‘You see, Anne,’ said Felicity, ‘I’ve always been a tactile person – it’s part of the creative instinct, you know – and I literally feel the pain when the performance doesn’t meet my high expectations.’
‘I’m sure this will be the best production we’ve ever had.’ Strictly speaking, this was a bit of a back-handed compliment, seeing that all the previous pantomimes had been dreadful.
I had volunteered to help Anne’s husband, John, put the finishing touches to the scenery and as I walked through the hall I saw Timothy Pratt arranging the chairs with military precision. I had long since avoided asking if he wanted any help, as Timothy firmly believed he was the only man in Yorkshire with sufficient spatial awareness to complete this boring task. So I merely smiled in acknowledgement as he checked the chalk guide lines for each row to ensure every chair was in its correct alignment to the stage.
When I arrived backstage, John was painting a corrugated-card rainbow that, I noticed, sported only six colours instead of the recommended seven. While my history was a little hazy relating to Richard III being defeated by Henry Tudor at the battle of Bosworth in 1485, I could comfortably recall the popular mnemonic phrase: Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vain. However, this rainbow’s indigo and violet had merged into one indistinguishable band.
‘Felicity doesn’t look pleased,’ I observed as I stirred my tin of paint.
John, a big, bearded man in a thick Aran sweater, gave me a shy grin. ‘Wait till she sees this bloody rainbow,’ he said. ‘She’ll have a fit.’
I dragged out a sheet of plywood and, while I daubed bright green turrets on a gaudy whitewashed castle, it crossed my mind that, fortunately, the expectation level of the audience was always very low. After all, back in 1977 we had been treated to Snow White and the Six Dwarfs, so a six-colour rainbow was pretty much par for the course.
Meanwhile, Nora Pratt, trussed up like a chicken in her hand-stitched Alpine leather corset, sought out Felicity in the kitchen. ‘Wupert keeps fo’gettin’ ’is lines, Felicity,’ said Nora. ‘It’s weally upsetting.’
‘Don’t worry, Nora, it’s just nerves,’ said Felicity. ‘All born performers get the collywobbles.’
Nora shook her attempt at a Bonnie Tyler hairstyle in despair. ‘An’ t’Tin Man knows all ’is lines but keeps wepeating ’em.’
‘Yes, but it’s his debut on the big stage, darling. We professionals have to make allowances.’
‘Mebbe so,’ said Nora, mollified, but only slightly. ‘An’ t’Lion ’as too much couwage if y’ask me,’ she added for good measure. ‘That Deidwe was weally wough when she dwagged m’down that Yellow Bwick Woad in t’wehea’sal.’
‘I know, darling,’ said Felicity with a sigh, sipping her tea nervously, ‘but I’m sure this will be your greatest triumph.’
Nora gave what she hoped was a modest and understated nod of approval. My gweatest twiumph she thought as she wandered to the ladies’ to loosen the unbreakable orange baling twine on her Alpine corset. After all, it was difficult to enjoy a secret KitKat when you could barely breathe.
When I returned to Bilbo Cottage, Diane Henderson was playing with baby John, who was now five months old and had begun to bang his rattle with gusto. He smiled as I hung up my old duffel coat and scarf in the hallway and stretched out his arms towards me in welcome. I picked him up and cuddled him, marvelling once again at the softness of his skin. Then I passed him back to Diane so I could wash the green paint from my hands.
‘How did it go, Jack?’ she asked. She looked relaxed and the old tensions between us seemed to have been forgotten.
I smiled. ‘Well, the producer is having a nervous breakdown, the Tin Man has an unfortunate stutter, the Scarecrow can’t remember his lines and the Lion is an objectionable bully. That apart … my Emerald City is a perfect shade of green and definitely worth the fifty pence admission.’
‘So, just like the other pantomimes,’ said Beth, who was chopping onions in preparation for a beef casserole.
‘It will be good for the two of you to get out together,’ said Diane. She lifted John and, much to his delight, put him in a baby bouncer I had fitted to the frame of the kitchen door. This had proved a blessing for Beth when she needed to prepare food in the kitchen.
It was shortly before seven o’ clock that Beth and I left Bilbo Cottage and, for me, it felt like old times, just the two of us going out together.
With her perfect complexion and honey-blonde hair, and dressed in a casual, smart two-piece suit and her Cagney & Lacey coat with padded shoulders and a long belt tied casually at the waist, I wondered how she could ever have agreed to marry an awkward, bespectacled Yorkshireman like me. I glanced in the hall mirror and, to no avail, tried to flatten the palm-tree tuft of brown hair that refused to lie down on the crown of my head.
Beth drove her Volkswagen Beetle to enable me to have a drink after the performance and she parked by the village green outside The Royal Oak. We paid our fifty pence admission at the door to Elsie Crapper, who, as the official prompter for the pantomime, knew every word by heart, and we found two seats behind Dr Davenport and his wife, Joyce.
Backstage, all was not well.
‘Now Rupert,’ said Felicity, stroking his shoulder-length hair affectionately, ‘you really must concentrate on your lines and bring that wonderful quality of pathos when you ask Nora, er, I mean Dorothy, for a brain.’
‘But Mother, I’m working with a bunch of amateurs,’ he said in disgust, as he applied his Leichner 5 and 9 make-up before knotting bundles of straw to his knees.
‘I know, darling – but we must make allowances.’ She put her arm round his slim waist and stared thoughtfully into the full-length mirror. Her son was well cast – in fact, he was the perfect physical specimen for the part of Scarecrow. A gangling, six-foot-four-inch, spotty, skinny and awkward young man, he had studied art and drama at college. Rupert certainly considered himself a cut above the others in terms of artistic talent. However, while his acting career had not blossomed, his ungainly height had secured him a day job as a shelf-stacker in the new supermarket in York. He now specialized in stacking packets of Weetabix on the highest shelves in the cereals aisle. So, in a way, he was a cut above the others.
It was time for final preparations and Anne and a posse of mothers were trying to dress a lively band of Munchkins.
‘Oh dear, your shoes are on the wrong feet,’ said Anne to five-year-old Patience Crapper.
The little girl looked puzzled and refrained for a moment from chewing her Curly Wurly bar. ‘But these are the only feet I’ve got,’ she said, quick as a flash.
Anne sighed. Where are the children’s mothers when you need them? she thought.
The auditorium was filling up fast, with the football team on the back row and villagers seeking out the best vantage points. Old Tommy Piercy had brought a cushion to sit on for a little extra comfort, while several of the senior citizens turned down their hearing aids in preparation for the ordeal of hearing Nora Pratt singing ‘Yellow Bwick Woad’.
Ruby had arrived early and settled into her usual seat on the front row along with her daughters Racquel, Sharon, Natasha and Hazel, while ‘Deadly’ Duggie had joined his friends at the back. Meanwhile, a disgruntled Ronnie was taking time to settle in his seat.
‘Stop shufflin’, Ronnie,’ said Ruby. ‘Y’look as though you’ve got Saint Vitus’ Dance.’
Ronnie rubbed his chest. ‘Ah’m not feelin’ m’self, luv,’ he said.
‘Shurrup,’ said Ruby, ‘show’s startin’.’
To be precise, it wasn’t due to start for another two minutes, but Scargill the Yorkshire terrier was tugging back the curtain with his sharp teeth so John Grainger, as official stagehand, took the unilateral decision to pull the cords that opened the curtains and a surprised Nora Pratt, resplendent in her Alpine corset and holding the straining Scargill on a taut leash, launched into her first song.
On the third row Betty Buttle muttered into Margery Ackroyd
’s ear, ‘Look at ’er – dressed up like a dog’s dinner.’
‘Done up like t’Queen o’ Sheba,’ whispered Margery.
‘Mutton dressed as lamb,’ added Betty for good measure and they both relaxed, bathed in the innate superiority of the experienced theatre critic.
The performance literally stuttered on.
‘But I haven’t got a h-h-h- …’ said the hesitant Peter.
‘Hope,’ shouted Deke Ramsbottom from the back row amid much unkind laughter from the inebriated footballers.
‘Heart,’ prompted Elsie Crapper from the side of the stage.
Peter frowned at Elsie. ‘Why c-can’t you be more p-p-p …’
‘Patient?’ suggested Elsie helpfully.
‘Polite,’ corrected Peter’s son, Nigel, on the front row.
Peter nodded to his younger son in appreciation of his filial empathy and pressed on. ‘B-but I haven’t g-got a HEART,’ he said, going red in the face, and the audience broke into spontaneous applause. It might not be Shakespeare, they thought, but at least they appreciated a soul in torment.
‘Poor sod’s tryin’ ’is best,’ said Big Dave on the back row.
‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ agreed Little Malcolm, holding Dorothy’s hand as if he never wanted to let her go.
Apart from Deirdre Coe, who, as the lion, was booed every time she came on stage, the performance stumbled towards a conclusion accompanied by sympathetic applause.
Finally it was over. The audience breathed a sigh of relief and no one this year was going to ask for their fifty pence to be refunded, as had been the case ten years ago following Goldilocks and the Two Bears. Owing to the Tin Man saying each of his lines at least twice, the show had overrun by fifteen minutes. However, at last Nora took her fifth and final bow, accepted her bunch of flowers with feigned surprise and the curtain closed. We had survived another Ragley pantomime.
Parents hurried backstage to collect the Munchkins and the audience drifted out into the darkness.
On the front row all was not well. Ronnie was still in his seat and Ruby, clearly concerned, was standing over him.
‘What’s t’matter, luv?’ she whispered. ‘Y’look as though y’ve seen a ghost.’
Ronnie was short of breath and a pallor had spread across his usually florid complexion. ‘Ah’m strugglin’ t’breathe, Ruby. M’chest feels tight,’ he gasped.
‘Oh, Ronnie, Ronnie,’ said Ruby as she looked on helplessly. Racquel seemed to sum up the seriousness of the situation before anyone else. She grabbed her sister’s arm. ‘Sharon, quick – find Doctor Davenport.’ Then she turned to Natasha and gave her a meaningful look. ‘Tek ’Azel t’fetch a glass o’ water … an’ find our Duggie.’
The sisters rushed off while Ronnie clutched the centre of his chest. He was sweating, his complexion had gone grey and there was now a bluish tinge to his lips. Duggie ran up and looked in horror as his father collapsed to his knees.
‘Ruby … Ruby,’ said Ronnie and he fell to the floor. The crushing pain in his chest was too much to bear. He tried to speak. ‘Look after … look after …’ he gasped.
Duggie leaned forward to hear the fading words. Ronnie’s speech was slurred and was now barely a whisper. ‘Look after what, Dad?’ he asked.
Ronnie gripped his son’s hand and whispered in his ear. ‘Look after … look after … m’pigeons.’
Then there was silence as Ronnie stared vacantly at the ceiling.
‘Ronnie, Ronnie,’ cried Ruby, kneeling down and holding his hand. She turned tearful eyes to Duggie. ‘What did ’e say, luv?’
Duggie looked back at the still figure of his father and then put his arms round his mother. ‘’E said, “Look after … y’mam.”’
Dr Davenport did everything he could while Vera and Joseph tried their best to comfort Ruby and her daughters, but it was impossible to revive Ronnie. It was clear he had suffered a massive and fatal heart attack. The calm doctor moved into professional mode and took control of the immediate proceedings. The area around Ronnie was cordoned off and the few shocked villagers who had remained behind huddled near the entrance door, not knowing what to do next.
Timothy Pratt dimmed the lights to give Ruby and her family a little privacy, Anne and Sally made tea for everyone, and Big Dave and Little Malcolm went up the High Street to The Royal Oak to break the dreadful news to the rest of the football team.
Ronald Gladstone Smith, aged fifty-two, husband of Ruby and father of six, died on the last night of 1983 in the village he loved, with his wife beside him and five of his children in close attendance. A bright moon shone down from the vast, jet-black firmament on this tiny corner of Yorkshire while a cameo of triumph and tragedy was played out.
At midnight the sounds of celebration echoed from behind the closed curtains of Ragley village, but in a dark corner of the village hall Dr Davenport was in conversation with the local funeral director. Duggie had been to collect his boss, Mr Flagstaff, from his home in Easington. They stood there, a sombre group, discussing arrangements.
Racquel had taken a lead and sent the distraught Hazel home with Sharon and Natasha, then she had asked Duggie to go across the road to Diane’s Hair Salon and use her telephone to try to make contact with Andy at his army barracks.
This left Ruby in tears, sitting with Racquel and Vera. ‘Why my Ronnie, Mrs F?’ she sobbed.
‘Only our Lord can tell us the reason, Ruby,’ replied Vera quietly, ‘and perhaps we’ll understand in time … and in our prayers.’
Ruby’s shoulders were shaking in grief. ‘And why now?’ she asked.
‘It was his time,’ said Vera simply.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Ruby.
‘My dear Ruby,’ whispered Vera, ‘none of us knows the length of our days.’
As midnight chimed to welcome the dawn of 1984, there were no balloons and no champagne. At number 7, School View in the little village of Ragley-on-the-Forest, Vera hugged her dear friend while Ruby’s tears flowed and her daughters clung to her in a tableau of grief.
Finally, in the early hours, Beth and I drove home through a silent monochrome countryside of moonbeam shadows.
Lost in thought and suddenly overcome by the enormity of pent-up emotion, Beth began to weep. I pulled in at the side of the road beneath the sanctuary of sycamores and put my arms around her. We sat there, two souls in the darkness. Only a slight breeze whispered through the branches above our heads. There we sat under an eternal sky and reflected on a day of despair. I waited until her tears subsided then slowly drove home.
Chapter Ten
Bobble Hats and Breadcrumbs
The headteacher and Mrs Forbes-Kitchener represented the school at today’s funeral of Mr Ronald Smith, late husband of our caretaker. Miss Flint provided supply cover in Class 4.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Tuesday, 10 January 1984
I’VE HEARD IT said that it is always darkest before the dawn.
So it was on that winter morning when the world was still and the sky was a veil of sadness. It was the time of the long nights and a bitter, malevolent wind rattled the wooden casements of our bedroom windows. The driveway of Bilbo Cottage was coated with a blue film of crystal on this freezing morning. As I stared through the leaded panes I thought of what lay ahead – a different day, a time of farewell, a gathering of souls … a funeral.
It was Tuesday, 10 January and at Ragley School the new term had begun a week ago with a new teacher and fresh challenges. However, on this harsh winter morning a difficult time lay ahead. Eventually, fingertip softly, a grudging light began to spread across the distant fields and a land of grey-white snow and bare trees emerged from the void. From the second bedroom the muffled sounds of Beth feeding baby John provided sharp contrast. I smiled grimly at the paradox as new life struggled to greet a day of endings.
When I arrived at school Vera was sitting quietly in the corner of the staff-room. She had boiled a small pan of milk on our single-ring stove and pr
epared our usual mugs of steaming hot coffee.
Sally went immediately to sit beside her. She had spent eighteen pence that morning on a copy of the Daily Mail. ‘I thought you might like this, Vera,’ she said softly. She had removed the centre-page pull-out and passed it to her. Vera’s eyes lit up in surprise.
‘Oh, thank you so much, Sally,’ and she settled back to enjoy the first colour photos of the new year. ‘What wonderful pictures,’ she murmured almost to herself. Young William appeared to be having a happy time toddling round Kensington Gardens. However, Vera frowned when she saw that the young prince had stuck out his tongue towards the press photographers. Nevertheless, her displeasure was fleeting when she recalled that the press had often made Diana’s life distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Such a handsome little boy,’ she said, and for a few fleeting moments her thoughts were in another, happier place.
New Year’s Eve had been a difficult time. The village hall had emptied quickly thanks to the quiet and orderly professionalism of Sergeant Dan Hunter and the major. A calm but subdued Dr Davenport certified Ronnie’s death before he was moved to Easington hospital and, following a brief coroner’s inquest, the event was registered. Finally, Joseph had moved into his pastoral mode in comforting the family and Vera had worked closely with Ruby’s two eldest children, Andy and Racquel, to prepare a eulogy to be read at the funeral.
Sergeant Andy Smith had been given immediate compassionate leave and returned from duty in Ireland. Meanwhile, the funeral director, Septimus Flagstaff, had made it clear that he wanted Duggie to provide Ronnie with the best oak coffin with inlaid mahogany. It was now in their private chapel of rest, where the body could be viewed.
There was a subdued atmosphere in school on this dark morning and even the normally ebullient children moved quietly, as if sensing the mood of their teachers.
My classroom door opened. It was Vera, dressed in a black two-piece Marks & Spencer suit, black leather fur-lined boots and a small black pillbox hat. ‘Time to go, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.
07 School's Out! Page 13
