Authors: Jack Sheffield
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Wednesday, 5 March 1980
‘HE CAN’T POSSIBLY
like rhubarb!’ said Vera emphatically.
‘But ah read it in our Ronnie’s
News of the World
, Miss Evans,’ insisted Ruby: ‘ ’e definitely likes rhubarb.’
‘Are you quite sure?’ asked Vera, taking off her coat. She stared thoughtfully out of the staff-room window. ‘It never occurred to me he would like such a thing. He’s not really the type,’ said Vera.
‘Fifteen, sixteen … Who likes rhubarb? … seventeen, eighteen,’ asked Jo as she turned the handle of the Roneo duplicator.
‘ ’Im on t’telly what gives away that posh furniture,’ said Ruby, as she absent-mindedly polished the handle of the staff-room door.
‘You may be right, Ruby. I remember reading something like that in the
Radio Times
,’ continued Jo, while sniffing the Roneo spirit appreciatively.
‘Mind you, I’ve got a wonderful recipe,’ mused Vera to herself.
‘What’s all this about rhubarb?’ asked Sally, rummaging through the
Art and Craft
magazines on the coffee table until she found a pull-out poster on ‘How to make clay coil-pots’.
Anne and I were huddled next to the gas fire and we were making a final check of the summary of our scheme of work for mathematics. Intrigued, we looked up from the section on ‘special needs provision’.
‘I wonder if Prudence at the General Stores has some rhubarb in stock,’ said Vera, thinking out loud. ‘I’d need to make it today and take it with me tomorrow morning.’
‘Make what?’ asked Anne.
‘Take it where?’ asked Sally.
Vera, clearly preoccupied, walked from the staff-room, down the little corridor past the staff toilets and opened the door to the school office. Then she paused and called over her shoulder, ‘Rhubarb crumble, of course.’
It was Wednesday lunchtime, 5 March, and Vera was obviously in a world of her own. The snow and ice had gone but now heavy rain lashed against the
window
and dark grey clouds scudded across the bleak sky towards the distant line of the Hambleton hills. Anne turned up the gas fire again and shivered as the windows shook in their Victorian casements. ‘That so-called “common curriculum” will be here one day,’ she muttered as she scribbled notes next to the section on ‘Early Numbers’.
I picked up my copy of
The Times
from the staff-room coffee table and scanned the front page. There was a large photograph of Peter Walker, the Minister for Agriculture, being presented with a fluffy white lamb by an irate French farmer following talk of a ‘lamb war’ between England and France. It was clear from their expressions that the
entente
was not so
cordiale
. Alongside was a photograph of Prince Charles, nattily attired in riding breeches, in preparation for an amateur race at Cheltenham on Saturday. He was going to ride a horse called Sea Swell and the odds were ten to one. I was surprised that Vera, as a fervent royalist, hadn’t commented on it but it was clear her mind was elsewhere.
Meanwhile, Anne was flicking through the local paper, the
Easington Herald & Pioneer
. ‘Look at this, everybody,’ said Anne, pointing to an advertisement that had been circled in red ink. It read: ‘Meet Nicholas Parsons in the Cavendish Furniture Store in York on Thursday, 6 March, at 11.00 a.m.’
‘Now we know why Vera is so agitated,’ said Sally.
‘It’s Nicholas Parsons,’ I said, ‘the handsome and debonair
Sale of the Century
man.’
‘Vera’s perfect English gentleman,’ said Jo with a grin, looking up from her duplicating.
‘And she’s going to make him a rhubarb crumble,’ added Anne with a chuckle.
We all laughed and I wondered what the television star would have made of the impact he had created in Ragley School.
I walked through to the office, where Vera was pacing up and down the carpet and casting anxious looks out of the window. ‘Of all the days for Joseph to use the car!’ she exclaimed. Her brother had dropped her off at school that morning and then set off to attend an ecclesiastical meeting in York. He had looked so preoccupied that it wouldn’t have surprised me if he had forgotten all about his sister. Suddenly the telephone on my desk rang out with shrill urgency.
‘Vera, it’s Joyce Davenport for you,’ I said, handing over the receiver. Joyce was the local doctor’s wife and the vice-president of the Women’s Institute. She was also one of Vera’s most loyal and trusted friends.
‘Vera, is that you?’ she said.
‘Yes, Joyce,’ said Vera. ‘It’s unusual for you to ring me at school.’
‘I simply had to tell you straight away, Vera,’ said Joyce, sounding very agitated. ‘It’s that dreadful woman Deirdre Coe. You know how she always tries to grab the limelight.’
‘What’s she up to now?’ asked Vera.
‘Well, she’s only invited that irritating little entertainer
chappie
from Easington, Troy Phoenix, to run her stall at tomorrow night’s bring-and-buy sale. She’s determined to make more on her stall than anybody else … and especially you, Vera.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Vera. ‘Well, I appreciate you letting me know. I must go now, Joyce. Goodbye and thank you.’ She knew that, as president of the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute, it was very important to set an example. Ever since Vera had demoted Deirdre Coe to the role of cupboard secretary she had been a thorn in her side.
I glanced at my watch. It was twenty past twelve, almost an hour before afternoon school restarted. ‘Come on, Vera, I’ll take you home and we can call into the General Stores on the way.’
‘Oh, thank you, Mr Sheffield – that’s very kind.’ Vera collected her coat, scarf and handbag and we drove out of school into the High Street.
Half a mile away, in Stan Coe’s kitchen, his sister Deirdre was on the telephone and putting the final touches to her plans.
‘Troy, make sure y’wear y’posh clothes like y’did when y’introduced t’Ragley talent contest. Y’looked a proper star in them sparkly flares,’ said Deirdre, while chewing greedily on a gammon, chutney and pickle sandwich.
‘Leave it t’me, Deirdre. Ah’ll knock ’em dead,’ replied the confident Troy.
Deirdre replaced the receiver and wiped the dribbles
of
chutney from her chin with the frayed sleeve of her cardigan. ‘OK, Miss la-de-dah Evans,’ she said out loud, ‘let’s see who’s top dog now.’
Deirdre was absolutely confident that by inviting Troy Phoenix, the Easington entertainer, to come along to the annual bring-and-buy sale, she would show the rest of the ladies just who was the real influential force in the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute.
Troy, known locally as Norman Barraclough, made a living selling fresh fish from his little white van. It had to be said that, although Troy was an entertaining local celebrity, it was wise not to stand too close as the strong smell of Whitby cod permeated every pore of his diminutive, fishmonger’s frame.
In the General Stores & Newsagent, Prudence Golightly was always pleased to see Vera. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Sheffield, and my dear friend, Vera. How are you today?’
‘Hello, Prudence. Fine, thank you,’ said Vera and then, as an afterthought, she glanced up at the teddy bear on the shelf behind Prudence, ‘and, er … good afternoon, Jeremy.’
Prudence beamed. ‘And what can I do for you today, Vera? You seem a little rushed.’
‘I need some rhubarb, Prudence, for a special crumble. It would need to be your best-quality rhubarb.’
Prudence looked thoughtful. ‘I’m sorry, Vera,’ she said, ‘I’ve only got rhubarb in tins – that is, until Maurice
delivers
some more. He gets it delivered every week from his brother in Leeds, you know.’
‘Maurice?’ said Vera.
‘Yes, Maurice Tupham just across the street,’ said Prudence, pointing. ‘It’s the blue door.’
‘Shall I go across to ask him?’ I said.
‘Say I sent you, Mr Sheffield,’ said Prudence.
‘I’d better come with you,’ said Vera, ‘and thank you, Prudence. Perhaps you could put a tin on one side for me just in case.’
Maurice Tupham was a quiet, retired man in his sixties who kept himself to himself. He had few visitors and, though he doffed his flat cap to Vera when he left church each Sunday morning, he had never spoken to her. However, his passion in life was rhubarb and, when Vera asked him if he had any, it was as if we had said, ‘Open sesame!’ Seconds later we had been ushered into his Aladdin’s cave – except, on this occasion, the treasure was rhubarb. He had a fresh batch in his kitchen and held up a handful of the tall slim bright-red stalks. He sniffed the air appreciatively like a connoisseur and smiled.
‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ he said lovingly. ‘Me an’ m’brother were rhubarb-growing champions in t’rhubarb triangle,’ he added without a hint of modesty.
I had heard of the Bermuda Triangle but not this one. ‘The rhubarb triangle?’
‘That’s reight, Mr Sheffield. All that land bordered by Wakefield, Leeds and Bradford is jus’ perfect f’growing rhubarb. Up to abart fifteen year back, there were two
’undred
rhubarb-growers like me an’ our kid. We used t’load it every day on t’Rhubarb Express to Covent Garden. Then after 1962 it went by road.’
It was clear that Maurice was an encyclopaedia of rhubarb facts and we weren’t going to be allowed to leave until he had shared some of his knowledge. He knew he had a captive audience.
‘We grew t’plants for two years, Miss Evans, an’ then put ’em in forcing sheds,’ said Maurice, pointing to a faded black-and-white photograph on the wall. The youthful Maurice was standing with a similar burly, short man, who was clearly his brother, in front of a long, low windowless shed, about two hundred feet long and ten feet high. ‘It were reight dark an’ warm in there. We even picked by t’light of a shaded lantern an’ t’rhubarb grew about an inch every day.’ He nodded in satisfaction. ‘Same routine f’generations … ever since t’Industrial Revolution.’
Maurice handed over a large bag of rhubarb stalks. ‘No charge, Miss Evans,’ he said, ‘an’ if y’ever fancy a trip t’annual Festival of Rhubarb y’can be my guest.’
‘Thank you so much,’ said Vera. ‘You’ve been very kind and I’ll keep it in mind.’
As we drove towards Morton village I glanced across at Vera and there was a gleam in her eyes. ‘I think you made a hit with Maurice,’ I said playfully, but she did not seem to hear. The rhubarb triangle seemed far away now and her mind was filled with thoughts of meeting her television heart-throb.
* * *
On Thursday morning the harsh cawing of the rooks from the high branches of the distant elm trees woke me from a pleasant dream. I was on a tropical beach, paddling in the warm sea and walking hand in hand with someone who appeared to be Beth … except, every time I glanced across at her, she became Laura. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, turned on the Bush radio perched on my bedside table and padded across the worn wooden floor of my bedroom. When I drew the curtains, cold, grey light flooded in through the leaded panes.
‘Hello again. Rise and shine, all you lazybones. You’re listening to Ray Moore on wonderful BBC Radio 2. It’s seven thirty-five on Thursday, 6 March, with another two and a half hours of popular music before our national treasure, Jimmy Young, sorts out our great nation and asks the questions “Will daytime television be a dream or a nightmare?” and “Can Robin Cousins become the next world figure-skating champion?” In the meantime Marti Webb tells us to “Take That Look Off Your Face” …’
Four miles away on the Morton Road, the sound of rooks was lost amid the clatter of milk bottles. Ernie Morgetroyd’s milk float had pulled up outside the vicarage. His nineteen-year-old son, Handsome Rodney, his golden locks hidden under a red-and-white York City bobble hat, crunched up the driveway and delivered two pints of gold-top full-cream milk along with a half-pint carton of single cream and a half-dozen fresh farm eggs.
Rodney extended a finger and thumb and deftly picked up the two spotlessly clean and recently washed empty milk bottles from the vicarage steps. Then he set off back down the driveway, whistling Rod Stewart’s ‘Do You Think I’m Sexy?’. Meanwhile Ernie Morgetroyd hoped the battery on his little electric milk float would last until he had completed his round. Apart from that and Handsome Rodney’s never-ending girlfriend problems, life was uncomplicated for the milkmen of Morton.
Vera looked through the open casement window of the vicarage window and smiled. She turned up her radio a fraction and walked to the front door.
‘Good morning. It’s seven thirty-five on Thursday, 6 March, and this is BBC Radio 4 wishing you a pleasant morning. From Handel and Dussek we now continue with the Schumann Cello Concerto …’
At number 7, School View, life was not quite so serene. Ruby’s daughter, Sharon Smith, turned up the radio and rummaged in the wash basket for her overalls.
‘Hello, everybody. It’s the Hairy Monster, Dave Lee Travis, on your very own BBC Radio 1 saying get into gear and pin y’ears back ’cause its twenty-five to eight on Thursday, 6 March, and ’ere we go with the gorgeous Blondie at number 3 with, wait for it … “Atomic”.’
When I walked into the staff-room before the start of the school day, Anne and Jo were checking the new delivery of sugar paper, while Sally was deep in thought. She
opened
her teacher’s copy of
Apusskidu
, her new songbook for her ‘school orchestra’, turned to number 27, ‘The Wombling Song’, and began to convert Mike Batt’s music into a few simple guitar chords for her beginners’ group.
Suddenly Ruby was standing in the open doorway, leaning on her mop. ‘I ’eard from Margery Ackroyd that Miss Evans was given some rhubarb by Maurice Tupham in the ’Igh Street,’ she said.
Sally looked up from her songbook. ‘So Vera got her high-quality rhubarb after all,’ she said.
‘Yes, and she went home to make the crumble,’ I said, while picking at the loose threads on the leather patches on the sleeves of my sports jacket.
‘For Nicholas Parsons,’ said Anne.
‘The man of her dreams,’ giggled Jo.
‘ ’E’s a bit on t’skinny side f’me,’ said Ruby. ‘Mind you, ah’ll be s’pportin’ Miss Evans tonight an’ ah gave ’er a bag o’ my chocolate t’sell.’