Don. Little Malcolm went a shade of puce and resumed staring up at the television set. The group Culture Club had been introduced and Boy George, dressed like a colour-blind Greek peasant, began to sing the new hit single ‘Do You Really Want to Hurt Me’.
‘Is it a woman?’ asked Big Dave.
‘Dunno, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm.
‘Ah think it’s a feller,’ said Don.
‘’E’s too good lookin’ for a feller,’ said Big Dave.
‘’Is name’s George,’ said Don.
‘Mus’ be a poofter,’ said Big Dave with a finality that brooked no argument.
‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm and they all wandered off to the taproom as Don reached up and switched off.
On Tuesday morning I peered through the leaded panes of the bedroom window at Bilbo Cottage and looked out at the October morning. The distant hills were shrouded in wolf-grey clouds and the trees in the fields looked like ghosts in the cold dawn. In the garden a scattering of fallen leaves, like a patchwork of memories, had faded and withered in the pale mist of autumn. The hedgerows were filled with the wild fruits and berries of the countryside, waiting to be collected by the nimble fingers of young children with smeared faces and purple tongues as they sampled the fruits of their labours. Soon it would be time for the autumn feast of jellies and jams and fruit pies, but for now the season was changing and bright summer had gone.
As I drove into Ragley village, Dorothy Humpleby was standing in the open doorway of Nora’s Coffee Shop, swaying to the record on the juke-box, ‘Starmaker’ by the Kids from Fame, and hoping for a glimpse of the love of her life, Little Malcolm Robinson, the Ragley refuse collector, as he drove past in his bin wagon.
Suddenly I spotted Vera’s car parked behind a shiny black hearse and I slowed down. Vera was deep in conversation with a grey-haired man in his sixties who was wearing an old-fashioned three-piece black suit, white shirt and black tie. It was Septimus Bernard Flagstaff, the local funeral director, known as Bernie to his friends and proud of his title as President of the Ragley and Morton Stag Beetle Society. It was well known in the village that he had a soft spot for the elegant Vera and was secretly heartbroken when news of her marriage to the major was announced. However, true love runs deep and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for the woman of his dreams. As I drove past, he took a large brass timepiece from the pocket of his waistcoat, nodded in response to something Vera had said and gave her a nervous smile.
A few minutes later Vera walked into the school office, hung up her coat and sat at her desk. ‘Good news, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Ruby’s husband has got a job at last.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘Ruby will be thrilled.’
‘Yes. Mr Flagstaff needs a new assistant at the funeral parlour.’
‘Ronnie … in the funeral parlour?’
‘Yes, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘Well, you’ll recall, I did give him a reference.’ As she took the cover from her typewriter and flicked the dust from the keys with her lace-edged handkerchief, a smile flickered across her lips.
And so it was that on that sunlit morning in the autumn of 1982, after a lifetime of broken promises and unemployment, Ronnie finally kept his word and got a job in what could loosely be described as the packaging industry … as a coffin polisher.
Chapter Four
Roman Holiday
School closed for the half-term holiday today and will reopen on Monday, 1 November
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 22 October 1982
IT HAD BEEN a journey of shadows. As we approached the wonderful city of Bath I reflected on the past few days. Beth was
different
, and I didn’t know why.
It was Monday, 25 October and the half-term holiday stretched out before us. Beth and I had driven down to Bath for a short break from tired routines. We were both keen to explore the history of this wonderful Roman city,
‘Is it a woman?’ asked Big Dave.
‘Dunno, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm.
‘Ah think it’s a feller,’ said Don.
‘’E’s too good lookin’ for a feller,’ said Big Dave.
‘’Is name’s George,’ said Don.
‘Mus’ be a poofter,’ said Big Dave with a finality that brooked no argument.
‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm and they all wandered off to the taproom as Don reached up and switched off.
On Tuesday morning I peered through the leaded panes of the bedroom window at Bilbo Cottage and looked out at the October morning. The distant hills were shrouded in wolf-grey clouds and the trees in the fields looked like ghosts in the cold dawn. In the garden a scattering of fallen leaves, like a patchwork of memories, had faded and withered in the pale mist of autumn. The hedgerows were filled with the wild fruits and berries of the countryside, waiting to be collected by the nimble fingers of young children with smeared faces and purple tongues as they sampled the fruits of their labours. Soon it would be time for the autumn feast of jellies and jams and fruit pies, but for now the season was changing and bright summer had gone.
As I drove into Ragley village, Dorothy Humpleby was standing in the open doorway of Nora’s Coffee Shop, swaying to the record on the juke-box, ‘Starmaker’ by the Kids from Fame, and hoping for a glimpse of the love of her life, Little Malcolm Robinson, the Ragley refuse collector, as he drove past in his bin wagon.
Suddenly I spotted Vera’s car parked behind a shiny black hearse and I slowed down. Vera was deep in conversation with a grey-haired man in his sixties who was wearing an old-fashioned three-piece black suit, white shirt and black tie. It was Septimus Bernard Flagstaff, the local funeral director, known as Bernie to his friends and proud of his title as President of the Ragley and Morton Stag Beetle Society. It was well known in the village that he had a soft spot for the elegant Vera and was secretly heartbroken when news of her marriage to the major was announced. However, true love runs deep and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for the woman of his dreams. As I drove past, he took a large brass timepiece from the pocket of his waistcoat, nodded in response to something Vera had said and gave her a nervous smile.
A few minutes later Vera walked into the school office, hung up her coat and sat at her desk. ‘Good news, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Ruby’s husband has got a job at last.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘Ruby will be thrilled.’
‘Yes. Mr Flagstaff needs a new assistant at the funeral parlour.’
‘Ronnie … in the funeral parlour?’
‘Yes, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘Well, you’ll recall, I did give him a reference.’ As she took the cover from her typewriter and flicked the dust from the keys with her lace-edged handkerchief, a smile flickered across her lips.
And so it was that on that sunlit morning in the autumn of 1982, after a lifetime of broken promises and unemployment, Ronnie finally kept his word and got a job in what could loosely be described as the packaging industry … as a coffin polisher.
Chapter Four
Roman Holiday
School closed for the half-term holiday today and will reopen on Monday, 1 November
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 22 October 1982
IT HAD BEEN a journey of shadows. As we approached the wonderful city of Bath I reflected on the past few days. Beth was
different
, and I didn’t know why.
It was Monday, 25 October and the half-term holiday stretched out before us. Beth and I had driven down to Bath for a short break from tired routines. We were both keen to explore the history of this wonderful Roman city,
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