Stoned

by Graham Johns

  POSSIBLE POINTS OF ACTION

  Kill Maurice Bickerdyke, MP

  Finish building a wall around Yorkshire

  Speak to the press and politically oppose those who would seek to merge the counties

  Raise money to finance any project

  Campaign for independence

  Join Scotland

  Join Scandinavia

  “With the possible exception of Tom, does anyone feel like we should commit murder?” Mathew asked.

  No one gave assent to that notion which caused Tom to look a little crestfallen. “Bugger the lorofyus!” he said in disgust.

  “How about joining another country?” Mick then asked.

  Ernest picked up that one, “I think I read somewhere that Doncaster was gifted to Scotland sometime in the twelfth century and it has never officially been given back. That might provide a natural opportunity to extend the relationship.”

  “I think I read once that it’s not illegal to shoot a Scotsman from York’s city walls with a bow and arrow,” Johnny stated.

  “I heard the Scotsman had to be carrying the bow and arrow,” Ranjit said, striking a thoughtful pose with finger on chin.

  “They’re miserable bastards, we don’t want in with the Scots. It’d be far easier to rally Doncastrians to support us!” Gordon was starting to get a little peeved by now and was reddening in the face.

  “The Norwegians might be all for getting their hands on a bit of England, especially one with a coastline,” Mick said.

  “They’d be drilling for oil on every beach between Brid and Whitby!” Gordon said.

  “That seems to leave us with your wall then Mick. What about it?” Ernest asked.

  “What about it?” Mick replied in bemusement.

  “Can you finish it?”

  “Not alone, I think I’d need an army of people to help.”

  Ernest pondered this for a moment before announcing his thoughts, “What if we started putting efforts into a wall, while also speaking to the press to get some coverage and maybe campaigning against Mr. Bickerdyke? We can add on independence campaigning if it comes to it perhaps?”

  “Yorkshire! Yorkshire! Yorkshire!” Tom and Johnny began chanting in the corner, leaning on each other for support. They had both drunk a little too much lager by this point.

  Mick quite fancied a sampling of Priest’s Hole about now so he could acquire greater heights of merriment himself. Maybe tomorrow he could catch up with such things.

  “Perhaps we can reconvene here tomorrow evening at seven o’clock once everyone has had a chance to ponder things a little more?” Mick asked. “Does that work for you all?”

  There was a general consensus of nods and the evening drew to a satisfying close. After the guests had gone their separate ways Mick took to Mathew’s garage for a sleep. Mathew took to his computer to watch a few earlier videos.

  CHAPTER 5

  I’VE GOT A LIST OF BULLET POINTS,

  THEY REALLY DO THE TRICK,

  I’LL NOW BEGIN TO TICK THEM OFF,

  OR MY NAME ISN’T MICK!

  Gordon’s robotic wife, Selina, had remained especially quiet under her burqa at the party. She hadn’t spoken to anyone very much at all once they got to the serious business at hand. Indeed, she had been mulling over a rather alien environment where it seemed that it was OK to voice a degree of hatred against anyone just because they weren’t born where you were. Her logical mind could not understand why this sort of attitude should prevail.

  “Does it include me?” she asked Gordon as he ate his lovingly-prepared muesli and yoghurt on buttered toast the following morning.

  “What?” he answered with a mouthful of the crunchy, squishy mess and a confused look. He was still trying to work out whether he should be eating this dish with a knife and fork or a spoon.

  “Will I get kicked out of Yorkshire? Only, I have nowhere else to go. I’m not really from anywhere.” Even for a robot she seemed quite emotional at this prospect. While she couldn’t shed tears, she certainly appeared rather sad.

  Gordon began to cough the breakfast he had just swallowed back into his mouth and took a calming swig of Yorkshire Tea, swished it around and swallowed the mash once again before answering, “You have nothing to fear, my dear. You aren’t human, but you are my wife, and in many ways you are more human than many folks, especially those from Lancashire. I’m sure that nothing bad will come of this for you or indeed us. We’ll just steer them towards the right outcome. It’s much better to be on the inside of these things than not.”

  Selina didn’t respond. She simply stood and left the house with Nigel trotting after her.

  “I think I need to be cautious,” mused Gordon to himself, before following outside to get the daily work done with his flock.

  ***

  Mick had awoken with a clear head in Smutty Mathew’s garage and was ready for whatever challenges may face him on this fine Friday. Mathew insisted he sampled some home-made yoghurt with some fresh orange and kiwi fruit, along with a drizzle of honey, for breakfast and Mick had to admit that it was pretty decent, which led to Mathew supressing laughter.

  “Do you think we should start work on some of these bullet points today before we have the meeting later?” Mick asked, sipping his Yorkshire Tea.

  “I don’t see why not, so long as we don’t stray into anything controversial. What did you have in mind?”

  “I was thinking that you could show me the path that the new wall needs to take and then maybe we could decide how we want to engage the press on this?”

  “Sounds good. Let me get my maps ready and we can crack on.”

  ***

  A little further back in time than when we met him last, Roger the Pure was standing with Honesty Boycott examining the lay of the land of this new village from the southern riverbank in the light of dusk. Roger ensured he was upwind of Honesty to protect himself from the man’s foul stench. Smoke was billowing from the chimneys of the few buildings that were currently erected. Having just arrived in the village, he was very keen to build his new church but would have to seek favour with the locals to allow him to do so. Unfortunately, the locals were a heathen bunch who had no desire to worship any God. Roger the Pure could see that he would need to be creative if he was to get his own way and be able to pursue the Lord’s work.

  “So, dear Honesty, what would it take in order for this village to commit to the Lord? How am I to convince you?” Roger had a twinkle in his eye as he said this. He liked the cut of Honesty’s jib, but unfortunately he liked nothing about Honesty’s character or odour whatsoever.

  Honesty growled his response, “Listen to me, monk, we will get ourselves into Yorkshire or you will have no church. I will personally slay any man who tries to bring such ridiculous notions of divine beings here unless you help us.”

  “Do you have anything in mind?”

  “Some idiot decided to build this village on the wrong side of the river. We need to move it.” He turned around and gazed at the river behind him.

  Roger the Pure looked dumbfounded, “Move the village? Really?”

  “No. Move the river.”

  Roger’s dumbfounded look intensified, “Really? Wouldn’t it be easier to just move the village?”

  How on earth does one move a river? He wasn’t Moses. The Lord tended not to magically answer prayers. For that matter, the Lord tended not to do much at all unless mankind claimed whatever it was that had happened anyway was actually God’s will or God’s punishment, but this was something Roger opted not to dwell upon too much. The Lord had better things to do than worry about the trifling nonsense of the layman. Such was life. Roger’s job was just to get people to do what he said, not what he did.

  “We’re not moving Ye Olde Doge & Ducke! That would be sacrilege and that’s my final word on the matter! We’re going to dig a channel around the village to the south west and then route the existing river into it, making sure that it joins back up to its original course afte
r the village is negotiated.”

  Roger’s mouth fell open and he didn’t quite know where to place his hands which he waved around and thus looked rather like he was fighting a swarm of bees, “That is an enormous undertaking! How on earth will you do it?”

  Honesty looked satisfied to have this religious hypocrite on the back foot, “I have a team of two hundred men and their beasts from surrounding Yorkshire farms coming to help. We’ll be able to create a new sheep dip within part of the existing river channel, near where I intend to allow you to build your church. We will be able to easily refresh the sheep dip with a syphon through a small gate and ditch from the river.”

  Roger was impressed. This man was far more than a farmer. “So how do I help you exactly?”

  “You ensure that there is no mention in any historical records of anything to do with what we are going to do here. Do you understand?” Honesty glared directly into Roger’s eyes.

  Roger felt like his soul was being laid bare before this heretic, “Very well. You have my word.”

  As he was saying these words, Roger was also wondering to himself what was to stop Honesty Boycott from reneging on his word and killing him in cold blood once the task was complete. He decided he needed some leverage from somewhere. “Perhaps I could assist you in other ways?”

  “How so?”

  “Well, perhaps I could ensure that any existing tomes pertaining to Nether-Staining are obtained and destroyed?”

  “And pray tell how will you do this?” Honesty asked.

  “I have church and royal connections I could leverage to seek out anything we might need to dispose of.”

  Honesty stared hard at Roger which made him squirm. “Very well, but I want to see everything before we destroy it in a fire. You will get your church and I will personally make a donation to your cause by not killing you.”

  Roger looked relieved. He didn’t feel too relieved though. Not just yet. He needed to work this through very carefully indeed.

  ***

  Mick was perched atop his personal achievement of a small pile of rocks at the base of the historic sheep dip. Mathew shared his perch and was pointing at various locations in the immediate vicinity using his old maps for reference.

  “You see just over there?” he said while pointing at the River Neth.

  Mick moved his head to look in the right direction, “What about it?”

  “It looks from this map that the natural path of the river moved straight through where we are now standing and through where the church is. It looks like it once followed a rather straight line through one side of the village green to connect back into its current path perhaps a half a mile over there.

  “You can make out the rough contours on some parts of the ground that still exist today, even to the point of imagining a riverbank in places, where it hasn’t been built on.”

  Mick had to right his balance as he followed Mathew’s sweeping arm gesture into the distance. “Why on earth would anyone move a river? It seems crazy.”

  “I suppose we can only guess, but perhaps the point is that at least one record exists to this day that shows how the village used to be. Perhaps we just need to focus on what we are going to do about it.”

  Mick stepped off his rocks and climbed out of the ditch, giving Mathew a begrudging hand out, lest anyone see him doing physical activity. He paused in thought for a moment, “So, what about those buildings that are to the south and west of the river as it is now?”

  “They must technically be in Lancashire.”

  Mick gazed across the river to the farmstead of one Mr. Gordon Shepherd and a thin smile crossed his lips, “Gordon will be apoplectic when he finds out. He hates people from Lancashire. His purpality will shoot through the roof so we’d best have a paramedic nearby when we tell him.”

  “I can give him mouth-to-mouth, STS,” Mathew said with his customary pout.

  Mick ignored him. “Mind you, it might be a moot point given that either the whole village is in or out, surely nobody is going to carve the place into two…”

  Mick’s words hung in the air for a moment and then drifted off on the prevailing breeze into the east. They headed back to Mathew’s to discuss the press engagement.

  ***

  The atmosphere in the Dog & Duck could best be described as tense on this Friday lunchtime. The reason for this tension was threefold. Bob and Beryl were having some trouble with the supply lines of ale; the chef Ron Flounders hadn’t turned up for work today amid rumours of activity of dubious legality involving the contents of his laptop; and Maurice Bickerdyke had also decided to drop in as part of his PR and ideas campaign.

  Beryl was technically the part-time barmaid but she’d been observed as spending more and more time at this fine ale house in recent months, largely due to a blossoming relationship with Bob although that seemed to have cooled a little of late, much to her surprise. No more was spoken of it by patrons, however, for fear of being barred. In the cellar, Bob was busily checking the current barrel of Priest’s Hole while Beryl put her hair back into shape.

  “I really don’t know why this isn’t working, I only cleaned the lines the other day.” He was getting a bit red in the face.

  “It’s not like you to lose control of your pipes, maybe you should just switch the barrel? Maybe that one is blocked?” Beryl offered.

  “It galls me to do so, but I suppose you’re right. I’ll swap it over and we can see if that sorts it. Can you go upstairs and try pulling a pint through in five minutes.”

  Beryl headed up to the bar where Maurice was awaiting service.

  “What’ll it be?” she asked him.

  “Hello. My name ith Maurithe Bickerdyke, Member of Parliament for Nether-Thtaining and beyond.” He beamed at her for good measure.

  Beryl was unmoved, “That’s nice. What can I get you?”

  “Jutht a half of Prietht’th Hole pleathe.”

  “PRIETHT’TH HOLE!” screamed Broken, bobbing around on his perch at the opposite end of the bar. He seemed delighted with a new pronunciation.

  “You might have to wait a few minutes, we’re just swapping the barrel over. Any food for you this lunchtime? I have a nice selection of baps,” Beryl said as she swept her ample arms across a basket of wrapped sandwiches at the end of the bar, away from Broken.

  Maurice’s eyes followed her arm from behind his glasses, rested on her bosom for a little longer than was polite, and completed his visual journey. He surveyed the offerings and opted for cheese and pickle, which Beryl passed him. “Shall I bring your beer when it’s ready?”

  “Thank you, yeth. Can I athk your opinion on thomething while we wait?”

  A moment of hesitation passed before Beryl responded with a tentative, “OK.”

  “I am wondering what you think of the idea of Yorkthire and Lancathire being more aligned in government?”

  Beryl’s eyes narrowed, now she remembered the name, Maurice, not Maurithe, “Well, I happen to think it is a terrific idea…”

  Maurice’s eyes lit up. Beryl continued, “…if you’ve got half a brain and don’t understand history in any way, shape or form.”

  “HALF A BRAIN!”

  Maurice decided it would be prudent to retreat to a shadowed corner table with his lunch, “Thank you.”

  Bob appeared at the top of the cellar stairs with an impatient look and said, “I’ve been calling you, give it a go.”

  The beer pulled through successfully and Maurice and a couple of others were served, having waited with varying degrees of patience. Bob returned to the cellar to tidy things up.

  Gordon arrived for his customary lunchtime refreshment at this point, waddling through the pub entrance with Ernest shielded from view close behind him. Gordon approached the bar muttering under his breath to himself while Ernest seated himself not far from Broken.

  “Two Holes please, Beryl!” his raised voice sounded like the false enthusiasm of one who is determined that the glass is half full while sipping
from the dregs.

  “Everything alright, Gordon?” Beryl asked.

  “Thank you for asking, Beryl. Not really, no. Everything is not alright at all. I find myself exceptionally concerned about racial tension today as it happens.”

  “Is this related to Lancashire again?”

  “Those Lancashire Bastards!” Gordon shouted. “What’ve they ever done for us? And now we find we might not be in God’s own county – Yorkshire – after all!”

  Beryl motioned with her eyes, which today were graced with violet contact lenses, to a far corner where Maurice Bickerdyke was busily finishing his sandwich and reading a copy of the Yorkshire Herald. He didn’t seem to have noticed the chatter. Gordon had followed her gaze and calmed himself slightly before taking his beers to where Ernest was waiting.

  Ernest glared at him through his lenses and talked in hushed tones, “You really need to keep your temper under control you know?”

  Gordon appeared reprimanded and swigged a large mouthful of beer before replying in much quieter fashion, “Sorry, Scoggins. Not deliberate. I desperately wanted to get my mouth around some Hole after this morning.”

  “What’s up?”

  “It’s Selina, she wasn’t very happy with the meeting last night. She is deeply worried about how racist we all are just because of where we were born.”

  “I would hardly call us racist. We’re just trying to protect our heritage. Call us historians if you will, maybe even Yorkists.” Ernest smiled to himself. In his sixties, he was at an age where he liked a bit of history, but not too much, because he was also at an age where too much sleep wasn’t really the done thing…you just might not wake up!

  “The Yorkists? I like that. We could go with that on our campaign posters.”

  “We could indeed,” Ernest said, “are you ready for the reconvening tonight?”

  “I think so. I think I know what we need to do,” Gordon looked further troubled as he relapsed into his private issues.

  ***