The result was pathetic. Helen came out to have another look just as I was surveying what looked like a long, low-slung line of washing with the polythene half attached to the wires and flapping disconsolately in the wind.
It was too much for my wife. She collapsed against the wall of the house and after a minute or two of unrestrained laughter had to go inside and sit down. I was left in the garden trying to muster a bit of dignity, but I couldn’t bear to look at the cloches any more. I bundled them quickly into their original parcel and hid them away in the garage. It was another catastrophe and my stock plummeted even lower.
A week later I came in from my round and found Helen in an unusual mood. She was wide-eyed and excited, slightly breathless.
“Come in and look at this, Jim,” she said, leading me into the sitting room. The furniture had been pushed back to accommodate an extraordinary carpet, a huge, garish thing, thick and knobbly.
“What the devil’s this?” I asked.
“Well,” she was more breathless than ever, “a man came to the door this afternoon with this lovely carpet. It’s a genuine Kasbah.”
“A what?”
“A Kasbah. It’s a very rare oriental type of carpet.”
“Oriental?”
“Yes, this man’s just come from India. He got it from a tribesman on the frontier.”
“A tribesman? The frontier?” My head was beginning to swim. “What are you talking about?”
Helen drew herself up. “It’s surely quite simple. We have the opportunity to buy this beautiful carpet. It’s something we need, and it’s a bargain.”
“How much?”
“Twenty pounds.”
“What!”
“It’s very cheap,” said Helen, colouring. “It’s a genuine Kasbah. The man said it would cost hundreds of pounds, only he was lucky enough to meet this tribesman on the…”
“Don’t start that again,” I said. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Where is this man?”
“He’s coming back any minute now. I told him you’d want to see him.”
“I certainly do.” I bent down and felt the Kasbah. It seemed to be made of some spiky material and prickly strands came away and pierced my fingers painfully as I examined it. The violent colourations built up every few inches into mounds high enough for anybody to trip over. I had never seen anything remotely like it. Hot words were on my lips but I held my peace. I had a long record of this kind of boob and I wasn’t on firm ground. I mustn’t say it was a horrible carpet. Care must be my watchword.
“Helen,” I said gently, “are you really sure we want this? Look, it’s so lumpy you can’t close the door over it.” I demonstrated. “And don’t you think the colours are a bit bright?”
My wife began to look doubtful. “Well…maybe I have been rather hasty…but I hear the man at the door now.”
She led in the carpet specialist, a pleasant-faced chap in his forties radiating a powerful selling technique. Smiling warmly, he wrung my hand and presented a card to prove he was a seafaring man. Then, words pouring from him, teeth flashing, he extolled the Kasbah. His eyes never left mine and the effect was hypnotic. But when he started on about the tribesman on the frontier I managed to marshal my wits and stopped him.
“Many thanks, but we really don’t want the carpet.”
He was astounded and indeed incredulous that we should throw away this heaven-sent opportunity, but I stuck grimly to my gentle refusals. He was fluent and persuasive, but as he lowered the price again and again, familiar ominous phrases began to creep in. “Now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you,” “To be perfectly honest,” and “I’ll be very frank,” and finally I managed to stop the torrent.
“I’ll help you carry it out,” I said.
Clearly deeply disappointed in me, he inclined his head gravely. The thing was unbelievably heavy and we staggered out in a glum silence, shedding thousands of multicoloured spicules on the way.
After he had gone I didn’t say much about the incident and, in fact, I have kept pretty quiet about it ever since. With my record I cannot afford to be uppity. Helen is undoubtedly the sensible and practical member of our partnership and that has been her only aberration, but over the years whenever I landed in deeper than usual trouble it has been nice to have something up my sleeve. I have always been able as a last resort to bring up the subject of the genuine Kasbah.
Chapter 26
BOUNCER WAS THE ONLY all-round canine games player I had ever met.
“Come on, lad,” cried his master, Arnold Braithwaite, “let’s see Lew Hoad’s big serve.”
Eagerly, the dog, a handsome Border collie, stood up on his hind legs, waved his right fore-paw above his head and brought it down in an authentic sweep.
I laughed in delight. “That’s wonderful, Arnie, I didn’t know he was a tennis player, too.”
“Oh, aye.” The big man gazed at his pet with intense gratification, then bent over and fondled the shaggy head. “There’s nowt ’e can’t do in that line. He’s like his master—an expert at all sports. And I’ve been able to teach ’im that serve knowin’ Lew Hoad like I do.”
“You’ve met him, have you?”
“Met ’im? He’s an old friend. Me and ’im’s big pals. Thinks a lot about me, does Lew.”
I looked at Arnie, feeling the wonderment welling in me as it always did when I was with him. He was a retired builder, or that was how he described himself, but nobody could remember him doing much building. A bulky, fit-looking bachelor in his late sixties with a fanatical devotion to all forms of sport. His knowledge was encyclopaedic and he appeared to know everybody. How he managed this was not clear, because he rarely left Darrowby, but there seemed to be few among the world’s top sportsmen who were not his friends.
“Now then, lad,” he said, addressing his dog, “let’s have a bit o’ cricket.” We went out to the little lawn behind the house. “You’re fieldin’ in the slips, right?” He lifted a bat and a soft ball and as Bouncer crouched in anticipation he struck the ball swiftly to one side of him. The dog leaped, caught the ball in his mouth and brought it back before taking up his position again. Arnie repeated the action, first to one side, then the other, and every time the dog brought off a clean catch.
“Never drops a catch,” chuckled Arnie with deep satisfaction. He held up the bat. “That’s the bat ah was tellin’ you about. Len Hutton borrowed it a time or two for some of ’is big innings. I remember ’is very words. ‘A fine bit o’ wood, Arnie,’ ’e said.”
I’d heard that one before. The legendary Len Hutton, later Sir Leonard, was at that time captain of England, holder of the record test match score, a household name throughout the world, and quite simply a God in cricket-mad Yorkshire.
“And these boots.” He held up a pair of well-blanco’d cricket boots. “Them’s the ones Len borrows, too. Borrows ’em a lot. Says they bring im luck.”
“Yes, I remember you saying so, Arnie.”
“Aye, ah’ve had some times in cricket.” His eyes took on a dreamy look and I knew he was going into one of his sporting reminiscences from the First World War. I had only dropped in in passing to clip Bouncer’s nails, but I knew that would have to wait.
“Aye, it was when our battalion was playing the gunners out in France. Our bowlin’ was getting knocked all over t’place and the score was mountin’ fast. The colonel threw me the ball. ‘I’ll have to call on you, Braithwaite,’ he said. ‘Things are looking bad.’ Well, I did the hat trick straight away.”
“You did?”
“Aye, three wickets, just like that. Then the colonel came over to me. ‘I’d better take you off, Braithwaite,’ he said. ‘That’s kept the score down, but we don’t want to push it too far the other way.’ Well, the same thing happened. Their batsmen started to clout our bowlers for sixes and fours, so the colonel came over to me again. ‘I’m sorry, Braithwaite,’ he said, ‘I’m going to have to call on you once more.’ ?
Arnie paused a
nd looked at me seriously. “Well, I did it again.”
“You mean…another hat trick?”
“That’s right.”
“Extraordinary. Quite amazing.” I held up the nail-clippers and clicked them a few times, but Arnie didn’t seem to notice.
“Let’s do your Tom Finney,” he cried, producing a football and rolling it along the grass. This was one of Bouncer’s party tricks and I’d seen it before, but I still shared the big man’s enjoyment as the dog dribbled the ball round the lawn, controlling it between his paws, weaving this way and that. “Now score a goal!” shouted Arnie, and Bouncer made straight for two miniature posts at the edge of the lawn and knocked the ball between them with his nose.
We both laughed and clapped our hands and the big dog leaped up at us, wagging his tail furiously. It did me good to see Bouncer so sprightly because he was quite elderly, over nine years old.
“He loves that, doesn’t he, Arnie,” I said.
“He does, there’s nothin’ he likes better than a bit of sport. He’s never happier than when he’s playin’ one of his games.” He blew out his cheeks thoughtfully. “It’s a bit since I’ve seen Tom.”
Tom Finney was then at the peak of his glorious career. English international in three different positions and arguably the greatest English footballer of all time.
“You know him?” I said.
“Oh, I do, I do, we’re great pals. Must get together with him soon. Hey, Bouncer.” He waved at his dog again. “How about a bit o’ golf. Let’s see your Bobby Locke.”
I held up a hand. “Some other time, Arnie. I must get this job done.”
“Okay, Jim, I don’t want to keep you.” He smiled ruminatively. “Just thinkin’ about golf reminds me of the good times I’ve had with Bobby.”
“Another friend, eh?”
“Not half!”
As I snipped at Bouncer’s nails I wondered if there were any of the world’s famous sportsmen Arnie didn’t know. At that time Locke was a giant in world golf, but just another chum for all that.
Like most dogs Bouncer wasn’t keen on having his nails done and as I grasped each paw he panted apprehensively, mouth wide, tongue lolling, but he was a good-natured animal and he resigned himself to his fate without any growling or snarling.
“These black claws are tricky,” I said. “You can’t see how far the quick comes down like on white claws and I’m having to go very carefully. You’d never forgive me if I got into the painful bit, would you, Bouncer?”
Despite his fear, the big dog lashed his tail briefly at the sound of his name, and as I patted his head at the end of the little operation, he leaped away and cantered around the lawn in relief.
“Come in and have a cup o’ tea before ye go, Jim,” Arnie said.
I hesitated. I didn’t have time for all this, but I knew he loved to talk and I always found he had interesting things to say. “Well, thanks, Arnie,” I said, “but it’ll have to be a quickie.”
It was a bachelor’s kitchen, functional but comfortless, and when I saw Bouncer following his master around as he put on the kettle and fetched the cups I realised what a blessing his companionship must be. That kitchen would have been even more cold and bare without his shaggy presence, and Arnie chatted away to him as he pottered about. But there was no sign of poverty, because Arnie always seemed to have enough money. He sipped appreciatively at the steaming cup. “There’s nowt like a good cup o’ tea, is there, Jim?”
“It’s very refreshing, Arnie. But you’ve always loved your tea more than most, haven’t you? You must have suffered during the war when you couldn’t get it.”
He shook his head vigorously. “Nay, not me. I ’ad no trouble. One or two Indian rajahs kept sendin’ me supplies all the way through.”
“Rajahs, eh?”
“That’s right. Durin’ the first war ah was stationed in India for a bit and I got well in with a lot o’ them rajahs. Nice fellers they were, too. And, by gum, they remembered me when t’second war broke out. I allus had plenty of tea.”
“Well, that’s wonderful.” Arnie’s army service had taken him to an amazing variety of countries. I’d heard about France, Belgium, Italy, Mesopotamia, Africa, Egypt and now India.
I finished my tea and left to continue my rounds. As I left, Arnie was starting a game of golf with his dog.
Apart from my professional duties I saw quite a bit of Arnie, as he was to be found every night in the same chair at the end of the bar at the Drovers’. I was returning one evening from a calving, during which I had lost a bit of sweat, and dropped in for a thirst quencher. The big man was there in his usual place, Bouncer, as always, under his chair, and I sat down next to him.
“I’ve had a lovely day at Headingley,” he said. “Saw some good cricket, too.”
“Lucky you. I wish I’d been there.” I had been listening to the test match on my car radio as I drove round the farms and nourishing the thought that I might be able to get through to Leeds with Helen on Saturday.
“Aye, it were right excitin’, and you know, I was sitting there on the front row when Denis Compton walked up to me. ‘Well, Arnie, how nice to find you,’ he said. ‘I was hoping I’d see you. One of the lads said you would be here today and I’ve come to take you to lunch. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’ ?
“Oh, great,” I said. “So you had lunch with the teams?”
“Oh, aye, it was smashin’. There was Bill Edrich and Cyril Washbrook, and all them great Australians. Keith Miller, Neil Harvey, Ray Lindwall and all the rest. They were right glad to see me again—I’d met them all before, of course.”
“Of course.”
Just then, Kenny Ditchburn, a beefy, red-faced young man, plumped himself down on the other side of my friend.
“Now then, Arnie,” he said, grinning, “talkin’ cricket, eh? Have you been lendin’ Len Hutton your boots lately?”
Arnie turned an unsmiling face towards him and his eyes narrowed. “Now then, Kenny,” he replied gruffly, then turned back to me.
His reminiscences had given him a reputation in the town and the younger element were at all times trying to take the mickey out of him, but he had become hypersensitive to the blunt approach and clammed up immediately he recognised it. Throughout my many meetings with him I had never ever initiated a conversation about his sporting experiences, never showed any particular interest in them, and it was then, when he was relaxed, with his guard down, that the fascinating tales came pouring out.
The poor man was a victim not only of teasing, but of a whole series of apocryphal anecdotes that were falsely attributed to him and bandied around among the locals. According to some, Arnie had described how, when serving in France in the First World War, he had gained such a reputation as a football goal-keeper that finally a lot of famous dead-shot players were lined up to take penalty kicks against him. For ages they booted that ball at him but they couldn’t score. Arnie was impregnable. At last, in desperation, they loaded a football into a cannon and fired it at him. Apparently, Arnie’s laconic ending to the tale was “Well, I saved it all right, but I broke a couple of ribs.”
It was also put about that he had told a story that, while on winter manoeuvres in Russia, the soldiers had organised a kicking contest. Arnie had won, and in fact he had sent the ball so high that it had snow on it when it descended. These and many other far-out yarns were put in Arnie’s mouth by the local lads, but I personally had never heard them from him and discounted them, as I did Arnie’s reputed description of how, during a crisis in the Egyptian campaign, he had carried General Allenby across the Nile.
However, they all passed into local folklore, and I think they will always be talked about. I remember one occasion at a charity concert in the Darrowby town hall when a comic violinist got up on the stage and declaimed, to loud laughter, “I shall now play the second movement from a fantasy by Arnie Braithwaite.”
Never mind, I liked the old boy. I, too, was a sports buff and Arnie, when
he wasn’t reminiscing, talked with great knowledge of all aspects of the sporting scene. I always enjoyed his conversation. Also, he was an animal lover and devoted to his dog and that made another bond.
One sunny afternoon, a few weeks after the nail-clipping, I was walking my little beagle in the riverside fields when I saw Arnie with Bouncer. As usual, he was playing one of his games and the big dog was leaping around, chasing a ball under the great willows that overhung the water.
“He’s lost a bit of weight, Arnie,” I said, looking at the hollows in Bouncer’s flanks and his prominent ribs. “Is he all right?”
“Oh, aye, full of beans and eatin’ like a horse. He’s fit, that’s all. In full training for the football season. Come on, lad, do your Stanley Matthews.”
Bouncer capered around with the ball, pushing it this way and that in a mazy dribble that did indeed make me think of the great man.
“Haven’t seen Stan for a bit,” Arnie said ruminatively. “He must be wondering where I’m hidin’ myself.”
A month passed before I heard from the old man again. His voice on the telephone was strained. “Wish you’d come and see my dog, Jim, he’s right poorly.”
“What’s he doing, Arnie?”
“Nowt, really. Got no life in ’im.”
The inseparable pair were in the garden when I called. I was shocked at Bouncer’s appearance. He was emaciated, sitting motionless on the lawn, and he made no attempt to give me his usual greeting.
“My God, Arnie,” I said, “why have you let him get to this state? He looks awful!”
“Well, I could see he was gettin’ thinner, but he was eating so well, eatin’ like a horse. I thought maybe he was just runnin’ around too much. He’s got suddenly worse over the last few days. I’m not one to neglect me dog, am I?”
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