Authors: Jack Sheffield
On that special day, after searching in the old bureau, he gave her a brooch. It was in the shape of a butterfly.
‘This was y’mother’s,’ said Athol. ‘Likely as not, she’d want you to ’ave it.’
Amelia held it up to the light. ‘It’s beautiful, Dad,’ she said.
‘Whenever ah saw a butterfly, ah allus thought of ’er,’ said Athol.
Then there was silence. There were no words between father and daughter. They both understood.
During 1979, the onset of illness told Athol that this
Christmas
would be his last. He was too weak to play ‘In the Bleak Mid-Winter’ on his flugelhorn, so Amelia played it for him. A few lucky souls were walking down the High Street on that snowy winter’s night. They heard the sweet music drift up to the heavens and felt all the better for it before carrying on their way. A few months later Athol’s vibrant life of hard graft and soft music came to its end.
Vera looked thoughtful as she collected the cups. ‘So I’ve encouraged Amelia to bring her flugelhorn tomorrow, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.
Saturday morning dawned bright and clear. Outside the village hall on Ragley High Street, the sun sparkled on William Featherstone’s cream and green Reliance bus. William, in his brown bus driver’s jacket, welcomed each passenger by doffing his peaked cap. It was the thirtieth time he had made this journey and he knew a good day was in store. Vera was standing next to him with a list of passengers on her clipboard.
‘Good morning, Miss Henderson,’ said Vera, ticking off her name. ‘I’ve reserved you a seat just behind Joseph.’
‘Thank you, Vera,’ said Beth. She smiled as she climbed on to the bus. The spare seat was next to me.
‘Morning, Jack. Lovely day.’ She looked casual in her T-shirt, jeans and trainers and put her fleece and a bulky shoulder bag on the seat. I got up to put them on the luggage rack.
‘Hello, Beth. What’s in the bag?’ I asked.
‘My packed lunch,’ said Beth, ‘and if you’re good I might share it with you.’
Her eyes twinkled and I relaxed back in my seat. This was a good start to the day.
Soon we were driving through the farmlands of the Vale of York, where the River Ouse and its tributaries drained the great agricultural region of the county. Out of the window, beyond the thorny hedgerows, tall stalks of green unripe barley swayed in the gentle breeze with a random, sinuous rhythm. It was as if whole fields had a life of their own, rippling with swirling shadows and reflecting the light of the new day.
Time passed slowly and we drove along a moorland road beneath a sky of wheeling starlings. The steepled line of distant villages huddled on the horizon and the green and grey of North Yorkshire stretched out before us, splashed with purple heather. The old coach chugged up winding roads and through pretty villages on to the tableland of the bare and windswept North Yorkshire Moors. After millions of years under primeval seas, the Ice Age had transformed this land. It seemed as if a giant claw had gouged the purple hills, leaving behind green valleys that ran in parallel lines into the Vale of Pickering. We were deep into grouse moor country, a natural home for bees and wildlife and one of England’s greatest national parks.
In the seat in front of me, Vera stared out of the window in wonder at this wild land of moors and mosses. Next
to
her, Joseph frowned as he read his
Daily Telegraph
. Beyond the borders of our lives, the world continued to be dominated by those who searched for power and influence. During the recent trade union day of action, thousands of public-sector workers had demonstrated against the cuts in government spending and Arthur Scargill had addressed three thousand protesters at a rally in Sheffield. Meanwhile, it was reported that President Carter and a certain ex-movie star, Mr Ronald Reagan, had easily defeated their Democratic and Republican rivals in the nominations for the presidency. Joseph chuckled and closed the newspaper.
Finally, the mighty cliffs and the North Sea could be seen in the far distance and we drove into Robin Hood’s Bay. Many of the homes and cottages had been bought and renovated by ‘incomers’ and this had breathed new life into the area. However, the community remained humbled by the might of the sea and respectful of the giant forces of nature that had carved out this gem on the Yorkshire coastline.
In the car park at the top of the steeply sloping village street we disembarked and went our separate ways. We had an hour to spare before the concert began. The band made directly for the local public house, many of the villagers set off to explore the tiny gift shops and Beth and I walked down to the bay. The tide was out and sunlight reflected from a thousand rock pools.
‘What a perfect place for lunch, Jack,’ said Beth and
we
sat down on a rocky outcrop. It looked as though Beth had used her complete collection of Tupperware as she revealed a multitude of sandwiches, fresh tomatoes and fruit. There was space to breathe here and the cooling breeze was fresh in my face. Beth’s face and arms were tanned again and emphasized her perfect English beauty as she leaned back against the rock and soaked up the view.
‘Thanks for coming, Beth,’ I said as I poured some more tea from her flask.
‘Good to be here.’
‘It wouldn’t have been the same without you,’ I said.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I wouldn’t have had any lunch!’
Beth threw a rolled-up tea towel at me and I fell backwards trying to avoid it. We both laughed and twenty minutes later we packed up her bag and set off to walk across the bay.
I felt like a child again as we took off our trainers and socks and paddled in the cooling sea water. Gentle wavelets caressed our feet and pebbles rolled with smooth erosion between our toes. Around us, sunlight played upon the natural beauty of the landscape and the blue-black waves stretched out to meet the awesome sky. In this vast amphitheatre of silence we walked together by the edge of the sea. I felt as though the driftwood of my life had been cast upon this lonely shore but I couldn’t recall being happier. Then, suddenly, the loud cry of seagulls, salt sharp in the sea air, woke me from my dreams.
‘Perhaps we should be making our way back now, Jack?’ said Beth and she took my hand.
We walked back, both deep in our own thoughts. I looked up at the huddle of houses cascading down towards the rocky beach and wondered about the history of this unique place with its tales of smugglers in times gone by. Soon we reached the harbour and we leaned against a fishing boat and stared out to sea. It felt as if neither of us wanted to leave.
Then a long slim shadow appeared alongside us and I looked up, shielding my eyes from the sun. It was Joseph and he removed his straw hat and wiped his brow.
‘Hello, you two. I just wanted one last view of this beautiful scene,’ he said and, together, we looked across the bay. ‘Born in fire, formed in ice,’ said Joseph almost to himself. ‘The breath of God has blessed this land.’ I looked at him, at the ridge of his Roman nose reddened by the sun. ‘That’s what my father told me when I came here as a boy. I remember it as if it was yesterday.’
‘Fine words, Joseph,’ I said, ‘and perfect for this lovely day.’
On a large flat grassy space at the top of the village, bands in their different-coloured jackets mingled casually, drinking beer and swapping stories with easy banter. Rivalry there may be, but comradeship and a shared love of music was the theme of the day. Vera had reserved two deck chairs next to her and Beth and I sat down. A brass band from Huddersfield began the proceedings with, fittingly, ‘Land
of
Hope and Glory’ and everyone tapped their feet. Above our heads, daring seagulls swooped from a cobalt-blue sky and brass trumpets flashed in the sunlight as we gloried in these magnificent surroundings.
The afternoon wore on until it was the turn of the Ragley and Morton Brass Band for the final performance of the day. They took their places and began their short programme. The final piece was the one we had all been waiting for.
‘This is the one, Jack,’ said Vera and she clenched her handkerchief and sat forward in her seat.
Peter Duddleston turned to face the audience. ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, we finish with that wonderful hymn composed by Henry Francis Lyte in 1847. He wrote the words to his poem while he lay dying from tuberculosis. The lyrics are sung to William Monk’s beautiful “Eventide” and it is, of course, considered to be England’s national hymn.’ He smiled gently at Amelia, who sat still as stone in her seat. She seemed to be staring at something just outside our range of vision. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to feature Miss Amelia Duff on the flugelhorn.’ Then he tapped his baton on his music stand and a hush descended on the crowd.
Above our heads a butterfly hovered and, once again, Amelia’s eyes followed its every movement. Then she stood up proudly, raised her flugelhorn to her lips and began to play. There was an intake of breath from the audience. Here was music the like of which they had never heard before. It was music blessed by angels.
Chapter Twenty
Dear Teacher
88 children were registered on roll on this last day of the school year. Thirteen fourth-year juniors left today and will start full-time education at Easington Comprehensive School in September. A teddy bears’ picnic, organized by the PTA, was held on the school field
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 25 July 1980
IT HAD BEEN
a restless night.
In the early hours there was no moon, only backlit clouds that scurried across the sky and covered the land with shadows of confusion. The night lay heavy on the sleeping earth and, even with the windows of Bilbo Cottage wide open, the heat was stifling. As I stared into the far distance, where the earth met the sky, the rugged hills were a pale violet against the distant glow of a new
dawn
. Finally, the first rays of daylight shimmered on the parched fields and bars of golden light invaded my dark bedroom.
It was Friday, 25 July, the last day of the school year. My third year as headmaster of Ragley School was about to come to an end. Scattered on the breakfast table were my notes for the final assembly and I sat down to put them in order. The problem was … all I could think about was Beth.
My drive to school was filled with thoughts of her and, after parking, I walked out of school to clear my thoughts. The village green was deserted and I leaned against the giant ancient oak tree. A thick tapestry of tendrils swarmed up the gnarled bark towards boughs heavy in leaf and acorn. There was peace and welcome shadow here in the shimmering heat haze of this breathless morning.
Then, in the stillness, the arrow of the old cast-iron weather vane on top of the village hall suddenly creaked in the first hint of a breeze. With a reluctant grinding of metal on metal, it slowly swung round towards the direction of the far distant clouds. The weather was turning.
Ragley was coming alive and I rejoiced that, year by year, I was becoming a part of the daily life of this beautiful Yorkshire village. Down the High Street, Prudence Golightly was watering a hanging basket outside the General Stores and Young Tommy Piercy was wheeling
his
delivery bicycle out of his grandad’s butcher’s shop. On the handlebars was a plastic bag containing a pair of pig’s trotters destined for Maurice Tupham, the rhubarb champion. Natasha Smith was staring at the new range of lipsticks in the Pharmacy window and Timothy Pratt was setting out his aluminium cat-flaps in a perfectly straight line on the trestle table outside his Hardware Emporium. Little Malcolm Robinson, immensely proud of his new 1973 bright-green Hillman Avenger, had pulled up outside Nora’s Coffee Shop. Instantly, the love of his life, Dorothy Humpleby, tottered out on her high heels to admire it, with Nora Pratt in close attendance. Big Dave Robinson clambered out of the passenger seat and gave his diminutive cousin a scathing ‘big girl’s blouse’ look. He stopped to talk to Nora before they both shook their heads sadly and walked inside. Diane Wigglesworth was sticking a poster of Bo Derek in the window of her Hair Salon and Amelia Duff was telling Margery Ackroyd why every village in England would always need a post office.
Heading down the York Road towards Victor Pratt’s garage came Deke Ramsbottom on his tractor, towing a trailer load of cow manure. With his stetson hat shielding his eyes from the sun, he appeared completely oblivious to the dreadful smell as he whistled the theme from
Rawhide
and waved to every passer-by. Finally, Stan Coe roared past the village green in his muddy Land-Rover and gave me an evil stare as he drove up the Easington Road.
The first children were arriving and Heathcliffe Earnshaw and his little brother Terry were walking towards school. They had just purchased two giant humbugs from Prudence Golightly’s shop. The humbugs were so large their lips could no longer meet. Speech was rendered impossible, so they merely waved a cheerful hello with happy thoughts of six weeks of endless playtimes only one school day away.
When I walked back into school, Vera, Anne and Jo were standing in the car park in animated conversation with Sally. They all looked tired but happy and I guessed they were talking about holidays, babies or teddy bears or, possibly, all three. Each one of them carried a much-loved and well-worn teddy bear in preparation for the afternoon picnic on the school field. I glanced at the distant hills where clouds were gathering and hoped the weather would stay fine for our last day.
At a quarter past ten the hall was full of children, parents, grandparents, school governors and every member of staff. It was our ‘Leavers’ Assembly’, when we said goodbye to the children in my class who were moving on to Easington Comprehensive School.
I welcomed our official guest, one of our school governors Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener, military medals gleaming on the breast pocket of his smart grey suit. Our first hymn was ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. The Revd Joseph Evans was sitting next to his fellow school governor and home-made wine connoisseur
Albert
Jenkins, resplendent in his new three-piece suit. They both sang with gusto.