s been a busy morning.’

  ‘So it has,’ agreed Vera as she spooned loose-leaf tea into the pot. It seemed a good moment to commence her investigation.

  ‘How is Lily?’ she asked. ‘I thought she looked a little distracted.’

  John had no idea that Vera was fishing for information. The machinations of the female mind had always been beyond his grasp. ‘Fine, I think. I thought she sang beautifully in morning assembly.’

  You would, thought Vera. She had been aware of John’s feelings for Lily for many years. ‘I just thought she wasn’t quite herself … clearly preoccupied with something.’

  ‘Really?’

  Vera knew she shouldn’t have bothered. It was clear that the headteacher was unaware of the subtle nuances of his female colleagues. After all, she thought, he’s just a man.

  Shortly before afternoon school, Anne Grainger was preparing her classroom for a chalk-and-pastel art lesson when Lily walked in.

  ‘Need a hand?’ she asked.

  Anne grinned. ‘Yes, please.’ She pointed to an old wallpaper samples book. ‘Can you tear out a few more sheets?’ The reverse side of the heavy-duty paper was ideal for children’s drawings and paintings.

  ‘So, how’s your John these days?’ asked Lily.

  Anne was quiet for a moment, seeking out the right words to describe her husband. Finally she said, ‘The same.’

  Anne had been appointed to a full-time post at Ragley in 1954 after her marriage to John Grainger. Following a brief honeymoon, she had begun to realize that married life was not the same as a carefree courtship. John was a tall, handsome woodcarver who produced oak furniture that was made to last many lifetimes. He took a pride in his work and had developed an interest in DIY. In consequence, Anne lived in a house filled with off-cuts of timber and with sawdust in every crack and crevice. She soon learned that John liked routine and expected a cooked meal to be on the table every evening when he returned from work; he would presumably have demanded that Anne warm his slippers on a cold night had he owned a pair.

  ‘Why not come round for a meal with us?’ asked Lily. ‘It would be good to catch up.’

  Anne smiled. ‘Thanks. I’ll mention it to John.’

  He will say no, thought Lily and continued to put a sheet of paper on each desk.

  Anne decided to change the subject. ‘How are your brothers?’

  ‘George writes every week from Northern Ireland. He’s a sergeant now and enjoys army life.’

  ‘And what about Freddie?’ asked Anne. ‘I’ve heard great things about his rugby up at Easington. I saw his photograph in the Herald. You must be very proud.’

  ‘Yes, I am. He’s captain this year. We were all thrilled at the news. I’m just hoping it doesn’t distract him from his A-levels.’

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ said Anne. ‘A lovely young man.’

  Lily nodded, but for a moment her mind was elsewhere.

  Three miles away at Easington School the second sitting for school dinner was well under way and hundreds of pupils filled the dining hall. The noise of scraping chairs and the clatter of plates was almost drowned out by the chatter of excited voices as friends were reunited after the long holiday.

  Freddie Briggs had collected his tray and joined the queue. A blond, athletic seventeen-year-old, he was one of the tallest boys in the sixth form. He was served with Spam fritters, chips and beans, plus jam roly-poly pudding and purple custard. Finally, he picked up a tumbler of water and looked around for his best friend, Sam Grundy. It was then that he spotted a familiar face. Rose McConnell was sitting at one of the dining tables … and she was alone.

  He carried his tray over to her and paused hesitantly. ‘Hello again.’

  Rose looked up, surprised. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘How’s the onions?’

  Rose recalled their first meeting outside the General Stores in Ragley village. ‘Fine thanks, they survived.’

  ‘Can I sit down?’

  Rose looked around at the empty seats. ‘I’d be glad of the company.’

  Freddie studied her for a moment. She was wearing her bookish spectacles and her dark auburn hair had been tied back in a severe ponytail.

  ‘So how’s your first day?’ he asked.

  ‘Everything’s different to my last school.’ She looked around at the heaving mass of pupils sharing their news on neighbouring tables. ‘And I don’t know anybody yet.’

  Freddie took a sip of water and gave her a level stare. ‘Well, you know me.’

  Rose considered this for a moment. ‘I meant female friends … ones I can talk to.’

  Freddie didn’t respond and began to tuck into his meal. Rose hoped he wasn’t offended. ‘We moved here because my dad got a job in York in the summer.’

  Freddie looked up. ‘Where did you come from?’

  ‘Doncaster. My dad works for the railway.’ Rose studied him with new interest and put down her knife and fork. ‘So what about you? Have you always lived here?’

  ‘Pretty well. We moved here eleven years ago from Buckinghamshire. It was when my sister, Lily, got a teaching job at Ragley School.’

  ‘I wish I had a sister … or even a brother,’ said Rose. ‘There’s just me.’

  Freddie grinned. ‘I’ve got a brother as well. George is in the army.’

  ‘What A-levels are you doing?’ asked Rose.

  ‘English, French and German. How about you?’

  ‘English, History and Art.’ Rose had finished her meal and stacked the plates on her tray. ‘Anyway, I need to get on,’ she said. ‘I’ve got an art tutorial.’

  Freddie glanced up at Rose. ‘I’ve got PE, then double English.’

  Rose took a sheet of paper from her satchel and studied it. ‘English … with Mr Morris?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Freddie, nodding with enthusiasm.

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘He’s great. You’ll enjoy his lessons. He’s also our rugby coach.’

  Rose appeared unimpressed. ‘I’m more into hockey.’

  ‘Well, see you later then,’ said Freddie, a little too eagerly.

  Rose gave him a measured look. ‘Maybe,’ she said and picked up her satchel.

  It was afternoon break and Vera had prepared refreshments in the staff-room when Lily walked in.

  Vera smiled. ‘How are you, Lily?’

  ‘Fine, thank you, Vera. A busy first day.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  Lily sat down in one of the comfortable armchairs. ‘Love one, thank you.’

  ‘By the way,’ said Vera as she poured the tea carefully through a strainer, ‘choir practice tomorrow evening. Will you be able to make it?’

  Lily was a mezzo-soprano and added much to what was, in Vera’s opinion, a rather mixed bag of a church choir.

  ‘Yes, I’ll be there and I’m coming in with Millicent. I thanked her for the beautiful hassock in memory of my mother.’

  ‘It is rather special, isn’t it? She’s been doing it on and off for a few years.’

  Millicent Merryweather was a dear friend of Vera’s and a member of the Ragley cross-stitch club. She was also a neighbour of Lily’s and lived in Bilbo Cottage in the nearby village of Kirkby Steepleton. As a regular church-goer, she used one of the padded kneelers, or hassocks, when she prayed. It seemed an appropriate way to remember Florence Briggs.

  ‘It’s a really thoughtful gift,’ said Lily.

  ‘Yes, I miss your mother,’ said Vera quietly. ‘A lovely lady.’

  Lily pursed her lips and said nothing. Her reminiscences were very different.

  It had come as a great shock when Lily’s mother, Florence, was killed in the terrible London train disaster of 1957. Her sister had moved to Ramsgate and, on the evening of 4 December, following a pre-Christmas visit, Florence was one of ninety people killed when two trains collided and a bridge collapsed. The villagers of Kirkby Steepleton and Ragley mourned and Joseph Evan
s had conducted the funeral service.

  Lily and her husband, Tom, had decided to continue living in Laurel Cottage, which they had shared with Florence since their marriage. They wanted Freddie, a twelve-year-old at that time, to retain some stability in his life by completing his secondary education at Easington School and then, hopefully, moving on to university. At first it had been hard for Lily, given the memories of her difficult relationship with her mother, but Freddie’s needs were greater. As the years passed by it appeared to be the right decision.

  ‘So … you seem a little preoccupied, Lily,’ said Vera as she picked up the tea strainer and poured more tea. ‘Can I help in any way?’

  Lily stared down at her cup and saucer. ‘That’s kind, Vera, but I’m fine.’

  ‘Well, I’m here if you need a listening ear.’

  Lily looked up and gave a hesitant smile. She knew Vera was fishing for information, but she also knew the time wasn’t yet right for her secret to be revealed.

  The bell rang for the end of school and Mrs Violet Fawnswater arrived in Anne’s classroom to collect her five-year-old son, Tobias.

  ‘Hello, darling, have you been a good boy?’

  After a brief moment to collect his thoughts, Tobias replied, ‘Yes, Mummy.’

  While Mrs Fawnswater went out to the cloakroom to collect her son’s coat, Tobias looked up at Anne. ‘Saying something nice is being polite, isn’t it, Miss? Even if you don’t mean it?’

  Before Anne could answer, Mrs Fawnswater hurried back in. ‘Now, let me give you a hug.’

  The ever-practical Tobias gave his mother a considered look. ‘I’d rather have a KitKat,’ he said with sincerity.

  She bent down to button up his coat. ‘I do love you, darling.’

  ‘Thanks, Mummy, I love me too.’

  Mrs Fawnswater, blushing slightly, looked up at Anne. ‘Well, I always taught him to be honest.’

  ‘And polite,’ added Anne with a smile.

  It was six o’clock and in the pretty village of Kirkby Steepleton, Inspector Tom Feather arrived home in his police car and pulled on to the driveway of Laurel Cottage. Over six feet tall and with broad shoulders, he was a formidable presence in his uniform. A year away from his fortieth birthday, his wavy black hair was showing the first hint of grey.

  ‘I’m home,’ he shouted from the hallway.

  ‘In the kitchen,’ replied Lily.

  ‘I’ll get changed,’ and he went upstairs to take off his uniform.

  Freddie was helping prepare supper.

  Lily looked up at him, her eyes full of pride in this young man. ‘Thanks for your help,’ she said.

  He grinned. His mind was elsewhere.

  When Tom came back down, Lily was frying sausages and Freddie was chopping onions. Tom gave Lily a peck on the cheek and smiled. ‘So how did the first day go?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. Apart from most of the children having forgotten how to write, it’s been a successful day. What about you?’

  There was only so much Tom could divulge about his work. ‘Usual,’ he said. ‘A few arrests for shoplifting in Northallerton.’

  Freddie looked up from his chopping board. The onions were making his eyes smart and he wiped away a tear. ‘Anyone I might know?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Tom. He went to stand beside Freddie. They were the same height now. ‘Watch out, Freddie,’ he said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Even tough rugby players shed a tear when chopping onions.’

  ‘Lean back from the chopping board,’ advised Lily. ‘Tom’s right. Onions do make you cry.’

  Freddie thought back to his first meeting with Rose McConnell outside the General Stores.

  ‘Not always,’ he murmured and gave a secret smile.

  Chapter Two

  Painting Rainbows

  ‘Look, Mam, a rainbow!’ shouted an excited Duggie Smith. It was Friday, 20 September and there had been a sudden brief, heavy shower. A rainbow lit up the primrose-blue sky.

  Ruby Smith glanced out of the window from the chaos of her kitchen. Preparing breakfast for her five children was always a chore. The eldest, twelve-year-old Andy, had already left to catch the school bus to Easington and was soaked to the skin by the time he reached Ragley High Street.

  Ruby scraped out the last of the porridge and put it in a bowl for Duggie. ‘Yes, luv, an’ there’ll be a pot o’ gold at t’end of it.’

  ‘A pot o’ gold?’ asked Duggie, suddenly interested.

  ‘So they say,’ said Ruby. ‘That’s where y’find buried treasure.’

  Duggie’s eyes were wide. ‘Buried treasure?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ruby, ‘at t’end of a rainbow. Now, come an’ sit down an’ eat y’breakfast.’

  Her youngest child, one-year-old Natasha, had crawled under the kitchen table and was collecting stray lumps of porridge from the floor and licking her chubby fingers. Ruby scooped her up and wiped the child’s pink cheeks with a grubby tea towel.

  Meanwhile, Racquel, a competent ten-year-old and the image of her mother, was helping her three-year-old sister, Sharon, to eat a final spoonful of porridge. ‘Mam, we did rainbows in our weather project when ah were in Mrs Feather’s class. She said y’can’t find t’end of a rainbow ’cause it’s like tryin’ t’walk to t’end of yer own shadow.’

  Ruby was impressed. Racquel worked hard at school. She looked down at Duggie and shook her head. ‘Y’see what y’learn if y’listen to y’teacher? Now, come an’ wash yer ’ands before y’go t’school.’

  But Duggie had other things on his mind – playing conkers with his friend, Chris Wojciechowski, climbing trees … and now there was something else that had caught his imagination: buried treasure.

  In John Pruett’s classroom the children were sitting in four rows behind desks with sloping lids, each with an inkwell, chanting their tables in loud voices as they did every morning. This was followed by copying a poem in their best cursive handwriting, using dip-in pens and blotting paper. Writing in black ink could be a messy business, as nine-year-old Norman Barraclough soon discovered. His fingers were stained with ink but they would have to be clean before he went home to help his father, the Ragley and Morton fishmonger.

  John Pruett firmly believed in the Three ‘Rs’ and learning by rote. A one-way pedagogy was the rock on which he based his teaching. The result was that the children were uninspired and subdued … but they knew their tables.

  In contrast, the children in Class 2 were full of awe and wonder. Lily had collected a list of ‘rainbow words’ on the blackboard and was now using a prism to break sunlight into the colours of the spectrum. She explained that water droplets acted like tiny prisms, resulting in the colours we see in a rainbow. She was so pleased with the children’s responses.

  ‘It’s like magic, Miss,’ said eight-year-old Stevie Coleclough.

  Lily smiled. ‘It is, Stevie, it really is.’

  Meanwhile, in Anne’s class four five-year-olds were playing on an off-cut of carpet near the home corner. Margery Flathers and Jane Grantham were dressing two dolls, while Tobias Fawnswater and Clint Ramsbottom were connecting pieces of Lego.

  Margery looked at Clint. ‘Would y’like t’play with one of our dolls?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Clint.

  ‘What about you, Toby?’ asked Jane.

  Tobias paused in his Lego building and frowned, unsure where this was leading.

  ‘Well you can choose,’ said Jane. Her mother had told her it was important to share, but she had responded by saying that boys were different.

  ‘Yes,’ said Margery, a little more forcefully. ‘Which one would y’like?’

  Tobias nodded thoughtfully and came to a decision. ‘The one that does the dishes and the ironing and cleans my shoes.’

  Margery studied her classmate phlegmatically and reached a conclusion. ‘Play wi’ y’Lego, Toby.’

  It was the end of assembly and ten-year-old Colin Appleyard had recited the school prayer in a calm, solemn voice:

&
nbsp; 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.

  ‘Very good, Colin, and well done, boys and girls,’ said the Revd Joseph Evans, who came into the school each week to take assembly and read Bible stories with the children, ‘for when we pray we speak to God.’

  Six-year-old Trevor Poskitt put up his hand.

  Joseph was encouraged by the little boy’s enthusiasm. ‘Yes, Trevor. What would you like to say?’

  ‘It’s my mam, sir,’ said Trevor.

  ‘And what about your mother?’ asked Joseph in a soft, reassuring voice.

  ‘She talks t’God.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ said Joseph. ‘And when does she speak to God?’

  ‘When we need more money, sir.’

  It was at times like this that Joseph wished he could be a librarian.

  On the High Street, Ruby Smith pushed little Natasha in her pram towards the forecourt of the General Stores. She parked it next to two metal plaques screwed to the wall advertising ‘WILLS’S CUT GOLDEN BAR TOBACCO’ and ‘TIZER THE APPETIZER’.

  Forty-six-year-old Prudence Golightly, the diminutive shopkeeper, smiled as the bell rang over the door and Ruby walked in carrying her youngest child.

  ‘Good morning, Ruby, and how’s little Natasha?’

  ‘Teethin’ summat rotten, Miss Golightly.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Prudence, ‘and she looks so bonny with her rosy cheeks.’

  ‘M’mam’s bought ’er this teethin’ ring an’ that ’elps.’

  Natasha was chomping vigorously on a pink plastic ring and drooling.

  ‘And how is your mother?’

  Fifty-year-old Agnes Bancroft lived with Ruby and her family in their council house at 7 School View and gave her daughter unstinting support in difficult times.

  ‘She’s fine, thank you. She were watching t’Woodentops on telly wi’ Natasha afore she left t’mek them fancy chocolates in York.’

  Agnes had worked in the Rowntree’s factory for many years.

  ‘A hard-working lady,’ said Prudence. ‘Yes, Watch with Mother is really popular. When the shop is quiet I let Jeremy watch it.’