‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Joseph.
‘Yes?’ said Vera and Henry simultaneously, both looking anxious.
‘Perhaps we should make this an annual event,’ said Joseph enthusiastically.
Vera took his arm. ‘Joseph,’ she said firmly, ‘let’s go to the kitchen and discuss this over a bottle of your peapod wine.’
Joseph looked surprised. Vera had never before shown any enthusiasm for his obvious expertise in the blending of superior home-made wine.
‘Good idea,’ said Henry, who was well aware that Joseph’s vile concoctions not only numbed all nerve endings but that they also destroyed brain cells with the rapidity of Domestos on germs. He glanced at Vera, who nodded imperceptibly.
They both knew that after three glasses Joseph would have forgotten all about it.
Chapter Seventeen
Lollipop Lil’ and the Zebra Crossing
Work has begun in the village on a zebra crossing at the top of the High Street. Acting Sergeant Dan Hunter called in to school assembly to talk about road safety. The members of the PTA who are supporting the school visit to Flamingo Land on Monday, 13 June met at the end of school to confirm arrangements for the group activity work.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 10 June 1983
THE SCHOOL RUN had come to Ragley. It was Friday, 10 June and our tranquil world had changed for ever. There was no doubt that the extra traffic was beginning to cause congestion outside school and the road around the village green had begun to resemble the newly built M25 on a busy morning.
It had started a few years ago with Mrs Dudley-Palmer driving to school in her Rolls-Royce and dropping off her children at the school gate. Then a few more parents followed suit, particularly those from the outlying farms. This year, more mothers than ever were getting full-time jobs in York and Northallerton and, in consequence, it was convenient to leave their children at school en route to work.
So it was that, on this beautiful summer morning, a gang of council workmen were painting Ragley’s first zebra crossing. Red-and-white cones had cordoned off half of the High Street just below the village green and opposite the Post Office.
‘It says here there’s to be a zebra crossing and a safety barrier, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera, looking at the letter from the County Hall Works Department.
‘Times are changing, Vera,’ I said thoughtfully. As I looked out of the office window I saw Mrs Dudley-Palmer drop off Elisabeth Amelia and Victoria Alice. The girls waved goodbye and walked up the drive clutching their ‘Animals of the World’ folders. Next Monday, as part of our project work, we were going to Flamingo Land, a zoo and theme park near Malton in North Yorkshire, and the children were full of excitement.
They were followed by a middle-aged lady who strode purposefully towards the school entrance in a bright road-crossing-patrol uniform and I walked to meet her.
‘G’morning, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Ah’m Miss Figgins from Cold ’ampton.’
Cold Hampton was a tiny hamlet near the local airfield and, from the look of the villagers I had met from there, it was appropriately named. No trace of warmth exuded from this blunt Yorkshire lady.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said and we shook hands. Her grip was like a car crusher.
‘Ah’m y’new lollipop lady,’ she said, ‘an’ ah’ve jus’ been appointed by t’council. Ah start Monday an’ ah thought ah’d let t’children see me in m’new uniform so they get used t’me.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Miss Figgins,’ I said, massaging some life back into my fingers. ‘Perhaps you’d like to call into our “road safety” assembly today and introduce yourself. We’ve got our local policeman coming in. It starts just after nine o’clock.’
‘Thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ said Miss Figgins, glancing at her watch. ‘Ah’ll be back.’
Our morning assembly went well. Dan Hunter had become a popular figure at Ragley School and his road safety assembly was part of our annual health-and-safety programme for North Yorkshire schools. As usual he was comfortable answering the children’s questions. It struck me that Dan would have made an excellent teacher but, by all accounts, he was also making his mark in the police force and promotion was in the pipeline.
The focus this morning was how to use our new zebra crossing. Dan made sure that Miss Figgins, in her glaring uniform and clutching a circular STOP sign on a long pole that resembled a giant lollipop, was the star of the show. At the end, Joseph, who had called in for his weekly religious education lesson, led the prayers and Dan hurried off to begin his duties. Lillian Figgins, however, took the opportunity to talk to Vera and so it was that a potted version of her life story wasn’t far away.
‘Isn’t y’brother a fine man, Mrs Forbes-Kitchener?’ said Lillian. ‘There’s not many like ’im.’
‘Thank you for saying so, Miss Figgins,’ said Vera, ‘and I’m sure Joseph is most grateful for all your hard work in cleaning the church.’
‘It’s a pleasure,’ said Lillian.
‘Perhaps you would like a cup of tea?’ said Vera.
‘Well, that’s reight kind,’ said Lillian.
Soon they were chatting like old friends. ‘Ah wonder ’ow Mr Evans is gettin’ on?’ said Lillian.
‘I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ said Vera without conviction.
Joseph was summing up his latest Bible epic with Class 2. ‘So God made the world.’
‘What about t’universe?’ asked eight-year-old Ben Roberts.
‘Yes, Benjamin, he made the universe as well,’ said Joseph solemnly.
‘An’ t’stars and t’moon?’ continued the eager Ben.
‘Yes he did,’ said Joseph.
‘That’s a shame,’ said Ben.
‘A shame … and why is that?’ asked a surprised Joseph.
‘Well ’e got all t’stars in t’right place, but ’e slipped up badly wi’ t’moon, ’cause that dunt know whether it’s comin’ o’ goin’.’
Joseph sighed. The logic of children was still a secret garden for him, lovely to appreciate from a distance but a private world for which he had lost the key.
Meanwhile Vera was hearing the story of Miss Figgins’ life. Born in Hanging Heaton, a village near Batley in West Yorkshire, Lillian had spent her teenage years in a greasy-spoon café making bacon sandwiches the size of a small block of flats and serving strong mugs of sweet tea. Life was hard and, to earn extra money, in October 1957 she purchased a copy of The Practical Home Money Maker for one shilling and threepence and spent the following weeks weaving baskets for a pittance.
She first met Bernard, the diminutive bookmaker with the Brylcreem quiff, when he ordered a Batley-Belly-Buster-Breakfast. She asked him how many slices of black pudding he wanted, which was music to his ears. After serving his meal and giving the cutlery a cursory wipe on her Batley Rugby League Club apron she noticed he was staring at the headline ‘How a 7-stone weakling became the world’s most perfectly developed man’ above a photograph of the fist-clenching muscular pose of Charles Atlas.
He paid for his meal with a £5 note, which in those days was the size of a small tea towel. When he offered her a Craven A filter-tip cigarette and a night out to see the Bachelors at the new Batley Variety Club, she thought she had just won the jackpot on Littlewoods Pools.
That evening she opened her Lennard’s Mail Order catalogue to the page headed ‘Go Gay in a New Frock’. For the exorbitant price of 45 shillings she purchased a floral-patterned, spun rayon dress with a ruched waist, short sleeves and a buttoned bodice. She felt like a film star.
Bernard showered her with cheap gifts and, eventually, on the back seat of his Hillman Minx, she submitted to his charms. When he finally drove off into the sunset with a leggy usherette from the local cinema, she was left with a waffle nylon blouse, a Philip Harben cookery set and a bottle of cheap perfume. It was then that she decided to seek out her distant cousin, Nora, in the Ragley village Coffee Shop, start a new life in North Yorkshir
e and give up men for longer than Lent.
Now, many years later, she lived in a pretty little cottage in Cold Hampton with a thatched roof, leaded diamond-paned windows and a garden full of old-fashioned flowers. As the season progressed, passers-by would stop to admire the tulips, wallflowers, lavender, Sweet Williams, vivid pinks and a riot of Victorian roses that clung to the whitewashed walls, filling them with life and colour. In spite of her tough, curmudgeonly Yorkshire exterior, deep down Lillian had a heart of gold and had earned a reputation for her voluntary work at St Mary’s Church.
‘Lovely t’meet you at last, Mrs Forbes-Kitchener,’ she said as she left.
‘Likewise,’ said Vera and she sat down to complete a typed notice entitled ‘Group List for Flamingo Land’.
By the time we gathered in the staff-room at morning break, Vera had prepared milky coffee and had opened the windows to let in some fresh air on this beautiful summer morning. She was also reading my copy of The Times with great enthusiasm.
Following yesterday’s General Election, Margaret Thatcher had won a huge victory, with over 42 per cent of the vote, to start her second term of office. The headline ‘Mrs Thatcher back with a landslide’ had filled Vera with joy. The new SDP Liberal Alliance had won only twenty-three seats, even though they received nearly as many votes as Labour. Michael Foot, the defeated Labour leader, described it as a tragedy for the country.
Meanwhile, Sally was looking soulfully at Vera’s Daily Telegraph. The article ‘Labour’s Michael Foot and Denis Healey back in the doldrums’ made her sigh and she wondered if the Labour Party would ever get back into power. She pointed to the list of election results on page 4. ‘A pity,’ she said. ‘Michael Foot is a bright man, but some people put image first and he never came over well in that old duffel coat.’
‘He looked more like a Ban the Bomb marcher,’ said Vera.
‘Dan voted Conservative this time,’ said Jo. While Vera smiled, Sally winced visibly. It occurred to her that Maggie would need the police on her side in the years to come, but decided to keep this to herself.
‘Never mind, Sally,’ said Joseph. ‘You’re going to the zoo on Monday. That should be a lovely day out.’
Everyone smiled, none more so than Vera, who looked tenderly at her brother. ‘It will be a fine day, Sally, I’m sure,’ she said. ‘And don’t forget, Joseph, I’m coming to the vicarage this evening to make sure you have a good meal. I’ve seen the snacks you’ve been surviving on. Perhaps we ought to think about a housekeeper for you, or at least a cleaner.’
Joseph said nothing. He missed his sister every day and the vicarage had become a dusty haven for his hollow footfalls.
* * *
At lunchtime Victoria Alice Dudley-Palmer was standing in the dinner queue with Terry Earnshaw.
‘Terry,’ said Victoria Alice, ‘my sister says that when she started at this school everyone used to say their prayers before school dinner. Then we all started lining up with these plastic trays. Mummy says it’s like a cafeteria.’
‘S’ppose so, Vicky,’ said Terry, unconcerned. He had his eyes on his favourite spam fritters.
‘Do you say prayers, Terry, before your meals at home?’ continued Victoria Alice.
‘No, Vicky, we don’t ’ave to,’ said Terry, ‘’cause my mam’s a good cook.’
While the logic escaped Victoria, it seemed a reasonable enough explanation. As she queued up she wondered what it must be like always to eat without a napkin and why they never had spam fritters or purple custard at her home.
Meanwhile, across the High Street, Nora’s Coffee Shop was doing a roaring trade, while Dorothy served the visiting workmen who had finished painting the zebra crossing.
Bonnie Tyler’s recent hit, ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’, was blasting out from the juke-box and Dorothy, of course, knew all the words and was singing along. I wondered whether, if someone had put the Periodic Table to music in the Sixties, I might have got a better mark in GCE Chemistry O-level … but that was wishful thinking.
* * *
During afternoon school we had our ‘Activities’ lesson when we all took different classes. Anne and Vera were teaching the children in Sally’s class how to cross-stitch.
‘In our ’ouse it’s my mam what does all t’sewing an’ suchlike,’ said Terry Earnshaw as he struggled to thread a needle.
‘But think how useful it will be when you grow up,’ said the accomplished Victoria Alice. ‘You can be an Eighties Man.’
‘Quite right,’ said Vera.
However, Terry’s maths had improved recently and he did a quick calculation. ‘But in ten years, when ah’m grown up, it’ll be t’ Nineties, miss.’
‘I stand corrected,’ said Vera with a smile.
In Anne’s class I was enjoying my story time with the youngest children in Ragley School. I had just finished reading Eric Carle’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar when, predictably, they all wanted to impart their latest news.
‘My grandma and granddad are coming to stay at our house for the weekend,’ said little Rosie Spittlehouse.
‘And where do they live?’ I asked.
‘At the bus station,’ she replied sweetly.
‘The bus station?’
‘Yes, Mr Sheffield. We go there when we want them to come an’ stay and take ’em back there when my mummy says we’ve ’ad enough of ’em.’
Not for the first time, I recalled that conversations with reception class children were definitely different.
That evening I arrived home earlier than usual. Beth was in the kitchen steaming some vegetables and the appetizing smell of fish pie drifted from the oven. She had one eye on the little portable television set. Channel 4’s Countdown was just finishing and Richard Whiteley was teasing Carol Vorderman, a shapely young woman who seemed to be good at mathematics.
In my eyes Beth had never looked more beautiful. Now in the thirty-third week of pregnancy, her floral smock rested against her precious bundle as she leant back against the kitchen worktop. Splashes of paint flecked her old denim jeans. ‘I think it’s finished now, Jack. Would you like to come and look?’
Since Beth had begun her maternity leave she had devoted her time to making our second bedroom into a perfect nursery. I followed her upstairs and as we stood in the doorway I wrapped my arms around her. ‘It’s wonderful; everything is just right,’ I said and I kissed her neck softly. The scent of lavender was in her hair. However, sharp reality quickly spiked my dreamy thoughts when she said, ‘I thought we could put a changing mat on the sofa, Jack – what do you think?’
On Saturday morning, in the back garden of Bilbo Cottage, butterflies danced with silent wings around the arched branches of the buddleia bushes and the drone of bees hung heavy in the heat haze. Beth had begun a herb garden and a new world of parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme had appeared in a raised bed next to the wooden frame of the compost heap. She was looking a little hot and bothered in her loose, knee-length, floral-patterned maternity dress as I helped her hang out the washing on this warm summer morning. When we set off for Ragley she wound down the car windows and enjoyed the welcoming breeze in her hair.
The shopping list was interesting, as Beth seemed to have discovered a new craving for food, particularly mashed potatoes and baked beans, plus the occasional bag of sherbet lemons. When we emerged from Prudence Golightly’s General Stores, all the villagers seemed to be in good spirits … that is, until we met the sombre Deke Ramsbottom.
He raised his cowboy hat in greeting. ‘G’morning Mr Sheffield, an’ ’ow y’keepin’, Mrs Sheffield?’
‘Very well, thank you,’ said Beth. ‘And how are you?’
Deke pointed to his black armband. ‘June eleventh, nineteen seventy-nine,’ he said, ‘saddest day o’ my life.’
The anniversary of the death of John Wayne, Deke’s favourite cowboy, was always a sad day for this local character. Predictably, his thoughts were elsewhere and later that lunchtime, when he lost at dominoes, he didn’t
even complain.
Outside the General Stores Ruby was chatting with her daughter Racquel. The pushchair beside them was full of shopping and Ruby was holding her granddaughter, Krystal. ‘Your turn soon, Mrs Sheffield,’ she said cheerfully.
‘She’s beautiful, Ruby,’ said Beth. ‘You must be very proud.’
‘I am that … ah love ’er t’bits.’
‘Shall ah tek ’er, Mam?’ asked Racquel.
‘No, let me ’old ’er a bit longer,’ said Ruby.
‘She’s going to be a real beauty,’ I said.
Ruby stroked the little girl’s chestnut curls. ‘Y’reight there, Mr Sheffield, an’ ah’ll tell y’summat, she’ll ’ave a good life … better than ’er grandma.’ Ruby looked up at me and her eyes were shining. ‘She’ll go far, this little un, Mr Sheffield. Y’know what they say – t’world’s ’er ’amster.’
‘Ah think it’s oyster, Mam,’ said Racquel.
But Ruby didn’t hear. She was stroking Krystal’s perfectly smooth hands with a work-red calloused finger.
‘But ah do worry sometimes, Mr Sheffield,’ continued Ruby. ‘They say ’er who lives opposite to our Racquel – ’er wi’ t’gammy leg and cut-price curtains – is a G-Hovis witness. Y’don’t know who y’gettin’ f’neighbours these days.’
‘C’mon, Mam, time to get ’ome,’ said Racquel.
‘See y’Monday, Mr Sheffield. Let’s ’ope it’s another lovely day f’yer zoo trip. Our ’Azel can’t wait.’
So it was that on a perfect Monday morning in bright sunshine William Featherstone’s cream-and-green Reliance coach parked by the village green and the children clambered aboard. As was his way, William, in his brown coach driver’s jacket, welcomed each passenger by doffing his peaked cap. Sue Phillips and four other mothers went to sit on the back seat and Sally and I shared the front seat behind the driver.
A horde of parents waved us off as if we were about to emigrate to Australia, while the children tested the springiness of their seats and wondered how soon they could eat their packed lunches.
‘Nice day for t’outing, Mr Sheffield, Mrs Pringle,’ said William, double de-clutching into first gear. It was a steady journey. We travelled north on the Scarborough Road and then on the A64 beyond Malton. Eventually William joined the A169 towards Pickering and Whitby, and finally turned left on the Kirby Misperton Road.
06 Educating Jack Page 23