Ruby looked up at the large and beautifully dressed teddy bear that was the village shopkeeper’s pride and joy. He was sitting on his usual shelf above the counter, beneath two advertisements for Hudson’s Soap and Carter’s Little Liver Pills. Dressed in a checked shirt and black trousers, the name ‘Jeremy’ was neatly stitched in royal blue cotton on the pocket of his white apron.
It was well known in the village that Jeremy had been named after Prudence’s late fiancé, a young fighter pilot who had been killed in the Battle of Britain in 1940.
Such was Jeremy’s status as the constant companion to Prudence, Ruby considered it perfectly normal for the village shopkeeper to sit her teddy bear in front of the television.
‘So, what’s it to be, Ruby?’
‘Jus’ some washin’ powder an’ a loaf, please.’
Ruby rummaged in her purse and put a few coins on the counter.
‘And what’s Ronnie doing these days?’ asked Prudence.
Ronnie Smith, Ruby’s unemployed, bone-idle husband, spent most of his time in The Royal Oak and the betting shop. When Ruby had left the house that morning he was sitting up in bed smoking a Wills’s Woodbine and reading the Sporting Life.
‘T’usual,’ said Ruby forlornly.
‘Oh dear,’ replied Prudence with feeling.
It was after school dinner when Lily walked into the staff-room. Vera was preparing a pot of tea and John Pruett was engrossed in a newspaper.
‘You look happy,’ remarked Vera. She thought it was a change to see Lily so animated.
‘It’s been a terrific morning,’ said Lily, bright with enthusiasm. ‘The children were excited about the rainbow. It proved a great opportunity for language development.’
John glanced up from his Times Educational Supplement. ‘Rainbows … Yes, they’re fascinating.’
‘Wonderful colours,’ said Vera as she poured milk from a third of a pint bottle into a china jug.
‘It’s simply a spectrum of light,’ explained John. ‘It appears in the sky when sunlight is refracted through raindrops or other drops of moisture in the Earth’s atmosphere.’
As Vera poured the tea she and Lily nodded knowingly and shared a conspiratorial smile.
John put down his paper and looked at Lily. ‘By the way, how’s your brother George? Is he still in Ireland?’
‘Yes,’ said Lily. ‘He seems to enjoy his life and writes long letters to me.’
Thirty-year-old George Briggs had remained in the army following his National Service.
‘I saw him in his uniform the last time he was on leave,’ said Vera. ‘A fine young man.’
John Pruett had been in the Royal Engineers during the Second World War and always showed an interest in military matters. ‘I read there was some concern that the Catholics were being marginalized because the Protestants have a two thirds majority.’
Lily nodded. ‘George said he thought there might be trouble on the horizon, particularly as only rate-payers have the right to vote.’
‘But that seems perfectly sensible,’ said Vera.
‘Except if you own a property in more than one ward,’ said John. ‘Then you can vote more than once.’
‘Up to six times apparently,’ said Lily.
Vera sipped her tea. ‘Yes, I can see why that would be a problem.’
Lily nodded. ‘Also, in his last letter George mentioned police harassment against Catholics.’
‘Well, let’s pray they can resolve it soon,’ said the ever-trusting Vera.
‘Hope so,’ said Lily. ‘I wouldn’t want George to be in the middle of a conflict.’
Lily gave a deep sigh and Vera picked up her Harvest Festival notice, while John merely looked thoughtful.
Meanwhile, on the High Street thirty-year-old Muriel Tonks, the curvaceous wife of a local farmer and mother of seven-year-old Henry, walked into Diane’s Hair Salon.
Diane Wigglesworth smiled at her regular customer, who always enjoyed sharing a bit of gossip.
‘’Ow are you, Muriel?’ she asked as she lit up a cigarette.
‘Fair t’middlin’,’ replied Muriel. ‘A few ups an’ downs.’ She settled on the chair in front of the large mirror.
‘What’s it t’be?’ asked Diane.
Muriel studied the cut-out magazine pictures that were taped around the frame of the mirror. ‘Usual,’ she decided. ‘A ‘lizabeth Taylor.’
‘Comin’ up,’ said Diane, as she reached for her box of rollers. ‘So ‘ow’s ’Arold?’
‘T’same. Face like a wet weekend.’
Diane nodded knowingly. ‘Men,’ she said with feeling and began to brush Muriel’s hair. ‘So … any news?’
Muriel pondered before answering. ‘Ah los’ m’charm bracelet again yesterday. Must ’ave dropped off somewhere. Mebbe when ah were walkin’ t’dog. It were t’one ’Arold bought when we were on ’oneymoon in Cornwall.’
‘Worth much?’
‘Not really. Jus’ a nice chain wi’ one o’ them Cornish imps on it, bit like a leprechaun. Ah lost it a year ago an’ then ah found it again. It were down t’back o’ t’sofa.’Arold were thrilled. Said it’s s’pposed t’bring us luck.’
‘An’ did it?’
Muriel smiled. ‘It did. T’day after ’e fell off a ladder an’ broke ’is leg.’
‘Flippin’ ’eck!’ exclaimed Diane. ‘An’ why were that lucky?’
‘’Cause ’e couldn’t milk cows no more.’
‘So what did y’do?’
‘We ’ad to advertise in the ’Erald.’
‘Did y’get any replies?’
‘Jus’ the one,’ said Muriel.
Diane paused and looked in the mirror. ‘So … what’s ’e like then?’
Muriel was smiling. ‘Tall, dark an’ ’andsome.’
‘Oh yes.’ Diane stopped brushing, keen to hear more.
‘Ah tek ’im a flask o’ tea ev’ry mornin’.’
Diane nodded knowingly. ‘What’s ’e like at milkin’?’
‘Dunno, but ’e sez ’e ’as a tattoo on ’is bum.’
‘On ’is bum?’ Diane stared in the mirror. ‘What’s it like?’
‘’Is bum or ’is tattoo?’
‘Well, both ah s’ppose.’
The two women shared a secret smile. ‘Ah’ll tell you nex’ time ah’m in.’
In Class 2 Lily was preparing the tables for an afternoon painting lesson when Anne called in.
‘Snap!’ said Anne with a grin when she saw the vivid collection of poster colours and powder paint. ‘It’s got to be “Rainbows”.’
Lily smiled as she studied the collection of bristle brushes and hoped they would last another year. ‘This morning certainly captured the imagination.’ She nodded towards the blackboard and the list of rainbow words.
‘Impressive,’ said Anne, then looked at the battered paint pots. ‘Mixing indigo should be fun.’
During afternoon break Anne and Lily were in the staff-room and John was on duty.
‘Did you see that John was following the rainbow theme?’ asked Anne.
‘No, what’s he doing – poems or painting?’
‘Actually a poem, the one by William Wordsworth.’
‘“The Rainbow”,’ said Lily. ‘Yes, we had to learn it off by heart at school. “The child is the father of the man” and all that.’
‘The children were copying it out in their best handwriting.’
‘Oh well, John is keen on handwriting,’ said Lily.
Obsessive, thought Anne, but didn’t want to say it out loud.
They sat back and Lily smiled.
‘What is it?’ asked Anne.
‘Just thinking of that D. H. Lawrence novel, The Rainbow. Did you read it?’
Anne grinned. ‘Yes, under the covers when I was a teenager. Banned because it was sexually explicit … so I had to read it.’
‘I suppose it seems tame these days,’ mused Lily.
Anne shook her head sadly. ‘Depends who you married,�
� she murmured.
There was a silence while the two women thought of their respective husbands.
Finally, Lily decided to change the subject. ‘We ought to be thinking of the music for Harvest Festival.’
Half an hour after the bell had rung for the end of school, Lily was collecting her coat from the cloakroom area between the school office and the staff-room.
John Pruett was sitting at his desk. ‘You look in a hurry,’ he said.
Lily smiled. ‘Tom doesn’t surprise me very often, but we’re going to the cinema tonight.’
John was interested. He would have loved to go to the cinema with his dynamic and attractive colleague. ‘What are you going to see?’ he asked wistfully.
Lily rummaged in her shoulder bag and held up a copy of the Easington Herald & Pioneer. ‘Cleopatra with Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. It’s supposed to be spectacular.’
‘So I heard,’ said John.
‘You ought to go, John. Here, you can keep this. Read the reviews.’
He took the newspaper from her and scanned the films page.
‘Rome’s conquest of Egypt is a dramatic story,’ he said. ‘I always felt a little sad for Cleopatra and her attempt to manipulate Julius Caesar and Mark Antony in order to save her empire.’
Lily was in too much of a hurry to discuss the politics of Ancient Egypt. ‘Anyway, must go. Bye, John,’ and she skipped out of the office.
John sat at his desk and spread out the newspaper before him. The final line of the review read: ‘This threesome is one of the most famous and gloriously powerful love triangles ever to be captured on film.’
He looked out of the window as Lily started up her smart almond-green Morris Minor 1000 Traveller, a recent gift from Tom Feather. As she drove away, John sighed and thought of another love triangle.
Outside school Duggie Smith and Chris Wojciechowski were playing conkers.
‘My mam says there’s a pot o’ gold at t’end of a rainbow,’ confided Duggie.
Chris stared down at the shattered remains of the conker at his feet. Suddenly his face lit up. ‘Ah know where t’end of it was. Ah saw it this morning from m’bedroom window. It were clear as day.’
‘Flippin’ ’eck!’ exclaimed Duggie. ‘Let’s go,’ and the two intrepid explorers ran off to the woods beyond the Ragley cricket field.
It was Chris who spotted the little plastic leprechaun amidst the detritus of fallen leaves. ‘Hey, Duggie, look what I’ve found.’ He picked up a bracelet on which hung the tiny figure. ‘What is it?’
Duggie’s eyes were like saucers. ‘Dunno, but it mus’ be t’treasure ’cause it’s at t’end of a rainbow.’
‘What shall we do, Duggie?’
Duggie took out his penknife and opened the blade. ‘We can dig an ’ole wi’ this an’ bury it.’
Chris nodded. Understanding dawned. ‘’Cause that’s what y’do wi’ treasure.’ He had an empty blue cone of a paper bag. It was all that remained of the two ounces of aniseed balls he had bought that morning on the way to school. ‘We can put it in this.’
As the two excited boys ran home, they waved to Mrs Muriel Tonks, who was walking Max, her cocker spaniel. Muriel had a smile on her face when she waved back. She was thinking of their handsome cowman … and a certain tattoo.
In the vicarage Joseph Evans switched on the television set. It was Ready Steady Go! with Keith Fordyce, who was about to introduce Acker Bilk. As Vera walked in she heard the lively disc jockey invite the viewers to find out ‘what’s swinging this weekend’.
‘Oh dear,’ said Vera. ‘What a dreadful use of English. Please switch over, Joseph. It’s almost six twenty-five.’
‘Six twenty-five?’
‘Yes, Joseph, Gardening Club.’
Vera settled down in her favourite chair, while Percy Thrower discussed the merits of Michaelmas daisies, heleniums, sedums and red-hot pokers.
‘I think I’ll check on my home-made wine,’ said Joseph a little forlornly. He left Vera engrossed in late-autumn colour in the flower garden.
‘I quite like Acker Bilk,’ he murmured to himself.
It was late evening and in Laurel Cottage Tom and Lily were hanging up their coats in the entrance hall.
‘Thanks, Tom – a wonderful film.’
Tom smiled. ‘Burton and Taylor are really special, aren’t they? Great chemistry between them … a bit like us.’
Lily stretched up and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Coffee?’ he asked.
‘Yes, please,’ said Lily.
Freddie was still busy with his homework at the kitchen table when Tom walked in and began to fill the kettle. ‘Fancy a hot drink?’
‘Thanks,’ murmured Freddie, clearly engrossed in a French translation.
Tom left a mug of coffee on the table for Freddie and carried two more into the lounge. He closed the door quietly.
Lily sipped her coffee thoughtfully and wondered why Tom was so quiet.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Just thinking.’ He nodded towards the kitchen. ‘Are you going to say something?’
There was a long silence until finally Lily replied in a hushed whisper, ‘Not now. He’s got his A-levels. You can see how hard he’s working.’
Tom shook his head. ‘You said that two years ago when it was his O-levels.’
‘It’s difficult. There never seems to be a right time. Maybe next year.’
‘So next summer?’ asked Tom.
There was another long pause. She stared out of the window, where a crescent moon hung in an indigo sky.
Finally she said, ‘Yes, next summer.’ Her thoughts were drifting now on an ebbing tide of fear. There would be a time to reveal the truth and she could not foresee the outcome.
A day that had begun with painting rainbows was ending under dark clouds in a firmament of uncertainty.
Chapter Three
Days of Youth
‘I think Freddie has a girlfriend,’ said Lily as she stared out of the leaded bedroom window of Laurel Cottage.
It was a pale autumn morning on Friday, 4 October and a grey dawn light covered the land. The season was changing and fallen leaves covered the fields like scattered souls. In the garden beneath her, robins were claiming their territory and the bounty of wild fruit filled the hedgerows. However, for Lily, the wonders of this early autumn morning were not uppermost in her mind.
Tom was non-committal. ‘Oh yes?’
He was aware there had been a few girls in Freddie’s life over the past couple of years, but had never interfered.
‘I was in the chemist’s shop and Mr Grinchley mentioned it.’
‘Yes, he doesn’t miss much,’ murmured Tom as he got out of bed.
‘He said they had been seen going into the Coffee Shop in Ragley.’
Tom stretched. A busy day lay ahead.
‘And when they came out they were holding hands.’
‘It must be love,’ said Tom with a smile as he headed for the bathroom.
Lily continued to gaze out of the window. Affairs of the heart could be complicated, as she knew only too well.
At 7 School View Ruby was also looking out of her kitchen window and thinking of the day ahead. With five children to feed and her husband still in bed, it was the usual hectic start to the morning.
The school caretaker, fifty-seven-year-old Edna Trott, was unable to do most of the work owing to an arthritic condition, which meant that many of the cleaning duties fell to Ruby. There was talk that Edna might retire soon and Ruby would take over. According to Mr Grinchley, who appeared to know everyone’s business, it would be a blessing for all concerned.
Meanwhile, on the radio, Alan Freeman was playing the popular new song by Brian Poole and the Tremeloes, ‘Do You Love Me’ Ruby gave a wry smile as she scraped a piece of blackened toast and wondered about her life. Those youthful days were long gone, and now poverty and hard work were taking their toll.
When John Pruett walked into
the school office, Vera was turning the handle of the Banda machine and producing neat foolscap copies of a Harvest Festival notice for the children to take home. The church service was in two days’ time and this was a final reminder.
‘Good morning, Vera,’ said John.
‘Good morning, Mr Pruett,’ replied Vera without looking up.
John could see Vera was in concentration mode and sat quietly at his desk to check the morning’s post. Vera had placed it in a neat pile alongside a note indicating which letters were important. Her efficiency was remarkable and he knew he would be lost without her.
Vera had the process of producing duplicated letters down to a fine art and she regarded the machine as a wonder of the modern age. The master sheet could be typed, drawn or written upon and the second sheet was covered with a layer of wax that resembled carbon paper. She had filled the machine with duplicating fluid consisting of an equal mix of isopropanol and methanol, hence the slightly addictive odour enjoyed by all the staff. Finally, she had attached the master sheet to the revolving drum and was turning the handle in a metronomic fashion while quietly humming the tune of Elgar’s ‘Nimrod’ from his Enigma Variations. Along with Johann Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D Major’, it was perfect for such a repetitive task and for forgetting the worries of the world.
Vera took a copy to the window and held it up. ‘Perfect!’ she said without a hint of modesty. She approved of the aniline purple text, particularly as mauve and purple were her favourite colours. Also, yesterday evening she had watched the Horse of the Year Show on television featuring her favourite commentator, Dorian Williams. So Vera was in a contented mood, with perhaps one predictable exception. Her brother, Joseph, had left preparations for one of the most important church events of the year a little late.
In Vera’s opinion, he was spending far too much time on his dreadful home-made wine.
At 11.45 a.m. Ruby was in the school hall setting out the dining tables when Mrs Emily Poskitt walked in to collect her six-year-old son, Trevor, for his visit to the dentist.
‘’Ello, Ruby, ’ow’s things wi’ you?’
‘Middlin’,’ replied Ruby without conviction.
‘Ah’ve jus’ seen your Ronnie at t’bus stop.’
Changing Times Page 3
