by Graham Johns
“But this quite literally paints you as a Lancashire Bastard! You’re even named for the county seat! You’ll never live it down!” Mick was getting heated now, he felt like slapping Gordon across his mutton chops.
Gordon shrugged. Mick slapped him anyway, causing his pork pie hat to dislodge and land in a small puddle where the hosepipe had recently been leaking. Gordon retrieved it and placed it back on his head which caused a small droplet to rain down from the brim, past his eye and down his cheek. It was a touching droplet to say the least.
“Have you finished what you came here to say?” he asked.
This barely seemed like his friend. Mick wasn’t sure what to say, so he just went with, “Yes.”
“Very well then, good day to you.”
Gordon headed back inside, crumpling the piece of paper in his fist as he went. Nigel returned to nuzzling Mick, who returned the attention.
“I’m not sure what’ll happen next, Nigel, old lad, look after your old man until he regains his senses eh?”
“Nigel! That’ll do!” Gordon shouted from indoors and man’s best friend retreated from Mick, who left the grounds.
***
Mick was temporarily uncertain of what to do next as he usually spent his mornings watching Gordon at work. Freedom can be a fine wine indeed, as suddenly a world of opportunities opened up before our wandering wastrel. Freedom can also be the tired, sweaty dregs of a keg if you really don’t know what to do with the extra time you’ve been blessed with. Appropriately, Mick decided to visit the Dog & Duck even though it was well before opening time.
Locating a piece of stone from the nearby village green which had been forgotten when the nation’s wall was being built, Mick hefted it in-palm against the sturdy oak doors of the fine tavern several times, leaving a whitened imprint.
“Whoops,” said the unheeding man, guiltily, concealing his rock in a dying hanging basket to the left of the door.
It was Mick’s latest conquest, the local cleaner Betty Crump, who answered the door. It was but an hour since Mick departed Betty’s shores and it seemed she had yet to bathe as Mick could sense his scent upon her. Betty was sporting a large, green gingham smock which was somewhat more than she’d sported earlier. She was a large lady with a ruddy complexion and short, strawberry blonde wavy hair. She was in her fifties and apparently still delighting in the fact that she had been pleased once today already. She stepped outside and lit up a cigarette, offering one to Mick, who not wishing to seem too forward just now, declined.
“Heyup, love,” Betty said in a voice that sounded like freshly quarried gravel liberally mixed with bitumen. She began coughing repeatedly before spitting some phlegm to the pavement. Mick figured he must’ve been a touch inebriated last evening. “Coming round later?”
Mick squirmed momentarily as he tried to think of an excuse, “No, I can’t, I need to see a man about a dog.” That old chestnut always worked, especially in these parts.
“OK, that’s fine, I can catch up with Percy from the Post Office then.”
Mick’s eyes almost popped. It seemed that he had a rival in terms of being the greatest philanderer in Nether-Staining. His eyes narrowed. He felt cheap and used. “Very well,” he said, “give Percy my regards.”
“Will do,” Betty said as she took another drag, this time puffing out the smoke in one of those nice rings you see on TV. What consummate skill. Mick had to admit to himself that he was impressed.
“Bob up and about yet this morning?” Mick enquired.
“Yes, but he’s gone out. You don’t see his car do you?”
Mick looked around and concluded that he could indeed not see Bob’s car, “Nope.”
“Well then, there you go. Owt else I can do you for?” Betty laughed which sounded like a tipper truck arriving with a delivery for the roadworks.
“No thank you, my dear. Have a very pleasant day.” Mick began to amble away.
“You too, stallion.” Betty cackled loudly as she retreated into the pub once more.
Mick decided to sit himself on a bench on the village green to await Bob’s return, while pondering how unclean he felt at this moment. Diving into the duck pond was quite tempting right now. He needed to ask Bob about the birth certificate before things got out of hand. If his friend wanted to brood then so be it, he’d have to save the day himself.
***
“In conclusion, commit not those acts of bestiality in the absence of women. Bestiality is a sin that will result in your finding solace under the wing of Satan for all of eternity. Instead, men must seek women and wed them under God’s holy church roof!” Roger the Pure was ad-libbing to his congregation, which currently accounted for five souls, four of whom had recently lost their small, one room, shared home to fire and needed a place to shelter from the storm. There were disappointed faces as the service ended and they faced into the elements once more.
Roger noticed an additional ragged-looking soul in the shadows to the rear of the church. “I’m afraid the service is over, my son.”
“I’m not here for the service, father,” rasped a voice from the depths of a tattered cowl. He slid the cowl back over his head to reveal a thin and drawn face, one worn down by the elements and time, and he was only a young lad, though a little too old for Roger’s liking.
Roger the Pure now recognised Fettler Shepherd instantly. He’d asked him to come as it happened.
“Thank you for coming, Fettler,” Roger said.
“Not a worry, I feel I owe you a great deal for helping me to see the error of my previously bestial ways.” Fettler looked at the ground in shame as he spoke. “What can I help you with?”
Roger took Fettler to one side, into the most shadowy of recesses of his church and spoke quietly, “I need you to keep something for me. It must remain secret and protected against all people and weathers for an unknown length of time.”
Roger pressed the rolled up map, safely tucked inside a waxed leather pouch, into Fettler’s grasp.
“What is it?” Fettler asked in a voice so quiet that Roger had to lean in and be amongst his stale, damp odours. A bath would be required later.
“It’s a map of Nether-Staining,” Roger replied.
“And why’s it so important?”
“Because if I get killed in suspicious circumstances, you must ensure that this gets to the Bishop of Lancaster. It’s an old map, if you understand my meaning.” Roger tapped his finger on the side of his nose.
Fettler might be a shepherd who spent too much time alone on the hillside but he knew all about the recent geographical changes in the area and he did indeed owe Roger a debt, because he was rather taken with the discovery of the local lady of the night who was now ensconced in one side of the basement of Ye Olde Doge & Ducke. Fettler found her far more desirable than his historic bestiality.
“Your secret is safe with me, have no fear. I’ll ensure it remains protected. I trust that you will have a long life.”
Fettler took his leave and departed the hallowed ground.
***
Bob returned to the pub with a number of loud exhaust revs as he parked up, ensuring that anyone who happened to be passing by was fully aware of his powerful engine and, by association, his powerful position. He moved with speedy purpose into the sanctuary of the Dog & Duck, carrying a shiny metal briefcase in his left hand. He was closing the heavy door with some gusto when Mick’s foot barred the way.
“Ow! Be careful!” Mick shouted, he was trying to pant from the dash to intercept Bob and trying to hold his painful foot at the same time. He looked rather pathetic, Bob thought.
“Don’t be so pathetic. We’re not open yet, come back later.”
Mick eyed Bob slightly critically for a moment. The man seemed in an awful rush. “Everything OK, Bob?” he asked as he shouldered his way inside.
“All’s well, thanks,” Bob replied, looking around a little nervously, “will this take long?”
“I hope not, I just need to talk t
o you about this birth certificate that’s been plastered around the village.” Mick extracted a bit of crumpled paper from his jacket pocket and waved it in Bob’s face.
“I’ve seen it,” Bob said, in a rather terse manner in Mick’s opinion.
“I need to make sure you’re not planning to do anything drastic about it.” Mick looked hard at Bob as he said this.
“The cabinet of our new nation will announce what we intend to do with this and other such matters in the coming days. You need to check the national noticeboard like everyone else I’m afraid.”
“Can’t you just give me an indication?”
“Sorry, you’ll have to wait. Policies are still being finalised.”
Much like he knew not to bother doing manual work, Mick also knew when to stop flogging a dead horse so he simply nodded, said “Thanks for your time”, and left the pub in a bit of a mope. It wasn’t really like Bob to be so short with people, maybe power was changing him, whatever it was, Mick figured he had to assume the worst and returned to Gordon’s farm.
Deciding not to employ the iron again Mick simply pummelled the door with his fist this time and Selina thankfully answered promptly before he could do any more damage to the door or to himself.
“Back again so soon?” she asked.
“Indeed. I need to warn Gordon that there is a possibility that our new leaders might instigate some form of banishment on him in the near future as they seek to rid Nether-Staining of anyone not from Yorkshire.”
Selina processed this information for a moment, “Thank you for stopping by, I’ll let him know. I dare say he’ll see you in the pub later.”
Mick stepped away as the door was closed to him. What to do for the rest of the day? Maybe Betty might have the afternoon off and could show him how to blow those nice smoke rings.
***
Mick didn’t have to wait very long for the noticeboard announcement as it turned out. The following morning would have told him everything he needed to know if he had the patience to read six pages of bullet points in Arial font, size six. The pages were pinned individually to the board and filled up the entire space, something which might’ve irked the local branch of the WI slightly as it meant their annual calendar was not now being promoted in the space. In amongst all of these bullets was one which told the world that, ‘Anyone not born in Yorkshire would be asked to leave Nether-Staining and, to honour ties with the motherland, Yorkshire as well’.
One function of the modern world is that most people like to persuade themselves that they just don’t have the time to read anything in detail. The actual truth was that they just use the time they have to look at pictures of cats on the internet or to be outraged at the latest media concoction aimed at stirring a reaction. People also like to be spoon-fed snippets so they can get the gist of it all and form largely ignorant opinions. Recent scientific studies have concluded that gnats have a significantly longer attention span than the average Yorkshire teenager. The result of all of this science was that nobody in the village actually read the bulleted list, especially not the teenagers. Chastity Boycott was so busy staring at cat pictures on her mobile phone that she almost walked into the noticeboard, and still the pages remained in a virgin state, unlike Chastity who remained the opposite.
***
Gordon answered the door himself the following morning. Bob was standing outside with Neil Downes and Angela Sharp for company. Bob continued to look like a gameshow host in his gleaming purple attire. Neil and Angela looked exactly like you’d expect, named extras who are slightly blurry and remaining undescribed, dressed in grey and in the background of the tale.
“Good morning, Gordon,” Bob said, “how are you this fine day?”
Bob was right, it was another fine day in Yorkshire, even though the sky seemed to bode ill any minute now. Despite this presence of a good degree of cloud, a single ray of sunlight bathed the three knockers on the threshold in a glorious light of the righteous.
“Alright, what brings you up this way?”
Selina joined him at the door.
“We’ve come to enact constitutional point seventy three which states that anyone not born in Yorkshire will be asked to leave Nether-Staining and indeed Yorkshire in addition. Given the recent publishing of your birth certificate in the local area, that means you are hereby given notice of the nation’s desire for you to leave our country and the county. Perhaps you will find a pleasant abode in Lancashire, your true birth county! According to this document, you are quite literally a Lancashire bastard!” Bob sneered at him while brandishing a copy of the certificate.
Gordon’s face reddened. It was starting to turn purple. He looked like he was going to erupt any minute. Nobody spoke a word and barely even took a breath.
“Bearded bastard!” was all Gordon could say before slamming the door in Bob’s face.
It started to rain gently. Bob and his minions departed the scene of their intended ejection silently.
CHAPTER 14
GOING…
GOING…
GONE…
BUT NOT DONE.
Despite a distinct lack of local folk witnessing the eviction at Gordon’s farm or even reading the noticeboard, it didn’t take long for word to spread around the village. The reason for this remained unclear for several days until someone recalled noticing Verity Smythe whispering to Elizabeth Gibbs, known by many as the ‘Mouth of Nether-Staining’. Other parts of the body did not yet have owners thereabouts. Once Elizabeth knew, the rest were sure to follow.
Like all good villagers everywhere, but especially one with farms, barns and a plentiful supply of tools, they loved any excuse to grab a pitchfork, light a flaming torch and form an angry mob, especially after dark. So it was that this very mob arrived at Gordon’s farmstead a few days later after the sun had fallen from the sky. Mick had tagged along with them in the hope that someone might buy him a pint afterwards, only realising when they arrived the extent of the apparent rage that had spread through the fledgling nation; and that he was most likely to go thirsty.
Shouts were heard, placards were raised and lowered, objects were thrown and alcohol was consumed – not perhaps the most sensible activity with naked flames abounding. It wasn’t entirely obvious to anyone why they were suddenly so enraged by one of their neighbours and fellow villagers but sometimes you just get carried along on a wave you cannot stop, and if you can’t beat them, well, you may as well join them. Even the young children were shouting abusive statements, though that was more at each other.
“Come out, fattie!” one lady shouted from under a sign which proclaimed “Foreign Bastards Out!”
“Yeah, get out of ‘ere, you miserable liar!” shouted her husband under a slightly less vulgar statement of “York-sure! Lanca-surely not!”
Not everyone is a wordsmith, but they still get points for trying.
Retired policeman, Arthur Truth, took it upon himself to try to control the crowd which only amounted to wearing his old uniform and standing at the front with his arms outstretched. It seemed to do the trick as no one was really jostling and they were happy to keep a distance from the house.
Reverend Burns, loving a bit of fire and brimstone, and eager to swell his congregation further next Sunday, took to a small box he had carried with him for the occasion. He stood between the crowd and the house and boomed out a loud sermon.
“Friends, neighbours and countrymen of our fine land of Nether-Staining!” The mob became silent. “Let every person be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, and those that exist have been instituted by God. Therefore whoever resists the authorities resists what God has appointed, and those who resist will incur judgment. For rulers are not a terror to good conduct, but to bad. Would you have no fear of the one who is in authority? Then do what is good, and you will receive his approval, for he is God's servant for your good. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword in vain. For he is the servant o
f God, an avenger who carries out God's wrath on the wrongdoer. Therefore one must be in subjection, not only to avoid God's wrath but also for the sake of conscience.”
The Reverend closed his bible and stepped down to rapturous applause, despite nobody in the crowd really understanding a word of what he had just said. They heard the Almighty mentioned therefore they figured it must be praiseworthy. Ernest Scoggins then borrowed the box and stood upon it. Being but a short man he didn’t quite silence the crowd as Reverend Burns had done but he pressed on nonetheless.
“Shepherd! Leave the village! Save our sheep from being fettled!”
He stepped down and was greeted with applause himself.
“Save our Sheep! Save our Sheep! Save our Sheep!” rippled around the crowd and slowly rose to a crescendo. Smutty Mathew took his chance to tear off his orange vest and set fire to it in a demonstration of national pride.
Still the front door of the farmhouse remained silent and no one appeared. There were no lights on either but that could simply be a Hallowe’en tactic.
Mick looked on from the periphery of the proceedings somewhat aghast. He knew the Reverend liked to curry favour but Ernest Scoggins and Gordon had become more friendly since the incident with the alien, it seemed rather out of character. He thought better of confronting Ernest there and then, however, as a dissatisfied mob could quickly decide to focus on him instead. You didn’t get to be great with the ladies without knowing when to dodge a bullet.
As time passed and torches died in the rain, people began to lose purpose and scratch their heads before heading home for a well-earned nap. Protesting was a tiring lark and Mick reflected on his wise decision not to bother.
He took the opportunity to sneak around to the back of the house and jemmy the door, sadly he couldn’t find a jemmy so he found the old metal iron once more and flung it through the window, unlocking the door that way. “Needs must,” he thought as he tidied up the shards of broken glass, putting the iron to one side.
There was nobody home. He checked every room methodically and called out both Gordon and Selina’s names. The tractor was still present and he couldn’t understand where they could’ve gone. There was no clue as to their whereabouts but he had to assume they’d beaten the mob and left because Gordon’s pork pie hat wasn’t to be seen, and nor were there any pork pies in the fridge. Mick decided he may as well sleep there for the night, especially as he found a just-opened bottle of Gobbling Turkey, Yorkshire’s only known whiskey, in the drinks cabinet.
