Authors: Jack Sheffield
A few days later a parcel arrived at school with a Northallerton postmark. Inside was a book entitled
How to Look After Your Tortoise
.
The dedication read: ‘
For the Ragley School library with happy memories of my visit to your highly efficient school, Digby Cripps
’.
Roy Davidson, Education Welfare Officer, visited school today to discuss the proposed admission of six-year-old Rosie Sparrow owing to ‘exceptional circumstances’. Mrs Earnshaw began her final week as temporary caretaker prior to Mrs Smith’s return to full-time duty on Monday, 13 December. Class 1 completed their final rehearsal for their Nativity play which will take place on Wednesday afternoon, 8 December
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Monday, 6 December 1982
‘ANY CHANGE FOR
a good cause, gentlemen?’ asked the diminutive lady in the Salvation Army uniform.
The members of the Ragley Rovers football team stood up out of respect for this familiar visitor to the taproom of The Royal Oak. ‘C’mon lads, dig deep f’Sally’s Army,’ said Big Dave. It was Sunday evening, 5 December, and Beth and I had just enjoyed one of Sheila’s steak specials at the bay window table in the lounge bar. Beth had seemed a little quiet during the past week and I presumed that, like me, she was consumed with schoolwork, along with end-of-term reports and the run-up to Christmas.
Major Penny Boothroyd rattled the coins in her collection tin as she moved round the room and then approached our table. As always, she looked immaculate in her navy-blue two-piece uniform, a matching blue bonnet with a red ribbon and polished black court shoes. She wore a crisp white blouse fastened at the collar with a silver Salvation Army brooch and at its centre was a red shield to denote her officer status. At the age of fifty she was one of the most experienced members of the Citadel, the local Salvation Army church. ‘Thank you, everyone,’ said Penny, ‘and a merry Christmas.’
Penny approached our table and Beth put a pound note in the tin. ‘That’s very generous, Mrs Sheffield,’ said Penny and paused.
‘What is it, Mrs Boothroyd?’ I asked.
‘I need a word, Mr Sheffield,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s important. Can I call in to school tomorrow?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘We’re busy with the Nativity play this week, so how about before school starts, say at half past eight?’
‘I’ll be there,’ said Penny, ‘and God bless you.’
When Beth and I got up to leave, I returned our glasses to the bar. Old Tommy Piercy was sitting on his usual stool and looked up at me curiously. He noticed my sombre mood. ‘Better t’enjoy t’bright days, Mr Sheffield,’ he said, ‘rather than t’brood over t’dark uns.’ I didn’t know it then, but they were destined to be prophetic words.
* * *
On Monday morning the bitter sleet of a freezing December rattled against the kitchen windows of Bilbo Cottage and the old timber casements shook in protest. Winter had gripped the northern landscape in its cold fist.
For some reason Beth had got up an hour before me. ‘Difficult journey today,’ I said, peering through the frosted diamond panes, ‘so do be careful.’ She was leaning against the worktop seemingly in a world of her own. I walked over and held her in my arms. ‘I’ll make some tea, shall I?’
‘Yes, Jack, that would be lovely … and don’t worry, I’m not quite myself this morning. It will be fine when I get to school.’ She looked a little pale but, after her hot drink, she completed her usual routine of packing her files in her smart black executive briefcase and, although she spent a little longer than usual over her make-up, all seemed well.
Her pale-blue Volkswagen Beetle was frozen solid and I went out, breathed on the key, turned it stiffly in the door lock and then started the engine. After I had scraped the ice from the windows she came out, wrapped in a warm coat and scarf, and I kissed her before she left. For a moment I thought she looked a little preoccupied as she drove steadily out of the driveway and past the cottages of Kirkby Steepleton with their smoking chimneys. It was at times like these I understood the true meaning of love. Our journey towards marriage and a life shared had been one of sunshine and storms, of calm and fury, but, in the end, we had found something very special. When she left it was always the same: a few moments of sheer emptiness until I focused once again on Ragley School and the children in my care. Then, at night, when we were together again at the end of a busy day, it was good to relax as man and wife. It simply felt … right.
It was time to leave. I put on my duffel coat and scarf, locked up the cottage, threw my battered old leather satchel on the passenger seat and coaxed my Morris Minor Traveller out of the driveway. As I drove on the back road to Ragley the world around me was still and silent. The bare branches above my head were archways of frozen fingers against a sky that promised more snow. As I drove past the village green, Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener was supervising a group of his gardeners and stable-hands as they erected the enormous Ragley Christmas tree. This was an annual gift from the major and on Wednesday evening the whole village would gather beneath its brightly coloured lights for the annual ‘Carols on the Green’, accompanied by the Salvation Army brass band. It was a popular event that marked the onset of the Christmas festivities. In the meantime, another busy day lay ahead, beginning with a meeting.
Penny Boothroyd arrived promptly and, in her smart uniform, she looked very purposeful. She was carrying a book with gold-blocked letters that read
Orders and Regulations for Corps Officers of the Salvation Army
and I guessed this was official business.
We shook hands and Penny saw me looking at the matching hexagonal blood-red patches on her lapels, each with a silver metal badge in the shape of a letter ‘S’. She smiled and tapped each one in turn. ‘Save to serve,’ she said. Then she pointed to the epaulettes sporting her major’s crest in the shape of a fiery sun on which a cross had been set with seven stars underneath. ‘Blood and fire, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, touching the badge with reverence, ‘and, of course, the seven stars,’ she added quietly. ‘They represent the seven sayings of Jesus on the Cross.’
I remained quiet, aware of the gravitas of her words. It was clear her uniform was full of powerful symbolism. This was a very special lady and, on cold days such as this, her army of soldiers went out to spread the word of God.
Vera came into the office and broke the silence. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘There’s coffee in the staff-room. And good to see you, Penny.’ They greeted each other like old friends … two ladies who had devoted their lives to a Christian way of life. There was mutual respect here.
‘Not long to the big day, Vera,’ said Penny. ‘I’m sure you’ll be very happy.’
‘Thank you, I know we shall,’ said Vera.
‘And Rupert is a very fine man,’ added Penny.
Vera paused and smiled. ‘Yes he is … just a different sort of major.’ She opened the door that led to the staffroom and beckoned us through. ‘You won’t be disturbed in there, Mr Sheffield.’ Vera went back to her desk in the office to answer the early-morning calls while I poured two cups of coffee in the relative quiet of the staff-room. I noticed Penny looked tired and I soon understood why.
‘So what can I do for you, Mrs Boothroyd?’ I said.
‘Do call me Penny, everyone else does,’ she said with a gentle smile.
‘Fine,’ I said, ‘and I’m Jack.’
She sat back, sipped her coffee and wrestled with her thoughts as if deciding where to begin. ‘I’ve been up all night,’ she said, ‘dealing with a difficult case.’ Then she put down her coffee cup and clasped her hands as if in prayer. ‘There’s a young woman, early twenties, not married, Maggie Sparrow from Leeds. Apparently, a week ago she moved into one of those old rented dwellings in Cold Kirkby, that tiny hamlet between here and Kirkby Steepleton and then, two nights ago, her partner abandoned her. He was fond of a drink and I think she’s relieved he’s gone. He tended to be violent, by all accounts.’
There was clearly more to come and I settled back in my chair as a fresh flurry of snow pattered against the window. ‘She’s living in dreadful conditions. One of my female officers heard about her and called in. After she reported back to me, I arranged for Maggie to stay at my house last night and I sent a team of cleaners to get the property habitable.’ Penny looked me squarely in the eyes and I knew we had reached the denouement. ‘The thing is, Jack, she has a six-year-old daughter, Rosie, and I was hoping you could take her in as a temporary admission.’ She picked up her coffee cup and sat back. ‘So, ideally, I need you to inform the Education Welfare Officer as soon as possible because, at the moment, this is one of those cases with no paperwork … no records. It’s as if she’s off the radar, so to speak.’
My mind was racing with the official ramifications. Immediate action was essential, but I had to be mindful of the future paper trail. ‘Penny, I’ll contact Roy Davidson straight away,’ I said. ‘He’s a wonderful supporter of the school and he’ll know how to handle this. In the meantime, bring them in and we’ll admit the child if that’s what the mother wants.’
We finished our coffee and headed back to the school office. Penny put her hand on my arm. ‘I’ll be back at lunchtime, Jack, and, whatever the outcome, we
must
keep mother and daughter together. You’ll understand when you meet them.’
It occurred to me that this was all in a day’s work for Major Penny Boothroyd and I had to admire her energy and professionalism. She was used to a knock on her door by destitute wanderers and ex-prisoners, all wanting food, shelter and money. It was something she took in her stride. However, there was clearly more to this case. I was soon to find out.
At morning break Roy Davidson arrived. A tall, gaunt man in his late forties with a shock of prematurely grey hair, he had helped us many times in the past. As our local Education Welfare Officer, his knowledge of specialist educational support was second to none.
‘Thanks for coming, Roy,’ I said. ‘I’ve briefed Anne Grainger so she knows the situation.’
‘That’s fine, Jack.’ He checked his spiral notepad. ‘You mentioned a six-year-old … Rosie Sparrow.’ I nodded. ‘I’ve already contacted the office and explained the early intervention of the Salvation Army. They want me to go out to see the mother and child and I’ve asked Mary O’Neill from Social Services to check out the property in Cold Kirkby. I’ll call back later today when I’ve got some background and we can decide where to go from there.’ We shook hands and he was gone. The wheels were turning.
At twelve o’clock Penny Boothroyd was in the entrance hall with a nervous fair-haired woman in her early twenties and a small child wrapped up warm like an Eskimo. Vera showed them through to the staff-room and Penny did the introductions.
‘This is Ms Maggie Sparrow and her lovely daughter, Rosie, Mr Sheffield,’ said Penny. She gave me a postcard with the name ‘Rosie Sparrow’ printed neatly on it along with her date of birth.
‘Welcome to Ragley,’ I said. ‘Please sit down and we can talk.’
Vera fussed around serving tea, orange juice and biscuits, then closed the door quietly.
‘Thank you for seeing us, Mr Sheffield,’ said Maggie. She was dressed in faded jeans, old leather boots and a knitted sweater. Her khaki coat had leather patches on the elbows and looked far too big for her. It had the appearance of a hand-me-down workman’s coat. She was almost bird-like in her quick movements, but it was clear from the outset that she guarded her child with a fierce determination. ‘I want to do my best for Rosie,’ she said, ‘my daughter.’ The tiny girl was staring at the biscuits and orange juice and then looked up at her mother. ‘Yes, go on poppet,’ said Maggie, ‘have a biscuit if you’d like one and then we must thank the kind lady.’
Penny leant forward, keen to commence the main business. ‘We’re here to seek a short-term solution, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Maggie is faced with demanding circumstances in a new home in a tiny hamlet off the beaten track where she knows no one. She wants to seek employment in the area and her current address is on the border of the catchment area of three local primary schools. Cold Kirkby is a little remote, but if I have a word with William Featherstone I’m sure he’ll add it to his school coach run.’
‘I understand,’ I said, ‘and, of course, we should be only too happy to admit Rosie … if that’s what you want.’
The girl appeared a little dispirited, but she had the same grey eyes as her mother and she stared back at me with the innate curiosity of a six-year-old.
‘She can read and write well, Mr Sheffield,’ said Maggie proudly. ‘I taught her myself. You see, we’ve travelled a lot.’
There was a tap on the staff-room door. It was Anne Grainger with six-year-old Jemima Poole. The little girl was carrying a familiar shoebox with the name ‘Flash Gordon’ written on the side.
‘Hello, I’m Anne Grainger, the reception class teacher,’ she said with a reassuring smile. ‘I wondered if Rosie would like to see Jemima’s tortoise.’ Rosie’s eyes widened with excitement.
‘It’s my brother’s,’ said Jemima.
Anne crouched down next to the little girl. ‘Would you like to see where he lives in our classroom when he’s in school?’
Rosie looked up at her mother. ‘You go if you like, Rosie,’ said Maggie, ‘and I’ll come in a minute.’
‘And I’ll be your friend,’ added Jemima and held out her hand. Rosie took it and the two little girls followed Anne out of the room.
It was as if a weight had been lifted from Maggie Sparrow’s shoulders. ‘Thank you,’ she said, rubbing the tears from her eyes with the knuckles of her work-red hands. ‘I appreciate the support.’ There was silence for a moment as she gathered herself. ‘You see, Mr Sheffield,’ she took a deep breath, ‘my mother deserted me and put me into foster care. I don’t want that to happen to my Rosie.’
So that was it
, I thought. Her sea-grey eyes were steady and there was steel in the demeanour of this young woman. Although downtrodden and ‘damaged’, she was not beaten and I admired her inner determination, her desire to do the best for her daughter. She had the strength of a mother.