06 Educating Jack (16 page)

‘Thanks,’ I said hesitantly. The sign said
HOME-MADE MINCE PIES
… it just didn’t say
when
. ‘I’ll try one.’

Dorothy turned to Little Malcolm. Her butterfly brain had already thought of something else. ‘An’ Malcolm, did y’see Princess Diana in that lovely ballgown?’ she said.

‘Ah don’t think so,’ said Little Malcolm vaguely.

‘Y’know … when she went to see that film wi’ that Indian feller wi’ a bald ’ead an’ sandals?’ continued Dorothy.

‘Gandhi,’ said Little Malcolm helpfully.

Dorothy looked puzzled. ‘Y’mean that little reindeer in Walt Disney whose mam got shot?’

‘No, not
Bambi
…
Gandhi
,’ said Little Malcolm. ‘That Indian who wanted to be equal wi’ us.’

‘Never ’eard of ’im,’ said Dorothy. ‘Why, what’s ’e been in?’

Nora looked up from shaking icing sugar through a sieve on to the plate of mince pies to give them a more appetizing appearance. ‘’E’s not
been
in owt, Dowothy,’ she said. ‘’E were a webel.’

‘Like Johnny Rotten?’

‘No, not that kind o’ webel,’ retorted Nora. ‘’E wanted to get wid o’ all t’Bwitish in ’
is
countwy so all t’Indians ’ad equal wights.’

‘Oh, ah see,’ said Dorothy. ‘Well if ’e comes in ’ere
ah’m
not serving ’im.’

Escape was the only option, so I picked up the coffee and mince pie, paid quickly and retreated to the nearest table.

That afternoon Beth said she wanted to wrap some presents, so I went alone to the Crib Service at St Mary’s Church. When I arrived it was already packed with children from both Ragley and Morton, many of them in costume for the traditional Nativity play. Sally, Jo and Anne were busy arranging the school choir in order of height so that their parents could see them all from the pews. I enjoyed the feeling of not being in charge and relaxed at the back next to Sue Phillips. Joseph, as always on these occasions, was on good form and all went well.

After the service Anne popped her head round the vestry door. ‘Any news of Vera, Joseph?’ she said quietly.

Joseph nodded and suddenly looked quite sad. ‘A very brief telephone call,’ he said. ‘All appears well and she asked me to pass on her love to everyone.’

Then he brightened up. ‘And she’ll be back tomorrow. I’ve been invited to have Christmas dinner with them and stay overnight at the Manor.’

Anne smiled and, to Joseph’s surprise, she gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘You have many friends, Joseph – never forget that.’

When the church was finally empty and all that could be heard was the ticking of the clock in the church tower, Joseph sat alone on one of the empty pews and prayed for peace on earth and goodwill to all men … but mainly for his sister.

That evening Beth seemed full of life again and suggested going to The Royal Oak for some hot food and a drink. The cold breath of winter froze our bones, but the bright-orange lights were welcoming and I was looking forward to a pint of Chestnut Mild and one of Sheila’s gammon and egg Specials.

‘Would you like a glass of white wine, Beth?’ I asked.

Beth paused and thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think I will, Jack,’ she said. ‘Just a soft drink.’ She found a quiet table and I waited my turn at the bar. All the familiar folk were there, enjoying an evening in the cosy warmth under the bright Christmas decorations hanging from the ancient beams.

Old Tommy Piercy was sitting on his usual stool beneath The Royal Oak’s most prized possession: an autographed photograph of Geoffrey Boycott. ‘How are you, Mr Piercy?’ I asked.

‘Fair t’middlin’, thank you, young Mr Sheffield,’ said Old Tommy through a haze of Old Holborn pipe tobacco. Along with the football team, he was staring intently at the television set above the taproom bar. Olivia Newton John, in a headband and skintight Lycra, was performing sexy aerobics in a gymnasium while singing her hit song ‘Physical’.

‘Fit as a butcher’s dog,’ said Derek ‘Deke’ Ramsbottom, local snow-plough driver, occasional farmhand, pub singer and father of Shane, Clint and Wayne. In the taproom of The Royal Oak political correctness was a far-off dream and everyone nodded. After all, in the eyes of the Ragley Rovers football team, this was the ultimate accolade any Yorkshireman could give to a woman.

‘She’s norra patch on your Sheila,’ said Old Tommy to Don the barman.

‘Y’reight there,’ said Don appreciatively.

‘She looks a reight ball o’ fire,’ said Old Tommy.

‘Y’not far wrong. She were allus sex-mad, were our Sheila,’ said Don. ‘Ah were knackered on ’oneymoon.’

‘Ah sympathize, young Donald,’ said Old Tommy, sucking thoughtfully on his old briar pipe and tamping down the tobacco with his thumb. He leant forward conspiratorially. ‘An’ ah’ll tell thee summat f’nowt. Me back’s nivver been t’same since ah relieved Co-op Clara o’ ’er corsets under Bridlington pier in nineteen thirty-two.’

Don looked down the bar where Sheila was serving another customer. ‘An’ she’s got ’er John Wayne bra on tonight.’

‘’Ow d’you mean?’ asked Deke.

‘Y’know,’ said Don, ‘’ead ’em up an’ move ’em out.’

‘That were
Raw’ide
wi’ Clint Eastwood,’ said Deke. ‘We named our Clint after ’im.’ Then he suddenly burst into song: ‘
Rollin’, rollin’ rollin’, though they’re disapprovin’, keep them doggies movin’, raw’ide
.’ Finally he supped deeply on his pint of bitter and nodded knowingly. What Deke didn’t know about cowboy songs wasn’t worth bothering about.

Deke nodded towards Beth. ‘Ah’ve got a brace o’ pheasants f’your good lady, Mr Sheffield,’ he said. ‘Ah’ll drop ’em round when ah’m passin’.’

I had come to love this village and the generosity of spirit. ‘That’s very kind, Deke,’ I said.

‘Least ah can do f’teaching my Wayne t’read,’ he added with a grin. ‘An’ ah’ve gorra
cock
pheasant,’ he continued. ‘Ah call ’im Fritz. ’E comes roun’ ev’ry morning an’ eats all t’crumbs scattered round t’bird table. Mind you, ah don’t actually
own
’im, so t’speak, but as good as ’cause ’e allus comes t’my bird table first and then goes t’nex’ door an’ so on.’

I was unsure how to reply. ‘That’s interesting, Deke,’ I said as Sheila arrived and served my drinks.

‘Y’can’t beat a game bird f’Christmas, Mr Sheffield,’ said Deke.

‘So ah’ve ’eard,’ said Sheila, winking at me.

* * *

On Thursday I rose early and drove into York. The distant hills were a patchwork of grey, white and silver in the first rays of a cold dawn. The land was waking on this winter morning and I had to buy a present for Beth. Shopping has never been my favourite activity, more a functional necessity, so I decided to keep it short and sweet: Boots the Chemist, followed by a jeweller’s in Stonegate.

In Boots, I bought a canister of Erasmic Superfoam Shaving Lather for me and some Harmony hairspray for Beth. A young woman was demonstrating a range of cosmetics behind the counter and I joined the group of interested spectators. She held up each product as if she had just discovered penicillin.

‘First of all, I empty my face of shadows under the eyes,’ she said, holding up a Rimmel Hide the Blemish cover-up stick. ‘A bargain at sixty-four pence,’ she added triumphantly. ‘Then I get bright, wide eyes by putting white liner inside the lower lashes using my Boots No. 7 Two-Timer … it’s brilliant.’ She fluttered her eyelashes to give everyone the full benefit. ‘And for the final flourish for a special night out, go for gold on the lips using the wet technique with Ultima II Pure Gold. Mind you, it’s over a fiver so y’need to go careful.’

I bought the first two but, with memories of the Bond film
Goldfinger
, I discarded the idea of golden lips. I also bought an Estée Lauder ‘Great Make-Up Organizer’ and, from the jeweller’s, a locket on a chain. It took forty-five minutes and, feeling very self-righteous, I drove home.

* * *

Meanwhile, back at Bilbo Cottage, Deke Ramsbottom, ruddy face wreathed in smiles, was in conversation with Beth. He had removed his stetson when he saw it was her that answered the door.

‘Here y’are, Mrs Sheffield, summat for t’pot,’ he said. ‘Our Wayne were a beater at t’last shoot.’

He held up a brace of pheasants in his giant fist and Beth avoided recoiling at the sight of the lolling heads and broken wings. ‘Ah, er, thank you very much, Mr Ramsbottom. Jack will be thrilled.’

‘An’ so ’e might be,’ said Deke proudly. ‘These are proper beauties, tha knaws.’

Three miles away another Christmas present was being received with similar enthusiasm. Anne heard the words that she dreaded when John walked in from the garage with his latest
Do-It-Yourself
magazine.

‘Anne, I’m going to build you a dream bedroom.’

‘But I’m happy with what we’ve got,’ she said as she prepared a casserole.

John Grainger was trying to make a bedside unit using only two lengths of Contiplas white board. The instructions were difficult to say the least and resembled the assembly of a NASA space shuttle. He had also decided to use his new state-of-the-art Lutz circular saw bench with a frighteningly large saw-blade that looked as though it was a prop from the latest James Bond film. It had cost £165 and Anne did wonder if it would have been cheaper to go to the Cavendish furniture store and simply buy a set of drawers.

* * *

As the evening wore on, the last two customers of the day arrived in Diane’s Hair Salon. This was her busiest time of the year and both chairs were occupied.

As usual, Nora Pratt wanted something special for Christmas. ‘Ah wanna Carly Simon,’ said Nora.

Diane frowned. ‘Y’mean ’er wi’ teeth like Red Rum?’

‘Yeah, but ’er ’air’s nice … sort of natural.’

Diane took a deep breath. ‘Fair enough, Nora, a Carly Simon it is then.’

Amelia Duff had also called in from the Post Office for a shampoo and set. Amelia was less demanding. ‘I don’t mind, Diane,’ she said, ‘just the usual please, but I haven’t got all that long. I’m seeing Postman Ted tonight.’

‘No problem, Amelia,’ said Diane. With her state-of-the-art accelerator, drying time for highlights had been cut considerably. Also, her range of silver-minx and deep-slate setting lotions meant she had moved into the Eighties. Even so, there was need for caution. Her customers always appreciated her
traditional
procedures. So, with the confidence of over thirty years’ experience, she sprayed Yorkshire Pale Ale on Amelia’s hair as a setting lotion before attaching her outsize plastic rollers.

When she had a few minutes to spare, she made Amelia and Nora a cup of coffee and sat on the bench seat in the corner. She leaned back, lit up a John Player King Size Extra Mild cigarette, took a contented puff and, out of politeness, blew the smoke towards the closed window. ‘So, ’ow’s that postman o’ yours, Amelia? ’E seems t’be gettin’ ’is feet under t’table.’

‘He’s a lovely man, is Ted,’ said Amelia cautiously.

‘Vewy wegular,’ said Nora.

‘So ’ah’ve ’eard,’ chuckled Diane.

Amelia blushed furiously but said nothing.

On Christmas Eve I left Beth making preparations for our Christmas dinner and drove to Easington. It seemed as though everyone from the surrounding villages had crowded into the cobbled market square for the Christmas Fair. The tree next to the War Memorial was brightly lit and, from the loudspeaker outside Santa’s Grotto, ‘Orville’s Song’ blasted out, much to the dismay of the majority of the adults. The ventriloquist Keith Harris and his duck, Orville, were rising up the Christmas charts and the shopping public fervently wished the little green puppet would soon be able to fly … preferably far away.

Inside Santa’s wooden hut, five-year-old Katie Icklethwaite was looking a little crestfallen. ‘Hello, Santa,’ she said.

‘And what’s your name, little girl?’ said Santa.

‘Katie. What’s yours?’

‘Oh, Kevin … er, I mean Santa,’ he replied. Santa wasn’t used to such forthright children. Kevin Bicker-staff had volunteered at the Rotary Club to be this year’s Santa and, after twenty-five years as an estate agent, he was hoping to experience the feeling of being
liked
for the first time.

‘And what do you want for Christmas?’ asked Santa.

‘Can’t tell you,’ said Katie.

‘Why not?’ asked a puzzled Santa.

‘It’s a secret,’ said the little girl.

‘But you can tell me … I’m Santa.’

‘Well Santa,’ said Katie, ‘ah did want a Barbie doll, but not now.’

Santa looked surprised. ‘And why don’t you want it now?’

‘Because I saw exactly the one I wanted at the back of the cupboard under the stairs.’

Mrs Icklethwaite, in the doorway of the grotto, muttered a quiet expletive, thanked Santa and hurried out.

Next in line was eight-year-old Ben Roberts, who had his heart set on the action bike of 1982. ‘Ah’d like a Raleigh BMX Burner, please, Santa,’ he said.

Santa had heard of a bunsen burner, but not this one. ‘Well, er, I’ll ask Rudolph,’ he said guardedly.

‘Why? ’As ’e got one?’ asked Ben.

Kevin suddenly felt a headache coming on and, as he searched in his pocket for a bottle of aspirin, he realized what his customers must have felt like when dealing with their local estate agent.

Later, back at Bilbo Cottage, as darkness fell Beth and I sat on the sofa drinking tea and watching a wonderful animated film called
The Snowman
, based on the lovely Christmas story by Raymond Briggs. At the end, as the credits rolled, the little boy knelt beside the melted snowman. He was clutching his scarf, a present from Father Christmas, and I had a lump in my throat as I recalled the Christmases I had experienced as a child. For me it had always been magical and I regretted that, in the busy world of adulthood, this was often forgotten. When it ended I wished that I had recorded it and hoped it would be repeated, especially as I was now, at long last, an expert at using the video recorder I had purchased last year.

Christmas Day was a morning of silence and light, the dawn of a new white world. A flurry of snow had covered the distant fields and I paused to take in the beauty of the Yorkshire landscape. It was a very special time for us, our first Christmas together, and we sat in the lounge by a roaring fire and opened our gifts … a scene replicated in other homes.