06 Educating Jack

by Jack Sheffield

  The show was a magnificent affair, with large marquees surrounding the show-jumping arena where Virginia Anastasia Forbes-Kitchener was creating the usual interest among the local menfolk. Beth and I headed for the refreshment tent for a cool drink and, in Beth’s case, a chance to sit down.

  One end of the marquee was devoted to cream teas and the other seemed to be populated by beer drinkers. Don Bradshaw was behind one of the trestle tables talking to Big Dave and Little Malcolm, while Sheila was serving Old Tommy Piercy with a pint of Tetley’s bitter from a large barrel.

  ‘Now then, Mr Sheffield,’ said Don, nodding towards Beth, who was sitting at one of the tables, ‘an’ ’ow’s your good lady?’

  ‘Fine thanks, Don,’ I said. ‘She just fancied a cool orange juice.’

  ‘’Ow long ’as she t’go now, Mr Sheffield?’ asked Sheila, as she served Old Tommy with a frothing pint.

  ‘Just another month,’ I said, ‘so this hot weather doesn’t help her.’

  ‘It were t’same f’me wi’ our Claire, Mr Sheffield,’ said Sheila. ‘Ah were sweatin’ cobs in t’las’ few weeks. So, what are y’drinkin’?’

  ‘A half of bitter, please, Sheila,’ I said.

  Behind the bar, Clint Ramsbottom had set up a rudimentary disco and Simon and Garfunkel were singing ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’.

  ‘Ah’ll give ’em troubled water,’ said Old Tommy scornfully as he supped his pint.

  ‘How d’you mean, Mr Piercy?’ I asked.

  ‘Them Yanks,’ he muttered with disdain.

  ‘Oh you mean …’ I said, nodding towards the juke-box.

  ‘Yes, that Simon an’ Carbuncle. Norra patch on Bing Crosby.’

  ‘I agree,’ I said. It seemed the right thing to say.

  ‘Ah can allus tell a sensible chap, Mr Sheffield,’ said Old Tommy. ‘’E thinks same as ah do.’

  Big Dave and Little Malcolm nodded in agreement, finished their pints and peered out at the shimmering marquees. ‘Any road, ah’m off to t’Bowling for a Pig stall,’ said Big Dave.

  ‘More like bowlin’ for a runt,’ said Old Tommy Piercy bluntly. ‘It’s only a little un.’ Then he glanced across at Little Malcolm. ‘No offence intended, young Malcolm,’ he added hurriedly.

  ‘None tekken, Mr Piercy,’ said Little Malcolm with a frown, and the two binmen of Ragley went out to seek their fortune.

  Vera and her friend Joyce Davenport, resplendent in her president’s green sash, were in the Women’s Institute marquee and looking at the various competition entries, from a posy in an egg-cup to a single rose.

  It was hot and sticky in the tent and Dorothy Humpleby’s conversation with Diane the hairdresser naturally turned to body odour.

  ‘Well, Dorothy,’ said Diane, ‘ah use that Arrid Extra Dry. It sez on t’cannister it gives y’that certain feeling.’

  ‘What d’you mean, that certain feeling?’

  ‘Y’ll know when yer older, Dorothy,’ said Diane knowingly, and they walked off to join Nora, who had entered the Garden in a Shoebox competition.

  Later Beth and I joined Vera at a wrought-iron garden table outside the Women’s Institute tent for afternoon tea and scones with home-made strawberry jam and fresh cream. We sat on wickerwork chairs in speckled sunshine beneath the branches of a magnificent copper beech tree, its leaves like burnished gold under a fiery sun.

  ‘Isn’t this the most perfect day?’ said Beth, pushing back her wide-brimmed straw hat. ‘I do love summer,’ she patted her tummy, ‘although this tends to make it hot work.’

  ‘You look radiant, dear,’ said Vera. ‘Simply glowing.’

  Beth laughed. ‘You say the nicest things, Vera. And what about you? How do you feel now?’

  ‘I really am very happy – fully recovered and content, although I will be happier when Joseph is more settled. Fortunately, I’ve got Miss Figgins to go in to the vicarage to clean for him and prepare the occasional meal. So we’re getting there slowly.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Well, it’s almost time for the results of the potato competition and Deirdre Coe insists she’s the favourite … so let’s hope someone can put her in her place.’

  When we walked into the Women’s Institute tent the crowds were gathering in front of a sign that read:

  Women’s Institute Potato Growing Competition

  Judging at 3 p.m.

  George Hardisty, Ragley’s champion gardener and a retired North Yorkshire Moors sheep farmer, was approaching his seventieth birthday but still looked remarkably fit and healthy after a lifetime of outdoor work. His wife, Mary, had wisely opted out of this competition, as George’s famous liquid compost, including his ‘secret ingredient’, would have meant she would surely win. So it was that she wrote down the name of each competitor and the weight of their potato crop.

  George had done this many times. He cut off the tall straggly haulm with his razor-sharp penknife, emptied the contents of each pot on to a table, carefully removed each precious potato and checked for scab and worm. It was a close-run thing, but finally Joyce Davenport walked up to the rickety microphone, blew in it twice to confirm it was working and made the announcement. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, first of all, thank you to Mr and Mrs Hardisty for being so thorough in their judging, and can we show our appreciation?’ There was a ripple of applause and Amelia Duff bit her bottom lip in anticipation. Standing alongside was the faithful Ted Postlethwaite, who had finished his morning post round that day in record time. Joyce scanned the crowd of faces in front of her. ‘I’m pleased to announce that, with a magnificent total weight of two pounds and twelve ounces from a single tuber, the winner of the Wilfred Grubb trophy and the Women’s Institute Potato Champion for 1983 is … Miss Amelia Duff.’

  Ted cheered, Amelia looked as if she would burst into tears, Deirdre Coe walked out in a huff and Vera led the applause from the crowd.

  Gradually the crowds dispersed and Ted carried Amelia’s trophy back to his car.

  It was a perfect evening. The setting sun over the distant hills was a disc of polished bronze and the sky was on fire with backlit clouds. In the back yard of the Ragley Post Office Amelia and Ted were sitting at her little picnic table and enjoying a fish-and-chip supper and a pot of tea.

  Ted had never been happier. ‘Congratulations, Amelia,’ he said, raising his cup of sweet tea.

  ‘I’ve never won anything like this before,’ she said.

  Ted picked up the trophy from the table. ‘It says ’ere you’re a champion, Amelia,’ he said softly.

  ‘I’ve never been a champion,’ she said.

  Ted sighed. ‘You’ll always be a champion t’me … always.’

  Amelia looked down and sipped her tea and she knew, after all these years, he was the one.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Educating Jack

  14 4th-year juniors left today and will commence full-time education at Easington Comprehensive School in September. 92 children were registered on roll on the last day of the school year.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Friday, 22 July 1983

  IT HAD BEEN an uncomfortable night. The heat was stifling and, in Bilbo Cottage, we had opened the bedroom windows to seek some relief. A summer storm was building in the far distance and occasional flashes of lightning lit up the Hambleton hills. Fortunately, the boom of thunder was far off and, for tonight at least, heaven’s army was passing us by. But our turn was coming and we knew it would be soon.

  Beth had tossed and turned and neither of us had snatched much sleep. It was Friday, 22 July, the last day of the school year, and I breakfasted earlier than usual in order to get to school in time to prepare for our Leavers’ Assembly. Beth was at the sink filling the kettle and I wrapped my arms around her. ‘How do you feel?’ I asked.

  ‘Just a little … well, you know, uncomfortable,’ she said.

  The truth was I didn’t know; I could only guess. The best I could do was to offer to make a cup of tea. Having babies was a bit like my O-l
evel Chemistry exam: I knew the theory but, sadly, that’s where it ended. ‘Hey, our baby moved!’ I said in alarm.

  Beth smiled wearily and sat down heavily on one of the old pine chairs. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair seemed to have a mind of its own; damp, wavy blonde strands framed her face. ‘I’ll be glad when it’s all over,’ she said with a brave smile. ‘Shouldn’t be too long now.’

  When I drove into Ragley, life was going on as usual and the sights and sounds were familiar. Outside the village hall, honeysuckle clambered over the entrance porch where Joyce Davenport put up a Women’s Institute notice advertising a ‘Cream Teas, Crumpets and Curd Tarts’ afternoon at Morton Manor. In the General Stores, Prudence Golightly was selling pink sugar mice with tails of thin white string to the Hartley sisters and, next door, Young Tommy Piercy, supervised by his grandfather, was arranging neat matching pairs of pigs’ trotters in the front window of the Butcher’s Shop. Meanwhile, outside the village Pharmacy, Eugene Scrimshaw, the Star Trek fan, was being reprimanded by his wife for swearing in Klingon. In the doorway of Pratt’s Hardware Emporium, Timothy Pratt was polishing his doorbell with Brasso while Dorothy Humpleby was standing outside Nora’s Coffee Shop and humming along to the recent Police number one on the juke-box, ‘Every Breath You Take’. In the window of her Hair Salon, Diane Wigglesworth was putting up a photograph of Joan Collins next to one of Kevin Keegan, as both were sporting the same hairstyle. Meanwhile, outside the Post Office, Miss Amelia Duff was blushing slightly as the postman, Ted Postlethwaite, had just asked her to go with him to the Odeon Cinema.

  On the village green the ancient oak tree was heavy in leaf and acorn, and beside its massive trunk a few Ragley folk were chatting about life and the price of bread. By the village pond, under the graceful branches of the weeping willow tree, two retired farmers sat puffing happily on their briar pipes, watching the village wake up on this still, breathless morning. Outside school the horse-chestnut trees provided welcome shade to the front of the playground and a group of school leavers had gathered there to talk about their last day at Ragley School and the seemingly endless summer holiday that stretched in front of them.

  When I walked into the entrance hall, Ruby was carrying a box of paper towels and singing ‘Climb Every Mountain’.

  ‘And how are you feeling, Ruby?’ I asked.

  ‘Reight champion, thank you,’ said Ruby. ‘An’ ’ow’s Mrs Sheffield?’

  ‘Not enjoying this hot weather,’ I said. ‘I think she’ll be relieved when the baby finally arrives.’

  ‘Well, give ’er our love, Mr Sheffield, an’ tell ’er our little Krystal is comin’ on a treat,’ and she hurried off to the staff cloakroom, singing to her heart’s content.

  * * *

  At a quarter past ten our school hall was full of children, staff, parents, governors … and expectation. It was our annual Leavers’ Assembly, when we said an official farewell to the children in their final year at Ragley. Joseph led the hymns and prayers and, at the end, Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener presented a book to every school leaver. Each pupil came up in turn to receive their leaving gift, purchased by the Parent Teacher Association, while their parents, in the back row, clapped and, as always, some of the mothers shed a tear. They knew this was a ‘coming of age’ occasion, when their children said goodbye to primary school and moved on to the bigger world of secondary education. Their babies had grown up and they wondered where the years had gone.

  I watched them walk out to the front of the hall one by one: Theresa Ackroyd, Alice Baxter, Theresa Buttle, Debbie Clack, Heathcliffe Earnshaw, Dean Kershaw, Amanda Pickles and so on. The books had been selected with care by Sue Phillips, Chair of the Parent Teacher Association. Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer was delighted to receive a large colourful copy of Caring for Your Pony, while Sarah Louise Tait, our best reader, was thrilled to be given the classic tale Wind in the Willows. It was a poignant moment when I stood up and thanked everyone for their support throughout the year, including Mrs Earnshaw as temporary caretaker. However, the biggest cheer of all went to Vera and Ruby, who had overcome adversity and returned to give their best to Ragley School. It was the major who led the standing ovation and Vera had to forsake yet another of her lace-edged handkerchiefs so that Ruby could wipe away the tears.

  * * *

  At lunchtime I walked out in to the playground and looked at the school leavers, who had gathered together in a private huddle on the school field. The time for farewells had finally arrived.

  How do you say goodbye to a group of children, to a generation? They had been with me for six years, from 1977, and I had been their headteacher for almost their entire primary school career. It was a strange feeling, a mixture of sadness and satisfaction. I knew I had done my best for them and hoped that it would be good enough to prepare them for the next stage in their lives. A whole new world of acne and adolescence, tests and timetables, friends and foes awaited them, along with their journey towards the world of work in the distant Nineties. I had done my best to start them on their pathway through life. They were literate and numerate, but, more than that, I hoped they understood the importance of consideration towards others and, of course, a love of learning.

  When the bell rang for afternoon classes I walked into school and Heathcliffe Earnshaw caught up with me. ‘Thanks for everything, Mr Sheffield,’ he said. ‘Ah’ll be sorry t’go, but ah’m lookin’ forward t’big school.’

  ‘And so you should, Heathcliffe,’ I said. ‘I hope you work hard and make the most of your opportunity.’

  ‘They ’ave proper woodwork benches up there, Mr Sheffield, an’ ah’ve ’eard they do metalwork an’ ’ow engines work an’ suchlike.’ He hurried into class for his final afternoon at Ragley School, then suddenly stopped and stared as if for the first time at the displays on the walls: the paintings and the stories; the posters of the solar system and the map of the world; the little carpeted book corner and the ‘wet area’ next to the sink with the jam jars full of bristle brushes and clay-modelling tools. For a moment there was a flicker of sadness. It was as if he had realized he had finally grown out of his favourite pair of football boots. Then he grinned, sat at his desk and winked at Elisabeth Amelia, who blushed and picked up her reading book. It occurred to me that eleven-year-olds grew up quickly these days.

  When the bell rang for the end of school I went into the office and sat at my desk. Vera was doing some end-of year filing. I opened the bottom left-hand drawer of my desk and took out the huge leather-bound school logbook. It would be my last entry for the academic year 1982/83.

  I had just written, ‘14 4th-year juniors left today and will commence full-time education at Easington Comprehensive School in September’ when Vera, who was standing by the office window, said quietly, ‘Jack … Jack, come and look at this.’ She had called me Jack and it took me by surprise. It appeared that, as the school year was now officially over, the old conformities no longer applied.

  ‘What is it, Vera?’ I asked, walking over to join her.

  She pointed out of the window. Heathcliffe and Elisabeth Amelia were at the back of the group of school leavers walking out of the gate for the last time as pupils of Ragley School. Then they paused, looked back and waved.

  Life is a collection of moments. Some sear the soul like burning rain. Others lift the spirit and stir the imagination, captured in the stillness of a perfect memory. Like a ship in a bottle, frozen in a timeless vacuum, so many years later, the image of Heathcliffe and Elisabeth Amelia remains in my mind.

  They stood at the gate talking. Elisabeth Amelia had always admired the rough-and-ready Heathcliffe with his rugged good looks and confidence in all he did. He was different to the boys she met at dancing class and piano lessons. Likewise, Heathcliffe was attracted to the positive, articulate Elisabeth Amelia … but, at the age of eleven, he didn’t understand why.

  Neither knew it then, but this was destined to be their last conversation until they finally met up again in 2
008 at the Ragley School twenty-five-year reunion.

  Theirs was a poignant story. Heathcliffe left Easington Comprehensive School at the age of sixteen. After an apprenticeship as a carpenter, he acquired many of the skills of the building trade and, with the ever-faithful Terry, launched the successful Earnshaw Brothers, Builders. Heathcliffe would marry the petite beauty, Mo Hartley, a girl of whom he was completely unaware during his schooldays at Ragley, and they had three sons. His brother Terry never married and was happy to follow in Heathcliffe’s footsteps, working from dawn till dusk as one of Yorkshire’s finest bricklayers, never far from his brother’s side.

  Elisabeth Amelia, after gaining four A-levels at the Time School for Girls, York’s finest private school, followed by a first-class honours degree at Cambridge, became a London-based barrister with a reputation for her analytical mind and driving ambition. By the age of thirty-five she had two failed marriages behind her and a client list of the rich and famous.

  But on that long-ago day in the springtime of their lives, these two children of Ragley village were still immersed in the cocoon of childhood, an innocent world of here and now. For Heathcliffe and Elisabeth Amelia, experience would come later … that was a distant doorway. Through it were different pathways and, sadly, only one of them led to true happiness.

  As had become the tradition, the hall was filling up with staff, governors and a few members of the Parent Teacher Association for the end-of-year party – or, to be more precise, tea and cakes and gentle conversation. The major looked formal as always in a smart three-piece suit, while Joseph had donned his cream linen jacket, baggy white flannels and a Panama hat. Joseph had insisted that he would collect Beth from Kirkby Steepleton to save her the drive and they arrived together. Happily, Beth looked calm and unflustered, almost serene, as she perched on the comfortable height of the piano stool and listened to Sally Pringle’s tale of childbirth.