PERSPECTIVE UKNORTH
People and their profiles: dukes, archbishops, actors, writers, monks, oddbods, the garish, the gregarious - here they are in single file, chosen by chance, by inclination, or by necessity ... and all reflecting, one hopes, the essential, but indefinable, spark that makes one human being interesting to many. Geoffrey Mather
The summer of 2006
Though now, apparently, departed this fast became the sort of summer you believed always blessed your childhood: endless days of sun punctuated by long drinks. But always, you know that memory takes out the bad things and gives the good things an extra polish, so you are still left wondering whether summers were what you always thought they were.
Sitting on the edge of the pavement pricking tar bubbles to see the water ooze out – now there's a pastime I wonder at. I can only say that it seemed a good idea at the time. In summer we sat rigidly in class and spoke respectfully, almost reverently, with the headmaster, Mr Whittle, who had a small salary and a large Adam's apple. Mr Whittle was a fine man who tended his children as a gardener would tend his garden – weeding out the troublesome ones, succouring the weak ones, nourishing the clever ones, and establishing a harmony of endeavour in the manner of generations of his kind.
I passed by his school the other day. It is a heap of stone and the bulldozers are busy. Next to it is a fine little cricket field where I saw Eddie Paynter, once the saviour of the English test team in Australia, mark a summer with a remarkable show of nonchalance. He was fielding near the boundary. The batsman skied the ball. Paynter saw that it was coming in his direction. He bent down, studied a daisy, plucked it, slowly put the stem in his mouth, looked up, took the catch. I would have liked to do that just once. But it takes the sort of nerve that I fear I lack.
Within the space of a few hundred yards at this very place you can see the disharmonies of the Protestant Church. At the top end, Immanuel Church, where Mr Dodd presided, and where a visiting lay preacher, entering its door and, being accosted by someone collecting for charity, said grandly, “Servant of the Lord,” and passed on without giving a penny.
At the bottom of the hill, Holy Trinity Free Church of England, a breakway from Immanel, created by those who wished to have the power to appoint and sack their own ministers. My grandmother was one of the rebels. Holy Trinity is where the Freemasons met – King Oswald Lodge, an echo of a Northumbrian ruler of Christian virtue, who lost his life for his beliefs, but who took time off to create Oswaldtwistle, or Oswald's town.
In the sweltering days of summer there was not a lot to do. One child I knew, feeling the first pangs of love, wrote letters to the object of his attention and stuffed them in his bicycle bell. Then he drove up next to her and gloried in the thought that she was so near to being told, and yet so far. That, so far as I know, was his only advance on her affections. Innocence.
In those hot days, to prove himself to her, he learned all manner of tricks to perform on his small bike. One was to ride hard at a wall, bounce off, turn left or right and ride off without his feet touching the ground. She was unimpressed, and sought the favours of a much bigger lad.
When I was bigger myself in the hot summers, I moved house and was now near a Lancashire League cricket ground. Cricket every day, morning till night. And when the ground was closed, cricket in the back street by its side, putting bat handles through the spokes of passing bikes, whose riders had the effrontery to interrupt our play; throwing lads in clumps of nettles for minor misdemeanors; trying not to hit the ball into a locked backyard.
Cricket was a grim business – gladiatorial, hard, not like the Southern stuff. We had one girl player named Mary Brown, who always fielded on the boundary. She could stop a ball, however fast. As it sped towards her she would poise herself for the kill, and at precisely the right moment, propel herself into the air, and sit on it.
On the hot Saturdays, drinks were brought out for the players and some players would fill their mouths, then expel the fluid. Always John Willie Johnson would cry, “Watch yon mon, ref. He's watterin' t' pitch.”
As you progressed from third eleven, to second, to first, you could look forward to The Collection. A good performance with the ball, or 50 with the bat, would launch the rest of the team from the pavilion carrying wooden boxes for the money. And the pennies – usually pennies – would be counted out on the pavilion table. Oceans of pennies. Enough to make the difference to a forthcoming holiday. We always said that the Pilkington brothers produced fifties the week before theirs.
For the most part, I got my pennies by going beneath the grandstand when no-one was around. It was dark, full of damp earth, spiders and whatever else could find shelter there. And in that damp earth were pennies that had fallen through cracks in the wooden structure.
I don't remember any bad summers, but there must have been some. Somewhere, in this summer maybe, a child will be storing up memories for the future. “Oh no,” he will say when he is much older, “they don't have summers like they used to.” And maybe he will be right. And maybe he will be wrong. Like me.
The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest
Since 1982 the English Department at San Jose State University has sponsored the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, a whimsical literary competition.
Lyttony of Grand Prize Winners
The camel died quite suddenly on the second day, and Selena fretted sulkily and, buffing her already impeccable nails--not for the first time since the journey began--pondered snidely if this would dissolve into a vignette of minor inconveniences like all the other holidays spent with Basil.
--Gail Cain, San Francisco, California (1983 Winner)The lovely woman-child Kaa was mercilessly chained to the cruel post of the warrior-chief Beast, with his barbarous tribe now stacking wood at her nubile feet, when the strong, clear voice of the poetic and heroic Handsomas roared, "Flick your Bic, crisp that chick, and you'll feel my steel through your last meal."
--Steven Garman, Pensacola, Florida (1984 Winner)The countdown had stalled at T minus 69 seconds when Desiree, the first female ape to go up in space, winked at me slyly and pouted her thick, rubbery lips unmistakably--the first of many such advances during what would prove to be the longest, and most memorable, space voyage of my career.
--Martha Simpson, Glastonbury, Connecticut (1985 Winner)The bone-chilling scream split the warm summer night in two, the first half being before the scream when it was fairly balmy and calm and pleasant for those who hadn't heard the scream at all, but not calm or balmy or even very nice for those who did hear the scream, discounting the little period of time during the actual scream itself when your ears might have been hearing it but your brain wasn't reacting yet to let you know.
--Patricia E. Presutti, Lewiston, New York (1986 Winner)The notes blatted skyward as the sun rose over the Canada geese, feathered rumps mooning the day, webbed appendages frantically peddling unseen bicycles in their search for sustenance, driven by Nature's maxim, "Ya wanna eat, ya gotta work," and at last I knew Pittsburgh.
--Sheila B. Richter, Minneapolis, Minnesota (1987 Winner)Like an expensive sports car, fine-tuned and well-built, Portia was sleek, shapely, and gorgeous, her red jumpsuit molding her body, which was as warm as the seatcovers in July, her hair as dark as new tires, her eyes flashing like bright hubcaps, and her lips as dewy as the beads of fresh rain on the hood; she was a woman driven--fueled by a single accelerant--and she needed a man, a man who wouldn't shift from his views, a man to steer her along the right road, a man like Alf Romeo.
--Rachel E. Sheeley, Williamsburg, Indiana (1988 Winner)Professor Frobisher couldn't believe he had missed seeing it for so long--it was, after all, right there under his nose--but in all his years of research into the intricate and mysterious ways of the universe, he had never noticed that the freckles on his upper lip, just below and to the left of the nostril, partially hidden until now by a hairy mole he had just removed a week before, exactly matched the pattern of the stars in the Pleides, down to the angry red zit that had just popped up where he and his colleagues had only today discovered an exploding nova.
--Ray C. Gainey, Indianapolis, Indiana (1989 Winner)Dolores breezed along the surface of her life like a flat stone forever skipping across smooth water, rippling reality sporadically but oblivious to it consistently, until she finally lost momentum, sank, and due to an overdose of fluoride as a child which caused her to lie forever on the floor of her life as useless as an appendix and as lonely as a five-hundred-pound barbell in a steroid-free fitness center.
--Linda Vernon, Newark, California (1990 Winner)Sultry it was and humid, but no whisper of air caused the plump, laden spears of golden grain to nod their burdened heads as they unheedingly awaited the cyclic rape of their gleaming treasure, while overhead the burning orb of luminescence ascended its ever-upward path toward a sweltering celestial apex, for although it is not in Kansas that our story takes place, it looks godawful like it.
--Judy Frazier, Lathrop, Missouri (1991 Winner)As the newest Lady Turnpot descended into the kitchen wrapped only in her celery-green dressing gown, her creamy bosom rising and falling like a temperamental souffle, her tart mouth pursed in distaste, the sous-chef whispered to the scullery boy, "I don't know what to make of her."
--Laurel Fortuner, Montendre, France (1992 Winner)She wasn't really my type, a hard-looking but untalented reporter from the local cat box liner, but the first second that the third-rate representative of the fourth estate cracked open a new fifth of old Scotch, my sixth sense said seventh heaven was as close as an eighth note from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, so, nervous as a tenth grader drowning in eleventh-hour cramming for a physics exam, I swept her into my longing arms, and, humming "The Twelfth of Never," I got lucky on Friday the thirteenth.
--Wm. W. "Buddy" Ocheltree, Port Townsend, Washington (1993 Winner)As the fading light of a dying day filtered through the window blinds, Roger stood over his victim with a smoking .45, surprised at the serenity that filled him after pumping six slugs into the bloodless tyrant that mocked him day after day, and then he shuffled out of the office with one last look back at the shattered computer terminal lying there like a silicon armadillo left to rot on the information superhighway.
--Larry Brill, Austin, Texas (1994 Winner)Paul Revere had just discovered that someone in Boston was a spy for the British, and when he saw the young woman believed to be the spy's girlfriend in an Italian restaurant he said to the waiter, "Hold the spumoni--I'm going to follow the chick an' catch a Tory."
--John L. Ashman, Houston, Texas (1995 Winner)"Ace, watch your head!" hissed Wanda urgently, yet somehow provocatively, through red, full, sensuous lips, but he couldn't you know, since nobody can actually watch more than part of his nose or a little cheek or lips if he really tries, but he appreciated her warning.
--Janice Estey, Aspen, Colorado (1996 Winner)The moment he laid eyes on the lifeless body of the nude socialite sprawled across the bathroom floor, Detective Leary knew she had committed suicide by grasping the cap on the tamper-proof bottle, pushing down and twisting while she kept her thumb firmly pressed against the spot the arrow pointed to, until she hit the exact spot where the tab clicks into place, allowing her to remove the cap and swallow the entire contents of the bottle, thus ending her life.
-- Artie Kalemeris, Fairfax, Virginia (1997 Winner)The corpse exuded the irresistible aroma of a piquant, ancho chili glaze enticingly enhanced with a hint of fresh cilantro as it lay before him, coyly garnished by a garland of variegated radicchio and caramelized onions, and impishly drizzled with glistening rivulets of vintage balsamic vinegar and roasted garlic oil; yes, as he surveyed the body of the slain food critic slumped on the floor of the cozy, but nearly empty, bistro, a quick inventory of his senses told corpulent Inspector Moreau that this was, in all likelihood, an inside job.
--Bob Perry, Milton, Massachusetts (1998 Winner)Through the gathering gloom of a late-October afternoon, along the greasy, cracked paving-stones slick from the sputum of the sky, Stanley Ruddlethorp wearily trudged up the hill from the cemetery where his wife, sister, brother, and three children were all buried, and forced open the door of his decaying house, blissfully unaware of the catastrophe that was soon to devastate his life.
--Dr. David Chuter, Kingston, Surrey, ENGLAND(1999 Winner)The heather-encrusted Headlands, veiled in fog as thick as smoke in a crowded pub, hunched precariously over the moors, their rocky elbows slipping off land's end, their bulbous, craggy noses thrust into the thick foam of the North Sea like bearded old men falling asleep in their pints.
--Gary Dahl, Los Gatos, CA (2000 Winner)A small assortment of astonishingly loud brass instruments raced each other lustily to the respective ends of their distinct musical choices as the gates flew open to release a torrent of tawny fur comprised of angry yapping bullets that nipped at Desdemona's ankles, causing her to reflect once again (as blood filled her sneakers and she fought her way through the panicking crowd) that the annual Running of the Pomeranians in Liechtenstein was a stupid idea.
Sera Kirk, Vancouver, BC (2001 Winner)On reflection, Angela perceived that her relationship with Tom had always been rocky, not quite a roller-coaster ride but more like when the toilet-paper roll gets a little squashed so it hangs crooked and every time you pull some off you can hear the rest going bumpity-bumpity in its holder until you go nuts and push it back into shape, a degree of annoyance that Angela had now almost attained.
Rephah Berg, Oakland CA (2002 Winner)They had but one last remaining night together, so they embraced each other as tightly as that two-flavor entwined string cheese that is orange and yellowish-white, the orange probably being a bland Cheddar and the white . . . Mozzarella, although it could possibly be Provolone or just plain American, as it really doesn't taste distinctly dissimilar from the orange, yet they would have you believe it does by coloring it differently.
Mariann Simms, Wetumpka, AL (2003 Winner)She resolved to end the love affair with Ramon tonight . . . summarily, like Martha Stewart ripping the sand vein out of a shrimp's tail . . . though the term "love affair" now struck her as a ridiculous euphemism . . . not unlike "sand vein," which is after all an intestine, not a vein . . . and that tarry substance inside certainly isn't sand . . . and that brought her back to Ramon.
Dave Zobel, Manhattan Beach, CA (2004 Winner)
A friend died after a series of painful visits to hospital which involved surgery, and although, during his torments, he occasionally visited the pub on Thursday nights, as was custom, he was uncomfortable, and unable to enjoy his beer.
His name was John B. Priestley. He was a county council surveyor, a Yorkshireman (Todmorden, a border town), chairman of a historical society, and a stickler for caps. Any cap he wore had to conform to his rules. He would pull down the sides, inspect the neb, take care with the angle of wear, and to test the fit would bow rapidly and vigorously from the waist to see whether his cap fell off. If it did, it was not a proper fit. I often thought, when watching this performance, that he would have made a good greeter at the entrance to a Japanese mega-store. Oriental customers would have appreciated all that bobbing about. I am not sure what they would have made of the cap.
To buy a cap he would head north to the Lake District. I would love to have seen him choosing one. I dare say many an assistant has lapsed into a dream while waiting for his verdict. I put up my own caps for his inspection but he was not enthused by my choices. He had me bobbing about, too.
He had a passion for renovating milestones. All over Lancashire there are these solid structures - with a surprising amount of stone underground - that have benefited from his care in sprucing them up. I always accused him of renovating those closest to public houses, but he just smiled and neither confirmed nor denied it in the manner of Yorkshiremen everywhere.
It is sad to lose a friend. And life is never the same after one has gone. But I am glad I met him, and glad I drank with him, and I was always happy to be in his company. You can't say a great deal more, about anybody. Not without sounding over-sentimental. He was never that, so he would not have wished it.
(I attended the funeral with a friend who, before the service, showed me gravestones of his family predecessors. They were dotted here and there close to a Viking grave which had been hollowed out of solid stone. He said his son had taken his children to see the graves and at some point, one said, "But where's mine?)
There are many historical pubs in the land but few are both historical and hysterical. One such is the Crown and Kettle in Ancoats-street, Manchester, a former courtroom which (when it was open) bore the marks of magisterial dignity. The building is next to the old Daily Express building and is currently boarded up and in the care of English Heritage. But Artisan, landlords of the Express building, own the place. And it appears that they have grand plans. It is expected to be open by Easter.
Ancoats was the first industrial estate in the world. The Crown and Kettle is a late 19th Century buff brick, Gothic-style building with stone traceried windows.
I first entered it in the 1950's, having been taken on the staff by en editor named Dick Lewis. He is legendary for his exploits both inside and outside the office, his extrovert tendencies in drink, his solicitor's garb of dark coat and bowler, his huge frame, his bald head, and many other things reflecting great presence and physical dexterity.
When a reporter and photographer went into the Crown to report that they had been unable to get on a plane to Dublin he despatched them back to the airport to hire a 40-seater. Accountants had not, at that stage, been invented; and if they had, they were confined to small offices in forgotten places. A golden era.
Lewis roared his way through life and there are so many stories about him that they would occupy a book.
My era took in Charlie and Edie, landlords who cheerfully bore the brunt of journalistic humour. Charlie was droll. Edie was vivacious. They had a peculiar effect on customers. One leaving the pub refused to give the taxi driver his address on the grounds that they had not been introduced. Another picked up a dolly bird only to find later that she was a he. Celebration (or commiseration) over the death of a performer named Rosie Boot decimated the night staff and filled the bogs with people whose normal locomotion had been severely challenged. One reporter in the Crown was usually morose at farewell gatherings until nine o' clock. Bang on nine, he came to life. I had heard that this was so and observed him closely to confirm the information. Sure enough, he slumped over the bar saying nothing until nine, then picked up the nearest vegetable and slung it towards the roof.
I carpeted my house through meeting a man in the Crown and a very good job he made of it.
You could sidle out of the office and into the pub without being seen. Trouble is, you might run into the editor who had the same thing in mind.
The new Crown has a remarkable tradition to uphold. I hope it lives for ever.
Armistice Day
They were uncles, cousins and brothers and together they died in the First World War. They died without complaint in a place they had neither known nor heard of and that is where their bones lie to. They marched without faltering into heavy fire and the guns of the Somme scythed them like a crop. The Accrington Pals marched steadfastly into death and into legend. Brave men and stupid generals go well together; for without stupidity the opportunities for valour would be much reduced.
Shortly after the outbreak of war in 1914 an Accrington battalion reached full strength of 36 officers and 1076 other ranks. Half were from Accrington district. The others were from neighbouring towns. Seven hundred and 20 Pals were to take part in an advance that was remarkable for its bravery and appalling in its consequences.
In the early evening of 30 June, 1916, the 11th East Lancashires headed for their objective on the Somme: This objective was Serre, a hilltop fortress. There was the German front line. The English infantry advanced. Machine gun and rifle fire tore into them. It was like swathes of cut corn at harvest time, according to one witness. Through the carnage, the Pals marched on. Behind them, the third and fourth waves suffered terrible losses without even reaching No Man’s Land.
Brigadier General Rees, General Officer Commanding 94th Brigade: “Hardly any of our men reached the German front trench. The lines which advanced in admirable order melted away under fire. Yet not a man wavered, broke the ranks or attempted to go back. I have never seen, indeed could never have imagined, such a magnificent display of gallantry, discipline and determination.”
There was hardly a street in Accrington without mourning. Of the 720 Pals who took part in the attack, 584 were killed, wounded or missing.
Pte Jack Hindle, 11th Bn East Lancs Regiment: “You may judge how cheerful we were when I tell you that as we were going to the trenches that night there were a lot of the RFA on the wayside and one of our chaps would say, ‘What do you want bringing back - a German helmet or an officer’s wrist watch?’
“I myself felt more at ease when we got over than I did in the trench, simply because I had a chance of firing back...At 7.30am the bombardment lifted to the German second line, and we looked for someone to lead us, but all the officers and the NCOs seemed to have been put out of action. While we were waiting (a matter of seconds) the Germans came out.”
Pte Harry Wilkinson, 11th bn East Lancashire Regiment: “We knew we were going to certain death but not one man faltered. It was simply marvellous. Every two or three yards of the German lines seemed to hold a machine gun, and the bullets simply rained across No Man’s Land. But we went on until we got dropped.”
Why does the phrase, "Lambs to slaughter" spring to mind?
Geoffrey Mather © 2004
27 August, 2007