06 Educating Jack

by Jack Sheffield

  When Beth and I walked into The Royal Oak, Big Dave, Little Malcolm and the football team were watching the news on the television above the bar. The newsreader was holding up a new pound coin.

  ‘Ah’ll miss pound notes,’ said Big Dave.

  ‘Ah will an’ all, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm.

  ‘Y’felt as though yer ’ad more money in y’pocket wi’ notes instead o’ these little coins,’ said Big Dave. ‘Ah mean a pound note were allus a pound note, but look at these,’ he slapped two coins on the counter, ‘jus’ loose change.’

  The newsreader moved on to the next item. He explained that someone had just made the first mobile phone call in America using an automatic cellular network.

  ‘Mobile?’ said Don the barman. ‘What’s ’e on abart?’

  ‘’E means wi’ no wires,’ said Chris ‘Kojak’ Wojciechowski, the Bald-Headed Ball Wizard. ‘Y’can walk abart wi’ it like a walkie-talkie.’

  ‘But ’ow does it work?’ asked Big Dave.

  ‘Dunno, Dave,’ said Kojak.

  ‘Meks no sense wi’ no wires,’ added Little Malcolm, scratching his head in puzzlement.

  ‘World’s changing,’ said Don.

  ‘An’ not for t’better,’ growled Old Tommy Piercy through a haze of Old Holborn tobacco. ‘Switch it off,’ he grumbled. ‘Whatever ’appened t’ conversation?’

  Don the barman stretched up his massive ex-wrestler’s frame and switched off. ‘Nah then, Mr Sheffield,’ he said, ‘ah saw all t’little uns doin’ that pole dancing t’day.’

  ‘They looked reight professional, Mr Sheffield,’ said Sheila. Then she glowered at her husband. ‘An’ it’s maypole dancing, y’daft ha’porth, not pole dancing. Now what’s it t’be, Mr Sheffield?’

  ‘A pint of Chestnut and a tonic water, please, Sheila,’ I said, glancing up at the Specials blackboard, ‘and two chicken and chips in a basket.’

  ‘Coming up,’ said Sheila. ‘And ’ow’s Mrs Sheffield?’

  ‘Fine thanks,’ I said. ‘She’ll be there tomorrow helping on one of the stalls.’

  ‘Well she mustn’t overdo it,’ said Sheila knowingly. ‘No ’eavy lifting.’

  Don placed my frothing pint on the bar. ‘That Stan Coe’ll be cavortin’ abart wi’ ’is wooden shield an’ ’is sword again,’ he said.

  ‘’E’s sort o’ person y’like better t’less y’see of ’im, if y’tek m’meaning, Mr Sheffield,’ said Sheila and hurried off to the kitchen.

  On Saturday morning I looked out of the kitchen window of Bilbo Cottage. The heady scent of wallflowers filled the air, grape hyacinths bordered the path and the tight buds on the apple tree were waiting for the certainty of frost-free days before bursting from their winter cocoons.

  Kenny Everett was singing his hit record ‘Snot Rap’ on the radio, so I turned it off. The zany comedian’s ode to mucus was not exactly the best accompaniment to my morning bowl of porridge. Then Beth and I did some housework and I reflected that a pattern was developing with our domestic chores. I did the hoovering and polishing while she did the washing and ironing … and I wasn’t complaining. It was midday when we set out for the St George’s Day celebrations and Ragley village green was a hive of activity when we drove up the High Street.

  Beth wanted to buy some doilies before helping out on the refreshment stall, so I pulled up outside the village hall. She jumped out, glanced at the large glass-fronted noticeboard and smiled. ‘Another one of Elsie’s classics, Jack,’ she said. Elsie Crapper’s notice read: ‘WOULD THE PERSON WHO TOOK THE STEP LADDER RETURN IT IMMEDIATELY OR FURTHER STEPS WILL BE TAKEN’.

  Beth hurried across the road while I drove further up the High Street and into the school car park. When I walked back to the school gates Vera was in conversation with Ruby and Old Tommy Piercy. ‘She talks a lot but says nowt, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby, pointing towards Deirdre Coe. Stan’s bossy sister was shouting orders to her group of friends. Her double chin wobbled and she looked annoyed. ‘Ah want a big circle o’ bales,’ she yelled, ‘f’my Stanley’s battle.’

  ‘Dull minds an’ sharp tongues allus go together,’ said Old Tommy.

  ‘Deirdre Coe’s responsible for the pageant, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera, shaking her head. ‘Goodness knows what that will be like.’ It wasn’t like Vera to offer such ungracious comments, but I understood her feelings. I really wanted to speak my mind but, as always, I was restricted by the yoke of professional correctness and I held my tongue. Deirdre was an unpopular member of the Ragley and Morton’s Women’s Institute and there had been rumours that her Best Bowl of Bulbs entry that won first prize in March 1973 had been purchased at Thirkby market. According to Vera, in the pecking order of deceit this was close to the top.

  At that moment, Stan Coe’s mud-streaked Land Rover flashed by, its engine racing in a high-pitched whine. He glowered in our direction and parked outside the parade of shops.

  ‘’Orse power were a lot safer, Mr Sheffield, when jus’ ’orses ’ad it,’ said Old Tommy sagely and we all nodded in agreement.

  Meanwhile, across the road, life went on as usual in Diane’s Hairdresser’s. Petula Dudley-Palmer was reading the April issue of Cosmopolitan and an article entitled ‘Work Out with Moi’ over a photograph of Miss Piggy. In answer to the questions, ‘Can you work out without creasing your clothes?’ and ‘Will you retain a fabulous figure?’ she shook her head in dismay. It was definitely time to invest in a home gymnasium.

  ‘What’s it to be, Petula?’ asked Diane.

  ‘Same as usual, please, Diane,’ said Petula. ‘Something to go with my Olivia Newton John headband.’

  Outside on the pavement, Terry Earnshaw looked at the half pence coin in his hand and put it in his mouth. His pockets were full of holes. So, at that moment in his young life, it seemed a perfectly logical place to keep a precious coin. It would also buy a medium-sized gobstopper from the bottom shelf of Prudence Golightly’s General Stores.

  However, at that moment, Stan Coe barged past and bumped heavily into Terry. ‘Gerrowt o’ m’way,’ yelled Stan as he hurried into the shop.

  ‘Warra rude man,’ muttered Mrs Earnshaw.

  Heathcliffe glared at the red-faced farmer and vowed retribution. It was only when he looked at his little brother that he realized something was wrong. Terry’s eyes were bulging and his mouth was open.

  ‘Mam,’ said Heathcliffe, ‘summat’s up wi’ our Terry.’

  ‘What’s matter, Terry?’ asked Mrs Earnshaw.

  ‘Mam … when that man bumped into me summat ’appened,’ mumbled Terry.

  ‘What ’appened luv?’ she asked.

  ‘That halfpenny … ah swollered it.’

  ‘Y’swollered it!’ yelled Mrs Earnshaw and began smacking Terry’s back furiously. She looked towards the village green anxiously. ‘’Eath, look after y’brother while ah find Dr Davenport,’ and she rushed off.

  Heathcliffe was relieved Terry seemed none the worse for his experience, simply upset that he had lost his chance to buy a gobstopper. Fortunately Heathcliffe was a kindly soul and he felt sorry for his little brother, who had been Robin to his Batman for as long as he could remember. So he made a generous decision. He put his hand in his pocket, clutched his half pence piece and, with the skill of an apprentice magician, he pretended to take the coin from Terry’s ear.

  ‘There it is, Terry,’ said Heathcliffe magnanimously. ‘It’s come out of yer ear.’

  Terry looked in amazement. ‘Cor, that’s amazing, ’Eath – like magic.’ He looked at Heathcliffe in awe and admiration. It was great to have a brother that could climb trees, steal rhubarb from Mr Tupham’s garden and do proper magic. Quickly he snatched the new half pence from Heathcliffe’s hand, popped it in his mouth and swallowed it. ‘Go on,’ said Terry, full of anticipation. ‘Do it again.’

  It was at that moment that Mrs Earnshaw arrived with the reassuring presence of Dr Davenport. ‘Now don’t worry, young man,’ said the kindly doctor. ‘So he swallowed a half pe
nce piece, did he?’

  ‘No, it were a penny,’ said Heathcliffe quickly.

  ‘Ah thought it were a half pence,’ said Mrs Earnshaw.

  ‘No, def’nitely a penny, Mam,’ said Heathcliffe with a glassy-eyed stare, perfected over the years to suggest absolute innocence.

  Terry was quick to assess the situation. ‘Yeah, ’Eath’s reight, Mam … it were a penny.’

  On the village green all was ready. The sun shone down on the peaceful scene and the appetizing smell of Old Tommy Piercy’s hog roast drifted in the air. The Scout troop raised the flag of St George on the flagpole and the brass band played ‘Jerusalem’.

  The morris dancers were sitting on straw bales under the weeping willow, where Don the barman had set up a barrel of beer on a wooden trestle table. They already looked well lubricated as Sheila Bradshaw, sporting a sparkly flag of St George boob tube, a bare midriff, bright-red micro-miniskirt and white stilettos, refilled their tankards.

  Joseph had proudly presented two bottles of his latest home-made wine to Beth to be served in the refreshment tent. Naming it Cowslip Chateau Evans perhaps lacked a modicum of modesty, but Joseph was convinced the brew surpassed all his previous attempts. Fortunately he was not around when Old Tommy Piercy informed Dr Davenport that it had a great future in the war against disease, particularly in sheep.

  The maypole dancing was a great success. Each girl wore a pretty dress and a headband of flowers and proud parents took rolls of photographs as they danced their intricate patterns. Sally held her breath as the children skipped in and out, perfectly in time, until the ribbons were neatly plaited around the pole. Then they reversed the dance and, remarkably, the ribbons were unravelled and the applause from the large crowd was well deserved.

  ‘Well done, Sally,’ said Anne. ‘Simply wonderful.’

  ‘Our ’Azel looks a picture, don’t y’think, Miss Evans … ah mean Mrs Forbes-Kitch’ner?’ said Ruby. ‘Sorry, ah keep f’gettin’,’ she added. ‘Then again, why did you ’ave t’marry a man wi’ such a long name?’

  They both laughed. ‘You’re quite right, Ruby. It takes some getting used to. Writing a cheque these days takes an age … and yes, young Hazel looks lovely. It reminds me of the time your Natasha was the May Queen.’

  ‘’Appy days,’ said Ruby, ‘’appy days.’

  Finally we came to the main event and the villagers formed a huge circle around the village green.

  Stan Coe was dressed like a medieval knight, complete with cardboard visor, chain mail, a shield-shaped piece of plywood painted with the cross of St George and a long wooden sword. He decided to arrive in style and had saddled up Titan, an old, shaggy black-and-white horse, now long-retired. The acclaim for our hero was distinctly muted: Stan was not a popular man and a few boos and jeers accompanied the applause led by Deirdre. In the meantime, Titan’s dragon-hunting days were clearly long behind him and, when Stan had dismounted, he wandered off to chew the long grass by the village pond, supplemented by a bag of carrots that Jimmy Poole had purloined from his mother’s shopping bag.

  Stan waddled to the middle of the circle and yelled, ‘Never fear, St George is ’ere t’save all t’damsels an’ such-like.’

  ‘Hooray,’ shouted Deirdre and a few of her timid friends.

  ‘Gerron wi’ it,’ shouted Old Tommy Piercy, already tired of Stan’s posturing.

  Heathcliffe, having been dressed in the dragon costume with the assistance of his father and Deke Ramsbottom, was in the school playground. He was peering through the cardboard teeth set in the huge open jaws.

  ‘Can y’see owt?’ asked Deke.

  ‘Yes thanks, Mr Ramsbottom,’ said Heathcliffe.

  ‘Ah told yer it were a perfec’ fit,’ said Deke proudly, standing back and observing Heathcliffe from his fierce head to his scaly tail.

  Stan pointed his sword towards the school. ‘Where is the foul-’earted dragon? Come an’ show thyself, thou cowardly creature.’

  Mr Earnshaw bristled. No one called his son a coward. ‘Watch y’tongue, y’great lump,’ shouted Eric and pushed his son into the arena.

  For Heathcliffe it was like walking into the Colosseum. A roar went up from the pupils in my class. ‘Heathcliffe, Heathcliffe!’ they chanted. He stood there in front of Stan and roared. He’d been practising his roar and was pleased when Stan blinked and took a pace backwards.

  ‘Be gone, thou evil dragon!’ shouted Stan, although not as confidently as before.

  And the dragon roared again.

  Then, in a moment of unguarded fury, Stan clanked across the green, raised his wooden sword and smacked the dragon’s rump.

  ‘Boooo! Boooo!’ shouted Ruby.

  ‘Don’t stand f’that, ’Eath!’ shouted Mrs Earnshaw.

  ‘Get thtuck in!’ shouted Jimmy Poole, now standing well away from Titan, who, after his substantial lunch, had just emptied his bowels.

  With a shudder of muted thunder, the dragon growled again. Heathcliffe was pleased with his roar, but even more proud of his growl, a sort of cross between the Hound of the Baskervilles and a Tyrannosaurus rex with toothache. Even with his limited visibility he could see it had a significant effect on St George, who stopped in his tracks while the front row quickly made sure they were behind the ring of straw bales.

  Finally came the moment that went down in Ragley folklore. With the power of a raging bull, Heathcliffe charged forwards and headbutted Stan, who, with the slow-motion grace of a toppled chimney, fell backwards over the straw bales, rolled gently down the slope of the pond and came to rest in a steaming pile of Yorkshire’s finest and freshest horse manure, courtesy of Titan.

  The crowd cheered, Deirdre Coe had an apoplectic fit and the battle was over. To the chant of ‘Cowardy, cowardy custard’ by Terry Earnshaw and his friends, our noble knight limped painfully away to his Land Rover to get cleaned up. Meanwhile, Heathcliffe was quickly relieved of his dragon suit by Deke Ramsbottom, who then put his hand in his pocket and gave him a coin. ‘Here y’are, you’ve earned it,’ he said.

  Heathcliffe stared at it in amazement and showed it to Terry.

  ‘What is it, ’Eath?’ asked Terry.

  ‘It’s one o’ them new pound coins.’

  ‘Can ah ’ave a look?’ said Terry.

  Heathcliffe shook his head. ‘Not likely … y’might swoller it.’

  ‘Well, what we gonna do?’

  Heathcliffe looked at Prudence Golightly’s stall of old-fashioned sweets and then at Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer, who was smiling at him in admiration. ‘You were honourable and courageous, Heathcliffe,’ she said, ‘just like in the story.’

  ‘An’ shiver-rous,’ added Heathcliffe for good measure. He held up his coin. ‘Would y’like some ’umbugs, Lizzie?’

  I was standing with Beth and Vera watching this touching scene.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Beth.

  ‘Yes … what do you think, Vera?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera, ‘I think we’ve just rewritten history.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Gandhi and the Rogation Walk

  The School Governing Body and the PTA, along with parents and children, offered to support the Revd Joseph Evans and the proposed Rogation Walk around the borders of the village on Sunday afternoon, 8 May.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Friday, 6 May 1983

  THE REVD JOSEPH EVANS WAS in animated mood as he led our school assembly. He’d had a vision … at least that’s what it seemed.

  ‘This is a time to be at one with nature,’ he declared, raising his eyes to the beam of sunlight that was streaming in the high arched Victorian window. However, the problem with visions is that, occasionally, they are far from reality. It was Friday morning, 6 May, and an eventful weekend was in store that would keep tongues wagging for some time in the generally peaceful village of Ragley-on-the-Forest.

  The children were in good voice as Anne rattled out one of her personal favourite
s on the piano:

  ‘All things bright and beautiful,

  All creatures great and small,

  All things wise and wonderful,

  The Lord God made them all.’

  ‘And, boys and girls, the Lord God really does love them all,’ said Joseph as the final echoing chord died away. The children sat cross-legged on the hall floor while our local vicar waxed lyrical about the forthcoming Rogation Walk. ‘As it says in Psalm one hundred and thirty-three, “Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity”.’

  I glanced towards Anne at the piano and she gave me a wide-eyed stare. We were clearly thinking the same thing: would the children know what he was talking about? However, we needn’t have worried: the cavalry had arrived. Vera had propped open the doors that led from the entrance hall to the school hall and had left the office door ajar. She had heard it all and scribbled a reminder on her spiral-bound pad in neat shorthand to send a note home to every family, written in plain English, explaining what the Rogation Walk was really about.

  ‘So,’ concluded Joseph, ‘let us all meet on the green at ten o’clock on Sunday morning as a united village in which we live together in peace and harmony and in the bounty of nature.’ As we all filed out the staff looked as puzzled as the children.

  Joseph’s idea, announced at the recent governors’ meeting, to resurrect the ancient tradition of a Rogation Walk around the village seemed a good one. It was also an opportunity for Joseph to impress Henry Fodder, the recently retired Canon Emeritus from York Minster who had come to live in the village. Henry was a pleasant, cherubic man with thinning grey hair and thick spectacles and, in spite of retirement, was still powerful in the church community. Sadly, he had not been blessed with a sense of humour, which would have been useful, particularly when you were addressed as Canon Fodder.

  Vera was aware that Henry was also a good friend of Bishop Neil, memories of whose visit to school eighteen months ago still made her shudder. On that day all had not gone to plan, but surely nothing could go wrong with something as simple as a walk round the village … or could it? After all, thought Vera, my dear brother always means well.