Starting Over

by Jack Sheffield

  About the Book

  Ragley 1952.

  Lily has just arrived, ready to begin her first year as a teacher at the village school. There to welcome her is John Pruett, who, after his years in the war, has settled into the role of headmaster. Tom, the local bobby, is also on hand to make her feel at home up north. But Lily has a secret lurking in her past that threatens the new life she’s trying to build.

  Can she move forward and begin to love again?

  In his new novel, Jack Sheffield invites you to travel back in time. Back to the days when owning a television made you the envy of the neighbours, Woolworth’s still had pride of place on the high street and the village panto was the height of entertainment.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Map

  Prologue

  1 First Day for Miss Briggs

  2 The Harvest Bicycle

  3 A Surprise for Ruby

  4 Little Malcolm’s Butterfly

  5 Goodbye Mr Hitler

  6 Mr Pruett’s Poinsettia

  7 A Christmas Secret

  8 Doris Clutterbuck’s Alpine Corset

  9 A Tale of Two Televisions

  10 Sweet Dreams

  11 Do Angels Have Wings?

  12 Husbands and Homemakers

  13 A Friend for Miss Golightly

  14 Shed Heaven

  15 The Second Sex

  16 Crowned at Last!

  17 Stolen Waters

  18 White Lies and Wishes

  19 Starting Over

  About the Author

  Also by Jack Sheffield

  Copyright

  STARTING OVER

  A Ragley story 1952–53

  Jack Sheffield

  For all my friends in the village of Medstead in Hampshire and, in particular, the church community of St Andrew’s.

  Acknowledgements

  I have been fortunate to have had the support of my editor, Bella Bosworth at Penguin Random House, who came up with the idea of a prequel to the Teacher series. Since then, assistant editor Molly Crawford has worked tirelessly to bring this novel to publication. Thanks also to the excellent team, including Larry Finlay, Bill Scott-Kerr, Jo Williamson, Hannah Bright, Brenda Updegraff, Vivien Thompson and fellow ‘Old Roundhegian’ Martin Myers.

  Special thanks as always go to my hardworking literary agent and long-time friend, Philip Patterson of Marjacq Scripts, for his encouragement, good humour and the regular updates on the state of England cricket.

  I am also grateful to all those who assisted in the research for this novel – in particular: Mary Adams, ex-student of Royal Holloway College, retired teacher and author, Four Marks, Hampshire; Helen Carr, primary-school teacher and literary critic, Harrogate, Yorkshire; Tony Greenan, Yorkshire’s finest headteacher (now retired), Huddersfield, Yorkshire; Ian Haffenden, ex-Royal Pioneer Corps and custodian of Sainsbury’s, Alton, Hampshire; John Kirby, ex-policeman, expert calligrapher and Sunderland supporter, County Durham; Roy Linley, Lead Architect, Strategy & Technology, Unilever Global IT Innovation (now retired) and Leeds United supporter, Leeds, Yorkshire; Susan Maddison, retired primary-school teacher, proofreader and maker of excellent cakes, Harrogate, Yorkshire; Elke Pollock, German translator and gardening enthusiast, Medstead, Hampshire; Dudley Skinner, 25th Bomb Disposal Company, Living History Group, Medstead, Hampshire; and all the terrific staff at Waterstones, Alton, including the irreplaceable Simon (now retired), the excellent manager Sam, plus Scottish travel expert Fiona.

  Finally, sincere thanks to my wife, Elisabeth, without whose help the Teacher series of novels would never have been written.

  Prologue

  Promises.

  Many are made, but some are broken.

  So it was in the late summer of 1952 when a young woman took a creased black-and-white photograph from her handbag. She looked around at the other passengers on the bus. No one had noticed and after a brief glance she replaced it carefully in her bag. As she stared out of the window a smile flickered across her face. The past was receding and a new life stretched out before her. A promise had been made and a secret was safe. Her earlier life lay concealed behind a closed door. There was no going back and she would not speak of it.

  William Featherstone’s cream-and-green Reliance bus trundled through the quiet, picturesque countryside of North Yorkshire until it reached a pretty village ten miles north of the city of York. The road was flanked by high grassy verges and cottages with pantiled roofs and tall chimneys.

  ‘Ragley High Street,’ announced William as he slowed down next to a parade of shops. He pulled on his handbrake, opened the door, skipped down the steps and stood to attention on the pavement. His wartime army background was there for all to see and, as a survivor of Dunkirk, he valued life and loved his job. In his neatly pressed navy-blue three-piece suit, peaked cap, clean white shirt and regimental tie, William took a pride in his appearance. ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness,’ his mother had told him and he had never forgotten.

  The young woman stepped down and William touched the neb of his cap and smiled. ‘Morning, Miss. Would you like some ’elp with y’case?’

  ‘Thank you … but I’ll be fine.’

  She put down her brown suitcase on the pavement, tugged on her leather gloves and took in the scene. The first shop on the High Street, the General Stores & Newsagent, was already busy with early-morning trade. Next door, behind the window of Piercy’s butcher’s shop, a burly man in a striped apron and straw hat was arranging pairs of pigs’ trotters. He smiled as he glanced up at her standing on the pavement. Nice-looking lady, he thought.

  The village Pharmacy was about to open and a portly man in a white coat was sticking a poster on the door advertising:

  ANDREWS LIVER SALTS

  4 oz tin for 1/6d

  ‘for INNER CLEANLINESS’

  He waved a friendly greeting. ‘Good morning, Miss,’ he called out, wondering who the attractive newcomer might be.

  Next in line was Pratt’s Hardware Emporium, where, outside on the forecourt, a slightly built youth in a cut-down brown overall was arranging a display of galvanized buckets and scrubbing brushes with infinite care. He paused before polishing a bright sign next to the window that read ‘ATLAS LAMPS’, then he hurried back inside, full of nervous energy.

  The bus stop was right outside an imposing shop above which an ornate sign read ‘DORIS CLUTTERBUCK’S TEA ROOMS’ in bold capitals. It appeared to cater for the discerning customer, as the sign on the door read:

  HORNIMAN’S DISTINCTIVE TEA

  Rich and fragrant

  The blend for the connoisseur

  Meanwhile, Wigglesworth’s Hair Salon had different illusions of grandeur, with photographs of Loretta Young, Marilyn Monroe and Joan Collins in the window. Finally, the village Post Office, with a bright-red telephone box outside, propped up the end of the row.

  William took off his cap and mopped his brow with a large white handkerchief. When he returned to his seat he studied the young stranger keenly. Her looks were striking. Her slim figure, smart two-piece grey suit and dark-brown wavy hair reminded him of the film star Vivien Leigh. A picture of the vivacious Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind came into his mind and he stared after her as she headed purposefully up the High Street towards the village green.

  The young woman crossed the road, walked past a white-fronted pub, The Royal Oak, and stepped under the shade of an avenue of recently planted horse chestnut trees. There before her, behind a wall of Yorkshire stone, amber in the flickering sunlight, stood the village school. It was a Victorian building of weathered reddish-brown bricks, with a steeply sloping
grey slate roof and a high arched window in the gable end. The sign on the stone pillar next to the gate read ‘Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School’.

  As she walked up the cobbled drive she glanced up at the bell tower, where two rooks circled and cawed menacingly. She took a deep breath and paused in the entrance porch. Above her head the year 1878 was carved deep into the lintel and the giant oak door creaked on its hinges as she opened it. Opposite her in the dark corridor was a door with a small brass plate that read ‘John T. Pruett, Headmaster’, and she knocked gently.

  A bespectacled man just short of his fortieth birthday opened the door. He smoothed his hair and gave a gentle smile as recognition dawned. ‘I’m John Pruett,’ he said, ‘and you’re right on time. Welcome to Ragley.’

  The young woman put down her suitcase, carefully removed her gloves and shook hands formally.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Pruett,’ she said. ‘I’m Lily Briggs, the new teacher.’

  Chapter One

  First Day for Miss Briggs

  It was nine o’clock on Wednesday, 3 September and the bell of Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School rang out to announce to everyone in the village that the academic year 1952/53 had begun.

  The headteacher, John Pruett, tied the bell rope to the metal cleat on the wall, walked across the entrance hall and opened the ancient door. Then he smiled as he surveyed the boys and girls playing in the bright sunshine. For the past seventy-four years the children of the village had scampered up the worn stone steps at his feet. John had been the headteacher since 1946 and this was his seventh year in charge. After serving in the Royal Engineers during the war he had taken a short course at the college in York and arrived at Ragley School when the previous headmistress retired. A man of average height and unremarkable appearance, he lived alone in his cottage on the Morton road and loved his job.

  He took a deep breath, raised a whistle to his lips and gave two brief blasts. Everyone stopped, then the older children grabbed the hands of the new starters and formed two lines, boys in one and girls in another. The pupils were well drilled and John nodded in satisfaction – until he spotted two boys sliding down the pile of coke outside the boiler-room doors.

  ‘David Robinson,’ he shouted, ‘and Malcolm Robinson – go and stand by my desk!’

  The two boys, one very tall for his age and the other a foot shorter and diminutive in comparison, looked up in horror. They were cousins and as always it was ten-year-old David, or Big Dave as he was known to all the other children, who spoke first. ‘Oh ’eck … yes, sir.’

  ‘And be quick about it,’ added John Pruett forcefully.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ echoed nine-year-old Malcolm. He spat on his grimy hands and wiped them on his grey shorts. The two boys were inseparable friends and Malcolm looked up expectantly at his giant cousin.

  ‘C’mon, Malc,’ whispered Dave, ‘we’re for it now,’ and they trudged into school to await their fate.

  The school caretaker, forty-six-year-old Edna Trott, was leaning on the school gate watching the scene unfold. ‘Them two Robinson boys’ll be the death o’ me,’ she muttered with a wry smile. Edna had packed away her yard broom and finished her morning’s work. It had been a busy summer preparing the school building for another year and her bones were beginning to ache.

  ‘Ah blame t’parents!’ exclaimed a voice from over her shoulder. ‘They let ’em run wild these days.’

  Edna turned to see the ample figure of twenty-eight-year-old Deirdre Coe, viewed by many as the most unpopular woman in the village.

  ‘There’s nowt wrong with t’Robinson family,’ Edna retorted firmly. ‘Them Robinson brothers would give a ’elpin’ ’and to anybody an’ their sons tek after ’em. It’s jus’ ’igh spirits, Deirdre. Boys will be boys.’

  ‘Well, my Stanley is allus ’avin’ t’chase ’em off ’is pig farm. ’E sez’ ’e’ll give ’em a good ’idin’.’

  Edna gave Deirdre a knowing look. ‘An’ ah’ve no doubt their dads would return t’favour. So you tell Stanley t’watch ’is step,’ and with that she strode down School View to her home on the council estate.

  ‘Nowt but a cleaner-upper,’ muttered Deirdre, ‘an’ livin’ on t’never-never if what ah’ve ’eard is true. Not got two ha’pennies t’rub t’gether.’ Then she leaned on the school wall. There had been talk in the village of a new lady teacher and Deirdre was keen to see her for herself.

  Elsie Crapper, the timid twenty-eight-year-old church organist, arrived at the school gate. She had volunteered to play the piano in morning assembly prior to walking up the Morton road to St Mary’s Church. Elsie was on the church cleaning rota and the team of ladies known affectionately as ‘the Holy Dusters’ did not take kindly to latecomers. Consequently, Elsie appeared nervous and agitated. ‘Good morning, Deirdre,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Nowt good that ah can see,’ muttered Deirdre as she eyed up the new teacher. ‘She fancies ’erself, does that one.’

  Elsie was in no mood to continue the conversation and scurried up the cobbled drive like a church mouse. Meanwhile Deirdre gave the school a final withering glance and set off for the General Stores to buy cigarettes for her brother.

  Lily Briggs took a deep breath. This is where it begins, she thought.

  ‘Now girls,’ she said, ‘walk smartly into school and show the boys how it should be done.’

  John Pruett gave her a wry smile. Good start, he thought.

  The girls looked up in awe at their new teacher, who smiled at each one of them as they stepped into school. She appeared very different to Miss Flint, the severe part-time teacher who used to help Mr Pruett and teach the little ones.

  ‘Now, boys,’ said John Pruett sternly, ‘it’s your turn. Show Miss Briggs how smartly you can walk into school and then sit down in the hall.’ He turned to Lily. ‘I’ll just have a word with the Robinson boys and then I’ll join you.’

  Big Dave and Little Malcolm were standing next to the headteacher’s huge oak desk. On it were a magnificent brass inkstand, a collection of broad-nibbed pens and a tall stone bottle full of black ink. On the sloping lid a Manila attendance register lay open at the first page.

  The boys looked anxiously around them. John Pruett had written ‘Wednesday, 3rd September 1952’ on the blackboard with a stick of chalk in careful cursive writing. The loop beneath the letter ‘y’ and the descender below the letter ‘p’ were exactly the same length. Mr Pruett believed good handwriting was important and many hours of practice stretched out before the children in his care. On the shelf under the blackboard was a large stick of chalk, a board rubber and a one-yard-long wooden ruler.

  Also, hanging ominously from a hook on the wall was a bamboo cane. Little Malcolm stared up at it and began to tremble. Big Dave put an arm around his shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, Malc,’ he whispered reassuringly, ‘it’ll be all right … Mr Pruett won’t cane us on t’first day.’

  Lily was about to follow the last child into school when a lady suddenly appeared at her side carrying a small shopping bag.

  ‘’Scuse me, Miss Briggs. Ah’m Mrs Poole. My Veronica ’as jus’ started t’day.’ She pointed to a small, freckle-faced, ginger-haired girl who was clutching a rag doll, and then lowered her voice. ‘Ah know she’s five now, but she still wets t’bed when she gets agitated. So ah’ve brought some spare pants. ’Ope y’don’t mind.’

  She handed over the bag and Lily glimpsed a pair of baggy navy-blue knickers.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Poole,’ she said with a reassuring smile, ‘I’ll keep an eye on her.’

  ‘Thank you kindly, Miss,’ said Audrey Poole with a relieved sigh. ‘Ah were frettin’ summat awful las’ night an’ worryin’ ’bout ’ow she’ll cope.’ She cast a final look at her daughter, who was sitting happily on the hall floor showing her doll to seven-year-old Daphne Cahill.

  John Pruett looked at the Robinson boys and noticed how much David had grown during the summer holiday. Their ruddy, sunburned
faces were streaked with dust and their spiky hair made them look as though they had been pulled through a hedge backwards – which they probably had.

  ‘Now, boys,’ he said, ‘what have you to say for yourselves?’

  The two boys looked up with sheepish expressions.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ mumbled Big Dave. He nudged Little Malcolm.

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘So you should be. Mrs Trott works hard to keep that coke pile tidy. You must apologize to her. Any more misbehaviour and it will be the cane.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Big Dave, and Little Malcolm nodded.

  John studied the two of them. They’re not bad lads, he thought. ‘Fine, make sure you understand. Remember, boys, you must do as you’re told. I’m just trying to keep you safe. It’s for your own good. Now wash your hands, quick as you can, and hurry into the hall.’

  Elsie Crapper bashed out the opening line of ‘The King of Love my Shepherd Is’ on the piano and the older children who could read began to sing. The younger ones knew a few of the words, while five-year-old Frank Shepherd wondered why they were singing about him.

  John Pruett and Lily Briggs were sitting on chairs at the front of the hall facing the children. ‘Now, boys and girls,’ said John, ‘this is a special day for Ragley School. Hands up if it is your first day here.’ A few of the bigger brothers and sisters encouraged their younger siblings to raise their hands. Then Lily raised hers and the children laughed.

  ‘That’s right,’ said John. ‘We’re welcoming some new boys and girls into our school and I want you older ones to make sure they are safe and happy.’ There were knowing nods from the nine- and ten-year-olds. ‘It’s also the first day for Miss Briggs. She has come all the way from the south of England to teach the younger boys and girls. So I want you to show our new teacher what a lovely school we have here. Be good and work hard. Now, I’ll ask Miss Briggs to lead us in the Lord’s Prayer.’

  ‘Hands together, eyes closed,’ said Lily.