08 Silent Night Page 9

  ‘Me or the soup?’ she asked with a tired smile.

  ‘How’s John?’ I asked.

  Beth cut a crusty slice off the fresh loaf, spread a generous portion of Lurpak and offered it to me. ‘He’s asleep – nodded off after his tea.’

  ‘I’ll pop up and see him,’ I said, biting hungrily into the fresh bread.

  Beth tugged my sleeve. ‘So how did your day go?’

  ‘Perfect,’ I said and hurried up the stairs.

  John was sleeping peacefully and I leaned over and kissed his soft cheek. He would soon be too big for his cot. Not for the first time it occurred to me that children proved expensive.

  When I came down two steaming bowls of soup were on the table.

  ‘Sounds as if you had a good day,’ said Beth.

  I smiled. ‘Guess what?’

  Beth looked up. ‘Go on, then – I know you’re dying to tell me.’

  I picked up my spoon. ‘The new music adviser came to Ragley today.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’re going to be on television!’

  A mile away the hamlet of Cold Kirkby comprised six terraced dwellings and a few farm buildings. Maggie Sparrow had worked hard during the past two years and the house was snug and warm, with cheerful curtains, simple furniture and a warm log fire.

  After supper, Maggie had read a story to Rosie, watched her fall asleep and was sitting downstairs when the telephone rang. She was expecting the call – Rosie’s father, Mark, ringing from Leeds.

  The conversation ebbed and flowed in a stilted way until they finally reached the subject of Rosie.

  ‘Mark, you should see her.’

  ‘Ah jus’ didn’t think it was fair ’avin’ two fathers in ’er life.’

  ‘The guy’s gone now and he’ll never come back.’

  ‘Ah ’ope not.’

  ‘It’s a fact, Mark. I made a mistake and, if you recall, things weren’t good between us.’

  ‘We were young.’

  ‘Why don’t you come and see her?’

  ‘Well, ah ’aven’t wanted to confuse ’er.’

  ‘You’re still using that as an excuse.’

  ‘Well . . . ah might come.’

  ‘I’m not telling her you might come, Mark. That wouldn’t be fair.’

  ‘Ah’m not sure, Maggie . . . she might not want t’see me.’

  ‘Mark . . . she’s saved all your letters and postcards. She does want to see you, and I don’t mind, really I don’t.’

  ‘But . . . what if she doesn’t like me?’

  ‘She will, Mark. Don’t be scared of coming to see her.’ There was a long silence.

  ‘Ah’ll see, Maggie.’

  Sally had enjoyed tea with her babysitter and at six thirty her daughter was ready for bed. Grace Alexandra Pringle, a bonny, ginger-haired little girl, was now three years and nine months old. She was shaking her wristband of bells and singing ‘Three Blind Mice’ when Sally’s husband, Colin, walked in. As a reformed smoker he was sucking a sherbet lemon as if his life depended on it.

  ‘Hello, my little princess,’ he said to Grace, picking her up.

  He kissed Sally on the cheek, then stopped and looked more closely at her. ‘I know that look,’ he said. ‘Come on – out with it!’

  Sally smiled. ‘I had a surprise today,’ she said.

  Colin was curious. ‘And are you going to tell me about it?’

  ‘Let’s just say that, very soon . . . you’ll be buying me a new dress.’

  Chapter Six

  A Date for Nora

  County Hall sent the document ‘A Vision for the Implementation of Computer Technology within a Core Curriculum for Small Schools in North Yorkshire’ to all village schools in the Easington area and requested responses from all headteachers. Preparations were made for the PTA Quiz Night in the school hall tomorrow evening at 7.00 p.m.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 30 November 1984

  Nora Pratt looked thoughtfully in the mirror. It was early morning on Friday, 30 November, and a special day awaited the owner of the village Coffee Shop. Nora had a date.

  However, first of all she had decided to do something about her sagging facial muscles. Her face looked lined and tired. Since Little Malcolm and Dorothy had moved into the bedroom next to hers, their energetic and vociferous lovemaking had necessitated the purchase of earplugs from Eugene Scrimshaw’s pharmacy. Even so, a good night’s sleep was a luxury she no longer enjoyed.

  Since reading an article in last month’s Woman’s Realm magazine while in Diane’s Hair Salon, she was determined to do a series of exercises every day. The first was to blow gently as if on a dandelion clock. This was not difficult; however, the second task was a little more involved. The intention here was to stretch the mouth and surrounding muscles and it involved repeating the sounds ‘Oooh, Aaarh, Eeee’ at regular intervals. Little Malcolm and Dorothy often wondered what Nora got up to when she made these apparently erotic sounds in her newly installed en suite, but thought it better not to ask.

  Finally, Nora brushed her teeth with Gordon Moores toothpaste for ‘a brighter, whiter smile’. At least that’s what it said on the packet, and they should know, she thought. Nora stared at her reflection. It was a long time since she had been out with a man and she wanted to look her best.

  It was morning break when I walked into the school office and Vera had just completed her late-dinner-money register.

  ‘Soon there won’t be any more of these,’ she said wistfully, taking a pound note out of her metal lock-up money box, holding it up to the light by the office window and staring at it.

  ‘Sad in a way,’ I said, ‘and more holes in my pockets from all the loose change.’

  ‘I wonder where it will all end,’ she murmured as she put the pound note back in the box. As usual, she would complete the dinner register in her immaculate cursive writing and deposit the money in the local bank in Easington.

  Chancellor Nigel Lawson had recently announced that the English green pound note was due to be phased out after one hundred and fifty years. The pound note had replaced the gold sovereign during the First World War, but it had served its purpose and men in sharp suits on the recent television news had informed us that the new pound coins introduced last year would last fifty times longer.

  ‘The end of an era,’ said Vera as she closed the lid and locked the box. ‘And I’ve put a copy of the reminder to parents about the Quiz Night on your desk, Mr Sheffield.’

  ‘Thanks, Vera,’ I said and picked it up. It read:

  PTA Quiz Night

  Saturday, 1 December, 7.00 p.m.

  Teams of four.

  £2.00 per team.

  Tea & Cake on sale.

  Raffle.

  Over coffee, I chatted with our supply teacher, Miss Flint, who was working in Class 3 during the morning session. Sally had gone to York for a meeting with Sarah Mancini regarding the Christmas Voices television programme. Miss Flint was a loyal colleague and a dear friend of Vera. She regarded herself as ‘old school’.

  Earlier, I had called into her classroom to check all was well. The children were working their way through a mathematics test in complete silence. Their faces were the picture of concentration as they completed a series of mental arithmetic problems. In Miss Flint’s classroom, a calculator was never in sight.

  Meanwhile, in Nora’s Coffee Shop the lunchtime rush hadn’t yet begun and Nora and Dorothy were chatting by the Breville sandwich toaster.

  ‘So what’s the panto this year, Nora?’ asked Dorothy. Nora always had the star part in the annual New Year’s Eve village pantomime on account of her having had a non-speaking part in Crossroads many years before.

  ‘It were either t’Sound o’ Music, Dowothy, or Dick Whittington,’ said Nora.

  ‘Ah like t’Sound o’ Music,’ said Dorothy, ‘wi’ all them nuns an’ leather shorts an’ mountains.’

  ‘Pwoblem were a wimple,’ explained Nora, ‘so we picked Dick Whitt
ington.’

  ‘A wimple?’ said Dorothy, puzzled. ‘Couldn’t y’rub some cream on?’

  ‘No, y’soft ha’po’th, it’s what y’wear on yer ’ead an’ it’ll spoil me ’airdo.’

  Dorothy nodded in acknowledgement and began to sway in time to Nik Kershaw’s ‘I Won’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me’ on the jukebox. ‘What y’wearin’ tonight, Nora?’ she asked.

  Nora picked up a copy of an old Cosmopolitan magazine from behind the counter and pointed to a photograph. ‘It sez ’ere, Dowothy, “the gwace of lace”, an’ all y’do is . . .’ Nora read it out loud, ‘“pin a piece of pwetty lacy matewial on to y’plungin’ V-shape neckline”.’

  ‘What for, Nora?’ asked Dorothy, who considered it would hide one of Nora’s best assets, namely her substantial bust.

  Nora studied the text carefully. ‘It sez “for that sexy touch of class”.’

  ‘It’ll look lovely, Nora,’ said Dorothy. ‘So . . . do y’think you’ll ’it it off?’

  ‘Ah dunno, Dowothy. ’E sounds t’be weally bwainy an’ ah’m, well, y’know . . . av’wage.’

  Dorothy looked down at the short, plump Coffee Shop owner with deep affection. ‘No y’not, Nora. You’re much better than that. An’ in any case, ’e’ll prob’ly like other things about you, such as y’personality,’ she said generously.

  Nora pondered this for a moment. ‘Mebbe y’wight,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘They do say opposites attwact.’

  After Mrs Mapplebeck’s warming and welcome school dinner of stew and dumplings, Tom and I went into the office to complete an important task.

  ‘Thanks for your help with this, Tom,’ I said. A weighty document had arrived from County Hall with an equally weighty title: namely, ‘A Vision for the Implementation of Computer Technology within a Core Curriculum for Small Schools in North Yorkshire’. The Education Committee had demanded a prompt response and it had proved a difficult task. It was clear that computer technology was advancing at a remarkable rate and would play a significant part in future curriculum planning.

  By 12.45 p.m. it was finished and ready for Vera to post on her way home. There was time for a breath of fresh air before afternoon school, so we put on our coats and walked down the drive to the school gate.

  ‘I’m pleased about the Computer Club,’ I said. ‘Great idea.’ Tom had started an after-school club and it was proving very popular.

  He gave a sheepish grin. ‘Just trying to keep up with the children, Jack,’ he said. ‘There’s at least half a dozen of them who have got their own computer at home now.’

  I leaned on the wrought-iron gate and shook my head in disbelief. On a teacher’s salary I couldn’t imagine owning one of my own. ‘By the way, Tom,’ I said, ‘Vera took a call from County Hall today about the school getting a colour monitor.’

  His eyes lit up. ‘That would add a new dimension, Jack . . . and I guess the black-and-white ones will soon be phased out anyway.’

  New technology was moving so fast that it was hard to keep up.

  We stood there in silence for a while as a cold wind sprang up and rustled the branches of the trees above our heads. It was a morning when the sun had forsaken the land and dark clouds hung like a mantle of gloom over the plain of York.

  ‘Penny for them, Tom,’ I said quietly.

  He looked up nervously with the pale shadow of a smile. ‘Sorry, Jack . . . miles away.’

  ‘So what’s on your mind?’ I asked.

  There was a long silence. ‘A few problems.’

  I sipped my coffee and looked out at the excited children running and sliding on the frozen playground. ‘Can I help?’

  He breathed out long and slow. ‘I was just thinking I’d made a mess of things.’

  I looked at him; he was clearly troubled. ‘We’re presumably not talking about work, because all your children in Class 2 are making terrific progress.’

  He sighed. ‘Thanks, Jack . . . but it’s not work. It’s life.’

  ‘Life?’

  He looked me square in the eyes. ‘And Laura.’

  ‘I guessed as much.’

  Above our heads a solitary rook cawed in the skeletal branches of the high horse chestnut trees. It was a sonorous, brittle cry . . . the sound of winter.

  ‘She’s gone now, Tom. Time to close that chapter in your life.’

  ‘And move on,’ he added.

  ‘Move on?’

  ‘Yes, Jack, a fresh start. Get my life back together again.’

  ‘You mean leave Ragley? You’ve only been here a year.’

  He shifted his feet. Anxiety was etched on his face. ‘They are still just thoughts, Jack . . . nothing more at present.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said. I glanced at my watch. ‘Time for the bell.’

  He nodded and straightened up. I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s talk again when you feel ready. Just don’t do anything in haste.’

  He nodded but said nothing, and we both walked slowly back into school.

  It was early afternoon when Dorothy took over in the Coffee Shop and Nora went next door for her appointment with Diane the hairdresser.

  ‘’Ello, Nora,’ said Diane. ‘’Ow’s Dorothy?’

  ‘Weally ’appy,’ said Nora as she settled in the seat in front of the large mirror. ‘She’s walking about like love’s young dweam.’

  Diane nodded knowingly. ‘Well, that’s good to ’ear, Nora, ’cause we both know she’s not ’xactly sharpest knife in t’drawer. In fac’, las’ time she were in, she thought t’capital o’ New Zealand were Bishop Auckland. But ah’ll say this for ’er – she’s picked a winner wi’ Little Malcolm.’

  ‘Vewy twue,’ said Nora.

  ‘’E’s ’onest as t’day is long,’ said Diane, a faraway look in her eyes, ‘an’ ’e’ll never be unfaithful,’ she added with feeling.

  ‘So . . . what’s it t’be, Nora?’ she went on, staring in the mirror at Nora’s tangled hair, which resembled a rook’s nest in a hurricane.

  Nora passed over a copy of Dorothy’s Smash Hits magazine and pointed to a group photograph of the stars of Fame. ‘Ah fancy an Iwene Cawa, please, Diane,’ she said confidently. ‘Ah want t’look special.’

  ‘Ow come?’ asked Diane.

  Nora took a deep breath. ‘Ah’ve gorra date.’

  ‘A date?’ said Diane. She stared into the mirror. This really was news.

  ‘Wi’ a man,’ added Nora for good measure. ‘A man?’

  ‘Yes, an’ ’e sounds jus’ wight,’ said Nora.

  ‘Why’s that then?’

  Nora smiled contentedly. ‘’E’s single, fifty-thwee an’ weally bwainy.’

  ‘What’s ’is name?’

  ‘Tywone Cwabtwee.’

  ‘Ah like Tyrone . . . very manly,’ mused Diane.

  ‘Ah’m meeting ’im outside Wowntwee’s t’night at seven o’clock,’ said Nora.

  ‘So, what’s ’e look like, this Tyrone?’ asked Diane.

  ‘Ah don’t know,’ admitted Nora with a first hint of concern.

  ‘So ’ow did y’get a date with ’im?’

  ‘From that Dateline in t’Easington ’Ewald.’

  ‘Y’mean that computer test?’ asked Diane. ‘Ah saw that.’ In fact, Diane had considered filling in the questionnaire but, as every man she had ever dated turned out to be an unfaithful two-faced so-and-so, she had decided to give it a miss.

  ‘Yes,’ said Nora, ‘an’ ah’m weally excited.’

  Diane nodded thoughtfully, walked away to the shelf unit by the window and checked the box of giant plastic rollers. It was common knowledge that, many years ago, Nora’s previous and only boyfriend had been Frank. She had loved him but he had left her for someone else.

  Diane was determined to give her neighbour the best Irene Cara she could possibly manage. It was clearly a big night for Nora and the Ragley hairdresser was determined to do her bit.

  Meanwhile, in the village Post Office, the postmistress, Amelia Duff, also had a date. Th
ere were no customers, so she popped into her tiny kitchen.

  She had purchased a copy of Woman’s Realm for twenty-four pence from Prudence Golightly and was studying the recipe for Marrow au Gratin. Amelia was making a special dish for Ted the postman. She was sure he was building up towards discussing marriage. Making love with him on her double bed after the second delivery on a Friday was the highlight of her week. However, they didn’t exactly talk a lot. A Friday-evening candlelit meal might encourage the quiet postman to open up. The fact that they had grown the marrow together had proved in itself a labour of love.

  As a young woman, Amelia had read the novels of D. H. Lawrence and often wondered about the earthy embrace of a gamekeeper. However, the Ragley village postman had eventually proved just as intoxicating. As she grated the large slice of Wensleydale cheese her thoughts wandered and she smiled.

  At the end of the school day I was reading the J. R. R. Tolkien classic The Hobbit to my class and they sat there in wonderment. I hoped that some of them would be inspired sufficiently to read The Lord of the Rings trilogy for themselves in the coming years. However, when the bell rang Charlotte Ackroyd had other things on her mind. ‘Mo Hartley’s coming to our house tonight, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘We’re gonna make some parkin pigs and then watch Blue Peter at five o’clock.’

  When you’re ten years old life is for living.

  Vera popped her head round the door. ‘Mrs Phillips to see you, Mr Sheffield.’

  Staff Nurse Sue Phillips, a tall, blue-eyed blonde, was waiting in the entrance hall holding a large box. Sue was the chair of the Parent Teacher Association and a wonderful supporter of Ragley School.

  ‘All sorted for tomorrow evening,’ she said breathlessly. Sue was always in a hurry and lived her life at breakneck speed. ‘I’ve got Albert Jenkins to be question master.’

  ‘Perfect,’ I said. Apart from being a school governor, Albert was probably the most knowledgeable resident in the village.

  ‘And look at this,’ said Sue. ‘I’ve just bought it in York. It’s a Trivial Pursuit game. It’s all the rage. Apparently everyone is buying one for Christmas.’ She put the box on the old pine table. The label read ‘Genus Edition’.