08 Silent Night Read online

  ‘What about the little girl, the soloist?’ asked Beth.

  ‘You’ll see for yourself,’ I said. ‘She’s very special.’

  ‘I’m really looking forward to the programme,’ she said.

  ‘So am I,’ I replied.

  But of course I didn’t know then the impact it would have on the lives of others.

  One mile away, the bright moon illuminated the hamlet of Cold Kirkby with sharp white light. A barn owl flew over the silent cottages and the high elms creaked ominously in the gusting wind.

  Rosie Sparrow was in her bed and Maggie was stroking her daughter’s hair, caressing elusive sleep.

  ‘Who were you talking to on the phone?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘Your daddy,’ said Maggie.

  There was a pause. ‘Did you love him?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘Yes I did,’ said Maggie softly.

  ‘And do you still?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just do.’

  ‘And is he coming back?’

  ‘I don’t know, darling.’

  ‘Why did he go away?’

  ‘Sometimes some things are too big to understand, but I think he was looking for something.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Himself,’ Maggie murmured to herself.

  A few minutes later Rosie Sparrow at last fell into an exhausted sleep after the excitement of the day. Maggie tiptoed to the bedroom door and turned out the light.

  She looked for a long time at her sleeping child.

  Finally, as she closed the door she smiled and whispered, ‘Goodnight and God bless . . . my little sparrow.’

  Chapter Eight

  Do They Know It’s Christmas?

  School closed today for the Christmas holiday and will reopen on Thursday, 3 January 1985.

  This evening children and parents have been invited by the PTA to come into the school hall to watch the live television broadcast of Christmas Voices. The programme features the Ragley School choir.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 21 December 1984

  Overnight snow had covered the vast plain of York and left behind a morning of silence and light. It was Friday, 21 December, the dawn of a new white world, and the last day of the autumn term beckoned.

  When I walked into the school office Vera was adding a manila folder to our large metal four-drawer filing cabinet. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Mrs Phillips has been in and confirmed the arrangements for the television broadcast this evening. The PTA will come in at six to set out the chairs round the back of the hall, then put benches in front for the top two classes and, finally, the little ones can sit on the floor at the front. She asked if you would wheel out the television set at 6.15 p.m. and tune it in.’

  ‘Thanks, Vera, I’m looking forward to it,’ I said.

  Vera glanced down at her pad. ‘And Mrs Mapplebeck has offered to serve tea and mince pies afterwards.’

  ‘Excellent,’ I said and hurried off to help Joseph prepare his assembly.

  Morning assembly was a bigger event than usual, with readings and carols. Sally’s choir sang:

  Baby Jesus sleeping softly

  On the warm and fragrant hay

  Children all the wide world over

  Think of you on Christmas Day.

  Then Joseph told the story of the Nativity and, after a final prayer, the children filed out for morning break. A group of them approached our friendly vicar in the entrance hall. ‘That were a good story, Mr Evans,’ said Charlie Cartwright, ’speshully them wise men – but ah were jus’ thinkin’ . . .’

  ‘What about?’ asked Joseph. He was pleased that his talk had promoted interest in the birth of Jesus.

  ‘Well,’ said Charlie, ‘were there any wise women?’

  Joseph paused, perplexed for a moment.

  ‘They’d ’ave prob’ly brought some nappies,’ contributed Rosie Spittlehouse helpfully.

  ‘An’ a flask o’ tea,’ suggested Ted Coggins.

  ‘An’ a nice slice o’ cake,’ added Katie Icklethwaite for good measure.

  As the conversation gathered momentum, Joseph sidled out for his welcome cup of coffee.

  When the bell went for the end of morning break Vera put down the Christmas edition of Good Housekeeping and began the washing-up. As always, she washed the glasses first, then the mugs and finally the saucepan in which she had heated the milk. In Vera’s world even the contents of the kitchen sink had a pecking order.

  However, the tea towels had been taken away by Ruby to be washed. Only a Princess Diana tea towel remained and Vera shook her head in dismay. She held it up and looked lovingly at the image of the young princess. For Vera it would have been unthinkable to use it to dry pots and subject the face of royalty to such indignity. She hurried into the kitchen to borrow a spare one.

  As the morning progressed I called into Tom’s class. The children were writing Christmas poems and prayers and Tom was going from one table to another to help with spellings.

  He grinned at me. ‘You’ll love these, Jack,’ he whispered and I peered over the heads of the children at their neat printing.

  Seven-year-old Siobhan Sharp had taken her Christmas prayer very seriously. ‘Please God,’ she wrote, ‘don’t make me have any sprouts this Christmas.’

  Meanwhile the children who were writing Christmas poems were sucking the ends of their pencils in complete concentration. Scott Higginbottom had shown compassion for Santa with four lines written from the heart:

  Santa comes every year

  He always brings his sack

  It must be very heavy

  I bet it hurts his back.

  Charlie Cartwright was rather more specific:

  I sent a letter to Santa

  I asked him for a bike

  I hope it is a red one

  Cos green I do not like.

  Whereas Rosie Spittlehouse used the opportunity to reveal her opinion of boys:

  Santa comes every year

  To leave us presents and toys

  I hope he leaves some for me

  And none to all the boys.

  It was a busy day and when it drew to an end the children were excited as they pulled on their coats, with thoughts of Christmas stockings, parties and playing in the snow.

  Anne was saying goodbye to the children in her class. ‘And I’ll see some of you at the carol service,’ she said.

  ‘Who’s Carol?’ asked Madonna Fazackerly and Anne sighed. As an experienced teacher, she supposed she should have known better.

  In the cloakroom area Anne was aware of Dallas Sue-Ellen Earnshaw staring at her. Dallas tugged the sleeve of her friend, Suzi-Quatro Ricketts. ‘What does Mrs Grainger do in the ’olidays?’ she asked.

  ‘I know,’ said Suzi-Quatro confidently. ‘She stays ’ere ’til we come back.’

  Anne smiled. It was good to know one’s place in the world.

  Meanwhile, in my class, I was aware that presents had certainly changed since I was a boy. My pupils were discussing the imminent arrival of Atari Space Invaders in their pillowcases on Christmas Day.

  By 6.20 p.m. the school hall was full of children, parents and grandparents and I had wheeled our giant television set to the front. There was an air of anticipation as we waited for the programme to begin.

  Ruby’s daughter, Natasha Smith, was our regular babysitter now, so Beth had been able to come in with me. It was always reassuring to see John look relaxed and happy when Natasha arrived and then play contentedly with her. She had her mother’s smile and clearly loved children.

  Beth looked fashionable in a velvet skirt and a plain blouse with baggy sleeves and padded shoulders. However, the pièce de résistance was an elegant sleeveless bolero. Her hair was longer now, just how I liked it. She looked sensational. She was sitting in the back row talking to Sally Pringle and Sarah Mancini but, to my surprise, they had been joined by Miss Barrington-Huntley, the chair of the Education C
ommittee at County Hall in Northallerton. This powerful, straight-talking lady had always appeared to admire Beth’s professionalism and was keen to offer advice whenever the opportunity arose.

  They were in animated conversation when I stood up to thank Sue Phillips and the PTA for organizing the event. Then I turned up the volume control, Tom turned down the lights and quiet descended as we all watched the flickering screen.

  In the Fforde Grene public house in north-east Leeds, Rosie Sparrow’s father, Mark Appleby, ordered a pint of John Smith’s Best Bitter after repairing his last gas boiler of the week. He stared up at the blank television screen above the bar.

  ‘Ah’m s’pposed t’be watchin’ a local news programme,’ he said to Doris, the barmaid. ‘My ex said ah’d be interested.’

  ‘What’s on then?’ asked Doris as she pulled a frothing pint.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Mark, glancing up at the clock. ‘She said it were on ITV at half past six.’

  ‘Ah’ll turn it on.’ She looked at the other men propping up the bar. ‘Jus’ quiet though.’

  The Fforde Grene had become Mark’s favourite place on a Friday night after work. He had paid his £2 admission to listen to live bands such as the Groundhogs and Dr Feelgood while he played snooker in the back room. There was company here and music . . . and an opportunity to forget what might have been.

  Mark supped his pint and stared at the screen. Suddenly, a smart Italian-looking woman was introducing the Ragley School choir. He put down his drink. ‘Can y’turn it up, please?’ he asked.

  The camera panned in to the centre of the front row where a little girl was singing a solo. ‘Turn it up, Doris,’ shouted one of the drinkers at the bar. ‘It’s nice to ’ear little ’uns singin’ at Christmas.’

  Doris turned up the volume knob. When Rosie had finished singing ‘Silent Night’, Doris turned to Mark. ‘That lass ’as a lovely voice.’

  Mark smiled knowingly. ‘She should ’ave,’ he said as he put down his glass on the bar. ‘She teks after ’er dad,’ and he picked up his coat and walked out.

  It was the first time Doris could remember Mark leaving a half-filled glass.

  ‘Congratulations, Jack – an absolute triumph,’ said Miss Barrington-Huntley as she sipped a cup of tea. ‘And wasn’t the little soloist a delight?’

  ‘That’s kind of you to say, Miss Barrington-Huntley,’ I said, ‘but it’s all down to the hard work of Mrs Pringle, our music teacher, and Miss Mancini for setting it all up.’

  ‘Of course. I must speak to them and express my appreciation.’ She looked over my shoulder. ‘And I must have a word with Beth before I leave.’ Then she bustled off in that busy style of hers.

  Half an hour later the crowds had dispersed and Anne and I did our familiar locking-up routine of windows and doors. Then we dropped her off at her home on The Crescent.

  ‘See you at the Crib Service on Sunday,’ said Anne with a wave.

  As we drove off I noticed that Beth was strangely quiet when we turned on to the back road to Kirkby Steepleton.

  ‘What did Miss High-and-Mighty have to say?’ I asked.

  ‘She was very encouraging as always, Jack,’ said Beth quietly.

  ‘We’re lucky to have her in North Yorkshire and she’s always been fond of you.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Beth. ‘She suggested I ought to consider a bigger headship at some time.’

  ‘I see . . . Well, why don’t you?’

  Beth seemed surprised. ‘But I thought we were concentrating on you going for a larger school, not me.’

  ‘Beth . . . you know how happy I am at Ragley School. I’m a teacher, not a manager. It’s a much better idea for you to progress your career, not me. Then we’ll both be fulfilled.’

  Beth pondered this for a moment, and smiled.

  Eventually the lights of Bilbo Cottage beckoned.

  ‘Well . . . it’s worth thinking about, Jack.’

  Late on Saturday afternoon all roads led to the Easington Christmas Market and, like most of the local villagers, I set off in search of a Yuletide bargain. As I drove up Ragley High Street Ben Roberts gave me a wave. He was on his Raleigh BMX Burner, practising a few new stunt tricks on an icy patch outside Timothy Pratt’s Hardware Emporium.

  When I parked in one of the side roads, our local market town was lit up brightly, with stalls set up around the edge of the large cobbled square. Coloured lights on a tall Christmas tree shone brightly and the number-one Christmas record, Band Aid’s ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’ was blasting out on the tannoy system, with the shoppers singing along. Bob Geldof, the Boomtown Rats’ singer, and Midge Ure of Ultravox had decided to enlist the help of friends in the music fraternity to raise money for the starving people of Ethiopia and so Band Aid had been formed. It had proved an inspirational idea that had captured the imagination of the nation.

  I bought a bag of roasted chestnuts and leaned against the picket fence that surrounded Santa’s grotto, which was in fact a large wooden shed covered in polystyrene snow. Outside, the six members of the Ragley Handbell Society were playing ‘All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth’ slightly out of tune. This was partly because they hadn’t practised and also because the chromatic order was severely impaired as the leader of the group had sprained his wrist on the one-arm-bandit fruit machines in Scarborough.

  Once again Gabriel Book had volunteered to be Santa and had donned his red suit, big black boots and cotton-wool beard. The grotto was a charitable contribution from the local Rotary Club and the president had, as usual, persuaded his two unwilling daughters to act as Santa’s little helpers. Predictably, Good Fairy and Busy Elf did not live up to their names. Good Fairy had gone outside for a smoke and Busy Elf had replaced the bright-red twenty-watt bulb on Rudolph’s nose with a clear sixty-watt bulb so that she could read her Smash Hits magazine.

  Mrs Brenda Ricketts came in with her son, six-year-old Billy.

  ‘Ho, ho, ho,’ said Santa. Gabriel was proud of his ‘Ho-ho-ho’.

  ‘’Ello, Santa,’ said Billy cheerily. ‘D’you remember me?’

  ‘Santa remembers all good girls and boys,’ said Gabriel cautiously.

  ‘Ah’m one o’ t’good ’uns, Santa,’ replied Billy confidently. ‘An’ ah’m six now, Santa – ah’ve jus’ ’ad m’birthday.’

  ‘That’s lovely,’ said Santa. ‘And what would you like for Christmas this year?’

  ‘Same as las’ year, please.’

  ‘Oh, and what was that?’

  ‘Don’t y’remember, Santa? It were a rat.’

  ‘A rat!’ exclaimed Santa.

  ‘It were Roland Rat, Santa,’ explained Mrs Ricketts. ‘’Im off t’telly.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Santa dubiously. ‘Well, I’ll look in my toy cupboard at the North Pole.’

  ‘Or in m’mam’s catalogue,’ suggested Billy helpfully, getting off Santa’s knee and walking over to get his gift from Good Fairy, who had just stubbed out her cigarette on Santa’s sleigh.

  ‘By the way,’ asked Santa, ‘what happened to the rat I gave you last year?’

  ‘Jimmy Poole’s dog ripped ’is ’ead off, Santa,’ said Billy sadly.

  Next in the queue was nine-year-old Sonia Tricklebank with her five-year-old sister Julie.

  ‘So what y’gonna ask Santa for?’ asked Sonia.

  Julie looked up at her big sister. ‘Ah’m gonna ask for a kitten.’

  Sonia considered this as they walked in. ‘Well, start by askin’ for a pony . . . an’ work y’way down.’

  Julie didn’t like being told what to do and by the time she peered up at Santa an argument had begun.

  ‘Sorry, Santa,’ said Sonia. ‘M’mam’ll be ’ere in a minute.’ She frowned at her sister. ‘An’ our Julie won’t do as she’s told.’

  ‘Now, now,’ said Santa. ‘Remember, Santa’s elves are watching.’

  Sonia sighed deeply and looked around suspiciously. ‘Well . . . ’ow about ah tell ’er off be’ind t�
��curtain?’

  And so it went on. His last customer was Rufus Snodgrass, who asked for a Hasbro Transforming Robot. As they left Gabriel muttered to himself, with a hint of sadness, ‘So we’ve moved on from Meccano.’ He still had vivid memories of making a working crane from a box of Meccano 2B. As he took off his boots and wiggled his toes in his extra-thick socks he pictured a warm fire, a cup of tea and a slice of Christmas cake accompanied by a generous chunk of Wensleydale cheese. The world is changing, he thought, but some little pleasures remain.

  I walked over to a nearby stall and joined the crowd behind Ragley’s binmen, Big Dave and Little Malcolm. A swarthy character was selling a variety of merchandise at knock-down prices.

  ‘Ladies,’ he shouted, ‘in them posh shops in Hoxford Street down in London this state-of-the-art alarm clock would knock y’back fourteen poun’ ninety-nine.’ He held up a battered-looking box with the label Braun Voice-Controlled Alarm Clock. ‘This is a wonder of t’modern age. Y’don’t ’ave t’shout at yer ’usbands in t’morning, ladies. Y’can shout at this little beauty instead. It beeps until y’tell it t’shut up an’ it does as it’s told.’ I could sense the interest. ‘So gather roun’, ’cause ’ere t’day, ’speshully f’you, ah’m not askin’ ten poun’ . . . in fac’ ah’m not askin’ seven.’ You could almost hear the drum roll: the big sell had arrived. ‘Ah’m almost givin’ ’em away . . . So . . . who’ll be first t’give me a fiver?’

  Betty Buttle pulled a five-pound note from her purse and held it up in triumph. ‘Ah’ll ’ave one,’ she shouted. He cleared his stock in seconds and then held up a Swatch watch. ‘Now then . . . ’ave a look at this little beauty. It’s shock-resistant, y’can swim underwater wi’ it an’ it tells t’time in fifteen different countries.’

  ‘’Cept not in this one,’ shouted Big Dave.

  ‘C’mon, Dave – y’know a bargain when y’see one,’ the stallholder said.

  ‘D’you know ’im, Dave?’ whispered Little Malcolm.

  ‘It’s Fast Eddie.’

  ‘Fast Eddie?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Big Dave. ‘Eddie Ormonroyd from Scarborough. ’E buys and sells owt ’e can lay his hands on an’ ’e’s allus too quick for t’police.’