06 Educating Jack (26 page)

Elisabeth Amelia was approaching the big finish with three words she had extracted from the
Encyclopædia Britannica
. ‘So, in conclusion, St George was
honourable
,
courageous
…
and chivalrous
.’ She smiled, gave a hesitant bow, resisted the Margaret Thatcher wave, and returned to her seat accompanied by generous applause.

Heathcliffe was impressed. ‘Ah want to be hon’rable, courageous an’ … an’ shiver-rous,’ he murmured to himself and ideas began to flicker through his young mind.

During lunchtime, Vera and Sally took all the girls from Class 3 and Class 4 outside to practise their maypole dancing on the village green. Sally had taught them well, but this was the first opportunity out of school and very different to dancing round a netball stand in the school hall.

In the centre of the village green, the maypole had been topped in the traditional manner with eight bell garlands and, from each one, a long coloured ribbon, provided by Vera, drifted in the light breeze. Sally turned on her battery-powered ghettoblaster and villagers from the houses on either side of The Royal Oak came out to watch. The practice went well and the onlookers applauded.

‘They’re a credit to you, Sally,’ said Vera, ‘and it will give such pleasure to so many people.’

‘Thanks Vera … but it wouldn’t have been possible without you and the major.’

Emily Cade was pushing her ninety-six-year-old mother, Ada, in a wheelchair and they had stopped to admire the performance. ‘Tradition,’ said Ragley’s oldest inhabitant, ‘y’can’t beat it.’

‘Emily, how’s your mother?’ asked Vera quietly. Everyone knew that Ada was stone deaf.

‘
Her mother
is learning to lip-read,’ said Ada, looking up from her wheelchair with a sly grin. ‘And don’t you forget it, young Vera Evans, or whatever it is y’call yourself now.’

Everyone laughed and a red-faced Emily released the brake on the wheelchair and hurried off to the chemist for Ada’s weekly prescription.

At afternoon playtime I was on duty and, not for the first time, I marvelled at the inexhaustible energy young children seemed to possess. Some of the older girls had decided to take a break from maypole dancing and were enjoying a more familiar pastime. A skipping rope was whirling round while they chanted:

‘
Jelly on a plate, jelly on a plate
,

Wibble wobble, wibble wobble, jelly on a plate
.

Pickles in a jar, pickles in a jar
,

Ooh! Ah! Ooh! Ah! Pickles in a jar
.’

After school I settled in the office for a long haul. There was a lot of paperwork to complete, so I arranged to meet Beth in The Royal Oak at seven o’clock for a drink and a meal. Then I stared at my in-tray. Yet another document had arrived from County Hall, this time concerning health and safety, and we had been asked to respond in detail. After reading the new regulations I began to think twice about some of the more adventurous outdoor activities we had planned. With a sigh, I filled my fountain pen with Quink ink and began to write.

Meanwhile, on Ragley High Street, Deke Ramsbottom was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. He walked with an extravagant bow-legged gait that passers-by assumed was his impression of the late John Wayne heading towards a gunfight. However, at that moment Deke would have preferred a gunfight to his current ailment. Piles were the bane of his life.

Fortunately there was no one else in the Pharmacy when Deke walked up to the counter. Eugene Scrimshaw, his Captain Kirk
Star Trek
outfit carefully hidden beneath his white coat, was in a jovial mood. He’d been in his loft, converted to resemble the Starship
Enterprise
, and had just installed an old Triumph Mayflower gearstick to represent a time-warp control lever. ‘What can ah do for you, Deke? Y’don’t look y’self,’ said Eugene.

Deke looked around furtively. ‘Eugene …’as tha got any arse cream?’

‘Vanilla or raspberry?’ replied Eugene, who loved his little jokes.

‘Y’know what ah mean, y’soft ha’porth,’ growled Deke.

Eugene passed over the tube of cream. ‘Here y’are,’ he said. ‘Go forth and prosper.’ He gave his Vulcan salute,
à la
Mr Spock, but there was no response from the good-hearted cowboy. ‘What is it, Deke? Is there summat else?’

Deke sighed and shook his head sadly. ‘It’s our Wayne,’ he said, ‘’e’s grown out of t’dragon costume. Three generations o’ Ramsbottoms ’ave worn that dragon outfit – an’ now it’s over.’

At that moment the bell rang over the shop door and Heathcliffe Earnshaw wandered in. ‘Ah’ve come t’collec’ me mam’s ’scripshun,’ he said confidently.

‘OK, son, jus’ wait there a minute,’ said Eugene and began to look under the counter.

‘We need a strong lad fur t’job,’ continued Deke and his eyes fell upon the young, sturdy Heathcliffe with his spiky blond crewcut, barrel-chest, socks round his ankles and scuffed shoes.

‘In fac’, jus’ like young ’Eathcliffe ’ere,’ said Deke.

‘Y’reight there, Deke,’ said Eugene. ‘Ah bet ’e’d fit perfec’ into t’dragon suit.’

Deke put his hand on young Heathcliffe’s shoulder. ‘Now then young ’Eathcliffe, ’ow d’you fancy earnin’ one o’ these new pound coins?’

Later, in the Earnshaw household a lively conversation was in progress.

‘What’s geography, Mam?’ asked Terry.

‘Ask y’dad,’ said Mrs Earnshaw as she put a splash of tomato sauce on Dallas Sue-Ellen’s chip sandwich.

‘What’s geography, Dad?’ repeated Terry.

‘
Geography?
’ replied Mr Earnshaw, not looking up from the sports page of the
Sun
. Oxford chairman Robert Maxwell wanted to merge his club with Reading to create the Thames Valley Royals and Eric Earnshaw shook his head in disbelief. ‘Er … ask y’mam,’ he said.

‘Ah’ve asked ’er, Dad. She said t’ask you,’ said Terry.

Mr Earnshaw looked at his little bristle-haired son and pondered for a moment. ‘Geography, well, er, it’s … it’s
places
, lots of ’em.’

‘Thanks, Dad,’ said Terry and reached for the tomato ketchup.

‘Mam,’ said Heathcliffe, ‘what’s ’
istory
? ’Cause we’re doing George an’ t’dragon.’

‘’
Istory?
’ replied Mrs Earnshaw. ‘Ask y’dad.’

‘Dad, what’s ’istory?’ asked Heathcliffe.

‘Ask y’mam,’ he replied.

‘She said t’ask you,’ said Heathcliffe.

Eric Earnshaw looked up, chewed his mushy peas thoughtfully and stared into space. He wasn’t used to being asked so many academic questions but, for the sake of his sons’ education, he was willing to impart a little wisdom. ‘’Istory …’istory, well, er, jus’ one thing after t’other.’

‘Thanks, Dad,’ said Heathcliffe. Curiosity satisfied, the boys decided to finish their meal with a mushy-pea sandwich. From the chipped plate in the centre of the table they each selected a doorstep-size slice of bread, spread it thickly with marge and, with the skill of experienced bricklayers, trowelled on a liberal filling of peas.

‘An’ Dad,’ said Heathcliffe, ‘ah’m gonna be a dragon t’morrow on t’village green f’St George’s Day.’

‘’Ow come?’

‘’Cause Mr Ramsbottom said t’costume fitted perfec’,’ explained Heathcliffe. ‘Ah’m in a pretend battle with Mr Coe.’

‘Ah don’t like ’im,’ said Julie Earnshaw. ‘Too big for ’is boots, that one.’

Eric Earnshaw looked up from a photograph of George Best in his AFC Bournemouth football shirt and closed the newspaper. ‘Who wins this battle then?’

‘St George does, Dad,’ said Heathcliffe.

‘Pity t’dragon didn’t come from Barnsley,’ he said with a grin.

Little Terry looked up from his sandwich. ‘But
we
come from Barnsley, Dad.’

Mr Earnshaw returned to his paper with a smile. ‘’Xactly,’ he said.

‘Ooh, our ’Eath in a dragon suit,’ said Mrs Earnshaw, ‘we’ll ’ave t’see this.’

When Beth and I walked into The Royal Oak, Big Dave, Little Malcolm and the football team were watching the news on the television above the bar. The newsreader was holding up a new pound coin.

‘Ah’ll miss pound notes,’ said Big Dave.

‘Ah will an’ all, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm.

‘Y’felt as though yer ’ad more money in y’pocket wi’ notes instead o’ these little coins,’ said Big Dave. ‘Ah mean a pound note were allus a pound note, but look at these,’ he slapped two coins on the counter, ‘jus’
loose change
.’

The newsreader moved on to the next item. He explained that someone had just made the first mobile phone call in America using an automatic cellular network.

‘Mobile?’ said Don the barman. ‘What’s ’e on abart?’

‘’E means wi’ no wires,’ said Chris ‘Kojak’ Wojciechowski, the Bald-Headed Ball Wizard. ‘Y’can walk abart wi’ it like a walkie-talkie.’

‘But ’ow does it work?’ asked Big Dave.

‘Dunno, Dave,’ said Kojak.

‘Meks no sense wi’ no wires,’ added Little Malcolm, scratching his head in puzzlement.

‘World’s changing,’ said Don.

‘An’ not for t’better,’ growled Old Tommy Piercy through a haze of Old Holborn tobacco. ‘Switch it off,’ he grumbled. ‘Whatever ’appened t’
conversation
?’

Don the barman stretched up his massive ex-wrestler’s frame and switched off. ‘Nah then, Mr Sheffield,’ he said, ‘ah saw all t’little uns doin’ that pole dancing t’day.’

‘They looked reight professional, Mr Sheffield,’ said Sheila. Then she glowered at her husband. ‘An’ it’s
maypole
dancing, y’daft ha’porth, not
pole
dancing. Now what’s it t’be, Mr Sheffield?’

‘A pint of Chestnut and a tonic water, please, Sheila,’ I said, glancing up at the Specials blackboard, ‘and two chicken and chips in a basket.’

‘Coming up,’ said Sheila. ‘And ’ow’s Mrs Sheffield?’

‘Fine thanks,’ I said. ‘She’ll be there tomorrow helping on one of the stalls.’

‘Well she mustn’t overdo it,’ said Sheila knowingly. ‘No ’eavy lifting.’

Don placed my frothing pint on the bar. ‘That Stan Coe’ll be cavortin’ abart wi’ ’is wooden shield an’ ’is sword again,’ he said.

‘’E’s sort o’ person y’like better t’less y’see of ’im, if y’tek m’meaning, Mr Sheffield,’ said Sheila and hurried off to the kitchen.

On Saturday morning I looked out of the kitchen window of Bilbo Cottage. The heady scent of wallflowers filled the air, grape hyacinths bordered the path and the tight buds on the apple tree were waiting for the certainty of frost-free days before bursting from their winter cocoons.

Kenny Everett was singing his hit record ‘Snot Rap’ on the radio, so I turned it off. The zany comedian’s ode to mucus was not exactly the best accompaniment to my morning bowl of porridge. Then Beth and I did some housework and I reflected that a pattern was developing with our domestic chores. I did the hoovering and polishing while she did the washing and ironing … and I wasn’t complaining. It was midday when we set out for the St George’s Day celebrations and Ragley village green was a hive of activity when we drove up the High Street.

Beth wanted to buy some doilies before helping out on the refreshment stall, so I pulled up outside the village hall. She jumped out, glanced at the large glass-fronted noticeboard and smiled. ‘Another one of Elsie’s classics, Jack,’ she said. Elsie Crapper’s notice read:
‘WOULD THE PERSON WHO TOOK THE STEP LADDER RETURN IT IMMEDIATELY OR FURTHER STEPS WILL BE TAKEN’
.

Beth hurried across the road while I drove further up the High Street and into the school car park. When I walked back to the school gates Vera was in conversation with Ruby and Old Tommy Piercy. ‘She talks a lot but says nowt, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby, pointing towards Deirdre Coe. Stan’s bossy sister was shouting orders to her group of friends. Her double chin wobbled and she looked annoyed. ‘Ah want a big circle o’ bales,’ she yelled, ‘f’my Stanley’s battle.’

‘Dull minds an’ sharp tongues allus go together,’ said Old Tommy.

‘Deirdre Coe’s responsible for the pageant, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera, shaking her head. ‘Goodness knows what that will be like.’ It wasn’t like Vera to offer such ungracious comments, but I understood her feelings. I really wanted to speak my mind but, as always, I was restricted by the yoke of professional correctness and I held my tongue. Deirdre was an unpopular member of the Ragley and Morton’s Women’s Institute and there had been rumours that her Best Bowl of Bulbs entry that won first prize in March 1973 had been purchased at Thirkby market. According to Vera, in the pecking order of deceit this was close to the top.

At that moment, Stan Coe’s mud-streaked Land Rover flashed by, its engine racing in a high-pitched whine. He glowered in our direction and parked outside the parade of shops.

‘’Orse power were a lot safer, Mr Sheffield, when jus’ ’orses ’ad it,’ said Old Tommy sagely and we all nodded in agreement.

Meanwhile, across the road, life went on as usual in Diane’s Hairdresser’s. Petula Dudley-Palmer was reading the April issue of
Cosmopolitan
and an article entitled ‘Work Out with Moi’ over a photograph of Miss Piggy. In answer to the questions, ‘Can you work out without creasing your clothes?’ and ‘Will you retain a fabulous figure?’ she shook her head in dismay. It was definitely time to invest in a home gymnasium.

‘What’s it to be, Petula?’ asked Diane.

‘Same as usual, please, Diane,’ said Petula. ‘Something to go with my Olivia Newton John headband.’

Outside on the pavement, Terry Earnshaw looked at the half pence coin in his hand and put it in his mouth. His pockets were full of holes. So, at that moment in his young life, it seemed a perfectly logical place to keep a precious coin. It would also buy a medium-sized gobstopper from the bottom shelf of Prudence Golightly’s General Stores.

However, at that moment, Stan Coe barged past and bumped heavily into Terry. ‘Gerrowt o’ m’way,’ yelled Stan as he hurried into the shop.

‘Warra rude man,’ muttered Mrs Earnshaw.

Heathcliffe glared at the red-faced farmer and vowed retribution. It was only when he looked at his little brother that he realized something was wrong. Terry’s eyes were bulging and his mouth was open.

‘Mam,’ said Heathcliffe, ‘summat’s up wi’ our Terry.’