Authors: Jack Sheffield
‘My ’Arold … ’E’s been tekken,’ said Mary.
‘Tekken?’ said Big Dave in surprise.
‘That’s reight,’ said Mary, looking out of the window and up to the heavens, ‘to t’great shepherd in t’sky. Nivver went to a doctor in ’is life. If’e ever ’ad owt wrong wi’’im, ’e used to look in ’is book o’ sheep ailments an’ rub a bit o’ stuff on ’is chest.’
‘Oh ’eck,’ said Big Dave, ‘ah’m sorry to ’ear that, Mrs Brakespeare.’
‘T’mek matters worse’e jus’ bought a new pig trailer an’ ah’m stuck wi’ it now.’
A short, attractive, pocket battleship of an assistant was sitting behind the desk. She was in her mid-thirties and didn’t look as if she suffered fools gladly. The badge on her white blouse read:
MISS FENELLA LOVELACE
. She shook her magnificent mane of long, brown, wavy hair and removed her new large-lens, fashionable spectacles. ‘Can ah ’elp?’ she said to Mary.
‘Yes, please, luv,’ said Mary. ‘Me ’usband’s jus’ died and ah want t’purrit in t’paper.’
‘Ah’m sorry to ’ear that,’ said Fenella and pushed a pencil and a slip of paper headed ‘Obituary Column’ across the desk. ‘Here y’are, Mrs, er, Shakespeare. Y’write y’message on that an’ it goes in Friday’s paper.’
‘It’s
Brakespeare
, young lady, an’ what do ah write?’
‘Owt y’like,’ said Fenella: ‘usually who’s dead an’ a message.’
‘An’ ’ow much is it?’ said Mary with a frown.
‘’Pends ’ow much y’write, but first six words are free,’ explained Fenella.
‘Ah see,’ said Mary with a smile and proceeded to print in large capitals: ‘HAROLD DEAD – PIG TRAILER FOR SALE’.
Mary Brakespeare had never been one for sentiment.
At last it was Big Dave’s turn. To his relief the office was empty of customers.
‘’Ello,’ said Big Dave nervously.
‘Good morning. What can ah do f’yer?’ said Fenella, eyeing up this huge Yorkshireman appreciatively.
Dave took the crumpled newspaper from the pocket of his donkey jacket and pointed to the Personal column. ‘Ah wanted t’put an ad in – er, for m’self.’
Fenella was curious but knew how to do her job. ‘So yer lookin’ for … a friend,’ said Fenella quietly.
Dave took a deep breath. ‘Yes, ah am.’
‘Well, y’can ‘ave a short ’eadline an’ up t’thirty words an’ y’can put abbreviations like G-S-O-H.’
‘G-S-O-H?’ said the perplexed Big Dave.
‘That’s reight. It stands f’ “good sense o’ ’umour”.’
‘Oh, ah see. Well, ah’ve got that all reight,’ said Big Dave with a shy grin. ‘An’ ’ow much is it?’
‘A pound,’ said Fenella.
‘A pound! That’s more than three pints o’ Tetley’s!’ exclaimed Big Dave.
Fenella, knowingly, nodded in agreement, and then gave Big Dave a form and a pencil.
‘Ah ‘aven’t done owt like this before,’ said Big Dave, feeling embarrassed.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Fenella, ‘’ah’ve seen ’undreds. Ah’ll check it when you’ve done.’
Dave took the paper to a counter near the window and, slowly but surely, and with much crossing-out, composed a thirty-word masterpiece using bits of other advertisements. He took it back to Fenella, who read with interest: AVAILABLE NOW!
Tall, single, hardy outdoor-type, 39, brushes up well & likes driving large vehicles. WLTM good-looking 25–35 yr old with GSOH for friendship, pub visits & good times. York. Box 561066
.
‘That’s really good, Mr, er …’ Fenella glanced at the top of the form, ‘Robinson. An’ then y’circle one o’ these t’say which section it goes in,’ she said. At the bottom of the form was printed ‘M/M … M/F … F/M … F/F (
please circle
)’ and Fenella looked thoughtful as he circled ‘M/M’. Dave smiled: after all, he thought, there was no doubting he was a
man
.
Eager to escape he hurried out, jumped in his dustcart and tore off on the back road to Ragley village to meet up with his little cousin outside their house on School View. The previous week Little Malcolm had been to Dixon’s in York and purchased a Merlin Pushbutton Car Radio, complete with long-wave and medium-wave bands, for £16.95. To Little Malcolm this was a fortune, but it had come with clear instructions and a fixing kit. He was installing it in his car when Big Dave pulled up. Little Malcolm grabbed his donkey jacket and jumped in.
He was aware that Big Dave was strangely silent as he crunched the dustcart into first gear. ‘Ow did y’gerron?’ he asked.
‘All reight,’ said Big Dave evasively. ‘Jus’ ’ad a bit of a wander round.’ He sighed deeply. ‘C’mon, Mal, let’s shift some bins.’
* * *
At the end of school, as I said goodnight to the children in my class, ten-year-old Tricia Hensall came up to me to show me her new wristwatch. ‘It’s one o’ them new Texas digital watches, Mr Sheffield,’ said Tricia. ‘There’s a button t’light it up so y’can tell the time at night.’
‘It’s wonderful, Tricia,’ I said and, as she ran off, I wondered where all this new technology would end.
Not all the children were in a hurry. Terry Earnshaw and Victoria Alice Dudley-Palmer were deep in discussion as they collected their coats and scarves from the line of pegs outside Class 2. Victoria Alice had always been attracted to little Terry Earnshaw. He wasn’t like all the other boys her mother encouraged her to play with or invited to parties. He was a rough diamond, a daredevil: he was different.
She decided to plunge in with a question that had been on her mind. ‘Terry, when we grow up will you marry me?’
Terry took a thick woollen balaclava from his coat pocket and pulled it over his head. Then he picked his nose expertly as he deliberated. ‘Why?’ he asked, stalling for time.
‘Because you’re my best
boy
friend,’ said Victoria Alice.
They wandered out on to the dark playground. Mrs Dudley-Palmer was sitting in her Rolls-Royce, waiting just outside school and feeling relaxed. It was a cold night but the car’s heating system was excellent.
A sudden thought gripped Terry so firmly that he forgot to continue picking his nose. ‘Would you ’ave t’sleep in my bed? ’Cause it’d be reight squashed,’ he mumbled thoughtfully. He didn’t mention the fact that Heathcliffe in the other bed continually flashed his three-colour torch at him, which could make life difficult for newly-weds.
Victoria Alice stopped to consider this unexpected development. Also, her knowledge of sex education was already two or three years ahead of little Terry’s. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said indignantly, ‘because I want to have lots of baby girls to play with.’
Terry shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Ah don’t fancy that,’ he said forcefully, ‘an’ anyway what if we ‘ave boys?’
Victoria Alice pondered for only a moment. ‘I’d probably sell them,’ she said defiantly, ‘because boys are smelly.’ It appeared that while her knowledge of sex education was superior, in terms of human rights the two of them were probably on a par.
‘Ah see,’ said Terry and, spotting a nearby and very inviting puddle, he veered off to take a running jump at it. At that moment it was a more attractive prospect than future nuptial agreements with the eloquent Victoria Alice. Also, talking to girls was bad for his super-hero image. Terry was glad of his balaclava as he walked through the bitter cold to his council house, while Victoria Alice joined Elisabeth Amelia on the back seat of their warm car.
They went their separate ways … as they were destined to do in their future lives.
I had stayed at school to update our history and geography schemes of work following yet another request from County Hall. Year by year, a new common curriculum appeared to get closer. As I turned the key in the lock of the huge oak entrance door of Ragley School, I sighed and breathed in the cold sharp air. My mind had been filled with the stuff of dreams and I reflected on the meaning of unconditional love. I knew what I really wanted and it was here spread out before me in this tiny Yorkshire village. Perhaps the headship of a large school would be mine some day in the far-distant future but not now … not now. I picked up my old brown briefcase and strode out to my Morris Minor Traveller. I was a village school teacher and another week was over.
That evening Big Dave Robinson had bought an early edition of the
York Evening Press
from the General Stores & Newsagent. Then he had sought privacy in the Gents’ cubicle in The Royal Oak to read his advertisement in the Personal column. He stared at it in horror. ‘Bloody ’ell!’ he said out loud. While it had been printed exactly as he had written it, there was just one problem. Instead of being in the
MEN SEEKING FEMALES
section it was boldly displayed under the heading
MEN SEEKING MEN
. ‘If t’lads find out ah’ll never live it down,’ he muttered.
Meanwhile, behind the closed doors of Ragley village there were others reflecting on their unusual lives.
Deadly Duggie Smith lay on his campbed in the attic of 7 School View and stared at the poster above his head of the woman he loved. He put a record on his record player and relaxed as Abba began to sing ‘The Winner Takes It All’. The blonde and beautiful Agnetha Fältskog was the girl of his dreams. In a way it was a shame that they were never destined to meet. Duggie would have proved a faithful soulmate, but perhaps the Swedish superstar would not have been content as the wife of an undertaker’s assistant.
Petula Dudley-Palmer was sitting in the new conservatory of their luxury home, reading a
Kaleidoscope
catalogue. Her daughters were playing with dolls in their bedroom and, in the home-office, her husband, Geoffrey, was playing ‘Tennis’ on his Atari 2600 video game with its woodgrain console, plastic paddles and stubby rubber joystick. In her catalogue there was a photograph of a white curly extension lead for a telephone. It meant you could actually walk around while using the phone, which seemed a novel idea. She knew she must have one to impress her friends. Then she wondered who her
real
friends were and couldn’t immediately think of one. Petula looked around the conservatory, which was filled with the best in luxury cane furniture, and then at her reflection in the glass. She was alone and it occurred to her that
one
is a lonely number.
At nine o’clock on Saturday morning Big Dave was waiting outside the office of the
York Press
with Friday night’s edition clutched in his giant goalkeeper fist. When Miss Fenella Lovelace opened the door she was surprised to see that the big gay Yorkshireman had returned.
‘It’s in t’wrong place,’ said Big Dave.
‘What is?’ asked Fenella.
‘T’advert. Y’went an’ purrit in t’poofters section!’ protested Big Dave indignantly.
Fenella rummaged through a pile of forms. ‘It’s ‘ere,’ she said, pointing to the circled ‘M/M’. ‘That’s what y’wanted.’
‘But ah wanted a
girl
friend, norra
boy
friend!’
Fenella’s eyes crinkled into a smile. ‘Oh, ah see. Well, we’d better change it, then.’
‘Thanks, er …’ Big Dave stared at the badge again, ‘Miss, er, Lovelace.’
‘Y’can call me Nellie, if y’like.’
‘Nellie?’
‘Yeah, well, Fenella’s a bit of a daft name.’
‘Oh, OK, er, Nellie. Pleased t’meet you. Ah’m Dave.’
They shook hands and Dave was impressed. Nellie had a grip like a car crusher. ‘So what’s a big lad like you doing looking furra girlfriend?’
He didn’t quite know why but it all just flooded out: living with his cousin, Dorothy coming on the scene and, of course, the final straw –
Match of the Day
.
‘Ah know ’ow y’feel,’ said Nellie. ‘Ah never miss
Match o’ t’Day
. Ah luv football. In fac’, ah played football at school i’ Barnsley.’
Big Dave was impressed and was wise enough not to reveal his deep-seated beliefs concerning the ability of the fair sex to play a man’s game. ‘Ah play in goal. ’Ow abart you?’
‘Ah were an overlapping midfielder what supplied square balls into t’box an’ me ’lectric pace meant ah were never offside,’ said Nellie without a hint of modesty.
Big Dave was stunned. He was in the presence of the impossible: a woman who understood football’s offside l aw. Before he could stop himself he blurted out, ‘Nellie, if y’not already spoken for, ah don’t s’ppose y’fancy comin’ to t’pictures tonight?’
‘Ah might,’ said Nellie coyly.
‘There’s two films on,’ explained Dave. ‘Fust ’un is
Gregory’s Girl
, abart this lass what plays football; second ‘un is summat t’do wi’ a bloke called Abraham what runs fast in t’Bible.’
‘Y’mean, go to t’fust ’ouse so we don’t miss t’football?’
‘O’ course,’ said Big Dave.
‘OK, Dave,’ said Nellie.
A thrill ran through Dave’s body. It was a strange feeling, a bit like saving a penalty … only better.
On Sunday evening, the members of the Ragley Rovers football team were exchanging stories about their weekend.
‘Word ’as it y’gorra lass,’ said Don, eyeing Big Dave warily as he cleaned a pint tankard with his
England 4 West Germany 2
tea towel.
Dave went misty-eyed. ‘She’s a stunner,’ he said.
‘Gorra fancy name, ah ’eard tell,’ said Don, fishing for more news.