Authors: Jack Sheffield
In the quiet of the church, only the ticking of the old clock could be heard. Installed in 1912 to commemorate the coronation of George V, it had marked the passing of two world wars, the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II and, through the years, the seasons of village life. Now it was Ruby’s turn to listen to the clock and count the heartbeats.
‘Ah’ve never been all that religious, Miss Evans, but ah’d like t’pray for our Andy. Ah want’im t’come back safe.’
Vera held her hand and they walked together to the first pew and sat down side by side. ‘Would you like to be alone, Ruby?’ whispered Vera.
‘Ah’d ‘ppreciate y’company … please,’ said Ruby. She was dabbing her red eyes with a damp cleaning cloth.
Vera passed her yet another of her precious lace-edged handkerchiefs. ‘Take mine, Ruby.’
And so it was that, as the sky slowly darkened over the vast plain of York, two women, separated by circumstances but united in compassion, whispered private prayers for a son of Ragley village.
The Parent–Teacher Association presented Mr Sheffield with a dinner service prior to his wedding at St Mary’s Church tomorrow
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 28 May 1982
It was a slow dawn and, as I looked out of the window of Bilbo Cottage, the scent of wallflowers drifted on the air and bright cherry blossom gladdened the eye.
For this was May, a time of renewal. It was good to be alive on this special morning. In the distance the flower candles on the horse-chestnut trees foretold of the season to come. A perky robin, its beady eyes bright with anticipation, was perched on the handle of my garden spade. It was a day of new promise and expectation.
It was also Saturday, 29 May … our wedding day.
* * *
There was the sound of a car outside and a loud rat-a-tat of the door knocker. I hurried downstairs in my dressing gown. It was Dan looking magnificent in his dress uniform, shiny black boots and a pair of spotless white gloves trapped neatly under his leather belt. He had taken Jo to Beth’s cottage in Morton and then driven on to Kirkby Steepleton.
‘I’m getting married in the morning,’ he sang tunelessly as he strode into the hallway, ‘ding, dong, the bells are gonna chime …’
‘’Morning, Dan,’ I said. ‘You’re an early bird.’
He looked me up and down. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine. Have you got the ring?’ I asked nervously.
He tapped his uniform pocket and smiled. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’ he said as he walked into the kitchen. It was a good feeling to have him around: he appeared relaxed and confident.
I looked at myself in the hall mirror. ‘I need a good shave,’ I said.
‘That’s not all,’ said Dan, taking a crumpled piece of paper from his inside pocket. ‘You also need to help me improve this best man’s speech.’
‘Beth had better go first,’ said Diane Wigglesworth, quickly unpacking her hairdressing kit on the kitchen table. Diane was used to busy mornings such as this and she had a routine: first the bride, followed by the bride’s mother and then the bridesmaids. Not for the first time, Diane reflected that ladies’ hairdressing was fifty per cent skill and fifty per cent psychology.
It was eight o’clock in Beth’s cottage and it was already a hive of activity. Jo Hunter had arrived and begun helping Laura with the tray of bouquets, headdresses and the carnations for buttonholes. John Henderson was giving his car a final polish, but actually keeping out of the way, and Beth’s mother, Diane, was laying out the wedding dress, her own mother’s necklace and a blue garter from Laura. ‘Something borrowed,’ said Diane. ‘And something blue,’ added Laura with a smile. Finally, Diane put a silver sixpence in Beth’s shoe and prayed it would bring her good luck.
At eleven o’clock I locked the front door and we climbed into Dan’s Wolseley Hornet and drove out of the driveway. It occurred to me that the next time I walked into Bilbo Cottage I would be a married man and I cherished the thought.
It was rare for me to be a passenger on this familiar journey and I took in the sights. When we reached Ragley, the High Street seemed quiet for a Saturday. I later discovered that many of the shops had employed temporary staff. Prudence Golightly and Old Tommy Piercy, Eugene and Peggy Scrimshaw, Timothy Pratt and his sister Nora, along with Amelia Duff and Ted Postlethwaite, had already left their premises and set off up Morton Road. Many parents and children, dressed in their Sunday best, waved at me as we drove past. The wedding was clearly a big attraction and all roads led to St Mary’s Church.
As we drove past the village green, I glanced up at Ragley School and thought about the first time I had arrived in the village and walked through the gates. So much had happened, highs and lows, good times and bad, but always there had been Beth and the hope that one day we could share a life together. That day had arrived.
Meanwhile, by the duck pond, untouched by wedding plans, a group of pre-school children were making daisy chains and feeding the ducks. It was the springtime of their lives and I recalled that innocence is no passing fancy but something to be treasured.
St Mary’s Church shimmered in the morning heat haze but inside it was cool and calm. Vera and Joseph were going through their usual ritual and making sure everything was ready for the big occasion.
In the vestry, Vera looked the picture of elegance in a lavender two-piece suit. Her matching wide-brimmed hat had been placed on the pew nearest the north transept, reserving her place and ensuring an excellent view without encroaching on immediate family. It also meant she could keep an eye on the unpredictable Elsie Crapper, the Valium-sedated organist.
Now she stood before Joseph, scrutinizing his garments and checking there were no creases in his white surplice and his full-length cope. Then, with delicate care, she placed round his neck a white stole that she had stitched with intricate gold crosses and stood back to admire him. Vera was immensely proud of her younger brother and she gave him a nod of approval.
‘Perfect, Joseph,’ she said, ‘and, don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on Elsie and I’ll point the ushers in the right direction.’ She indicated her reserved pew. ‘I’ll be sitting there, Joseph, near at hand … next to Rupert.’
Joseph smiled. ‘I’d be lost without you,’ he said, and he meant it. It had become clear that her attraction to the devoted Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener had grown during the past year and he wondered if the day might not be far away when it would be Vera’s turn to be a bride in this beautiful church.
Vera was preoccupied and didn’t notice the moment of uncertainty in Joseph’s eyes and she hurried off to put her beautifully embroidered wedding kneeler in place on the steps in front of the altar. Then, as she always did, she stood back to check that everything was perfect – from the candles to the flowers to the altar cloth.
Dan parked round the back of the church, in the shade of the vicarage wall. ‘We’re early, Jack,’ he said, looking up at the clock in the bell tower. ‘Let’s go into the churchyard where it’s quiet.’
We sat on a bench and Dan pulled out his speech and began mumbling to himself. ‘I’d better not tell the one about the Welsh shepherd,’ he said doubtfully, ‘although it went down well at the rugby club.’ I decided to leave him to it and walked slowly up the gravel path and paused next to a tall, weathered gravestone covered in lichen. It read:
In loving memory of
JOHN HAWKSWORTH
Born 18th August 1882
Father in thy gracious keeping
Leave we now thy servant sleeping
Killed at Passchendale 17th October 1917.
I sighed at the symmetry of the dates. He was born almost one hundred years ago and we shared the same birthday, but we led very different lives.
A few minutes later, Dan tugged my sleeve. ‘It’s time to go, Jack.’
I took a deep breath, checked the knot in my silver-grey tie, buffed the black toecaps of my shoes with my handkerchief and we walked round to the front of the church, where excited Scottish voices could be heard. My mother, Margaret, and her sister, May, were waiting in the entrance porch. They had stayed overnight at the vicarage and looked resplendent in matching dark-blue two-piece suits and dainty little hats with tartan bows. They were each clutching a huge carton of confetti.
My mother rushed to greet me. ‘My son … my dear wee boy,’ she said and gave me a big hug. ‘Y’nae canna looked smarter if y’tried,’ she said, casting an appreciative eye up and down. ‘Your father would have been proud tae see you like this.’ A tear ran down her cheek and she quickly dabbed it away.
‘Oh, the poor wee dear is weeping again,’ said Aunt May, ‘and all her cascara is running.’
‘Well, you look lovely, both of you,’ I said, ‘and were you comfortable last night?’
‘Och aye,’ said my mother. ‘Vera and Joseph made us welcome.’
‘And the wee vicar kept serving up his home-made wine, Jack,’ added Aunt May, ‘so it’s good we’ve got strong constipations.’
Dan stifled a laugh. He wasn’t used to Aunt May’s malapropisms.
‘So, are you going in?’ I said.
‘Och aye,’ said Aunt May. ‘We’re nae gonna wait for y’toffee-nosed wee cousin frae Kilmarnock.’
I couldn’t even remember which distant member of the family that could be and I didn’t ask.
Inside in the quiet sanctuary of the church, the ushers, a surprisingly smart John Grainger and the strapping, flaxen-haired Simon Graveson, Beth’s deputy headteacher from Hartingdale, were sorting out hymn-books and the Order of Service sheets. Simon looked at me curiously, while John just grinned and said, ‘Good luck, Jack. Hope all goes well,’ before guiding Margaret and May to one of the front pews.
In the stillness of the nave, Joseph was waiting to greet us. ‘How are you, Jack?’ he said softly.
‘I’m fine, thank you, Joseph,’ I said a little nervously.
A week ago, Joseph had joked, ‘Don’t worry, Jack, it’s the revised 1928 service, not the 1662 one with lines such as “carnal lust and appetite”.’ Today his demeanour was different: serious and quiet, yet reassuring and supportive.
He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Jack, it’s a wonderful day and you are to be married in the eyes of God. I’m so pleased for you and Beth.’ He glanced up at the imposing figure of Dan. ‘And I must say, Daniel, you look very grand today.’
‘Thank you, Vicar,’ said Dan a little self-consciously, ‘and fear not, I’ve got the ring.’ He held it up proudly.
‘I never doubted it,’ said Joseph with a smile. ‘Now, if we go into the vestry we can complete the formalities of payment for the legal fees and bell ringers and so on.’ It was clear that, unlike at school, Joseph was in his comfort zone; he had done this many times.
As we walked into the vestry, Vera suddenly appeared at my side. She squeezed my hand and stretched up to kiss me on my cheek. ‘Good luck, Jack,’ she said softly, ‘… and God bless you.’
‘Thank you, Vera,’ I said. It took a few moments to recall what it was that was different about her greeting and then I smiled. Vera had called me by my first name. Minutes later, after a reminder of the order of service, Joseph gave Dan his final instructions, checked that he had replaced the ring in his uniform pocket and ushered us to the front pew.
Outside, on the vicarage lawn beside the church, the wedding guests were gathering. The men looked smart and sober in their three-piece suits, whereas the ladies created a spectacular riot of colour in their summer dresses and striking hats as they chatted in relaxed groups. Miss Barrington-Huntley had caused a stir with the sheer magnificence of her new hat. Even though it resembled an electrocuted flamingo, no one dared offer anything other than expressions of praise.
Meanwhile, Dan’s police colleagues, in their smart, ceremonial uniforms and pristine-white gloves, talked about last week’s FA Cup Final and the barrel of beer they had seen being rolled into the village hall by Don Bradshaw.
Sally Pringle arrived in a bright-yellow outfit she had made herself and a startling, brave hat. Baby Grace had suddenly grown into a happy toddler and was wearing a similar outfit to Sally, created from the leftover material. Sadly, Colin Pringle, looking hot in a creased suit, was sucking sherbet lemons, desperate for a cigarette.
Don and Sheila Bradshaw wandered over to talk to the Pringles. ‘Bar’s all set up in t’village ’all, Mrs Pringle,’ said Don. Colin’s eyes lit up, but not at Sheila’s dress revealing Ragley’s most magnificent cleavage. He had forgotten about the free beer.
‘Thanks,’ said Sally. ‘Jack and Beth will be so grateful for your support.’
Sheila looked up at her great bear of a husband. ‘Well,’e can show a lot o’ gumption when’e shapes ’imself, can my Don,’ she said proudly.
Don stood there awkwardly in his ill-fitting suit and went bright red. For someone who had once wrestled under the name ‘The Silent Strangler’, he definitely had a gentle side to his nature.
Parents and children of Ragley School were now lining the pathway from the gate to the church entrance.
‘Aren’t they lucky to ‘ave such a perfec’ day?’ said Margery Ackroyd to Betty Buttle. ‘It rained on my weddin’ day.’