Millie Scaife's stories

[John Dean]

Millie Scaife writes pantomimes, scripts and shows for use in the village community in which she lives, plus various contributions to the local newsletter, short stories and endless lists. Now retired from teaching and community education is busier than ever with school governor, church and Parish Council work. ‘Having time to sit and write is still a luxury, but wonderful.'

 

Meeting Jennifer Cross

Frances finally went to see what had happened to her daughter as she stormed out of the kitchen frustrated with Paul’s arguments and lack of help with Sophie. It was bad enough having to do a full-time job that she didn’t particularly enjoy, let alone look after Sophie with the wretched chicken pox as well. Trust Sophie to get the chicken pox this week of all weeks when her mother was away on holiday. She climbed the stairs and went into Sophie’s room which was in darkness. The light revealed an empty room and her heart missed a beat. ‘Sophie! She called ‘where are you?’ There was no reply. She ran into the bathroom – empty. Although from a very early age Sophie had understood she was not allowed in her parent’s room, Frances made her way there across the landing. Reaching for the light, she heard a faint snoring sound. Sophie was fast asleep in front of the dressing table mirror. The momentary relief at finding her daughter was quickly replaced by the horror of the scene she took in.

Sophie was asleep with her head on the dressing table and her newest, most expensive china doll beside her - the doll Frances’ mother had bought Sophie for being such a brave girl at her new school. Frances was horrified to find her Elizabeth Arden lipstick smeared all over the doll’s face and her Clinique eye shadow everywhere. She was at a loss as to why Sophie had done such a thing, she was normally well behaved, a thoughtful quiet little girl. Frances immediately thought the influence of the new neighbourhood school – one of Paul’s latest cost cutting ideas - was obviously to blame. She wiped up the lipstick along with the tears on Sophie’s cheeks and put her to bed without her waking. She would deal with her in the morning.

Sophie thought the dawn sky looked as though it was bleeding as she looked out over the yet silent, town. Another long day, she thought, another day back at the new school now the chicken pox had cleared up. The red streaks across the sky reminded her of the red lips she had tried to put on the china doll to make her smile. Sophie had so wanted the doll to smile at her. Neither the doll nor her mother had smiled that night or the following day, and now the doll looked down from the shelf where her mother had returned it – unsmiling…cross even. As Sophie looked at the doll’s perfect face, framed with perfect yellow hair, staring at her unfeelingly, she reached for the packet of white TAC. She carefully rolled a number of tiny White TAC blobs. Sophie squashed one on to the doll’s snub little nose – she approved of the result, and continued to transform cheeks, forehead, eyelids, lips and even into the yellow hair, even though you couldn’t see these very well. Having completed her task, she sat back and smiled, ‘There’, serve you right’, announced Sophie, ‘You can have the chicken pox now, Mummy said it was catching’.

Sophie’s hair was a sort of brown colour. When they did the hair colour bar charts at school Jennifer Cross had put her into the brown group. Jennifer Cross was the Project Leader in number; her hair was blonde, and wavy and pretty. Jennifer Cross had called Sophie’s hair ‘drab and mousey’ but said there wasn’t a colour bar on the chart for mousey, so she would have to be in brown, which Sophie thought was probably better anyway. Sophie understood why Miss Forbes had chosen bossy Jennifer Cross to be leader. She also knew why Miss Forbes hadn’t chosen Sophie.

At the babysitter’s Sophie sat in front of the TV before the walk to school. She was thinking about Jennifer Cross and how all the others liked her, laughed when she pulled Sophie’s mousey hair, and thought it hilarious to call her Stuck up Soppie Sophie every time they weren’t in earshot of Miss Forbes. Sophie went to the loo at Pat’s the babysitter’s in the hope of holding out until lunchtime thus avoiding the toilets at playtime. When playtime came, Sophie immediately took up her usual stand at the corner of the yard near the tree, out of sight. She watched. It seemed everyone was playing with someone or talking or laughing with a friend. How she wished she had Teddy with her, but that was out of the question. Sophie had rescued Teddy from the bin when they were moving from the big house, she kept him very safe in her new bedroom. She liked the new bedroom, it was cosy but some of her toys had had to go because there wasn’t room for them all. She didn’t mind too much – they would help the children at the hospital who were poorly, her mother had said. But Teddy was NOT going anywhere – Sophie needed Teddy to help her, and when she had made a great big fuss, her mother had finally relented and Teddy stayed. Of course, she had to find room for the dreaded china doll, her mother had laughed when Sophie offered it for the hospital, thinking she was teasing.

In the playground Sophie watched Jamie Smith run screaming to the teacher but she’d seen what happened, she knew it was his own fault, but still the teacher comforted him; she watched Jennifer Cross organise the girls’ skipping game and saw how Phillipa Jones was always turning the rope and never in the skipping; Phillipa Jones wore glasses too. Sophie hated the number lesson in Jennifer Cross’ group after play, and at the thought of it, the butterflies invaded her tummy and she felt hot. But before she could think any more about it, Danny Broadbent came crashing into her after his getaway from another boy. She was so startled she fell over. ‘Oh God you’re not hurt are you?’ enquired Danny - the apparent concern came from a desire not to be blamed for hurting her, rather than for her welfare. ‘No, no I’m alright, honest.’ Sophie smiled. ‘Sorry, Danny offered quickly, ‘only I didn’t see you there.’ With that Danny wiped his watery, runny nose right down his sleeve, shrugged and ran off muttering something about Sophie not being stuck up really after all. ‘Common!’ her mother would have sneered about him, ‘can’t expect any better from round here’. Sophie couldn’t help thinking it might be fun to be common. The distraction had momentarily taken away the butterflies. As they lined up to go into class Danny almost gave her a smile, grateful, she assumed, for not dobbing him in, as he would have put it. Once in their seats the children were surprised to hear Miss Forbes announce a change of lesson next. There was to be a competition for the most interesting ‘Show and Tell’. The Inspector, who was very important, was coming the following week and wanted to meet the children and listen to what they had to say. These sorts of things had little to do with Sophie, because she was never chosen to be a part of anything special. But Miss Forbes went on - ‘Everyone must choose something to bring from home that you think is special and tell us why. You may begin writing your ideas about it now’ she instructed, making it sound like the easiest thing in the world.

Sophie felt sick all over again. She had nothing special and she couldn’t stand up and talk about anything to a whole class and what would Jennifer Cross say? It just felt like a nightmare whichever way she looked at it.

When her mother collected her from the babysitter’s, she heard how Sophie hadn’t eaten her tea and been sulky - ‘again’.

‘Sophie what’s the matter? Why haven’t you eaten your tea?’

In the car, Sophie decided to explain her problem.

‘But you have lots of special things you could take. What about your lovely new book or your necklace, you got for your last birthday from Grandma?’ Sophie thought the necklace was too high a security risk, although she didn’t say so. Then she had an idea.

‘I know, could I take my china doll mummy? It’s so beautiful’, she lied, ‘ I know it cost Grandma a lot of money but no one will have anything like that..’ appealing to her mother’s sense of elitism. Sophie was beginning to formulate a plan.

‘Well you’re probably right about that.’ Her mother agreed. ‘It is exquisite. If grandma says yes, then OK. But you must carry it very carefully and look after it at school. I’ll write a note to your teacher explaining how valuable it is.’

That night Sophie reached for the doll, still ridden with chicken pox. She put a dot in the middle of each spot with her red felt tip. ‘They’re on the mend now they’re scabbing’ she told Teddy.

In the morning of the Show and Tell day, Sophie told the china doll where she was going. Her cross expression didn’t change – still no smile, even though the chicken pox had cleared – scabs and all. The doll was carefully packed in a shoe box. Sophie made particular effort to tightly cover its china face. It was transported without incident to the classroom. The children had been allowed to bring their belongings in before the bell if they wanted for safe keeping. Sophie’s mum placed it on the table amongst bits of home made jewellery, a painting and a plate of misshapen home baked fairy cakes, covered in haphazard icing. ‘Sophie’s gem was bound to win’ Frances thought with pride.

After register and assembly the ‘Show and Tell’ began. One of the boys had made a pasta necklace for his mum on her birthday and she’d said it was very special. Brooches and badges were popular, Danny Broadbent told the class how his conker was a 32er because he’d soaked it in vinegar. Phillipa Jones said the cakes were her special thing because she had made them with her grandma who was fat and lovely. Then it was Jennifer Cross’ turn. The class watched with intrigue as Jennifer Cross pulled out of a Marks and Spencer bag the latest most fantastic witch’s costume for Hallowe’en. She told everyone how she was planning a fancy dress Hallowe’en party. ‘I will be the best there ‘cos my mum says I’m special’ ‘You certainly are,’ said Miss Forbes. Some of the boys sniggered. ‘Right Sophie – your turn, have we saved the best till last I wonder? Out you come’. Sophie’s throat dried up, her hands were wet and her stomach was doing somersaults. She braced herself, carefully unpacked the doll and showed it to the class. Silence. The doll stared out to the children who stared back.

‘What a pretty doll’, Miss Forbes offered, ‘and so special I imagine because it’s made of china, children – very delicate. ‘My grandma bought it for me. I have to be very careful as mummy says china breaks very easily.’ It does indeed, ‘ said Miss Forbes, ‘And what is this special doll’s name Sophie?’

Without hesitation, and looking straight out, Sophie answered, ‘Jennifer’.

The boys were certainly unimpressed, some of the girls thought it was good; Jennifer Cross concealed a snigger as she whispered to her friend.

At break time Sophie couldn’t last any longer and she went to the loo before going out into the yard. On the back of the toilet door was written ‘Jennifer Cross is boss’. Strangely, Jennifer Cross and the others weren’t there, which was a great relief to Sophie in more ways than one. When the class went back in after play, there was a commotion in the doorway of the classroom. Jennifer Cross was sobbing to Miss Forbes about it not being her fault and she just wanted to have a closer look, it was so beautiful….The others were agreeing the demise of the doll had been an accident….

‘It’s OK Miss Forbes’ said Sophie quietly, and reassuringly, ‘don’t worry Jennifer’.

That was the first time she had dared to call Jennifer Cross by her name to her face. Jennifer Cross immediately stopped crying and looked at her. ‘Aren’t you even upset?’ she demanded. Sophie sighed, ‘Grandma always says’, she paused, ‘…accidents will happen’ and added, warming to her new found confidence, ‘She’ll understand when I tell her you just wanted a closer look at her beautiful china doll present’. Sophie faced Jennifer Cross, who had acted exactly as planned, met her eye and gave her the sweetest of smiles. Of course she would have to deal with her mother, but now she could.

 

 

 

Star Quality

 

Florrie opened the door on the cold grey morning. ‘He’s bloody left the gate open again,’ she angrily declared to the unlistening world.

Her old worn brown slippers that had once belonged to her dead husband were carefully placed, first on the top step and then the second and finally both feet were planted securely on the path.

She bent down to place the two empty milk bottles in the four-hole bottle carrier.

‘Bloody dogs get through open gates and crap all over the garden’

Mr Number 7 from up the road hurried past, ‘Morning Florrie Alright?’

‘I’m alright – course I’m alright, you have to be love. I’d be better if I didn’t have to waste my time running after people who don’t shut gates! Bloody paper lads.’ But Mr Number 7 had turned down the end of the street.

She pulled the collar of her tartan dressing gown more tightly around her neck as she turned and made her way slowly back up the path.

Reaching for the day’s fresh milk she then negotiated the two steps once more and entered the kitchen to the shrill sound of the kettle’s whistle.

Sitting down with her favourite mug of tea, one spoonful of sugar, carefully placed on the flowered saucer, she opened the blue feint lined exercise book and entered ‘Gate open. Mr No. 7 late.’ The measured, careful sloping handwriting gave greater importance to the information than it appeared to warrant, but it was her attempt at distinguishing the days, in the hope that this effort and her daily crossword, would enable her to ‘hang on to her marbles’ as she put it.

‘What I don’t understand is why anyone would even want to go to Park End,’ she muttered to herself, once more reading the council letter. ‘Why does the bloody council want to spend its money – my money –on putting a new bathroom in when there’s nought wrong wi’ ones we’ve already got. I can’t see sense in it myself. Why get new stuff, when t’ old stuff in’t broke, and it’s better quality. Our Dennis says I should move with the times, that I’m stuck in the past – well it’s ‘cos it’s usually the best place to be. I bet there’s more people round here you could call neighbour and all that that means than up Park End – with their fine bathrooms. I expect they even use that soft tissue in them there posh toilets an’ all’

Florrie, was comfortable in the past – most of it anyway. She dreaded change, although having it thrust upon her from time to time, she begrudgingly admitted there were occasional advantages. She agreed it was better to have a single queue at the post office rather having to line up in front of a particular cashier. ‘No matter which queue I go to, even the shortest, it’s always the slowest’, she ‘d complained.

Eventually her son had persuaded her to go to the community centre for a free hot dinner once a week. Even she could see a meat and two veg dinner with good gravy and a pud was not to be sneezed at. Florrie had grown quite fond of Jordan, one of the young volunteers who helped out there on a Wednesday. ‘Nice young woman’, she confided in the lady sitting next to her, ‘funny name though’.

It was Wednesday – she entered in her exercise book ‘Centre day. Cake. Call for tablets’. Florrie was glad of the welcome variance to her otherwise predictable week. Today she chose her clothes carefully.

‘Mm cream jumper I think with this skirt, or should it be the brown dress..?’ she pondered aloud. ‘No, don’t want to draw too much attention – even today, or they’ll think I’ve come into money’. The radio announces possible snow. ‘Oh bugger, why does it have to snow today? We’ve had enough snow for one winter. Well I’m still going.’

She carefully lifted the cake out of the cupboard, looking around unsuccessfully for a suitable tin; she took the biscuits out of their tin and put them in the bread bin, replacing them with the cake.

She donned woolly socks over the thick support stockings, her winter coat, hand-knitted scarf and gloves, topped with a bright red woolly beret her son had bought her at Christmas. Locking the door and double checking the key had done its job, she set off down the path, closed her gate and made her way to the bus stop.

‘Whatever are you doing out on a day like this?’ it was Mrs Next door but one, ‘it’s going to snow you know’. ‘Oh hello Mrs Webster - I’ve got to go today, it’s my day for the centre’. ‘Suit yourself – take care mind.’

She shivered and stamped her feet waiting at the stop, trying to keep warm. ‘You’d think we’d had enough snow for one winter wouldn’t you?’ she casually asked a fellow passenger, who ignored her. ‘Suit yourself’, Florrie thought., turning to the approaching bus. Even though it was mid-morning it was dark and gloomy but Florrie was undaunted and smiled to herself as she put the biscuit tin on the empty seat next to her.

‘Morning Florrie, didn’t know whether you would make it today or not with the weather as it is’

‘It’ll take more than a bit of snow to stop me I’ll tell you. Where’s Jordan? She is in isn’t she?’

‘Yes she’s over in the dining room. I’m going there now I’ll send her over shall I?’ What have you got there Florrie, biscuits for elevenses?’

Jordan came across the lounge to greet Florrie, wearing a flashing ’18 Today’ badge.

‘There you are’ said Florrie, pushing the tin towards Jordan. ‘What’s this?’ ‘For you’ said Florrie. ‘why what is it?

‘Open it and see’ Florrie answered.

The tin revealed a beautifully decorated iced birthday cake.

‘Oh my, Florrie, how kind, how did you know it was my birthday today?’

‘Heard you and Sarah planning your night out last week, and as it’s the same day as mine, I couldn’t forget really could I?

‘Well – Happy Birthday to you too!’ and she kissed the wrinkled cheek which immediately flushed pink. ‘Have you done all this fancy icing?’

‘No not me. – No you see, they were selling ‘em off in Lewis’s after Christmas so I replaced the Merry Christmas with ‘Happy Birthday’!’ she announced triumphantly.

Back inside her cosy, small kitchen, Florrie reflected on the day. She had hoped there would have been a card from her son when she got home, but only an invitation to borrow up to £5,000 on a credit card she did not own. ‘May be he’ll visit at the weekend’, she sighed. The day at the centre had been lovely. The celebratory atmosphere had made Florrie feel special, though she realised it was for Jordan really. She made a cup of tea and put it on her tray, and set the piece of birthday cake, Jordan had insisted she take, on a china tea plate. She returned the biscuits from their temporary home of the bread bin and settled in front of the warm fire to enjoy her tea. The iced cake reminded her of the one she had made for her son on his third birthday – a train with little separate carriages, a candle on each carriage. Dennis had been allowed to ask a friend to come for tea. He had invited John from across the street. That was the first night his father had come home late. Florrie was so angry with him as Dennis had been excited, looking forward to his dad bringing a present home. There was no present. Instead his father came through the kitchen door with blood on his face. ‘Thank goodness Dennis’ friend had gone home’ Florrie reminded herself, ‘otherwise the street would have buzzed with it’

She remembered with anger, the way she had rushed to look after him, bathed his wounds, sympathised, and even kissed his forehead. Fallen from the bus he said.

The late comings increased and his voluntary help at the church youth club seemed to take up more time, including days away on duty. ‘Duty!’ she heard herself spit with disgust. Her husband’s pre-occupation elsewhere at least afforded her the opportunity of getting on with her own life in private, which at first she resented but, gradually, just got on with. At least she had total choice on the tele.

She drifted off to sleep, waking with alarm at a knocking on her kitchen door. She squinted at the clock – earlier than she thought but the evenings were still deceptively dark.

Florrie shuffled her slippered feet to get up, disgruntled at the disturbance. It couldn’t be Dennis, as he had his own key. She reached the door and pushed aside the cover of the spy hole. She saw no face there. ‘It’ll be bloody kids messing about’, she said to herself. She was about to return to the fireside when the timid knock came again.

‘Who’s there? What do you want?’ When she looked a second time through the spy hole she could just see the top of a bright blue woolly hat somewhere below .

‘Please can I have my ball back Mrs Ackroyd? Me mam said I’ve got to ask you first’

‘Where is it?’ she asked, slightly taken aback by the child’s politeness.

‘It’s gone down your cellar steps. Me mam said I might frighten you if I just went down without asking’

‘Well yes you would. You’ve frightened me anyway. You shouldn’t be playing out in the dark and not with a football, so near to folks’ houses.’

‘There’s nowhere else nearby Mrs Ackroyd…. so can I get it then?’

Florrie opened the door a narrow crack, keeping it on the chain.

‘What’s your name?’ she demanded.

‘Damon, Damon Johns from down the street.’

‘Well Damon Johns I suppose you can get it this time, but don’t make a habit of it!’

‘Thanks Mrs’

The small footsteps pattered down and back up the steep cellar steps and then hurried away down the path.

‘And mind you shut the gate!’ Florrie shouted.

‘I will, thanks Mrs Ackroyd’

Next morning she entered in her exercise book ‘Gate shut’.

Some days later, again there was a small knock at Florrie’s door in the early evening. She wasn’t expecting anyone, but went to the door. Before she reached it she heard the boy’s voice.

‘It’s me again Mrs Ackroyd, Damon Johns’

‘You haven’t lost your ball again have you?’

‘No. Not this time. I’ve come to ask you something’

Florrie opened the door gingerly, just the length of the chain and peered down at the half fearing, half smiling face looking up at her.

‘You see Mrs Ackroyd, It’s just we’re doing a project at school about the war. We have to find someone who knows something about it, who lived then, or remembers it. Me mam don’t know ought’.

‘What about your grandma or granddad?’

‘Haven’t got any. Me mam said you were very old so you might know’

‘Did she now…’ Florrie pondered a moment.

‘We’re working in groups see,’ Damon continued, ‘and if I let my group down, Smiffy’ll kill me ‘cos we’ll be kept in after school’.

‘I see. And what’s wrong wi’ going down to library? They’ll have books about it you know’

‘Teacher said it had to be a primary source’

‘What sauce?’

‘A primary source – you know where someone can tell you something first hand like, as if they were there.’

‘Oh, right’

‘I don’t know nobody else, please..’

‘Well I tell you what – I’ll have a think. You come round tomorrow after school and we’ll see what we can do. Bring your notebook mind.’

‘I will. Thanks Mrs Ackroyd. That’s great’ and off he ran, delighted with his success.

She closed the door and took out her exercise book and wrote ‘Damon Johns Friday after school, about the war’.

She spent the evening looking through her photographs and memory boxes. Images of friends and family flooded through her mind as she recollected the closeness and the fear they had shared in those dark days of war. An old recipe for an eggless sponge that was made for her sister’s 21^st birthday, reminded her of the ways in which neighbour had helped neighbour in family celebrations and crises. It was all so long ago but more vivid to Florrie than what had happened last week.

The next morning she set out some items she thought would interest her young pupil and prepared for his visit.

She didn’t enter the gate information in her exercise book as usual, as she hadn’t noticed whether it was shut or not. Instead she made a list of things to do. After her breakfast she set to, and began at the top of the list. She put a clean tablecloth on the kitchen table and took out two cups and saucers and two plates from the cupboard.

Half way through the afternoon she had her regular doze in front of the fire. On waking, she remembered her visitor would soon be here. She got up and checked where she was on the ‘to do’ list.

Florrie recognised the gentle knock this time. Few visitors had crossed this threshold in recent years.

‘You’d better come in,’ she said, opening the door just wide enough for the young boy. ‘And mind you wipe your feet. Sit down there’.

‘I’ve brought me book Mrs Ackroyd, I’ll have to put it on the computer when I get to school.’

‘We had no such things as computers in our day, a slate and pencil was good enough for us’.

Florrie revealed her wartime memories with each photograph and item, carefully placed in front of Damon.

‘I’ll make us a cup of tea and ‘ere, I’ve made you some mock crab sandwiches’

‘I’ve never had crab before’

‘Well don’t panic – you’re not getting it now!’ Florrie chuckled. ‘Me mother used to make them for tea years ago. She chopped tomatoes me father grew in the back yard and mixed ‘em with a boiled egg when we could get them, and a bit o’ grated cheese. It goes a pale pinkish colour – a bit like crab I suppose, but it tasted nothing like it. They were me favourites. I haven’t had ‘em for years. ‘ere you are’

‘Cool’ smiled Damon.

‘That’s what we did in the war – make do, make it up – so we could cope with all the hardships; ‘cos you didn’t get the usual food in the war you know. My Father had an allotment in the park so we were better off than some. He grew all our own veg which was good’

‘I hate vegetables’ Damon said.

‘You kids, honestly you don’t know when you’re well off.’

They continued chatting, Damon writing as fast as he could, his cup of tea remained untouched.

‘You’ve spelt manoeuvres wrong,’ Florrie corrected.

‘Oh that’s Ok, the spell check ‘ll sort it on the computer.’

‘’You mean you don’t even learn how to spell these days!?’ Florrie tutted despairingly.

When it was time to go she handed Damon the Ration card. ‘’ere you can borrow this if you like. I think your teacher ‘ll agree, it’s a primary source’

‘Really! Oh Cool!’ he said with excitement.

‘Mind you bring it back tho’

‘I will, honest’ and she knew he would. The two unlikely partners said goodbye, agreeing to meet again.

‘See you next week then’, Damon said, ‘I can’t wait to see Smiffy’s face when I show him all this. Thanks Mrs Ackroyd, you’re a star!’

She closed the door, replaced the chain and secured the lock. Shuffling over to the table, smiling to herself, she reached for her exercise book and wrote –

‘Friday. I’m a star! Cool!’