Authors: Jack Sheffield
Geoffrey Dudley-Palmer was admiring his new Philips VR2020 Video Recorder. He held up the blank cassette. ‘Eight hours’ recording time, Petula,’ he said in a voice full of awe and admiration. He flipped over the black plastic cassette: it was the size of a paperback novel. ‘Four hours on each side! Just how do they do it?’
‘Yes, it’s wonderful, darling,’ said Petula, failing to look up from the Christmas and New Year
Radio Times
.
‘It’s got DTF,’ added Geoffrey.
‘Yes, I’m sure it has,’ said Petula.
‘“Dynamic Track Following”,’ read Geoffrey from the side of the cardboard cassette box. ‘It’s arrived … it’s finally arrived.’
‘What has, darling?’ asked Petula, looking up at last.
‘The future,’ said Geoffrey.
On the council estate, Little Malcolm was staring at a present he had just unwrapped. He looked up at Big Dave. ‘Dorothy bought me this f’Christmas,’ he said forlornly, ‘an’ ah promised ah’d use it ev’ry day.’
On the box lid it read, Bullworker Super X5.
‘Sez ’ere, Dave, “Power meter calibration to measure your growing strength” on side o’ t’box,’ said Little Malcolm.
‘What’s that when it’s at ’ome then, Mal’?’ said Big Dave.
‘Ah dunno, Dave, but it sez in t’book it gives “twice the strength and fitness”,’ quoted Little Malcolm.
He held up a slim volume with the words ‘Scientific isotonic principles developed at the Max Planck Institute in Germany, 96-page fitness training book – 14-day free trial’ on the front cover.
‘It sez ’ere y’can ’ave a lithe waist,’ said Little Malcolm.
‘Lithe? What’s
lithe
when it’s at ’ome?’ asked Big Dave.
‘Dunno … an’ summat abart “four per cent increase ev’ry week”, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm.
‘Four per cen’ o’ what?’ asked Big Dave.
‘Dunt say, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm, ‘but it mus’ be summat what gets bigger.’
Big Dave looked dubiously at the telescopic steel tubes and the traction straps attached to the sides. He held each end and compressed the tubes effortlessly.
‘Well,’ said Little Malcolm, ‘Dorothy said ah might not be all that tall but ah can ’ave a
perfec
’ body …’cept f’being tall.’
Beth and I exchanged gifts in our dressing gowns. She had bought me an electric drill and she seemed happy with her cosmetics and the locket.
Finally she stood up and kissed me. ‘Jack, I’ve got one more present for you.’ She took my hand and we stood by the Christmas tree. I looked under the tree. There were no presents left.
‘No, Jack, not there. It’s here.’ On one of the branches was a small box tied with a red ribbon. Beth lifted it down carefully and placed it in my hands.
‘I thought this was one of the decorations – it’s so tiny,’ I said.
‘Open it,’ she said. Her eyes were shining.
I untied the ribbon and took the lid off the box. Inside was a small card with a date that read ‘July 1983’.
‘Ah yes,’ I said, ‘you’ve booked a holiday.’
She shook her head. ‘Jack … we’re going to be too busy for a holiday.’ She stood back and gently laid both hands on her tummy. It took a few moments for it to register.
Christmas 1982 was about to become a very special day.
‘Do you mean …?’
Beth looked up at me and smiled. ‘Yes, I do, Jack. I’m pregnant.’
School reopened today for the spring Term with 89 children registered on roll
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Tuesday, 4 January 1983
THE VAPOUR OF
discontent drifted through the village like a malodorous mist and, with every breath, icy fingers of sleet froze our bones and sank our spirits. These were hard times for the folk of Ragley and hope of spring sunshine was the stuff of dreams. It was Bank Holiday Monday, 3 January 1983, a new year stretched out before us and the villagers of North Yorkshire were enjoying a relaxing morning huddled in their homes. However, on the council estate, in Big Dave and Little Malcolm’s kitchen, Ragley’s favourite binmen were pondering over a problem. The highlight of their social calendar was fast approaching. The Refuse Collectors’ Annual Ball was on Saturday, and it was decision time.
Big Dave and Little Malcolm were sitting at the kitchen table while Dorothy prepared large mugs of sweet tea and doorstep-sized bacon butties. Dorothy was still in her dressing gown after spending a night of passion with Little Malcolm and, fortunately, Big Dave didn’t mind so long as she did the washing-up.
‘So, what we doing for t’ball on Sat’day?’ asked Dorothy, sitting down beside them.
Little Malcolm stared lovingly at the woman of his dreams. ‘We ’ave t’go in fancy dress again,’ he said, ‘an’ there’s a prize.’
‘What’s t’prize?’ asked Dorothy.
‘A free fish-an’-chip supper in York wi’ a pot o’ tea thrown in,’ said Little Malcolm.
‘Oooh, that’s lovely,’ said Dorothy. ‘So, what we dressin’ up as?’
‘We could go as Batman an’ Robin,’ said Big Dave, as he added a generous splash of brown sauce to his crispy bacon.
‘An’ ah could be Catwoman,’ said Dorothy. ‘Ah’ve gorra mask an’ ah could mek pointy ears an’ whiskers.’
‘Can ah be Batman?’ asked Little Malcolm. There was an astonished pause as six-foot-four-inch Big Dave and five-foot-eleven-inch-in-her-bare-feet Dorothy looked down at the five-foot-four-inch refuse collector. ‘’Cause ah’m allus t’little un.’
‘Well, what about Tarzan an’ Jane?’ suggested Big Dave quickly.
Little Malcolm shook his head. ‘Ah don’t want t’be Cheetah,’ he added forlornly.
‘No, Dave, we can’t ’ave my Malcolm in a monkey suit,’ said Dorothy.
Little Malcolm smiled. He loved it when Dorothy said
my
Malcolm.
However, Big Dave wasn’t captain of the Ragley Rovers football team for nothing. He could sum up the mood of his teammates quickly and, although he didn’t know what it meant, he had
empathy
. ‘Y’reight there, Mal’, but we’re all f’gettin’ summat.’
‘’Ow d’you mean?’ asked Little Malcolm.
‘We’re f’gettin’ my Nellie,’ said Big Dave.
‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm, appreciative of the sudden diversion.
‘We need t’go as a
foursome
,’ said Dorothy.
‘Like t’Beatles mebbe,’ suggested Little Malcolm, secretly recalling that they were all about the same height except for Ringo, and he’d always fancied himself as a drummer.
‘Or t’Dave Clarke Five,’ said Dorothy.
‘Yeah but there’s
five
o’ them, Dorothy,’ said Little Malcolm.
‘Well mebbe that Diana Ross an’ them Supremes,’ suggested Dorothy. ‘Ah could get me ’air done.’
‘Ah don’t fancy being a Supreme,’ said Little Malcolm dubiously.
There was silence as they each tried to recall famous quartets. ‘Ah’ve gorrit!’ exclaimed Big Dave suddenly. ‘’Ow abart Abba – two men an’ two women? Ah could be him sittin’ at t’piano; Mal’ could be ’im what allus looks pleased wi’ ’imself on t’guitar; Dorothy could be that blonde wi’ t’nice bum and Nellie could be ’er wi’ t’brown ’air what meks up t’numbers.’
Light dawned in Dorothy’s eyes. She was imagining herself in a skin-tight sparkly Abba suit. Little Malcolm nodded; he was thinking of Dorothy’s bum. Meanwhile Big Dave was considering that, if he put his mind to it, he could solve the Cold War and be a Middle East negotiator in his spare time.
‘Crackin’ idea, Dave,’ said Dorothy.
‘Y’reight there, Dorothy,’ agreed Little Malcolm.
‘Abba it is then,’ said Big Dave. ‘Ah’ll go an’ ring Nellie, an’ she can collec’ t’costumes in York.’
Ten miles away in her flat in York, Fenella Lovelace, or ‘Nellie’ as she was known to her friends, was staring in the mirror. She had realized a long time ago that she wasn’t
beautiful
in the general sense of the word, but, for a young, athletic woman in her mid-thirties, she certainly had her good features. At five-foot-two-inches tall, she knew she wasn’t destined to be a catwalk model, but she had lovely long wavy hair, soulful eyes and a good sense of humour.
Her boyfriend, Big Dave Robinson, had just invited her to be his partner at the Refuse Collectors’ Annual Ball in York. She had never met a man like Big Dave before: tall, strong, honest-as-the-day-is-long and keen on football. They had spent many Saturday nights watching
Match of the Day
and drinking pints of Tetley’s bitter. He had become the perfect companion and she was lonely when he wasn’t around.
And, suddenly, the reason was obvious. She was in love.
* * *
Meanwhile, in the kitchen of Bilbo Cottage, Beth was sipping tea, reading her mobile-library copy of
The Perfect Pregnancy
by some obscure American psychologist while
Thought for the Day
on Radio 4 murmured away in the background. It was a relaxing morning and a time to reflect on a memorable Christmas. This had been followed by a New Year’s Eve dinner and dance at Morton Manor. It had been a wonderful evening and everyone was excited by our news. Vera had already begun to knit baby clothes.
‘So, how are you?’ I said.
Beth looked up. ‘Interesting book, Jack,’ she said. ‘You should read it after me.’
My mind was on other things. ‘What about your Masters course in Leeds?’ I said.
‘No problem,’ she said confidently. ‘I can still do my assignments from home and it will keep my mind occupied.’
‘Fine,’ I said without conviction. ‘And what about school and maternity leave?’
‘Yes, all in hand,’ she said, ‘and I’ve already written to my chair of governors about supply cover.’
‘You seem to have it all worked out,’ I said.
‘I’ll tell you what you could do, Jack,’ she said with a smile.
‘And what’s that?’ I asked.
‘You could decorate the second bedroom.’
‘Aah, er, good idea,’ I said. ‘Pink or blue?’
She turned back to her psychological thriller. ‘You choose, Jack … probably something
neutral
.’
‘Neutral?’
Beth was reading again. ‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘like lemon and white.’
I smiled and wondered if it was a fact that women looked more beautiful when they were pregnant.
In Ragley village, Ruby was cooking a full English breakfast as a treat for Ronnie, Duggie, Natasha and Hazel while Radio 1 blared out throughout the house. Mike Read had just introduced Kim Wilde performing ‘Kids in America’ and Ruby’s family, all word perfect, were singing along.
Meanwhile, on the Crescent, Anne Grainger was in her kitchen preparing porridge with a bran-flake topping for her husband, John, while listening to Terry Wogan’s programme on Radio 2. David Essex was singing his new hit, ‘A Winter’s Tale’, and she gave a deep sigh as she understood the line about ‘one more love that’s failed’. John was reading his latest
Do-It-Yourself
magazine, completely oblivious that Anne had now passed the serious landmark of her fiftieth birthday but still felt – and looked – a slim and attractive thirty-five.
A mile away, in the palatial lounge of Morton Manor, Vera was sitting with her three cats, listening to Vivaldi on Radio 3’s
Morning Concert
and looking through her beautiful leather-bound wedding album, which had just arrived from the photographer’s in York. Vera felt very much at home now and Rupert was proving the perfect husband. Even so, she doubted he would join her for the gentle, soothing experience of a Liszt piano recital to be broadcast later in the morning. As Master of Foxhounds, he had left early with the hunt, presumably with the intention of killing one of God’s creatures with his pack of noisy beagles.
‘Ah well,’ murmured Vera to herself, ‘perhaps none of us is
quite
perfect.’
That evening Big Dave Robinson was puzzled. Nellie had telephoned to say she needed to speak to him and they had agreed to meet in York in The Bay Horse public house at Monk Bar. As they each supped a welcome pint of John Smith’s bitter, Big Dave looked at Nellie and said, ‘So what’s up?’
Nellie removed her large-lens, fashionable spectacles and began to clean them on her Barnsley football shirt. ‘Well, Dave, ah’ve been thinking.’
‘What abart?’ asked Big Dave.
‘We’ve been gettin’ on all reight, ’aven’t we?’ she said.
Dave nodded, wondering what was coming next. ‘Yes luv.’
‘We both like football, don’t we?’
‘Yes luv.’
‘An’ darts. An’ Tetley’s.’
Big Dave held up his pint. ‘An’ John Smith’s.’
‘So ah’ve been thinkin’ … p’rhaps we should get married.’
‘Y’what?’
‘Married, Dave … y’know, live t’gether an’ all that. So, what d’you think?’
‘It’s a bit sudden, Nellie. After all,’ Big Dave went a shade of puce, ‘we’ve not ’xactly, y’know,
conjugated
t’relationship, so t’speak,’ he mumbled.
‘P’raps we ought t’do summat abart it then, Dave,’ said Nellie with a searching look.
‘Y’reckon?’
‘Yes, Dave, ah do. So ’ow abart comin’ back t’my place?’
Dave supped his pint and slammed down the glass on the table. ‘Nellie, y’not ’xactly backwards in coming forwards.’
Nellie drained her glass. ‘C’mon y’big lump, ah’ll show yer me etchings.’
On Tuesday morning the new term began well in spite of the freezing weather. That is, until Sally brought in her Prince Charles mug with a single large ear for a handle, a Christmas present from her equally anti-monarchist husband, Colin. At morning break Vera looked at it suspiciously but poured in the hot milk anyway.
During afternoon school, my class radio broke down immediately prior to my music-lesson broadcast. I was still trying to repair it when Ruby came in to sweep my classroom at the end of the day. ‘Ah’m tryin’ t’finish a bit sharpish, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, her face flushed with the effort of vigorous sweeping. ‘My Ronnie’s got a bonus f’some extra coffin polishin’. ’E sez there’s more trade in t’cold weather, so we’re off to t’pictures. It’s a while since he’s tekken me out.’
‘What are you going to see, Ruby?’ I asked, twiddling the knobs of Class 4’s ageing ghettoblaster to no avail.
‘We’re goin’ t’see that film abart that extra testicle,’ said Ruby. ‘Y’know, that alien what lands in America wi’ Steven Spellbug.’