Starting Over

by Jack Sheffield

It was Saturday morning and Lily had put on her warmest coat and was about to catch the bus into Ragley. She called upstairs, ‘I’m leaving now, Mother. See you later at the bonfire.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Florence curtly. ‘So it’s up to me to bring Freddie this evening, I suppose.’

  Lily had grown used to her mother’s dark moods and unkind words. She recalled that her father had once said to her, ‘Your mother is quick to chide and slow to bless.’ That had been in happier times, when her father kept the peace in a troubled household. She pulled on her woollen hat and scarf and called out, ‘I’ll buy some fireworks for him, Mother, and keep them safe in school.’

  When she reached Ragley, Big Dave was standing outside the General Stores next to a wheelbarrow in which a reclining figure was displayed and trying desperately to keep still.

  ‘Penny for the guy, Miss,’ he called out.

  Lily studied the so-called guy and noted it looked remarkably like Little Malcolm in his father’s cast-off boiler suit, thick gloves and a papier-mâché mask under a large balaclava.

  Lily smiled. ‘A wonderful guy, David,’ she said. ‘Pity Malcolm isn’t here to see it,’ and behind the mask Malcolm’s eyes blinked in surprise.

  Dave rattled an old cocoa tin and Lily dropped in a coin. ‘There,’ she said, ‘that should be enough to buy a firework for each of you.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss,’ said Dave.

  ‘Thank you, Miss,’ echoed the guy.

  Emerging from the shop doorway was Prudence’s delivery boy, fifteen-year-old Peter Miles-Humphreys. He had just loaded up the large basket on the front of his bicycle. Peter was a willing boy and Prudence knew her customers would make allowances for his unfortunate stutter, which added minutes to every transaction. He smiled shyly at Lily as he wheeled his heavy bicycle towards the road.

  Lily walked under the green canvas canopy above the shop window and skirted round the pair of old wooden carver chairs that Prudence always put out for elderly customers. ‘Good morning, Miss Golightly,’ she said.

  Prudence stepped up on to the next wooden step behind the counter. ‘Good morning, Miss Briggs. A fine dry day for the bonfire. Exciting times for the children. Now what can I do for you?’

  ‘A box of fireworks, please,’ said Lily and Prudence stepped down and produced a selection from the shelf behind her.

  With a box of Standard fireworks under her arm, the bell rang merrily above the door as Lily walked out and across the road towards the school.

  On the village green PC Harry Dewhirst was working with the Ragley Scout troop under the supervision of the imposing figure of Captain Rupert Forbes-Kitchener. They were busy making a guy for the village bonfire. The young policeman had become a popular figure in the village and the boys never misbehaved for the huge rugby player. He believed in the old-fashioned remedy of cuffing lads around the ears if they misbehaved. In this way he kept order and parents always welcomed his intervention as well as his unorthodox methods.

  Meanwhile, in the vicarage Vera was making bonfire toffee apples. The radio was on and, while she dipped the apples into the sticky toffee, she hummed along to the heartbreaking opening of Schubert’s Fantasie in F minor, one of her favourite piano duets. On the wall above the work surface was a colour picture of the Queen, neatly framed and taking pride of place in her kitchen. Vera was an ardent royalist and she recalled that wonderful moment in 1949 when she had been in the crowds that lined Stonegate in York. Princess Elizabeth had walked by close enough to touch as she toured the city accompanied by the mayor and, of course, the handsome Duke of Edinburgh. They were on the third day of their tour of the West Riding and it was etched for ever in Vera’s memory.

  Meanwhile, as she stood each toffee apple upside down to set on greaseproof paper, she wondered how the other members of the Women’s Institute were faring in support of the Village Hall Committee. It was important that everyone pulled their weight in times of need.

  In Morton Manor, another member of the Women’s Institute, Alexandra Forbes-Kitchener, wife of the captain, was reading one of her old Woman & Home magazines. The recipe for vol-au-vent had worked perfectly, which merely left her wondering whether she should fill them with creamed chicken. While this was more to Rupert’s taste, she thought something a little less exotic would be a more palatable choice for the evening soirée at the village bonfire.

  After the birth of their daughter, Anastasia, Alexandra had been unwell frequently and she was not looking forward to venturing out on a cold evening. Meanwhile the vol-au-vent decision would not go away.

  Her husband, Rupert, was in the General Stores. ‘Half a dozen rockets, please, Prudence, and a few sweets for the young lads helping with the guy.’ He put a ten-shilling note on the counter.

  Prudence produced a bumper box of fireworks and two bags of sweets. ‘There we are, Captain. That should keep them happy – liquorice torpedoes and mint imperials.’

  He held up one of the rockets. ‘We need to get the bonfire off with a good show, don’t you think?’

  ‘Of course, Captain.’

  Next to him Vera Evans had arrived and was studying the headlines of the newspapers on the rack next to the counter.

  ‘Look at that,’ said Rupert, ‘the population of Britain has gone up to fifty million.’

  ‘A huge number,’ said Vera. ‘Hard to imagine.’

  ‘We’ll be too full if they let all these Jamaicans in,’ said Rupert a little too forcefully.

  Vera frowned. ‘I’m sure they’re fine, hard-working people,’ she said.

  ‘Ah well, er … yes, Miss Evans, I’m sure they are … as long as they have jobs and aren’t a burden.’

  ‘And they must feel the cold terribly,’ added Prudence for good measure.

  Tom Feather was on his way to the Pharmacy. He had spent the last hour working in the bonfire field with local farmhand Derek ‘Deke’ Ramsbottom.

  Deke had arrived on his tractor, towing a trailer piled with old pieces of timber collected from various outbuildings in the village. There was enough for a huge bonfire and a few of the menfolk had gathered for this annual task. Deke had taken on the role of lead bonfire builder and, in his Stetson hat, leather waistcoat and sheriff’s badge, he looked the part.

  It was well known that the film star John Wayne was Deke’s hero. He had been to the cinema twice recently, once to see Rio Grande, in which his favourite cowboy appeared alongside the smouldering Maureen O’Hara, and then to watch She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, filmed in glorious Technicolor. Deke tried hard to imitate John Wayne’s famous walk, but only succeeded in looking as though he had an acute case of piles. Even so, the hard-working cowboy was giving his all to the cause of the village bonfire.

  Sadly, Tom was struggling with a sore throat, hence his visit to the Pharmacy.

  ‘Some throat sweets, please, Herbert,’ he said.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Herbert. The Ragley chemist was always polite to the local law enforcement. He was also aware that Tom had taken the new teacher to the cinema. It was the talk of the village, mainly thanks to him.

  ‘And … maybe something for the weekend, sir?’ he added in a conspiratorial whisper.

  ‘Pardon?’

  Herbert tapped the side of his nose. ‘Y’know, Sergeant. Might come in ’andy.’ He pointed up towards the boxes of Durex on the highest shelf.

  Tom frowned and shook his head. ‘Just the throat sweets, please.’

  Herbert knew when a potential sale had died a death and passed over a packet of Victory Vs.

  After helping Mrs Gubbins, Lily decided to take a break and walked across the road to Doris Clutterbuck’s Tea Rooms. She was impressed with the genteel tidiness of the place. Small circular tables were covered with white tablecloths, a folded napkin had been placed under a dessert fork and next to a bowl of sugar with a silver spoon was a clean, shiny ash tray. A radio played in the background, as Doris thought it added a certain ambience to the tea-drinking experience.

  She was
served by the Saturday assistant, fourteen-year-old Nora Pratt. Nora was excited, but not about the bonfire. In her Girl magazine it said the first British singles chart was to appear next week and would list the most popular records. Nora loved music and dreamed of being a singer or an actress.

  ‘Just a light snack, please,’ said Lily.

  ‘Well, ah’m sowwy, Miss Bwiggs, there’s not much left,’ said Nora. ‘We’ve ’ad a wush on … but there’s a beetwoot salad an’ some fwesh bwead.’

  Lily looked at the display cabinet. ‘Just tea and a cake, please, Nora.’

  Nora returned with a large teapot, a china cup and saucer and a tea strainer. ‘Fweshly bwewed,’ she said enthusiastically, ‘an’ ’ere’s a Swiss woll.’

  There was a pile of old magazines on the table next to Lily and she picked up a Woman’s Own and flicked through the pages. It looked expensive at 4½d, but there was a chance to win a guinea on the Letters page. Lily considered what she could buy with £1.1s – a huge sum. Then she read the winning letter and decided not to bother. A conscientious lady explained in detail how a broken button could be mended with sealing wax prior to making fresh holes with a needle. I’d rather buy a new button, thought Lily, and she sipped her tea while wafting away the cigarette and pipe smoke that drifted towards her. Everyone seemed to smoke and she wondered why she was different. It simply didn’t appeal to her.

  Doris Clutterbuck was regaling a group of ladies at the counter with a story about watercress. She had just cooked it for the first time.

  What’s watercress? thought Nora, who could of course imagine the letter ‘R’ in her thoughts without a problem.

  It seemed as though the whole village had turned out for the bonfire. Freddie was waving a lighted sparkler while a concerned Florence and a delighted Lily looked on.

  ‘I’ll get a soft drink for him before the bonfire is lit,’ said Lily and hurried over to the refreshment tent.

  Tom was there and he came over to talk to her. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’m just getting a drink for Freddie.’

  Tom saw the little boy standing next to Florence. ‘I’ll bring over two cups for you and your mother.’

  Vera was at the other end of the trestle table with Doris Clutterbuck, serving soup, and she looked up at Tom and Lily. As they walked away into the darkness Vera thought she was beginning to see Lily in a new light: perhaps this was the beginning of a shy attraction. Who can tell how love begins? she thought. A glance, a touch, a smile, a word. She wondered if it would ever happen to her and how Joseph would cope without her. Her brother was an innocent in a guilty world and she knew he wouldn’t survive without her guiding hand.

  Outside the refreshment tent Edna Trott and Irene Gubbins were sharing their thoughts.

  ‘She’s not backwards in comin’ forwards, is that Miss Briggs,’ said Edna.

  ‘Y’reight there, Edna, y’wouldn’t mess wi’ ’er.’

  ‘An’ Mr Grinchley said ’e saw ’er wi’ that nice-lookin’ policeman what drives ’is own police car.’

  ‘Fancy that,’ said Irene.

  ‘’E reckoned ’e’d ’eard they were goin’ to t’pictures in York.’

  ‘Were they ’oldin’ ’ands?’

  ‘Ah think it’s a bit early f’that, don’t you?’

  Irene recalled her courtship days. ‘Not if ’e’s owt like my ’Enry.’

  In the circle of villagers standing close to the bonfire, Billy Icklethwaite was talking to Freddie. Lily returned with a cup of orange juice and Tom followed on with two mugs of tea.

  ‘For you, Mrs Briggs,’ he said with a smile.

  Florence studied the tall policeman for a moment and offered a hesitant ‘Thank you.’ She frowned at Lily with a warning glance.

  Suddenly Captain Forbes-Kitchener thrust a flaming torch into the bonfire and the flames roared up towards the guy. The papier-mâché face with its black toothbrush moustache was an excellent likeness.

  ‘Cor, look at that!’ said Billy. ‘It’s ’Itler.’

  ‘So it is,’ said Tom.

  Billy stared up at Lily. ‘My dad ’ates Germans, Miss. ’E said ’e were captured an’ put in a constipation camp.’

  Lily looked thoughtful. ‘Concentration, Billy.’

  Billy considered this for a moment. ‘But ah am concentratin’, Miss.’

  Tom gave Lily a knowing smile.

  ‘Do you ’ate Germans, Miss?’ enquired the persistent Billy.

  Lily sighed. ‘Well … not all of them. There’s good and bad everywhere in the world.’

  ‘Are y’sure, Miss?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Ah thought teachers knew ev’rythin’, Miss.’

  Lily smiled. ‘No, not everything,’ but at that moment her mind was elsewhere.

  ‘Well, fancy that,’ said Tom. ‘Hitler on our bonfire.’

  ‘Everything changes,’ said Florence darkly.

  There was a silence, broken only by the crackle of flames and the whoosh of a rocket.

  ‘Except memories,’ said Lily with a sad smile.

  Tom moved a little closer to her. ‘So it’s goodbye Mr Hitler.’

  Lily simply stared into the flames and thought of different times.

  Chapter Six

  Mr Pruett’s Poinsettia

  It was Friday, 12 December and Lily looked out of her bedroom window in Kirkby Steepleton. The first snow of winter had fallen and the distant land was covered in a white shroud. It curved in graceful folds over the combed ridges of the ploughed fields and all sounds were muted. A bitter wind rattled the wooden casements and frost patterns covered the panes. She pulled her dressing gown a little tighter and shivered as cold draughts seeped into the house. An eventful day lay ahead with the rehearsal for the school Nativity play, a hair appointment after school and the small matter of her twenty-seventh birthday.

  Lily smiled and thought of previous birthdays during the war when she had been in the Land Army. They had been riotous times alongside young women who had since gone their separate ways, some to become GI brides in America, others to return to the towns and cities of England. Lily sighed as she recalled the many months of hard toil interspersed with a few days of joy. However, her silent reverie was soon broken as an excited Freddie ran into her room clutching a parcel.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ he shouted and jumped on to the bed.

  Florence was standing in the doorway wearing a thoughtful expression. ‘He couldn’t wait, poor thing. He’s been awake for the last hour waiting to come in.’

  Lily gave Freddie a hug that seemed to last for ever and then she looked at her mother, whose face remained impassive and cold. No words were spoken, but a brief nod of acknowledgement passed between them. Florence walked in and sat beside Freddie on the bed. Lily ruffled his fair hair tenderly. ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘open it for me. I know you want to.’

  Freddie needed no second invitation to untie the string and rip off the brown paper. It was a woollen cardigan. ‘Try it on, try it on!’ urged the excited boy.

  Lily took off her dressing gown and slipped it on over her nightdress.

  ‘It’s lovely, Mother. Thank you so much.’ She stroked the soft wool and admired the pattern of flowers on the sleeves. ‘I didn’t see you making it. How on earth did you find the time?’

  ‘When you were at school,’ Florence stared down at her work-red fingers, ‘… and in the evenings when you were meeting that policeman,’ she added pointedly. ‘I suppose you’ll be seeing him again tonight.’

  Lily’s jaw set in a determined fashion. It was a look Florence had come to know over the years. ‘Yes, Mother, he said he would call by.’

  Florence was becoming angry. ‘So – are you going out with him? You know that’s the last thing you should be doing.’

  ‘No, Mother, nothing is planned. I’m having my hair done after school as a treat and then I’m coming home to see you and Freddie – but I may choose to pop out later.’

 
Florence got up to leave. ‘As long as you know what you’re doing. Remember you have responsibilities here rather than fraternizing with a strange man.’ She stopped by the door and wagged her finger. ‘Don’t forget. There will be a cake when you come home. You know how much Freddie enjoys blowing out the candles.’

  The little boy looked up at Lily and she held him close.

  ‘Candles!’ he said and there was excitement in his eyes.

  John Pruett stared out of his kitchen window at his new car. The previous week he had dipped into his savings and bought a 1946 Ford Anglia. It was a black two-door saloon and he had spent the weekend polishing it to a glassy shine. He was disappointed that it was now covered in snow.

  The car was his pride and joy, and he was sure Miss Briggs would be impressed. He had given this much thought over the past few weeks. Above all he wanted her to see him as more than simply a professional colleague. In other words, he hoped he might be Lily’s friend and, with a car, there was a chance he could compete with Tom Feather for her affections.

  This was a new experience for John – a nagging ache that he didn’t understand. It can’t be love, he thought. That would be ridiculous – this was a feeling more akin to indigestion. Even so, he was aware that Lily had brought light into the shadows of his quiet life, colour into his monochrome existence. After school and away from his headteacher’s desk he was occasionally tongue-tied in her presence and he didn’t know why.

  Also, it was her birthday and he had an idea. Even though the first snow had arrived during the night and the sky was an ominous grey, he thought of a way to brighten this special day. He would buy her some flowers.

  Meanwhile, further down the Morton road, Joseph and Vera were in their kitchen eating toast liberally covered with Vera’s prize-winning marmalade. The radio was burbling away in the background.

  ‘That’s interesting,’ said Vera, suddenly animated by the latest piece of news.

  ‘What is?’ asked Joseph. His mind was elsewhere. After seeing the latest rehearsal of the school Nativity play he was concerned about the perceived lack of Christian content. Billy Icklethwaite as the outspoken innkeeper had told the Virgin Mary, ‘Sling yer ’ook sharpish ’cause my pub is full an’ ah don’t want no donkey crappin’ in my tap room.’ Perhaps a word in the ear of Miss Briggs would help, as John Pruett seemed preoccupied these days.