08 Silent Night Read online

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  It’s 1984 and Jack Sheffield returns to Ragley-on-the-Forest School for his eighth year as headmaster.

  It’s the time of the miners’ strike, Trivial Pursuit, Band Aid, Cabbage Patch dolls, and a final goodbye to the pound note.

  And at the village school, Dallas Sue-Ellen Earnshaw uses some choice vocabulary, Ruby the caretaker finds a special friend, and eight-year-old Rosie Sparrow amazes everyone when Ragley School takes part in a televised carol service from York.

  Some Christmas magic arrives, and transforms Rosie’s life as well as those around her . . .

  Contents

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Map

  Prologue

  1 The Last Earnshaw

  2 Flowers Make Friends

  3 Ronnie’s Bench

  4 The Binmen of Benidorm

  5 A Surprise for Sally

  6 A Date for Nora

  7 Little Sparrow

  8 Do They Know It’s Christmas?

  9 Dick Whittington and His Pratt

  10 Viva Las Ragley

  11 Just Another Day

  12 Thatcher’s Children

  13 A Decision for Tom

  14 Oxford Blues

  15 Belly Dancing for Beginners

  16 Only a Girl

  17 A Fish Called Walter

  18 Mangetout and Marmalade

  19 Silent Night

  About the Author

  Copyright

  SILENT NIGHT

  The Alternative School Logbook 1984–1985

  Jack Sheffield

  For Lily Beth & Ava Grace

  . . . may they always enjoy the magic of Christmas

  Acknowledgements

  I am indeed fortunate to have the support of a wonderful editor, the superb Linda Evans, and the excellent team at Transworld including Larry Finlay, Bill Scott-Kerr, Elizabeth Masters, Vivien Thompson, Bella Whittington, Brenda Updegraff and Lynsey Dalladay, not forgetting the ‘footsoldiers’ – fellow ‘Old Roundhegian’ Martin Myers and the quiet, unassuming Mike ‘Rock ’n’ Roll’ Edgerton.

  Special thanks as always go to my hard-working literary agent, Philip Patterson of Marjacq Scripts, for his encouragement, good humour and deep appreciation of Yorkshire cricket.

  I am also grateful to all those who assisted in the research for this novel – in particular: Janina Bywater, neonatal nurse and lecturer in psychology, Cornwall; The Revd Ben Flenley, Rector of Bentworth, Lasham, Medstead and Shalden, Hampshire; Ian Haffenden, ex-Royal Pioneer Corps and custodian of Sainsbury’s Alton; John Kirby, ex-policeman, expert calligrapher and Sunderland supporter, County Durham; Roy Linley, Lead Architect, Strategy & Technology, Unilever Global IT Innovation and Leeds United supporter, Port Sunlight, Wirral; Sue Maddison, primary-school teacher and expert cook, Harrogate, Yorkshire; Phil Parker, ex-teacher and Manchester United supporter, York; Gill Siddall, keen gardener and lover of flowers, Medstead, Hampshire; Linda Collard, education trainer and consultant, fruit-grower and jam-maker, West Sussex; and all the terrific staff at Waterstones Alton, including Simon, Sam, Kirsty, Louise, Fiona and Mandie; also, Sheena and Trish at Waterstones Farnham, and Kirsty and the team at Waterstones York.

  Finally, thanks go to Richard and Trish Lord, owners of the excellent B&B in the Yorkshire Dales, Littlebank Country House, Settle, for their wonderful hospitality . . . and their award-winning marmalade recipe!

  Prologue

  Memories.

  Some are sharp and clear like still cool water on a summer’s day. Others, like tattered rags of cirrus clouds sweeping across a windswept winter sky, are lost for ever.

  Years come and go, but some stay in the mind. 1984 was such a time . . . and all because of a Christmas carol sung by a small girl. It was a song of innocence that touched the hearts of many, a poem of hope that resurrected a love that was lost, and set in motion the wheels of change.

  The autumn term was always my favourite, with the gradual build-up towards Harvest Festival, Bonfire Night and finally the Nativity plays and coloured lights of Christmas. In contrast, the spring term was often one of coughs and colds, dark nights and freezing weather, before Easter arrived bringing new life to the hedgerows; while the summer term brought sunshine and sports days. This was the rhythm of our lives in the cycle of seasons.

  For me, Christmas was always the best. Each year on the carousel of my teaching life I grew older, whereas the children at Ragley School were always the same – rising fives to eleven-year-olds, for whom the magic of Christmas filled their waking thoughts.

  The academic year 1984/85 began quietly on a perfect morning when late-summer sunshine slanted in through the windows of our Victorian school. It was Saturday, 1 September, and I was sitting at my desk in the school office. The beginning of the autumn term for the children of the village was two days away and I was responding to the many letters from County Hall. I sighed. It was the usual collection of Health & Safety regulations, budget cuts, curriculum reforms, a list of newly appointed advisers and even recommended room temperatures. Some things never changed.

  I sat back and reflected on the school holiday that was now almost over. My wife, Beth, like me a village-school headteacher, had visited her parents in Hampshire the previous week for a short break with our year-old son, John William. She was returning that evening with the surprising news that her sister, Laura, had decided to leave suddenly for a new life in Sydney, Australia. Beth didn’t want to discuss it over the telephone – apparently it was ‘complicated’.

  Meanwhile, on the office wall, the clock with its faded Roman numerals ticked on. In spite of the usual apprehension, I had always found the dawn of a new school year to be an exciting time, but little did I know what lay in store. The end of a world I had come to love was threatening like a far-off thundercloud. However, hope is an elusive companion, an invisible friend who occasionally taps you on the shoulder and leads you by the hand towards a better future. So it was that I viewed the coming days with optimism.

  On that distant autumn day, all seemed calm as my eighth year as headmaster of Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School in North Yorkshire was about to begin.

  Up the Morton Road the church clock chimed midday. I took a deep breath as I unlocked the bottom drawer of my desk, removed the large, leather-bound school logbook and opened it to the next clean page. Then I filled my fountain pen with black Quink ink, wrote the date and stared at the empty page.

  The record of another school year was about to begin. Seven years ago, the retiring headmaster, John Pruett, had told me how to fill in the official school logbook. ‘Just keep it simple,’ he said. ‘Whatever you do, don’t say what really happens, because no one will believe you!’

  So the real stories were written in my ‘Alternative School Logbook’. And this is it!

  Chapter One

  The Last Earnshaw

  93 children were registered on roll on the first day of the school year.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Monday, 3 September 1984

  ‘She’s las’ one, Mr Sheffield,’ said Mrs Julie Earnshaw sadly.

  This tough Yorkshire lady had met me in the school entrance hall.

  ‘Is she?’ I asked.

  ‘She is that – last of t’Earnshaws.’

  I removed my black-framed Buddy Holly spectacles and polished them, wondering what was coming next. ‘Oh, I see,’ I said . . . but I didn’t.

  Her sturdy four-year-old daughter, Dallas Sue-Ellen, was standing beside her. It was her first day at school and she was about to enter Anne Grainger’s reception class. The little girl was wearing a Roland Rat T-shirt, a frilly multicoloured T
oyah Willcox skirt, Fame leg warmers and white pixie boots. Her hairstyle resembled the fierce bristles of a blonde lavatory brush. She was chewing a liquorice shoelace and gave me a black-toothed smile.

  ‘Y’see, Mr Sheffield, ah’d jus’ like ’er t’be a good effluence on t’others,’ said Mrs Earnshaw with gravitas, ‘’cause she’s good at ’eart.’

  ‘I’m sure she is, Mrs Earnshaw,’ I agreed, but without conviction, while picking absent-mindedly at the frayed leather patches on my herringbone sports coat.

  She looked down proudly at Dallas Sue-Ellen, who had finished her liquorice breakfast and was now picking her nose with a blackened finger.

  ‘Dallas,’ said Mrs Earnshaw firmly, ‘go out t’play in t’yard.’

  Dallas required no second invitation and hurried off.

  Mrs Earnshaw leaned against the old pine display table and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Y’see, Mr Sheffield, it’s my Eric.’ She looked quickly left and right. ‘’E’s ’ad a snip.’

  ‘A snip?’

  ‘Yes, y’know – one o’ them vivi-’ysterectomies.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I said . . . and this time I did. The penny had dropped.

  Mrs Earnshaw shook her head sadly. ‘Poor sod’s been walkin’ round like John Wayne wi’out ’is ’orse this las’ week.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ I replied with feeling.

  She looked crestfallen. ‘So no more little ’uns f’me.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got three children to be proud of,’ I said, trying to cheer her up.

  ‘Ah ’ave that, Mr Sheffield,’ she agreed. ‘Our ’Eathcliffe an’ Terry love t’big school an’ they did well ’ere learning t’read an’ write an’ suchlike. It’s jus’ that ah’m concerned ’bout our Dallas.’

  Anne Grainger, the deputy headteacher, appeared suddenly from the stockroom carrying a box of infant safety scissors and some large sheets of card. Anne, a slim brunette in her early fifties, was our longest-serving teacher at Ragley and her reception classroom was always full of colour and activity. ‘Hello, Mrs Earnshaw,’ she said brightly. ‘A big day for Dallas.’

  ‘’Ello, Mrs Grainger,’ said Mrs Earnshaw. ‘Ah were jus’ tellin’ Mr Sheffield ’ere that ah’m a bit worried.’

  The first flicker of concern crossed Anne’s face. ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Well, ’ow can ah put it?’ said Mrs Earnshaw. ‘It’s things.’

  ‘Things?’ repeated Anne. She put the card and scissors on the table. ‘What things?’

  ‘Y’know, Mrs Grainger – all them little things.’

  ‘Such as?’ asked Anne.

  Mrs Earnshaw took a deep breath. ‘Well, ah were ’oping you’d teach ’er some table manners.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Anne.

  ‘An’ she still needs ’elp goin’ to t’toilet.’

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘An’ she can’t write ’er name an’ ah’m flummoxed if ah know whether she’s left or right ’anded.’

  Anne nodded knowingly and said nothing.

  ‘An’ she won’t do as she’s told,’ continued Mrs Earnshaw, gathering momentum, ‘an’ lately she’s picked up some words, if y’get m’meaning, from ’er dad.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Anne.

  ‘An’ when she don’t get ’er own way she starts fighting . . . But ’part from that, my Eric says she’s gorra lot o’ p’tential.’

  I felt I ought to contribute, diplomatically of course, as I saw Anne’s shoulders begin to slump. ‘I’m sure she has, Mrs Earnshaw,’ I said, thinking back to my teacher-training days, ‘and it’s up to us to help her achieve that potential . . . with your help, of course.’

  Anne gave me a glassy-eyed stare. ‘That’s right, Mrs Earnshaw,’ she said, ‘as always, we’ll do our best,’ and with a weary sigh she picked up the card and scissors and headed for her classroom.

  In the school office our secretary, Vera Forbes-Kitchener, was sitting at her impeccably tidy desk having just labelled the new attendance and dinner registers, a pair for each of our four classes. When I walked in she was in conversation with Mrs Brenda Ricketts, who was clutching the hand of her four-year-old daughter.

  Vera, a tall, slim, elegant sixty-two-year-old, stood up and smoothed the creases from the skirt of her immaculate Marks & Spencer two-piece pinstriped business suit. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘I’ve prepared the registers and I’m just completing some paperwork with Mrs Ricketts. Her daughter Susan is about to commence full-time education in Class 1.’

  I smiled in acknowledgement and walked to my desk by the window. ‘Hello, Mrs Ricketts,’ I said.

  ‘G’morning, Mr Sheffield,’ she replied cheerfully.

  Meanwhile Vera sat down again and studied her neat admissions register, completed in her beautiful copperplate writing. ‘So, Mrs Ricketts, you’re William’s mother.’

  ‘Well, actu’lly, ’is proper name is Billy,’ said Mrs Ricketts.

  ‘We’ve got him down as William,’ replied Vera.

  ‘No, it’s not William . . . definitely Billy,’ repeated Mrs Ricketts with emphasis. ‘We christened ’im after m’favourite singer.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Vera, ‘and who is that?’

  ‘Billy Fury,’ said Mrs Ricketts with a faraway look in her eyes. ‘’E were allus my ’eartthrob.’

  ‘Billy Fury?’ asked Vera, who vaguely recalled the name.

  ‘Y’know . . . “’Alfway to Paradise”.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘’E ’ad that sexy voice an’ a lovely quiff.’

  ‘Did he?’

  This was followed by a few seconds of synchronized swooning before normal service was resumed. Vera deleted the name ‘William’ with white opaque correction fluid and blew on it gently to encourage speedy drying.

  ‘And this is Susan, is it?’ asked Vera, looking down at the little girl.

  ‘No, Mrs Forbes-Kitchener, it’s Suzi wi’ a “z”.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Then one o’ them ’yphens,’ added Mrs Ricketts.

  Vera was gradually losing the will to live. She put down her fountain pen. ‘A hyphen?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Suzi, then a ’yphen, then Quatro.’

  ‘Quatro?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs F.’ Vera understood that, after a while, parents tended to resort to this abbreviation. Having married the retired Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener, as recently as Christmas 1982, Vera realized her new double-barrelled name had its drawbacks in rapid conversations. ‘Y’see Suzi-Quatro is m’fav’rite female singer.’

  ‘I can’t say I know her,’ said Vera. ‘Is she from Spain?’

  ‘No, y’must ’ave ’eard “Devil Gate Drive”,’ insisted Mrs Ricketts.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Vera, wincing visibly. After all, she was also the sister of our local vicar. ‘I really don’t think I have.’

  ‘Well, anyway, it’s Suzi-Quatro Ricketts,’ said Mrs Ricketts firmly and Vera added the name to her neat register with a heavy heart amid fleeting thoughts that the eighties and young mothers were quickly leaving her behind.

  As Mrs Ricketts hurried out I looked at our ever-patient school secretary and knew I would be lost without her. ‘Well done, Vera,’ I said.

  Vera stared at her admissions register in disbelief. ‘Times are changing, Mr Sheffield.’

  ‘I think I’ll go out to the school gate and welcome the children and new parents,’ I said.

  Vera smiled. ‘Well . . . here’s to another year,’ she said and returned to her paperwork.

  I glanced up at the clock on the office wall. It was 8.30 a.m. on Monday, 3 September 1984, the first day of the autumn term, and my eighth year as headteacher of Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School in North Yorkshire had begun.

  In the entrance hall Ragley’s other two teachers were in conversation. Sally Pringle, a tall, ginger-haired, forty-three-year-old taught the eight-year-olds and the youngest nine-year-olds in Class 3. Unlike Vera, Sally had an unco
nventional dress sense, no doubt influenced by her flower-power days; today she wore baggy purple cords, a magenta blouse and a vivid mint-green waistcoat.

  ‘Hello, Jack,’ she greeted me, waving a copy of the hall timetable. ‘Just doing a deal with Tom about the use of the hall for my choir practices.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’m just going down to the school gate.’

  Next to her was Tom Dalton, appointed a year ago and our youngest teacher at twenty-five years old. He was in charge of the six- and seven-year-olds in Class 2. At five feet ten inches tall Tom was three inches shorter than my gangling frame, but he was significantly heavier, with broad, muscular shoulders and a rugby player’s physique. He wore a crumpled blue denim suit, a white shirt, his old St Peter’s School tie and slip-on Hush Puppies. His dark, shaggy hair flopped over his beetle brows and hung fashionably over his collar. According to Sally, he had ‘film-star looks’. More to the point, he was in my eyes a good teacher who was making a positive contribution to the work of our school, particularly in the field of the new computer technology.

  However, it was clear that many of our younger mothers also found him extremely attractive and there had been times when I had to warn him of the potential dangers of getting too close to parents. However, this advice counted for nothing when, earlier in the year, he had begun a brief but tempestuous relationship with an older woman. Normally this would have been none of my business, apart from the fact that the female in question happened to be my wife’s single, dynamic and stunningly attractive sister, Laura. Consequently he gave me a slightly forced smile. ‘I’ll ring the bell at nine, shall I, Jack?’ he asked.

  I gave what I hoped was an encouraging ‘water-under-the-bridge’ smile. ‘Thanks, Tom,’ I said and pushed open the ancient oak door on its giant hinges.

  As I walked across the tarmac playground, groups of children were leaning against the waist-high wall of Yorkshire stone topped with metal railings, sharing news of their summer holiday. Others, with sunburned faces, were running, skipping and bouncing tennis balls. It was a mixed lot from all walks of life. Our intake comprised the children of local farming families, others from the ever-expanding local council estate and some from the more prestigious dwellings up the Morton Road. The latter group included the sons and daughters of executives at the chocolate factory in York, one of the city’s major employers. All of them waved as I walked down the cobbled drive to the giant stone pillars that flanked the wrought-iron school gate.