Authors: Jack Sheffield
There was silence while we ate, apart from birdsong and the whisper of the trees.
Mrs Starkey smiled as I tucked into my unusual breakfast. ‘Our Joe does a good bit o’ kel an’ stinger,’ she said proudly.
‘It’s delicious, Mrs Starkey, and eating in the open air makes it taste even better.’
She smiled and everyone appeared to relax.
A large enamel mug of a fresh-ground coffee I had
never
tasted before was to follow and the conversation began again.
‘We’re allus movin’,’ said Mr Starkey.
Mrs Starkey collected the plates. ‘Every week there’s a new village, a new river, a new field,’ she said.
‘It’s in the blood,’ said Mr Starkey. ‘We’ll never change.’
The passing of time was forgotten as we exchanged stories. It was clear that Joe had grown up to be proud of his cultural inheritance. Story-telling formed the building bricks of his life and, piece by piece, he learned the traditions of his extended family.
‘Ah got this when ah sold m’first ’orse, Mr Sheffield.’ He pointed to a bracelet on his wrist. ‘It’s a band o’ gold,’ he said proudly.
I noticed that Mrs Starkey had gold coins woven into her black hair and she told me that this tradition, along with her dark complexion, came from one of her ancestors: namely, an Egyptian princess. I learned that they could speak a version of the Romany language, a mixture of Sanskrit words and Elizabethan rhyming slang. Among gypsy families, I was told, Mrs Starkey had a reputation for fortune-telling and performing feats of simple magic.
Soon, it was time for me to leave and I gave Mrs Starkey and Joe a lift into Ragley and dropped them outside the school gate.
‘Good luck with all y’chavvies,’ said Mrs Starkey, with a smile.
‘It means “little children”,’ said Joe helpfully.
As Mrs Starkey walked up the school drive, I heard Mrs Brown shouting in a voice that carried across the playground, ‘We don’t want no gypsies ’ere, thank you very much. Y’can’t trust them lot.’
Mrs Starkey simply lowered her head and walked on. I admired the passive way she dealt with such a cruel taunt and I reflected on how little Winifred Brown knew about this proud lady and her family.
That afternoon, as Joe Starkey was leaving school, I was standing in the playground.
‘Bye, Mr Sheffield,’ shouted Joe. ‘Thanks for a good day.’
‘See you when you get back from the fair, Joe,’ I shouted back.
He gave me a wave and that familiar happy smile and walked off into the distance.
Three weeks later, during afternoon playtime, Anne and I were in the school office, checking the results of the Schonell Word Recognition Test for every child in the infants’ classes. The telephone rang and Anne picked it up.
‘It’s Roy Davidson,’ she said.
Five minutes later, I replaced the receiver and put my head in my hands.
‘What’s wrong, Jack?’ she asked.
I found it difficult to form the words. ‘He’s not coming back, Anne … I’ve failed Joe.’
Anne closed the door between the office and the staff-room, sat down in Vera’s chair and turned to face me.
‘How
can you say that, Jack? You did everything you could.’
‘I should have taken his father to see the secondary school. He might have become aware of the opportunities there.’
‘Jack, don’t you see? It’s their culture. You’re not going to change that overnight.’
‘I just feel I could have done more.’
There was silence between us. On the office wall, the clock ticked. Outside, on the school field, children played. Their yells of laughter floated on a midsummer breeze and I wished that Joe Starkey could have been among them.
‘Jack … Jack.’ Anne’s voice was insistent. ‘Joe Starkey is a good boy. He’s honest and hardworking. But more than that, he’s happy. He has a loving family and he’s learning a different set of skills. Who are we to say what’s right and what’s wrong?’
I had never heard Anne speak to me in this way before. She was determined to make me understand.
‘But to me, education is so important, Anne. You, of all people, know that.’
Anne stood up and looked out of the window. ‘Come here, Jack,’ she said.
I stood up and walked to the window.
‘Look out there. We have more than eighty happy children. But how many can shoe a horse? How many can survive outdoors in cold weather or do complicated mental arithmetic? How many can hammer metal or cook breakfast? Joe has skills that most of these children can
only
dream about. There are different kinds of education. So don’t say you’ve failed. You did your best with the knowledge you have.’
This was a long speech for the usually quiet Anne and I smiled at her. ‘Thanks, Anne. I think I understand.’
‘So you should,’ she said, with a reassuring grin. ‘And now, Jack, it’s time for the bell.’
With that, she walked out and I wandered back to my classroom to teach long multiplication.
Many years later, the local council dug up the little grassy glade where I first saw Joe Starkey. They replaced it with black tarmac and a sign that read ‘Picnic Area’. It is featureless now, frequented by families who have no wish to venture far from their cars. An orderly row of identical garden-centre tables stand under the mature sycamores and a large, rectangular wire-mesh basket now occupies the exact spot where Joe’s camp fire burned merrily.
When the harvest is over and the farmers burn the stubble in their fields, the smell of smoke drifts across the road from Kirkby Steepleton to Ragley. On those late autumn days, I am often reminded of a long-ago morning when an eleven-year-old boy made me a breakfast I shall never forget.
Occasionally, I wonder what became of him and I imagine a man leading his horses down the main street at the Appleby Horse Fair. He would have long, wavy, black hair and a band of gold round his wrist. He would barter quickly and skilfully with a smile that would soften the heart of any horse-trader.
Then he would return to his caravan and, in the morning, he would light his fire and prepare a simple breakfast.
And, in the sanctuary of sycamores, he would enjoy his kel and stinger.
Chapter Nineteen
Engelbert and the Pet Show
I contacted Miss Celia Etheringshaw, the Special Needs teacher from Easington Comprehensive School, and invited her to visit Ragley to meet Michael Buttle, age 11, whom she will be supporting from September. Mrs Grainger and Mrs Pringle provided a collection of artwork from all classes to be displayed at the Morton and Ragley Agricultural Show on Saturday, 30 June
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 29 June 1979
‘
DON’T WORRY ABOUT
our Engelbert, Mr Sheffield,’ said Mrs Betty Buttle apologetically. ‘Ah’ve jus’ tied ’im t’school railings.’
‘Engelbert?’
‘Yes, our Engelbert ’umperdinck,’ said Mrs Buttle.
‘Englebert Humperdinck?’
‘’E’s got fleas.’
‘Fleas?’
‘You’ve gorrit now, Mr Sheffield. Our Englebert’s got fleas,’ said Mrs Buttle, with a reassuring smile. ‘Ah’m tekkin’ ’im to gerrit seen to.’
‘Who’s Englebert, Mrs Buttle?’ I asked.
‘Our Afghan ’ound, Mr Sheffield, an’ a reight beauty ’e is an’ all. Our Micky wants t’tek ’im t’tomorrow’s pet show.’
The interview with Mrs Betty Buttle hadn’t got off to the start I had expected.
It was Friday, 29 June, the day before the annual Ragley and Morton Agricultural Show, and the villagers were making final preparations, cleaning horse-boxes, picking choice vegetables and grooming pets. It was the biggest annual gathering of the year for the two villages and excitement was rising.
‘Anyway, it’s about your Michael that I wanted to see you, Mrs Buttle. So, thank you for calling in.’
I gestured to the spare chair in the school office and Mrs Buttle sat down. Michael Buttle was an affable eleven-year-old in my class but, in spite of all our efforts, he still had the reading age of a seven-year-old. I had decided to invite Miss Celia Etheringshaw, the Special Needs teacher from our local comprehensive school, to call in and meet Michael prior to his transfer to Easington in September.
‘So what’s our Micky been up to, Mr Sheffield? He’s allus been a good lad.’
‘I agree, Mrs Buttle,’ I said. ‘He’s a lovely boy, gentle and kind. It’s just that I’m still concerned about his
reading
. I think your Michael could do with extra special needs support when he goes to Easington.’
Betty Buttle immediately cheered up. ‘Ah allus knew our Micky were summat special,’ she said. ‘It runs in t’family. He teks after ’is Uncle Barry.’
‘Uncle Barry?’
‘’E were a painter an’ decorater,’ explained Mrs Buttle. ‘Y’should ’ave seen ’is ceilings. ’E allus used t’say, y’can keep that Michelangelo da Vinci and ’is Pristine Chapel. No one did ceilings like our Barry.’
‘Well, I must confess, Michael is good at art,’ I said, feeling a little confused. ‘It’s just that he struggles with reading and writing and he doesn’t seem to see the world in the same way as you and I.’
‘Neither did ’is Uncle Barry, Mr Sheffield,’ said Betty enthusiastically: ‘y’should ’ave seen ’is ceilings.’
Undeterred, I pressed on. ‘We need to find out what he’s really interested in, Mrs Buttle, and make special efforts to encourage him and find success before he moves on to Easington,’ I said.
Mrs Buttle pondered this. ‘Well, ah know ’e’s looking forward t’going t’big school,’ she said.
‘I’ve invited the teacher in charge of Special Needs at Easington to come and meet Michael. I was hoping you would come in as well.’
‘Who’s that, then?’ asked Mrs Buttle suspiciously.
‘It’s Miss Celia Etheringshaw,’ I said.
‘Ah know that lady,’ said Mrs Buttle, suddenly looking relaxed.
‘Oh, well, that’s good,’ I said, feeling reassured. ‘So,
how
do you know her, Mrs Buttle?’
‘Our Barry did ’er ceiling,’ she replied.
I took a deep breath, smiled politely and carried on. By the time Mrs Buttle had left we had resolved what to do with Michael and I had promised I would contact Barry if I ever needed my ceilings painted.
On this sunny morning, I was trying to make good use of a welcome free period by seeing a few parents. As we were a Church of England primary school, the Revd Joseph Evans was taking a Religious Education lesson with the top class.
Sadly, as usual, when the bell rang for morning playtime, Joseph looked glum as he walked back into the staff-room and trawled his way through a pile of exercise books. Jodie Cuthbertson had written: ‘Lot’s wife was a pillar of salt during the day and a ball of fire during the night’; Tony Ackroyd had written: ‘Noah’s wife was Joan of Ark’; and Dominic Brown insisted that ‘Solomon had 300 wives and 700 porcupines’. Worst of all, in Joseph’s eyes, but much to the delight of Sally Pringle and Anne Grainger, who were also reading the exercise books in the staff-room, Billy McNeill had written: ‘Christians only have one spouse, this is called monotony.’
‘Too true,’ said Sally, as she was reminded of her previous night’s boring conversation with her husband about the benefits of dove-tail joints, following his weekly woodwork evening class.
She and Anne excused themselves and set off to search for paintings and drawings that could be put on display
in
the children’s art marquee on Saturday morning. It was an onerous task, but one that the two of them had done for a few years now and the effort was always worthwhile. Each year, parents admired the work of their children and agreed that their little pride-and-joy was a future David Hockney.
All was almost ready for the grandest event in the village calendar. According to Ruby it was ‘a proper Yorkshire show’.
A short car journey up the Morton Road, alongside Major Forbes-Kitchener’s manor house and his daughter’s riding stable, there were vast acres of flat grazing land. Each year, since the 1920s, this had been the chosen site of the Ragley and Morton Agricultural Show. During the past week, on my way to visit Beth I had watched the giant marquees being erected and the show-jumping fences being positioned in the centre of the main show ring. As the week progressed, the activity had increased, so that by Friday afternoon all was ready.
It was also a big day for Vera and she had been tireless in making sure everything was in place in the Women’s Institute tent. I had been asked by the organizing committee to oversee the Pets’ Competition at one o’clock and work alongside Major Forbes-Kitchener, who was to be the judge. All we needed was fine weather.
Saturday morning dawned bright and clear. As far as I could see from my bedroom window in Bilbo Cottage, the landscape quivered in the sultry heat and, around me, the earth held its breath. There was an air of expectancy in
the
two villages as the big day arrived. Riding hats were being dusted, jodhpurs pressed, guinea pigs groomed, fresh lettuces picked and washed and, somewhere in Ragley village, an Afghan hound was enjoying his first day of flea-free living.
During the early morning, resplendent in her green sash, Vera was already organizing the competition displays in the Women’s Institute tent. Here, the fiercest inter-village rivalries would be played out in the afternoon and, as Vera put a neat label in front of a vase of fragrant sweet peas, she knew this would be the first big test of her Presidency.
I spent half an hour polishing my Morris Minor Traveller, as it was gradually becoming a ‘classic car’ and it caught the eye at shows like this.
The journey along the narrow lanes to Ragley was always a joy in summer. The cow parsley stood tall over the wild grasses, while the magenta bells of foxgloves competed for attention in the midst of unfurling bracken. Red Admiral butterflies danced among the nettles and the young tendrils of ivy invaded the dense quickthorn hedges. A reddish-brown grouse dashed across the narrow road on scampering, feathered feet and I swerved to avoid it. Eventually, I caught up with the traffic jam of horse-boxes, tractors and classic cars and we followed an old-fashioned, steam-driven threshing machine at a sedate pace into the show field.
It seemed as if all the inhabitants of both villages had descended on this small corner of ‘God’s Own Country’ and the bright-red uniforms of the marching brass band
and
the ladies in their summer dresses added colour to this special Yorkshire day.