If Only They Could Talk Page 3

  “It doesn’t get any better than this,” I thought to myself.

  But then it did, as I was the lucky member of the family who found the sixpence in my pudding.

  After lunch it was Mother’s turn to put her feet up as Father and Rupert did the dishes. Father did suggest that they leave it until Evans got back, but Mother was having none of it.

  Once that was done, Father lit all the candles in the room and the whole family settled down to play Escalado and carpet bowls.

  I never wanted Christmas day to end, but all too soon it was over and I found myself tucked up in bed with Edward.

  “Rupert may have received the best toy,” I thought to myself. “But you can’t snuggle up in bed with a train set. I’m glad I got Edward. He’s the best bear in the whole world. Thank you Father Christmas. I will love him for ever and ever.”

  With that I fell asleep.

  The following December Rupert and I fell out. Rupert had pinned me down and was flicking my ears and nostrils. To make matters worse he then farted in my face.

  “You naughty boy,” I said as I got up and tried to hit him. However, he was far bigger than I was so my punches had no effect.

  “I will tell Father Christmas what you’ve done and he won’t bring you any presents this year.”

  “Oh that makes me really worried,” said Rupert sarcas­tically. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that Father Christmas doesn’t actually exist? It’s really our mother and father who buy the presents. Everybody knows that.”

  I went to bed that night with tears in my eyes as I cud­dled up to Edward. Somehow Christmas would never be as magical again. After all I wasn’t a little boy anymore. I knew a terrible secret. I knew that Father Christmas didn’t really exist.

  Chapter 3

  “I think we’d better divide everything into three groups,” said Molly. “Things to take to the recycling centre, things that we can take to the charity shop, and things that we can sell at auction. So which pile do you want to put Edward on?”

  “Can’t we keep him?” asked Nigel. “Only he’s part of the family. My uncle had him for over eighty years.”

  “Apart from the fifty years that he went missing, you mean. Anyway you’d forgotten all about him until a few minutes ago,” said Molly before adding. “Look I don’t want to be unkind, but we just do not have space for loads of your uncle’s old junk. Why don’t you and Emma choose one thing each before we take the rest to auction? That way you will have something to remember him by without clut­tering up our house with loads of tat. Who knows, perhaps one of you might even choose Edward here.”

  Nigel realised that what she was saying made sense and after a brief moment spent thinking about it he nodded his agreement.

  He looked at Edward and said, “Well he’s not a Steiff bear, but he is really old so he must have some value.”

  With that Nigel took Edward into the living room and put him on the rug in front of the fireplace. He was the first of many items that they intended to take to auction.

  It was at that point that Molly was finally able to put the kettle on to make some tea. Whilst they were drinking it they continued clearing out the kitchen.

  “I don’t think he ever bothered using his change,” said Molly as she opened yet another drawer full of copper coins. The vast majority of them were old pennies and half pennies from the days before decimalisation. “Lets put them in this old tea caddy and we can sort them out later.”

  It wasn’t just old coins that they were discovering as the various kitchen cupboards gave up their secrets.

  “Do you know what the best before date on this tin of peaches is?” asked Nigel. “It’s the 8th of November 2007.”

  “That’s nothing,” Molly replied. “There’s another tin here which was made before best before dates were introduced.”

  “I don’t know if it was because he was a hoarder or just plain lazy, but I cannot understand why he didn’t throw things away,” said Nigel. “There are three jars of Marmite in here. All of them have been opened and from the packaging one of them looks at least fifty years old.”

  The job of clearing out the kitchen was long and labori­ous, but eventually all the cupboards were empty and they had six black bin liners full of rubbish to take to the recy­cling centre. They also had a mound of kitchen utensils, pans and crockery all laid out on the kitchen table.

  “Do you think that any of this stuff is worth taking to auction?” asked Nigel.

  “Well, there’s a Charlotte Rhead jug and a boxed set of silver fish knives and forks,” said Molly. “There’s also a Pearson’s pottery vase, but other than that it’s all junk.”

  Nigel decided to take a closer look at the items on the table. The Charlotte Rhead jug would probably fetch a bob or two at auction. The silver knives and forks were black because they hadn’t been cleaned for so long, but they were silver so they would always sell.

  “I’m not so sure about the Pearson’s vase,” he said. “It was obviously a wedding present as it’s dated 1953 and has an inscription on it from the staff at the brewery. Things with inscriptions never sell for as much as those without. Mind you, Pearson’s has closed down now so they won’t be making any more. Let’s take it anyway and see how it does.”

  With that, Molly took the three items into the living room, placing them next to Edward ready to be taken to auction.

  “Right,” said Molly. “We will take everything else to the charity shop. I suggest that we split up. I will wash all this stuff and clean the kitchen and you can start on one of the other rooms.”

  “That’s okay by me,” replied Nigel. “How about if I start upstairs?”

  Molly agreed and after she had reminded him to take some bin liners with him Nigel headed back to the master bedroom. He decided to start with the fitted wardrobe.

  “Good grief,” he thought to himself as he looked inside.

  It was stuffed full of all manner of ancient clothing. There were numerous shirts and jackets, five suits, several pairs of trousers and even his uncle’s old dinner jacket. Then something he recognised caught his eye and he reached in and pulled it out. It was an old Grammar School blazer complete with a red house tie and school cap.

  Nigel knew that a red school tie meant that his uncle had been in Lingard House. His own tie had been dark blue, signifying that he’d been in Foljambe, just like his father. Given the size of the blazer it was almost certainly the one that his uncle had worn in his first year.

  “I wonder why he kept this?” he thought to himself.

  *******

  “Don’t fidget Miles,” said Mother.

  It was the final fitting of my new school uniform and she still had to take up my jacket sleeves. Senior school started in two days’ time and I wanted to look smart. I’d been hoping for a new blazer, but had to put up with one that had been handed down from Rupert. He was now in the fourth year and it no longer fitted him following a recent growth spurt.

  “Why do I have to have hand-me-downs?” I thought to myself. “It isn’t as if my family can’t afford a new uniform.”

  After all, the Goodyears were one of the wealthiest fami­lies in Chesterfield. We lived in a fine Georgian house with a maid and we owned a local brewery. But still my mother made me wear my brother’s cast-offs. It just wasn’t fair.

  “Right, you can take your blazer off now Miles and I’ll take the sleeves up for you,” said Mother. “School starts the day after tomorrow and I don’t want you going in on your first morning looking like the wreck of the Hesperus.”

  Mind you, when Monday finally arrived, the last thing on anybody’s mind was the way I looked. I started at the Grammar School on September 4th, 1939, three weeks before my twelfth birthday. It was also the day after Britain declared war on Germany marking the start of World War II. Consequently there was only one topic of conversation on everyone’s lips.

  “I bumped into Mrs Houghton yesterday and she says that it will all be over by Christmas,” said M
other as she checked to see that my cap was on straight.

  “And Mrs Houghton is a well known expert in interna­tional diplomacy, is she?” commented Father as he got ready for work. “Anyway they said that about the last lot and it lasted for four years.”

  “I hope it isn’t over by Christmas,” said Rupert. “I’d hate to miss all the fun.”

  “Darling, you’re only fourteen and even if it isn’t over by Christmas I’m sure that it will be all over by the time you reach eighteen.”

  “I’m fifteen later on this month,” replied Rupert. “This time next year I will be planning to run away to Gretna Green in order to get married.

  Mother looked horrified, which prompted Rupert to add, “Only joking Mother. I don’t even have a girlfriend.”

  “Anyway war is not fun,” said Father. “People get killed and maimed. Look at me, I’ve still got part of a German shell in my leg.”

  “Don’t forget that you wouldn’t have met me if it wasn’t for that piece of shrapnel,” replied Mother.

  “That’s as may be, but it still doesn’t alter the fact that war causes a lot of heartache,” added Father in a defiant voice that told everyone that the debate was over.

  A few minutes later the four of us set off. My father left for his office whilst Mother, Rupert and I headed towards my new school. It wasn’t really necessary for Mother to come with us. The Grammar School on Sheffield Road wasn’t that far from our house and Rupert was more than capable of looking after me. However, she wanted to show her support on my first day in big school.

  We arrived at the school gate and Mother kissed us both goodbye and told Rupert to keep an eye on me. My brother was quite embarrassed at being kissed by his mother in front of his friends, but nevertheless he promised to look after me.

  We set off together across the playground, both dressed identically in our school blazers and our Lingard house ties and caps. The only difference between us was that Rupert was a foot taller than me and looked far smarter in his brand new blazer and long trousers. My blazer of course was sec­ond-hand and came complete with ink stains.

  It wasn’t difficult to spot who the new boys were. Most of us were wearing short trousers for a start and we all had bewildered looks on our faces. We made easy targets for the older boys who would creep up behind us and flick the backs of our legs with elastic bands.

  It wasn’t long before it happened to me and I yelped with pain after being caught behind my left knee. However, a couple of seconds later it was my attacker who was yelping as Rupert whacked him across his knuckles with his ruler.

  “Anyone who attacks my brother has me to answer to,” he proclaimed.

  Rupert may have liked to torment me by flicking my ears and farting in my face, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let anyone else bully me. He was my protector and my hero.

  Pretty soon we were all filing into class. In total there were about thirty of us, the cream of Chesterfield’s youth. A few of the boys already knew each other from junior school, some had even attended the prep school section of the Grammar School. However, the prep school was in a com­pletely different building across the road from the senior school and as a result this was a brand new experience for all of us.

  One thing that we all had in common was that our par­ents could afford the £10 and 15 shillings a year tuition fees. All of us apart from one or two boys who were on scholar­ships and even they were vetted to ensure that they came from good families.

  The noise in the classroom was deafening, but it all qui­etened down when our form master, Mr Duggins entered the room. He looked intimidating in his black gown and mortarboard. He was totally unlike any of my teachers at junior school. For a start they had all been women and none of them ever carried a cane about with them. As soon as we spotted him we all stood to attention.

  “Thank you gentlemen, you may be seated,” he said.

  Once we had all sat down he continued.

  “As you are no doubt aware there are grave things happen­ing in the world at the moment. Yesterday Mr Chamberlain, the prime minister, announced that we are now at war with Germany and I have to ask myself what terrifies me the most? The thought of Nazi jackboots in the market square or the thought of the task I now face, that of trying to edu­cate a class full of little morons like you lot.”

  There was some laughter in the room at that last state­ment, but it was soon ended when he brought his cane down on the desk with a whack.

  “I’d like to introduce you to Lord Kitchener,” he said referring to his cane, before adding. “Mind you, you don’t want to get to know him too well. Lord Kitchener is here to instil some discipline into you and to make sure that you turn out as fine young men. Young men that the school can be proud of. Young men who will carry on in the footsteps of our famous old boys. Old boys who went on to become giants in the fields of religion, literature and the sciences. I’m talking about men such as Dr Secker, the former Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr Bradley, the editor-in-chief of the Oxford English Dictionary and Sir Robert Robinson, professor of Chemistry at Oxford University. Or indeed even like this school’s most famous old boy, Erasmus Darwin.

  “Yes, Erasmus Darwin, the man who taught his grand­son Charles everything he knew, was a student here and learnt all he knew at this very school. So consider this. If it hadn’t been for this glorious Grammar School we never would have known that you lot were descended from apes.”

  He then paused for a second before continuing.

  “Although by the look of you all, evolution hasn’t moved us on very far. Do I make myself clear?”

  There was unanimous nodding from all the boys in the room.

  Nevertheless, Mr Duggins hit his desk with Lord Kitchener again and repeated the question.

  “Do I make myself clear?’

  “Yes sir,” the class replied in unison.

  “Right then,” continued Mr Duggins. “I am now going to read out the register, but before I do there is one very important thing that I have to say to you.”

  With that he looked up and pointed at a boy towards the middle of the class and said, “You boy, what is your name?”

  For a moment I thought that he was talking to me, before I realised that he was actually referring to the boy sitting next to me.

  “Russell sir,” he replied adding. “But my friends call me Russ.”

  “I am not your friend boy. I am your worst nightmare,” replied Mr Duggins in a flash. Then looking at his cane he added, “Aren’t I Lord Kitchener?”

  I tried not to laugh.

  “Sorry sir,” said Russell.

  “There is an important point that I want to make,” con­tinued Mr Duggins, “which is that in this school nobody uses Christian names. We only ever use surnames, so all of you may as well forget your first names until you leave school after the sixth form.”

  With that he turned to Russell again and said, “So boy what is your surname?”

  “Russell sir,” replied Russell.

  “No you stupid boy,” shouted Mr Duggins. “Russell is your Christian name. What is your surname?”

  “It’s Russell sir,” repeated Russell. “My name is Russell Russell, I’ve got the same Christian name as my surname.”

  “Russell Russell,” exclaimed Mr Duggins. “That really is the most stupid name I’ve ever heard. Were your par­ents having a laugh? Did they christen you Russell Russell because they couldn’t think of a proper name for you, or was it just to wind me up?”

  “I don’t think so sir,” replied Russell Russell.

  “Tell me boy, did your father attend this school?”

  “No sir, he went to Hasland Hall School. I’m the first in my family to go to the Grammar School.”

  “And what, pray, does your father do for a living boy?” added Mr Duggins.

  “He’s a greengrocer sir.”

  “I thought so,” exclaimed Mr Duggins. “Is he the Russell who’s got a stall on the market? He sold me a bag of plums once and on
e of them had a wasp in it.”

  “Yes sir, I mean no sir, sorry sir,” replied Russell Russell.

  “Sorry,” exclaimed Mr Duggins. “Is the question too complicated for you boy? Which is it, yes or no?”

  “Well yes, he did have a stall on the market sir. Only now he’s got a shop on Low Pavement instead.”

  “Moving up in the world, eh. Bettering himself and his family. No doubt that’s why he wants to pay for you to attend the Grammar School,” added Mr Duggins. “I hope you are going to repay your father by doing well in your exams.”

  “I will try my best sir,” replied Russell Russell.

  “No doubt you will boy,” said Mr Duggins adding. “But you can clearly see that I have a real problem here. I can’t call you Russell because that is your Christian name and we don’t use Christian names in this school. So what shall I call you?”

  “I don’t know sir,” Russell Russell replied.

  By this stage Russell Russell had been in conversation with Mr Duggins for over five minutes and he was earn­ing the admiration of us all. I vowed to make him my best friend.

  “The only option I have is to call you by a nickname,” added Mr Duggins, “and being as though your father is a greengrocer I’m going to call you Sprout. Russell Sprout.”

  That caused howls of laughter in the room, which soon ended when Mr Duggins hit his desk with Lord Kitchener again.

  “Nicknames are permitted in this school,” added Mr Duggins. “In fact some of the masters even have nicknames. Do you know what my nickname is, Sprout?”

  “No sir,” replied Sprout.

  “Does anyone know?” asked Mr Duggins addressing the entire class.

  Of course many of us did know, especially those of us who had older brothers in the school. In fact I’d received a full briefing on the masters’ nicknames from Rupert. My favourites were Mr Janus the Latin master, whose nick­name was Hugh, Froggy Phillips the French master, Ratty Owen the Chemistry master who was small and resembled a rodent, Mr Fields the Physics master whose nickname was Gracie and Tinker Bell the Geography master.