Predictably, the final advert for a One Parent Benefit leaflet was ignored by both Betty and Petula. However, on the council estate, single parent Daphne Cathcart quickly scribbled down the title. Then she turned to nine-year-old Michelle and asked, ‘Who was that new girl in Mrs Grainger’s class – t’little blonde one wi’ t’lovely voice?’
‘She’s called Rosie, Mam,’ said Michelle, through a mouthful of beans on toast. ‘She’s reight nice an’ she’s like me an’ our Cathy.’
‘’Ow d’you mean, luv?’
‘Well,’ said Michelle, looking up from the television, ‘she ’asn’t got a dad.’
That evening at seven o’clock it seemed as if all the residents of Ragley had gathered on the village green. At the foot of the giant Christmas tree, lit up with a thousand coloured lights, was the Salvation Army brass band, conducted by Penny Boothroyd.
Penny had persuaded our postmistress, Amelia Duff, to play her flugelhorn and, with the haunting, mellow opening bars of ‘Silent Night’, our carol concert began. It was then that I remembered Old Tommy’s adage about not brooding over the dark days but, instead, finding comfort in the bright ones. I looked down at Beth, put my arm round her shoulders and smiled as I remembered the strength in her slender body and the look of love in her green eyes. The fine thread of history had interwoven our lives, bound together in a shared destiny, and here we were, together on this perfect night.
And so it was that, under the vast purple sky over the plain of York, we huddled in our little groups and enjoyed music that stirred the soul. Christmas was coming to Ragley village and, as snow began to fall once again, we raised our voices to the heavens. It had been a day to remember and a time to reflect on the lives of others less fortunate than ourselves.
Chapter Eight
A Wedding in the Village
A presentation of a watercolour painting was made in school assembly today by Mrs Sue Phillips, Chair of the PTA, to Miss Vera Evans prior to her marriage tomorrow to Major Forbes-Kitchener.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 17 December 1982
THE CONSTANT CAWING of the rooks in the swaying branches of the tall elms was a familiar sound to Vera. It was the call of the countryside.
As Vera and Joseph set off in their little white Austin A40 for the last day of term and crunched down the gravel drive towards the Morton Road, Vera stared back at the vicarage. It had been her home for so many years and she wondered if she would miss these familiar scents and sounds when she was in the manicured, peacock-strutting grounds of Morton Manor. Joseph sensed her mood and gave her a nervous smile. It was Friday, 17 December 1982 and, for the school secretary of Ragleyon-the-Forest Church of England Primary School, a new world awaited … a new life.
Meanwhile, in Bilbo Cottage Beth appeared a little tired with her exertions as she packed her briefcase. ‘I’ve checked your suit, Jack,’ she said. ‘It’s back from the cleaners and looks fine.’ She hung my charcoal-grey three-piece suit in our huge double wardrobe in the tiny space on the left reserved for my modest collection of clothing. ‘And I’ve ironed the monogrammed white hanky that Vera gave you last Christmas ready for your top pocket, so we’re all set for the big day.’
‘Thanks Beth,’ I said as I fastened the buckles on my leather satchel and put on my duffel coat and scarf. ‘See you tonight and good luck for the end of term.’ I kissed her as we stepped out into a frozen, silent world with a fresh dusting of snow.
Once again, she seemed preoccupied. ‘I wonder how Vera’s feeling,’ she said. ‘It’s her last day as Miss Evans. Mrs Forbes-Kitchener will take some getting used to.’ And with a gentle smile she drove off.
School was a hive of activity when I arrived. ‘Morning, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby. It was good to see the familiar face of our cheerful caretaker, finally back at work and appearing to enjoy every minute of it. She had just finished giving the hall floor a final polish and her rosy cheeks were flushed with the exertion. ‘It’s like Fred Karno’s in there,’ she said. ‘And Mrs Grainger wants it jus’ reight.’
When I walked into the hall Sally and Jo were carrying the large pine table from the entrance area and Anne was following close behind with Vera’s oldest and dearest friend, Joyce Davenport, the doctor’s wife. Anne was unfolding a snowy-white tablecloth and Joyce was holding one of her precious vases, in which she had arranged a most beautiful winter display of poinsettias and variegated holly with bright-red berries.
‘Morning, Jack,’ said Anne with a smile. ‘We’re getting ready for Vera’s presentation at the end of assembly.’
‘I would have come earlier if I’d known,’ I said, looking round at the music stands next to the piano and the benches where the choir would be sitting.
‘Well, to be perfectly honest, Jack, we didn’t think flower arranging was exactly your forte,’ said Sally with a grin.
The energetic Jo Hunter pulled back the large curtain that hid the dining tables and chairs from view. ‘You can help me with the chairs if you like,’ said Jo, ever the peacemaker. I had learned a long time ago how to deal with determined women: don’t say anything and appear to do as you’re told. I picked up a stack of chairs and followed Jo.
At ten o’clock a large group of parents were sitting at the back of the hall as Anne wheeled our ‘music centre’ to the front on its squeaky castors. This was our wood-veneered, Contiboard trolley on which a radio and a record player had been fitted on the top shelf. A hinged lid kept the dust off the records and on the bottom shelf two bulky speakers were stored.
Anne slid her precious Harry Belafonte LP from its sleeve, cleaned the grooves on its vinyl surface with an anti-static cloth and placed it carefully on to the circular rubber mat on the turntable. With practised ease she turned the dial to 33 revolutions per minute, clicked the start lever with her thumb, lifted the plastic arm and lowered it carefully until the sharp stylus needle settled into the black grooves at the beginning of ‘Mary’s Boy Child’. As usual, it had a soothing effect on those assembled, and parents, teachers and children waited for the Revd Joseph Evans to lead us in our final assembly of the autumn term.
Joseph welcomed everyone and introduced the first hymn, ‘While shepherds watched their flocks by night’, and Anne played the introductory bars. When Jimmy Poole, urged on by his partner-in-crime Heathcliffe Earnshaw, sang ‘While theperdth wathed their thocks by night’, I saw Sally give him a stern stare and he returned his attention to his hymn book.
Finally, Sarah Louise Tait stood up and in a clear confident voice led us in our school prayer:
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.
Then Sue Phillips gave a wonderful speech on behalf of the Parent Teacher Association, describing Vera’s work over the years as school secretary. Ruby Smith and Shirley Mapplebeck were both dabbing away the tears as Sue extended our best wishes to Vera for a happy married life. With great ceremony, Theresa Ackroyd and Dean Kershaw presented Vera with a bulky parcel wrapped in lavender tissue paper. There was an awkward silence as she opened it and then smiles of delight as she held up a beautiful original watercolour painting by local artist Mary Attersthwaite. It was a spectacular painting of Ragley School in winter … a perfect gift for Vera and an ideal addition to the valuable collection that adorned the rooms of Morton Manor.
When the bell rang for lunchtime I called in to Anne’s reception class. They were tidying up after making a special Christmas gift for their parents – curve-stitching calendars – and I marvelled at the skill of children so young.
Just outside the classroom door, I was concerned to see that nine-year-old Betsy Icklethwaite was trying to console her five-year-old sister, Katie, who was sobbing her heart out.
‘What’s the matter, Betsy?’ I asked.
; ‘Ben Roberts told my sister there’s no Father Christmas, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘but don’t worry … it’s sorted.’ Betsy didn’t suffer fools gladly.
‘Really?’ I said.
‘Yes, Mr Sheffield,’ continued the determined Betsy. ‘Ah’ve explained to m’sister that our mam ’oovers up them pine needles reight reg’lar under t’Christmas tree, but las’ year on Christmas morning there were crumbs on t’carpet.’
‘Crumbs?’
‘That’s right, Mr Sheffield,’ interjected tearful Katie, ‘from ’is mince pie.’
‘Mince pie?’
‘Yes, Mr Sheffield,’ said little Katie, drying her eyes and becoming more animated by the moment. ‘What we leave wi’ ’is glass o’ milk.’
Betsy gave Katie a cuddle and then smiled up at me, secure in the knowledge that the magic of Christmas would survive another year.
It was a poignant moment when, at the end of the day, Vera tidied up her desk in the office and put the cover on her electric typewriter. We had all gathered to wish her luck.
‘How will you all cope until the end of term,’ said Vera, ‘when I’m away next Monday and Tuesday?’ The school governors had agreed to Vera’s request to be absent for the last two days of term to accommodate her honeymoon. However, as she was actually marrying one of the governors, this had not been a difficult decision. ‘Rupert insisted, you see,’ she said, but her words fell on deaf ears.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Anne with a smile, ‘we’ll manage.’
‘And get a good night’s rest, Vera,’ said Sally, giving her a hug. ‘We want you to look your beautiful best tomorrow.’
‘Dan’s got time off, but he’s coming in his dress uniform just for you,’ added Jo.
I walked out with Vera to her car, carrying her painting and holding her firmly by the elbow. ‘I don’t want you falling down on the icy car park, Vera,’ I said. ‘The major would never forgive me.’
She put the painting in the boot of her car and then looked back at the school, taking in all its detail. ‘The gift was perfect, Jack,’ she said softly. It was rare for her to call me by my first name and I recognized the significance. For Vera, term was over. ‘And I am aware it was your choice … so thank you.’ She stretched up and kissed me on the cheek. ‘We’ve made a good team, haven’t we?’ she said. Then she drove away for the last time as Miss Evans.
Almost everyone in the village had been invited to the service in St Mary’s Church, so on Friday evening Diane the hairdresser worked long hours to make sure the ladies of Ragley looked their best.
‘’Ow d’you want it, Nora?’ asked Diane.
Nora Pratt produced the copy of Smash Hits magazine that she had borrowed from Dorothy. ‘Ah’d like it like that Irene Cara in Fame, please, Diane,’ she said, pointing to the photograph of the athletic dancer.
Diane looked in the large mirror at the reflection of the plump forty-five-year-old Nora with hair that looked like tired seaweed. ‘That’ll tek some doin’, Nora,’ she said. ‘Are y’sure y’don’t fancy a Carly Simon? That wouldn’t tek as many rollers.’
‘No thanks, Diane, ah weally want it t’go wi’ me new leg wawmers.’
Life was much quieter in the vicarage. Vera and Joseph were sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea from bone-china cups. Vera’s three cats were at her feet in various positions of repose. ‘You’ll have to learn a new routine,’ said Vera almost to herself.
Joseph sipped his tea thoughtfully. ‘I know,’ he said. His voice was strained.
‘No, not you, Joseph,’ said Vera. ‘You’ll be fine. I’m talking to my cats.’ Maggie, Jess and Treacle purred contentedly, completely unaware that, after Vera’s honeymoon, they would be moving to Morton Manor and a whole new world of strange gardens, newly installed cat flaps and unsuspecting mice.
On Saturday the dawn came slowly on a perfect winter’s morning. All was still, as if the world were holding its breath. However, a loud rat-a-tat on the front door of the vicarage shattered the silence and announced the beginning of Vera’s special day.
Diane Wigglesworth had arrived early with her hairdressing equipment and Vera relaxed in her expert care. Her friend, Joyce Davenport, confidante since their schooldays, was making sure she did her matron of honour duties down to the last letter and had been at the vicarage since the crack of dawn. Joseph was nowhere to be seen. He had left early for the church. Today was different, as he had to do the jobs that were usually done by Vera.
In Bilbo Cottage Beth and I looked up at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was ten o’clock and Vera was due to be married in one hour.
‘Come on, Jack,’ said Beth as we stood in the hallway together. She readjusted my tie and stood back to check my appearance one last time. I smiled at her.
‘What is it?’ she said.
‘I was thinking back to our wedding day.’
Beth reached up to kiss me. ‘No regrets?’
‘None,’ I said. Beth looked beautiful in a new dusky-pink two-piece suit and her honey-blonde hair hung free. I held her in my arms. ‘I love you,’ I said. ‘Always will.’
She stared into my eyes for a long time as if there was something she wanted to say but was holding back. Her cheeks were pale and she rested her head on my shoulder. ‘Oh Jack, what a journey we’ve been on,’ she said softly. ‘And, yes, I love you too.’ Then she glanced in the hall mirror, picked up her leather gloves and wide-brimmed hat and we walked out to her pale-blue Volkswagen Beetle. Beth had suggested that she should drive so that I could enjoy a few beers after the wedding. As she drove cautiously on the frozen back road towards Ragley village, I peered through the windscreen at the distant Hambleton hills. Where the sky met the earth in a grey fusion, heavy snow clouds were approaching, interspersed with sharp rays of sunshine. On this momentous day, the road to St Mary’s Church was lit up in sharp relief. God was in his heaven and had blessed this little corner of Yorkshire.
As we drove up the High Street many families were hurrying up the Morton Road while the church bells rang out joyously to announce that today was a special day. There was a wedding in the village.
In the vestry, Joseph opened the door of the huge oak wardrobe and took out his cassock, a long black robe that fitted perfectly over his tall, lean frame. Then he selected a spotless white surplice and cope and put them on. Finally, round his neck he added a white stole, edged with beautiful gold crosses. It had been hand-stitched with loving care by Vera and tears of love ran down his cheeks as he kissed it gently and smiled at the memory.
Later, in the stillness of the nave, a composed Joseph greeted Rupert and his best man, Colonel Richard Carruthers, an old army colleague he had known for all of his military life. Both were dressed in formal three-piece wedding suits with their matching East Yorkshire regimental ties, while Rupert’s daughter, thirty-year-old Virginia Anastasia, looking stunning in a pale-blue dress, fussed around her father like a mother hen.
Outside, the crowds were gathering. Heathcliffe Earnshaw was carefully and deliberately scuffing the shiny toecaps of his best black leather shoes against the church wall.
‘Stop it, ’Eath,’ said Mrs Earnshaw, giving him a clip round the ear. ‘Y’ruinin’ y’Sunday shoes.’
‘Yeah, schtop it ’Eeef,’ echoed little Dallas Sue-Ellen, who had begun to imitate her mother’s reprimands, much to the disgust of both Heathcliffe and Terry. Heathcliffe reluctantly gave his shoes a final surreptitious scrape and glowered at his little sister. He gave her his menacing steely-eyed stare, faithfully copied from his Buck Rogers in the 25th Century Annual, and was pleased he had hidden her pink plastic potty in the coal shed that morning.
* * *
The pews were filling up quickly and I looked around as the congregation settled. All the school staff had arrived early and members of the governing body and Parent Teacher Association whispered in eager anticipation, while Elsie Crapper played soothing music on the organ. Also, thanks to the efforts of the ladies of the Women’s Institute,
the church had never looked more beautiful. As well as the huge floral displays next to the pulpit, on each of the wide ledges of the stone pillars was a tall white candle surrounded by green variegated holly with bright red berries. Refracted sunlight from the stained-glass windows lit up the ancient stone in a myriad of colours and the hint of incense touched our senses.
Beth and I were sitting next to John and Anne Grainger. Anne had added a new light-blue ribbon to the dramatic wide-brimmed navy hat that she had worn for our wedding last Easter. Behind us, Jo had bought an olive-green two-piece suit and a small hat to complement the outfit. She was holding hands with the huge figure of Acting Sergeant Dan Hunter, immaculate in his dress uniform and with a pair of white gloves tucked in his belt. Colin Pringle, in his best suit, was sucking sherbet lemons as if his life depended on it as once again he tried to give up smoking. Meanwhile, Sally had pulled out all the stops with an outrageous salmon-pink outfit and an extravagant hat that looked like an explosion in a turkey-plucking factory.
Two pews behind, Ruby was wearing her best floral dress and her favourite straw hat decorated with a ring of bright-red poinsettias. She looked out eagerly for the arrival of her dear friend, recalling that terrible day of the accident just five months ago and how, since then, their lives had taken a new direction. Next to her, Ronnie was in his best suit, sadly crumpled following a late visit to his pigeon loft to feed his new pride and joy, Genghis Khan II. The dank odour of bird droppings was now competing favourably with the smell of the furniture polish Mary Hardisty had used on the dark-mahogany Victorian pews. Close by, Shirley Mapplebeck, the school cook, was sitting next to her formidable assistant, Doreen Critchley. Both were in their best dresses with sufficient undergarments to keep out the cold.
Edith Tripps, the recently retired headteacher of Morton village school, was also in the congregation. She had never thought this day would come for Vera. ‘We enjoy our freedom too much, don’t we Vera?’ Edith had said a few years ago. That, of course, was before Vera had met Rupert. As she picked up the elegant Order of Service, she reflected that she had never known what it must be like to be loved by a man.
06 Educating Jack Page 11