06 Educating Jack (23 page)

‘Well, have a lovely time, both of you,’ said Anne.

‘Ah’ll tell yer all about it when ah see you tomorrow night,’ said Ruby.

‘T’morrow night?’ asked Ronnie.

‘That’s right, Ronnie,’ said Ruby, ‘we’re off t’see that woman wi’ sidekick powers what can talk t’dead people.’

‘She wants t’come t’work wi’ me then,’ said Ronnie, ‘she’d be spoilt f’choice.’

They walked down the cobbled drive to the school gates in animated conversation for their date with a cross-dressing superstar.

On Saturday morning, beneath the frozen earth, new life stirred. The season was changing and the bare branches of the distant forest shivered in expectation. The grip of winter had weakened at last and the folk of Ragley village felt their spirits lift. The dark days were over: spring was coming.

Hope comes in many forms. Occasionally it is found in a newspaper headline or a politician’s promise. Sometimes it arrives by letter from a distant land, or perhaps in a lover’s smile. More often than not it is unexpected and is the result of a simple happening. So it was for Miss Prudence Golightly when she heard a sound she had not heard for a long time. The old clock in her tiny second bedroom chimed. Curious, she stood up, adjusted the mother-of-pearl comb that held in place her tightly wound bun of grey hair and set off to investigate.

The antique English art-deco Westminster mantel clock had been her last gift from Jeremy over forty years ago. He had once been the love of her life but, as a young fighter pilot, he had been killed in the Battle of Britain in 1940. Prudence stared at the clock, mystified. It stood there just over eight inches tall in its walnut case on the mantelpiece and, for a fleeting moment, the memory of that blissful summer in a far-off Kentish village was vivid in her mind.

Later that morning she was serving her usual band of faithful customers. Vera was in animated conversation with Margery Ackroyd as I joined Betty Buttle at the back of the queue. ‘Never mind the new supermarket, Margery,’ she said defiantly, ‘we must support Prudence in the General Stores.’

‘Thank you, as always, Vera,’ said Prudence quietly as she placed three tins of superior cat food on top of Vera’s
Daily Telegraph
.

Vera smiled and nodded to her dear friend. ‘And a tin of brown Cherry Blossom for Rupert’s brogues,’ said Vera as she passed over her shopping list.

‘Are you coming to the village hall this evening, Vera?’ asked Prudence.

‘I have a dinner engagement, Prudence,’ said Vera, ‘but I wouldn’t have gone anyway,’ she added quietly. ‘I don’t believe in all that hocus pocus … as I’m sure you don’t.’

Prudence smiled politely but didn’t reply. She looked up at her much-loved teddy bear, immaculately dressed in a white shirt, a small black bow-tie, black trousers and a white shopkeeper’s apron. The name Jeremy was neatly stitched in royal blue cotton on the apron across his chest and she remembered happy times of long ago.

Meanwhile Mrs Buttle was telling me about her trip to the county of the red rose. ‘We’ve jus’ come back from visiting relations in Barrowford, Mr Sheffield.’

‘Barrowford – in Lancashire?’

‘That’s t’one. Lovely place. M’sister’s a cleaner at Blacko Primary School, reight nex’ t’Pendle ’ill. She sez it’s best school in Lancashire. Gorra lovely ’eadteacher jus’ like you – y’know, normal-like, not oighty-toighty.’

‘Well, er, thank you Mrs Buttle,’ I said. ‘Good to see you back safe and sound.’

‘Mind you, Mr Sheffield, it were real ’illy over them Pennines,’ she said. ‘Ah felt like that Cannibal an’ ’is elephants goin’ over t’Alps.’

‘I imagine you did, Mrs Buttle,’ I said.

At seven o’clock Petula Dudley-Palmer put on her mink coat and went into the lounge to search for her handbag. Geoffrey was on his hands and knees staring at his state-of-the-art Sony CDP-101. He had plugged it in and picked up the book of instructions.

‘So, what is it?’ asked a bemused Petula, picking up her handbag from the sofa.

‘It plays records … well, actually,
compact discs
,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It’s the latest in new technology.’

‘And what are these, er, compact discs?’ asked Petula. ‘It sounds like a back complaint.’

‘Well, they’re sort of
metal
records, but you don’t turn them over like a normal vinyl record.’

‘So what’s on the other side?’ asked Petula.

‘Well, nothing really,’ said Geoffrey a little lamely.

‘So it doesn’t have a B-side then?’ queried Petula.

‘Er, not exactly, no,’ replied Geoffrey.

‘Well I’m not convinced,’ said Petula.

Geoffrey was still desperately pressing buttons. ‘I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it soon,’ he said.

‘It’ll never catch on,’ she called from the hallway and checked she had her purse.

Geoffrey glanced up and frowned. ‘So where are you going?’ he asked, slightly annoyed she wasn’t staying to experience his brave new world of music in the Eighties.

‘To see a clairvoyant,’ said Petula.

‘Claire who?’ mumbled Geoffrey, but Petula was no longer listening. Her evening with the paranormal was about to begin.

Backstage in the village hall, Phoebe Duckworth was exercising her psychic powers. It was a case of mental manipulation, a kind of transcendental meditation she had perfected during the past year. She had a strict routine before her performances and, even though this was just a small village in a backwater of North Yorkshire, Phoebe was determined to give of her best. After all, she was a
professional
.

For Phoebe, the self-styled world-famous clairvoyant, it had begun at exactly three o’clock on 22 September 1956 when a large unidentified flying object appeared just off the Cleethorpes coast and was picked up on radar at RAF Manby. On that long-ago afternoon when Phoebe, at the age of eight, stared at the spherical glass ball hovering in the sky, shivers ran down her spine. She later realized these were psychic pulses and from that day on her life changed. Phoebe knew she was different … she had one more sense than anybody else.

Phoebe was proud of her home town of Cleethorpes, a famous seaside resort with a pier and sandy beaches, close to Grimsby on the east coast. However, she had to admit it wasn’t exactly the French Riviera. In fact the ‘sea’ that she paddled in was actually the River Humber and, at low tide, her fellow brave holiday bathers were separated from the
actual
sea by a few hundred yards of mud. Even so, Phoebe loved it.

As a young teenager she had spent most of her spare time in her bedroom analysing her dreams, which proved both plentiful and vivid. She would stack six vinyl records on her Dansette record player, set the switch to 45 r.p.m. and marvel at its auto-change facility. Then she would settle down to read her horoscope while Buddy Holly sang ‘Heartbeat’. That apart, it was a normal adolescence.

Twenty years ago, in 1963, she screamed with all the other girls when the Beatles came to the Odeon in Leeds and the following year, at the age of sixteen, she left school. She got a job in the paybox at the Ritz theatre in Cleethorpes and it was there that she first met Melvin in 1967, on the evening Sandie Shaw won the Eurovision Song Contest with ‘Puppet On A String’. That night Melvin introduced her to strange-smelling cigarettes, flower power and the slogan ‘Make Love Not War’. The relationship lasted until Melvin met a buxom ice-cream lady and left for the delights of Grimsby without saying goodbye. Finally, many years later, the cinema closed and Phoebe joined the ranks of the unemployed. It was then that she recalled her sixth sense and decided to make use of the powers invested upon her by her encounter with an alien spacecraft.

The village hall was packed and the front rows had been filled with enthusiastic committee members, plus an agitated Ruby. Ronnie hadn’t arrived. Behind her Diane Wigglesworth was chatting with Prudence Golightly and Amelia Duff, while I sat at the back with Anne, Jo and Sally. At the entrance door Margery Ackroyd was collecting tickets and feeling very important in her bright-red blouse with built-in
Dallas
shoulder pads.

The show was about to start when Ronnie rushed in. ‘Where ’ave you been?’ demanded Ruby.

‘Ah’ve been workin’ late,’ said Ronnie breathlessly. ‘Y’should ’ave let me know t’time it started.’

Ruby shook her head in dismay. ‘Ah’d ’ave ’ad more chance o’ contactin’ someone from t’spirit world than you, y’dozey ’aporth.’

Ronnie pulled his bobble hat a little further over his ears, an automatic gesture he had developed, especially when Ruby was telling him off. ‘Ah’m sorry, Ruby, ah got ’eld up,’ he said plaintively. ‘Ah ’ad an extra shift. Business ’as picked up – there’s a lot o’people dying these days after t’cold winter.’

‘Well, that should please Phoebe Duckworth,’ said Ruby, looking down at the programme.

‘’Ow d’you mean, luv?’ asked Ronnie.

‘Well she’ll ’ave more customers t’talk to,’ said Ruby.

‘Y’what?’ said Ronnie.

‘Well, she’s one o’ them wi’ special powers that can talk to them what’s passed away.’

‘Oh ’eck,’ said Ronnie. ‘’Ow does she do that?’

‘It’s summat t’do wi’ an
aura
,’ said Ruby mysteriously.

‘A
Nora
?’ said Ronnie. ‘Y’mean ’er in t’Coffee Shop?’

‘Shurrup Ronnie,’ said Ruby. ‘Y’mekkin an exhibition o’ y’self, an’ anyway, show’s startin’.’

The lights dimmed, or to be more precise, the eight light bulbs that constituted the ceiling lights were switched off. Timothy Pratt turned on the single spotlight attached to the central beam, the curtains opened, Phoebe switched on her ghettoblaster for her big entrance and Joe Cocker and Jennifer Warnes sang their Top Ten hit ‘Up Where We Belong’.

A minute later, short, skinny Phoebe, in a flower-power outfit that resembled a psychedelic tent, stepped into the spotlight and everyone clapped. ‘Ladies an’ gentlemen,’ she said, ‘ah’m pleased t’be ’ere t’use m’special psychic powers … an’, per’aps, give a little modicum o’ comfort t’those in need. Ah’ve got a
sixth
sense an’ ah’ll be using it t’night in your very midst an’ before your very eyes. In t’meantime, if you ’ave a photo of a
loved-one-passed
, then please ’and it in t’Margery during t’interval an’ we’ll pick one out in t’second ’alf for special psychic consideration.’

Then there was a hush as Phoebe concentrated. ‘The name
Arthur
is coming to me,’ said Phoebe as she stared up into the spotlight, ‘an’ ’e’s wearing a waistcoat.’ She peered into the audience. ‘Does anyone know an Arthur?’

Betty Buttle raised her hand. ‘Ah ’ad an Uncle Arthur,’ she said, ‘an’ ’e ’ad a waistcoat … well, ’e did on Sundays. ’E got knocked down by a tram in Leeds in nineteen fifty-six.’

‘Well, ’e’s ’ere now standing nex’ t’me an’ ’e says ’e didn’t suffer an’ ’e sends ’is love.’

‘Oooh, thank you,’ said Betty, reaching for her handkerchief and blowing her nose. ‘’E were a saint, were Uncle Arthur.’

‘An’ now ah ’ear a distant voice,’ said Phoebe, half-closing her eyes, ‘an’ the name
Tim
is coming through. Does anyone know a Tim?’

‘My Timothy was killed last year,’ said Delia Morgetroyd.

‘He says he was close to you,’ said Phoebe.

‘Ah loved ’im t’bits,’ said Delia tearfully, ‘an’ ah miss ’im ev’ry day.’

‘Well, when you get home,’ said Phoebe, ‘look at where he used to hang his coat and you will feel his presence.’

‘Ah don’t remember no coat,’ said Delia.

‘An’ he says he doesn’t feel any pain,’ said Phoebe quickly.

‘Ah’m not s’prised,’ said Delia, nodding vigorously. ‘Ah jus’ fed ’im ’is fav’rite liver-flavoured tin o’ Kitekat Supreme an’ ’e ran straight outside and got flattened by a tractor, poor little sod.’

Phoebe recovered quickly. ‘And he’s next to me now, purring he loves you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Delia, overcome with the memories of her feline friend.

‘That’s handy,’ whispered Anne in my ear.

‘What is?’ I asked.

‘Understanding cat language.’

Suddenly Phoebe stiffened and closed her eyes. ‘An’ now ah can ’ear a voice but ah can’t mek out t’name ’cause of a roaring noise like a big engine. Ah think it might be Jamie, or Jimmy … or Jeremy.’

Prudence Golightly stared and her heart began to race, but she said nothing.

‘There’s a clock face, and a message, but the clock has stopped,’ murmured Phoebe, ‘and now … no more, no more.’

Prudence gripped her hands together tightly. There was silence in the room and eventually Phoebe moved on.

It was an evening of light and shade. Some of her messages had a great meaning for certain individuals, whereas others fell on stony ground or, perhaps more pertinently, on deaf ears. Julie Earnshaw was told to expect a gift from an unlikely source but muttered that pigs might fly before she ever got a present. Some brave souls spoke up, notably Violet Tinkle, a septuagenarian from the Hartford Home for Retired Gentlefolk, who remarked that on occasion she felt the presence of her late husband. The articulate Violet said, ‘Well, Miss Duckworth, whenever I go back to my apartment, sometimes it has a certain
ambience
about it … and not one I’m comfortable with.’ Ruby Smith was puzzled. The ambulance she had travelled home in had comfy pillows and cotton sheets.

Daphne Cathcart asked about the future for her children and was told there were wonderful prospects in store in a world full of books. Phoebe looked out at Daphne and recognized that her words were a fragile bond but enough to give some inner peace to a troubled soul.

Finally, as the evening drew to its close, Timothy Pratt turned on the lights once again, the spell was shattered and the door to the spirit world was slammed shut. The villagers of Ragley wandered out full of their own thoughts and Phoebe Duckworth took a bow, collected her £20 and drove home to a fish-and-chip supper in her empty flat. Meanwhile, Prudence Golightly walked across the road to her General Stores and stopped outside the front door. She looked up into a starry sky and remembered a love that was lost and a heartache that lasted for ever. As she stepped inside she thought she heard the echo of a chiming clock.

On Sunday morning Heathcliffe and Terry Earnshaw crept into their mother’s bedroom and shook her sleeping figure gently.