Not going to University

When I was a mere strippling, less than a third of my age now, I left school with insufficient 'A' levels to get me into university.  I also left school with absolutely no idea what to do with my life and so decided that the best thing for me was to stick my thumb out and go travelling.

As with the rest of my life before and probably since, I had no plan as to where I should go, or how long I should be away.  There was a timing constraint in that I had to be back for my sister's wedding some 12 months hence, but otherwise I was free to be away for as long as I liked.  Of course money was a factor, but I had managed to save £100 from a holiday job and considered that this would be sufficient for my needs at least until I could find some other way of earning a living.

Thus it was that on Sunday 23rd August 1970 I headed off to who knows where.  During my time away I kept a diary.  At the time I assumed that this diary would be read by parents and others that I had left behind, so I wasn't as honest as I might have been, and many scurrilous and otherwise interesting incidents have been left out.  These will and do appear in some of my stories, but as I find it very difficult to write about myself, they will be difficult to identify.

Anyway, if anyone wants to read the diary of a young man's travels in the 1970s, follow this link and download the pdf file
https://docs.google.com/leaf?id=0ByPccdeYJLKRZjA0MTZjYTItYjg5Ni00MDMzLTljMGUtOTI0OWYwNzkwMjVk&hl=en

Marton on the Mound - the final part

The Tribute

“I knew Bill for many years” Terry started.  (“Good beginning” thought James rather facetiously).  “That is, I drank with him in the Deer for many years and he entertained us with a lot of stories and jokes over that time, and no one knew where he got them all from.  But I don’t suppose I really knew him, not like his Missus would have”.  At this he inclined his head towards the Widow who gave a curt nod in acknowledgement.  “In fact I asked around the lads from the Deer, and none of them had ever had any – how would the vicar put it – social interaction with Bill outside the pub.  If we planned to go on a trip, like when we went to Scarborough that time, Bill would always say ‘thanks for asking, but I can’t that weekend’.  After a while we stopped asking because the answer would always be the same.

“I suppose then that I’m only going to provide a tribute to Bill’s life as we saw it from drinking with him at the Deer, and from what we learned about his life from his stories.  I’ve discussed this with the lads and we reckon we can draw some conclusions about Bill’s life outside the pub, so if his Missus doesn’t mind I might just stick a bit of our opinion in as well”  Again Terry inclined his head towards the Widow, who again gave a curt nod.

“Bill and his missus never had any kids.  I don’t know whether they couldn’t or they just didn’t, but either way, I think Bill would have liked to have had kids.  He would get sort of wistful sometimes when he was talking about other peoples’ kids.  I remember once when he had told the story of a lad from the village (no names no pack drill) who had been caught in a wheat field not just with his pants down with a girl from Bassingham, but stark naked.  The combine driver had said he completely lost his line when he saw these two leap up in front of him clutching their clothes and running as fast as they could between the stalks.  Bill had said that those wheat heads must have stung him where he least wanted it, but fair play to him he had said.  He then said ‘I’d have liked that to have been my lad’.

“I’d never heard Bill talk like that.  You know how you read that someone had a faraway look in his eye; well Bill had just that when he said that.  He was always telling stories; I don’t know where he got them all from, but they just kept coming.  Usually they were about people we knew or perhaps had just heard of; never malicious, just funny like the lad in the wheat field (that lad got bought a lot of drinks after that story got around).  Somehow he could take a story that someone else had told him, often about themselves, and then just enhance it somehow so that we were all howling with laughter.  He’d love it when that happened.  It was as if that was what it was all about, making folk laugh.”

Terry looked across to the crew who were paying rapt attention to him.

“Do you remember when he told us about Mick and the deckchair?  I can’t do the story justice, but basically it seems that Mick had come back from his holiday in Cornwall with both hands bound up and it turned out that it was from an accident with a deckchair.  The way Bill told it had Mick trapping his hands in this deckchair after it collapsed when he had sat on it and then the trouble he had getting the deckchair off, then driving himself to the hospital not being able to grip the wheel, then when he had waited in Casualty with his hands stuck out like a puppet’s, the doc had seen him and before Mick could say anything had said ‘Deckchair?’.  It was just the way Bill could tell the story that made it funny, and that punchline ‘Deckchair?’ just had us in fits.  I swear I nearly wet myself.”

Terry suddenly remembered where he was and turned guiltily to James.

“Sorry Vicar” and to the Widow “Sorry Missus, it’s just the way he was.  He made us laugh so much”

The Widow’s looks had softened somewhat and what looked suspiciously like the beginnings of a smile played across her face.  James was impressed.  The crew were still smiling from the memory of the way Bill had told the deckchair story, and some were openly laughing and giggling.  “Well” thought James “this is a turn up.  I never expected this.”

Terry addressed the congregation again.

“Bill could keep us entertained for as long as he was there.  I think it’s fair that many of us only went to the pub because Bill was there.  I’m not saying that we didn’t and don’t enjoy each other’s company, it’s just that if Bill was there it was always a good session.  It’s not been the same without him.” 

Looking at the Widow, Terry said “He was really fond of you.  He would talk about you as I guess all of us men talk about our wives and girlfriends; as if we were totally in charge of our households and woe betide any woman who gets in the way of a man’s drinking.  But when Bill said it there was a fondness in his voice.  Oh yes, he would moan that “she” had decided that they were going shopping on such and such a day, so he wouldn’t be able to get up to the Deer, or that “she” had made him do some gardening, or something about the house, but somehow we knew that he accepted that this was his lot and he was very content with it.  In fact in this too he was a role model to us.  We all talked big about our women, but mostly when it came down to it we knew which way the land lay.  So missus, I think you need to know that he loved you and that all of us miss him and are proud to have been counted as his friends.  I for one will not forget him and will try as hard as I can to remember the stories he told and the way he told them, and I intend to tell anyone who will listen what a great feller he was and that I am proud to have known him.”

With that Terry walked over to the Widow’s pew and took her hand.  She moved along the bench and he sat beside her.  Tears were coursing down her face and she looked ten years younger.

James continued the service until the time came for the coffin to be taken out of the church and loaded back on the hearse to be taken to the cemetery on the outskirts of the village.  The Widow invited Terry into her car and they stood together at the interment and committal. 

The Wake

After the service, Terry and the Widow walked back into the village together talking.  She told him that she had been very moved by his tribute and that she was pleased that her Bill had been held in such high esteem by his friends at the pub.  He told her that the landlord and the crew had put together a bit of a buffet and some money behind the bar by way of a wake to see Bill out, and would she like to join them.  At first she was a bit reluctant, but then she seemed to suddenly change her mind.  “All right” she said “it’s about time I learned what you scallywags talked about every night for the last God knows how many years”. 

By the time they reached the pub, most of the crew who had not attended the interment had already gathered in their usual circle with their pints in hand.  When Terry and the Widow walked in there was a sudden hushing of the chatter as the crew turned to watch them arrive, then without a single word from anyone, the circle opened and Terry led the Widow to Bill’s seat in the corner.

Marton on the Mound part 4

The Funeral

St Peter’s church commanded a fine position high on the Mound after which Morton was named, and was accessed by a steeply sloping path leading to the West door.  James Hickman had often stood proudly at the door of this his favourite church and gazed fondly over the surrounding countryside.  Today was different.  It would be only fair to say that, this being James’ first funeral at which he had officiated as sole priest, he was not a little nervous.  Nor would it be an exaggeration to say that his decision to allow Terry from the early doors crew to make the tribute to the departed was filling him with utter dread.

On reflection, James had to admit that it was his treatment at the hands of the widow that had led him to agree to this course of action; that and perhaps a pint or two too many and the warm feeling of at last belonging in that part of his flock that had so far eluded him.  Now in the sober light of day, standing at the door of one of his churches ready to officiate at his first funeral, that decision summoned nightmarish visions of letters of complaint written to the Rural Dean, Archdeacon and perhaps even the Bishop; of “requests” to attend the Bishop’s Palace to “discuss” the issue; these discussions finally resulting in the ignominy of being busted down to curate while his parishes are taken over by a more competent priest.

It was in this mood that James now stood at the West door with about twenty minutes to go before the service was about to start.  The funeral directors together with the coffin and bearers had arrived at the lych gate and paused before attempting the steep and difficult path up to the church.  Behind them spread across the road were the black massed ranks of the widow and her entourage.  James noticed that the widow had lost none of her sour and forbidding demeanour, and made an assumption that the similarly sour women with her were friends or relations on her side.  As the top hatted and tailed funeral director led the puffing bearers past him into the church James tried to greet the mourners who followed.  The women swept past James as if he were the doorman rather than the officiating priest.  They were followed by what seemed to James to be a never ending stream of the same dour sour faced women and following these, a pace or two behind, cowed quiet men.  None returned James’ greeting and none spoke.

They took their places in the pews on the right hand side arrayed as if drilled in the rules of funeral etiquette.  Still none spoke and all stared ahead at the backs of the heads of those in front; all that is except the widow, sitting alone in the front right hand pew, who stared malevolently at the coffin in which lay her late husband.

With only 5 minutes to go before the time appointed for the start of the service, James took a look inside the church.  The front right pews were taken up by the widow’s entourage, and a few of the rear pews were taken, by non-aligned mourners, but the front left pews were ominously empty and the atmosphere felt more like a condemnation rather than a celebration of the deceased’s life.

Briefly James saw the absence of the early doors crew as a benefit until he realised that in their absence he would have to make the tribute to Bill himself in front of the forbidding and frankly scary widow’s entourage.  He hurried outside to see if there were any more mourners coming up the slope to the church, and seeing none retreated into the church closing the big heavy doors behind him.

“’I am the resurrection and the life’ says the Lord. ‘ Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die’

“We meet in the name of Jesus Christ, who died and was raised to the glory of God the Father.   Grace and mercy be with you.

We have come here today to remember before God our bro........!

At this point James was interrupted by the West Doors of the church being thrown open with a crash, and a group of 12 men making their way up the aisle led by Terry.

“Sorry we’re late Vicar.  We started the wake a bit early”

Even from where he was standing in front of the rood screen, James could smell the beer on the breath of the crew as they made their rather unsteady way up the nave still puffing from the hurried climb up the slope to the church.  This was not what James had expected when he had invited the crew to attend the funeral.  He had envisaged a congregation, not of the “Great and Good”, but of the “ordinary” people of the village.  He reflected now that he had imagined a scene from Lark Rise to Candleford with a church full of good honest working folk all worshipping the Lord with due deference.  What he now had was one side of the church filled with harridans and the nave filled with drunks.

Terry made his way if not unsteadily then with a bit of a swagger to the front of the church.  As he drew alongside the widow’s pew he looked over and winked, then without pausing to see her reaction he slid into the pew opposite.  Prior to the wink, the widow’s face bore a look of scorn that could have killed at 20 paces, and after the wink – well after the wink the most surprising transformation came over this fierce and unbending visage.  For the briefest of moments it softened and flushed before once more becoming a mask of contempt.

The rest of the crew took their places in the pews behind Terry, and once they had settled, James felt it was appropriate to resume the service from where they had left off.  On the spur of the moment, James decided to move the tribute from the beginning of the service after the introduction to the end, just before the commendation.  This, he reasoned, would give Terry a little more time to sober up.

The rest of the service went according to plan with the sole exception of a loud snoring from one of the crew made during James’ brief sermon.  The snorer was silenced periodically by the application of an elbow to the ribs, but in spite of this, never appeared to regain consciousness until the final hymn just before Terry was due to make the tribute.

As the last grumbles and squeaks that passed for notes died away, James stepped up in front of the screen and announced that Bill’s long term friend Terry would pay tribute to the Bill’s memory.  Looking somewhat more sober than when he came in, although definitely uncomfortable in his suit, Terry moved to where James stood in front of the screen.  “Here we go” thought James as he moved back behind the screen to sit in his choir pew. 

From behind the safety of the screen he surveyed the congregation with interest.  On his left the Widow and her harridans were still scowling, no more or no less than before as far as James could see, and on his right, the crew were beginning to sit up and take notice.  Even the snorer had woken fully and was paying attention.  James’ attention was drawn back to Terry who stood in front of the screen without notes of any kind, and apparently without nerves.

Marton on the Mound - part 3

The Priest

James Hickman had only recently been appointed to the position of Priest in Charge of the Parishes of Marton on the Mound, Bassingham and Fulford, and was still trying to get to grips with each of the villages that constituted what he called his “beat”.  He had taken Holy Orders late in life, having served as a policeman and reached the giddy rank of Chief Inspector before retiring on a full pension at the age of 55.  He was married with two children.  His daughter was married to a young man she had met in University who had landed a well paid job in a consultancy in London, and his son had qualified as a nurse and emigrated to New Zealand.  His wife still worked at the local hospital as a Radiographer.

James felt that he brought to the position a worldliness that in his opinion the previous incumbent, an unmarried career priest, lacked.  He was aware that the church in his parishes was loved more as a monument than a place of worship and felt it incumbent upon him by whatever means available to make God and the Church more accessible.  To this end he decided that he was to become more accessible himself.  He reasoned that to make God and the Church more accessible, then he too must become more accessible; he must attend as many of the village institutions that he could, and attend them as a man and not necessarily as a priest.  Whenever he was in one of the villages on his beat, he would visit the post office, or call on the local primary school.  He always attended any social function that he was invited to and in this way met a good many of the cognoscente of the villages.  Although these too were his flock, and few enough attended his services regularly, he realised that if he were to bring the people to God, he would need to cast his net wider than the genteel functions that he already attended.

Perhaps he had been too long in the rarefied air of senior ranks in the Police to remember dealing with “the public”.  After all, he had been fast tracked as a graduate entrant, and had seen little action on the streets before moving rapidly through the ranks and patrolling a desk at head office.  Quite frankly, he was somewhat afraid of meeting those of his parishioners that were, shall we say, outside his social class.  He knew it had to be done, but somehow he had never got round to doing it.

The solution was forced upon him when he visited the widow of a recently deceased parishioner whose funeral service he was due to perform at All Saints Church in Marton the following weekend.  The widow (a rather fearsome creature who, he rather reluctantly admitted to himself, reminded him of Nora Batty), while civil enough, seemed uninterested in the pastoral care he wished to impart.  Indeed she gave the impression that the sooner she could put her late husband in the ground, the better for all concerned.  James, wishing to make as positive an impression as possible in this his first funeral, asked the usual questions about her husband’s life and habits in order that he could better perform an oration at the funeral.  The response took him aback somewhat.

“You’d best be visiting t’pub for that sort of information.  He were always there.  Every night like clockwork.  Six o’clock and he were gone.  Go and talk to t’lads at pub in early doors.  They’ll tell you what you need to know.”

And so it was that with some trepidation he found himself outside the Red Deer at six o’clock, steeling himself to interview the early doors crew. 

He had spent some time earlier that day deciding what to wear for the encounter, quickly deciding against the full robes, debating about full casual, and finally opting for the dog-collar and black suit.

His plan was to slip quietly up to the bar order a pint and ask the landlord who would be best suited to tell him a little about the deceased.  So much for best laid plans!  He entered the pub and everything else seemed to happen in a blur.  As he walked in he could see a circle of men in raucous good humour laughing and joking and then suddenly one of their number was hurtling through the gathering showering beer over everything and (most particularly) over his suit and cursing as he came. 

Once the fracas had died down and he had mopped himself off, he walked over and sat down on the vacant stool in the corner between the bar and the fire.  This action seemed to gain the attention of all those assembled.  He ordered a pint of bitter from the barman, which was promptly delivered.  One of the lads discreetly paid for it.  He expressed his regrets at having to pass the bad news that William Hutchinson (“Old Bill” said one of the crew) had passed on, and told the gathered congregation (for so he had now imagined them) that the funeral was on Sunday coming and he had come to find out about Bill for the oration.

There was silence for a while, and then one of the crew said, “We’ll be there and speak for him”.  James was delighted with this and said so.  The man that had offered his services at the funeral said “Aye.  Well that’s that then.  We’d best get back to supping.  Terry.” He stuck out his hand.  James was a bit taken aback by the brusqueness of the delivery but realised that Terry had just introduced himself.  “James” he said “I’m Priest in Charge of Marton, amongst others”

“You’re the vicar then”

“Yes, I suppose I am”

“Well, welcome to the Red Deer”

The atmosphere relaxed, and the banter started again, this time talking mainly about Bill and his life and the tales he used to tell.

Marton on the Mound - part 2

Bill doesn’t arrive

Winter in the Red Deer was a cheery place.  The pub was blessed with an open fire just by the bar, which was always lit well in advance of the pub opening so that the bar was nice and warm and the fire roaring and inviting.  As each new entrant of the early doors crew arrived he would position himself (for it was almost invariably a he) in front of the fire with his hands behind his back to soak up the warmth, and would order his drink by calling to the landlord from the fireplace.  As the next person arrived, he would take up a position in front of the fire and its previous occupant would move to the side.  Thus the circle gradually moved round in a clockwise direction to allow all posteriors to be warmed but not roasted.

This circle was somewhat intimidating to other pub users who were not part of the crew, as it dominated the bar area and forced newcomers to walk around it to reach the bar, and, in addition, completely blocked the fireplace.  This was not a deliberate strategy by the crew; it was just the way it worked.  Anyone who came into the pub that was not part of the crew was ignored simply because they did not belong.  To belong you had to become adopted by the crew by virtue of a chance remark thrown your way and responded to, or, in rare cases, by virtue of an interesting and arresting observation or joke.

Bill was of course the exception to the rule.  When he came into the pub he made his way straight to his stool by the bar and to the side of the fire.  In this position he could command the view of the pub, drink his beer without lifting his elbow and (very importantly during winter months) get the benefit of the fire without roasting his backside.  The circle would always break in front of Bill’s seat so that Bill, remaining seated, was part of it.

The first day that Bill did not turn up and sit in his seat, it was assumed that he was a bit late and then as time went on, it was assumed that “She” had called him away for some reason.  By the second day the news of Bill’s death had reached the crew and as is the way when part of the team is suddenly removed, his life and his influence on the crew was widely discussed by them.  There was no unseemly wailing or gnashing of teeth, for this would not have been appropriate in this community, but respect was shown in the way in which each man contemplated his beer and glanced at the empty corner seat before telling his own personal reminiscences of the great man.

The circle gyrated in its usual fashion, still not blocking the view that Bill would have had if he had been seated in his usual place, but the crew was subdued that day and broke up at about 8 o’clock when Bill would have left.

The next day the crew assembled as usual, and, apart from the odd comment about how strange it was not to have Bill in their midst, the banter went on pretty much as usual.  Still no one sat in Bill’s seat. 

Terry was telling a joke he had heard that morning from one of his colleagues on the building site.  He had his back to the door and was holding forth in his usual fashion, acting out each part, gesticulating and peppering the narrative with vulgar descriptive words that made the crew laugh.

It is amazing the effect a dog-collar can have on an early doors crew in a pub when they are in full flow.  It was John that saw the priest first.  It was his turn at the fire and he was standing with his eyes closed, revelling in the warmth flowing from his backside up his hands and into his aching shoulders.  He opened his eyes and the sight of a priest walking into the pub made him step backwards into the hearth, catching the heel of his workboot on the grate and causing a shower of sparks to leap up his trouser leg.  With a compound curse of considerable inventiveness and no less descriptive impossibility, he leapt away from the fire and burst through the circle spilling a great deal of his own and others’ beers as he did so.  He came to land in a sitting position rubbing his singed legs at the feet of an astonished priest who had incidentally become the recipient of much of the spilled beer.

Thus, the strange scene in the pub comprises a broken circle of lads, some nursing half empty beer glasses, but all facing an embarrassed, wet and discomfited priest of, as yet, unknown denomination, with the bulky form of John the roofer sitting at his feet to all the world in the pose of supplicant. 

Who knows what went through the minds of the gathered crew at this time, but none spoke, or, for those that had preserved any, supped their ale.

The priest, realising that he must speak to break the silence, and acting as if this was the most normal of situations, said, “I understand you gentlemen are friends of William Hutchinson”.  This too did not have the desired effect.  Instead of a chorus of affirmation, the crew looked at him with a unified look of puzzlement.  “William Hutchinson” the priest repeated, “known as Bill?”  Gradually the faces became less puzzled and realisation came upon them. 

“Ah” said John, “you must mean Old Bill”.  He spoke from the floor and involuntarily glanced at the empty stool in the corner.  The priest held out his hand to help him to his feet and, taking the glance at the stool as an invitation to sit down, walked through the circle and sat in Bill’s stool.  He found himself gazing at the semicircle of men paying rapt attention to his every word; a position, incidentally, that he had rarely enjoyed during a sermon in the village church.