07 School's Out!

by Jack Sheffield

  I was in conversation with our supply teacher, Miss Flint, who had come in this morning to take charge of Class 4 while I represented the school at the funeral. ‘Thanks, Vera, I’ll be right there.’

  Miss Flint walked with me to the classroom door and whispered, ‘Take your time, Mr Sheffield, all will be well here.’

  I nodded in appreciation and accompanied Vera to the office, where she helped me into one of the major’s superb Crombie overcoats as I didn’t own a black coat. It complemented my grey three-piece suit, white shirt, black tie and shiny black shoes. Fortunately we were a similar height, although he was broader in the shoulders. Even so, it was fit for purpose and had the added benefit of keeping me warm on this bitter winter’s day.

  We drove up Morton Road and parked on the vicarage forecourt. It seemed as if the whole village was on the move and a steady file of mourners walked carefully up the frozen path to the entrance of St Mary’s Church. Joseph was standing there waiting for the arrival of the hearse. He had done this many times before and I realized what a reassuring presence he was on mornings such as this.

  We crunched across the frozen gravel and paused to speak to him. Vera looked at her brother. ‘Is there anything you need, Joseph?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s all in God’s hands,’ he said.

  Vera squeezed his arm. No words were needed, so we took our seats at the end of a pew near the central aisle. Elsie Crapper was playing soft organ music and Vera was pleased that our nervous organist had obviously taken her Valium.

  The hearse drew up outside the church and the coffin was removed from the back with calm precision. Septimus directed his team of bearers to place it on the sturdy old wooden trestles under the lych gate. With silent decorum, he arranged the six men in pairs on either side of the coffin according to their height. Young Tommy Piercy and Little Malcolm were in front, two of the experienced official bearers employed by Septimus came next, with Big Dave Robinson and the equally tall Deke Ramsbottom bringing up the rear. Slowly and without effort, they raised the coffin to shoulder height and stood there, still as stone. A swirl of bitter sleet blew in the faces of the bearers but none of them flinched.

  Joseph turned to Septimus, who gave him the briefest nod. Then Joseph glanced down at his well-thumbed Shorter Prayer Book, but it remained closed in his bony hand – he knew the words by heart. So it was, in a clear voice that could be heard by the congregation inside, he turned to face the church door and walked in front of the procession while the heavy crunch of matching footsteps on the rutted ice followed him. ‘“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord,”’ recited Joseph, ‘“he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”’

  Inside the church, Vera quietly echoed the familiar words of the gospel of St John, chapter 11, verses 25 and 26.

  Behind the coffin and the bearers came Andy Smith, ramrod-straight in his sergeant’s uniform, and Racquel, her tears hidden by the brim of her grey-black hat. They were on either side of Ruby, gripping her elbows through her winter coat. Next came Duggie, smart in his official funeral attire and pushing Ruby’s mother, seventy-year-old Agnes, in a wheelchair. Sharon and Natasha followed behind, heads bowed, holding the hands of little Hazel, who stared ahead at the coffin as if in a dream.

  As the procession entered the church, Joseph, in his cassock, surplice and a black scarf, removed his thick black cloak and passed it to the sidesman, Tobias Speight, who held it to his chest and bowed as the coffin passed him by.

  ‘“Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted,”’ said Joseph, reciting from the gospel of St Matthew, and his words filled the stillness of the church.

  The family followed the coffin towards the altar, where it was placed on another set of trestles next to the pulpit. Behind them Tobias closed the ancient door and a soft blanket of silence descended on the congregation. The churchwarden, Wilfred Noggs, directed the family to the front pews and we all sat down with a rustling of heavy coats and scarves and the swish of paper as we turned to the first page of the funeral service.

  We sang ‘There Is a Green Hill Far Away’ and then it was my turn. I stood at the lectern with the giant Bible resting on the outstretched wings of a brass eagle.

  ‘Psalm Twenty-three,’ I said, ‘“The Lord is my shepherd”.’ I was used to speaking in front of large groups of people, but this was different. I could almost feel Ronnie’s presence in the coffin alongside me.

  After returning to my pew, Vera put her hand on mine for a brief moment. No words were needed. Our second hymn was Ruby’s favourite, ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, and tears were rolling down her cheeks as the choir mistress, Mary McIntyre, and one of our parents, Bonnie Shawcross, sang a beautiful duet for the first verse.

  Andy Smith read the familiar extract from St John’s gospel, chapter 14, verses 1–6, and ending with verse 27: ‘“Let not your heart be troubled,”’ he said and then raised his eyes from the Bible and looked at his mother for the final words, ‘“neither let it be afraid.”’

  The Eulogy was carefully handled by Joseph, who encouraged everyone to remember Ronnie as a loving husband, a proud father, a popular member of the village community and manager of the Ragley Rovers Football Team.

  This was followed by prayers and we all expected Joseph to lead the congregation in the Lord’s Prayer; however, he explained that, before this, Ruby’s four daughters had all written a short prayer of their own. It was something no one would ever forget. I have attended many funerals in my life but, when I look back, one of the most poignant moments was undoubtedly when little Hazel Smith took a folded piece of paper from her pocket and, holding tightly to Racquel’s hand, read, ‘I will miss my daddy and I hope he will be happy in heaven … Amen.’

  The final hymn was one of Ronnie’s favourites. He had sung ‘Abide With Me’ at Wembley Stadium in 1972 when Leeds United beat Arsenal in the FA Cup final. It was on that day he had purchased the bobble hat that had become his favourite among his motley collection. The rest of his bobble hats were in various states of moth-eaten repair in the hallway, but this one always had pride of place on the brass hook on the back of the bedroom door. Today it rested on his coffin, on top of a wreath with the word ‘DAD’ picked out in tiny white flowers.

  Following the Blessing, the family and congregation filed out to ‘We’ll Meet Again’ played on the organ. I stood up with Vera and we walked out in the bitter wind beneath an iron-grey sky of torn and tattered clouds. Albert Jenkins, school governor and self-appointed bell-ringer since the death of Archibald Pike, had climbed the bell tower and fitted a leather muffle over one side of the clapper of one of the bells. And so a sonorous muffled note rang out, fifty-two times to celebrate each year of Ronnie’s relatively short life.

  The burial followed and the finality of this affected us all. Joseph recited ‘“Lord, now lettest thou thy servant …”’, until a sharp gust of wind snatched away the rest of his words.

  Once again he had donned his long black barathea wool cloak and he led the procession to the graveside. It had been hard work for the gravedigger, even one with the mighty strength of the local handyman, Whistling John Paxton. Joseph had asked him to follow tradition and dig the grave to double depth so that in time, if required, a wife could share the same grave as her husband. However, frozen earth and tree roots had slowed him down.

  John Paxton stood to one side in a collarless shirt and a donkey jacket, unmoved by the fierce wind and biting cold. He knew the job. The pile of earth, now solid frozen clods, would go back in but they would have to wait three months for the ground to settle before adding the headstone. This had been selected by Andy and Racquel according to the strict rules that determined a headstone must be oblong and not, as they had hoped, in the shape of a racing pigeon.

  Meanwhile Septimus, with experienced precision, supervised the careful placing of putlocks over the grave. It was on these that the coffin was
placed. The pallbearers knew their job and fed the thick webbing through the handles then underneath the coffin before lowering it into the grave.

  A group of villagers waited at a respectful distance.

  ‘What’s in the box, Mummy?’ asked the articulate three-year-old Bonnie Tricklebank.

  ‘Older people die and go to heaven,’ said Mrs Tricklebank in a quiet voice.

  There was a pause. ‘When will you be going, Mummy?’

  ‘Not for a long time, luv,’ she said with a wry smile.

  ‘What about Daddy – he looks poorly.’

  Mr Tricklebank picked up his daughter and held her close. ‘We ’ave t’be quiet now, luv,’ he said and kissed her cold cheeks.

  As Ruby and the family gathered round the graveside snow began to fall again. Joseph recited, ‘Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.’

  Finally, it was over and, as Ruby turned from the graveside and walked along the snow-covered path to the lych gate, she dropped a black leather glove from her trembling fingers. A short, stocky man with a ruddy face and a gentle smile stepped forward and picked it up. He raised his flat cap and handed it back to Ruby. ‘An old Celtic tradition from m’mother’s side,’ he said quietly. ‘If y’drop a glove another must pick it up.’

  Ruby looked curiously at the man as if his face stirred a memory. Racquel said, ‘Thanks,’ and ushered her mother towards the waiting black Bentley provided by the major.

  Ruby’s mother, Agnes, paused. ‘’Ello, George Dainty,’ she said. ‘Y’back then.’

  The man nodded and walked quietly away, deep in thought.

  Back in Ragley village hall, Nora Pratt from the Coffee Shop and Sheila Bradshaw from The Royal Oak had worked hard to prepare for the wake. Trestle tables covered in snow-white linen were stacked with neat rows of crockery and steam was rising from a Baby Burco boiler and a coffee machine. The ladies of the Cross-Stitch Club had prepared a mountain of sandwiches, sausage rolls, slices of pork pie, home-made jam tarts and seed cake.

  Soon a steady file of villagers queued to pay their respects to Ruby and her family. Through the crowd a frail, elderly lady came over and kissed Ruby on the cheek. ‘My dear Ruby,’ she said softly.

  ‘Aunty Gladys,’ said Ruby in surprise. ‘’Ow did you get ’ere?’

  ‘Your Racquel arranged for me to get a lift from Skegness. I wanted to be here.’ Ruby’s aunt was known as Seaside Gladys and had found fame telling people’s fortunes. She held Ruby’s dumpy, work-red hands and looked into her eyes. ‘Don’t fret, Ruby,’ she said. ‘Happiness is waiting for you – but not where you expect to find it.’

  Ruby held her intense gaze for a moment. There was often a hidden meaning to the words of her favourite aunt.

  ‘Ronnie did love me,’ she said simply.

  ‘Yes, he did, my dear … in his own way.’

  That evening Ruby closed the old frayed kitchen curtains and looked round her at the clutter. Ronnie’s pigeon plate was there on the worktop, but today it was empty of breadcrumbs. When she walked through the untidy lounge, on the mantelpiece was a fading photo of the teenage Ruby on the day she was Ragley’s May Queen. This young woman was slim and pretty with long wavy chestnut hair that hung down her back almost to her waist. A circlet of pretty flowers rested on her head.

  Finally she went upstairs. In her bedroom Ruby sat on the edge of her bed and tried to remember the good times she had shared with Ronnie. Sadly, there weren’t many. The happiest days in her life all revolved around her children. Ruby loved them all with a fierce resolve. She thought back to the day her first child, Andy, was born and how proud she had been. Her mother had knitted him a pair of blue bootees and these had been passed on to Duggie.

  Ruby recalled the years of scrimping and saving and toil. Then she looked at the empty hook on the back of the bedroom door. The familiar bobble hat had gone and she knew her life had changed. She sighed and looked at the clock on the bedside cupboard. It was midnight and Ruby put on her nightgown and crept into Hazel’s tiny bedroom. She lifted the covers, climbed in next to her and they lay there like a pair of spoons.

  Ruby kissed her daughter gently and whispered, ‘Goodnight, God bless.’

  Chapter Eleven

  George Orwell’s New World

  County Hall requested responses to their recent paper ‘Equal Opportunities within the Curriculum’.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 27 January 1984

  ‘SOOTY’S GOT PROBLEMS,’ muttered Sally as she glanced through the Daily Mail that Tom Dalton had left on the staff-room coffee table.

  ‘Sooty?’ asked Vera in surprise as she stirred the pan of hot milk.

  It was Friday-morning break, 27 January, and outside the staff-room window the silence of snow covered the frozen earth. Under its smooth white blanket the world was still as stone. Tom was on playground duty and, like the rosy-cheeked children around him, didn’t appear to feel the cold.

  Anne and I were sitting near the gas fire, trying to keep warm while studying the Yorkshire Purchasing Organization catalogue and the price of bristle brushes.

  ‘He’s Harry Corbett’s glove puppet,’ said Anne with authority. ‘I saw him on stage in Morecambe in 1950.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Sally, ‘it’s his son, Matthew Corbett, who’s taken over and he’s the one who writes the scripts.’

  ‘So what is the problem?’ asked a bemused Vera as she served up the piping-hot mugs of coffee.

  ‘Well, apparently,’ said Sally, ‘Sooty keeps bossing his girlfriend, Soo, and telling her to work in the kitchen – so, he’s clearly sexist.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Anne firmly.

  ‘And so do I,’ added Vera for good measure.

  I reflected that Beth seemed to spend a lot of her time in our kitchen and decided to keep quiet.

  It was 1984 and political correctness had arrived in Ragley village.

  I was the last to leave the staff-room when the bell went. Vera glanced down at her notepad. ‘By the way, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘a company called New Age Systems telephoned to ask if their representative could call in this morning. So, I’ll deal with it shall I?’ It was rhetorical and I recognized it as such. ‘Thanks, Vera,’ I said, ‘I’d be lost without you.’ She smiled and began to fill our Gestetner duplicating machine with ink.

  Thirty minutes later nine-year-old Charlotte Ackroyd, without looking up from her School Mathematics Project workcard on percentages, announced, ‘Mr Sheffield, Ford Capri Mark II wi’ twin ’eadlights comin’ up t’drive.’ I smiled. Charlotte knew her cars.

  ‘Thanks, Charlotte,’ I said and recalled it must be the New Age visitor.

  A skinny young man with a goatee beard, John Lennon circular spectacles and wearing a purple corduroy suit walked into the office. He carried a smart black briefcase and placed it on Vera’s desk. Vera, suitably horrified, picked it up, placed it on the floor and, in doing so, noticed his shoes had never been introduced to polish.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Four-Kitchens,’ he said, peering myopically at the scrawled notes in his Roland Rat notebook. ‘I’m Lionel Crudd from New Age Systems.’ He passed his business card to Vera.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Crudd … my name is Forbes-Kitchener and not what you said,’ she said coldly.

  Undeterred, the young entrepreneur pressed on. His confidence was high. He had experienced the full day’s training and had passed with flying colours. ‘Well, Mrs, er, t’day’s your lucky day. I’d like t’introduce you to t’new world o’ modern eighties communication.’

  ‘Really?’ said Vera, thinking that this was a man only a mother could love.

  He held up an A3-size glossy photograph showing a sleek plastic box with a telephone handset cradled on one side plus a keyboard and a small pop-up monitor. ‘This is it,’ he said proudly.

  ‘What is?’ asked Vera.<
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  Mr Crudd paused to check that the image was the right way up. Clearly slow on the uptake he thought. ‘You are looking, Mrs Fork-Itchener, at an ergonomically designed desk communication terminal,’ he said.

  ‘You mean it’s a telephone,’ said Vera.

  ‘Well, in a manner o’ speakin’,’ said Mr Crudd, ‘but what you in fac’ are lookin’ at is an executive telephone.’ It was time to pull the rabbit out of the hat … a hypothetical one of course he thought. ‘It’s multifunctional,’ he explained with pride. ‘You can put two ’undred and fifty-five names in the dialling directory.’

  ‘But I’ve got that number and more in my file index,’ said Vera, ‘and I know most of them off by heart.’

  ‘Yes, but it sends TELEX messages,’ said Mr Crudd triumphantly.

  ‘Who to?’ asked Vera.

  He was thrown for a moment but recovered quickly. ‘Well, er, anyone y’know who’s got a telex.’

  ‘But we don’t know anyone with a telex.’

  He was getting desperate. ‘Well … it displays a monthly planner wi’ all your appointments f’every day.’

  ‘You mean like this,’ said Vera, holding up her immaculately neat and precise desk diary.

  ‘An’ it has a direct link with other information networks,’ he added.

  ‘Information networks?’

  ‘Yes, like Prestel.’

  ‘In Lancashire?’

  ‘Er, no.’

  Vera had heard enough. This strange little man was talking a different language. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Crudd … but not today.’

  Lionel Crudd recognized defeat when it stared him in the face and, after a hesitant farewell, he packed his shiny briefcase and sloped off to his rusty Capri in the car park, reassured that three of his four headlights were working on this dark, gloomy winter’s day.

  It was lunchtime and we had gathered in the staff-room.

  ‘Look at this,’ said Sally. She picked up the Daily Mail from the coffee table. The headline read, ‘Big Brother Is Watching You!’