05 Please Sir!

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘Who’s Mr Sheffield s’pposed to be?’ whispered Margery Ackroyd to her daughter.

  ‘Oliver Cromwell,’ said Theresa confidently. ‘We’ve been doing’im in ’istory.’

  Margery looked at my bright-red New Wave baggy shirt, punk-rock breeches studded with steel buttons and Status Quo waistcoat. Then she shook her head sadly. ‘Oliver Cromwell must ‘ave been a funny feller,’ she mumbled to herself.

  With a farewell wave to Anne, Jo, Vera and the crowd of parents, I boarded William Featherstone’s familiar ancient cream and green Reliance bus, clutching the usual shoe box full of sick-bags. ‘You Can Rely on Reliance’ had been painted in bright-red letters under the rear window. William, in his neatly ironed, brown bus driver’s jacket, white shirt and ex-regimental tie, doffed his peaked cap with old-fashioned charm as we boarded. Then, with parents waving as though they would never see their offspring again, we set off down the High Street.

  It was a bright chilly morning as we drove along the A642 on the outskirts of Wakefield and, finally, approached Clarke Hall. It stood frozen in time, a magnificent late-seventeenth-century brick-built gentleman’s farmhouse set in West Yorkshire countryside. With its contemporary and replica furnishings it had become a living-history museum and perfect for a school visit.

  Our guides for the day came out in full costume to meet us. ‘I’m Master Benjamin,’ said the bearded man with a cheerful smile, ‘and this is Mistress Bella.’ He looked at me. ‘And this is obviously Oliver Cromwell,’ he said and some of the children giggled. We all walked inside and waited for our instructions. ‘Now, boys and girls,’ said Benjamin, ‘when we talk to each other, we must be polite and we begin by saying, “Prithee, Master Benjamin” or “Prithee, Mistress Bella”,’ he glanced up at me, ‘or “Prithee, Master Oliver”.’ There was another chuckle from the children. I was beginning to tire of my seventeenth-century alter ego.

  After we had all practised addressing one another with a bow or a curtsy, Benjamin explained the programme for the day. We were in groups that rotated so that we all had an opportunity to do the various activities. These included preparing vegetables and making soup in the kitchen; going outside to do charcoal drawings of the building and leaded windows; playing a variety of seventeenth-century musical instruments; learning how to use a spinning wheel and being taught a seventeenth-century dance. A parent or teacher was with each group and I began with Bella, who gave us a brief curtsy and beckoned us into the huge kitchen. It was a marvellous experience and I soon forgot that I looked like an extra in Mutiny on the Bounty. We prepared our own lunch in huge cooking pots and, while stirring too vigorously, I splashed my shirt with copious amounts of the thick soup. During lunch, little Terry Earnshaw looked up hesitantly and muttered the memorable words, ‘Prithee, Master Benjamin, can ah leave m’carrots?’ and everyone laughed. After that, the day progressed well and, while I was hopeless at the dancing, I enjoyed using the authentic spinning wheel and practising with quill pens.

  So it was a tired but happy party that finally arrived back in Ragley as darkness began to fall and I drove home to change. With Beth away there was no incentive to cook for myself, so I drove back to The Royal Oak for a drink and a meal.

  When I walked in, the television, on its high shelf above the bar, was droning on unnoticed. It was a programme about Sunday trading and Lady Trumpington in the House of Lords was in full flow. ‘On a Sunday, a mother may buy gin for herself but not powdered milk for her baby, a newspaper from a newsagent but not a Bible from a bookseller; chemists can make up a doctor’s prescription but will not sell you a lipstick!’ Meanwhile, a Woolworth’s store in Slough was about to be prosecuted for announcing its intention to open on a Sunday.

  ‘Sunday should be a day o’ rest,’ said Old Tommy Piercy at the bar.

  ‘Not when y’work in a pub, Tommy,’ said Don as he served me with a pint of Chestnut and shouted to Sheila for another portion of dumplings and minced beef.

  I sipped on my pint and looked around. The bars were filling up with the usual crowd. By good fortune I noticed that, in the corner of the lounge bar, Margery Ackroyd was sitting with her husband, Wendell. They were deep in conversation.

  Margery considered herself to be at the cutting edge of fashion and had taken special care to position her double-flapped Velcro shoulderpads under her bra straps. She modelled herself on the television star Linda Gray, who, as the downtrodden Sue-Ellen in Dallas, always looked the image of early-eighties elegance. Margery, a part-time assistant manager at a travel agent’s in York, was determined ‘to be the boss but stay sexy’.

  Wendell, however, thought the effect was very strange and wondered why Margery’s salmon-pink frilly blouse looked as though she had forgotten to remove the coat hanger. When I approached him, he said he would be happy to help me out with the installation of the washing machine, while Margery listened intently, eager not to miss any opportunity for gossip. ‘No problem, Mr Sheffield,’ he said. ‘Ah’m a dab ‘and at fittin’ washin’ machines. Ah can do it in m’sleep.’

  ‘So when can you come round?’ I asked.

  ‘’Ow about early Saturday morning?’ said Wendell.

  ‘Perfect,’ I said, ‘and how much?’

  ‘Call it a fiver, Mr Sheffield,’ he said.

  I shook his hand in relief. ‘It’s a deal; see you then.’

  On Saturday morning the washing machine arrived at nine o’clock and Wendell Ackroyd was as good as his word and began fitting it. Then he yawned and stretched.

  ‘Are you tired, Mr Ackroyd?’ I asked.

  ‘Ah am that, Mr Sheffield,’ he shouted from under the draining board. ‘Ah ’ave trouble sleeping. Margery says ah talk in m’sleep.’

  It was soon fixed and I gave him a five-pound note. ‘Is it easy to operate? I want to try it out tomorrow morning, you see,’ I said.

  He gave me a quick demonstration and it seemed simple enough. ‘Ah’ll call by on Sunday, if y’like, t’check it’s OK,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘and if I’m out I’ll leave the key under the mat.’

  On Saturday afternoon Dan Hunter pulled up outside in his Wolseley Hornet. I needed to order a new suit for the wedding and Dan knew the perfect place. ‘Good stuff, Jack – and cheap,’ he said with appropriate Yorkshire logic.

  We parked in Duncombe Place in the shadow of York Minster. ‘I’ll meet you in half an hour in Parliament Street, Jack,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to get something for Jo’s birthday.’ Jo had dropped a big hint to Dan that she would like a bottle of Babe cologne, a new fragrance product by Fabergé, and Dan, as a new-age eighties man, was both willing and confident enough to oblige.

  I set off to walk down Petergate, when a man and a woman wearing Stars and Stripes baseball caps approached me. The portly American had a large name badge pinned to his checked shirt. It read: ‘Dwight Clearwater III’.

  ‘Excuse me, mah friend,’ he said, ‘but is this,’ he glanced down at a typed list, ‘er, Stonehenge?’

  ‘No, this is York Minster,’ I explained politely. ‘Stone-henge is down south in Wiltshire.’

  His partner’s badge read ‘Emmylou Clearwater’ and she nodded knowingly. ‘That’s raaaht, mah lil’ honey-bunch, Stonehenge is that lil’ bitty pile o’ stones near London, England.’

  ‘Ah, you mean where that good ol’ boy Billy Shakespeare was bawn,’ said Dwight.

  ‘That’s so raaht, mah lil’ chickpea,’ said Emmylou.

  Dwight looked at me, expecting praise for his knowledge of our greatest playwright. It wasn’t forthcoming.

  ‘We were kinda wond’rin’ if you maaht know Chuck an’ Betty, our dear friends, in Ker-narras-bruff,’ he said, pointing to a map of Great Britain.

  ‘Ker-narras-bruff?’ I was losing the will to live. ‘Oh, you mean, Knaresborough.’

  ‘Knaresborough?’ said Emmylou. ‘Ah do declare you have the strangest way of saying things here in your pretty lil’ state of York-sheer.’

  ‘Well, i
f you’ll excuse me, I have to get on,’ I said hurriedly. Anglo-American relations could be damaged if I continued this conversation.

  ‘One las’ thing, mah good friend,’ said Dwight: ‘can you kindly tell us where we can try your York-sheer puddin’?’

  ‘Yes. Try the Guy Fawkes pub across the road. They do a lovely lunch,’ I said.

  ‘Guy Fawkes?’ said Emmylou.

  ‘Yes, mah lil’ sweetie-pie,’ said Dwight, with the appropriate modesty of a man with an American degree. ‘He was the limey that invented fireworks.’

  ‘You are sooooo heestorical, mah sweetness,’ said Emmylou, and they wandered off to the birthplace of Guy Fawkes, where, after a traditional roast-beef dinner, Emmylou asked the puzzled waiter, ‘For the sweet course, mah friend, can we have your good ol’ York-sheer puddin’.’

  The waiter scratched his head. ‘Y’ve ’ad it, luv. It were that round thing wi’ gravy in that came wi’ y’main course.’ He didn’t get a tip.

  Early on Sunday morning, after hanging my new suit in the wardrobe, I put my Oliver Cromwell shirt in the washing machine and added my week’s supply of underwear. Following Wendell’s instructions, I pressed a few buttons and watched in complete admiration as everything seemed to work perfectly. Then I went out to the garden to inspect my new rotary drier. John Paxton had erected it in exactly the right spot. The sun came out, all was going to plan and I knew Beth would be impressed.

  I had decided to go to the eleven o’clock Communion Service at St Mary’s, partly because our banns were being read out but mainly because it was the most peaceful time of the week. In a busy life it was good to relax in the serene quiet of the church and enjoy Joseph’s sermon and the organ music, as well, of course, as the good companionship of the church community.

  So, at ten o’clock, it was with a feeling of inner peace that I emptied the washing machine into my wicker basket in order to hang the clothes on the rotary drier. Then I looked in horror at the collection of damp garments piled before me. The red shirt was clean again, if a slightly paler shade of red. However, all my white underwear had turned a violent shade of bright pink. The answer soon became clear: the colour from the shirt had run. With suitable self-restraint, I avoided kicking the washing machine and pegged the washing on the rotary drier, secretly pleased it was hidden away in my back garden. Before I left for church, as an afterthought I left the key under the mat for Wendell Ackroyd.

  Later that evening, Beth was thrilled to see our modern, twentieth-century washing machine and rotary drier. I didn’t mention the fact that my underwear was now a startling shade of rose-pink and an early visit to the men’s department in Marks & Spencer beckoned.

  On Monday morning it was the turn of my class to lead assembly. I began with a round of questions about our visit and, at first, all went well.

  ‘So what do we know about Oliver Cromwell, boys and girls?’ I asked.

  Dean Kershaw’s hand shot up. ‘’E were a Round’ead, Mr Sheffield.’

  ‘An’ ’e defeated t’Royalists,’ added Tracy Hartley for good measure.

  ‘My mother said’e were a big girl,’ announced Theresa Ackroyd.

  ‘A big girl!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘That’s reight, Mr Sheffield, a big girl.’

  ‘And why is that, Theresa?’

  ‘’Cause’e used t’wear pink underwear.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Well, that’s what me mum said, Mr Sheffield.’

  Everyone giggled, Sally and Jo suppressed a smile and Anne simply gave me a knowing look.

  It would appear that Wendell Ackroyd really did talk in his sleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Busby Girl

  A temporary kitchen assistant commenced work today. Mrs Mary Attersthwaite will support our school cook, Mrs Mapplebeck, for three days during the absence of Mrs Critchley. A selection of artwork from all classes was prepared for display by Mrs Pringle. This will be exhibited at the Children’s Art Exhibition in York Art Gallery on Saturday, 24 April.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Tuesday, 20 April 1982

  There is a water-colour painting on the wall above the headteacher’s desk in the school office. It is a view of Ragley School with its distinctive bell tower and set among horse-chestnut trees that are bursting into life. Many years have passed now since that April morning when the artist set up her easel on the village green and watched the bright sunshine light up the school walls like amber honey. If you look closely at the bottom corner of the painting you will see a small neat signature. It reads, ‘Mary Attersthwaite 1982’, but I shall always remember her as the Busby Girl.

  Tuesday, 20 April 1982, was a morning that lifted the spirits. My drive from Kirkby Steepleton was filled with the sights and sounds of new life. Bright-yellow forsythia glowed in the hedgerows and, in the distant fields, the ewes baa-aad protectively over their new-born lambs. As I approached Ragley, a pheasant’s flapping wings shattered the tranquillity, followed immediately by its harsh, shrieking cry to protect its space. On the grassy borders of the High Street clumps of daffodils and tulips waved in the gentle breeze as I pulled up outside Prudence Golightly’s General Stores to buy my morning newspaper.

  The front page of The Times was full of gloomy news. Britain and Argentina appeared to be on the brink of war and the headline ‘Every man willing to die in Battle for South Georgia’ suggested troubled times ahead. Meanwhile, Sir Keith Joseph, Education Secretary, had informed the House of Commons that seventy-nine village schools had closed in the past twelve months. Fortunately, Ragley wasn’t one of them.

  In the entrance hall, Shirley Mapplebeck, the school cook, was waiting for me. Next to her was a delicate lady with greying hair tied in a bun and the brightest blue eyes I had ever seen. She looked to be in her mid fifties and had the fresh complexion of someone who enjoys the outdoors.

  ‘This is Mary Attersthwaite, Mr Sheffield, m’cousin from near Thirkby,’ said Shirley. ‘She’s taking over t’day as assistant in t’kitchen until Doreen comes back on Friday.’

  Doreen Critchley, our fiercesome dinner lady and kitchen assistant, had taken three days compassionate leave to attend her Uncle Willie’s funeral in Wales, so a replacement had been required and Vera had completed the necessary paperwork.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield. I’m pleased to meet you,’ said Mary. Her accent was definitely Yorkshire but what Vera would describe as ‘refined Yorkshire’: in other words, Mary didn’t drop her haitches.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mary,’ I said, ‘and good luck in the kitchen. Shirley’s a wonderful cook.’

  Shirley smiled shyly. ‘And so’s our Mary, Mr Sheffield. She were Bradford Bread Pudding Champion,’ said Shirley with pride.

  Anne and Sally walked into the entrance hall carrying a large pile of children’s artwork. ‘Ooooh, I love bread pudding,’ said Anne.

  ‘And so do I,’ said Sally. ‘I know I shouldn’t, but it’s my favourite.’

  ‘We’ll ‘ave t’see what we can do, won’t we, Mary?’ said Shirley and they hurried off to the kitchen.

  For the next two days life was busy and Sally worked hard to collect and mount our artwork for the Children’s Art Exhibition at the gallery in York. It was Thursday lunchtime when Vera came to tell us all that a surprise awaited us in the staff-room. When I walked in, Shirley was giving out plates and spoons and Mary was serving large helpings of bread pudding.

  ‘This is the best bread pudding I’ve ever tasted,’ said Sally.

  ‘I agree,’ said Jo.

  ‘Please would you give us the recipe, Mary?’ asked Vera, notebook in hand.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Mary. ‘I use twelve ounces of bread, twelve ounces of mixed dried fruit, three ounces of brown sugar, three ounces of suet, a teaspoonful of mixed spice and one egg.’

  Vera made her shorthand notes with swift strokes. ‘And what’s the process?’

  ‘That’s easy,’ said Mary. ‘I just break the bread in
to small pieces in a large mixing bowl, cover it with cold water and soak for ten hours.’

  You could have heard a pin drop. One of the great secrets of the universe was being revealed and the ladies of Ragley School hung on to every word.

  ‘Then I drain the bread in a colander and remove as much water as possible,’ continued Mary: ‘using the back of a large spoon helps. After that I return the bread to a bowl, add the rest of the ingredients and mix it well.’

  Vera’s pencil continued scratching for a moment and then stopped, poised in mid-air. The denouement had arrived.

  ‘Finally, I line a baking dish with greaseproof paper and pour in the mixture,’ said Mary. ‘It should be soft and drop into the dish; if not, just add a little water. Then I bake it at 180 degrees Celsius for about one hour and, last of all, I sprinkle it with sugar when it’s still hot from the oven.’

  As we ate our scrumptious bread pudding, Shirley looked with affection at her favourite cousin. ‘She’s ’ad an interesting life, ’as our Mary. She were a Busby girl.’

  ‘A Busby girl?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, you mean that wonderful department store in Bradford,’ said Vera. ‘I used to go there with my mother, especially at Christmas.’

  ‘That was the best time, Miss Evans,’ said Mary, ‘and the happiest time of my life.’

  ‘Busby’s?’ said Jo. ‘What was it like?’

  A faraway look came into Mary’s eyes. ‘Well, I started there in 1941 on my sixteenth birthday. I was in the hairdressing department and I earned fifteen shillings per week, plus a five shillings war bonus. Shopping was different then, Mrs Hunter,’ she said and Jo nodded. ‘The staff thought of themselves as one big family and we all took pride in customer service. The Busby family were wonderful. They really cared for all their staff and knew all our names. It was a proper family store. Then, after the war, my pay went up to seventeen and sixpence per week. I remember working late on a Thursday night and all my friends came in so I could practise on their hair.’