‘Just speak from your heart.’
Lily sighed deeply. ‘I shall.’
That night Tom stared at the darkened room and sensed that the world as they knew it was over and a new one was about to begin.
Chapter Seven
The Single-Parent Nativity
The first snow of winter had fallen and Lily looked out of the kitchen window on a world of silence. It was Friday, 6 December and the land was covered in a white shroud that muted the sounds of the countryside. Harsh winter weather was about to descend on the high moors of North Yorkshire and a busy day lay ahead. The children were looking forward to the first rehearsal of the Nativity play; also, she had a shirt to iron for Freddie.
Breakfast was a hasty affair in Laurel Cottage. Tom had a meeting in Northallerton and Lily was determined Freddie would look tidier than usual for his school photograph. She was also aware that Dr Hinchcliffe was very keen on school uniform. Boys and girls wore navy blue blazers, a white shirt and a striped blue tie. It was grey trousers for boys and grey skirts for girls, with the formidable Miss Plumb ensuring that the hem was below the knees.
‘And take a comb with you,’ said Lily.
Freddie gave her a friendly grin. ‘Okay, but it won’t do any good. My hair seems to have a mind of its own.’
‘He’s right,’ said Tom. ‘I can’t imagine that blond mop with a side parting.’ He looked down. ‘Your shoes are a bit of a mess.’
Freddie grinned. ‘It’s only head and shoulders.’
Lily stood back to assess his appearance. ‘Well, do your best. Sadly, we can’t do anything about the bruise over your eye.’
Earlier in the week Freddie had enjoyed a fierce rugby trial in Leeds and, along with Sam Grundy, had been selected to play for Yorkshire Schoolboys against Lancashire next year.
He rubbed the lump on his forehead with pride. ‘It was worth it.’
‘Come on then,’ said Tom, ‘I’ll give you a lift.’
Lily watched them leave and sighed. There was no palliative for the pain of a lie. It was a blemish that would never go away, a stain on her soul. As she stood in the doorway and waved them off, the sense of defeat tainted the sharp morning air.
In the vicarage Vera had propped her 1963 Woman’s Own Christmas Annual on the kitchen windowsill. She considered it three shillings well spent and was perusing the pages listing ‘Hundreds of ideas to make and do’. There was an excellent recipe on page 30 for a walnut gâteau and she was about to search for some vanilla essence when Joseph walked in.
‘Shall we walk to school together?’ he suggested. ‘I need to speak to John about arrangements for the Nativity and confirm the date for the Crib Service.’
Vera smiled. She loved this time of year with the anticipation of Christmas.
‘Of course, Joseph. Remember to put on your warm scarf. We can’t afford you getting a chill with such a busy time coming up.’
Joseph walked out to the hallway and reflected that he was pleased Vera would always be his big sister.
A severe frost had crusted the rutted back road to Ragley village and Lily drove slowly. Beyond the frozen hedgerows the bare forests were like a child’s charcoal drawing in a stark monochrome world. A few flakes of snow tapped gently against her windscreen as she pulled on to the forecourt of Victor Pratt’s garage.
‘Four gallons, please, Victor.’
Victor seemed more animated than usual. ‘If y’go in The Royal Oak, Mrs Feather, tek my advice and don’t ’ave the prawn cocktail.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Lily, ‘why is that?’
‘Ah ’ad one las’ time ah were in an’ ah felt sick. Ah reckon there were summat fishy abart it.’
I suppose there would be, thought Lily, but said nothing.
‘Ah’m sure y’kiddies will be gettin’ excited wi’ Christmas comin’ up.’
‘They certainly are, Victor. It’s the rehearsal for the Nativity today.’
Victor paused before screwing on the petrol cap. ‘That teks m’back. Ah were a sheep three years runnin’. Ah knew that part like back o’ me ’and.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Lily with a smile as she passed over a pound note and drove off.
As she walked from the school car park, she shivered. There was a cold, spiteful wind that chilled the bones and dampened the spirits. In the entrance porch blue tits were pecking at the foil tops of the bottles of milk to get at the precious head of cream; they flew away as she walked into school.
In the school office Vera was already at her desk, wearing her coat. The wooden casements were rattling and the room was like an icebox.
‘Mrs Trott is struggling with the boiler,’ explained Vera, her breath steaming into the cold air.
‘Oh dear, I hope it doesn’t affect the Nativity,’ said Lily.
Vera glanced out of the window at the children running around, carefree and undeterred by the harsh weather. ‘I think we’ll be fine. It seems to be just us who feel the cold.’
‘You’re right, Vera. These are hardy country children.’
Vera nodded in acknowledgement. ‘And, by the way, the piano tuner is here.’
On her way to her classroom, Lily walked across the hall to speak with Monty Tinkler, a delightful, gentle and remarkable man. Monty, in his sixties, was bent over the strings and his silver hair stirred gently with each movement.
‘Good morning, Mrs Feather.’
Lily paused in admiration. ‘You knew it was me.’
He stood up. ‘Not difficult. You have very brisk, distinctive footsteps.’
Monty had been blinded in the Second World War but had returned to a life of music, with his well-tuned ear and perfect pitch.
‘How’s the piano?’ asked Lily. ‘Anne will be playing it more than ever in the next few weeks.’
‘I’ve spoken to her. There were a few persistent high and low notes that were a little off key, but it continues to have a beautiful mellow tone.’ He played a few bars effortlessly and Lily left him, feeling that even the most difficult setbacks could be overcome.
It was morning break and Anne was on duty in the playground. A few of the older girls had gathered round her to talk about Christmas presents.
‘I’ve asked for a Doctor Who call-box,’ said Anita Swithenbank.
Anne could sense her enthusiasm. ‘I’ve seen them advertised on television.’
‘And I’d like one of these,’ said Susan Derwood. Out of her pocket she took a folded picture of a Sindy doll. It had been launched recently in the UK to great excitement among young girls. Anne read the advertisement. ‘Sindy is more than a doll; she’s a real personality. The free, swinging, grown-up girl who lives her own life and dresses the way she likes.’
Anne could see why it was popular. There was a hubbub of conversation involving most of the girls until Tobias Fawnswater suddenly appeared.
‘I’m asking Santa for a Doctor Kildare stethoscope,’ he declared.
‘That’s wonderful, Toby,’ said Anne. ‘Do you want to be a doctor when you grow up?’
‘No, Miss,’ said Toby. ‘I just want to listen to people’s chests.’
Anne liked Toby. You always got a straight answer.
Madge Appleyard, mother of ten-year-old Colin, had called into the General Stores. An affable, friendly lady, this morning she looked concerned.
‘Good morning, Madge,’ said Prudence. ‘I was sorry to hear about Colin. Is it chickenpox?’
‘Yes, Doctor Davenport has seen him and he’s still off school. A pity, because he’s Joseph in the Nativity and they’re having a rehearsal today.’
‘Never mind, he will be fine by the time the Crib Service comes round.’
Madge nodded, but still looked concerned. Colin was her only child. She opened her purse. ‘A tin of beans please, Prudence.’
‘Large tin of Heinz reduced to elevenpence ha’penny?’
‘That’s fine,’ said Madge. ‘And a packet of Coco Pops and one of those new Toffee Crisp bars for Colin. He
likes those.’
Prudence filled her shopping bag.
‘And I’ll take a paper,’ added Madge. She picked up a Daily Express. ‘I see that Christine Keeler has got what she deserved.’ The Profumo scandal had run its course. Back in September Christine Keeler had been arrested for perjury and now sentenced to nine months in prison.
Prudence gave an imperceptible nod of agreement and looked up at Jeremy Bear, hoping he hadn’t heard about the infamous Miss Keeler. Such stories were not for the ears of the innocent.
Muriel Tonks, meanwhile, had arrived at Diane’s Hair Salon for a long-overdue cut and perm.
Diane stubbed out her cigarette. ‘What’s it to be, Muriel?’
‘Ah fancy a change.’ Muriel looked up at the display of photographs stuck round the frame of the big mirror. ‘’Ow about a Sophia Loren?’
‘Comin’ up,’ said Diane and moved smoothly into the first item of gossip. ‘Ah see that Myra Pottage is gettin’ a divorce.’
‘That didn’t last long,’ said Muriel.
‘She’s only twenty-two. Went off with that decorator what did ’er bedroom ceiling.’
They shared a knowing look in the mirror.
‘What’s young people comin’ to these days?’ asked Muriel. ‘It’s all ’ere t’day, gone t’morrow. Marriage is s’pposed t’be f’life. It’s not meant t’be a ’oliday camp.’
Diane smiled. ‘Yes, but what about that ’andsome cowman you were tellin’ me about?’
‘’E’s moved on t’pastures new.’ Muriel sounded disappointed. ‘My ’Arold got better an’ we didn’t need ’im no more.’
‘So did y’see that tattoo on ’is bum?’
‘Ah did – twice, once in t’cowshed an’ once in our ’allway.’
‘Flippin’ ’eck, Muriel! You’re a sly one.’ Diane put down her scissors. ‘So, are y’goin’ t’tell me?’
‘You’ll never guess.’
‘What was it then?’
‘It were a list o’ names in tiny writing. All ’is conquests.’
‘That’s a bit cheeky!’ exclaimed Diane.
‘’E said all ’is bored ’ousewives thought it were funny.’
‘And did you?’
Muriel smiled into the mirror. ‘Yes … twice.’
It was ten minutes before lunchtime and Ruby had finished putting out the dining tables. Vera was buttoning up her winter coat in the entrance hall. Lily needed some wire from the Hardware Emporium for the star of Bethlehem and Vera had offered to collect it.
‘Hello, Ruby. How are you?’
‘Life’s a bit ’ectic t’be ’onest, Miss Evans,’ said Ruby. ‘M’mam’s fed up wi’ my Ronnie. She were reading t’Riot Act to ’im when ah left. She says ’e won’t get off ’is backside.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Vera. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, and your mother is such a hard-working woman.’
‘M’mam sez we’re jus’ secon’ class citadels.’
Vera blinked but chose not to correct Ragley’s assistant caretaker. ‘So where is Ronnie now?’
‘Gone t’see ’is turf accountant so ’e sez … which is posh f’bookies.’
‘I see. Well, good luck, Ruby, and I’m so pleased your Racquel was chosen to be Mary in the Nativity.’
Ruby glowed with pleasure. ‘Ah’m so proud, Miss Evans, she’s a lovely girl.’
‘Takes after her mother,’ added Vera and hurried out of school.
Timothy Pratt held the door open for the Ragley secretary as she left his shop. To her disappointment, she bumped into the local funeral director, Septimus Flagstaff.
Septimus was thrilled. Vera was the quintessence of all he desired, whereas Vera noticed that he had become decidedly portly. In his white wing-collar shirt and black waistcoat he looked like a cross between a magpie and a plump penguin.
‘’Ow are you, Miss Hevans, on this chilly day?’
‘Fine, thank you, Mr Flagstaff, and how are you?’
‘All is well. Business is booming.’ He gestured towards his shiny hearse, ‘We haim t’give hevry satisfaction, Miss Hevans.’
Vera visibly winced. In her opinion Septimus was a man of dishonest aitches, unlike Ruby, who simply avoided aitches at the beginning of words.
Septimus took out a shiny silver cigarette case with the intention of impressing Vera. He had recently changed his brand of cigarettes. He now smoked Camels, the American cigarette. It was his belief that you could tell a great deal from the cigarettes a man smoked.
When he offered one to Vera, she recoiled in horror. ‘I don’t smoke!’ she exclaimed with feeling. ‘And I’m in rather a hurry. Mrs Feather needs this wire for our Nativity this afternoon.’
‘Well, if y’change y’mind these are the ones f’you, Miss Hevans, proper classy cigarettes for t’connoisseur.’
Vera hurried back to school shaking her head.
Deirdre Coe was standing by the bus stop on Ragley High Street when her brother pulled up in his Land Rover. ‘Where you off to?’ he asked with a scowl.
‘Into York t’do some shoppin’.’
‘York’s goin’ to t’dogs,’ he growled, ‘wi’ all them foreigners on t’buses. What’s it comin’ to?’
‘Y’reight there, Stanley,’ said Deirdre, her double chin wobbling as she nodded in agreement.
Stan drove off to meet his duck-shooting friends at the Pig & Ferret.
The bus pulled up and Ruby’s mother, Agnes, got off after completing her morning shift at the chocolate factory.
‘Look what t’cat dragged in,’ sneered Deirdre.
There was no love lost between these two women.
‘Why don’t y’sling yer ’ook,’ retorted Agnes. ‘Ah ’eard your Stan were throwin’ ’is money about in t’Pig an’ Ferret by all accounts accordin’ t’Tommy Piercy.’
‘What’s it got t’do wi’ you?’
‘’E’s a conman is your Stanley. ’E’d break t’bank at Monte Carlo if y’gave ’im t’chance.’
‘Anyway, gerroff ’ome to y’council ’ouse. Ah don’t mix wi’ the hoi polloi. Ah prefer a better class o’ people.’
‘So what meks you so grand?’
‘Ah’m off t’buy a rotary drier. No more clothes props an’ saggin’ washin’ lines f’me,’ Deirdre boasted. ‘Eight pounds, nineteen shillings … so there!’ and she stepped on to the bus.
Over the years Lily and Anne had taken control of the annual Nativity play. John Pruett’s stilted version with children reading lines from slips of paper had been discarded. Lily preferred improvisation, with boys and girls using their own language to tell the story. It had proved popular with parents and definitely added to the entertainment value without losing the sincerity of the story.
During morning assembly Joseph had told the story of the Nativity and most of the children had a good idea of the sequence of events that led to the birth of Jesus. When Anne had played the opening chords of ‘The First Noel’, Joseph had been unaware that Duggie Smith, a recent and not entirely well-informed addition to the school choir, was singing ‘The First Oh-Hell!’ at the top of his voice.
Inevitably, before morning break there had been the usual questions for Joseph.
‘Mr Evans, what’s Franky Scents?’ asked Norman Barraclough.
‘My dad uses Old Spice,’ added Stevie Coleclough before the vicar had the chance to reply.
Joseph had been pleased to retire to the staff-room and a welcome cup of camomile tea.
After morning break he was relaxed again and sitting next to John Pruett at the side of the hall. Lily and Anne put the children through their paces. Although a few boys and girls were absent, Lily was determined to have a brisk run-through. Inevitably, it didn’t go to plan.
Luke Walmsley proved to be a particularly determined innkeeper. ‘There’s no room in ’ere,’ he announced when Racquel Smith, playing the part of Mary, knocked on his imaginary door.
‘’Ow come?’ asked Racquel.
‘Well, we’re full – that’s why,�
�� replied Luke, not to be outdone.
‘That’s a poor do,’ complained Racquel, shaking her head.
‘You’ll ’ave t’go somewhere else,’ said Luke, pointing towards the school entrance.
Racquel stood her ground. ‘Well ah’m ’avin’ a baby an’ it’s comin’ reight quick, so ah’ve been told.’
‘Ah see,’ pondered the innkeeper. ‘Well, ah’ve got an idea.’ He glanced up at Lily, who smiled back encouragingly, pleased Luke was making this up as he went along. ‘Y’can go in t’stable if y’like. There’s plenty o’ dry straw in there an’ y’should be warm enough.’
‘Thanks,’ said Mary. ‘It’ll ’ave t’do,’ she added, grudgingly.
‘Anyway,’ continued the innkeeper, looking puzzled, ‘where’s yer ’usband?’
‘Joseph’s not ’ere.’
‘’Ow come?’
‘’E’s got chickenpox.’
There were a few titters among the assembled kings and shepherds.
Scott Walmsley, wearing one of his mother’s tea towels on his head as Second Shepherd, decided to speak up. ‘An’ in any case – it’s not ’is.’
Joseph Evans looked shocked and John Pruett glanced anxiously at Lily. She returned a fixed smile as she inwardly determined to have a quiet word with Scott.
Meanwhile, Vera, who had been standing by the double doors that led to the entrance hall, gave Lily a thumbs-up and hurried off to make a hot drink.
At afternoon break, John Pruett was on playground duty and a bewildered Joseph had driven home. Lily and Anne were in the staff-room drinking tea while Vera was dabbing tears of laughter from her eyes.
‘Well done, both of you,’ she said. ‘I think that’s the first single-parent Nativity I’ve ever seen.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Lily with a grin. ‘It just needs a little tweaking.’
‘And perhaps a stand-in Joseph when we perform in church,’ added Anne with a wide-eyed smile.
Vera had brought in some home-made scones as a treat and the three women relaxed in each other’s company and contemplated Christmas on the not-too-distant horizon.
At 7 School View Ruby was in her kitchen, sifting through her mother’s Kays catalogue. She wondered if there would ever be a day when she wouldn’t have to live on the never-never.
Changing Times Page 9
