Authors: Jack Sheffield
‘Well said, that man,’ said the major, ‘and what’s the recipe? I’ll give it to my cook.’
‘Well, Rupert,’ said Vera, ‘Mr Sheffield is going to write Mr Gaskin’s recipe on the blackboard so that the children can copy it into their “Food” folders … I’ll make a copy for you.’
‘Jolly good show, Vera. Well, duty calls, what?’ said the major, lifting his brass timepiece from his waistcoat pocket. ‘See you chaps later at the end of school.’
Billy and Harry stiffened automatically to attention. ‘Yes, Major,’ they said in unison.
‘At ease, men,’ said Rupert with a smile. ‘Old habits die hard, what?’ He walked out to his classic Bentley while Vera and I led the two men through the little corridor from the office to the staff-room for a cup of tea. Anne, Sally and Jo were there. Anne was helping Sally refill the Roneo Spirit Duplicator and Jo was immersed in a new North Yorkshire booklet,
Computers in Primary Schools
, by our adviser Gilford Eccles.
‘These are our visitors,’ I announced, ‘Billy and Harry Gaskin – and look what they’ve brought.’ I put the loaf on the coffee table and everyone gathered round.
‘What a lovely gift!’ said Anne.
Billy and Harry smiled shyly.
‘You can’t beat the smell of fresh bread,’ said Sally.
‘We’ll share it out later today,’ I said.
‘Oooh, thanks,’ said Jo. ‘I love newly baked bread. There’s something, you know, special about it.’
‘The colour’s interesting,’ said Anne, intrigued.
‘That’ll be t’treacle,’ said Billy with a modest smile.
* * *
After a cup of tea, Shirley the cook came in and took Billy and Harry to the kitchen to collect the mixing bowls and set up the demonstration table in the school hall. It was Vera, of course, who knew the story of their lives and we all gathered round to hear about the two brothers.
Billy had been born in a terraced house in a soot-blackened street in Leeds in January 1895 and Harry arrived a year later. They were best friends as well as brothers, sharing a tough working-class experience. However, though they were often hungry, they were regularly reminded by their grandmother that they were the luckiest boys in the world because they were children of the Empire and Queen Victoria was on the throne. It was a simple, frugal life of bread-and-dripping sandwiches, cobbled streets and the expectation of work in one of the local mills.
However, the brief pleasures of childhood soon passed and in 1914 they stood side by side at the foot of the statue of the Black Prince in Leeds City Square and stared up at Kitchener’s poster appeal ‘Your Country Needs You’. Above their heads an armada of high cirrus clouds sped across a cornflower-blue sky towards the distant Pennines. It was a day of hope and expectation, a day of daring and defiance, but, for Harry and Billy, it was the day they signed up for a date with destiny. They were about to enter a conflict that would shape the rest of their lives and, with tens of other volunteers, they queued to serve their country.
Billy and Harry joined the 15th West York shire Battalion following Earl Kitchener’s idea that units of men should be drawn from one town or city. After signing up they were all treated to a large helping of the famous Woolton pie, including diced potatoes, cauliflower, swede, carrots, onions and oatmeal under a pastry crust. It had been named after Lord Woolton, the Minister of Food and a member of the family who owned the famous Lewis’s department store in Leeds. For Billy and Harry it was the best meal they had eaten in weeks.
So it was they became part of a band of brothers, a regiment known as the ‘Leeds Pals’.
In the school hall at a quarter past one, the children were wide-eyed with excitement as they watched Billy and Harry, assisted by Shirley the cook, begin their demonstration. ‘Well, ah weigh out one and a ‘alf pounds of wholemeal flour,’ said Billy, ‘and ah add yeast and salt …’
‘Let me write this down,’ I said and I noted the first part of the process on the blackboard.
‘After that,’ continued Billy, ‘ah add a ‘alf pound of malted brown flour, then ah dissolve a tablespoon of treacle in ‘alf a pint of hot water and add it and another ‘alf a pint of cold water. Then ah mix in a tablespoon of olive oil.’ I scribbled furiously as the children took turns to weigh and measure the ingredients. ‘I knead the dough and then ah put it, covered with a tea towel, in a warm place to rise for an ‘our,’ said Billy.
While this was going on, the children prepared a collection of much smaller individual loaves that were destined to be taken home. Vera had already sent a letter explaining this to parents. Aprons were passed from boy to girl and hands were scrubbed. Jonathan Greening stared in amazement at his hands. ‘Ah’ve never seen ’em look so clean, Mr Sheffield,’ he said. ‘Me mam’ll be thrilled.’
‘After oiling a few bread tins,’ continued Billy, ‘ah knead t’dough again, put it in t’tins and allow it to rise for a second time for ‘alf an ‘our in a warm oven. Then ah bake’em for ‘alf an ‘our at 190 degrees Celsius. Last of all ah cool t’loaves on a tray.’
‘And that’s ‘ow t’make a perfect loaf, Mr Sheffield,’ said Harry, with an admiring glance at his elder brother.
When the bell rang for afternoon playtime, the children went out to play in the snow and Shirley began baking the bread in her ovens. Vera had prepared a large pot of tea and some dainty slices of Billy’s bread, spread with fresh butter from Prudence Golightly’s General Stores. Jo was on duty and we could see her helping to build an igloo with some of the older children. Meanwhile, we all settled down to our feast of fresh bread and butter and soon Billy and Harry were regaling us with their stories.
‘So what was it really like in the war?’ I asked. ‘My grandfather never came back to tell me.’
‘Well, it were s’pposed t’be t’war to end all wars, but it wasn’t t’be,’ said Harry thoughtfully.
‘Y’reight there, ‘Arry,’ said Billy.
‘Ah recall t’16th and 18th Battalions of t’Prince of Wales Own West Yorkshire Regiment – all brave lads.’
‘Then some general got it wrong,’ said Billy.
‘It were first of July, 1916,’ said Harry, ‘a day we’ll never forget.’
There was silence in the staff-room as both men struggled to find the words.
‘You mean the Battle of the Somme?’ said Sally.
‘That’s reight, luv,’ said Billy. ‘It were a massacre.’
There was silence as they reflected on their world of ghosts and shadows.
‘T’ Leeds Pals were cut down by t’German machine guns,’ continued Harry, ‘an’ then t’Bradford Pals were shot to pieces.’
‘T’ Leeds Pals lost twenty-four officers an’ five ‘undred an’ four men,’ said Billy. ‘T’nex’ day there were only forty-seven of us f’roll call.’
‘How terribly sad,’ said Anne.
‘It robbed our community of a generation of young men,’ said Vera.
‘Over fifty-seven thousand men lay dead and wounded on the uplands of Picardy,’ said Sally softly.
‘Anyway, we’re still ‘ere,’ said Billy, ‘an’ it’s a real treat t’come t’your school, Miss Evans.’
I smiled. Ragley really was
Vera
’s school.
‘Mind you, we’re gettin’ on a bit now,’ said Harry with a grin. ‘There’s seven ages t’man: “spills, drills, thrills, hills, ills, pills and wills”. Ah’m up to t’last one, Mr Sheffield.’
‘Y’know what they say,’ said Billy with a smile: ‘where there’s a will, there’s a relative.’
We all laughed. The spell was broken, the bell rang out and we all hurried back to our work.
It was a different end to the school week. Parents came in to collect their children and finished up talking to Billy and Harry. Many of them looked with interest at the collection of tiny loaves as, one by one, they were wrapped in tissue and taken home.
‘Thank you, Mr Gaskin,’ said Theresa Buttle. ‘That were a great afternoon.’
‘Y’welcome, luv,’ said Billy.
‘Can I give you a lift, Vera?’ asked Rupert.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Vera and she hurried off to get her coat and scarf.
The Bentley drove smoothly over the crusted snow through the gateway to the vicarage and pulled up outside the entrance porch. The north wind whipped up a fresh flurry of snow and Rupert and Vera stared out at the bleak but beautiful landscape. ‘Another year, Vera,’ he murmured.
‘Yes, Rupert,’ said Vera: ‘1982 … I wonder what it will bring.’
‘A wedding in the village,’ he said.
Vera glanced at the major and thought how handsome he looked. ‘You mean Mr Sheffield and Miss Henderson?’
‘Yes, my dear. They will make a good couple.’
‘I’m glad they’ve both found happiness,’ said Vera.
The major turned back to look at her. ‘Vera … it makes you think, doesn’t it?’
‘What’s that, Rupert?’
‘About what those two old soldiers said about growing old,’ said Rupert quietly. ‘Maybe it would be good to have a companion to share happy times.’
‘It might,’ said Vera, unwilling to commit herself further.
‘Vera, you are a wonderful lady,’ said Rupert with sudden intensity, ‘and you must know that I hold you in great esteem.’
‘That’s kind of you to say,’ said Vera, wondering where the conversation was leading.
‘It’s just that life is so precious.’
‘I agree,’ said Vera.
‘Perhaps one day we could be together,’ he said.
There was a long silence. Finally Vera looked up at Rupert. ‘Perhaps,’ she whispered, ‘… perhaps.’
* * *
In the years that followed I visited Billy and Harry from time to time. More often than not they were in their delightful cottage garden and the memories are sharp in my mind. In late spring, aquilegias, wallflowers and forget-me-nots filled the crowded borders and throughout the year it was a haven for what they called ‘proper old-fashioned plants’: honeysuckle and lavender, pinks and sweet peas, foxgloves and hollyhocks. A dusky pink clematis wound its way through the branches of an old apple tree and espalier-trained pears hugged the south wall during the bounty of autumn. Best of all were the roses, a profusion of colour, filling the pergola and scenting the air.
Occasionally the brothers would call into school unannounced and leave a familiar gift for the staff to enjoy. It was always wrapped in white tissue paper and the smell was heavenly. I recall there was a great sadness in the village when, ten years later, they both passed away, first Billy and then, two months later, Harry – friends in life and partners in death. Old soldiers may pass away but friendship never dies.
Final preparations were made for the PTA Valentine Dance to take place in the school hall on Saturday, 13 February, 7.30–11.00 p.m
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 12 February 1982
True romance takes many forms and in the tiny village of Ragley-on-the-Forest it occasionally appeared in disguise.
Heathcliffe Earnshaw took the half-sucked gobstopper from his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully. He was impressed to see it had changed colour from red to the next layer of lurid purple.
This was a big moment in his young life. He had never thought of girls as friends – with the possible exception of Alice Baxter, who had defeated him at conkers – but there was something different about Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer. She was aloof and distant and she certainly knew more words than he did, which puzzled him because they were the same age. He guessed it was because she read different books from the gory tales of pirates, robbers and superheroes that he enjoyed. ‘Lizzie,’ he said and he stretched out his hand, ‘would y’like my gobstopper?’
Elisabeth Amelia had always admired Heathcliffe. He was a rough adventurer in her predictable world of dolls, dresses and dinner parties. ‘Oh, thank you, Heathcliffe, you’re very kind.’ She took the sticky sweet and grimaced for a moment as it stuck to her spotlessly clean fingers. ‘I’ll wrap it in my handkerchief and eat it at playtime.’ From beneath the cuff of her royal-blue cardigan she took a tiny embroidered monogrammed handkerchief and wrapped up the huge spherical sweet.
It was 8.30 a.m. on Friday morning, 12 February, and Heathcliffe wandered off to scuff his new shoes on the school wall. Shiny shoes were not for tough superheroes, even those who were beginning to have romantic inclinations.
In the school office Sue Phillips, the tall, blonde, blue-eyed Chair of the Parent–Teacher Association, gave that familiar mischievous smile and put a poster on my desk. It read ‘Ragley School PTA Valentine Dance, tickets £2.50 including disco, light refreshments and wine’. Sue was on her way to the District Hospital and looked immaculate in her light-blue staff nurse uniform, which included a starched white apron, black lace-up shoes, a navy-blue belt, on which the buckle depicted the God of Wind, plus her silver General Nursing Council badge.
‘Good morning, Sue,’ I said.
‘’Morning, Jack. We’re all set,’ she said: ‘the tickets are selling like hot cakes.’
‘That’s good news,’ I said. ‘Beth and I are looking forward to it.’
‘Yes,’ said Sue. ‘I guess she must be really busy these days at Hartingdale.’