Several runners-up were announced, including Shane Ramsbottom, who had dug out his dad’s mothballed Teddy-boy outfit and arrived as a member of Showaddywaddy, and Old Tommy Piercy, who had put on his best suit, stuck his familiar pipe in his mouth and arrived as Harold Wilson. In contrast, Vera was not pleased to receive applause as the final runner-up for her Margaret Thatcher outfit, especially as she was wearing her normal clothes.
The evening was a success, and Big Dave had to return to The Royal Oak for a second barrel of Chestnut Mild. Meanwhile, in the far corner of the hall, George and Ruby were deep in conversation.
‘Summat’s up,’ said George, looking concerned. ‘Mrs F ’as said we need t’talk.’
Ruby shook her head. ‘M’mother allus said, “There’ll be tears afore bedtime.” So ah don’t want no argy-bargy, George.’
George took her hand in his. ‘There’ll never be owt like that, Ruby. So, tell me, why are y’frettin’?’
‘Ah’m not sure ah can say.’
‘Y’can tell me.’
‘You’ll think ah’m daft.’
‘Ah would never think that.’
Ruby took a deep breath. ‘Well … it’s flyin’ – ah’m scared o’ flyin’.’
George looked relieved. It was exactly as Mrs Forbes-Kitchener had said. ‘Is that all? Well, we can soon sort that.’
‘Ah’m sorry, George, ah were jus’ a bit nervous.’
‘No, it were my fault,’ said George. ‘Ah were rushin’ things. So – where would y’like t’go?’
Clint put ‘Message In a Bottle’ by The Police on the turntable and Ruby looked up into the disco light. ‘Once, when ah were a young girl, we went on a lovely ’oliday.’
‘And where were that – where did y’go?’
‘Whitby, George – it were Whitby.’
The evening was drawing to a close and Abba’s 1976 hit ‘Knowing Me, Knowing You’ was on the turntable. Clint turned up the volume.
‘This record is about the break-up of a relationship, Jack,’ said Beth.
‘I hope that’s not the case with Ruby,’ I said. ‘She was upset today.’
‘Whatever the problem is, at least they’re discussing it,’ she replied pointedly. ‘Perhaps that’s what we need to do.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Know each other a little more.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Beth smiled. ‘That’s part of your charm, Jack. You never did.’
I held her close and felt the whisper of skin beneath her silk blouse. The scent of her perfume, Rive Gauche by Yves Saint Laurent, filled my senses.
She gently stroked my lapels and looked up at me expectantly.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Don’t you know?’
Then she stretched up and kissed me on the lips, gossamer-soft yet firm with the need of lovers.
Chapter Fourteen
Cambridge Blues
The headteacher checked doors and windows for security and collected mail. Mrs Grainger and Mrs Pringle will take charge of the school choir during the Easter Sunday service at St Mary’s Church, as the headteacher is visiting Hampshire.
Extract from the Ragley & Morton School Logbook:
Wednesday, 15 April 1987
Hand in hand we stood to admire this city of ancient beauty. Our journey to Cambridge had been a release for us both.
It was just the two of us, as Beth’s parents had spent a short holiday at Bilbo Cottage prior to returning to their home in Hampshire with our son, John. He was to spend a few days with his grandparents and seemed excited by the prospect when he waved goodbye. On Wednesday morning, 15 April, I had collected mail from the school and checked it for security prior to packing for our journey south.
Bright and early on Maundy Thursday we had departed for a one-night break in one of England’s finest cities, with its stunning architecture of chapels, courtyards and gardens. After checking into a small hotel on Trumpington Street, it was early afternoon when we set off in the sunshine for the market place in the heart of the city. We had arranged to meet Marcus Potts in his favourite coffee shop. What we didn’t expect was the beautiful young woman sitting by his side.
Marcus stood up and waved, and we made our way through the crowds of ambling tourists to his table. He looked relaxed in an old blue cord suit. A slim young woman, shorter than Marcus, was standing beside him. She had long fair hair and was casually dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt that professed ‘Peace & Love’.
‘This is Fiona,’ said Marcus with a shy smile.
It was clear from his demeanour that he was ‘smitten’, as Ruby would say, while Fiona appeared oblivious to his attention. Although quite tiny, we soon realized she had a huge personality. She waved now to the waitress, who nodded in recognition and four coffees arrived almost as we took our seats.
‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ she said, ‘and thanks for believing in Potty. It was the opportunity he had been looking for.’
‘Potty?’ I enquired. Fiona grinned, Marcus blushed profusely and Beth gave me a hard stare.
‘My nickname at uni, I’m afraid,’ murmured Marcus.
Introductions over, we relaxed, ate our sandwiches, sipped our coffee and learned much about this self-assured young woman. Like Marcus, she had completed her studies at Emmanuel College and had moved on to a business degree at Harvard in America. She had flown home for the Easter holiday to spend time with her father, a professor at King’s College. Ten years ago her mother had died of cancer and she had become the dominant female in the household. For a time Fiona waxed lyrical about her city of revolutionary thinkers such as Isaac Newton and Charles Darwin. Then, over a second coffee, she regaled us with stories of Frank Whittle’s first jet engine and Ernest Rutherford splitting the atom. All the while Marcus hung on her every word and Beth gave me a knowing, wide-eyed stare. I had seen a new side to our recently appointed teacher. He was clearly in love and his heartache was palpable.
‘It’s a lovely day,’ said the vivacious Fiona. ‘Shall we explore?’
Marcus insisted on paying for our refreshments and Fiona slipped on a skimpy leather jacket. We strolled towards St Andrew’s Street and into Emmanuel College. Although we were only a few paces from the vibrant city centre, we entered a world of peace among beautiful trees, extensive lawns and medieval buildings.
Immediately, Fiona took the lead. ‘We have a slightly incongruous chapel,’ she said with a grin. ‘It points north–south, which reflects the nonconformity of the early seventeenth century.’
It was simply magnificent, the stuff of dreams, and I envied the students who had the opportunity to be part of this historic seat of learning. Founded in 1584 on the site of a Dominican priory by Sir Walter Mildmay, who was Chancellor of the Exchequer to Elizabeth I, it was now a mixed college and had been for the past seven years.
Fiona proved to be the perfect guide, with Marcus chipping in on occasions. We stopped by the pond in the Paddock on the site of what was once the friars’ fishpond, and she told us how in the seventeenth century many Emmanuel scholars had been Puritans and sought refuge from persecution in America.
‘One of them was John Harvard,’ she explained. ‘After gaining his degree here, he married and moved to New England in 1637.’
‘It was there he provided the funds for America’s first university,’ added Marcus.
Fiona nodded. ‘Yes, sadly he died young but he bequeathed his library and one half of his estate to the new college.’
‘Hence the links between the two universities,’ finished off Marcus.
‘I had heard of John Harvard,’ said Beth, ‘but I confess I didn’t know much about him.’
‘What’s it like at Harvard?’ I asked.
‘Simply wonderful,’ enthused Fiona. ‘Lots of new friends, a challenging course and a passport into the world of business.’
‘And what is it you hope to do?’ asked Beth.
‘Something in the financial
sector, perhaps in London or New York,’ said Fiona breathlessly. Life was an adventure for this dynamic young woman and the doting Marcus appeared to be no more that flotsam in her wake. It was clear that both their hearts were restless – but for different reasons.
‘Shall we go down to the river?’ suggested Marcus.
‘Good idea,’ agreed Fiona and took his hand. I had never seen Marcus look so happy. Beth and I followed the young couple as they wandered along Sidney Street towards Bridge Street and we stopped outside The Pickerel Inn.
‘Interesting place,’ said Marcus. ‘It used to be an opium den and a gin palace.’
‘And even a brothel,’ added Fiona with a mischievous smile.
Marcus blinked and Fiona took his hand more firmly and strode off towards Magdalene Bridge. Down below us on the quayside tourists were queuing for a gentle punting experience on the Cam.
We leaned on the parapet of the bridge and Beth nodded towards Marcus. ‘Young love,’ she whispered.
The views across the river were spectacular on this perfect afternoon. In the distance cherry trees were filled with tight buds waiting for the trigger of life to burst open. Warm days had returned as the earth shifted subtly on its axis.
‘Let’s hire a punt,’ said Fiona. ‘It will be fun.’
This time I insisted on paying and we clambered on to our wooden seats and settled back to enjoy the experience. Along the Backs, the land between the six riverside colleges and Queen’s Road, carpets of daffodils and bluebells lifted the spirits as we joined the other punts moving lazily up the river. I admired the skill of our punter as he lifted the pole out of the water with metronomic regularity before letting it slip again until it touched the river bottom. With perfect balance he pushed steadily, moving his hands along the pole and propelling it forward. Finally he twisted the pole, allowing it to float to the surface where he used it as a rudder to correct our course.
Fiona pointed out St John’s and the Wren Library at Trinity College, but then appeared to forget about us at the back of the punt and soon the young couple were in animated conversation.
‘We could live here,’ I said suddenly.
Beth was surprised. ‘This isn’t like you.’
‘Think about it, Beth. John could grow up in this wonderful city. He starts school next year.’
‘But you’ve just started a new headship and there will always be new opportunities.’
I was even surprising myself. ‘Sorry … just thinking out loud.’
‘And we’ve just begun to extend Bilbo Cottage.’
There was silence as we drifted by the great lawn in front of King’s College. The view was quite magical, but Beth had other things on her mind. ‘Apart from my headship, there’s Ragley, of course. You’ve always said how much you love it there.’
‘I do – it’s my life. I love teaching, always have, always will. It’s what I do best.’
Beth sighed and took my hand. ‘I know, Jack – I know … and I understand.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘it’s just that this is the most beautiful place.’
Perhaps it was a flight of fancy on my part. Maybe I had relaxed for the first time in weeks. Then again, somewhere in the back of my mind, the high moors of North Yorkshire were calling me home.
Back on dry land Marcus said, ‘Shall we go to Auntie’s Tea Shop? Jack and Beth might like some refreshment.’
‘Let’s,’ agreed Fiona with a smile.
We found our way back to King’s Parade and paused when we saw a huge poster advertising a production by the Cambridge Actors’ Society of The Happiest Days of Your Life by John Dighton. It was described as ‘a much-loved farce’, opening on 28 April.
‘Shall we go?’ asked Fiona suddenly.
Marcus sighed. ‘I’ll be back at school by then.’
Fiona considered this for a moment. ‘And come to think of it, I fly back to America on the twenty-ninth.’
Marcus stopped suddenly and spoke to Fiona in a low voice, but Beth and I couldn’t help but overhear him. ‘Do you have to? I wish you could stay.’
Fiona looked at him curiously, as if becoming aware for the first time of what lay behind the sadness in the eyes of her friend.
‘Oh, Potty,’ she said quietly, ‘I have to go. You know that, and there will be other days.’
‘I hope so,’ said Marcus, ‘because there was something I needed to ask you.’
‘Perhaps you should keep it for later,’ she said with a gentle smile.
Soon we were in Auntie’s Tea Shop in St Mary’s Passage, where we enjoyed an excellent cream tea. We chatted happily and Fiona shared a story that, in his student days, Marcus had discovered his own form of refrigeration by hanging plastic bags of food outside his window.
‘And he was captain of the University Tiddlywinks Club,’ she added. ‘Marcus is a man of many talents.’
‘Well, we’re pleased he came to North Yorkshire and our village school,’ I said.
‘But he won’t be there for ever,’ said Fiona confidently. ‘Marcus is destined for greater things.’
I noticed Beth nodding in agreement, while Marcus looked uncomfortable and I guessed the reason why.
An hour later we said goodbye and watched them walk away hand in hand. Beth murmured almost to herself, ‘I wonder what will become of them?’
After a meal in the hotel we settled down for an early night. It was good to relax together without the prospect of our son wandering into our bedroom during the early hours. It was also noticeable that we didn’t pursue our earlier conversation. I guessed Beth would pick her moment.
The next day after breakfast Beth did some last-minute shopping while I sat in the hotel lounge to scan the complimentary copy of the Cambridge Evening News. There was a four-page pull-out special about the Queen’s visit to Ely and complaints that holiday traffic on the A1 had come to a grinding halt. Locally, there appeared to be a row over who should be the next Mayor of Cambridge and an announcement that all major shops would be closed on Bank Holiday Monday, including Boots, Woolworths, Marks & Spencer, Sainsbury’s and WH Smith, and it was causing an uproar.
Meanwhile a Cambridge team had won the National Lego Building Competition. Their ‘Easter Enterprise’ zone was based on the trade war between Japan and England. I hadn’t realized that Lego was taken quite so seriously. Also, for a moment, I considered changing my car after seeing the striking advertisement for the new, British-built, Peugeot 309 GEX. It included a radio cassette, sunroof, mud flaps, special striping and attractive wheel trims. However, apart from the fact that the price of £5,295 was way beyond my means, I couldn’t bear to lose my classic Morris Minor.
At lunchtime we loaded up again and set off for Austen Cottage. Soon the familiar flint-faced walls of Hampshire reflected the April sunshine and we slowed on entering the tiny village of Little Chawton.
We drove past The Cricketer public house, which overlooked the village green, and paused by an ancient cast-iron water pump. Then we negotiated a few market stalls and crawled past the local church with its square Norman tower. Finally we arrived at a row of half-timbered houses and turned into the gateway of Austen Cottage.
As we crunched to a halt on the gravelled driveway, Beth’s father came out to greet us. He hugged Beth and the warm bond between them was immediately obvious. John Henderson looked relaxed in his baggy denim shirt and cord trousers with mud on the knees. He turned to me. ‘Hello, Jack.’
‘Hello again, John, good to see you.’
Diane was making final preparations to her famous watercress soup. She turned, took off her apron and pushed back a strand of blonde hair, tucking it behind one ear – reminiscent of a habit of Beth’s.
‘Welcome home,’ she said and glanced at me, ‘both of you.’
It was a relaxed evening in their low-beamed lounge, with a log fire and quiet conversation. Beth and Diane were discussing Laura’s experiences in Australia while John, as a member of the local railway preservation society,
explained that their tenth anniversary had arrived and a first ride on a steam train awaited his grandson.
On Saturday morning I was sitting with Beth in the kitchen, sipping a cup of tea and listening to the news. Our son was running around the terracotta-tiled floor playing hide-and-seek with his grandfather, while Diane was at the sink washing up the breakfast bowls. A vase of daffodils stood in the bay window and on the old Welsh dresser, beneath a complete set of Jane Austen novels, was a collection of framed photographs of Beth and Laura. Happy, innocent faces in a long-ago time of childhood.
On the radio Kenneth Baker had announced, ‘We can no longer leave individual teachers, schools or local education authorities to devise the curriculum children should follow.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said.
‘Interesting,’ murmured Beth.
Famous for wearing Brylcreem, our Secretary of State for Education cut a slightly comic figure, but he was certainly making a name for himself. I heard Beth sigh. His speech was delivered in true Thatcherite terms and I wondered if the venerable Margaret had written his script.
‘Big changes ahead,’ said Beth.
It was hard to decide who was the most excited when we arrived at Alton railway station. It was like stepping back in time. The station master wore a smart black three-piece suit, white shirt and red tie, plus a cap, and greeted us with a smile.
On the iron fencing that bordered the platform there were enamel advertisement signs for Colman’s Mustard, Rinso, Capstan Navy Cut cigarettes and Camp Coffee. I bought a ticket for myself for a £3.80 return to the pretty Georgian market town of Alresford and a child’s ticket for £1.90, which seemed a bargain for such a special experience.
‘Come and look at the engine,’ said John, lifting his grandson on to his shoulders. We walked past a coach with a red line on top and John explained it was a buffet coach and included the guard’s van. When we reached the engine he introduced us to the driver, fireman and a trainee fireman, and young John was allowed to stand on the footplate.
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