Starting Over

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lily and looked over her shoulder. ‘We’re just about to cut the cake. You’re welcome to come in.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m on late shift, but I wondered if you would like to go somewhere tomorrow, maybe the cinema again? There’s a good film on. It’s called My Wife’s Best Friend.’

  ‘What’s it about?’ asked Lily.

  ‘I read the review in the Herald. It got a good write-up. Apparently, Macdonald Carey and his wife, Anne Baxter, are in a plane that is about to crash and he tells her he had an affair with a friend because he didn’t want to die without confessing the truth … dramatic stuff.’

  ‘That sounds terrible!’ said Lily.

  ‘Well, the good news is the plane lands safely.’

  ‘So I suppose the moral is never tell the truth on your deathbed,’ said Lily.

  Tom sensed her disapproval and glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll have to go, Lily. We could go for a drink instead if you like.’

  ‘Yes, the film’s not really my cup of tea, so come round tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Fine, see you then.’

  There was the usual pause while he waited for Lily to make the first move, but her mind seemed elsewhere.

  ‘Save me some cake,’ he said with a smile as Lily opened the door and he went out into the darkness.

  Back in the front room Florence and Freddie were sitting by the log fire.

  ‘It was Tom,’ said Lily simply and stood his card unopened on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Thank goodness you didn’t invite him in,’ said Florence gruffly. ‘Now, let’s light the candles.’

  When Freddie was about to blow out the candles Lily crouched down beside him. ‘You should make a wish, Freddie … something nice.’

  Freddie closed his eyes, then smiled and blew them out. ‘I hope it comes true,’ he said.

  Lily stroked his hair tenderly. ‘Don’t tell us what it was, because then it might not.’

  Freddie stared at the guttering candles. ‘I hope it does, ’cause it was about Dad.’

  For a few moments there was only the crackling of the fire as Lily hugged Freddie and a preoccupied Florence cut the cake.

  Late that evening John Pruett was sitting in his favourite armchair reading a novel. The dying embers of the fire gave a solemn light to his sparse sitting room and he put down his book on the table. It was the recent novel The Catcher in the Rye, by J. D. Salinger, which had taken the book world by storm following last year’s publication. John was enjoying the story and could relate to the issues of innocence, belonging and loss – never more so than on this lonely night.

  On the small table by the window his new pot plant stood on a saucer. He had watered it thoroughly. Miss Golightly had said it would be fine if it was looked after. Perhaps I care too much, he thought.

  He stared at his poinsettia and sighed as a scarlet leaf fell gently to the carpet beneath.

  Chapter Seven

  A Christmas Secret

  It was Friday, 19 December, the last day of the autumn term, and the world had changed. When Lily looked out of her bedroom window more snow had fallen and the land was cloaked in silence. The countryside was still as stone and the prints of a midnight fox had patterned the smooth crust on the garden. In the distance the boughs of a mighty oak shook in the bitter wind.

  She shivered in her dressing gown. There was so much on her mind – issues from her past, hidden now, a new man in her life and a job that she had begun to love. Freddie appeared settled and was content at Kirkby Steepleton Primary School. He had made friends and seemed a happy little boy. Meanwhile, another difficult journey to school lay ahead and she hoped William Featherstone’s bus could negotiate the hazardous roads.

  The final school day of 1952 in Ragley promised to be a special treat. There was to be a Christmas party and the children had been invited to bring in games to play during afternoon school. Lily looked in her wardrobe for her bright-red dress and Christmas cardigan. It was important for the children to see her looking cheerful. As she stared at her clothes she heard Florence’s voice calling to Freddie. There was always an underlying tension in her mother. Lily felt there were problems that could never be resolved.

  Half an hour later she was standing in the open doorway saying goodbye to Florence. In her thick coat, woollen scarf, hat and leather boots she was well protected from the cold. The cumbersome shopping bag she carried contained her party dress and shoes, plus some cards for the children in her class.

  ‘Well, just look at that,’ said Lily with a smile.

  A familiar Ford Prefect had pulled up outside the cottage, clouds puffing from the exhaust pipe. Tom got out and swept fresh snow from his rear window with a gloved hand.

  ‘Thought you would appreciate a lift on party day,’ he called.

  Lily smiled and waved back. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘He’s keen,’ said Florence with a knowing look. ‘Too keen.’

  Lily blushed and raised her eyes. ‘Oh, Mother. Tom is just being a good neighbour. It’s merely a kind gesture.’

  Florence said nothing and returned to the kitchen to help Freddie with his bowl of warm porridge. She scraped the bottom of the bowl and kept her thoughts to herself. Lily was either fortunate to have such a helpful friend or she was playing with fire.

  Tom parked in Ragley High Street and Lily walked across the village green. Her breath steamed before her as she reached the school gate and paused to take in the sight. Ragley School looked like a Christmas card, with a fresh fall of snow on the roof, frost patterns on the windows and icicles hanging from the eaves. Excited children were rolling snowballs, making snowmen on the field and sliding on the icy playground. No one seemed to mind the cold. These were hardy country children, used to an outdoor life.

  Mrs Trott, in a coat and a headscarf, was sweeping the entrance steps. The biting wind appeared to have no effect on this tough lady.

  ‘Mornin’, Miss Briggs,’ she said. ‘Ah’ve turned ’eatin’ up for y’party.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Trott,’ replied Lily and hurried into the relative warmth of the school.

  It was a busy morning in her classroom and the children were excited. Above their heads paper chains stretched across the room. Earlier in the week Lily had brought in a small Christmas tree and every child had made a paper decoration to hang on the boughs.

  Suddenly Bertie Stubbs called out, ‘Look, Miss, a robin!’

  John Pruett had erected a bird table just outside the window and the children stood on their chairs to get a better view. Mrs Trott had put a few scraps from the kitchen on to the table that morning and a bright-eyed robin was pecking at a crust. The children watched in fascination.

  ‘’E’s ’avin’ a good breakfast, Miss,’ said Lizzie Buttershaw.

  ‘Ah wonder if birds ’ave Christmas presents like us, Miss,’ mused Daphne Cahill.

  ‘What do you think, Daphne?’ asked Lily, pleased that this shy girl had spoken.

  Daphne blushed slightly, suddenly the centre of attention. ‘Well, if they do, ah reckon they’ll be different.’

  ‘That’s right, Daphne,’ said Lily. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Like worms, Miss,’ said five-year-old Arnold Icklethwaite.

  ‘Or mebbe a mince pie,’ suggested Veronica Poole.

  Suddenly everyone was shouting out.

  ‘Let’s make a list on the blackboard,’ said Lily.

  After morning break John gathered all the children in the hall. He had been in the loft to bring out the old wooden Christmas post box.

  ‘Now, children,’ he said, ‘we’re all going to write a letter to Father Christmas and post it in our special post box,’ and some of the older children shared secret smiles. ‘All your letters will go to Santa at the North Pole.’

  The children returned to their classrooms and were each given a sheet of paper and a pencil. Lily had written on the blackboard, ‘Dear Santa, please may I have …’ and the children had copied it carefully followed by their requests. />
  Lizzie Buttershaw had asked for a dolly’s tea set. Daphne Cahill showed her individuality and wrote, ‘Dear Santa, there is a black doll in Woolworths. Please may I have one?’ Veronica Poole requested a Noddy annual.

  Phoebe Fawnswater had asked Santa for one of the new Rosebud dolls. She had seen one in York in a shop window and on the side of the box it read ‘The World’s Most Beautiful Doll’. For Phoebe, nothing less would do.

  Meanwhile the older boys and girls in John’s class were a little sceptical about writing to Father Christmas but went along with the writing exercise. Reggie Bamforth spent a long time on his letter. He had set his heart on a model of the famous oceangoing liner, the steam ship Queen Mary, for 2/6d. He had drawn a wonderful picture and added, ‘It’s a bargain, Santa, for half a crown.’

  Reggie was a true supporter of Father Christmas. When he had finished his letter he handed it with significant solemnity to John Pruett and declared, ‘Ah know that Santa is real ’cause las’ year ah got a bike an’ my mam an’ dad couldn’t afford anything that expensive.’

  All the letters were posted with great ceremony, followed by John Pruett insisting that only good boys and girls would receive a gift on Christmas morning. Finally, the morning ended with a newspaper-folding exercise resulting in every child wearing a pointed hat like a pirate.

  At lunchtime Lily sat at a table next to Phoebe Fawnswater and Reggie Bamforth, who were keen to share their news.

  ‘We’re going to London at Christmas, Miss,’ said Phoebe.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ said Lily. ‘What will you do there?’

  ‘We’re going to see Bertram Mills Circus.’

  ‘And Phoebe’s mum has got one of those new television sets,’ said Reggie, ‘and she lets me go and watch.’

  ‘That’s good, Reggie,’ replied Lily. She wasn’t surprised that Mrs Fawnswater encouraged her daughter to play with this well-behaved and polite boy. ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘It’s really good, Miss, just like the cinema – but smaller and always in black and white. There’s something called The Flower Pot Men that started last Monday – but they don’t talk sense. Phoebe likes Muffin the Mule … but you can see his strings,’ he added as an afterthought.

  It was well known in the village that Mrs Fawnswater now spent many hours in front of her television and never missed the opportunity to watch Come Dancing and What’s My Line?

  A new world of entertainment, thought Lily. It could catch on.

  In the afternoon the party was a lively affair. Elsie Crapper played Christmas songs on the piano and a group of mothers arrived to serve the crab paste sandwiches, biscuits and home-made lemonade. Ruby Smith had come in to help Edna Trott wrap a tiny gift for every child. They used tissue paper, pink for girls and blue for boys, then hung them with thread on the Christmas tree.

  They played Statues, Musical Chairs and ‘What’s the Time, Mr Wolf?’ amidst much screaming and shouting. By half past two the children were exhausted and the afternoon ended with them playing games in the school hall, mainly Lotto and draughts and with dolls’ tea sets. Lily noticed these were now made of bright modern plastic instead of Bakelite.

  After they had cleared up at the end of the day, John offered to take Lily back to Kirkby Steepleton and she accepted. When she got out he said, ‘Happy Christmas, Lily,’ and she wondered why he looked so sad.

  It was Saturday morning and Vera was in her kitchen listening to the radio and wondering what it would be like to have a television set. She couldn’t imagine life without her radio. Two years ago she had listened to the thousandth episode of Woman’s Hour and last year had become an avid listener of a new programme called The Archers. She had no interest in other entertainment programmes such as Kenneth Horne’s radio comedy Much Binding in the Marsh. These were trivial as far as Vera was concerned, while The Goon Show appeared incomprehensible. She had also listened to the ventriloquist Peter Brough with his puppet Archie Andrews in Educating Archie.

  However, of much more concern than entertainment was the fact that she had noticed that in the vicarage they were running out of tea.

  Sylvia Icklethwaite had called into the General Stores.

  ‘Good morning, Sylvia,’ said Prudence.

  ‘’Ello, Prudence. Ah’d like some o’ them new triangle cheeses, please. My kids luv ’em.’

  Kraft Dairylea Cheese Spread was a new product on the market and Prudence had soon discovered that eager shoppers were queuing up for them.

  ‘It’s all change these days, Sylvia – hard to keep up. I even heard from Mrs Fawnswater that they have launderettes in London.’

  ‘Launderettes!’ exclaimed Sylvia. ‘That’s a poor do,’ she muttered, ‘when them southerners can’t do a proper Monday wash.’ Her muscles flexed as she spoke. ‘Anyway, must rush. We’re busy on t’farm an’ ah’ve got some castratin’ t’do.’

  Prudence winced visibly as the burly farmer’s wife hurried out; she hoped she was talking about the livestock.

  It was Christmas Eve and winter gripped Ragley village in its iron fist, while the land was still and silent. The boughs of elm and sycamore bent under the weight of the fresh fall of snow and the hedgerows sparkled with frost. Wolf-grey clouds hung heavy over the Hambleton hills with the promise of more snow, while a grudging light filtered through the skeletal branches of the trees and a new day dawned.

  Ragley High Street was soon busy with the early-morning shoppers and Vera was collecting her Christmas order from the butcher’s shop.

  ‘’Ere’s y’sausage meat, Miss Evans,’ said Tommy. ‘Finest sausage meat on God’s earth,’ he added without a hint of modesty.

  ‘Thank you, Thomas,’ said Vera cautiously, ‘I’m sure it is.’

  ‘You’ll be at Midnight Mass no doubt,’ said Tommy. ‘Allus a special time.’

  ‘Yes, I shall be there, although this snow makes it a little more difficult.’

  Tommy shook his head. ‘This is nowt but a dustin’, Miss Evans. In t’winter o’ forty-seven ah were up to me armpits shovellin’ snow.’

  Vera offered a gentle smile towards the curmudgeonly Yorkshireman who always believed that everything in his native county was bigger and better – or, in this case, deeper.

  Next Vera called into Pratt’s Hardware Emporium, where Aloysius served her with some new light bulbs. His son, Timothy, was in the back room. He had written a detailed letter to Santa via his parents requesting the prompt delivery of an Airfix construction kit of Sir Francis Drake’s famous sailing ship the Golden Hind from Woolworths. It would be his big present, and he presumed it would be supplemented by a satsuma, some sticks of liquorice and a bag of nuts. He decided to list these as well. ‘Success is in the detail,’ his father had told him and young Timothy, if nothing else, was always thorough.

  By five o’clock darkness had settled over the vast plain of York and the folk of Ragley village were gathering for their annual ‘Carols on the Green’.

  Tom had collected Lily in his car and Vera was delighted to welcome them both. She had been trying to encourage Lily to join the church choir. As a mezzo-soprano with a sweet, clear voice she would be welcome.

  On the village green Captain Rupert Forbes-Kitchener had deployed some of his staff to erect a huge Christmas tree. It was his annual gift to the village and now it had been decorated with garlands of silver and a variety of colourful baubles. A circle of straw bales had been arranged around the tree to provide seating for anyone who needed it. Snow was falling as the carol singers gathered and the pantile roof of The Royal Oak was covered in wavy patterns.

  Most of the men in the church choir had lamps on long poles, which they brought out every year. Tom Feather was holding a trimmed ash branch on which hung a hurricane lamp, which cast a flickering light on Lily’s face. His lusty bass voice rang out and Vera smiled when she caught a glimpse of Lily standing alongside him. Clouds of silver mist hovered around their heads as they launched into the opening verse of ‘In the Bleak Midwinte
r’.

  It wasn’t long before Mavis Higginbottom, the buxom barmaid from The Royal Oak, came out with a plate of mince pies and another with slices of cake, each topped with a sliver of Wensleydale cheese. Clarence, her husband and owner of the pub, followed behind with a huge jug of steaming mulled wine and a collection of cracked tumblers.

  The carol singers gathered round and enjoyed the welcome treat.

  ‘Lovely singing, Miss Evans, as always,’ said Clarence.

  ‘Thank you for your generosity,’ said Vera, ‘and you’ll forgive me if I don’t partake of your magnificent punch.’

  Clarence was aware that no drop of alcohol ever passed Vera’s lips and he smiled in acknowledgement. ‘As long as you have some cake. Mavis makes a smashin’ bit o’ cake.’

  Lily and Tom were enjoying the hot mulled wine and wondering what Clarence had added to give it a kick like a mule. ‘Cheese with cake?’ Lily wondered aloud, picking up a slice.

  Tom grinned. ‘It’s a Yorkshire thing. You know what they say – fruit cake without the cheese is like a kiss without a squeeze.’

  Lily opened her eyes wide in mock astonishment, but she was secretly pleased at the thought.

  A few minutes later ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ rang out around the village green.

  At 11.15 p.m. it seemed as if the whole village was on the move, trudging through the frozen snow towards the bright lights of St Mary’s Church.

  Whirling snowflakes pattered against the huge oak door as Tom and Lily walked in. The pews were soon filled and a candle flickered on each of the ledges of the stone pillars. Green holly with bright-red berries had been attached to the lectern and Elsie Crapper played ‘Away in a Manger’ as the congregation settled down. Finally, the chief bellringer, Archibald Pike, tied off his bell rope and took his usual seat at the back of the church. Aloysius Pratt closed the door and a calm silence descended.

  Then, unaccompanied, Mary McIntyre, a young soprano, sang the first verse of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ and the choir entered, each member carrying a candle as they walked down the aisle towards the choir stalls. Tom and Lily joined in the second verse and she smiled up at him. It was a fine Yorkshire Christmas occasion, with local farmers singing alongside members of the Ragley Women’s Institute. Lessons were read and custom acknowledged: the pattern of the age-old service was woven into the tapestry of this special time.