Happiest Days

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘A new era,’ I mused.

  ‘Changing times,’ murmured Vera and her mind seemed elsewhere for a moment.

  Meanwhile, Vernon collected his tools and we stood back to appreciate the significance of the new name for our village school … each of us with our own private thoughts. I left Vera and Ruby by the gate while I called in to collect the mail and check that windows and doors were secure.

  A few minutes later I walked down the High Street to the General Stores, where Deke Ramsbottom was scanning the front page of his Sun newspaper. He was pleased that one of his favourite footballers, the Irish goalkeeper Pat Jennings, had been awarded an OBE on his retirement.

  ‘Grand day, Mr Sheffield,’ said Deke, touching the brim of his cowboy hat in acknowledgement. As a hardy outdoor worker, the sub-zero weather had little effect on this son of Yorkshire. ‘Ah’ll be up your way soon,’ he added, nodding towards his snow plough parked by the kerb.

  ‘Thanks, Deke, and maybe see you later for the pantomime.’

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for all t’tea in China,’ he said cheerily. ‘Ah see Malcolm an’ Dorothy ’ave got parts again. ’E were t’star turn las’ year,’ and he wandered off to clear the back roads of North Yorkshire.

  After collecting my newspaper I decided to join John in the Coffee Shop for a hot drink. When I walked in the Christmas number-one record, Jackie Wilson’s ‘Reet Petite’, was playing. John was sitting at a corner table and reading a spare copy of the Daily Mail. He was admiring a photograph of a smiling Bruce Forsyth, who was cuddling his seven-week-old son, Jonathan Joseph, before flying out of London to spend New Year in the sunshine of Puerto Rico with his wife, former Miss World Wilnelia Merced.

  ‘Another coffee, John?’ I asked.

  He gave me a thumbs-up and I approached the counter.

  ‘Two coffees please, Nora.’

  ‘Comin’ up, Mr Sheffield,’ shouted Dorothy from the far end of the counter. She looked happy and excited at the prospect of the special day ahead.

  ‘She’s like a cat wi’ two tails, Mr Sheffield,’ said Nora, ‘an’ she’s twied weally ’ard wi’ all ’er lines for t’panto. She’s kept ’er eyes to t’gwindstone.’

  I guessed she meant nose, but this was Nora’s big day of the year and it was important to show support. ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ I said.

  ‘Would y’like a pwogwamme, Mr Sheffield?’ offered Nora. ‘It’s fwee.’

  She handed over a folded A4 sheet with ‘SLEEPING BEAUTY’ printed on the front and a list of cast members inside. It read:

  Princess Aurora (Briar Rose) – Nora Pratt

  Maleficent, the evil witch who curses Princess Aurora –

  Deirdre Coe

  King Stefan, Princess Aurora’s father – Peter Miles- Humphreys

  Queen Leah, Princess Aurora’s mother – Elsie Crapper

  Prince Philip – Rupert Miles-Humphreys

  Flora, the Red Fairy – Dorothy Robinson

  Fauna, the Green Fairy – Claire Bradshaw

  Merryweather, the Blue Fairy – Anita Cuthbertson

  King’s Guard – Malcolm Robinson

  Narrator (and prompter) – Nigel Miles-Humphreys

  Chorus – Children of Ragley School

  ‘Ah’m Pwincess Auwowa,’ said Nora pointing to the first name on the list. Nora was always top of the bill. ‘An’ Tywone is comin’,’ she added proudly. Nora’s boyfriend, or as Nora called him her ‘gentleman companion’, was a short, plump, balding man in his fifties with a Bobby Charlton comb-over. Tyrone had an important job at the local chocolate factory – he was in charge of cardboard boxes.

  ‘An’ Dowothy’s playin’ Flowa the Wed Faiwy,’ said Nora.

  ‘An’ ah know m’lines off by ’eart, Mr Sheffield,’ added Dorothy proudly. ‘Me an’ Malcolm ’ave been practisin’ ev’ry night.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Dorothy,’ I said.

  ‘An’ it should be our lucky day, Mr Sheffield. Ah’m an Aquarian an’ my Malcolm is a Gemini an’ in today’s ’oroscope it says f’me “your destiny awaits”, so it mus’ mean t’panto. An’ f’Malcolm it says “be prepared for t’unexpected”.’

  I had no idea how prophetic her words would be.

  ‘So … two coffees, Mr Sheffield,’ Dorothy continued. Her face was flushed.

  ‘An’ we’ve got some Eccles cakes fwesh in,’ added Nora, nodding towards a towering plate behind the display case.

  But when were they made? I wondered. ‘Go on, I’ll have two please.’

  Dorothy suddenly disappeared into the back room and I noticed a flicker of concern in Nora’s eyes. No one knew Dorothy better than our Coffee Shop owner. She had been everything a mother should be to her young assistant since her arrival at her door as a disturbed teenager. Dorothy had been a little off-colour that morning but had insisted on doing her morning shift.

  ‘Two fwothy coffees comin’ up,’ said Nora, ‘and two Eccles cakes fwesh in on Monday,’ she added proudly. For a moment she looked longingly at the Eccles cakes but resisted the temptation. After all, she had to look after her figure. She gave me my change and hurried into the back room to check on Dorothy.

  When John and I got up to leave, Madonna was singing ‘True Blue’ on the old juke-box and it occurred to me that Vera would have approved of the title.

  Up the Morton Road, Petula Dudley-Palmer was also thinking about her figure. Her two daughters had attended Ragley School and had moved on to the Time School for Girls in York at the age of eleven. Petula was reading her Woman’s Weekly and learning that, according to a survey of six thousand readers, the average female was five feet four inches tall, wore size sixteen dresses and measured a cuddly 37, 30, 40. Apparently an M&S spokeswoman noted that they had noticed a trend towards bigger busts after checking the sales of bras.

  The magazine also reported that Sarah Ferguson had been voted the girl with the most gorgeous figure, namely, ‘a warm, well-rounded laughing delight’. Petula was disappointed that Princess Diana was in second place.

  After donning her new lime-green leisure suit and Chris Evert trainers, Petula stared at her reflection and found it reassuring that her regular fitness routine had transformed her figure. She was beginning to turn heads again, including that of her husband. It’s a pity he was unfaithful, she thought, and recalled happier days in years gone by. She glanced at the hall table. There were three tickets for the evening pantomime, for herself and her two daughters, and she sighed. There used to be four tickets.

  On the Crescent Anne Grainger was about to leave to help with preparations for the pantomime. She had arranged to meet Pat and Sally at the village hall to go through a rehearsal with the group of children who had volunteered to be in the chorus line. The producer, Felicity Miles-Humphreys, had insisted on a simple dance routine to the accompaniment of the Bangles’ ‘Walk Like an Egyptian’. However, much to her dismay, two of the five-year-olds, Cheyenne Blenkinsop and Kylie Ogden, had both been blessed with two left feet.

  ‘I’m going now, John,’ shouted Anne from the hallway.

  There was no answer, just a hammering from the garage. Anne’s DIY-fanatic husband had begun a new project, a cumbersome wine rack that Anne hoped would stay out of sight. She popped her head round the garage door and John looked up.

  ‘Will you be coming with me to the pantomime?’ she asked.

  John shook his head. ‘I want to finish this.’

  ‘But you said you would come.’

  John rubbed his bearded face. Flecks of sawdust drifted down from his curly, unkempt beard. ‘No thanks – there’s better things to do.’

  Too right, thought Anne and slammed the door as she left.

  It was then she decided that on the way to the village hall she would use the public telephone outside the Post Office. She was in need of a sympathetic ear and possibly companionship.

  When John and I left the Coffee Shop, Claire Bradshaw and Anita Cuthbertson gave me a wave. ‘See you at the panto, sir,’ called Cl
aire.

  It was rumoured that Claire was now engaged to Kenny Kershaw. Apparently it was supposed to be a secret, but in a close-knit village such as Ragley it had quickly become common knowledge.

  ‘Good luck,’ I said, waving the programme. ‘I see you’re in it.’

  ‘We’re a couple o’ fairies,’ said Anita with a grin.

  John looked back at me and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘we’ve got an hour to finish painting King Stefan’s castle.’ He didn’t appear full of enthusiasm. ‘Or you could go back to Diane and pick me up later.’

  ‘No thanks,’ he said quickly, ‘I’d rather paint a castle.’

  An hour later John and I had not only painted a reasonably convincing representation of King Stefan’s castle but also, on another sheet of hardboard, a dense, dark forest as a backdrop for the evil fairy Maleficent. We stood back to admire our efforts and, as we put on our coats, the dress rehearsal began.

  As usual, it wasn’t going to plan, with the added complication that Dorothy wasn’t feeling well and had gone back to the Coffee Shop to lie down. ‘I need someone to read the part of first fairy,’ announced Felicity in a strident voice. For a moment she stared expectantly in our direction as John and I headed for the door. However, common sense prevailed and Felicity decided against it. ‘Everyone, please take your places for the opening number and I’ll read Flora’s part.’ As we hurried out, Nora was singing ‘Lady in Wed’, which, sadly, bore little relation to Chris de Burgh’s number-one hit.

  It was 2.15 p.m. and in Morton Manor Vera switched the television to BBC2 and settled down in her favourite armchair to enjoy an afternoon of peace and contentment.

  The Bolshoi in the Park was about to start, with highlights from Sleeping Beauty, Les Sylphides and other ballets. It occurred to Vera that the elegance of this particular production of Sleeping Beauty was a world away from the one in store that evening in Ragley village hall.

  Two hours later in Bilbo Cottage, John, Diane and Beth were settled on the sofa in front of a crackling log fire watching Skating ’86. It featured Robin Cousins, who had been joined by other international skating stars to raise funds for famine relief. Meanwhile, I was on my hands and knees with young John, playing with his train set in the hallway.

  Eventually, we gathered round the kitchen table and, after a warming meal of Diane’s home-made leek and potato soup with crusty bread, Beth and I set off in her VW Golf for Ragley’s cultural treat of the year – the annual pantomime.

  Tickets were 50p each and we took our seats. Timothy Pratt turned out the lights, switched on the single spotlight and the pantomime began. It followed the usual format, with some dreadful acting and lively audience participation. Deirdre Coe would have been booed even if she had not played the part of Maleficent. While the three fairies and Little Malcolm were cheered to the rafters, the highlight was undoubtedly the small children doing their dance routine. Uncoordinated and out of step it may have been, but this was a Ragley village audience and the standing ovation was well deserved.

  For once the storyline was a familiar one and easy to follow. Felicity’s younger son, Nigel, was the official narrator and was dressed as a cross between the American singer P. J. Proby and a medieval minstrel. He kept appearing at the side of the stage, hitching up his baggy green tights and describing the next scene. ‘The young Princess Aurora is cursed by the evil fairy, Maleficent,’ he recited. This was followed by boos and hisses as the decidedly unpopular Deirdre Coe clumped around the stage and waved her magic wand in the direction of Julie Tricklebank’s doll. Fortunately the doll was rescued by the three good fairies, Claire, Anita and Dorothy, to raucous cheers from the audience.

  Soon Nigel was on his feet again, explaining that sixteen years had passed and Princess Aurora had grown into a beautiful young woman. It was then that Nora made her first appearance, to enthusiastic applause.

  ‘She dunt look sixteen,’ commented Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough from the back row. The rest of the football team nodded in agreement.

  ‘An’ she’s bustin’ out o’ that corset,’ added Shane Ramsbottom.

  Vera turned from the third row and frowned and the comments died down. Then Nora launched into the Berlin hit record and sang ‘Take My Bweath Away’. There was suppressed laughter from the football team at the back of the hall, quickly drowned out by vigorous applause led by Tyrone Crabtree in the second row.

  ‘And the young princess fell into a deep sleep,’ announced Nigel.

  Nora flopped down on an old sofa, watched over by three distressed fairies.

  ‘Only true love’s kiss can awaken the princess from her enchanted sleep,’ proclaimed Nigel with gravitas.

  Big Dave Robinson was sitting with Nellie on the third row directly behind Tyrone Crabtree. Nora’s boyfriend was awestruck, staring up at the woman of his dreams. Big Dave leaned forward, tapped Tyrone on the shoulder and whispered in his ear, ‘You should give her one.’

  Tyrone flushed profusely.

  ‘’E means give Nora a kiss, Tyrone,’ added Nellie gently.

  She gave her huge hulk of a husband a look he knew so well, and Big Dave settled back in his seat suitably chastened.

  ‘The handsome Prince Philip arrived on his sturdy steed,’ continued Nigel in a loud voice. Behind the curtain, Felicity’s other son Rupert, the lanky six-feet-four-inch supermarket shelf-stacker and would-be actor, suddenly began to bang together two halves of a coconut and ran on to the stage. Unfortunately he was still holding the coconut as he delivered his opening line: ‘Behold, who is this fair young maiden?’

  ‘It’s grab-a-granny time,’ shouted Chris ‘Kojak’ Wojciechowski, the Bald-Headed Ball Wizard, from the back row, followed by laughter.

  Undeterred, Rupert hid the coconut behind his back, knelt down and gave Nora a hasty and unconvincing peck on the cheek.

  Nora awoke and sat up quickly. ‘Oooh, a handsome pwince,’ she said. ‘’Ave you come to wescue me?’

  Beth whispered, ‘I thought he was supposed to be captured by Maleficent.’

  ‘That’s coming next,’ I said knowingly. ‘I painted the dragon’s cave.’

  We looked back to the stage. ‘Yes, I have,’ said Rupert boldly, ‘but first I have to do battle with Maleficent.’

  ‘Told you so,’ I said and Beth gave me a dig in the ribs.

  Nigel stood up and read from his script: ‘Prince Philip rode off to the castle of Maleficent.’

  Rupert looked down at the coconut and pranced off to huge cheers, tapping his shells together.

  The curtains closed as Nigel walked to the centre of the stage and made a dramatic announcement.

  ‘Prince Philip is a prisoner in Maleficent’s castle, where the evil fairy descends to her cave and transforms herself into a fire-breathing dragon.’

  There were noises behind the curtain as my sheet of eight-by-four hardboard was dragged on to the stage by Felicity and her son.

  Undeterred by the sound of Rupert shouting, ‘Oh Mother, you’ve laddered my tights,’ Nigel pressed on.

  ‘Prince Philip is forced to face her in mortal combat.’

  The curtains opened and Rupert, holding up his shredded tights in one hand and a plywood sword in the other, struck a pose to face the fierce dragon – Deirdre Coe wearing a cardboard dragon’s head.

  It was then that a strange commotion began backstage. The curtains were closed abruptly and a few moments of silence followed.

  Suddenly, on the steps leading from the side of the stage, Felicity appeared with Malcolm. ‘Turn on the lights,’ she shouted to Timothy. Between them they were helping Dorothy into the auditorium and heading for the exit. A coat had been thrown round her shoulders and she was clutching her stomach, clearly in a lot of pain.

  Alarm spread through the audience like wildfire.

  Nora was just behind them. ‘Tywone,’ she shouted, ‘go out an’ get y’car. We ’ave t’get Dowothy to the ’ospital.’

  The pantomi
me had stopped and actors, children and the audience had begun to mill around in confusion. It was clear that something was seriously wrong, but York hospital was only twenty minutes away.

  ‘Malcolm, Malcolm!’ cried Dorothy.

  ‘Come on, luv,’ said Malcolm. ‘We’ll sort it.’

  Nellie reacted quickly. She grabbed Big Dave’s elbow. ‘Dave, come on, we ’ave to ’elp,’ and they both rushed out.

  Beth and I hurried to the exit, where Nellie shouted in my direction, ‘Mr Sheffield, Malcolm’s got t’car keys. Can y’give me an’ Dave a lift?’

  Beth’s car was parked immediately outside the village hall and she gave me the keys. ‘You take them, Jack. I’ll get a lift home. Stay with them for as long as it takes.’

  It made sense for one of us to get home and I could see the concern in her eyes. ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  Tyrone had driven off at speed with Nora next to him and Malcolm doing his best to comfort Dorothy in the back seat. Meanwhile, Nellie was almost dragging Big Dave out on to the pavement. Like Malcolm, he looked stunned, as if he couldn’t take in everything that was happening.

  I opened Beth’s car. ‘Get in,’ I said. Big Dave and Nellie jumped into the back seat and in a few moments we were speeding down the A19 towards York.

  An hour later we were sitting in a corridor. Dorothy had been taken into one of the wards and Little Malcolm had been told to wait outside. There was a hot-drinks machine and I approached Big Dave and Little Malcolm and offered them two beakers of sweet tea. Big Dave gave a nod of thanks and urged Little Malcolm to take a reluctant sip.

  Nora and Tyrone sat together on the other side of the corridor. Nora was white-faced with anxiety. Time ticked by as we waited for news.

  Finally, just before midnight, a nurse spoke quietly to Little Malcolm and ushered him into the ward. It seemed to take an age, but finally he reappeared and sat down with his head in his hands.

  ‘We’ve lost our baby,’ he said in almost a whisper.

  Nellie was holding his hand. ‘What about Dorothy?’ she asked.