Changing Times

by Jack Sheffield

  Meanwhile Agnes was dunking an arrowroot biscuit in her tea while her teeth soaked in a tumbler on the draining board.

  ‘Ah’ll be working f’pin money ’til ah pop m’clogs, jus’ you wait an’ see.’

  They sipped their tea in silence while Agnes nursed little Natasha and Sharon sat on the threadbare carpet in the front room and stared at the television. Watch with Mother had just begun and Sharon appeared to understand the strange language of the Flower Pot Men and chuckled to herself as she chewed on a rusk.

  ‘That Norman Fazackerley’s goin’ up in t’world, Ruby, you mark my words.’

  ‘’Ow come, Mam?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘Ah’ve ’eard ’e’s gettin’ into radiators.’

  ‘Radiators?’

  ‘Yes, luv, ’cause ’e says central ’eatin’ is t’thing of t’future.’

  Ruby shook her head. ‘Well, ah like m’coal fire.’

  ‘An’ ah’ll tell y’summat else,’ said Agnes. She was on a roll. ‘That Violet fancy-pants Fawnswater ’as got one o’ them stimulated coal fires.’

  ‘Stimulated?’

  ‘Yes, luv, it works on ’lectric.’

  Ruby’s eyes were wide. ‘Flippin’ ’eck, Mam – wonders never cease.’

  Agnes poured another cup of tea. ‘An’ another thing … ah saw that Deirdre when ah got off t’bus an’ she were shoutin’ ’er mouth off as usual.’

  ‘She’s allus been mardy ’as that Deirdre Coe,’ said Ruby, ‘but who wouldn’t be, livin’ wi’ that brother o’ ’ers? What were she sayin’?’

  ‘Summat abart a new clothes-dryer.’

  ‘There’s nowt wrong wi’ a washin’ line, Mam.’

  ‘Y’reight there, Ruby. Y’know what they say – y’can’t teach a new dog old tricks.’

  Racquel ran in from school just as Ruby was leaving to do her cleaning.

  ‘’Ow did y’get on, luv, in t’Nativity?’

  ‘It were good, Mam, but ah don’t think Mary ’as a ponytail.’

  ‘Well, we can do summat abart that,’ said Ruby and gave her a hug.

  ‘We can do yer ’air like Princess Margaret,’ suggested Agnes.

  ‘’Ow come, Grandma?’

  ‘She were on t’telly wi’ a posh frock an’ a sparkly necklace an’ lovely ’air wi’ a cornet on ’er ’ead.’

  ‘An’ who’s Joseph?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘’E weren’t there, Mam. ’E’s got chickenpox.’

  ‘Well, baby Jesus’ll need a dad,’ said Agnes defiantly.

  ‘Mr Evans said ’is dad were God.’

  ‘Yes, luv,’ said Agnes, ‘but he’ll still need a proper dad.’

  Racquel nodded. ‘What’s f’tea, Mam?’

  ‘Y’Gran’ll mek you a butty t’be goin’ on with. See y’later,’ and Ruby tightened her headscarf and set off to do battle with the school boiler.

  Up the Morton road, Violet Fawnswater was alone in her spacious lounge watching television and reflecting on her life. She looked out of the window at the sylvan shadows in the dark world beyond.

  She had taken up smoking again and a packet of Player’s Anchor filter-tipped cigarettes was on the coffee table beside her. The advertisement had said that, for two shillings and ten pence for twenty, they gave you ‘precise moments of calm in a busy day’, and that was just what she needed.

  That morning Violet had spent £33 on the de luxe version of the Creda Debonair Spin Dryer, which purported ‘freedom from drippy, droopy washing’. But it didn’t take away the pain of an unfaithful husband.

  She thought of her late mother, who had suffered a similar experience. It felt like a visitation from the Ghost of Christmas Past and she shivered. On her mother’s final day she had held her daughter’s hand and murmured bravely, ‘I played the hand I was given,’ and Violet understood the significance of her words.

  Upstairs in her bedroom, the expensive bottles of scent on her dressing-room table had an appealing fragrance, but they could never disguise the odour of her husband’s betrayal.

  She had bought one of the new lava lamps and watched the bubbles rise and then fall … rather like her life.

  It was four o’clock and outside Easington School Freddie and Rose were walking to the bus stop.

  ‘We ought to celebrate you getting on the Yorkshire team,’ said Rose.

  ‘And with Sam,’ added Freddie.

  ‘So what shall we do tomorrow afternoon after you’ve finished at the hardware shop?’

  ‘We could go to Marks an’ Sparks,’ suggested Freddie.

  Rose was impressed. This was unexpected. ‘Good choice,’ she said.

  They had been to look at clothes a number of times and Freddie had grown to admire Rose’s swift, confident movements as she sifted through a rack of clothing on a hanging rail like an experienced filing clerk. He presumed this was a ‘woman thing’, as he had seen his sister doing exactly the same when she was looking for a summer dress or a winter coat.

  The full moon, like an oculus in the dark sky, cast a cold, eerie light and long shadows stretched before them. They held hands and made footprints in the snow, a matching pair, together in harmony. Freddie couldn’t recall being so happy. The dusting of snow made everything look new and clean, a white world laid out just for them, an undiscovered Narnia. A life with Rose by his side stretched out before him and his heart was filled with contentment.

  However, the young man would look back on these innocent days with sadness. Destiny can play cruel tricks, and he had no idea his life was about to change.

  Chapter Eight

  A Time to Forget

  Roland Heckingbottom forgot his wife’s name. It was the day the Easington Rotary Club Committee invited him to be Father Christmas.

  Each year the club erected a little wooden hut in the local marketplace for the duration of the Christmas Fair. The view of the committee was that Roland would be the perfect choice. A rotund, naturally cheerful man with a fluffy white beard, he certainly looked the part. In a red suit and black wellington boots he would be perfect.

  Roland was delighted. At the annual dinner in early December, members’ wives had been invited. The chairman, Walter Wimpenny, shook his hand and turned to his wife, Ethel. ‘And this must be your lovely wife,’ he said. He glanced at Roland waiting for the introduction.

  ‘Yes,’ said Roland, ‘this is … this is … my wife.’

  The name had gone. In that split second his life changed. It had never happened before and he couldn’t understand it. He hadn’t been drinking and at seventy-two years old he considered himself to be in fine health.

  Ethel smiled at the chairman. ‘I’m Ethel,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Please call me Walter,’ he replied, ‘and let me buy you a drink.’

  Ethel gave her husband a curious look.

  That’s how it began for Roland and no one understood why.

  After the war he had worked in Leeds at the Fifty Shilling Tailors – a chain of shops selling men’s clothes. He would sit cross-legged on the floor all day, sewing lapels and buttonholes. He and Ethel moved on to Winchester when he was promoted to deputy manager, but later, when they reached retirement age, they returned to set up home in North Yorkshire. They were childless and content. Ethel joined the Women’s Institute and Roland was introduced to the Rotary. They led a simple, happy life together until Roland felt his mind was playing tricks on him.

  Suddenly, for Roland, it was a time to forget.

  For Lily Feather it was a time to remember.

  Routines are fine until life becomes hectic. Friday, 20 December was such a morning. It was the last day of term and Lily was in the corner of the lounge seeking out her Canon 35mm camera. She had recently inserted a roll of Kodak film and there were a few shots left. It had been a present from Tom for her birthday and she wanted to take some photographs of the children’s activities on the last school day of 1963. She was also leading morning assembly, so a busy day lay in store.

  An antique pine burea
u writing desk with a drop-down lid stood in the lounge. It was definitely Lily’s domain and hers alone. It had been passed down to her from her father. As Freddie did his homework on the kitchen table and Tom had a secretary and an office in Northallerton, it was a private space for Lily. Behind the lid were lots of little shelves full of envelopes, writing paper and postcards. Below were two lockable drawers and then a cupboard behind a pair of hinged doors. It was there she found the camera.

  As an afterthought, she took a bunch of keys from her jacket pocket and unlocked the right-hand drawer. There was a letter in her handbag that she wanted to add to her collection. She had just closed the drawer when there was a crash from the kitchen.

  ‘Damn!’ came a cry. It was unlike Tom ever to use bad language. Lily ran into the kitchen, where Freddie was on his knees helping Tom retrieve the broken shards of a plate.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Tom.

  ‘Not to worry,’ said Lily. ‘These things happen.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Tom, glancing at the kitchen clock, ‘must rush. I’ve a meeting. Come on Freddie, I’ll drop you off at school.’

  Lily wasn’t far behind and she closed the front door. Laurel Cottage was silent again. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on, the letterbox clattered when the postman delivered mail and a few flakes of sleet tapped against the window panes.

  She drove to school through a stark, desolate world. Overnight snow covered the distant hills and the land was held fast in the grip of winter, while the first pre-dawn light flickered across the frozen fields.

  On Ragley High Street posters advertising the Easington Christmas Market were displayed everywhere. Lily crunched to a halt in the school car park. Under a wolf-grey sky she hurried into school, completely unaware she had forgotten to lock the drawer of her writing bureau.

  It was something she would later regret.

  On her way to school Vera had called into the General Stores.

  ‘A dozen mince pies, please, Prudence.’

  ‘For the staff-room, Vera?’

  ‘Yes, I thought it would cheer them up. Everyone has worked so hard and it’s the party this afternoon.’ Vera glanced up at Ragley’s favourite bear. ‘And good morning to you, Jeremy.’

  ‘He’s looking forward to Christmas and is hoping for a new cardigan,’ said Prudence with enthusiasm.

  ‘Well, I must say he looks most impressive this morning.’

  Jeremy was dressed in a red shirt and bright blue overalls. ‘We’re doing some Christmas stocktaking later,’ explained Prudence.

  ‘It’s a busy time for you both.’

  ‘It is,’ replied Prudence with a wistful smile.

  When Lily walked into the school hall it was a hive of activity. Anne Grainger was preparing the music for morning assembly. She was setting out the instruments for her orchestra and a performance of ‘Little Donkey’ on treble recorders.

  ‘Morning, Lily,’ she said. ‘Difficult journey?’

  ‘Yes, but fortunately Deke Ramsbottom was out early with his snow plough.’

  Ruby Smith and Edna Trott had just finished hanging small gifts of sweets on the Christmas tree, one for each child, wrapped in North Yorkshire County Council tissue paper, blue for boys and pink for girls. The sweets were provided by the caretaking team from their meagre wages.

  ‘Well done, Ruby – a good job,’ said Edna as they stood back to admire their work.

  ‘It looks wonderful,’ said Lily in appreciation.

  ‘Thank you kindly, Mrs Feather,’ replied Edna. ‘Ruby’s a big ’elp, what wi’ my back an’ dizzy spells.’

  ‘I’m sure she is,’ said Lily, who was well acquainted with the many ailments of the Ragley caretaker.

  In the far corner of the school hall John Pruett had recovered the old wooden Christmas postbox from the loft and was preparing it for the children’s letters to Father Christmas.

  ‘Well done, ladies,’ he said. ‘Let’s switch on, shall we?’

  Strands of coloured bulbs had been wound round the tree.

  ‘Oooh, look at them lights, Ruby!’ exclaimed Edna. ‘Aren’t they lovely?’

  ‘It’s all lit up like Blackpool hallucinations,’ said Ruby, her rosy cheeks glowing.

  ‘Y’reight there, Ruby,’ agreed Edna.

  The children were full of excitement and, after registration and morning assembly, they sat down to write their letters to Father Christmas. By morning break John was checking all their writing to ensure there was nothing contentious and smiling at the children’s responses – with one exception. He was not entirely happy with Stevie Coleclough, who had written, ‘Santa, please make Christmas a good one for old people … like Mr Pruett.’

  He was intrigued by Anita Swithenbank, who wanted something out of the ordinary. In neat cursive writing under a picture of Santa in his sleigh she had requested, ‘Please can I have a signed picture of you because Scott says you’re not real.’

  Susan Derwood appeared concerned about Santa’s waistline. She had written, ‘Dear Santa, I’m sorry you are fat. When you come to my house look on the shelf in the kitchen where my mum keeps her diet books. You would like my mum. She is fat as well.’ John Pruett decided not to let Mrs Derwood see this letter.

  Norman Barraclough was having a twinge of conscience with this admission of guilt: ‘Dear Santa, I have been good all year except on Sundays when my cousin, Lucy, comes to visit and I hide for most of the day.’

  As John sifted through the collection he smiled. There were the usual requests for the popular toys of the day, including a Ken doll as a friend for Barbie, a Scalextric and an Easy-Bake Oven.

  The final letter was written by the phlegmatic Colin Appleyard, who simply asked the direct question, ‘Dear Santa, do you get fed up saying Ho-ho-ho?’

  It was a typical last afternoon of the autumn term in Ragley village school. The older children arranged chairs in a big circle and blew up balloons, while the little ones crayoned their Christmas cards. They played lots of games, including The Farmer’s in His Den, Statues and Musical Chairs, and there was a party tea with crab paste sandwiches and red jelly.

  When the children had departed into the darkness, clutching a card, a balloon and a tube of sweets, the staff relaxed in the staff-room.

  ‘Tea and mince pies, everyone,’ said Vera.

  Finally they said their goodbyes and agreed to meet up at Sunday’s Crib Service. John Pruett was always a little sad at this time of the year as he saw Lily drive away. Soon, with a heavy heart, he was driving past the frozen hedgerows beneath the skeletal boughs of sycamore and elm towards the silence of his home to make a meal for one.

  That Saturday afternoon all roads led to the Easington Christmas Market, where the local villagers went in search of a yuletide bargain. The sharp, clean air of the high moors had scoured the countryside as Sam Grundy collected Freddie, Rose and Joy. They drove to the local market town and parked in one of the side streets.

  The four teenagers gathered next to Terry ‘Tatti’ Duckworth’s hot potato stall. They munched on a hot snack and listened to the local choir singing ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ accompanied by the Ragley and Morton Brass Band.

  The bright lights of the tall Christmas tree next to the War Memorial shone down on the stalls that bordered the cobbled market square.

  ‘I love Christmas,’ said Rose, her eyes bright with excitement.

  Freddie put his arm around her shoulders and smiled. Her eyes were hazel, but to Freddie they were flecked with gold. ‘Me too,’ he said.

  Sam and Joy were a few paces away, deep in conversation, and Freddie looked at the two of them as a meeting between two worlds. Sam, with his farmer’s strength and roast beef dinners, and Joy, with her pale complexion and the smell of smoke and blacklead. There were days when they took on the appearance of two odd socks and Freddie wondered what would become of them.

  His thoughts were shattered by the Easington town crier in his three-cornered hat and ceremonial frock coat ringing his bell and cha
nting, ‘Oyez, Oyez, Oyez!’, and they wandered to where a large crowd had gathered round Fast Eddie’s stall.

  Eddie Ormonroyd presented himself as a Scarborough entrepreneur. He was renowned for buying and selling and was always too quick for the police. Tall and swarthy, with long hair and a flat cap, he regarded himself as God’s gift to women.

  ‘Now then, you sexy ladies,’ he shouted. ‘’Ow about a bit o’ ’ot stuff on a cold winter’s night?’

  He had certainly grabbed the attention of Muriel Tonks. ‘Ah could do wi’ a bit o’ that,’ she yelled.

  There was communal laughter.

  ‘Well, ladies, there’s only one o’ me t’go round, so ’ow about one o’ these?’ He held up a box with the label ‘Earlywarm Electric Blanket’.

  ‘In them posh shops down in Hoxford Street this’ll cost you gettin’ on f’ten poun’. But not ’ere, not t’night, ladies. Ah’m not askin’ ten, ah’m not askin’ five.’ He looked directly at Muriel. ‘F’one night only, thanks t’this beautiful lady, this ’lectric blanket is goin’ f’two poun’ fifty.’

  ‘Ah’ll ’ave one,’ shouted Muriel.

  ‘An’ so will I,’ called out Emily Poskitt.

  ‘An’ ah’ll show you ’ow it works,’ leered Fast Eddie as his assistant passed out the boxes and collected the cash.

  Freddie, Rose, Sam and Joy were enjoying the banter.

  ‘Now then,’ bellowed Fast Eddie, ‘who wants a Beatles wig? Y’can look like John, Paul, George an’ t’other one for a poun’. Who wants one?’

  ‘It’s Ringo,’ shouted Joy.

  ‘What is?’ asked Fast Eddie.

  ‘The other Beatle,’ said Joy.

  ‘Thank you, darlin’,’ said Fast Eddie with a big grin. ‘This lovely girl can ’ave one f’ten bob. ’Ave y’got a boyfriend?’

  Joy pointed at Sam.

  ‘Pity,’ said Fast Eddie.

  The four of them wandered off, leaving Fast Eddie selling his goods like hot cakes. Edie Kershaw bought a Remington Rollershave electric shaver for her husband, Alfie, while Deirdre Coe snapped up a Morphy Richards steam/dry iron at a bargain price as a Christmas present for herself.