Once Upon A Time in the West . . . Country

by Tony Hawks

  The High Street was busy, but in a small-village kind of way, rather than an Oxford Street kind of way. Everything is relative. Pleasingly, an emerging car provided the perfect parking place in front of the barbershop. As I got out of the car, I noticed a distinct improvement on the previous day. No ‘closed’ sign. I looked inside. No one was to be seen. The barber would be out the back, I hoped. I pushed open the door and a bell rang. My mind darted back to my youth. Ah, that bell ringing above the door. That familiar sound I’d heard as a small child, as my mother lugged me and my brother on shopping expeditions from one small independent trader to another. At that time, the large supermarket was still only a fledgling concept, and mothers walked to the shops with their unruly offspring in tow, before staggering home laden with the week’s shopping in bulging, burdensome bags. These mothers were unsung heroines.

  A man appeared. He was younger than I’d hoped. He was in his forties. I guessed that the son had taken over the business. It was good to see that it was staying in the family and that there would be continuity.

  ‘Morning. What can I do for you then?’ asked the barber, in an accent that was not instantly recognisable as Devonian.

  I wonder if he noticed the disappointment on my face. This man was supposed to be a genuine local, and here he was addressing me in an accent that was – well, northern, I think. Was it Yorkshire?

  ‘Don’t I recognise you?’ he said. ‘Have you been in here before?’

  Regrettably, this is not an uncommon thing for me to be asked. As someone whose TV appearances are few and far between, I may have made the odd, fleeting appearance in people’s front rooms, but I’ve never stayed long enough or visited on enough occasions to have made a lasting impression. Consequently I’m not a well-known face, but I do look vaguely familiar to quite a reasonable tranche of the UK population. As a result, I have quite a lot of awkward conversations. This is one that I once had with a uniformed airline pilot whilst waiting in the lounge at Gatwick Airport.

  PILOT (Approaching Tony, who is looking at the departures screen and seeing that his flight requires him to ‘Board now at Gate 14’): ‘Excuse me, but haven’t we met before?’

  TONY (Looking the pilot up and down): ‘I don’t think so.’

  PILOT: ‘No, we’ve definitely met before. Do you live in Southampton?’

  TONY: ‘No.’

  PILOT: ‘Are you near Southampton, in Hampshire?’

  TONY: ‘No, I don’t live in Hampshire.’

  PILOT: ‘Do you spend much time in Southampton?’

  TONY: ‘No.’

  PILOT: ‘We have definitely met, though, I remember your face.’

  TONY: ‘It may be that you have seen me once or twice on the TV. I used to appear reasonably regularly on shows like Have I Got News for You and more recently Grumpy Old Men.’

  This is the point where usually the questioner is greatly relieved and needs suffer no more of the agonising discomfort caused by not being quite sure why I look so familiar. In the case of the airline pilot, however, he was not having any of it. He declared that he didn’t watch TV and that he definitely knew me from somewhere else. He continued to pose a string of irritating and pointless questions: ‘Had I played table tennis as a junior in the national leagues?’ ‘Did I holiday in Crete?’ ‘Did I sail?’ ‘Had I ever worked in the airline industry?’

  Five minutes into this tiresome exchange, I wanted to say one of two things – either:

  ‘Look, I’m your brother, you idiot, don’t you remember?’

  Or:

  ‘Look, I don’t know you. Nor do I want to know you. Even if I did know you, which I don’t, you have demonstrated in this short and yet excruciatingly dull and pointless exchange, that you would be the type of person that I would want to avoid. Now sod off to Southampton, a city I shall take great care not to visit in the future for fear of bumping into you again.’

  Of course, being the cowardly Englishman that I am, I just alerted him to the imminent departure of my flight and beat a hasty retreat.

  As it turned out, this barber happened to be one of the more unusual cases who actually knew who I was.

  ‘Wait a minute, you’re Tony Hawks, aren’t you?’ he said, his accent sounding distinctly northern now.

  It turned out that the barber had read a few of my books and enjoyed listening to me on the radio. It also became clear that my suspicions about his accent were not unfounded.

  ‘I’m from Stoke,’ he explained, perhaps sensing that I needed clarification.

  Though geographically disappointing, Mark the barber was a nice guy. He explained how he and his family had moved down this way when his wife had got a job in Torquay, and he’d since bought the barbershop and was slowly building it up. We engaged in an agreeable conversation about the beauty of Devon and how much we were enjoying being ‘incomers’. Had we found our spiritual home here? We both hoped so.

  I paid for the cut and Mark asked if he could take my photo, just to prove to people that I’d been into the shop. I was getting the star treatment. As I posed, an old man entered and greeted us both, his vowels flattened by a pleasing Devonian twang. He was bald. The kind of bald that made one wonder why he had come into a barbershop. He observed our short photographic session with interest. Slightly embarrassed, I joked that I was modelling my haircut for one of those pictures in the window.

  ‘Right,’ said the old man, ‘I bet he won’t be taking my photo!’

  ***

  One bright, late-February morning, with just under a month to go to Fran’s due date, I did something that I’m told is not typically male. I made a doctor’s appointment that was cautionary in nature. Just recently, my urination had begun to concern me a little. I was getting up at least once in the night, and sometimes I wasn’t emptying my bladder completely after each urination. In short, my pissing was pissing me off. Given that I now had to pay attention to the R word, as outlined in Chapter 6, I felt it wise to check that this wasn’t the beginnings of a prostate problem, which could have more serious implications.

  In the doctor’s bland and sparse waiting room I bumped into Brenda – my fellow village hall committee member. A little embarrassed by the location of our encounter, we still exchanged a polite ‘How are you?’ This is not a thing to do in a doctor’s surgery, given that the answer ought probably to be:

  ‘Well, I’m crap, obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t be here, would I?’

  However, Brenda and I responded to each other’s polite but meaningless questions with polite but meaningless answers. We then had a short discussion about some village hall business, which no doubt made the others in the waiting room even more eager to be called in to see the doctor.

  ‘Mr Hawks. Dr Shadley. Room four,’ announced the receptionist.

  I stood up.

  ‘He’s in room four, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Phew, that was a relief. No correction on my question ‘He’s in room four, you say?’ Thankfully, I wouldn’t have to go through the uncomfortable process of specifically requesting a male doctor, thus giving clues to Brenda and the others that my reason for being there was probably not a blocked ear. It’s hard to say which would have been more awkward for me – having a female doctor delve around inside my pants, or announcing to a roomful of strangers and one village hall committee member that I didn’t want a female doctor delving around inside my pants. Rocks and hard places.2

  Dr Shadley did not look unlike the kind of man with whom I might be sharing a pint in the pub. He was close in age to me, well-kempt, and with a pleasant, engaging manner.

  ‘How can I help?’ he enquired.

  Displaying anything but eloquence, I offered my explanation.

  ‘I see,’ he said, in a way that made me a little nervous. ‘Well, of course the easiest way to proceed at this point would be for me to examine you. Are you happy for me to do this?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, cautiously, ‘what would that involve?’

  ‘I’ll
have to put my finger up your bottom.’

  Momentary disbelief. Did he just say that? If I had just taken a sip of tea, then surely I would have spat it out, such was the shock.

  Dr Shadley could see that I looked shaken.

  ‘I insert one finger in your anus and I can reach your prostate from there and have a good feel.’

  This wasn’t making things any easier. This was new territory for me. I’d never met a man before who had wanted to shove his finger up my arse. Or at least who had admitted it. Especially this quickly. I mean, we hardly knew each other.

  I suppose if I take a moment to reflect here, it can’t have been that nice for him either. I guess, like most doctors, he must sit in his room of a morning secretly hoping that everyone will have earache or a slight cough, rather than a string of complaints that require him to stick his finger up their arses.

  The mind boggles as to why so many young people want to be doctors, if this is the kind of thing that they’re going to end up doing after all those years of study. According to UCAS figures for 2012 entry, there were 82,489 applications to medical courses for only 7,805 places. This means there were 10.6 applicants for every place. Surely they could get that number down dramatically if they started mocking up my current situation at the interview stage?

  Thank you for applying to Bristol University’s medical school. Now, if you’d just like to bend over, I’m going to shove my finger up your arse to see if you’re the type we’re looking for. And after I’ve finished, I’d really appreciate it if you’d do the same to me.

  Err . . . maybe I’ll do geography after all.

  ‘How does this work, doctor?’ I asked, realising what a dumb question this was.

  ‘If you just take your trousers and pants down and lie on the couch, I’ll have a quick feel around and check on everything.’

  ‘I see. And how long does it take?’

  ‘Just a minute.’

  I was tempted to ask him if he could do it without hesitation, repetition and especially deviation, but the time didn’t seem right.3

  I pulled myself up onto the couch, slid my trousers and pants down, and rolled onto my side – offering the doctor my bare arse. This was not something that came easily to me. It seemed to be either extremely rude or unreasonably forward.

  I braced myself. Having been someone who had enjoyed routine heterosexuality enough not to have felt the need to indulge in extensive experimentation, this was all new. I decided to adopt a tactic I use when I’m at the dentist and he is hovering over me with a pulsating drill. I try to imagine the worst pain that one could experience, and then ready myself for that. The thinking is that any discomfort then felt will be mild in comparison, and therefore much easier to bear.

  In this situation there was no pain. It was an odd feeling, though, and not one that felt comfortable. It was certainly not pleasurable, as some claim to find it, perhaps because I was not relaxed enough. As the doctor’s digit probed, I became more anxious. What would he find up there? The keys to the garden shed? They had been missing for over a month now and Fran had repeatedly said, ‘Well, they must be somewhere.’

  Oddly, when the sixty seconds was up, there was no whistle. Just a feeling of immense relief as the finger was removed and my sphincter snapped back into its favourite position. Closed.

  ‘I’m pleased to say that there’s nothing to worry about,’ said the doctor. The doctor that I hardly knew.

  This was an immense relief. I can’t pretend that in the few seconds the examination had taken, I hadn’t allowed my mind to run wild with dark thoughts concerning my own mortality.

  ‘Just keep a close eye on things and if the symptoms continue or get worse, we’ll take another look,’ he continued.

  That would be fun.

  ‘Thank you, doctor.’

  ‘No problem. It was nice to meet you.’

  ‘It was nice to meet you, too.’

  I would have to manage my social life such that I didn’t meet anyone in that manner again.

  ***

  The month of March announced itself with a crisp, bright morning. A few weeks remained for us to cram ourselves full of as much information on childbirth as we possibly could. Our hypnobirthing classes doubled up on much of what we’d already learned in our active birth classes. We shared the sessions with another couple who, like us, seemed open to new ideas but weren’t your typical New Agey, hippy types that you might expect to find on this kind of ‘alternative’ course. Far from it, Jim was a plumber and his wife Sarah, a hairdresser.

  The main difference between this and the previous course we’d attended was that Fran learned some self-hypnosis techniques, as well as a couple of variations on the breathing exercises. Our teacher, Trina, displayed the customary bubbly vivaciousness that I now considered must be compulsory for anyone working in anything connected with childbirth. She was keen to have us be careful what language we used. Instead of ‘contraction’ we were asked to use the word ‘surge’, as it has a more positive connotation. I was taught massages I could give to Fran, and we learned how to block out any negative-speak we might hear that could cause us to be fearful going into the birth. Over three sessions, we took in a lot of information and consumed a lot of biscuits. (These also seem to be compulsory at any birth-related gathering.)

  We were brimming over with information and different techniques. What we really needed now was for labour to begin so we could put them into practice before we forgot them all, but instead life went on as usual. Sometimes it felt as if we were in a kind of suspended reality. Everything was still going on around us, but somehow it was of diminished importance. Even the village hall committee meetings lost their edge. The exhilaration of discussions about the introduction of a new cleaning rota, or finding dates for the next skittles evening, were tempered by the knowledge that a rather more sensational event was on the horizon. We were even able to handle the successful outcome of the debate about whether to replace the padlocks on the store cupboard without euphoria. No highs and lows for us right now. Just a clock ticking.

  ‘Enjoy your last days of freedom,’ was the common refrain we heard when we chatted to our fellow villagers. ‘Get some sleep in now, because soon you won’t get any.’

  I was reminded of how it felt when I was a twenty-year-old and I was told that I should enjoy myself now, because life was going to get a lot harder. I couldn’t understand the logic of this because at twenty, a human being is a pretty confused entity. We’re struggling to come to terms with adulthood, the opposite sex, and the perceived need to find a career. Telling you that those days ought to be the happiest days of your life wasn’t terribly helpful. Neither was what we were hearing now, which seemed to be something of this order:

  ‘Congratulations. You are about to have the most wonderful thing happen to you. Well done. Small thing, though – this wonderful thing that is about to happen to you will have a small by-product. It will totally ruin your life.’

  Anyway, the final days of ‘freedom’ didn’t feel very free at all. There was too much uncertainty. At any given moment, we were only hours away from having our lives changed forever. That’s the deal. Unless you book in for a Caesarean section, you don’t know when you’re going to have your baby. It can come early, like that unwanted big bill, or late, like a parcel you’ve waited in for. Babies come when they’re ready, I guess, and it is most unreasonable of them. In the meantime we wait, and we tread carefully.

  This must be what it feels like when two countries have declared war on each other but no hostilities have yet begun. It’s confusing. Unsettling. Disconcerting. Looking at the distant horizon, knowing that at any moment enemy bombers might appear, can take the edge off the nice sunny day. Thankfully for us it would be labour and a newborn baby, rather than air strikes or invading armies. Not unless NATO had overreacted to our decision to appeal against Dartmoor National Park Authority’s refusal of our planning application.

  Fran and I spent our evenings either reading
– our heads buried in books about childbirth – or doing some rather odd things. Having kept healthily open minds about most of the ‘New Agey’ writings about childbirth, we had decided to encourage our baby to get itself into the right position for its birth. We talked to it, and I’d even written a little song4 that we would sing to it regularly of an evening. I can remember when it first hit the headlines that Prince Charles talked to his plants and he was considered a ‘loony’ by the mainstream press. No doubt there is now evidence proving that plants respond well to posh people addressing them in aristocratic accents, saying: ‘Very nice to meet you – and what exactly do you do?’ Soon a scientific paper would emerge detailing how singing instructions to a foetus assists birth.

  Head down, chin to chest

  You know that this is best

  Back to belly, hands to heart

  All on the left now

  You’re ready to start

  ’Cos baby knows best

  Baby knows best

  (Repeat and fade)

  Fran had even picked a date for the birth.

  ‘It’s going to come on Thursday the twentieth,’ she declared.

  This was good, positive thinking, but it wasn’t exactly based on any scientific or biological evidence. Nevertheless, we kept the day clear.

  17

  Braking Bad

  ‘It doesn’t matter about Reg and his Zetor,’ said Ken.

  He’d popped over especially to deliver the news and he was standing in the porch smiling as I answered the door.

  ‘Andrew is going to lend you his Massey 35.’

  ‘Andrew?’

  ‘My son Andrew. He’s finished doing it up – but he’s going to take his Fordson Super Major to the tractor run so the Massey’s spare and you can drive it next Sunday.’