surveyed the organized world of his Hardware Emporium. ‘ Create order from chaos ,’ he recited quietly to himself. Then he turned out the lights and gave a contented sigh in the inky darkness. No longer was there something missing in his life … he had a friend.
Chapter Six
Separate Lives
Following a request from County Hall I updated our history and geography schemes of work .
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Thursday, 19 November 1981
‘Ah’ll tell y’summat f’nowt, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby, as she scattered salt on the frozen steps of the school entrance porch.
It was clearly an offer I couldn’t refuse. ‘And what’s that, Ruby?’
‘Y’look like death warmed up,’ she said bluntly.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I mumbled without conviction but with a hint of martyrdom. ‘Just a bit of a cold.’
‘Get some goose grease on y’chest, Mr Sheffield. My Auntie Gladys swears by it.’
‘OK, Ruby,’ I said and sneezed loudly.
‘Huh, men!’ she muttered under her breath as I walked into the welcome warmth of the school office.
It was 8.00 a.m. on Thursday, 19 November, and, as I sat down at my desk, I sighed. Then I reached for the telephone and dialled Beth’s school number. I needed some sympathy.
Meanwhile, across the High Street, Big Dave and Little Malcolm had parked their dustcart outside Nora’s Coffee Shop for their usual before-work large mug of tea and two rounds of toast. The juke-box was playing the new number one, ‘Under Pressure’ by Queen and David Bowie.
‘Hey, laughin’ boy, you’re quiet,’ said Big Dave, stirring his tea vigorously and biting savagely into a doorstep-sized slice of slightly burnt toast. Fortunately, Dorothy Humpleby knew exactly how Little Malcolm and Big Dave liked their toast and for the binmen of Ragley slightly burnt was perfection.
‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm, staring into his mug of tea and ignoring his toast. ‘It’s ’cause ah don’t know ’ow t’say it.’
Big Dave looked puzzled. ‘How d’y’mean?’
‘It’s Match o’ t’Day on Sat’day neight, Dave, an’ ah can’t watch it.’
Big Dave nearly choked over his tea. He was thirty-nine years old, a year older than his diminutive cousin, and for all their adult life they had shared a council house in Ragley. He could barely believe what he was hearing. ‘But we allus watch Match o’ t’Day .’
‘Ah know, Dave,’ mumbled Little Malcolm, ‘but this Sat’day ah can’t.’
Big Dave shook his head. ‘But it’s Sat’day … We ’ave telly warmed up, a couple o’ cans an’ a bag o’ chips … It’s our ritual.’
Dorothy Humpleby walked to their table with a huge teapot and topped up their mugs. ‘’Ave y’told’im, then, Malcolm?’
Big Dave looked up sharply. ‘Told me what?’
‘We’re off to t’pictures in York on Sat’day neight, Dave,’ said a tense-looking Malcolm, ‘an’ we won’t be back till late.’
‘That’s reight,’ said Dorothy. ‘We’re off t’see them Chariots o’ Fire .’
‘What’s that abart when it’s at ‘ome?’ said Dave gruffly.
‘Dunno, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm, ‘but Stevie sez there’s a bloke in it called Abraham an’ ’e can run reight fast.’
‘Sounds like Ben ’Ur wi’ Abraham an’ chariots an’ all,’ grumbled Big Dave. ‘It’ll be one o’ them Bible epics, not a patch on Match o’ t’Day .’
‘Mebbe so, Dave, but ah promised,’ pleaded Little Malcolm. He knew he was breaking his big cousin’s heart but it was too late to back out. Dorothy was the girl of his dreams. She only had to flutter her eyelashes and Jimmy Hill came a poor second.
Dorothy leant over the table and fixed Big Dave with a stare. ‘Dave, mebbe you ought t’think abart gettin’ a girlfriend.’
Big Dave was speechless. It wasn’t until Little Malcolm picked up the empty mugs and took them back to the counter that a thought crossed his mind. Slowly a smile creased his
Chapter Six
Separate Lives
Following a request from County Hall I updated our history and geography schemes of work .
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Thursday, 19 November 1981
‘Ah’ll tell y’summat f’nowt, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby, as she scattered salt on the frozen steps of the school entrance porch.
It was clearly an offer I couldn’t refuse. ‘And what’s that, Ruby?’
‘Y’look like death warmed up,’ she said bluntly.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I mumbled without conviction but with a hint of martyrdom. ‘Just a bit of a cold.’
‘Get some goose grease on y’chest, Mr Sheffield. My Auntie Gladys swears by it.’
‘OK, Ruby,’ I said and sneezed loudly.
‘Huh, men!’ she muttered under her breath as I walked into the welcome warmth of the school office.
It was 8.00 a.m. on Thursday, 19 November, and, as I sat down at my desk, I sighed. Then I reached for the telephone and dialled Beth’s school number. I needed some sympathy.
Meanwhile, across the High Street, Big Dave and Little Malcolm had parked their dustcart outside Nora’s Coffee Shop for their usual before-work large mug of tea and two rounds of toast. The juke-box was playing the new number one, ‘Under Pressure’ by Queen and David Bowie.
‘Hey, laughin’ boy, you’re quiet,’ said Big Dave, stirring his tea vigorously and biting savagely into a doorstep-sized slice of slightly burnt toast. Fortunately, Dorothy Humpleby knew exactly how Little Malcolm and Big Dave liked their toast and for the binmen of Ragley slightly burnt was perfection.
‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm, staring into his mug of tea and ignoring his toast. ‘It’s ’cause ah don’t know ’ow t’say it.’
Big Dave looked puzzled. ‘How d’y’mean?’
‘It’s Match o’ t’Day on Sat’day neight, Dave, an’ ah can’t watch it.’
Big Dave nearly choked over his tea. He was thirty-nine years old, a year older than his diminutive cousin, and for all their adult life they had shared a council house in Ragley. He could barely believe what he was hearing. ‘But we allus watch Match o’ t’Day .’
‘Ah know, Dave,’ mumbled Little Malcolm, ‘but this Sat’day ah can’t.’
Big Dave shook his head. ‘But it’s Sat’day … We ’ave telly warmed up, a couple o’ cans an’ a bag o’ chips … It’s our ritual.’
Dorothy Humpleby walked to their table with a huge teapot and topped up their mugs. ‘’Ave y’told’im, then, Malcolm?’
Big Dave looked up sharply. ‘Told me what?’
‘We’re off to t’pictures in York on Sat’day neight, Dave,’ said a tense-looking Malcolm, ‘an’ we won’t be back till late.’
‘That’s reight,’ said Dorothy. ‘We’re off t’see them Chariots o’ Fire .’
‘What’s that abart when it’s at ‘ome?’ said Dave gruffly.
‘Dunno, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm, ‘but Stevie sez there’s a bloke in it called Abraham an’ ’e can run reight fast.’
‘Sounds like Ben ’Ur wi’ Abraham an’ chariots an’ all,’ grumbled Big Dave. ‘It’ll be one o’ them Bible epics, not a patch on Match o’ t’Day .’
‘Mebbe so, Dave, but ah promised,’ pleaded Little Malcolm. He knew he was breaking his big cousin’s heart but it was too late to back out. Dorothy was the girl of his dreams. She only had to flutter her eyelashes and Jimmy Hill came a poor second.
Dorothy leant over the table and fixed Big Dave with a stare. ‘Dave, mebbe you ought t’think abart gettin’ a girlfriend.’
Big Dave was speechless. It wasn’t until Little Malcolm picked up the empty mugs and took them back to the counter that a thought crossed his mind. Slowly a smile creased his
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