05 Please Sir! Read online

  ‘Where to?’ croaked Ronnie.

  ‘Never you mind,’ said Ruby and she slammed the door.

  On the High Street, Johnny Duckitt thought he ruled the road as he parked his 1975 four-door Vauxhall Viva. It was a recent purchase for £1,195 from Charlie Clack’s garage and Charlie had thrown in a free car radio for good measure. In his knee-length leather jacket, tight stone-washed jeans and carefully coiffeured hair he imagined himself as a cross between sixties pop star Billy Fury and country and western singer Johnny Cash. After flicking a comb through his lacquered quiff, he lit up a Peter Stuyvesant luxury-length filter cigarette and waited in his car outside Nora’s Coffee Shop. As he blew smoke rings through his open window he reflected on the conquests in his life. There had been so many … but Ruby had been different. For some reason she had resisted his charms and he had never forgotten her.

  Johnny had worked at the Butlin’s holiday camp in Filey on the east coast of Yorkshire in the sixties. He had strutted around with his red coat and baggy cream trousers and was always introduced as ‘Seaside Johnny’ to his adoring fans. His rendition of Frankie Vaughan’s ‘Green Door’ regularly received a standing ovation. It was a carefree life and, for Johnny, every week meant an influx of holidaymakers and a new girlfriend.

  In 1938 Billy Butlin had bought 120 acres of land at Hunmanby Gap near Filey for £12,000 and created one of the largest holiday camps in the country. At its peak there were eleven thousand holidaymakers and a railway station had been built near by to accommodate the huge weekly influx of visitors. It was on a balmy summer’s evening over twenty years ago that Ruby had arrived at that station and two days later she danced with Johnny in the spectacular Viennese Ballroom. While Ronnie was propping up the bar and Ruby’s mother, Agnes, was looking after young Andy, Racquel and Duggie, Johnny saw his chance. After a wild ride on the Big Dipper they held hands tightly on the ‘Thrill of Thrills’, followed by a lazy circuit of the boating pool in a little rowing boat with the number 48 painted on the side. Ruby had felt like a princess in the arms of this handsome Butlin’s redcoat and when he had tried to steal a kiss she found she couldn’t resist. It was a day she would never forget.

  In Nora’s Coffee Shop, Johnny bought two frothy coffees and Ruby sat opposite him at a corner table. There was a long silence until Johnny said, ‘Yer ‘air looks nice, Ruby.’ It was an opening line he knew never failed.

  ‘Ah’ve just ’ad it done. It’s a Farrah Fawcett.’

  Johnny carefully avoided a look of surprise. ‘It’s lovely, Ruby,’ he said.

  ‘Johnny … what ’appened t’you?’ she asked. ‘Y’said y’d write.’

  ‘Ah’m sorry, Ruby,’ he said. ‘Truth is, ah never ‘ad confidence like your Ronnie. Ah never seized t’day, so t’speak. Ronnie ‘ad lasses ‘anging on ‘is every word. Ah were allus a quiet ‘un, staying in t’background.’ Telling lies was as easy as breathing for Seaside Johnny.

  ‘But y’were a Redcoat, Johnny, y’were on t’stage,’ said Ruby in surprise.

  ‘That were jus’ an act, Ruby,’ said Johnny. ‘It weren’t real … it weren’t me.’

  ‘Ah kept that postcard y’sent me of t’Sunshine Chalets,’ said Ruby. ‘Then ah ’eard y’went an’ married that erratic dancer from ‘Alifax … an’ ah never saw yer again.’

  Johnny smiled. ‘She were an exotic dancer, Ruby, but y’reight … she were erratic an’ all. It didn’t last long.’

  ‘Ah’m sorry, Johnny,’ said Ruby.

  ‘No need, Ruby. Ah were eighth out o’ ten kids … ah never knew what it were like t’sleep alone till ah got married,’ he said with a grin. ‘It were a relief when she’d gone.’

  Ruby stared at her dumpy work-red hands. ‘But did it mean owt … you an’ me?’

  ‘Course it did, Ruby. Ah could never forget you in that Tunnel o’ Love,’ said Johnny with the sincerity of a politician.

  ‘But we never went on t’Tunnel o’ Love: it were shut,’ said Ruby, looking puzzled.

  ‘Oh yes, ah remember now,’ said Johnny quickly. ‘It were that other one that y’liked.’

  ‘Thrill o’ thrills, it were, as ah recall,’ said Ruby.

  ‘Ah remember it well,’ said Johnny.

  ‘Ah’m glad y’do, Johnny. It were good t’feel, well, sort of wanted.’

  Johnny looked sadly at Ruby. She had always been different from the others but now he knew why and, perhaps for the first time in his life, his selfish heart knew remorse.

  At the end of school, Ruby came into the school office to collect the litter from the waste-paper baskets. She spotted the vase of roses on Vera’s desk and sniffed appreciatively. ‘Oooh, these are lovely, Miss Evans,’ said Ruby. ‘Teks me back.’

  ‘You like roses, don’t you, Ruby?’ I said.

  ‘Ah do that, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Ah ’ad roses on m’wedding day an’ that time we ’ad that little party in t’school ‘all.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘Now me children are m’bed o’ roses … an’ ah luv’em all.’

  ‘I love roses as well, Ruby,’ said Vera. ‘They’re so … romantic.’

  Ruby picked up her galvanized bucket, leant on her mop and looked thoughtful. ‘Romantic, Miss Evans? Ah remember romance wi’ my Ronnie but that were a long time ago – so long it’s ‘ard t’remember – an’ after that … well … we jus’ med babies.’

  Vera gave a wistful smile as Ruby trotted off to mop the wood-block floor in the school entrance and I wondered about their different lives.

  Meanwhile, Julie Earnshaw was in her kitchen dishing up fish fingers, chips and mushy peas to Heathcliffe, Terry and Dallas Sue-Ellen. She was thinking about the new bingo caller who had been keen to talk to Ruby Smith and she wondered why. However, with children like hers, the opportunity for private meditation was rare.

  ‘Where are me other three dads, Mam?’ asked Terry as he poured tomato sauce on his chips.

  ‘Y’what? Y’ve only got one dad, y’soft ha’porth,’ said his mother, looking offended but secretly recalling a few old boyfriends from her youth.

  ‘But this morning t’vicar said we all ‘ave four fathers!’

  Mrs Earnshaw looked puzzled and wondered why they taught them all this stuff at school. Then she had a thought. ‘Mebbe’e means the ‘Oly Trinity?’

  Heathcliffe glanced up from his mushy peas sandwich. ‘No, Mam, that’s Wakefield Trinity. They play rugby league.’ Heathcliffe was proud of his sporting knowledge.

  Suddenly the baby of the family, Dallas Sue-Ellen Earnshaw, leant over the table and grabbed a squelchy handful of Terry’s mushy peas. No one made a comment. After all, thought Mrs Earnshaw, her little pride and joy was still a month away from her second birthday and Mrs Grainger could teach her table manners when she got to school.

  Margery Ackroyd was thinking about the handsome bingo caller who had definitely winked at her. He was what her mother would have called a ‘ladies’ man’. In the meantime, she served her husband, Wendell, with a pork chop, chips and peas. After all it was important to keep his strength up. As Wendell had told her on many occasions, packing Smarties into tubes was demanding work.

  While Wendell daubed his meal with HP sauce, Margery picked up her Woman magazine and smiled. On the front cover there was a photograph of Prince Charles standing on a Scottish hillside, looking youthful and dashing in his kilt. Holding his hand was an adoring Lady Diana and this completed the perfect romantic picture. Sadly, emblazoned down the side were the highlighted articles, including ‘Is there hope on the horizon for HERPES?’ Margery thought to herself that for twenty pence you certainly got your money’s worth from her favourite weekly magazine.

  On Morton Road, Betty Buttle was preparing a giant shepherd’s pie for her four children and wondering how the bingo caller, who clearly fancied himself, knew Ruby Smith. It had not gone unnoticed that he had winked at someone on their table and Betty presumed it was her. Men had always fancied her fuller figure but not, of course, a figure as full as Ruby’s. All i
n all, it had been a good night and, unknown to her husband, Harry, she had spent her winnings on a Breville sandwich toaster. She had seen one in the Dudley-Palmers’ posh kitchen the last time Petula had hosted a Tupperware party and had wanted one ever since. Sadly, poor Harry had no idea what cremated offerings were about to appear in his pack-up. As she searched in the cupboard for a tin of Batchelors peas, she wondered if the sexy bingo caller would be there next time. If that was the case, perhaps she might wear the blue dress that showed off a little more of her substantial cleavage.

  At six o’clock the school was quiet and I was writing a summary of our scheme of work for religious education that had been requested by County Hall.

  The telephone rang. ‘Have you by any chance done that scheme of work for RE?’ asked Beth.

  ‘I’m doing it now,’ I said.

  ‘Oh good, so … can I have a look at yours? I’ve not done mine yet.’

  ‘It will cost you,’ I said.

  ‘That can be arranged,’ she replied mischievously.

  ‘Do you fancy a drink and a bite to eat in the Oak?’

  ‘I’ll be there soon after seven,’ she said and rang off.

  At seven o’clock I locked the school door and walked across the village green and into The Royal Oak. I carried a half of Chestnut Mild and a white wine over to the table in the bay window and sat down to wait for Beth.

  The pub was filling up with regulars and Ronnie Smith, like Lazarus, had risen from his sick bed to join the Ragley Rovers football team in the taproom. After all, as manager of the team, it was important to show his loyalty to his players even though he didn’t feel well. Ruby had seemed preoccupied but had agreed to join him and she was sitting on the bench seat by the dartboard, listening to Frankie Balls, the nine-fingered pianist, go through his Russ Conway repertoire.

  ‘What’s it t’be, Ronnie?’ asked Don, wiping the bar counter.

  ‘Pint, Don, an’ … can y’put it on t’slate?’

  Don Bradshaw, barman and retired wrestler, peered down at the little unemployed pigeon-racer and shook his head. ‘Sorry, Ronnie, but ah ‘ave an agreement wi’ m’bank manager.’

  ‘How come?’ said Ronnie, scratching his bobble hat in confusion.

  ‘Well ’e doesn’t sell beer an’ ah don’t lend money!’

  ‘Oh, ah see,’ said Ronnie and sloped off to find Ruby … and her purse.

  Meanwhile, Clint Ramsbottom, Ragley Rovers’ left-winger, local farm labourer and a ‘New Romantic’, had just put five pence in the juke-box and was singing along with Adam and the Ants to their recent number one hit, ‘Prince Charming’.

  ‘What y’dressed like that for, Clint?’ asked Big Dave Robinson. As team captain he was concerned when a team member began to show effeminate tendencies.

  Clint pursed his lips and looked hurt. His big brother, Shane, full-back, farmhand and occasional psychopath, grabbed Clint by his embroidered shirt collar. His muscles bulged under his Sex Pistols T-shirt. ‘Hey, Nancy, Big Dave asked yer a question!’ he said.

  Clint was always annoyed by his brother’s insistence on calling him ‘Nancy’ ever since he had frequented Diane’s Hair Salon. ‘Ah’m a New Romantic,’ he declared.

  ‘What’s romantic abart wearing frilly shirts?’ asked Big Dave.

  ‘An’ fingerless gloves,’ added Little Malcolm.

  ‘An’ black eye-liner,’ shouted buxom Sheila Bradshaw from behind the bar.

  Shane shook his head sadly. ‘Nancy,’ he said. ‘Y’look a reight nancy.’

  Sheila the barmaid was proud of her main asset. There was no doubt that her magnificent chest was something to behold and for the members of the Ragley Rovers football team it was an attraction that brightened up their day. This evening she had squeezed into a sparkly boob tube that left little to the imagination. A substantial sprinkling of Lentheric Musk in the vicinity of her cavernous cleavage had been the finishing touch.

  ‘’Ave y’got a bit o’ loose change, Ruby, my love?’ said Ronnie. ‘Ah’ve come out wi’out m’dole money.’

  ‘Ah’ve ’eard that one a few times,’ said Ruby, rummaging in her purse for a pound note. ‘It’s a good job ah’m working extra ‘ours.’

  ‘Well, ah’ve worked ‘ard this week, ah’ll ‘ave you know,’ said Ronnie. ‘Ah cleaned out m’pigeons.’

  Sheila overheard the conversation and leant over the bar. ‘Ah know,’ she said, ‘there’s no rest for t’wicked.’ She pulled on the hand pump and her magnificent bosom strained in the elasticated confines of the boob tube. ‘Typical, Ruby,’ she said, nodding towards Ronnie. ‘A man’s never too tired t’tell us ‘ow ’ard ’e’s worked.’ As she handed the foaming pint to Ronnie she whispered, ‘’Bout time you got a job to ’elp your Ruby out a bit.’

  Beth hurried in and, as usual, heads turned. Even at the end of a working day she looked stunning. She kissed me on the cheek, sat down and sipped her wine.

  ‘Ah, that’s better,’ she said. Then she slipped off her jacket and relaxed into conversation. ‘Jack, I’ve been thinking a lot since we last spoke. Your thought about breaking off the engagement made me realize that perhaps we haven’t talked about the important things.’

  ‘Such as?’ I said, loosening my tie and leaning forward to look into her green eyes.

  ‘Well, becoming a headteacher of a large school was an ambition I had for myself and I was imposing it on you … and that wasn’t fair.’

  ‘But there’s nothing to stop you going for a large headship one day. You must know I would support you.’

  ‘Really?’ said Beth, sounding surprised.

  ‘Why not, if that’s what you want?’

  ‘There aren’t many women heads of large schools – in fact I can’t think of any in North Yorkshire. It’s dominated by men.’

  ‘But you could break the mould, Beth; you’re a good headteacher and Miss Barrington-Huntley thinks the world of you.’

  Beth went quiet as if searching for the right words. ‘But don’t you see, Jack? How would you feel if I was head of a large school and you remained a village headteacher – particularly as you’re a better headteacher than I could ever be.’

  I held her hand and squeezed it gently. ‘Beth, that wouldn’t trouble me because … I love you.’

  ‘Oh, Jack,’ she said softly.

  ‘Look, I’ve an idea,’ I said. ‘Why not apply to do a Master’s Degree in Primary School Management at Leeds University?’

  ‘But how would I fit it all in?’ asked Beth.

  ‘You could do it part-time over a couple of years and then I think you have a year to do the final dissertation.’

  ‘It sounds like a lot of work.’

  ‘It is, but if that’s what you want, then go for it and I’ll be there to support you.’

  ‘Jack, it’s a wonderful idea.’

  ‘So,’ I said, standing up, ‘before we organize this wedding … I’m starving – how about Sheila’s famous battered cod and chips?’

  Beth grinned. ‘Perfect … and maybe a nightcap back at Bilbo Cottage.’

  Ruby hurried past me as I was placing my order. ‘G’night, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.

  ‘Good night, Ruby. Have a good weekend,’ I said, but she had already gone.

  Outside, Ruby walked to the old bench at the side of the duck pond and sat down. She needed fresh air and time to think. Ronnie was propping up the bar and spending her hard-earned money. She knew it wouldn’t change. The good thing was she had been blessed with children and she wouldn’t swap them for all the tea in China. So maybe life wasn’t so bad after all. If she had gone off with that Seaside Johnny, life would have got complicated and she didn’t know what would become of her family. Little Hazel had given her a painting she had done at school and Ruby had taped it to the fridge door. It showed Ruby, Ronnie, Andy, Racquel, Duggie, Sharon, Natasha and Hazel all in a line and all holding hands.

  Ruby sat back, stared up at the darkening night sky and dabbed her eyes with her frayed handker
chief. Then she thought to herself that some things in life are more important than others. Butlin’s redcoats might come and go … but a family is for ever.

  Chapter Four

  Forgotten Harvest

  Arrangements for tomorrow’s Harvest Festival were confirmed at the staff meeting. We were informed that the new bishop would be accompanying Revd Evans at the service in the school hall.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Tuesday, 20 October 1981

  ‘It’s a Still Life drawing class,’ said Vera, replacing the staff-room telephone and checking her neat shorthand on the spiral-bound notepad. ‘At least, that’s what it sounded like. Madame Laporte still has a distinctive French accent, even after all these years.’ Then she stirred her Earl Grey tea thoughtfully. ‘That should be perfect,’ she added.

  ‘You mean drawing fruit and veg,’ said Sally, looking up from her last month’s issue of Cosmopolitan magazine. The article ‘Sexual jealousy is agony but you can use it to improve your love life’ had definitely been worth reading again.

  Vera frowned. ‘Yes, Sally … but I’m sure the members will find it very stimulating.’

  The ladies of the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute met in the village hall on the third Wednesday of each month and it was the highlight of Vera’s busy life. Madame Jacqueline Laporte, the French teacher from Easington Comprehensive School, had stepped in at the last moment to organize an alternative event. This had followed the sad demise of Miss Edith Fawnswater, an eminent speaker from Bridlington, who had cancelled her talk entitled ‘The Quickstep Made Easy’ owing to painful blisters on her feet.

  ‘Well, you won’t be short of subject matter,’ said Anne. ‘After the Harvest Festival, all the produce is being taken to the village hall for distribution to the poor and needy.’