The Last of the Bowmans

by J. Paul Henderson

  ‘No, but what have you got against The Dales? People travel from all over the world to see them.’

  ‘I’ve seen them too many times already,’ Uncle Frank replied. ‘I’m bored with them. Now, where are you taking me?’

  ‘Across the big divide,’ Greg smiled. ‘We’re going to a small village in Lancashire.’ Uncle Frank looked at him for an explanation. ‘I went there on a school trip once,’ Greg said. ‘It’s pretty. Dates back to the tenth-century. People used to make their livings from farming sheep and weaving wool, but when the power loom was invented most of them moved away and settled closer to the new mills and the village was abandoned. The teacher who took us there said it was an early example of deindustrialisation.’

  ‘Nowadays he could just hire a bus and drive you round the city,’ Uncle Frank said. ‘All the industry’s gone from there, too.’

  ‘That’s what my father says – or rather said,’ Greg replied, hurriedly correcting himself.

  ‘Pull over by the post box, will you,’ Uncle Frank interrupted. ‘I’ve got a letter for the BBC.’

  Greg waited while his uncle popped the letter into the box. ‘Why are you writing to the BBC?’ he asked, once his uncle was back in the car.

  ‘I’m complaining about Bells on Sunday,’ he replied. ‘I want it taken off the air.’

  Bells on Sunday, Uncle Frank explained to his unknowing nephew, was a two minute segment that aired every Sunday morning on Radio 4 at 05:43 precisely when, unfortunately, he was already awake. Each week, he said, the programme came from a different church. An announcer described the church and its history, and then detailed the age and weight of the bells and the changes the bell ringers would be ringing.

  ‘This morning we’re visiting the church of St Edith’s in the picturesque Ribble Valley,’ he mimicked, in a slow and solemn voice. ‘It’s been there for some time and has a congregation of six. There are five bells in the tower. One of them weighs 8cwt and was cast in the sixteenth-century, while the other four were made by students at the local technical college during a lunch break. The peal they’ll ring today is in the key of “A” and a programme favourite: the Winchendon Place Doubles. Take it away, St Edith’s: pull those ropes and get those bells clanging. Let’s piss Frank Bowman off!

  ‘Every damn peal sounds the same, Greg. It’s just a lot of depressing noise. I don’t want to turn on my radio and hear the sound of some bloody bells ringing first thing in the morning – and I doubt anyone else does either. The programme’s run its course and it’s time it went.’

  ‘Why don’t you just tune your radio to Planet Rock?’ Greg asked. ‘Wake up to Stairway to Heaven or something.’

  ‘I can’t get Planet Rock on my upstairs radio.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Uncle Frank shrugged. ‘Why do you think?’

  ‘There’s no point asking me, Uncle Frank: I haven’t lived in this country for fifteen years. Billy’s your best bet. I’ll ask him to take a look at it.’

  ‘How are things with you and Billy? The two of you getting on?’

  ‘We’re doing okay, thanks. We do better when Horse-Face isn’t around.’

  Uncle Frank snorted with laughter. Horse-Face was his and Greg’s private name for Jean who, although pretty, had an unusually long face. In the past, and in Jean’s presence, they’d competed with each other to coin phrases of an equine nature and insert them into the conversation; phrases such as: it’s good to see that you and Billy have a stable relationship, Jean. I think you need to start reining her in, Billy. Don’t saddle me with your problems, Jean. I wonder what triggered that response, Greg? Do you think Jean’s jockeying for position, Uncle Frank? And so on.

  Their mutual dislike of Jean and Jean’s mutual dislike for them was another bond that tied uncle to nephew. While Uncle Frank dismissed Jean for her airs and graces, Jean ridiculed him for his lack of hair and choice of cowboy-patterned braces. At first, Jean had followed her mother’s lead in disapproving of Frank, but soon had reasons enough of her own, and prime amongst these was her belief that Uncle Frank didn’t love Katy – or, at least, not enough.

  It was a misunderstanding that happened when the battery in Uncle Frank’s hearing aid was running low. She and Billy had made a rare, and therefore special, visit to see Uncle Frank when Katy had gone away for the weekend with Betty. Jean had taken one of Katy’s paintings with them, supposedly a portrait of her great-uncle, and had handed it to Uncle Frank. Under the impression that Jean herself had painted the picture of him, he asked her if it was some kind of joke and made to hand it back. Jean assured him that it wasn’t a joke and said that the picture was his to keep. ‘Mine to do with as I please?’ Uncle Frank had asked.

  Jean had nodded, not quite sure what Uncle Frank was talking about, but thought no more about it until she and Billy were leaving the house and she saw the painting lying on a kitchen work surface torn into four pieces. ‘The ungrateful bastard!’ she’d said to Billy when they were back in the car. ‘I’m just glad we didn’t bring Katy with us. It could have scarred her for life.’

  ‘Can we make a detour to Sainsbury’s on the way back?’ Uncle Frank asked.

  ‘What’s wrong with the Co-op? It’s closer to you.’

  ‘I don’t shop there anymore.’

  ‘Why’s that – too socialist for you?’

  Uncle Frank shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘No, there was an altercation,’ he mumbled.

  ‘An altercation!’ Greg laughed. ‘You mean you got into a fight?’

  ‘Not as such, but I got accused of queue jumping. I’d rather not talk about it, if it’s all the same with you?’

  ‘Man alive, Uncle Frank. You’re not doing too well these days, are you – falling out with your neighbours and being persona non grata at the local shop. Next thing you know, you’ll be an outlaw with a price on your head. Ha!’

  Poor old Uncle Frank, the world was always against him. He’d been the runt of a litter, bullied by his father and in all probability at school. While most people completely recovered from Bell’s palsy, his uncle had been marked for life by the disease, his left eye and the corner of his mouth forever misshapen. The effects of the palsy, his diminutive stature and his choice of career in pest control had left him a reluctant bachelor, a spectator of life rather than a participant. He’d never once received a Valentine’s card, and the nearest he’d ever got to romance was the day he’d been walking to a bus stop and an approaching girl had smiled at him. He hadn’t believed his luck and had smiled back falteringly. He was about to say hello when she brushed past him and threw her arms around the man walking immediately behind him. ‘I suppose I should have known better,’ he’d confessed to Greg, ‘but you live in hope, don’t you?’

  If women in his life were non-existent, so too were friends of any kind. And, if this wasn’t misfortune enough, the local Co-op had now banned him from shopping there. It was true that life hadn’t dealt his uncle the kindest of hands, but by choosing to kick the world he perceived to have kicked him, Greg couldn’t help but think that Uncle Frank only made matters worse for himself. The man’s cantankerousness had been legendary even before he’d left for America, but in his absence appeared to have reached new heights. If proof were needed it came at that very moment when an overtaking car pulled sharply in front of them and Greg had to brake hard.

  ‘What the hell!’ Uncle Frank exclaimed. ‘That bugger could have killed us!’ Without warning, he reached across Greg and punched the horn.

  ‘Whoa, take it easy, will you? We don’t want an incident. This is supposed to be a fun day out, remember?’ He held up his hand to let the driver know there was no problem.

  ‘People shouldn’t be allowed to get away with things like that. They should be taught a lesson!’ Uncle Frank said, getting up a steam. ‘Hell, if I had a gun I’d shoot the man’s tyres out!’

&
nbsp; ‘Well, thank goodness you don’t have a gun,’ Greg replied, and then, remembering the conversation with his father, a worrying thought struck him. He turned serious and looked at his uncle: ‘You don’t have a gun, do you?’

  ‘I have two revolvers and a rifle,’ Uncle Frank replied matter-of-factly. ‘And I’ve got a Bowie knife and a tomahawk too.’

  Greg shuddered. ‘Real ones?’

  ‘Nah, plastic. I’ve had them since I was a kid.’

  Greg breathed a sigh of relief.

  They left the city behind them and drove west on narrow roads that twisted and climbed into the South Pennines, a remote area of wild barren moorland and dark sandstone walls – scenery as far removed from The Dales as the moon was from the sun. Eventually, Greg turned off the road and parked on an unmade area of land intended for cars. The two of them climbed out and looked around.

  ‘By heck, lad, this is a bit bleak, isn’t it?’ Uncle Frank said. ‘I’m glad I brought my coat with me.’

  Greg helped his uncle over the stile and continued to hold his arm as they followed the steep footpath down to the village. They entered a dry gully that ran alongside an old vaccary wall made from slabs of millstone and interspersed with hawthorns and holly trees. The incline levelled off here and Uncle Frank shook free of his nephew to take a closer look at a series of molehills.

  ‘How many moles do you suppose made these hills?’ he asked Greg.

  Greg shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Three, maybe four?’

  ‘Just one,’ Uncle Frank said, drawing on his years in pest control.

  ‘Because of the way they look, most people think moles are loveable, especially if they’ve read Wind in the Willows. But they’re not. They’re unsociable varmints, and if they catch another mole in one of their tunnels they kill it.

  ‘I’ll give them their due, though: they’re hard workers – and considering they eat half their own weight in worms every day, I suppose they have to be. It’s hard to believe, but a mole can dig a twenty yard tunnel in a single day. One of the lads at work told me that the amount of soil a mole shifts at any one time is the equivalent of a miner moving four tons of coal in a twenty minute period.’

  Greg waited while his uncle prodded one of the molehills with a stick and then continued walking. ‘Come on, Uncle Frank. I’m getting hungry.’

  They reached the village twenty minutes later, a hamlet of old ruins and reclaimed old ruins. Two ancient pedestrian bridges straddled the slow-moving beck and picnic tables had been placed next to a small pond where mallard ducks swam. They kept their sightseeing to a minimum and walked to the licensed tearoom, a converted old barn that sold gifts and served pies and sandwiches. Uncle Frank took a seat at one of the tables and studied the menu while Greg went to the bar and ordered drinks.

  When Greg sat down, Uncle Frank tugged at his sleeve and pulled him closer. ‘Is that Dickie Bird?’ he whispered. ‘Him over there in the corner.’

  Greg looked at the man. There was a resemblance to the cricket umpire, but this man was too old to be Dickie Bird. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

  ‘But look at him, he’s crying. Dickie Bird’s the only man I know who cries in public.’

  This was true: Dickie Bird did do a lot of crying in public – usually while being interviewed on television about his career or a recent honour. But this man was simply wiping sweat from his brow. ‘No, it’s not him,’ Greg said. ‘Now, what do you want to eat?’

  ‘Cheese and onion pie with mushy peas, please,’ Uncle Frank replied, still staring at the man. ‘Did I tell you I was thinking of adding Dickie Bird to the list?’

  ‘The Tombstone List?’

  Uncle Frank nodded.

  The list had been in existence for as long as Greg could remember. At first, it comprised the names of people who, in some way or another, Uncle Frank believed to have slighted him: the cleaner who’d left the windows smudged, a bus conductor who’d wrong-changed him or a sales assistant who’d sold him a shirt with faulty buttons. It was called the Tombstone List after the town in Arizona where the Gunfight at the OK Corral had taken place, and where scores had been settled unilaterally.

  In time, however, his uncle had started to add pet hates to the list – golf, brass bands and Morris dancers – and include those people in the national arena who, in his eyes, were either smug little bastards or had got too big for their boots. Anyone proclaimed a ‘national treasure’ was sure to be included, as was anyone dubbed the nation’s favourite. The Queen Mother, when she’d been alive, had been included for being the nation’s favourite grandmother, as had Eric Morecambe for being the nation’s favourite comedian; and Vera Lynn was still on the list for being the nation’s favourite sweetheart. Uncle Frank resented being told who his favourite people were.

  If he was to add Dickie Bird to the list, however, Uncle Frank knew he was in danger of overloading it with ‘professional’ Yorkshiremen, who in his mind gave the county a bad name. He was puzzling over whether to take Michael Parkinson or Geoffrey Boycott off the list when his nose started to run and he reached in his pocket for a handkerchief.

  ‘Well, bugger me sideways,’ he exclaimed, ‘I forgot to put a handkerchief in my pocket when I changed my trousers. You haven’t got a spare one on you, have you, Greg?’

  ‘I don’t own any handkerchiefs: I use tissues. And I’ve only got the one with me. Why don’t you use the paper napkin?’

  ‘Tissues? Men don’t blow their noses on tissues: they use handkerchiefs. Cowboys never set foot outside the bunkroom without a handkerchief tied round their neck, and there’s no way an outlaw would have robbed a bank holding a piece of tissue paper over his face. What the deary me, lad. What’s become of you?’

  A thought struck him. ‘If Billy doesn’t want your Dad’s handkerchiefs, can I have them? He had some nice ones, he did, and they’d make a nice keepsake.’

  ‘Sure you can. I doubt very much that Billy will want them.’

  Greg looked through the menu and decided that his uncle’s choice of cheese and onion pie was as good anything. He walked around the corner to the food counter and waited for someone to take his order.

  As Uncle Frank was finishing up wiping his nose on the napkin, Billy walked into the tearoom. He took one look at his uncle and turned on his heel – though not before Uncle Frank had seen him.

  ‘Hey, Billy,’ Uncle Frank called out. ‘It’s me! Uncle Frank!’

  Uncle Frank left his seat and followed his fleeing nephew. He caught sight of him running down the main street and watched as he crossed one of the bridges. ‘Billy! Billy!’ he shouted after him. ‘Can I have your Dad’s handkerchiefs?’

  ‘Where have you been?’ Greg asked, when his uncle returned to the table.

  ‘Billy was here!’ Uncle Frank said. ‘He came in and then left. It was as if he didn’t want me to see him.’

  Greg looked puzzled. ‘Billy’s in Denmark. He’s not due back till tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m telling you, it was Billy! My hearing might not be worth a damn, but my eyesight’s as good as it ever was. I know my own nephew when I see him.’

  ‘Well, that’s strange,’ Greg admitted. ‘I’ll give him a call when I get back and find out what he’s up to.’

  ‘Don’t forget to ask him about your Dad’s handkerchiefs, will you?’

  A waitress brought their food to the table and, as his uncle always preferred, they ate in silence. Once the plates had been cleared and they were left drinking their beers, Greg plucked up courage and prepared to confront his uncle about his recent behaviour.

  ‘Uncle Frank, there’s…’

  ‘What’s wrong with your teeth?’ Uncle Frank interrupted. ‘They’re a bit strange looking, aren’t they?’

  ‘My teeth?’ Greg said, off-balanced by the question. ‘Nothing’s wrong with my teeth. I’ve just had them whitened.’

 
Uncle Frank looked at him and shook his head. ‘Billy the Kid never had his teeth whitened.’

  ‘He never had time to go to the dentist. He was too busy killing people, remember. Anyway, it’s you I want to talk about, not Billy the Kid.’

  ‘Gunned down at the age of twenty-one,’ Uncle Frank lamented. ‘Pat Garrett…’

  ‘Uncle Frank!’ Greg interrupted. ‘There’s something we have to talk about…’

  6

  Feet

  Of all the tea joints, in all the villages, in all the world, Uncle Frank walks into mine, Billy brooded. What kind of sheer bad luck was that?

  He had a feeling that someone had voiced the same thought before him, but couldn’t for the life of him remember who. He doubted, however, that the words related to a predicament in any way similar to his own, and in supposing this he was correct: Humphrey Bogart had never been afraid of feet.

  Billy had pitched his tent in this part of the world for the simple reason that Jean and Betty refused to travel here. Both hated the area’s desolation, and Betty had questioned why anyone not suffering from depression would want to go there in the first place. That his Uncle Frank might turn up in the village had never once crossed his mind, and if his uncle was here, then so too was his brother.

  Billy flopped down on his sleeping bag and tried to catch his breath. He hadn’t exercised in years and the run through the village had exhausted him. He stared at the canvas walls of the tent and listened to the bleats of the sheep outside. He envied them. They didn’t worry about things or lead complicated lives. They ate grass and had their coats sheared once a year, and that was about it. If only he’d been born a sheep instead of Billy Bowman, he lamented: a man suspended from his job and ordered to see a therapist; a husband deceiving his wife; and now a nephew running from his uncle. How in God’s name had he got himself into such a mess?