by David Ruffle
“Aww, poor Michael my domestic hero, but I at least have a job to go to, you could always job search today.”
“What, with these dodgy knees? See you later, drive cheerfully.”
It had all gone very quiet upstairs, suspiciously so. Usually the girls were only quiet when they were sleeping or planning something. And do not doubt that five and seven year olds can plan. They can do so with a cunning and skill that can put many adults to shame. If it wasn’t their lack of height, inability to concentrate for anything over thirty minutes and their lack of culinary skills they could rule the world. He had been half-expecting the soon to be re-painted airing cupboard door to burst open, it was a favourite hiding place of theirs, but the torrent of soon to be re-placed sheets and duvets that poured all over him like a cotton avalanche was rather more of a surprise.
“Come on girls, that’s not funny. Please go and get ready, we will be late again if you don’t hurry. Now!”
“Daddy has his scary face, Katy” warned Annabelle.
“I know, silly.”
“Girls, please, help me out here!”
“What do you want us to do, Daddy?”
His scream could be heard as far away as Charmouth[18](assuming a following wind), and had the desired effect of goading the girls into action. Daddy’s scary face was one thing, but his scary scream was something else. A few minutes later they were skipping away (Katy and Annabelle that is, not Michael, not with those knees) over bumpy. Bumpy, because I am sure you are wondering, is a field and warrants its epithet by being, well, you’ve guessed it...bumpy. The girls ran on ahead, laughing excitedly. Impending visits to school would not always be this way, Michael knew this from experience.
“Can we feed the horse?” asked Katy.
“No, you can’t, we are already late.”
The girls, not caring about tardiness at their age, made a beeline for the horse.
“Come back you two, did you not hear what I said?”
They trudged back, muttering about life being unfair and how mummy would have let them. Wisely, Michael ignored these barbs.
“Granddad would like the horse wouldn’t he?” said Katy, nominally a question, but actually a statement made with the certainty of youth.
“Yes, Katy, I’m sure he would.”
“Was granddad a cowboy?”
Just for a moment or two Michael re-imagined his father in that mould. Geoffrey the Kid, Wild Geoffrey Hickok-Hamilton with his true love Calamity Margaret, Buffalo Geoffrey. The feared gunslinger riding into the lives of the homesteaders of the Cotswolds, bringing peace to the valley after a shoot-out in Chipping Norton town square. No, it didn’t work. Fortunately. The sanctuary of school was reached a few minutes later and although Michael was always glad of that moment when he could his entrust his daughters’ care to their teachers he was nevertheless always sad when leaving them.
His options for the day were as follows; look for a job, don’t look for a job, do some more work on the soon to be magically transformed garden, don’t do any work on the soon to be magically transformed garden, make a start on the novel he had always promised to himself he would write or not as the case maybe. He supposed he could do some ironing or some washing or yet another domestic chore he was ill-equipped for (i.e. by virtue of being a man). There may be brownie points in it after all, but even he, for all his faults, recognised that as being a shallowest of reasons. If anything and he knew it had to be something, he knew the garden really needed his attention, not that he hadn’t given it plenty of that already. He still had the bruises. Jack Rogers in Talbot Road had offered him the use of a rotovator, the quickest way to get the job done he assured him. No time like the present he thought and wandered up to collect this machine with which he was totally unfamiliar.
Jack was pottering about in the garden when Michael arrived, but broke off long enough to make Michael a tea which turned out to be unhindered in any way by taste. Another delay followed when Jack gave Michael a guided tour of his shed, pointing out several items of interest that Michael duly feigned such interest in. A watering-can bought in 1957 for 3/6d was not exactly about to set Michael’s heart-rate soaring; the same was true of the rake that had been used every week for thirty-nine years and the wellington boot that sparrows had nested in since the dawn of time. Eventually he had his hands on the rotovator; he did not want to appear entirely useless and so did not question Jack on how such a beast should be used. He would work it out as he went along. How hard could it be?
“Have you got petrol, Michael?” called Jack as Michael made his escape down the path between the two perfectly manicured lawns.
Damn. Petrol, that explained the absence of a power lead. Judy’s car was a petrol Polo, but that was no help as she would be grappling with Year 9 students around now. Nothing for it, but there would have to be another walk to Uplyme to the garage there. Maybe he would treat himself to a burger while he was there as a reward for all the hard work yet to come. He made himself a cup of tea while he gave it some more thought, then made a start. He fetched the new gardening gloves from the soon to be replaced shed. The shed, showing an undue amount of sympathy and solidarity for the garden was hurtling towards the stream, each day it seemed to gain an extra few inches or so. A trek to Uplyme, petrol bought, a trek back. No burger.
The rotovator stood in the garden mocking him for now it had somehow acquired two flat tyres. They were perfectly sound beforehand, he could have sworn to it. They sold foot-pumps at Uplyme garage. Another trek to Uplyme, pump bought, a trek back. No burger. Or none he would own up to.
He described his annoyance in some detail to Judy later. “I couldn’t believe it; two flat tyres.”
“No pressure then?”
“No, I guess not...oh I see. Very clever. I can see I will have to tread carefully in this conversation.”
“Yes you will Mike, don’t want you getting deflated after all.”
“If I get down I will be sure to let you know, Jude.”
“Good man, don’t let it spoil your good year!”
“It won’t if I gauge it right.”
“You will have to make sure you can spare the time if you’re not too tyred.”
“I don’t know why I get involved in these wordplays with you; I always lose!”
“Aww, poor you, but you love them as much as I do.”
He kissed her. It seemed the appropriate response. But all that was later.
Having inflated the tyres (he will be annoyed he could not find a use for the word inflation later) and topped the beast up with petrol, he was ready to begin. If only there was a manual, an idiot’s guide for the first-time (and hopefully last-time) user. The machine roared then coughed then spluttered. Not an auspicious start to his rotovating. Another turn of the key. Nothing. A hefty kick aimed at the beast. Nothing. Well, nothing other than intense pain in his foot. Old man Willoughby from the old house next door appeared as if by magic. That’s all he needed; an audience.
“You won’t get much joy there, young Michael. No one ever has.”
“That’s as maybe, but I am going to give it my best shot.”
“Bit of a curse on it I reckon if you ask me,” said old man Willoughby, knocking out his pipe on a convenient post.
“Not you as well, Mr Williams says the same, but absolutely refuses to elaborate.”
“He knows a thing or two does Joseph. A proper Lyme lad him.”
“Well, I’d feel a lot better if he were to share what he does know instead of just repeating, ‘it’s cursed’.”
“I leave Joseph to his own devices, but all I can say is that I know what I know and I’ve seen what I have seen and heard what I have heard.”
“And just what is it that you do know?”
“It’s cursed.”
And with that parting shot old man Willoughby was gone.
For all Michael knew Lyme Regis might only have two (doubtful) oddballs out of the whole population, but why did they have to be in close proximity to him? And why did they appear to have been transported out of the Dark Ages?
Back to the job in hand. He turned the rotovator around. He turned the key. Nothing. The scream that he let out travelled on the wind as far as Sturminster Newton where a young Irish couple out strolling convinced themselves they had heard the cry of the banshee.
Meanwhile...
...over in Bridport, Judy was grappling with the demands of her Year 9 History group. Their demands were simple; they would like to be left to their own devices rather than being forced to act out in groups the storming of the Bastille. Events of yesteryear in France did not hold the attention as much as their Facebook updates and Twitter feeds.
“Do we have to do this, Miss?”
“Yes you do, Jake.”
“God, Miss it’s so boring, it’s not even English. Who cares what the French did to each other!”
“That’s very shallow of you, Jake and I won’t let you disrupt this class and stop others who do want to learn. Could I have a show of hands of all those who are interested in this period of history? Come on, one of you surely? Am I wasting my time here?”
“Obviously,” sniggered Chelsea.
“What can I do to make it more interesting for you?”
“How about going home, Miss?” asked Leon.
“I could always get Mr. Samson to come and sit in...”
“Stop it, Miss, you’re scaring us,” Jake laughed.
At times like these Judy pined for the days of the she-devil Miss Amanda (Lucrezia) Roseberry and the snotty-faced students of St Botolph’s who at least played their part by going through the motions of being attentive pupils, sometimes successfully. There had only been five records of assaults by pupils against teachers and to give the school its due only three of them involved any form of weaponry. Although technically could it be said that a beating with a blunt instrument was a lesser offence than attempted strangulation? It’s a moot point that involved the school governors in many a heated debate.
Judy sometimes wondered just why she bothered. The majority of the teaching staff looked down on her, the majority of the pupils looked down on her if their apathy allowed them to do something as positive even if it was negative and for all she knew the other teaching assistants also looked down on her. Her enthusiasm and drive were seen as failings, her willingness to go the extra mile seen as a weakness. She was there to do her job and do it well; she was not there to be popular, which was probably just as well she concluded.
That episode on the field trip to Portland could hardly be laid at her door. She could hardly be expected to search through the all the pupil’s bags before they set off. And she certainly could not be expected to undertake a full-scale frisking, not without losing her job and finding herself vilified in the Daily Mail. Admittedly, the raucous and horrendously out of tune singing, the equally raucous jokes and the occasional vomiting soon revealed to her the presence of alcohol on the mini-bus. And admittedly, things became much calmer after she had confiscated forty-seven cans of lager, twelve cans of cider, three bottles of Archers, two bottles of whisky and several cans of Red Bull, but to some extent the damage had already been done. The thirteen absentees from school the following day did nothing to help her cause. Kids are so soft these days; she never had any trouble going to school with a hangover.
18 A village two miles to the east of Lyme Regis. Famous for its fossils, formidable women, quizzes and formidable post master with equally formidable moustache.
Chapter Six
Much Earlier Days
With Sarah Higginson now a distant, although not that distant, a memory, Michael turned his attention to the future, his frolicking days over. His father wanted him to do something with horses, whatever that something may be. Michael, for his part, could happily foresee a life of not doing anything at all with horses. Vacancies for Civil War historians were a tad thin on the ground and anyway he wanted his interest in that era to remain a pleasure without being tainted by pursuit of money, although that particular pursuit would have to be pursued somewhere somehow and reasonably soon at that.
Purely on the basis of two rather juvenile pieces that he had written for the Cotswolds Life[19] magazine, ‘A Day In The Life Of The Rollright Stones’ by M.A Hamilton and ‘Hayricks of the Cotswolds’ by Micky H, (he thought the latter appellation would appeal to a younger audience, unfortunately the Cotswolds Life magazine had no younger audience.) he decided that journalism was the career path he should take. He approached one or two local newspapers who, oddly enough, seemed somewhat put off by his meagre academic accomplishments. Look beyond my written skills he would say which was hardly the best line to take with a newspaper editor and one who was a prospective employer to boot. They invariably never did look beyond. He was not deterred. Would Johnny Stevens have given up when things got tough in the world of espionage? Would Johnny Norfolk have given up because the central defender he was up against was six foot-six and just as wide? No.
He remained positive because he had to be. He was not university material, everyone said so. If journalism was to be his life than he would have to enter it by the back door, get his feet under the table and work his way up. Difficult to do of course when no newspapers, journals or magazines would touch him with the proverbial journalistic barge-pole. Even Pulitzer Prize winners must have had their fair share of knockbacks. It was a crumb of comfort that almost staved off disenchantment.
He cast his net wider; his search area now stretched from Shipston on Stour all the way to Woodstock. Would he really have to do something with horses, whatever that something may be? Would he end up stacking shelves at Safeway’s in Chipping Norton? Or helping out in any of its nine antique shops? As luck and his career would have it, no.
The ‘Cheltenham Post’ was looking to expand its burgeoning empire eastward and there was an opening for a ‘bright young thing’ to bring the best in the social news from east of Stow in the Wold that its readership would otherwise be deprived of. Michael, somewhat unaccountably, proved to be that ‘bright young thing’. From garden fetes to grand weddings, from hot fashion tips to hot gossip he was the man of the moment. No social event was complete without young Michael Hamilton in attendance with notebook and pencil at the ready. Of course, he was rarely invited back after his pieces appeared, but his editor embraced the fact that Michael’s articles were abrasive. Go for it, he was told, at least until circulation figures from Stow to Enstone began to show a steady decline. There was even a backlash in Hook Norton of all places. Don’t go for it, he was told. Rein it in a bit he was told. He didn’t and there was a parting of the ways.
Still, he was given a good reference and the news that his journalistic star had fallen had not penetrated as far as Woodstock and beyond. He went cap in hand to the publisher of a small glossy magazine (Oxon Folk, to be confused throughout as a music magazine) which had just begun its, as it happened, short life. Its goal was to educate the good people of Oxfordshire into what their elders and betters got up to in the huge amounts of spare time that they perennially enjoyed. It also sought to educate those very same elders and betters in where they should eat, where they should stay and where to be seen. This proved to be Michael’s area of expertise, although he did not realise it at first, the writing of reviews. Reviews that folk wanted to read; with humour, accuracy and liberal helpings of his special brand of bullshit. It mattered not that he worked out of a cramped office above a dentist in Kidlington. It mattered not that he had to drive to assignments in his father’s battered Land-Rover Defender. What mattered was that he was well thought of, even reporters from the Oxford Mail and Banbury Guardian were seen to nod to him in what could be construed a friendly if almost imperceptible fashion. His original by-word, ‘by our reviewer’ became, ‘by
our chief reviewer’ then, ‘by MH’ then, ‘by Michael Hamilton’. He had arrived.
How long could the provinces contain this rising star amongst the nation’s critics? Quite some time as it turned out. His star, although rising was not burning as brightly as he expected it to. His journalistic beacon was not lighting up swathes of Oxfordshire. Literary plaudits were slow to arrive when writing about dog shows in Chinnor or social gatherings in Wheatley. His magisterial mother did her utmost to persuade him to look to the intricacies and intrigues (of which there were many) of Chipping Norton life; the five restaurants, six pubs and nine antique shops were awash with the elders and betters of Cotswolds life trying to outdo each other in every conceivable way. He did what he could to appease her as he often did, but both geographically and journalistically he was veering away from Oxfordshire towards Buckinghamshire, Berkshire and the bright lights of London. But it was taking time.
Meanwhile...
...in East Molesey, young Judy Kennedy was resisting all attempts by Jason Wilkins to persuade her to have her very own tattoo, hers by name that is, his by design. She was of the opinion, and quite wisely too, that having a copulating couple portrayed on her body would be somewhat difficult to explain or indeed show to her grandchildren (she was nothing if not a forward thinker). The whole Jason thing was becoming irksome, truth be known. He may be a king of the bedroom, but he was a social pauper outside of it and while that in itself may have been an attraction initially, your world changes as you approach that special maturity of being eighteen. There was his perpetual body odour too, which was never an attraction initially or otherwise, but her hope that his attitude to personal hygiene would change or even prosper under her tutelage was ill-founded. Let’s be honest, he stank.
While under Jason’s influence such as it was, she dropped out of her school’s sixth-form altogether citing to her parents a need to experience real, raw life, although life was never particularly raw in East or West Molesey anymore than it was in Hampton Wick. Even Jason’s presence in Walton on Thames did nothing to alter its upwardly mobile status. It was remarked by her father that he didn’t get to be something big in the city by dropping out of school. It was remarked by her mother that you cannot get far in the Women’s Institute by stinting on your education, especially domestic science. Woe betide any woman who cannot make jam, so have a care, Judy. Or something like that. It was remarked by Jason that there was a job available as a trainee tattooist in Shepperton. He knew the bloke, he could put in a word. Just one word would suffice thought Judy. No.
