07 School's Out!

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘Well,’ said Raymond, ‘it’s time to go, but don’t forget to take your receipt books and collecting tins for Bob-a-Job and remember – Major Forbes-Kitchener will present the Scout of the Year trophy at the May Day Fair to whoever does the most helpful job.’

  It was that time of the year when Boy Scouts gave a helping hand to their community by cleaning cars, gardening, window-cleaning, shopping and helping the elderly cross the road even though they may not wish to … and all for a bob, or five pence in decimal currency. Terry looked at the other boys, whose sleeves were barely long enough to accommodate all the badges they had won, and thought I’ve no chance.

  It was Friday, 4 May and an eventful Bank Holiday was in store.

  Following an evening of gentle rain, Saturday dawned bright and clear. When I opened the bedroom window the heavy scent of wallflowers was in the air to herald a day of promise and, once again, the swallows had returned to the safe haven of their nesting sites in the eaves of Bilbo Cottage. The hedgerows were teeming with new life and the world seemed blessed in this tiny corner of God’s Own Country.

  After a lazy breakfast I left Beth working on her dissertation for university while John rolled around on his play-mat. The drive into Ragley was a joy and, bordering the High Street outside the village hall, the almond trees were in blossom. On the village green, overhanging the pond, new leaves on the weeping willow caressed the lush grass and, outside school, the first flower stalks on the horse chestnut trees gave hope of the summer days to come. I left my Morris Minor Traveller in the school car park and walked back out of the gate, where bright yellow forsythia lifted the spirits.

  I had agreed to meet Tom Dalton on the village green at ten o’ clock, prior to setting up the marquees under the supervision of Major Forbes-Kitchener. Tom had said he was available to help out today but had commitments on May Day and I did wonder what they might be. I glanced at my watch. There was time to spare, so I decided to call in to Nora’s Coffee Shop for a hot drink.

  Meanwhile, in the Earnshaw household, Heathcliffe and Terry were straining at the leash.

  ‘Can we go now, Mam?’ pleaded Heathcliffe.

  ‘Look ’ere,’ said Mrs Earnshaw, ‘ah don’t want you boys getting into trouble.’

  The two brothers looked the picture of innocence. ‘No, Mam,’ they replied in perfect unison and with the stoic expression of absolute sincerity.

  ‘It’s Bob-a-Job, so we’re gonna be ’elpful t’people,’ said Terry.

  ‘An’ t’best Scout gets a trophy, Mam, so ah’m ’elping our Terry,’ explained Heathcliffe.

  ‘Well, remember,’ warned Mrs Earnshaw as she wiped the jam from Dallas Sue-Ellen’s face, ‘be’ave y’selves.’

  The boys gave a glassy-eyed look of innocence. ‘So can we go, Mam?’ asked Terry.

  ‘Where y’goin’ t’first?’ asked Mrs Earnshaw.

  ‘Miss Golightly’s, Mam,’ said Heathcliffe.

  ‘OK, but no going into Mr Tup’am’s rhubarb patch.’ The colour left the boys’ cheeks. How does she know? was the question that flickered through their minds. ‘Else you’ll get what-for,’ she added for good measure.

  There was a moment’s hesitation as both boys considered the exact nature of what-for, but for the Earnshaw boys life was for living, not thinking about, so they ran off to begin a day of helping the needy, the unwary and the completely mystified.

  It was crowded when I walked into the coffee shop and last month’s number one, Lionel Ritchie’s ‘Hello’, was on the juke-box. Dorothy was behind the counter reading her Smash Hits magazine and studying a photograph of Michael Jackson celebrating with his girlfriend Brooke Shields after winning eight Grammy awards, including Album of the Year for Thriller.

  Dorothy looked up. ‘What’s it t’be, Mr Sheffield?’

  ‘Just a coffee, please, Dorothy.’

  ‘Fwothy coffee comin’ up,’ said Nora, who had just spent twenty-five pence on a Woman’s Weekly. ‘Ah’m weading about Bwitain’s most popula man, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I answered vaguely.

  ‘Y’mean David Essex?’ asked Dorothy.

  Nora frowned.

  ‘Shakin’ Stevens?’ Dorothy tried again hopefully.

  ‘No, ah’m talking about that weally nice Iwishman, Tewwy Wogan.’

  ‘Oh, ’im?’ mumbled Dorothy without enthusiasm and returned to studying Michael Jackson’s handsome profile.

  ‘Yes, Nora, I’ve heard him on the radio,’ I said as I paid for my mug of bubbling foam.

  ‘’E ’as some weally lovely ca’digans,’ she called after me as I sought a spare seat.

  Seventeen-year-old Claire Bradshaw and Anita Cuthbertson were drinking bottles of 7Up through plastic straws. They looked up. ‘’Ullo, Sir,’ said Anita, ‘’ere’s a spare seat.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said with a wry smile. It seemed only yesterday that I was helping them with long division.

  ‘’Ow’s y’little boy?’ asked Claire when I had sat down.

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ I said. ‘Growing up fast.’

  They had clearly moved on from Jackie magazine. On the table in front of them was an old December issue of Cosmopolitan, selected from the pile on the shelf near the door. It was open at the page entitled ‘Should You Discuss Ex-Boyfriends?’ and I guessed in the case of these two inseparable friends the answer was a definite yes.

  ‘So how are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Fine thanks, sir,’ said Anita, ‘an’ we’ve got some news.’

  ‘Really?’

  Claire turned to a new page and pointed to a photograph. ‘Mr Sheffield, we’re gonna be like ’er.’

  The headline read ‘Madonna – the Hottest Wildest Woman in Rock’.

  ‘Madonna?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Sheffield,’ said Anita, ‘she sells seventy-five thousand records a day.’

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘We’re in Clint Ramsbottom’s rock band,’ said Claire.

  ‘An’ we’re gonna be famous,’ added Anita.

  ‘So who’s in this band?’

  ‘Well, there’s Clint Ramsbottom o’ course – ’e’s on lead guitar – an’ ’is brother Shane ’as got a drum,’ said Claire.

  ‘Then there’s Kenny Kershaw on bass guitar an’ Wayne Ramsbottom – ’e’s got a drum as well,’ added Anita, eyes bright with excitement.

  ‘You’ve got two drummers?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Sheffield,’ said Claire, ‘’cause they’ve both got a drum and they want t’be in t’group.’

  ‘An’ me an’ Claire are t’singers,’ said Anita proudly.

  ‘And what’s the name of your group?’ I asked.

  ‘The Throb,’ they said in unison.

  ‘The Throb … er, that’s really catchy,’ I said uncertainly.

  ‘Well we all like The Clash an’ Claire’s got that record London Calling,’ said Anita.

  ‘Clash?’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ said Claire, ‘our music’s a bit like them wi’ a bit o’ Status Quo thrown in.’

  ‘An’ Claire sings like Tina Turner,’ said Anita. ‘An’ ah sing a bit like that Izora Armstead.’ They could see they were losing me. ‘Y’mus’ know T’Weather Girls, Mr Sheffield,’ said Claire.

  I seemed to remember Wincey Willis on TV-am telling me it was going to be sunny this weekend, but I couldn’t work out what this had to do with their proposed pop group.

  ‘They sang “It’s Raining Men”,’ prompted Anita.

  ‘Oh, did they?’

  I smiled uncertainly, supped the last of my coffee and beat a hasty retreat.

  In the General Stores, Heathcliffe and Terry had pooled their pocket money and were staring intently at the jars of cinder toffee, Pontefract cakes and liquorice pipes. Sustenance was important before they began helping people. They were working out the cost: weight ratio, which, had they known it, would have promoted them to the next level of difficulty in the School Mathematics Project.

  After deciding on two identical bag
s of liquorice torpedoes they asked the question: ‘Bob-a-Job, Miss Golightly?’

  Prudence Golightly was a kindly soul. ‘Yes please, boys. You can clean the shop window,’ and she gave them a bucket of water and two chamois leathers.

  Unfortunately, the configuration of the counter combined with the vast collection of items on display prevented Prudence from having a clear view of the intrepid window cleaners.

  Minutes later Heathcliffe said, ‘We’ve finished, Miss Golightly.’

  ‘It were ’arder on my side,’ said Terry, red in the face.

  Puzzled, Miss Golightly followed them outside and stared at the window in dismay. ‘Where’s all the writing gone?’

  As a favour to Miss Golightly, George Postlethwaite, the one-armed fisherman who could do perfect mirror-writing, had painted the bargains of the day on the inside of the shop window in large white letters.

  ‘Ah cleaned it off, Miss Golightly,’ said Terry.

  ‘But I only wanted you to do the outside,’ pleaded Miss Golightly.

  ‘But y’gave us two cloths,’ insisted Heathcliffe.

  Miss Golightly gave a wry smile. ‘Yes I did, I suppose … oh well, here’s your shilling.’

  ‘Axshully, Miss Golightly – it’s five pence each,’ said Heathcliffe with considered politeness. ‘An’ don’t worry, we’ll find Mr Postlethwaite an’ mek it right,’ and they put the money in the collecting tin, recorded their first transaction in their receipt book and ran off.

  Outside the Post Office a large van pulled up and two men began to unload a huge bed. Ben Roberts watched intrigued – it was the biggest bed he had ever seen.

  He took one last look at the card to his grandma in Market Weighton. It read: ‘Dear Grandma, thank you for the 50p stuck to my Easter egg box and I’m sorry I didn’t write to you sooner. I promise I’ll write a lot quicker if you send anything for my birthday on May 21st. Love, Benjamin. X’. He posted the letter and waved to Mrs Poole and her Yorkshire terrier, Scargill, and wished that one day he might own a dog.

  Mrs Poole was tying Scargill’s lead to the drainpipe outside Diane’s hairdresser’s when the Earnshaw boys approached. ‘Bob-a-Job, Mrs Poole?’ asked Terry.

  Mrs Poole looked relieved. ‘Yes, luv,’ she said and put a coin in the tin. ‘Look after Scargill while ah’m ’aving me ’air done an’ ah’ll see y’back ’ere in a couple of ’ours.’

  ‘OK, Mrs Poole,’ said Terry, taking the lead.

  ‘Axshully, there’ll be two of us looking after y’dog, Mrs Poole,’ said Heathcliffe, shaking the tin. Mrs Poole took the hint, removed another coin from her purse and hurried through the shop door.

  Slightly hampered by the lively Yorkshire terrier straining on his leash, the intrepid duo sought out their next customer.

  ‘’Ow about Mr Pratt?’ suggested Terry, staring at Pratt’s Hardware Emporium. Outside the shop was a trestle table on which Tidy Tim had displayed a collection of clay pots. They tied Scargill’s lead to one of the table legs and walked in. ‘Bob-a-Job, Mr Pratt?’

  Before Timothy could reply there was a crash outside.

  Scargill had pulled his lead clear, attacked one of the life-like hedgehog boot-scrapers and then run off as a multitude of clay pots rolled off the table and smashed on the concrete forecourt. The boys followed Timothy out of the door.

  ‘Oh ’eck,’ said Timothy, ‘what a mess!’ He looked up and down the street but no culprit was in sight. ‘Oh well, boys, here’s a job. ’Ow about y’sweep up this mess and ah’ll pay when you’ve done it.’

  ‘Good as done, Mr Pratt,’ said the holier-than-thou Heathcliffe and he gave Terry a knowing look that indicated ‘admit nothing’.

  When Veronica Poole walked into Diane’s Hair Salon Betty Buttle was sitting under the dryer reading a copy of the Sun. However, Betty wasn’t interested in the photograph of Boy George and George Michael leaving for America, although she did notice that Wham!’s macho George Michael was showing off his hairy chest whereas Boy George was wearing a skirt. It was the picture of Joan Collins that caught her eye. ‘Well, would y’believe it!’ said Betty.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Veronica.

  ‘It sez ’ere a twenty-nine-year-old housewife won on that Mastermind programme. Her specialist subject was Dynasty an’ she got twenty-six correct answers. Ah could ’ave won that.’

  ‘But there’s general knowledge as well, Betty,’ said Veronica guardedly.

  ‘Ah well, mebbe so,’ said Betty.

  ‘So what’s it t’be t’day, Veronica?’ asked Diane.

  Veronica thought for a moment and looked down once again at the photograph in Betty’s newspaper. ‘Ah’ll ’ave a Joan Collins, please, Diane – y’never know, that dishy young teacher might fancy an older woman.’

  Diane picked up a bottle of shampoo and smiled. She knew when to keep her thoughts to herself.

  ‘Ah see Amelia is ’aving a posh double bed delivered to t’Post Office,’ said Veronica, changing the subject.

  ‘It’ll be f’Ted Postlethwaite,’ said Diane.

  Veronica looked into the mirror at Ragley’s favourite hairdresser. ‘Diane – what are you looking for in a man?’

  Diane thought for a moment and sighed. ‘Well … a pulse would be a start.’

  ‘Ah wonder where ’e’s gone,’ said Heathcliffe, peering up and down the High Street for the four-legged fugitive.

  ‘Let’s ask Clint,’ said Terry.

  Clint Ramsbottom was sitting on the bench outside the village hall, smoking a cigarette. The young farmhand was becoming politically aware and was particularly pleased with his stylish Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament ear-stud. Sadly, it was unfortunate that he had selected one of the reject stock sold by Bent Bernie in Thirkby market. Instead of the letters CND it read COD. So it was that Clint Ramsbottom, trendsetter of Ragley village, now resembled a punk fisherman with attitude. He looked deep in thought.

  ‘’Ello, Clint,’ said Heathcliffe.

  ‘Sorry, lads, ah’ve no change,’ said Clint, eyeing up the collecting tin.

  ‘We’ve lost Scargill,’ said Heathcliffe. ‘’Ave y’seen ’im?’

  ‘Yeah, ’e ran round t’back o’ t’pub. Old Tommy were shoutin’ at ’im f’pinchin’ one of ’is sausages.’

  ‘Oh ’eck,’ said Heathcliffe, ‘we’d best go find ’im.’

  Terry had another thought. ‘Clint, if y’goin’ in t’pub can y’tell old Mr Postlethwaite that Miss Golightly wants t’see ’im ’bout painting ’er window again.’

  ‘OK,’ said Clint, ‘… an’ guess what, lads.’

  ‘What?’ said the boys.

  ‘Ah’ve gorra rock band,’ said Clint proudly.

  ‘Who’s in it?’ asked Terry.

  ‘Me an’ Kenny on guitars, m’brothers on t’drums an’ Claire an’ Anita singing … ’cept they can’t sing.’

  ‘’Ow about y’play louder so no one can ’ear ’em?’ suggested Terry.

  Clint nodded appreciatively. ‘Good idea, Terry,’ he said, ‘but w’need somewhere t’practise.’

  Heathcliffe grabbed the opportunity. ‘If w’find somewhere will y’give us a bob?’ he said.

  ‘It’s a deal,’ agreed Clint with a grin.

  Tom and I were hot and tired after erecting the marquee and The Royal Oak beckoned for some well-earned refreshment. Don the barman was up a ladder, peering hesitantly under the roof tiles as we walked in. A few members of the football team were propping up the bar and Sheila was pulling pints for Deke Ramsbottom and his son Shane.

  I looked at the menu on the blackboard. Sheila made sure her meals, whenever possible, featured local produce and the influence of a recent visit from Pete the Poacher could be seen by the introduction of squirrel soup.

  ‘’Ello, Mr Sheffield, Mr Dalton … Whitby fish, fresh in t’day,’ said Sheila.

  Norman Barraclough, the local fish merchant, had made the round trip to the east coast in his little white van and a whole smoked herring, still with its back
bone, was an appetizing delicacy.

  Tom smiled and nodded. ‘For two then please, Sheila,’ I said.

  ‘Full o’ protein, Mr Dalton,’ said Sheila, devouring my handsome colleague with her eyes. ‘We got t’keep ’is strength up, ’aven’t we, Mr Sheffield?’

  ‘You get a table, Tom,’ I said, ‘and I’ll bring the drinks over.’

  He nodded, gave Sheila a flashing smile and walked over to the bay-window table.

  ‘’E’s a looker, y’new teacher, Mr Sheffield,’ said Sheila. ‘’As ’e got a girlfriend?’

  ‘I’ve never asked,’ I said.

  The television above the tap-room bar was switched on and Sheila glanced up at it disconsolately as she pulled a frothing pint of Chestnut. ‘’Ave y’noticed, Mr Sheffield, they allus start wi’ a Good afternoon and then tell y’why it isn’t.’

  ‘You sound a bit fed up, Sheila.’

  ‘Ah’m worried about them bees in t’roof, Mr Sheffield … big day on Monday an’ we can’t find s’lution.’

  Don Bradshaw was standing at the foot of his ladder looking concerned.

  ‘Bob-a-Job, Mr Bradshaw?’ asked Heathcliffe.

  Don sighed deeply. ‘Ah’d give you a lot more than a bob t’get shut o’ them bees. They’ll be in t’attic next.’

  Terry looked up the ladder. ‘Ah’ll go up an’ poke ’em wi’ a stick, Mr Bradshaw,’ he offered.

  Don smiled. ‘No thanks, young Terry,’ he said, ‘it’s too dangerous, but thanks for offerin’.’

  ‘You’ve got an attic, Mr Bradshaw?’ queried Heathcliffe. ‘It’s jus’ that Clint wants a room for ’is new rock band t’practise.’

  Don grinned. ‘Ah don’t think so.’

  ‘But your Claire’s t’lead singer,’ said Terry quickly.

  Don thought for a moment. ‘So that’s what she’s been up to.’ He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a few coins. ‘Just stack t’ladder round back for me, lads – an ’ere’s summat for y’collectin’ tin.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Bradshaw,’ they said and carried the ladder to the back yard. To their surprise, there was Scargill the Yorkshire terrier, chewing away at one of Old Tommy Piercy’s prize-winning sausages.