Happiest Days

by Jack Sheffield

  Sally was reading an article about the infamous Cynthia Payne. Last month the fifty-four-year-old had been acquitted on nine charges of controlling prostitutes at her home in south-west London. Finally, after wondering what strange lives other people experienced, Sally put thoughts of organized prostitution to one side, gave in to temptation and picked up a scone.

  On the other side of the staff-room Marcus was studying an article concerning Mikhail Gorbachev. The Soviet leader’s proposals for arms cuts had been welcomed with ‘cautious optimism’ by Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher and the Foreign Secretary, Sir Geoffrey Howe, had also endorsed the initiative, although Marcus sensed it was through gritted teeth and he shook his head over the British government’s disappointing response.

  He decided not to share this snippet of news with Vera whose politics differed widely from his own. The penny had dropped last month when he saw Vera cutting out a photograph of her political heroine to add to her collection of the achievements of the venerable Margaret. Recently, the Prime Minister had visited the Centaur Clothes factory in Leeds and had attempted to machine a pocket lining. When Vera had exclaimed that Margaret’s achievements knew no bounds, Marcus had volunteered to do an extra duty on the frozen waste of the school playground – it seemed the best place for a closet socialist.

  After Ruby had put away the dining tables she walked back down the drive, where George Dainty was waiting for her.

  ‘’Ello, George, you’re a friendly face on a cold day.’

  ‘There were summat on m’mind.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Well, ah were thinkin’ o’ goin’ somewhere special for our ’oneymoon.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Ruby. ‘Y’mean like Scarborough?’

  ‘Ah were thinkin’ a bit further afield.’

  Ruby looked puzzled. ‘What, y’mean Whitby?’

  ‘Further than that,’ said George with a smile.

  ‘But there’s nowt further than that,’ said Ruby. ‘After that it’s jus’ sea.’

  ‘Ah were thinkin’ o’ tekkin’ you out o’ Yorkshire,’ said George quietly.

  ‘Out o’ Yorkshire!’ exclaimed Ruby. ‘But why?’

  ‘Well, there’s loads o’ wonderful places out there in t’big wide world.’

  ‘But not like Yorkshire,’ reasoned Ruby. ‘M’mother used t’say we’ve got ev’rything y’could ask for i’ Yorkshire.’

  They were walking across the village green and George put his arm around her shoulders. He stopped under the branches of the weeping willow that swayed gently in the breeze. ‘Ah wanted t’show you where ah’ve been all these years, Ruby. Ah’d like you t’see m’fish-an’-chip shop.’

  ‘But that’s in Spain!’

  ‘That’s right, in Alicante. That’s where m’shop T’Codfather were.’

  ‘But won’t it be ’xpensive, George?’

  ‘Mebbe a bit, Ruby, an’ ah don’t approve o’ wastin’ m’brass. It were too ’ard t’come by … but you are t’light o’ my life an’ whatever y’fancy y’can ’ave.’

  Ruby looked down at her work-red hands and sighed. No one had ever spoken to her like this before. ‘’Ow would we get there?’

  ‘On a plane,’ said George.

  ‘A plane?’

  ‘It’ll be excitin’,’ said George, ‘an’ ah’ll be sat nex’ t’you.’

  Ruby took a deep breath. ‘Oh ’eck,’ she muttered.

  There was a problem she would have to keep to herself.

  Little Malcolm was thrilled. It was the finest catch he had ever made and he looked in admiration at a magnificent bronze-coloured bream weighing almost three pounds. A shoal had been attracted by his carefully placed ground bait. Little Malcolm had used his tried and tested trick of pinching a flake of bread between finger and thumb and adding it to his hook. Subsequently, Big Dave had taken a photograph of Little Malcolm, who had been declared champion fisherman for the day.

  They sat back for a final mug of tea before packing up to return to work. Big Dave picked his moment. ‘’Ow long ’ave we been friends?’

  Little Malcolm stared once again into the shimmering surface of the canal. ‘Long as ah can remember – since we were kids.’

  ‘An’ we’ve never ’ad a cross word.’

  Little Malcolm nodded. ‘S’ppose so, Dave, never been any cause.’

  ‘Well, we might be ’avin’ one now,’ said Big Dave firmly.

  Little Malcolm looked up at his giant cousin in surprise. ‘’Ow come, Dave?’

  The time had arrived. He needed to break the chains of his pain. They were more than cousins – they were joined together like brothers and Little Malcolm was a mirror of his soul. ‘It’s your Dorothy,’ said Big Dave. ‘She needs you now more than ever.’

  Little Malcolm’s body was rigid and, as he stared at the flowing water, in an instant the colour drained from his ruddy cheeks and he became as pale as death, his eyes sunken shadows. Finally he spoke. ‘But ah don’t know what t’do, Dave – ah don’t know what t’say.’

  ‘Mebbe y’don’t ’ave t’say owt … mebbe y’jus’ ’ave to ’old ’er.’

  It was then that Big Dave put his arm around Little Malcolm’s shoulders, while in the distance only the keening cries of rooks in their high elms disturbed their cocoon of silence.

  In Diane’s Hair Salon Nellie and Dorothy were taking turns under the hair dryer while they waited for Diane to return from the General Stores after running out of cigarettes.

  Nellie was flicking through a magazine and reading Claire Rayner’s agony aunt page. It described a recipe for a healthy life. ‘It sez ’ere y’mus’ allus be true t’your partner,’ said Nellie. ‘Ah’d never be unfaithful t’my Dave.’

  There was a long pause. Dorothy was reading her Starscope.

  ‘An’ me neither wi’ my Malcolm,’ she echoed.

  Dorothy was beginning to feel a little better by the time they returned to her room above the Coffee Shop.

  Nellie switched on the television and they watched The Liver Birds, followed by Knots Landing. Chips was very upset, as his love life was becoming complicated. ‘Ah know ’ow ’e feels,’ sympathized Dorothy.

  Nellie had an idea. ‘Why don’t we ’ave a fancy tea t’night when Dave an’ Malcolm come back? Y’know, check with Nora an’ mek a night of it.’

  ‘OK, Nellie, good idea,’ said Dorothy, brightening up. ‘Nora’s jus’ got some posh buns wi’ that desecrated coconut.’

  Nellie smiled. ‘We’ll ’ave them, an’ ah’ve gorra recipe.’

  Downstairs Anita Cuthbertson and Claire Bradshaw were listening to Boy George singing ‘Everything I Own’ as they browsed through an old copy of Smash Hits magazine. Last month at the BPI Awards (which two years later would become the Brits in Grosvenor House, Dire Straits had won the best album award for Brothers In Arms, Kate Bush had been voted best female singer and Peter Gabriel was the winner of the male category. The best soundtrack was the theme from Top Gun.

  However, both girls looked in alarm at the news that AIDS was in the headlines once again. Last month Edwina Currie had announced that ‘Good Christians won’t get AIDS’, and the two young women were puzzled at the connection.

  At the end of school Karl Tomkins was walking down the drive towards the gate with Madonna Fazackerly. Mrs Tomkins was waiting for him by the gate with her fifteen-month-old daughter, Kylie, asleep in her pushchair while her dog, Flossie, cocked its leg against one of the horse chestnut trees.

  ‘Ah like your dog, Karl,’ said Madonna.

  ‘It’s a French poodle,’ said Karl. ‘M’mam says it’s a posh dog.’

  ‘We’ve gorra ’amster,’ volunteered Madonna.

  ‘A ’amster?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Madonna firmly. ‘It’s a posh mouse.’

  Madonna was taking after her mother in always making sure she came out on top in any conversation.

  I decided to tackle the document from County Hall sooner rather than later. Kenneth Baker�
�s proposed National Curriculum was certainly going to change our lives. If the Conservatives won the next election there was no doubt his ideas would be implemented and a curriculum devised by the government would be introduced. Reforms would be far-reaching, new attainment targets would become the norm and there was even a section concerning how teachers’ pay might be affected.

  I responded as best as I could, emphasizing that I hoped we could be permitted to keep the strengths of our current curriculum. Our children were encouraged to love learning and we were blessed with a fund of opportunities for first-hand experience in our little corner of the North Yorkshire countryside.

  I quoted the old Chinese proverb, ‘I hear and I forget. I see and I remember. I do and I understand.’ It was perhaps a frivolous footnote to the document but, nevertheless, it was heartfelt and I hoped someone out there might be listening.

  It was just after six o’clock when Little Malcolm walked to Ronnie’s bench and sat down. The sun had just set over the vast plain of York and the sky was turning from pink to purple as darkness gradually fell.

  He was lost in private thoughts when suddenly Dorothy appeared, wrapped up warm in her best winter anorak with the furry collar. Malcolm smiled: this was a good sign. Dorothy was wearing her favourite Wonder Woman boots and she usually wore those when she was in a good mood.

  ‘’Ow’s it gone?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Good,’ replied Little Malcolm.

  ‘Did y’catch any fish?’

  Little Malcolm nodded. ‘Two big uns.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘We chucked ’em back.’

  ‘That’s kind,’ said Dorothy.

  Little Malcolm decided not to explain the customs of coarse fishing and merely nodded.

  Dorothy moved a little closer and rested her head on his shoulder. ‘So what do you think, Malc’?’ she asked in a low voice.

  ‘’Ow d’you mean?’

  ‘Are we gonna be all right?’

  Malcolm sighed. ‘Course we are.’

  ‘Are y’sure?’

  Malcolm held her tightly. ‘We’ll be fine – ’cause ah love you … allus will.’

  It was getting dark when I left for home and saw Little Malcolm and Dorothy getting up from Ronnie’s bench and making their way back to the Coffee Shop. They were holding hands.

  Under a pale crescent moon and the cold stars, I drove home in silence and only the mournful cry of a barn owl disturbed my reverie.

  In the tap room of The Royal Oak Duggie Smith was sitting with Shane and Clint Ramsbottom. Clint was pleased with his new look, wearing his baggy ‘parachute pants’ and a collection of bright pink bangles on his wrist. It also included his new state-of-the-art Air Jordan sports shoes and just a touch of electric-blue mascara. Thanks to his home-perm kit and crimpers, his hair had moved on from a David Bowie look towards something even more artistic.

  In contrast, Shane was wearing his acid-washed jeans, Doc Marten boots and his favourite Guns N’ Roses T-shirt. In his Smash Hits magazine it had described the band as the most dangerous in the world and they were famous for ‘hedonistic rebelliousness’. Shane wondered what that might be, but whatever it was it sounded good.

  Duggie was trying to drown his sorrows. ‘She just up an’ left,’ he said mournfully.

  His woman-friend, Tina, had decided to seek pastures new.

  ‘So where’s she gone?’ asked Shane.

  ‘She’s flown t’nest,’ lamented Duggie. ‘Gone to live wi’ an ice-cream man in Walsall.’

  ‘Bloody ’ell!’ exclaimed Clint. ‘Why would she want t’go t’Poland?’

  ‘Not Warsaw, y’soft ha’porth,’ said Duggie. ‘It’s Walsall in t’Midlands, near Birmingham.’

  ‘That meks more sense,’ said Shane, nodding knowingly, although his geography was no better than his brother’s. ‘An’ they prob’bly don’t sell ice cream in Poland.’

  Clint decided it didn’t seem a good idea to pursue the sale of ice cream in the capital of Poland with his psychopath brother. ‘D’you want another pint?’ he offered.

  That evening above the Coffee Shop Nora and Nellie were making a special night of it for Little Malcolm and Dorothy. They had worked hard to prepare a special buffet from a recipe in an Ideal Home magazine they had borrowed from Diane in the Hair Salon. It featured a Tropical Turkey Salad with mandarin segments, tinned peaches, peanuts, mayonnaise, glacé cherries plus a tin of pineapple chunks. They mixed it in a bowl and served it on top of a plate of green lettuce.

  Although Big Dave looked upon it in puzzled wonderment, as it was usually egg and chips on Fridays, they all agreed it was a treat. Best of all was the sweet course: a sliced Swiss roll drenched in sherry and served with fresh pears, tinned custard, kiwi fruit and topped with grated chocolate.

  ‘What we celebratin’?’ asked Big Dave.

  Nellie smiled at Dorothy, raised her glass of Blue Nun and said simply, ‘Friends and family.’

  And a new beginning, thought Nora.

  Shortly after eight o’clock they all settled down, cosy and warm, with a hot drink and a large tin of Fox’s Speciality Chocolate & Creams Assortment while Nora switched on the latest episode of Dynasty. Together they followed the plot of Blake Carrington seeking financial backing for a natural-gas project while Joan Collins as Alexis Carrington strutted around with shoulders that resembled an American quarterback’s.

  It was then that Dorothy leaned over and kissed Little Malcolm gently on his stubbly face.

  Nellie winked at Nora while Big Dave smiled and supped his tea. Things are back to normal, he thought.

  And so it was that on that cold March evening, beneath the endless sky and under a blizzard of stars, both Dorothy and Little Malcolm understood the meaning of unconditional love.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Knowing Me, Knowing You

  End of term reading tests were completed. School closed today for the Easter holiday with 134 children on roll. The PTA supported this evening’s social event in the village hall.

  Extract from the Ragley & Morton School Logbook:

  Friday, 10 April 1987

  It was early morning on Friday, 10 April and Beth and I were on our driveway preparing to leave for the last day of the spring term. Around us the hedgerows were bursting into life and, in the distant fields, tiny lambs tottered on uncertain legs as they took their first steps. There was new life in the winter trees, while yellow petals of forsythia sparkled in the pale sunshine. The long dark days of log fires and bitter winds were over and spring had arrived in all its glory.

  Beth and I stood by our gate and looked back at our home.

  ‘Exciting times,’ she said.

  I smiled. ‘It’s going to be huge.’

  During the last week building work had begun on Bilbo Cottage. Mr Spittall and two of his labourers had arrived early and were digging out the foundations for our extension. A skip was on the road outside and they were filling it rapidly. Beth had put a spare kettle, a packet of teabags and a box of digestive biscuits on the workbench in my garden shed so they had some welcome refreshment.

  ‘There’ll be lots of room for my parents now,’ she said.

  ‘And my mother and Aunt May … and other visitors,’ I added.

  She squeezed my arm and kissed me on the cheek before climbing into her car. She wound down her driver’s window as she prepared to set off. ‘Also – maybe a little friend for John one day,’ she called out with a mischievous smile.

  In a burst of acceleration she was gone and I stood there for a moment taking in the import of her comment. My wife never failed to intrigue me. I had realized long ago that, while I would never understand women, I was certainly getting to know Beth a little more as the years went by.

  It was still on my mind as I drove away, followed almost immediately by Mrs Roberts and John William. The builders gave us a friendly wave. We had enrolled John in a new, larger nursery in Easington and Beth had relaxed after we had met the staff. They w
ere caring and supportive, while our energetic son clearly enjoyed the games, songs and activities. It had proved to be a good arrangement and Mrs Roberts was always on hand in case of an emergency. However, saying goodbye to our son each morning always tugged at the heartstrings and we both hoped the time we spent with him at weekends and school holidays in some way made up for our absence during this critical time in his development. Meanwhile, John seemed to take it all in his stride and was emerging as a happy, contented, gregarious and voluble little boy. As I drove towards Ragley I began to wonder if he might have a little brother or sister one day.

  The landscape rushed by and I stared out of the window. A slow dawn had arrived and behind the tattered clouds the distant hills were rimed with a line of molten fire. It was on the outskirts of Ragley that the sky cleared. Then the rays of light of a new day raced across the land, casting sharp shadows over the plain of York and bathing this tiny corner of ‘God’s Own Country’ in spring sunshine. Suddenly, as I turned into the High Street, a pheasant with flapping wings and a familiar harsh, shrieking cry shattered my train of thought, and I turned my attention to the busy day that lay ahead. There were reading tests to complete, report books to go out to parents and arrangements for the Easter holiday and beyond.

  In the school office Vera was dusting the frame of a beautiful watercolour painting that hung on the wall behind my desk. It had been painted five years ago by a local artist, Mary Attersthwaite, and it captured an April morning just like today with the horse chestnut trees outside school bursting into life and birds flying above our distinctive bell tower.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘A lovely morning.’

  ‘And a busy day ahead,’ I replied.

  ‘Very true, and Joyce Davenport has already been in to confirm the collection of our crockery for this evening’s event.’