Suddenly the outside door opened and in walked Old Tommy Piercy, leading a turkey by a strand of baling twine. ‘Jus’ found this in t’yard, Mr Sheffield,’ said Old Tommy. ‘Shall ah tie it up outside f’now? Ah can see y’busy.’
‘Oh, er … thanks, Mr Piercy,’ I said.
Jimmy stared in amazement and dropped his parcel. ‘Thpartacuth!’ he yelled and grabbed the length of twine.
Suddenly, Jo opened the hall door and whispered urgently, ‘Come on, you kings, you’re on!’ The Three Kings knew when their teacher meant business and rushed on together. Jo stared in horror as, in a surprising diversion from the traditional script, her three little kings presented baby Jesus with gold, frankincense and a turkey with a limp.
Another ripple of applause echoed round the hall at this unexpected development, followed by a communal ‘Aaaaah!’ as Spartacus limped his way bravely towards baby Jesus. Then Jo, with consummate professionalism, led Jimmy and Spartacus back into the entrance hall and they received another ovation.
Mrs Poole left her seat in the front row and hurried after her son. His explanation was received with a big hug. ‘Ah wondered where that turkey ’ad gone,’ she said with a smile. ‘That were a wonderful play, Mrs ’Unter. That turkey brought tears t’me eyes.’ All seemed forgiven and it was clear from Mrs Poole that Spartacus had been reprieved.
The concert continued without mishap. Sally’s class were superb with their version of A Christmas Carol and my class finished up with a rousing rendition of Slade’s 1973 Christmas hit ‘Merry Xmas, Everybody’. While Joseph frowned slightly at Noddy Holder’s line about Father Christmas’s fairies keeping him sober for a day, it was a fitting end to the entertainment.
Finally, cameras flashed, the children bowed and I thanked everyone. The hall was cleared and members of the PTA served coffee from Shirley’s Baby Burco boiler along with turkey sandwiches and mince pies. Soon parents and grandparents made their way home accompanied by their children, many still in costume.
Mr and Mrs Bustard paused in the entrance hall and looked down proudly at little Harold.
‘Well done, Harold,’ I said a little hesitantly.
‘Oh, ye of little faith,’ said Mrs Bustard, wagging her finger in my face. ‘Ah told yer my ’Arold would mek a proper little angel.’ She walked to the door and then, as an afterthought, stopped and called back: ‘An’ talking t’them sheep in their own lang-widge were reight clever.’ Then, hand in hand with an angel called Harold, she walked out in triumph.
* * *
It had begun to snow again and the lights of the school reflected on the frosty school drive. Anne, Jo, Sally and Vera came to stand beside me as we watched the last families leave. Making their way very slowly across the playground was Jimmy Poole and his mother. Jimmy was holding the baling twine as if his life depended upon it and Spartacus followed behind.
‘Are you sure it’s the same turkey, Jack?’ asked Jo. ‘They all look alike to me.’
I peered into the darkness. There was no doubt about it. The turkey was definitely limping. ‘Yes, it’s the same one,’ I said: ‘that’s definitely Spartacus.’
‘Spartacus?’ said Anne in surprise.
‘It’s a long story,’ I said.
‘Come on, let’s shut the door,’ said Sally. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘Refreshments in the hall, everybody,’ announced Vera.
Back in the hall, I picked up a mince pie and a coffee, walked to the window and stared out on to the empty playground. It had been a day of unexpected surprises. Little Harold, unwittingly, had succeeded as a bilingual angel and, while Spartacus had lost his freedom, at least he could look forward to Christmas.
As the snow fell on Ragley School, it was a happy group who drank hot coffee and shared the experiences of yet another Christmas concert. No one noticed that I was the only one who didn’t have a turkey sandwich.
Chapter Nine
Goodbye, 1979
School closed today for the Christmas holidays and will reopen on Thursday, 3 January 1980.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 21 December 1979
THE SEVENTIES WERE nearly over and the eighties beckoned, but some things didn’t change.
‘Ah dinna think he was in South Specific, Margaret,’ shouted Aunt May across the kitchen.
‘I think Aunt May means South Pacific,’ I said, looking up from my mug of tea.
My little Scottish mother didn’t hear. She was studying an advertisement most intently in her Daily Mirror. It read: ‘Constipation? It needn’t be a problem. Feel great again with Beecham’s Pills, the natural laxative.’ I refrained from asking her why she was so interested.
It was Boxing Day morning and my mother and her sister were coming towards the end of their holiday with me before travelling to Glasgow to share Hogmanay with their Scottish clan. I looked around and smiled. On the old dark-oak Welsh dresser, incongruously side by side, were two of my presents from my mother. A copy of the poems of T. S. Eliot was propped against a large Fabergé box containing ‘ ’Enry’s ’ammer’. This was a large bright-red bar of soap in the shape of a boxing glove and attached to a thick coil of rope. My mother had been a big fan of Henry Cooper, the heavyweight boxer, ever since he had put Cassius Clay on the seat of his fancy silk pants.
After yesterday’s Christmas dinner I never thought I would need to eat again but Aunt May was making a traditional Scottish breakfast – at least, her distinct version. The smell of burnt porridge was overpowering and the glutinous mixture had the consistency of heavy-duty Polyfilla. As I opened the kitchen window to breathe in the sharp cold air, a startled woodcock took off and zigzagged through the sleeping trees.
‘Och aye, an’ ’e sings like that Barry Manifold,’ continued Aunt May, stirring the contents of the pan vigorously – ‘that wee boy wi’ a nose like Concorde.’
Margaret flicked through her Daily Express. ‘Dinna worry, May, ah’ve foond it an’ it’s on at two o’clock.’ The Boxing Day film on ITV was the 1956 classic The King and I with Yul Brynner and Deborah Kerr. It was one of their favourite films. ‘An’ he sings more like that lovely wee man from America, Louis Armstrong,’ said Margaret.
‘Nae, it canna be Louis Armstrong,’ replied Aunt May, serving up the blackened porridge. ‘He’s the wee boy that landed on the moon.’ A large tablespoon of golden syrup made the porridge edible and I left them to settle for another day in front of the television.
On Christmas Day, Margaret and Aunt May had been among the twenty-eight million viewers of the Queen’s Christmas message and later that evening they had settled down to watch the first in a new series of All Creatures Great and Small, followed by the Mike Yarwood Christmas Show and the wonderful Penelope Keith in To the Manor Born. After a break to prepare turkey sandwiches and Christmas cake with a crumbly slice of Wensleydale cheese, they had switched over to ITV for the highlight of their Christmas viewing, The Morecambe and Wise Christmas Show with special guest Glenda Jackson.
‘It’s nae Christmas withoot Morecambe and Wise,’ said my mother.
Aunt May had kicked off her tartan slippers, put her feet up on the battered pouffe and nodded in contentment. By the time I had switched back to BBC1 to watch Michael Parkinson interviewing Dame Edna Everage they both looked tired and ready for their beds.
‘An’ we’re nae watching that scary Alfred Hitchcock film Sago,’ Aunt May had announced.
‘It’s nae Sago,’ said Margaret, ‘it’s Psycho.’
‘Och aye, Margaret,’ said Aunt May, ‘ah canna stand t’see that bonny wee lassie stabbed in the shower by that terrible American cyclepath.’
I had stayed up to wash the dishes and clear the kitchen ready for a prompt start the next day. Laura had telephoned to ask if I wanted to meet her on Boxing Day morning in Ragley on the village green to see the annual hunt. I had heard it was a spectacular affair and one of the features of country life. Also, it was difficult to say no to Laura.
; The next morning was bright, clear and cold as I drove the three miles to Ragley village. The sun had broken through the mist and in the distance the frozen fields were lit up with a diamond light in among the long grey-blue shadows of the bare trees. On the outskirts of Ragley the hedgerows were rimed with white frost and the Christmas berries on the holly bushes shone through the dark ivy.
When I pulled up on Ragley High Street outside Nora’s Coffee Shop the scene in front of me was full of movement and colour. Albert Jenkins had explained to me over a glass of home-made wine in the vicarage that each Boxing Day it was traditional for the hunt to meet at midday outside The Royal Oak. On the village green, riders in their ‘pinks’, as they called their bright red coats, sat proudly on their horses. In among their stamping hoofs, a pack of about thirty very noisy beagles, mostly tan and black and white, with long tails and floppy ears, were milling round. Don the barman was topping up hip flasks from a shiny stirrup cup while Sheila handed out plates of beef sandwiches.
Perched on the arm of the wooden bench by the duck pond was Beth. In a pink bobble hat and matching scarf, she stood out from the crowd and appeared to be in animated conversation with a tall flaxen-haired man. I recognized him as Simon, her deputy headteacher at Hartingdale Primary School. They looked relaxed together and his bright-red Morgan, its soft-top patterned with frost, was parked outside The Royal Oak. I waved to her and caught her eye. She waved back and got up and started to walk towards me. Then, for some reason which I couldn’t understand, she stopped suddenly and turned round.
Seconds later, to my surprise, Laura slipped her arm in mine.
‘Hi, Jack. Isn’t this fantastic? I just love the horses.’
Her dress sense always seemed perfect for every occasion. She was wearing a Daks country classic suit in herringbone tweed with patch pockets and leather buttons. The suede-edged buttonholes matched the pockets of the skirt and the ensemble was completed to perfection with a checked brown and black scarf. Her matching flat cap was set at a jaunty angle. She looked as if she had stepped from the front cover of a Country Life magazine.
‘Mmmm …’
‘Penny for them, Jack,’ said Laura, tugging my sleeve.
I looked back, hoping to catch a glimpse of Beth, but she had gone and I guessed that the handsome Simon had lured her away with a glass of mulled wine.
‘Sorry. I was miles away,’ I said.
‘Jack, I was wondering what you are doing on New Year’s Eve, because I’ve been invited to Jo and Dan’s party.’
‘Oh, so have I.’
‘Have you seen their house yet?’
‘No. Have you?’
‘Yes. It’s super. Beth and I went round there the other evening. They’re renting a lovely old terraced cottage in Easington and they’re combining a New Year’s Eve party with a house-warming.’
My mind flickered back to a memory of two years ago when Beth and I had danced in the village hall on New Year’s Eve. It was still vivid in my mind.
From the far side of the village green, Vera and her friend Joyce Davenport walked over to us. Both were wrapped in warm hand-knitted scarves and matching gloves.
‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera with a smile, ‘and good morning to you, Miss Henderson,’ she added quickly.
‘Good morning, Vera. Hello, Mrs Davenport,’ I said. ‘Isn’t this an exciting occasion?’
‘I don’t altogether approve of fox-hunting,’ said Vera guardedly, ‘but the horses and the colour make such a wonderful spectacle.’
‘And the major is quite splendid,’ added Joyce with a knowing look at Vera, whose cheeks flushed momentarily.
The departure of the fox-hunt appeared imminent and, as Master of Foxhounds, Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener was at the centre of everything. His favourite steeplechaser was pawing the ground in expectation and he leaned forward in his saddle to pat its proud head. He looked magnificent in his bright-red coat with leather patches on the elbows, cream jodhpurs, high leather boots and a riding hat with a black ribbon on the back. The finishing touch was a long crop of white silk round his neck, pinned neatly with a family heirloom, a cameo with a silhouette of his mother. Inside a flap on his coat, hanging from a braided rope, was a brass hunting horn. He caught sight of us and waved but his eyes were on Vera, who smiled back at him.
Everything was ready. With a blast from his hunting horn, the major led the way and the hunt trotted up the Morton Road towards the vast acres of farmland that formed part of the estates of Old Morton Manor House. Soon the big horses, the powerful steeplechasers, would gallop a familiar route from one steeple to another over heather, hills, rivers and tall hedges. In the crowd round us, anxious but proud mothers, who frequented the local gymkhana circuit, cast admiring glances towards their daughters, destined, they hoped, to be the show-jumping prize-winners of the future.
Finally, the hunt had disappeared from view and Laura and I followed the crowd into the warmth of The Royal Oak. As we walked in, Pink Floyd’s ‘Another Brick in the Wall’, the Christmas number 1 record, was playing on the jukebox in the taproom. Laura walked through to the lounge bar and I set off to buy some drinks. I looked around but there was no sign of Beth.
‘What’s it t’be, Mr Sheffield?’ said the voluptuous Sheila. She was wearing a fluorescent strip of material that exposed her midriff and left her shoulders bare. My eyes widened at the vision before me. ‘It’s t’latest fashion, Mr Sheffield,’ said Sheila proudly, as she hitched up the straining sequinned fabric: ‘it’s called a boob-tube.’
‘At least she’s got summat t’keep it up, Jack,’ shouted the appreciative Don from the other end of the bar.
I hesitated to answer. To agree was to suggest I had made an assessment of Sheila’s main attribute. To disagree could be taken as an insult. So I just smiled and put a pound note on the bar. ‘Er, a white wine and a glass of Chestnut Mild, please, Sheila,’ I said, trying hard to avert my gaze.
‘ ’E’s reight, Mr Sheffield. Without these it’d migrate south, if y’tek me meaning,’ said Sheila, putting her hands on her hips and straightening her shoulders. The result was extraordinary and all the men leaning on the bar immediately stopped talking about Sebastian Coe, who had just been voted the 1979 BBC Sports Personality of the Year. For a brief moment they were united in thinking about something other than sport.
Next to me, Old Tommy Piercy was sitting on his familiar stool under the signed photograph of Geoffrey Boycott. ‘Sir’ Geoffrey, as he was known to the regulars, had been captured by the photographer with arms aloft after scoring his one hundredth century in the 1977 Test Match at Headingley against the old enemy, Australia. Old Tommy was the salt of the earth and he sat there smoking his briar pipe. At sixty-seven years old and a Yorkshireman through and through, he was independent, stubborn and warm-hearted. He was rarely one for excessive expression. Tommy was not one to waste his words.
‘Hello, Mr Piercy,’ I said cheerily.
‘Hmmf,’ grunted Old Tommy through a haze of Old Holborn tobacco.
‘Business looks to be booming at your butcher’s shop,’ I said encouragingly.
‘Hmmf,’ muttered Old Tommy.
‘I see Young Tommy is learning his trade,’ I added thoughtfully.
‘Hmmf,’ murmured Old Tommy.
I looked through the leaded bay window at the vast cloudless primrose-blue sky. ‘Lovely day, Mr Piercy,’ I said.
Old Tommy took his pipe out of his mouth and looked up at me warily. ‘Now, don’t let’s get carried away, young Mr Sheffield,’ said Old Tommy.
It appeared I’d reached an impasse.
‘Well, I can’t stop to talk, Mr Piercy.’
Old Tommy continued to puff on his pipe for a while and then he nodded. ‘Nay, lad, ah’ve said too much already.’
I picked up the drinks and headed back to the table. ‘Laura, don’t you just love Yorkshire on days like this?’ I said appreciatively.
Laura sipped her white wine. ‘It’s lovely, Jack, but
, as I’ve said before, London’s the place to be. Beth and I are always arguing about this. She thinks Yorkshire is God’s Own Country.’
‘So do I,’ I said.
We were both wrapped up in our own thoughts until Laura suddenly picked up her handbag. ‘I’m going to the Ladies, Jack,’ she said and hurried away.
I leaned back in my chair and surveyed the crowd enjoying their holiday drinks. Deke Ramsbottom and a group of farmers had gathered round the roaring log fire to listen to the latest tales from Royston Tupp. In between leisurely puffs of his old pipe, Royston was regaling his audience, who kept him well lubricated with Tetley’s bitter and the occasional whisky chaser. ‘It’s to warm t’cockles of ’is ’eart,’ explained Deke to Sheila.
Royston, or ‘Rabbit Roy’ as he was known in the village, was every inch a rugged old North Yorkshire moors countryman. He lived in the deserted hillside hamlet of Capton and the sign over his door read: ‘Licensed Game Dealer’. There, in his cold-rooms, he eked out a living plucking and storing game for the Easington market.
Thirty years ago, as a young man, he had been a trawlerman in Hull. He remembered fondly the time when cod was king and a third of all the cod eaten in England had been gathered in by the fleet of tiny boats that braved the North Sea each day, but now those days were gone. ‘An’ nowt’ll come o’ that peace treaty,’ announced Royston. The so-called Cod War between Britain and Iceland had ended just three years before in an uneasy peace.
‘Go on, then, Rabbit,’ said Deke enthusiastically. ‘What ’appened las’ winter?’
‘Well, 1979 were a reight disaster f’me,’ said Rabbit Roy mournfully, ‘wi’ a long winter an’ a short spring. Usually, ah’m busy from Twelfth Night reight through t’January. ’Eather’s been poor, not much grouse abart, an’ birds ’ave got t’worm, tha knaws.’
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