by Graham Johns
CHAPTER 3
YOU SIT THERE IN YOUR PARLIAMENT,
SO BIG, AND PROUD AND TALL,
I’M GOING TO TELL YOU WHERE YOU CAN GO,
AND BUILD MYSELF A WALL!
Gordon rose early the following morning. Nigel usually woke him by licking his posterior which invariably ended up protruding from the covers in some way. The dog looked mildly disappointed when Gordon arrived downstairs for breakfast before dawn; he was sporting the same grey trousers and old jumper he had worn the day before. Nigel looked at his master with his mismatched blue and brown eyes and decided he may as well rest for a bit longer. Gordon was on a mission today. It was a mission of great importance. He grabbed his worn, brown pork pie hat and his tweed jacket before donning his wellingtons and heading out of doors, leaving a note for Selina, breakfast be damned!
“Good morning!” Mick shouted across the exterior concreted yard.
“What the hell are you doing here? It’s not even light yet!” Gordon fumed. “You know you’re not welcome here after you almost burnt my house down!”
Mick took on the look of one who is genuinely surprised. “I’m not sure I follow. As I recall I was attempting to dismember a robot version of your good self when the fire ignited. Anyway, I had a feeling in my water that you might have something to say to me this fine morning.”
It was a fine morning, indeed, the sun was just starting to peep over the horizon to the east. It looked like it may have rained overnight, and in Lancashire to the west, Gordon could see dark clouds aplenty.
“Miserable Lancashire bastards,” he said to himself. He then addressed his friend, “Michael, it is opportune that you arrive on my doorstep this morning as I received disturbing news just last evening that our Member of Parliament, one snooty little bastard by the name of Maurice Bickerdyke, has been out canvassing opinion on whether Yorkshire should have closer local governmental ties with Lancashire.”
Mick took a sharp intake of breath and had to steady himself against a nearby wall, which thankfully was more impressive than his own building attempt thus far, having been built many years previously in the sturdy dry stone wall fashion for which Yorkshire is famed. He ceased hyperventilating and gathered himself before speaking, “Are you being serious? I start building a wall, the Scots are talking independence and our MP wants closer ties with the swines who were complicit in trying to take us over only recently? Really? Has the man no common decency?”
Gordon shrugged and briefly explained the image Selina had projected for him while Mick listened in stunned shock. “In short, he must be a bastard,” he concluded.
Mick thought for a moment and then said, “Well, I see I’m going to be paying him a visit today, or my name isn’t Michael Hunt!”
“I was going there anyway so perhaps you would care to provide me with the pleasure of your enraged company? I always enjoy an excuse to call someone a bastard to their face.” Gordon also knew that Mick had no means of powered transport and that it was always good to have a day away from farm chores. Gordon’s sheep were perhaps relieved too.
“Very good, Gordon, very good. Can I meet your new wife yet, maybe grab a bit of breakfast?” Mick asked hopefully.
Gordon noted Mick’s hopeful expression and his reputation with the ladies before answering, “No, Michael, you may not. We should make haste, let’s go. We’ll take the tractor.”
You may rightly wonder why on earth someone would choose to take a tractor on a road trip. The answer is quite simply that Gordon Shepherd is a man for whom life doesn’t stretch too far from home, and quite frankly, if it isn’t within easy reach and it isn’t in Yorkshire, why does he bloody well want to go there anyway?
***
The traffic was building up on the single lane road into the nearby town of Skipton. It was building up because of a bright red tractor progressing along said road during the Monday morning rush hour. When the road widened into two lanes on each side of the central reservation, things did not improve as the driver of the tractor decided it would be a real jape to straddle both lanes. Pedestrians reported loud laughter emanating from the cabin where a jolly fat man and his skinny sidekick were crammed in.
Gordon parked his tractor as close to the office of Maurice Bickerdyke as he could. As car drivers began to file past him Gordon looked out of his side window at the traffic and began to count for a little while.
“Fifteen,” he said to Mick, who looked at him in the manner of “Fifteen what?”
“Fifteen people either gave me sight of their middle fingers or accused me of being a serial masturbator on their way past. That beats the previous record of thirteen.” He looked rather pleased with himself. “I think I’d be more impressed if people showed me their feet rather than their fingers or hands you know. That’d require much more dexterity.”
According to the town hall clock which had just begun to chime, it was bang on nine o’clock. Perfect timing. They alighted from the tractor and headed for the nearby office. It was a beautiful grey stone building with a large ornate Victorian window, through which they could see a good amount of political memorabilia strewn about the interior. The building looked a little like it could’ve been a sweet shop in years gone by. However, the large black door was locked. Mick banged on it. There was no answer. Gordon banged on it. There was still no answer.
“It’s no good,” Mick said, “there’s no answer. I conclude he’s not there.”
“He’ll turn up at some point,” Gordon replied, while deciding to lean on the door.
Twenty minutes later, a rather smarmy voice that was somehow reminiscent of a snake slithering around in an oil slick said, “Hello, gentlemen, can I help you?”
He was jangling keys and looking at the door to the office. It was Maurice Bickerdyke alright.
“Mr. Bickerdyke?” Mick asked. Always best to be sure.
“Yeth?” He had a lisp. Gordon almost laughed but reined himself in with just a smirk.
“I want to talk to you!” Mick demanded firmly while brandishing a pointed finger towards Maurice’s face. “Can we go inside, please?”
“Give me a few minuteth pleathe to get organithed and I would be happy to give you thome time,” he said, waving Gordon to one side with a well-placed hand gesture so he could use his keys.
“Very well,” Mick said, “not a problem.”
“Did you notice his southern accent?” Gordon asked Mick after Maurice had unlocked the door and gone inside.
“I did.”
“I have a feeling this man will make me very angry shortly,” Gordon stated with a stern expression.
“Don’t let him win, Gordon.”
“I’ll try not to.”
True to his word, the office door was opened shortly after. “Can I get either of you a tea or coffee?”
“Is it Yorkshire Tea?” Gordon asked.
“Yeth, I believe it ith.”
“Good. Yes please.” Gordon wore a satisfied expression. This man had a little promise after all.
Maurice directed them into his office behind a reception desk which they assumed must be manned occasionally. The two of them seated themselves in seats he had indicated and awaited their drinks patiently and in peaceful contemplation. He returned with a tray, complete with a large teapot and three cups and saucers upon it, which he placed upon his desk with an apparent degree of precision. It felt so very English. Maurice seated himself opposite Gordon and Mick, before pouring the tea and milk for all. He then offered the sugar bowl with lovely white crystalline cubes in it; Gordon took one and ate it, before dropping a second cube in his cup and a third in his jacket pocket for later. Mick declined with a shake of the head.
“Thank you,” said Gordon.
“Welcome gentlemen. Alwayth pleathing to meet my conthtituentth. Now, do tell me why you wanted to meet me?” Maurice asked, wearing an expectant expression and briefly grooming his moustache with the index and middle fingers of his right hand, spreading them apart to form a subtle �
�V’ shape as he did which went unnoticed.
“My name is Mick and this is Gordon, we’re from Nether-Staining.”
“Oh yeth. I wath there jutht yethterday.” Maurice looked at them both keenly with his spectacled blue eyes, seeming to be hanging on their every word. Gordon was relieved they were sat across the desk because he had just noticed that Maurice had a tendency to shower the immediacy of the area in front of him with sputum when he badly needed to say an ‘s’.
“I hear you have been canvassing opinion about closer ties with Lancashire?” Mick came straight to the point.
“Correct. We wondered if it might benefit both countieth if they are much more aligned and we wanted to garner the view of the people.”
“And what did the people say?”
“They didn’t theem overly thrilled to be truthful.”
“And do you know why?” Mick asked.
“Becauthe they love Yorkthire ath it ith.”
“Almost, let me tell you a brief story, not long ago, the residents of Nether-Staining fought off an alien invasion of Yorkshire, which was aided by certain parties from Lancashire,” Mick summarised, rather well in Gordon’s opinion. Gordon nodded his approval.
“I read about that in the newthpaper. I thought it wath far-fetched.”
“It was true. Every word. We were there. We want nothing to do with those plebs from over the border. So do please take your consultation answers and ensure that we have no change.”
“I am not convinthed I can do that. It theemth incredibly important for the county to move forward toward tighter linkth with otherth, not greater theparation.”
Mick looked frustrated and slightly crestfallen.
“Where are you from, Mr. Bickerdyke?” Gordon interrupted, which caught him a little off-guard. He’d decided that this man’s promise had now declined to nil.
“Oxthford, why?”
“I thought as much. If you aren’t willing to support the very people of whom you asked opinion or indeed can’t even manage to say the name of the very county you represent, can I suggest you bugger off back to Oxford, you middle-class, lithping…I mean lisping…sod! And you can take those Lancashire bastards with you!”
Gordon stood up quickly, and slammed his hands down on the desk which made the teacups rattle. His eyes were narrowed and there was some spittle on his chin from his outburst, which he wiped off. “Come on, Mick, we’re done with this idiot. Maurice, you’ve just lost two votes, and more will follow if you don’t see sense on this issue.”
Gordon quickly drank the last of his tea in one large gulp and then stormed out onto the pavement with Mick close behind. His face was a nice shade of purple, the purpality of old just wouldn’t go away. He needed to calm down and Mick allowed him to take a breather.
“Good work, Gordon, although I feel I should point out I’m not actually a registered voter as I have no fixed abode, but the threat of two votes less is twice as bad as just the one,” Mick was impressed. “Will you help me build my wall now?”
“I’m not sure about that, let’s see what he does next shall we? Let’s head back home, life’s better there.”
***
You may be thinking that there wasn’t much to do in one’s spare time in Nether-Staining and its surrounds and in many ways you would be right. People often found ways to make their own entertainment and as such the birth rate remained quite high, especially among local teens. The village was not large enough to support big business and so attracted those who farm, those who had a small work-from-home business, those who like to provide a service to a small local population, the occasional artist, and those who like to avoid undue attention.
The latter group don’t tend to realise until it is too late that word spreads like wildfire in a small village, where your business is also everyone else’s.
The village had its customary services such as a window cleaner, a gardener, a car mechanic, a mini mart, a post office and a pub. After that there wasn’t much except perhaps for the gym in Smutty Mathew’s garage.
Smutty Mathew bucked the trend of those who like to avoid undue attention. He was largely well-liked, and even humoured, in the village. People knew he was an amateur filmmaker and didn’t mind if he liked to film his gym members while they worked out, mainly because they could see from the video footage how they were improving over time. You just had to forget the fact that he occasionally filmed extreme close-ups of gussets, breasts, bottoms and lunchboxes for his private entertainment.
What many folks didn’t know about Smutty Mathew, aside from his name having just the one ‘t’, was that he was also part of the local Nether-Staining Historical Society, the N.H.S. He was one of two members, along with Roderick Barrington, the local antiques dealer. Roddy, to his friends, not that he had many, was more interested in profiteering from any facts he could assign to antiques he was attempting to flog, whereas Mathew liked to film local landmarks and research their importance to the area.
Mathew was literally knee deep in the cool and rather dirty waters of the River Neth at present, doing a survey and recording of the path of the river. The river was sadly long-since devoid of fish and, despite the best efforts of the local conservation group (of which Mathew was also a member), was polluted on an ongoing basis by the effluence and run-off associated with the local livestock. He was slightly alarmed by something he had discovered while looking over some old maps in the local library and felt that he needed to verify aspects of his findings. Something just wasn’t right. After a few minutes of recording on his clipboard, and wishing he had a pair of waders, he scrambled up the riverbank and headed to the nearby historic sheep dip. He was thankful for a small pile of stones that someone had apparently positioned there and stood atop them as he scanned the view from here and recorded that too. Then it was time to return to his maps. He wasn’t one hundred percent certain yet but he had a nagging feeling that something wasn’t right with the geography of the village.
***
In the dead of night Roger the Pure was startled awake by a knock on the door of his one room abode. He waited patiently for Young Harold to rise from his own slumber to answer and then recalled that he had not been in the best of health for the past few days as a nasty rash had appeared on his body. Roger feared that Young Harold’s days were numbered, although he hadn’t mentioned it to the boy. He wearily sat upright on his straw-covered wooden pallet and noted a small welt on his leg. “I’d best have another bath tomorrow,” he thought. Getting dressed he then shouted “Just a minute!” and went to the door.
Honesty Boycott was awaiting Roger the Pure on the doorstep with some degree of impatience.
“What kept you, monk?” he asked with a grim look. A voice of equal grimness sounded like he was chewing gravel.
Honesty Boycott’s name was very well chosen. He would do anything to achieve his goals. Nothing was considered foul play. He was also a man for whom bathing was not a regular activity and Roger tried to ensure he stayed away from his dirty countenance and general stench. Honesty had long, filthy brown hair and a straggly beard, which framed a surprisingly full set of teeth. Perhaps a strong family history of not requiring a dental intervention, Roger thought.
“Sorry about the delay, my apprentice is ailing and I had to get dressed before I could meet you. How goes your quest?”
“We saw off those Lancastrian swines earlier, even butchered a few as they fled.” His dirty face framed his teeth in a worryingly satisfied grin.
“I suppose that gives you pleasure?” Roger asked.
With unexpected speed, Honesty thrust his hand around Roger’s ample throat and pushed him roughly against the doorframe. His face was grim and positively brimming with hatred and disgust.
“Ouch! You’re hurting me!” Roger squealed.
“Listen to me, monk. This is the time when you and I need to stick together. Don’t forget that I’ve helped you establish your church on this site and now you must help me with my quest to ensure ther
e are no questions about our alignment with Yorkshire. Do we have an understanding?”
“Yes, yes!” Roger gasped as he struggled to free himself from Honesty’s strong grip.
“Very well,” he loosened his hold and Roger the Pure took several more gasps of air. “We can’t let the truth come out as to how we’re going to get ourselves recognised as Yorkshire.”
The dark brown eyes of Honesty Boycott narrowed to the point of almost being closed and he stared Roger the Pure full in the face and said, “If you ever let out the secret there will be hell to pay.”
He retreated into the welcoming cloak of the night. Roger had wet himself in the fear of the moment and realised that to bathe was what he required even more so after this. Roll on the morning.
CHAPTER 4
WE’VE NEVER LIKED THE ENGLISH,
THE ARROGANT, POMPOUS SODS,
WE’RE GONNA BLOODY LEAVE YOU,
COS WE ARE TRULY SCOTS!
A few days had passed since Smutty Mathew was standing in the river. Mick was taking up his customary space in the Dog & Duck, having decided to leave his wall for another day. Bob was concerned about how much time Mick spent there of late because he felt he was starting to wear a personal groove in the seat he always used, which was never a good thing for other, paying, customers. There was something rather off-putting about the sight of someone else’s crack sculpted into the furniture. Bob had never seen Mick pay for anything, ever. Mick was intently watching the referendum results unfold while awaiting someone he knew to arrive and honour him with libation.
“MICK SUCKS!” shouted Broken. Bob threw him a peanut.
“You see, Bob, just look at this, the results are coming in thick and fast and it looks like they’re gonna vote to leave the UK by about a two-thirds majority. It sets a dangerous precedent, just you wait and see! The Welsh and Northern Irish will be next!” Mick seemed genuinely annoyed.
“The Welsh aren’t daft enough to leave England,” Bob replied. “They know they get more out of the relationship than they put in.”