05 Please Sir! (29 page)

‘Exactly, Mr Piercy,’ I said.

The door of Nora’s Coffee Shop was open and the gentle sound of Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘April Come She Will’ drifted outside from the juke-box. I walked in to find Nora, Dorothy, Big Dave, Little Malcolm and Timothy Pratt staring in wonderment at a large British Telecom poster on the wall. It read, ‘It doesn’t cost much to stay in touch.’ Apparently, direct dialling to Australia was now available for only £1.38 per minute and there was no longer any need to go through the operator.

‘Our Kingsley’s been t’Australia,’ said Timothy.

‘Is that’im what keeps fewwets?’ asked Nora.

‘That’s’im, Nora,’ said Timothy.

‘Y’can wing diwect to Austwalia now,’ said Nora.

Dorothy shook her head forlornly as she rearranged a pile of two-day-old hot-cross buns. ‘Ah don’t know
nobody
in Australia, Nora,’ said Dorothy, ‘but ah wish ah did.’

‘Well, ah’ve got Auntie Wuth in Canbewwa,’ said Nora, ‘but she’s ex-diwectowy.’

‘Mus’ be a long cable under t’sea,’ said Big Dave philosophically.

‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ agreed Little Malcolm: ‘mus’ be a long ‘un under that Specific Ocean.’

‘No, ah don’t think so, Malcolm,’ said Dorothy. ‘It’s summat t’do wi’ stalactites that fly up in space.’

‘No, not stalactites, Dowothy,’ said Nora, ‘it’s them
satellites
they send up in wockets. Isn’t that wight, Mr Sheffield?’

‘Er, yes, Nora … So it’s just a coffee and a hot-cross bun, please.’

‘Comin’ up, Mr Sheffield,’ said Nora. ‘C’mon, Dowothy, f’get Austwalia; you choose a nice hot-cwoss bun f’Mr Sheffield an’ ah’ll get ‘is fwothy coffee.’

Half an hour later, with a bootful of shopping, I pulled up outside Beth’s cottage on Morton Road. The hallway was full of cardboard boxes with labels on them that read, B
EDROOM
, K
ITCHEN
, L
OUNGE
and, of slight concern to me, G
ARAGE
, as I had always considered the garage to be
my
domain.

‘I hope Bilbo Cottage has elastic walls, Jack,’ said Beth with a grin. She looked relaxed in a checked blouse, a fashionable ‘Sherpa’ woollen quilted waistcoat, tight stonewashed jeans and calf-high leather boots. Reaching up to kiss me, ‘Missed you last night,’ she said mischievously.

We set off for York and, twenty minutes later, parked on Lord Mayor’s Walk alongside the city walls. The grassy banks were swathed in daffodils that lifted the spirits on this sunlit morning. We held hands and I felt content knowing that, in a little over a month, this beautiful woman would become my wife. Under the magnificent archway of Monk Bar we scampered up the narrow stone stairway on to the Roman walls, one of the great sights of England. We paused to enjoy the glorious views of the Minster and peer over the lovely gardens of Gray’s Court, behind the Treasurer’s House, where as a student I used to sit on the spacious lawn and read the poems of T. S. Eliot. Then, at Bootham Bar, we descended into York’s medieval streets and there before us was York Art Gallery.

We joined a queue and waited behind two harassed women. It appeared their view of children’s art was slightly jaundiced to say the least. One was leaning on a push-chair filled with groceries and the other was clutching a holiday brochure. A heated debate had ensued. ‘Ah ‘ate art,’ said Push-chair Woman. ‘Ah prefer photos.’

‘So do I,’ said Holiday Brochure Woman, ‘but ah ‘ad t’come cos of our Clifford’s penguins. God knows why’e painted penguins.’

‘Tell me abart it!’ replied Push-chair Woman. ‘Our Darrell painted a picture of ‘is tortoise.’E were gonna paint ‘is ferret but t’little bugger wunt keep still.’

‘Ah know what y’mean. Anyway ah’m jus’ showin’ me face an’ then ah’m goin’ t’travel agents. We’re off t’Benidorm.’

‘Benidorm? What’s it like, then?’

‘Like Skegness wi’ sun.’

‘Oh well, we’re goin’ back t’Butlin’s. We love Butlin’s: everything’s free f’kids an’ y’get proper food – no foreign rubbish.’

‘It says ‘ere in t’brochure y’get good food where we’re stayin’,’ persisted Holiday Brochure Woman.

Push-chair Woman shook her head knowingly. ‘Yeah, but y’don’t get spam fritters in Benidorm.’

There was a long pause. This was clearly the knockout punch. ‘So where’s these bleedin’ penguins, then?’ said Holiday Brochure Woman and, as the queue moved forward, they disappeared into the crowd.

It was an excellent exhibition and while we were admiring Jimmy Poole’s painting of Scargill, his Yorkshire terrier, chasing Maggie, Vera’s black-and-white cat, a familiar voice said, ‘Aren’t children’s paintings tremendous, Mr Sheffield?’ It was Mary Attersthwaite.

‘Hello, Mary,’ I said. ‘Good to see you … This is my fiancée, Beth Henderson.’

Mary smiled and, after introductions, she had an in-depth conversation with Beth about children’s art. To Beth’s surprise she discovered that Mary lived near her school, just outside Hartingdale, and, before long, they had both agreed to begin a water-colour painting club in the school for children and adults.

So it was that a long and happy relationship began and Mary found her new niche in life.

A week later, Shirley brought into the office a large package, neatly wrapped in brown paper, and placed it on Vera’s desk. ‘A gift for the school from Mary,’ she said.

Vera unwrapped it and, to our delight, we saw it was a beautifully framed, water-colour painting of Ragley School signed by Mary Attersthwaite. ‘I know just the place,’ said Vera and, by the end of the day, she had hung it on the wall above my desk.

On the small card that came with the painting was the message ‘
To all at Ragley School, with happy memories, from the Busby Girl
’.

The PTA authorized the purchase of a new football and netball strip prior to the Annual Small Schools Football & Netball Tournament at Easington on Saturday, 8 May
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

Wednesday, 5 May 1982

It was Wednesday morning, 5 May, and Ruby the caretaker was leaning against the pine table in the entrance hall. A mop and bucket lay discarded at her feet. It wasn’t like Ruby to just sit around and I wondered what could be the problem. Then I realized as she held up her newspaper. The headline on the front page of the
Sun
simply read: ‘
GOTCHA
!’

‘Ah’m worried about our Andy,’ said Ruby. Her eyes were red with recent tears.

I looked at her newspaper. In its inimitable style the
Sun
had reported the sinking of the
Belgrano
. Under the headline ‘The navy had the Argies on their knees last night after a devastating double punch … Wallop’ it read: ‘Our lads sink gunboat and hole cruiser’.

‘I’m sure he’ll come home safe and sound, Ruby,’ I said with as much conviction as I could muster.

‘Not like them poor Argies, Mr Sheffield. There’ll be a lot o’ mothers who won’t ‘ave their sons coming ’ome.’

I had to agree, but others would say it was unpatriotic to do so. I recalled my grandfather, killed at the age of twenty-one on the first terrible day of the Battle of the Somme, and my father, floundering in the South China Sea while being strafed by Japanese fighter pilots. War was a bloody business and I had been one of the fortunate generation who had lived during a time of peace.

Vera suddenly appeared from the school office and quickly summed up the situation. She put her arm round Ruby’s shoulders. ‘Come into the staff-room and have a cup of tea, Ruby,’ she said gently.

There had been a surprise escalation of political events. In early April, Argentina had occupied the Falklands with ten thousand troops and, in response, Margaret Thatcher had sent a large British task force on a 7,500 mile journey to liberate this tiny group of windswept islands in the South Atlantic. It was the biggest naval action since the Second World War and included the 5th Infantry Brigade and the British 3rd Commando Brigade. Sergeant Andy Smith was among them.

We didn’t know it then but the war was destined to last seventy-four days and account for the lives of two hundred and fifty-five British and six hundred and forty-nine Argentine soldiers, sailors and airmen and three civilian Falklanders. But in Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School in a quiet corner of England, life simply went on as normal and the milk continued to be delivered on time.

As I sat at my desk, it seemed trivial to be thinking about a new football strip.

On Saturday it was the Annual Small Schools Football and Netball Tournament in the spacious grounds of Easington Primary School. Our Parent–Teacher Association had recently purchased a new netball strip with blue skirts, white polo shirts and smart bibs with large letters on them such as GK and GA, denoting their positions. The girls looked really smart and were thrilled with their new outfits. However, our football team regularly turned out in blue shirts of widely different shades, scruffy shorts and multicoloured socks. As Eric Earnshaw, father of Heathcliffe and Terry, commented in his broad Barnsley accent at our last football match, ‘They look a reight ragtag ’n’ bobtail, Mr Sheffield.’

The telephone rang as I sat at my desk. It was Sue Phillips, the Chair of our Parent–Teacher Association. ‘It’s about a new football strip, Jack,’ she said. ‘My husband plays golf with the man who owns that new sports shop in Goodramgate in York and they’ve got an offer on at present. I could call in after my shift at the hospital and check it out if you like.’

‘Thanks, Sue, that’s really helpful,’ I said. ‘I appreciate your support.’

‘Oh, and by the way, Jack,’ added Sue before she rang off, ‘I’ve just bought the most wonderful hat for the wedding.’

I glanced at the calendar on the wall. Sally had circled 29 May in red felt pen. In a little over three weeks I would be marrying Beth Henderson.

It was morning break when Vera raised the Falklands problem. Anne was on playground duty while the rest of us met in the staff-room. ‘Ruby was very upset this morning,’ said Vera as she handed out the milky drinks. ‘It’s sad that all this has suddenly flared up again.’

‘We’ve been in dispute over these islands for centuries,’ said Sally. ‘Apparently they were named after Lord Falkland, Treasurer to the Navy, by Captain Strong, who landed there almost three hundred years ago to replenish his water supplies.’

‘So when did the Argentinians get involved?’ I asked.

‘Well, I seem to recall it was in the early nineteenth century that Argentina claimed the islands,’ said Sally, ‘but then they were quickly repossessed by Britain in 1833.’

‘And presumably this General Galtieri has stirred it all up again,’ said Jo, scanning Vera’s
Daily Telegraph
. ‘It says here that after taking over the presidency of Argentina in a coup in 1981 he immediately set about planning to retake what he calls
Las Malvinas
.’

‘Yes … That’s their name for the Falklands,’ said Sally.

‘And Margaret definitely won’t back down,’ said Vera, shaking her head in dismay. ‘She’s not the type.’ It was a dilemma for Vera: she hated war but always supported the venerable Margaret.

During the afternoon in my class we looked at a selection of newspapers as part of our Communication project. The children had brought in a copy of the newspaper their parents bought each day and we examined how the same story was reported by the different journalists. It threw up some interesting discussion, particularly relating to the promise of extra television channels. The BBC had announced that direct broadcasting by satellite channels would be introduced in 1986 and all the children were most enthusiastic. For my part, as I only ever watched BBC1, BBC2 and ITV, I couldn’t imagine the need for more choice.

However, it appeared that Dean Kershaw hadn’t completely grasped some of the arguments. In answer to the question ‘What is the meaning of “free press”?’ he wrote, ‘When your mother irons your shirts’, and I put a red exclamation mark in the margin.

On the way home that evening I bought a fish-and-chips supper and ate it on my lap while watching Frank Bough and Sue Lawley in
Nationwide
. They reported that the Tottenham Hotspur team manager, Keith Burtenshaw, had announced that the Argentinian Ricky Villa was to be left out of the FA Cup Final team due to play Queen’s Park Rangers at Wembley later this month. Fed up with Argentina, I decided to change channels. It was a choice between snooker from the Crucible on BBC2 or a programme on post-natal depression on ITV. It wasn’t difficult: I went for David Vine and the snooker.

On Thursday morning as I drove out of Kirkby Steepleton, the first rays of sunshine were gilding the high cirrus clouds. Wisps of mist caressed the distant fields with ghostly fingertips and the vast sky over the plain of York was washed clean. It was a pink dawn, a new day and, on my car radio, I hummed along to Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder’s ‘Ebony and Ivory’.

Even Ruby looked a little more cheerful when I arrived at school. ‘Our Duggie’s painting t’kitchen t’brighten t’place up f’when our Andy comes ’ome, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby. She looked really excited.

‘That’s great news, Ruby,’ I said, ‘and what colour will it be?’