“I’ve just got to do a little detour to drop something off at my Granddad’s” he said.
The little detour involved a trip of about twelve miles along country lanes and I was not happy. Being alone with Nigel, miles from anywhere was worrying. I didn’t trust him at any time. My engagement ring would mean nothing to him. I was also concerned about the time after he took a wrong turning. I was very worried about being late. Nigel sped along the lanes at a ridiculous speed, At any other time it would have been exhilarating but with the hood being down, the wind was blowing through my hair and I must have looked really disheveled. Fortunately, we did arrive in good time. The ante-room to the Rector’s office had a small en-suite washroom so I was able to tidy myself up before being ushered in to see the Rector. I realized that I was still nearly ten minutes early but was still concerned that Peter hadn’t arrived. The Rector must have been aware of my unease as he made small talk to pass the time away.
Exactly on time, Peter was shown in. I was horrified. His shoes were covered with thick mud, as were his jeans. Obviously he hadn’t bothered to change into his trousers even though I had pressed them for him. To make things worse, he was wearing the horrible khaki anorak that served as a goal-post when they had their lunchtime game of football.
To be very blunt, I would have felt ashamed of him turning up anywhere in that state.
As though it didn’t matter he cheerily said,
“Hope you don’t mind the mud, I stopped to give an old boy a hand with his wheelbarrow and because I felt sorry for him I stayed helping him for a bit.”
“Playing football more like.” I snapped.
If the Rector hadn’t intervened I think that it would have developed into an unseemly row.
The Rector, bless him, was kindness itself as he started to go through the wedding ceremony and explained the religious meaning of each stage of the service.
There were gasps all round when we heard a commotion outside and heard a deep voice saying,
“In the name of Jesus Christ, its cold out there.” We looked, . . The door opened and in came an old man who looked even scruffier than Peter. The man wore a dirty ex-army greatcoat tied with string and a ridiculous child’s pixie hood.
Talk about being dragged through a hedge backwards; that would be an understatement. I was expecting at least a mumbled apology for the blasphemy but nothing was forthcoming,. Instead, this man fixed his gaze on my fiancée.
“Well Peter,” he began, “You said that you were in a hurry to keep an appointment. I had no idea that it was here.”
He went on to praise Peter, describing him as a very present help in trouble and saying that it was a pity that there weren’t more young men like him in the world. He added,
“There I was, trying to make a start on clearing that ground ready for the archeological dig. This young man saw my difficulty, took pity on me and helped me to move that pile of soil and rubble. I cannot praise him enough.”
“Indeed Bishop,” The Rector started,
I looked again, stunned. Yes. It was indeed the Bishop himself.
The Very Reverend Dr. Robert Willoughby-Smythe, MA. DD. etc
The Rector continued,
“Yes, Peter did say that he had been helping someone.”
The Bishop then addressed Peter and me.
“Well you two lovely people, so you wish to be married in the Cathedral then?”
When we both said yes, together, the Bishop then smiled,
“In that case, such is my admiration for young Peter; I would like to conduct the service myself. I have to attend a series of meetings in London that weekend but I can easily catch the lunchtime train up here and be back in London in time for the evening meeting.
The wedding went perfectly and afterwards the Bishop had a word with my mother, once again extolling Peter’s virtues.
From then on, her attitude to Peter changed.
Well, . . . he and the Bishop were on first name terms. Now there was something to boast about to her friends.
I love her dearly but like I said before, she is still a blooming snob.
No Toys Needed .
I shall be retiring soon and going on a world cruise. It will cost
thousands and thousands of pounds but that doesn’t matter,
I’ve more money than I shall ever need.
Mind you, it hasn’t always been like that.
I grew up during the depression of the nineteen thirties and by jove I certainly knew what hardship was. We lived on a smallholding. No electricity, toilet facilities consisted of a pail up the orchard, and all our water was drawn from the well in the yard.
Indeed, many was the time that, as a baby, my morning bath meant being dunked unceremoniously in a bucket of icy cold water freshly drawn from the hidden depths. Obviously I can’t remember the baths myself, but I remember only too well the screams from my sister when she was subjected to the same barbaric ritual a year or two later.
I never had any toys, except the ones that I made for myself. Other boys had meccano sets. All that I had was a drawer full of odd nuts and bolts, a few scrap bits of metal, and a very mixed set of spanners. From a very early age I was encouraged to dismantle things and try to put them together again.
When I failed, my dad was usually close at hand to put me right, generally with a full explanation, and a diagram drawn on the back of a fag packet.
Dad was an engineer at the colliery but he had tuberculosis so he spent more time on the sick than at work. Like I said, we were poor but honest. We always just about got by, aided by the income from the hens and pigs.
When my dad died I insisted on doing my bit by getting a paper round.
I wasn’t legally old enough but Mr. Thomas was a kind man and as I was big for my age, he let me have a round anyway. Imagine how proud I was, giving mum my first wages, a brand new crisp ten shilling note. And bless her; she gave me four shillings back for myself to save.
I had never had money to spend so saving was no problem.
One day as I was doing my round, old Mrs. Fairbrother from the West Lodge asked me why I didn’t get a bike to do my round like all the other paper boys. When I told her that I was saving up for one she made me an offer that I couldn‘t refuse.
“There is my Joe’s old bike out back, loads of bits and pieces as well.
If you will clean out the shed for me at the weekend you can have the bike for nothing and anything else in the shed that you would like.”
On Saturday morning I set about the task with great enthusiasm.
I found not only the one, but two other bikes as well, partly dismantled, and enough spare parts to stock a shop. I checked with Mrs. Fairbrother that it was OK to take everything and she even lent me a handcart to take my stuff home.
The bike was a racing bike, one of the best that money could buy and it only needed cleaning up, which I did the following weekend. The other two, I built up from spare parts and put them in the sundries ring at the local market. Imagine my delight when one made six pounds and the other four. Ten pounds earned not given. I was delighted. But I still kept saving. I had inherited dad’s toolkit. There were so many tools that I could have made a tidy sum if I sold them, but I chose to keep them for a while anyhow.
My schoolteacher, Gaffer Griffiths knew that I had the tools and as he had an old car, he often asked,
“Can you come round tonight and bring your spanners? I’m having a bit of trouble with the car.”
I would go. It was a farce really. We both had only a smattering of knowledge yet we seemed to feed off each other and learned by our mistakes.
Then the war ended and everyone was happy. There was to be a sale of army surplus stuff at Tomorrow Heath, about fifteen miles from home.
One item on the brochure that I looked at in the paper shop was,
‘Quantity of bicycles, to be sold in small lots.’
With all the spares that I still had at home I had pound signs flashing before my eyes. Mum was
dead against me going to the sale on my own; anyway, she would have preferred me to buy some chickens. But I was determined and cycled to Tomorrow Heath with fifteen pounds sewn into my vest.
I soon located the cycles that I wanted to bid for and decided that by bidding eight to ten pounds I would have the chance to make a good enough profit. By chance, the previous lot was an Austin Ten army staff car. The notice in the windscreen gave the lot number and the comment ‘NOT RUNNING‘.
It looked a mess, but I drooled over it and was still mooching around it when the auctioneer came along with his followers.
As you have probably guessed, I moved my arm at the wrong moment, the auctioneer took it as a bid and I was too timid to shout out
“No it‘s a mistake.”
At the age of fifteen I had bought a car for £14 and five shillings.
Maybe I should have been delighted but, believe it or not, I was the most despondent person on the field that day as I paid my money over.
I was looking under the bonnet when an old man who must have been well into his seventies, muttered,
“I bet the blooming plug leads have been swapped over.”
Who he was, I’ve no idea; but inspired, I reached over and set the leads how I thought they should be and, lo and behold the car started, even if it was running erratically.
Then I pondered, How to get it home?
Another problem solved. I drove it.
Going home was a lot different to driving Gaffer’s car on the school playground, but somehow I managed it.
The car was soon cleaned up and with Gaffer’s help we had it running sweetly. I advertised it in the post office window and sold it the same week. With the proceeds I bought two more rough cars and tidied them up before again selling at a profit. Then I did it once more.
Then: - disaster.
I had been reported. A nice enough bloke came from the council and informed me that I must stop dealing in cars.
Our land was rated purely for agricultural purposes and wartime regulations said more food must be produced...
I was close to tears as I had been for years.
Two days later, the same bloke called again. What this time I thought. However, that nice man came up with a great suggestion.
“The council will soon be moving to a new yard. Why don’t you try to rent their old yard for your cars? There is an old garage already there. And a petrol pump that only needs fettling.”
That idea nearly worked. The council were sympathetic but wouldn’t let me rent the yard because of my age.
My answer, I got mother to rent it and employ me. She wasn’t happy about the idea but I convinced her that it was a sound bet. I worked fourteen or fifteen hours every day and enjoyed it. By the time I had been left school for a year, my garage was doing well and the year after that petrol rationing was ended and business never looked back. I was employing a mechanic and a lad by the time I was eighteen. Then came the next blow. I had to register for national service. Fortunately, the address of our small holding was Corner Farm so I registered my occupation as a farmer. I got away with it and was exempted from going into the army.
At twenty one I started another garage in a neighbouring village.
Up till then, I had never borrowed a penny but when the opportunity to buy yet another garage occurred I took a massive loan and became the owner of three garages.
There was just one thing missing in my life. Because I was working all hours, I never had a girlfriend, a fact that disturbed me each time that I saw other lads from my year getting married. My mother always used to tell people,
“He will end up marrying a widow with two kids.”
Sadly she did not live long enough to see her prophesy come true but eventually that is what happened.
Pearl’s husband was killed in a mining accident and I offered her a job doing my paperwork. Not before time I may add. While all my businesses were flourishing, the accounts were in a mess.
Pearl’s daughters took to me and we became a very happy family with no need to scrimp and save any more. Pearl was a very good manager. A year after we wed, there came another near disaster. The tax-men caught up with me for the years when my bookkeeping had been slipshod. Not only was the bill that they sent frightening, but it came exactly the same time as the government announced yet another credit squeeze. The bank wouldn’t help me. I’d taken some knocks in my time but having a wife and children to think about made this by far the worst.
I think that we would have gone under till salvation came at the eleventh hour. Pearl received the compensation for her husband’s death. That saved the day. From then we prospered, our hard work paid off and we struggled no more.
Then, last year, the petrol company offered me a deal that I couldn’t refuse. They purchased all three garages complete with the business.
From such a hard beginning I was now a millionaire
Just clearing the last bits and pieces from my office I looked through the window. Despite having all the toys that money could buy, my granddaughter was sitting in the yard astride a bucket of water, playing with a plastic duck.
Well, now looking back, talk about the wheel turning full circle.
Something Different.
I never had many toys or other treats when I was a kid. We were too poor. Actually, that isn’t quite true, it was just that we lived poor because my dad was so flaming mean. His attitude to life was unbelievable. I’m told that it started when he was locked up for fighting during the general strike of 1926. He couldn’t get a job for a long time after that. Mind you, when he did get another job, it was as a fairly highly paid engineer. But the economies stayed. Even became an obsession, how to save the last halfpenny. There were certainly no treats for mum and myself.
The only treasure that I can remember was the doll’s pram that dad got out from off the tip and painted up for me. To go with that he got me an old doll from the second hand shop. I thought that I was in heaven. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not moaning, I accepted my lot. The only thing was that even from a very young age I always said that when the time came for me to get married, I wanted not only a perfect day, but a day different to anyone else. A day never to forget My mum always assured me that she would move heaven and earth to see that my wishes were honoured.
Dad had always to add
“So long as it doesn’t cost too much”.
* * *
Life rolled on. I left school when I was fifteen. Like almost all the other girls from our school, I went to work at the local factory, ‘Price Crisps and Biscuits.’ The only difference being that where all the other girls went straight in to the packing shed I went into the pay offices. Jealous people thought that I was given the office job because my gran skivied for Colonel Price at the Manor House. The fact that I was in charge of the same office thirteen years later suggests that I progressed by ability. Also, no doubt helped by the fact that I was still single.
I had made it down the aisle twice but each time it was as a bridesmaid. Never the honoured position.
I reached a stage in life when nothing seemed to matter. Home life was, as ever, virtually non existent. Work-wise, I had reached the top within my own domain, to advance within the company would involve too much training, so there was little to aim for. Socially, life was also a disaster. Friends of my own age group had all married and most had kids of their own. The younger element had a completely different attitude to life, we didn’t mix. Depression was taking over.
Then, a writer’s group opened at Connersby. It meant a four mile bike ride each way, though on a nice evening it was only a mile walk down the canal towpath. We met every Monday evening and I settled in quickly and enjoyed every minute of it, learning to express myself in both a depressing or cheerful manner with ease.
One wet and windy night a new member, Nigel Harvey joined us. It was a night that I shall never forget because at the end of the meeting it was still raining the proverbial pets, and Nigel, bless him, offered to put my bi
ke in the back of his van and run me home. Who could refuse? As we stopped at the end of our lane I thanked him again and leaned forwards to give him a thank you kiss on the cheek. Then it happened. He took me in his arms and kissed me like I’d never been kissed before. I knew then that I was his. Yet I knew hardly anything about him. I knew his name, age and the fact that he worked in a library, nothing else.
The following Monday I left my bike at home and walked along the canal, hoping that Nigel would offer to drive me home again. And he did. From then onwards we met about four nights every week and every Saturday he took me to watch the football, home or away. Life took on a new purpose. I was well and truly hooked. Then, as far as I was concerned, so was Nigel. His inner thoughts I’m not so sure about but mine were wedding bells and hopefully, my day never to forget.
The question that I eagerly waited for at Christmas and New Year never came. Then Valentines’ day, still nothing. Except that is, for huge bunch of flowers and a card as big as a table top. My dad was horrified at the waste of money though really he was more interested in getting rid of a daughter. One less mouth to feed he said, forgetting that I paid well for my keep.
By February the twenty ninth I plucked up courage and did the asking. That was it. We were engaged and planned to marry as soon as we could. I made it known that I wanted a wedding day with a difference. Nigel wasn’t bothered so long as it didn’t interfere with the football that he was so passionate about.
April the first was the suggested day. “All fools day well enough” my dad quipped dryly. As it happened that was too much of a rush and the first of May was substituted. Being a bank holiday, the old man’s caustic comment was. “Save people losing a day’s pay from work,” he couldn’t be nice if he tried.
“I can get you the Labour hall for nowt if you get out in time for the bingo.” If you could see the interior of that hall you would understand why his offer was turned down without consideration. I wanted Greystone Towers, a stately home about a mile past Connersby. When I called to make enquiries, the manager wasn’t available but I was devastated to be told that there had been other enquiries for the same day.
50 Short Stories Page 6