‘It’s inflation, Mrs Brown,’ came a tiny voice from inside the shop.
‘Inflashun! Inflashun! More like daylight robbery!’
Mrs Brown glowered at me. However, I noticed she carefully avoided eye contact with Vera as she squeezed into the telephone box to ring her husband, Eddie, at his new place of work. Eddie Brown had just got a job at Portaloo in York, making mobile toilets. Alton Towers, Britain’s first theme park in Staffordshire, built in the Disneyland tradition, had taken the executive decision to install a Portaloo Classic 480 Unit with a brown leatherette finish to the cubicle doors. Eddie Brown’s task was to attach the doors and he was proud of his work.
‘Fit for t’Queen,’ he said, as he screwed the final door in place. Then he visibly paled when he heard he was wanted on the telephone by Winifred. To Eddie, spending a working day in a portable toilet was sheer heaven when compared with spending ten minutes with his formidable wife.
‘Get ’ome now, Eddie,’ screamed Winifred down the phone.
‘Y’what?’ said Eddie.
‘Ah sed, get ’ome.’
‘OK, OK.’
‘Frankenstein’s gone missin’.’
‘Y’what?’
‘Jus’ get ’ome.’
‘OK, OK.’
Frankenstein was Eddie’s emotionally disturbed ferret, who regularly sought out dark corners. Secretly, Eddie thought that Frankenstein had more sense than he was given credit for.
When Vera and I walked into the Post Office, the alarmed expression on Amelia Duff’s face disappeared. ‘Oh, hello, Vera. Lovely to see you,’ she said, pushing a few strands of greying hair out of her eyes, ‘and you too, Mr Sheffield.’
Amelia was a diminutive fifty-seven-year-old spinster and had been post mistress for the past fifteen years. She lived in the small rooms above the shop and, up to a few months ago, she had looked after her ailing father. When he died, Amelia had become introverted and forgetful. Her face was thin and pale and she gave us a strained smile from behind the counter. She took a quick sip of tea from her 1935 King George V Silver Jubilee mug.
‘The school seems to have got more mail than usual, Vera,’ said Amelia.
‘It increases every week,’ said Vera and she put the box on the counter and took out her purse. ‘While I’m here, Amelia, I need a 25p television licence stamp, please, five 12p stamps and five 10p stamps.’ Then she looked more closely at Amelia. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked gently. Vera had taken a great interest in Amelia’s welfare and, recently, had encouraged her to become more involved in the Women’s Institute. She stretched across the counter and put her hand on the post mistress’s bony arm.
Amelia glanced down, responding to the touch. Then there was a hint of a warmer smile. ‘They’ve asked me to play in the band on Saturday,’ she said.
‘But that’s wonderful news,’ said Vera encouragingly. ‘You play beautifully.’
‘Wally Morgetroyd’s got a bad cold,’ explained Amelia, ‘so they need a flugelhorn.’
‘And there’s no one better than you, Amelia,’ said Vera.
Amelia opened her big book of stamps. ‘Well, there was one,’ she said sadly. Her long fingers reached for the collar of her thick knitted cardigan and absent-mindedly rested on her delicate brooch, a beautiful enamel butterfly. Then she stared out of the shop window.
‘Yes, and he would be so proud if he knew you were playing again,’ said Vera.
‘I don’t think I’m ready yet, Vera,’ said Amelia. ‘Every time the shop door rings, I imagine him coming in.’
Vera glanced up at me and began to empty the box of school mail and put it on the counter. ‘I’ll see you back at school, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.
I took the hint, walked out of the shop and left Vera and Amelia deep in conversation.
Shortly before five o’clock I was alone in the office, completing the school logbook, when Vera suddenly reappeared. ‘Tea, Mr Sheffield?’ she asked.
I put down my fountain pen. ‘Yes, please, Vera.’
Minutes later Vera pulled up her chair next to my desk and we sat there sipping tea. Eventually, Vera put down her cup, took a deep breath and settled back. I knew there was something on her mind. ‘I should like to tell you a story,’ said Vera, ‘because we all need to support my dear friend Amelia.’
‘Of course,’ I said, putting the top back on my fountain pen.
‘First of all, you need to know a little about Amelia’s father.’ Vera paused. In the distance, the bells of St Mary’s Church chimed and we both privately counted up to five. ‘He was a Yorkshireman from Bradford called Athol Duff,’ continued Vera. ‘Amelia’s mother died in childbirth, so it had always been just the two of them. They were inseparable and she has been inconsolable since her father’s death in the summer.’
I nodded in understanding and repositioned my chair closer to the window to take advantage of the afternoon sunshine. It sounded as if this was going to be a long story and Vera poured the tea.
Vera told me that Athol Duff was a mill worker and had played the flugelhorn in the famous Black Dyke Mills Band. Helped by Athol’s wonderful skill, they had won the prestigious Daily Herald National Championship Trophy three times in the 1940s. The tone of Athol’s flugelhorn was mellow and haunting in contrast to the brightness of a trumpet or cornet and this had given the band its distinctive sound.
Then the mill hit difficult times with the decline of the textile industry. In the 1960s the United States imposed import tariffs and Black Dyke Mills had turned to Japan. Athol could see this was the beginning of the end of the life he loved and decided it was time for him to leave. So, with quiet finality, he packed his gleaming brass flugelhorn in its purple, velvet-lined case and took down his sepia photograph of Queensbury Mills, a Victorian colossus set against the smoky chimneys of Bradford and the bleak moors beyond.
He said goodbye to the factory ghosts, the chatter of mill girls and the silent echo of a million shuttles. On a freezing December morning, he climbed into his rusty Wolseley 14 and drove over the moors to his smoke-blackened, end-of-terrace cottage. By then, his paper-thin lungs convinced Amelia that they needed a new home in the fresh air of North Yorkshire and so she became the Ragley post mistress.
On the other side of the High Street, someone else was also drinking tea. Amelia was sipping a refreshing cup of Typhoo while staring thoughtfully at a pair of her father’s old clogs in the corner of the back room. Next to them was a smaller pair that had been made for her by her father. She remembered them so well. A horseshoe of iron protected the beech-wood sole and the stiff leather upper ensured both father and daughter would be protected from the huge machinery in the mill. She recalled sitting next to her father and tapping her feet to the rhythm of the giant looms – heel and toe, heel and toe – and her father would take pride in her ability to find music in the most unlikely places and the distant echoes still filled her mind.
But most of all she remembered the long winter nights of her childhood when she had practised on the flugelhorn until she was almost as proficient as her father. Eventually, one Christmas, she stood on the old rag rug in front of a roaring coal fire in the front room and played ‘Silent Night’.
Athol Duff put his arm round his daughter’s shoulders and said gently, ‘Amelia, you ’ave a gift.’
Amelia had looked round the room for a gaily wrapped parcel.
Her father had laughed out loud. ‘No, my love, ah mean you ’ave the gift of music.’ Then he had wiped away a tear and hugged his precious daughter. ‘I’ve taught you all ah know, Amelia,’ he said proudly.
On that special day, after searching in the old bureau, he gave her a brooch. It was in the shape of a butterfly.
‘This was y’mother’s,’ said Athol. ‘Likely as not, she’d want you to ’ave it.’
Amelia held it up to the light. ‘It’s beautiful, Dad,’ she said.
‘Whenever ah saw a butterfly, ah allus thought of ’er,’ said Athol.
Then th
ere was silence. There were no words between father and daughter. They both understood.
During 1979, the onset of illness told Athol that this Christmas would be his last. He was too weak to play ‘In the Bleak Mid-Winter’ on his flugelhorn, so Amelia played it for him. A few lucky souls were walking down the High Street on that snowy winter’s night. They heard the sweet music drift up to the heavens and felt all the better for it before carrying on their way. A few months later Athol’s vibrant life of hard graft and soft music came to its end.
Vera looked thoughtful as she collected the cups. ‘So I’ve encouraged Amelia to bring her flugelhorn tomorrow, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.
Saturday morning dawned bright and clear. Outside the village hall on Ragley High Street, the sun sparkled on William Featherstone’s cream and green Reliance bus. William, in his brown bus driver’s jacket, welcomed each passenger by doffing his peaked cap. It was the thirtieth time he had made this journey and he knew a good day was in store. Vera was standing next to him with a list of passengers on her clipboard.
‘Good morning, Miss Henderson,’ said Vera, ticking off her name. ‘I’ve reserved you a seat just behind Joseph.’
‘Thank you, Vera,’ said Beth. She smiled as she climbed on to the bus. The spare seat was next to me.
‘Morning, Jack. Lovely day.’ She looked casual in her T-shirt, jeans and trainers and put her fleece and a bulky shoulder bag on the seat. I got up to put them on the luggage rack.
‘Hello, Beth. What’s in the bag?’ I asked.
‘My packed lunch,’ said Beth, ‘and if you’re good I might share it with you.’
Her eyes twinkled and I relaxed back in my seat. This was a good start to the day.
Soon we were driving through the farmlands of the Vale of York, where the River Ouse and its tributaries drained the great agricultural region of the county. Out of the window, beyond the thorny hedgerows, tall stalks of green unripe barley swayed in the gentle breeze with a random, sinuous rhythm. It was as if whole fields had a life of their own, rippling with swirling shadows and reflecting the light of the new day.
Time passed slowly and we drove along a moorland road beneath a sky of wheeling starlings. The steepled line of distant villages huddled on the horizon and the green and grey of North Yorkshire stretched out before us, splashed with purple heather. The old coach chugged up winding roads and through pretty villages on to the tableland of the bare and windswept North Yorkshire Moors. After millions of years under primeval seas, the Ice Age had transformed this land. It seemed as if a giant claw had gouged the purple hills, leaving behind green valleys that ran in parallel lines into the Vale of Pickering. We were deep into grouse moor country, a natural home for bees and wildlife and one of England’s greatest national parks.
In the seat in front of me, Vera stared out of the window in wonder at this wild land of moors and mosses. Next to her, Joseph frowned as he read his Daily Telegraph. Beyond the borders of our lives, the world continued to be dominated by those who searched for power and influence. During the recent trade union day of action, thousands of public-sector workers had demonstrated against the cuts in government spending and Arthur Scargill had addressed three thousand protesters at a rally in Sheffield. Meanwhile, it was reported that President Carter and a certain ex-movie star, Mr Ronald Reagan, had easily defeated their Democratic and Republican rivals in the nominations for the presidency. Joseph chuckled and closed the newspaper.
Finally, the mighty cliffs and the North Sea could be seen in the far distance and we drove into Robin Hood’s Bay. Many of the homes and cottages had been bought and renovated by ‘incomers’ and this had breathed new life into the area. However, the community remained humbled by the might of the sea and respectful of the giant forces of nature that had carved out this gem on the Yorkshire coastline.
In the car park at the top of the steeply sloping village street we disembarked and went our separate ways. We had an hour to spare before the concert began. The band made directly for the local public house, many of the villagers set off to explore the tiny gift shops and Beth and I walked down to the bay. The tide was out and sunlight reflected from a thousand rock pools.
‘What a perfect place for lunch, Jack,’ said Beth and we sat down on a rocky outcrop. It looked as though Beth had used her complete collection of Tupperware as she revealed a multitude of sandwiches, fresh tomatoes and fruit. There was space to breathe here and the cooling breeze was fresh in my face. Beth’s face and arms were tanned again and emphasized her perfect English beauty as she leaned back against the rock and soaked up the view.
‘Thanks for coming, Beth,’ I said as I poured some more tea from her flask.
‘Good to be here.’
‘It wouldn’t have been the same without you,’ I said.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I wouldn’t have had any lunch!’
Beth threw a rolled-up tea towel at me and I fell backwards trying to avoid it. We both laughed and twenty minutes later we packed up her bag and set off to walk across the bay.
I felt like a child again as we took off our trainers and socks and paddled in the cooling sea water. Gentle wavelets caressed our feet and pebbles rolled with smooth erosion between our toes. Around us, sunlight played upon the natural beauty of the landscape and the blue-black waves stretched out to meet the awesome sky. In this vast amphitheatre of silence we walked together by the edge of the sea. I felt as though the driftwood of my life had been cast upon this lonely shore but I couldn’t recall being happier. Then, suddenly, the loud cry of seagulls, salt sharp in the sea air, woke me from my dreams.
‘Perhaps we should be making our way back now, Jack?’ said Beth and she took my hand.
We walked back, both deep in our own thoughts. I looked up at the huddle of houses cascading down towards the rocky beach and wondered about the history of this unique place with its tales of smugglers in times gone by. Soon we reached the harbour and we leaned against a fishing boat and stared out to sea. It felt as if neither of us wanted to leave.
Then a long slim shadow appeared alongside us and I looked up, shielding my eyes from the sun. It was Joseph and he removed his straw hat and wiped his brow.
‘Hello, you two. I just wanted one last view of this beautiful scene,’ he said and, together, we looked across the bay. ‘Born in fire, formed in ice,’ said Joseph almost to himself. ‘The breath of God has blessed this land.’ I looked at him, at the ridge of his Roman nose reddened by the sun. ‘That’s what my father told me when I came here as a boy. I remember it as if it was yesterday.’
‘Fine words, Joseph,’ I said, ‘and perfect for this lovely day.’
On a large flat grassy space at the top of the village, bands in their different-coloured jackets mingled casually, drinking beer and swapping stories with easy banter. Rivalry there may be, but comradeship and a shared love of music was the theme of the day. Vera had reserved two deck chairs next to her and Beth and I sat down. A brass band from Huddersfield began the proceedings with, fittingly, ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ and everyone tapped their feet. Above our heads, daring seagulls swooped from a cobalt-blue sky and brass trumpets flashed in the sunlight as we gloried in these magnificent surroundings.
The afternoon wore on until it was the turn of the Ragley and Morton Brass Band for the final performance of the day. They took their places and began their short programme. The final piece was the one we had all been waiting for.
‘This is the one, Jack,’ said Vera and she clenched her handkerchief and sat forward in her seat.
Peter Duddleston turned to face the audience. ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, we finish with that wonderful hymn composed by Henry Francis Lyte in 1847. He wrote the words to his poem while he lay dying from tuberculosis. The lyrics are sung to William Monk’s beautiful “Eventide” and it is, of course, considered to be England’s national hymn.’ He smiled gently at Amelia, who sat still as stone in her seat. She seemed to be staring at something just outsid
e our range of vision. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to feature Miss Amelia Duff on the flugelhorn.’ Then he tapped his baton on his music stand and a hush descended on the crowd.
Above our heads a butterfly hovered and, once again, Amelia’s eyes followed its every movement. Then she stood up proudly, raised her flugelhorn to her lips and began to play. There was an intake of breath from the audience. Here was music the like of which they had never heard before. It was music blessed by angels.
Chapter Twenty
Dear Teacher
88 children were registered on roll on this last day of the school year. Thirteen fourth-year juniors left today and will start full-time education at Easington Comprehensive School in September. A teddy bears’ picnic, organized by the PTA, was held on the school field.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 25 July 1980
IT HAD BEEN a restless night.
In the early hours there was no moon, only backlit clouds that scurried across the sky and covered the land with shadows of confusion. The night lay heavy on the sleeping earth and, even with the windows of Bilbo Cottage wide open, the heat was stifling. As I stared into the far distance, where the earth met the sky, the rugged hills were a pale violet against the distant glow of a new dawn. Finally, the first rays of daylight shimmered on the parched fields and bars of golden light invaded my dark bedroom.
It was Friday, 25 July, the last day of the school year. My third year as headmaster of Ragley School was about to come to an end. Scattered on the breakfast table were my notes for the final assembly and I sat down to put them in order. The problem was … all I could think about was Beth.
My drive to school was filled with thoughts of her and, after parking, I walked out of school to clear my thoughts. The village green was deserted and I leaned against the giant ancient oak tree. A thick tapestry of tendrils swarmed up the gnarled bark towards boughs heavy in leaf and acorn. There was peace and welcome shadow here in the shimmering heat haze of this breathless morning.
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