The farmers all nodded and shook their heads in equal measure. They all respected Rabbit Roy, not least because he was North Yorkshire’s clay pigeon single-barrel champion. I looked at him and wondered about his life. He had found peace and clearly enjoyed the outdoors. With his dog and his gun, he walked the wild and desolate moors living the life of a free man.
In complete contrast, in the lounge bar, Geoffrey and Petula Dudley-Palmer were discussing their forthcoming holiday. Geoffrey stretched back contentedly and smoked his ‘Old Port Straight’, a Canadian cigar, rum-flavoured and dipped in wine. He flicked idly through the brochure showing the nightlife of New York. It had been a late decision but he had snapped up two standby tickets on a Freddie Laker flight to JFK Airport for £99 each. Meanwhile, Petula was staring at the young jodhpur-clad women from the local country set. ‘It’s all down to good breeding, Geoffrey,’ she said, but Geoffrey didn’t hear. He was thinking about buying an American lime-green Cadillac.
In the corner of the lounge bar sat Margery Ackroyd with her husband, Wendell. Margery always liked to be at the cutting edge of fashion and was proud to be the first in the village to wear Linda Gray shoulderpads under her blouse. Linda Gray was becoming a popular television star as the downtrodden Sue Ellen, wife of the villainous JR Ewing in Dallas. Margery had chopped-off white shoulder pads for her large blouses, curved Velcro ones for her jumpers and double-flapped ones to slip under her bra straps. At the travel agent’s in York where she worked as an assistant manager, she said she wanted ‘to be the boss but stay sexy’. Meanwhile, Wendell secretly believed he now had a wife who resembled a vertically challenged American footballer
Back in the taproom, Big Dave Robinson was talking loudly about ferret-racing, while Little Malcolm was looking adoringly across the table at the strikingly dressed Dorothy Humpleby. Dorothy didn’t do things by halves and tended to stand out from the country set in their tweed jackets. Today she was wearing her skin-tight Abba outfit, complete with hipster trousers in blue and lavender Lycra with flared bottoms. To Little Malcolm she was the girl of his dreams.
I sat back and sipped my drink and reflected how much I enjoyed living in this wonderful village with such a diverse collection of characters, most of whom were now my friends. Half an hour later Laura and I walked out to our cars. She hugged me tightly before we said goodbye and smiled when I said, ‘See you on New Year’s Eve.’
Back in Kirkby Steepleton, snow began to fall again as darkness descended. I chopped a supply of logs for the fire and settled down for another amusing evening with my mother and Aunt May.
‘Have y’been tae see y’wee lassie, Jack?’ asked my mother.
I picked up the Radio Times and pretended to look engrossed. ‘It depends which one you mean, Mother,’ I said. She looked at me curiously but said no more.
New Year’s Eve arrived and Bilbo Cottage was quiet at last. My mother and May had gone to Scotland and I sat in the kitchen, drinking black tea and looking forward to whatever the evening might bring.
Jo had telephoned to say that everyone was expected around eight o’clock and she and Dan had planned a few party games. She also mentioned that both Beth and Laura would be there.
Dan and Jo’s new home was a tiny, middle-of-terrace cottage built of old reddish-brown bricks with a rustic pantile roof and a tall chimney stack from which wood smoke billowed into the night.
‘Hello, Jack. Glad you could make it,’ said Jo.
‘Thanks for the invitation,’ I said, stepping into the hallway. ‘You’ve worked wonders in the house.’
‘It looks better in the dark, Jack,’ said Dan with a big grin. ‘Come on, I’ll get you a beer.’
I enjoyed Dan’s company. It was simple and uncomplicated and we chatted happily as he described their attempts to furnish their new home on a shoestring. They had gathered together an uncoordinated collection of second-hand chairs, two old-fashioned sofas and off-cuts of vividly patterned carpet that covered most of the bare floorboards. However, with the flickering log fire, the soft candlelight and the coloured lights on the Christmas tree, it was warm and cosy and I relaxed as I sipped on my glass of beer from Dan’s huge can of Watney’s Party Seven Draught Bitter.
In the lounge, Beth and Laura were sitting on a sofa together, chatting and drinking white wine. Beth was casually dressed in a white polo-neck sweater and tight black cord trousers. In contrast, Laura was wearing a smart, fitted scarlet dress and they both looked up and smiled when I walked in. I kissed Beth on the cheek and then Laura.
‘Hello, Beth,’ I said and then looked round the room. ‘Is your deputy, Simon, here?’ I asked.
Beth looked puzzled. ‘No, Jack. He’s up in Northallerton at a family party.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘I just thought … oh, nothing.’
There was a moment of silence. Her green eyes studied me for a while and then Laura leapt up. ‘Jack, let me get you something to eat. Vera’s just put the most wonderful home-made sausage rolls in the oven.’ She took my hand and led me quickly towards the kitchen.
I looked over my shoulder and waved at Beth. She waved back and then stood up to chat with Jo, who was busy serving a ‘hedgehog’ of cocktail sticks to John and Anne Grainger. On each stick Jo had carefully speared a piece of pineapple, a cube of cheese and a silver onion. A chilled bottle of Blue Nun wine stood alongside. In the far corner, Sally and her husband Colin were leaning against the window ledge, deep in conversation. Sally, in a loud, bright-tangerine party dress, was pouring a fresh glass of Blue Nun, and Colin, a slim, balding man in a crumpled suit, relaxed with a hand-rolled cigarette. A few local policemen I vaguely recognized and their partners were gathered round the record player, flicking through a selection of Elton John LPs. It was a lively party and, while the music was not to Joseph’s taste, the contents of his bottle of home-made wine soon made him relax.
At midnight Dan turned on the television for the chimes of Big Ben and we gathered in a circle to sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’.
‘Welcome to the eighties,’ yelled Dan and raised his glass.
Laura was the first to put her arms round me and kiss me. ‘Happy New Year, Jack,’ she shouted above the din.
‘Happy New Year, Laura,’ I replied.
Then the room seemed to erupt with cheers and the sound of a popping champagne cork. In the huddle of people, Anne pecked me on the cheek, Joseph shook my hand, Vera gave me a slightly tired smile, Sally hugged me and Jo refilled my glass. It felt like being in a pinball machine as I bumped from one couple to the next. Finally, I came face to face with Beth.
Our glasses clinked together. Her hair was filled with the scent of wild flowers. ‘Happy New Year, Jack,’ she said. ‘I hope it’s a good one for you.’
‘Happy New Year, Beth,’ I said. ‘May all your dreams come true.’
I kissed her on the cheek and she looked up at me. ‘A year ago we built a snowman,’ she said, almost in a whisper.
‘I remember … and two years ago we danced in the village hall.’
There was an instant when her look softened. Then Laura reappeared and grabbed my hand. As Beth walked away, it occurred to me that while time might be a great healer, love was better.
The party went on into the early hours and everyone relaxed and talked about their plans for 1980. Vera, once again, tried to persuade Beth to join the church choir and I finally had my first conversation with Colin Pringle, who appeared to be worse the wear for drink. He and Sally were the first to leave, with Sally holding the car keys. Everyone gradually followed on and I walked out with Anne and John Grainger, Beth and Laura.
‘Goodnight, Jack,’ said Anne. ‘See you on Thursday morning,’ and I realized how close we were to the start of the spring term.
Beth and Laura both waved goodbye and I watched them walk across the icy cobbles of Easington market square towards their cars. As the snow settled on my shoulders I watched Beth drive off in her Volkswagen Beetle towards the Morton Road and Laura speed away in a
spurt of frozen snow towards York. Gradually the darkness enveloped me and I looked around. Wood smoke billowed from the chimneypots and the pantile roofs were patterned in snow. I climbed into my car and drove back to Kirkby Steepleton. Above my head there were only dead branches in a frozen sky.
Back in the silence of Bilbo Cottage, I sat with a mug of coffee and reflected on the end of 1979, a time of closed doors and the ache of distance.
Finally, I made a decision. Before I turned out the light I took down my 1979 calendar from the kitchen wall and dropped it in the bin. Then I hung up my 1980 Yorkshire Landmarks calendar and smiled.
It was a new year, a new decade.
I smiled and decided … this year was going to be a good one.
Chapter Ten
Reluctant Resolutions
School reopened today for the spring term with 89 children registered on roll.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Thursday, 3 January 1980
IT WAS THURSDAY, 3 January, the first school day of 1980 and the driveway of Bilbo Cottage was coated with a blue film of crystal on this freezing morning. With my lesson plans in my battered leather briefcase and my college scarf flying behind me, I strode confidently towards my Morris Minor Traveller, which was encased in ice.
A new decade stretched out before me, the spring term beckoned and, reluctantly, I had made my New Year resolutions. There were three of them. First of all, I intended to get fit. My body was now my temple. Second, I intended to cut down on coffee and biscuits. I had put on weight over the Christmas holiday but soon I would be a lean machine. Third, I intended to make a bigger effort to understand women. I would listen to them sympathetically, display a new empathy for their feelings and become a ‘new-age-eighties-man’. At least that’s what was advised in an article in the New Year Radio Times that I had read while I was finishing the last three slices of my mother’s Christmas cake.
As I scraped the ice from my windscreen and blew hot air on the boot handle to defrost the lock, I had the confidence of a man who was about to become a better human being, with a generous smattering of martyrdom thrown in for good measure.
The previous day I had braved the cold to prune the hard, woody stems of the blackberry canes that were rampant against the south-facing fence that separated my garden from the back road into Kirkby Steepleton. Beneath my feet the silent roots lay still beneath the frozen soil, waiting for the trigger of warm sunshine and the onset of a distant spring. As I removed the spent and skeletal canes, now bleached of colour and life, I wondered what 1980 would bring. Laura had proved an exciting companion in recent months. This new friendship was a cathartic experience but I knew that I was cutting out the old to make way for the new.
The drive from Bilbo Cottage to Ragley village was hazardous and my car struggled in the sub-zero temperature. On either side of the narrow road the frozen trees looked unreal, as if sketched with a silver pencil against the vast grey sky. With some relief I skidded to a halt in the High Street, outside Prudence Golightly’s General Stores & Newsagent. As usual, Prudence had my copy of The Times ready for me and I frowned at the headline announcing that Mark Carlisle, the Education Secretary, was planning to make further cuts in school expenditure.
‘Happy New Year, Mr Sheffield,’ said Prudence with a smile.
Jeremy, her ancient, much-loved teddy bear and lifelong friend, was sitting on the shelf behind her in his usual spot alongside a tin of loose-leaf Lyons Tea and an old advertisement for Hudson’s Soap and Carter’s Little Liver Pills. Miss Golightly made all his clothes and on this frosty morning he sported a bright-red bobble hat, an Arran sweater, brown cord trousers and mint-green wellington boots.
‘Happy New Year, Miss Golightly, and a Happy New Year to you, Jeremy,’ I said.
Miss Golightly smiled appreciatively and then pointed to the display of biscuits and chocolates behind the jars of Seven Seas Castor Oil. ‘Would you like something for the staff-room, Mr Sheffield? They’re all reduced after Christmas,’ said Prudence, pointing to the packets of Brontë Biscuits, sumptuous boxes of Sarah Bernhardt Butter Cream & Fondant Fancies and a magnificent Rich Yorkshire Tea Loaf.
I couldn’t resist. ‘I’ll have one of each, please,’ I said quickly.
After she had packed them in a carrier bag, Miss Golightly stepped on to the higher wooden step behind the counter so that we were almost eye to eye. ‘And have you made a New Year resolution, Mr Sheffield?’
I glanced down at the rich assortment of biscuits and chocolates. ‘I’m going to get fitter,’ I said. I hurried out and the jangling bell on the door seemed to echo, ‘Oh, yes? Oh, yes?’
After parking in the school car park I tiptoed across the frozen cobbles, carrying my briefcase and carrier bag.
‘G’morning, Mr Sheffield,’ shouted Ruby, as she showered the frosty school steps with salt. She sounded in good spirits. ‘ ’Ave y’made a New Year resolution?’
‘Happy New Year, Ruby,’ I said. ‘Yes, I have. I’m going to try to understand women.’
‘Huh! Well, ah suggest y’don’t talk t’my Ronnie, cos y’won’t learn much from ’im,’ muttered Ruby.
As I walked into the staff-room, Jo sneezed loudly and I handed her the box of tissues.
‘Thanks,’ she said and blew her nose loudly.
‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘have you got a cold?’
‘Yes,’ said Jo with a sniff.
Anne walked in and quickly summed up the situation. ‘I’ll do your playground duty today, Jo,’ she said helpfully.
‘I don’t really mind,’ replied Jo and then sneezed again. ‘Oh no, I’m off to my classroom.’
Anne sat down and picked up her mug of coffee. ‘Jack, Shirley looked concerned this morning. Perhaps you should call in the kitchen.’
I remembered my New Year’s resolution. I would listen to her problem, show understanding and provide a solution. When I arrived in the kitchen, Shirley was writing out a menu and her assistant, the fiercesome Mrs Critchley, was emptying a huge sack of potatoes into a large aluminium bowl with effortless ease. Her muscles bulged and she stared at me as if I was an intruder.
‘Ah’m worried about t’school meals, Mr Sheffield,’ said Shirley. ‘Ah’ve brought the Easington ’Erald & Pioneer t’show you.’ The article said that the cost of school meals would be raised to fifty pence, so I could see why Shirley was concerned. Many parents in the village would soon be faced with a difficult choice.
‘Your meals are excellent, Shirley,’ I said, ‘and I’m sure the majority of parents will think they’re still real value for money.’
Shirley gave me a wan smile and shook her head sadly. It was when I looked at Mrs Critchley that I realized my resolution of understanding women might take longer than I thought. She flashed me a scathing glance and began peeling potatoes with the fervour of Sweeney Todd. I made a mental note to stay out of the kitchen for the rest of the day.
Back in the staff-room, Vera and Sally were looking at the front page of Vera’s Daily Telegraph. ‘It says here the government is determined to spend £500 million on an M25 motorway around London,’ announced Vera, ‘but there’s not enough traffic to justify it.’
‘I agree, Vera,’ said Sally. ‘Instead of a vast empty roundabout we need more investment in schools rather than closing them down.’ Anne and I looked up in surprise. It was unusual for Vera and Sally to agree. Then Sally pointed again to the front page. ‘Look at it,’ she said. ‘Russia has invaded Afghanistan, energy costs are rising, the standard of living is falling and every day there are new cuts in public services. We need Maggie to pull her finger out.’
Cordial relations dashed, Vera buried her head once again in her newspaper and Sally ripped open my packet of Brontë Biscuits with a vengeance. I stared hard at the Butter Cream & Fondant Fancies and wondered if I could resist. Anne, ever the peacemaker, answered the question for me by opening the packet on to a plate and handing them round. I told myself it would have been ungracious to
resist.
There was a knock on the staff-room door. It was Mrs Daphne Cathcart, who was without doubt our strangest parent. With candy-floss pink hair, huge purple earrings that resembled mini hula-hoops, teeth like broken tombstones and a Darth Vader wheeze, she stood out from the crowd. Alongside her was a smaller version of her mother, ten-year-old Cathy, who was now in my class.
We had just purchased a new graded reading scheme called Ginn Reading 360 and Cathy was clutching one of the attractive and brightly coloured readers.
She held it up proudly. ‘Ah like reading, Mr Sheffield,’ she said with her usual boundless enthusiasm, ‘an’ my New Year resolution is t’get good at it.’
Mrs Cathcart looked proudly at her chip off the old block. ‘It’s all about positive thinkin’, Mr Sheffield,’ said Mrs Cathcart with a determined nodding of her head. ‘Ah read in my Reveille that this positive thinkin’ is the answer. It’s gonna change me life.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that, Mrs Cathcart,’ I said, staring fixedly at her nose to avoid the startling vision of her lurid pink hair and improbable teeth.
‘An’ ah’ve made me resolution, Mr Sheffield. Ah’m going t’stop blushing,’ she said.
‘Oh, I didn’t know you blushed,’ I said.
Mrs Cathcart immediately went puce, then leaned forward and whispered: ‘Ah’m goin’ to a ’ypnotist in York, Mr Sheffield. Ah’ve got an appointment. ’E’ll put me reight.’
‘Oh, er, well, good luck, Mrs Cathcart.’
‘Well, when you’ve made a resolution y’ave t’keep it,’ she shouted over her shoulder. ‘An’ our Cathy will keep ’ers with ’er reading, won’t you, luv?’
Cathy had her nose buried in her new reading book as they walked away.
It was a busy first day back at school but during the afternoon I called into Jo’s classroom to see how she was coping with her dreadful cold. She was checking each child’s writing about their New Year resolutions.
‘Thanks, Jack – not to worry, it’s nearly hometime,’ she said, while wiping her shiny red nose.
03 Dear Teacher Page 13
