‘An’ we’ll get that disease that meks dogs foam at t’mouth,’ said Don the barman, putting down his tea towel.
Big Dave laughed. ‘Nay, we already get that from your beer.’
‘Ah’ve seen them mad dogs on telly,’ said Clint Ramsbottom.
‘Rabbis,’ said Shane.
‘Rabbis!’ said Stevie. ‘No, y’mean …’ and then stopped in mid-sentence when he saw Shane’s look.
As I walked from the bar with my steaming hot mince and onion pie and a half of Chestnut Mild I glanced at Shane’s bulging muscles. It wasn’t wise to correct a skinhead with psychopathic tendencies.
On Saturday morning in the bright pale December sunshine I gave my car a quick polish before I left Bilbo Cottage and then drove out of Kirkby Steepleton, through Ragley village and on to the Easington Road towards the winding country roads of the Hambleton hills. Hartingdale was an unspoilt market town amid the heather-covered moors and picturesque dales and a scenic drive stretched out before me.
After half an hour I pulled up on the crest of a windswept hill and stepped out on to the grassy verge. The clean air of the high moors filled my lungs and I surveyed the valley before me and the hills beyond. Creation had blessed this windswept land. When I was a boy, my father had brought me to a place such as this and said, ‘Son, this is God’s Own Country.’ As I stood on this lonely hillside with the eternal rocks beneath my feet I remembered his words and understood their meaning.
Around me, the dense forests had lost their autumn colour and the red and ochre leaves were now forming dense piles of leaf mould round the gnarled trunks. Up ahead, in the distant valley below, was the beautiful North Yorkshire village of Hartingdale with its church spire, Victorian school building, village green and a cluster of cottages with reddish-brown pantile roofs. It looked as it always did, steadfast and untouched by the passing of time.
Standing there, I thought of Beth. She would be busy in her school, a headteacher immersed in her work at the centre of her village community, as I tried to be in mine. I remembered the sadness of our parting after Dan and Jo’s wedding. While her sister Laura had filled a void in my life it was Beth that I missed most of all. Like a circle ripped at the seams, I had tried to let her go. I took one last long look at the Victorian rooftop of the village school and remembered our times together. After all these months, I still remembered that first kiss, etched in the stillness of time. The sharp wind whipped at my duffel coat and tears of cold filled my eyes. It was time to drive on.
I climbed back in my car and began the winding descent down the steep hill. Hartingdale village settled neatly into the wild moorland valley through which a pretty river wound its way over scattered shale through bracken, peat and moss. In the distance I heard the sound of grouse chattering their familiar warning cry ‘go-back, go-back’. Undeterred, I drove down the hill into the village.
Hartingdale had become popular with tourists but, thanks to prudent planning, the town never seemed overcrowded and had retained its character. The cobbled main street stretched out before me, flanked by wide grassy mounds. On either side the terraced cottages looked impregnable, with solid walls that were two feet thick and with deep-set, tiny windows. These were homes that were snug and warm in winter and cool in summer. Around the village green some of the older properties had thatched roofs made of wheat straw, where the deserted nests of long-gone sparrows gradually untangled themselves in the winter breeze.
Long before the Industrial Revolution, the weavers of Hartingdale were famous across the North of England for the quality of their linen and woollen fabrics. When the day had arrived when they could no longer compete with the huge factories of the great cities of Yorkshire, the town returned to farming and tourism. With its clean air and attractive blend of Georgian and Elizabethan houses, the market square was a popular stopping-off place for bus-loads of city dwellers.
I spotted Beth’s pale-blue Volkswagen Beetle outside the school and I parked in the square. Then I walked across the cobbles to the welcoming sight of the Golden Hart, its brightly coloured pub sign swinging in the breeze. It had a façade of Victorian permanence and, in 1838, it had become Hartingdale’s principal coaching inn when a stagecoach known as the Hartingdale Flyer ran from York to Hartingdale and on to Kirkbymoorside. William Wordsworth had stayed here and history was my companion as I walked in.
Beth was already there, sitting alone at a table in the bay window and staring through the leaded panes, lost in her own thoughts. The lounge bar was beautifully furnished with relics of the past and the original oak beams had been left exposed. A pair of carver chairs, in the Chippendale style, flanked the huge local stone fireplace.
She stood up to meet me, elegant in a beautifully tailored dark business suit and a cream collarless blouse. Even though she looked stunning with her slim figure and proud, high cheekbones, today her green eyes were tired and stray wisps of long honey-blonde hair fell round her face. She tucked the loose strands back behind her ears in that familiar way I loved so much and then beckoned me to sit down at the table with her.
‘Thanks for coming, Jack,’ she said. ‘You’ve no idea how much I needed your help today.’
My heart beat faster in expectation. ‘Good to see you, Beth.’ I smiled. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Beth. ‘A white wine would be lovely.’
I walked over to the Tudor bar, ordered two glasses of white wine, and the waitress brought them over to us and set them down on the sturdy oak table. Its rugged surface, shaped with an adze, bore the carved mouse trademark of Robert Thompson, ‘the Mouseman of Kilburn’. We ordered the ‘Golden Hart Traditional Yorkshire Lunch’, a £3.25 special comprising a giant Yorkshire pudding filled with beef stew and onion gravy. When the waitress walked away I could tell there was something troubling Beth.
‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘Is something wrong?’
Her green eyes lingered on me for a precious moment. Cocooned in our private space and intoxicated by sweet smelling cinnamon, we faced each other. She sipped her wine as if searching for the right words.
‘There is something … but that can wait.’ It was as if she had changed her mind mid-sentence. Then she put down her wine glass and smiled. ‘Remember last New Year’s Eve when you asked me to help you build a snowman?’
‘How could I forget?’
‘It’s a bit like that.’
‘I give in.’
She tugged at a tiny green earring. ‘Well, it’s like this, Jack,’ she said at last. ‘I’m short of a Father Christmas and I’m desperate.’ She gave me that familiar determined stare. ‘I’m sorry to drop this on you but I’ve been let down at the last minute by my chairman of governors and I don’t know who to turn to.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said, struggling to take it all in. I tried to hide my disappointment.
‘My chairman of governors is Whylbert Peach, the local artist,’ explained Beth. ‘That’s one of his.’ She pointed to a huge picture over the mantelpiece. It was a dramatic water-colour painting of Lake Gormire, near Sutton-under-Whitestone Cliff. The lakeside was studded with bulrushes and surrounded by deer and great-crested grebes. In the background reared the steep buttress of Sutton Bank, formed by glacial action and a popular launchpad for the local gliding club. Whylbert had used artistic licence and included the famous White Horse of Kilburn, carved out on the face of Roulston Scar in 1857.
I nodded in appreciation. ‘So he was supposed to be Father Christmas?’
‘Yes, Jack, but he’s had one of his famous panic attacks. He’s a bit of an oddball, to be truthful. My deputy, Simon, would have done it, but everyone here knows him too well.’ The penny was dropping slowly. ‘The children will be so disappointed if Santa doesn’t make an appearance. So can you help?’
I shook my head. ‘Beth, look at me!’ I said. ‘I’m six-feet-one-inch tall. I weigh thirteen stones four pounds and I’ve got a thirty-four-inch waist. I’m just not your usual build for Father Christm
as.’
‘There’s no else I can think of, Jack.’
The steaming Yorkshire puddings arrived and I sighed and took off my spectacles to clean the lenses with my handkerchief. ‘Also, Father Christmas doesn’t wear Buddy Holly spectacles,’ I added for good measure.
‘Well, you’ll just have to take them off,’ said Beth firmly.
‘But without them, I can’t see a thing!’ I yelled in despair.
‘You’ll be perfect, Jack, trust me.’ And she gave me that look and I knew resistance was pointless.
An hour later I was sitting behind the curtain in the hall. The PE store had been cleared out and two staff-room chairs had been provided. On the wall behind me, on a panel of black sugar paper, a child’s painting of a reindeer had been mounted to give the impression I was sitting in the Arctic Circle. My huge bright-red Father Christmas costume hung on me like an oversize tent, the ticklish white beard made me want to sneeze and the black boots were too small.
Next to me were two girls from Beth’s top class. They were dressed as a fairy and an elf and were sitting on a bale of hay and looking bored.
‘What are you getting f’Christmas, Shelley?’ asked the fairy.
‘Ah’m gettin’ a record player an’ a Donny Osmond record,’ said the elf.
‘Donny Osmond? Ah don’t like ’im,’ said the fairy disdainfully. ‘Why don’t y’get summat decent like Johnny Rotten?’
‘Ah can’t change me mind now,’ said the elf. ‘ ’E’s proper brassed off is me dad. ’E sez ’e ’ates Christmas.’
So, full of seasonal spirit, we welcomed our first customer. A little blonde-haired girl walked in, dragging her reluctant elder sister behind her. Reassured, I moved smoothly into Father Christmas mode. ‘Ho-ho-ho, hello, little girl,’ I said in a deep booming voice. The elf and the fairy looked at me as if I should be taken away by men in white coats.
‘Hello, Father Christmas. I’m Lucy, I’m six, an’ this is my sister, Emily, she’s nine.’
I smiled at Lucy, while Emily gave me a knowing look. ‘So, what would you like for Christmas?’ I asked, immediately forsaking the booming voice.
‘I’d like a Doctor Who Annual, please, and a Talking K-9 so I can share it with my sister ’cause she likes Tom Baker,’ said the little girl.
‘That’s very kind of you to think of your sister,’ I said.
‘Well, I love my sister ’cause she gives me all her old clothes an’ she ’as t’go out an’ buy new ones.’
Her big sister grinned.
‘I see,’ I said. ‘Well, I’ll tell my little elves and we’ll do our best.’
‘Thank you, Father Christmas,’ said Lucy and she walked out of the grotto through the narrow gap in the curtains.
As they disappeared from sight, Emily turned round and gave me a thumbs-up.
The elf turned to the fairy. ‘An’ what are you getting f’Christmas?’
‘A Starsky an’ ’Utch shoulder ’olster an’ a fibre-optic lamp,’ said the fairy.
There was a pause while the elf considered this modest collection of presents. ‘Is that all?’ asked the elf.
The curtains fluttered again and a mother came in with a pushchair and a five-year-old girl who was eating a Curlywurly.
‘Go on, then,’ said the mother, ‘ask Santa for what ah sed.’
‘Please can ah ’ave an Abba doll an’ a skateboard,’ recited the little girl.
Her mother nodded at me furiously.
‘And have you been a good girl this year?’ I asked.
‘Yes, she ’as,’ said the mother indignantly, ‘and she’ll be leaving y’usual mince pie an’ a glass o’ port.’
‘Oh, well, er … thank you and I’ll tell my little elves. Happy Christmas and a ho-ho-ho.’
The mother gave me a disparaging look. I thought the line about elves was rather good but decided to drop the ho-ho-ho.
The next customers came thick and fast until, an hour later, the final little girl asked for Kermit the Frog, Miss Piggy and a Muppet Show Board Game. The moustache went up my nose and I sneezed and her mother rushed her out quickly.
Then, followed by the elf and the fairy, I had to run the gauntlet of mothers and children as I hobbled through the hall in my tight boots. I was aware that a few of them tittered as I tiptoed past. Finally, in the blessed haven of the staff toilet, I changed back into my sports jacket and flares.
Back in the hall, Beth was busy talking to a group of mothers. Alongside her stood Simon, her handsome, flaxen-haired, deputy headteacher, who bore a passing resemblance to Robert Redford. He seemed very attentive to Beth’s every word. Then Beth’s cook ushered me into the staff-room, where I was served with a large mug of black tea plus a slice of Christmas cake and a slab of Wensleydale cheese. It was a feast after my ordeal and I gradually relaxed.
Darkness descended quickly and out of the high Victorian windows, in the distance, the bright moonlight illuminated the crumbling remains of a twelfth-century abbey on the banks of the River Hart. It had been built by Cistercian monks and was etched against the winter skyline. History lay heavy on this land.
Gradually the school emptied and I was standing in the entrance hall as the last two mothers walked out, each pushing a pushchair and engrossed in loud conversation.
‘Ah’ll tell y’summat f’nowt, Sandra.’
‘What’s that, Donna?’
‘That Miss ’Enderson’s lovely an’ my Tracy’s coming on a treat, but ah didn’t reckon much to ’er choice o’ this year’s Father Christmas.’
‘Ah know what y’mean, Donna. Mebbe ’e were jus’ a beginner.’
‘Well, somebody definitely needs t’fatten ’im up.’
‘ ’E were proper skinny.’
‘Skinny? ’E mus’ be t’thinnest Father Christmas in the world.’
I smiled and walked into the empty school hall. Beth was turning out the lights and carrying a large bunch of keys. She looked tired.
‘Goodbye, Beth,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the invitation.’
‘Thanks, Jack – you’ve been wonderful.’
The school was quiet now; only the ticking of the hall clock echoed round the Victorian building. I squeezed her hand and walked away into the darkness.
Chapter Eight
An Angel Called Harold
A large audience supported the school Christmas concert, 2.00 p.m.–3.30 p.m. Every child took part and members of the PTA served refreshments afterwards.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Thursday, 20 December 1979
THE TURKEY WAS definitely limping.
It hopped forward on its left leg and then dragged its right leg behind it. I peered out through the frozen windscreen of my car and stared at the strange scene.
Jimmy Poole, his ginger curls hidden under a huge hand-knitted balaclava, had made a lead out of a length of orange baling twine and was guiding a limping turkey across the village green towards school. I decided to ask him about it later. It was Wednesday, 19 December, the day before our Christmas concert and a busy day was in store.
In the entrance hall, Jo Hunter was in conversation with Mrs Audrey Bustard, mother of seven-year-old Harold.
‘ ’E’s a proper little angel is my ’Arold,’ announced Mrs Bustard proudly. ‘Ah’ve made ’im this pair o’ wings,’ and she handed over a pair of wings that would have looked more at home on Batman.
‘Thank you,’ said Jo uncertainly.
I glanced at little Harold Bustard as I walked into the office. With his skinhead haircut, jug-handle ears and toothless grin, he didn’t look particularly angelic. The two green candles of snot that were fast approaching his upper lip appeared to go unnoticed by his mother.
‘Burra wanna be a sheep,’ grumbled Harold.
‘Shurrup, ’Arold,’ said Mrs Bustard. ‘You’ll do as y’told.’
‘Well, actually, Mrs Bus-taaahd,’ said Jo, remembering to put an extended and heavy emphasis on the second syllable of ‘Bustard’ so that
it didn’t rhyme with custard or mustard, ‘we do need a few more sheep.’
‘Ah don’t want ’is dad t’be disappointed, Mrs ’Unter. ’E’s set ’is ’eart on it. It runs in t’family. ’E comes from a long line of angelic Bus-taaahds.’
‘Well, I’ll talk to Harold and we’ll decide what’s best,’ said Jo, ever the peacemaker. She crouched down in the staff-room doorway and wiped little Harold’s nose with a tissue. ‘I’m sure Harold will do well,’ she said cheerfully but not entirely convincingly.
Harold looked up at his mother with a fierce expression. ‘Burra wanna be a sheep.’
‘You’ll do as y’told an’ be a ruddy angel,’ said Mrs Bustard with a finality that brooked no argument.
Jo took a step backwards. ‘We really don’t mind,’ said Jo hopefully. ‘In fact, another sheep would be really useful.’
Mrs Bustard glared at Jo. ‘T’angelic ’ost jus’ wouldn’t be t’same wi’out our ’Arold,’ she said. ‘ ’Is uncle ’Enry were an angel, ’is dad were an angel an’ ah were an angel … an’ a bloody good’un an’ all.’
‘I’m sure you were, Mrs Bus-taaahd,’ said Jo with a sigh. ‘In that case … we’ll let Harold be an angel.’
Mrs Bustard nodded. She’d got what she came for. ‘C’mon, ’Arold,’ she said. Then she dragged little Harold across the entrance hall towards the front door, where she paused and shouted, ‘An’ ah’ll mek ’is ’alo tonight.’
Jo breathed a sigh of relief and walked into the office.
‘Well done,’ I said. ‘I imagine it’s a bit wearing having to deal with Mrs Bustard.’
‘Actually, it’s Mrs Bus-taaahd, Jack,’ said Jo with a grin and she skipped out into the corridor to the stock cupboard to collect some white card, red crêpe paper and a new brand of rubber glue with a distinctive but strangely compulsive smell.
Our annual Christmas concert was almost upon us and, traditionally, each class was to present a short play. However, this year, Anne and Jo had decided to combine their classes in a joint Cecil B DeMille production of the nativity. Sally’s class had prepared a tear-jerking adaptation of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol and my class had rehearsed the world première of Jodie Cuthbertson’s original play Christmas in the Eighties, which relied heavily on miming to Abba records while wearing lots of make-up.
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