Authors: Jack Sheffield
The penny finally dropped. ‘Ah, you’re talking about tomorrow’s royal visit,’ I said.
The four women gave me a familiar
he’s only a man
look and smiled condescendingly before returning to the small text under the headline ‘Big Day for York Railway Museum.’
Three miles away in his brightly lit garage near Easington, Walter Clarence Crapper was polishing his propeller.
With a deep sigh, he glanced at his watch, returned his chamois leather to its precise place in his neat box of cleaning materials, said farewell to his model Sopwith Pup biplane with its magnificent sixty-inch wing span and turned off the light. Pausing only in the hallway to fill his two fountain pens with red and black Quink ink respectively and put his accountant’s ledgers in his briefcase, he set off in his 1977 Toyota Corolla Estate, a tax-deductable bargain at £1,950, and headed at a sedate pace to Ragley village.
Walter, in his early forties, was the younger brother of Ernest Crapper, Ragley village’s best and only encyclopaedia salesman. He had never married, mainly because he had yet to meet a woman who knew the difference between cyanoacrylate glue and wallpaper paste. In his neat, tidy garage he would spend his winter nights making model replicas of his favourite aircraft. This precise, exacting and uplifting hobby along with his detailed ledgers, columns of figures and slide-rule mathematics gave Walter an interesting and well-ordered life. While growing up with the name W. C. Crapper had been difficult, especially at school, he had found his niche and, apart from feeling a little lonely on those long, dark evenings when he lovingly recharged the nickel-cadmium battery on his model aircraft’s transmitter, his life, if not
perfect
, was at least
satisfactory
.
‘Well, almost,’ he muttered to himself as he slowed up in Ragley High Street, parked outside Pratt’s Hardware Emporium and picked up his briefcase.
The doorbell jingled as Walter, a balding, bespectacled man with a neatly clipped moustache and wearing a thick tweed suit, walked into the shop and paused for a moment on the coconut matting. He summed up the neat shelves, tidy counter and the sharp creases in Timothy’s shirt sleeves. Then he nodded in approval. In the balance sheet of tidiness Timothy Pratt was already in credit. ‘Good morning. I’m Walter Crapper, the accountant, here for our nine-thirty appointment,’ he said in a clipped, precise voice. ‘I presume you are Mr Pratt.’
‘Oh, ’ello, Mr Crapper. Yes, I am and thanks for …’ he glanced at the clock, ‘being so
punctual
.’
Walter smiled modestly. ‘We are here to serve, as they say.’
‘Well, Mr Crapper, ah jus’ need me books checking,’ continued Timothy in his monotone voice, ’an’ you came ’ighly recommended by y’sister-in-law, Elsie.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Walter, with a reserved nod of acceptance. Walter had never been a flamboyant man. He checked the neat Windsor knot in his aero club chairman’s tie, walked up to the counter and looked around him. ‘And may I say what a wonderful emporium you have.’
Timothy glowed with pride. ‘Well, ah do m’best,’ he said with slightly false modesty.
‘And, of course, alphabetical order!’ exclaimed Walter.
‘I’d be lost without it,’ said Timothy.
‘So would I,’ said Walter with feeling. ‘
Create order from chaos
,’ he recited: ‘that’s my motto.’
‘It’s mine as well,’ said Timothy, warming to his like-thinking accountant. However, when he saw the perfect columns of figures in Walter’s leather-bound ledgers he could barely contain his excitement. Finally, at lunchtime, after he had invited Walter to join him next door for a quick sandwich in his sister’s Coffee Shop, and he heard what Walter’s plans were for the next day, he knew he was in the presence of greatness.
It was a quiet school day and at 3.45 p.m. the children in my class said their end-of-school prayer, put their chairs on their desks and walked into the cloakroom to collect their coats and scarves. Theresa Ackroyd and Debbie Clack had become friends and they smiled at me as they said goodnight. ‘Thanks, Mr Sheffield. I enjoyed t’story,’ said Theresa.
I had just read an extract from Frances Hodgson Burnett’s
The Secret Garden
, and you could have heard a pin drop. ‘Thanks, Theresa,’ I said, ‘and what are you doing tonight?’
‘Debbie’s coming back to my ’ouse f’tea,’ said Theresa.
‘An’ we’re gonna watch
Grange ’Ill
, Mr Sheffield,’ said Debbie.
‘An’ then
Crossroads
,’ added Theresa for good measure.
‘
Grange ’Ill
should be good t’night,’ said Debbie enthusiastically. ‘Some ’ooligans are gonna cause some bother at t’school dance.’
They wandered off and I watched them skip happily across the playground. Their carefree world was something to be treasured and it seemed a shame that adolescence was just round the corner, waiting to spoil it.
On my way down the High Street the bright lights of Nora’s Coffee Shop caught my eye and I pulled up outside. A relaxing cup of coffee was just what I needed. When I walked in, Dorothy Humpleby, the twenty-five-year-old, peroxide-blonde assistant and would-be model, was leaning on the counter and filing her nails while skimming through her latest
Smash Hits
magazine. She was dressed in a skin-tight pink polo-neck sweater, black leather hotpants and a pair of thigh-high white boots with four-inch heels. As Dorothy was five-feet-eleven-inches tall in her stockinged feet, conversations and neck strain were regular companions.
‘Hello, Dorothy, how are you?’ I asked politely but secretly hoped I would not be drawn into one of our usual
alternative universe
conversations.
‘Fair t’middlin’, Mr Sheffield,’ said Dorothy. She stopped filing her nails and nodded towards a plateful of tired-looking pastries in the display case. ‘What’s it t’be? We got some cream ’orns fresh in yesterday.’
‘Fine, Dorothy. I’ll have a coffee and a cream horn, please,’ I said quickly, seeking a speedy transaction.
‘E’s proper dreamy,’ said Dorothy with a far-away look.
‘Who’s dweamy?’ asked Nora Pratt, owner of the Coffee Shop and general know-all. Forty-four-year-old Nora was a short, stocky, self-opinionated lady who was very proud of her status in the village as president of the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society. This helped her to secure the star part in the annual Ragley pantomime regardless of the fact that the pronunciation of the letter ‘R’ had always eluded her.
‘Prince Albert of Meccano,’ said Dorothy, selecting a slightly stale cream horn and putting it on a plate.
Nora looked up from the frothy coffee machine, caught my eye and shook her head. ‘It’s
Monaco
, Dowothy,’ she said. ‘He’s the only son of Pwince Wainier and that film star Pwincess Gwace.’
Unmoved, Dorothy picked up my fifty-pence piece, gave me my change and wondered if her boyfriend, Malcolm Robinson, the local refuse collector, would ever surprise
her
with a trip to Monaco. As Malcolm had never been further than Bridlington, she guessed it was unlikely.
‘Here y’are, Mr Sheffield,’ said Nora: ‘a fwothy coffee an’ a cweam ’orn.’
I went to sit at a table and picked up a discarded copy of the
Easington Herald & Pioneer
and scanned the front page article headed ‘Local Accountant to Meet the Royals’.
Meanwhile, Big Dave and Little Malcolm had called in for their end-of-work mug of tea. Dorothy’s boyfriend, the five-feet-four-inch binman, Little Malcolm, was at the counter, staring at the love of his life, while his six-feet-four-inch cousin, Big Dave, went to sit with Deke Ramsbottom at the table next to the old chrome and red juke-box. Deke had just inserted five pence for one of his favourite records.
‘’E allus picks that Grindstone Cowboy,’ said Dorothy to Little Malcolm.
‘Y’reight there, Dorothy,’ said Little Malcolm. ‘’E loves ’is cowboy songs, does Deke.’
‘No, it’s not Gwinestone, it’s
Whinestone
Cowboy,’ said Nora. She was a big fan of Glenn Campbell.
Dorothy ignored this correction and carried on regardless. ‘Charles an’ Di are coming t’York t’morrow, Malcolm. Ah wish ah could see ’er.’
‘It’ll be on t’telly,’ said Little Malcolm.
‘Ah know that, Malcolm,’ insisted Dorothy, ‘but ah think she uses that Max Factor eye-liner what ah like an’ ah’d need t’be close up.’
‘Oh, ah see,’ said Little Malcolm … but he didn’t.
‘Ah know who will be
close up
,’ said Nora triumphantly: ‘that Mr Cwapper who’s doing our Timothy’s books.’E ’elps out at t’Wailway Museum an’ ’e’ll be there tomowwow.’
‘What does ’
e
do, then?’ asked Dorothy.
‘’E looks after Stephenson’s Wocket,’ said Nora.
Dorothy looked blank.
‘It’s a twain, Dowothy.’
‘Oy! ‘Urry up wi’ them teas, Casanova,’ shouted Big Dave, giving Little Malcolm his big-girl’s-blouse look.
Little Malcolm recoiled but composed himself sufficiently to put three spoonfuls of sugar into both mugs and retreat to the table.
On my way home to Kirkby Steepleton, I noticed the lights were still on at Pratt’s Garage and I pulled up by the single pump. Victor Pratt, elder brother of Nora and Timothy, lumbered out to serve me, wiping his oil-smeared hands on his filthy overalls. ‘Now then, Mr Sheffield,’ said Victor in a gruff voice.
‘Hello, Victor. Could you fill her up, please?’ He unscrewed my filler cap and, with some foreboding, I asked him the usual question, ‘And how are you, Victor?’ Victor’s ailments usually defied all logic and were wonders of modern science.
‘Ah’ve been stung by summat,’ replied Victor with a pained expression.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Victor,’ I said with feeling.
He pointed to a lump on his elbow as if it was a war wound. ‘Ah’ve been t’Dr Davenport an’ ah asked’im for an anecdote.’
‘An anecdote?’ I said, trying to suppress a grin. ‘And what did he say?’
‘Nothing really,’ said Victor looking puzzled. ‘’E jus’ ’ad this sudden fit o’ coughing.’E does it reg’lar when ah go t’see’im … ah don’t know why.’
I gave Victor a ten-pound note and he wandered slowly back inside to resume battle with an ancient till that looked like something from a museum. When he returned to give me my change I noticed he was limping slightly. ‘An’ t’mek matters worse,’ he grumbled, ‘ah’ve got onions on m’feet.’
‘Oh dear, Victor,’ I said with feeling, ‘I bet that brings tears to your eyes.’
‘Y’reight there, Mr Sheffield,’ said Victor. ‘In fac’, that’s jus’ what Dr Davenport said.’
In Kirkby Steepleton I bought a fish-and-chips supper and sat down at seven o’clock to watch
This is Your Life
on ITV. Eamonn Andrews had just surprised Cannon and Ball with his famous red book when the telephone rang.
‘I’ve just finished at school,’ said Beth. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Just about to start my fish-and-chips supper,’ I said.
‘Sounds lovely.’
‘Why not join me?’ I said.
‘I think I will,’ said Beth. ‘Shall I pick some up on the way?’
‘No. You come straight here and I’ll nip into the village and buy some more.’
‘Thanks,’ said Beth. ‘See you soon.’
Four hours later, after an evening of wedding-talk, Michael Parkinson was having a tête-à-tête with Joanna Lumley when we finally walked upstairs hand in hand.
On Thursday morning the first frost of winter had arrived and Vera put on her best suit, pinned on her grandmother’s Victorian brooch and selected a warm scarf and a woollen royal-blue coat. Radio 3 was switched on in the kitchen and she hummed along to the music of Gershwin. Then, after scraping the ice off the windscreen of her Austin A40, she set off down Morton Road, through Ragley and on to the city of York, the jewel in Yorkshire’s crown. She parked near Micklegate Bar, walked briskly to the railway station and selected a good vantage point in Tea-Room Square. Gradually the crowds began to grow around her and she leant against the metal barrier, waited patiently and smiled. She was about to see her future queen.
Timothy and Walter had already arrived. They were on first-name terms now and Timothy could barely contain his excitement. He had never met anyone as interesting as Walter in his whole life and the invitation to go with him to the Railway Museum simply couldn’t be refused. After asking Deke Ramsbottom to look after his shop he had put on his best suit and Yorkshire county tie, featuring a single ‘Tudor’ white rose on a green background, and loaded his old camera with a roll of film.
‘Good luck, Walter,’ said Tidy Tim from behind the crowd barrier as Walter donned his spotlessly clean blue boiler suit.
‘Thank you, Timothy,’ said Walter and he took his place in the line of nervous museum volunteers.
At last the royal train arrived in bright sunshine and everyone cheered as the Prince and Princess of Wales stepped out of the carriage. They were due to become parents next June and there was much excited chatter among the ladies in the crowd. Princess Diana was radiant and looked stunning in her moss-green, woollen caped coat and a black Spanish-style hat. Vera was pleased to see she showed no sign of the illness that caused her to cancel engagements earlier in the week.