Happiest Days

School closed today for the Christmas holiday with 105 children on roll and will reopen on Monday, 5 January 1987. The children in Classes 1 and 2 rehearsed their Nativity play to be performed in the Crib Service at St Mary’s Church on Wednesday, 24 December. The school choir will visit the local retirement home tomorrow, Saturday, to sing a selection of Christmas carols to the residents.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 19 December 1986

For the most part it had been a solitary life and now she was a resident at the Hartford Home for Retired Gentlefolk or, as she preferred to call it, ‘God’s Waiting Room’.

She stared out of her bedroom window at the winter world beyond. A fresh snowfall covered the tall yew hedge and the distant fields. Wisps of smoke rose from the high chimney pots of Ragley village and floated in diagonal pathways towards a wolf-grey sky. She smiled grimly. The world outside resembled her heart – cold as iron, still as stone.

Her walking frame squeaked on the polished floor and she looked down at its pair of aluminium legs. Mobility was more difficult now. It was thirty years since she had read George Orwell’s allegorical novella Animal Farm, but she recalled a famous line, ‘Four legs good, two legs bad’, and she grimaced. Once again she would eat breakfast in her own room and not in the communal dining room.

Only the rattling of the letter box when Ted the postman delivered the morning mail or the clatter of bottles when Rodney Morgetroyd arrived on his milk float had become familiar sounds of her morning routine. Her belief in the old adage that time was a healer had faded long ago. The silent days had become weeks of solitude while time merely ticked on remorselessly. There was no respite from a never-ending anguish – no respite from a pain that was always there in the core of her being.

At first she had savoured the peace and privacy, but widowhood had proved a heavy burden. For more than forty years she had kept her late husband’s flat cap as an affectionate reminder of his presence. Finally she had moved into the retirement home but found it difficult to make friends. Solitude and silence were her companions in this private space.

It was early morning on Friday, 19 December and, unknown to Eileen, her world was about to change.

In Bilbo Cottage Beth and I were both at the kitchen table writing a last-minute memo for our final day of term while John was enjoying a hearty breakfast of juice, cereal and buttered toast soldiers. There was much to do, with parties, letters to parents followed by, in my case, final preparations for the amalgamation of Morton and Ragley. There was also a rehearsal of our Nativity play to be performed at the Crib Service in St Mary’s Church on Christmas Eve. John was polishing off his breakfast while the current top of the pops, ‘Caravan Of Love’ by The Housemartins, was playing on the radio and the disc jockey wondered if it would be the Christmas number one.

The road to Ragley was a blue thread of crystal and the hedgerows were rimed with frost. Soon the sun broke through the mist and lit up the sprinkling of snow on the branches of the bare trees. In the sharp sunshine they resembled a charcoal and chalk drawing by a small child. Holly berries sparkled in the diamond light and a crust of frost had settled on each fleur-de-lis on the school railings. Ragley School looked like a scene from a Victorian Christmas card as I drove up the cobbled drive.

When I walked into the entrance hall Vera and Ruby were standing together staring out of the window. ‘The north wind doth blow an’ we shall ’ave snow,’ recited Ruby.

They both looked up. ‘Well, ah’d best get on,’ said Ruby and she hurried off with her brush and shovel.

Vera nodded towards the office. ‘Miss Cleverley has arrived unannounced from County Hall, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. It was clear that Vera did not approve of our visitor. ‘She is sitting at my desk and checking the list of children who are coming here from Morton.’ Miss Cleverley was assistant to the chair of the Education Committee, Miss Barrington-Huntley, and had been a dominant force last July on the interviewing panel for the Ragley and Morton headship.

When I walked in she didn’t look up immediately but rather continued to check the list in front of her. I recalled her manner at our earlier meeting and wondered about the purpose of her visit. I hadn’t seen her since that day, when she had been abrupt, analytical and unpleasant. I was soon to learn that little seemed to have changed in the interim.

Finally she spoke. ‘I knew the last day of term would be busy for you, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘so I thought I should meet with you before the start of school.’ She gestured towards my desk. ‘Do sit down.’

For the next thirty minutes she reviewed our arrangements for the amalgamation of the two schools. We discussed safety, transport, communication with parents and the role of the governing body. Then she looked at her wristwatch. ‘Must go,’ she said, ‘time is precious.’

The class timetable on the noticeboard caught her eye and she tapped it with a perfectly manicured fingernail. ‘I must point out to you that Kenneth Baker’s national curriculum will improve this overnight.’ With that she strode out, ignoring Vera, and hurried to her brand-new Ford Sierra 2.0i GLS. She turned on the four-speaker sound system to full blast, flicked on the tailgate wash/wipe, made a minute adjustment to her remote-control door mirrors and roared off.

Vera shook her head. ‘If that’s the future of education I want no part of it. The thought of her succeeding Miss Barrington-Huntley is a great worry. She lacks the human touch. It is very disappointing.’

I decided to leave it at that. It concerned me that Vera spoke of possible retirement more frequently these days and I wondered if she had made a final decision.

In the school hall Anne and Pat were busy with a few supportive mothers preparing for the forthcoming Nativity play.

Five-year-old Kylie Ogden was proud to be holding a bamboo cane with a large cardboard star fixed to the top. She had covered it in kitchen foil and was pleased with the result.

‘An’ Cheyenne, Joe an’ Dylan ’ave t’follow me with their presents for Jesus.’

‘Yes, Mr Sheffield, ’cause we’ve only got Emily’s Cabbage Patch doll t’be goin’ on with.’

I looked at the appropriately named Madonna Fazackerly who was playing Mary. She was holding the Cabbage Patch doll with great tenderness and wrapped in so-called swaddling clothes – namely, a grubby M&S tea towel.

When I called in to Pat’s class she was gathering the children in the school entrance hall to post their cards to Father Christmas in our cardboard postbox.

Six-year-old Alfie Spraggon had a tendency to reverse his letters and numbers. Pat Brookside was trying hard through regular practice to help this friendly little boy to correct this familiar anomaly with left-handed pupils, and he had worked hard to produce a classic that read:

Dear Santa, Please can I have a yo-yo and no sprouts.
Thank you, your friend, Alfie Spraggon

Dear Santa, I can’t find my list so anything left over will do. Karl Tomkins

Dear Santa, Mummy won’t let me bring straw into the front room so what shall I leave for Rudolph?
Love Hermione Jackson

Dear Santa, Daddy has just put in a burglar alarm. The code is 2346. Hope this helps.
Love Honeysuckle Jackson

Dear Santa, Just one of everything please.
Best wishes, Emily Snodgrass

I followed the queue of children waiting to put their cards in the postbox and made sure the letters from the Jackson twins were redirected to their mother.

It was morning assembly and Joseph had reminded the children of the Christmas story.

‘So, boys and girls,’ he said encouragingly, ‘what do you think Mary and Joseph were thinking when the innkeeper kindly offered them room in his stable?’

Hermione Jackson’s hand shot up at the same moment as her twin sister’s. The girls lived in one of the most luxurious and expensive houses on the Morton Road.

Joseph ground his teeth. ‘Good try,’ he said without conviction, ‘but has anyone else got a suggestion?’

‘Ah felt a bit sorry f’Jesus, Mr Evans,’ said eight-year-old Scott Higginbottom.

‘And why is that, Scott?’ asked Joseph, pleased at the obvious compassion shown by this freckle-faced little boy.

‘’Cause ’e didn’t get any proper presents … jus’ a bit o’ gold an’ that other stuff.’

Joseph sighed and wondered if he should have chosen a different career … maybe a librarian; after all he understood books.

At morning break we gathered in the staff-room. Sally had spent 64p on a TV Times Christmas & New Year Double Issue. There was a dramatic picture of Torvill and Dean, the world’s most exciting ice dancers, on the front cover advertising their ‘Fire and Ice’ spectacular.

Vera said she would be watching Aled Jones, her favourite boy treble, on Christmas Eve, while I earmarked the Christmas Day Disney film Dumbo to share with young John. Pat was determined to watch the James Bond film The Spy Who Loved Me on Boxing Day, with the suave Roger Moore and co-starring Barbara Bach as a Russian agent. Sally went for Jools Holland’s new year’s eve show and a bottle of Baileys. We all agreed she had made the best choice.

On Friday afternoon the children were excited. It was time for the end-of-term Christmas party.

By half past one they were sitting on their chairs around the edge of the hall. We played Statues and Musical Chairs, danced to records and, when the children looked suitably exhausted, we sent them out to play while Ruby came in and supervised the arrangement of the dining tables for our party tea. Members of the PTA had called in to help Shirley and Doreen in the kitchen and soon the tables were covered in bright red crêpe paper. Plates piled with crab-paste sandwiches, sponge cakes, jammy dodgers and mince pies were arranged, while Shirley and Doreen wheeled out a trolley with enough jelly and ice cream to feed an army.

By three o’clock the food had been devoured, sticky fingers and faces wiped and the tables put away. The afternoon ended with the children sitting next to the Christmas tree while Sally played a selection of Christmas songs on her guitar, including ‘Frosty the Snowman’ and ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’. Parents drifted in to collect their children along with a small gift of sweets from Ruby, a balloon and a Christmas card.

It was a weary but happy group of teachers that gathered in the staff-room for a final cup of coffee.

‘Ah’ve med up m’mind at last, Mrs F,’ she said with a tired smile. ‘In the end it were our ’Azel who asked if ah were goin’ t’marry Mr Dainty.’

‘Ah said ah’d allus love her Dad … but ah were ’appy wi’ George an’ ah loved ’im in a diff’rent way. She gave me a kiss an’ said ’e’d mek a lovely new dad.’

Vera took Ruby’s hand and smiled at her friend. ‘That’s wonderful news, Ruby.’

‘How exciting. Can we go and tell the rest of the staff? They will be thrilled.’

We gathered with Ruby in a crowded staff-room and, while we had to imagine the orange juice was Bucks Fizz, it was a wonderful celebration.

On Saturday morning the carol singing event at the Hartford Home for Retired Gentlefolk was due to begin at eleven o’clock. Beth and I secured John in his child seat and drove into Ragley.

When we pulled up outside the General Stores, Karl Tomkins and Jimmy Poole were both out with their dogs. Karl had a French poodle named Flossie and hated taking it for a walk.

‘D’you want t’swap, Jimmy?’ he asked, staring in admiration at Scargill, the lively Yorkshire terrier.

Jimmy, now aged thirteen, still had his familiar lisp. ‘No thankth, Karl,’ he replied. ‘Thcargill ith my friend.’

Jimmy looked down at the perfectly coiffured little poodle, sporting a bright pink bow, and then at his lean, hungry and occasionally savage terrier, the scourge of our local postman. ‘Ah don’t think tho,’ he concluded. ‘Thcargill geth exthited,’ and Karl wandered off.

Jimmy, with his ginger curls and black button eyes, smiled up at me. ‘’Ello, Mr Theffield, would y’like t’thee my Tharp Thientific calculator?’

New technology had changed his life. Complicated mathematical conundrums were suddenly easy to solve. His fingers sped across the buttons with well-practised familiarity and it made me reflect on my insistence on teaching mental arithmetic each morning and learning tables by rote.

‘It’s excellent, Jimmy,’ I said, while keeping my distance from Scargill’s jaws.

‘Thankth,’ he said, ‘an’ a ’appy Chrithmuth,’ and he ran off with an eager Scargill yapping at his heels.

We called in to Nora’s Coffee Shop for a coffee and some hot milk for John. On the juke-box was ‘Reet Petite’ by Jackie Wilson, a strange choice for a Christmas number one but it had caught the imagination of the public and reminded me of a Glenn Miller big band sound.

Nora Pratt was excited. Her Christmas present for her fact-loving boyfriend, Tyrone Crabtree, had arrived. She had seen David Bellamy advertising the Encyclopaedia Britannica and had purchased thirty-two magnificent volumes. As we approached the counter, she had just served Felicity Miles-Humphreys, artistic director of the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society. With an extravagant gesture Felicity pointed towards the large poster advertising the annual village pantomime. Rehearsals were now well advanced for Sleeping Beauty.

Dorothy appeared behind the counter in her dangly Christmas-tree earrings and a baggy elf suit. ‘Ah’m one o’ Santa’s ’elpers, Mr Sheffield,’ she said with a grin.

Dorothy was puzzled. She thought only women could be thespians … however, undeterred, she served up two frothy coffees and a cup of hot milk.

Shortly before eleven o’clock we arrived at the retirement home and paused in the entrance to admire a beautiful winter display of poinsettias.

It was clear the staff worked hard for the benefit of all. They were kind and caring in all they did, and appeared always to have time to check on the wellbeing of their elderly residents. I was welcomed by the senior carer, Janet Ollerenshaw, who was in conversation with Vera. Janet, a tall, confident young woman in blue jeans and a Cambridge-blue polo shirt with the Hartford oak tree logo, shook my hand.

The choir had assembled and parents and residents were taking their seats. Coffee was being served by Stella Fieldhouse, a popular sixty-one-year-old volunteer helper, who came in every Saturday morning. In recent years Stella’s coffee mornings had become an important and popular social event for the residents.

As a young teenager during the Second World War, Stella had been evacuated to a cottage in the countryside near Brooklands in Surrey. In 1940, aged fourteen, she was on her bike riding home when the bombs fell, killing a hundred people. She had never forgotten the horror of that day – it had a huge impact on her and from then on she determined to value life and help others in need. Later Stella became a wages clerk at the local factory and eventually she married an engineer who went to work on Concorde. Following his sad death, Stella had moved north to live with her sister on the Morton Road, where her zest for life continued unabated.

Stella was the one person who took time to talk to Eileen and she took a cup of coffee to her room. When she walked in Eileen was ironing a set of antimacassars. ‘Hello, Eileen, here’s a hot drink for you.’

Eileen was eighty years old and had shared the story of her life with Stella. She was the only daughter of a grocer in a lovely village called East Tittleham. In 1933 she met David Kimber, a handsome man from West Tittleham on the other side of the River Tittle, which formed the boundary between the two villages. They would meet on the bridge over the river and there they would spend happy hours talking about their hopes and aspirations. They married in 1935 and the following year they moved to Hull, where David worked on the docks and Eileen gave birth to a daughter, Mary. At the outset of the war David joined the Army and left, saying they would have a happy life together in the years to come.

It killed fifty people, including Mary. The little girl was due to be evacuated to Lincolnshire but it was too late. She was four years old. In an old suitcase Eileen had kept her daughter’s favourite pinafore dress plus a faded copy of the Yorkshire Post dated Thursday, 5 June 1941. The headline read ‘Heroism in Hull Air Raids’.

The following spring, David Kimber was among a party of soldiers that attacked the port of St-Nazaire in German-occupied France. The intention was to prevent any large German warship, such as the Tirpitz, from having a safe haven on the Atlantic coast. The raid, which took place on 28 March 1942, was successful, but David was killed in action and decorated posthumously.

For many years Eileen’s home felt like a prison, close and oppressive. She had lost everything that was dear to her and longed for the open fields and fresh air of her youth. In consequence, Ragley village seemed to be a good place to retire.

‘I was hoping you would come to the common room, Eileen,’ said Stella, ‘because I know you love singing.’ She was encouraged by Eileen’s look of interest. ‘The children from the school are here,’ she continued, ‘and there’s a little girl called Rosie. She was the one on television two years ago and she’s going to sing “Silent Night”. It would be lovely if you could hear her.’

‘I know,’ said Stella. She put her hand on her arm. ‘Come on, Eileen, maybe it’s time to leave grief behind and move on with your life.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Eileen. She had been attracted by the thought of the little girl singing. She stood up and rested on her walking frame. ‘Stella,’ she said almost to herself, ‘in my mind’s eye my Mary is always a girl … forever young.’

The children in the choir were at their best and, as Sally accompanied them on her guitar, the residents loved every moment. Eileen sat in the back row and there were tears in her eyes when Rosie sang ‘Silent Night’. Her solo was captivating and the applause went on for many minutes.

The children had been encouraged to speak with the residents at the end and Rosie approached Eileen.

Eileen looked intently at the polite little girl. ‘I used to have a daughter like you and she liked to sing.’

‘My mummy says singing is like a cosy fire,’ said Rosie. ‘She told me to think of rainbows and not thunderstorms.’

Eileen smiled softly. ‘Your mummy is quite right and your singing was wonderful. I was in a choir once just like you and I used to sing “Silent Night” in German.’

‘I can sing it in German as well,’ said Rosie. ‘Well, just the first verse.’ Then, quite naturally, she began to sing: ‘Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht, Alles schläft; einsam wacht.’

On impulse, Eileen joined in: ‘Nur das traute hochheilige Paar. Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar …’

Stella was watching and beckoned to Vera. Rosie’s eyes were wide as the two voices blended beautifully. ‘Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh,’ they sang, ‘Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!’

‘Do you know,’ said Eileen, ‘I do believe I had forgotten what happiness feels like.’

It was Christmas Eve and Beth and I had driven to Easington Market before going to the Crib Service.

Once again Gabriel Book from the local Rotary Club was dressed up as Father Christmas in his little wooden hut. Kylie Ogden was standing next to him while Mrs Ogden looked on proudly.

Her mother looked surprised. This was unexpected. ‘Let’s put them on your Christmas list,’ she said cautiously.

The realization of the logic of very young children was shared in a moment by both Gabriel and Mrs Ogden.

He had been well briefed by Beth regarding this question and nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, Santa.’

‘Presents please, Santa,’ said John. Our son was a happy and contented little boy but, as we were about to discover, also very logical.

At the retirement home Eileen put on her best dress, then wrapped up warm and prepared to leave for the Crib Service. She looked around and recognized that her surroundings were tranquil and peaceful. It was a time for reflection. Her silent world had been replaced by new friendships and music.

A special minibus had been provided and Eileen, with her ‘fellow inmates’ as she called them, set off. Wood smoke hovered in a purple sky as they approached the church.

At half past two crowds of parents and grandparents were also making their way towards St Mary’s with an assorted collection of tiny angels, shepherds, kings and Roman soldiers. This was one of the most popular of all the Christmas services and we followed the crushed ribbon of scumbled footprints into the haven of the church. The work of the ladies in Vera’s flower-arranging team was there for all to see. Tall white candles surrounded by green variegated holly with bright red berries had been arranged on the wide ledges of the stone pillars. As I admired the flower arrangements, refracted light from the stained-glass windows touched the ancient walls with an amber hue and lit up the choir stalls where the children waited patiently.

Joseph was standing next to the model crib filled with its hand-painted clay figures. The service was about to begin and gradually silence descended on the congregation. Elsie Crapper, the organist, after taking her much-needed Valium, launched into her version of ‘Little Donkey’.

John, dressed as a shepherd, sat on my knee and waited for his moment in the limelight. The choir sang ‘Away In A Manger’ and Beth dabbed away a tear as John joined in while acting out the timeless story.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, Rosie Appleby went to stand next to a chair by the pulpit where Eileen Kimber was sitting. Vera stepped forward and helped Eileen to stand up, supported by her walking frame. The old lady looked down at the smiling face of the little girl as Elsie played the opening bars of ‘Silent Night’.

So began a duet that would never be forgotten. They sang the first verse in German and the next two verses in English. It was a special moment and many members of the congregation shed a tear when Eileen sat down and squeezed Rosie’s hand. Little did we know it, but it was the beginning of a strong friendship.

It was then that Eileen reflected that she had lived her life in a dark and silent retreat, a melancholy shadow in a place of despair. There had been no relief until the arrival of the unexpected – a Christmas gift that began with the face of a child and ended in a song of hope.

Eileen knew her life had changed. ‘Yes, Rosie,’ she whispered, ‘we shared a carol for Christmas.’

The following evening, after we had put John to bed, Beth and I settled down with a glass of wine in front of a roaring log fire to watch the Christmas Day episode of EastEnders along with over thirty million other viewers. The drama lived up to expectations when Den Watts, played by Leslie Grantham, told his wife, Angie, played by the volatile Anita Dobson, that he wanted a divorce. While peace on earth and goodwill to all men were not in evidence in Albert Square, it was lively entertainment.

At the end, Beth got up to check on John after his exhausting day of presents and games. It was time for bed and I knew my restless soul had found peace in her presence. A firmament of stars danced over the spectral grey earth, while clouds drifted towards an endless horizon.

I lay there within our solitude of secrets and reflected on our life together. Since meeting Beth the tapestry of my life had been woven with golden thread. Our love had begun like a summer storm nine years ago, tempestuous and with the power of lightning. In a world of vanishing certainties, it had been a love forged in fire and shaped in creation. Now, with the passing years, it rested in silence within the heartbeat of our lives.

Beth stirred next to me. ‘By the way, who was that lovely lady who sang with Rosie?’

Chapter Seven

A Carol for Christmas