Authors: Jack Sheffield
In complete contrast, at half past seven, Beth and I were queuing outside the Odeon cinema to watch the latest James Bond film,
The Spy Who Loved Me
.
‘You’re quiet, Jack,’ said Beth. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said. It had just occurred to me that the last time I had been here was with Laura. Beth smiled and slipped her hand into mine.
Inside, we found two seats next to an aisle where I could stretch my long legs.
The Pink Panther Strikes Again
had just finished and we settled down for the main feature.
‘Have a fruit gum,’ said Beth. ‘The film’s starting.’
I soon relaxed and began to follow the plot. Roger Moore, with his whimsical disregard for danger, particularly when doing a free-fall parachute jump from a cliff, did much to lighten my mood. The exotic and
beautiful
Barbara Bach as a KGB agent reminded me that the best-looking woman in the cinema was sitting right next to me. When the wonderful villain, Richard Kiel as ‘Jaws’, threatened James Bond with his bear-trap steel teeth, Beth held my hand a little tighter and only relaxed it when Carly Simon sang ‘Nobody Does It Better’ through the final scene.
Back in my car on the return journey to Morton, Beth glanced up at me. ‘So what’s on your mind?’ she asked.
‘Tonight … in the cinema … it was good.’
Beth simply smiled and said nothing.
On Monday, after early-morning rain, sparkling sunshine burst through to welcome the May Day holiday. This was an important festival in the English county calendar and around two hundred people had gathered in Ragley to welcome the arrival of the May queen to the village green. On an open flat trailer, bedecked with garlands and flags, and towed up the High Street by Deke Ramsbottom on his tractor, Ruby’s daughter arrived in style. Everyone cheered and clapped as Natasha, seated on her throne and flanked by the excited Buttle twins, waved a white-gloved hand to the crowd. She looked beautiful in a borrowed wedding dress with a bouquet of spring flowers and, on her head, a crown that glittered in the sunlight.
‘She looks beautiful, Ruby,’ said Vera.
‘Thank you, Miss Evans,’ said Ruby. ‘Ah’m so proud ah could cry.’
John Grainger was taking photographs, destined for Ruby’s mantelpiece. Anne and Vera stood on either side of Ruby and Ronnie, resplendent in his best suit and bobble hat, while Ruby couldn’t hold back any longer and wept tears of joy into Vera’s lacy handkerchief. As she watched her lovely daughter, she remembered the time, thirty years before, when it had been her special day. She hugged Ronnie, who was standing stiffly in his best suit and looking forward to his first pint of Tetley’s bitter.
As the appetizing scent of Old Tommy Piercy’s hog roast drifted across the green from the forecourt of The Royal Oak, the morris dancers were introduced over the loudspeaker by Albert Jenkins. The dancers were a local group and they wore white linen shirts with pleated fronts and sleeves, decked with bright rosettes, brooches and scarf pins. Their cord breeches had ribbons round the knees over long white woollen stockings and lightweight boots for dancing. The men wore black silk bowler hats with coloured streamers hanging down the back and the women had a circle of bright paper flowers intertwined in their hair.
Each performer held a pair of long handkerchiefs and danced to the sound of a penny whistle and an accordion. The gaiters of bells tied to their shins jingled as they danced the ‘Cotswold Morris’. After half an hour of intricate steps and formations, there was warm applause and the troupers sat down, red-faced and perspiring, on the straw bales that had been arranged in a rough semicircle
round
the green. Their leader produced a collection of tall stoneware cider jars with the words
HEY BROTHERS, OLD CHURCH, BOTANICAL BREWERY, PONTEFRACT
stamped on the side and they relaxed and drank to their hearts’ content in the warm May sunshine.
As Natasha sat on her throne, drinking from a goblet of mulled wine, and her attendants, Katrina and Rowena Buttle, sucked home-made Ribena lollies, we waited in anticipation for Sally’s maypole dancers.
‘Good luck!’ shouted Jo to Sally.
In the centre of the village green, the maypole had been topped in the traditional manner with eight bell garlands and, from each one, a long coloured ribbon, provided by Vera, drifted in the light breeze. Anne was helping with the preparations and Sally fussed about like a mother hen getting her group of girls in their correct places. Each girl wore a pretty dress and a headband of flowers.
‘They look like little angels,’ said a familiar voice. It was Beth, smiling at me.
‘Glad you could make it,’ I said.
We joined in the applause as the girls danced their patterns in and out until the ribbons were neatly plaited round the pole. Then they reversed the dance and, miraculously, the ribbons were unravelled. It was over and Sally breathed a sigh of relief as she was surrounded by parents expressing their thanks. Finally, looking hot and flushed, she came over to join us.
‘Well done, Sally – that was terrific,’ I said.
‘The best maypole dancing we’ve ever seen in Ragley,’ said Anne generously.
‘How about a drink?’ asked Jo.
Sally pulled a face. ‘I’d rather have a cup of tea.’
‘That’s not like you,’ said Jo.
‘Come on,’ said Sally, ‘let’s go in the Oak.’
‘What about the ribbons on the maypole?’ said Anne.
‘I’ll take them back to the vicarage,’ said Vera.
‘Good idea,’ said Anne, knowing Vera wouldn’t dream of setting foot in The Royal Oak or any other public house for that matter. ‘Come on, John, we need your help.’
John Grainger followed on behind Vera and Anne and soon they were packing the ribbons into the back of Vera’s Austin A40.
Beth and I were left standing on the village green, under the old oak tree.
‘So, how about a drink?’ I asked.
Beth looked anxiously at her wristwatch. ‘Sorry, Jack, I can’t stay. I promised Laura I would help her pack.’
‘Pack?’
‘Yes. She’s going back to London. There’s a new management job down there for her. She’s renting out her flat in York and moving in with my parents in Little Chawton. Then she’ll travel into the city on the train each day.’
‘Oh, I see. Well … tell her good luck.’
Beth looked at me steadily. ‘I will,’ she said.
We stood there in silence for a few moments.
‘Actually, I’ve got some lessons to prepare for this week,’ I said, ‘so I think I’ll get off as well.’
Suddenly, John Grainger reappeared. ‘Are you two coming in, then?’
‘Sorry, John,’ said Beth, ‘I’m pushed for time and I have to get into York.’
‘Same here, John,’ I said. ‘I’ve got some school work to do.’
Like a genial giant he placed his huge woodcarver’s hands on our shoulders. ‘Do you know what my mother used to say when I was always rushing about?’ We both looked at his big, friendly, weatherbeaten face, flecks of sawdust in his curly beard and deep crow’s feet round his eyes. ‘She used to say, “Remember to stop a while to smell the flowers.” It was good advice.’
‘Perhaps one day we shall,’ said Beth. She squeezed my hand and walked quickly down the High Street to her car.
‘Think about it, Jack,’ said John and he walked towards The Royal Oak, then stopped to talk to Old Tommy Piercy, who was carving delicious slices of crisp pork from his hog roast.
I watched Beth’s Volkswagen Beetle pull out from the line of cars in the High Street and fork left on to the York Road. I found my car and climbed in. Norman Barraclough’s fish van was parked in front of me and in the thick grime that covered the back doors someone had written, ‘Shane Ramsbottom shot JR’. I smiled, set off down the High Street and took the right fork towards
Kirkby
Steepleton. As I drove on the back road to Bilbo Cottage I pondered John’s words.
On Tuesday morning at eight o’clock, Jimmy Poole was walking down the High Street with his little Yorkshire terrier. Scargill loved his morning walk to collect Mr Poole’s
Daily Express
. But now it was much more fun with all the strange little people sitting outside Pratt’s Hardware Emporium, particularly the one that smelled strongly of glue. As they walked past, Scargill grabbed JR Ewing’s white stetson hat in his strong teeth and bit off a chunk.
‘So it’s you, is it?’
Jimmy turned round in alarm. Timothy Pratt had just emerged in the shop doorway, carrying his new supply of hedgehog-shaped boot scrapers.
‘Ah’m thorry, Mr Pratt,’ said Jimmy.
Deep down, Timothy had a kind heart and knew little Jimmy meant no harm. He crouched down and looked into Jimmy’s black-button eyes. ‘Just keep ’im on a lead in future!’ he said softly.
Jimmy nodded, reattached the lead, much to Scargill’s disgust, and they carried on their way. Timothy sighed and picked up the garden gnome and the broken piece of his hat and walked into his Emporium.
A mile away in Old Morton Manor, Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener was sitting in his lounge drinking coffee and reading
The Times
.
In the outside world, the confrontation between Margaret Thatcher and Arthur Scargill, the left-wing leader of the Yorkshire National Union of Mineworkers, was becoming acrimonious. Arthur was reported to have said, ‘I want to warn this woman at No. 10, who preaches on the altar of nuclear power, that the British miners will never again accept the butchery of pit closures.’ Arthur didn’t mince his words.
Opposite the major, his daughter was chuckling to herself. ‘What is it, Virginia?’ he asked, peering over his newspaper.
Virginia brushed the biscuit crumbs from her skin-tight jodhpurs, held up her copy of the
Daily Express
and pointed to the headline on page 7:
WHO SHOT JR
?
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ he said, folding up his newspaper.
Virginia looked up in alarm. She had just put a five-pound bet on Sue Ellen at odds of five to one at William Hill’s and wondered if her father knew more than she did. ‘So who did shoot the fellow?’ asked Virginia.
The major drank his coffee, stood up, buttoned up his waistcoat and muttered brusquely, ‘Scargill … what?’ and marched out.
Virginia stared lovingly after him and wondered why it was that older folk always seemed to be in another world.
Meanwhile, in the back room of Pratt’s Hardware Emporium, Timothy Pratt opened his tube of super
glue
and picked up the broken piece of JR Ewing’s stetson hat. He smiled to himself because at last he knew the answer.
Nobody had actually shot JR. He’d just been repeatedly chewed.
Chapter Eighteen
The Mystery of Life
The Parent–Teacher Association met this evening and decided to seek permission to extend the school entrance hall in order to accommodate a new school library, proposed building to commence in the autumn. We also agreed to hold a teddy bears’ picnic on the last day of term
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Monday, 9 June 1980
‘IT’S A MYSTERY,’
said Sally. ‘They were here this morning.’
‘What’s a mystery?’ I asked.
‘My pineapple chunks,’ said Sally. ‘They’ve gone.’
‘Sorry – haven’t seen them,’ I said, hurriedly gathering papers from my desk in the office. It was 7.30 p.m. on Monday, 9 June. Members of our Parent–Teacher Association were taking their seats in the school hall, the meeting
was
about to start and pineapple chunks were not on the agenda.
As usual, Staff Nurse Sue Phillips chaired the meeting superbly and had that wonderful skill of making everyone feel valued. Each person had the opportunity to make a contribution and clear decisions were made. I imagined she organized her nurses in the same way.
‘So, to sum up,’ said Sue, ‘we’ve agreed that all PTA funds will go towards a major project to begin next academic year: namely, the building of a small extension to accommodate a new school library and resource centre. This will include books, maps, visual aids, slide projector … and perhaps even a computer.’
Jo Hunter’s eyes lit up. For her, this would be a dream come true. She had always wanted a computer in school and firmly believed that, one day, every school would have one. Following our fund-raising activities of the past two years, our school library had grown considerably and it now filled a corner of the school hall on dozens of home-made shelves. It was a celebration of Contiboard. However, my dream was for the creation of a dedicated resource centre and, for this, we required more space.
It was my turn to provide a formal thank-you. ‘On behalf of the school I’d like to thank Sue and all members of the Parent–Teacher Association for their wonderful support,’ I said. ‘This is a really exciting project and, if all goes to plan, this time next year the children of the village will have the opportunity to do independent research and become more effective learners.’
Anne gave me a wide-eyed smile as she recognized the ‘education-speak’.
‘Thanks, Jack,’ said Sue, ‘and, finally, we’ve agreed to organize a teddy bears’ picnic on the school field next month, on the last afternoon of the summer term, and Shirley the cook has offered to make a party tea including honey sandwiches.’
On that happy note the hall slowly emptied of parents. Anne and Jo began to put away the chairs and dining tables and I set off to do my usual check of windows and doors. Sue Phillips and Sally volunteered to stay behind to wash the cups and saucers in the staff-room sink. Sue looked curiously at Sally, who appeared flushed as she put the tray of crockery on the worktop next to the sink.
‘So how are you, Sally?’ she asked as she ran the hot tap and squirted some Fairy liquid into the washing-up bowl.
‘Fine, Sue,’ said Sally, picking up a tea towel.
‘You didn’t seem quite your usual bubbly self tonight,’ said Sue, staring down at the washing-up bowl. ‘Are you OK?’
Sally picked up the first cup from the draining board and began to dry it. ‘To be honest, Sue, I’ve been feeling a bit run-down and listless lately.’
‘Maybe you need a tonic,’ said Sue.