The Squashed Man Who Married a Dragon

by Anthony Blackie

  The more enjoyable escapades with this wonderful little car were in the evenings and at weekends – out and about winning and wooing girls. The freedom and boundless opportunity to seek out and live life to the full was paradise. Happy times shared with my thirty bob jacket. I remember once out with a lovely bouncy, bubbly, blond girl – doing nothing in particular, except enjoying each other’s company, possibly a drink in a country pub somewhere and then thanks to an open field gate, we drove through and into a field – to study the moon and stars.

  We played a game like noughts and crosses, but instead of using pencil and paper, I had to put my hand on places while she had to stop me getting three in succession. First hand base…was easy, second a little more cunning but still in play. Third touch was lined out, start a new sequence, we played this fast and furious, time flowed by suddenly it was late enough to be in trouble time. I started the car and attempted to do a semi-circle to drive out of the field, when we entered we hadn’t realised it was covered in ploughed furrows, halfway through the manoeuvre we ground to a halt. The bottom of the car stuck across the tops of the furrows and the wheels below in the dips. I tried in desperation to free the car, not a chance. The game girl offered to help taking off her shoes, she got out to push. I started the car again, bouncing up and down in a frantic effort to get some traction – she pushed for all she was worth – getting muddied as well. Back in the car she giggled – ‘What now, Superman’. One last round, an all or nothing attempt, hands trying an any and everywhere attack – thwarted again and back to reality. A little rain was now falling and I had to go and find a farmer to help us out.

  I just couldn’t believe my luck, from the depth of despair – I had found the farmer, still up, not cross or angry as he would have every right to be – he gets out his tractor. In two minutes he had hooked up to the Mini and dragged us out of the gate. I go over to thank him and give or owe him whatever he wanted for the rescue. ‘No, lad’ he said! ‘I were young once’ with a sort of knowing way. Turning back to the car I noticed the spotlight at the back of his cab – was illuminating the Mini. Inside this lovely girl was rearranging her muddied clothes, fixing her hair and make-up a sort of impromptu country cabaret.

  Three or so years later when I was happily bound from head to toe to the girl of my dreams, the only other survivor of those carefree feckless days was my thirty bob jacket. When we set up home, I had a couple of suits, some shirts, socks, the usual clobber. The minimum really, taking up little space in my side of the wardrobe, plus the jacket.

  This jacket thoughtfully pushed to the back – neglected in the darkened corner, was almost forgotten. One day I needed to see it, touch it again, link up with my old friend – I searched in vain; three times I went back to the wardrobe – thinking I hadn’t looked properly.

  It wasn’t there, nor under the bed, we had no garage or loft to hide it – this was serious – where could it be? I asked the ‘all knowing one’. ‘Have you seen my thirty bob jacket? I can’t find it anywhere’. ‘Oh, I threw it out…ages ago, you didn’t wear it’. Threw it out…my sacred jacket…. a bosom friend….. never asked me…….didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. In one savage, cruel, unthinking action, she had cut the umbilical cord to my youth – the last link to those heady moonlight adventures.

  WORDS OF WISDOM

  My father was great at dishing out good advice, two of his gems were ‘get stuck in now, work hard, be a Millionaire and retire at fifty’. Very helpful, but no actual step by step instructions how to achieve this goal. The other pearl was ‘love ‘em and leave ‘em but don’t marry before you’re thirty’. This is the sort of useful tip you only appreciate……lying on your back under the kitchen sink, trying to fix a leak. While some one small is bouncing a tennis ball on your unguarded delicate parts…demanding ‘you promised me a night night story!’

  OK, I failed to take my Dad’s advice because somebody played cupid…when I wasn’t ready………

  I blame Barbara, for this, one hundred per cent, without doubt it was her fault . One day in Wigan town centre I was walking up the Little Arcade, passing a card shop, this was the time when the first card shops were really good businesses – and Barbara, a quick thinking and very good business woman saw these opportunities. In some ways – she was what the Americans called a ‘tough cookie’. She had to be, as later on in life she owned a nightclub and dealt with the hard late night side of life, giving as good as she got and taking no nonsense from anyone.

  Barbara was a little older than me, but much wiser and clued up, after a short while she said ‘Do you know Vicki Fearn?’ ‘No’ I said ‘should I?’ Well she continued you are a bit like brother and sister, both good-looking much like each other. Now I can stand any amount of flattery, true or false, but this was heaven sent. After a further brief description of this beauty I was desperate to know where I could find her. Playing her cupid role to perfection she told me to go to The White Crow, on Tuesday night, quite a few very young people will be there, amongst them….will be……and something about a glass slipper…that was it.

  1963

  We won’t go into details but the 29th of June; the day was dark, stormy and raining like hell, all the evil omens you could wish for, but we still went ahead.

  The beautiful Victoria looked so very young and angelic, such a sweet young girl, she fooled everyone. The vows and responses were drowned out by thunder. The police called, hoping to press charges of “cradle snatching”, but were too late. The vicar burbled on about…overseas missionary work…. the heavy cost of the church roof up keep…. and not to sprinkle confetti on the church steps or the surrounding grounds outside.

  Joy was unconfined,…and the vicar ditched the parish for a more colourful life in

  California. Despite it all…we found ourselves ‘hitched’, tied together till the end of time.

  LOVEY DOVEY DAYS

  My first lesson in the irrationality of women came very early on in our life together. We lived and loved in an upstairs flat with three outside walls, lino on the floor, high ceilings, no central heating or double glazing; yet a beginner’s paradise.

  The very cold winter of 1963 found us in the Spartan kitchen, round a small cast iron bedroom style fireplace. There we spent the evening sitting on kitchen chairs in front of a small coal fire. The poker thrust deep into the fire to release a little heat, we were happy, content, young and very much in love, counting our blessings and contemplating our future together.

  When my gorgeous young wife, slowly withdrew the poker from the fire and, in an idle way, gently pressed the red hot iron to my forehead. A smell of singed hair and a lightning reaction saved disfigurement or worse….before I had time to recover she said brightly ‘I don’t know why I did that’ and in a wonderful seventeen year old way she said ‘I wasn’t really thinking’. I shrugged it off the way V.C. heroes might do and very soon off we went to bed to sooth each other again and again.

  The first three years of married life passed quickly, events I can remember include – being called to the telephone in a meeting at work, and hearing a tearful ‘love of my life’ wanting help, because water had somehow escaped either the sink or the washing machine and had thoughtlessly poured its way down through the floor and ceiling into the flat below. We didn’t like the unfortunate woman, who lived downstairs, and I think she must have said a few hurtful and forceful words to my cherished one – who normally can more than defend herself, but perhaps on this occasion she felt almost a flash of guilt?

  Other interruptions to our blissful existence seemed to occur just as we had got into bed. Happy time when the dreams I’d cherished all day were, I hoped, about to be realised. Then my younger brother Martin with a couple of friends in tow, would arrive, ostensibly to enquire about the state of our married life, but really the novelty of having an older brother in his own home, was a new port of call at the end of a night out. They would congregate at the foot of our bed and demand ‘chips’……the bloody thoughtless sw
ines.

  One evening, when I had a ‘freedom pass’ to go out drinking, I found myself having my ears bashed by some young accountant – a chap I didn’t particularly like at all, but who sensibly said ‘renting is a mug’s game and a waste of money’. This stung me so much so that within weeks we had decided to do something about it. First checking out new housing estates, with smaller cheaper houses but built in better areas, and then larger, more desirable houses on cheaper locations. The thought of a twenty five year mortgage seemed to me like a life sentence and a terrifying prospect. We then started to search for small, low cost cottages in the countryside, just north of Wigan, not an easy task even then.

  MORE LOVEY DOVEY

  EARLY LIFE

  Now it’s all very well for a young husband to ogle his brand new wife, standing by the stove in a short mini skirt and tall heels, looking like the best Christmas present he will ever have, while she tries to conjure up something to eat. She looks fabulous – but what she finally serves up on the plate won’t yet match his Mum’s cooking by a long way.

  First came a series of burnt offerings and a few dodgy dishes. These are tender moments when a saint like husband will treat his wife with compassion and patience. Vicki’s early repertoire and her favourites – God knows why – included yellow fish drowning in a sea of hot milk and a sort of minced beef in a very thin soggy gruel with sloppy mashed potato. These were ultimately to be replaced with real food — thankfully she found her cooking form, in time to save us.

  My dear old Mum always, without fail, cooked the family a proper fried breakfast of eggs, bacon and fried bread every single day. When I started work she got up extra early so that I left the house, walked across Wigan – to catch the 8.22 train to Manchester – with something hot inside me.

  The light of my life had other ideas, whether or not this was entirely her own or with mother-in-law’s help I don’t know. The ways of women are conniving but she cooked for me every morning, fried eggs, crispy bacon and fried bread. No new husband could ask for more and even first thing in the morning she always looked fantastic.

  Breakfast just got better and better along came mushrooms, windy beans, tomatoes and after a week or two, black puddings and extra fried bread joined the plate. What a girl!

  The cunning trap was baited, set and after eight weeks of it I couldn’t look another fried breakfast in the face. She’d won…and for life too!

  Now the kitchen, although the hub of the home is not often a safe place for me, I don’t do cooking – yet a few of my male friends are really very good at it, then they have to do it again and again. I limit myself to toast with scrambled eggs or with cheese or baked beans. I can do these dishes in all sorts of mouth-watering combinations but beyond this – No! – except breakfast which is my signature dish which is handcrafted and served up wherever the lucky girl happens to be and not without some well earned bonus points.

  She first has a cup of very hot water – this she can do herself – but I bring her fruit juice in a quiet and servile way, followed by toast very lightly buttered and smeared with a small amount of honey (set honey)! Not that she is pernickety you understand – just bloody fussy.

  Now we come to the clever bit – I cut the toast into all sorts of different and romantic shapes: pyramids, diamond, heart shaped, modern art and even once with the aid of a toothpick and a piece of paper I put sails on her toast fingers.

  This is accompanied by very, very weak tea, so weak that no one else counts it as tea. It has by decree to be poured within seconds of being made. I know, I’m just a fool to this woman – but then there have been times when it has paid off. So I keep saying this to myself like a sort of mantra – “It will come good in the end.” I should have guessed by this time that Vicki was not normal; some strange, alien creature was what I had married.

  Love changes so many things but the unbelievable and most cruel of all, after we had been married a short while, she deliberately and on purpose grew another two inches in height! I suddenly realised, she was looking me in the eye, more or less on a level. To me, every inch of height advantage is precious. I looked down in a loving and guiding way on the chosen one, all gone! In high heels, I won’t say she towers over me but all the physical higher ground advantage has almost evaporated.

  I like to dance ‘the smoochie ones’; with a precocious, smallish, warm, gentle sexy soul, clinging to me, in the secure protection of my loving arms. I don’t need an Amazonian, suffragette, battle hardened woman, shouting equal heights. God knows what’s going to happen next.…she will be reaching things down, from lofty shelves for me, or lifting me up to see over the wall. This is no way for the Head of the house to live.

  HER FAMILY – The DNA

  There is something about my wife’s family that is definitely odd. She is one of six (three boys and three girls) of a very, very competitive family. Everyone has to be first with the answer, not to know is almost death, certainly puts you at the bottom of the pile. Worst of all for me, a reluctant thinker and less than gifted at figures; is their addiction to math’s and all things to do with numbers.

  Which could be directly linked to the fact that their father was a surveyor/auctioneer turned turf accountant with five betting shops. His father the founder of the business had probably the very first ever football pools firm; Stanhope Pools of Wigan. I think they all at some time or another helped in the business. My chosen one Victoria alias Brain of Britain, could on demand tell you in seconds, for a wager of so much, on odds of whatever, to win on the nose or each way placed bet how much your winnings would be, both betting tax prepaid or taxed post race.

  For a boy – from a Methodist upbringing, although not too strict, this was shattering – but worse was to come. They played cards and often…and for money! To me trying to make the right impression on the family was a nightmare. I hardly know my aces from my spades and having to hold vast amounts of cards in only one hand was a major challenge. Add to this the need to do mental arithmetic as well. In the end they settled for Pontoon to give me a chance. But buying another card or twisting, with all the mathematical compilations of whether I was or would be bust, and able to use only the fingers of one hand, nearly scuppered my standing with the family. Thank goodness some people like a challenge and some young girls in particular like a lame dog to love!

  YET MORE LOVEY DOVEY DAYS

  OUR HOUSE

  After some careful searching of the countryside, just out of town, we found a little stone built cottage, two up and three down, next door to a small country pub. This had been bought by a widow, with the idea of refurbishing it and to downsize into a snug country home. For some reason no progress had been made, the house was empty for quite a while and had started to deteriorate. In order to keep tramps and dossers out, it had a council condemned Keep Out notice stuck to the front doorway, on the other end of this ‘des res’ was a tiny stone built, one up and one down tenanted cottage, the two together could be ideal.

  The first and larger cottage I could buy from the owner, and on a private mortgage. The tiny end cottage belonged to another lady, who would sell it to me if her close friend and adviser, yet another woman, who lived in a caravan nearby, would advise her to do so! I spent quite a few dark winter evenings in the caravan sipping weak sherry, whilst I wooed the adviser round to sanctioning the deal. At last loves sweet path could open up, and for less than seven hundred pounds we bought the two cottages.

  Next followed eighteen months of hard graft, most nights after work, I arrived home, changed my clothes, had something to eat – then went out for the evening shift. Drive five miles or so and start my DIY work on the cottage, lit by candles and oil lamps at first. Leaving number one girl and baby Angela in the flat, then back around eleven, tired and dirty, but having taken the restoration on a bit further. Sometimes I don’t think lover girl realised just what superhuman efforts were required, when on occasions she would comment on being left alone without me. As then I hadn’t worked out how to be in t
wo places at once. Weekends we worked together on our newly acquired property and Angela slept in an old wooden drawer, out of harm’s way. We achieved many and mighty works, until our first home was ready for occupation.

  From the outside there was a very small, trim, front garden raised up from the road, complete with a new rustic porch and climbing rose. It was almost chocolate box good! We got the bright idea of getting a sandblaster in to clean up the stone work, not the nice old weathered outside, but inside the house.

  Here we had knocked off all the old dodgy plaster on one wall, from floor to upstairs ceiling. After sandblasting it took three weeks to very carefully point up between the hundreds of irregular shaped stones.

  Then our good friend Rob made a natural wood, open tread staircase. This went against the now lounge stone wall which continued up in stonework to the ceiling in the bedroom above. This looked very effective, and at night the carefully positioned spotlights made this wall and stairs into something of a really special feature.

  Tom Davies, a neighbour and benevolent friend, who lived near the flat, was a contracts manager for a large local construction firm, and when a dance hall was being demolished he arranged, and delivered as a present, a load of sprung maple floor boarding. This was very much needed and appreciated because, although the cottage had floor joists, it had no upstairs floor boards at all.

  Another friend, Brandon, a playmate and next door neighbour from early childhood, lent his strong back to the cause by squatting in the open fireplace, with a very large slab of sandstone on his shoulders, whilst I fiddled around with the side stones. Together we created a very simple but attractive feature fireplace.