Authors: Jack Sheffield
‘Its synthetic, Dowothy,’ corrected Nora as she added hot froth to my coffee. ‘It says in the
Daily Expwess
that one in thwee women wear a wig.’
‘So are you thinking of getting one, Nora?’ I said, feigning interest.
‘Yes, ah’m gonna get a Fawwer Fawcett,’ said Nora, slapping down the mug of coffee on the counter.
I looked at the array of tired-looking pastries. ‘So, what do you recommend, Dorothy?’
‘Cream ’orns, Mr Sheffield,’ said Dorothy returning to her catalogue. ‘Fresh in day before yesterday.’
‘OK, a frothy coffee and a cream horn it is, please.’
On my way out of the village I called in at Victor Pratt’s garage and pulled up alongside the single petrol pump.
Victor
came out to serve me and, as usual, he had a problem. He walked painfully across the forecourt, like a cowboy who had lost his horse.
‘Ah can’t sit down,’ he complained.
‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘What’s the trouble?’
‘Same as t’vicar, Mr Sheffield,’ grumbled Victor. ‘Las’ Christmas your aunt May told me it were asteroids an’ they’re gettin’ worse.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Victor.’
‘It’s embarrassin’ walkin’ like this, so ah only come out at night,’ he said mournfully.
‘That’s probably about right for asteroids,’ I said with the merest hint of irony.
‘Y’spot-on there, Mr Sheffield. That’s exactly what Dr Davenport said.’
As Victor hobbled away I guessed the doctor and I must share the same sense of humour.
That night I settled down with my new Toshiba 20-inch colour television set with the expensive rental of £7.67 per month. The spotty-faced salesman had told me that it had a state-of-the-art blackstripe tube for maximum picture clarity, but I was more concerned that my television licence had shot up to £34.00. The fact that the Home Secretary, Mr William Whitelaw, had encouraged me to use the savings-stamps scheme had fallen on deaf ears. So I switched on BBC1 and settled down to watch Terry Wogan interviewing Larry Hagman of JR Ewing fame and wondered why Americans needed such large hats.
* * *
On Saturday morning I drove into York and parked near the Minster, in Duncombe Place. While I was locking the driver’s door, a couple who looked like tourists approached me in some confusion. They were staring at an upside-down street map of York.
‘Tell me, mah friend, where is yur Minster of York?’ asked the man in the Stars and Stripes baseball cap.
I pointed to the magnificent west tower of York Minster, just fifty yards away and dominating the skyline. ‘It’s there,’ I said.
Restoration work was in progress and his wife looked at the scaffolding. ‘When they’ve finished building it ah’m sure it’ll be real pretty,’ she said with a voice of authority, peering over her Jodrell Bank sunglasses. Her heavy make-up and striking platinum blonde hair gave her the appearance of a Marilyn Monroe look-alike.
‘They’re just cleaning up the medieval stonework. It’s a continuous process,’ I explained.
‘Well, ah do declare,’ said Baseball Cap and then turned to his wife, who had taken a small mirror from her handbag and was checking her eye-liner.
‘We sure lahke yur lil’ bitty town of York, England,’ she said, admiring the perfect jet-black crescents of her plucked eyebrows. ‘It’s the quaintest an’ cutest lil’ place ah ever did see.’
‘I’m very pleased to hear it,’ I said, trying to extricate myself from the conversation.
Baseball Cap took me by the arm and looked concerned.
‘But
can you kindly tell me, sir, why yur sidewalks are so narrow?’
I was beginning to lose the will to live. ‘You’re in an ancient city that was built in the time of horses and carts and carriages, not motor cars.’
‘Well, mah dear friend, ah’m pleased tuh say we have more foresight in the good ol’ Land of the Free,’ he boasted.
‘You are soooo raight, mah lil’ honeybunch,’ said Marilyn Monroe, replacing her mirror in her Italian handbag. ‘Well, we mus’ fly, ’cause it’s York, England, today an’ Paris, France, on Wednesday.’ And, with a casual wave, they walked away to continue their tour of Europe, World.
I was a few minutes early and I strolled across the road and walked down High Petergate to the busy crossing between Stonegate and Minster Gates. I looked up at the familiar statue of Minerva. She was leaning on her pile of books as a reminder that this was once a street of booksellers and bookbinders.
From out of the crowds, an unlikely figure approached me. ‘Gorra light, mate?’ He was dressed as a Viking and was wearing enough jewellery to make Danny La Rue jealous.
‘Sorry, I don’t smoke,’ I replied.
‘Never mind,’ he said, untying the earflap of his hard leather skullcap and putting the cigarette behind his ear. ‘Jason’ll be ’ere in a minute.’ He shivered and I stared down at his brown minidress tunic. The baggy green tights that covered his spindly legs provided little protection from
the
cold on this sharp April morning. ‘It’s Viking Day,’ he said by way of explanation, ‘in Coppergate.’
The Coppergate archaeological dig, destined to become the famous Jorvik Centre, was a popular meeting place each month for local historians and their re-enactments of famous battles provided great entertainment for the tourists.
He followed my gaze. ‘It’s a bit parky,’ he said.
‘Looks like your friend’s here now,’ I said, as a Viking on a Lambretta appeared suddenly and pulled up alongside.
‘ ’Ullo, Perce. Fancy a swift ’alf before t’battle?’ asked the new Viking. The bright buttons and sequins sewn on his leather skirt would have done credit to a finalist in
Come Dancing
. This was definitely an upmarket Viking.
Percy picked up his large round shield with a hemispherical iron boss protruding from its outer face. ‘OK, Jase,’ he said. ‘Ah mus’ say you’ve come up in t’world from last month. Ah see y’gorra new costume. Who you s’pposed t’be, then?’
Jason parked his Lambretta, dismounted and stared critically at his reflection in the shop window. ‘Ah’m Erik Bloodaxe, the fearless an’ bloodthirsty King o’ Western Norway, son o’ the magnificent King ’Arald Fine’air,’ said Jason, adjusting the bow on his blond ponytail. ‘An’ ah’ll tell y’summat f’nowt, this ’elmet’s no fun. Ah’ve gone cross-eyed getting ’ere.’
We both stared at Jason’s conical iron helmet with a thick bar protruding from the forehead to protect King Erik’s nose.
‘Why don’t you turn it round the other way?’ I suggested.
Jason pondered this for a moment. ‘Good idea, mate,’ he said. ‘Y’not as daft as y’look.’
I took this as a compliment, especially as I was the only one not wearing a skirt.
King Erik Bloodaxe reversed his helmet. ‘That’s better,’ he said with a relieved smile. He looked at Percy. ‘So who are you, then?’
‘Usual,’ said Percy sadly. ‘Ah’m still Sigurd the Mighty.’
‘ ’Ow’s yer ’ands now wi’ that rough shield?’ asked King Erik, looking concerned.
‘Lot better now, Jase,’ said Sigurd the Mighty. ‘Ah borrowed our Tracy’s Aqua Manda Golden Body Rub.’
‘Ah’ve ’eard it’s really good,’ said King Erik Bloodaxe.
‘Y’spot-on there, Jase,’ said Sigurd the Mighty. ‘It meks yer ’ands lovely an’ smooth. Jus’ feel ’em.’
King Erik Bloodaxe leaned over and felt Sigurd the Mighty’s soft hands. Then he sniffed them appreciatively. ‘Lovely fragrance, Perce.’
Sigurd the Mighty gave his warrior-friend a gentle smile and climbed on to the back of the Lambretta.
‘An’, Perce, jus’ watch where y’putting that pointy bit on y’shield,’ added King Erik Bloodaxe.
They roared off to the Cross Keys public house on Goodramgate with memories of rape and pillage in the ninth and tenth centuries clearly far from their minds.
There was a tap on my shoulder. ‘Hello, Jack,’ said a familiar voice.
I turned round and there was Beth, looking relaxed in her fashionable beige coat with slightly padded shoulders and a yellow scarf that matched the sudden burst of April sunshine.
‘Hello, Beth. Good to see you.’
Her honey-blonde hair was blowing in the breeze and the tiredness had gone from her eyes. She looked full of vitality and life. ‘Come on, Jack: my treat,’ she said and took my arm.
For a moment I felt that we were a couple again as we set off down Stonegate together. She had that excited purposeful air about her and walked quickly, her high-heeled leather boots clipping on the cobbles, into St Helen’s Square, the home of Betty’s classic English Tea Rooms. It stood proudly opposite its great rival, Terry’s Restaurant, which was about to close down.
‘Perfect,’ I said, looking up at the sign that read
BETTY’S – EST
1919. This was Yorkshire’s finest. The designers of the exquisite interiors of the Queen Mary transatlantic liner had created a perfect classical environment for the enjoyment of England’s favourite beverage. We walked into the elegant ground-floor tea room and found one of the window tables, where you could watch the world go by. Beth ordered toasted Yorkshire teacakes and a pot of Earl Grey tea, which was served by a young lady in a starched white apron and cap.
‘Shall I be mother?’ she said whimsically and she picked up the delicate silver tea strainer and poured the tea from the elegant silver teapot. Then she smiled that familiar
warm
smile and nodded towards an old advertisement that stated boldly:
Eat Sweets and Grow Thin – Chocolate is a Cure for Weak Hearts
. At least that’s what a certain German food expert, Dr Frederick Bosser, had believed.
It was a happy time and we chatted about her plans for her new school library and the momentum that seemed to be gathering in the new government for some form of common school curriculum. Then, right out of the blue, she mentioned Laura.
‘Laura’s going out with Desmond, her new boss.’
‘Oh, good. I’m pleased for her,’ I said.
Beth looked curiously at me for a moment. ‘I’m sure she still thinks a lot about you, Jack.’
‘She was always good company,’ I replied.
Beth rotated the tiny bowl of assorted sugar cubes in front of her. ‘Yes,’ she said simply. We both stared out of the window deep in our own thoughts. ‘I always dreamed of being a headteacher, Jack,’ said Beth, suddenly changing the subject.
‘I know,’ I replied.
‘But it’s not everything …’
Then the spell was broken as a street busker across the street began playing the haunting theme from
Doctor Zhivago
on an ancient accordion. Fifteen minutes later, Beth paid the bill and we walked out into the sunshine.
After window-shopping in Stonegate, we wandered into York Minster and, immediately, gazed around us in awe at the sights within this wonderful building. Only the tap-tap of heels on the stone floor disturbed the hushed
silence
and we paused in front of the choir screen, carved with the figures of the Kings of England from William I to Henry VI. They looked down at us dispassionately and steadfastly, fixed in time, staring into the still air and silent spaces.
From the Minster we walked towards the great gateway of Bootham Bar and there, across the road, excited groups of children, with mothers and fathers in close attendance, were filing into the art gallery. Beth and I walked into the main hall, where a large crowd had gathered and an officious-looking local government officer stood up to introduce the main guest, who had flown in from America.
‘It gives me great pleasure to welcome the distinguished artist from across the seas, the man who was described in the Arts section of the
Yorkshire Post
as “a post-Impressionist genius of shape and colour”. So please welcome the American pop artist Mr Randy Finkleman III.’
We all clapped while a gangling figure ambled to the front and stood there in skin-tight blue, stonewashed Wrangler jeans and a New York Jets T-shirt. Then he flashed his perfect white teeth, shook his carefully permed Art Garfunkle hair and tossed the end of his pink silk scarf casually over his shoulder. Unfortunately it snagged on his pendulous and very sparkly single earring and there followed an embarrassing moment while the lady curator of the art gallery helped him to untangle it.
Then he stood feet astride in his high-heeled cowboy boots and addressed the audience. ‘Mah good friends,
it
’s a plee-sure t’be back in your pretty lil’ town of York, England. Ah do declare mah exhibition well an’ truly open.’
The first part of the collection was based on his early life that included fishing for his supper in a boat off New York harbour. I quickly concluded that Randy was not merely a fisherman but more a piscatorial artist.
Thirty-six of Randy’s paintings were displayed on the first large wall of the gallery and the children’s art exhibition followed on. Betsy Icklethwaite’s painting had been mounted immediately next to the American legend’s final piece of work, a colourful impression of Roy Rogers’ horse, Trigger.
Beth and I met up with Sally, Anne and Jo and studied the list of exhibits printed on the programme. Number 37 was ‘“Daddy’s Best Friend” by Betsy Icklethwaite, age 6’.
‘I see what you mean, Sally,’ said Beth. ‘It really is a terrific painting.’
Suddenly Randy and his entourage arrived and began postulating with knowing looks and self-satisfied nods in front of us.
‘This is quite wonderful,’ said the art critic of the local paper. ‘Such immediacy of line and colour.’ He stroked his goatee beard, stared at Betsy Icklethwaite’s painting and nodded with the assurance of an artistically superior human being.
‘I agree,’ said the lady curator, not to be outdone.
‘Very, er … impressionistic,’ said the local government officer.
The press photographer, in a hurry to get to his next appointment, a Max Bygraves sing-along at the local home for retired gentlefolk, captured the moment. The art critic smiled serenely, the lady curator was pleased she’d had her roots done and the local government officer assumed his ‘I’m in charge’ look. Randy was puzzled as he knew he had never painted a zebra watching television. However, as he lived his life in a transcendental parallel universe, it didn’t seem to matter so long as people kept telling him he was the best thing since Picasso and sliced bread, preferably in that order.