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  CHANGING TIMES

  A Ragley Story 1963–64

  Jack Sheffield

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Map

  Prologue

  1 The Keeper of Secrets

  2 Painting Rainbows

  3 Days of Youth

  4 From Ragley with Love

  5 The Beatles Concert

  6 The End of the World

  7 The Single-Parent Nativity

  8 A Time to Forget

  9 The Butterfly Effect

  10 Reaping the Whirlwind

  11 Sweet Valentine

  12 A Sign of Peace

  13 The Road to Reconciliation

  14 Difficult Decisions

  15 The Initiation of Miss Nobbs

  16 New Beginnings

  17 A World Without Love

  18 Fond Farewells

  19 The Importance of Being Lily

  20 Changing Times

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Jack Sheffield grew up in the tough environment of Gipton Estate, in north-east Leeds. After a job as a ‘pitch boy’, repairing roofs, he became a Corona Pop man before going to St John’s College, York, and training to be a teacher. In the late seventies and eighties, he was a headteacher of two schools in North Yorkshire before becoming Senior Lecturer in Primary Education at Bretton Hall College of the University of Leeds. It was at this time that he began to record his many amusing stories of village life as portrayed in Teacher, Teacher!, Mister Teacher, Dear Teacher, Village Teacher, Please Sir!, Educating Jack, School’s Out!, Silent Night, Star Teacher, Happiest Days and Starting Over.

  Changing Times is his twelfth novel and continues the story of life in the fictional village of Ragley-on-the-Forest.

  In 2017 Jack was awarded the honorary title of Cultural Fellow of York St John University. He lives with his wife in Buckinghamshire.

  Visit his website at www.jacksheffield.com

  Also by Jack Sheffield

  Teacher, Teacher!

  Mister Teacher

  Dear Teacher

  Village Teacher

  Please Sir!

  Educating Jack

  School’s Out!

  Silent Night

  Star Teacher

  Happiest Days

  Starting Over

  For more information on Jack Sheffield and his books, see his website at www.jacksheffield.com

  In memory of Tricia, a very dear friend

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Penguin Random House and, in particular, my editor, Molly Crawford. It was my previous editor, Bella Bosworth, who came up with the idea of a series of prequels to the Teacher novels and Molly has continued this work with discipline and unflagging support. Sincere thanks for bringing this novel to publication, supported by the excellent team at Transworld including Larry Finlay, Bill Scott-Kerr, Jo Williamson, Hannah Bright, Brenda Updegraff, Vivien Thompson and fellow ‘Old Roundhegian’ Martin Myers.

  Special thanks as always go to my hard-working literary agent and long-time friend Philip Patterson of Marjacq Scripts for his encouragement, good humour and the regular updates on the state of England cricket.

  I am also grateful to all those who assisted in the research for this novel – in particular: Clive Barnett, Canon Emeritus of Salisbury Cathedral, HMI (retired), member of MCC, lyricist Smike the musical and Fulham FC supporter, Emsworth, Hampshire; Helen Carr, primary-school teacher and literary critic, Harrogate, Yorkshire; David Collard, business director, Francophile, agrarianist and folk musician, West Chiltington, West Sussex; Tony Greenan, Yorkshire’s finest headteacher (now retired), Huddersfield, Yorkshire; Ian Haffenden, ex-Royal Pioneer Corps and custodian of Sainsbury’s, Alton, Hampshire; John Kirby, ex-policeman, expert calligrapher and Sunderland supporter, Pity Me, County Durham; Roy Linley, Lead Architect, Strategy and Technology, Unilever Global IT Innovation (now retired) and Leeds United supporter, Leeds, Yorkshire; Susan Maddison, retired teacher, social historian and expert cake-maker, Harrogate, Yorkshire; Elke Pollock, German translator and gardening enthusiast, Medstead, Hampshire; John Roberts, retired railway civil engineer and film historian, York; Bob Rogers, Canon Emeritus of York and Liverpool supporter, Malton, North Yorkshire; Nikki Bloomer, dynamic events manager at Waterstones MK; the excellent Kirstie and the team at Waterstones, York; and all the staff at Waterstones, Alton, including the terrific manager Sam, Scottish travel expert Fiona and Simon (now sadly retired).

  Finally, sincere thanks to my wife, Elisabeth, without whose help the Teacher series of novels would never have been written.

  Prologue

  Destiny … one life.

  No one knows what the future might bring. In changing times there are always choices to be made. We each set out on our own journey not knowing how it will end. There may be a chance meeting or a turn in the road. The path we choose can be influenced by the kind thoughts of a friend or the harsh words of a rival. Or it could be a conversation we are not meant to hear … a deep secret from the past.

  So it was on an August morning in 1963 when a tall, fair-haired teenager parked his bicycle outside the General Stores & Newsagent in Ragley village High Street in North Yorkshire.

  It was the day of a meeting that changed his life for ever.

  The bell above the door jingled and a seventeen-year-old girl appeared carrying a cardboard box full of groceries. She was tall and slim with long auburn hair and her T-shirt, hanging loosely over her tight blue jeans, proclaimed ‘Peace Not War’.

  As she stepped out of the shop, her black-framed spectacles, reminiscent of Buddy Holly, slipped down her nose. She released her hold on the box with her left hand to push them back into place. In the same moment the box tipped forward and a bag of onions fell out and rolled gently down the forecourt towards the pavement. The boy swooped swiftly, gathered them up, stepped towards her and placed them back in the box.

  ‘Shall I carry that for you?’

  The girl looked up, curiosity in her hazel eyes. ‘Thanks, but my dad’s car is just across the road.’

  ‘I haven’t seen you before.’

  ‘No, we’ve just moved here. We live up the Morton road.’

  ‘So will you be going to Easington School?’ The words tumbled out.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, I’ll be in the upper sixth from next week.’

  ‘So will I,’ said the boy.

  ‘Anyway, my dad’s waving, so must go.’

  ‘My name’s Freddie … Freddie Briggs.’

  The girl answered with cool appraisal. ‘I’m Rose … Rose McConnell,’ and she set off towards her father’s Austin 1100.

  ‘Maybe I’ll see you at school then,’ added Freddie a little lamely.

  She glanced over her shoulder.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said … and smiled.

  Chapter One

  The Keeper of Secrets

  It was Tuesday, 3 September 1963 and John Pruett rang the bell to begin another year at Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School in North Yorkshire. He tied the bell rope to the metal cleat on the wall and walked to the ancient oak door that led to the playground. A kindly fifty-year-old with thinning hair, this was his eighteenth year as headteacher of the village school.

  Groups of children, sunburned following their six-week summer holiday, were playing an assortment of games. Girls were bouncing tennis balls against the wall and boys were kicking an old leather football on the field. Ten-year-old Racquel Smith was teaching nine-year-old Anita Swithenbank how to do a cat’s cradle with intricate movements of loops of string. Racquel’s brother, eight-year-old Duggie, was peering through the metal railings that topped the school wall. He was staring up at the avenue of horse chestnut trees and dreaming of
playing conkers.

  John nodded knowingly at the boundless energy of the children before him. The adventure of life stretched ahead of them and in their world of innocence they believed they would live for ever.

  He blew a whistle and shouted, ‘Line up smartly, boys and girls.’

  Seventy children ran across the tarmac playground towards the school entrance porch and stared expectantly at their three teachers, who were standing side by side on the stone steps. The children in Class 3, the nine- and ten-year-olds, knew what to do and formed a straight line in front of John.

  The deputy headteacher, Lily Feather, smiled at the children in Class 2, the seven- and eight-year-olds, who had begun to form a straggly line next to her. An attractive thirty-eight-year-old with dark brown, wavy hair, Lily loved her work and was an excellent teacher. ‘Well done, everyone,’ she said.

  John glanced across at her and, for a moment, felt a familiar ache of sadness. He had been in love with Lily ever since he had first met her, but he knew there was no hope of his feelings being returned. It was a secret that could never be revealed.

  Lily had arrived at Ragley School in 1952 and, after an eventful first year, had married Tom Feather, the local police sergeant. Tom had since progressed to the rank of inspector and they lived in the nearby village of Kirkby Steepleton. Lily was respected in Ragley and generally regarded as the school’s problem-solver. However, her personal life was another matter. She looked above the heads of the children in front of her and sighed as she reflected on her life. These last eleven years had been a time of hope and healing. She smoothed her cotton print dress, which emphasized her slim figure, and smiled at the eager faces turned towards her. Another school year beckoned.

  The Class 1 teacher was thirty-one-year-old Anne Grainger and the five- and six-year-olds gathered round her like baby chicks clamouring for attention. A tall, slim brunette, Anne had married local woodcarver John Grainger. After ten years of matrimony the early excitement had faded. His regular comment that they had never been blessed with children had become tiresome. As far as Anne was concerned, she had found contentment in her work and with the children in her care. With a gentle smile, she held the hands of the two youngest children and led the way up the entrance steps and into school.

  The academic year 1963/64 had begun.

  In the office the school secretary, Vera Evans, was sitting at her tidy desk and typing a letter on her Imperial typewriter. Late-summer sunshine slanted in through the high arched windows and she paused to watch the children hurrying into school. A tall, elegant forty-one-year-old, she felt that time had passed her by, as over the years the office clock with its faded Roman numerals had measured the heartbeats of her life.

  When Vera wasn’t in school her days were filled with the local church, the Women’s Institute and the twice weekly cross-stitch club in the village hall. She lived in the vicarage in the grounds of St Mary’s Church with her younger brother, the Revd Joseph Evans, a rather nervous but well-meaning man who relied entirely on his sister. So Vera had decided long ago that she would never marry and there would be no children. Her organized life provided sufficient contentment and she was committed to helping others who were less fortunate than herself.

  In fact, one of them was about to knock on her door.

  ‘Come in,’ murmured Vera, looking up from her typing.

  Thirty-year-old Ruby Smith put down her mop and enamel bucket in the entrance hall and walked into the office. Her ample figure filled her brown overall and wavy chestnut hair framed her rosy cheeks.

  ‘Scuse me, Miss Evans.’

  Vera didn’t like to be disturbed, but she always had sympathy for the school’s hard-working assistant caretaker. ‘Yes, what is it, Ruby?’

  Ruby sighed deeply. ‘Ah don’t know if ah’m comin’ or goin’.’

  ‘And why is that?’ asked Vera evenly.

  ‘Well, Mrs Ollerenshaw’s ’avin’ a tea party that’s jus’ f’girls.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘An’ she’s invited my Racquel.’

  ‘That sounds like a lovely idea.’

  ‘But ’er daughter, Janet, ’as got measles – or so Mr Grinchley in t’chemist shop ’as been sayin’.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Vera, who was aware of every child’s illness in the school, as was Herbert Grinchley, village pharmacist and renowned purveyor of local gossip.

  ‘But there’s no rhyme nor reason to it,’ continued Ruby. ‘It doesn’t mek no sense.’

  As always Vera ignored the double negative. ‘It’s because Mrs Ollerenshaw believes it could be helpful for girls to catch rubella – or German measles as we know it – and particularly while they are young.’

  Ruby looked puzzled. ‘An’ why is that?’

  ‘Because rubella can affect unborn babies in the womb if contracted during pregnancy.’

  Ruby looked aghast. ‘Oh ’eck. Thank you, Miss Evans, ah didn’t know that … an’ me wi’ three daughters.’

  ‘Well, we can all learn something new,’ said Vera as she returned to her typing.

  Ruby paused in the doorway before leaving. ‘But not you, Miss Evans, ’cause my mother sez you know ever’thin’,’ and she hurried out.

  Vera stared at the closed door. No … not everything, she thought.

  It was clear to her that something was troubling Ragley’s deputy headteacher. Lily had been her friend for many years, but on occasions there were awkward silences. Vera was determined to discover what it might be. After all, it was her Christian duty.

  But that would keep for another day. There was work to do, and she swept the carriage return once more and returned to the satisfying ker-ching of her typewriter.

  At 10.30 the bell rang for morning playtime and Lily was on playground duty. She collected her cup of tea from Vera, opened the entrance door and stepped out under the archway of Yorkshire stone. Above her head the date 1878 had been carved in the lintel. She headed for the welcome shade of the horse chestnut trees that bordered the school wall, which was topped with high wrought-iron railings decorated with fleurs-de-lis. Around her, children were playing in the September sunshine.

  She sipped her tea and watched Anita Swithenbank and Racquel Smith winding a long skipping rope while Susan Derwood skipped lightly in and out. Together they chanted:

  Rosy apple, lemon, pear,

  Bunch of roses she shall wear,

  Gold and silver by her side,

  I know who will be her bride.

  Lily smiled as she remembered the familiar skipping rhymes that had echoed around Ragley School over the years.

  There was a reassuring rhythm to the seasons in her life as a village schoolteacher. She enjoyed the autumn term with its Harvest Festival, the village bonfire and the anticipation of Christmas. The spring term heralded cold weather and children playing in the snow, followed by spring flowers and the celebration of Easter. With the summer term came the warmer days, maypole dancing, school visits and sports days. As she walked down the cobbled drive she breathed in the clear Yorkshire air and leaned on the school gate, knowing she had found contentment in her work. It was a job she loved and she smiled as she took in the scene around her.

  On the village green she saw sixty-six-year-old Doris Clutterbuck sitting on the bench under the weeping willow tree and feeding the ducks on the pond. She often sat there these days since she had sold her Tea Rooms to local entrepreneur Aloysius Pratt. To Doris’s surprise, his daughter, Nora, had transformed it into a thriving and popular Coffee Shop.

  Coffee … thought Doris. Those Americans have a lot to answer for.

  Next to the green, in the centre of a row of cottages with pantile roofs and tall, rickety chimney pots, stood the white-fronted public house, The Royal Oak. The twenty-five-year-old barmaid, Sheila Bradshaw, appeared in a new skimpy dress to wipe the wooden tables on the forecourt and she gave Lily a friendly wave. When she tottered back inside on her high heels, Doris gave a frown and wondered why standards of dress were slipp
ing.

  On the other side of the village green, at the top of the High Street, Lily caught sight of twenty-eight-year-old Felicity Miles-Humphreys, the voluble producer of the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society. She was dashing out of the Post Office clutching the hand of her frail three-year-old son, Rupert, and hurrying up the Morton road to watch Andy Pandy, their favourite television programme. Meanwhile, around her, the villagers were getting on with their daily lives.

  Lily sighed and reflected on this quiet corner of North Yorkshire where she had carved out her new life. For many years she had been the keeper of secrets and the time was coming when all must be revealed. Ten school years had passed since she had arrived and the world around her had changed.

  For this was 1963. A new teenage generation had emerged who were free from conscription and wanted to express their individuality. They were playing Cliff Richard records on their Dansette record players and marching from the Atomic Weapons Research Establishment at Aldermaston in Berkshire to London to ‘Ban the Bomb’.

  In the newspapers, Mandy Rice-Davies had shocked the nation with her part in the Profumo scandal and the police were searching for Ronald Biggs following the Great Train Robbery that August. Martin Luther King had delivered his ‘I have a dream’ speech and Kim Philby had been named as the ‘Third Man’ in the Burgess and Maclean spy ring. Meanwhile, doctors were prescribing the new Sabin polio vaccine to be taken with a lump of sugar.

  It was an age of dramatic change, but in the quiet village of Ragley-on-the-Forest the talk was of the forthcoming Harvest Festival, the advantages of rotary clothes-dryers and why the barmaid, Sheila Bradshaw, had started wearing short skirts.

  During lunch break in the staff-room Vera was boiling a kettle of water on the single electric ring when John Pruett walked in.

  ‘Tea, Mr Pruett?’ she asked. She had always believed it was right and proper to address the headteacher in this way.