I called into Prudence Golightly’s General Stores & Newsagent, picked up my copy of The Times, along with a sliced loaf for 29p, 80 PG Tips tea bags for 51p and a packet of McVities milk-chocolate biscuits for 31p. As usual, the shop was bustling with customers. It appeared that all the needs of the village community could be found here. Every shelf was full to bursting with flour, butter, fresh-baked bread, sugar and salt. Stock hung from hooks on the beams and tins of shoe polish sat alongside heavy-duty scouring pads. On the noticeboard by the counter were postcards advertising shoe repairs, dog walking and Kelvin Froggat the chimney sweep. There were children clutching small coins and making agonizing decisions about the colourful range of sweets, including love hearts, gobstoppers, sherbet dabs, hazelnut creams, homemade locust beans, aniseed balls, pear drops, marzipan tea-cakes, liquorice torpedoes and, my personal favourite, Sharpe’s chocolate butter dainties. It was also the home for local gossip and Margery Ackroyd was telling Betty Buttle why the wire supports in Sheila Bradshaw’s bra gave her the best cleavage in the village.
‘Oh, one more thing, Miss Golightly: I need a Valentine card for Miss Henderson,’ I said.
‘I’ve got just the one,’ she said. For Prudence, her customers’ affairs of the heart were all part of a normal day. She rummaged in a wooden drawer under the counter. ‘This one should be perfect, Mr Sheffield.’ The picture on the front showed a man and a woman sitting on a bench, under a cherry tree full of blossom, and looking out to sea.
‘Er, thank you, Miss Golightly,’ I said. ‘I’m sure Beth will love it.’
‘Don’t forget, Mr Sheffield, it’s supposed to be anonymous, so put a question mark on it,’ said Miss Golightly.
‘Good idea,’ I said and scribbled on the card.
The doorbell jingled. It was Beth. ‘Hello, Miss Golightly,’ she said. ‘Hello, Jack. Are you ready?’
I snatched up my card and shopping list, shoved it in the envelope and thrust it in the pocket of my duffel coat.
As we walked back to my car, Mrs Dudley-Palmer’s Rolls-Royce drove smoothly up the High Street. It occurred to her that perhaps romance wasn’t dead after all. Her husband, Geoffrey, had arranged a visit for her to the Céramique Internationale showrooms in Bradford. So, following a trip to the Debenham’s department store in Leeds where she ordered a top-of-the-range ‘Style Fine Line’ fitted kitchen in Snowdon Oak, she visited the Bradford showrooms and selected the ‘Monsoon’ range of French ceramic tiles. The salesman told her the French provincial range suited her obvious taste and, although she was initially flattered, she recalled that ‘provincial’ meant something to do with ‘proletariat’ and she didn’t want her new kitchen to look as though it had been designed by a French peasant. However, she felt sure that Geoffrey would be delighted with her purchase from the men’s shirt section of Debenham’s. The blue-and-white-striped shirt, made from the finest Macclesfield silk, was a bargain at £45. At least, this is what the young salesman had told her and she always believed anyone who resembled a youthful Nicholas Parsons.
The Parent–Teacher Association dance went surprisingly well and those with a strong stomach thought Joseph’s wine was a psychedelic journey into the unknown.
Clint Ramsbottom weighed up his audience, put his Sex Pistols collection to one side, and began with ‘The Land of Make-Believe’ by Bucks Fizz and Abba’s ‘Waterloo’. Parents, staff and villagers danced, relaxed together and chatted with Joseph about his unique blend of wine.
At the end of the evening, in the darkness of the school hall, Beth and I were sipping a surprisingly palatable parsnip wine. Her head was on my shoulder and her hair had the fragrance of summer.
‘Looking forward to the wedding?’ I whispered in her ear.
‘Yes, Jack, I am.’
‘Joseph suggested we should go to church tomorrow morning to arrange when our banns should be read out.’
‘That should be fun,’ she said.
‘Not if someone objects,’ I replied with a smile. Beth looked up at me, concerned. ‘I was only joking,’ I said.
‘I know. I was just thinking of Laura.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said, ‘but, Beth, there was never anything between me and your sister.’
‘I know, Jack, but Laura didn’t see it like that. You were special to her and so different from the high-flyers she mixes with in her career.’
‘I never wanted to be part of her world, Beth, you must know that.’
She smiled. ‘That was part of your charm, Jack.’
I shook my head in confusion. ‘I’ll never understand women.’
‘You don’t need to. You only need to understand me.’ She stretched up and kissed me on the lips.
‘This doesn’t feel right,’ I said. ‘I’m in school.’
‘Then perhaps I should take you home,’ said Beth with an unblinking gaze.
‘You mean Bilbo Cottage?’
‘Yes, Jack, our home.’
On Sunday morning Beth and I were sitting in St Mary’s Church and Joseph, looking slightly worse for wear, was in full flow.
As we rose for the first hymn, Beth whispered, ‘By the way, thanks for the card … Good to see romance isn’t dead.’
‘How on earth did you know it was from me?’ I asked in mock disbelief.
Beth pretended to consider the matter before replying. ‘Well, Jack, it could have been because you left your shopping list in the envelope.’
Chapter Fourteen
Ted Postlethwaite and the Missing Cat
County Hall requested a copy of our revised scheme of work for science in support of their proposal for a ‘common curriculum’ for schools in North Yorkshire. Our local policeman, Acting Sergeant Dan Hunter, was in school to lead morning assembly on the theme ‘Don’t Talk to Strangers’.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Thursday, 4 March 1982
It was a cold Thursday morning in early March and a fitful sun was trying to pierce the iron-grey clouds. As I ate my breakfast cereal in the snug kitchen of Bilbo Cottage, I scanned the headline in the Easington Herald and Pioneer, ‘Scargill and Maggie – problems ahead’, and frowned. Trouble was looming.
It had been a murky dawn and the fields were cloaked in a heavy mist as I drove on the back road from Kirkby Steepleton to Ragley village. In the distance the Hambleton hills looked bleak beneath the wind-driven sky. As I drove up the High Street, Deke Ramsbottom, perched on his noisy tractor, gave me a cheery wave, while Ernie Morgetroyd and his son, the handsome Rodney, trundled by on their electric milk float on their way home to Morton. On the far side of the village green, Ted ‘Postie’ Postlethwaite had finished his morning round and was looking forward to his cup of tea at the Post Office. Ted was a renowned ‘early bird’ and made sure all his customers received their mail before they left for work. He had been the local Ragley and Morton postman for over twenty-five years and, at fifty-six years old, he was wondering about his future. Ted had never married and was beginning to realize there was more to life than going fishing with his father.
On this chilly morning he smiled as he reflected that the gentle, talented and graceful Miss Amelia Duff was the apple of his eye. No one played the flugelhorn or made a cup of Typhoo tea like Miss Duff. So it was that, in this happy introspective state, he was slow to take evasive action when Jimmy Poole’s Yorkshire terrier, the aptly named Scargill, ran from behind the weeping willow tree at the side of the duck pond, attacked his ankles and shredded his woollen socks.
Up Morton Road, in the vicarage kitchen Vera Evans was equally distressed.
‘Maggie, Maggie, where are you?’ she said in a soft coaxing voice. ‘Come to mummy, my little darling.’ Her other two cats, Treacle and Jess, were tucking into their breakfast with joyous intensity. Each had a personal feeding bowl but the ceramic dish with the word ‘Maggie’ painted decoratively on the side remained untouched. ‘Oh dear,’ said Vera, ‘where on earth can she be?’
She put on her coat and scarf and
went to search the outbuildings. Vera rarely ever missed her twice-weekly cross-stitch class in the village hall but today it would have to wait. Her beautiful black cat, with distinctive white paws and named after Vera’s favourite politician, was nowhere to be seen.
‘Ah’m thorry, Mithter Pothlethwaite,’ said Jimmy Poole as he attached a dog lead to the frenzied Yorkshire terrier. ‘Thcargill liketh to ‘ave a run when we go thoppin’ for m’dad’th Daily Expreth an’ Mithter Ramthbottom’th tractor gave ’im a thock.’
‘It’s a menace, is that dog,’ retorted Ted, rubbing his ankle. ‘Allus chasing ducks an’ cats. It needs keeping under control.’
‘Thit, thit,’ urged Jimmy, but the lively Scargill didn’t want to sit.
‘Y’need t’feed ’im once in a while,’ said Ted.
‘’E ’ad ’ith breakfatht at theven o’clock,’ said Jimmy plaintively.
‘An ’e’s just ’ad another,’ said Ted, pointing at the hole in his sock.
‘Thorry, Mithter Pothlethwaite,’ said Jimmy and he ran off to collect his father’s newspaper from the General Stores.
‘It’s on the kitchen table, Ted,’ said Amelia as she unlocked the door of the Post Office.
‘Thank you, Amelia,’ said Ted. ‘Ah’m ready for a ’ot drink.’
Amelia took the post from Ted into the back room, removed the rubber band and laid out the letters on the counter behind the sturdy wire grill.
‘Busy morning, Ted?’ asked Amelia as she poured a second cup of tea for herself from an ancient china teapot.
‘Ah’ll swing f’that dog one day,’ said Ted, showing Amelia his torn sock.
‘Oh, you mean Scargill. Yes, he can be a bit of a pest sometimes,’ said Amelia with a calm smile.
Ted decided to drop the subject because Amelia never thought ill of anyone and he didn’t want to appear grumpy. After all, this was the highlight of his day. As they sat there drinking tea, Amelia reflected on the life of the Ragley village postman. He had become a good friend and she welcomed their morning tête-à-tête and, on occasions, wondered if there could ever be something more between them.
Ted was a good postman and a true village character. ‘It’s a public service, not a business,’ he used to tell his customers when he relaxed in The Royal Oak. Each day he started work at the depot at 4.45 a.m., tipped the letters and small packages out from the bags and began ‘internal sorting’. He delivered letters, bills, postcards, packages, magazines, Christmas cards, birthday cards and small presents. His mail always fitted into one bag because, happily for the Ragley village postman, there was no junk mail. At 6.15 a.m., after packing it into his tarpaulin waterproof bag, which kept all the letters and packages snuff dry, he put it on his bicycle – a formidable construction, built like a Centurion tank, and, with a full bag of mail in the wire basket, it felt as though it weighed as much.
For Ted, early morning was the best time of the day. He had the village to himself, with only birdsong and the weather for company, except for the clinking of milk bottles as Ernie Morgetroyd and his son Rodney whirred past on their electric milk float. All the villagers of Ragley could read their mail over breakfast and knew they could set their watches by Ted’s regular routine. His last delivery was always at precisely 8.15 a.m. to Miss Duff in the Post Office.
‘It’s Miss Golightly’s birthday on Saturday,’ said Ted. ‘She got her first card this morning with a Kent postmark – probably ’er cousin.’ Ted knew everybody’s birthday, as well as whether they were late with their gas payments.
‘Thanks for letting me know, Ted,’ said Amelia.
‘Ah know m’customers, Amelia,’ said Ted with false modesty.
‘I must give her a card. She’s a lovely lady,’ said Amelia.
Ted wanted to say, ‘And so are you,’ but didn’t have the courage. Instead he just stared at the woman of his dreams.
Amelia was a slight and diminutive fifty-nine-year-old spinster and had been postmistress for the past seventeen years. Her late father, Athol Duff, had been a mill worker and he had played the flugelhorn in the famous Black Dyke Mills Band. Helped by Athol’s prowess, they had won the prestigious Daily Herald National Championship Trophy three times in the 1940s. Amelia had continued the tradition in the Ragley and Morton Brass Band and the tone of her flugelhorn was both mellow and haunting. She glanced up at the old sepia photograph of Queensbury Mills, a Victorian colossus set against the smoky chimneys of Bradford, and sighed. Time was a great healer but the pain of loss was always there.
‘Amelia … what are y’thinkin’?’ asked Ted.
‘Just about life and what might have been,’ said Amelia.
There was a long silence. Ted finished his tea, put down his 1935 King George V Silver Jubilee mug and looked across the well-scrubbed pine table.
‘Even postmen ’ave dreams, Amelia,’ he said.
‘And what’s yours, Ted?’
‘The trumpet, Amelia,’ he said quietly. ‘Ah allus wanted t’play the trumpet, ever since ah were a boy. It’s a marvellous instrument.’
Amelia looked at Ted as if for the first time and wished her father could have been here, sat beside her.
Then she smiled. Perhaps he was.
When I drove into the school car park, Dan and Jo’s two-tone-green ‘F’-registered Wolseley Hornet was already there.
Dan had come into school to deliver a safety talk to the children on being careful about speaking to strangers and, as headteacher, I was growing increasingly aware that health and safety issues were becoming more pressing as each year went by. Dan was rightly very proud of himself, having just passed all three parts of his promotion exams, including the traffic and crime papers as well as general police duties. It meant that he was qualified to act as sergeant while the regular sergeant was on holiday.
Jo was clearly delighted for her husband. ‘He’s Acting Sergeant this week, Jack,’ she said, ‘so he gets two stripes on his uniform instead of three. Apparently, Sergeant Grayson at the Easington police station is on holiday. He’s gone back to Hull to support his favourite football team.’
‘Well, somebody has to,’ I said, slightly uncharitably. Hull City, as usual, was languishing in one of the lower divisions of the football league.
Jo grinned. ‘Don’t forget to mention the stripes, Jack. He’s so chuffed. In fact I nearly sewed some on his pyjamas!’ She laughed and set off to her classroom, ready for the morning bell.
The huge figure of Dan Hunter was in the school hall, pinning up a few posters of people in assorted uniforms, including nurses and firemen. ‘Good morning, Dan,’ I said, ‘and congratulations on passing your exams.’ I shook his giant fist and he smiled a little shyly.
‘Thanks, Jack,’ he said, looking down self-consciously at his gleaming white chevron stripes. ‘Takes some getting used to, and the other lads at the station are pulling my leg something rotten.’
‘I can imagine,’ I said. ‘Anyway, thanks for coming in. It must be a busy week for you with all the extra responsibility.’
The morning assembly went well and Dan was truly a gentle giant with all the children, guiding them carefully through the difficult concept that strangers might not be all they seemed.
When the bell rang for morning break I was on duty and I pulled on my old duffel coat and college scarf while Anne made me a welcome hot coffee. The children seemed oblivious to the cold weather. Tracy Hartley was teaching a group of infants to play hopscotch while Amanda Pickles was bouncing a tennis ball and chanting, ‘Red, white and blue, the Queen’s got the flu, the King’s got the tummy ache, and I don’t know what to do.’ Meanwhile, against the school wall, a type of leapfrog game was in progress and Dean Kershaw and a group of younger boys were chanting, ‘Jimmy, Jimmy, knicker knacker, one-two-three.’
In the shelter of the school porch, eight-year-old Betsy Icklethwaite had looped a length of thick string around Louise Hartley’s hands. ‘Hold it still,’ said Betsy, ‘and I’ll show you ‘ow to make a cat’s cradle
and afterwards you can ‘ave a go.’ Then she used a series of careful moves with her index finger, little finger and thumb to create patterns just as her mother had taught her. Louise’s eyes were wide with interest. ‘Now,’ said Betsy, ‘what’s it t’be nex’, a soldier’s bed or a fish in a dish?’
A hammering noise on the other side of the village green caught my attention. Sixty-six-year-old Oscar Woodcock was pinning a poster that read RAGLEY ANNUAL SHED WEEK on one of the telegraph poles outside his terraced cottage next to The Royal Oak.
Oscar was proud of being the president of the Ragley Shed Society and especially so during the first week in March. Posters all round the village announced it was Shed Week, the time when the men of Ragley opened up their sheds to reveal their private world to other like-minded and equally eccentric shed-owners.
The favourite was undoubtedly Oscar’s shed as he used it for brewing cider. Oscar would pick apples from the trees in his garden, let them mature for a week and then tip them into his ‘scratcher’, a home-made cider press. He knew that a sack of apples would make a gallon of apple juice. Then he would pour the liquid into a one-gallon glass demijohn and add wine yeast to start the fermentation. Growing up in Somerset and making scrumpy as a boy had provided him with a special expertise. For Oscar, one glass of his potent mixture tended to solve all his problems; two glasses, and he couldn’t remember what they were in the first place.
It was lunchtime when a worried-looking Vera pulled up in her Austin A40 in the school car park. In the staff-room, Sally was turning the handle of our spirit duplicator to produce multiple copies of guitar-chord shapes for her beginners’ group and Jo was preparing a teacher’s guide for our new computer. I was putting the final touches to our revised scheme of work for science as County Hall had requested yet another document for the proposed ‘common curriculum’.
Anne was making a fresh pot of tea while chuckling over an article in the Yorkshire Post under the headline ‘Women firefighters’. Apparently, the Deputy Chief fire officer had said, ‘Women of suitable physique can be trained as firefighters and, under the Sex Discrimination Act, we are obliged to recruit women. They will undergo the same physical tests as men. There should be no problem apart from the slight difference in chest measurements.’ Too true, thought Anne.
05 Please Sir! Page 18
