08 Silent Night Page 3

  ‘She’s over there with the frilly skirt,’ said Hermione.

  ‘Yes, and she says it’s a bloody pain to iron,’ said Honeysuckle with feeling.

  Pippa’s flushed face turned to deathly white.

  Hermione spotted Ruby the caretaker by the boiler-house doors. ‘Oh and that’s the caretaker, Mummy.’

  ‘Her daughter has started wearing a bra,’ said Honeysuckle.

  Pippa took a deep breath. ‘Come with me, girls,’ she said and turned to walk back up the drive towards the school entrance.

  It took a good half an hour for a distinctly concerned Mrs Jackson to be satisfied that Ragley School was not a house of ill repute. Anne and Vera provided much-needed support and eventually she left with reassurances that tomorrow, hopefully, would be different.

  Finally we stood by the office window and looked out.

  ‘There’s Dallas playing on the village green,’ observed Anne.

  ‘With not a care in the world,’ said Vera.

  ‘She’s the last Earnshaw,’ I added quietly.

  ‘Thank God,’ said Vera.

  ‘And so say all of us,’ replied Anne with feeling.

  Chapter Two

  Flowers Make Friends

  The Revd Joseph Evans recommenced his weekly RE lesson. Miss Thyck visited school to seek support for the Harvest Festival at St Mary’s Church on Sunday, 23 September. The headteacher forwarded the school’s response to County Hall’s discussion document ‘A Common Curriculum for North Yorkshire Schools’.

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

  Vera shuffled in her seat. She loved flower arranging, but this was the limit.

  Shafts of early-evening sunlight flickered through the windows of the Ragley village hall as Miss Gardenia Rose Thyck, retired president of the North Yorkshire Federation of the Women’s Institute and daughter of the celebrated gardener Samuel Thyck, droned on.

  It was Thursday, 20 September, and the annual Harvest Festival at St Mary’s Church was fast approaching. However, this year was destined to be different. It would include a Flower Festival with the Thyck Trophy to be awarded for the best arrangement – to be presented, of course, by Miss Thyck herself.

  In her sixties, Miss Thyck was a short, portly woman in thick stockings, sturdy black shoes and a two-piece tweed suit with a check so loud it was almost deafening. ‘Ladies,’ she said in a high-pitched voice, ‘as we are aware, flower arranging is the most spiritually satisfying of the creative arts. It provides the opportunity for a gathering of sensitive souls within the happy sisterhood of the Women’s Institute.’

  With her best Mother Teresa smile, she surveyed benignly the ladies of the Ragley & Morton Women’s Institute. ‘Do remember, we must not simply share our blooms and foliage but also our knowledge and appreciation in a spirit of love and kindness.’ Her shrill voice was rising to a crescendo. ‘For we are a sisterhood of sunshine, spreading light in a dark world. So go forth and make your dreams come true, because, ladies, as it says in my bestselling book The Thyck Guide to Flower Arranging . . . flowers make friends.’

  Vera Forbes-Kitchener, as secretary of the Ragley Flower Committee, gave a brief vote of thanks and concluded with a rallying call: ‘So good luck, everybody. Make sure your displays are in church by Saturday and, if you require any advice, please ask the committee.’

  Hesitant applause followed except from the back row, where Deirdre Coe, a large lady with a double chin and a florid face, muttered, ‘Stuff that for a bag o’ monkeys.’ She had her own ideas and they didn’t include sharing and sisterhood.

  There was much excited chatter as the groups of ladies dispersed to discuss their ideas for the forthcoming flower extravaganza. On her way out, Vera was aware that Deidre Coe was being particularly vociferous.

  ‘What is it, Deirdre?’ she asked. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Ah don’t need no lessons in flower arrangin’ from no toffee-nosed secret’y,’ sneered Deirdre in her own inimitable ungrammatical style.

  For an instant Vera’s eyes flashed fire. She had spotted the surfeit of negatives in the sentence but chose to refrain from considering it worthy of a reply. The more refined ladies gave a gasp of surprise, whereas Deirdre’s little band of supporters grinned widely. Vera turned and walked away, satisfied in the knowledge that Judgement Day cometh.

  On Friday morning the Harvest Festival was not uppermost in my mind when I arrived in the school car park to see a huge Mercedes-Benz 200 filling the space reserved for my Morris Minor Traveller.

  However, my frown soon disappeared when seven-year-old Charlie Cartwright tugged my sleeve on the school entrance steps. ‘’Scuse me, Mr Sheffield,’ he said politely.

  I crouched down. ‘Good morning, Charlie,’ I said.

  ‘Ah’m worried,’ he confided forlornly.

  ‘Why is that?’ I asked.

  ‘’Itler’s got ’iccups, Mr Sheffield.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  He looked upset. ‘Would y’like t’listen?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I said. The thing about being a teacher is that very little surprises you. Charlie was clutching a shoe box and the lid was perforated with holes. Tom Dalton was doing a ‘Pets’ topic with Class 2 and the children in his class had been invited to bring in their small pets. Consequently, a motley collection of rats, mice, gerbils, budgerigars, rabbits and a noisy parrot were destined to appear that morning.

  The ailments of hamsters had never been part of my training, but I crouched down and stared at the box. ‘Is Hitler in there?’

  Charlie nodded and lifted the lid. A hamster with a red-brown coat looked up at me with big soulful eyes. His white face and the black markings under his shiny nose gave him an uncanny resemblance to the German Führer. On cue, Hitler trembled slightly and made a noise like a squeaky toy.

  ‘They’re y’are, Mr Sheffield,’ said Charlie. ‘’E jus’ won’t stop.’

  ‘I’ll tell Mr Dalton,’ I promised reassuringly, ‘and we’ll see what we can do.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ he said, replacing the lid and going to show the hiccupping hamster to his friends on the playground. A melee of excited children soon gathered round. After all, a furry rodent with an unfortunate problem was definitely more interesting than chanting skipping rhymes or playing hopscotch.

  When I walked into the school office, Vera looked agitated.

  ‘This needs to be returned to County Hall today, Mr Sheffield.’ She held up a bulky questionnaire entitled ‘A Common Curriculum for North Yorkshire Schools’. The emphasis on today was noted. Suddenly the telephone rang. ‘Oh yes . . . and we have an important visitor,’ added Vera hurriedly, ‘about the Flower Festival.’ As she picked up the receiver she tore off a page from her spiral notepad, passed it to me and pointed towards the staff-room.

  ‘Thanks, Vera,’ I said, and I hurried through the connecting passageway from the office to our cosy little staffroom.

  ‘Good morning, Miss, er, Thick,’ I said, glancing down at the name on the paper.

  She frowned. ‘It’s not Thick, it’s Thyck . . . rhymes with bike.’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I apologized.

  ‘Granted,’ she said abruptly. ‘Now, Mr Sheffield, I’ve spoken to Mrs Forbes-Kitchener and she assures me your children will be supporting the Flower Festival in church on Sunday.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I confirmed.

  Fortunately Vera came to the rescue at that moment. ‘Excellent news, Gardenia,’ she said.

  ‘What’s that, Vera?’ asked Miss Thyck.

  I gathered they were old friends.

  ‘As you can imagine, the children are very enthusiastic and that last call was to say that the Cubs and Brownies will be making miniature gardens.’

  ‘Oh, jolly good show!’ said Miss Thyck. She gave me a hard stare. ‘It is so important for children to experience the creative arts.’ Then she stared out of the window, a far-off look in her eyes. ‘Do you know, Mr Sheffield, I once had
tea on a glorious autumn day in 1964 with Dame Sybil Thorndike.’ She paused to let the significance sink in. ‘We had a delightful discussion on the fine art of grinding powder paint with a mortar and pestle.’

  ‘Really? That’s wonderful,’ I said, reflecting a little guiltily upon the boxes of ready-mixed poster colours in large plastic bottles in our stock cupboard.

  ‘It should be an integral part of a child’s education,’ she continued in a voice of authority. ‘In fact, I was only recently speaking of this to Mrs Finch-Larkins – of the Surrey Finch-Larkins, of course – and she agreed with me.’

  ‘I see,’ I said a little lamely.

  I looked out of the window. In the far distance dark clouds were gathering over the Hambleton hills. ‘Well, let’s hope the weather forecast is wrong and it doesn’t rain,’ I said.

  ‘Rain – rain!’ she exclaimed. ‘Don’t even speak of it. Think positive. As I said to my dear friend Ms Beatrice Buttcock – author, of course, of The Woman’s Guide to Candles – have faith: the day of the candle is returning.’

  Her instant monologues had a remorseless quality to them. With each lengthy utterance I felt like a tent peg being beaten repeatedly into the ground.

  ‘Well, lots to do,’ she said, ‘and I’ll see you both on Sunday.’ With that she shook my hand vigorously, made her exit and roared off down the drive while Vera and I watched from the staff-room window with some relief.

  ‘Ah good,’ said Vera as a little white Austin A40 pulled into the car park. ‘My brother is here.’

  Our local vicar and chair of governors, the Revd Joseph Evans, a tall, thin figure with a clerical collar and a sharp Roman nose, had arrived to commence his weekly religious education programme. Joseph lived alone in the vicarage next to St Mary’s Church on the Morton Road. He was a lovely, gentle soul who delivered wonderful sermons to his congregation but struggled when he entered the secret garden of primary-school children with their unique style of questioning. When he walked in, his elder sister sought immediately to reassure him. ‘It will be fine, Joseph,’ she said with an encouraging smile. ‘All will be well.’

  ‘Thank you, Vera,’ he replied without sounding convinced. ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Come on now: “A merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance”,’ recited Vera.

  ‘Proverbs, chapter fifteen, verse thirteen,’ responded Joseph with a sigh and a wan smile. He squeezed Vera’s hand and trudged off to Class 3 and his first Bible studies session of the new academic year.

  By the end of the lesson Joseph was beginning to feel he would escape unscathed. However, the children in Class 3 were full of questions after his story of the Creation.

  ‘Mr Evans, who was t’first baby?’ asked an insistent Jemima Poole.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ said Joseph evasively.

  ‘’Cause it would ’ave to ’ave ’ad a mummy.’

  The wonder of children’s logic was lost as, at that moment, the bell rang for morning break and Joseph collected up the children’s drawings and writing and trudged out. As they walked out of the classroom, eight-year-old Hayley Spraggon tried to cheer him up. ‘Don’t you worry, Mr Evans,’ she said. ‘When ah grow up ah’ll be rich an’ ah’ll give you some money.’

  ‘That’s very kind, Hayley,’ said Joseph with a beatific smile and the reassuring thought that not all of his words of wisdom had fallen on stony ground. However, his curiosity was aroused. ‘And why is that?’

  ‘’Cause my dad says you’re t’poorest vicar we’ve ’ad.’

  So it was that another little dent in Joseph’s spiritual armour further eroded his confidence and he welcomed the mug of sweet, milky coffee provided by Vera.

  Soon we were all gathered in the staff-room except for Tom, who was on playground duty.

  ‘How did it go, Joseph?’ asked Sally.

  ‘Er, you have a lively class full of enquiring minds,’ he said cautiously.

  Sally grinned and the rest of us breathed a sigh of relief. Joseph had survived.

  ‘Don’t worry, Joseph,’ said Vera, ‘the Harvest Festival is always a triumph.’

  ‘And the church will look especially beautiful this year with all the flowers,’ added Anne by way of encouragement.

  ‘And tomorrow will be a busy day,’ continued Vera.

  Anne nodded. ‘Well, we shall all be there to support,’ she said.

  ‘Though I wouldn’t say that flower arranging is exactly Jack and Tom’s forte,’ added Sally.

  ‘I recall we’re setting up some stage blocks at the back of the church to display the children’s miniature gardens,’ I said a little defensively.

  ‘Well, bless you all,’ said Joseph, and with a sigh of relief he walked out to the car park and drove off.

  At the school gate he waved to Ruby the caretaker, who had arrived to put out the dining tables and chairs in the school hall for our daily reading workshop. It was always well supported by parents and grandparents, who came in to listen to children read and assist with our programme for reading development. Any words with which they had difficulty were written in their ‘New Words’ notebook and shown to their teacher on returning to class.

  By eleven o’clock it was under way and seven-year-old Katie Icklethwaite was sitting next to her grandfather and reading from her Ginn Reading 360 book. Suddenly she broke off and stared thoughtfully up at the kindly face. ‘How old are you, Grandad?’ she asked.

  He smiled benignly. ‘I’m sixty-six,’ he said.

  Katie’s eyes widened in astonishment. ‘Flippin’ ’eck, Grandad – did y’start at one?’

  Grandad Icklethwaite, undeterred, pointed to the next line of the reading book.

  The conversation on the next table was even more revealing. Eight-year-old Jemima Poole was reading her story book, entitled Our House, to her mother. The little girl stared at the picture of the bedroom. ‘Mummy,’ said Jemima with a troubled expression. ‘What’s it called when two people sleep in t’same room an’ . . .’ She struggled to complete the sentence. ‘An’ one sleeps on t’top of t’other?’

  There was an intake of breath from Mrs Poole. She had known this day would arrive, but not as soon as this. However, she quickly gathered her liberated self and decided to tell it how it was. After all, it had said in the article entitled ‘The Family of the Eighties’ in her Woman’s Realm that it was important always to be frank and honest with your children ‘Well, Jemima, it’s like this . . .’ She looked furtively at the nearby tables, took a deep breath and lowered her voice. ‘It’s called . . . sexual relations.’

  Jemima looked up, a puzzled expression on her freckled face. ‘Axshully, Mummy . . . ah’m not so sure, ’cause ah think Miss said it were called bunk beds.’

  ‘Er, yes,’ said Mrs Poole, her cheeks now a bright red. ‘Mrs Pringle is quite correct. Do you know how to spell it?’

  Jemima nodded, gripped her pencil tighter and printed out the words ‘bunk beds’ in her notebook, secretly wishing her mother would pay more attention.

  At lunchtime our school cook, Shirley Mapplebeck, had served up Spam fritters, mashed potatoes, broccoli and gravy, followed by spotted dick and custard. I was sitting at the same table as Charlie Cartwright. ‘How’s Hitler?’ I asked.

  ‘’E’s still got ’iccups, Mr Sheffield, but Mr Dalton says ’e looks ’appy enough an’ ’e’s enjoying ’is food,’ said Charlie. ‘An’ ah’ve promised not t’let ’im out o’ my sight.’

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ I said.

  Across the table ten-year-old Charlotte Ackroyd was dispensing words of wisdom to nine-year-old Barry Ollerenshaw. The unfortunate Barry was clearly not keen on his greens.

  ‘Problem is, Barry,’ said Charlotte knowingly, and beginning to sound more like her mother every day, ‘y’can’t ’ide broccoli in y’custard, ’cause it’s t’wrong colour.’

  Barry resigned himself to the inevitable before Mrs Critchley, our formidable dinner lady, walked by.

  After school dinner I took the opportu
nity to get some fresh air. It was always a joy to see the children at play. Mary Scrimshaw and Sonia Tricklebank were turning a skipping rope and chanting:

  Pease pudding hot

  Pease pudding cold

  Pease pudding in the pot

  Nine days old

  O-U-T spells OUT!

  On the school field, Sam Borthwick and Harold Bustard were fighting a dramatic Star Wars battle with imaginary light sabres, while eight-year-old Stacey Bryant and nine-year-old Lucy Eckersley were playing cat’s cradle with a length of string while discussing how to complete the adoption certificate for a Cabbage Patch doll.

  I smiled and, suitably refreshed, returned to the staffroom where Vera was filling the Gestetner duplicating machine with ink while Anne was reading Vera’s Daily Telegraph. Anne was reassured to read that Harry, the newborn second son of Prince Charles and Princess Diana, was in good health.

  Tom, as usual, was immersed in his computer magazine.

  ‘How’s Charlie Cartwright’s hamster, Tom?’ I asked.

  Tom looked up. ‘Hitler?’ he said. ‘Well, it’s just a common hamster, Jack – Cricetus cricetus. They’re certainly busy little creatures. They feed on seeds and grains and store them in underground burrows,’ he added, recalling his O-level Biology. ‘This one looks fine apart from his hiccups.’

  ‘Perhaps it will pass,’ I said.

  It was indicative of our lives as teachers of young children that neither Vera, Anne nor Sally batted an eyelid at a conversation concerning Hitler and hiccups.

  Soon Vera was turning the handle of our duplicating machine and then putting the copies on the windowsill so that the sticky black ink would dry. It was a letter to parents advertising the Flower Festival. She knew the title ‘Flowers Make Friends’ would catch the eye and also appeal to Miss Thyck. As she counted out the copies she smiled in anticipation.

  Meanwhile, in the county town of Northallerton, Deirdre Coe was staring at a magnificent floral display in the Blushing Blooms florist’s shop. A thought had crossed her mind and she too smiled in anticipation.