Stoned

by Graham Johns

  Ernest’s jaw continued to droop at Mick’s knowledge and he remembered to rein it in.

  “I’ve heard the Scots are campaigning hard for independence again, I think they might win this time, it’s only a few days until they have another vote,” Ernest said.

  “If they get it, I reckon Yorkshire ought to ask for it as well. We’d be a fine country on our own! God’s own country, in fact.” Mick swept his hand through his dark, greying hair and looked proudly into some unknown future.

  “You of course know we’d still be attached to England on all of our non-coastal sides?” Ernest asked.

  “Well, yes, but there’s no harm in fighting the good fight like our ancestors is there? Perhaps it’s time for Yorkshire to get on the front foot. We’d have our own coast, we could even have our own navy.”

  Gordon arrived at the table with three pints in a precarious triangular shape in his large hands. He placed them on the table carefully so as not to spill a precious drop of Hole. They all took that delicious first tasting which requires no interruption or words and ends with a satisfying sigh of approval.

  “Are you harping on about Yorkshire independence again?” Gordon asked of Mick. Turning to Ernest he then added, “He’s always rabbiting on about it lately.”

  “Yeah, but the Americans are talking about building a wall to keep Mexicans out, so why don’t we do something similar? It’s the only way we can protect Yorkshire! First Lancastrians, then aliens, what’s next? The French? The Scots? The Americans themselves? Sneaky invading swines!” Mick had stood up and increased his volume during this impassioned speech and realised that the other dozen-or-so punters on a Sunday lunchtime were looking at him a little oddly. He decided to seat himself once more.

  “I kind of see your point,” Ernest conceded.

  “You do?” Gordon asked.

  “You do?” Mick also asked.

  “I thought you were sensible, Scoggins,” Gordon said.

  “I think I was until I started spending some of my free time with you pair.” Ernest shook his head and shrugged. “It’s good to call you both friends though, fun even…at least some of the time.”

  Gordon and Mick both smiled at him. They were the sort of smiles generally worn by a village idiot. Two for the price of one. Ernest wondered why it was that, given that the village idiot was only ever mentioned in the singular, Nether-Staining was blessed with two. Gordon placed one of his large, pound-of-sausage-like hands on Ernest’s shoulder in a friendly grip.

  “Welcome to the club, Scoggins,” Gordon said with the vaguest hint of emotion, very rare on a Yorkshireman.

  “Yeah, good to have you on board,” Mick concurred, placing his own much leaner hand on Ernest’s other shoulder, and then added his other hand to the shoulder of Gordon. The circle was complete, although Ernest kept his hands to himself.

  “So, tell me about this wall then?” Ernest asked Mick.

  Gordon rolled his eyes, grabbed his glass and stood up, “I think I’ll go and talk to Broken if you don’t mind. I’ve heard this before.” He wandered off through a small crowd that had appeared from the church.

  Mick took on a distant, almost dreamy state, “Think about it, Ernest. We’ve always had issues with immigrants and the lack of respect and understanding that comes from all sides. Why don’t we just eliminate it all by keeping Yorkshire for ourselves? Let’s ban outsiders from coming in without proper authority! Let’s kick out the troublemakers who don’t belong here! Let’s get back to what really matters and what we’re really good at!”

  “Which is?” Ernest asked, trying not to get bored or indeed to ridicule the man.

  “Being Yorkshire of course! We make great things here, we have a beautiful county, we have beautiful cities, towns and villages! We even have some beautiful people! We could make a success of it!”

  “You know that some of the people you consider immigrants are as Yorkshire as you are, don’t you?”

  Mick stood up once more and began to orate loudly.

  “Well, yes, but we’ll restrict the right to be in Yorkshire to those who were born here. Imagine making our own decisions instead of deferring to the bloody southerners in London all of the time. We can have our own tourism industry, our own manufacturers and service industries serving our own people.” He was starting to get a little red in the face. “Just imagine, if you will, cries of ‘Yorkshire! Yorkshire! Yorkshire!’ actually meaning something at last!”

  A ripple of applause spread around the pub. A few people were crying. Phrases such as “He knows what he’s talking about!”, “Ee by gum, he’s right!” and “You can’t beat a nice cup of Yorkshire Tea!” were spreading around the bar. A chorus of ‘On Ilkla Moor Baht ‘at’ had also broken out with gusto. Ernest was agog and had to remember to close his mouth again.

  “What about your benefits?” he asked of Mick.

  “Ah, now, I’ve been thinking about that.” Mick looked like he had a plan. And when Mick looked like he had a plan, it meant one of two things…either the local men had best lock up their women, or something ridiculous was about to occur.

  CHAPTER 2

  I SIT ABOUT ALL DAY, LAZING A BIT,

  BUT IT’S OK BECAUSE I’M ON BENEFITS,

  I’VE GOT A PLAN TO MAKE YORKSHIRE GREAT,

  AND WE CAN DO IT WITHOUT THE NEED FOR HATE.

  After finishing their pints and saying a temporary farewell to Gordon, Mick had led the reluctant Ernest to the edge of the village by the historic sheep dip, long disused and drained of effluence, and stood pointing at it.

  “Why am I looking at the sheep dip, precisely?” Ernest asked impatiently with his hands in pockets.

  “I’ve made a start!” Mick beamed.

  “On what?”

  “A Yorkshire wall!”

  Ernest looked into the sheep dip more closely. At the base of the ditch was a small pile of stones maybe two yards long and a yard wide; and a foot tall. It would take an able man a matter of an hour to build, maybe just thirty minutes with a wheelbarrow.

  “That’s not a wall, it’s a pile of stones,” Ernest summarised. He wished he had stayed in the pub or gone home…or stuck pins in his eyes for that matter. Anything so he could un-see what he had now seen.

  “It is a wall, or the start of one at least,” Mick would not be deterred. “We’ll start small and make it big, you just see!”

  “How long have you been working on it?”

  “Just a week. Not bad eh?” Mick looked about him furtively. “I need to make sure nobody sees me lifting anything just in case I lose my disability benefits.”

  “Why on God’s green Yorkshire earth would you start building a wall in a ditch well-below ground level? And what if they need to use the dip again in future?” Ernest was incredulous. It would be wrong to say he couldn’t believe this, because he was dealing with Mick.

  “I refer you to my previous reason about not wanting people to see me, if they need the dip, they can move it!”

  Ernest rolled his eyes, shook his head and shrugged all at the same time.

  At that moment, Reverend James Burns crossed the road from the nearby church to see what was happening. Despite a distinct lack of wind on this fine day, the Reverend still appeared to be facing into a gale, as he had a hooked nose and receding hair with a nice widow’s peak, which was always flicked backwards.

  “Jolly good day to you both!” he said enthusiastically. He had gained renewed vigour after a recent upsurge in church attendance. “Are you showing someone else your wall, Mick?”

  “Yes, Reverend, although I’m not sure that Ernest is overly impressed.”

  “Well, as the good book says: He measured it on the four sides; it had a wall all around, the length five hundred and the width five hundred, to divide between the holy and the profane.”

  “Quite right, Reverend. We shall be the holy, everyone else the profane!” Mick stated with one hand on hip and the other pointing in the direction of Lancashire.

  A t
enuously linked religious quotation wasn’t quite enough to stir Ernest into a fervour, “So how does this solve your benefits problem?”

  “Well, when Yorkshire is as one, I’ll be hailed as a visionary hero and I’ll never need worry about paying for drinks or dinners again!” Mick gazed into the heavens with a partially smug, distant expression.

  The Reverend and Ernest shared a brief look that smacked of, “Let’s just humour him.” Reverend Burns decided to go and do something useful.

  “I think I will leave you two to it. I’m going to go and do something useful.” He whirled around and almost bounced back to the church with a spring in his step.

  Ernest didn’t have the luxury of a nearby exit from this madness, “Shall we go back to the pub?”

  ***

  The lunchtime rush had died off by the time Mick and Ernest returned to the Dog & Duck. Gordon was still amusing himself with Broken and it seemed that whatever he had been working on had drawn a bit of a crowd.

  “MICK SUCKS! MICK SUCKS! MICK SUCKS!” Broken was screeching and bouncing around on his perch by the bar. He was enjoying the attention. Mick looked on and appeared horrified.

  Gordon noted Mick’s presence once more and made a clicking noise with his mouth which led to Broken suddenly changing tune, “MICK RULES!”

  Mick beckoned Gordon over to him, further along the bar and away from the small crowd of onlookers, “You’re poisoning the pub parrot against me!”

  “Relax!” Gordon said with a satisfied smile. “There are many Micks in this world and besides, I’ve taught him the positive and the negative. Never let it be said that Broken isn’t of balanced opinions.”

  “FAT BASTARD!” Broken screamed towards Gordon.

  “The little sod. I’ll wring his neck one of these days,” Gordon changed his tune.

  From behind the bar, Bob rubbed his beard thoughtfully before saying, “I should have you barred for teaching Broken these phrases, it’s bad for business!”

  “BEARDED BASTARD!” Broken shouted.

  Bob scowled at them in a way that said, “If I find out who taught him that, you’ll never drink ale in this village again.”

  The friends issued hearty laughter and, with much gaiety, took seats at a vacant table not far from Broken while awaiting Ernest’s return with the drinks.

  To Gordon, Ernest said sarcastically, “I’ve seen his ‘wall’.”

  “Oh yeah? I thought it was more a pile of stones than a wall,” Gordon replied.

  “Rome wasn’t built in a day!” Mick protested.

  “No, but I dare say they had a good foundation done in just a week,” Ernest said. Gordon liked that one and laughed heartily, with his chins and sizeable belly joining in.

  “You’ll be laughing on the other side of your faces when you see I’m right,” Mick folded his arms and adopted a slightly sulky expression before taking a mouthful of Hole and grimacing. “Now look what you’ve done! You’ve left a bad taste in my mouth and it has spoilt my enjoyment of Hole.”

  “Funny. I find that it is often Hole that leaves a bad taste in the mouth,” Gordon said.

  “We don’t need to hear about you and your flock again, Shepherd!” Ernest laughed.

  Mick seemed to make his mind up about something and stood from his seat, “I’ll see you both later, I feel I need some feminine company.”

  They watched him approach the auburn-haired Jane Wagstaff, widely regarded as the village bicycle, who was stood by the bar talking to Bob. Incredibly, within seconds of her green eyes resting on Mick’s presence, she bought him a new drink.

  “I don’t know how he does it,” Gordon commented.

  “What? With women? That’s because you’re always fettling sheep,” Ernest replied with a chuckle. “You know how he had a fling with Veronica once? Well, I must say when he revealed a few of his secrets to me, under oath I might add, it certainly made his successes seem a little more understandable. He might be a wastrel but he knows his way around the female of the species, he’s not just a big cock.”

  “He is sometimes. Anyway, that’s more detail than I wanted, thanks. What I meant is how he never ever pays for a drink. He should write a book on it. It’s an art.” Gordon raised his Hole in a toast and Ernest joined him. “And I will thank you to stop saying I fettle my sheep, which is pure hearsay.”

  “If you say so.”

  Gordon polished off the last of his drink before announcing rather loudly for Ernest’s benefit, “Right! I’m going home to see my wife! Farewell until tomorrow!”

  He walked over to Mick and patted him on the shoulder and then waddled out of the door slightly unsteadily. Ernest took his leave and went home to Veronica.

  ***

  It was still light as Gordon returned to his farm. Part of the building had had to be gutted after a recent fire but it had been restored sympathetically. The golden Yorkshire stone façade was almost glowing in the late afternoon sunshine and it gave Gordon pause and a moment of happiness.

  He ignored the front door, instead heading around to the rear entrance that led straight into the kitchen. As he opened the door, Nigel, his border collie, leapt up at him with delight momentarily and received a scratch behind the ears in payment. This done, he dashed outside to the corner of the lower field and relieved himself on the gatepost.

  “Is that you, dear?”

  Gordon’s wife emerged from the lounge into his kitchen. Nobody he knew had yet met his current wife. After his previous wife had divorced him, Gordon had reverted to his backup plan and tried to reboot the identical robot replacement of her which he had stowed in his barn while an attempted alien invasion took place elsewhere in the village. When he fixed the parts back together it seemed she was almost as good as new, although he found that she occasionally seemed to stand still as if waiting for instructions which never came. Hours could be lost to this and it was at those times that he needed to give her a gentle prod in the left buttock for her to suddenly bounce back into life. While his wife had been called Betty, he had decided to give the new version a different name and opted for Selina because, in his younger years, he always thought Selina Scott to be a quality bit of Yorkshire totty. She didn’t look much like Selina as she had shoulder-length, straight brown hair instead of blonde. She was slim in body and could certainly be considered pretty. He hated the thought of Betty these days; too many years of marriage can change a man, “Perhaps I could get her a blonde wig?” he thought to himself.

  Added bonuses of having a robot wife so far seemed to be that food bills had dropped markedly, she had no baggage associated with an irritating family and she didn’t need to go to Smutty Mathew’s garage gym any longer. She also seemed to enjoy running a tight ship. He was hopeful that Mick wouldn’t take a fancy to her when they eventually met because he had no idea how you were supposed to clean a robot…mind you, he had no idea how you were supposed to clean a woman for that matter. He missed having a warm body to share a bed with at night though because she was usually plugged in and charging downstairs.

  “Hello dear!” Gordon replied with enthusiasm.

  “How was your day?” she asked.

  “Wonderful. It was sunny so I actually had a walk to the church, across the river which sparkled for a change. I spent some time in the churchyard and then at the pub, I’ll take you down there one day soon.”

  “That would be lovely, thank you.” She smiled at him. Gordon had yet to be totally sure about how her emotions worked but at least she didn’t seem to have mood swings or hate his guts. It was just a shame she wasn’t yet much good at cooking. She was certainly keen to try though, and do other chores about the farm, so all was well in Gordon’s less-than-humble opinion.

  “I’ve told my friends about you and they’re keen to meet you.”

  “And I them.” There was a slight coldness to her responses at times but it was far preferable to the overt hatred he sometimes used to be on the receiving end of from his now ex-wife.

  “What’s f
or dinner?” he asked, taking a seat at the large oak kitchen table.

  “Well, I’ve been reading some things on the internet and decided that you should have salad.”

  Gordon’s face fell. His belly rumbled in advanced complaining, “What kind of salad?”

  “Bacon and egg. Hope you like it.” She placed the food in front of him and sat opposite, watching. There was indeed bacon, well-done which was a good start; egg, poached to within an inch of its life; cucumber which had been fried; lettuce and tomato, which were mercifully raw. He ate it anyway, his belly loved bacon.

  “Delicious!” he said afterwards.

  “Glad you liked it. I will add that to my memory for future use,” she said with a smile.

  “Maybe try to poach the egg a little less and don’t cook the cucumber next time though.”

  “OK. Noted.” She ran her hands through her hair to move it away from her eyes. She then recalled something she needed to tell Gordon.

  “Our MP came round this afternoon. He was asking for my opinion on greater integration in the local government between Yorkshire and Lancashire.”

  Gordon thought for a moment, digesting what Selina had said, and then his hackles rose. His face turned red as he slammed his hand onto the table, which would have made a human wife jump, “The ignorant bastard! He doesn’t know a damn thing! What’s his name? I’m going to speak to him tomorrow!”

  “Maurice Bickerdyke, I can show you an image of him if you like.” She paused momentarily while she processed the request and a projection of light emerged from her left eye which showed a buck-toothed, twenty-something man wearing a pin-striped suit. Greasy black hair, a pencil moustache and spectacles completed the picture.

  “Thank you,” Gordon said, memorising said image. “If he shows up again, you have my permission to punch him on the nose.”