06 Educating Jack

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘Crackin’ idea, Dave,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘Y’reight there, Dorothy,’ agreed Little Malcolm.

  ‘Abba it is then,’ said Big Dave. ‘Ah’ll go an’ ring Nellie, an’ she can collec’ t’costumes in York.’

  Ten miles away in her flat in York, Fenella Lovelace, or ‘Nellie’ as she was known to her friends, was staring in the mirror. She had realized a long time ago that she wasn’t beautiful in the general sense of the word, but, for a young, athletic woman in her mid-thirties, she certainly had her good features. At five-foot-two-inches tall, she knew she wasn’t destined to be a catwalk model, but she had lovely long wavy hair, soulful eyes and a good sense of humour.

  Her boyfriend, Big Dave Robinson, had just invited her to be his partner at the Refuse Collectors’ Annual Ball in York. She had never met a man like Big Dave before: tall, strong, honest-as-the-day-is-long and keen on football. They had spent many Saturday nights watching Match of the Day and drinking pints of Tetley’s bitter. He had become the perfect companion and she was lonely when he wasn’t around.

  And, suddenly, the reason was obvious. She was in love.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, in the kitchen of Bilbo Cottage, Beth was sipping tea, reading her mobile-library copy of The Perfect Pregnancy by some obscure American psychologist while Thought for the Day on Radio 4 murmured away in the background. It was a relaxing morning and a time to reflect on a memorable Christmas. This had been followed by a New Year’s Eve dinner and dance at Morton Manor. It had been a wonderful evening and everyone was excited by our news. Vera had already begun to knit baby clothes.

  ‘So, how are you?’ I said.

  Beth looked up. ‘Interesting book, Jack,’ she said. ‘You should read it after me.’

  My mind was on other things. ‘What about your Masters course in Leeds?’ I said.

  ‘No problem,’ she said confidently. ‘I can still do my assignments from home and it will keep my mind occupied.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said without conviction. ‘And what about school and maternity leave?’

  ‘Yes, all in hand,’ she said, ‘and I’ve already written to my chair of governors about supply cover.’

  ‘You seem to have it all worked out,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll tell you what you could do, Jack,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘And what’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘You could decorate the second bedroom.’

  ‘Aah, er, good idea,’ I said. ‘Pink or blue?’

  She turned back to her psychological thriller. ‘You choose, Jack … probably something neutral.’

  ‘Neutral?’

  Beth was reading again. ‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘like lemon and white.’

  I smiled and wondered if it was a fact that women looked more beautiful when they were pregnant.

  In Ragley village, Ruby was cooking a full English breakfast as a treat for Ronnie, Duggie, Natasha and Hazel while Radio 1 blared out throughout the house. Mike Read had just introduced Kim Wilde performing ‘Kids in America’ and Ruby’s family, all word perfect, were singing along.

  Meanwhile, on the Crescent, Anne Grainger was in her kitchen preparing porridge with a bran-flake topping for her husband, John, while listening to Terry Wogan’s programme on Radio 2. David Essex was singing his new hit, ‘A Winter’s Tale’, and she gave a deep sigh as she understood the line about ‘one more love that’s failed’. John was reading his latest Do-It-Yourself magazine, completely oblivious that Anne had now passed the serious landmark of her fiftieth birthday but still felt – and looked – a slim and attractive thirty-five.

  A mile away, in the palatial lounge of Morton Manor, Vera was sitting with her three cats, listening to Vivaldi on Radio 3’s Morning Concert and looking through her beautiful leather-bound wedding album, which had just arrived from the photographer’s in York. Vera felt very much at home now and Rupert was proving the perfect husband. Even so, she doubted he would join her for the gentle, soothing experience of a Liszt piano recital to be broadcast later in the morning. As Master of Foxhounds, he had left early with the hunt, presumably with the intention of killing one of God’s creatures with his pack of noisy beagles.

  ‘Ah well,’ murmured Vera to herself, ‘perhaps none of us is quite perfect.’

  That evening Big Dave Robinson was puzzled. Nellie had telephoned to say she needed to speak to him and they had agreed to meet in York in The Bay Horse public house at Monk Bar. As they each supped a welcome pint of John Smith’s bitter, Big Dave looked at Nellie and said, ‘So what’s up?’

  Nellie removed her large-lens, fashionable spectacles and began to clean them on her Barnsley football shirt. ‘Well, Dave, ah’ve been thinking.’

  ‘What abart?’ asked Big Dave.

  ‘We’ve been gettin’ on all reight, ’aven’t we?’ she said.

  Dave nodded, wondering what was coming next. ‘Yes luv.’

  ‘We both like football, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes luv.’

  ‘An’ darts. An’ Tetley’s.’

  Big Dave held up his pint. ‘An’ John Smith’s.’

  ‘So ah’ve been thinkin’ … p’rhaps we should get married.’

  ‘Y’what?’

  ‘Married, Dave … y’know, live t’gether an’ all that. So, what d’you think?’

  ‘It’s a bit sudden, Nellie. After all,’ Big Dave went a shade of puce, ‘we’ve not ’xactly, y’know, conjugated t’relationship, so t’speak,’ he mumbled.

  ‘P’raps we ought t’do summat abart it then, Dave,’ said Nellie with a searching look.

  ‘Y’reckon?’

  ‘Yes, Dave, ah do. So ’ow abart comin’ back t’my place?’

  Dave supped his pint and slammed down the glass on the table. ‘Nellie, y’not ’xactly backwards in coming forwards.’

  Nellie drained her glass. ‘C’mon y’big lump, ah’ll show yer me etchings.’

  On Tuesday morning the new term began well in spite of the freezing weather. That is, until Sally brought in her Prince Charles mug with a single large ear for a handle, a Christmas present from her equally anti-monarchist husband, Colin. At morning break Vera looked at it suspiciously but poured in the hot milk anyway.

  During afternoon school, my class radio broke down immediately prior to my music-lesson broadcast. I was still trying to repair it when Ruby came in to sweep my classroom at the end of the day. ‘Ah’m tryin’ t’finish a bit sharpish, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, her face flushed with the effort of vigorous sweeping. ‘My Ronnie’s got a bonus f’some extra coffin polishin’. ’E sez there’s more trade in t’cold weather, so we’re off to t’pictures. It’s a while since he’s tekken me out.’

  ‘What are you going to see, Ruby?’ I asked, twiddling the knobs of Class 4’s ageing ghettoblaster to no avail.

  ‘We’re goin’ t’see that film abart that extra testicle,’ said Ruby. ‘Y’know, that alien what lands in America wi’ Steven Spellbug.’

  I looked up, catching her drift. ‘Ah, you mean E.T. – the Extra-terrestrial.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ruby, ‘’im what looks like Michael Foot wi’out ’is glasses – funny little bloke wi’ no ’air what keeps ridin’ a bike in t’sky an’ mekkin’ things light up.’

  ‘Well, I hope you have a lovely time, Ruby,’ I said.

  She leant on her broom. ‘What’s matter with y’radio, Mr Sheffield?’

  ‘It’s broken, Ruby,’ I said, ‘and I can’t fix it.’

  ‘Y’want t’see Little Malcolm Robinson, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby. ‘’E’s a reight dab-’and wi’ owt ’lectrical.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll take it round there one night this week.’

  It was after school on Wednesday and I had mounted a display of winter paintings and poems on the board in my classroom when I recalled the broken radio. I wrapped up warm in my duffel coat and scarf, locked up the school and walked round the corner to the council estate. More snow was threatening and, on School View, curtains h
ad been drawn to shut out the cold and darkness on this bitter evening. Logs were being put on the fires and televisions switched on as Ragley village settled down for another winter’s night.

  In the Earnshaw household, the family had gathered for their evening meal. ‘So what did y’do at school t’day?’ asked Mrs Earnshaw.

  ‘Nowt,’ chorused Heathcliffe and Terry.

  ‘Nowt,’ said little Dallas, who had begun to extend her vocabulary.

  ‘Y’must ’ave done summat,’ insisted Mrs Earnshaw.

  ‘Summat,’ echoed Dallas and everyone looked at her in bemusement. Up to now, three-year-old Dallas Sue-Ellen Earnshaw had simply gurgled, laughed and cried, and the only recognizable words had been ‘poo’ when she had filled her nappy and ‘telly’ when it wasn’t switched on.

  ‘Well, Mam,’ said Terry, ‘we did decimals wi’ Mrs Pringle.’

  Heathcliffe looked up, interested. ‘We did ’em again this year,’ he said. ‘They keep coming back, do decimals.’

  Mr Earnshaw looked up from the television. ‘Is m’tea ready yet?’

  ‘Nearly, luv,’ she said, giving the spaghetti hoops a final stir. ‘’Eath an’ Terry ’ave been working ’ard at school,’ she added proudly.

  ‘What ’ave they been doin’?’ he asked.

  ‘They’ve been decimated or summat,’ she said.

  ‘Summat,’ repeated Dallas.

  ‘An’ our Dallas ’as started saying proper words … anyway, c’mon it’s ready.’

  ‘’Bout bloody time,’ said Eric as he sat down at the table.

  ‘Bloody-time,’ repeated Dallas.

  ‘Hey, y’reight,’ said Eric, ‘she’s comin’ on.’

  I walked along School View with the ghettoblaster and stopped at Little Malcolm’s garden gate. On it he had nailed a piece of plywood on which a painted sign advertised his after-work repair service. It read:

  DON’T DISPAIR – I REPAIR!

  no job too small – repairs garrunteed 100%

  (please nock loud as bell doesn’t work)

  While the spelling didn’t exactly fill me with confidence, I knew I would be paying for Little Malcolm’s technical know-how and, as requested, I knocked loudly.

  Big Dave opened the door and stood there in his vest, overalls and thick socks, a large chipped mug with ‘1966 World Cup Winners’ emblazoned on its side gripped in his mighty fist. He seemed untroubled by the bitter cold.

  ‘Nah then, Mr Sheffield, what can ah do f’you?’

  ‘Hello, Dave,’ I said, ‘sorry to trouble you, but my classroom radio isn’t working and I was wondering if Malcolm might be able to fix it for me.’

  ‘Ah’m sure ’e can. Come on in, ’e’s in t’front room,’ said Dave with a smile.

  Little Malcolm was trying on his Abba costume and looked embarrassed when I walked in. ‘It’s for t’fancy dress, Mr Sheffield,’ he explained, standing behind the sofa to hide his sparkly thirty-two-inch flares.

  It was the following evening that Big Dave and Little Malcolm parked their dustbin wagon outside Nora’s Coffee Shop and walked in. Ben Roberts, since Christmas Day, was now the proud owner of a Raleigh BMX Burner bicycle and was practising his stunt skids on the ice patch outside, but Big Dave was too preoccupied to reprimand him. Nor did he notice the two sixteen-year-olds, Claire Bradshaw and Anita Cuthbertson, sitting at his usual table. The girls were equally preoccupied. Claire and Anita, who had been in my class when I first arrived in Ragley, were studying a picture of Bananarama, the all-girl trio, taken after their hit record ‘It Ain’t What You Do It’s The Way That You Do It’ was released, and wondering who they could enlist as a third member of their new group. Also, Claire had received a Chegger’s Jogger headphone radio for Christmas and was secretly in love with Keith Chegwin. Anita, of course, knew all her secrets. After all, that’s what best girlfriends were for.

  Big Dave and Little Malcolm selected a corner table, supped tea and sat in silence while Big Dave gathered his thoughts. Behind the counter, Nora began to sing along to the song that Dorothy had put on the juke-box. ‘Super Twouper,’ she sang contentedly as she rearranged a pile of rock buns.

  Finally Big Dave took a deep breath. ‘She wants t’get married, Mal’,’ he said. ‘It’d be different f’you an’ me.’

  ‘We could still watch Match o’ t’Day t’gether, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm.

  ‘Ah s’ppose,’ said Big Dave, still unconvinced.

  ‘An’ y’won’t get owt better than ’er.’

  ‘’Ow do y’mean?’ asked Big Dave.

  ‘Well she can cook,’ said Little Malcolm, ‘that allus comes in ’andy.’

  ‘An’ she likes football,’ added Big Dave.

  ‘An’ she knows t’offside rule,’ said Little Malcolm enthusiastically.

  ‘An’ she can play darts … in fac’, nearly as good as a man,’ said Big Dave, warming to the idea.

  ‘An’ she likes Tetley’s,’ said Little Malcolm.

  Big Dave nodded. ‘Y’reight, Mal’ … ah’ve gorra winner.’

  ‘But y’need t’show ’er that y’serious, Dave.’

  ‘’Ow d’you mean?’

  ‘You’ll ’ave t’buy ’er a ring.’

  ‘Ah don’t know nowt abart rings,’ said Big Dave, looking anxious.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dave, women know abart these things. Ah’ll ask Dorothy.’

  By Friday evening Dorothy knew exactly what to do. In the meantime there was the matter of a new hair-do. As usual on a Friday, Diane was working late in her Hair Salon.

  Dorothy had discovered her favourite Suzi Quatro outfit at the back of her wardrobe and wandered in clutching a photograph of Agnetha Fältskog from her Abba magazine. ‘Ah want t’look like ’er, please Diane,’ said Dorothy.

  Diane looked at the photograph of the Swedish superstar with her long, blonde, perfectly coiffeured hair and then studied Dorothy’s back-combed peroxide-blonde mop, which had the constituency of wire wool and resembled Toyah Willcox after electric-shock treatment. ‘OK, Dorothy, no problem,’ said Diane. She glanced at the clock and sighed. The impossible always took an extra ten minutes.

  On Saturday morning Big Dave, Little Malcolm and Dorothy were standing outside the window of H. Samuel the Jeweller’s in York.

  ‘Does anything take y’fancy?’ asked Dorothy.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Big Dave, looking perplexed at the vast array of rings on display.

  ‘Mebbe we ought t’go in,’ suggested Little Malcolm.

  Dave looked terrified. ‘C’mon Dave,’ said Dorothy, taking him by the arm.

  The manager behind the counter was immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit and a crisp white shirt, with cufflinks that sparkled like landing lights at Heathrow Airport. ‘Can I be of assistance, sir?’ he asked smoothly.

  ‘We’re looking for an engagement ring,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘For you, madam?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Dorothy. She pointed at Big Dave. ‘For ’is girlfriend.’

  ‘I see,’ he said and extended a perfectly manicured finger towards the first glass-fronted cabinet. ‘This is our most popular range.’

  ‘’Ow much is that one?’ said Dorothy, pointing to a large, diamond-encrusted ring.

  ‘Five hundred pounds, madam,’ was the calm reply.

  ‘Bloody ’ell!’ said Big Dave.

  ‘What were you thinking of spending, sir?’ asked the shop manager with a fixed smile.

  ‘Well, ah ’adn’t thought,’ said Big Dave, reflecting that the loan to his little cousin to help him buy a car wasn’t such a good idea. Dorothy gave him a hard stare. ‘Ah s’ppose money’s no objec’ when yer in love,’ muttered Big Dave through gritted teeth, ‘so, mebbe fifty quid.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the manager quietly.

  ‘Y’ll ’ave t’spend more than that, Dave,’ said Dorothy sharply.

  After considerable thought and Dorothy trying on almost every ring in the shop, a decision was made to purchase a tiny diamond s
olitaire in a small presentation box.

  ‘I can alter the size if you wish,’ said the manager, relieved the ordeal was over. Big Dave removed the thick elastic bands from his old leather wallet and handed over £75.

  As they drove back to Ragley, Dorothy was looking pleased with herself. It had occurred to her that if Big Dave moved out to live with Nellie, then she could vacate her flat above the Coffee Shop and move in with Little Malcolm.

  It was lunchtime when Little Malcolm looked up and down the High Street and, when the coast was clear, hurried into the empty pharmacy shop where Eugene Scrimshaw was standing behind the counter. His wife was in the back room sorting their new stock of baby oil.

  ‘Ah want summat for t’weekend, so t’speak, Eugene,’ said Little Malcolm quietly.

  Eugene raised a forefinger, placed it on the side of his nose and winked. ‘Message understood, Malcolm,’ he said and slid a slim box over the counter. ‘Y’certainly gettin’ through these at a rate o’ knots.’

  ‘Actu’lly, Eugene,’ whispered Little Malcolm, ‘ah’m gettin’ a bit worried.’

  ‘What’s wrong, Mal’?’ asked Eugene quietly, making sure his wife couldn’t overhear them.

  ‘Ah’m gettin’ ’ot an’ bothered,’ said Little Malcolm forlornly.

  ‘’Ow d’you mean?’

  ‘Ah mean wi’ me an’ Dorothy. She’s gettin’ very demandin’, if y’get m’meaning.’

  ‘Sounds like yer a lucky man t’me,’ said Eugene. ‘Even in m’Captain Kirk outfit ah don’t seem t’turn on my Peggy any more. Y’should be thankful f’small mercies.’

  ‘Mebbe so,’ mumbled Little Malcolm, ‘’xcept ah was wond’rin’ if ah’d got that men-applause. Y’know, like what women get when they don’t fancy y’no more.’

  ‘Men-applause?’ said Eugene. ‘Oh, y’mean menopause. What meks y’think that?’

  ‘’Cause ah lose m’sex drive after an ’our o’ two.’ Little Malcolm looked heartbroken. ‘An’ ah’ll be forty soon. Ah think ah’m goin’ through that change.’

  ‘’Ave y’spoken to Dorothy about it?’ asked Eugene.

  ‘Y’jokin’!’ said Little Malcolm.

  ‘Well Mal’,’ said Eugene, putting a comforting arm round Little Malcolm’s shoulders, ‘ah wouldn’t worry if ah were you. Compared to normal men y’sound t’be a bloody stallion.’