07 School's Out!

by Jack Sheffield

  Meanwhile, at the vicarage, a heated exchange was taking place on the gravelled drive. Joseph was looking in despair at the overgrown graveyard and surrounding lawns. ‘But you promised you would arrange for the grass to be cut every week,’ he implored, trying to keep his anger under control.

  ‘Ah do it when ah’ve gorra man t’spare,’ said Stan Coe dismissively, ‘an ’ah’ve been busy lately.’

  ‘But look at the state it’s in,’ said Joseph.

  Sadly, no one else had volunteered to tend the spacious lawns around the church and graveyard. When the contract had come up for renewal, one of Stan’s long-time drinking partners on the parish council had made sure he got the job and a new motor mower had been purchased. It was kept in an old shed hidden from view round the back of the vicarage.

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ said Stan dismissively.

  ‘Then we shall have to make other arrangements,’ said Joseph emphatically. ‘I shall inform the parish council that you have not completed the work.’

  ‘You’ll be sorry if y’do,’ threatened Stan. He weighed sixteen stones and loomed over the stick-thin vicar. ‘An’ ah’ll be back for t’mower later,’ he added as he walked back to his Land Rover and trailer.

  ‘It belongs to the parish council,’ shouted Joseph as Stan accelerated away in a spurt of gravel.

  Lillian Figgins had heard the exchange after mopping the kitchen floor and came out to see what was happening. She gave the departing pig farmer a look that would have curdled milk. Then light dawned and she smiled. ‘Joseph,’ she said quietly, ‘ah may ’ave a solution – can ah use y’telephone?’

  Half an hour later Deke Ramsbottom reversed his trailer up the vicarage driveway, unloaded an unusual cargo and drove off with a cheerful wave.

  ‘Mr Evans, this is Delilah,’ said Lillian proudly.

  ‘My goodness – what a magnificent creature!’ exclaimed Joseph.

  The huge sheep that trotted confidently towards the graveyard clearly thought all her birthdays had come at once. Spread out before her was enough lush grass to keep her happy for the foreseeable future.

  ‘It’s a Four-Horned Jacob ewe, Mr Evans.’

  This was a distinctive sheep with a coat of black and white wool and a face that resembled a badger, black with a white band from forehead to muzzle. ‘The major is looking after ’er for a friend,’ said Lillian, ‘and she’ll make short work of all t’grass – an’ ’e says she’s better than a guard dog.’

  Meanwhile, further up Morton Road there were different problems. In her state-of-the-art conservatory, Petula Dudley-Palmer was unpacking a large box. As chairwoman of the Ragley Book Club, Petula had extended her brief to include a mail-order initiative and champion reading in the community – however, the ordering system hadn’t gone to plan. It hadn’t helped that all the books had arrived in sealed brown envelopes with only a number code to identify the contents. Sadly, Petula had mixed them up, although, with the passing of time, many of her fellow members had forgotten which book they had ordered.

  Even so, Sheila Bradshaw in The Royal Oak was looking forward to the follow-up to The Joy of Sex, appropriately entitled More Joy of Sex. Timothy Pratt had ordered The Fretwork and Model Making Annual for his best friend Walter, the model-aircraft enthusiast. Timothy firmly believed that one day Walter might branch out into dolls’ houses, forts and ships; after all, Walter Crapper was the most exciting man he had ever met. Petula herself had ordered Jane Fonda’s Workout Book, plus a special treat for her husband Geoffrey – namely, Mark McCormack’s What They Don’t Teach You at Harvard Business School. Diane Wigglesworth, the hairdresser, was anticipating a quiet night in with Hollywood Wives, the blockbuster novel by Jackie Collins, while the increasingly figure-conscious Sally Pringle had ordered The Weight Watchers Food Plan Diet Cookbook. Amelia Duff, the postmistress, had selected Fishing with Friends from the catalogue for her new love, Ted Postlethwaite, and Margery Ackroyd, having crept unwillingly into her forties, decided to continue her search for eternal youth with The Mary Kay Guide to Beauty. Finally, Betty Buttle, the Muppets fan, was simply looking forward to a good laugh with Miss Piggy’s Guide to Life.

  As Petula toured the village in her Oxford Blue 1975 Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, she prayed that everything would work out.

  At the end of school, the children clutched their report books in sealed envelopes to take home for signing by their parents and eventual return to their teachers. Vera and I weren’t far behind. We walked out to my Morris Minor Traveller and drove into York. Traffic appeared to be gridlocked so we parked at St John’s College and walked up Gillygate towards the Minster. Much had happened during the day and a chequerboard of tapes covered the fallen debris to enable the individual timbers to be recorded.

  We set to work in Chapter House Yard under the supervision of Canon Henry Fodder, who had worked non-stop all day. We did exactly as we were told and there was a genuine warmth and camaraderie among the volunteers. For three hours we folded curtains and rugs, cleaned ornaments and packed them into boxes to be labelled and transferred to safe storage. It was backbreaking work on a sticky, humid evening, and storm clouds were gathering to the north as we finally took our leave. John Grainger took Anne and Sally home, Wilfred Noggs volunteered to drive Vera back to Morton Manor and Joseph and Miss Figgins walked back with me to my car.

  We were tired and thirsty as we drove up Ragley High Street and the lights of The Royal Oak shone brightly. I spoke up, ‘How about a drink?’

  ‘We’ve certainly earned one,’ said Joseph.

  Lillian had always been a direct woman. ‘Well ah could murder a port an’ lemon.’

  As we pulled up by the village green the first rumble of thunder could be heard in the far distance. When we walked in Ruby’s son, Andy Smith, who was on leave from his post in Ireland, was standing at the bar with the football team and a smattering of the regulars. The discussion seemed a little more serious than usual. ‘Well we won in t’Falklands,’ said Andy.

  Old Tommy Piercy seemed unconvinced. ‘Ah’ve seen too many wars, young Andrew,’ he said, ‘an’ there’s no winners.’

  ‘But we stood up for what were reight,’ said Andy. ‘We fought for a better world. Don’t you agree, Mr Piercy?’

  ‘Nay, lad,’ replied Old Tommy, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe, ‘if ah agreed wi’ you, we’d both be wrong.’

  ‘’Ow d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, young Andrew … war doesn’t tell y’who’s reight,’ said Old Tommy, ‘only who’s left.’

  There was silence as the football team weighed up the gravitas of Old Tommy’s words. Even the old farmers playing fives and threes at the dominoes table paused momentarily and nodded their approval in his direction.

  ‘Mebbe y’reight, Mr Piercy,’ said Andy, holding up an empty tankard. ‘’Ow about another?’

  The spell was broken, normal service was resumed and Don gave us a cheery welcome as he pulled a fresh pint of Tetley’s bitter for Old Tommy. ‘Evenin’, Miss Figgins, Mr Sheffield – an’ welcome, vicar, good t’see you. What will it be?’

  ‘A port and lemon, please, Don,’ I said, ‘a pint of Chestnut and a large glass of your finest red wine.’

  Don grinned and, of course, as an infrequent visitor to our local public house, the irony was lost on Joseph. The Royal Oak was not renowned for anything other than good ale, hearty meals and companionship. Lillian and Joseph wandered off to one of the bay-window tables while I waited for the drinks.

  Outside there was a flash of lightning when suddenly Stan Coe walked in. He stopped in the doorway when he caught sight of Joseph chatting amicably with Lillian. A smile crossed his face and he hurried out again. Ten seconds later there was a crash of thunder. ‘Storm’s two miles away,’ said Old Tommy with authority.

  ‘Light travels faster than sound,’ said Stevie Supersub Coleclough knowingly.

  ‘That’s why some folk look bright until you ’ear ’em speak,’ said Old Tommy, nodding at the
door that Stan Coe had left swinging on its hinges, and everyone smiled in agreement.

  I delivered drinks to Joseph and Lillian and returned for my pint. Sheila appeared behind the bar with a list on a clipboard. ‘Will y’sponsor our Claire, Mr Sheffield? She an’ Theresa an’ all t’teenagers are gonna do a walk in t’summer ’olidays t’raise money for t’Minster fund. It’s jus’ been on t’news an’ all t’villages are rallying round to ’elp.’

  ‘Certainly, Sheila,’ I said and I added my name.

  ‘’E writes wi’ ’is left ’and, tha knaws,’ said Old Tommy.

  ‘So ’e’s a southpaw,’ said Don, doing a quick exhibition of shadow boxing in front of the shelf of bottled shandy.

  ‘Who’d o’ thought,’ said Sheila wistfully, ‘a cack-’anded ’eadteacher.’

  Old Tommy sucked deeply on his old briar pipe and peered at me through a haze of Old Holborn tobacco. ‘Y’look worried,’ he said.

  ‘Just a lot going on, Mr Piercy,’ I said.

  Old Tommy was a perceptive man and he leaned over and whispered in my ear. ‘Now listen in, young Mr Sheffield,’ he said, ‘tha’ needs to give a problem two coats o’ lookin’ over. Allus remember – an ounce o’ plannin’ saves a pound o’ trouble.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Piercy,’ I said and picked up my pint of Chestnut.

  ‘Think on, young Mr Sheffield, y’never know ’ow clever you are ’til y’ve failed.’

  Stan Coe was not one to miss an opportunity. It had been a stroke of luck seeing the vicar. The vicarage would be empty and there was nothing to stop him collecting the grass mower. After all, as his father had told him, ‘possession is nine-tenths of the law’. While he was unsure what this actually meant, he knew that if the mower was in his shed and not the vicar’s he had more chance of keeping it. Time was of the essence, so he roared off up Morton Road.

  Delilah had enjoyed her day – the grass was sweet and the graveyard was peaceful. As darkness fell she discovered the perfect resting place. Next to a tall gravestone was a rectangle of gravel that had retained the heat of the day. The overhanging branches of a mature beech tree also provided shelter from the oncoming storm. Life was good for this Jacob ewe and she settled down for the night.

  In The Royal Oak, Lillian and Joseph were keen to get home. It had been a long day. We finished our drinks quickly and agreed I would drop Joseph off at the vicarage and then drive on to Lillian’s pretty little cottage in the tiny hamlet of Cold Hampton before returning home to Kirkby Steepleton. We said our goodbyes and hurried out to my car. Wind was whipping the drooping branches of the weeping willow on the village green – the storm was coming.

  Stan Coe parked his Land Rover and trailer outside the entrance to the vicarage and stepped out. All was quiet apart from the lonely hoot of an owl and the rustling of the high branches of the elm trees. Stan was often out at night, usually in The Pig and Ferret, playing dominoes with his equally boorish companions. One of them had mentioned to him that a cure for baldness was the rough edge of a cow’s tongue at midnight. So it was that Stan would often roam the local countryside at night to seek out a willing Friesian to lick his follicularly challenged head. Strange customs such as these were common in some of the remote villages of North Yorkshire. However, tonight was different. The silent graveyard was not the place to find a solution to his baldness. He was on a different mission.

  He walked confidently down the well-worn path towards a group of outbuildings at the back of the vicarage. Clouds scudded across the sky and moonlight flickered through the swaying branches, lighting up the lichen-covered gravestones. Suddenly he heard a mysterious scraping sound behind the gravestone he was passing and he stopped and stared into the darkness. Then there was a new sound, almost like the clip-clop of hooves on a cobbled road, and he hesitated, wondering whether to turn back.

  Then it happened.

  A shape appeared above the gravestone and it was a sight to freeze the blood. Lightning flashed and, in that moment of sharp white light, Stan saw a black-and-white visage from hell. It had two long sharp vertical horns on its forehead, plus a pair of curled horns, and it leered at him to reveal large tombstone teeth. The manic glare from the bulbous staring eyes was the stuff of nightmares. As thunder crashed down around him he ran for his life.

  Outside the gate of the vicarage I slowed up.

  ‘Goodness me!’ exclaimed Joseph.

  ‘It’s Stan Coe,’ I said, ‘and it looks as if he’s seen a ghost.’

  ‘Or Delilah,’ said Lillian with a chuckle, as a Jacob ewe peered inquisitively round the vicarage gate.

  The sight of the village bully bolting out of the blue shadows and driving off was one that Lillian treasured for years to come. It was also noticeable that, from that day on, Stan tended to avoid Lollipop Lil’s zebra crossing during the busy early mornings, particularly after she burst into a chorus of ‘Delilah’ as he drove past.

  It proved to be a stormy night and the villagers of Ragley locked their doors, closed their curtains and settled down for the evening.

  I sat on the sofa with Beth to watch the news. Sue Lawley reported that the cause of the York Minster fire was most probably a ‘bolt from the blue’.

  Perhaps it was – however, it was the sight of Stan Coe that came to mind.

  Meanwhile, the unexpected had arrived through the letter-boxes of the members of the Ragley Book Club. Walter Crapper was thrilled to receive What They Don’t Teach You at Harvard Business School, Ted Postlethwaite was picking up a few tips in Hollywood Wives, while Betty Buttle was unimpressed with The Fretwork and Model Making Annual.

  Best of all, Amelia Duff, the recently liberated village postmistress, was relaxing in her new double bed with More Joy of Sex and reflecting that, next Friday after work, Ted the postman would be getting more than a fish supper.

  Chapter Nineteen

  School’s Out!

  14 fourth-year juniors left today and will commence full-time education at Easington Comprehensive School in September. 95 children were registered on roll on the last day of the school year. School closed today for the summer holiday and will reopen on Monday, 3 September.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 20 July 1984

  IT WAS A perfect morning and the countryside was sleeping. I opened the window and peered out at the tiny village of Kirkby Steepleton and beyond. The breathless promise of a new day hung heavy on the distant land and the fields of barley shimmered under the heat haze. Gradually a rim of bright golden light spread across the eastern sky and a quiet dawn emerged from behind the Hambleton hills. Above me the branches of the elm trees murmured with a sibilant whisper like the fluttering of a thousand butterflies. The time of the breaking of our world had arrived, the end of an era, the final day. It was Friday, 20 July and Ragley School was about to close for the summer holiday.

  Beth was preparing John’s breakfast – and he was tottering around the kitchen floor, seemingly unperturbed by the events around him. Meanwhile, as I ate a hasty bowl of Weetabix, Cyndi Lauper was singing ‘Time After Time’ on Radio 2.

  As I was about to leave, Beth gave me a hug. ‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘My turn in September.’

  ‘We’ll need to sort out what we’re doing about a nanny,’ I said.

  Beth glanced down at a scribbled note on the telephone pad. ‘Well, I might have some news by the end of today. The chair of governors at Hartingdale has invited me to their end-of-term assembly. She mentioned she had a few child-minding ideas.’

  ‘That’s good news.’

  Beth’s eyes were bright with excitement again, as if a new chapter in her life were about to begin. ‘She’s really positive and wants to help – and they seem keen to have me back.’

  ‘You must be looking forward to it.’

  ‘I am … and I’m not.’ John was in her arms and he chuckled as she kissed his cheek. ‘I’ve got used to being with John every day and it will be a wrench to leave him.’

  ‘Well, enjoy your visit
. All the children will love him.’

  We kissed goodbye and, as I drove on the back road out of Kirkby Steepleton, I thought of Beth returning at last to her school in the lovely village of Hartingdale with its beautiful church, its pretty High Street and the old stocks in the middle of the village green … and I wondered what the future might hold for us.

  When I reached Ragley High Street, the sun broke through and lit up the honeysuckle as it clambered over the trellis outside the village hall. The floribunda roses in Maurice Tupham’s front garden were in full bloom and the hanging baskets outside Prudence Golightly’s General Stores were vivid with fiery red pelargoniums and trailing magenta lobelia. On this summer morning it was a sight to gladden the heart.

  ‘Last day, Mr Sheffield,’ said Louise Hartley as she rang the bell to welcome the children of Ragley village.

  Ruby had stayed late the previous evening to give the hall floor an extra polish and I saw her hanging up her overall. She was wearing her best dress. ‘Thanks, Ruby,’ I said, ‘the hall looks a real treat.’

  ‘Well, it’s a special day, Mr Sheffield,’ she said with a smile on her flushed face. ‘An’ ah’m lookin’ forward to our ’Azel gettin’ ’er prize.’ She hurried off to collect Vera so that they could claim their usual two seats next to the piano.

  Our end-of-year Leavers’ Assembly was always a poignant occasion and the hall filled quickly with parents, grandparents and school governors. The Parent Teacher Association had purchased a book for each school leaver and these were presented by Major Forbes-Kitchener with great ceremony. As each name was called out, beginning with Sam Borthwick, the Buttle twins and Michelle Cathcart, their parents, sitting on the back row, found it difficult to hold back the tears. I watched them as, in turn, they walked to the front of the hall, confident now and a world away from the tiny children I had once known. I smiled as Louise Hartley, Betsy Icklethwaite and Molly Paxton went up to collect their prizes. Many of these pupils had been with me since the year of their fifth birthday; now they were eleven years old and ready to move on to secondary education.