stubbly face and it occurred to him that maybe Dorothy wasn’t as daft as she looked. Perhaps there was more to life than beer, football and cricket.
He took his creased copy of the York Evening Press out of the pocket of his council donkey jacket, opened it and, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t intending to read the sports page.
In Ragley School, just before morning assembly, Heathcliffe and Elisabeth Amelia were queuing in the corridor, waiting to walk into the hall in complete silence, while, on there cord deck of our Contiboard music trolley, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was about to sprinkle over them like cultural confetti. This was their last chance to speak and they appeared to be concluding an argument about which was the best – cinder toffee, Pontefract cakes or liquorice bootlaces.
‘Ah’m reight,’ said Heathcliffe defiantly.
‘Well,’ responded Elisabeth Amelia, seeing an opportunity to take the higher ground, ‘my mummy says it’s better to be kind than right.’
Heathcliffe was dumbstruck. It was on occasions like this it occurred to him that girls appeared to be higher in the intellectual pecking order and it wasn’t a comfortable feeling.
On this freezing cold day, at morning break, Vera had prepared welcome hot milky coffees for all the staff. Anne wrapped up warm and went out on playground duty, while Jo and Sally sat near the gas fire. Sally had picked up Vera’s Daily Telegraph and had begun to read an article about Princess Margaret, sixth in line to the throne. Life seemed turbulent for the Queen’s younger sister. ‘I wonder if she’ll ever have peace in her life,’ murmured Sally philosophically.
Jo looked across the staff-room at me. I was deep in my own thoughts. ‘So have you and Beth picked a wedding date yet, Jack?’
It came out of the blue and I was unprepared. ‘Er, not exactly, Jo, but we’re getting there,’ I said. ‘We’ll be discussing it with her mother and father over the Christmas holiday.’
Vera sensed my discomfort and went to stand by the window. The howling north wind battered the windows and they shook in their Victorian casements. ‘The children are always a bit giddy when the wind blows so strongly,’ she said. Then she smiled and said gently, ‘More coffee, Mr Sheffield?’
‘Thank you, Vera,’ I said. It struck me that with her pince-nez spectacles perched on the end of her nose she looked like a wise owl.
During lunchbreak, ten miles away, Big Dave had travelled into York and was standing in the newspaper office of the York Press . In front of him in the queue was Mary Brakespeare, the matriarch of an Easington farming family.
‘’Ullo, Mrs Brakespeare,’ said Big Dave a little sheepishly. He was hoping to make his visit short and sweet – and anonymous.
‘’Ullo, young David,’ said Mary. ‘Y’ve not ’eard, then?’
‘’Eard what?’ he asked.
‘My ’Arold … ’E’s been tekken,’ said Mary.
‘Tekken?’ said Big Dave in surprise.
‘That’s reight,’ said Mary, looking out of the window and up to the heavens, ‘to t’great shepherd in t’sky. Nivver went to a doctor in ’is life. If’e ever ’ad owt wrong wi’’im, ’e used to look in ’is book o’ sheep ailments an’ rub a bit o’ stuff on ’is chest.’
‘Oh ’eck,’ said Big Dave, ‘ah’m sorry to ’ear that, Mrs Brakespeare.’
‘T’mek matters worse’e jus’ bought a new pig trailer an’ ah’m stuck wi’ it now.’
A short, attractive, pocket battleship of an assistant was sitting behind the desk. She was in her mid-thirties and didn’t look as if she suffered fools gladly. The badge on her white blouse read: MISS FENELLA LOVELACE . She shook her magnificent mane of long, brown, wavy hair and removed her new large-lens, fashionable spectacles. ‘Can ah ’elp?’ she said to Mary.
‘Yes, please, luv,’ said Mary. ‘Me ’usband’s jus’ died and ah want t’purrit in t’paper.’
‘Ah’m sorry to ’ear
He took his creased copy of the York Evening Press out of the pocket of his council donkey jacket, opened it and, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t intending to read the sports page.
In Ragley School, just before morning assembly, Heathcliffe and Elisabeth Amelia were queuing in the corridor, waiting to walk into the hall in complete silence, while, on there cord deck of our Contiboard music trolley, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was about to sprinkle over them like cultural confetti. This was their last chance to speak and they appeared to be concluding an argument about which was the best – cinder toffee, Pontefract cakes or liquorice bootlaces.
‘Ah’m reight,’ said Heathcliffe defiantly.
‘Well,’ responded Elisabeth Amelia, seeing an opportunity to take the higher ground, ‘my mummy says it’s better to be kind than right.’
Heathcliffe was dumbstruck. It was on occasions like this it occurred to him that girls appeared to be higher in the intellectual pecking order and it wasn’t a comfortable feeling.
On this freezing cold day, at morning break, Vera had prepared welcome hot milky coffees for all the staff. Anne wrapped up warm and went out on playground duty, while Jo and Sally sat near the gas fire. Sally had picked up Vera’s Daily Telegraph and had begun to read an article about Princess Margaret, sixth in line to the throne. Life seemed turbulent for the Queen’s younger sister. ‘I wonder if she’ll ever have peace in her life,’ murmured Sally philosophically.
Jo looked across the staff-room at me. I was deep in my own thoughts. ‘So have you and Beth picked a wedding date yet, Jack?’
It came out of the blue and I was unprepared. ‘Er, not exactly, Jo, but we’re getting there,’ I said. ‘We’ll be discussing it with her mother and father over the Christmas holiday.’
Vera sensed my discomfort and went to stand by the window. The howling north wind battered the windows and they shook in their Victorian casements. ‘The children are always a bit giddy when the wind blows so strongly,’ she said. Then she smiled and said gently, ‘More coffee, Mr Sheffield?’
‘Thank you, Vera,’ I said. It struck me that with her pince-nez spectacles perched on the end of her nose she looked like a wise owl.
During lunchbreak, ten miles away, Big Dave had travelled into York and was standing in the newspaper office of the York Press . In front of him in the queue was Mary Brakespeare, the matriarch of an Easington farming family.
‘’Ullo, Mrs Brakespeare,’ said Big Dave a little sheepishly. He was hoping to make his visit short and sweet – and anonymous.
‘’Ullo, young David,’ said Mary. ‘Y’ve not ’eard, then?’
‘’Eard what?’ he asked.
‘My ’Arold … ’E’s been tekken,’ said Mary.
‘Tekken?’ said Big Dave in surprise.
‘That’s reight,’ said Mary, looking out of the window and up to the heavens, ‘to t’great shepherd in t’sky. Nivver went to a doctor in ’is life. If’e ever ’ad owt wrong wi’’im, ’e used to look in ’is book o’ sheep ailments an’ rub a bit o’ stuff on ’is chest.’
‘Oh ’eck,’ said Big Dave, ‘ah’m sorry to ’ear that, Mrs Brakespeare.’
‘T’mek matters worse’e jus’ bought a new pig trailer an’ ah’m stuck wi’ it now.’
A short, attractive, pocket battleship of an assistant was sitting behind the desk. She was in her mid-thirties and didn’t look as if she suffered fools gladly. The badge on her white blouse read: MISS FENELLA LOVELACE . She shook her magnificent mane of long, brown, wavy hair and removed her new large-lens, fashionable spectacles. ‘Can ah ’elp?’ she said to Mary.
‘Yes, please, luv,’ said Mary. ‘Me ’usband’s jus’ died and ah want t’purrit in t’paper.’
‘Ah’m sorry to ’ear
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