Changing Times

by Jack Sheffield

  Big Dave and Little Malcolm were supping mugs of sweet tea and munching giant pork pies at a table in the Coffee Shop. The Dave Clark Five’s recent number-one hit, ‘Glad All Over’, was playing on the jukebox and the usual villagers were swapping stories and enjoying their mid-morning beverages.

  Nora was in conversation with a short, portly man wearing a bright red apron that matched his florid cheeks. The words ‘Colin’s Cakes’ were emblazoned across his chest. He delivered cakes and pastries in his little van to shops in the area.

  Big Dave looked across at the animated pair. ‘Ah see Cream Cake Colin is in. Ah reckon ’e’s a nancy boy.’

  ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ agreed Little Malcolm, although he had no idea why the sexual orientation of a man could be linked to the delivery of chocolate eclairs and almond slices. ‘Mind you, Dave, ah think ’e’s chattin’ up Nora.’

  ‘All talk an’ no action,’ said Big Dave with the utter conviction of a know-it-all bin man.

  Meanwhile, Colin was using all his charms to offload a tray of two-day-old, slightly stale rock buns. ‘Y’look radiant today, Nora,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Nora.

  ‘An’ ah’ve got y’summat special.’

  ‘Is it a cweam cake?’

  ‘No, better than that,’ said Colin, taking an envelope out from his pocket. ‘It’s a Valentine’s card for my prettiest customer.’

  ‘Ooh, what a lovely su’pwise!’

  Nora opened it and there was a picture of a pair of colourful iced buns side by side. Inside were the words ‘To my little cream puff with love, Colin’.

  ‘That’s weally kind,’ said Nora.

  Colin moved swiftly into entrepreneurial mode. ‘An’ a special offer for m’favourite customer. ’Ere’s a tray o’ rock buns made by my own fair ’and, yours for ’alf price.’

  Nora opened the till and paid Colin, unaware that he had charged the full amount.

  As he left, the record on the jukebox moved on to the current number one, the Searchers singing ‘Needles and Pins’, but it failed to prick Cream Cake Colin’s conscience.

  In John Pruett’s classroom you could have heard a pin drop. The children held their breath while John completed writing two eleven-plus practice questions on the blackboard.

  The first read: ‘A clock is 12 minutes slow, but is gaining 5 seconds per hour. A watch is 20 minutes fast, but is losing 7½ seconds per hour. How many minutes fast will the watch be when the clock shows the right time?’

  ‘And when you’ve done that I want you to write the answer to this one,’ he said.

  Question 2 read: ‘The road from a town “A” to another town “B” is uphill for the first 2 miles, level for the next 3 miles, and downhill for the last 2 miles. If I can walk at the rate of 4 miles an hour on the level, 5 miles an hour downhill and 3 miles an hour uphill, how long shall I take to go from “A” to “B”?’

  John faced the four rows of children and issued a final warning. ‘No one leaves until you have completed them correctly.’

  Racquel Smith smiled. For her these were easy and she scribbled busily as she worked out each solution. In the next row Scott Walmsley looked uncertain. He wasn’t interested in clocks that didn’t work, and walking up and down hills seemed pointless if you owned a bicycle. However, of greater concern was the fact that Racquel had ignored him all day and hadn’t sent him a Valentine’s card.

  It was lunchtime in the General Stores and Prudence was serving Muriel Tonks.

  ‘Anything else, Muriel?’ asked Prudence.

  ‘Ah’ll try some o’ that Ski yogurt please, Prudence. Diane in the ’airdresser’s says it’s good f’slimmin’.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Prudence, holding up the little tub. ‘It says it’s a low-calorie product.’ Prudence was also aware that it had become the new fad for local ladies who were watching their figure.

  ‘Ah’ll tek five, please.’ Muriel picked up a copy of the Daily Mirror. ‘Ah see that Peter Sellers is marryin’ Britt Ekland.’

  ‘Yes, I believe so.’

  ‘Valentine’s Day,’ said Muriel as she walked out. ‘Love is in the air.’

  ‘It always is,’ Prudence murmured with a sad smile.

  Ruby’s mother had called into Tommy Piercy’s butcher’s shop on her way home from the chocolate factory.

  ‘Pound o’ sausages please, Tommy.’

  ‘Finest on God’s earth,’ said Tommy, snipping off a few links. Tommy was a member of the SAS, the Sausage Appreciation Society, and he knew a good sausage when he saw one.

  ‘That Stan Coe were shoutin’ at me from ’is Land Rover when ah got off t’bus.’

  Tommy wrapped up the sausages. ‘Ah’ve banned ’im. Told ’im t’tek ’is custom elsewhere.’

  Agnes nodded. ‘Y’know what they say about Stan Coe – brass but no class.’

  ‘What were ’e sayin’?’ asked Tommy as he wrapped the sausages.

  ‘Not worth repeatin’,’ said Agnes.

  ‘Least said, soonest mended,’ agreed Tommy.

  ‘Ah don’t let it trouble me,’ said Agnes. ‘Ah’ve got my Ruby an’ t’gran’kids.’

  ‘Ah’ll tell y’summat f’nowt,’ said Tommy as Agnes put the sausages in her shopping bag.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘There’s two good things in life, Agnes: a good bed an’ a pair o’ good shoes. When yer not in one yer in t’other.’

  ‘Y’not as daft as y’look, Tommy,’ said Agnes with a sly wink and hurried off to the council estate.

  In The Royal Oak, twenty-one-year-old Eddie Brown had ordered a lunchtime drink and Don the barman was pulling a pint of Chestnut beer. His wife, Sheila, was cleaning glasses.

  ‘So what y’doin’ these days, Eddie?’ asked Don.

  Eddie looked up quickly from staring at Sheila’s prodigious bosom and low-cut blouse and hoped Don hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Ah’m gettin’ into telecommunications. That’s t’future.’

  ‘Impressive,’ said Sheila, but without conviction.

  ‘Ah’m gonna tek some exams at t’Tec’ an’ then it’s onwards an’ upwards f’me.’

  Eddie was unaware that Don and Sheila considered him to be as thick as two short planks, but they admired his enthusiasm.

  ‘So what y’doin’ now, Eddie?’ asked Don.

  ‘Ah’m a sales executive,’ he said proudly as he picked up his pint and wandered off into the taproom.

  ‘What’s a sales executive when it’s at ’ome?’ said Don.

  Sheila smiled. ‘’E sells vacuum cleaners door-t’door.’

  Big Dave and Little Malcolm were nearing the end of their round when they arrived at Stan Coe’s farm. The place looked a mess, with litter scattered everywhere. Behind the barn they could hear the grunting of pigs. It was the first time they had made a collection there and they wondered where the bins were.

  ‘Ah’ll go round t’back, Malc’. You ’ave a look be’ind t’barn.’

  When Malcolm walked around the barn he saw an overflowing corrugated-iron dustbin. It was leaning on the fence that separated the property from the public footpath. Stan was nailing up a large notice that read:

  DO NOT HANG SIGNS ON THIS FENCE

  Malcolm smiled when he saw it.

  Stan looked up and waved a large hammer. ‘What y’grinnin’ at? Gerron wi’ y’work!’

  Malcolm frowned but carried on regardless. He didn’t want trouble with his customers. He lifted the heavy bin and staggered out to the dustcart.

  ‘Put y’back into it, short-arse!’ shouted Stan.

  From the far side of the barn Big Dave suddenly appeared and grabbed Stan by his coat collar, almost lifting him from the ground. ‘Who are you callin’ short-arse?’

  ‘Ah’ll report you!’

  Big Dave pinned him against the fence. ‘No y’won’t.’

  ‘Why won’t ah?’

  ‘Cause ah’ll be back t’pay you a visit.’

  Stan was going red in the face. ‘Are
you threatenin’ me?’

  ‘Call it a friendly warnin’ … but mebbe wi’ a bit o’ violence.’

  ‘All reight. Y’can put m’down.’

  ‘’Aven’t y’forgotten summat?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sayin’ sorry to my cousin.’

  ‘’E’s y’cousin?’ Stan looked puzzled. ‘Y’different, then.’

  ‘That’s reight, we are. Malcolm’s a lot stronger than me an’ ’as a short temper.’

  Stan looked at the huge shoulders and bulging muscles that filled out Little Malcolm’s boiler suit and nodded. ‘Ah’m sorry,’ he spluttered.

  As they drove away Little Malcolm looked up in admiration at his best friend. ‘Thanks, Dave.’

  Big Dave grinned. ‘Think nothin’ of it, short-arse.’

  Malcolm gave him a friendly punch in the ribs. ‘Pull in at t’General Stores, Dave. Ah want t’buy a Valentine’s card.’

  Big Dave stopped the wagon quickly and stared at Malcolm. ‘Y’jokin’! Who for?’

  ‘That Rita in t’fish shop. We’ll see ’er t’night.’

  ‘Y’don’t need no cards t’get a girl t’go out wi’ you. Bag o’ crisps an’ a Babycham an’ y’laughin’.’

  But Little Malcolm was not to be deterred. It was Valentine’s Day and he wanted to make it special.

  At the end of school Lily was saying goodnight to the children in her class. It was already getting dark and a mist had descended.

  ‘Be careful if you have to cross the road, boys and girls. It’s foggy outside.’

  Chris Wojciechowski raised his hand. ‘Miss, ah reckon it’s jus’ t’clouds. They’re tired and they’ve fallen down.’

  There were times when Lily loved her job and this was one such moment.

  Anne Grainger was preparing the evening meal of pork chops, mashed potatoes and carrots – a warming feast on a cold night. John was sitting at the kitchen table smoking his pipe. He had spent 1/3d on the February issue of Do It Yourself magazine. He turned to page 131 and an article ‘Transport your suitcase the easy way’.

  ‘This could catch on,’ he said.

  Anne was mashing potatoes. ‘What might catch on?’

  ‘Wheels for heavy suitcases.’ The exploded diagram showed a construction made from tin plate with three-inch-diameter wheels. The rivets looked like parts of a field gun from the Second World War.

  ‘Maybe,’ murmured Anne.

  ‘And this is a great idea,’ enthused John. ‘Someone here has transformed his fireplace into an indoor pool. Now that we’ve got central heating we could do the same. We could have miniature water lilies and tiny fish swimming around. It would make a talking point for visitors.’

  Anne gave him a cold look as she served up the meal. ‘We don’t have any visitors.’

  He turned the pages. ‘Then how about a bamboo cocktail bar?’ he asked in desperation.

  It didn’t appear that Anne shared his enthusiasm. She stared through the door that led to the lounge. Ten years ago on the mantelpiece there would have been a pair of Valentine’s cards, but not today … not any more.

  Rita Eckinthorpe looked up from scooping a battered fish and tossing it expertly on to the display cabinet. The bin men had walked in as they did every Friday.

  ‘Fish an’ chips twice, please,’ said Big Dave, ‘an’ two tubs o’ mushy peas.’

  ‘An’ a bag o’ scraps, please,’ added Little Malcolm. He had put on his cleanest shirt and scrubbed his filthy hands after work.

  Rita served them up in her usual speedy way and wrapped them in newspaper. Her glass eye looked straight ahead at Big Dave. ‘What’s up wi’ y’mate?’ Her other eye was fixed on Little Malcolm.

  Malcolm was giving Rita his best fixed smile. He had been practising in the mirror.

  ‘’E’s got summat for you,’ said Big Dave a little self-consciously.

  Rita leaned over the counter and assessed the five-foot-four-inch bin man.

  ‘My name’s Malcolm,’ he said. ‘An’ ah’ve got a card f’you.’

  ‘’Ave y’now?’ said Rita.

  He passed it over and she opened it. ‘A Valentine’s card. That’s lovely.’

  Rita had been brought up in a back-to-back in Chapeltown in Leeds where the outside toilets froze in winter. Her appearance was hard and drawn. It was as if life had worn her down, but, on occasions, there were surprises.

  ‘Well ah can see y’fancy y’self as t’dog’s bollocks.’

  Malcolm smiled. He had never been a student of etymology and the study of words and their meanings … but he knew when he was on a winner.

  ‘Ah wondered if you’d like t’go to t’pictures?’

  ‘Wi’ you?’

  ‘Yes, Rita, wi’ me.’

  She glanced up at Big Dave. ‘Not ’im then?’

  Big Dave picked up the parcel of fish and chips and stepped back. ‘No, not me. It’s Malcolm who’s askin’.’

  Rita considered Malcolm and decided he had something of the look of Charlton Heston in El Cid … only about a foot shorter. ‘Okay then, outside t’Odeon, t’morrow night, seven o’clock.’ Rita didn’t waste words.

  When they walked out Little Malcolm felt seven feet tall.

  Freddie, Rose, Sam and Joy arrived at the first Chinese restaurant to open in Easington. Wong Yong was one of the many Hong Kong immigrants who had arrived in England and he had spotted an opportunity. He closed his laundry and opened a restaurant and takeaway. The furnishings were meant to represent exotic luxury and the appearance was definitely more Shanghai than Sheffield.

  ‘Hey, Freddie, this is fantastic,’ said Rose.

  She was wearing a sleek suede jerkin and a narrow flared skirt. It was the height of fashion and she felt confident as she walked into the subtly lit restaurant. They were shown to a table, then picked up a menu and studied it carefully.

  ‘What’s Mushroom Foo Yung?’ asked Joy.

  ‘Like an omelette,’ said Sam.

  ‘I’ll try one of those,’ said Joy. ‘Good to be adventurous.’ She had cheered up after receiving a late Valentine’s card from Sam, unaware that Freddie had bought it for him.

  Rose chose Sweet and Sour Pork, Sam selected Chicken Curry with Rice, while Freddie played safe and went for the Mixed Grill.

  The many dishes that appeared filled the table and they each sampled a little of everything, washing it down with bottled beer. Freddie gradually relaxed as the evening moved on. Rose was animated and pleased that her suggestion had been well received. Conversation ebbed and flowed as the alcohol took away thoughts of examinations and schoolwork. They were enjoying being teenagers in the early sixties. A special synergy between pop music, television and fashion had burst on to the scene and life seemed full of possibilities.

  ‘Did you hear about the Beatles?’ asked Rose. ‘They were on The Ed Sullivan Show in America last week.’

  ‘Seventy-three million people watched it,’ said Joy. She had seen the news and the Fab Four had been singing ‘I Saw Her Standing There’ to American girls, who appeared to scream just as loudly as their English counterparts.

  Sam pulled out a packet of King Size Benson & Hedges Special Filter and offered them round. Freddie and Rose declined but Joy accepted one eagerly.

  ‘Top-quality cigarettes,’ Sam said with a self-satisfied smile. He believed there were common fags and classy cigarettes. They were the mark of a man. ‘After uni’ I’ll be an entrepreneurial socialist on a thousand a year,’ he boasted. Joy looked a little sad for a moment and wondered if she reckoned in his plans.

  Soon a pall of cigarette smoke hovered above the table. ‘Miss Plumb gave us girls a lecture about the Nineteen Sixty-two Report on Smoking and Health,’ warned Rose. ‘She said that cigarettes cause cancer.’

  ‘Not with filter tips,’ said Sam confidently, puffing a smoke ring above their heads.

  At the end of the evening, Sam dropped them off one by one. Outside Laurel Cottage Rose got out with Freddie. He held her in his arms, th
en lifted a stray tendril of her hair and tucked it tenderly behind her ear. Above them bright stars wheeled in the firmament like celestial guardians watching over their world.

  She responded to his touch. ‘You’re my sweet Valentine,’ he said quietly. Then she stretched up on tiptoe and, fingertip soft, her lips brushed his.

  It was a moment to be treasured.

  Chapter Twelve

  A Sign of Peace

  It was Friday, 6 March and, while there was still snow on the ground, it no longer held Ragley village in its chilling fastness. In the far distance the Hambleton hills appeared bleak and grey against a wind-driven sky, the light was growing in the east and a rim of living gold separated the earth from the sky. The raucous cries of curlews heralded the hope of a new season as a pale sun bathed the distant moors with light and warmth. Beneath the hard crust of earth new life was stirring. The dark days were becoming a distant memory and spring was just around the corner. It was a new dawn and the world appeared to be holding its breath.

  Lily felt a new sense of optimism as she drove out of Kirkby Steepleton. Her relationship with Freddie was still strained, but there had been some happier moments in recent weeks. He had celebrated his eighteenth birthday by passing his driving test at the first attempt and had also played two more winning games for Yorkshire Schoolboys. She had prepared a celebratory tea, but Freddie had been quiet throughout and, although he thanked Lily for the occasion, it was a subdued response. Even so, she knew it was a journey that began with small steps.

  When she arrived at school, Ruby was emptying a bag of breadcrumbs and chopped strips of bacon rind on to the bird table. ‘Mornin’, Mrs Feather,’ she shouted above the bitter wind.

  ‘Good morning, Ruby. How are you?’

  ‘Champion, thank you kindly. Ah thought ah’d give t’birds a treat.’

  Lily paused next to Ruby. ‘That’s very thoughtful.’

  Ruby appeared suitably modest, although her cheeks flushed. ‘Well, ah try m’best. Mind you, there’s no food wasted in our ’ouse. Our Duggie would lick t’pattern off a plate if y’let ’im.’

  Lily nodded in acknowledgement, well aware of Duggie’s prodigious appetite during school dinners. ‘And how is Ronnie?’