by Graham Johns
***
It didn’t take long to build a wall once a large group of willing people had someone giving them direction and training, especially when the wall they were building was in essence the sensible stacking of stones. Had anyone been interested or even noticed, a World Record had recently been set in the environs of Nether-Staining for the greatest concentration of dry stone wall builders, albeit mainly inexperienced, in the history of mankind.
Only a couple of weeks had passed and Nether-Staining now found itself in proud possession of a wall, on average around four feet in height. The wall stretched around all properties to the south west of the River Neth as desired and joined up with the rest of the village. Electrified fencing had been positioned atop this structure, hazardously lacking in any warning signs, to try to ensure that any person desiring unwanted entry would get a nasty shock, and hopefully be discovered in a vegetative state some hours later. Where roads crossed the county line, common sense had won the day in that a wall across a road was a bit stupid in case there was a need for mass evacuation in the event of nuclear war; so toll barriers had been introduced with the aim of deterring Lancastrian interlopers and making them pay for said wall over time, should they be allowed in.
Following the spreading of word through quarries countywide, communications between towns and villages had begun to start planning and implementing the joining up of the different walls currently under construction. One interesting by-product of the new masonry, and the removal of walls from elsewhere was that dogs were now freely fouling whoever’s garden they pleased as protecting walls had been removed, but residents were generally laughing it off as being a sacrifice worth paying. Cats couldn’t care less where they relieved themselves anyway, but they too were getting a nasty shock as dogs were appearing in what they had previously regarded as safe gardens. There were rumours of a great cat migration across the border, but that was probably just an attempt to get people to look at more pictures of cats on social media. Sightings of hedgehogs were also on the increase. As holders of the lion’s share of existing stone walls, farmers were not immune to contribution and sheep were now intermingling with the flocks of other farmers which was a cause for required invention and consternation alike. How do you keep sheep separate from someone else’s sheep without building new walls and fences?
“We certainly can’t just use a spot of differently coloured dye anymore,” said Ernest thoughtfully as he stared at the fluffy mixture of Gordon’s sheep and his own, which had somehow strayed across the river.
“True enough, how about we sign our initials on every sheep?” Gordon replied with a rather annoyed expression. He was scrunching his pork pie hat in his hands somewhat absent-mindedly.
“That will only work so far, if your sheep get mixed with Graham Stewart’s, everyone will be most perplexed.”
“Hmmm.”
Ernest’s face lit up, “I think I’ve got it, until such time as we decide on whether we need to put up new boundaries for them, maybe we should gather a meeting of the various sheep farmers in the area and discuss the idea of a shared Nether-Staining flock?”
Gordon nodded, “Seems like a decent place to start, so long as we can all agree. Has the added bonus that we’ll not need to buy dye as well and we might save a fortune by bulk buying! A penny saved is a penny earned and all that.” He donned his hat in satisfaction once more.
“Have you heard they’re talking about dismantling York’s city walls and sending the stone to the Doncaster area to shore up the southern Yorkshire border?” Mick chipped in, he was currently trying to teach Nigel how to play dead. “Come on boy! Play dead!”
Nigel sat in front of him on the grass, tilted his head as if to say “What are you saying? Speak English, man!” and lolled his tongue to one side.
“Really? I bet the Scots are pleased,” Ernest said, laughing to himself, “they’ll have less to do when they decide Doncaster really is theirs and want it as a southern enclave.”
“I’m not sure I concur with destroying historic buildings or structures, we’re trying to protect our heritage after all,” Gordon said.
“We’re also trying to protect and create the future,” Mick replied.
“You surely have to admit though that this whole thing seems a bit stupid and futile at times? I feel like I’ve spent a fortune so far in contributing to the effort and we’re still just a small bit part of the UK.”
Mick appeared gravely taken aback, “Who are you and what’ve you done with Gordon?”
“I think what Gordon is trying to say is why can’t we all just get along and stick with things as they were?” Ernest said.
They didn’t get an answer, Gordon turned on his heel and wandered off, whistling for Nigel as he went. Nigel followed obediently, once he had urinated on a gatepost which was now simply a trip hazard and an obstacle on the edge of a field, a field without a wall, a field which used to belong to Ernest.
“Change can be a hard pill to swallow for some people,” Mick commented to Ernest, who gazed after the big man in deep thought.
***
Ernest and Veronica knocked on the kitchen door of Gordon’s farmstead. It wasn’t as pretty a building as their own, favouring function over form, but it was still welcoming as a rule, although it was the first time both of them had been around, either uninvited or otherwise.
The door creaked slightly as it opened and Selina greeted them with a smile, “Hello to both of you. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you, Selina, sorry to arrive unannounced but we thought we should come and talk with Gordon and yourself if you don’t mind,” Ernest said.
Selina looked a tad relieved as she opened the door more fully and waved them in with a sweep of her arm, “I am pleased you have come because Gordon has been a touch morose of late. I felt like he could use someone else to talk to.” Her face was etched with concern.
She beckoned them to follow into the newly refurbished games room which housed a pool table, dart board and even air hockey. Gordon was seated in an upholstered rocking chair looking absent-mindedly out of the window. He hadn’t noticed anyone come in and presently let rip from his rear end, it was a foul odour that followed. “Gordon! Some guests! Can I get you both a cup of tea?”
Gordon gazed around quietly and didn’t seem to register their presence.
“We’d love to stay but we really don’t want to keep you long, please sit Selina,” Veronica asked. Selina did so on a nearby sofa.
Ernest took on an uncomfortable look as he began, “To tell you the truth, we’re a bit worried about you both. This thing with the wall, the location of your farm and our flocks merging together feels like it has taken a fair bit of wind from your sails.”
“And apparently moved said wind elsewhere,” Veronica added with a smile.
“We wanted to ask you what was wrong without anyone else around?” Ernest continued.
Gordon seemed to notice them both for the first time and then began, his brow furrowed, “You see, all is not what it seems here. I am as Yorkshire as the next man and normally I would be at the heart of trying to put one over on the bastards who would do us ill.”
He took a breath or two before continuing, “But you have to understand some things, firstly I discover that my farm is technically in Lancashire, then we start building Mick’s bloody wall and heading down this path which doesn’t seem to have a real goal in sight; and finally if that goal is really about us breaking away, well then my wife is not of Yorkshire.”
Ernest and Veronica shared a look of “I thought so but not quite of this” with each other.
“Where are you from?” Ernest asked Selina.
“I don’t know. Lower Melton I think, wasn’t it, Gordon?” she asked.
“Yes, Lower Melton, a little village just over the Lancashire border, dear.”
Ernest put two and two together and got four, “You mean?”
Veronica had summed to five, “Mean what?”
Selina rem
oved her right arm with her left and proffered it to Veronica who took it and rotated it in her hands carefully, “I’m a robot. Gordon gave me life.”
Both Veronica and Ernest had clear memories of the robot replacement incident but couldn’t really see any problem, “Well, surely that doesn’t matter because you weren’t technically born anywhere!” Ernest said.
Gordon placed his hand on Selina’s, “But that can’t get out, Ernest, I’ll be a laughing stock, we’ll be a laughing stock, we’ll have to move! We might get kicked out of this fine land!”
“Your secret is safe with us,” said Veronica passing Selina’s arm back to her, “at least now we know why you’ve been behaving a bit erratically of late.”
“It doesn’t mean that I don’t love her,” Gordon said, looking visibly tired, “now perhaps you had best leave.”
Ernest and Veronica knew when to call it a day and they saw themselves out of doors and down the driveway to the road.
“I had my suspicions,” Ernest said, “call it man’s intuition if you like, she looked too much like his old wife to be true.”
“Man’s intuition?” Veronica asked with a roll of the eyes and playful push on the shoulder. “The extent of a man’s intuition is knowing that if beer gets delivered to the pub it’ll be in glasses a bit later.”
“Fair point,” Ernest agreed, “what do we do?”
“I’m not sure it changes a great deal really, except that we can’t rely totally on Gordon’s support. At the end of the day, not being born in Yorkshire is perhaps only slightly different to not being from anywhere else isn’t it?”
“Maybe. But perhaps what he is really getting at is that he doesn’t want the rulemaking left to the likes of our MPs when this reaches its end, whatever that end may be.”
“Yes, a good thought.”
Ernest reached out and held his wife’s hand as they wandered home.
***
Mick had arranged to meet Smutty Mathew in the pub, largely so he could once again avoid buying a drink. On his way, he stopped for a short time to admire the rather dusty village green, which had a greyish sheen to it from the recent stone piles. He decided it was definitely prettier without the stone there. The ducks seemed to have regained their calm after spending several days gazing up at the stacks that had appeared to teeter towards their pond. A bit of rain was now all that was required to tidy everything up.
Mathew was already seated with a spare drink when Mick stepped through the door. Bob and he were in conversation. Bob now sported purple sequined trousers to match his jacket. He was also proudly displaying a complete set of gold signet rings on each hand.
“Bloody hell, Bob, you look a bit like a gameshow host!” Mick said by way of greeting.
“Thanks, that was the goal,” Bob said while rubbing his bushy beard with one hand and his smooth dome with the other, a true skill.
“So how much do you think we have?” Mathew asked, continuing their earlier conversation.
“I think we’re up at about two hundred grand and counting. We’ve had donations coming in from all over the place. Even the Duke of York chipped in, although I think he might’ve got the wrong end of the stick somewhere.”
“How about Michael York? Or Susannah York?” Mick asked.
“Isn’t she deceased?” Bob replied.
“How about Bobby Thirsk or Debbie Selby?”
“Now you’re just being an idiot. I think I’ll leave you to your drinks.” Bob shimmered his way back to the bar.
“Are you sure you’re not thinking of ‘Debbie Does Driffield’? Great film that one,” Mathew chuckled and pouted.
Mick laughed as well and then returned to business, “Where do we go next? It feels like we’ve done our bit and that there needs to be some sort of political development next doesn’t it? Otherwise we’ve just built a wall with a couple of toll gates in it, and even then they aren’t manned.”
“Don’t forget the efforts of the other areas. It won’t be long now until we start seeing the various walls being joined up. I’m not sure anyone in Yorkshire has been in to work recently.”
“But we’re still no further forward in reality, that’s my point. Maybe we need another gathering to discuss next steps?” Mick asked it as a question but meant it as a statement of fact.
“Indeed,” said Mathew, nodding. “OK, let’s do it!”
“But first,” said Mick, “do you think we should have another ‘Stem’?”
“Stemming the White Rose, STS, yes, let’s do that.” He wandered to the bar, leaving Mick to ponder politics.
***
It was a blessing that Nether-Staining was a quiet village with minimal diversions because it meant that they could reconvene their war party that very evening, again at Mathew’s house, with little hassle, although Beryl had remained in the Dog & Duck. Mathew had made a number of finger food items and a home-made mayonnaise for the occasion which drew some worried looks, especially as he only announced its pedigree after everyone had finished eating.
“Thanks for coming, everyone, STS,” Mathew began, “it’s short notice but we thought we should gather together for general updates and to discuss and agree any further actions that are required currently. Veronica, can we start with you, please?”
“Certainly,” Veronica said, “you’ve all seen the press we’ve had, including TV and radio coverage which has now hit the nationals. We’ve got a telethon coming up as well to raise awareness and further money. As far as the politics goes, we feel we need to have a proper strategy in place but we don’t actually know what we are opposing, or when, or why just yet.”
“Bob? Funds?” Mathew continued.
Still clad like a gameshow host, but now augmented in very shiny patent leather shoes, Bob said, “Thanks, Mathew. Yes, we’ve got plenty of money and people keep giving too!”
“I’ve given plenty,” mumbled Gordon, louder than intended. Bob glared at him.
“As I was saying just earlier, we’re up to about two hundred thousand now and climbing. I hear that this sort of pattern is being repeated in other places. It sounds like the people of Yorkshire have had enough and are happy to give to the worthy cause. We haven’t needed the money to do a great deal with the wall building due to the good will of Yorkshire folk. There should be plenty in the war chest to deal with the politics I would hope.”
Bob quietened and Mathew said, “Thanking you, Mick?”
“The wall is built as you all know. The village has its boundary with Lancashire although it is unclear whether we should man the toll gates at this stage. People are donating voluntarily on an honesty basis and the money is racking up steadily from that source. It seems that there are plenty of those who would visit our fine part of the world, we are up to two grand from a one pound toll already.” Mick finished.
“Thanks, Mick. Good idea to put the toll in before the wall was actually built I think.” Mathew noticeably flexed his biceps as he looked at a news headline that had just popped up on his phone. He flicked the news on and ensured everyone could see the television. A press announcement was coming out of Parliament.
“Who’s that?” Gordon asked.
“Bethany Ditherington-Wallace maybe? I think she’s an MP from down south somewhere.” Mathew replied. She was talking.
“…in short, a government task-force has debated the pros and cons of greater unity in our regions and we have decided that Yorkshire and Lancashire be merged together to benefit from economies of scale in buying power and in managing their services. We fully expect this to be successful and to provide a template for future like-minded operations. It is expected that the cost-savings of managing this operation will also lead to a much fairer deal for the taxpayer in the medium term. Thank you. A full press release will be distributed to you shortly.” She smiled a rather self-satisfied smile as she stepped down from the microphone.
The room was silent. There were a number of dumbstruck faces. Mathew pressed mute on the remote control.
“Bastards,” Gordon broke the silence most eloquently.
“They seem to be planning some sort of centralisation of things over time. That makes no sense at all. What on earth are they doing?” Ernest asked to the room in general.
“They are being prize bastards,” Gordon replied. His face was turning a deep shade of red. Selina had hold of one of his arms and was rubbing it gently.
“Well, at least now we know what we’re up against,” Veronica said.
“Southern bastards, they could be the worst kind it would seem,” Gordon said with a sneer.
“At least it isn’t aliens this time, because quite frankly that would be repetitive,” Mick added, “but I fear that Tom and Johnny will require a new county name for their song if these politicians get their way.”
“Politicians may as well be aliens,” commented Reverend Burns with a shake of the head, “because they rarely display any human values.”
“Put the sound back on, will you, Mathew?” Ranjit asked. Mathew did so.
“…so it seems that a timetable has been set, for what is being called a ‘trial marriage’, of less than three months. By Christmas, Yorkshire and Lancashire will be hand in hand. Do please call or text in to the numbers on screen if you have any strong opinions…”
“What kind of news programme encourages viewer interaction?” Mick asked.
“One that is seeking raised viewing figures I suspect,” Ernest replied.
“…and we have our first caller on the line…what do you think, sir?”
“They’re all bastards.”
“Please mind your language, sir, you are on live TV.”
“Why mince words? They’re all bastards, simple, they can’t get away with this! Yorkshire won’t stand for it!”
“Thanks for your comment…apologies to our viewers there for any offensive language used…next caller…”
The presenter looked rather embarrassed by what had just happened and wishing the ground might swallow him up.
Mathew switched the sound off again as Gordon returned to the room from the hallway looking rather pleased with himself. “I think I spoke for everyone when I said that.”
