Happiest Days

Children from Morton School visited during the afternoon session.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Tuesday, 7 October 1986

It was a pale autumn morning on Tuesday, 7 October and I stared out of the leaded windows of Bilbo Cottage. The distant hills were shrouded in a blanket of mist and the trees were spectres in a ghostly dawn. At their feet, fallen leaves, amber and gold, lay like scattered souls. The hedgerows were rich with wild fruits awaiting nimble fingers and a future feast of jams and jellies. Goldfinches pecked at the ripe seeds while robins claimed their territory. The season was changing and wisps of wood smoke hovered above the pantile roofs of Kirkby Steepleton.

On the council estate at 7 School View, Ruby was also looking out of her bedroom window, but she was not appreciating the wonders of nature. Our caretaker had endured a troubled night with occasional tears while she recalled her life with her late husband, Ronnie. He had been habitually unemployed and what little money he had was spent on beer, cigarettes, the bookmaker and his racing pigeons. In consequence, Ruby, now approaching her mid-fifties, had endured a hard life.

However, beyond the untidy front garden and the bedraggled privet hedge was a sight that made her smile. Parked by the kerb stood a faded, harvest-gold 1970 Austin 1100, a gift from George Dainty, and it filled her with pride. Despite rust on all the doors, it had been described as ‘a good runner’ and so it had proved. During the summer holiday, thanks to George’s tuition, Ruby had passed her driving test at the first attempt, followed by a grand celebration in The Royal Oak. She was now a familiar sight driving down the High Street towards York to visit her four-year-old granddaughter, Krystal Carrington Ruby Entwhistle. Little Krystal was due to start school next summer and Ruby spent as much time as she could with the joy of her life.

Downstairs, after a hurried breakfast of a mug of tea and a Lion bar, she put on her threadbare winter coat and headscarf as the weather was turning chilly again. She picked up the heavy bunch of school keys, shouted goodbye to Natasha and set off for her least favourite day of the week. It was when she gave the toilets her extra special deep-clean and checked the ageing boiler.

‘Ah ’ate Tuesdays,’ murmured Ruby, looking down at her arthritic fingers, ‘’speshully t’day.’

However, unknown to Ruby, it was destined to be a Tuesday she would never forget.

Vera glanced up from her desk. Ruby was polishing the brass handle of the office door, a sure sign she had something on her mind.

Ruby looked down and pulled tufts from her polishing cloth with her work-red fingers. ‘Ah’ve been frettin’ all morning, Mrs F.’

Vera replaced the top on her fountain pen and closed her late-dinner-money register. ‘Come in and shut the door, Ruby,’ she said gently, ‘and tell me about it.’

Ruby stuffed her polishing cloth into the copious pocket of her overall and sighed deeply. She closed the door and sat down in the visitor’s chair. ‘It’s our ’Azel – ah waved ’er off yesterday.’

‘Yes, Mrs F,’ explained Ruby, ‘she’s gone t’Paris in France on a school trip.’

‘Yes, she were right excited,’ said Ruby, ‘but ah jus’ want ’er t’stay safe.’

‘The teachers at Easington School have an excellent reputation for their school trips,’ said Vera with a reassuring smile, ‘and she’ll learn so much.’

Ruby nodded thoughtfully. ‘She will that, Mrs F, an’ she’s a quick learner, is our ’Azel. In fac’, ah reckon she’ll be effluent in French when she comes ’ome.’

Ruby stood up to resume her work. ‘Well, thank you f’list’nin’,’ she said quietly.

The perceptive Vera could see that Ruby had been crying. ‘Ruby … was there anything else that you wished to talk about?’

Ruby looked a little sheepish. ‘Well, ah still think back t’my Ronnie … an’ there’s George Dainty, o’ course … but that’ll keep for another day.’ She opened the door, paused and looked back. ‘An’ summat, well, personal … but that’ll keep an’ all.’

Vera smiled after her as Ruby walked out, picked up her mop and galvanized bucket and trotted off to the children’s toilets. There was more to discover, but all would be revealed in time. Finally, Vera unscrewed the top of her fountain pen again, checked the register, opened her notepad and wrote a note to herself to remind Mrs Longbottom to send her long-overdue dinner money.

At 9.15 a.m., on her way home, Ruby decided to call in to the General Stores. On the forecourt Edna Trott was loading her groceries into the basket of her Rascal Electric Supertrike. Many years ago, Edna had been the caretaker at Ragley School before Ruby. She was now eighty years old and her mobility scooter helped her retain her independence.

‘’Ello Ruby,’ Edna greeted her. ‘’Ow’s that old boiler shapin’ up? It were on its las’ legs when ah worked at t’school.’

‘Ah’ve jus’ checked it, Mrs Trott,’ said Ruby, ‘an’ it’ll probably las’ me out.’

‘An’ ’ow’s that young man ah keep seein’ you with?’ enquired Edna with a secret smile.

Ruby’s cheeks flushed. ‘’E’s fine, is George, thank you – a lovely man.’

Edna climbed on her scooter and nodded thoughtfully. ‘Grab y’bit o’ ’appiness while y’can, Ruby. Life’s too short for mopin’ abart all day.’

When Ruby walked into the General Stores, the bell above the door rang merrily and she joined the queue. Prudence Golightly was serving Maurice Tupham with a large sack of potatoes. Prudence had used the huge weighing scale on the floor that, in a bygone age, had been used to weigh sacks of grain on a local farm.

Mrs Ogden was in the shop with her daughter, Kylie, before taking the little girl to the dentist. Kylie stepped on to the scale. ‘How much do I cost, Mummy?’ she asked and was puzzled when all the grown-ups laughed.

Prudence Golightly, in her mid-sixties, had known Ruby for most of her life and had a soft spot for the hard-working caretaker.

‘Couldn’t be better,’ said Prudence brightly. ‘Companionship is a wonderful thing.’ She glanced up at Ragley’s favourite teddy bear, dressed in his autumn ensemble of brown cord trousers, green jacket and a bright mustard scarf. ‘I’ve had Jeremy Bear for many years, but now I’ve got my Trio and he is such a loyal friend.’ Trio was a three-legged cat that Prudence had collected from the Cat Sanctuary in York. ‘You really can’t beat a good friend.’

‘Y’right there,’ agreed Ruby with emphasis. She looked around the well-stocked shelves.

‘Jus’ a box o’ that daft cereal what our Duggie likes, please, Prudence, an’ a sliced loaf.’ Ruby rummaged for her purse. ‘Oh ’eck, ah’ve jus’ remembered … an’ a tin o’ corned beef, please. Ah’d be losin’ me ’ead if it weren’t screwed on.’

‘Mebbe so,’ said Ruby, ‘but, mind you, ah’m not as bad as that Emily Cade.’ Emily was in her sixties and her mother, Ada, was Ragley’s oldest inhabitant at ninety-eight.

‘Yes, she left ’er mother in t’Co-op las’ week. Poor ol’ sod were there f’two ’ours afore she remembered.’

‘It’s a shame,’ said Ruby. ‘Emily were allus a good cook – in fac’ she were good at gravy, an’ y’can’t say fairer than that.’

Prudence nodded in agreement. In the pecking order of Yorkshire culinary expertise, excellent gravy was right up there.

At morning break I was on playground duty, so I collected a mug of coffee from the staff-room and walked outside. As usual, the boys dominated the wider spaces of the playground, playing football and leapfrog, while the girls huddled in corners deep in conversation.

Eight-year-old Jeremy Urquhart, a thoughtful, freckle-faced little boy, looked up at me. ‘Do you like being a teacher, sir?’

I was used to direct questions. ‘Yes, I wanted to be a teacher from being very young.’ I studied the little boy’s eager face. ‘So, what about you, Jeremy? What would you like to be when you grow up?’

I joined a circle of children by the school wall under the shade of the avenue of horse chestnut trees, where Stuart Ormroyd and Tom Burgess were playing conkers. A group of five-year-olds, including Ryan Samson, Gary Spittall and Walter Popple, were watching with fascinated interest.

Stuart looked down at the three younger boys. ‘Well, y’need a friend t’play with.’

Stuart stopped playing conkers and looked down at the little boy. ‘What d’you mean, Walter … a real friend?’

‘Well,’ said Walter, ‘y’know – one wi’ chocolate,’ and he wandered off.

When the bell rang for the end of break I called in to Pat’s classroom. She was busy with our school computer, a BBC Micro, purchased for £299 and, according to Pat, it contained a huge 16KB of RAM.

‘The problem is, Jack,’ she said, ‘many of these children go home to a ZX Spectrum or a Commodore 64. We’re not keeping pace.’

‘I’ll keep trying, Pat, but the school budget is tight. We’re educating these children on a few pence per child per day, and without PTA support we wouldn’t have this.’

Ruby was back in school after putting out the tables for our daily Reading Workshop, when parents and grandparents were invited in to hear children read.

Six-year-old Alison Gawthorpe was sitting at a table with her reading book and her mother was encouraging her to read the first page. ‘Come on, Alison, shape y’self and get readin’,’ she said sharply. ‘An’ wipe that snot off y’nose.’

Alison was not impressed. She stared up at her mother. ‘What were you like when you were young, Mam? ’Cause Gran says you used t’be nice.’

‘An’ she said when you married Dad y’didn’t ’ave y’thinkin’ cap on.’

Ruby had called in to the office with an unexpected announcement. ‘Ah were thinkin’ o’ slimmin’, Mrs F,’ she declared.

‘You’re fine, Ruby,’ said Vera cautiously. ‘Is this something to do with Mr Dainty?’

‘No, Mrs F,’ said Ruby hurriedly, ‘but ah jus’ thought George might prefer me if ah weren’t such a big lass.’

‘I’m sure Mr Dainty prefers you as you are, Ruby, never fear,’ Vera assured her with a gentle smile. It was clear to everyone that George Dainty worshipped the ground that Ruby walked upon.

Ruby looked down at her triple-X overall, stuffed her chamois leather in her pocket and ran her hands over her hips. ‘Mebbe so, but ah were jus’ thinkin’ o’ losin’ a few pounds. ’Avin’ said that, ah don’t want t’be jus’ skin an’ bone an’ look emancipated like them models.’

It was late morning when Ruby walked out to the village green. A bench had been positioned outside The Royal Oak under the welcome shade of a weeping willow tree and next to the duck pond. A brass plaque screwed to the back of the bench commemorated the life of Ronnie. It read:

In memory of

RONALD GLADSTONE SMITH

1931–1983

‘Abide With Me’

Ruby sat down and thought of her children. Thirty-five-year-old Andy was a sergeant in the Army; thirty-three-year-old Racquel was the mother of Ruby’s pride and joy; and thirty-one-year-old Duggie was an assistant to Septimus Flagstaff, the undertaker. Twenty-six-year-old Sharon had moved in with her long-term boyfriend, Rodney Morgetroyd, the local milkman, with the Duran Duran hairstyle. Natasha, now twenty-four years old, worked part-time at Diane’s Hair Salon, with occasional babysitting as a sideline. Meanwhile, the baby of the family, thirteen-year-old Hazel, was in her third year at Easington Comprehensive School.

Maurice Tupham walked by on his way to the Post Office. ‘How are you, Ruby?’ he asked, raising his flat cap.

‘Ah were jus’ thinkin’ ’bout m’granddaughter. Our Krystal’s growin’ up quicker than your rhubarb,’ said Ruby proudly.

Maurice Tupham’s prize-winning forced rhubarb was famous in North Yorkshire and his life was devoted to the creation of perfect Rheum rhabarbarum. However, success had come at a cost and his marriage had suffered. Maurice’s wife had left him long ago, as he spent more time in his forcing sheds than in their bedroom. She had run off with a man who worked for Bird’s Custard. Consequently, every time she sat down to a pudding of rhubarb crumble and custard she reflected on the two men in her life.

‘It’ll be right as rain, never you fear,’ Maurice reassured her and crossed the road to the village Pharmacy.

‘Well, like m’mother allus used t’say,’ said Betty, ‘your Ronnie were as much use as a choc’late teapot.’ Betty never minced her words.

‘An’ now you’ve got that lovely Mr Dainty,’ continued Betty. She squeezed her friend’s hand gently. ‘Things are lookin’ up for you.’

Ruby smiled. ‘Y’right there, Betty, there’s light at the end of t’funnel.’

Her daughter Natasha had arrived for her shift at the hairdresser’s and the local bobby, PC Julian Pike, was waiting to greet her.

Ruby saw them and smiled. Young love, she thought. It was good to enjoy their budding romance.

Julian was a mere five feet eight inches tall, but with double insoles, an extra heel of shoe leather and his policeman’s helmet he cut a fine figure. Natasha had fallen in love with his moustache, fashioned on Robert Redford’s Sundance Kid. It tickled when she kissed him.

Julian blushed as he always did when she called him by his new nickname. On their first night out at the local Berni Inn, Julio Iglesias had sung his hit record ‘Begin the Beguine’ in between their melon boat starter and their main course of gammon steak, chips and peas. By the time the Black Forest gateau arrived Natasha had decided Julian was the one. Meanwhile, as he sipped Irish coffee and nibbled an After Eight mint, Julian knew his card would be stamped that night. Next day, for the first time, the usually punctual police constable was late for duty.

‘It’s a busy day,’ said Julian adoringly, ‘but I shall always find time for you.’

Natasha sighed deeply. Like her mother, she was completely unaware of her affinity for mixed metaphors. ‘Well y’know what they say, Julio – a rollin’ stone is worth two in the bush,’ and she didn’t need to stretch up to peck him on the cheek. She remembered it was agreed that kissing on the lips was not permitted when he was on duty.

Up the High Street in Diane’s Hair Salon, Betty Buttle was pleased with her recent purchase, the latest issue of Cosmopolitan.

‘Ah’ve brought this posh magazine for you to ’ave a look,’ she said to Diane. ‘Y’get some really good articles.’ She held it up at a page with the heading ‘Vivat Vagina’.

Betty was pleased with the reaction. ‘It sez ’ere, “Every woman owes it to herself to be on good terms with her vagina”, an’ y’can’t say fairer than that.’

It occurred to Diane that she had never even been on bad terms with her private parts, but decided to light up another cigarette and seek refuge in her box of giant rollers.

George was a short man in his early fifties with ruddy cheeks and a ready smile. Beneath his flat cap he had a balding head. He had left the village many years ago as a teenager and his fish-and-chip shop, The Codfather in Alicante, had turned him into a millionaire, thanks in part to the quality of his famous batter but largely because of his capacity for hard work and honest toil.

‘It were t’best,’ agreed George. ‘Ah ’eard there’s a new fish-an’-chip shop in Easington.’

Deke shook his head and frowned. ‘Ah don’t go there since Big Bad Bob took over.’

‘Well it put me off when ah saw ’ow ’e tests t’see if ’is oil is ’ot enough.’

‘’E spits in it. If it bounces back, then it’s ready. ’E never were into ’ygiene, were Big Bad Bob.’

‘Littlewoods ’ave said t’jackpot will go up to one million pounds in November.’

‘Y’not kiddin’,’ said Deke. ‘Only thing is, t’cost for a full perm for eight draws from ten picks is goin’ up from thirty-six pence to forty pence.’

‘That’s not much,’ said George, not wishing to dampen the enthusiasm of Ragley’s favourite cowboy.

‘Jus’ think,’ mused Deke, staring into space, ‘ah could be a millionaire an’ ’ave anything ah want.’

Behind the bar, Don Bradshaw, the publican, turned up the volume control on the television. Diego Maradona was giving an interview. The little Argentinian footballer insisted he did not handle the ball for his infamous ‘Hand of God’ goal against England in Mexico.

Don switched channels quickly, turned down the sound and smiled. He was pleased it had had the desired effect as the men in the tap room supped their pints and resumed their secret thoughts of Angela Rippon’s long legs.

The highlight of the afternoon was the arrival of the children from Morton School.

It was only for an hour but the visit went well and twenty-seven children attended. The only absentee was George Frith, one of the ten-year-olds due to join my class. That apart, all the children enjoyed meeting the teachers, seeing their classrooms and making new friends with the Ragley children.

They left during afternoon break and several Morton parents stayed to talk to Anne and Pat, as they were to receive the majority of the new intake.

‘I’ve just been talking to Albert Jenkins,’ he said. Albert, as well as serving as a local councillor for more than twenty-five years, had been a trusted governor when I first arrived at Ragley. He had also been instrumental in removing Stan Coe from the governing body.

‘Oh dear.’ Vera stared out of the window. ‘Whoever sows injustice will reap calamity, and the rod of his fury will fail.’

‘Quite right, Joseph,’ said Vera. ‘I’ll mention it to Rupert – he may know something.’

‘I wonder Stan bothers,’ mused Joseph. ‘There are better things to do with our time.’

‘Very true, Joseph,’ agreed Vera. ‘Man is like a mere breath; his days are like a passing shadow.’

The bell rang for the end of school and there was excitement in the cloakroom area. Stuart Ormroyd and Tom Burgess were hurrying to collect their coats. ‘Sir, me an’ Tom are meeting ’is big brother. We’re off apple scrumping and then ’e says we’re going t’stand outside the fish-and-chip shop in Easington for a free bag of scraps.’

Mrs Gawthorpe was standing nearby with her daughter, Alison, and had overheard the conversation. ‘It’s all right, Mr Sheffield, I’ve just seen their mothers at t’school gate.’

She looked down at her daughter. ‘So why do you want t’go t’your friend’s ’ouse? Is it because she ’as a computer?’

‘No, Mam,’ said Alison, ‘it’s ’cause ’er ’ouse is cleaner than ours.’

Mrs Gawthorpe blushed and looked at me. ‘Out of the mouths of babes, Mr Sheffield.’

George had called in at the village Pharmacy and was speaking to Star Trek fan Eugene Scrimshaw.

‘Eugene, ah’m a bit worried about Ruby,’ he confided. ‘She’s lookin’ a bit run down t’me, y’know – proper peaky. Ah think she’s workin’ too ’ard.’

Eugene smiled. ‘Ah’ve got jus’ the thing, George.’ He rummaged in a box behind the counter. ‘’Ere it is,’ and he put a packet on the counter. The label read Carnation Build-up. ‘Jus’ add some milk an’ it’s a proper tonic – proteins, vitamins an’ minerals, it’s got the lot. Gets y’back on y’feet in no time.’

Eugene’s wife, Peggy, had overheard the conversation. ‘She’s a lovely lady, is Ruby,’ she said. ‘Good to hear someone is looking after her after all this time.’ She gave George a stern look. Peggy wasn’t a woman to mess with.

The school was quiet now and I was alone in the office. A busy night lay ahead. It was my second evening class at Leeds University. In three years’ time it would lead to a Masters Degree in Educational Management. The course comprised two years of weekly modules to be followed by a final year devoted to completing a dissertation.

I glanced down at my notes from last week. ‘“The Education Acts of the Twentieth Century”. Tonight it’s a history of educational legislation.’

My tutor, Evan Pugh, was an elderly, grey-haired man in a bright bow tie and waistcoat. He was a walking encyclopedia of dusty facts and somehow brought it all to life. I had noticed I appeared to be one of the older students in the group and reflected on my career path so far. Perhaps Beth was right and I ought to think beyond being a village school headmaster. It just happened to be the job I loved.

Last week’s discussion had been dominated by the more recent changes in education. Dr Pugh believed we were entering a time of ‘seismic change’ with a common curriculum for all our children on the near horizon.

It was a quick change of subject but, as always, her ideas refreshed me like spring water.

I climbed into my car and switched on the radio. The number-one record, ‘Don’t Leave Me This Way’ by the Communards, was playing and, as I drove down the High Street, I hummed along.

It was early evening and George Dainty and Ruby were sitting on Ronnie’s bench.

‘Y’look fine t’me,’ said George graciously. ‘It’s got proteins an’ stuff t’give you a bit of extra get-up-an’-go, so t’speak.’

‘Ah could do with that, George,’ acknowledged Ruby. ‘Ah’ve ’ad t’do that boiler t’day an’ clean toilets an’ polish that ol’ piano. Ah ’ate Tuesdays.’

There was a pause as if George were searching for the right words. ‘Ah’ve been thinkin’, Ruby … in fac’ ah’ve been thinkin’ a lot these days.’

Ruby paused and looked up at the branches of the willow tree above their heads. They swayed in the rhythm of the gentle breeze. ‘So what’s on y’mind, George?’

‘Ah’ve been in love since ah were seventeen years old … wi’ a girl what was t’village May Queen. She’s allus been light o’ my life an’ she’s sittin’ ’ere right next t’me.’

George stood up from the bench and got down on one knee. He took Ruby’s hand in his and said, ‘Ruby, my love, will you marry me?’

Chapter Three

Ruby Tuesday