‘She’s norra patch on your Sheila,’ said Old Tommy to Don the barman.
‘Y’reight there,’ said Don appreciatively.
‘She looks a reight ball o’ fire,’ said Old Tommy.
‘Y’not far wrong. She were allus sex-mad, were our Sheila,’ said Don. ‘Ah were knackered on ’oneymoon.’
‘Ah sympathize, young Donald,’ said Old Tommy, sucking thoughtfully on his old briar pipe and tamping down the tobacco with his thumb. He leant forward conspiratorially. ‘An’ ah’ll tell thee summat f’nowt. Me back’s nivver been t’same since ah relieved Co-op Clara o’ ’er corsets under Bridlington pier in nineteen thirty-two.’
Don looked down the bar where Sheila was serving another customer. ‘An’ she’s got ’er John Wayne bra on tonight.’
‘’Ow d’you mean?’ asked Deke.
‘Y’know,’ said Don, ‘’ead ’em up an’ move ’em out.’
‘That were Raw’ide wi’ Clint Eastwood,’ said Deke. ‘We named our Clint after ’im.’ Then he suddenly burst into song: ‘Rollin’, rollin’ rollin’, though they’re disapprovin’, keep them doggies movin’, raw’ide.’ Finally he supped deeply on his pint of bitter and nodded knowingly. What Deke didn’t know about cowboy songs wasn’t worth bothering about.
Deke nodded towards Beth. ‘Ah’ve got a brace o’ pheasants f’your good lady, Mr Sheffield,’ he said. ‘Ah’ll drop ’em round when ah’m passin’.’
I had come to love this village and the generosity of spirit. ‘That’s very kind, Deke,’ I said.
‘Least ah can do f’teaching my Wayne t’read,’ he added with a grin. ‘An’ ah’ve gorra cock pheasant,’ he continued. ‘Ah call ’im Fritz. ’E comes roun’ ev’ry morning an’ eats all t’crumbs scattered round t’bird table. Mind you, ah don’t actually own ’im, so t’speak, but as good as ’cause ’e allus comes t’my bird table first and then goes t’nex’ door an’ so on.’
I was unsure how to reply. ‘That’s interesting, Deke,’ I said as Sheila arrived and served my drinks.
‘Y’can’t beat a game bird f’Christmas, Mr Sheffield,’ said Deke.
‘So ah’ve ’eard,’ said Sheila, winking at me.
* * *
On Thursday I rose early and drove into York. The distant hills were a patchwork of grey, white and silver in the first rays of a cold dawn. The land was waking on this winter morning and I had to buy a present for Beth. Shopping has never been my favourite activity, more a functional necessity, so I decided to keep it short and sweet: Boots the Chemist, followed by a jeweller’s in Stonegate.
In Boots, I bought a canister of Erasmic Superfoam Shaving Lather for me and some Harmony hairspray for Beth. A young woman was demonstrating a range of cosmetics behind the counter and I joined the group of interested spectators. She held up each product as if she had just discovered penicillin.
‘First of all, I empty my face of shadows under the eyes,’ she said, holding up a Rimmel Hide the Blemish cover-up stick. ‘A bargain at sixty-four pence,’ she added triumphantly. ‘Then I get bright, wide eyes by putting white liner inside the lower lashes using my Boots No. 7 Two-Timer … it’s brilliant.’ She fluttered her eyelashes to give everyone the full benefit. ‘And for the final flourish for a special night out, go for gold on the lips using the wet technique with Ultima II Pure Gold. Mind you, it’s over a fiver so y’need to go careful.’
I bought the first two but, with memories of the Bond film Goldfinger, I discarded the idea of golden lips. I also bought an Estée Lauder ‘Great Make-Up Organizer’ and, from the jeweller’s, a locket on a chain. It took forty-five minutes and, feeling very self-righteous, I drove home.
* * *
Meanwhile, back at Bilbo Cottage, Deke Ramsbottom, ruddy face wreathed in smiles, was in conversation with Beth. He had removed his stetson when he saw it was her that answered the door.
‘Here y’are, Mrs Sheffield, summat for t’pot,’ he said. ‘Our Wayne were a beater at t’last shoot.’
He held up a brace of pheasants in his giant fist and Beth avoided recoiling at the sight of the lolling heads and broken wings. ‘Ah, er, thank you very much, Mr Ramsbottom. Jack will be thrilled.’
‘An’ so ’e might be,’ said Deke proudly. ‘These are proper beauties, tha knaws.’
Three miles away another Christmas present was being received with similar enthusiasm. Anne heard the words that she dreaded when John walked in from the garage with his latest Do-It-Yourself magazine.
‘Anne, I’m going to build you a dream bedroom.’
‘But I’m happy with what we’ve got,’ she said as she prepared a casserole.
John Grainger was trying to make a bedside unit using only two lengths of Contiplas white board. The instructions were difficult to say the least and resembled the assembly of a NASA space shuttle. He had also decided to use his new state-of-the-art Lutz circular saw bench with a frighteningly large saw-blade that looked as though it was a prop from the latest James Bond film. It had cost £165 and Anne did wonder if it would have been cheaper to go to the Cavendish furniture store and simply buy a set of drawers.
* * *
As the evening wore on, the last two customers of the day arrived in Diane’s Hair Salon. This was her busiest time of the year and both chairs were occupied.
As usual, Nora Pratt wanted something special for Christmas. ‘Ah wanna Carly Simon,’ said Nora.
Diane frowned. ‘Y’mean ’er wi’ teeth like Red Rum?’
‘Yeah, but ’er ’air’s nice … sort of natural.’
Diane took a deep breath. ‘Fair enough, Nora, a Carly Simon it is then.’
Amelia Duff had also called in from the Post Office for a shampoo and set. Amelia was less demanding. ‘I don’t mind, Diane,’ she said, ‘just the usual please, but I haven’t got all that long. I’m seeing Postman Ted tonight.’
‘No problem, Amelia,’ said Diane. With her state-of-the-art accelerator, drying time for highlights had been cut considerably. Also, her range of silver-minx and deep-slate setting lotions meant she had moved into the Eighties. Even so, there was need for caution. Her customers always appreciated her traditional procedures. So, with the confidence of over thirty years’ experience, she sprayed Yorkshire Pale Ale on Amelia’s hair as a setting lotion before attaching her outsize plastic rollers.
When she had a few minutes to spare, she made Amelia and Nora a cup of coffee and sat on the bench seat in the corner. She leaned back, lit up a John Player King Size Extra Mild cigarette, took a contented puff and, out of politeness, blew the smoke towards the closed window. ‘So, ’ow’s that postman o’ yours, Amelia? ’E seems t’be gettin’ ’is feet under t’table.’
‘He’s a lovely man, is Ted,’ said Amelia cautiously.
‘Vewy wegular,’ said Nora.
‘So ’ah’ve ’eard,’ chuckled Diane.
Amelia blushed furiously but said nothing.
On Christmas Eve I left Beth making preparations for our Christmas dinner and drove to Easington. It seemed as though everyone from the surrounding villages had crowded into the cobbled market square for the Christmas Fair. The tree next to the War Memorial was brightly lit and, from the loudspeaker outside Santa’s Grotto, ‘Orville’s Song’ blasted out, much to the dismay of the majority of the adults. The ventriloquist Keith Harris and his duck, Orville, were rising up the Christmas charts and the shopping public fervently wished the little green puppet would soon be able to fly … preferably far away.
Inside Santa’s wooden hut, five-year-old Katie Icklethwaite was looking a little crestfallen. ‘Hello, Santa,’ she said.
‘And what’s your name, little girl?’ said Santa.
‘Katie. What’s yours?’
‘Oh, Kevin … er, I mean Santa,’ he replied. Santa wasn’t used to such forthright children. Kevin Bicker-staff had volunteered at the Rotary Club to be this year’s Santa and, after twenty-five years as an estate agent, he was hoping to experience the feeling of being liked for the fi
rst time.
‘And what do you want for Christmas?’ asked Santa.
‘Can’t tell you,’ said Katie.
‘Why not?’ asked a puzzled Santa.
‘It’s a secret,’ said the little girl.
‘But you can tell me … I’m Santa.’
‘Well Santa,’ said Katie, ‘ah did want a Barbie doll, but not now.’
Santa looked surprised. ‘And why don’t you want it now?’
‘Because I saw exactly the one I wanted at the back of the cupboard under the stairs.’
Mrs Icklethwaite, in the doorway of the grotto, muttered a quiet expletive, thanked Santa and hurried out.
Next in line was eight-year-old Ben Roberts, who had his heart set on the action bike of 1982. ‘Ah’d like a Raleigh BMX Burner, please, Santa,’ he said.
Santa had heard of a bunsen burner, but not this one. ‘Well, er, I’ll ask Rudolph,’ he said guardedly.
‘Why? ’As ’e got one?’ asked Ben.
Kevin suddenly felt a headache coming on and, as he searched in his pocket for a bottle of aspirin, he realized what his customers must have felt like when dealing with their local estate agent.
Later, back at Bilbo Cottage, as darkness fell Beth and I sat on the sofa drinking tea and watching a wonderful animated film called The Snowman, based on the lovely Christmas story by Raymond Briggs. At the end, as the credits rolled, the little boy knelt beside the melted snowman. He was clutching his scarf, a present from Father Christmas, and I had a lump in my throat as I recalled the Christmases I had experienced as a child. For me it had always been magical and I regretted that, in the busy world of adulthood, this was often forgotten. When it ended I wished that I had recorded it and hoped it would be repeated, especially as I was now, at long last, an expert at using the video recorder I had purchased last year.
Christmas Day was a morning of silence and light, the dawn of a new white world. A flurry of snow had covered the distant fields and I paused to take in the beauty of the Yorkshire landscape. It was a very special time for us, our first Christmas together, and we sat in the lounge by a roaring fire and opened our gifts … a scene replicated in other homes.
Geoffrey Dudley-Palmer was admiring his new Philips VR2020 Video Recorder. He held up the blank cassette. ‘Eight hours’ recording time, Petula,’ he said in a voice full of awe and admiration. He flipped over the black plastic cassette: it was the size of a paperback novel. ‘Four hours on each side! Just how do they do it?’
‘Yes, it’s wonderful, darling,’ said Petula, failing to look up from the Christmas and New Year Radio Times.
‘It’s got DTF,’ added Geoffrey.
‘Yes, I’m sure it has,’ said Petula.
‘“Dynamic Track Following”,’ read Geoffrey from the side of the cardboard cassette box. ‘It’s arrived … it’s finally arrived.’
‘What has, darling?’ asked Petula, looking up at last.
‘The future,’ said Geoffrey.
On the council estate, Little Malcolm was staring at a present he had just unwrapped. He looked up at Big Dave. ‘Dorothy bought me this f’Christmas,’ he said forlornly, ‘an’ ah promised ah’d use it ev’ry day.’
On the box lid it read, Bullworker Super X5.
‘Sez ’ere, Dave, “Power meter calibration to measure your growing strength” on side o’ t’box,’ said Little Malcolm.
‘What’s that when it’s at ’ome then, Mal’?’ said Big Dave.
‘Ah dunno, Dave, but it sez in t’book it gives “twice the strength and fitness”,’ quoted Little Malcolm.
He held up a slim volume with the words ‘Scientific isotonic principles developed at the Max Planck Institute in Germany, 96-page fitness training book – 14-day free trial’ on the front cover.
‘It sez ’ere y’can ’ave a lithe waist,’ said Little Malcolm.
‘Lithe? What’s lithe when it’s at ’ome?’ asked Big Dave.
‘Dunno … an’ summat abart “four per cent increase ev’ry week”, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm.
‘Four per cen’ o’ what?’ asked Big Dave.
‘Dunt say, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm, ‘but it mus’ be summat what gets bigger.’
Big Dave looked dubiously at the telescopic steel tubes and the traction straps attached to the sides. He held each end and compressed the tubes effortlessly.
‘Well,’ said Little Malcolm, ‘Dorothy said ah might not be all that tall but ah can ’ave a perfec’ body …’cept f’being tall.’
Beth and I exchanged gifts in our dressing gowns. She had bought me an electric drill and she seemed happy with her cosmetics and the locket.
Finally she stood up and kissed me. ‘Jack, I’ve got one more present for you.’ She took my hand and we stood by the Christmas tree. I looked under the tree. There were no presents left.
‘No, Jack, not there. It’s here.’ On one of the branches was a small box tied with a red ribbon. Beth lifted it down carefully and placed it in my hands.
‘I thought this was one of the decorations – it’s so tiny,’ I said.
‘Open it,’ she said. Her eyes were shining.
I untied the ribbon and took the lid off the box. Inside was a small card with a date that read ‘July 1983’.
‘Ah yes,’ I said, ‘you’ve booked a holiday.’
She shook her head. ‘Jack … we’re going to be too busy for a holiday.’ She stood back and gently laid both hands on her tummy. It took a few moments for it to register.
Christmas 1982 was about to become a very special day.
‘Do you mean …?’
Beth looked up at me and smiled. ‘Yes, I do, Jack. I’m pregnant.’
Chapter Ten
The Refuse Collectors’ Annual Ball
School reopened today for the spring Term with 89 children registered on roll.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Tuesday, 4 January 1983
THE VAPOUR OF discontent drifted through the village like a malodorous mist and, with every breath, icy fingers of sleet froze our bones and sank our spirits. These were hard times for the folk of Ragley and hope of spring sunshine was the stuff of dreams. It was Bank Holiday Monday, 3 January 1983, a new year stretched out before us and the villagers of North Yorkshire were enjoying a relaxing morning huddled in their homes. However, on the council estate, in Big Dave and Little Malcolm’s kitchen, Ragley’s favourite binmen were pondering over a problem. The highlight of their social calendar was fast approaching. The Refuse Collectors’ Annual Ball was on Saturday, and it was decision time.
Big Dave and Little Malcolm were sitting at the kitchen table while Dorothy prepared large mugs of sweet tea and doorstep-sized bacon butties. Dorothy was still in her dressing gown after spending a night of passion with Little Malcolm and, fortunately, Big Dave didn’t mind so long as she did the washing-up.
‘So, what we doing for t’ball on Sat’day?’ asked Dorothy, sitting down beside them.
Little Malcolm stared lovingly at the woman of his dreams. ‘We ’ave t’go in fancy dress again,’ he said, ‘an’ there’s a prize.’
‘What’s t’prize?’ asked Dorothy.
‘A free fish-an’-chip supper in York wi’ a pot o’ tea thrown in,’ said Little Malcolm.
‘Oooh, that’s lovely,’ said Dorothy. ‘So, what we dressin’ up as?’
‘We could go as Batman an’ Robin,’ said Big Dave, as he added a generous splash of brown sauce to his crispy bacon.
‘An’ ah could be Catwoman,’ said Dorothy. ‘Ah’ve gorra mask an’ ah could mek pointy ears an’ whiskers.’
‘Can ah be Batman?’ asked Little Malcolm. There was an astonished pause as six-foot-four-inch Big Dave and five-foot-eleven-inch-in-her-bare-feet Dorothy looked down at the five-foot-four-inch refuse collector. ‘’Cause ah’m allus t’little un.’
‘Well, what about Tarzan an’ Jane?’ suggested Big Dave quickly.
Little Malcolm shook his head. ‘Ah don’t want t’be
Cheetah,’ he added forlornly.
‘No, Dave, we can’t ’ave my Malcolm in a monkey suit,’ said Dorothy.
Little Malcolm smiled. He loved it when Dorothy said my Malcolm.
However, Big Dave wasn’t captain of the Ragley Rovers football team for nothing. He could sum up the mood of his teammates quickly and, although he didn’t know what it meant, he had empathy. ‘Y’reight there, Mal’, but we’re all f’gettin’ summat.’
‘’Ow d’you mean?’ asked Little Malcolm.
‘We’re f’gettin’ my Nellie,’ said Big Dave.
‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm, appreciative of the sudden diversion.
‘We need t’go as a foursome,’ said Dorothy.
‘Like t’Beatles mebbe,’ suggested Little Malcolm, secretly recalling that they were all about the same height except for Ringo, and he’d always fancied himself as a drummer.
‘Or t’Dave Clarke Five,’ said Dorothy.
‘Yeah but there’s five o’ them, Dorothy,’ said Little Malcolm.
‘Well mebbe that Diana Ross an’ them Supremes,’ suggested Dorothy. ‘Ah could get me ’air done.’
‘Ah don’t fancy being a Supreme,’ said Little Malcolm dubiously.
There was silence as they each tried to recall famous quartets. ‘Ah’ve gorrit!’ exclaimed Big Dave suddenly. ‘’Ow abart Abba – two men an’ two women? Ah could be him sittin’ at t’piano; Mal’ could be ’im what allus looks pleased wi’ ’imself on t’guitar; Dorothy could be that blonde wi’ t’nice bum and Nellie could be ’er wi’ t’brown ’air what meks up t’numbers.’
Light dawned in Dorothy’s eyes. She was imagining herself in a skin-tight sparkly Abba suit. Little Malcolm nodded; he was thinking of Dorothy’s bum. Meanwhile Big Dave was considering that, if he put his mind to it, he could solve the Cold War and be a Middle East negotiator in his spare time.
06 Educating Jack Page 13