‘Yes, Mummy,’ she said and together they wandered off to stack hymn books on the shelves at the back of the church.
Later, in the silence of the ancient church, Toby thought of the young woman who had suddenly come into his solitary life and hoped he would see her again. Until then, only the hollow footfalls remained, hanging in the air, an ellipsis of echoes to an unfinished conversation.
On Saturday morning in the hedgerow outside Bilbo Cottage there was frantic activity as birds built their nests. On the pavement, a speckled thrush with beady eyes had a snail in its beak and was beating its stubborn shell.
Beth was up early and had begun to paint our second bedroom. ‘I thought I’d make a start, Jack,’ she said.
Deep down I knew Beth enjoyed painting and possessed an aesthetic appreciation that I could only dream off. ‘Fine,’ I said, ‘so I’ll do the shopping.’ Married life was suiting us both. However, one thing I had noticed was that Bilbo Cottage was being transformed from a functional magnolia bachelor residence, with curtains that didn’t match, to a harmonious home of subtle shades that looked like something from Country Living magazine. I couldn’t work out how Beth found the time, but whenever I was watching Saturday Grandstand she always seemed to be busy round the house.
In the General Stores, Prudence Golightly checked Beth’s list and filled my shopping bags with loaves, vegetables and fruit. Meanwhile, I was intrigued by the headline in my Times: ‘Thousands of hands link in CND rally’. Apparently, countless protesters had linked hands in a fourteen-mile chain from Burghfield to Greenham Common in Berkshire via the Atomic Weapons Research Establishment at Aldermaston, where research was under way for the Trident missile. Joan Ruddock, chairman of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, had described the demonstration as ‘a triumph’ and praised the carnival atmosphere. I wondered what Vera would have made of it, as not only did it include jugglers, stilt-walkers and bands, but there was even a Punch and Judy show featuring a Margaret Thatcher puppet.
Mrs Poole and her daughter Jemima were behind me in the queue.
‘We need a whistle for the dog,’ said Mrs Poole.
‘But Mummy,’ said Jemima, ‘how will he be able to blow it?’ Mrs Poole gave me a what-do-they-teach-themat-school-these-days look as I walked out.
Beth had asked me to call into the Pharmacy to buy some vitamin tablets. However, a notice had been sellotaped to the shop door. It read: ‘CLOSED DUE TO ILLNESS’ and with a chuckle I returned to Prudence Golightly’s as the notice in her window stated ‘WE SELL EVERYTHING’.
Meanwhile, Toby Speight was playing the Widor Toccata at the end of a wedding ceremony to accompany the triumphal procession, although his mind was elsewhere.
Vera’s mind was also elsewhere. She was busy in her kitchen making a perfect rice pudding with a distinctive dark, caramelized skin. It was Vera’s own adaptation from her mother’s handwritten book of cookery notes and was based on Eliza Acton’s famous recipe, first published in 1845. She had quickly discovered Rupert’s penchant for one of her trademark dishes. However, this was not uppermost in Vera’s thoughts. At this moment her concern was young love … and she had a plan.
On Sunday morning dawn’s pale light turned the thin mist into an amber cloak over the distant fields. Suddenly a gentle breeze sprang up and the branches stirred. The countryside was waking and the trees whispered the secrets of sycamores.
I looked at my garden where sprouting raspberry canes and the currant and gooseberry bushes were showing signs of life. The season had turned, spring was coming and four miles away up the Morton Road a young man was growing equally restive.
St Mary’s Church looked a picture on this perfect Easter Day and Toby Speight was playing the opening bars of ‘This Joyful Eastertide’ in preparation for the service.
‘Is there anything you need, Toby?’ asked Vera.
‘Well, you occasionally act as page-turner for me when Elsie isn’t here,’ said Toby.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Vera, ‘it’s all in hand,’ and she hurried out of church and down the path to the elegant lychgate. Bonnie Shawcross had arrived alone. Her father was at home with Becky.
‘Bonnie, my dear,’ said Vera, ‘I wondered if you could do me a favour?’
‘Of course,’ said Bonnie.
‘I need a page-turner,’ said Vera.
Bonnie walked into church with Vera and went to sit beside Toby, who looked up and smiled.
Vera returned to her pew and sat down beside Anne and Sally.
‘Bonnie may have a decision to make soon,’ whispered Vera.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Anne.
‘Toby or not Toby,’ she chuckled to herself. ‘Now that really is a question.’
We all smiled politely. None of us could remember Vera telling a joke before … perhaps it was just as well.
Chapter Fifteen
Heathcliffe and the Dragon
Children in all classes made preparations for the St George’s Day celebrations on the village green on Saturday, 23 April. Mrs Pringle organized a maypole-dancing display. I responded to the latest County Hall document ‘Health & Safety on Educational Visits’.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 22 April 1983
‘YOU WOULDN’T THINK they were worth a pound, would you, Jack?’ said Anne looking dubiously at one of the new pound coins.
‘Dinner money will never be the same again,’ said Vera, rattling her lockable metal money box. ‘This is heavier for a start.’ It was lunchtime on Friday, 22 April and Vera had checked the late dinner money and returned our registers.
I sat down with Anne, Sally and Jo in the staff-room while Vera served us with cups of tea.
‘All set for tomorrow, Sally?’ asked Vera.
‘Yes,’ said Sally, ‘and thanks again for providing the ribbons.’
Vera smiled. She loved maypole dancing. It reminded her of days gone by when she was a little girl with flowers in her hair. ‘And Rupert has arranged for a couple of his men to erect the maypole,’ said Vera, ‘so all we need now is good weather.’
We had volunteered to support the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute, who were organizing the St George’s Day celebrations on the village green on Saturday afternoon. Warm sunny weather was forecast and the hedgerows had come alive again with green buds and new life. Outside the village hall the almond trees were in blossom and the cherry trees would soon awaken. The branches on the weeping willow next to the duck pond on the village green were heavy with a canopy of new leaves and, next to the school gates, bright-yellow forsythia lifted the spirits. We were truly blessed in this sleepy corner of God’s Own Country.
Vera sounded animated. ‘It promises to be a memorable day and the ladies in the Women’s Institute have worked really hard. There are going to be morris dancers, a farmers’ market, refreshments, Captain Fantastic’s Punch and Judy, and Prudence is providing a stall with traditional sweets. Finally, of course, there’s the reenactment of St George slaying the dragon.’
‘You mean Stan Coe beating some poor villager with his wooden sword, as he does every year,’ said Anne.
‘Sadly, yes,’ said Vera. ‘We put up with it partly because it’s tradition and, of course, he’s done it for the last twenty-five years.’
‘But mainly because he’s got the complete St George costume,’ added Anne.
Stan Coe, local landowner and pig farmer, was one of the most unpopular men in the village. He was a brute and a bully and had been all his life. There had been disagreements between us in the past but, in recent months, I had tended to avoid conflict and confrontation, so I kept my opinion to myself.
Jo looked up from our weekly copy of the Times Educational Supplement. ‘Well I’m pleased we’re celebrating St George’s Day,’ she said reflectively. ‘The Scots, Welsh and Irish always make their patron saint day something special.’
‘Cry God for Harry, England and St George,’ recited Vera, recalling Henry V, ‘and don’
t forget, it’s Shakespeare’s birthday as well,’ she added proudly.
‘So where does the dragon come in?’ asked Jo.
Sally, our expert in obscure myths and legends, looked up from her Woman magazine and an article entitled ‘How to achieve a film star bum in only four weeks’. ‘He fought in the Crusades for Richard the Lionheart and was adopted as the patron saint of the soldiers,’ she said. ‘The story goes that he saved a princess from being eaten by a dragon by protecting himself with the sign of the cross and then he slaughtered the poor thing. The citizens were so thrilled with our hero that they converted to Christianity.’
‘And so they should,’ said Vera. ‘A small price to pay for such heroism.’
‘Truly a gallant Englishman,’ said Jo.
‘Or even a Turk,’ added Sally mischievously.
‘Pardon?’ said Vera.
‘I seem to recall St George was born in Turkey,’ said Sally.
‘Oh dear,’ said Vera, ‘that won’t do. Perhaps I had better not mention that to Rupert. He’s convinced he was born in Yorkshire.’
Just before lunchtime the children in my class had finished their writing about St George. Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer had done some excellent research in the school library and I asked her to come to the front of the class to read out her work.
She began in a clear, confident voice. ‘St George is the patron saint of England and we celebrate his day each year on April twenty-third and fly the flag of St George, a red cross on a white background.’ Elisabeth Amelia paused for dramatic effect and surveyed the class. Suddenly she knew what it must be like to be Margaret Thatcher and she determined to go into politics one day and make great speeches. She took a deep breath and proceeded. ‘There is a special medal for bravery, known as the George Cross, which shows St George on horseback slaying a dragon.’
Heathcliffe Earnshaw stared open-mouthed in admiration. St George sounded like a proper Yorkshireman. He was both brave and heroic; in fact, just like Heathcliffe himself. He also liked the word ‘slaying’. There was finality about it … better than merely stabbing with a sword.
Elisabeth Amelia was approaching the big finish with three words she had extracted from the Encyclopædia Britannica. ‘So, in conclusion, St George was honourable, courageous … and chivalrous.’ She smiled, gave a hesitant bow, resisted the Margaret Thatcher wave, and returned to her seat accompanied by generous applause.
Heathcliffe was impressed. ‘Ah want to be hon’rable, courageous an’ … an’ shiver-rous,’ he murmured to himself and ideas began to flicker through his young mind.
During lunchtime, Vera and Sally took all the girls from Class 3 and Class 4 outside to practise their maypole dancing on the village green. Sally had taught them well, but this was the first opportunity out of school and very different to dancing round a netball stand in the school hall.
In the centre of the village green, the maypole had been topped in the traditional manner with eight bell garlands and, from each one, a long coloured ribbon, provided by Vera, drifted in the light breeze. Sally turned on her battery-powered ghettoblaster and villagers from the houses on either side of The Royal Oak came out to watch. The practice went well and the onlookers applauded.
‘They’re a credit to you, Sally,’ said Vera, ‘and it will give such pleasure to so many people.’
‘Thanks Vera … but it wouldn’t have been possible without you and the major.’
Emily Cade was pushing her ninety-six-year-old mother, Ada, in a wheelchair and they had stopped to admire the performance. ‘Tradition,’ said Ragley’s oldest inhabitant, ‘y’can’t beat it.’
‘Emily, how’s your mother?’ asked Vera quietly. Everyone knew that Ada was stone deaf.
‘Her mother is learning to lip-read,’ said Ada, looking up from her wheelchair with a sly grin. ‘And don’t you forget it, young Vera Evans, or whatever it is y’call yourself now.’
Everyone laughed and a red-faced Emily released the brake on the wheelchair and hurried off to the chemist for Ada’s weekly prescription.
At afternoon playtime I was on duty and, not for the first time, I marvelled at the inexhaustible energy young children seemed to possess. Some of the older girls had decided to take a break from maypole dancing and were enjoying a more familiar pastime. A skipping rope was whirling round while they chanted:
‘Jelly on a plate, jelly on a plate,
Wibble wobble, wibble wobble, jelly on a plate.
Pickles in a jar, pickles in a jar,
Ooh! Ah! Ooh! Ah! Pickles in a jar.’
After school I settled in the office for a long haul. There was a lot of paperwork to complete, so I arranged to meet Beth in The Royal Oak at seven o’clock for a drink and a meal. Then I stared at my in-tray. Yet another document had arrived from County Hall, this time concerning health and safety, and we had been asked to respond in detail. After reading the new regulations I began to think twice about some of the more adventurous outdoor activities we had planned. With a sigh, I filled my fountain pen with Quink ink and began to write.
Meanwhile, on Ragley High Street, Deke Ramsbottom was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. He walked with an extravagant bow-legged gait that passers-by assumed was his impression of the late John Wayne heading towards a gunfight. However, at that moment Deke would have preferred a gunfight to his current ailment. Piles were the bane of his life.
Fortunately there was no one else in the Pharmacy when Deke walked up to the counter. Eugene Scrimshaw, his Captain Kirk Star Trek outfit carefully hidden beneath his white coat, was in a jovial mood. He’d been in his loft, converted to resemble the Starship Enterprise, and had just installed an old Triumph Mayflower gearstick to represent a time-warp control lever. ‘What can ah do for you, Deke? Y’don’t look y’self,’ said Eugene.
Deke looked around furtively. ‘Eugene …’as tha got any arse cream?’
‘Vanilla or raspberry?’ replied Eugene, who loved his little jokes.
‘Y’know what ah mean, y’soft ha’porth,’ growled Deke.
Eugene passed over the tube of cream. ‘Here y’are,’ he said. ‘Go forth and prosper.’ He gave his Vulcan salute, à la Mr Spock, but there was no response from the good-hearted cowboy. ‘What is it, Deke? Is there summat else?’
Deke sighed and shook his head sadly. ‘It’s our Wayne,’ he said, ‘’e’s grown out of t’dragon costume. Three generations o’ Ramsbottoms ’ave worn that dragon outfit – an’ now it’s over.’
At that moment the bell rang over the shop door and Heathcliffe Earnshaw wandered in. ‘Ah’ve come t’collec’ me mam’s ’scripshun,’ he said confidently.
‘OK, son, jus’ wait there a minute,’ said Eugene and began to look under the counter.
‘We need a strong lad fur t’job,’ continued Deke and his eyes fell upon the young, sturdy Heathcliffe with his spiky blond crewcut, barrel-chest, socks round his ankles and scuffed shoes.
‘In fac’, jus’ like young ’Eathcliffe ’ere,’ said Deke.
‘Y’reight there, Deke,’ said Eugene. ‘Ah bet ’e’d fit perfec’ into t’dragon suit.’
Deke put his hand on young Heathcliffe’s shoulder. ‘Now then young ’Eathcliffe, ’ow d’you fancy earnin’ one o’ these new pound coins?’
Later, in the Earnshaw household a lively conversation was in progress.
‘What’s geography, Mam?’ asked Terry.
‘Ask y’dad,’ said Mrs Earnshaw as she put a splash of tomato sauce on Dallas Sue-Ellen’s chip sandwich.
‘What’s geography, Dad?’ repeated Terry.
‘Geography?’ replied Mr Earnshaw, not looking up from the sports page of the Sun. Oxford chairman Robert Maxwell wanted to merge his club with Reading to create the Thames Valley Royals and Eric Earnshaw shook his head in disbelief. ‘Er … ask y’mam,’ he said.
‘Ah’ve asked ’er, Dad. She said t’ask you,’ said Terry.
Mr Earnshaw looked at his little bristle-haired son and pondered for a moment. �
��Geography, well, er, it’s … it’s places, lots of ’em.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ said Terry and reached for the tomato ketchup.
‘Mam,’ said Heathcliffe, ‘what’s ’ istory? ’Cause we’re doing George an’ t’dragon.’
‘’ Istory?’ replied Mrs Earnshaw. ‘Ask y’dad.’
‘Dad, what’s ’istory?’ asked Heathcliffe.
‘Ask y’mam,’ he replied.
‘She said t’ask you,’ said Heathcliffe.
Eric Earnshaw looked up, chewed his mushy peas thoughtfully and stared into space. He wasn’t used to being asked so many academic questions but, for the sake of his sons’ education, he was willing to impart a little wisdom. ‘’Istory …’istory, well, er, jus’ one thing after t’other.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ said Heathcliffe. Curiosity satisfied, the boys decided to finish their meal with a mushy-pea sandwich. From the chipped plate in the centre of the table they each selected a doorstep-size slice of bread, spread it thickly with marge and, with the skill of experienced bricklayers, trowelled on a liberal filling of peas.
‘An’ Dad,’ said Heathcliffe, ‘ah’m gonna be a dragon t’morrow on t’village green f’St George’s Day.’
‘’Ow come?’
‘’Cause Mr Ramsbottom said t’costume fitted perfec’,’ explained Heathcliffe. ‘Ah’m in a pretend battle with Mr Coe.’
‘Ah don’t like ’im,’ said Julie Earnshaw. ‘Too big for ’is boots, that one.’
Eric Earnshaw looked up from a photograph of George Best in his AFC Bournemouth football shirt and closed the newspaper. ‘Who wins this battle then?’
‘St George does, Dad,’ said Heathcliffe.
‘Pity t’dragon didn’t come from Barnsley,’ he said with a grin.
Little Terry looked up from his sandwich. ‘But we come from Barnsley, Dad.’
Mr Earnshaw returned to his paper with a smile. ‘’Xactly,’ he said.
‘Ooh, our ’Eath in a dragon suit,’ said Mrs Earnshaw, ‘we’ll ’ave t’see this.’
06 Educating Jack Page 20