Starting Over

by Jack Sheffield

  Back in her classroom Lily distributed the modest collection of books and sat down next to six-year-old Bertie Stubbs. He was staring in dismay at his new reading book in the Janet and John series. The title was I Went Walking and it featured a pretty little girl carrying a doll and an umbrella.

  ‘What’s the matter, Bertie?’ asked Lily.

  Bertie shook his head. ‘Ah’m not keen on girls an’ ah don’t like dolls, Miss.’

  Lily studied the little boy and considered the content of his reading book. It was clearly inappropriate for this son of Yorkshire. ‘We could make our own book, Bertie,’ she said. ‘What are you interested in?’

  ‘Int’rested?’

  ‘Yes, what do you like?’

  ‘Pigs, Miss,’ answered Bertie without hesitation.

  ‘Pigs?’

  ‘Yes, Miss, ah ’elp m’dad wi’ farrowin’ an’ feedin’ an’ muckin’ out an’ suchlike.’

  Lily looked at this eager, stocky little boy with a short-back-and-sides haircut that could only be described as brutal. She selected a piece of white paper and a tin of crayons from the shelf next to the blackboard and placed them next to him. ‘Bertie, I would like you to draw a picture of some pigs and then we shall make up a story about them.’

  ‘Cor, thanks, Miss!’ said Bertie. ‘Ah luv pigs,’ and he picked up a crayon and began to draw as if his life depended on it.

  In John Pruett’s classroom there was absolute silence as the children copied out their seven times table in their new mathematics exercise books.

  The desks were in rows and the children bowed their heads and gripped their pencils fiercely. ‘Stop chewing the end of your pencil, Edward Brown,’ Mr Pruett called out suddenly. Ten-year-old Eddie Brown looked up in dismay and wondered how the teacher could see what he was doing while writing on the blackboard. The room was bleak and the walls were almost bare. John didn’t encourage distractions. There was only a huge map of the world next to the blackboard. Many of the countries were coloured pink to show the vastness of the British Empire.

  Also, in the corner of the room was the bane of Mrs Trott’s life: namely, a shiny black tortoise stove – a cylindrical black monster resembling a cast-iron post box and so named because of its output of ‘slow but sure’ heat. Installed in 1910, it was beginning to show its age and John hoped the Ragley caretaker would be able to coax it back into life when the cold months began.

  However, on this sunny September morning all seemed well and he pondered on the new colleague who had arrived to share his professional life. The letter from her previous headteacher in Buckinghamshire spoke of a dedicated and hard-working member of staff. She was disappointed that Lily had left with her family to live in Yorkshire, but their loss was Ragley’s gain.

  John Pruett smiled to himself. It had been an excellent appointment. Miss Briggs was just what the village needed – a young woman with new ideas who would help with the school’s growing numbers. After the war the council estate had expanded. Soldiers had returned to their previous jobs and married their girlfriends. In consequence, there had been a boom in the birth rate. In fact, ten more five-year-olds had enrolled last year, hence the advertisement for a new full-time teacher. His previous assistant teacher, Miss Valerie Flint, who firmly believed that children should be seen and not heard, did not want a full-time commitment. She had taken up a new part-time teaching post in the neighbouring market town of Easington.

  ‘Very well, children,’ he said, ‘all together now: one seven is seven, two sevens are fourteen …’

  At morning playtime Lily leaned against the school wall and watched the children playing. There had once been metal railings on top of the wall, but these had been removed during the war to build Spitfires and support the war effort, so now only their stunted stubs protruded. There was talk of replacement railings but the funds had yet to be found.

  A group of girls were chanting out a popular skipping rhyme:

  Red, white and blue,

  The Queen’s got the flu,

  The King’s got the tummy ache,

  And don’t know what to do.

  Two ten-year-olds, Winnie Pickles and Edie Stubbs, were winding an old washing line while nine-year-old Celia Etheringshaw jumped nimbly in and out. Lily marvelled at her agility and skill.

  Eddie Brown looked on. He was known as ‘Fat Eddie’ to the other children, as he was the only overweight pupil in the school. Unlike Eddie, all the other boys and girls were whippet-thin owing to huge amounts of exercise and a limited, sugar-free diet. In complete contrast, Eddie was a sedentary boy and fed by his mother on a regular supply of sticky buns.

  Winnie Pickles was the girl of Eddie’s dreams and he always sought out opportunities to talk to her. As his mother worked at the local chocolate factory in York, Eddie had decided to give some of the sweets she brought home to Winnie. She was unimpressed with the lazy, not-very-bright Eddie; however, she was happy to succumb to his chocolate charms.

  On the far side of the playground ten-year-old Billy Icklethwaite was playing conkers with nine-year-old Norman Fazackerly, while Daphne Cahill was teaching Veronica Poole how to play hopscotch. Veronica was still clutching her doll. It had a dress made from scraps of old material and the child held it close to her. Lily smiled. It was a busy scene and the children were happy in their private world, where friendships were formed, the days were long and everyone thought they would live for ever.

  As she watched, Lily noticed the occasional loner. Sitting away from the hubbub of the noisy games and reading a comic was eight-year-old Reggie Bamforth, a studious boy who loved mathematics. He was wearing hand-me-down, scratchy grey flannel shorts and long woollen socks with a ruler pushed down the leg, which, at a moment’s notice, could become a sword, a rifle or a telescope.

  Unlike his willowy, fair-haired sisters, Reggie was stocky and strong with a mop of curly black hair. There was talk that his father had been an American airman, but such conversations were never held within earshot of his mother … and definitely not of Mr Bamforth.

  Ragley School was fortunate in that it had a kitchen and at lunchtime a meal of Spam fritters and beans followed by jam roly-poly pudding and custard was served. After devouring second helpings, the children ran out on to the playground and the school secretary, Vera Evans, was enjoying a cup of tea in the staff-room with Lily. Vera had just passed her thirtieth birthday and cut a tall, elegant figure. Her official title was ‘clerical assistant’ but Vera preferred ‘school secretary’. She worked three half-days a week, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Single and sister of Joseph Evans, the local vicar, Vera was content with her life. It revolved around the church, Ragley School and keeping the beautifully furnished vicarage in the grounds of St Mary’s Church, which she shared with her younger brother, looking spick and span. Their parents had retired to the east coast and left them a tidy inheritance, so for Vera it was a relatively comfortable life in times of austerity.

  Vera sipped her tea thoughtfully and smiled at her new colleague. ‘How are you settling into Kirkby Steepleton?’

  ‘Fine, thanks, Vera,’ said Lily. ‘It’s handy being only three miles away and the bus stops right outside the cottage.’

  ‘William provides an excellent bus service. Always on time. And how is your mother? Florence, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Lily, putting down her cup and saucer. ‘It was a wrench for her leaving Buckinghamshire, but she loves her new home. I left her making bedroom curtains this morning.’

  ‘I heard she is a talented seamstress,’ said Vera with enthusiasm. ‘Perhaps she might be interested in our cross-stitch club. My friend Millicent Merryweather is a member and lives in your village. I’m sure she could offer a lift.’

  ‘That’s kind, Vera. I’ll mention it to her. She has more time now that my little brother has started school.’

  ‘Mr Pruett mentioned you have two brothers.’

  Lily had noticed that Vera always referred to John as Mr Pruett. ‘Yes, George
is nineteen and doing his National Service, and little Freddie is just six. He started today at Kirkby Steepleton Primary School.’

  Vera nodded in approval. ‘He will be fine there.’

  ‘Sadly, my father only knew him for a short time,’ added Lily.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Vera. There was a moment’s silence. ‘I heard in the village that it was pneumonia.’

  ‘Yes, last year,’ said Lily with a sigh. ‘It was a terrible time. I miss him.’

  Vera saw the pain in her face. ‘I’m sure you do,’ she said quietly.

  Lily stared out of the window. ‘Then we decided on a fresh start. So we sold our house and moved to Yorkshire when I was appointed to Ragley.’

  ‘I’m sure the school will benefit,’ said Vera, ‘and do remember I’m always here to help.’

  Lily felt it was the beginning of a special friendship as they stood side by side drinking tea and watching the children playing on the school field.

  A few minutes before one o’clock the oldest boys went into the school hall and erected a line of folding camp beds. It was the norm for the five- and six-year-olds to rest for half an hour in complete silence. Many were puzzled by this enforced rest, as they had boundless energy, but they understood that school life had its own set of customs, ranging from regular doses of cod liver oil to frequent episodes of corporal punishment.

  Afternoon school began with a contrast between the two classrooms. In John Pruett’s the eight-, nine- and ten-year-olds made a list of the kings and queens of England. Again there was silence and John wondered why lively noises could be heard from Lily’s class.

  Her five-, six- and seven-year-olds were enjoying a painting lesson. Lily had torn the pages from an old wallpaper sample book and mixed up some of the powder paint she had found in a dusty corner of the stock cupboard. Bright pictures were emerging and Lily reflected on the wonderfully imaginative artwork that young children could produce, only for it to be crushed into conformity in later years.

  When afternoon playtime came, Lily carried a cup of tea on to the playground for John. They leaned against the wall, warm against their backs, and watched the children enjoying their games of hopscotch and leapfrog. John nodded towards the Robinson boys, who were playing marbles on a rough piece of ground at the edge of the school field.

  ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard Malcolm Robinson utter a full sentence. His cousin does all the talking for the two of them.’

  ‘Let me have a try,’ said Lily with a grin and set off towards the two boys.

  John called after her, ‘If you get a sentence out of him it will be a miracle.’

  Big Dave and Little Malcolm looked up anxiously when Lily spoke to them.

  ‘Hello, boys. Are you enjoying your first day back in school?’

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ said Dave cautiously.

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ echoed Malcolm.

  Lily crouched down so that she was the same height as Malcolm. ‘Tell me, Malcolm, what will you be doing when you get home?’ She spoke slowly and clearly, smiling gently.

  Malcolm looked up at his cousin for support but none was immediately forthcoming. His brow furrowed in concentration. There was a long pause. ‘Choppin’, Miss,’ he said.

  ‘Shopping?’ Lily was pleased to receive a reply.

  Dave realized it was time for him to make his presence felt. ‘No, Miss, ’e means choppin’ – y’know – choppin’ wood.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Lily stared hard at Little Malcolm and tried a new tack. ‘And tell me, Malcolm, what do you most enjoy about school?’

  ‘Dinner, Miss,’ replied Malcolm without hesitation.

  Lily was encouraged. ‘Anything in particular?’

  ‘Plums, Miss.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Custard, Miss.’

  Lily decided to seek a different direction. ‘Malcolm, tell me something else about school that doesn’t involve eating.’

  Malcolm thought hard. This was a difficult question. Finally he nodded. ‘Rusks, Miss.’

  ‘Rusks?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  ‘But you can eat rusks.’

  ‘No, Miss.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘’E gives ’em t’me,’ added Dave helpfully, ‘’cause ’e dunt like ’em.’

  At that moment John Pruett came to stand beside them. ‘Excuse me, Miss Briggs, but it’s time for the bell.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lily. ‘I’ll ring it.’

  When she turned back the boys had gone.

  At the end of school the children stood behind their chairs and said a prayer, then ran outside. The freedom of the local woods beckoned and there were trees to climb.

  Lily stared at her desk. Books for marking, slates, chalk, thick pencils and a pot full of raffia needles. After tidying up she walked into the ladies’ cloakroom, took a mirror from her handbag, checked her appearance and reapplied her favourite bright-red Max Factor lipstick, then thought better of it. With a small lace handkerchief she wiped her lips until only a faint trace remained.

  It was just before five o’clock when she was standing by the bus stop outside the village hall. A burly man in a flat cap suddenly stopped his Land Rover across the road. He was towing a trailer stacked high with straw bales.

  ‘D’you want a lift, luv?’ he shouted.

  ‘No thank you,’ replied Lily.

  ‘Not seen you ’round ’ere.’

  Lily didn’t answer and turned to study the bus timetable.

  ‘Bus might not be ’ere for a while. Y’might as well jump in an’ ah’ll tek you t’where y’goin’.’

  Lily stared back at the unwelcome villager. A cigarette hung from his fleshy lips. ‘I’m fine, thank you, and don’t need a lift.’

  ‘Ah’m Stan Coe. Who are you then?’

  ‘If you don’t mind I don’t want to have a conversation with you across the street,’ said Lily in a voice that brooked no argument.

  ‘Ah can come over there then.’

  ‘No thank you.’

  At that moment a little black police car pulled up outside the General Stores and a policeman got out. He paused and stared at Stan Coe, then glanced at the attractive young woman.

  ‘Everything all right, Miss?’ he called.

  Lily smiled at the newcomer. He was a tall, broad-shouldered policeman with sergeant stripes on his sleeves. She pointed towards the leering Stan Coe. ‘This gentleman was trying to engage me in conversation.’

  Stan glowered at the policeman and drove off quickly.

  ‘Not any more by the look of it,’ said the young man with a smile.

  ‘Thank you,’ said a relieved Lily.

  ‘A pleasure, Miss,’ he said and carelessly brushed a lock of wavy black hair from his eyes.

  ‘I’m waiting for the bus,’ she added by way of explanation.

  ‘Here it comes now,’ he said as the bus appeared on the Morton road and drew up next to Lily.

  She climbed aboard, found a seat and glanced through the window. The policeman was standing across the road outside the General Stores and, as the bus pulled away, he smiled.

  Florence Briggs had prepared a plate of boiled beef and potatoes and was sitting in her tiny kitchen with Lily and young Freddie. She looked quizzically at her daughter. ‘So, have you had a good day?’

  ‘Yes, Mother – eventful, but I survived.’

  ‘And how was Mr Pruett?’

  ‘Kind and helpful. I’m lucky to have him as a headteacher.’

  ‘What about the children? How are they?’

  ‘A wide variety, as you would expect. Reading will be a challenge, but I’ve got plans to improve that.’

  Florence looked thoughtful. She felt at ease to see her daughter so animated and apparently enjoying her new job.

  It was after Lily had put Freddie to bed and they were sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea that Florence probed further. ‘So, did you meet any of the villagers?’

  ‘Yes
, definitely a mixed bag … a few anxious parents, a farmer who was obnoxious and … oh yes, the local policeman.’

  ‘Policeman?’ questioned Florence with a hint of concern.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lily. She stared down at a few stray tea leaves in the bottom of her cup … and smiled.

  Chapter Two

  The Harvest Bicycle

  Pale shafts of early-morning sunshine lit up the back road from Kirkby Steepleton to Ragley and Lily felt a sense of freedom as she sped along on her new bicycle. At dawn an autumnal mist had descended like an undertaker’s shroud over the plain of York. However, now only patches remained and Lily slowed as she approached each bend.

  Made of steel, her bicycle was a modern Raleigh, painted bright red and with state-of-the-art technology – namely, a three-speed Sturmey-Archer gear hub. Her handbag and gloves were nestled neatly in the saddle bag and the children’s books she had marked the previous evening were in the straw basket attached to the handlebars. It was Friday, 26 September and a busy day lay ahead. The annual Harvest Festival had arrived for the folk of Ragley village and there was much to do.

  As she approached a copse of sycamores on a sharp bend there was still a hazy view of the distant fields. In spite of the mist a fine day beckoned and, with the breeze in her hair, Lily felt a sense of adventure. The last field was being harvested, marking the end of another season, and over the hawthorn hedgerow the sinuous motion of the ripe corn was a living rhythm of burnished gold. Lily had quickly grown to love this corner of ‘God’s Own Country’, as the locals called it, and she breathed in the sharp moist air.

  In spite of the fact that Lily’s mother had protested vehemently, saying it was dangerous for a young woman to cycle on lonely roads, her bicycle was proving ideal for Lily’s journey to school. When the winter weather and dark nights returned she would, she had decided, catch the local bus, but for now she was enjoying her new-found freedom.

  Suddenly a large rusty vehicle hurtled round the bend on the wrong side of the road straight towards her and Lily took evasive action. Her front wheel crashed into the hedge and she toppled headlong over the handlebars.