‘Bloomin’ ’eck,’ said Heathcliffe, ‘we’d better look after ’im now.’
‘Let’s tek ’im for a walk,’ said Terry.
‘’Ow about to t’big Manor?’ said Heathcliffe. ‘Mrs Forbes-Kitchener’ll give us a job.’
Don reappeared behind the bar, looking hot and bothered. ‘Ah can’t seem t’shift ’em,’ he said. ‘Ah’ve tried ev’rything. T’little buggers are under t’eaves. Ah’d ’ave t’tek some tiles off t’roof, ah reckon. Looks like a big job.’
Sheila looked concerned. ‘We can’t ’ave a swarm o’ bees stingin’ all t’customers, Don, an’ we’ll be packed in both bars on May Day.’
‘Ah’ll do m’best, luv,’ said Don forlornly.
Clint Ramsbottom appeared and, after a conversation with George Postlethwaite, he sauntered up to the bar. ‘Mr Postlethwaite’s going t’Miss Golightly’s t’paint signs,’ he said.
‘’E could write wi’ both ’ands,’ said Deke.
‘Y’mean afore ’e ’ad ’is arm blown off in t’war?’ asked Don, looking for clarification.
‘O’ course, y’great lump,’ said Sheila.
‘So ’e could write left-’anded an’ right-’anded?’ said Don.
‘That’s reight, Don,’ said Deke, ‘’e were ambiguous.’
Stevie Supersub Coleclough, the only member of the football team with any academic qualifications, said, ‘Ah think y’mean ambidex—’ but stopped quickly when he saw the psychopathic glare from Shane Ramsbottom.
‘Them Earnshaw boys said y’lookin’ for a place for y’band t’practise,’ said Don, ‘so y’can use our attic.’
‘Our attic?’ said Sheila.
‘Yes, luv,’ said Don. ‘Our Claire’s t’lead singer.’
‘Oooh, that’s wonderful,’ said Sheila. She pulled a pint for Clint and he wandered off to talk to his brother.
‘’E’s allus been sensitive, ’as our Clint, ever since ’e were a little lad,’ said Deke with a sigh.
Sheila continued to pull mightily on the hand pump and glanced across at Clint, who was fingering his new pendulous earring. ‘Well, that’s a good thing,’ she said. ‘Ah’ve gorra thing f’sensitive men. Y’don’t get many in ’ere.’
Deke leaned over the bar. ‘But it can be embarrassing, Sheila,’ he said. ‘Ah’ve ’ad m’moments wi’ ’im.’
‘Ow d’you mean?’ asked Sheila.
‘Well,’ said Deke, ‘when they were kids ah recall tekkin’ ’im an’ Shane to t’pictures t’see Bambi an’ when Bambi’s mother got shot our Clint burst into tears.’
‘Ah’m not s’prised,’ said Sheila as she placed a foaming pint of Tetley’s bitter on top of a York City tea towel on the bar. ‘Ah were upset m’self. So … what about your Shane?’
Deke took a pensive sip. ‘Well ’e’s never been into sensitivity.’
‘Why, ’ow did ’e tek it?’ asked Sheila.
‘’E asked if ’e could ’ave a shotgun f’Christmas.’
Sheila looked at Shane and the giant fist that held his pint tankard with the letters H-A-R-D tattooed on his knuckles. ‘Y’can pick y’friends but not y’family,’ she said.
When Deke walked back to the football team, Don put his arm round Sheila’s shoulders. ‘It’s a cryin’ shame f’Deke,’ he said. ‘All y’want in life is normal … and y’finish up wi’ a psychopath an’ a poofter.’
At the magnificent Morton Manor, Vera was deep in thought. She was standing in the comfortably furnished Victorian conservatory and the furniture was looking decidedly worn. However, she had just discovered the perfect solution in her Radio Times. There was an opportunity to purchase matching stretch covers for the ageing sofas and the beauty of it was that they came with matched frilled valances. Also the title of the range was simply perfect. The ‘Diana Linen Look’ appeared to have the seal of royal approval – even though the address was a company in Preston. Still, you can’t have everything she mused.
It was then she saw two scruffy boys with a lively dog on the gravelled driveway. They waved at her and pointed to their collecting tin. She smiled in recognition – the Earnshaw boys – and she picked up her purse and went out to meet them.
‘Bob-a-Job, Mrs Forbes-Kitchener?’ they recited politely.
Vera looked around. There was a small attractive flower bed outside the kitchen door. Safe enough she thought. ‘Yes, boys, fetch the wheelbarrow from the shed over there and get a trowel and weed this flower bed, please. Come round to the conservatory when you’ve finished and I’ll pay you.’
Minutes later it was clear that the boys were not avid watchers of Gardeners’ World. ‘’Ow d’you tell which is weeds, ’Eath?’ asked Terry.
Heathcliffe replied emphatically. ‘Pull ’em all out, Terry, an’ if they come up again, them’s weeds.’
When Vera returned it took a great effort to remember the Christian values that underpinned her life. Her flower bed now resembled Cleethorpes beach at low tide. It was with a heavy heart that she placed two five-pence pieces in their mud-covered collecting tin.
On Sunday evening in the tap room of The Royal Oak the usual crowd were supping contentedly and watching the new television series of Surprise Surprise with Cilla Black and Christopher Biggins.
‘Lovely singer,’ said Sheila.
‘But she s’pports Liverpool,’ said Don with a frown.
‘Ah know, but she can sing love songs wi’ feelin’ – jus’ like that French woman from way back.’
‘Edith Pee-off,’ said Old Tommy through a haze of Old Holborn tobacco. What Old Tommy didn’t know about old songs wasn’t worth knowing.
Suddenly the ceiling began to shake. ‘Bloody ’ell!’ exclaimed Don. ‘What’s that?’
‘Sounds like thunder,’ said Old Tommy, adjusting his hearing aid.
‘It’s them kids upstairs,’ said Sheila benignly. ‘Let ’em ’ave their bit o’ fun.’
The more Wayne Ramsbottom beat his drum the more his big brother Shane tried to outdo him. The noise was like a physical blow. Claire and Anita had sung themselves hoarse but they couldn’t compete with the wall of sound coming from the other end of the attic. On the rooftop above them the tiles trembled. The members of The Throb were living up to their name.
The May Day celebrations were always a special time in the Ragley calendar and large crowds gathered on the village green. Marquees with garlands of bright bunting fluttered in the gentle breeze, and the sun shone down on the morris dancers in their white linen shirts and cord trousers with coloured ribbons tied round their knees. Old Tommy Piercy’s hog roast was as popular and appetizing as ever and Sally’s maypole dancers stole the show. The beer tent was a popular meeting place for the men of the village and the ladies of the Women’s Institute served cream teas in the large marquee, where Anne and Sally had organized a wonderful display of children’s art work. We were disappointed that Tom had missed the big day, but knew it must be something important that kept him away.
Beth, with John on her knee, was sitting on the semicircle of straw bales watching Captain Fantastic’s Punch and Judy Show when Don Bradshaw tugged my sleeve.
‘It’s a miracle, Mr Sheffield,’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘They’ve gone, ev’ry las’ blinkin’ one.’
‘Gone?’
‘Them bees,’ he said, full of excitement. ‘Sheila reckons it must ’ave been t’noise of our Claire’s rock band – it would ’ave woken t’dead. So it’s thanks t’them Earnshaw boys for suggesting it. Ah’ve told t’Scout master an’ ’e were pleased.’
‘That’s good news,’ I said.
Even so, what was to follow came as a surprise. As the entertainment was dying down, the major picked up the microphone.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, for helping where help was needed most, the winner of the Scout of the Year for 1984 is – Terence Earnshaw.’
The major shook hands with Terry and handed him the trophy. Terry held it aloft as if he had just won the World Cup and the Earnshaw
family led the applause. The major passed the microphone to Terry and the bristle-haired boy surveyed the crowd. There was George Postlethwaite, who had had to repeat his morning’s sign-painting task, Vera Forbes-Kitchener, whose garden had been stripped of flowers, and Old Tommy Piercy, who had lost his plate of prize sausages.
‘Thank you very much, Sir,’ said Terry. ‘Me an’ m’brother … we jus’ want to ’elp.’
Chapter Seventeen
Extra-Curricular Activities
Mr Dalton left at lunchtime to deliver a lecture on ‘The Impact of New Technology in the Primary School’. Miss Flint provided supply cover. After school the headteacher and Mr Dalton attended the North Yorkshire Schools ‘The New Curriculum’ briefing at High Sutton Hall.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 8 June 1984
‘BLAST!’ EXCLAIMED BETH. ‘There’s a stain on the tablecloth.’
I stared at the mark on the snowy-white cloth. ‘It’s only tiny,’ I said.
Beth was unconvinced. ‘And I haven’t time to wash it before Mother comes.’
It was Friday morning, 8 June, and I was about to leave for school. ‘No one will notice,’ I added, though I didn’t believe it myself.
The tiny portable television set was murmuring away on the kitchen worktop. On Good Morning Britain Nick Owen was informing the nation that the miners’ strike was gathering momentum. While forty-four pits were working normally, one hundred and nineteen were idle. The strike was in its thirteenth week and Arthur Scargill was seeking support from dockers, lorry drivers and seamen. When Margaret Thatcher announced, ‘I do not see any role for government intervention,’ I turned the sound down.
‘You know what my mother’s like,’ said Beth, ‘and this is the tablecloth she bought us as a first anniversary gift, so we need to use it.’
Diane Henderson was driving up from Hampshire to spend the weekend with us and we always had a tidy-up before she came. ‘We can cover it with a placemat,’ I said.
‘I suppose so,’ said Beth, slightly mollified. She turned to pick up John and put on his new shoes as he giggled with pleasure. He was walking now after a sudden growth spurt and spent a lot of time exploring his new upright world by playing with the coasters on the coffee table. ‘Anyway, good luck at the conference and I’ll see you tomorrow.’
I bent down to kiss them both and picked up my overnight bag from the hallway. ‘Love you,’ I said and hurried out. A long day was in store with an overnight training course at High Sutton Hall immediately after school.
It was to prove eventful.
At 7.30 a.m. in Ruby’s house Mike Read was playing Wham!’s number-one record ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’ on his Radio 1 show. The volume on the old Bush radio was on full, Sharon, Natasha and Hazel were singing along and the walls were shaking. While this appeared to be a normal start to a day at 7 School View, something was different. After over five months of mourning, Ruby was humming contentedly. She no longer viewed life through a veil of tears. Her world was changing and the first flicker of hope warmed the scattered ashes of her life. The healing process had begun.
Meanwhile, in her kitchen on the Crescent, Anne Grainger was listening to Radio 2 and Ray Moore’s breakfast show. Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton were singing ‘Islands in the Stream’ but Anne was definitely not singing along. She was in the middle of an enough-is-enough moment. Her husband John had just spent the exorbitant sum of ninety-five pence on his May issue of Woodworker Magazine and was pointing to a photograph of a wooden rocking chair on the front cover. ‘I’m going to make this for you,’ he said. ‘I could knock it up in an afternoon.’
To John it was the chair of the twenty-first century – modern, minimalist and magnificent – whereas to Anne it appeared to be the most uncomfortable piece of furniture she had ever seen – a sort of a curved duck-board.
‘John, have you ever thought there might be something we could do together during an afternoon?’ she asked in desperation.
John’s eyes lit up. ‘You mean you want to help me make it?’
Anne looked up at the kitchen clock in despair. It was another fourteen hours before her television heart-throb David Soul appeared in Starsky and Hutch, along with her opportunity to relax with a glass of wine. ‘I don’t think so, John,’ she said with feeling. ‘I had other extra-curricular activities in mind.’ John was engrossed and the remark passed him by.
At Morton Manor, Vera turned down the Debussy and Bizet concert on Radio 3 and walked into the lounge, where Rupert was watching Selina Scott reading the breakfast news. Vera had noticed that Rupert definitely preferred Selina Scott on BBC1 to the slightly more chatty Anne Diamond on ITV, and guessed she knew why.
However, Rupert was shaking his head in dismay. ‘What’s the country coming to?’ he muttered. During the Round Britain Milk Race cyclists had had to scramble through gardens to get past Welsh farmers after they had blocked the road into Aberystwyth with tractors, in protest at cuts in the EEC milk production quotas. Also, the National Union of Railwaymen had voted for a 31 per cent pay rise with a minimum wage of £100 for a thirty-five-hour working week. Meanwhile, the threatened postal strike had been called off following a new pay offer. By the time the elegant Selina announced that there were now five million people smoking cannabis in Britain, Rupert was switching off in disgust.
‘The country’s in a mess, old thing,’ he said and smiled at the woman he loved. He picked up his Financial Times, sat in his favourite armchair and reflected on the changes in his life since he had married Vera – not least when Timothy Pratt delivered three large bags of Fullers Earth Cat Litter to the tradesman’s entrance of Morton Manor.
Vera was not entirely happy at being referred to as ‘old thing’. However, she kissed his forehead and returned to the kitchen to share a slice of toast and home-made marmalade with Debussy and Bizet.
I parked on the High Street outside the General Stores and called in for my newspaper. At the counter Margery Ackroyd was clutching her Daily Mirror and almost bursting to share her latest bit of television gossip with Prudence Golightly.
‘I knew they were in love,’ announced Margery. Emmerdale Farm’s Jack Sugden and his television wife Pat had decided to marry in real life. Apparently thirty-nine-year-old Clive Hornby and forty-two-year-old Helen Weir broke the news over a bottle of bubbly. ‘Y’can’t act love,’ said Margery knowingly. ‘It was as plain as t’nose on y’face.’
My newspaper didn’t mention this blossoming love affair. Instead it concentrated on the National Association of Headteachers, who had proposed a four-term year plus a change to the law compelling all schools to start each day with morning assembly, in order to cater for other religions. Our school population was changing, particularly in the big cities.
Morning assembly was a memorable occasion. Joseph gave a short talk entitled ‘Love Thy Neighbour’ and illustrated it with a few Bible stories. However, it was his asking the children for examples in our daily lives that made the staff sit up and listen. Katie Icklethwaite seemed old before her years when she announced knowingly, ‘I think love is when y’kiss all the time and then y’get married and jus’ talk to each other like my mum and dad.’
Little Becky Shawcross touched us all when she said, ‘Love is when your mummy kisses you to sleep at night cos in my house there’s no one else to do it.’
Billy Ricketts had a more down-to-earth view of this complex concept. He said cheerily, ‘Mr Evans, ah think love is when our dog licks m’face – even though it’s clean.’
Meanwhile, Rosie Spittlehouse expressed a practical viewpoint: ‘Love is when Mummy gives Daddy t’last sausage.’
It was left to Hazel Smith to sum up. ‘Mr Evans,’ she said quietly, ‘ah wish ah could’ve told my dad ah loved ’im jus’ one more time before ’e went to ’eaven.’ On the other side of the hall Anne looked down, took her handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and wiped a tear from her eye. I had always believed that teaching was the best job in t
he world but, on occasions, it could be heartbreaking.
Happily, we finished on a cheerful note when Anne sat at the piano and led an impromptu sing-song from the Count Me In songbook she had used this week to support her role-play shopping experiences. The children in Class 1 stood up and sang:
Six sticky buns in a baker’s shop,
Big and brown with a currant on top.
A boy came along with a penny one day,
He paid one penny and took a bun away.
During the performance Billy Ricketts as a diminutive baker collected plastic pennies and the children took turns to be the shopper. It was a happy end to a poignant assembly.
During morning break Sally was on playground duty and Tom and Anne were busy discussing the afternoon talk.
‘It’s a feather in your cap, Tom,’ said Anne, ‘if Miss High-and-Mighty has invited you to speak.’
Tom flicked through his stapled sheaf of notes for his talk, entitled ‘The Impact of New Technology in the Primary School’. ‘I’ve got a slide show as well,’ he said and pulled out a small yellow plastic box containing twenty-four 35mm slides. ‘I’ve got a really good photograph of an Apple computer.’
‘Apple?’ said Anne.
‘Yes, it’s the first to use a pull-down menu.’
‘Really,’ said Anne, now completely mystified.
‘And it uses a mouse.’
‘A mouse!’ exclaimed Anne, looking alarmed.
Tom smiled and showed her a photograph of something that resembled a small plastic soap dish with a wire sticking out like a mouse’s tail. ‘Like that,’ he said with a grin.
At lunchtime Miss Flint arrived to teach Class 2 for the afternoon, following Tom’s invitation to give a talk at High Sutton Hall to newly qualified teachers on the new technology. Soon she was sharing a pot of Earl Grey tea with Vera, her long-time friend, and discussing the recent photographs of Princess Diana, who, wearing a white coat over her maternity dress, had visited a sweet factory. Wisely, as she was expecting her second child in September, she had selected low-calorie fruit gums as she was watching her weight. ‘Very wise,’ said Miss Flint and both ladies nodded knowingly.
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