Authors: Jack Sheffield
After a while I decided to get some fresh air and enjoy the last of the low afternoon sunshine. The nights were drawing in now and soon it would be dark. I stood outside the Pump Room under the Colonnade, nine equal bays studded with ten classical Ionic columns, and looked at the busy shoppers in Stall Street.
To my surprise, Laura was walking towards me, carrying a variety of smart womenswear bags. As usual she turned heads in her beautifully tailored narrow skirt, a checked blouse and a fashionable Sherpa woollen quilted waistcoat. Her silk scarf matched her eyes. She looked as if she was about to be photographed for the cover of
Cosmopolitan
. ‘Jack,’ she said, ‘we hoped you might look after these for us while you’re waiting.’ Her high cheekbones were flushed as the warmth left the earth and cool darkness spread its cloak.
‘Yes, fine,’ I said, ‘I’ll take them back to the tea shop and stand guard.’ I glanced down at the expensive-looking bags. ‘You’ve been busy.’
There was an awkward moment of silence and then Laura turned. ‘Well, I’d better get back to the girls.’
I put my hand on her arm. ‘Laura, are you OK?’
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘It’s just
life
, Jack. It’s complicated.’ She bowed her head and her long hair hung loosely around her shoulders. I knew she was right. Life had never been that simple for either of us … rather a maze of mistaken opportunities.
‘Laura, you must know there never was anything
serious
between us,’ I said. ‘Nothing
permanent
. And nothing really happened. We were just friends.’
‘Were we?’
‘I chose Beth because I loved her, Laura. You know that.’
‘Love makes fools of us all, Jack.’
‘And I’m happy with my life,’ I said.
‘That’s good, but who knows where we shall come to rest,’ she stepped into the shade of the Colonnade, ‘in shade or in sun,’ she said with an enigmatic smile and I wondered at the meaning behind these words.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
Laura looked at me with sadness in her eyes. ‘You will one day, Jack, and, in the end, you’ll see … she’ll hurt you.’ Then she turned and I watched her slim figure stride confidently across Stall Street.
‘I still don’t understand,’ I said, but my words were like seeds on the wind, scattered thoughts cast upon the soft breezes of the approaching night.
There had always been something about Laura that intrigued me, but I couldn’t understand what it was. Then I looked around me. Above my head a huge triangular stone pediment surmounted the nine perfect archways of the Colonnade. On its face was a carving of Hygieia, the goddess of good health, and her companion was a serpent. With a wry smile I picked up the bags and walked back towards the tea shop near the Abbey.
Later, back in Henrietta Street, there was a tap on our bedroom door. Beth and I were relaxing before going out. It was Pippa. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Laura’s not well, so it makes sense for me to stay with her and you two can go out and enjoy your last evening in Bath.’
Beth went across the landing to see Laura and returned ten minutes later. ‘She’ll be fine, just a headache after overdoing it at work and then suddenly relaxing,’ she said in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘So where shall we go?’
‘Well, we passed a cinema today, but I don’t know what’s on,’ I said.
‘Let’s find out,’ said Beth, grabbing her coat. She appeared full of energy again.
When we arrived outside the cinema we stared up at a large poster. It read:
Lewis Collins in
Who Dares Wins
(AA)
and
Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan
‘Well, what do you think?’ I asked dubiously.
‘I think I’d rather buy a bottle of wine and go back for an early night, Jack. How about you?’
It suddenly occurred to me how much I loved this beautiful woman and I couldn’t recall feeling so at peace with my life. Ragley School seemed far away now and, as I held her in my arms and kissed her, the wind changed direction and a scurry of fallen leaves scattered around our feet like the wings of fragile butterflies. A turbulent past was behind us and we had relaxed in the harmony of our lives, together at last and sharing a new pathway.
‘I think we should go in peace and prosper,’ I said. ‘At least that’s what Mr Spock would say.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Beth with a mischievous grin and she held my hand and led me back to the house, via the nearest wine bar. Finally, in the early hours and in each other’s arms, we shared the time of the quiet mind when peaceful slumber descends like a tranquil mist.
On Wednesday morning the wind had turned in its groove and an iron-grey sky was filled with a cold rain that stung our faces as we packed the car.
Goodbyes were brief, and Laura stayed in her room as Beth said farewell to her. Pippa gave me the obligatory double air-kiss, wished us a safe journey and we were on our way through the mist. As we left the city a flock of starlings with a scattering of wings rose suddenly into the sky. In a world of white noise the sound was soothing and we both settled back with our own thoughts. It had been an eventful few days.
As the day wore on we approached the familiar countryside of Yorkshire. Ploughing had begun on the fertile plain of York, combing chocolate stripes and attracting the rooks from their lofty perches.
Finally, as darkness fell, back in Bilbo Cottage I glanced at the kitchen calendar and smiled. In a few days I would be back at school and returning to a world I could understand … unlike the minds of women. For me, they would always remain a mystery.
County Hall sent the document ‘Rationalization, Value for Money and a Better Life – a Vision for the Eighties for Small Schools in North Yorkshire’ to all village schools in the Easington area, explaining why the high costs of maintaining small schools needed to be addressed
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Thursday, 4 November 1982
HEATHCLIFFE EARNSHAW PRESSED HIS
nose against the window of Pratt’s Hardware Emporium and stared in awe at the Standard Fireworks Bumper Box. The lid had been removed to reveal the treasures within. It was early morning on Thursday, 4 November and excitement was building for the children of Ragley School.
‘Terry, ’ave a look,’ he said to his brother, barely able to contain his excitement. ‘They’ve got
ev’rythin
’ – Cath’rine wheels, snow fountains, a Mount Vesuvius, jumping crackers, a big Roman candle, an’ two big rockets.’
‘An’ a Fairy Rain,’ said Terry, looking at the tall thin firework at the side of the box.
Heathcliffe grunted in disapproval. ‘Ah’m not too fussed abart a Fairy Rain. Y’allus get one o’ them, but all t’rest are brilliant.’
‘But we’ve no money, ’Eath,’ said Terry shaking his head mournfully.
However, as always, the fire of optimism burned in Heathcliffe’s brave heart. ‘Don’t you worry, our kid,’ he said. ‘Ah’ve gorra plan.’
Terry smiled. He always had faith in his big brother and with a spring in their step the Earnshaws continued their circuitous journey towards school.
The quickthorn hedges of hips and haws flew by as I drove on the back road from Kirkby Steepleton to Ragley village. I pulled in where the York Road meets the High Street and parked on the forecourt of Pratt’s Garage. Victor Pratt came out to serve me from the single pump.
I wound down my window and asked the inevitable question. ‘How are you, Victor?’ Our local garage owner usually had some ailment or other and the list was about to grow longer.
He unscrewed my filler cap and inserted the nozzle. ‘Ah’ve gorra belly ache,’ he said mournfully. He rubbed his tummy with a greasy hand and winced. ‘Ah’m a martyr t’me stomach,’ he said. ‘In fac’, ah’m off t’see Dr Davenport this morning. It could be one o’ them sceptical ulcers, ah reckon.’
‘Perhaps it is,’ I replied, suppressing a smile. I guessed that Dr Davenport might have sceptical tendencies as well.
‘Nine poun’ f’six gallon, Mr Sheffield,’ he said. ‘Keeps goin’ up, dunt it? Ah blame t’government.’ I gave him a ten-pound note and he shuffled off to get my change from his ancient till. ‘An’ ah’ll see y’tonight in t’Coffee Shop. Our Nora’s serving all t’locals wi’ a free ’ot drink,’ he said. ‘Should be a good do. There’ll be a load o’ Pratts there.’
Meanwhile, in the flat above the Coffee Shop, Nora Pratt felt like a film star. It was the twenty-fifth anniversary of the opening of her shop and she had bought a new dress.
Nora looked in her full-length mirror and studied the reflection of the short, plump forty-five-year-old that stared back at her. Although she had ‘filled out’ a little in recent years, in her mind’s eye she could still recall the time in 1957 on her first day in the Coffee Shop when she had a slim waist and a curvy figure. It occurred to her that, with a little luck, she could have been a famous actress. However, the fact that the furthest she climbed up the ladder of success was a non-speaking extra in
Crossroads
had nothing to do with her acting ability. Rather it was because a certain letter of the alphabet had always proved elusive for this voluble lady. She called downstairs to her assistant, Dorothy Humpleby, ‘Dowothy, come an’ look. Ah’m twying on one o’ them top-o’-the-wange polyester cocktail dwesses … in bwight wed.’ It was a quarter past eight and Nora’s big day had begun.
* * *
Next door, Nora’s younger brother, Timothy, was sellotaping a poster to his shop window. It read ‘
LIGHT UP THE SKY WITH STANDARD FIREWORKS
’. Then he selected a top-of-the-range spirit level and checked the poster was exactly horizontal. Timothy liked precision and only when the bubble in the plastic transparent tube on top of the spirit level was
exactly
central did he relax. It was then that he needed to seek comfort in the familiar and he turned to his collection of screws.
In his Hardware Emporium on Ragley High Street, the pursuit of tidiness was a way of life for forty-two-year-old Timothy. However, once again, in his beautifully organized world, the realization dawned that there were customers who did not understand that, without
order
, life was not worth living. He stared in dismay at the two-inch dome-headed screw that had been picked up by a customer and replaced in the box of one-and-ahalf-inch flat-headed screws. It lay there like a pork chop at a vegetarian tea party, incongruous and unwelcome. He picked it up with a sigh and replaced it in its rightful home. Then he went to arrange the boxes of light bulbs so that the labels all faced outwards and, as he did so, he smiled. He knew that in the village he was known affectionately as ‘Tidy Tim’ and pride filled his beating heart. For, as his mother had told him, ‘Tidiness is next to godliness’ and Timothy was content in his hardware heaven … well, almost. Some boys had obviously been pressing their noses against his window and there were smudges. He took a polishing cloth from the pocket of his spotless and neatly ironed brown overall and hurried outside to buff up his window.
Suddenly a mud-splattered Land Rover pulled up and the driver wound down his window. ‘Are y’open yet, Pratt?’ It was Stan Coe, local landowner, boorish bully and the most unpopular man in the village. ‘Ah need a roll o’ chicken wire.’
Timothy winced slightly but continued to polish the window. ‘Ah open shortly, Mr Coe.’
‘That’s no bloody good,’ shouted Stan and he lumbered over to Timothy. ‘Gerra move on, ’cause ah want it now!’ At sixteen stones the burly figure of the aggressive farmer was a formidable sight next to the frail shopkeeper.
‘’Ow much did y’want?’ asked Timothy.
‘’Bout chest ’igh an’ twenty paces,’ said Stan.
‘Ah get a delivery o’ that size last thing this afternoon,’ said Timothy. ‘Ah’ll put it on one side f’you t’collect.’
‘Ah’ll be back later then,’ growled Stan. He glanced at the sign in the next-door window. It read ‘
JOIN NORA FOR A FREE COFFEE FROM 4.00 P.M. TODAY TO CELEBRATE 25 YEARS IN THE COFFEE SHOP
’. ‘An’ ah’ll ’ave a free ’ot drink while ah’m abart it.’
Timothy watched him drive away and shook his head. ‘Some folk just ’ave no manners,’ he muttered and went off to wash his hands.
It was a freezing cold morning and I sat at my desk in the school office reading a copious document from County Hall about ‘Value for Money’ in relation to village schools. It didn’t make happy reading, and I sighed as our ancient school boiler chugged into life and the hot-water pipes creaked and groaned. The season had moved on and once again it was the time of the burning of leaves, and smoke from the gardens of Ragley village drifted into a slate-grey sky. The cold days of late autumn were here again and Ragley School flexed its ancient bones to face yet another hard winter.
At a quarter past ten the children were in good voice in morning assembly. Anne played the first few bars of ‘All things bright and beautiful’ and we all joined in.
‘All creatures great and small,’ sang eighty-six lusty voices.
‘All things bright and beautiful … All teachers’ graves are small,’ sang Heathcliffe Earnshaw. I gave him a stern look from over my hymn book while trying to suppress a grin. Heathcliffe returned his innocent, glassy-eyed stare, perfected over many years of fruitless accusations.
This was followed by Jo’s husband, Acting Sergeant Dan Hunter, who gave a talk on the Firework Code. Dan was our six-foot-four-inch local policeman and a popular figure at Ragley School. At the end the children repeated all the safety rules out loud before they went out to play, full of excitement as Bonfire Night drew near.
During morning break Anne was on playground duty and I was sitting with Jo near the gas fire, checking the results of the Schonell Word Recognition Test for the children in her class. Vera was shaking her head in dismay at the headline in
The Times
: ‘Sunday shopping has official blessing with 58% of women working’.
‘It will be a sad day when Sunday is no longer a day of rest,’ she announced.
‘Yes, Vera,’ I murmured without conviction. Sally and Jo said nothing. Secretly they were pleased to have an extra opportunity to do their shopping, but they were wise enough not to stop Vera in full flow. Fortunately, there was even worse news.