Authors: Jack Sheffield
The drive from Bilbo Cottage to Ragley village was hazardous and my car struggled in the sub-zero temperature. On either side of the narrow road the frozen trees looked unreal, as if sketched with a silver pencil
against
the vast grey sky. With some relief I skidded to a halt in the High Street, outside Prudence Golightly’s General Stores & Newsagent. As usual, Prudence had my copy of
The Times
ready for me and I frowned at the headline announcing that Mark Carlisle, the Education Secretary, was planning to make further cuts in school expenditure.
‘Happy New Year, Mr Sheffield,’ said Prudence with a smile.
Jeremy, her ancient, much-loved teddy bear and lifelong friend, was sitting on the shelf behind her in his usual spot alongside a tin of loose-leaf Lyons Tea and an old advertisement for Hudson’s Soap and Carter’s Little Liver Pills. Miss Golightly made all his clothes and on this frosty morning he sported a bright-red bobble hat, an Arran sweater, brown cord trousers and mint-green wellington boots.
‘Happy New Year, Miss Golightly, and a Happy New Year to you, Jeremy,’ I said.
Miss Golightly smiled appreciatively and then pointed to the display of biscuits and chocolates behind the jars of Seven Seas Castor Oil. ‘Would you like something for the staff-room, Mr Sheffield? They’re all reduced after Christmas,’ said Prudence, pointing to the packets of Brontë Biscuits, sumptuous boxes of Sarah Bernhardt Butter Cream & Fondant Fancies and a magnificent Rich Yorkshire Tea Loaf.
I couldn’t resist. ‘I’ll have one of each, please,’ I said quickly.
After she had packed them in a carrier bag, Miss Golightly stepped on to the higher wooden step behind the counter so that we were almost eye to eye. ‘And have you made a New Year resolution, Mr Sheffield?’
I glanced down at the rich assortment of biscuits and chocolates. ‘I’m going to get fitter,’ I said. I hurried out and the jangling bell on the door seemed to echo, ‘Oh, yes? Oh, yes?’
After parking in the school car park I tiptoed across the frozen cobbles, carrying my briefcase and carrier bag.
‘G’morning, Mr Sheffield,’ shouted Ruby, as she showered the frosty school steps with salt. She sounded in good spirits. ‘ ’Ave y’made a New Year resolution?’
‘Happy New Year, Ruby,’ I said. ‘Yes, I have. I’m going to try to understand women.’
‘Huh! Well, ah suggest y’don’t talk t’my Ronnie, cos y’won’t learn much from ’im,’ muttered Ruby.
As I walked into the staff-room, Jo sneezed loudly and I handed her the box of tissues.
‘Thanks,’ she said and blew her nose loudly.
‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘have you got a cold?’
‘Yes,’ said Jo with a sniff.
Anne walked in and quickly summed up the situation. ‘I’ll do your playground duty today, Jo,’ she said helpfully.
‘I don’t really mind,’ replied Jo and then sneezed again. ‘Oh no, I’m off to my classroom.’
Anne sat down and picked up her mug of coffee. ‘Jack, Shirley looked concerned this morning. Perhaps you should call in the kitchen.’
I remembered my New Year’s resolution. I would listen to her problem, show understanding and provide a solution. When I arrived in the kitchen, Shirley was writing out a menu and her assistant, the fiercesome Mrs Critchley, was emptying a huge sack of potatoes into a large aluminium bowl with effortless ease. Her muscles bulged and she stared at me as if I was an intruder.
‘Ah’m worried about t’school meals, Mr Sheffield,’ said Shirley. ‘Ah’ve brought the
Easington ’Erald & Pioneer
t’show you.’ The article said that the cost of school meals would be raised to fifty pence, so I could see why Shirley was concerned. Many parents in the village would soon be faced with a difficult choice.
‘Your meals are excellent, Shirley,’ I said, ‘and I’m sure the majority of parents will think they’re still real value for money.’
Shirley gave me a wan smile and shook her head sadly. It was when I looked at Mrs Critchley that I realized my resolution of understanding women might take longer than I thought. She flashed me a scathing glance and began peeling potatoes with the fervour of Sweeney Todd. I made a mental note to stay out of the kitchen for the rest of the day.
Back in the staff-room, Vera and Sally were looking at the front page of Vera’s
Daily Telegraph
. ‘It says here the government is determined to spend £500 million on an
M
25 motorway around London,’ announced Vera, ‘but there’s not enough traffic to justify it.’
‘I agree, Vera,’ said Sally. ‘Instead of a vast empty roundabout we need more investment in schools rather than closing them down.’ Anne and I looked up in surprise. It was unusual for Vera and Sally to agree. Then Sally pointed again to the front page. ‘Look at it,’ she said. ‘Russia has invaded Afghanistan, energy costs are rising, the standard of living is falling and every day there are new cuts in public services. We need Maggie to pull her finger out.’
Cordial relations dashed, Vera buried her head once again in her newspaper and Sally ripped open my packet of Brontë Biscuits with a vengeance. I stared hard at the Butter Cream & Fondant Fancies and wondered if I could resist. Anne, ever the peacemaker, answered the question for me by opening the packet on to a plate and handing them round. I told myself it would have been ungracious to resist.
There was a knock on the staff-room door. It was Mrs Daphne Cathcart, who was without doubt our strangest parent. With candy-floss pink hair, huge purple earrings that resembled mini hula-hoops, teeth like broken tombstones and a Darth Vader wheeze, she stood out from the crowd. Alongside her was a smaller version of her mother, ten-year-old Cathy, who was now in my class.
We had just purchased a new graded reading scheme called Ginn Reading 360 and Cathy was clutching one of the attractive and brightly coloured readers.
She held it up proudly. ‘Ah like reading, Mr Sheffield,’ she said with her usual boundless enthusiasm, ‘an’ my New Year resolution is t’get good at it.’
Mrs Cathcart looked proudly at her chip off the old block. ‘It’s all about positive thinkin’, Mr Sheffield,’ said Mrs Cathcart with a determined nodding of her head. ‘Ah read in my
Reveille
that this positive thinkin’ is the answer. It’s gonna change me life.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that, Mrs Cathcart,’ I said, staring fixedly at her nose to avoid the startling vision of her lurid pink hair and improbable teeth.
‘An’ ah’ve made me resolution, Mr Sheffield. Ah’m going t’stop blushing,’ she said.
‘Oh, I didn’t know you blushed,’ I said.
Mrs Cathcart immediately went puce, then leaned forward and whispered: ‘Ah’m goin’ to a ’ypnotist in York, Mr Sheffield. Ah’ve got an appointment. ’E’ll put me reight.’
‘Oh, er, well, good luck, Mrs Cathcart.’
‘Well, when you’ve made a resolution y’ave t’keep it,’ she shouted over her shoulder. ‘An’ our Cathy will keep ’ers with ’er reading, won’t you, luv?’
Cathy had her nose buried in her new reading book as they walked away.
It was a busy first day back at school but during the afternoon I called into Jo’s classroom to see how she was coping with her dreadful cold. She was checking each child’s writing about their New Year resolutions.
‘Thanks, Jack – not to worry, it’s nearly hometime,’ she said, while wiping her shiny red nose.
I looked down at Heathcliffe Earnshaw’s exercise book. He had simply written one word: ‘Peas’. It was to the point if nothing else. ‘So what’s your resolution, Heathcliffe?’ I asked.
‘Peas, Mr Sheffield,’ said Heathcliffe bluntly. ‘If ah crush ’em in potato they won’t taste as bad.’
It struck me that there was a lot to be said for having achievable resolutions.
Jimmy Poole was waving his hand in the air so I stepped in to help out. ‘Yes, Jimmy, what is it?’ I asked.
‘Ah want t’try my betht, Mr Theffield.’
‘That’s a good resolution, Jimmy,’ I said.
‘Ith jutht that I can’t alwayth be my betht.’
‘But as long as you try, Jimmy, that’s the main thing,’ I said.
Jimmy smiled, picked up his well-chewed HB pencil and proceeded to write.
Next to him, Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer was looking up the word ‘mistakes’ in her
Oxford First Dictionary
. She gave me a big smile and showed me her book. She had written, ‘I know I make a lot of mistakes but the more I make the cleverer I get.’
I was beginning to wish I had talked to Jo’s children before making my own resolutions. As I walked out I noticed Joey Wilkinson staring intently up at the map of England on the classroom wall. Puzzled, I glanced down at his exercise book. Joey had written, ‘I am going to be
good
to my great grandma cos my great granddad died. I asked her where he had gone. She said he’d gone to Devon.’
It occurred to me that the afterlife could be spent in worse places.
Meanwhile, at the far end of the village, Petula Dudley-Palmer was in heaven. Thanks to her monthly issue of
Cosmopolitan
magazine, her prayers had been answered and her New Year resolution was about to be achieved: 1980 would definitely be the year she would become a slim, athletic, bronzed beauty.
For the tiny sum of £7.95 + 75p post & packing from a far-away address in Surrey her Sensational Sauna Suit had arrived in the post. The suit had been designed by a famous ‘figure-culture expert’ (although it didn’t say who) and was made of soft, pliable waterproof fabric with airtight cuffs and wristbands. She had been assured that the suit would ‘create its own atmosphere’ when she did her exercises. All she had to do was wear it just like the slim goddess in the photograph while she did her dusting and hoovering. Although she had Ruby’s daughter, Natasha, doing a bit of cleaning for her twice a week, she was still left with a few household chores. So, after donning the suit in the privacy of her bedroom, she decided to polish a set of crystal glasses from the cabinet in the lounge.
* * *
In contrast, Clint Ramsbottom’s New Year resolution involved a life-style change. The eighties had opened up a whole new world of culinary delights. Supplementing his range of Monster Munch snacks was a choice between a new, revolutionary Golden Wonder Pot Noodle or a Batchelor’s Snackpot (curry and rice with chicken). His
Smash Hits
magazine told him the eighties would be a decade of sex, drugs and rock and roll. He was encouraged. There were only two left for him to experience. So starting off with a trendy carton of pot noodle certainly seemed a step in the right direction to achieve the status of the new-age man.
By Friday morning, the Revd Joseph Evans had accepted that his New Year’s resolution was in tatters. Joseph had decided he would make an effort to understand the world of children that up to now had proved to be a secret garden. In the middle of his Bible story with Anne’s class he paused and, with great gravitas, delivered the immortal line ‘And Jonah was swallowed by a whale’.
Terry Earnshaw’s hand shot in the air. ‘Ah’ve been t’Wales,’ he shouted.
‘So ’ave I,’ yelled Molly Paxton, not to be outdone. ‘We stayed in a caravan.’
And for the next ten minutes Joseph found himself involved in a discussion about caravan holidays.
During morning break we finished off the last of the Brontë Biscuits. By lunchtime, the boxes of Sarah Bernhardt Butter Cream & Fondant Fancies had been
emptied
and, during afternoon playtime, Sally shared out the Rich Yorkshire Tea Loaf. By the time Jodie Cuthbertson rang the end-of-school bell my trouser belt was straining and I vowed to begin my strict fitness and diet regime over the weekend.
Back at Bilbo Cottage, I was looking in my empty fridge when the telephone rang. It was Dan Hunter.
‘Hi, Jack. Fancy a pint?’ he said.
‘I thought you would be looking after Jo,’ I said.
‘No. Her mother’s just arrived and Jo wants me out from under her feet.’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Have you eaten?’
He read my mind. ‘How about a pie and a pint in the Oak about seven?’
‘Sounds good. See you there,’ I said. The diet could start tomorrow.
When I arrived in The Royal Oak, the football team had gathered as usual and Little Malcolm was facing a crisis.
‘Ah’m off t’York tomorrow wi’ Dorothy,’ he said.
‘What for?’ asked Big Dave abruptly.
‘It’s me resolution,’ said Little Malcolm meekly. He looked nervously left and right and then leaned over the table. ‘Shoppin’,’ he whispered.
‘Shoppin’ … wi’ a woman?’ exploded Big Dave.
The whole team stopped supping momentarily and stared at Little Malcolm.
‘It’s jus’ that ah promised ’er ah’d go.’
Then Big Dave gave Little Malcolm the worst insult any Yorkshireman could bestow on a friend – apart, of course, from calling him a southerner. He gave him his ‘big girl’s blouse’ look.
Little Malcolm recoiled but then tried to salvage some pride. ‘It can’t be that bad, Dave,’ he pleaded. ‘She says it’s t’January sales. Y’get stuff cheap.’
There was silence as the rest of the football team tried to accommodate the sheer horror of shopping with a woman. Clint Ramsbottom eventually spoke up.
‘Ah went shoppin’ once wi’ ’er from t’fish ’n’ chip shop in Easington,’ he announced.
‘ ’Er wi’ t’big chest?’ asked his big brother, Shane.
‘Y’reight there, Shane. It’s big all reight,’ said Little Malcolm, relieved at the diversion.
‘Took two hours t’buy three pair o’ shoes,’ said Clint.
‘Two hours?’ chorused the rest of the team.
‘An’ nex’ day she took two pairs back.’
‘That’s reight, lads,’ agreed Don from behind the bar. ‘My Sheila does that wi’ ’er underwear.’
Everyone stared once again at the curvaceous Sheila but wisely kept their thoughts to themselves. After all, Don had once wrestled on the professional circuit under the name ‘The Silent Strangler’.
Dan and I found a corner table and made short work of pie, chips and mushy peas, two bags of crisps and a few pints of Chestnut Mild.
‘So have you made a New Year resolution, Dan?’ I
asked
as we began our third pint.
‘Yes,’ he said mournfully. ‘I had such a bad head after our party I promised to give up beer.’