Stoned

by Graham Johns

  “You jutht have to find out. Thomething ithn’t right and I know what I heard. Thomething illegitimate in relation to the acthepted Yorkthire border relating to Nether-Thtaining. I have to have the information.”

  Whoever was on the far end of the call was probably mightily relieved not to be spat at during that sentence. Thank goodness for telephones.

  Maurice hung up, thoughtfully ran his hands through his greasy black hair and cleaned his glasses on his tie. He was convinced he would get his own way here, knowledge was power after all. His political career could really blossom if he could create a few waves in this safe seat backwater; and he had a few powerful friends who were there to support him.

  ***

  “D’you think we should put an electric fence on top of all of your stone walls, maybe even all of Yorkshire’s border walls?” Mick enquired of his friend later that evening after several samplings of the Priest’s Hole.

  “Might be the least offensive way of reinforcing the border I guess, especially if someone tries to claim my farm as being in Lancashire,” Gordon replied quietly in case of eavesdroppers, “I suppose my farm is the last in Yorkshire now you mention it so it kind of makes sense. It’d make the wall a bit easier to build. Eventually, we will need to think about the roads, rails, canals and rivers too in the grand scheme of things. One thing at a time though eh?”

  “I’m glad you seem a bit more on board with things, Gordon.” Mick placed a hand on the ample shoulder of Gordon and then tweaked one of his mutton chops affectionately with the other.

  “You’re not gonna kiss me are you?” Gordon looked worried.

  “I’ve got a lot of love to give, Gordon, but rest assured that tonight will not be your lucky night,” Mick said as he scanned the bar for a potential conquest.

  “KISS ME!” Broken shouted.

  “I’d rather kiss a cactus, thanks, Broken!” Mick replied. “They’re less likely to rip my lips off!”

  Gordon and Mick laughed. Broken eyed them with a degree of dislike.

  Mick arose to his feet slightly unsteadily, “I’m afraid I need to return to the wall and see how those strong lads are getting on.”

  “Very well, Michael. So be it. I may still be here when you return, or I may not. Either way, I guess I will see you tomorrow, you wastrel bastard.”

  “WASTREL!”

  “See you later, fat man.”

  Mick tottered out of the pub. Gordon supped up slowly and decided to return home, waving farewell to Beryl at the bar on his way.

  ***

  Mick was taken aback by the sight that greeted him opposite the church. There was a line of five bright yellow tipper trucks with the Yorkshire Solid Stone logo on the doors, currently waiting to relieve themselves of significant amounts of quarried surplus stone. Reverend Burns and his wife, Sandra, were observing from the drive of the vicarage just next door.

  Tom and Johnny were looking highly delighted with themselves.

  “What’s going on?” Mick asked.

  “My mate Steve wanted to chip in so they’ve sent this stone over to give us a hand, where d’you think we should purrit?” Tom asked.

  Mick found his mind was suddenly blank. He was happy with the idea of building a wall one stone at a time, but five trucks at a time was too much to contemplate. They hadn’t even drawn up a plan of exactly where the wall was going to go yet.

  “I think we need to put it in a holding area until we can deploy the stones to their destination,” Mick said with as much mustered confidence as he could. He then whirled around to look for a little advice from outside the vicarage, “Reverend!”

  But Reverend and Mrs. Burns had scarpered before Mick had the chance to ask a favour. God moves in mysterious ways. Mick decided on the only place he could think of to store the stone.

  “Let’s put it somewhere central, on the village green. Is that OK with you chaps?”

  The drivers didn’t really care where they left it as long as they could go home for their dinner, so they drove to the village green. Mick followed them on foot with Tom and Johnny for company. On arriving in the centre of the village, the trucks were just finishing up and he was surprised by how much space that much stone occupied. He had to hope nobody would notice and complain, at least until they could convince the locals that this was a project worth projecting.

  “Alright, lads. Let’s get some plans drawn up so we can start shifting this stone out of here as soon as possible.”

  All was rather quiet around Mick as Tom and Johnny had already made their way into the nearby pub. Mick decided he would follow them.

  The scene in the pub was almost as surprising as the pile of stones outside. Bob had adorned himself in a sequined purple jacket and was currently patrolling the building selling raffle tickets.

  “Ah, Mick. Could I interest you in a raffle ticket perhaps?” Bob asked, knowing full well that Mick never funnelled any actual money into his fine establishment if he could help it.

  Mick decided to play along, “What’s the prize?”

  “What would you like the prize to be?” Bob asked, rubbing his ample facial hair with his spare hand.

  “Right now, I think I’d really like to win a team of experienced stone wall builders.”

  “Amazing! That is what the prize is! Five pounds for a ticket.” Bob held out his hand. What happened next was something that would live long in the folklore of Nether-Staining. Michael Hunt actually produced a wallet from his pocket, extracted five English pounds and gave it to Bob Roberts. Bob staggered backwards slightly with eyes wide. A rather dusty-looking moth flew past said wide eyes and started circling the light fittings. Bob held the note up to the light just to ensure that it appeared genuine and that all watermarks were where they should be. Satisfied, he squirrelled the note away, gave Mick a ticket and asked a very pertinent question.

  “Are you feeling alright?”

  Mick simply said, “Yes. Now please can I get a comely Priest’s Hole, landlord?”

  Bob drew said item from the pump and placed it on the bar in front of Mick with a warm smile, “On the house.”

  CHAPTER 7

  PILES, PILES, EVERYWHERE!

  WHERE SHOULD I SIT? I MUST BEWARE!

  FOR SITTING DOWN CAN BE AN ISSUE,

  ESPECIALLY FOR ONE WITH SENSITIVE TISSUE!

  A large number of people were complaining vigorously the following morning, especially as it was a Sunday. This was because they had been rudely awakened at dawn by a cacophony emanating from somewhere in the village, which had broken upon their small slice of paradise. Those folk who lived closest to the village green were the unhappiest of all because the noise was quite literally outside their bedroom windows.

  Only when Mick’s wanderings happened to pass by the Dog & Duck at seven o’clock in the morning did the reason become apparent. Trucks were arriving from all over Yorkshire and depositing loads of stone in the centre of Nether-Staining. A large digger had appeared from somewhere and was currently moving piles of stone around to free up more space for the next truckload to be deposited.

  “Oh bugger!” Mick shouted. This was clearly not going to be an easy day. How he wished now that he had invested his time last evening in setting out wall plans instead of enjoying libation and then satisfying Verity Smythe, the local, aged spinster. It made him cringe just thinking about it. He headed to see Veronica and Ernest.

  ***

  The Scoggins household was in preparatory mode for the weekly church service when Mick arrived at their front door. Ernest was completing the donning of his Sunday best ensemble of a dark suit and was putting on his dark blue tie as he answered the door.

  “Good morning to you, Mick! What brings you here at this hour? And would you mind helping me with a Windsor knot while you have nothing better to do?”

  Mick was skilled in the arts of dressing and indeed undressing, especially of other people, and waded in to the breach with an air of manliness.

  “We have a problem, Ernest.
We’re getting stone deliveries from all over the place.” Mick’s frustration led to the knot being tightened just a little too aggressively for Ernest’s liking and he began to choke.

  “Watch it!” Ernest jerked away from Mick and freed up his windpipe slightly. “What d’you mean?”

  “You’ll see when we pass through the village on the way to church, although it’s fair to say you might see it sometime before we get there.”

  Veronica appeared at that point in her Sunday outfit and ready for action. Her hair had been freshly coiffured into tight curls and she smelled of decent perfume. She was wearing a pale blue dress with yellow flowers on it and was carrying a matching blue hat, “Good morning, Mick. Would you like a lift to church?”

  “Good morning to you, Veronica! Yes please, that’s very kind of you.” Mick had a quick look at himself in the full-length mirror just inside the front door. He decided he had best find an alternative outfit later as his suit was looking a little creased.

  “Well, it is Sunday, it seems a fitting Christian act for the day. Shall we go?” Veronica responded somewhat pompously and with a slight disregard for Mick’s appearance.

  The passengers in the little Toyota did indeed see the stones before they passed into the centre of the village. “Oh my,” was all Veronica could say. She pulled up close to the mountains of what appeared to be rubble, at first sight at least. The golden hue proved them to be a quality Yorkshire stone destined for greatness.

  “It appears that word of our plans has got out, to Yorkshire quarry owners at least,” Ernest said. “We can’t leave it here.”

  “I know that,” Mick replied, “but I don’t actually have a plan for the location of the wall yet.”

  “Well, that now needs to be a priority doesn’t it? Perhaps we need to call a village meeting and get everyone involved,” Ernest said, rubbing his chin.

  “I’ll have a chat with the Reverend, leave it with me,” Veronica said firmly, putting the car into gear to complete the remainder of the short journey.

  The church was rather busy this morning. Gordon and Selina were outside with Nigel, although only Selina ventured into the building with Ernest and Mick for company, Gordon preferred to enjoy the sunshine with his furry friend although not before he ensured Mick was keeping his hands to himself as far as his wife was concerned. Veronica had separately made a beeline for Reverend Burns before the service began and whispered into his ear for a short while. The Reverend nodded several times and looked concerned by whatever she was asking or telling him and began furiously leafing through his pocket bible as she wandered into the welcoming embrace of the church of St. Roger to join her husband.

  Mick had taken up his usual horizontal space by reclining on one of the rear pews. It would be a nice day for a quality nap. He closed his eyes and relaxed in the rather warming glow of the red walls, which still smelled slightly of fresh paint after being freshened up in the last few months in the ‘Big Bang’ shade, chosen by Sandra Burns in honour of her dalliance with one Michael Hunt, not that the Reverend knew about it that particular liaison.

  “Good morning, everyone!” Reverend Burns’ voice positively boomed from behind his lectern and bounced off the interior surfaces of the church. Mick’s nap was prematurely interrupted. A number of the congregation visibly jumped.

  “This morning we come together as one, a community of Nether-Staining, a community of Yorkshire, a community of God,” he paused to look around, people appeared to be hanging on his every word which gave him renewed encouragement to plough on, “news has reached me which I feel I should share with you. All of us embrace Christianity and are proud of our heritage and our county. Yorkshire is at the very heart of our way of life. Today that way of life is potentially under threat.

  “Our Member of Parliament is even now circulating around this community seeking support for uniting us with Lancashire. A number of you attend weekly bible study and you may rightly question how denying this sort of uniting policy would fit in with our Christian beliefs in community. The bible clearly states that we should ‘Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited.’

  “That is how we should feel about our countrymen of Lancashire, you may perhaps think. But I say to Lancashire this,” he paused again for greater effect, “we remember how you supported an attempted takeover of Yorkshire once before, and we will continue to remember such an action. The bible also tells us that ‘For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them’ and that is what we must do, we must unite under God and challenge these diabolical plans through whatever peaceful means allow us.

  “I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree with one another in what you say and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be perfectly united in mind and thought. Yorkshire must remain God’s own country, God’s own county, and us God’s children within it.”

  There was genuine shock mixed with genuine pride on a large number of the faces inside the building. There were even a few tears sliding from the eyes of those who were more inclined to wear their hearts on their sleeves. Outside the building, even Gordon could hear the Reverend’s oration. He had brought Nigel to the threshold to listen more closely and threw a stick into the graveyard from there, which Nigel retrieved with glee.

  “Our heathen neighbour to the west can remain in its own doldrums, its own hell.”

  The Reverend stepped down from his lectern. There was a ripple of applause from the front row which soon caught alight and, as with lemmings leaping off a cliff or sheep following each other, one-by-one it turned into a standing ovation. Mick didn’t mind not sleeping through that sermon one bit. Veronica now took the place of the Reverend in the pulpit. Smutty Mathew would one day discover that Veronica was the first woman ever to speak from the pulpit of St. Roger’s, but today there was no surprise because she picked up where Reverend Burns had stopped.

  “Hello everyone. Thank you for letting me speak today, Reverend. For those of you who don’t know me, I am Veronica Scoggins. I asked James to allow me to speak this morning, in slightly less religious terms, to tell you some details about what is occurring and what a small group of us feel has to happen to correct this imbalance and ensure Yorkshire and indeed Nether-Staining is protected. We need your help and support.”

  ***

  An hour later the church door opened into the glorious day and struck Gordon on his enormous backside as he had been eavesdropping by the entrance. He stumbled forward a few paces, with Nigel dancing around his feet thinking it was some kind of game.

  “A little closer to actual attendance, Gordon!” Mick said with delight as he watched the short show of Gordon clutching his posterior and rubbing it with both hands.

  Gordon quickly strode towards the wall of the churchyard with Mick close behind him, “Yeah, well, I noted the volume and just had to hear that! If religion had genuine real-life passion involved instead of just do-as-I-say-but-not-as-I-do messages, you could see big things ahead for the God-bothering Brigade. Look at Hitler! There was a man who made great charismatic speeches.”

  There was no answer to that so Mick didn’t provide one. The two of them watched as the congregation emerged in unabashed delight and in animated conversation about the days ahead, words like “Yoncashire” or “Larkshire” were presently rippling through the vocabulary of the good folks of Nether-Staining.

  “So is everyone on board?” Gordon asked.

  “Oh yes. I have a feeling this wall is going to be going up in double-quick time,” Mick said with a rather smug expression. “It’s a shame we won’t be able to connect it with Hadrian’s Wall really. Mick and Hadrian’s Wall we could call it.”

  “Thank goodness for that! You smug bastard! Let’s go to the pub and wipe that annoying expression off your face with a pint of Hole shall we? Failing that I might have to punch you in the kisser.”

  S
elina had now caught up with them and joined Gordon.

  “Lead on, Gordon,” Mick said.

  ***

  Bob was persisting in his sequined jacket this morning, he had roped Beryl into wearing sequins also, albeit on a pink cowboy hat which he had found in the storeroom. It was the closest thing they had available as outfit material for the annual celebration of renowned local highwayman Willy Turnbull. Turnbull led a very successful life consisting of robbing from the rich and keeping it for himself to fund his debauched existence. Unfortunately for him he died from a bad case of syphilis when he was just twenty eight, which many believed was contracted from a lady of the night named Mucky Sue who used to ply her trade in the basement of the Dog & Duck in those days. Turnbull was dobbed in to the law shortly after his death and his turgid corpse was drawn and quartered for good effect to let people know that such career choices are unwise; and that if unprotected sex with dodgy folks wasn’t bad enough, being torn to pieces was certainly worse, especially when they pickled your penis for posterity. There was no evidence that he ever wore sequins or a pink cowboy hat, but you have to allow a bit of dramatic licence, don’t you?

  “Can I sell you a raffle ticket? All funds raised are going to a good cause.” Bob asked Gordon as he entered the Dog & Duck.

  “Certainly, what’s the prize?”

  “WHAT’S THE PRIZE?”

  “What would you like it to be?”

  “WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE IT TO BE?”

  “I could really do with some electric fencing right now.”

  “Then it’s your lucky day as that is indeed the first prize.” Bob smiled at him.

  “THAT IS INDEED THE FIRST PRIZE!”

  Gordon looked at Broken and weighed up the odds of the draw for a moment, “He’s learning fast isn’t he? You must be selling a load of these, he could almost do it for you! I’ll take five tickets.”

  “Twenty five English pounds, please.”

  He paid the man, took his little pieces of numbered paper and then approached the bar. “Two Holes please, Beryl.”

  Beryl looked slightly embarrassed under her hat but pressed on, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try a new guest ale made for the good of Yorkshire? It’s called ‘Stemming the White Rose’, it’s a nice full-bodied pale ale with a heated, earthy, slightly metallic, aftertaste.”