‘How are you, Victor?’ I asked.
‘Ah’m not ’appy, Mr Sheffield,’ said Victor mournfully.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘In fact, it’s a long time since ah were ’appy.’
‘And when was that?’ I asked, racking my brains to recall the last time I had seen Victor smile.
‘During t’winter o’discontent, Mr Sheffield. ’Appy days them was,’ said Victor, screwing up my petrol cap. ‘Ah sold more paraffin than y’could throw a stick at.’
‘So what’s the problem now, Victor?’ I asked, handing over a ten-pound note.
‘Ah’ve got plumbago,’ said Victor.
‘Oh dear,’ I said, suppressing a smile. ‘That sounds painful.’
‘Y’reight there, Mr Sheffield. An’ me pipes are playing me up again, if y’tek mi meaning.’
As I drove away I guessed there was a peculiar symmetry in having plumbago and pipe problems.
By two o’clock we were ready and a large crowd of villagers had gathered outside our new school extension. Sue Phillips, striking in her new dress, was chatting happily with the imposing Miss Barrington-Huntley. Beth had found a spare maypole ribbon in the store room of her school and she and Anne had stretched it across the school porch. Meanwhile, Ruby was very proud to be in charge of the large pair of dressmaker’s scissors, courtesy of the Cross-Stitch Club, for the tape-cutting ceremony.
‘It gives me great pleasure to declare Ragley’s new school extension officially open,’ said Miss Barrington-Huntley. Cameras clicked and the chair of the Education Committee knew she looked the part in her dramatic new hat from Brown’s in York.
In the library area, Anne’s husband, the bearded John Grainger, was standing with screwdriver in hand ready to replace the brass plate that covered the hole where the time capsule would be placed.
‘Joseph,’ said Vera anxiously, ‘you said you’d bring the time capsule from the car.’
‘Sorry,’ said Joseph absent-mindedly and rushed off to the car park.
Miss Barrington-Huntley had recently purchased a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and she peered over the top of them in surprise at the sight of our vicar running towards her like Seb Coe with a vacuum flask.
Speeches were made and, finally, Miss Barrington-Huntley posed for the official photographer while holding the time capsule as if it was the World Cup.
‘Well done, Jack,’ said Miss Barrington-Huntley when the ceremony was over and we were in the car park. ‘It’s a wonderful achievement.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘It was good of you to give up your time.’
She climbed into her car and wound down the window. ‘And thank you for not pressing me about possible school closures, Jack. This wasn’t the time.’
She drove off and I stood there, relieved it was over and that nothing had gone wrong.
Back in the library area, John Grainger screwed the plaque in place and confined the time capsule to decades of darkness.
‘I wonder when that will see the light of day again,’ I said.
‘Let’s hope it’s another hundred years,’ said Vera.
That evening Beth and I sat in the Odeon Cinema in York watching The Life of Brian and we both relaxed after a busy week.
‘I’m pleased it went well for you today, Jack,’ said Beth sleepily as she rested her head on my shoulder.
Her hair was against my cheek and I closed my eyes. We were coming to the end of a perfect day.
Remembrance Sunday dawned with a reluctant light. It was an iron-grey morning and a thick mist lay heavy on the silent fields.
At ten forty-five Beth and I joined Vera, Anne and John Grainger outside St Mary’s Church midst the silent, soberly dressed, still crowd, all with our own private thoughts and memories. The church bell tolled mournfully as we gathered round the tall stone war memorial that had been erected in 1948. It was beautifully maintained and set in a small cordoned-off area on a mound of manicured grass. On its sides were carved the names of the fallen of two World Wars from the villages of Ragley and Morton.
Albert Jenkins, retired railway worker and school governor, was there in his dark-grey three-piece suit and thick woollen scarf. ‘For whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee,’ he recited quietly with a gentle smile. ‘Seems strange that Archibald isn’t ringing the bells,’ he said, looking up at the bell tower.
Beth squeezed my hand as Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener, a row of medals gleaming on his black Crombie overcoat, read out the names of those who gave their lives. There was an occasional stirring in the crowd as the name of a loved one was recalled.
Then the major read the famous extract from Laurence Binyon’s ‘For the Fallen’, composed on the cliffs of Cornwall in 1914:
‘They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.’
The church clock struck eleven and young Alan Broadbent, of the Ragley and Morton Scout Troop, raised his bugle and sounded the Last Post.
Then there was silence, the like of which happened only once each year. It always felt as though it lasted more than two minutes as we counted the heartbeats and thought of those who had fought bravely for our freedom and would never again stand by our side. I remembered my grandfather, killed at the age of twenty-one, on the first bloody day of the Battle of the Somme.
Only the sound of the birds in the high elms and the stirring of russet leaves at our feet disturbed the silent tableau.
Then the major broke the silence. ‘When you go home, tell them of us and say, “for their tomorrow, we gave our today”.’
Reveille was sounded and, after a prayer, we filed quietly into church behind the colour parties of scouts, guides, cubs and brownies. A rousing hymn was followed by the national anthem and Joseph’s blessing, then finally parents, grandparents and children walked out to resume their busy lives and the church was silent again.
Beth and I were saying our goodbyes to Anne and John when Vera said, ‘Shall we scatter the ashes now, Joseph?’ A few of the bellringers were hovering in the far corner of the churchyard. Joseph opened the boot of their car. ‘No, it’s in the well of the back seat,’ said Vera.
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Joseph with a vacant smile, ‘it’s here.’
‘But that’s where I put the time capsule, Joseph.’
He lifted the canister out and held it up.
Vera stared in horror. ‘Oh, please, it can’t be!’
We all gathered round as Vera unscrewed the top of the canister and peered inside. It contained four cardboard tubes.
‘Oh dear,’ said Joseph.
‘Oh, Joseph!’ exclaimed Vera.
John Grainger leant over and whispered in my ear, ‘Don’t worry, Jack, I’ve got a screwdriver in the car.’
A week later, Jo pinned up a cutting from the Easington Herald & Pioneer on the staff-room noticeboard and we all gathered round to look at it. I noticed Vera and Anne exchange a private glance and a secret smile. Under the headline ‘Time capsule for Ragley School’ was a photograph of the elegant and dignified chair of the Education Committee standing in front of the new Ragley School library extension.
Miss Barrington-Huntley was smiling serenely and cradling a metal canister, blissfully unaware that she was holding the ashes of Archibald Pike.
Chapter Six
Captain Kirk and the Flea Circus
Mr Richard Gomersall, Senior Primary Adviser, visited school to gather information for the Education Committee’s follow-up document to ‘The Rationalization of Small Schools in North Yorkshire’. The PTA organized a visit to Billy Batt’s International Circus in Easington.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Wednesday, 26 November 1980
‘AH’M WORRIED ABOUT our Mary, Mr Sheffield,’ said Mrs Scrimshaw. ‘She’s not been ’erself lately.’
It was
after school on Tuesday, 25 November, and Peggy Scrimshaw, the wife of the local pharmacist, had called in to the school office. It had been a tough day. Our first rehearsal for the Christmas play had not gone well and I had a thumping headache.
‘Come in, Mrs Scrimshaw,’ I said wearily, ‘and tell me about it.’
‘Well, ah know that Mrs ’Unter is a wonderful teacher and ah’ve spoken to ’er about it an’ she says she’ll keep an eye on ’er.’
Six-year-old Mary Scrimshaw had shown great enthusiasm when she first started in Anne’s reception class, but during the past weeks she had become subdued.
‘Mary is a lovely girl, Mrs Scrimshaw,’ I said. ‘I’m sure we can get to the bottom of it and you’ve done the right thing letting us know.’
Mrs Scrimshaw gave me a strained smile and got up to leave. ‘Thank you for y’time, Mr Sheffield, an’ if y’don’t mind me saying … y’looking a bit peaky.’
‘I’ve got a bad headache,’ I said.
‘Call in on y’way ’ome, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘an’ ah’ll give y’some tablets t’get shut of it.’
As she left, the telephone rang. It was Beth.
‘Jack, some news for you: Richard Gomersall is coming your way,’ she said. ‘He’s doing his audit of village schools for this school closure business. I caught sight of his list and it’s Ragley tomorrow morning.’
‘Oh no,’ I groaned.
‘It’ll be fine, Jack,’ she said with slightly false enthusiasm.
‘So how did it go?’ I asked.
‘Not sure really. He just wandered around school making notes and with a sort of strained expression on his face.’
‘Oh, well, thanks for letting me know,’ I said.
‘OK, Jack, and are we still on for the circus trip tomorrow?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Vera’s got the tickets for the staff and their partners, so I’ll pick you up around six thirty.’
‘See you then. ’Bye – and good luck.’
I admired her boundless energy and stared at the telephone. Then I rubbed my aching head and wondered if women got headaches the same as men did. It was just that I had never heard them complain about it.
As I walked into the Village Pharmacy, Mrs Earnshaw was being served.
Next to her, Heathcliffe and Terry had their noses pressed against the glass counter and one-year-old Dallas Sue-Ellen Earnshaw, sitting up in her push-chair, was red in the face and making strange noises.
‘Peggy’ll serve y’, Mr Sheffield, while ah get Mrs Earnshaw’s prescription,’ said Eugene Scrimshaw. He assumed a dramatic pose at the foot of the back stairs. ‘To boldly go, Mr Sheffield,’ he said with a chuckle. The Ragley village pharmacist was fond of his split infinitive. ‘Beam me up, Peggy,’ he yelled and, with high-pitched laughter, he disappeared.
‘Ah know where ah’d like t’beam ’im,’ muttered Peggy and glowered in my direction. ‘If ’e asks me to give ’im another Vulcan salute ah’ll tell ’im where ’e can stick it.’
Eugene, a small, prematurely balding man in his late thirties, had the thickest wire-rimmed spectacles I had ever seen. They made him look like a startled owl. He was also a huge Star Trek fan and he had converted his attic into the flight deck of the Starship Enterprise. For, in the strange world of Eugene Scrimshaw, he loved acting out his role as James Tiberius Kirk, Captain of the USS Enterprise.
He had recorded the opening soundtrack of Star Trek on his Grundig reel-to-reel tape recorder. When he pressed the start button he would transport himself into the twenty-third century with his imaginary First Officer, the cool, analytical, logical Mr Spock.
Around him were life-size posters of his crew, including Lieutenant Sulu at the flight controls; chief engineer Lieutenant Commander Scott; chief medical officer Dr Leonard McCoy and the attractive, long-legged communications officer Lieutenant Uhura.
The diminutive chemist in his over-long white coat reappeared with a dark-brown glass bottle of murky-looking medicine. ‘Here y’are, Mrs Earnshaw. This’ll get Mr Earnshaw’s bowels shiftin’. This stuff ’s better than Dyno-Rod.’
‘Thank you, Mr Scrimshaw. Yurra star,’ said Mrs Earnshaw.
Heathcliffe fiddled with the cap of the bottle. ‘Ah can’t get t’lid off, Mam,’ he said in frustration.
‘Y’not s’pposed to,’ shouted Mrs Earnshaw, removing the cap with a confident twist and smelling the medicine. ‘It’s one o’ them new child-proof caps.’
Terry looked in amazement at the bottle. ‘But how does it know it’s ’Eathcliffe, Mam?’
‘C’mon, let’s get ’ome,’ said Mrs Earnshaw.
‘Go forth an’ prosper,’ recited Eugene. He raised his right hand, palm facing outwards, and, with some difficulty, he separated his second and third fingers and gave Mrs Earnshaw his V-shaped Vulcan salute.
Mrs Earnshaw smiled politely and stared wide-eyed in the direction of Peggy. It had been a long day and Peggy was clearly not impressed. She held up her right hand, pretended to throttle an invisible foe, and then proceeded to unpack a box of Erasmic aftershave foam. Had he known, Eugene would have been impressed. Peggy had clearly perfected Mr Spock’s Vulcan nerve-pinch.
‘I called in for those headache tablets, Mrs Scrimshaw,’ I said.
‘Oh yes, sorry, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, looking distracted. ‘Ah’ve got ’em ’ere,’ and she selected a packet of extra-strength aspirins from behind the counter. ‘There y’are: these’ll do t’trick.’ I put a pound note on top of the ancient till. Mrs Scrimshaw dropped the tablets into a small white paper bag and gave me my change. ‘Y’know, Mr Sheffield, ah met ’im in toiletries in Boots the Chemist,’ said Peggy with a wistful glance. ‘Ah thought ’e were normal then. Anyway, our Mary will be seven tomorrow and we’re all off to t’circus. She’s real excited. Let’s ’ope it cheers ’er up.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘and I hope you have a lovely time.’
As I left she turned her attention to stacking boxes of Setler’s indigestion tablets but, sadly, in her case they were not bringing instant relief.
On impulse, I turned left past Pratt’s Hardware Emporium and walked into Nora’s Coffee Shop. Dorothy Humpleby was standing behind the counter, fiddling with her pendulous earrings and swaying to Randy Crawford’s ‘One Day I’ll Fly Away’.
Dorothy regarded me dispassionately. ‘Y’looking down in t’dumps, Mr Sheffield.’
‘I’ve got a headache, Dorothy,’ I said.
Nora Pratt walked in from the back room, carrying her coat and scarf. She was also clutching her script for the forthcoming Ragley annual pantomime. This year it was Jack and the Beanstalk.
‘Please could I have some water, Dorothy?’ I held up the packet of aspirins. ‘I’ve just got these from the chemist.’
‘OK, Mr Sheffield, coming up,’ said Dorothy and she put a glass of water on the counter. ‘ ’E’s a right one is that chemist,’ she added and resumed fiddling with her earrings.
‘ ’E loves ’is Star Twek does Mr Scwimshaw,’ said Nora as she stuffed her script in her shopping bag.
I put two tablets in my mouth and swilled them down.
‘By the way, Mr Sheffield, Nora gorrit reight about that murderer,’ said Dorothy.
‘Pardon?’ I gulped.
‘Y’know … about who shot JR.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Nora beamed with false modesty as she pulled on her coat. She was delighted she had been the only person in the village to guess correctly who had shot J. R. Ewing in Dallas. A week ago the whole country had been glued to their television screens to discover it was Kristen who had shot television’s greatest villain.
‘Ah told yer it was Kwisten,’ said Nora. ‘Ah was weally sure.’
‘Well done, Nora,’ I said.
‘Well, it couldn’t ’ave been that Victorwia Pwincipal,’ said Nora. ‘It ’ad t’be Bing Cwosby’s daughter.’
And with that she marched out, leaving the door jingling behind her. In the darkness she began to si
ng the Neil Diamond song that was moving up the charts and was due to be a real tearjerker in the forthcoming pantomime. As she crossed the High Street, Nora looked up to the heavens and, in a piercing voice, sang, ‘Love on the wocks …’
Meanwhile, Little Malcolm walked to the juke-box, put in his five-pence piece, selected F13 and stood by the counter to wait for Dennis Waterman’s ‘I Could Be So Good For You’. ‘Two more teas, please, when y’ready, Dorothy,’ he said, ‘… an’ this record’s f ’you,’ he whispered.
‘Ooh, Malcolm. Ah love it when y’surprise me,’ said Dorothy, loud enough for every customer to hear.
Little Malcolm blushed furiously and rummaged in his donkey jacket for some more change.
‘Gerra move on, lover boy,’ shouted Big Dave from one of the far tables. ‘It’s like waiting f ’Christmas.’
‘So what’s it t’be, Mr Sheffield?’ she asked.
I surveyed the tired-looking display of pies and cakes. ‘A coffee and a bacon sandwich, please, Dorothy.’
A large mug of bubbling foam appeared on the counter. ‘Here y’are, Mr Sheffield. Ah’ll bring y’buttie straight over,’ she said, while fluttering her false eyelashes at Little Malcolm.
I walked over to an empty table where a copy of the Easington Herald & Pioneer had been left behind. The editor was proud of his eye-catching headlines and this one, ‘An end to castration’, was no exception. Next to a photograph of a young pig that looked as if it was about to burst into tears, the paragraph read, ‘The British Veterinary Association called for an end to the castration of young pigs. In the past it was done because of the lingering smell that occurred in mature boars. Now pigs are slaughtered so young that the smell no longer occurs.’
A moment later, Dorothy arrived. ‘ ’Ere’s y’bacon sandwich, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.
I stared at it, glanced back at the photograph of the tearful pig and winced. Suddenly I’d become a vegetarian.
Next door, in Pratt’s Hardware Emporium, Vera was deep in a conversation about fleas with Timothy Pratt. Timothy was the younger brother of Nora and, owing to his fanatical need for order and symmetry, was known as Tidy Tim.
04 Village Teacher Page 8
