05 Please Sir! (17 page)

‘Good luck with the pantomime, Nora,’ I said, thinking that
Goldilocks and the Two Bears and a Sheep
had the makings of an interesting adaptation. A tired-looking cake and a cup of steaming froth appeared on the counter.

‘Final dwess wehearsal nex’ week, Mr Sheffield,’ said Nora.

This year the producer, Felicity Miles-Humphreys, had decided to feature Abba songs and Nora had been given two solos. On reflection, the choices could have been made with a little more sensitivity as Nora could regularly be overheard singing ‘I Have a Dweam’ and ‘Super Twooper’ in the room above the Coffee Shop. You could not fault Nora for enthusiasm. She always sang with gusto but, sadly, without the letter ‘R’.

I sat at the furthest table from the juke-box and picked up an
Easington Herald & Pioneer
. Over a photograph of the frozen River Ouse, the headline read, ‘As bad as the mini-Ice Age of 1963’. I sipped my coffee and read the sports news. The England batsman, Geoffrey Boycott, had become the most prolific run scorer in test history when he overtook the 8,032 runs scored by Sir Garfield Sobers. The forty-one-year-old Yorkshireman had passed the record after scoring eighty-two runs on the opening day of the Third Test Match against India in Delhi. With Yorkshire modesty, he had then presented the Indian prime minister, Indira Gandhi, with a copy of his book
In the Fast Lane
. I smiled: a knighthood couldn’t be far away.

Meanwhile, Dorothy Humpleby was wiping the tables with a damp dishcloth and it was clear her mind was on other things. ‘’Morning, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. She was wearing a white polo-necked sweater, red hotpants, her favourite Wonder Woman boots and dangly Christmas-tree earrings.

‘Good morning, Dorothy. Merry Christmas,’ I said.

Dorothy launched into what was on her mind. ‘My Malcolm’s buying me summat special f’Christmas, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Ah took’im into York and ah showed’im.’

‘And what’s that, Dorothy?’ I asked.

‘It’s a Toyah Willcox make-up set.’

‘Toyah Willcox?’

‘Yes, Mr Sheffield. She’s a sexy rock singer an’ real groovy wi’ wild ’air.’ She took a newspaper cutting from her hipster hotpants and put it on the counter. Under a photograph of Toyah Willcox the caption read: ‘A palette of powders and lipsticks and power-packed angular make-up for the canvas that is your face’.

‘Looks good, Dorothy,’ I said dubiously.

‘Ah love Toyah Willcox,’ said Dorothy, ‘an’ she wears this black bodysuit when she’s singing,’ she added, a dreamy look in her eyes. ‘It’s reight good.’

Nora shuffled over and looked at the cutting. ‘That’ll be a weally nice Chwistmas pwesent, Dowothy,’ she said. ‘’E’s wight genewous, is Malcolm. What are y’getting’im?’

‘Dunno yet, Nora,’ said Dorothy. ‘Ah’m going to t’Christmas market this afternoon,’ and she wandered off to wipe the grubby counter.

At a table on the other side of the Coffee Shop, Big Dave Robinson was deep in thought – and
not
about his new girlfriend, namely Fenella ‘Nellie’ Lovelace. An unexpected crisis had emerged in his life. He had just paid sixteen pence to Prudence Golightly for his weekly copy of
Roy of the Rovers
and he stared in horror at the cartoon-strip spread out before him on the Formica-top table. Roy Race, the Melchester Rovers player-manager, had been shot and rushed to hospital in a critical state. ‘Bloody ’ell,’ muttered Big Dave.

‘What’s up, Dave?’ asked Little Malcolm as he arrived with two large mugs of sweet tea.

‘Roy Race ‘as been shot!’ exclaimed Big Dave.

Little Malcolm recoiled in shock and spilled some tea down his donkey jacket. ‘But Roy’s t’greatest footballer that ever lived,’ he said in a strained voice. Then he put down the tea, took off his bobble cap and bowed his head. ‘They can’t let’im die.’

‘It sez ’ere,’ mumbled Big Dave, ‘that Sam Barlow, t’club chairman, ’as appointed Blackie Gray as t’caretaker-player-manager, so ah s’ppose it meks sense.’

‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm. The two cousins took the fortunes of their favourite fictional football team very seriously. They were not the only ones. On the next page of the comic, ‘get well’ messages had poured in from the world of football, including Alf Ramsay, Trevor Francis, Malcolm Macdonald and Paul Mariner. There was even a message from Morecambe and Wise.

‘Nellie’ll be upset,’ said Big Dave. ‘She reads
Roy of t’Rovers
ev’ry week. She’ll be ‘eartbroken.’

Nora didn’t miss any of the gossip in her Coffee Shop. ‘What y’getting Nellie f’Chwistmas, Dave?’ she shouted from behind the counter.

‘Dunno yet, Nora,’ replied Dave. ‘Ah were thinking o’ some shin pads f’when she plays football or a box t’put’er darts in.’

Nora shook her head. ‘No, Dave. It needs t’be summat womantic,’ she said, ever the matchmaker.

Dorothy tottered over on her four-inch heels, gave the table a half-hearted wipe and put two huge bacon sandwiches in front of Ragley’s favourite binmen. ‘Y’reight there, Nora,’ said Dorothy. ‘Women like a bit o’ romance … don’t they, Malcolm?’

Little Malcolm gave a nervous twitch and poured tomato sauce over his boiler-suit trousers instead of his sandwich. Dorothy immediately began to mop it off his lap with a damp cloth and Little Malcolm went a shade of puce. ‘Y-yes, Dorothy,’ he mumbled.

‘Oh well,’ said Dave, eager to get back to the crisis in his comic, ‘ah’ll prob’ly go to t’Christmas market.’

At a table next to the doorway, two fifteen-year-olds who had been in my class when I first arrived in Ragley, Claire Bradshaw and Anita Cuthbertson, were deep in conversation. The debate concerned whether Pixie boots were better than suede stilettos. They decided to get a pair of each from Easington market with the money they had been given for Christmas and share them, as they both took a size five.

‘’Appy Christmas, Mr Sheffield,’ they chorused as I walked to the door.

‘Happy Christmas, Claire … Anita,’ I said, ‘and I hope Santa pays you a visit tonight,’ I added with a grin.

‘We were ‘oping f’Shakin’ Stevens, Mr Sheffield,’ said Claire. They both giggled and it occurred to me that teenagers grew up quickly these days.

On the High Street, outside Piercy’s Butcher’s Shop, assorted members of the church choir and a few passers-by were singing Christmas carols. Joseph Evans stood alongside, rattling a bucket of loose change as busy shoppers hurried past.

‘Hark the herald angels sing,’ they sang, ‘glory to the new-born king.’

I walked in to collect my Christmas turkey and looked at the usual collection of pork pies, joints of gammon and pig trotters. It was clear that Old Tommy didn’t exactly go overboard on Christmas decorations. There was nothing frivolous about the Ragley village butcher’s. As a token gesture, on the counter was an empty bottle of India Pale Ale with a red candle stuck in the neck. Around the base were a few desultory sprigs of holly.

‘’Appy Christmas, Mr Sheffield,’ said Old Tommy. ‘Y’turkey’s a reight big ‘un this year.’ He handed over the giant bird and I staggered out to my car, breathed on my key, unlocked the frozen double doors and put it in the boot.

Then I went back to join the choir and I stood beside Vera. It was good timing for, after a lively rendition of ‘We Three Kings’, Old Tommy came out with his grandson, Young Tommy, who was carrying a huge pan of steaming mulled wine made to Old Tommy’s special recipe. ‘There y’are,’ he said. ‘This’ll mek y’toes curl.’ He wasn’t wrong. I sipped on a mug of the evil brew and gasped.

Vera’s cheeks flushed as she drank the potent mixture. ‘It gets stronger every year,’ she said appreciatively.

Soon the cold was forgotten and I wandered off to complete my food shopping in Prudence Golightly’s General Stores. When I walked in, Deirdre Coe was complaining bitterly. Deirdre was one of our least popular villagers for whom rudeness was a way of life.

‘Thirty pence a pound f’sprouts!’ she shouted. ‘A fortnight ago they were only eighteen pence.’

‘I’m sorry, Deirdre,’ said Prudence gently, ‘but it’s because of the frozen ground. The farmers can’t harvest the crops.’

‘Well, ah’ll tell y’summat f’nowt,’ added Deirdre in disgust, ‘ah’m not paying eighty pence for a small cauli’.’

‘That’s fine, Deirdre,’ said Prudence politely, ‘so is that all?’

Deirdre slammed a few coins on the counter and stormed out, almost knocking me over in the doorway. ‘Move over, Mr ’eadteacher,’ she grumbled as she left the doorbell ringing madly.

‘Merry Christmas, Miss Golightly, and … merry Christmas, Jeremy,’ I said as I approached the counter. Jeremy, the teddy bear and Prudence’s lifelong friend, was sitting on his usual shelf next to a tin of loose leaf Lyon’s Tea and an old advertisement for Hudson’s Soap and Carter’s Little Liver Pills. Prudence made all his clothes and, on this festive day, he wore a bright-red ski suit, black boots and a white bobble hat.

‘Merry Christmas, Mr Sheffield,’ said the diminutive Miss Golightly, ‘and how is Miss Henderson?’

‘Fine, thank you,’ I said. ‘We’re spending our first Christmas together.’

‘Ah yes, that must be wonderful,’ she said quietly with a faraway look in her eyes.

Five minutes later, with a large bag of fruit and vegetables, I walked back to my car. Jimmy Poole and his little sister, Jemima, were standing outside the village Pharmacy. Jimmy was gripping a straining dog lead on the end of which his Yorkshire terrier, Scargill, was eager to bite my ankles. Wisely, I kept my distance. ‘Hello, Jimmy, hello, Jemima, happy Christmas,’ I said, ‘and a happy Christmas to you too, Scargill,’ I added with a forced smile.

‘Happy Chrithmath, Mr Theffield,’ said Jimmy. He looked down knowingly at his little sister and gave me a wink. ‘Thanta’s coming tonight an’ we’re gonna leave’im a glath of therry an’ a minth pie.’

‘That’s right, Mr Sheffield,’ said Jemima. ‘I’ve asked him for a Sindy doll.’

‘And I’ve athked for an Acthon Man Tholdier,’ added Jimmy.

‘Well, I’m sure he’ll come to your house,’ I said. Then I loaded my shopping in my car and drove off up Morton Road to collect Beth.

After a late lunch at Bilbo Cottage we all set off to the Christmas market in Easington. Dusk was falling as we drove up Ragley High Street towards Easington Road and we slowed up outside Pratt’s Hardware Emporium. Timothy’s Christmas lights were the best I had ever seen. There was even an inflatable Santa tied to the chimneypot.

‘It’s all lit up like Blackpool hallucinations,’ said Aunt May, wide-eyed with appreciation.

When we arrived in Easington the Christmas market was brightly lit with stalls set up around the edge of the large cobbled square. A tall Christmas tree had been erected next to the war memorial and, on the stone steps, a choir was singing accompanied by the Ragley and Morton Brass Band. It was a festive scene and snow was falling again as I parked in one of the side streets.

Ragley villagers were out in force and many parents waved a greeting as they searched for a late bargain in the market or in the shops that bordered the square. Outside the toy shop, Heathcliffe and Terry were staring wide-eyed at a Hornby high-speed train set and Mrs Earnshaw was staring equally wide-eyed at the price tag, which read £29.95. She had fifteen pounds in her pocket and presents for three children to buy. While the boys were engrossed watching the train go round the track she bought a Connect 4 for £3.99, a Kerplunk game for £3.99 and, as an afterthought for little Dallas Sue-Ellen, a £1.85 Snowman soft toy based on the delightful 1979 book by Raymond Briggs. This left her with enough to buy some chocolate coins to put in their stockings.

‘Come on,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Santa’ll bring yer a train set when yer older.’

John Hartley was looking in the same shop window and with five daughters he had to make some careful choices. With little Mo in mind, he was looking at a Corgi Magic Roundabout Playground in a very large box. John knew that when you hadn’t a lot of money it helped to go for
size
. A large box was always more exciting for children to open on Christmas morning. Then he wandered over to a stall where a man with a long pony-tail and a very loud voice was telling a gathering crowd that he had the perfect gift for teenagers. ‘Gather round, ev’rybody. ‘Ere’s t’biggest bargain on t’market, all t’way from ‘Ong Kong … state-of-the-art transistor radios shaped like a bottle o’ Coca Cola an’ a cheeseburger. Kids’ll luv ‘em! Six quid each or ten quid for the two.’ John passed over a ten-pound note. ‘Two down, three t’go,’ he muttered to himself and walked back to the toy shop.

Meanwhile the two fifteen-year-olds, Claire Bradshaw and Anita Cuthbertson, were staring longingly at a small green plastic radio that hung from your neck on a strap. ‘C’mon, girls,’ shouted Pony-tail Man. ‘This is the Strapper, t’latest in electronic innovation – an it’s gonna be all t’rage f’Christmas 1981.’

Claire and Anita knew life wouldn’t be worth living without one and started counting how much money they had got left altogether. ‘We’ve only got four pound fifty between us,’ said Claire.

‘’Ow much are they?’ asked Anita.

Pony-tail Man quickly peeled off the sticky label with £4.00 written on it, leant over the trestle table and whispered, ‘Your lucky day, girls: it’s a bargain at four pound fifty.’ After all, he thought, as his old granddad used to say, ‘Christmas begins at ‘ome.’

Across the road in the record shop, Ruby’s son Duggie was staring lovingly at Abba’s latest LP ‘The Visitors’, which was already riding high in the
Melody Maker
album charts. His favourite track, ‘One of Us’, had been released as a single and had shot into the top ten. ‘It wouldn’t be Christmas without an Abba album,’ he said to the teenage girl behind the counter. She stared in admiration at his Boomtown Rats hairstyle that hid the half-smoked Castella cigar behind his ear and wondered if he had a girlfriend. Sadly, she was unaware that she would have to be Agnetha Fältskog’s twin sister to stand a chance. Duggie placed the record lovingly in his off-licence carrier bag next to the four cans of Watneys Pale Ale he had just purchased for £1.09 and the new apron for his mother at 99 pence. With change out of a fiver and in less than twenty minutes, ‘Deadly’ Duggie Smith, the undertaker’s assistant, had completed his Christmas shopping.