Authors: Jack Sheffield
One Saturday afternoon in 1976, Sally bought ‘There’s a Kind of Hush’ and, as an afterthought, a large packet of chocolate-coated digestive biscuits. Slowly, she began to put on weight, unlike the waif-like Karen Carpenter, who was now dreadfully thin. Although, much to Sally’s relief, there was a rumour reported in the
Daily Express
that she was thinking of getting married.
* * *
When I walked into the lounge bar of The Royal Oak, Colin was already halfway down his first pint. In a haze of aromatic cigarette smoke, he waved a greeting and got up to buy me a drink. After a few moments of awkward silence, unexpectedly he launched in at the deep end. ‘It all began with that bloody canoe,’ he said. ‘I’ve been depressed ever since.’
‘Canoe?’
‘Yes, Jack. I made a canoe in woodwork evening class in York.’
‘But that’s brilliant, Colin,’ I said with slightly false enthusiasm. ‘Building a canoe is a wonderful achievement.’
‘Yes, but I couldn’t get it down the staircase,’ explained Colin. ‘It was too long to get round the corners.’
‘I see,’ I said, trying not to smile. ‘That’s unfortunate.’
‘It’s still there, hanging up in the rafters,’ he said, lighting another roll-up.
‘So how are things?’ I asked tentatively.
He put down his drink and looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. ‘I guess you know Sally’s gone to stay at the vicarage. We’ve been going through a sticky patch. She said she needs to “find herself” … whatever that means.’
‘Maybe she just needs some space. She’s looked a bit down at school.’
‘I’m lost without her, Jack. Is there anything you can say to her?’
I supped deeply on my Chestnut Mild. ‘Tell me about this nudist camp idea,’ I said.
* * *
A mile away, the sad sound of an owl echoed with a hollow grief round the silent towers of the churchyard. Jo Hunter’s car crunched over the pebbled courtyard of the vicarage and parked by the front door. She had driven from Easington and picked up Anne en route in her new ‘F’-registered two-tone-green Wolseley Hornet with a dark-green roof. Dan and Jo had bought it for the princely sum of £300 and they were proud of their first car.
Soon they were in the warmth of the beautifully furnished lounge and Vera was pouring tea through a silver tea-strainer for Sally. ‘We’ve had a thought,’ said Vera and she looked expectantly at Anne, who launched into the opening gambit.
‘Sally, we wondered if you might be interested in the new club that’s starting at school,’ said Anne, pointing to the advertisement she had removed from the staff-room noticeboard.
‘Weight Watchers!’ exclaimed Sally.
‘You’ve been saying for a while you’ve been eating too many biscuits,’ said Vera.
‘Yes, but Weight Watchers!’
‘It says here, “It’s time to rekindle your lost youth”,’ said Vera, reading from the advertisement.
‘And it might be fun,’ said Anne.
Sally put down her china cup and saucer and looked at Jo. ‘You’re quiet,’ she said.
Jo took a deep breath. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said in a determined manner.
Sally was surprised. ‘But you’re thin as a rake,’ she said.
‘Not really,’ said Jo. ‘Dan seems to think we can live on fish and chips.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sally, looking down at her tea.
‘Anne’s right, Sally,’ said Jo. ‘It could be fun. So come on, let’s at least give it a try.’
Everyone held their breath. It was their first step towards getting Sally to feel good about herself.
Sally grinned. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Weight Watchers it is, then.’
Back in The Royal Oak, Colin was pouring out his heart. ‘I was just trying to get some spark back, if you see what I mean … like when we were both single.’
‘Maybe she’s moved on in her life and wants something different. Perhaps you should ask her.’ I was keeping faithfully to Vera’s script.
‘I need to talk to her,’ he said.
I remembered what Vera had told me to say. ‘Colin, what are you doing tomorrow night?’
‘It’s advanced woodwork class,’ he said with sudden enthusiasm. ‘I’m making those kitchen cupboards in
The Reader’s Digest Complete Do-It-Yourself Manual
.’
‘How about coming here afterwards and we can continue this chat?’
‘Don’t you think I should drive round to see her at the vicarage?’
‘Not just yet, Colin. Sally needs a bit of space right now.’
He sat back and stared at the ceiling.
‘Are you hungry?’ I asked.
He nodded and fifteen minutes later Sheila arrived with chicken and chips in a basket followed by her famous bread-and-butter pudding. Colin looked at the food with little interest, but for me it was heaven.
The first morning of February was grey and still as Vera and Sally walked out to Vera’s car parked under the giant elm trees of the vicarage. Against the old red-brick wall, beyond the damp grass and decaying leaves, tiny yellow flowers of winter jasmine brightened the gloom and, at their feet, the grey-green florets of saxifrage jostled for space in the frozen earth. Alongside, a tall, solitary teasel stood incongruously like a giant sentinel, its brown, spiky honeycombed crowns swaying in the breeze.
‘Thanks, Vera,’ said Sally. ‘I appreciate the lift.’
‘You look more rested today,’ said Vera.
‘Thanks, Vera … Lovely suit, by the way.’
Vera smiled. ‘Thank you, Sally.’
Vera had bought a smart dark-blue, tailored suit with a cream, kitten-bow blouse, high buttoned to the neck. One day she knew she would visit the Aquascutum store in London’s Regent Street where Margaret Thatcher did her shopping but, for now, Marks & Spencer’s was fine.
Morning school went smoothly and Vera reappeared in the staff-room at lunchtime after completing her register of late dinner money. Sally was on playground duty during afternoon break, so Vera gathered Anne, Jo
and
me in a huddle that felt like a secret society. A few minutes later we all knew what to do next.
That evening at seven o’clock Sally and Jo, giggling like schoolgirls, returned to Ragley School to register for Weight Watchers.
A slim, strikingly dressed lady was sitting behind the old pine table in the entrance hall, collecting money and giving out registration cards. She was wearing a hip-hugging jumpsuit with a zip from neck to navel and fashionable Adidas Pacesetters trainers, bright blue with three loud yellow diagonal stripes down the side. However, the outstanding feature was a pair of the most vivid multicoloured leg warmers Sally and Jo had ever seen.
‘Hello, ladies,’ said Miss Leg Warmers. ‘I’m Mandy. Just fill in these forms and then I can give you your membership registration card and your personal weight record.’
‘So, how does it all work?’ asked Jo. ‘We’ve not been before.’
‘Well,’ said Mandy, going into automatic pilot, ‘Weight Watchers is based on measured portions of food and is a wonderful way to lose weight and feel good.’
‘I see,’ said Sally uncertainly.
‘Just pay now to register, plus your weekly fee, and then we’ll get you weighed,’ said Mandy, adding two more names to her alphabetical index. She gave Sally and Jo a small weight-loss record card and a white sticker.
After weighing themselves, Sally and Jo returned to the ever-smiling Mandy.
‘So what would you like to weigh?’ asked Mandy. ‘This is your goal weight.’
‘Er, not sure,’ said Sally. She turned to Jo. ‘I just want to feel good about myself again,’ she whispered.
They both walked into the hall. There were four rows of chairs and Sally and Jo sat on the back row, feeling nervous. One or two parents of children at Ragley School were in the audience and waved in acknowledgement, including Petula Dudley-Palmer and Margery Ackroyd. Margery was reflecting on her day. She had starved herself after taking a laxative tablet the previous night and then, before getting weighed, she had taken off her shoes and removed all her jewellery, including her earrings and the toggle for her pony-tail. Margery was determined to succeed.
Suddenly, the leader, Valerie Ormskirk, struggled into the hall, dragging a life-size cardboard cut-out of the fattest lady Sally had ever seen. Valerie propped it up against the folding trestle table at the front of the hall and stared at her assembled flock. ‘Good evening, ladies,’ she said, with the inner confidence of the successful Weight Watcher.
‘Good evening, Valerie,’ answered the assorted group of ladies.
Sally looked around her in trepidation and began to regret eating that second slice of Black Forest gateau for her supper the previous evening.
‘This was the old me,’ announced Valerie, coyly pointing towards the giant photograph. ‘And this is the new me,’ she added, smoothing her skin-tight Olivia Newton John leather trousers.
To Sally’s surprise, all of Valerie’s disciples burst into spontaneous applause.
Valerie bowed in acknowledgement and then held up one finger. Silence fell and the room suddenly crackled with tension. ‘Now, ladies, let’s see how you’ve got on,’ she said. Nervous glances were exchanged. ‘Put up your hand if you’ve lost a pound.’ A few hesitant Weight Watchers responded. ‘And now two pounds,’ continued Valerie. The ladies on either side of Sally and Jo raised their hands. ‘And who has lost three pounds?’ A few slightly more enthusiastic ladies responded. ‘Now, has anyone lost more than three pounds? And remember, there’s a special badge for anyone who has lost seven pounds.’
No one moved.
‘And who’s been naughty this week?’
A contrite lady in the front row coughed nervously.
‘Never mind, Jenny,’ said Valerie. ‘Tell us all, what went wrong?’
‘I had lots of toast and sandwiches,’ said Jenny.
Sally thought she was very brave.
‘Get your neighbour to post you
one slice
of bread through your letterbox, my dear,’ said Valerie. ‘We must all help one another to achieve our goals and don’t forget to put your
fat
photos on the fridge door. That always provides motivation.’
A severe-looking lady in the second row put up her hand. ‘I’m a vegetarian,’ she said apologetically.
‘Oh dear,’ said Valerie. ‘Well, you’ll have to be careful you get enough vitamins, particularly Group B and especially B6 and B12.’
And so it went on and Sally and Jo gradually relaxed into the pattern of the evening. As they put on their coats at the end of the session, Sally whispered in Jo’s ear. ‘I’m glad I came,’ she said. ‘I feel, well … part of something again. Recently it’s just been school work, books and biscuits and not much else.’
Jo gave her a hug. ‘We’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Come on, let’s have a drink before we go home.’ Then she put her weight record card in her handbag, took Sally by the arm and walked out into the night.
Meanwhile, at the far end of the village Petula Dudley-Palmer slipped off her designer Chris Evert tennis shoes, with the distinctive blue star and stripe down the side, and walked barefooted across the deep-pile Axminster carpet.
Geoffrey was enjoying a whisky and soda. ‘Hello, darling. How did it go?’ he said with absolutely no recollection of where she had been.
‘Excellent,’ said Petula, pouring herself a gin and tonic. ‘I’ve lost another two pounds.’ She stared thoughtfully at her husband and wished he could be more like Val Doonican sitting in a comfortable rocking chair in a beautiful hand-knitted jumper while singing ‘Scarlet Ribbons’ or ‘Walk Tall’.
Meanwhile, Geoffrey looked at his wife and wished she could be more like Babs, Dee Dee or Cherry in Pan’s People, the
Top of the Pops
dancers, or even his ultimate fantasy, Agnetha Fältskog of Abba in her satin-blue knickerbockers. As he closed his eyes a broad smile crossed his face.
‘What are you thinking about, Geoffrey?’ asked Petula.
‘You, my beloved,’ said Geoffrey smoothly. He hadn’t achieved the dizzy heights of chief executive at the Rowntree’s chocolate factory without some important management skills.
Sex clearly meant different things to the people of Ragley village. To Timothy Pratt, who had never had a girlfriend, sex was something visually beautiful and ethereal, yet precise and well organized.
After switching on his television to watch
Come Dancing
for the first time many years before, Timothy realized that sex was for other people and, when the Frank and Peggy Spencer formation dancing team from Penge walked on to the dance floor, Timothy’s life was complete. The sequins, sewn with the same precision as their perfect dance steps, glittered under the lights and the couples moved in exact symmetry. Then, in 1979, Alan Yentob, the BBC director general, banished the programme from our screens and Tidy Tim had mourned for a week.
It was clear that something was missing in his life but he didn’t think it was sex. With a measured tread he walked to the store cupboard and took out his Meccano
set
. He stroked the lid of the box with deep affection. Now, this is better than sex, he thought.
Back in her kitchen, Anne Grainger wondered how Sally and Jo’s night was progressing. As she combed a pattern with a fork on top of her fish pie, she knew she was content with her life. Her husband John was a caring man and, while the enthusiastic days of their youth were behind them, she was happy. Even so, after adding sliced tomatoes and putting the casserole dish under the grill, she glanced wistfully at the photograph of David Soul on the front cover of her
Radio Times
.
At nine o’clock, in the taproom of The Royal Oak, the members of the Ragley football team were all thinking about sex. For this trusty band of brothers, these thoughts occurred as regularly as breathing. However, for them sex was something that, if you were lucky, happened on a Saturday night after
Match of the Day
. When I walked in, they were all staring at the sheer magnificence of Sheila’s straining boob tube as she pulled another foaming pint of Tetley’s bitter.
‘That’s a funny tank top, Stevie,’ said Sheila, looking up from behind the hand pumps at Stevie’s multicoloured creation. The word
STRIPPER
appeared to be emblazoned across the front.
‘My Aunty Maureen knitted it,’ explained Stevie. ‘She’s colour-blind,’ he added apologetically.