‘Look at this, Dowothy,’ she said. ‘It’s wight up y’stweet.’
Dorothy stopped filing her nails and looked up. ‘What’s that then, Nora?’
Nora held up her Woman’s Weekly. ‘It sez ’ere y’can find the weal you.’
‘The real me?’ repeated Dorothy, looking puzzled.
‘Yes,’ said Nora, ‘by summat called gwaphology.’
‘Graphology … what’s that when it’s at ’ome?’
‘It’s psychological,’ said Nora mysteriously.
Dorothy’s interest was now aroused. ‘Psych’logical?’ she said, her eyes wide in astonishment.
‘Yes, it sez ’ere it’s psychology o’ ’andwiting,’ said Nora.
‘’Andwriting?’
‘’Yes, ’andwiting – an’ y’wight off t’one o’ them post office boxes in somewhere called Tunbwidge Wells.’
‘Tunbridge Wells?’
‘It’s a posh place down south. Y’send ’em a sample.’
‘A sample?’ asked Dorothy, suddenly becoming wary.
‘Yes,’ said Nora, ‘o’ your ’andwiting.’
‘An’ what ’appens then?’
Nora peered again at the advertisement. ‘Y’weceive a confidential wepo’t about y’stwengths an’ weaknesses.’
‘Oooh, ah’d like that, Nora,’ said Dorothy, ‘an’ my Malcolm would be reight impressed wi’ me goin’ all psych’logical.’
I finished my coffee and thought that maybe Nora didn’t have such a daft idea after all. We all have strengths and weaknesses … perhaps it was time to recognize mine.
The Hartford Home for Retired Gentlefolk was an imposing red-brick Victorian building hidden from the village cricket field by a high yew hedge. Set in two acres of land, it was an elegant and gracious place to live out one’s twilight years. When I arrived it was a hive of activity, with residents, parents and children all heading for the main hall.
One of the senior carers, Janet Ollerenshaw, a tall, athletic young woman wearing blue jeans, trainers and a Cambridge-blue polo shirt with a Hartford oak tree logo, welcomed me. ‘Good to see you again, Mr Sheffield, we’re all looking forward to the concert. I’ve heard my little brother Barry is playing a triangle,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘He’s never shut up about it. You’d think it was Last Night of the Proms.’
It was a memorable concert, warmly appreciated by the supportive audience, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house when little Rosie Sparrow sang her solo of ‘Away in a Manger’. Afterwards the staff wheeled out tea, orange juice and mince pies and the children served the residents and engaged them in conversation, mainly revolving around what they hoped to get for Christmas.
I renewed acquaintance with a lovely lady, Violet Tinkle, who regaled me with wartime memories, including spending three old pence for her Woman’s Own, keeping fit for the war effort by taking Iron Jelloids while listening to Joe Loss and his band playing ‘We’ll Meet Again’ and ‘We’re Gonna Hang Out the Washing on the Siegfried Line’.
Meanwhile, Ragley’s oldest inhabitant, ninety-seven-year-old Ada Cade, surprised and impressed Harold Bustard and Molly Paxton by telling them that her twenty-first birthday present from her father had been a drastic one. She had had all her teeth removed. ‘He told me,’ explained Ada, ‘that it would save a lot o’ pain an’ suff’ring at t’dentist in t’years t’come,’ and both children thought this was a wonderful idea.
It was when everyone had left and I was saying a final goodbye that Janet Ollerenshaw approached me with Lillian De Vere on her arm. ‘Lillian wondered if you would like to see her photographs of movie stars, Mr Sheffield. She’s very proud of them.’
‘Of course,’ I said.
‘It won’t take long, Mr Sheffield,’ said Lillian, ‘but I thought you might be interested.’
I followed them to Lillian’s ground-floor room. It was spacious and comfortable. On one wall were six large, framed, black-and-white photographs of the Hollywood greats. They stretched in a neat line across the wall between the window and the grandfather clock in the corner.
‘They’re my favourite film stars, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Lillian Gish, Clara Bow, Vivien Leigh, Rita Hayworth, Judy Garland and the only man – my heart-throb, Marlon Brando.’ Her long slender fingers stroked the wooden frame of the first photograph in the line. It showed a frail and wistful-looking actress wearing a lace dressing gown. Underneath it read ‘Broken Blossoms 1919’.
‘This was my mother’s favourite film, Mr Sheffield.’ She turned to face me. ‘In fact, I was named after Lillian Gish, the star of the film – and she’s still alive and living in America.’
‘She’s a very beautiful lady, Miss De Vere,’ I said.
‘It was the first silent movie I ever saw and I can remember it perfectly,’ she said wistfully, ‘and then my eyes started to deteriorate.’
Janet Ollerenshaw turned to face me. ‘I’m afraid Lillian had the disease Retinitis pigmentosa, Mr Sheffield.’
‘It began when I was young,’ explained Lillian. ‘At first I had difficulty seeing at night and then my field of vision in each eye got less and less. If you look at the world through a rolled-up newspaper you will get an idea of what it’s like. Then the tube gets narrower as you get older and the vision in each eye gets less and less. I’m told there’s no cure.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said.
‘Don’t be,’ she said simply. ‘I made sure I challenged myself to lead a very full and active life, and at least I could see once and I have a good memory, even if I say it myself.’
‘You’re a remarkable lady, Miss De Vere,’ I said and looked back at the photographs, ‘and perhaps one day I’ll watch Broken Blossoms.’
‘You won’t regret it, and you must come back and tell me what you think.’
‘I shall,’ I promised, and took her hand and squeezed it gently. Janet nodded in my direction. It was time to leave.
Back at Bilbo Cottage, as I walked in Beth was putting the finishing touches to her make-up in front of the hall mirror.
‘Your meal is on the table, Jack,’ she said as she screwed the top on her lipstick, ‘and I’ve fed and changed John and put him in his cot.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘and you look wonderful.’
She smiled, gave me a brief hug and opened the front door. ‘Sorry, Jack … like ships that pass …’ She hurried out to her Volkswagen Beetle and as she set off for her evening in York a barn owl flew above our heads like a grey ghost of the night.
It was after midnight when she came home and slipped into bed beside me, putting her freezing-cold feet on the back of my calves.
‘Had a good night?’ I whispered.
‘Yes thanks – sorry I’m late.’
‘John’s fine,’ I said.
‘Good,’ she said and snuggled closer. ‘How did the concert go?’
‘Really well,’ I said. ‘There was a blind lady there – a Miss De Vere … she got me to thinking how lucky we are.’
‘Yes, we are,’ she said softly.
‘Remember our conversation this morning?’
Beth yawned. ‘Yes,’ she said simply.
‘I will think about another job if you think it’s for the best.’
There was silence followed by deep breathing and she fell asleep.
I took a little longer.
Chapter Eight
A Surprise for Santa
A presentation of a framed photograph was made in school assembly today by Mr Evans, chair of the school governors, to Mrs Jo Hunter as a token of thanks for her service at Ragley. Mrs Hunter takes up a new appointment in January at Priory Gate Junior School in York when Mr Tom Dalton will take over as full-time teacher in charge of Class 2. The school choir will perform at the Christmas Crib Service at St Mary’s Church on Christmas Eve. School closed today with 93 children on roll and will reopen for the spring term on Wednesday, 4 January 1984.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Tuesday, 20 December 1983
SANTA’S FEET WERE cold – they always were.
Gabriel Book adjusted his white beard, checked his Mickey Mouse wristwatch and stamped his feet on the freezing floor of his grotto. He made a mental note to bring in an electric heater for the rest of the week. Now in his sixties, he was beginning to feel his age but, as a member of the local Rotary Club, he felt it was his duty to do his bit. It was Monday evening, 19 December, and in the local market town of Easington the Christmas Fair was in full swing.
Immediately outside Santa’s little wooden hut the Handbell Society was out in force. All six members, each with a pair of Norfolk-crafted handbells, were entertaining the queue with their rendition of ‘Frosty the Snowman’. However, their efforts were not appreciated by all. The two teenage daughters of the president of the Rotary Club had been persuaded by their father to work in Santa’s grotto and dress up in outfits that sported the bright badges ‘Good Fairy’ and ‘Busy Elf’. They were not impressed … but two ten pound notes had exchanged hands.
‘If they play that bloody song again, I’ll stick them handbells where the sun don’t shine,’ said the grammatically bereft eighteen-year-old Good Fairy.
‘Too right,’ said the minimalist-use-of-language sixteen-year-old Busy Elf.
Gabriel was not impressed with their contribution. Good Fairy was moody and Busy Elf was bone idle, but he battled on bravely. It was almost six o’ clock, only an hour left, and mothers and children were waiting patiently outside as snow began to fall again.
The church clock was striking six when Ruby locked her caretaker’s store. ‘Ah’ve ’ung up all m’presents on t’tree, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. Each year Ruby bought a small gift for every child in the school, usually a packet of sweets from the Rowntree’s factory, and wrapped each one in North Yorkshire County Council tissue paper. It was a generous gesture from this kind lady for whom every penny counted.
‘Thanks, Ruby,’ I said.
She fastened up her threadbare coat. ‘Ah’m off to t’Christmas market in Easington now, Mr Sheffield, wi’ our Duggie an’ ’Azel. Y’can get some real bargains.’
‘Yes, I’m going there as well,’ I said, ‘to get a present for Beth.’
Anne Grainger emerged from the office. ‘Well, I’m going tomorrow night,’ she said with a grin. ‘It’s the only way I’ll receive a Christmas present that won’t finish up on John’s workbench.’
Tomorrow was the last day of term and Anne and I had stayed behind to make sure everything was ready for our final assembly, including a farewell to Jo Hunter who had taught at Ragley for over six years. Vera had arranged for a large-scale photograph of Jo with the school netball team, on the memorable day they had won the York Small Schools Netball Tournament, to be professionally framed by an upmarket framer in Gillygate in York. Anne had wrapped this carefully and hidden it in the school office along with a host of other gifts, including an engraved Acme Thunderer whistle and a huge card signed by all the children and staff.
I locked up the school and eased my Morris Minor Traveller out of the car park. On the village green a giant Christmas tree was festooned with bright-coloured lights and the pantile roof of The Royal Oak was covered in wavy snow patterns. As I drove up the Easington Road, beyond the frozen hedgerows the boughs of elm and sycamore hung heavy under their winter burden and the winter sky promised more snow.
Meanwhile, in Santa’s grotto, Good Fairy rubbed some of the spray-on snow from the tiny window and peered outside. ‘Only a few customers left,’ she said to her sister with a sigh of relief, ‘and then Frankie Spraggon is taking me to The Pig and Ferret in his Capri.’
‘Can I come?’ pleaded Busy Elf.
‘No you bloody can’t,’ said Good Fairy, pointing her wand in annoyance. ‘Dad would have a fit.’
‘Only if you told him,’ groaned Busy Elf. She shook her head in annoyance so that the little bell tinkled on her green pointed felt hat.
‘Come on, girls,’ said Gabriel, ‘I thought you were friends.’
Good Fairy shrugged her shoulders and looked condescendingly at Gabriel. ‘No, Santa, we’re not friends – we’re family.’
Gabriel stared down at his black boots. He knew the pain of family squabbles. Since his wife had died he saw little of his daughter, Abigail, except when she was stuck for a babysitter. Her partner, a Liverpool bookmaker, had long since flown the nest. Abigail had always considered Gabriel too strict as a parent and, as the years went by, he realized she was probably right. In consequence, they barely spoke these days.
Now the greatest joy of his life was when his granddaughter, five-year-old Zoe, sat with him on his sofa and he read stories to her. The little girl loved Little Red Riding Hood and Goldilocks and was almost word perfect as he pointed to the text. He recalled she had first called him ‘Ga-ga’ when she was only two years old and the name had stuck. Now it had progressed to ‘Ga-ga Book’ – it seemed an appropriate name for a reader of stories. Gabriel wondered what Abigail and Zoe might be doing this holiday and reflected that Christmas could be a lonely time.
Good Fairy opened the wooden door. ‘Next please for Santa,’ she said with forced politeness.
In walked Connie Crapper with five-year-old Patience.
‘Hello and a ho-ho-ho,’ said Gabriel cheerily.
Connie plonked Patience roughly on Santa’s knee.
‘And what’s your name?’ asked Gabriel.
‘Patience … what’s yours?’
‘I’m Santa,’ said Gabriel, slightly taken aback, ‘and have you been a good girl this year?’
Patience looked at her mother, who nodded fiercely. ‘Yes, Santa,’ said Patience with a glassy-eyed it was never my fault stare.
‘And have you got any brothers or sisters?’ asked Gabriel, trying another tack.
‘No, Santa – ah’m a lonely child.’
Connie pointed at her wristwatch and glared at Gabriel. ‘Tell Santa what y’want f’Christmas,’ she said brusquely.
‘Well, ah’d like a Snuzzle please.’
‘A snuzzle?’
‘She means a My Little Pony,’ said Connie curtly. ‘It’s one o’ them new soft toys.’
Gabriel was unaware of the advertisements for the new range of pastel-coloured horses with big soulful eyes, flowing polyester manes and tails and names such as Cotton Candy, Snuzzle and Blossom.
‘Well, I’ll look in my toy cupboard,’ said Gabriel, ‘and I’ll see if one’s there.’
Patience thought for a moment. ‘Well, Santa,’ she said helpfully, ‘ah’ll come back tomorrow wi’ m’mam’s catalogue – they’re all in there.’ Then she jumped off his knee and hurried out after collecting a free sherbet dab from a bored Busy Elf and a mystery gift wrapped in tissue paper from Good Fairy, who made sure Connie and Patience were outside again before they opened it.
When I arrived in Easington the cobbled market square was full of stalls and surrounded by brightly lit shops. I parked next to the gable end of the toy shop and under a huge advertisement for a major new film coming in 1984, Never Say Never Again featuring Sean Connery as James Bond. As I fastened the toggles on my duffel coat, from a loudspeaker system next to the war memorial the Christmas number one, ‘Only You’ by the Flying Pickets, blasted out and the crowd hummed along.
I paused to look in the toy-shop window and realized with a hint of sadness that the world was changing. It felt as though I were witnessing the demise of the British toy industry. Famous names, Meccano, Dinky and Corgi, were all disappearing and being replaced by flashing video screens and the sound of laser fire. When I was a boy a Hornby Dublo train set was regarded as the perfect Christmas gift. Now the popular present seemed to be a Star Wars set at £23.
A small girl was staring at the labels on the boxes of games. ‘Mam,’ she said, ‘was ah made in ’Ong Kong?’
I made my way to the electric showroom, where I spotted the perfect gift for Beth. It was a Sharp’s microwave oven with a built-in turntable. Then I saw the price was £249.94 an
d I realized that my salary didn’t stretch that far. I went in and settled for a Moulinex Multi Chef for £45. ‘It blends, chops and grates,’ said the young lady assistant and, although I had little idea what she was talking about, it sounded very impressive. I put the large box in my car; then it occurred to me I would need a roll of Christmas wrapping paper to cover it so I wandered over to join the crowd next to Shady Stevo’s stall.
He was a heavily built and swarthy man; it was rumoured the long, jet-black pony-tail that hung down his back was actually attached to his flat cap as one was never seen without the other. ‘C’mon, ladies,’ he was shouting, ‘top-o’-the-range London fashion ’andbags, two poun’ each or three for a fiver.’ I saw Winifred Brown buy three while Connie Crapper bought a Remington Popcorn Maker for £14.95 and a 1983 Adam and the Ants Annual for £1.
Mrs Tricklebank was looking through the box of half-price Christmas cards, thinking ahead to Christmas 1985.
‘Ah’ve got some lovely classical cards this year,’ said Stevo, ‘’ere’s a set o’ twenty f’fifty pence.’ He held up a packet of cards featuring Giotto’s painting Madonna and Child.
‘I’ll take ’em,’ said Mrs Tricklebank and handed the pack to eight-year-old Sonia. Her little sister, five-year-old Julie, peered at the picture with curiosity.
‘Who’s that, Sonia?’ she asked, pointing.
‘That’s Mary,’ said Sonia, ‘and she’s holding baby Jesus.’
‘So where’s Jesus’s dad then?’ asked the little girl.
Sonia thought for a moment. ‘Well … he’ll be the one taking the picture.’
Lee Dodsworth’s mother was in front of me and gave me a smile. She bought a Frogger electronic game (batteries not included) at £15 and an MB Pac-Man game for a fiver, then it was my turn. I bought a roll of wrapping paper for twenty pence, a box of four Memorex C90 Tapes for £2.50 and a three-pound jar of Quality Street for £3. As Ruby had said, it was definitely the place for a bargain.
Back at Bilbo Cottage I found myself untangling the string of Christmas tree lights once again. No matter how carefully I packed them away in January, eleven months later they had somehow contrived to resemble the Gordian Knot of ancient legend and, just like Alexander in 333 BC, I was struggling.
07 School's Out! Page 11
