However, it was another article that caught her eye. ‘Oh dear,’ she said almost to herself. Half of Britain’s 187,000 miners had downed tools and the venerable Margaret was facing a problem.
‘What is it, Vera?’ asked Sally.
‘Problems with the miners,’ said Vera, shaking her head.
‘The miners’ leader, Arthur Scargill, was on television last night, Vera,’ said Sally, ‘and he sounded really determined.’
‘Never fear,’ said Vera confidently. ‘Margaret will soon sort out that dreadful man.’ She looked again at the photograph. ‘And no one with a hairstyle like that can ever be trusted.’
Sally smiled and shook her head. Sometimes it simply wasn’t worth the bother.
Back in Nora’s Coffee Shop, Dorothy was flicking through an old copy of Smash Hits magazine. She had read the articles on Queen, Tracey Ullman and Kajagoogoo and was now staring at the front-cover photograph of Madonna.
‘What y’stawin’ at, Dowothy?’ asked Nora.
‘Madonna’s ’air, Nora,’ said Dorothy, her gaze still fixed on the sexy American rock star. ‘Ah’m ’avin’ me ’air done when Ruby’s daughter covers for me an’ that’s ’ow ah want mine t’look.’
‘Well … ah can’t say ah’m impwessed,’ said Nora with unwitting correctness.
Dorothy was not to be deterred. ‘Ah like it ’cause it’s sort of wild but nat’ral.’
‘Mebbe so, Dowothy,’ said Nora, ‘but it could ’ave been waining when she ’ad ’er photo taken.’
At lunchtime we gathered in the staff-room. Tom had just bought the March edition of Your Computer magazine and was completely engrossed.
‘Looks interesting,’ I said, but without conviction.
‘It is, Jack,’ he said. ‘A great article here about graphics extensions for BBC, Dragon and Spectrum.’
A new vocabulary had emerged and we were being left behind. ‘Oh, that’s good,’ I said and both Sally and Anne nodded in agreement. It occurred to me that Tom appeared to have won over the hearts and minds of the female staff.
Sally gave a secret smile and settled back to read her Daily Mirror. She was delighted that Tony Benn was back in parliament as the new Labour MP for Chesterfield, while the Chancellor, Nigel Lawson, was attracting unpopularity with his intention to tax beer, cigarettes and even fish and chips. She ignored the provocative photograph of the seventeen-year-old model Samantha Fox in a string vest and studied the article about Rula Lenska moving in with her heart-throb, Dennis Waterman.
Ten miles away in York, Beth had responded to an earlier telephone call from Tom by dialling her sister’s number in the Liberty fashion department.
‘Yes, I’d love to come,’ said Laura. ‘I’m free tonight and I’ll try to get away in time – and did you say it was Tom who’s organizing it?’
A sister-to-sister confidence was exchanged.
‘Yes,’ said Laura, ‘I suppose he is.’
A short distance away Ruby’s daughter Racquel was also in York, at the Currys sale. She wanted to cheer up her mother, who had been down for so long. While the electric Rowenta iron at £15.99 was a definite temptation, the offer of £500 in credit was almost too good to resist.
Soon she was in discussion with the shop assistant, completely unaware that, for the long years that lay ahead, this was the day she began a life of debt.
Meanwhile, on the school playground two eight-year-olds, Mary Scrimshaw and Sonia Tricklebank, were deep in conversation.
‘This morning t’vicar said that God listens to our prayers,’ said Mary thoughtfully.
‘Y’right, ’e did,’ agreed Sonia.
‘We could say a prayer,’ said Mary.
‘OK,’ said Sonia and she clasped her hands and closed her eyes.
‘Thank you God for t’pancakes we ’ad f’lunch,’ said Mary.
‘But we ’ad liver an’ onions,’ said Sonia.
‘Ah know,’ said Mary. ‘Ah’m jus’ checkin’ ’e’s listening.’
Suddenly they saw a dead bird on the school field. ‘What ’appened t’the bird?’ asked Sonia.
‘Mr Evans says when y’die y’go to ’eaven,’ said Mary.
There was a long silence while Sonia stared dubiously at the sky and then back to the little bird. ‘So did God throw ’im back down then?’
Dorothy Humpleby was outlining her lips with a soft pencil, making sure it was a tone darker than her lipstick. After all, perfect coordination was a sign of the new eighties woman. After spending her lunchbreak in Diane’s Hair Salon, she had returned to the counter looking as though she had been dragged through a hedge backwards. Little Malcolm was about to order two pork pies for himself, while Big Dave sat at a nearby table and read the sports page of the Sun.
‘’Ave y’noticed summat diff’rent, Malcolm?’ asked Dorothy.
Little Malcolm was perplexed. He had noticed that Dorothy’s hair looked like a rook’s nest after a thunderstorm but, that apart, she looked just the same.
‘It’s yer ’air, Dorothy.’ Fortunately he didn’t elaborate.
‘Oooh, Malcolm,’ said Dorothy, ‘ah ’oped you’d like it. It’s m’Madonna look.’
A perplexed Malcolm put two pork pies in the pockets of his donkey jacket and picked up two mugs of sweet tea.
‘Why’s ’er ’air like that?’ asked Big Dave when Little Malcolm sat down.
‘She wants it to look like that little bloke what plays f’Argentina,’ explained Little Malcolm.
Big Dave’s knowledge of football was unsurpassed in Ragley village. ‘Y’mean Maradona?’
‘That’s ’im, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm.
Dorothy wasn’t the only one seeking to impress. ‘Don’t worry, Vicky,’ said Terry Earnshaw with the confidence of youth. ‘Ah know ’ow t’be posh like you. Ah asked our ’Eathcliffe.’
‘And what did he say?’ asked Victoria Alice, unaware until now that she was posh.
‘Well,’ said Terry in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘’e sez if y’put axshully at t’start of a sentence, then you’ve cracked it.’
‘Actually?’ repeated Victoria Alice, looking perplexed.
‘Yeah – axshully,’ repeated Terry.
‘I see,’ said Victoria Alice … but she didn’t.
The afternoon ended with story time in each class. Anne was reading The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin, Tom had his children enthralled with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Sally was acting out an Alan Garner folktale and I was reading Prince Caspian by C. S. Lewis. You could have heard a pin drop.
When the bell rang for the end of school Michelle Cathcart and Louise Hartley came up to me. ‘Thanks for t’lovely story, Mr Sheffield,’ said Michelle.
‘Ah love C. S. Lewis,’ said Louise. ‘Ah’m going t’read all ’is books one day.’
‘So am I – ’cause we’re friends,’ said Michelle.
‘And ah’m going t’Michelle’s house, Mr Sheffield, t’watch television and have m’tea,’ said Louise.
‘It’s Grange Hill tonight at five past five,’ said Michelle.
‘And it’s t’end-of-term dance,’ said Louise.
‘Then after tea at twenty to seven it’s Doctor Who,’ said Michelle.
‘It’s t’last part of Planet o’ Fire, Mr Sheffield,’ added Louise, ‘so it’ll be good.’
‘But t’best bit is that we do t’cooking and make t’tea,’ said Michelle. They ran off excitedly … completely unaware that they were destined to be friends for life.
I was in Anne’s classroom when I noticed Mary Cartwright, mother of Charlie, and Connie Crapper, mother of Patience, walking up the drive and heading for Tom’s classroom.
‘Jack, a quiet word,’ said Anne mysteriously. ‘We need to keep an eye on that.’
‘What is it, Anne?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘It’s about Tom … I’m beginning to have a concern,’ she said quietly. ‘He’s clearly a very conscientious teacher who is always willing to discuss a pupil’s progress. However, he is
also a very good-looking man and some of our younger mothers have begun to call in frequently, supposedly to discuss their child. It would appear that for some of them any excuse will do. I’m sure he’s completely unaware,’ she gave me a firm and meaningful look, ‘so a word from you might be appropriate.’
‘Thanks, Anne. I’ll pick my moment.’
As darkness fell the children were back in their homes and in the Earnshaw household an interesting conversation had begun in the kitchen.
‘T’vicar was tellin’ us abart Jesus an’ ’is disciples wi’ Easter comin’ up,’ said Terry to his brother.
‘’E told us abart ’em when ah were in Mr Sheffield’s class,’ said Heathcliffe.
‘’E said t’worst disciple was that Judas Asparagus or summat.’
‘Now that’s a vegetable ah really ’ate,’ said Mrs Earnshaw. ‘We ’ad some at yer Aunty Mavis’s an’ ah were on t’toilet f’two days.’
‘Y’mother’s reight,’ shouted Mr Earnshaw from the lounge.
Terry leaned round the kitchen door and looked at his father sitting in his armchair reading his Racing Post. ‘Anyway, Dad, ’e were let down badly, were Jesus,’ said Terry.
‘Was ’e?’ muttered Mr Earnshaw without raising his eyes from checking the runners and riders.
‘’Cause o’ that Judas Asparagus an’ that Pon-shus,’ said Terry.
‘It were Pontius … ’e were a pilot,’ said Mr Earnshaw from behind his paper. He gave the contented nod of a father who imparts wisdom with the innate confidence of all misguided men who believe they know it all.
‘Tek no notice of y’dad,’ said Mrs Earnshaw, ‘’e knows nowt.’
‘Knows nowt,’ repeated Dallas Sue-Ellen.
Mrs Earnshaw was making pancakes and Heathcliffe and Terry were crowding round the old gas cooker, their noses almost in the frying pan, while Dallas Sue-Ellen stared vacantly at Rainbow on ITV.
‘So what did y’learn at school t’day?’ asked Mrs Earnshaw.
Terry scratched his head and fragments of dried mud and grass fell into the pancake mix. However, Mrs Earnshaw had been brought up to believe that a little muck hurt no one so, undeterred, she continued to stir.
‘Well, Mam,’ said Terry, ‘we was doin’ about Jesus an’ t’Easter story wi’ t’vicar.’
‘We did that las’ year,’ said Heathcliffe. ‘In fac’, we did Jesus ev’ry year at Easter an’ Christmas.’
‘So what did t’vicar say?’ asked Mrs Earnshaw.
‘It were ’is las’ supper, Mam – jus’ ’im an’ ’is d’ciples – an’ they didn’t ’ave pancakes.’
‘Well, they wunt ’ave been invented then,’ said Heathcliffe knowingly. Since moving on to secondary school he regarded himself as the fount of all knowledge in the Earnshaw household.
‘Mam?’ pleaded Terry.
‘What?’ said Mrs Earnshaw, shoving the rusty spatula under the first pancake.
‘Can ah ’ave t’first pancake, Mam?’ asked Terry.
‘Please can ah ’ave t’first pancake, Mam, please?’ said Heathcliffe, remembering that if you said please to Miss Golightly in the shop you usually benefitted.
Mrs Earnshaw tapped them both on their heads with the spatula. ‘Do y’know, boys,’ she said, ‘if Jesus were ’ere, ’e would say “Let my brother ’ave t’first pancake.”’
Terry frowned as he tried to work this out.
As usual Heathcliffe was quicker off the mark. ‘OK, Mam,’ he said. Then he turned to his brother. ‘Terry – you can be Jesus.’
Meanwhile, in the Post Office, Amelia Duff was reading the Daily Mirror. She had opened it to the Dear Marje agony-aunt column featuring the acerbic wit of Marjorie Proops.
Underneath the letter that began, ‘I am a 34-year-old and I’m in love with my daughter’s boyfriend’ was another of particular interest. It simply read, ‘I am a mature 59-yearold lady who wishes to have a relationship with a man for the first time’ and Amelia thought that could be me.
She looked at the clock. Ted the postman was coming round for his tea. Ted liked Amelia’s experimental cooking and tonight she had prepared oriental bacon rolls with spinach. She wondered if she might push the boat out and welcome him with a refreshing cocktail of one part chilled white wine with one part soda water. You never know where it might lead.
Back at Bilbo Cottage there was barely time for me to wheel John up and down the hallway in his baby walker that he loved so much. At almost eight months he was now a strong little boy and could push himself up from a sitting position.
However, Natasha Smith soon arrived to babysit and Beth and I changed quickly for our night out in York. As always, Beth looked lovely. She had volunteered to drive and we squeezed into her Volkswagen Beetle. Her confident, speedy driving was a feature as she negotiated the busy Friday-evening traffic through the city centre and we parked on the approach to Micklegate Bar, one of the four great stone gateways to the city. As we walked along this wonderful medieval street I recalled its gruesome history. In the fifteenth century the head of the Duke of York was put on a spike and displayed on top of the highest turret so that, in the words of William Shakespeare, ‘York may over look the town of York’.
We hurried across to Blossom Street and the Odeon Cinema, where a smiling Tom was waiting outside. He was casually dressed in an old St Peter’s School rugby shirt, blue jeans and a waxed Barbour jacket. ‘Everyone is here, Jack,’ he said and gave me two tickets. ‘You’re sitting on the end of the row with Anne, John, Vera and the major, and I’m in front of you with Sally and Colin, plus Dan and Jo. I’ve put Dan in the aisle seat as he’s so tall,’ he added with a grin.
‘Thanks, Tom,’ I said.
He had a single ticket left in his hand. ‘And this is for Laura in case she turns up.’
We hurried in and I whispered to Beth, ‘I didn’t know Laura was coming.’
Beth appeared unconcerned as we looked for our seats. ‘Tom rang me and asked for her number. She’ll enjoy the night out.’
When we sat down Sally passed round a large bag of sherbet lemons and there was animated conversation as we all exchanged greetings. Everyone was in excellent spirits and it was good to relax together. Suddenly Tom arrived with Laura. Dan and I were in the aisle seats and we stood up.
‘Hello, everybody,’ said Laura. ‘Thanks for the invitation.’ She slipped off her charcoal-grey maxi-length leather coat. ‘Sorry – a bit of a rush,’ she said by way of apology. Laura wore a blue denim shirt with a red knotted neckscarf, and a brown suede waistcoat with skin-tight Burberry jeans and calf-length black leather boots. She looked stunning, and her high cheekbones were flushed after her brisk walk from Liberty in the sharp northerly wind. Her green eyes looked at me steadily. ‘Hello, Jack, hi, Beth,’ she said and kissed us both on the cheek. I could smell her perfume, Opium by Yves Saint Laurent, and it brought back certain memories. She took the spare seat between Tom and Jo in the row in front and waved a brief greeting as the lights dimmed and we settled back for Educating Rita.
I knew the story well, having read Willy Russell’s stage play. Michael Caine was superb as Frank Bryant, the self-loathing drunken professor of literature, and Julie Walters was perfectly cast as Rita, the ‘ah-wanna-learn’ hairdresser, a working-class woman who wants to find some meaning to her life. As the film reached its climax in the airport, with Frank about to board his plane, there was that iconic moment as Rita paused at the end of the corridor. She turned and looked back and we were left wondering if their unfulfilled relationship would ever be rekindled. I noticed Tom whisper something to Laura and she turned to look at me. The credits rolled, the lights came on, the spell was broken and midst a hubbub of conversation we made our way out into the street.
‘Would you like to come back to my place for coffee?’ offered Laura.
Everybody except Tom seemed to want to get home for one reason or another. ‘I live close by so I’m free,’ said Tom eagerly.
I looked at Beth. ‘Well, we don�
�t have to get straight home, do we?’
Beth looked at her watch. ‘We can’t be late for the babysitter, Jack.’ She gave her sister a hug. ‘So see you next week, maybe for lunch,’ she said.
‘Fine,’ said Laura. She glanced at me. ‘Goodnight, Jack,’ she said and looked at Tom, then they walked off together.
At midnight Little Malcolm had long since given up trying to repair the boiler. Dorothy’s hopes of a luxurious bathtime had been dashed and the first chapter of her Dirty Weekend Book had not been fully realized. As they snuggled up next to each other for warmth Dorothy wondered if chapter two might prove to be a little more exciting.
Meanwhile, as the bells of York Minster chimed the late hour, outside Laura’s apartment on a quiet road near the museum gardens, parked close to her brand-new Nissan Micra, was a rusty royal-blue Renault 4. The engine was cold and would remain so for a long time.
Chapter Fourteen
The Miner’s Daughter
A new temporary admission, Debbie Harrison, age eight, commenced full-time education in Class 3. Mrs Pringle and the headteacher accepted an invitation to view the new Jorvik Viking Centre in York on Saturday morning, 31 March. The school choir and orchestra are to perform at the Mothering Sunday Service at 11.00 a.m. in St Mary’s Church on Sunday, 1 April.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 30 March 1984
IT WAS VERA who saw her first and beckoned me to the office window. ‘This must be the new girl, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.
Debbie Harrison arrived at Ragley on the last school day in March. She was a sturdy, fair-haired eight-year-old and she was clinging nervously to her mother’s hand. They were accompanied by Mrs Doreen Critchley, our dinner lady, and she looked in a determined mood as they arrived at the school gates.
It had been a long, cold winter but now the season had changed and the promise of light, colour and warmth stretched out before us. The little girl was staring up in wonderment at the horse chestnut trees that bordered the school wall. The sticky buds were coming alive and, around their gnarled trunks on the grassy mounds, the first daffodils were raising their bright yellow trumpets to a powder-blue sky. Her mother, a slim woman in a warm coat and a knotted headscarf, crouched down beside her and pointed back towards the dancing heads of primroses on the village green. The bond between mother and daughter was clear. Doreen pointed towards the entrance door and they walked up the cobbled school drive towards it. Vera turned from the window, looking thoughtful.
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