Starting Over Read online

  Through the leaded windows of the vicarage a shaft of sunshine pierced the mist and lit up the entrance hall as Vera prepared to leave for school. She checked her appearance in the hall mirror, smoothed her skirt and fingered the Victorian brooch above the top button of her silk blouse.

  An important day lay ahead for the Ragley School secretary. Her new typewriter was due to be delivered and the bright modern technology of the early 1950s awaited her. She had promised to type a selection of Harvest Festival notices for the various noticeboards in the village and her new typewriter would be perfect for the task.

  She set off at a brisk walk down the Morton road towards Ragley’s village green. Early-morning shoppers appeared like wraiths in a ghostly world through the golden hue of swirling mist. It was only when she reached The Royal Oak and walked across the village green that the sun broke through once again and the familiar sight of Ragley School came into view.

  Meanwhile, on the south side of the village, a black Ford Prefect was leaving the forecourt of Victor Pratt’s garage after filling up at the single pump. Two large policemen occupied the front seats and Victor waved a cheery farewell to the local bobby, twenty-eight-year-old Sergeant Tom Feather, and the young trainee police constable, Harry Dewhirst.

  ‘It’s a farm, Sergeant,’ said twenty-one-year-old Harry, glancing down at his notebook. ‘The cattle are getting out through a broken fence on the way to Kirkby Steepleton.’ He was a second row forward for the York Railway Institute rugby union team and the small car was uncomfortable for his huge frame. However, Harry was content with his life. Having completed two years of National Service, he had achieved his boyhood ambition and joined the police force.

  The stoic Tom merely nodded and concentrated on the journey ahead. Mist kept drifting across the road and on occasions visibility was difficult. Also, he knew all the local farmers and this call was simply routine, but as he drove along he was aware that this visit would provide useful experience for his enthusiastic colleague.

  Cut, scratched and shaken, Lily sat up on the grassy bank and stared after the hazy shape of a large vehicle as it raced away into the distance. She had caught only the briefest glimpse of it before she was bundled into the hedgerow.

  She got to her feet unsteadily and looked down at her torn stockings. ‘Blast!’ she muttered. Her shoes were scuffed and there was a small tear on the sleeve of her jacket. Then she looked at the road ahead. All was silent and there was still a mile to go. With a sigh she collected her books, which had scattered on the road, then she took a small mirror out of her handbag and checked her appearance. Her hair was bedraggled and there was a scratch on her cheek from her collision with the hawthorn hedge. It was only when she retrieved her bicycle that she realized the extent of the damage. ‘Oh no,’ she shouted out loud. The front wheel was buckled.

  However, moments later, help unexpectedly arrived. A black car pulled up alongside Lily and two policemen got out. The sergeant looked concerned as he weighed up the situation. ‘Can we be of assistance, Miss?’

  Lily immediately recognized the handsome young officer who had intervened when she was being bothered at the bus stop after her first day at school. Suddenly embarrassed, she covered the scratch on her face with her hand and looked up into his blue eyes. ‘Oh, yes please. Thank you for stopping. I’ve had an accident.’

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked, studying her carefully. Nothing obvious, he thought.

  ‘Just shaken up, I think. I was forced off the road and finished up in the hedge.’

  ‘Forced off the road?’

  ‘Yes, a vehicle came straight at me and I had to swerve. I didn’t see the driver. It all happened so fast.’

  Tom gave a knowing look to his partner, who nodded in acknowledgement. ‘We may know who it might be,’ he murmured, staring back up the road. ‘In the meantime, Doctor Davenport lives only a mile away. Let me take you there.’

  Lily hesitated. ‘No – please, I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Just a wise precaution, Miss,’ said Tom firmly.

  She looked at her wristwatch. ‘I have to get to school.’

  ‘School?’ The penny dropped and Tom smiled. ‘Of course – you must be the new teacher.’

  ‘Yes, that’s me,’ said Lily quietly, thinking that she must look a sorry state.

  ‘Well, I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Tom Feather and this is PC Dewhirst.’ Harry leaned against the car and nodded. He was enjoying observing a gentle side to his tough colleague that rarely surfaced.

  ‘And I’m Lily Briggs.’

  Tom reached forward and took hold of Lily’s elbow gently. ‘May I?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said thankfully as he guided her on to the passenger seat.

  ‘The doctor is on our way,’ Tom assured her. ‘Better to be safe than sorry. Then I’ll drop you off at school if he says you’re fine.’

  Lily breathed out slowly. It made sense to follow the advice.

  ‘Harry, put the basket and books on the back seat.’

  PC Dewhirst gathered up Lily’s belongings. ‘What about the bicycle?’

  ‘I want you to take it to the hardware shop. Young Timothy Pratt will fix it.’

  ‘But it won’t fit on the back seat,’ said a bemused Harry.

  ‘You’re a big lad,’ replied Tom with a grin, ‘you can carry it.’ And he drove away smoothly, leaving the perplexed police constable by the roadside.

  Tom cast an appreciative glance at Lily. ‘So you’re working with John Pruett – a good man.’

  ‘Yes, he’s been really supportive.’

  ‘I call in occasionally to speak to the children. Y’know, the usual stuff about Stranger Danger and not stealing birds’ eggs.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Lily. She had relaxed at last. ‘Then I’ll be able to say thank you once again.’

  Tom settled back to concentrate on the winding road and reflected that sometimes the unexpected made his job interesting.

  Dr Davenport recognized a determined young woman when he saw one and, after a brief examination, Lily was declared fit for duty. Tom drove her back to school and carried her books into the office. After a word with John, and satisfied all was well, he drove off.

  In the staff-room Vera prepared a cup of sweet tea for Lily and it was agreed she would stay with her until morning break. John took all the children into the hall for an extended assembly, after which the Revd Joseph Evans arrived for more Bible stories with the younger children while John taught his own class.

  During morning break Vera took out her ‘Emergency Repairs’ tin from the cupboard in the staff-room and sewed the torn sleeve on Lily’s jacket.

  ‘Thank you, Vera,’ said Lily, ‘it’s good as new. Everyone has been so kind.’

  ‘It was lucky Sergeant Feather came along,’ remarked Vera.

  ‘Yes, he handled the situation very professionally. He seemed to think he had an idea who the driver might have been – but he didn’t mention any names.’

  Vera pursed her lips and kept her thoughts to herself.

  ‘The sergeant arranged for my bicycle to be repaired, so I’ll collect it later, probably next week. He really couldn’t have been more helpful.’

  ‘Tom Feather is a good man,’ said Vera with gravitas. ‘By all accounts during the war he fought with distinction, but he rarely speaks of it.’ She stared out of the window and watched a flurry of fallen leaves swirl in the breeze. ‘He lives with his mother, Gracie, on the road to Easington. Sadly, their house in London was bombed in the Blitz. Tom’s father was killed and his mother was injured and still uses a walking stick. After the war they came to Yorkshire to start a new life.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Lily, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Yes, Gracie is a kind lady, always supports the church. She will be at the Harvest Festival on Sunday.’

  ‘Looking forward to it,’ said Lily. ‘I’ll be there with my mother and Freddie.’

  It was then that a battered 1940 Vauxhall 10 that had clearly s
een better days trundled up the drive and stopped in front of the boiler-house doors. A short, stocky, bald man with a handlebar moustache climbed out and lifted a heavy box out of the boot.

  ‘Ah, it’s here!’ said Vera. ‘My new typewriter, all the way from Leicester.’

  Lily returned to her classroom while Vera hurried to the school door and held it open.

  ‘’Ello, Miss,’ panted the red-faced man as he staggered into the entrance hall with the box. ‘I’m Clarence Tingle – we spoke on t’telephone.’

  ‘Good morning, I’m Miss Evans. And this is my new typewriter, I presume.’

  He placed the package on Vera’s desk and removed the cardboard cover. ‘Well ’ere it is, Miss Heavens, a state-of-the-art, bran’ new, 1952 Imperial typewriter. It’s a ’uge step forward in typewriter technology.’

  Vera did not like effusive men, particularly ones who dropped their aitches and compensated by inserting others in the wrong place. However, there was no doubt that the typewriter was very impressive. Originally the brainchild of typewriter genius Arthur Pateman, she had been reassured it was the brand backed by the government, particularly for use in the public sector.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Tingle,’ she said. ‘And is there an instruction booklet?’

  ‘It’s right ’ere, Miss Heavens,’ said Clarence, dabbing beads of perspiration from his brow with a handkerchief that Vera thought had seen better days and had clearly never been ironed. ‘All y’need t’know is standin’ before you.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I ’ave all t’knowledge y’might want.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Clarence as he moved seamlessly into demonstration mode. ‘Your Good Companion Model Sixty-five replaced the Model Sixty this year, so it’s right up t’date an’ easy t’repair an’ service. Jus’ remove two screws – the ones holding t’ribbon spools cover in place – an’ bingo.’

  ‘Bingo?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Heavens, an’ not f’gettin’ a detachable carriage t’change y’fonts.’

  ‘May I?’ asked Vera. She sat down, took a deep breath, swept the arm of the carriage return and immediately fell in love with the ker-ching.

  It was lunchtime and after a school dinner of fish and chips and mushy peas, followed by a bowl of something that resembled frogspawn with a blob of jam to make it edible, John Pruett joined Vera, Joseph and Lily in the staff-room.

  Vera was reading an article in her newspaper under the headline ‘A Woman’s Place’. It said that in 1952 the average age for marriage was twenty and 75 per cent of women were married. It came as quite a shock to those women who had worked in the war.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Vera, ‘it says here a woman’s place is in the home.’

  John absent-mindedly nodded in agreement and Lily frowned.

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Joseph.

  The Revd Joseph Evans, as well as being the local vicar was also chairman of the school governors.

  Vera looked up sharply at her younger brother. ‘What was that you said, Joseph?’

  ‘Well, it would appear that in an ideal world men would go out to work and women would stay and look after the house and children.’

  ‘What rubbish, Joseph!’ exclaimed Vera.

  ‘Surely you can’t deny that is the natural order of things?’ replied Joseph defensively, his cheeks becoming red.

  Vera shook her head and returned to her newspaper. ‘I’m surprised at you, Joseph. I do hope you don’t mention anything like that during the Harvest Festival.’

  Suitably admonished, Joseph left quietly to return to the vicarage.

  During afternoon break on the playground a group of girls led by Winnie Pickles decided they wanted to play kiss-chase. However, it required the involvement of at least one boy who was willing to run around after them and plant a kiss on the cheek of whoever was caught.

  Eddie Brown looked up expectantly but, to his great chagrin, he was bypassed.

  ‘We’re playing kiss-chase, Dave,’ said Winnie, looking admiringly at the tallest boy in the school. ‘Do you want t’play?’

  Dave ignored the request. He didn’t speak to girls.

  ‘What about you, Malcolm?’

  Little Malcolm went bright red and looked towards Dave for reassurance.

  ‘Get lost,’ shouted Dave. ‘We don’t play wi’ no bloody girls.’

  It was unfortunate that Lily appeared on the playground at that exact moment.

  ‘’E swored, Miss,’ shouted five-year-old Lizzie Buttershaw pointing at Big Dave.

  For a moment Lily was undecided whether to correct the use of the past tense or press on with an investigation into who had uttered the expletive.

  ‘So, David,’ she said, ‘did you use a swear word?’

  Dave was an honest boy. ‘Yes, Miss.’

  ‘But it weren’t ’is fault, Miss,’ shouted Little Malcolm.

  Lily frowned. ‘There’s no need to raise your voice, Malcolm.’ Then it dawned … Malcolm Robinson had uttered a complete sentence and she couldn’t wait to tell John Pruett. ‘Having said that, Malcolm, I do understand why you feel you need to support David.’

  ‘Yes, Miss, it’s ’cause them girls wanted us t’play kiss-chase an’ we don’t play games like that.’

  Another even longer sentence, thought Lily. Wonders never cease.

  At the end of school Vera stayed on to practise on her typewriter and complete her Harvest Festival notices. There was the rattle of a galvanized bucket in the entrance hall and Vera was surprised to see Ruby Smith in the open doorway clutching a mop.

  ‘Oh, hello, Ruby,’ said Vera.

  ‘Mrs Trott asked me t’come an’ clean, Miss Evans, an’ m’mother’s lookin’ after our Andy.’

  ‘So where is Mrs Trott?’

  ‘Gone t’see Doctor Davenport wi’ ’er bad back.’

  ‘I see. Well, thank you for coming in, Ruby,’ said Vera. ‘I do hope it’s nothing serious.’

  ‘She said she did it liftin’ a new fire distinguisher.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Pruett is very safety conscious,’ said Vera, refraining from correcting Ruby’s unique use of English.

  ‘She’s tried ’avin’ a ’ot bath.’

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘Dunno, Miss Evans, but m’mother gave ’er some goose grease. She said that never fails.’

  Vera watched the young woman hurry towards the toilets singing Vera Lynn’s ‘We’ll Meet Again’ in a beautiful soprano voice, and she admired her fortitude.

  It was Saturday morning and Vera was busy in the vicarage kitchen preparing to make something special for the Harvest Festival – a coffee and walnut cake. As always, Vera made sure all her ingredients were weighed accurately and arranged neatly. She studied her mother’s spidery cursive writing in the family recipe book. It was a recipe she had completed many times. Vera loved baking and as she greased an eight-inch-square cake tin Joseph watched in admiration.

  ‘The secret is I weigh the eggs first,’ said Vera. ‘Three eggs weigh approximately eight ounces, so then I add the same weight of margarine and caster sugar. Also I flavour it with a teaspoon of Camp Coffee. It never fails.’

  ‘I don’t know how you do it with all the rationing,’ said a bewildered Joseph.

  There were some secrets Vera preferred to keep to herself.

  ‘Ah well,’ continued Joseph, ‘God loveth a cheerful giver.’

  ‘Two Corinthians, chapter nine, verse seven,’ replied Vera without looking up from her mixing and Joseph reflected that his sister’s knowledge of the Bible had always been better than his.

  Vera decided to change the subject and pointed towards a large tin of Nescafé. ‘I bought that for the staff-room.’

  ‘That makes a change,’ said Joseph with enthusiasm. He picked up the tin and stared at the label. It said it was a soluble coffee product and you simply had to put a spoonful in a cup and add hot water and milk. It sounded a good idea. ‘I imagine it will catch on with the modern generation.
’

  Vera walked to the sink and filled the kettle. ‘Yes, apparently Miss Briggs seems to prefer it.’

  ‘Different times, Vera.’

  ‘In fact, even Mr Pruett is beginning to change his habits.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘So, Joseph, would you like a hot drink?’

  ‘Yes please,’ said Joseph and he handed her the tin.

  Vera put it in the cupboard and closed the door firmly. Joseph frowned. Then she lifted her large earthenware teapot decorated with a pattern of flowers and placed it on her silver teapot stand.

  ‘Tea,’ she said firmly as she collected a pair of china cups and saucers, two teaspoons and a tea strainer.

  ‘Oh,’ said Joseph, ‘not coffee then?’

  ‘No,’ said Vera firmly in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘We shall drink tea, Joseph – coffee is for Americans.’

  On Saturday afternoon Vera arrived in the butcher’s shop as Tommy Piercy was cleaning his window.

  ‘I’m here to collect my order, Mr Piercy,’ she said. Tommy replaced his sponge in a bucket of soapy water. ‘I thought Mr Wainwright cleaned your windows.’

  ‘Not any more, Miss Evans. ’E did a moonlight flit,’ said Tommy. ‘Up an’ went, ’e did.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Couldn’t pay ’is rent no more, so ah ’eard.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  Tommy shook his head forlornly. ‘Lancashire … poor so-an’-so. ’E must ’ave been desp’rate.’ As far as Tommy was concerned, the Wars of the Roses ran deep and Lancastrians, like vegetarians, reawakened his deep-seated prejudice.

  ‘I have friends in Lancashire,’ said Vera evenly.

  Tommy sighed. He knew when to keep quiet. ‘There’s y’sausages, Miss Evans.’

  On Sunday morning Millicent Merryweather left her home at Bilbo Cottage in Kirkby Steepleton in her 1947 Standard Vanguard and drove to a small cottage on the High Street. Florence Briggs was standing in the sunshine in her best tweed suit at the garden gate and waved as Millicent parked outside. Lily appeared in the doorway in a bright floral dress with a reluctant Freddie in his Sunday best and a school cap on his head.

  ‘Good morning, everybody,’ said Millicent. ‘What a lovely day for the Harvest Festival. Just pile in and don’t mind the basket of plums on the back seat.’