06 Educating Jack (20 page)

Meanwhile, in the darkness of the council estate, Heathcliffe and Terry Earnshaw walked slowly home and said a polite but cautious hello to Mr Connelly as he walked hesitantly on the frozen footpath with his guide dog and white stick.

When he was out of earshot, Terry turned knowingly to his big brother. ‘’Eath, ah know why Mr Connelly can’t drive ’is car,’ he said.

Heathcliffe wondered where this was going. ‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘’Cause they won’t allow ’is dog on t’front seat wi’ ’im,’ said Terry.

It was Beth’s night at Leeds University, so I worked late on a document for County Hall about the place for a common geography syllabus in North Yorkshire schools. The new emphasis was to be on ‘European Awareness’ and I realized the world was changing. By seven o’clock I had completed the report and my tummy was rumbling. The thought of hot food on the other side of the village green was hard to resist and the bright orange lights outside The Royal Oak were a welcome sight on this bitterly cold evening.

At the bar, pipe and cigarette smoke hung heavy, like an undertaker’s shroud, and my eyes smarted as I ordered my pint of Chestnut Mild. Sheila was wearing her familiar bright-pink blouse, complete with
Dallas
shoulder pads, a black leather miniskirt and enough hairspray to stop a clock at ten paces. With her Dusty Springfield mascara, she felt like a million dollars.

‘Bit smoky in here tonight, Sheila,’ I said.

‘Goes ’and in ’and wi’ drinking, Mr Sheffield,’ said Sheila as she pulled on the hand pump. ‘Allus ’as, allus will.’

Don looked up from the lounge bar. ‘They go t’gether like fish an’ chips, Mr Sheffield.’

‘Or an ’orse an’ carriage,’ added Old Tommy Piercy from behind a cloud of Old Holborn tobacco.

‘Or Cagney an’ Lacey,’ said Stevie ‘Supersub’ Cole-clough from the midst of the Ragley Rovers football team. This was immediately followed by an in-depth discussion among the footballers as to who was the more attractive of the two American detectives. The claims by Clint Ramsbottom that Lacey was more sensitive and definitely more intelligent gained little support and the blonde won hands down.

In the familiar world of the taproom, some age-old Yorkshire customs were being challenged. ‘My round,’ said Shane Ramsbottom. He lit up a Piccadilly King Size filter cigarette and wandered over to the bar.

‘Ah’ll ’ave a lager,’ said his brother Clint.

There was an intake of breath from the rest of the football team.

‘Lager!’ said Shane in disbelief. ‘Y’can’t drink lager. That’s a southerner’s drink, y’big nancy.’

‘Sorry, Shane,’ said Clint hurriedly, ‘mek it a bitter.’ He blushed and his red cheeks clashed horribly with the orange David Bowie streaks in his hair.

‘Ah should think so,’ said Shane. ‘Ah’m gettin’ worried abart you wi’ y’dyed ’air an’ puffy shirts.’

‘An’ ’is earring,’ said Big Dave.

‘An’ black eyeliner,’ added Little Malcolm for good measure.

One thing was certain in Clint’s mind. He wasn’t going to order a lager again in The Royal Oak.

Don began to pull the pints, flexing his ex-wrestler’s biceps. He knew his customers and smiled. It was well known that Don only ordered one nine-gallon firkin of Carlsberg lager per week for the passing trade. It wasn’t a popular drink with this bastion of Yorkshire drinkers, where mild or bitter was the usual order of the day. Even so, Don had noticed an increase in lager sales as each year went by. Times were changing but, in this rural community, some old habits seemed as though they would never die and Don smiled as he heard the familiar cry from the dominoes table.

‘Sheila luv, ’nother three Little Olds please,’ shouted ploughman Frank Middleton from the far corner of the taproom. Don had just carried up from the cellar a crate of twenty-four bottles of very strong John Smith’s beer, known as ‘Little Olds’, for the three brothers, Frank, Ollie and Keith Middleton, local agricultural labourers with heavy thirsts. After their day’s work, they would settle down at the dominoes table and order the ‘Special’ from the blackboard plus the strong beer. They would each drink eight bottles while playing their fives-and-threes dominoes game. It was a ritual that never changed.

‘Did y’watch it then, Dave?’ asked Don the barman as he wiped a pint pot with his York City tea towel.

‘’E means that new brekfas’ telly what started this morning,’ added Sheila as she leant over the bar to give the Ragley football team a substantial glimpse of the finest cleavage in the village.

‘No … it’ll never catch on,’ said Big Dave knowingly.

‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ added Little Malcolm, his ever-faithful supporter.

‘Ah’m not so sure, Dave,’ said Chris ‘Kojak’ Wojciechowski, whose broad Yorkshire accent belied his Polish ancestry. Chris, the Bald-Headed Ball Wizard, was never frightened to offer an opinion.

‘’Ow d’you mean?’ asked Big Dave, who, as team captain, considered his word to be law.

‘That Selina Scott’s a bit o’ ’ot stuff,’ said Chris.

‘Ah, well, now y’talkin’,’ said Big Dave, nodding in approval. ‘She’s loads more sexy than that Angela whats’er-name.’

‘Rippon,’ added the Ball Wizard quickly.

A conversation broke out with every member of the team describing their favourite female presenter in graphic detail.

‘She’s got lovely legs, though, that Angela Rippon,’ interjected Sheila as she walked to the far end of the bar, ‘an’ she can dance.’

Don gazed after his wife, an admiring look in his eyes. ‘But she ’asn’t got a figure like my Sheila,’ he said.

‘Y’reight there,’ said Little Malcolm.

‘It’s eighth wonder o’ t’world,’ said Don proudly.

‘So what’s t’other seven then?’ asked Shane.

‘Well there’s them ’anging gardens o’ Sally Lunn,’ said Clint.

‘An’ them pyramids what Elizabeth Taylor built in
Cleopatra
,’ said Don. And that’s as far as they got.

Meanwhile, I was feeling hungry and I looked up at the ‘Specials’ board. It had changed. Sheila’s cousin, John Fotheringdale from Thirkby, was the only member of Sheila’s family with any academic qualifications. So his ‘C’ grade in GCE Art O-level made it inevitable that he would be commissioned to paint the new bar meals menu. On a large blackboard in neat white paint it read:

The rabbit pie came courtesy of Pete the poacher, who turned up at odd times of the day with a sack over his shoulder. Likewise, he was the main provider of the contents of the soup, occasionally a bag of carrots or a bunch of nettles, depending on the season. Usually there was a lot of light-hearted bartering between Sheila and Pete that always ended in a free pint for our local poacher before he left once again to go ‘lamping’ in the dark with Sniffer, his lurcher dog.

The Desperate Dan Cow Pie, a favourite of Deke Ramsbottom, was in fact a steak pie with a pastry top on which two pastry horns stood like a Viking helmet. A string of liquorice was the final embellishment for a tail.

Big Dave and Little Malcolm joined me in staring at the new menu. They didn’t like change. The introduction of the television above the bar in the taproom had caused them enough concern. ‘Chilli con carne!’ exclaimed Big Dave, ‘
Chilli con carne!
’

‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ agreed Little Malcolm. ‘It’s chilli con carne all reight.’

‘It’s Sheila’s new menu, lads,’ said Don the barman, nodding sagely.

‘But that’s foreign muck,’ said Big Dave.

‘Now then, Dave, don’t let my Sheila ’ear y’say that, said Don. ‘We’re movin’ wi’ t’times.’

‘An’ t’fish shop in Easington ’as jus’ turned into a Chinese takeaway,’ said Shane. ‘An’ this is s’pposed t’be England.’

Don looked at me apologetically. ‘Don’t get t’wrong idea, Mr Sheffield,’ he said. ‘Ah’m norra racist … in fac’ ah quite like a curry.’

‘Mebbe so, Don,’ said Big Dave, ‘but we’re
English
an’ we want proper
English
food.’

‘Well they say a change is as good as a rest,’ said Don, trying his best to placate the big goalkeeper.

‘That’s what Nora Pratt said this morning, Don,’ said Big Dave darkly, ‘an’ she still ’asn’t shifted any o’ them Frenchified cross-aunts.’

I ordered the mixed grill and set off for a quiet corner table. As I passed Old Tommy Piercy he whispered in my ear, ‘Y’can tell a Yorkshireman, Mr Sheffield … but y’can’t tell ’im much.’

The next morning I was listening to the incongruous but beautifully melodious duo of David Bowie and Bing Crosby singing ‘Peace on Earth’ when I drove up Ragley High Street. I saw Nora Pratt sticking a new poster on the door of her Coffee Shop and smiled. It read:

The School Library van visited today and the children and staff changed their books. Reading workshop took place in the school hall at 11 a.m
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

Monday, 14 February 1983

PETULA DUDLEY-PALMER LOOKED OUT
of her state-of-the-art double-glazed conservatory at the silent winter world beyond and realized she was lonely. The new telephone on the glass-topped cane coffee table was the latest in design technology with a long-lead curly white flex. This meant she could walk around the expensively tiled floor while engaged in conversation. However, there was just one problem: there was no one to ring.

She had just unpacked her brand-new folding exercise bike, a Valentine’s Day present from Geoffrey. However, it occurred to her that this was yet another
solitary
occupation. The search for a perfect body was losing its appeal. Then she picked up her
Woman
magazine and read the headline ‘Positivity for Women – are you a social success?’ She shook her head sadly and read on. There were lots of hints and suggestions, but one stood out above all others and suddenly she knew what she must do. Excitement coursed through her veins. It was time to grasp the nettle – although metaphorically of course, as she realized no one in their right mind would pick up a stinging nettle with their bare hands. It was time for a new direction … it was time to be
positive
… it was time to start Ragley’s first ever Book Club.

‘Mutton dressed as lamb,’ whispered Margery Ackroyd as Petula Dudley-Palmer walked across the playground wearing her new mahogany-stranded full length mink coat. At £995 she had convinced Geoffrey that it was money well spent.

I was emerging from the stock cupboard with a new box of white chalk when Mrs Dudley-Palmer suddenly appeared. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘I wondered if you would mind me putting this notice on the board in the entrance hall? So far I’ve put one outside the village hall and another in The Royal Oak. I’ll probably ask all the shopkeepers as well.’

The notice read:

Join the

RAGLEY BOOK CLUB

Wednesday, 16 February 1983

7.30 p.m.

No. 38, High Street, Ragley.

Please bring a book of your choice.

Light refreshments.

‘Yes, that’s fine, Mrs Dudley-Palmer,’ I said, scanning the poster, ‘and I’m sure there will be a lot of interest.’

‘I do hope so,’ she said and hurried off.

Jo Hunter had just collected her dinner register from Vera and heard the conversation. She glanced at the notice in wonderment. ‘Wow … photocopied,’ she said wistfully. ‘I wonder if I’ll ever work in a school with a photocopier.’

At morning break Vera was making milky coffee. ‘Mr Sheffield, the mobile library will be in the car park at lunchtime,’ she said, ‘so I’ll organize the children’s visits, shall I?’

‘Yes, thanks, Vera,’ I said.

Jo was reading the front page of Vera’s
Daily Telegraph
. ‘A library van would have probably made a good getaway vehicle,’ she mused. ‘They’ve not found that racehorse yet.’

Last week, a gang of six armed men had kidnapped Shergar, the world’s most famous racehorse. According to his owner the Aga Khan, the horse was worth $10 million.

‘I heard it was the Provisional IRA,’ said Sally.

‘Well, it’s got to turn up,’ said Jo, ‘I mean to say, how can you hide a racehorse?’

Meanwhile, outside in the corridor I heard Ruby unlocking her caretaker’s store cupboard. As she donned her overall she paused to read the Book Club notice and stood for a while, thinking hard.