08 Silent Night Page 7

  ‘It’s Laura,’ he said simply.

  I nodded and sighed. ‘She’s in Australia now.’

  ‘I know,’ said Tom, ‘but life’s just not the same without her.’

  I weighed my words. ‘Tom . . . she wanted a fresh start. You must know that.’

  ‘I do,’ he said, ‘but it’s difficult.’ He shuffled and stared up at the horse chestnut trees above our heads. A stiff breeze was tugging at the last of the curled brown leaves. Then he surveyed the school and the children playing. ‘I do like it here, Jack, and I appreciate the opportunity you gave me.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’ I asked.

  ‘Ragley holds too many memories.’ He looked down at his thick brogues and shuffled amidst the decaying, skeletal leaves at our feet. ‘So I’ve decided to spend half-term with my sister in London and then maybe later get a teaching job down there.’

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet, but I just wanted you to know.’

  I patted him on the shoulder. It was meant to be a reassuring gesture for a young man who was clearly troubled. ‘I appreciate you sharing this with me, Tom, and I do understand. I know that Laura going away was a bolt out of the blue for you.’

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘It was much more than that, Jack.’

  I was curious. ‘What do you mean?’

  He pushed himself away from the wall and turned to face me. Then he looked me squarely in the eyes and said softly, ‘Laura thought she might be pregnant with our child.’

  During the summer holiday Beth had confided in me and shared this story, but I remained silent.

  ‘It turned out to be a false alarm,’ continued Tom, ‘but it made me realize what I want out of life. I’m unsure what to do next, whether in London . . . or even one day in Australia.’

  Suddenly the bell rang for the beginning of afternoon school. ‘I’m sorry, Jack . . . but I’m just a little confused at present.’

  We walked back into school for the beginning of afternoon lessons, both deep in thought.

  Later that afternoon in St Mary’s Church, Joseph Evans was leading the wedding rehearsal. Derek ‘Deke’ Ramsbottom, local farmworker, occasional snowplough driver and singing cowboy in The Royal Oak, was the joint best man for both Big Dave and Little Malcolm. Nellie’s proud father, Billy, was giving his only daughter away, while Nora Pratt was doing the honours for orphan Dorothy. Local teenagers Claire Bradshaw and Anita Cuthbertson were the bridesmaids, while Deke’s three sons, Shane, Clint and Wayne, were the ushers.

  Joseph took them step by step through the service he knew so well – where to stand, when to kneel – and confirmed their choice of hymns; namely, ‘Praise My Soul The King of Heaven’ and Big Dave and Little Malcolm’s favourite, ‘Fight The Good Fight’, which they always sang with gusto.

  All went well. Finally, Big Dave and Little Malcolm took Billy and his wife, Audrey, to The Royal Oak, where they were staying overnight, while Nora, Nellie, Dorothy and the bridesmaids returned to the Coffee Shop.

  At the end of school the children were excited. Darkness was already falling as they scampered down the drive with thoughts of a one-week holiday, Halloween, bonfires and fireworks on the near horizon.

  In the cloakroom area of Anne’s reception class the youngest children were putting on their coats while a few parents were checking the Lost Property box for miscellaneous socks and wellington boots.

  Six-year-old Mandy Kerslake looked up at her mother and suddenly asked, ‘What’s sex, Mummy?’

  The enlightened Mrs Kerslake was a nurse at the hospital in York and considered herself to be a modern eighties woman. She crouched down and said quietly and precisely, ‘It’s what mummies and daddies do to make babies.’

  At that moment the heavily pregnant Mrs Freda Fazackerly walked past with her daughter Madonna.

  ‘Look, Mummy,’ Mandy shouted at the top of her voice. ‘Mrs Fazackerly ’as ’ad sex!’ and Mrs Kerslake hurried out, considering that perhaps in future there was a time and a place to be enlightened.

  It was late in the evening when the women in the Coffee Shop finished the last of Nora’s homemade champagne-and-brandy cocktails, the champagne direct from one of Shady Stevo’s trips to the Carrefour hypermarket in France.

  Later, Nora and Dorothy were sitting on the bed in Dorothy’s bedroom next to her bulging suitcase. ‘Ah’ll ’ave y’room weady f’y’when y’come back,’ said Nora tearfully, ‘an’ y’can ’ave t’upstairs bathwoom all t’y’selves. Wuby’s son, Duggie, an’ ’is mate are weawangin’ m’dwessin’ table an’ wa’dwobe in t’big bedwoom an’ ah’m tweating m’self to one o’ them en suites.’

  ‘Thanks, Nora, you’re a true friend,’ said Dorothy. ‘You’ve been like t’mother ah never ’ad.’ Since her parents had been killed in a road accident, Dorothy had spent ten years moving from one home to another until Nora had taken her in at the age of eighteen. ‘An’ ah love this room,’ she went on. ‘It’s nearest ah’ve ever ’ad to a proper ’ome.’ She looked round at the peeling wallpaper and posters of Shakin’ Stevens. ‘An’ when ah go away wi’ Malcolm, ah’ll miss you, Nora.’

  Nora wiped away a tear. ‘But you’ll be back soon . . . an’ it’ll be good ’aving a man about the ’ouse,’ she said. ‘An’ don’t forget – t’bathwoom is all f’you now.’

  Dorothy didn’t know the term ‘symbolic gesture’, but she understood it in her own way and gave Nora a big hug.

  The following morning the Coffee Shop was full of life and chatter and hairspray. Diane had come in early to do their hair and make-up.

  Nellie had chosen a curly Irene Cara while Dorothy had finally decided on an Agnetha Fältskog, while giving the benefit of her make-up advice to the very excited bridesmaids. She held up her magazine. ‘It sez ’ere, girls, that y’can “slim millimetres off y’features wi’ artfully applied blushers”, so ah’m gonna ’ave a go. Ah definitely want t’look like ’er in Abba.’

  Meanwhile, on the radio, Dave Lee Travis had just introduced the all-girl trio Bananarama and Claire and Anita were singing along to ‘It Ain’t What You Do It’s The Way That You Do It’.

  Life was a little more tranquil in St Mary’s churchyard, where the silk of spiders laced the shrubbery and the rooks cawed and wheeled above the high elms.

  As Beth and I drove up the Morton Road the early arrivals were already milling around the church grounds. Mrs Jackson and the twins were taking the shortcut past the vicarage along the winding path bordered by ancient gravestones.

  ‘Remember, girls,’ said Mrs Jackson, ‘we need to be quiet and respectful in the graveyard.’

  ‘Why is that, Mummy?’ asked the inquisitive Hermione.

  ‘Yes, what for, Mummy?’ added the logical Honeysuckle. ‘No one can hear us because they’re all dead.’

  What do they teach them these days? was the thought that passed through Mrs Jackson’s mind, although it was with a smile that she held their hands and joined the crowd at the front of the church.

  Beth was carrying John, eager to select a seat at the back in case our lively son became over-exuberant. Big Dave and Little Malcolm were standing in the ancient porch, smart in their new suits, about to walk in and take up their positions in the front pew.

  ‘Thanks f’comin’, Mr Sheffield,’ said Big Dave.

  ‘You’ve got a good day,’ I replied, looking at the cloudless sky. ‘And how are you feeling, Malcolm?’

  ‘Ah’m shittin’ bricks, Mr Sheffield,’ he blurted out and then glanced nervously as Vera had suddenly appeared and was pretending not to hear. ‘Beggin’ y’pardon, Mrs F,’ he added quickly.

  ‘Time to come in, gentlemen,’ said Vera with a knowing smile.

  The two brides arrived together in the back of Rupert Forbes-Kitchener’s Bentley and the crowd of villagers gave a collective cheer of appreciation as they stepped out.

  Dorothy looked like a tall, slim meringue in a dress with lots of horizontal frills. It was in
a daring off-the-shoulder style, with a plunging neckline that showed off her substantial cleavage to great effect. While the large Aquarius symbol on her Wonder Woman headband appeared at first sight a little incongruous, it did blend in with the signs of the zodiac surrounding her waist and the huge sparkly earrings in the shape of silver horseshoes.

  The short, compact, unfussy Nellie was relatively plain in comparison, with a simple, ivory-white dress designed to hang loosely from her prodigious bosom straight down to the ground. The overall impression from a distance was of a shiny Thermos flask.

  Soon Elsie Crapper was playing the Wedding March on the organ. Nellie led the way, accompanied by her father in his best suit and Barnsley FC tie, followed by Dorothy, with Nora at her side in her new royal blue hat with a brim like a flying saucer.

  By coincidence, Beth and I were sitting in a pew next to a small brass plaque in remembrance of a distant relative of Big Dave and Little Malcolm. It read:

  In loving memory of

  REGINALD ARTHUR ROBINSON

  Beloved son of Herbert and Charlotte Robinson

  Killed in action September 25th 1915

  Age 17 years and 6 months

  ‘THY WILL BE DONE’

  ‘Let us pray,’ announced Joseph, and Big Dave and Little Malcolm knelt down on the beautifully decorated kneelers, a gift to the church from the local Cross-stitch Club.

  He opened his Book of Common Prayer and recited the words that were so familiar, knowing deep down that they would never be addressed to him. ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony.’ As the ceremony progressed Joseph kept repeating himself as he turned first to one couple and then to the other.

  ‘Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah will,’ replied Big Dave in a commanding voice.

  Joseph turned to Little Malcolm. ‘Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?’

  ‘Ah will an’ all,’ added Little Malcolm nervously.

  Joseph smiled reassuringly at Nellie and Dorothy. ‘Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honour and keep him in sickness and in health . . .’

  Little Malcolm sneezed and Big Dave rummaged in his pocket and brought out a spotted handkerchief the size of a tea towel. He handed it to his diminutive cousin with a smile and Little Malcolm blew his nose loudly.

  ‘Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?’

  Nora stepped forward and the members of the congregation recalled that Dorothy had no family. ‘Ah do,’ said Nora, ‘an’ ’ere’s the wing.’

  Billy Lovelace also stepped forward. ‘Ah do an’ all, y’reverence,’ he said, ‘an’ ah’ve got a ring an’ all.’

  The two couples were asked to join their right hands, over which Joseph draped his white stole. ‘With this ring I thee wed,’ he said.

  And so it was that on this special day Ragley’s favourite refuse collectors were married and the sun shone down on the two couples as they emerged from the church. Clint Ramsbottom was taking his role of official photographer very seriously and was urging Big Dave and Little Malcolm to hurry up and concentrate on standing still and smiling.

  ‘C’mon, Malcolm,’ said Dorothy, ‘it’s not ’xactly Krypton Factor.’

  ‘M’face is ’urtin’ wi’ smilin’,’ pleaded Little Malcolm.

  ‘Stay there an’ try t’look ’appy, y’great lump,’ said Nellie. ‘You an’ Malcolm ’ave been faffin’ about like Pinky an’ bloody Perky.’

  Big Dave looked lost. The significance of being likened to a television puppet meant nothing to this son of Yorkshire.

  In the crowd Margery Ackroyd, the local gossip, was enjoying the moment. ‘Thing is, Betty,’ she said to Betty Buttle, ‘Malcolm’s ent’ring into ’oly wedlock wi’ someone a lot younger than ’im.’

  ‘Mind you, Margery,’ said Betty, ‘so did Charlie Boy wi’ Princess Di.’

  ‘Mebbe so,’ conceded Margery.

  ‘An’ ’e’s been courtin’ that lass for a few years now,’ added Betty for good measure.

  Margery had kept her pièce de résistance until last. ‘Yes, Betty,’ she whispered, ‘ah shouldn’t be tellin’ you this, but . . . they’ve ’ad more ’ot nights than ah’ve ’ad ’ot dinners.’

  The two couples left the church grounds in style. All the refuse collectors in the Easington area had lined up on either side of the path all the way to the lychgate to provide a guard of honour. Each man proudly gripped the metal handle of a dustbin lid as if they were Viking warriors holding aloft their shields. It was a dramatic send-off and Big Dave and Little Malcolm beamed in delight, while Vera looked on thinking, It takes all sorts.

  On the Morton Road outside the church, white ribbons and streamers were festooned on the Ragley dustbin wagon and the two teddy bears tied to the front bumper were both wearing frilly white dresses. In addition, one wore a Barbie doll tiara while the other looked the part in a Barnsley Football Club bobble hat. Big Dave and Nellie climbed in and led the procession of cars, with Little Malcolm and Dorothy in the gleaming Bentley close behind.

  The wedding breakfast in the village hall was a relaxed and lively affair with a few incoherent speeches on the stage, followed by loud music.

  Don and Sheila Bradshaw from The Royal Oak had set up a makeshift bar with a trestle table creaking under the weight of a barrel of Tetley’s Bitter and another of Chestnut Mild.

  I bought an orange juice for John, who seemed to enjoy playing under the refreshment tables, a white wine for Beth and a half of Chestnut for myself.

  ‘Y’know what they say, Mr Sheffield,’ said Sheila coyly. ‘Y’don’t know ’appiness ’til y’married,’ she glanced across at the massive frame of Don, ‘an’ then it’s too late.’

  Meanwhile Clint Ramsbottom, the resident Ragley village disc jockey, was playing Wham!’s ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’ as he drank a bottle of Budweiser.

  Old Tommy Piercy came over to pay his respects. ‘Y’lookin’ a fair treat, Mrs Sheffield,’ he said.

  Beth, in an elegant two-piece cream suit with her hair in a French pleat, smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr Piercy.’

  ‘And young John is comin’ on grand,’ he added as our son munched on a soggy crisp.

  ‘A good wedding, Mr Piercy,’ I said.

  Old Tommy puffed on his pipe and pondered. ‘Fair t’middlin’, Mr Sheffield . . . fair t’middling.’ This was the ultimate accolade from this blunt, rugged Yorkshireman and I smiled at his reluctance to heap a surfeit of praise on the proceedings. ‘Gi’ me t’old days back again,’ he continued with feeling. ‘Y’knew where y’stood then wi’ a pint in yer ’and an’ a shillin’ in y’pocket. Ah’ve no time f’these fancy compooters an’ all them little plastic cards that’ll get yer int’ debt. Mark my words – no good’ll come o’ them.’ He frowned in the direction of Clint Ramsbottom. ‘An’ we didn’t ’ave none o’ this so-called music . . . an’ German beer.’

  It was late in the afternoon when the two married couples finally tied their suitcases on to the makeshift roofrack of Little Malcolm’s car and drove down the High Street with assorted balloons tied to the back bumper for the start of their honeymoon.

  Eight days later they returned from Benidorm.

  None of them had a suntan . . . but they were all smiling.

  Chapter Five

  A Surprise for Sally

  The new music adviser, Miss Sarah Mancini, visited school to discuss a Christmas carol event in York in December.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Monday, 12 November 1984

  ‘How do you spell that, please?’ asked Vera. She was scribbling notes in perfect shorthand on her spiral-bound pad. ‘Yes, I’ve got that, Miss Mancini – and we shall look forward to meeting you.’

  It was Monday morning, 12 November, and outside the office window the first harsh frosts heralded the coming of winter. Vera was already busy behind her desk as I hung up my du
ffel coat and old college scarf.

  ‘Exciting news, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘We have a new music adviser and she sounds delightful.’

  Vera printed out a name on a paper off-cut and passed it to me. It read: ‘Miss Sarah Mancini, County Hall’.

  ‘Thanks, Vera,’ I said. I had seen the announcement regarding Miss Mancini in the recent North Yorkshire circular. She had been appointed from one of the London authorities and was clearly making her mark.

  Vera opened the desk diary and made an entry. ‘And she’s calling in this morning to introduce herself.’

  Just before 10.15 a.m. I was working with Charlotte Ackroyd, Ben Roberts and Victoria Alice Dudley-Palmer. They were calculating the volume of spherical shapes when suddenly Charlotte, without appearing to look up from her equation, announced, ‘Three-door Vauxhall Chevette coming up t’drive, Mr Sheffield.’ Charlotte knew her cars.

  A few minutes later, Vera tapped on my classroom door. ‘Our visitor, Mr Sheffield,’ she said quietly.

  A confident woman in an open-necked cream blouse and a striking grey pin-striped trouser suit walked in. She took in the bowed heads of the children and the hum of activity. ‘Hello, Mr Sheffield,’ she said in a hushed whisper. ‘What a busy classroom. I’m Sarah Mancini, the new music adviser from Northallerton. I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  At close to six feet tall, her dark brown eyes were almost on a level with mine. Her high cheekbones were flushed from the cold air and her raven-black hair was tied back in a flowing ponytail. I guessed she was about the same age as me, perhaps in her late thirties. We shook hands.

  ‘Good to meet you,’ I said, ‘and you’re welcome in the classroom at any time. The children are proud of their work, so do have a look if you wish.’

  Charlotte Ackroyd raised her hand. ‘Finished, Mr Sheffield – and ah’ve got it right,’ she announced with a confident smile.

  ‘This is Charlotte, Miss Mancini,’ I said. ‘She loves her mathematics . . . and she is in our school choir.’