Authors: Jack Sheffield
‘What d’you want? ‘As Nathan been up t’no good?’
‘No, just the opposite,’ I said. ‘He’s a fine boy. You must be very proud.’
‘’E’s no son o’ mine,’ he retorted. ‘’Is real dad ran off years ago. Ah met ‘is mother when ah were working in Leeds.’
‘I see,’ I said and wished the system for the transfer of records from one school to another could be speeded up. ‘Well, I hope you’ll be very happy in Ragley and if you have any concerns please call in whenever you can. We want Nathan to be settled in his new school.’
‘Is that it, then?’ he said, still blocking my way.
I held up the bag of books. ‘I’ve brought some books for Nathan to read at home.’
‘Well, y’can tek ’em back again,’ he said and turned away. Then, as an afterthought, he put his face close to mine. ‘Y’know what teachers are,’ he sneered: ‘men amongst boys an’ boys amongst men.’
‘I’ve heard that before, Mr Penny,’ I said, ‘and it’s a tired joke. I wouldn’t go around repeating it if I were you.’
He watched me walk down the road before he turned back to his van and carried on unloading.
On Saturday evening, shortly after six o’clock, Beth and I were in the kitchen of Bilbo Cottage and my old pine table was covered in icing sugar. I had volunteered to ice Beth’s Christmas cake. It was meant to be a joint effort but we both knew it wasn’t really. The resulting masterpiece was due to be taken to Hampshire for our New Year’s Eve visit to Beth’s parents.
‘If you dip the palette knife into the jug of hot water I gave you, Jack,’ said Beth patiently, although through gritted teeth, ‘then it’s a lot easier and the icing will have a smoother finish.’ It occurred to me she was beginning to sound like Delia Smith but I refrained from mentioning this.
In the meantime, the smell of Beth’s cooking made my mouth water. She donned my Basil Brush oven gloves, a misguided and incongruous purchase at the recent PTA jumble sale, and removed the lid from a magnificent chicken casserole.
We had invited an unsuspecting Dan and Jo Hunter to join us for a meal before going into York for a wine-tasting evening at the Assembly Rooms. Soon the four of us were tucking in and it wasn’t until Dan’s third helping that he stretched out, patted his full tummy and sighed with satisfaction. ‘Wonderful, Beth.’
I looked across at Beth and she took the hint. ‘Jack’s got something important to ask you, Dan,’ she announced as she collected the plates.
Dan looked up. ‘Is it anything to do with the washing-up?’ he said with a broad grin.
‘Actually, Dan, I was wondering if you would be my best man,’ I said.
Jo gave a squeal of delight. ‘Oh, say yes, Dan, before he changes his mind.’
‘So, what’s it to be, Dan?’ said Beth. ‘You could wear that lovely dress uniform of yours.’
‘Well, what a surprise,’ said Dan. He leant over the table and shook my hand. ‘It would be a pleasure, Jack. I’m your man.’
‘So have you picked a date?’ asked Jo, barely able to contain her excitement.
‘Yes. We went to see Joseph and it will be here at St Mary’s on the last Saturday in May,’ said Beth.
‘In the Spring Bank holiday,’ said Jo. ‘A perfect time.’
‘So not in Hampshire, then?’ said Dan.
‘No,’ said Beth. ‘My parents agreed it made sense to have it up here in Yorkshire. All our friends are here and this is where we’re going to live.’ She put her arm round my waist and looked at me. ‘And Jack’s finally persuaded me to move in here at Bilbo Cottage.’
Dan and I were ushered out of the kitchen, while Beth and Jo prepared coffee and talked about wedding dresses.
Over coffee we settled down to watch
Larry Grayson’s Generation Game
with Isla St Clair and then, shortly after seven o’clock, when Stephanie Turner as Inspector Jean Darblay was about to solve another crime on
Juliet Bravo
, we switched off and prepared to set off for the wine-tasting.
‘Jack, have you heard about the spate of burglaries in Easington?’ said Dan.
‘Yes. It was in the
Herald
,’ I said, nodding towards the sofa. The headline in the
Easington Herald & Pioneer
read, ‘Two more break-ins – police urge everyone to be vigilant’.
‘People are getting nervous,’ said Beth. ‘My next-door neighbour is having new locks fitted and most of the villagers have started locking their doors for the first time.’
On Monday morning, Roy Davidson and Joseph Evans were waiting for me in the school office. ‘I’m calling in to see Nathan Penny’s parents today, Jack,’ said Roy, ‘and I’m taking Mary O’Neill from Social Services. We’re getting reports that Mr Penny has a tendency towards violence.’
I recalled my meeting with Nathan’s mother last week. ‘I can understand that,’ I said, ‘and when I spoke with Mrs Penny there was bruising on her wrist. You might want to check that out.’
‘He’s certainly a busy man at present,’ said Joseph reflectively, ‘replacing all the broken locks following the burglaries.’
It was a hectic day with another group of parents putting the finishing touches to costumes and props for the nativity play. Only when I finally drove home to Kirkby Steepleton did I reflect once again on Nathan Penny and the difficulties in his life.
On Tuesday morning I was surprised to see Dan Hunter in the staff-room in animated conversation with Jo and Sally.
‘More burglaries, Jack – all yesterday afternoon,’ said Dan gravely.
‘Six mothers worked in school yesterday, Jack, and three of them have been robbed,’ said Jo. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence.’
Dan looked at his wife and nodded slowly. ‘You’ve got a point there, Jo.’
‘Well, that’s my fault,’ said Sally.
‘How can it be your fault?’ asked Jo.
‘I advertised the rota for costume-making in the monthly newsletter,’ said Sally, ‘and listed the mothers who were coming along to help us and the dates and times they would be in school.’
There was silence while we all considered the implications. ‘And does the newsletter just go to parents?’ asked Dan.
‘Parents and governors, that’s all,’ I said.
Dan stood up. ‘I have to go,’ he said abruptly. ‘Something Joseph said last night.’
It was the end of the week when we all crowded round the
Easington Herald & Pioneer
in the staff-room and read the article. John Penny had been arrested on numerous counts of burglary.
‘And then he had the cheek to return and repair their locks,’ said Vera.
There was a knock on the door. It was Jennifer Penny with Nathan. She obviously wanted to talk. ‘Perhaps you would like to sit in the library, Nathan,’ I said, ‘while I speak with your mother.’ He smiled and trotted off at once.
‘So how are you, Mrs Penny?’ I asked when we were sitting in the office.
‘Relieved,’ she said simply.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I said. ‘It must be difficult for you.’
She paused and looked sad. ‘You never know ’ow life will turn out … ’ow a relationship will end.’
‘What are you going to do? Nathan tells me you intend to move.’
‘We are, Mr Sheffield, and ah’ve mixed feelings about that. Nathan was beginning t’settle here in Ragley and ’e was so proud when you made ’im library monitor. ’E loves his books.’
‘So where are you going?’
‘To my sister’s just outside Skipton. It’s a nice cottage with plenty o’ room. We’ll be ’appy there and there’s a good school for Nathan.’
‘That’s encouraging news,’ I said.
She looked out of the office window. ‘Ragley’s a lovely village, Mr Sheffield, but we can’t stay ’ere after all that’s ’appened. It would be too difficult for Nathan. He deserves a fresh start.’
‘I understand,’ I said, ‘and … I was going to give him these,’ I picked up the set of C. S. Lewis books, ‘but Mr Penny refused them. Perhaps you would like to take them now.’
‘You’re very kind, Mr Sheffield. Nathan will be thrilled.’
It was a sad day when, the following Monday, Nathan and his mother came to say goodbye. ‘Stick at your writing, Nathan,’ I said and he gave me a relieved smile. Then they walked out of Ragley School for the last time. Vera and I watched them from the office window, mother and son setting out for an uncertain future. Vera had shown her usual efficiency and had forwarded Nathan’s records to his next school along with a letter from Roy Davidson providing some of the family background.
When they reached the school gate, snow began to fall again and I smiled as Jennifer Penny put a protective arm round her son’s shoulders.
* * *
There is a postscript to this story. Twenty years later I received a Christmas card depicting a snowy picture of Grassington village in Wharfedale. The message inside said ‘
Do give me a call if you’re in the area
’, followed by a telephone number. It was signed …
Nathan Penny
.
So it was that on a bright, cold December day I found myself next to a roaring log fire in the Devonshire Arms in Grassington village, enjoying minced beef and Yorkshire pudding along with a pint of William Younger’s Best Bitter. Opposite me was a wiry, athletic, weather-beaten young man, approaching his thirtieth birthday. He was a Yorkshire Dales Ranger, caring for the spectacular Yorkshire countryside with its limestone walls and wild moorland. Nathan Penny had flourished.
‘Best thing you ever did was t’send that welfare officer round to our house, Mr Sheffield. It helped my mother see sense and it was the making of me.’
‘It was a tough decision at the time,’ I said. ‘We had to tread carefully.’
‘Well, all’s well now. I’ve got a wonderful job, a lovely lass and my writing.’
‘Ah, yes, your writing,’ I said. ‘Your stories were always beautifully written and your poetry was exceptional.’ He smiled modestly. ‘That reminds me, Nathan. I brought this for you.’ I handed him an old paperback of mine that I had taken from my bookshelf that morning. It was a book of Roger McGough’s poetry of the sixties.
‘One of my favourite poets,’ he said, flicking through the pages: ‘a real man of the people … Humour and humility, a good combination.’
‘I remembered you loved your poetry, Nathan,’ I said.
‘I still do,’ he said, ‘and it helped a lot.’
‘How do you mean?’
He smiled. ‘When my stepdad was around, Mr Sheffield, life was a series of frightening moments. It felt like a world of tall fences, no escape … But now I feel free.’
I nodded in acknowledgement. The nervous little boy I had known all those years ago had gone now and been replaced by the confident young man who sat before me.
‘I learnt to open my box of secrets,’ he said knowingly. Then he slipped out of his pocket an old leather wallet. Inside was a small photograph, which he took out and passed to me. It was Nathan with a young dark-haired woman and they were standing in front of a small cottage in the Dales. ‘That’s my Susan,’ he said simply.
When we left the pub he shook my hand in farewell and, to my surprise, leant into his Land-Rover and drew out a package. ‘For you, Mr Sheffield,’ he said and thrust it into my hand. ‘I did what you said: I stuck at it.’
Then he climbed into the driver’s seat and, with a wave, drove off across the frozen cobbles of the market square. As he disappeared into the distance I recalled a long-ago December day when a troubled nine-year-old had walked down the driveway of Ragley School and disappeared into the darkness for the last time.
Finally, I opened the parcel and smiled. It was a book of published poetry and the words on the front cover read
THE LATCHKEY BOY
and other poems
by
Nathan Penny
Three new admissions arrived today so our number on roll passed ninety for the first time in Ragley’s history. The school Christmas party was enjoyed by a full attendance and was supported by the PTA
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 18 December 1981
‘So remember, boys and girls, it’s better to give than receive,’ said the Revd Joseph Evans.
Most of the children in the school hall stared back at our friendly local vicar and looked bemused. It was Friday morning, 18 December, the last day of the autumn term, and our final assembly of 1981 was almost at an end. It had been a busy week with a successful nativity play on Wednesday, a carol service on Thursday and, finally, this afternoon, came the Christmas party. Excitement knew no bounds and the children fidgeted with anticipation of the forthcoming festivities.
Afterwards Joseph wondered if his message had fallen on deaf ears when his follow-up discussion about giving and receiving didn’t go as he had anticipated.
‘Ah don’t reckon much t’Jesus’s presents, Mr Evans,’ said Terry Earnshaw defiantly. ‘All this gold an’ frankenstein an’ t’other one. Ah reckon’e would’ve rather ’ad a Darth Vader ’elmet an’ a light sabre – or, if it ’ad been a girl, mebbe jus’ the ’elmet.’
Joseph sighed but managed to smile at this forthright son of Barnsley with his spiky blond crewcut, runny nose and determined expression. However, he didn’t notice that, next to Terry, little Victoria Alice Dudley-Palmer was looking distinctly thoughtful.