06 Educating Jack

by Jack Sheffield

  On Tuesday morning, I looked across the breakfast table at two beautiful women, both slim, green-eyed blondes but a generation apart. Beth’s mother, Diane, had come up from Hampshire to stay for a few days. Today Beth had arranged for the morning off work to go for a scan at the antenatal clinic and Diane was going to drive her there and keep her company.

  ‘It will be fine,’ said Diane. ‘You’ll need to drink a pint of water before going in and the radiographer will rub some cold gel on your stomach. Then you’ll see an image of the baby on the screen. It’s all very straightforward.’

  ‘Yes, mother,’ said Beth with a tired smile. ‘I do know all this … but I appreciate your help,’ she added quickly.

  On the radio Joe Cocker and Jennifer Warnes were singing their Top Ten hit ‘Up Where We Belong’, quickly followed by Men at Work with ‘Down Under’, which somehow seemed appropriate.

  * * *

  By late that afternoon, tongues were wagging in the General Stores – none more so than Margery Ackroyd’s.

  ‘Have yer ’eard about t’eadteacher’s wife?’ she asked. The others in the queue were used to Margery’s rhetorical questions. ‘She’s been for a scan in York. Betty Buttle saw ’er goin’ in.’

  Prudence Golightly called a halt to the conversation. ‘Next please,’ she said loudly. Prudence hated gossip … except this was interesting gossip. Happily, Theresa Ackroyd and her eight-year-old sister Charlotte had other things on their mind and ran home to watch Mr Magoo on Channel 4.

  On Wednesday morning Petula Dudley-Palmer, complete with a green leotard and matching headband, had just completed her morning workout in front of the television set. Diana Moran, the ‘Green Goddess’, had performed her energetic routine and Petula had accompanied each stretch and gyration.

  ‘Today’s the day,’ murmured Petula to herself, breathing heavily. ‘Book Club day,’ and she walked out of the lounge towards their new downstairs shower and wondered what she should wear for the historic inaugural meeting. It was a difficult choice: classical elegance, or the casual, understated artist with the obligatory silk scarf? As she hurried through the spacious entrance hall, she looked at the pseudo-American grandfather clock and realized she had only eleven hours to decide.

  Back in school, Joseph had called in for his weekly religious education lesson today instead of on Friday, when he had to attend an ecclesiastical conference in Leeds.

  He spent an hour with Sally’s class on the theme of ‘Prayers’. Some of the follow-up writing was interesting to say the least.

  Terry Earnshaw had written, ‘Dear Lord, it must be hard for you to love EVERYONE in the whole world. There’s only five in our family and I find it a struggle.’

  Molly Paxton’s prayer was particularly poignant. ‘Dear Lord, thank you for my new baby brother even though I asked you for a tortoise.’

  And Rowena Buttle had written, ‘Dear Lord, it’s been a long time since Christmas and it’s a long time to Easter when my mummy hides chocolate eggs in the bread bin. So please can we have a proper in-between holiday with presents because there’s nothing good in February.’

  It struck me that the older I got, the faster the months seemed to fly by. Occasionally it needed a nine-year-old to remind us that, for children, time moves at a different pace. Childhood really was a secret garden that we had left far behind, but just occasionally, if we stopped long enough to listen – really listen – we could begin to understand their world and try to be a part of it again.

  That evening, at number 38, Petula was in her luxury home and everything was ready: drinks, nibbles and background music. She looked at her fitted kitchen, in beautiful Snowden Oak direct from Debenhams department store in Leeds, and knew it was a joy to behold. Every labour-saving device, from the electric tin-opener to the microwave oven to the latest Kenwood blender, was available to her, along with a multitude of gadgets that had since been removed to the garage, including a sodastream, a Breville sandwich toaster and a fondue set. Every cupboard was filled with Tupperware containers of all shapes and sizes and each one had been carefully labelled. It was, in fact, the perfect kitchen.

  In the spacious lounge the smell of furniture polish competed with the scent of potpourri, and small bowls of olives, nuts and crisps had been placed on Portmeirion coasters. Her favourite Cliff Richard album, Love Songs, with twenty romantic ballads, was playing softly and she hummed along to ‘We Don’t Talk Anymore’ and, predictably, thought of her husband Geoffrey. These days he spent less time with her and more time playing ‘tennis’ with his Atari 2600 video game with its woodgrain console, plastic paddles and stubby rubber joystick.

  The lounge was filling up quickly with ladies from all corners of the village, most of them holding a book. Audrey Bustard was showing a well-thumbed paperback, The Bitch by Jackie Collins, to Betty Buttle, who had brought her favourite Mills & Boon, Rampant Lust in the Farmyard. On the leather sofa, Felicity Miles-Humphreys was in animated conversation with Amelia Duff about her copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach, while Amelia held fast to her John Fowles classic, The French Lieutenant’s Woman. Meanwhile, Nora Pratt and Diane Wigglesworth had brought their shared copy of Jilly Cooper’s Love and Other Heartaches, and Elsie Crapper had brought her favourite hymn book.

  Julie Earnshaw and Betty Icklethwaite hadn’t brought a book. Neither had Margery Ackroyd, who had merely come to check out Petula’s kitchen appliances. Delia Morgetroyd, the milkman’s wife from Morton, had brought her Family Album catalogue. ‘Well, ah got a super ’airstyling brush and blow-dryer wi’ m’first order,’ said Delia. ‘Y’can’t lose,’ she added with emphasis. ‘What more can y’ask for?’

  Sheila Bradshaw arrived late from The Royal Oak with The Joy of Sex, which was passed around with great enthusiasm during the refreshment break. Also, a small balding man with thick spectacles and wearing an immaculate three-piece suit had arrived.

  ‘It’s a man!’ said Petula in surprise.

  ‘Well, y’didn’t say jus’ ladies on y’poster, Petula,’ said Margery, ‘an’ ’e looks ’armless enough.’

  Bernard Edmund Hillary Brocklebank, known as ‘Boring Bernard’ to his workmates, was born in St James’s Hospital in Leeds in 1953, just after Mount Everest was conquered. His father had hoped for a brave and adventurous son, but it wasn’t to be. Bernard was a sensitive soul who hated doing anything athletic and suffered from vertigo. In fact, he had dizzy spells when looking out of the bedroom window. As an assistant to a tailor in the centre of York, he was happy cutting and stitching three-piece business suits. However, Bernard had recently taken up reading and in his spare time he had begun to study the Encyclopædia Britannica. Now, at the age of twenty-nine, he had reached the letter B. He carried the heavy tome under his arm and Petula tried to avoid eye contact.

  It was time to bring the meeting to order. Petula picked up her favourite novel, Love Story by Erich Segal, and scanned the circle of book-lovers as they settled in their seats, frowning as she did so at Betty Buttle. It was a known fact in the village that Betty Buttle drank her tea from a saucer, often with much slurping, so Margery Ackroyd had reliably informed her. However, it was also common knowledge that Margery’s husband, Wendell, the Rowntree’s Smarties packer, ate peas off his knife, so it really was a case of the pot calling the kettle black.

  ‘Good evening, ladies … and, of course, our solitary man,’ said Petula.

  ‘No man is an Iceland, as they say,’ said Betty Buttle, putting down her cup and saucer with a clatter.

  ‘And welcome to the first meeting of the Ragley Book Club,’ continued Petula, undeterred. ‘First of all, we need to elect a chairwoman,’ she said, giving an enigmatic smile to the assembled throng and ignoring Bernard’s puzzled look. This went unnoticed as the first sign of cliques began to emerge.

  ‘I’d like to pwopose Diane,’ said Nora Pratt, looking across at her hairdresser friend. ‘She does a lot o’ weading.’

  ‘Ah’m not fussed,’ said Diane, l
ooking for an ashtray. ‘’Ow about you, Amelia?’

  Amelia Duff, the timid postmistress, immediately flushed. ‘I’m happy to be on a committee if there is one, but I don’t want to push myself forward. How about you, Felicity?’

  Felicity Miles-Humphreys, the self-appointed producer of the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society, looked up from under her bright-red headband. ‘Sorry, but I’m far too busy with my amateur dramatics,’ she said with a theatrical wave of her kaftan that upset a bowl of roasted peanuts. ‘So may I suggest Mrs Forbes-Kitchener?’

  ‘’Ear, ’ear,’ said Ruby, who still hadn’t got used to Vera’s new title.

  ‘’Ear, ’ear,’ echoed the throng, eager to move on.

  ‘Well, that’s kind of you, Felicity,’ said Vera. She looked intently at Petula. ‘But I do think it ought to be the person who thought of the idea in the first place and who is providing such wonderful hospitality this evening … namely, Petula.’

  Petula looked suitably modest and, with a unanimous show of hands, Petula Dudley-Palmer achieved a landmark in her lonely life and became President of the Ragley Book Club.

  ‘So what evening should we meet?’ asked Petula.

  An animated discussion followed that eliminated every night of the week owing to choir practice, bingo and favourite television programmes. However, a compromise was reached for the second Tuesday in every month except for July and August.

  ‘And finally,’ said Petula, ‘I see most of you have brought a book along and we need to decide the first book we shall discuss at our next meeting.’

  ‘Well, Ruby has just begun to read a lovely story about the adventures of young children in France who solve a bank robbery,’ said Vera.

  ‘That sounds a good ’un,’ said Betty Buttle.

  ‘Ah like a good adventure,’ said Margery Ackroyd.

  ‘And France is a really sexy place,’ said Sheila Bradshaw.

  ‘What’s the book, Ruby?’ asked Petula. ‘And why did you select it?’

  Ruby held up her copy of A Hundred Million Francs and took a deep breath. ‘Well, ah jus’ want t’say that ah’d f’gotten that reading can be, well … different. It were like goin’ into someone else’s world so t’speak. Mebbe that’s what books are – sort of an ’oliday when y’f’get y’problems.’ Ruby looked around, her face flushed, and Vera smiled, full of pride for her downtrodden friend. ‘An’ when ah’ve finished this,’ added Ruby, ‘ah’m gonna read another book.’

  There was a silence as everyone realized something quite special had occurred. It was Petula who summed up. ‘Well, Ruby, this makes it all worth while. I didn’t really know what a Book Club was until this moment, but now I think I do. So thanks for sharing your thoughts with us.’

  The next morning Petula Dudley-Palmer was in Reading Workshop. She sat back in her chair and stared at the next table, where Ruby was talking about her novel. Her daughter, little Hazel Smith, was loving every minute of it and, sitting next to her, nine-year-old Molly Paxton was hanging on every word.

  Petula reflected that she had two intelligent and articulate daughters who were both voracious readers, but they never shared their stories. That afternoon she thought hard about the events of the past twenty-four hours and how it had affected her life.

  So it was, for the first time in years, just before bedtime, Elisabeth Amelia and Victoria Alice snuggled up on the sofa with their mother and shared the story of The Selfish Giant by Oscar Wilde.

  ‘That was lovely, Mummy,’ said a sleepy Victoria Alice. ‘Can we do it again tomorrow?’

  Elisabeth Amelia simply gave her mother a hug. ‘Thanks, Mummy,’ she said. ‘It’s a pity Daddy couldn’t hear our story.’

  Our story, thought Petula … our story.

  As they climbed the stairs together, she didn’t feel lonely any more.

  It was then that she understood.

  The best Book Club begins not with a group of friends … but within the family.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Cleethorpes Clairvoyant

  County Hall sent out their latest ‘vision statement’, entitled ‘School of the Future’, plus a questionnaire concerning the need for a common curriculum.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Friday, 11 March 1983

  IT WAS JUST before 8.30 a.m. on Friday, 11 March and the conversation in the staff-room was proving livelier than usual.

  ‘A clairvoyant!’ said Sally. ‘Tomorrow night in the village hall. Well, count me in.’

  ‘Shall I pick you up?’ asked Jo.

  ‘Yes please,’ said Sally. She stretched forward to pick up another custard cream from the tin on the staff-room table and then, when a cold shiver ran down her spine, she resisted the temptation.

  ‘What about you, Anne?’ asked Jo. ‘It should be fun.’

  ‘Well, I’ve seen the “Phoebe Duckworth” posters in the High Street,’ said Anne a little warily, ‘and I must say I was curious, but don’t you think it might be a bit, you know … scary?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Jo. ‘I heard from Margery Ackroyd that it was just an entertaining evening organized by the Village Hall Social Committee. They just wanted something different and apparently she offered them a reduced fee.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Anne. ‘I’ll come as well, but I know Vera’s busy with Rupert at some high-society dinner, so she won’t be there.’

  ‘It’s probably not Vera’s thing anyway,’ said Sally.

  ‘And what about you, Jack?’ asked Jo.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘What exactly is a clairvoyant?’

  ‘It means “clear vision”, from seventeenth-century French,’ said Sally, whose knowledge of obscure facts never ceased to amaze me. ‘It’s a form of extra-sensory perception – they study the paranormal.’

  ‘I see,’ I said hesitantly. ‘OK, why not? It’s certainly different.’

  I returned to the morning post. County Hall’s latest glossy-covered epistle, or ‘vision statement’ as they called it, entitled ‘School of the Future’, appeared as farfetched as its predecessors. It seemed a waste of money. It occurred to me that perhaps they should have simply contacted a clairvoyant … and, by all accounts, Phoebe Duckworth came at a discount.

  The arrival of a clairvoyant in Ragley-on-the-Forest had certainly created interest. In the High Street, outside the village hall, Mrs Daphne Cathcart was staring with growing interest at a brightly coloured notice. It read:

  Meet

  Phoebe Duckworth

  World-Famous Clairvoyant (from Cleethorpes)

  Saturday, 12 March 1983

  at 7.30 p.m.

  in the Village Hall

  Understand your psychic ability

  Find your inner-self and that elusive sixth sense

  Daphne had always known she had a sixth sense. The problem was that, on occasion, the other five didn’t work all that well.

  Meanwhile, across the road in Prudence Golightly’s General Stores, a hint of scepticism was in the air. ‘Not really my cup of tea,’ said Prudence as she served Diane Wigglesworth with a pack of John Player King Size Extra Mild cigarettes.

  ‘Mebbe we need t’keep an open mind, Prudence,’ said Diane. ‘Y’jus’ never really know. Anyway, we’re all going. You ought to come.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Prudence thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps I will.’

  Back in school, the Revd Joseph Evans was making his weekly visit. The morning had gone surprisingly well and Jo’s class had hung on to every word of Joseph’s rambling tale of Noah and the Ark … that is, until a few minutes before the end of the lesson.

  ‘And Noah led all the animals into the ark, two by two,’ said Joseph.

  He was feeling confident for a change. The children in Class 2 were clearly animated by this morning’s Bible story. It was almost time for the bell and Joseph asked for questions.

  ‘Mr Evans, what did Noah eat?’ asked the ever-practical Charlotte Ackroyd, ‘’cause ’e couldn’t go shoppin
g.’

  Joseph pondered this for a moment.

  ‘’E could collect eggs ’cause ’e ’ad ’ens,’ said Barry Ollerenshaw helpfully.

  ‘That’s right. Well done, Barry,’ said Joseph quickly. ‘And, of course, he could have gone fishing,’ he added with a burst of inspiration.

  ‘Ah don’t think so, Mr Evans,’ said Sonia Trickle-bank, a serious and analytical little girl at the back of the class.

  ‘You don’t think so, Sonia? Why not?’ asked Joseph, a little perplexed that his good idea had been squashed so emphatically.

  ‘Well,’ said Sonia, ‘he’d ’ave only ’ad two worms.’

  The bell rang and Joseph breathed a sigh of relief. He had survived another Friday morning.

  At lunchtime I was on the playground talking to Daphne Cathcart, who had come to collect her daughter for a dental appointment. In the weak sunshine a group of girls were skipping. The two nine-year-olds, Michelle Cathcart and Louise Hartley, were winding the long rope and chanting:

  Teddy bear, teddy bear, turn around.

  Teddy bear, teddy bear, touch the ground.

  Teddy bear, teddy bear, two high kicks.

  Teddy bear, teddy bear, do the splits!

  ‘Teks me back, Mr Sheffield,’ said Mrs Cathcart. ‘Ah used t’love skippin’ when ah were young.’

  ‘And how are you feeling today, Mrs Cathcart?’ I asked. It was well known that Daphne was often depressed and my heart went out to this eccentric but steadfast single mother who would move mountains to protect her daughters. Her hair was dyed candy-floss pink and it blew in the wind.

  ‘Not such a good day t’day, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘but nowadays ah don’t let it show … ah keep it to m’self.’ Michelle ran to her mother and Daphne gave her a hug. They walked hand in hand down the cobbled drive and the bond of love between mother and daughter was clear to see. It was unconditional.

  When I walked back into the office, the telephone rang. Vera was out returning the dinner registers so I picked up the receiver. It was Beth and she sounded a little weary.