Starting Over Page 4

  Millicent and Florence had become friends through their shared interest in cross-stitch and they chatted happily as they sped along the back road to Ragley. As they drove past Twenty Acre Field they saw that the first of the hayricks had been thatched to protect the precious straw from the ravages of winter.

  ‘Freddie might like one of the plums, Florence, don’t you think?’

  The young boy didn’t need asking twice and picked up a juicy plum.

  At the entrance to St Mary’s Church they were welcomed by the imposing and graceful figure of Vera, who was giving out the hymn books. Her crisp blouse was buttoned to the neck, where her Victorian brooch was pinned. It was a precious family heirloom and one of Vera’s special treasures. She was acting as sidesperson along with Aloysius Pratt, the fifty-year-old owner of Pratt’s Hardware Emporium and the local garage.

  Millicent pointed out an empty pew to Lily and she sat down with Freddie and her mother. She noticed Tom Feather in a pew near the front. He was out of uniform, wearing a smart pinstriped suit and sitting next to a grey-haired lady.

  Many of the locals were arriving with bags full of carrots or onions. It was the custom for the villagers to bring gifts of produce and these were displayed in front of the altar to be distributed later to those in most need.

  Derek ‘Deke’ Ramsbottom, the local farmhand who supplemented his income by singing cowboy songs in the local pubs, had brought in a sheaf of corn, which he propped next to an orange pumpkin and a large marrow. As always, Deke had removed his favourite Stetson hat when he entered the church.

  During his sermon Joseph was on good form and thanked the Lord for the bountiful harvest, while Elsie Crapper was on cue for the first bars of the offertory hymn. The villagers were in fine voice and followed Elsie’s lead on the organ with ‘We plough the fields and scatter’, after which Aloysius read one of the lessons in a deep, sonorous voice. Following the final prayer, the congregation gathered outside church in little groups. It was a time to swap stories, catch up with the local gossip and rekindle friendships.

  Aloysius Pratt approached Vera and Lily while Freddie ran off round the back of the church. He was spotted by Tom Feather, who left his mother talking to a group of ladies from the Women’s Institute. Like all the other boys in his school, Freddie carried a penknife. Each day he hoped there would be an opportunity to whittle some sticks or even use the attachment that was supposed to remove stones from a horse’s hoof.

  Tom walked along the grassy bank that led to the cemetery and watched young Freddie with interest. The boy was holding his knife by the blade, then flicking it towards a clump of dandelions next to a gravestone. He was remarkably skilful.

  A voice startled him. ‘Careful with that, young man.’

  Freddie hastily put his penknife away and stared up at the giant policeman. ‘You need to go back to your mother before there’s an accident,’ said Tom with a grin. Freddie nodded and they both returned to the gravel drive in front of the church.

  Lily was aware of Freddie suddenly standing alongside with Tom Feather. ‘Freddie, what have you been up to?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about, Miss Briggs,’ said Tom. ‘He was just playing round the back of the church,’ and he winked at Freddie.

  ‘Hello, Tom,’ said Aloysius. ‘I was just telling Miss Briggs that her bicycle is ready for collection.’ Aloysius was a large, genial man with a booming voice. He had built up his empire in the village with his thriving hardware shop and had installed his son, Victor, in his garage as the local mechanic. He was also grooming his other son, Timothy, to take over the Hardware Emporium in a few years’ time. Meanwhile his daughter, Nora, had her heart set on being an actress. Aloysius was a kindly soul and had decided to support her even though he held out little hope of her achieving her dream.

  ‘That was quick,’ said Tom.

  ‘Our Timothy fixed it,’ said Aloysius with pride. ‘’E’s good at repairing things.’

  ‘I’m very grateful, Mr Pratt,’ said Lily. ‘If you will let me have the bill I’ll call in after school tomorrow.’

  ‘No charge, Miss. It kept our Timothy busy yesterday an’ ’e enjoys doin’ jobs.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ She looked down at the gangling teenager. ‘And thank you, Timothy. You are a very clever young man.’

  ‘An’ very particular is our Timothy,’ added Aloysius with satisfaction. ‘Allus does things in t’right order.’

  Tom stepped forward. ‘I could deliver it back to your house if you like,’ he offered. ‘It’s no trouble, and then you could ride it to school tomorrow.’

  Lily smiled. ‘That’s very kind.’

  Vera looked at the two of them with a new interest.

  It was a perfect evening and Lily wheeled her bicycle into the garden shed. It had been a surprise when Tom Feather had offered to deliver it back to her home. As she locked the door she sighed. Around her the air was soft as the light finally began to die. Above her head the vast sky over the plain of York was turning purple, studded with myriad stars.

  She had begun to enjoy being part of the local community and hoped to make new friends. As she walked back towards the bright lights of the cottage she reflected that it had been an eventful few days – and largely because of her new bicycle.

  Chapter Three

  A Surprise for Ruby

  It was a cold autumn morning on the first day of October as nineteen-year-old Ruby Smith stared out of her bedroom window. In her arms she held her son, Andy, now a year old, and welcomed his warmth against her winceyette nightdress.

  Beyond the untidy garden at 7 School View on the council estate, the distant hills were shrouded in a blanket of mist. The season was changing and the trees stood like spectres in the grey dawn, while fallen leaves covered the land like scattered souls. Trails of wood smoke drifted from the nearby chimney pots and Ruby shivered. She felt unwell again, but another demanding day lay ahead and her child needed feeding.

  The bedroom door creaked as she walked out on to the landing.

  Her husband, Ronnie, stirred. ‘Bring us a nice cup o’ tea, luv.’

  ‘Tell ’im t’get ’is backside out o’ bed,’ shouted a strident voice from the hallway.

  Ruby’s mother, thirty-nine-year-old Agnes, was putting on her threadbare coat before catching the early bus into York. She worked at the Rowntree’s chocolate factory and over the years had become an expert in hand-decorating fine chocolates. She waited to give her grandson a kiss on his forehead before setting off and then looked at Ruby. ‘Y’look a bit peaky this mornin’,’ she said. ‘Try an’ get some rest.’

  An’ pigs might fly, thought Ruby as she lifted Andy’s little hand so he could wave goodbye.

  The bell above the door of the General Stores rang and Vera walked in.

  ‘Good morning, Vera,’ said Prudence Golightly. Prudence was the thirty-five-year-old owner of the shop and a dear friend of Vera’s. The diminutive shopkeeper mounted the next wooden step behind the counter to be on the same eye level as Vera.

  ‘Good morning, Prudence. Just some sugar for the staff-room, please.’

  ‘And how’s the new typewriter?’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Vera. ‘I’ve got used to it now. As you know, I’m not keen on change simply for the sake of it, but this really makes such a difference.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Prudence. ‘I’ve just got some new weighing scales. It’s important to be exact these days, especially with all the food rationing and particularly with sweet things.’ She stared knowingly at the bag of sugar.

  Vera smiled. ‘Mr Pruett likes two spoonfuls in his tea and he needs the energy to teach those children.’

  ‘Yes, he’s a good man,’ said Prudence and there was silence between them as she stared out of the window.

  Vera guessed she was thinking of another good man – the love of her life. Jeremy, the brave Spitfire pilot, had been engaged to be married to Prudence, but in 1940 he had perished during the Battle of Brit
ain when his plane crashed into the English Channel. Not a day went by without Prudence recalling their brief and happy courtship and mourning his passing.

  ‘Well, must get on, Prudence,’ said Vera, breaking the spell.

  As she left the shop she saw Ruby Smith pushing a battered old pram and carrying a shopping bag.

  ‘G’mornin’, Miss Evans,’ said Ruby.

  Vera noticed that Ruby’s rosy cheeks were a little more red than normal and she looked as though she had been crying.

  ‘Good morning, Ruby, and how is Andrew?’ Vera peered down and looked wistfully at Ruby’s little bundle of joy.

  ‘Growin’ up fast, Miss Evans,’ said Ruby, recovering quickly from her dark thoughts, ‘an’ feedin’ for England.’

  Vera thought for a moment. ‘If you call by the school later, we always have a few rusks left over.’

  Ruby frowned and pushed her wavy chestnut hair from her face. ‘Ah don’t want no charity, Miss Evans, but thank you kindly.’

  Vera smiled gently. ‘But it’s a gift, Ruby. It’s not charity – and you can’t say no to a gift for your beautiful son.’

  Ruby stared up at this confident lady. She was the most sincere person she knew.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said at last.

  ‘Call in this morning if you can,’ said Vera.

  Ruby nodded in appreciation. ‘Ah’ll be there in two shakes of a cow’s tail,’ she said.

  Lamb’s tail, thought Vera, but she said nothing as Ruby hurried into the shop to buy a loaf of bread.

  At 7 School View Ronnie Smith sat up in bed. He was a short, skinny man with a big opinion of himself. Ruby described him as ‘seven stones drippin’ wet’. He had begun smoking Wills Woodbine cigarettes at the age of twelve, and now he lit up another, leaned back and reflected on his life.

  Two years ago Ronnie had received a buff envelope on which OHMS was printed in bold letters. Enclosed were his call-up papers for National Service and he was sent to Winchester in Hampshire.

  The NCOs – namely, the sergeants and corporals – soon appreciated that Ronnie was their laziest recruit. They took away his Brylcreem and marched him to the barber, where his long, slicked hair was reduced to a short back and sides. Rumour had it among the recruits that the barber had been a sheep shearer in an earlier life! The initial training lasted six weeks, during which time it appeared the aim was to stamp out any hint of individuality. For Ronnie life became a living hell.

  He had been issued with three cotton vests, three itchy shirts, a uniform that didn’t fit and a beret with a cap badge. He spent hours ‘bulling’ his boots so that his toecaps had a glassy shine. As a young man Ronnie had been used to being sewn into his underwear at the beginning of winter and remaining in his thermal cocoon until spring. So early-morning physical training followed by cold showers did not come naturally to him. In consequence, he was a regular on sick parade.

  Predictably, Ronnie had difficulty learning to march and was given punishment known as ‘Jankers’, or restrictions of privileges. It became a way of life for him. Meanwhile, the bromide in his tea had no effect when he returned home on leave: his amorous advances towards Ruby continued unabated.

  After his basic training he managed to secure a cushy job as a pay clerk for the Training Company. Each soldier had a pay book and Ronnie authorized payment of twenty-six shillings per week. Out of this the soldiers had to purchase their own Blanco, Brasso and dusters. During the remainder of his time he learned very quickly that ‘If it moves, salute it; if it doesn’t, paint it.’ It wasn’t until the ordeal was over and he returned home to Ragley village that he was able to resurrect his old life and once again became known as ‘Brylcreem Boy’.

  Now he looked at the clock beside the bed. It was half past eight and he hoped that by nine o’clock Ruby would have prepared a cooked breakfast. After all, he thought, apart from looking after Andy and doing a bit of cleaning at The Royal Oak, she didn’t have much else to do. He lay back, lit another cigarette and stared at the ceiling.

  When Lily’s bicycle had been returned to her home in Kirkby Steepleton by Tom Feather, her mother had remarked that she thought it was above and beyond the call of duty. It had been repaired, oiled and polished, and Lily had been impressed by this tall, understated man. There was clearly a gentle, caring side to his nature that wasn’t always apparent when he was going about his police duties. Also, she couldn’t help but recall how handsome he was with his wavy black hair and strong physique, and the effortless way he had lifted her bicycle out of the hedgerow.

  The cold autumn breeze flushed her cheeks as she cycled past Coe’s Farm and Pratt’s garage and approached Ragley High Street. The hedgerows were thick with brambles and wild blackberries, while robins were busy claiming their territory. Lily’s thoughts wandered as she turned past the village green and in through the school gates. It would be a full day, including a visit to school assembly by Tom Feather, and Lily couldn’t resist a smile.

  Meanwhile, in the Robinson household Little Malcolm was not happy. His mother dipped a rough flannel into a basin of soapy water and gave his face a quick wipe.

  ‘Ow!’ exclaimed Malcolm. ‘That ’urts.’

  ‘Don’t be so soft, y’big girl,’ replied his mother.

  Malcolm grimaced at the perceived insult and was pleased Big Dave was not within earshot. He stood back from the sink, assuming the ordeal was over.

  ‘Now stand still – ah’ve got t’do your mucky ears. They’re like black ’oles o’ Calcutta.’ Gertie Robinson twisted a corner of the flannel and poked it in each ear. ‘There, that’ll ’ave t’do. Now look sharp an’ get t’school afore Mr Pruett gives y’what for.’

  ‘All right, Mam,’ said Malcolm, sprinting towards the back door.

  Mrs Robinson shouted after him, ‘An’ don’t forget you’re ’avin’ a bath t’night. It’s first o’ the month.’

  Malcolm froze in the doorway. ‘But Mam – ah ’ad one las’ month.’

  Mrs Robinson, sloshing the dirty water down the sink, chose not to listen and Little Malcolm slammed the door. ‘Bloody ’ell,’ he muttered.

  At nine o’clock Ruby wasn’t cooking Ronnie’s breakfast. Instead she was the first customer in the village Pharmacy. When she walked in, Herbert Grinchley was unpacking boxes of Pond’s Skin Cream and Pepsodent toothpaste. The portly fifty-year-old chemist had owned the local Pharmacy since the end of the war and he knew everybody’s business. He was also willing to share it with discerning customers. Ruby approached tentatively and stood by the counter. There were burn marks along the edge where Herbert regularly balanced his lighted cigarette while he was serving someone.

  ‘Good morning, Ruby,’ he greeted her. ‘And how is young Andy this morning?’

  ‘’Ello, Mr Grinchley. ’E’s comin’ on an’ ah’m tryin’ m’best t’feed ’im like Doctor Davenport said.’

  ‘That’s good to hear, Ruby. An’ what’s it to be?’

  ‘A bottle o’ Seven Seas, please,’ said Ruby, handing over her note from the doctor.

  Herbert selected a bottle from the shelf behind him. ‘Y’can’t beat a bit o’ castor oil,’ he said. ‘Strong bones and teeth, one teaspoon a day,’ he added for good measure.

  Ruby picked up the bottle thankfully. To buy it would have cost her 1/6d, but for expectant mothers and young children it was free.

  ‘It comes in capsules as well, Ruby, but better t’stick wi’ what y’know.’ Herbert studied her quizzically. ‘And how are you, Ruby?’

  Ruby sighed. ‘Ah’m seein’ Doctor Davenport this afternoon. Ah’ve been a bit sickly lately.’

  ‘Well, let me know what he says.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Grinchley,’ she said. She tucked young Andy under an ancient shawl and hurried out of the shop.

  Meanwhile Herbert looked through the window at the slim, attractive young woman and wondered why she had finished up with a man like Ronnie Smith.

  It was shortly after ten o’clock when the children gathered i
n the school hall for morning assembly. At six feet two inches tall Sergeant Feather appeared like a giant to them as he stood in front of their upturned, eager faces. He seemed aware of this and knelt down on the wood-block floor.

  ‘Boys and girls, this talk is called “Stranger Danger” and the aim is to keep you safe.’ His voice was soft and persuasive, and the children hung on to every word. They were not the only ones. John Pruett sat back in his chair and watched the children carefully to ensure they were well behaved, while Lily studied the tall policeman with a new interest.

  It was a talk Tom had given many times to the various schools in the Easington catchment area and he was used to the questions that might come his way.

  ‘Is it safe t’talk to anyone in a uniform?’ asked ten-year-old Celia Etheringshaw.

  ‘Good question,’ said Tom and proceeded to give examples of policemen and nurses.

  At the end, John Pruett asked the children to join him in reciting the traditional school prayer:

  Dear Lord,

  This is our school, let peace dwell here,

  Let the room be full of contentment, let love abide here,

  Love of one another, love of life itself,

  And love of God.

  Amen.

  John turned to Tom and spoke quietly. ‘Could you do me a favour before you leave?’

  Tom glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got time.’

  John looked up at the sky. The sun had broken through the clouds. ‘Just a thought, Tom, but while you’re here could you take a photograph for me? I take one each year of the children and staff.’

  Tom smiled. ‘At your service.’

  ‘Miss Briggs, could you gather the children outside on the playing field? And we’ll need three chairs for the staff.’ He hurried into the office and opened the bottom left-hand drawer of his desk. On top of the school logbook was the popular camera of the day, a Box Brownie in its case of wood and leather. Vera followed him outside, feeling slightly flustered at the short notice and buttoning up her cardigan.