School will close on Friday for the May Day holiday and will reopen on Tuesday, 5 May. Mrs Grainger and Mrs Pringle held a rehearsal for the display of maypole dancing.
Extract from the Ragley & Morton School Logbook:
Wednesday, 29 April 1987
The first soft kiss of sunlight caressed the distant hills and lit up the horizon. Like a thin band of gold the hills shimmered beneath a ring of fire. It was Wednesday, 29 April and the countryside around me lifted the spirits as I pulled up on the forecourt of Pratt’s garage.
Almond trees were in blossom, the heavy scent of wallflowers was in the air and, across the road, darting swallows had returned to their nesting sites in the eaves of Stan Coe’s outbuildings. The annual May Day holiday beckoned and all seemed well – that is, until Victor ambled out to greet me.
‘A lovely morning, Victor,’ I said.
‘Mebbe so, but not f’one o’ those poor buggers,’ he replied as he unscrewed my petrol cap. He nodded towards Stan Coe’s farm.
‘Pardon?’
‘Ah mean one o’ them pigs, Mr Sheffield.’
The penny dropped. Old Tommy Piercy’s hog roast was a highlight of the May Day activities on the village green. ‘Oh, I see,’ I said lamely, wishing I didn’t enjoy crackling quite so much.
As I drove off I saw Mrs Higginbottom and Mrs Gawthorpe chatting by the fence that bordered Stan Coe’s farm. They waved as I passed, while their daughters, Tracey and Alison, stood on one of the bars of the wooden fence watching the pigs. I smiled. It was always fascinating to watch young children observe the wonders of nature within the bounty of our North Yorkshire countryside.
However, the girls seemed to be attracted to an unlikely companion. A particularly large pig was snuffling around a clump of thistles on the other side of the fence. I slowed up and smiled. It appeared they had made a friend. As I drove off towards the High Street I had little idea of the chain of events that was to follow and was destined to be the talk of the village for many months to come.
Alison, meanwhile, leaned over the fence to look more closely at the smiling pig. Then she took a biscuit from her pocket and, on cue, the eager animal waddled over to her.
It was a ritual that had taken place for over a month, ever since Alison had received a camera for her seventh birthday. After that she had become an eager photographer and her first roll of film had been processed in Boots the Chemist in York. The twenty-four exposures included a photo of her big sister, Michelle, playing on the swings, one of her mother feeding their cat, ten more of their cat in various poses, while the remaining twelve comprised studies of her favourite pig eating, sleeping and, on occasions, rolling in the mud.
‘Ah call ’im Peaches,’ she said, ‘’cause ’is cheeks are soft an’ rosy.’
‘Peaches,’ echoed Tracey, nodding in agreement. ‘That’s a lovely name.’
At that moment Heathcliffe Earnshaw arrived on his bicycle with an empty satchel swinging from his shoulder. Fifteen-year-old Heathcliffe had just delivered his last newspaper of the morning and was on his way back to Prudence Golightly’s General Stores.
He parked his bicycle against the fence, took a half-eaten apple from his pocket and held it up by the stalk. ‘Here y’are, piggy,’ he said and stretched out his hand. Peaches rumbled forward, collected the grubby core with a slap of its wet tongue and swallowed it in an instant.
‘That were brave, ’Eathcliffe,’ said an admiring Tracey.
Heathcliffe accepted the hero-worship with a modest smile.
‘’E’s a fast eater,’ said Alison in admiration.
‘We’ve got some apples at ’ome,’ said Tracey.
‘An’ we’ve got a bag of pears,’ said Alison. ‘I bet Peaches likes pears as well.’
‘Peaches?’ queried Heathcliffe.
‘Yes, Alison calls ’im Peaches,’ explained Tracey.
‘’E’s our favourite,’ added Alison.
‘’E’s my favourite an’ all,’ agreed Heathcliffe. ‘’E’s best of t’lot. Ah allus give ’im a treat when ah’m passin’.’
The three of them stared at Peaches.
Tracey sighed. ‘’E’s got a lovely smile.’
‘An’ that’s what meks ’im diff’rent to t’others,’ said Alison.
‘Well, ah can pick ’im out dead easy,’ said Heathcliffe with confidence.
‘’Ow come?’ said Alison.
‘’Cause of ’is droopy ear.’
It was true. One ear pointed towards the heavens while the other hung down towards the ground – incongruous but endearing.
Meanwhile, Peaches seemed to revel in the attention and gave them what they took to be another vacant smile. However, the huge pig had been hoping for another tasty titbit from the strange humans. Eventually, with a grunt and a snort, he waddled off to join his brothers and sisters at the trough to enjoy his third helping of breakfast.
Sadly, Peaches was completely unaware that he weighed exactly ninety pounds. In his contented world of eating, sleeping and snuffling, this would have meant little to this friendly pig. But according to Old Tommy Piercy, Ragley’s champion butcher, it was the perfect weight for a spit roast.
Sally and Vera were in the entrance hall when I walked into school. Sally was holding an armful of colourful streamers provided by Vera in readiness for the maypole-dancing practice on the village green.
‘I thought we would nip out after morning break, Jack,’ she said. ‘I’ve arranged with Anne for the rest of my class to be supervised. She’ll be doing some music in the hall. Also, Val Flint said she would call round to give me a hand.’
‘That’s fine,’ I said, ‘and thanks for all your efforts. It will be the highlight of the day.’
‘Along with the Women’s Institute tent with our special cream teas,’ said Vera without a hint of modesty.
‘And Old Tommy’s hog roast,’ added Sally with a grin. ‘That always goes down well.’
On the High Street, a group of pupils from Easington Comprehensive School had gathered at the bus stop. Heathcliffe and Terry Earnshaw were standing outside the General Stores, staring at the large jars of sweets in the window.
Heathcliffe was completely unaware of an ardent admirer. Maureen Hartley had just become a teenager and was wearing her big sister’s cast-off school blazer. She was staring at her spiky-haired hero in rapt adoration. Little Mo, as she was known to her friends, had no idea what hormones were, but they had begun to make their presence felt in this happy, carefree girl. She was the youngest of five daughters and her father worked tirelessly to support them following the death of his wife after a long illness.
Outside the butcher’s shop next door, Stan Coe was in conversation with one of his duck-shooting friends, Boris Drudgeon, the landlord of The Pig & Ferret.
‘Ah’m sellin’ one o’ m’pigs t’night for t’May Day ’og roast,’ said Stan.
Heathcliffe forgot the mouthwatering display of his favourite sweets and listened in.
‘You allus pick a good un,’ said Boris with a bucktoothed smile, unaware that he was known as Bugs Bunny to many of his regulars.
Stan took a final puff of his cigarette and flicked the stub on to the pavement. ‘’Erbert’s comin’ round in ’is van t’night t’collect it,’ he said. ‘Ah’ve got one that’s t’perfec’ weight.’
‘’Ow d’you know which one?’ asked Boris.
Stan gave an evil grin. ‘You can’t miss ’im – big bugger’s gorra droopy ear.’
Boris wandered off up the High Street while Stan returned to his filthy, mud-streaked Land Rover, leaving Heathcliffe looking thoughtful.
‘What’s t’matter, ’Eath?’ asked Terry.
Heathcliffe gave his kid brother a determined look. ‘We’ve gorra job t’do straight after school.’
‘What is it?’
‘We’re gonna save a pig,’ said Heathcliffe.
‘A pig?’
‘That’s right, Terry – a pig called Peaches.’
It had been a busy morning in school and in our Reading Workshop Mrs Gawthorpe was listening to her daughter Alison reading her Ginn Reading 360 story book and jotting down the words with which she was struggling.
‘Ah’ve got loads o’ photos of a pig, Mummy,’ said Alison.
‘Ah’ve seen ’em,’ said Mrs Gawthorpe. ‘An’ that camera o’ yours’ll be t’death of me!’
Meanwhile, in his butcher’s shop, Old Tommy Piercy was waxing lyrical to Deke Ramsbottom. The singing cowboy had called in for a pork pie.
‘Ah’m lookin’ forward to the ’og roast,’ said Deke. ‘Best treat o’ May Day f’me.’
Old Tommy glanced up at his calendar on the tiled wall. ‘It’ll need to be slaughtered soon.’
‘Ah s’ppose it will.’
‘Y’see, Deke,’ explained Old Tommy, ‘young pigs are hung longer than old pigs.’
‘’Ow come?’
‘It’s to allow time for t’muscles to relax after t’rigor mortis has set in!’
‘Bloody ’ell,’ said Deke. ‘Sounds ’orrible.’
Old Tommy merely smiled. ‘That’s slaughterin’ for you. It’s normally one week from slaughter to roasting, but ah’ve gorrit down to a fine art.’
‘Ah guess you ’ave, Tommy,’ said Deke. ‘Practice meks perfec’.’
It was shortly after four o’clock when the school bus returned to the High Street. As soon as it pulled up, Heathcliffe and Terry hurried towards Stan Coe’s farm. Heathcliffe stopped to break off two sticks from the copse of trees next to the fence.
‘Here y’are, Terry,’ he said. ‘We need these t’encourage Peaches to shift ’imself.’
After checking no one was around, our two intrepid heroes jumped over the fence and persuaded Peaches to amble at his own speed towards the gate that led to freedom.
‘Where we tekkin’ ’im, ’Eath?’ asked the faithful Terry, who had always been Robin to his big brother’s Batman.
‘Ah reckon that ol’ barn in Twenty Acre Field,’ said Heathcliffe. ‘No one ever goes there an’ Peaches’ll be out o’ sight.’
It was shortly before six o’clock that Herbert Cronk drove his rusty white van into Stan Coe’s farmyard. On the side of the van were the words:
PERFECT PIGS
Cronk’s Crackling:
Quality Hog Roast Supplier
Herbert’s van was well known in Ragley village and I had seen it many times. The sign always appeared to me to be a perfect porcine oxymoron: there was certainly nothing perfect about a healthy and happy pig who was about to be spit-roasted.
Deirdre Coe came to the door. ‘’E’s jus’ comin’, ’Erbert,’ she said. ‘Jus’ gettin’ ’is wellies on.’
Stan emerged, puffing a cigarette and with a smile on his face. There was no doubt that, with his heavy jowls, he bore a strong resemblance to his precious pigs. ‘Ah’ve gorra a real beauty this time, ’Erbert,’ he said.
Together they walked towards the pig pens.
‘Where’s that bloody pig gone?’ shouted Stan.
On Thursday morning Heathcliffe and Terry arrived at the old barn in Twenty Acre Field. They had brought some scraps of food plus a couple of apples. However, the door was ajar, presumably opened by a powerful snout in a bid for freedom. Peaches had escaped!
‘Bloomin’ ’eck, Terry,’ exclaimed Heathcliffe, aghast, ‘’e’s done a runner – ’e’s gone!’
‘What we gonna do, ’Eath?’
Heathcliffe heard the church clock strike half past eight. It was time to get to the bus stop. ‘We’ll come back after school an’ find ’im then.’
It was just before morning assembly when Stuart Ormroyd called out, ‘Mr Coe comin’ up t’drive, Mr Sheffield, wi’ that copper.’
‘That’s Police Constable Pike, Stuart,’ I said. ‘He won’t appreciate you calling him a copper.’
‘OK, sir, but they don’t look too pleased.’
Vera’s manner was almost glacial as she kept both men in the entrance hall to await my arrival.
‘Ah want t’see that ’eadmaster o’ yours,’ demanded Stan bluntly.
‘Only when it’s convenient, Mrs Forbes-Kitchener,’ interjected Julian Pike quickly. He looked sternly at Stan. ‘I suggest you sit down, Mr Coe, and remember we’re guests in the school.’ He glanced apologetically at Vera. ‘Sorry, you’ll appreciate I’m just doing my job at present.’
‘Of course, Julian,’ said Vera with calm assurance. ‘And how is your mother – well, I hope?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ replied the nervous bobby. He was out of his depth with our dominant school secretary and he knew it.
Meanwhile, the children were gathering in the school hall. When they were all seated, Anne played the opening bars of ‘Morning Has Broken’ and Sally stood up to lead the assembly.
I arrived in the entrance hall to find Vera standing there in a determined fashion, her lips pursed. There was obviously a problem.
‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ I asked.
‘It’ll be some of ’is kids be’ind all this. They’re allus ’angin’ abart near my land,’ said Stan angrily.
This was the old Stan Coe – the one we knew so well.
‘I suggest you remain silent for now, Mr Coe,’ warned PC Pike sternly. He looked up at me. ‘I’ve been asked to investigate the disappearance of one of Mr Coe’s pigs.’
‘A pig?’
‘Yes, Mr Sheffield. It’s a serious matter. The pig in question was due to be sold yesterday evening, so a significant amount of money is involved.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘It’s assembly time now, so would you like me to ask the children if they have seen anything?’
‘An’ who stole it,’ muttered Stan.
I ignored him completely and shook hands with our local constable. ‘I’ll do what I can and let you know.’
‘Thanks, Mr Sheffield, and in the meantime I’ll organize a search.’ Julian looked at Vera. ‘Sorry to have bothered you, Mrs Forbes-Kitchener.’
Vera smiled at the young policeman, turned on her heel and disappeared into the sanctuary of the office.
They left with Stan grumbling loudly, ‘Ah’ll ’ave t’give ’Erbert a diff’rent pig.’
Back in the school hall, my announcement concerning the missing pig caused a buzz of conversation among the children. Tracey Higginbottom and Alison Gawthorpe stayed behind to have a word with me.
‘Ah think the missing pig is Peaches, Mr Sheffield,’ said Alison. ‘’E weren’t there this morning when we passed.’
‘Ah brought him some fruit to eat,’ added a concerned Tracey.
‘Peaches?’
‘No, apples, Mr Sheffield.’
‘I mean you said the pig’s name was Peaches?’
‘Yes, sir, that’s what we call ’im ’cause of ’is pink cheeks.’
‘An’ ’e’s got a droopy ear,’ added Tracey. ‘Y’can’t miss ’im.’
Word got round the village very quickly and Joseph called in to speak to his sister.
‘There’s a lot of fuss about this missing pig,’ he said, ‘and I heard PC Pike is on the case.’
‘He is a charming and determined young man, Joseph, so I’m sure he will sort it out so long as Mr Coe doesn’t interfere. He was very rude when he visited school.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t mean it – he was probably upset,’ ventured Joseph, who always tried to find a little bit of goodness in everyone.
Vera looked at her brother and shook her head. ‘You are one of the most caring and honourable men I have ever known.’ Joseph would have smiled, but he knew when there was a ‘but’ coming. ‘But on occasions,’ continued Vera, ‘you can be so naive.’
Later, during morning break, Vera took a telephone call.
‘It’s for you, Mr Sheffield,’ she said and added with a cautious smile, ‘a gentleman of the press.’
‘Hello again, Mr Sheffield, Merry here, features editor from the Herald.’ It hadn’t taken our local newspaper, the Easington Herald & Pioneer, long to spot an emerging story in the locality. ‘I wondered if I might call in? Word has it there’s a pig missing and a couple of young girls in your school may know something about it.’
‘I have no objection to you calling in, but if you wish to speak to any of the children their parents would have to give permission and also be present.’
‘In that case I’ll call on them at their homes,’ he said. Mr Merry was used to cutting corners.
It was late afternoon when the Earnshaw brothers returned to the scene of the crime.
‘’E’s definitely gone,’ said Heathcliffe. He scanned the distant field, but there was no sign of the pig.
‘What we gonna do, ’Eath?’
‘Nowt,’ said Heathcliffe. ‘Peaches is a free pig now.’
‘Mebbe ’e’ll think ’e’s on ’oliday.’
Heathcliffe considered this for a moment. He wasn’t sure PC Pike would agree. ‘Y’right, Terry, everybody deserves a ’oliday … even pigs.’
It was late when I drove home that evening. Above me the stars shone down like celestial guardians, a million watchtowers in a vast purple sky. Although my headlights picked out a few small creatures, there was no sign of the errant pig and I wondered where he might be and what would become of him. By the time I got out of my car at home, all that was left was silence, except for the distant sounds of the night – a hooting owl, bats beating their leathery wings and the strange cry of a solitary fox.
In the meantime, Peaches was free.
By Friday lunchtime it was the talk of the village – and, as no one liked Stan Coe, there was huge local support for the fugitive pig.
The previous evening Mr Merry, the features editor, had interviewed Tracey and Alison and had enough photographs of Peaches in various poses to capture the imagination of his readers with a double-page spread.
He also spoke to Petula Dudley-Palmer, who had seen a large pig enter her garden, rumble across the Japanese bridge and stop by her lily pond for a quick drink. Ted Postlethwaite was next on his list: our local postman had spotted a pig peeping over the hedge at him when he was delivering mail up Chauntsinger Lane. Everyone had an opinion and Mr Merry was happy to print them all.
On Friday evening the newspaper featured a large front-page photograph of Peaches looking up from a trough of food with a quizzical expression. Under the banner headline ‘A Pig Called Peaches’, Mr Merry had written, ‘Support is increasing for Ragley’s fugitive pig. Peaches has been spotted on several occasions but he continues his flight for freedom.’ There was also a plan of Ragley village and the sightings were indicated with more crosses than a treasure map.
However, it was Saturday’s newspaper that finally brought closure and an unexpected finale to the dramatic tale. An even bigger photograph of Ragley’s most famous pig giving a lop-sided grin was splashed across the front page. Peaches had at last been cornered near the cricket field by a team of volunteers from the local animal sanctuary. Mr Merry’s report read as follows:
A certain benevolent lady, Lady Emmeline de Courcy, Chair of the North Yorkshire Animal Sanctuary, has taken it upon herself to provide Peaches with the freedom he so desires. The brave pig that has captured the hearts of the people of North Yorkshire is to be saved. The eminent animal rights campaigner has given Mr Coe of Coe Farm nominal compensation and Peaches will enjoy a lifetime of food, fun and frolics.
Mr Merry was always pleased with his alliteration.
Prudence Golightly was also pleased. She had never sold so many copies of our local paper.
Outside the shop, Heathcliffe had followed the story.
‘Did we do owt wrong, ’Eath?’ asked Terry.
Heathcliffe studied his brother’s innocent expression and gave a considered response. ‘Well, it were illegal … but we didn’t do owt wrong.’
It was May Day and I held John’s hand as Beth and I walked across the village green. It was a fine sunny day and we had heard our first cuckoo.
As usual it seemed as though the whole village had turned out to watch the maypole dancing and sample the delights of the cream teas in the Women’s Institute tent. John enjoyed Captain Fantastic’s Punch & Judy Show, Big Dave won the Wellington-boot-throwing competition and Shane and Clint Ramsbottom were the first to complete the pram race around the village, finishing at The Royal Oak.
George and Ruby were sitting on Ronnie’s bench, where George had shared a new plan for their honeymoon.
‘George Dainty, m’mother used t’say nothin’ ventured nothing gained. So ah’ll do it. Ah’ve never been out o’ Yorkshire but there’s a first time for ev’rythin’. Ah can’t wait t’tell Mrs F we’ll be goin’ t’London on t’train.’
‘Go tell ’er now if y’like,’ urged George.
‘Ah will,’ said Ruby, ‘an’ ah’ll tell ’er we’ve picked a wedding day on Saturday the twenty-fifth of July, first day of t’summer ’oliday.’ And she kissed George on his cheek and hurried off towards the Women’s Institute marquee.
Later that afternoon, as I sat on the grass with John eating ice-cream cornets, I looked around me at the scene. Everyone seemed relaxed and happy except for one person.
Old Tommy Piercy’s hog roast was having a quiet day.