Authors: Jack Sheffield
I looked up, catching her drift. ‘Ah, you mean
E.T. – the Extra-terrestrial
.’
‘Yes,’ said Ruby, ‘’im what looks like Michael Foot wi’out ’is glasses – funny little bloke wi’ no ’air what keeps ridin’ a bike in t’sky an’ mekkin’ things light up.’
‘Well, I hope you have a lovely time, Ruby,’ I said.
She leant on her broom. ‘What’s matter with y’radio, Mr Sheffield?’
‘It’s broken, Ruby,’ I said, ‘and I can’t fix it.’
‘Y’want t’see Little Malcolm Robinson, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby. ‘’E’s a reight dab-’and wi’ owt ’lectrical.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll take it round there one night this week.’
It was after school on Wednesday and I had mounted a display of winter paintings and poems on the board in my classroom when I recalled the broken radio. I wrapped up warm in my duffel coat and scarf, locked up the school and walked round the corner to the council estate. More snow was threatening and, on School View, curtains had been drawn to shut out the cold and darkness on this bitter evening. Logs were being put on the fires and televisions switched on as Ragley village settled down for another winter’s night.
In the Earnshaw household, the family had gathered for their evening meal. ‘So what did y’do at school t’day?’ asked Mrs Earnshaw.
‘Nowt,’ chorused Heathcliffe and Terry.
‘Nowt,’ said little Dallas, who had begun to extend her vocabulary.
‘Y’must ’ave done summat,’ insisted Mrs Earnshaw.
‘Summat,’ echoed Dallas and everyone looked at her in bemusement. Up to now, three-year-old Dallas Sue-Ellen Earnshaw had simply gurgled, laughed and cried, and the only recognizable words had been ‘poo’ when she had filled her nappy and ‘telly’ when it wasn’t switched on.
‘Well, Mam,’ said Terry, ‘we did decimals wi’ Mrs Pringle.’
Heathcliffe looked up, interested. ‘We did ’em again this year,’ he said. ‘They keep coming back, do decimals.’
Mr Earnshaw looked up from the television. ‘Is m’tea ready yet?’
‘Nearly, luv,’ she said, giving the spaghetti hoops a final stir. ‘’Eath an’ Terry ’ave been working ’ard at school,’ she added proudly.
‘What ’ave they been doin’?’ he asked.
‘They’ve been decimated or summat,’ she said.
‘Summat,’ repeated Dallas.
‘An’ our Dallas ’as started saying proper words … anyway, c’mon it’s ready.’
‘’Bout bloody time,’ said Eric as he sat down at the table.
‘Bloody-time,’ repeated Dallas.
‘Hey, y’reight,’ said Eric, ‘she’s comin’ on.’
I walked along School View with the ghettoblaster and stopped at Little Malcolm’s garden gate. On it he had nailed a piece of plywood on which a painted sign advertised his after-work repair service. It read:
DON’T DISPAIR – I REPAIR!
no job too small – repairs garrunteed 100%
(please nock loud as bell doesn’t work)
While the spelling didn’t exactly fill me with confidence, I knew I would be paying for Little Malcolm’s technical know-how and, as requested, I knocked loudly.
Big Dave opened the door and stood there in his vest, overalls and thick socks, a large chipped mug with ‘1966 World Cup Winners’ emblazoned on its side gripped in his mighty fist. He seemed untroubled by the bitter cold.
‘Nah then, Mr Sheffield, what can ah do f’you?’
‘Hello, Dave,’ I said, ‘sorry to trouble you, but my classroom radio isn’t working and I was wondering if Malcolm might be able to fix it for me.’
‘Ah’m sure ’e can. Come on in, ’e’s in t’front room,’ said Dave with a smile.
Little Malcolm was trying on his Abba costume and looked embarrassed when I walked in. ‘It’s for t’fancy dress, Mr Sheffield,’ he explained, standing behind the sofa to hide his sparkly thirty-two-inch flares.
It was the following evening that Big Dave and Little Malcolm parked their dustbin wagon outside Nora’s Coffee Shop and walked in. Ben Roberts, since Christmas Day, was now the proud owner of a Raleigh BMX Burner bicycle and was practising his stunt skids on the ice patch outside, but Big Dave was too preoccupied to reprimand him. Nor did he notice the two sixteen-year-olds, Claire Bradshaw and Anita Cuthbertson, sitting at his usual table. The girls were equally preoccupied. Claire and Anita, who had been in my class when I first arrived in Ragley, were studying a picture of Bananarama, the all-girl trio, taken after their hit record ‘It Ain’t What You Do It’s The Way That You Do It’ was released, and wondering who they could enlist as a third member of their new group. Also, Claire had received a Chegger’s Jogger headphone radio for Christmas and was secretly in love with Keith Chegwin. Anita, of course, knew
all
her secrets. After all, that’s what best girlfriends were for.
Big Dave and Little Malcolm selected a corner table, supped tea and sat in silence while Big Dave gathered his thoughts. Behind the counter, Nora began to sing along to the song that Dorothy had put on the juke-box. ‘Super Twouper,’ she sang contentedly as she rearranged a pile of rock buns.
Finally Big Dave took a deep breath. ‘She wants t’get married, Mal’,’ he said. ‘It’d be different f’you an’ me.’
‘We could still watch
Match o’ t’Day
t’gether, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm.
‘Ah s’ppose,’ said Big Dave, still unconvinced.
‘An’ y’won’t get owt better than ’er.’
‘’Ow do y’mean?’ asked Big Dave.
‘Well she can cook,’ said Little Malcolm, ‘that allus comes in ’andy.’
‘An’ she likes football,’ added Big Dave.
‘An’ she knows t’offside rule,’ said Little Malcolm enthusiastically.
‘An’ she can play darts … in fac’, nearly as good as a man,’ said Big Dave, warming to the idea.
‘An’ she likes Tetley’s,’ said Little Malcolm.
Big Dave nodded. ‘Y’reight, Mal’ … ah’ve gorra winner.’
‘But y’need t’show ’er that y’serious, Dave.’
‘’Ow d’you mean?’
‘You’ll ’ave t’buy ’er a ring.’
‘Ah don’t know nowt abart rings,’ said Big Dave, looking anxious.
‘Don’t worry, Dave, women know abart these things. Ah’ll ask Dorothy.’
By Friday evening Dorothy knew exactly what to do. In the meantime there was the matter of a new hair-do. As usual on a Friday, Diane was working late in her Hair Salon.
Dorothy had discovered her favourite Suzi Quatro outfit at the back of her wardrobe and wandered in clutching a photograph of Agnetha Fältskog from her Abba magazine. ‘Ah want t’look like ’er, please Diane,’ said Dorothy.
Diane looked at the photograph of the Swedish superstar with her long, blonde, perfectly coiffeured hair and then studied Dorothy’s back-combed peroxide-blonde mop, which had the constituency of wire wool and resembled Toyah Willcox after electric-shock treatment. ‘OK, Dorothy, no problem,’ said Diane. She glanced at the clock and sighed. The
impossible
always took an extra ten minutes.
On Saturday morning Big Dave, Little Malcolm and Dorothy were standing outside the window of H. Samuel the Jeweller’s in York.
‘Does anything take y’fancy?’ asked Dorothy.
‘Dunno,’ said Big Dave, looking perplexed at the vast array of rings on display.
‘Mebbe we ought t’go in,’ suggested Little Malcolm.
Dave looked terrified. ‘C’mon Dave,’ said Dorothy, taking him by the arm.
The manager behind the counter was immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit and a crisp white shirt, with cufflinks that sparkled like landing lights at Heathrow Airport. ‘Can I be of assistance, sir?’ he asked smoothly.
‘We’re looking for an engagement ring,’ said Dorothy.
‘For you, madam?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Dorothy. She pointed at Big Dave. ‘For ’is girlfriend.’
‘I see,’ he said and extended a perfectly manicured finger towards the first glass-fronted cabinet. ‘This is our most popular range.’
‘’Ow much is that one?’ said Dorothy, pointing to a large, diamond-encrusted ring.
‘Five hundred pounds, madam,’ was the calm reply.
‘Bloody ’ell!’ said Big Dave.
‘What were you thinking of spending, sir?’ asked the shop manager with a fixed smile.
‘Well, ah ’adn’t thought,’ said Big Dave, reflecting that the loan to his little cousin to help him buy a car wasn’t such a good idea. Dorothy gave him a hard stare. ‘Ah s’ppose money’s no objec’ when yer in love,’ muttered Big Dave through gritted teeth, ‘so, mebbe fifty quid.’
‘Ah,’ said the manager quietly.
‘Y’ll ’ave t’spend more than that, Dave,’ said Dorothy sharply.
After considerable thought and Dorothy trying on almost every ring in the shop, a decision was made to purchase a tiny diamond solitaire in a small presentation box.
‘I can alter the size if you wish,’ said the manager, relieved the ordeal was over. Big Dave removed the thick elastic bands from his old leather wallet and handed over £75.
As they drove back to Ragley, Dorothy was looking pleased with herself. It had occurred to her that if Big Dave moved out to live with Nellie, then she could vacate her flat above the Coffee Shop and move in with Little Malcolm.
It was lunchtime when Little Malcolm looked up and down the High Street and, when the coast was clear, hurried into the empty pharmacy shop where Eugene Scrimshaw was standing behind the counter. His wife was in the back room sorting their new stock of baby oil.
‘Ah want summat for t’weekend, so t’speak, Eugene,’ said Little Malcolm quietly.
Eugene raised a forefinger, placed it on the side of his nose and winked. ‘Message understood, Malcolm,’ he said and slid a slim box over the counter. ‘Y’certainly gettin’ through these at a rate o’ knots.’
‘Actu’lly, Eugene,’ whispered Little Malcolm, ‘ah’m gettin’ a bit worried.’
‘What’s wrong, Mal’?’ asked Eugene quietly, making sure his wife couldn’t overhear them.
‘Ah’m gettin’ ’ot an’ bothered,’ said Little Malcolm forlornly.
‘’Ow d’you mean?’
‘Ah mean wi’ me an’ Dorothy. She’s gettin’ very
demandin
’, if y’get m’meaning.’
‘Sounds like yer a lucky man t’me,’ said Eugene. ‘Even in m’Captain Kirk outfit ah don’t seem t’turn on my Peggy any more. Y’should be thankful f’small mercies.’
‘Mebbe so,’ mumbled Little Malcolm, ‘’xcept ah was wond’rin’ if ah’d got that men-applause. Y’know, like what women get when they don’t fancy y’no more.’
‘Men-applause?’ said Eugene. ‘Oh, y’mean
menopause
. What meks y’think that?’
‘’Cause ah lose m’sex drive after an ’our o’ two.’ Little Malcolm looked heartbroken. ‘An’ ah’ll be forty soon. Ah think ah’m goin’ through that
change
.’
‘’Ave y’spoken to Dorothy about it?’ asked Eugene.
‘Y’jokin’!’ said Little Malcolm.
‘Well Mal’,’ said Eugene, putting a comforting arm round Little Malcolm’s shoulders, ‘ah wouldn’t worry if ah were you. Compared to normal men y’sound t’be a bloody stallion.’
Little Malcolm smiled with relief. ‘Thanks Eugene, yer a pal.’ He put a £5 note on the counter. ‘An’ while ah’m ’ere, ah’ll ’ave another two packets.’
The bell rang above the door as he walked out and Eugene muttered to himself wistfully, ‘Go forth and prosper.’
Little Malcolm was home for a quarter past twelve and Big Dave was switching on the television for
Grandstand
with David Coleman. Five minutes later, Bob Wilson was introducing
Football Focus
when Big Dave looked across from his armchair to his very relaxed cousin. ‘You look pleased wi’ yerself,’ he said.
Little Malcolm just smiled and settled back. After all, he thought, he might not be very tall, but life was suddenly looking up again for a vertically challenged stallion.
* * *
At half past six Big Dave squeezed into the passenger seat of Little Malcolm’s 1250cc bright-green, two-door Deluxe 1973 Hillman Avenger and Dorothy and Nellie sat in the back. They all looked the part in their Abba outfits and it turned out to be a good night. They even won third prize in the fancy dress: namely, a can of Watney’s Party Seven, which they shared before the lights dimmed for the last dance.
Little Malcolm and Dorothy walked on to the dance floor, but Big Dave held Nellie’s hand tightly. ‘No, let’s stay ’ere for a minute,’ he said. ‘Ah’ve got summat t’show yer.’
‘An’ what’s that, Dave?’ said Nellie, disappointed they weren’t enjoying swaying to Renée and Renato in the heaving throng.
He pulled a small box out of his pocket and opened it. Nellie’s eyes widened at the sight of the ring. ‘Ah’ve been thinkin’ on what y’said abart gettin’ married an’ ah think we could get on all reight, so ’ow abart it, Nellie?’
It occurred to Nellie that Big Dave had never mentioned
love
once. ‘An’ what abart them three little words, Dave?’
Big Dave looked momentarily puzzled, then plucked the ring from the box and put it on the third finger of Nellie’s hand. ‘It were expensive,’ he said.
Nellie smiled. He was daft but she loved him anyway. ‘C’mon Romeo,’ she said with a grin. ‘You’ll do f’me,’ and she stretched up and gave him a kiss.
Meanwhile, on the dance floor Little Malcolm looked up at his Agnetha Fältskog lookalike. ‘Dorothy,’ he said quietly.
‘What?’ said Dorothy, chewing gum as if her life depended on it.
‘D’you know what love is?’
‘’Ow d’you mean?’
‘Y’know … love.’
‘Like on t’pictures, y’mean?’ asked Dorothy.
‘Mebbe like that,’ said Little Malcolm.
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’ said Little Malcolm.
‘Well, why are y’on about love?’
Little Malcolm took a deep breath. ‘’Cause ah’m in love.’
‘Oooh, Malcolm, that’s proper romantic.’
‘Ah’m in love wi’ you, Dorothy … allus ’ave, allus will.’
Dorothy went quiet and stared for a long moment at this diminutive son of Yorkshire. He was a hard worker, trustworthy and loyal. She had always imagined meeting a six-foot-two-inch version of David Essex or Shakin’ Stevens, but she knew deep down that was never to be. So she leant down and kissed Little Malcolm like he’d never been kissed before. If he truly loved her, and he clearly did, then she’d settle for this little dustman with a heart of gold. ‘An’ ah love you, Malcolm,’ she said simply. It was a moment that would live for ever in Little Malcolm’s life. He stood up to his full height, pressed his cheek against her breasts and knew his life was complete.