Changing Times

by Jack Sheffield

Ruby shook her head sadly. ‘’E’s neither use nor ornament is my Ronnie. Sometimes ah don’t know whether t’laugh or cry.’

  Lily pursed her lips and said nothing. She knew life was a struggle for Ruby.

  ‘Any road, ah mus’ get on. Ah’ve got m’shift t’do at T’Royal Oak.’ She pulled her headscarf a little tighter. ‘At least that Stan Coe won’t be there.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Lily, suddenly taken aback by a shiver of recollection.

  ‘’E were up to ’is old tricks, causin’ trouble again an’ drunk by all accounts.’

  ‘I see,’ said Lily, tugging her coat a little tighter around her.

  ‘But Sergeant Dew’irst sorted ’im out. ’E dunt tek no prisoners.’

  Lily acknowledged both the anomaly and the double negative. She was well aware that Harry Dewhirst had his own very direct style of keeping the peace.

  Ruby frowned. ‘Ah wouldn’t give ’ouse room t’that Stan. Should be locked up … an’ ’is sister’s no better.’

  Lily saw John Pruett appear at the office window. ‘Well, must get on, Ruby. Have a good day.’

  ‘Mebbe ah will, but some days are longer than others.’

  She hurried down the drive and Lily looked after her, reflecting that Stan Coe was an evil presence that cast a stain on the village in which she had built her new life.

  It was just before nine o’clock and John Pruett had been busy writing on the blackboard in his immaculate cursive script. When the children walked into his classroom there was a sheet of paper on each desk, plus a dip-in pen and a sheet of blotting paper. They sat quietly and stared at the neat writing in white chalk that covered the blackboard.

  ‘Right, boys and girls,’ he said. ‘We’re starting the day with two more eleven-plus practice questions. The time limit is ten minutes, not a minute more. You will show me all the working out on your paper and, as soon as you have finished, put down your pens and fold your arms. So – in complete silence – begin.’

  The children were used to mental arithmetic and the first question posed few problems. It read: ‘A motorist leaves home at 10.15 a.m. and drives at 32 miles per hour. He stops for lunch from noon to 1.45 p.m. and then continues his journey at 30 miles per hour. How many miles has he travelled by 5 p.m.?’

  The second concerned logical deduction. It read: ‘My best friend is tall and dark. I am nine and he is ten. He is one of these four boys below. Read the following sentences and write down my best friend’s name: Harry is younger than me. He is short and dark. Dick is ten. He is a tall boy with fair hair. Tom has dark hair. He is older than me and is a tall boy. Frank is a tall boy with dark hair. He is nine.’

  Susan Derwood frowned. She wouldn’t dream of having a best friend who was a boy and wondered why there weren’t girls’ questions in the eleven-plus. Reluctantly, she wrote the name ‘Tom’, put down her pen and folded her arms. Her answers to the two questions had taken six minutes.

  Across the High Street from school, the familiar pattern of village life was going on. In the Pharmacy Herbert Grinchley was persuading Sylvia Icklethwaite, the forty-six-year-old farmer’s wife, that Sanatogen was the solution to her lack of energy. ‘It’s got glycerol-phosphates, so it must be good,’ said Herbert with the conviction of an evangelist.

  Muriel Tonks, attracted by the photograph of Gina Lollobrigida in the hairdresser’s window, had called in to tell Diane Wigglesworth that so-called ‘trendy’ unmarried couples in London were ‘living over t’brush’.

  Meanwhile, in the year when only 4 per cent of the population could afford a holiday abroad, Violet Fawnswater was booking two weeks in an upmarket gîte in Brittany.

  Outside the General Stores the local coalman, thirty-year-old Fred Kershaw, was delivering his weekly order to Prudence Golightly. As usual his face was covered in coal dust and a cigarette hung from his lips as he heaved a hundredweight sack from his wagon on to his broad shoulders. Fred was a chain smoker, but his sixty-a-day habit did not seem to hamper the immense physical demands of carrying heavy sacks all day. He was also the centre forward for the Ragley Rovers football team, but they had yet to win a game. Ronnie Smith had offered to change their fortunes by becoming their new manager, but Fred did not hold out much hope.

  As he worked his way around the village, he thought of his cousins who also worked in the coal industry at Overton Colliery near Wakefield. They had been taken on as apprentices at the age of fifteen and worked long hours down the pit with their battery packs, knee pads and a metal snap tin with a lid to stop the mice eating their dripping sandwiches. It was hard labour, but they knew it was a job for life and they found companionship in their mining community. They were a few of the half a million men who worked in the pits providing coal for the railways, factories and homes. There had been talk of natural gas, oil and nuclear power, but on this cold morning all that was far from Fred’s mind and the mug of sweet tea and two digestive biscuits provided by Prudence were always appreciated.

  When the bell rang for morning break Anne was on duty and she put on her coat and scarf and ventured out on to the playground. Lily came out to join her, carrying two mugs of hot coffee.

  ‘Thanks, Lily, that’s welcome.’

  They stood side by side watching the children at play. Tobias Fawnswater was running around pretending to shoot his friends with a twelve-inch wooden ruler.

  ‘I’m getting concerned about him,’ said Anne. ‘His drawings are full of graphic images of war.’

  ‘Settle him down with a box of Lego,’ said Lily reassuringly. ‘He’ll enjoy that.’

  Suddenly little Margery Flathers was tugging at her sleeve. ‘Miss, Miss, my daddy has gone away again.’

  ‘And where has he gone, Margery?’ asked Anne.

  ‘Into the woods.’

  ‘The woods?’

  ‘Yes, Miss, he goes there to sleep with his boyfriends,’ and she ran off having imparted her news.

  Lily looked perplexed.

  Anne grinned. ‘Don’t worry – her father’s in the army and is away on night exercises.’

  Lily smiled and returned to the warmth of the staff-room while Anne watched Tobias throwing pretend hand grenades at a bemused Clint Ramsbottom.

  At the end of playtime Anne sat Toby down in the home corner with the gentle task of building with Lego blocks. When she returned later to check on his progress she was impressed with the tall, colourful structure he had produced. It resembled a tower or a castle.

  ‘So what have you built?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a weapon to destroy the Earth,’ said a cheerful Tobias.

  During lunchtime in Easington School, Rose and Joy were in the sixth-form common room reading an article about the Beatles in Joy’s Pop Weekly magazine. The Beatles had flown back from America and 12,000 fans had packed every vantage point at London Airport to welcome home their idols. The loudspeaker had blared out ‘She Loves You’ while girls screamed.

  ‘Wish I’d been there,’ sighed Joy.

  ‘Same here,’ agreed Rose.

  ‘There might be a concert over Easter,’ said Joy hopefully.

  Rose looked thoughtful. ‘I’m away with my parents. It’s their annual trip to see my aunt in Scarborough. I’m not keen, but I can’t say no. What about you?’

  ‘I’m stuck here with my mum.’

  ‘What about Sam?’

  ‘He mentioned something about going camping.’

  Rose considered this. ‘Freddie will probably go as well.’

  ‘Sounds fun,’ said Joy. ‘Pity we can’t join them,’ she added with a mischievous grin.

  The bell for afternoon school rang and they went off to their lessons, each with thoughts of sharing a sleeping bag with their respective boyfriends.

  It was Friday evening and at the far end of the council estate it was bath night in the Ramsbottom household. Minnie Ramsbottom had dragged the tin bath from the back yard into the sparsely furnished front room. There were two wooden chairs, a sofa and a sideboard. She had go
ne through the usual routine of banking up the coal fire for warmth and placing a peg rug on the battered and stained linoleum floor.

  ‘Do we ’ave to, Mam?’ pleaded Shane. ‘Ah’m clean.’ He spat on his grimy hands, rubbed them on his shorts and held them up for inspection.

  ‘It’s not just yer ’ands, Shane, ‘it’s all of you that ’as t’be washed. Y’need t’be more like yer little brother. ’E’s allus clean.’

  Shane frowned at Clint, who had always avoided muddy puddles and rough games.

  ‘Can ah sit in t’deep end, Mam?’ asked Clint plaintively.

  A house brick had been propped under one end of the tin bath.

  ‘No, y’can’t, luv. Only big boys sit in t’deep end.’

  Shane, suitably placated with the knowledge of his status in the bathtime pecking order, stripped off quickly and stepped into the lukewarm water.

  ‘Your turn, Clint,’ said Mrs Ramsbottom.

  Clint looked dubiously at the swirling grime that surrounded his brother and stepped gingerly into the raised end of the tub and clutched his knees. He knew what was coming next.

  ‘Mind y’feet,’ ordered Mrs Ramsbottom. She picked up a kettle from the hearth and, with well-practised accuracy, poured a stream of boiling water into the centre of the bath. The luxury of sudden heat was always a shock to the two boys.

  ‘Shane, close yer eyes while ah wash yer ’air.’

  Mrs Ramsbottom picked up her block of Lifebuoy soap and rubbed vigorously. Then she screwed a stiff flannel into a point. ‘Now yer mucky ears.’

  That night when the two boys slept top to toe on their bed there was no bedding, just a curtain and an old army greatcoat. However, they did not seem to feel the cold.

  ‘Y’feet smell nice,’ said Clint.

  ‘Shurrup,’ muttered Shane.

  ‘Shane … don’t y’like ’avin’ a bath?’

  ‘No, baths are f’sissies.’

  ‘Ah’m not a sissy,’ protested Clint.

  ‘Y’don’t play football,’ grumbled Shane.

  ‘Ah don’t like football.’

  ‘An’ y’don’t like fightin’.’

  ‘No, ah don’t.’

  ‘So what do y’like?’

  ‘Dunno.’ It didn’t seem to be the right moment to share the fact that he enjoyed dressing Jane Grantham’s dolls.

  As ice formed on the inside of the window panes, they dropped off to sleep on the one night of the week when they were clean and smelling of soap.

  On Saturday morning Freddie had finished his work in Timothy Pratt’s Hardware Emporium. He had arranged to meet Sam Grundy in the Coffee Shop before they went to their afternoon rugby match. As he walked in, the number-one record, Cilla Black’s ‘Anyone Who Had a Heart’, was playing on the jukebox. Sam waved to him from a corner table and Freddie bought a coffee and joined him.

  ‘I’ve got a great idea,’ said Sam.

  Freddie grinned at his friend. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Joy wasn’t too keen, but I mentioned it to some of the lads in the rugby team and a few are interested.’

  Freddie sipped his coffee. ‘In what?’

  ‘Camping,’ explained Sam. ‘In the Yorkshire Dales during the Easter break. It’ll be brilliant. Malham, drinking in the Lister Arms, then on to Stainforth and Kettlewell. All that fresh air and freedom. A break from revision. Just what we need.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Freddie. ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘I’ve got all the gear,’ said Sam. ‘Tent, groundsheet, Primus stove. My family have been going camping for years.’

  Freddie didn’t want to dampen Sam’s enthusiasm. ‘I’ll let you know. I have a few things to sort out first, but it sounds like a good plan.’

  Sam took out an Ordnance Survey map of the Yorkshire Dales and they pored over it while he described the proposed adventure.

  It was about this time that the beginnings of an idea formed in Freddie’s mind.

  Lily had called in to Ragley to take Freddie to his afternoon rugby game as Tom was on duty. As she parked on the High Street, Stan Coe’s Land Rover pulled up beside her. Lily bowed her head to ignore the leering pig farmer.

  ‘When y’gonna get a proper man instead o’ that copper?’ he shouted from his open window.

  Lily turned away. There were memories that could not be erased.

  ‘Think what y’missin’,’ he added as he drove off.

  Lily took a deep breath, gathered herself and walked into the General Stores, where an irritated Deirdre Coe was expressing her feelings. ‘’Ow much? That’s daylight robbery!’

  Prudence had weighed out a quarter-pound of Nuttall’s Mintoes. They were Deirdre’s favourite sweets. Made in Doncaster and known as ‘the five-minute mint’, they were certainly value for money.

  ‘They’re eightpence a quarter,’ said Prudence evenly.

  ‘Ah’ll tek ’em.’ She slapped two threepenny bits and two pennies on the counter, grabbed the bag of sweets and marched out, ignoring Lily.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Prudence. She looked around the shop. It was quiet again. ‘Sorry about that.’

  Lily smiled. ‘As always, you handled it well.’

  ‘So, what’s it to be, Lily?’

  She looked at her list. ‘A packet of Kellogg’s Frosties, please, some Brillo soap pads and a bottle of Kia-Ora orange juice.’

  ‘And how’s Freddie these days?’ asked Prudence. ‘I’ve seen his photograph in the Herald. He’s quite a sportsman.’

  ‘Since he passed his driving test I don’t see much of him.’

  ‘Freedom, Lily,’ said Prudence with a smile. ‘New horizons.’

  ‘And he was talking about going camping with his friends over Easter.’

  ‘The great outdoors,’ said Prudence with a wistful glance at Jeremy Bear. ‘Oh to be young again.’

  Lily appeared lost in her own world for a moment, then the bell above the door rang. It was Ruby.

  ‘’Ello, Mrs Feather, Miss Golightly. Ah’ve jus’ called in for a few bits an’ bobs.’

  Prudence and Lily gave each other a knowing look.

  The spell was broken.

  The Royal Oak was always busy on Saturday lunchtimes. Ronnie Smith and Deke Ramsbottom were leaning on the bar in the taproom, supping deeply on their pints of Tetley’s bitter.

  Deke opened his packet of Smith’s crisps, unwound the blue waxed packet of salt and sprinkled it. ‘’Ave a crisp, Ronnie.’

  Ronnie accepted the offer gratefully. He was wondering what Ruby might have prepared for his lunch. Then he took out a comb from his top pocket and pulled it through his long hair. He had changed his hairstyle from a slicked-back DA to a classy Tony Curtis.

  ‘So, y’want t’be manager o’ Ragley Rovers?’ said Deke. He had become the unofficial chairman of the local team after making four corner flags in his shed.

  Ronnie nodded. ‘Ah want t’tek Ragley to t’top o’ t’league.’

  ‘But we’re bottom,’ pointed out Deke.

  ‘Ah know, but ah’ll be a tracksuit manager jus’ like Alf Ramsey.’

  Deke looked puzzled. ‘’Ave y’got a tracksuit?’

  ‘No … but my Ruby can knock one up.’

  ‘You’d ’ave t’get in ’er good books,’ said Deke dubiously. ‘She told my Minnie you were as much use as a chocolate fireguard.’

  ‘Ah can ’andle my Ruby,’ said Ronnie defiantly.

  Deke supped on his beer thoughtfully. ‘Well, ah wouldn’t want t’get on t’wrong side of ’er mother. She’s gorra right ’ook like Cassius Clay.’

  Twenty-two-year-old Clay had defeated Sonny Liston to become world heavyweight champion. The ‘Clown Prince’ was now known as the ‘King of the Ring’.

  Ronnie was suddenly deflated. In his household Agnes ruled the roost. ‘Mebbe so, Deke,’ he said. ‘’Ow about another pint? It’s your round.’

  Deke was sure it was Ronnie’s, but he put two half crowns on the bar and didn’t argue.

  It was early on Sunday morning a
nd a pale dawn light was spreading in the eastern sky as Lily looked out of her bedroom window. Around her all was still and Tom slumbered on. She thought of Freddie. She had heard the front door close as he left for his morning run.

  Now he was on the Morton road outside St Mary’s Church when shafts of bright sunlight lanced down through the scudding clouds. As he glanced up a skein of geese flew towards the bleak, snow-covered moors.

  He stopped and leaned on the church wall, breathing hard. Running helped to conquer his troubled thoughts. There had been times when a wild rage had almost consumed him, but he had moved on with his life. There was contentment in his relationship with Rose, while the reliable Tom continued to be a steadfast companion, someone who shared his views about sport and politics, particularly the fact that he wasn’t allowed to vote until he was twenty-one.

  However, with Lily there had been no respite and a distance remained between them. On impulse he walked through the gateway of the church and his canvas plimsolls crunched on the ice-rimed grass. It was a path he knew well and he had been here many times to seek solace.

  There were rows of gravestones, grey and forbidding in the dappled light. Alongside them winter aconites, pale yellow among the dark leaf mould, gave hope of a distant spring. It was a place of peace and sanctuary, and Freddie’s beating heart slowed as his body relaxed. He stopped beneath a huge beech tree and sat down on a bench. His breath steamed in the air as he stared at a familiar gravestone.

  Carved into the stone were the words:

  FLORENCE MARY BRIGGS

  1906–1957

  In Loving Memory

  Beloved Mother & Wife

  He spoke the name out loud and felt the whispering presence of the woman he had believed to be his mother. Moments in his young life when he had turned to her for guidance came flooding back. Now there was no one. A father he did not know was far away and the woman who called herself his mother had lost his trust.

  As he sat there, Freddie was unaware of approaching footsteps. Joseph Evans was heading for the early-morning eight o’clock service.

  ‘Good morning, Freddie,’ he said. ‘Out for your morning run again, I see.’

  Freddie looked up, startled. ‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Evans,’ and he gave a strained smile. ‘Yes, just taking a break.’