06 Educating Jack by Jack Sheffield Page A

Malcolm.
    ‘Then ah put on me Mary Quant waterproof mascara,’ continued Dorothy, barely pausing for breath.
    ‘’Urry up, lover boy,’ shouted Big Dave.
    ‘So it’s two teas please, Dorothy, an’—’ muttered Little Malcolm.
    ‘An’ then me Frosty Pink Blusher, o’ course.’
    ‘An’ two pork pies—’ said Little Malcolm.
    ‘An’ then ah use me Boots Number Seven Lip Liner,’ said Dorothy.
    ‘So it’s jus’ the teas an’ pies, Dorothy,’ said Little Malcolm, looking across to Big Dave who was becoming agitated with the long wait.
    ‘An’ then f’me
peas de insistence
, ah jus’ add me Miss Selfridge Peachy Head.’
    ‘Y’what?’ said Little Malcolm, looking confused. ‘Ah think Eugene Scrimshaw went there for ’is ’olidays once.’
    ‘Where?’ said Dorothy.
    ‘Beachy ’Ead,’ said Little Malcolm.
    Dorothy gave him a peculiar look as she put two pork pies on a chipped plate.
    Meanwhile, a new record landed on the juke-box turntable, ‘Oooh, me ’eart-thwob,’ said Nora from behind her Breville sandwich toaster. ‘Elvis Pwesley an’ “Jailhouse Wock”.’
    An hour later Nora hurried into Diane’s Hair Salon.
    ‘What’s it t’be, Nora?’ asked the phlegmatic Diane.
    ‘Ah want t’look like Cagney,’ said Nora, holding up a photograph of the new television crime-fighters.
    ‘But she’s blonde, Nora,’ said Diane. ‘’Ow about Lacey? She’s a brunette.’ Nora frowned. ‘An’ she’s t’intelligent one,’ added Diane with a knowing look.
    Nora pondered this for a moment. ‘Mek it Lacey then, Diane.’
    Diane smiled. Sometimes psychology and hairdressing went hand in hand.
    Gradually, as the afternoon progressed, darkness descended on Ragley village. It was nearly 3.45 p.m. and, in my classroom, the children had put their chairs on their desks and we were saying our end-of-school prayer. After a hurried ‘Amen’ Heathcliffe Earnshaw looked at Jimmy Poole and winked. Jimmy understood. Tonight was ‘Penny for the Guy’ night and, for the first hour, it was his turn to be the guy.
    * * *
    Across the road, a diminutive figure stopped outside the bright lights of Pratt’s Hardware Emporium. Lofthouse ‘Lofty’ Pratt looked at the sign above the door and smiled.
    On this cold November afternoon, as darkness fell, Lofty didn’t feel the bitter wind that swept down Ragley High Street. As the ex-Featherweight Boxing Champion of Yorkshire, he was made of sterner stuff. As they said in his hometown of Castleford, ‘’E eats nails an’ spits rust, does Lofty.’ At five foot two inches tall he cut an insignificant figure in a baggy, outdated shellsuit but, as the landlord of his local Miners’ Arms once said, ‘Don’t start owt, ’cause our Lofty’ll finish it.’
    Lofty had been named after Nat Lofthouse, the Bolton Wanderers and England centre forward. His father, an England fan, had always admired the tough footballer, nicknamed ‘the Lion of Vienna’. Mr Pratt, one of five brothers, wanted Lofthouse to grow up to be like his famous, clean-living, honest-as-the-day-is-long namesake. However, he had to make do with a vertically challenged psychopath who could put his fist through a coalhouse door. So it was with the innate confidence of an ageing prizefighter that he walked into his cousin’s shop and, appropriately, the bell above the door rang loudly as he stepped inside.
    Timothy was standing behind the counter with three different-coloured pens in the top pocket of his overall.
    ‘Nah then, our Timothy,’ said Lofty.
    ‘’Ello Lofthouse,’ said Timothy. ‘Nora said you were coming.’
    ‘Aye, ah wouldn’t miss our Nora’s special day. She’s allus been a good lass.’
    ‘An’ ’ow are you getting’ on?’ asked Timothy.
    ‘Ah’m fit as a flea,’ he said and proceeded to give an impromptu exhibition of shadow boxing in the middle of the shop. Timothy looked alarmed. Lofty’s dancing feet were dangerously near to the perfectly aligned