Ruby shook her head. ‘’E’ll be goin’ int’York to t’bookies.’
Emily nodded knowingly. ‘Ah guessed as much.’
Ruby sighed. Her cheeks were flushed with the effort of lifting the heavy tables and chairs. ‘This mornin’ when ’e went out ’e said he’d be back in two shakes of a cow’s tail.’
Lamb’s tail, thought Emily, but didn’t correct her friend. ‘Anyway ah’m ’ere for our Trevor. Ah’m tekkin’ ’im to t’torture chamber.’
The torture chamber was the local name for the dentist in Easington, who made Sweeney Todd look like a choirboy.
‘Good luck, Emily,’ said Ruby with feeling.
Lily was expecting Mrs Poskitt, so she had Trevor standing by the classroom door. ‘Here’s Trevor, Mrs Poskitt. He’s worked hard this morning. We’re learning about pounds, shillings and pence.’
Mrs Poskitt was a Yorkshirewoman who told it as it was. ‘Ah’m not tryin’ t’teach you y’job, Mrs Feather, but t’best way t’teach our Trevor ’bout money is t’borrow some off ’im.’ With that she strode off leaving a smiling Lily behind her.
At lunchtime Anne Grainger and Lily were discussing television programmes. Ragley School was the proud owner of a television set with a grainy black-and-white picture. It was a monster and, with its huge cabinet, was moved around with great effort on its tubular legs and squeaky castors. John Pruett would boast frequently that he had been using television programmes for schools since 1957, even though it was Lily and Anne who had done the persuading.
This morning his class had watched the BBC programme Indoors and Out: Man and His Home, while Lily and Anne were keen for their children to end the afternoon with the ITV programme Story Box. It featured a nature-study theme and both Lily and Anne agreed it added variety to the curriculum.
They were discussing this when Mrs Fawnswater walked in to deliver a recorder for her son Tobias. Anne Grainger’s recorder group practised each Friday lunchtime.
‘Please could you give this to Tobias, Mrs Grainger?’ asked Mrs Fawnswater, slightly out of breath.
‘Of course,’ said Anne.
Mrs Fawnswater fumbled in her pocket. ‘And if he does well, could you give him these?’ She held out a packet of Rowntree’s Tooty Frooties. ‘It’s so important to encourage him.’
Lily stepped in. ‘Perhaps you could ask him after school how he’s got on and give them to him yourself?’ She delivered this request with a straight face and absolute aplomb.
Mrs Fawnswater looked a little crestfallen and stared at the packet of sweets. ‘They’re his favourite. In fact, these days he doesn’t want to eat anything unless it’s been advertised on television.’
She wandered off and Lily murmured, ‘The power of advertising.’
Anne raised her eyebrows and grinned. ‘Go to work on an egg,’ she said as she hurried off for recorder practice.
At the end of school, John Pruett was in the office. Ruby had finished her cleaning and the school was silent apart from the ticking of the ancient clock and the scurrying of tiny mice in the distant dark corners of the hall.
John unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and took out the large, leather-bound school logbook. Then he opened it to the next clean page, filled his fountain pen with ink and wrote the date. It was a ritual he completed most evenings, but particularly at the end of a week. The whole history of the school was there and, as he was writing, it occurred to him that he was merely the custodian of the village school until someone came to take his place. He wondered who that might be.
Perhaps Lily, he thought.
He looked out of the window at his car. It was a 1946 Ford Anglia, a black two-door saloon, and, although he polished it frequently, it was definitely showing its age.
There had been a time when he had hoped that he and Lily could drive to Fountains Abbey for a picnic, or to Scarborough for a fish-and-chip supper, but that was never to be. He sighed and returned to the events of the past week.
After school, Lily called in at the General Stores. As she approached the counter, Mrs Fawnswater was being served. She paid sixpence for a TV Times. The front cover featured Roger Moore as The Saint alongside a vivacious Jackie Collins.
Violet Fawnswater had her mother with her, a very short and decidedly plump lady, and she was holding Tobias by his hand.
Suddenly Tobias asked, ‘Were you ever a baby, Mummy?’
Violet was keen to demonstrate in front of Ragley’s deputy headteacher that she was both caring and sympathetic, a modern sixties mother. She crouched down and gave her son a benevolent smile. ‘Yes, darling, once I was in Grandma’s tummy.’
Tobias considered this for a moment and stared at his corpulent grandmother. ‘So is that why Grandma’s tummy is like that?’
Mrs Fawnswater gritted her teeth and hurried out with Tobias and her mother in tow.
‘Oh dear,’ said Prudence. ‘Out of the mouths of babes …’
Lily smiled. ‘Prudence, I just need something quick and easy for Freddie’s tea before he goes out.’
Prudence took a tin from the shelf behind her. ‘How about this? Heinz Macaroni in Cheese Sauce. That should do the job.’
‘Excellent.’ Lily put a shilling on the counter. Prudence rang the till and gave Lily a ha’penny change. ‘Must rush,’ said Lily. ‘Tom’s dropping him off in York on his way to a police training meeting.’
As she walked out she almost bumped into Stan Coe, the local pig farmer. Like his pigs, Stan wallowed in his own filth. The stench of decay that hung over him resembled his damp, putrid sties.
‘Excuse me, please,’ said Lily sharply as he blocked her way. He was developing a large paunch following his regular intake of best bitter at the Pig & Ferret.
‘Y’still a bit uppity then, Mrs Teacher,’ sneered Stan.
Lily recoiled from this offensive man with his rank smell and fetid breath.
‘Stay away from me!’ she warned in a voice that brooked no argument, then she hurried to her car.
‘Proper little Goody Two-Shoes,’ Stan called after her.
As she drove home she recalled that day, ten years ago, when Stan in a drunken state had attempted to molest her. She had never revealed the details to Tom, fearful of what he might do and the impact on his job.
By the time she arrived home she had managed to control her fury.
In one of the large new bungalows on the Morton road, Rose McConnell was eating a hasty meal.
‘So who’s this boy you’re meeting?’ asked her father.
Brian McConnell was a tall, athletic forty-two-year-old. He had moved from Doncaster to take up a new appointment as senior manager in the York Carriageworks with a brief to progress the development and construction of new rolling stock. A shrewd man, he was aware that the steam era was drawing to a close, particularly after the Beeching cuts, while new diesel engines were being developed.
‘Freddie Briggs,’ said Rose, blushing slightly as she finished off her beans on toast. ‘He’s in my English class.’
Mary McConnell smiled at her husband. ‘He’s also captain of the rugby team, Brian. You’ve seen his photograph in the Herald.’ Mary, tall and slim, appeared to be an older version of her daughter.
Brian nodded appreciatively. As a young man and before he moved to Doncaster he had lived in Grassington in the Yorkshire Dales and played for Upper Wharfedale Rugby Union Club.
‘Sounds a good lad,’ he said.
‘You need to leave now,’ said Mary, glancing up at the clock, ‘and then collect Rose at ten thirty.’
Brian had grown used to being his daughter’s chauffeur over the years, mainly to hockey and netball matches.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Shall we go?’
As they walked out to the car he thought Rose was wearing a little too much make-up, but he had learned to hold his tongue. Soon they were driving down the A19 towards York and the Odeon Cinema.
Meanwhile, in the vicarage, the Revd Joseph Evans had struggled with his Harvest se
rmon and sought refuge in one of the outbuildings, where he was rummaging through a jumble of bottles of home-made wine. Labels written in his spidery handwriting included ‘Pea Pod Supreme’, ‘Rosehip Revelation’ and ‘Strawberry Sensation’. Joseph was far from modest when naming his wine.
It was unfortunate the results had the distinctive bouquet of paint stripper. No one doubted his generosity, as his clerical colleagues were all too aware when he gave them a complimentary bottle. They would smile, offer thanks and pour the contents down the sink when they returned home.
In contrast, Vera was in her beautifully organized pantry. She had switched on the radio, tuned it to the BBC Home Service and was listening to Max Bruch’s Violin Concerto No. 1 in G Minor. In her disciplined world she was content. She checked the contents of the shelves, which were filled with neat, serried rows of large Kilner jars containing a variety of fruit, the results of a labour of love from her bountiful garden.
She selected a jar of apricots in order to prepare one of her specialities, a Harvest Festival cake. Then, on her ancient scales, she weighed cherries, sultanas and prunes. After putting the mixture into a large bowl she poured in cider and left it to soak overnight. Finally, she put away her scales and the set of brass imperial weights and cleaned the worktop until it was spotless.
The grandfather clock in the spacious hallway chimed eight o’clock and Vera decided to seek out Joseph. She had promised to check his sermon before they settled down to watch one of her favourite television programmes. It was Dr Finlay’s Casebook, with the perceptive Bill Simpson as the inquisitive doctor. However, when she opened the back door and peered in the direction of the outbuildings, she heard the distant clinking of bottles. She frowned, retired to the lounge and settled to watch another medical drama set in the Scottish town of Tannochbrae during the late 1920s.
In the back row of the cinema, Freddie was facing a dilemma. He wanted to put his arm around Rose’s shoulders but didn’t wish to appear too eager. Also, he wasn’t sure what the response might be.
It was clear Rose was enjoying the film, The Great Escape, which turned out to be both entertaining and tense, with moments of high drama. Steve McQueen, as a daredevil American captain, along with the measured and thoughtful Richard Attenborough, playing the part of a British squadron leader, were leading a group of Allied soldiers in an escape attempt from a German POW camp.
However, Freddie had other things on his mind. He was an intelligent young man and had decided that on a first date a non-tactile approach was advisable. Meanwhile, Rose was wondering why her tall, handsome partner was so shy.
After the film they had twenty minutes to wait before Rose’s father arrived, so they called into a coffee bar close by. On the jukebox the Beatles were singing ‘Love Me Do’ and they ordered two frothy coffees. Rose insisted on paying for hers.
‘What are you doing over the weekend?’ asked Freddie.
‘Joy Popplewell asked me if I’d like to go to watch your rugby match.’
‘Sam’s girlfriend?’
It was well known that Sam Grundy and Joy were now an ‘item’.
‘Yes, so I might see you there.’
‘We’re playing Leeds Grammar School, so it will be a tough match.’
The conversation ebbed and flowed and they felt content in each other’s company.
‘My mum and dad go to church,’ said Rose. ‘It’s the Harvest Festival on Sunday.’
‘I know,’ replied Freddie. ‘My sister’s in the choir.’
‘I’ll be going with them,’ said Rose.
Ten thirty arrived too quickly, and they hurried out and stood under the canopy in front of the cinema. Brian McConnell pulled up by the kerb, leaned across and opened the passenger-side door. He didn’t want to get out and witness the possibility of a goodnight kiss.
‘I’ve enjoyed tonight,’ ventured Freddie tentatively.
‘So have I,’ said Rose with a smile.
‘Maybe see you tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Do you need a lift?’ called Brian from the car.
‘No thanks, Mr McConnell, I’m fine.’
As they pulled away from the kerb Rose turned and waved.
Fifteen minutes later Tom Feather arrived in Lily’s car to pick up Freddie and they drove off past Micklegate Bar and the railway station, then out of the city.
‘Good film?’ asked Tom.
‘Excellent,’ said Freddie.
‘What’s Rose like?’
‘OK,’ answered Freddie.
Tom smiled and they drove home in silence, each with his own thoughts.
On Saturday evening Freddie made an unexpected announcement: ‘I’d like to go to the Harvest Festival tomorrow.’
Tom looked up in surprise. Freddie wasn’t a regular visitor to St Mary’s.
Lily was delighted. ‘That’s good, but we’ll have to leave in time for the choir practice. There’s usually a quick rehearsal before the service.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Freddie. He looked at Tom. ‘I was wondering if I could borrow a pair of black shoes? Mine have had it.’ Both Tom and Freddie wore size ten and Tom had four pairs, all with toe caps polished to a military shine.
Tom was curious, but simply said, ‘I’ll dig out a pair and put them outside your bedroom door.’
Freddie smiled. ‘Thanks, Tom.’
‘It’s always good to smarten yourself up for church,’ said Tom. He clearly approved that the generally untidy Freddie was making an effort.
However, Freddie had other things on his mind. Rose hadn’t come to the afternoon rugby match, but he knew where she would be tomorrow.
It was Sunday morning, the day of the Harvest Festival, and Vera walked from the vicarage across the gravelled courtyard to St Mary’s Church. Alone in this quiet sanctuary she felt in a haven of peace. As she approached the altar, morning sun filtered through the stained glass of the East window and refracted light lit up the ancient walls in amber and gold.
She had prepared a basket of flowers to add to the wonderful display prepared by the Flower Committee and she placed it on a stone shelf, and stood back to admire it.
‘Perfect,’ said a voice from the doorway of the vestry. It was Joseph, who had come into church to prepare the readings from the ancient Bible and mark the pages with long silk ribbons.
‘Thank you,’ said Vera. ‘They do look pretty, don’t they?’
Joseph walked towards her. ‘Just like my sister.’ His eyes were full of pride.
She looked at her brother, a tall, skeletal man with a Roman nose and a loose clerical collar around his neck. There was a crease of worry across his forehead.
‘Don’t concern yourself, Joseph,’ she said. ‘The Harvest Festival is always a wonderful village occasion. All will be well.’
Joseph stood behind the brass lectern. It was decorated with an eagle and on its outstretched wings rested the Bible. He opened it to Deuteronomy, chapter twenty-four, verse nineteen, and read out loud, ‘When you reap your harvest in your field …’
‘… and forget a sheaf in the field …’ continued Vera quietly. For, on occasions, that is how she felt. The one that was left behind.
‘Freddie’s up early,’ remarked Lily.
‘That’s good,’ said Tom as he got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. When he stepped out on to the landing he got a surprise. Freddie emerged from his bedroom dressed in his Sunday best – grey suit, white shirt, striped school tie with its two shades of blue and Tom’s spare pair of shiny black shoes. He had even combed his long wavy hair into the semblance of a parting.
Tom stared into the bathroom mirror, lathered his chin with his badger-hair bristle brush and began to shave. As he splashed his cut-throat razor in the soapy water he paused and smiled at his reflection.
He’s either discovered religion or he’s in love, he thought.
Meanwhile, in St Mary’s Church, Anne Grainger was arranging the children in order of height in the choir stalls. Behind them the rows were
empty; they would be filled with the adult members of the choir after they had processed up the aisle at the start of the service.
In the vestry, Joseph opened the old wardrobe and donned his white surplice and cope, a full-length garment that covered his shiny black shoes. Around his neck he draped a stole stitched with intricate gold crosses. It was a special day and he smiled in anticipation. Archibald Pike led his well-rehearsed team of bell-ringers as they announced to the folk of Ragley that the Harvest Festival service was soon to start.
Joseph walked out to check the altar. He was ready to begin.
As Tom drove up the Morton road it seemed as though the whole village was on the move. All paths appeared to lead to the church.
There was a special quality to the light at this time of day, a golden hue. October mists were slowly clearing over the plain of York. In the hedgerows goldfinches pecked at the ripe seeds, while wisps of wood smoke hovered above the pantile roofs of Ragley village.
‘A perfect morning for the Harvest Festival,’ said Lily, but it seemed that Freddie had other things on his mind.
Tom and Freddie decided to enjoy the open air for a while longer. They left Lily clutching her hymn book and choir robe. The tranquillity of St Mary’s churchyard touched the souls of all who entered. As Lily walked slowly up the gravel path she knew she always found peace here. It was a safe haven away from the problem that troubled her at the core of her soul. Around her the silk of spiders laced the hedgerow, while above her head a pair of beady-eyed rooks spiralled the clock tower.
Vera was standing at the entrance to the church, elegant as always in a lavender dress and a royal blue jacket.
‘Good morning, Lily,’ she said. She studied her friend carefully. ‘Is everything all right?’
Lily sighed. Vera was always perceptive.
Rose McConnell had arrived with her parents and they were enjoying a conversation with Freddie and Tom in the churchyard.
‘It’s Freddie,’ said Lily. ‘I’ve not seen him like this before. He’s met a girl and seems particularly keen.’
Freddie and Rose were exchanging smiles.
Vera linked arms with Lily. ‘Let’s go and sing, shall we?’
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