On this occasion all the staff went out on playground duty while the children played in the snow. It was a happy time, during which, as adults, we were reminded that children somehow don’t feel the cold when they are making snowmen. Meanwhile, we clutched our mugs of hot coffee and stamped our feet in our sub-zero corner of North Yorkshire.
After morning break our school nurse, Sue Phillips, called in to check the general health of the children. As always, she was smart in her light blue uniform with a spotless white apron. She looked every inch our school nurse with her sensible, black lace-up shoes and a navy blue belt that sported a precious buckle depicting, appropriately, the God of Wind.
The first child was five-year-old Noel Crump from Morton.
Sue checked his name on the register. ‘How are you, Noel?’ she asked with a gentle smile.
‘I’m fine thanks, Miss,’ said the confident Noel, ‘how about you?’
‘Er, yes, I’m fine too,’ replied Sue, a little taken aback. ‘Now, I would like you to stand on one foot.’
Noel looked down. ‘Which one, Miss?’
‘I don’t mind,’ said Sue, ‘you choose.’
Noel stepped forward a short pace and stood firmly on Sue’s left shoe. ‘There y’are, Miss,’ he said politely. The last thing his mother had said to him that morning was ‘Always do exactly as you’re told.’
Ask a daft question, thought Sue, as she looked down at her scuffed shoe.
Meanwhile, on the High Street, Betty Buttle and Margery Ackroyd were standing outside the General Stores when Petula Dudley-Palmer drove past in her Rolls-Royce.
‘There she goes in ’er big car,’ noted Betty.
‘There was a time when she wouldn’t say boo to a goose,’ reflected Margery knowingly, ‘but she’s changed.’
‘She ’as that,’ agreed Betty.
‘An’ she stands up t’that two-timin’ ’usband of ’ers.’
‘Ah ’eard talk that she’s jus’ bought a continental quilt,’ said Betty.
‘That’s posh,’ said Margery.
‘Mus’ be foreign,’ added Betty as an afterthought.
Meanwhile, in the staff-room during lunchtime Marcus and Pat were scanning through the December issue of Personal Computer World. For Marcus, on a modest teacher’s salary, at £1.10 it was his monthly luxury. They were staring in awe at a photograph of Apple’s new state-of-the-art computer.
‘It’s the Mac Plus,’ said Marcus, his eyes wide with excitement.
‘One megabyte of RAM,’ said Pat, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Just imagine that.’
Anne glanced up at me from her Yorkshire Purchasing Organization catalogue and gave me a familiar wide-eyed stare. Our younger colleagues appeared to be talking a foreign language. She smiled and returned to the price of powder paint.
‘Sounds impressive,’ I said, keen to show interest.
Marcus nodded. ‘It’s got a new keyboard.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘with cursors and a numeric alphabet.’
‘How much is it?’ I asked.
‘The price is in dollars,’ said Pat. ‘It’s two thousand six hundred … a bit out of our league.’
Anne mumbled something under her breath as she turned the page and began her search for the cheapest HB pencils.
I walked into the entrance hall, where I was surprised to see Stan Coe leaning against the display board. His filthy oilskin coat had creased and marked Sally’s arrangement of winter posters.
It was clear from the outset that Stan was agitated. However, he managed a fixed smile.
‘Yes, Mr Coe?’
‘Ah’ve come in as a good neighbour.’
‘Oh yes?’
His wellington boots were covered in slush and something that smelled a little more toxic. Ruby would not be pleased with the state of the floor, so I had no wish to invite him into the office.
‘Even though ah’ll be out o’ pocket,’ he added.
‘What is it you wish to discuss?’ I was mindful that, regardless of whatever had gone on before, he was a member of the school governing body.
‘Can ah jus’ point summat out t’you?’ He gestured with a grubby finger to the small window at the end of the entrance hall. From it we could look out on the school field. I followed him and we stared out. ‘It’s your ol’ bit o’ fencin’,’ he said. ‘Ah’m sure you’ll agree it’s in a bad state.’
I nodded in agreement. ‘It’s certainly seen better days – but that’s something the County Maintenance Department check on from time to time.’
‘That may be so, Mr Sheffield, but you’ll recall ah own t’land jus’ t’other side an’ ah’m wantin’ t’tidy it up – so ah were thinkin’ a new fence would benefit us both.’
I was surprised at such a charitable notion. ‘Well, I suppose it would, but you’d have to discuss it with the local authority. I presume County Hall would be involved, plus the local planning department?’
‘Yes, ah understand all that,’ he said a little too quickly. ‘What ah’m jus’ checkin’ t’day is that you’d be ’appy wi’ a smart new fence.’
‘Well, yes, I would look kindly on any improvement to the grounds that would benefit the school and the children, so long as the authorities agree.’
He nodded and gave me that forced smile once again.
It appeared his business was concluded and he shuffled back to the entrance door. ‘Allus good t’talk, Mr Sheffield, an’ good to ’ear you agree wi’ t’proposal.’
With that he walked out into the snow and I was left to ponder on an unexpected conversation.
During the last half hour of the school day I had just finished reading a chapter of Clive King’s Stig of the Dump to my class when Stuart Ormroyd called out, ‘Billy McNeill comin’ up t’drive, Mr Sheffield.’
When I walked into the entrance hall, Billy was waiting for me. He had just passed his sixteenth birthday and stood there in his best suit and Doc Marten boots with air-cushioned soles that were his pride and joy. He was clutching a large envelope.
‘Hello, Billy,’ I said. ‘You’re looking smart.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘M’mother wondered if you’d ’ave a look at these forms for me, please.’
He handed over the envelope.
‘Yes, fine, Billy.’ I knew Mrs McNeill and remembered she had told me that her husband had left home many years ago with his ‘fancy piece’.
‘Ah want t’join the Army nex’ year, sir. It says if y’get three O-levels then ah can be a Technician Apprentice an’ there’s good promotion prospects an’ you’ll get self-respect an’ m’mam says they’ll tek sixteen-year-olds.’
He explained he had seen an advertisement in the back of one of Dorothy’s old Smash Hits that were piled on a shelf near the door of the Coffee Shop, next to Nora’s collection of Woman magazines.
‘I’m pleased to help, Billy. Can you come back tomorrow? I’ll have looked at this by then.’
‘Thanks, sir,’ he said. ‘Ah’m very grateful,’ and he hurried off into the darkness.
I had a lot on my mind as I drove home that evening, not least the unexpected meeting with Stan Coe. That apart, it had been a successful start for the children of Ragley and Morton. It was a new beginning and I felt optimistic. Above me the bright, eerie light of a crescent moon, like a spectre of the night, shone between the skeletal branches and cast flickering shadows across the frozen road.
It was Tuesday morning and there had been a fresh snowfall. When I arrived at school and had parked my car I stopped and smiled. There were two pairs of footprints in the snow heading towards the cycle shed. George Frith was there again, but this time he was not alone. Barry Stonehouse was crouched alongside and they were studying a picture in Barry’s comic of He-Man and a model of a Blaster Hawk from Masters of the Universe.
‘Hello, boys.’
‘Good morning, sir,’ said George.
‘Hello, Mr Sheffield,’ said Barry. ‘Ah came i
n early t’keep George company.’
George smiled up at me. ‘Yes sir … we’re friends.’
Chapter Ten
Too Many Cooks
A note was sent to parents relating to the PTA Celebrity Cookbook Project.
Extract from the Ragley & Morton School Logbook:
Monday, 19 January 1987
It was a frozen dawn and the pale sun in the east touched the land with cool fingertips. The line of light was a golden thread as it crested the ridge of the distant hills and a monochrome snowscape stretched out to the far horizon. Thin trails of wood smoke rose towards a gun-metal sky while the villagers of Ragley huddled round their log fires. It was a cold and hostile world and the small creatures found shelter wherever they could. The bitter rhythms of a Siberian winter had scoured the land of life.
When John Kettley had delivered his Countryfile weather forecast just over a week ago on 11 January, he had said, ‘The only bright thing on this forecast is my tie!’ How true! Our favourite weatherman had predicted correctly that we were in for freezing temperatures and a week of blizzards. The following day had been one of the coldest in living memory, with sub-zero temperatures for the whole of the UK. However, on this Monday morning as I drove to school the temperature had begun to rise again and in spite of a fresh snowfall there was hope that the worst had passed.
In Bilbo Cottage Beth had left early for school and left me to give John his breakfast while waiting for Mrs Roberts to arrive. It seemed appropriate that on the radio The Communards were singing ‘So Cold the Night’.
Three miles away in Ruby’s house, Radio 1 was on full blast. Natasha had tuned in as usual to Mike Smith’s Breakfast Show and she was swaying her hips to Alison Moyet’s ‘Is This Love?’ while frying bacon and thinking of our local bobby, PC Julian Pike, and the tickle of his moustache.
In complete contrast, in Morton Manor Vera was sipping her Earl Grey tea as she hummed along to the tranquil sounds of a Boccherini string quartet on Radio 3. We were all beginning our day differently; however, we were destined to end it in the same way.
It was a slow journey to Ragley and I needed petrol, so I pulled in at Victor Pratt’s garage. His assistant, Kenny, was clearing the forecourt with a snow shovel. He propped it against the garage wall and removed the nozzle from the single pump.
‘Mornin’, Mr Sheffield, what’ll it be?’ Kenny appeared to be thriving as a car mechanic.
‘Fill her up please, Kenny.’
Victor lumbered out after him. ‘Bit sharp this mornin’,’ he remarked.
‘Yes, it’s certainly cold,’ I conceded as a bitter wind blew and my face began to freeze. However, this was all in a day’s work for our local car mechanics.
‘An’ m’bronchials are playin’ up,’ went on Victor. ‘M’tubes get blocked in winter. Ah need some goose grease.’
Kenny grinned – he had grown used to Victor’s complaints by now. I offered the usual sympathy, paid Kenny and drove off.
Vera was checking the morning post, which included a note from Mrs Earnshaw. It read, ‘Please excuse our Dallas from school as she has loose vowels.’ She smiled, made a note on her pad and looked up as Ruby popped her head round the door.
‘Mornin’, Mrs F,’ she said. ‘Bit parky t’day.’
‘It certainly is, Ruby, and how are you?’
Ruby considered this for a moment. ‘Fair t’middlin’,’ she said, ‘’part from our Duggie.’
‘Oh dear, is he unwell?’
‘Not ’xactly – jus’ a bit soft in the ’ead.’
‘And why is that?’ asked Vera, wondering what was coming next.
‘’E’s started seein’ that Tina from Thirkby again. ’Er what works in t’mattress factory.’
‘I see,’ said Vera, but in truth she didn’t.
‘An’ you’ll recall she works part-time at Tattooes-While-U-Wait in York an’ ’e’s ’ad TINA tattooed on ’is bum.’
Vera was speechless.
‘’E said it were a token of ’is undyin’ love.’
‘Have you met this lady, Ruby? Perhaps she’s what people call a rough diamond. It may be she has a heart of gold.’ Vera generally found some good in people.
‘Mebbe so, but it’s ’ard t’find out ’cause she never shuts up. She could talk ’til t’cows turn blue.’
Vera presumed this was a long time in anyone’s vocabulary, and Ruby hurried out to check the school boiler.
It was just after the bell for morning school that Vera opened the last letter in the pile on her desk. It made her shiver with excitement – it was almost too good to be true.
She read it again and again and sighed.
How wonderful, she thought.
An hour later, in Class 1, Anne was with her reception children and following up a television broadcast about animals.
‘Can you name an animal with whiskers?’
Kylie Ogden’s hand shot up.
‘Yes, Kylie,’ said Anne, pleased with the little girl’s enthusiasm.
‘My grandma, Miss.’
Anne sighed. I’ll rephrase that, she thought.
Next door, in Pat’s class, the children were busy completing a mathematics lesson.
‘Let’s do some mental arithmetic,’ said Pat. ‘We’ve got a few minutes before assembly.’
‘Will they be easy, middlin’ or ’ard, Miss?’ asked Alfie Spraggon.
‘Let’s start with an easy one,’ said Pat with an encouraging smile. ‘Twelve more than six.’
Alfie’s hand was first in the air. ‘Yes, Miss,’ he shouted out.
‘What do you mean, Alfie?’ asked Pat.
‘Ah mean, yes, Miss – twelve is more than six.’
It was shortly before assembly that Pat announced that it was Tracey Higginbottom’s sixth birthday. Tracey was keen to share news of her present. ‘My mummy bought me a rabbit,’ she said. ‘It’s called Fifi and my dad said it sounded French.’
‘Yes, I suppose it does,’ said Pat.
Tracey frowned. ‘Miss, do French rabbits speak French?’
The bell rescued Pat by providing time to consider a helpful response.
I was on duty, so I wrapped up warm in my duffel coat and scarf, collected my coffee and crunched down the frozen cobbled drive to stand by the school gate. Above me wisps of clouds drifted by like the breath of ghosts. Beyond the village green, Ragley High Street was rimed in ice and, in spite of the hint of warmer weather to come, my breath steamed in a frozen world. The villagers had a phlegmatic view of the extremes of winter weather in North Yorkshire. They called it the ‘killing cold’. It was accepted that this was simply the way of things, and each year it took away the elderly and the weak.
As I stood at the gate I spotted an old but beautifully maintained racing-green Citroën DS. It was a distinctive car, and one of them had been credited with saving the life of French President General Charles de Gaulle when terrorist bullets had exploded the tyres but the hydropneumatic suspension had kicked in and his driver had managed an escape. However, this was clearly far from the mind of the distinguished grey-haired man at the wheel of this one as it moved carefully over the snow and ice on the High Street. I remembered I had seen this car before, but it didn’t seem important at the time.
Meanwhile, undeterred by the Arctic weather, children played, made slides, threw snowballs and enjoyed their games. Stuart Ormroyd was peering through the railings towards The Royal Oak. He beckoned me to join him. ‘Posh car, Mr Sheffield,’ he said, pointing towards the green Citroën. It had parked outside our local pub. ‘Ah’ve seen it a few times, sir. Ah wonder whose it is.’
Stuart was an observant little boy and loved his cars.
‘I don’t know, Stuart, but it’s a French car, a Citroën DS, and it must be quite old because they stopped making them in 1975.’
Stuart considered this. ‘So it’s older than me, sir,’ and with a grin he ran off to make a snowman with George Frith and Barry Stonehouse.
In the staff-room
Vera was in a state of high excitement and Marcus sat down with Anne, Sally and Pat to await her news.
Vera held up a sheet of cream headed notepaper. ‘A wonderful surprise, everyone: Mrs Thatcher has replied – or at least her secretary has. Our Prime Minister will be too busy with matters of state.’
‘Is it for the recipe booklet?’ asked Marcus.
‘Yes, it’s a response to the letter from Katie Parrish,’ and Vera proceeded to read it aloud:
10 Downing Street,
LONDON SW1A 2AA
Dear Katie
The Prime Minister has asked me to thank you for your recent letter and to send the enclosed recipe for Orange & Walnut Cake with her best wishes.
The Office of Margaret Thatcher
It was Sally who had encouraged a letter-writing project for the children in the top two classes as part of a Celebrity Cookbook project in conjunction with the PTA. It had seemed a good idea with lots of positive cross-curricular initiatives, including English, mathematics and domestic science. The children had each written to a celebrity of their choice and requested a recipe for a PTA recipe booklet.
‘That’s wonderful news, Vera!’ exclaimed Anne.
It was clear how much this meant to our true blue secretary and even Sally kept her thoughts to herself.
‘So, how many replies have we got now?’ asked Pat.
‘That’s sixteen with Mrs Thatcher, so I’ll start to prepare the booklet,’ said Vera.
Everyone nodded hesitantly … while Sally frowned.
Thirty minutes later Vera had produced the following letter to parents:
Dear Parents
CELEBRITY COOKBOOK
You will be pleased to know we have received the following replies to the children’s letters and the PTA will be producing a booklet of recipes based on the responses:
Judi Dench (Katie Icklethwaite) Barbados Cream
Anne Diamond (Jemima Poole) Cheese & Tomato Sandwich
Happiest Days Page 14
