06 Educating Jack

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘A phrase … oh, yes, I see,’ I said.

  Vera looked at her wristwatch. ‘Well, we must go now, Ruby. Eat your grapes and enjoy the children’s cards and try not to worry.’ I walked to the door but Vera hung back for a moment and I heard Ruby whisper, ‘Ah think our Ronnie’s gone t’one o’ them prawnbrokers, Miss Evans. Ah can’t find m’mother’s locket wi’ t’broken chain what ah got when ah got married. Y’know ’ow it is, Miss Evans … ah laugh in public an’ ah cry in private.’

  When we got back to the school car park Vera and I stood there for a moment. ‘Poor Ruby,’ I said. ‘I wish I could think of a solution.’

  ‘I might just have thought of one,’ said Vera mysteriously and she climbed into her car and drove off.

  Beth had an event at her school that evening, so at seven o’clock I locked up and walked across the village green to The Royal Oak for some hot food and a drink. As usual, assorted members of the Ragley Rovers football team were watching the news on the television above the bar. A man, attached by an elastic rope, had leapt from the Clifton Suspension Bridge and survived.

  ‘That could catch on,’ said Chris ‘Kojak’ Wojciechowski, the Bald-Headed Ball Wizard.

  Ronnie was sitting on the bench seat under the dartboard with his son Duggie. They looked deep in conversation and I decided not to intervene. I glanced up at the ‘Specials’ blackboard. Tonight’s gastronomic feast was a simple choice: corned beef hash or lamb’s liver. ‘I’ll have the beef and a half of Chestnut Mild, please, Don.’

  Don Bradshaw, the landlord and an ex-wrestler, pulled on the hand pump effortlessly and gave me a stubbly-faced grin. ‘On yer own then, Mr Sheffield?’

  ‘Yes, Don,’ I said. ‘And how’s Sheila?’ Don’s wife, now in her mid-forties, still wore her Sixties miniskirts and, according to the Ragley Rovers football team, possessed the finest cleavage in North Yorkshire.

  ‘She’s gone wi’ ’er mates to t’pictures,’ said Don, ‘t’see that E.T.’

  ‘What’s that when it’s at ’ome?’ said Big Dave Robinson, the six-foot-four-inch goalkeeper, captain of Ragley Rovers and local refuse collector.

  ‘It’s that new Steven Spellbound film, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm Robinson, his five-foot-four-inch cousin and fellow binman. ‘Me an’ Dorothy went t’see it.’

  ‘Yeah, but what’s it abart?’ asked Big Dave, supping deeply on his pint of Tetley’s bitter.

  ‘Well, E.T.’s an alien from outer space an’ ’e’s wanderin’ abart c’llectin’ samples an’ suchlike an’ ’is spaceship buggers off an’ leaves ’im be’ind,’ said Little Malcolm.

  ‘’E wunt be too thrilled then, this E.T.,’ said Big Dave.

  ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ agreed Little Malcolm, ‘leavin’ t’poor little sod on ’is own on earth.’

  Don leant over the bar and began drying a pint glass with his York City tea towel. ‘So what ’appens then?’ he asked.

  ‘’E gets reight poorly,’ said Little Malcolm.

  ‘So not exactly a bag o’ laughs then,’ pondered Big Dave. ‘Ah can’t see me tekkin’ my Nellie t’see it. She’s more into ’Arrison Ford an’ a bit of adventure.’ Fenella Lovelace, or Nellie as she was known, was Big Dave’s sporty girlfriend and he was immensely proud that she could recite football’s offside rule word perfect.

  ‘Same ’ere,’ said Little Malcolm. ‘Mind you, my Dorothy prefers a bit o’ romance now an’ again.’

  The football team all gave Little Malcolm a knowing look. ‘So we’ve ’eard, Malcolm,’ said Don. Little Malcolm went a shade of puce and resumed staring up at the television set. The group Culture Club had been introduced and Boy George, dressed like a colour-blind Greek peasant, began to sing the new hit single ‘Do You Really Want to Hurt Me’.

  ‘Is it a woman?’ asked Big Dave.

  ‘Dunno, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm.

  ‘Ah think it’s a feller,’ said Don.

  ‘’E’s too good lookin’ for a feller,’ said Big Dave.

  ‘’Is name’s George,’ said Don.

  ‘Mus’ be a poofter,’ said Big Dave with a finality that brooked no argument.

  ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm and they all wandered off to the taproom as Don reached up and switched off.

  On Tuesday morning I peered through the leaded panes of the bedroom window at Bilbo Cottage and looked out at the October morning. The distant hills were shrouded in wolf-grey clouds and the trees in the fields looked like ghosts in the cold dawn. In the garden a scattering of fallen leaves, like a patchwork of memories, had faded and withered in the pale mist of autumn. The hedgerows were filled with the wild fruits and berries of the countryside, waiting to be collected by the nimble fingers of young children with smeared faces and purple tongues as they sampled the fruits of their labours. Soon it would be time for the autumn feast of jellies and jams and fruit pies, but for now the season was changing and bright summer had gone.

  As I drove into Ragley village, Dorothy Humpleby was standing in the open doorway of Nora’s Coffee Shop, swaying to the record on the juke-box, ‘Starmaker’ by the Kids from Fame, and hoping for a glimpse of the love of her life, Little Malcolm Robinson, the Ragley refuse collector, as he drove past in his bin wagon.

  Suddenly I spotted Vera’s car parked behind a shiny black hearse and I slowed down. Vera was deep in conversation with a grey-haired man in his sixties who was wearing an old-fashioned three-piece black suit, white shirt and black tie. It was Septimus Bernard Flagstaff, the local funeral director, known as Bernie to his friends and proud of his title as President of the Ragley and Morton Stag Beetle Society. It was well known in the village that he had a soft spot for the elegant Vera and was secretly heartbroken when news of her marriage to the major was announced. However, true love runs deep and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for the woman of his dreams. As I drove past, he took a large brass timepiece from the pocket of his waistcoat, nodded in response to something Vera had said and gave her a nervous smile.

  A few minutes later Vera walked into the school office, hung up her coat and sat at her desk. ‘Good news, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Ruby’s husband has got a job at last.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘Ruby will be thrilled.’

  ‘Yes. Mr Flagstaff needs a new assistant at the funeral parlour.’

  ‘Ronnie … in the funeral parlour?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘Well, you’ll recall, I did give him a reference.’ As she took the cover from her typewriter and flicked the dust from the keys with her lace-edged handkerchief, a smile flickered across her lips.

  And so it was that on that sunlit morning in the autumn of 1982, after a lifetime of broken promises and unemployment, Ronnie finally kept his word and got a job in what could loosely be described as the packaging industry … as a coffin polisher.

  Chapter Four

  Roman Holiday

  School closed for the half-term holiday today and will reopen on Monday, 1 November.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Friday, 22 October 1982

  IT HAD BEEN a journey of shadows. As we approached the wonderful city of Bath I reflected on the past few days. Beth was different, and I didn’t know why.

  It was Monday, 25 October and the half-term holiday stretched out before us. Beth and I had driven down to Bath for a short break from tired routines. We were both keen to explore the history of this wonderful Roman city, but mainly it was an opportunity to spend much-needed time together. A week ago her sister Laura had telephoned to ask if we would like to join her at her boss’s house in Bath for a few days. Beth had jumped at the invitation and so we packed for two nights away from Bilbo Cottage. However, for me, it felt like the calm before the storm. The thought of meeting up with Laura again made me a little uneasy. There was history between us.

  Beth had been quiet since Laura’s invitation and I wondered what was on her mind. Even so, she seemed in good spirits when, on Monday morning,
we packed the car and left very early. She had put aside her Masters degree assignment entitled ‘The Case for Monitoring Teacher Performance’ and left her books at home. It was clear she wanted a complete break from essays and schoolwork. It was also a time for us to relax. My brief relationship with Laura was in the past … it was history.

  The hours flew by as we drove south and, on the radio, Carly Simon was singing ‘Why’ as we finally approached the city. Beth hummed along, seemingly in a world of her own. The Bath stone had faded with age and was now the colour of gold and honey in the late-afternoon October sunlight. Below us, in a valley surrounded by seven hills, the River Avon meandered on its timeless journey through this spectacular city. Here, over the centuries, sanitas per aqua or ‘health through water’ had attracted the infirm and the sick. However, for Beth and me, the healing waters were destined to be of a different kind.

  We parked outside an elegant three-storey townhouse in Henrietta Street overlooking the park. ‘This is it, Jack,’ said Beth, glancing down at Laura’s instructions. ‘Looks very grand, doesn’t it?’ Then she leant over, sighed deeply and kissed me. ‘A long journey. Good to relax at last.’

  I smiled, climbed out of the car and found the key to open the boot. My emerald-green Morris Minor Traveller, with its ash-wood frame and shiny yellow-and-chrome AA badge, was my pride and joy and, although signs of age were beginning to show, it was reliable and had covered the long miles safely. ‘I’ll get the luggage,’ I said, ‘you ring the bell.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Beth, although she appeared preoccupied as I unloaded her large suitcase and my small sports bag.

  Laura opened the door almost immediately. ‘Hello, big sister,’ she said. ‘I’ve just got here myself – came straight from work.’ Laura was a manager in the fashion department at Liberty in London. In her mid-thirties, two years younger than Beth, there was a confidence in her manner and a devil-may-care attitude to her demeanour. She was dressed in a figure-hugging, pinstriped business suit and a fashionable black leather coat. With her long brown hair piled high in stylish plaits, she looked simply stunning.

  Beth gave her sister a hug. ‘Thanks for inviting us,’ she said. ‘Super idea.’

  ‘And how’s my favourite brother-in-law?’ teased Laura. She stood before me, gently smoothed my creased shirt collar and kissed me on the cheek. I could smell her perfume, Opium by Yves Saint Laurent. It was familiar and rekindled old memories.

  ‘I’m fine, Laura,’ I said. ‘And how about you?’

  She looked at me with questioning green eyes. ‘Surviving, Jack, in a busy world.’ Then she turned to Beth. ‘Work seems to fill my life now.’

  Above our heads, the raucous cries of screeching seagulls, perched on the tall chimney pots of the elegant terraced houses, cried, ‘Go-away, go-away.’ Perhaps I should have heeded their warning.

  Suddenly a tall, slim woman appeared from the hallway. She had porcelain skin, a blonde pony-tail and was wearing country cord trousers and a checked baggy shirt. She looked as if she had just stepped from the cover of Country Living magazine. ‘Welcome to Bath,’ she said, giving us both a double air-kiss, ‘I’m Pippa, by the way. Come on in and make yourselves at home. You must be dreadfully weary after such a long journey.’

  It was over peppermint tea that we discovered Pippa Dennison was a senior figure in the Liberty fashion empire. She was around forty years old but looked much younger. She clearly thought the world of Laura.

  ‘Pippa,’ I said, ‘this is a wonderful house. It’s kind of you to let us stay.’

  ‘Not a problem, Jack,’ she said. ‘It’s actually Daddy’s place and I can use it when I wish. But it was Laura’s idea, so you should thank her.’

  ‘I just thought you would enjoy the break, Beth,’ added Laura a little hurriedly.

  ‘And so we shall,’ said Beth with a relaxed smile.

  Conversation ebbed and flowed as Beth and Laura caught up with the latest news. ‘And is there a man in your life?’ asked Beth. Laura looked into her tea cup and shook her head.

  ‘Well, it’s not for the want of offers,’ said Pippa with a whimsical smile.

  ‘I’ve given up on men for the time being,’ said Laura.

  There was an awkward silence, broken eventually by Pippa saying, ‘Come on, I’ll show you to your rooms.’ We walked into the huge carpeted hallway and collected our luggage.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ said Pippa, ‘but I booked a table for the four of us in one of my favourite French restaurants by the river … absolutely super food and Daddy has an account there. So,’ she glanced at the ancient grandfather clock, ‘say, back down here at seven?’ Rhetorical questions and swift organization seemed to be a natural part of Pippa’s world and we nodded and went upstairs. It also occurred to me that, on a primary headteacher’s pay, there would never come a time when I would have a restaurant account.

  When we met again in the hall I immediately noticed that I was the only one who didn’t appear to have changed to suit the occasion. After a welcome shower and a shave, I had dug out a clean casual polo shirt from my sports bag and put on my old herringbone sports jacket with the leather elbow patches that I had worn on the drive down. I looked down at my baggy grey trousers and old Kicker shoes and felt distinctly under-dressed for a night out with the three beautiful women who stood before me. Beth had unpacked four different outfits from her large suitcase and finally decided on a cream blouse and chocolate brown skirt, plus a neat matching waistcoat. Her beige Cagney & Lacey raincoat with padded shoulders and loosely tied belt was the height of fashion and emphasized her slim figure. She looked terrific.

  Meanwhile Pippa, once again, had somehow managed to look both casual yet simply perfect in a DAKS country classic suit in herringbone tweed with patch pockets and leather buttons. Next to her stood Laura in a pair of skin-tight Burberry jeans, calf-length leather boots, blue denim shirt, green denim jacket and a red neckscarf tied in a knot. She had let down her long brown hair and the look was that of a confident and dynamic woman … except for her eyes. It was as if she had a weighty problem on her mind and her thoughts were elsewhere.

  Pippa locked the door behind us and we strolled out into a cool but perfect evening and walked along Argyle Street, across Pulteney Bridge and towards the nightlife of the city. Laura led the way, deep in conversation with Beth, while I walked beside Pippa.

  ‘You all look amazing,’ I said.

  Pippa grinned. ‘It’s nothing really. Laura and I are busy at the moment promoting the Ralph Lauren Western Collection. It’s the latest casual gear.’ She looked me up and down. ‘And Jack, if you don’t mind me saying, you could look really good if you put your mind to it.’ She considered me as if deciding how to dress a mannequin. ‘To start with, you’re tall and slim, which is an advantage, and you’ve got naturally wavy brown hair that, if you let it grow a little longer, could look quite fashionable.’

  ‘I haven’t given it much thought,’ I said, feeling as though I had been undressed and dressed in the space of a couple of sentences.

  ‘Jack … there are some delightful gentlemen’s shops in Bath. Not quite Oxford Street, but we girls could transform you while you’re here.’

  ‘I’m fine thanks, Pippa,’ I said. Even so, I was beginning to wish I’d packed my charcoal-grey suit, the one I used for weddings, funerals and parents’ evenings.

  Pippa was now in full flow. ‘I could see you in a rather arty sky-blue cord suit with a flamingo-pink linen shirt and a slim Eighties maroon tie and, of course, a pair of modern lightweight steel-framed spectacles with large lenses.’

  I felt a little embarrassed following this assault by the fashion police and I pushed my Buddy Holly spectacles further up the bridge of my nose. ‘I’m not sure pink has got up to Yorkshire yet,’ I replied.

  ‘Pity,’ said Pippa. ‘Clothes maketh the man.’

  It was then I realized we were from different worlds.

  The French restaurant had the feel of a London bis
tro, relaxed, comfortable, friendly and full of young professionals. The maître d’hôtel knew Pippa well and we were guided to a candlelit corner table.

  I glanced at the menu, which was written entirely in French, apart from the prices … and they were extravagant. Pippa spoke fluent French and ordered for all of us. For a starter, she ordered le sauté de grenouille persillé, which turned out to be a sauté of frogs’ legs with button mushrooms, parsley, and lemon and garlic butter. There was also a huge bowl of the local speciality for us all to share: mussels cooked in cider, shallots and cream.

  I played safe for the main course and, thankful for my O-level French in the Sixties, ordered La poitrine roulée de porc, which turned out to be the most delicious braised organic pork belly in cider, ginger and honey, a treat for a hungry Yorkshireman after a long day’s driving. Everything was perfectly cooked and I reflected that this was a long way from Sheila’s if-in-doubt-give-it-anextra-ten-minutes cuisine in The Royal Oak. Gradually I relaxed, and the conversation and red wine flowed in equal measure.

  However, I sensed that, on occasion, behind the light laughter lay heavy thoughts. There seemed a superficiality to our conversation; what needed to be said appeared hidden. It wasn’t until towards the end of the evening when we were sipping liqueurs and Pippa and Beth had slipped out to the ladies’ room that Laura struck up a new conversation.

  ‘So how’s married life, Jack?’ she asked. She put down her glass of cognac and looked across the table into my eyes. Her stare was challenging.

  ‘It’s fine, Laura,’ I said evenly.

  She dabbed her mouth with a linen napkin. ‘And is my sister happy?’

  ‘You would have to ask her yourself,’ I replied.

  She smiled. ‘I have, Jack.’ Then she leant forward. Her skin was flawless, and the scent of her perfume was both light and fragrant.