A Grumpy Old Man’s Tale 46 Bringing the Past into the Future in the Present
Alf’s time had been becoming more precious for several years. Decades of hard toil had taken its toll on his body, though his focussed mind that had for years been regarded as a cross between genius and not entirely connected to the rest of human endeavour was as sharp as ever. He’d been under orders from Wing Tan Sun, the Bearthwaite family doctor, Bertie his grandson and heir, Sasha and all their friends to take it easy and only work part time, all of whom he’d agreed with and then ignored. He’d asked Ellen, his wife whom he could not ignore what her thoughts on the matter were. Ellen knew her man, who was also her cousin whom she’d been involved with since they were toddlers over seventy years ago, far better than any other. She knew that watching others doing the work he wanted to see through to completion would upset him greatly unless he could justify that state of affairs to himself, for he enjoyed his work and like an old dray horse he would one day drop between the shafts and from choice he would have it no other way. Too, she was also far more worried about Alf than any one else, though to maintain his self respect none would have guessed it from her demeanour and interactions with him.
“Alfred,” Alf knew things were serious when she used his full name, other than when in bed, which none other than he had ever heard her use, though there were a few of his friends who could cast their minds back sufficiently far to remember his mother using his full name, usually when he was in trouble which had not been an infrequent occurrence, “The most important thing you do is not messing about in your workshop getting filthy, much as you enjoy it. You greatest gift is the way your mind works. I agree with you a little bit when you say you are not clever, Love, but that’s not entirely true. It certainly gives the wrong impression and presents nothing like the entire picture of a man who all who know him regard as extremely talented and gifted. Yes you are not clever in the way most folk think of cleverness, but you can think of and create things that no one else can, even Bertie says so.” Bertie was one of their grandsons who had amongst other qualifications a PhD in metallurgy. He had decided years before to return home and work with his granddad rather than working elsewhere for a lot more money which would not have made him happy. “There are so many things that need to be made, put into service and then have all their problems sorted out. There are hundreds of folk here who can make them, install them and refine them. There is only you who can dream them up and design them and later guide those who are working on perfecting them. You need to focus on what only you can do. That will be less physically demanding and get all the others like Sun and Sasha off your back, even though you will still be able to put a full day in seven days a week if you like. Too, it means you could spend more time relaxing down at the allotments.” Time spend at the allotments often involved Alf in extremely hard physical work, but she knew it was Alf’s idea of relaxation and without doubt it relieved him of most of the stress that his other activities piled up on his shoulders.
“You already spend a fair amount of time on the computer and the phone, which though you complain about it I know how good it makes you feel when you get a good deal or solve a problem that’s been irritating you for a while. If you spend more time telling folk what needs to be done you’ll be able to see far more projects completed in the same time. Actually all you need to do is tell Bertie what you want done and leave him to deal with the folk doing it. Then when the whatever it is they’ve made is working you can go to look at it and tell them how to make it work the way you want it to work. In the meantime you can mend my rocking chair. I’ll go and make you a pint of tea, Love, and fetch you a slab of buttered fresh baked fruit cake.” Ellen didn’t labour her point, she knew Alf would eventually see it her way and start to enjoy the new way he worked. She knew fine he would still work long days seven days a week, for it was his life and he didn’t really see it as work. It was what he did for fun, and she would have her rocking chair mended.
It didn’t take long before Sun, Sasha and the rest of Alf’s friends realised that somehow he wasn’t as stressed nor as tired as he had been of yore. None of them understood how it had come about, and though Ellen had said nothing of her rôle in the matter there wasn’t a woman in Bearthwaite who didn’t understand what had happened, but typically that was the sort of thing that was not for male ears, for they knew their menfolk wouldn’t appreciate their friends knowing how their women folk protected them from themselves.
Ellen had once telt her mother, ‘He’d been working twenty hours a day for going on a fortnight and was exhausted, Mum. He was planning on going down to his workshop. I was frightened he’d hurt himself, so I did the only thing I could think. I took my blouse off and dragged him off to the bedroom. Just after lunch it was, but fortunately the kids were at school. To be honest I was amazed he managed what he did, but he slept straight through till eight next morning afterwards.’ Her mother had nodded and said, ‘He truly is a chip of Jim’s block all right. Like father like son. Flo telt me years ago that she’d had to do the same with Jim more than once.’ She’d been very serious when she’d added, ‘It’s a good thing that when matters are serious we can handle ’em that way.’ Then she’d chuckled before adding, ‘And it’s an even better thing that they can’t help ’emselves to do owt but coöperate when we do.’
After that Alf spent probably half of his working day on the phone, the internet and his drawing board and half of the rest talking to Bertie and looking at mechanisms that needed to be tweaked into better performance. What remained he saved for the allotments. The implementation of his ideas was managed not just by Bertie but also by the team of folks of numerous crafts and trades he had surrounded himself and his group of engineers with in order to manage the huge volume of concepts that flowed off his granddad’s drawing board and sketch pad. Ellen too in her own way was a genius. She’d smiled at some of her mum’s other words spoken when she and Alf were not getting on too well. ‘Any woman who can’t handle her man is not using the gifts God gave her for the purpose properly, or more likely not often enough.’
Much to the dismay of the wholesalers of propane, kerosene and permitted solid fuels Alf, Bertie and several hundred Bearthwaite men, and a smaller number of women and children too, had turned the clock back a century or more and the valley was using ever increasingly larger proportions of bio mass solid fuel, mainly willow coppicing sourced by the Beebell estate management workers and demolition timber sourced by Saul and his teams of demolition and site clearance contractors. Every square foot of land in the valley that was too difficult to access for growing purposes was being planted with trees suitable for coppicing for fuel. Willow was perfect for the job, for a piece left on the ground would put roots down as likely as not and if it were poked into the ground it was a certainty. Thousands of potential trees for coppicing could be cut from an existing tree if not in minutes certainly in less than an hour.
The local agricultural vehicles, the village bus and all the various vans and waggons operating out of the valley had one by one been modified to start running on locally produced bio diesel,(1) mostly produced from locally grown rape which produced the seed oil feed stock. The plant that extracted the oil had been simple to make and was easy to maintain. However, it was not particularly efficient, but that didn’t matter since like the haulm the oily husk residue was excellent cattle feed when mixed with sillage, and the effort to extract the remaining oil was most easily, and cost effectively, undertaken by dairy cows, pigs and sheep.
Manufacturing the bio diesel was a relatively straight forward process overseen by Jane who was a university chemistry professor. The excess methanol used to drive the reaction towards completion was recovered by distillation for reuse. Most of the methanol used was bought in from outside, but a worthwhile quantity was provided by Jean-Claude and Græme, Gustav’s still masters. There’d been a lot of work done looking for the best use for the glycerol by product. There was a market for the crude glycerol, but Harry, who operated his own waggon, said that the price that the buyers paid wasn’t sufficient to bother loading it. It could, according to the literature, be used as a component in livestock feed, but all felt that till more information was available and Jane had evaluated the effort and cost involved in purifying it and come a conclusion as to whether the benefits made it worth doing it was best just to compost it. The allotmenteers had been composting the glycerol for a few months when Oscar, one of the engineering apprentices, had watched a Youtube clip of a small Indian company that made domestic solid fuel briquettes from sawdust. The sawdust had been bound together with a small amount of PVA glue and compressed and extruded as the briquettes by a small locally produced machine. He’d asked Bertie if the glycerol could be used as the binding agent to turn the sawdust produced in considerable quantities by various processes at Bearthwaite into a more conveniently handled fuel rather than just composting it as had been done up to then.
As a result, experiments were conducted into the viability of compressing the sawdust and glycerol mix into solid fuel briquettes. Initial trials were conducted using a small commercial machine hired from a tool hire depot. A small quantity of glycerol was mixed with sawdust and other small pieces of combustible organic matter too. The trials were a success having discovered the appropriate ratio of sawdust and small stuff to glycerol to produce a non sticky handleable product. The secret was to use just enough glycerol in the mix to act as a binder and enable the mix to be pressed into solid cylindrical chunks that were extruded from a locally produced larger version of the commercially produced machine that had been hired from the tool hire company for a week. It was thought that that was the best use for the glycerol since no effort was required to purify it and the cylindrical chunks were convenient to use as fuel. Using the sawdust and other small stuff that were both produced in quantity by various operations in the valley was a far better use than the allotmenteers could make of them for both took a long time to rot down.
The conversion of the vehicles had been a relatively easy matter. Once an engine running on bio diesel had warmed up sufficiently for the heat exchanger system to reach the required temperature to reduce the unmodified oil’s viscosity the fuel feed switched itself over to the major tank containing the rape seed oil. The heat exchanger system was cleverly integrated into the vehicle’s water cooling system via the radiator pipework. The lowering of the oil’s viscosity was necessary so that the fuel pump could handle it without any risk of damage. The shut down procedure was simply a matter of throwing a switch which changed the fuel pump’s feed over to the much smaller tank containing the bio diesel. The unsophisticated electronics then allowed the system to purge the oil from the fuel lines, the pump and the injectors refilling them with bio as it did so. After a minute or so the electronic box of tricks, developed by Pat, turned the engine off automatically.
Ready for the cold weather the insulated fuel tanks had electric heating elements inside them, and the equally well insulated fuel lines had been wrapped with electric heater tapes prior to being insulated. The heaters could be powered by mains electricity when the vehicle was parked up and by the engine’s alternator when running. Some vehicles had had their fuel systems modified, some had had their engines replaced and some had been selt to be replaced by vehicles of a type more amenable to conversion. As Bertie had said, “Working on one of these little beauties beats the hell out working on modern vehicles out yonder. At least with these we know what everything does, how it works and who to fetch to fettle it when it breaks down.”
When the commercial vehicles had all been dealt with the group of engineers turned their attention to cars. Many Bearthwaite folk had decided they didn’t need a car as they could always borrow one when the need arose, and eventually Beebell bought appropriate cars that residents could rent at cost by the mile. Murray had negotiated the purchase of a company group insurance policy that covered every driver in the valley to drive any and all vehicles they were legally entitled to drive, which had saved many tens of thousands of pounds.
Most folk who still had a car now owned vehicles powered by diesel engines originally fitted into older Mercedes models and Alf had streamlined the project to just three different readily available engine models for ease of maintenance and conversion to run off bio diesel and rape seed oil. All those engines had inline fuel pumps, rather than rotary pumps, with a external source of lubrication rather than being lubricated by the fuel they pumped. Vehicles had been chosen for longevity and ease of maintenance rather than the latest level of sophistication and none had any computer controlled systems at all, though Pat had brought them up to date by the judicious use of relatively simple and readily available electronic components. Most of the bodies had been stripped right back to the shell, which had been repaired where necessary, prior to hot dip galvanisation and reassembly ensuring the body work would last for decades. All new body parts required were being made from stainless steel, where possible by nearby outside firms with power presses, but where not by panel beaters at Bearthwaite. Bertie had seven adults working on the engines and a dozen and a half apprentices of various ages two of who were girls, Gerry’s eleven year old granddaughter Daisy and Bertie’s twelve year old daughter Zella.
The bread ovens at the mill had reverted to solid fuel which they had used over a century ago. The large main oven now used round bales of straw which had a mechanised handling system based on something Bertie had seen on the TV being used at Chatsworth House, the Duke of Devonshire’s residence in Derbyshire. The smaller ovens used faggots from hedging and ditching and the small stuff, locally referred to as brash, the coppicers cleared out as they managed the beck edges and elsewhere. The brash also included everything the hedgers and ditchers removed when laying hedges that was left over after any firewood logs and material suitable for the faggots had been removed. The brash had always been passed through a chipper as it was collected which blew it into one of the high sided trailers that at harvest time took the grain from the combine harvesters to the silos. The chipped brash had been a pain to handle and some folk had suggested it may be better just to compost it as had been done with sawdust and other small stuff. However, it was now being dealt with in a much more convenient fashion.
The trailers were now taken not to wherever the fuel was required, but to the relatively recently completed, huge, covered, multi use building at the quarry and dumped onto the concrete floor, as was the sawdust and small stuff from other sources with which it was to be mixed. The materials from the pile were pushed into the mixer hooper in roughly the appropriate ratio, it wasn’t critical, by a farm tractor with a large front bucket. The hopper fed the conveyor that fed the mixer which had a steady glycerol feed. The mixer was essentially an eight foot [2.4m] diameter steel drum with fins welded on its inside to do the mixing. The output end of the twenty foot long [6m] drum was mounted slightly lower than the feed end. As the drum revolved by the time the contents dropped out of the lower end onto the conveyor that fed the recently constructed extruder thorough mixing had taken place.
The extruder compacted the mixture and produced the much more convenient to handle cylindrical chunks referred to as brash blocks. The brash blocks were available in quantity, and the first few weeks’ production had also contained the coal dust remaining from the part of the quarry site where tens of thousands of tons [a ton is 1000Kg or 2240 pounds] of coal had previously been stored. It had been discussed as to whether it was worth shredding paper and cardboard packaging waste to include in the brash blocks, but Alf had immediately knocked that idea on the head when he’d said, “Sounds like a lot of work to me for bugger all reward. Just chuck the stuff into the compost pit at the allotments and let the worms do the work. In twenty years there won’t be any evidence there was ever any paper there. If there’s ever too much paper and card get Tony or one of his lads to dig another pit. Dump it in there and ask one of the farmers to cover it in shite or slurry.” Too, the brash blocks had provided sufficient employment for the estate management group to employ two more full time workers though the entire estate team worked at whatever needed doing at the time.
One of Bertie’s teams had converted part of an old sheaf binder to tie faggots gey tight with burnable, and bio degradable, sisal(2) bale string to make them much more handleable with an appropriately heavier weight in them. After tieing they were trimmed to length and the offcuts dealt with by treating them as brash. Bertie was also supervising the creation of a bale string making machine that would be capable of utilising not just locally produced retted hemp and nettle fibres but grass, willow wands and just about anything else locally available too. The machine was in the final stages and he anticipated it’s completion in a month or two. It was a simple device and produced slightly thicker string than what was commercially available but as Harvey one of the coppicers had said, “What the hell, Bertie? It’ll be string that costs nowt. All you’ve left to do is get that twisting mechanism tweaked a bit and we’re in business.” His intention was to turn it over to the hedgers and ditchers for evaluation and then build a second one incorporating their recommendations before altering the first one to suit.
Alf had decided that the village had all the folk with the necessary skills to design and build custom cookers that also provided hot water and heating using masonry with welded and recycled heat exchangers embedded in the masonry. Matt Levens and his brickies built the outer masonry shell and the necessary internal masonry and others filled in over the heat exchangers and pipework with fine sieved, loose, masonry crush infill that would enable easy maintenance in the event of a burst. It was intended to replace the 18mm [¾ inch] mild steel tops once Daniel the local master caster and his mates had built their cupola furnace and all else necessary for the task of producing cast steel top sections that were handleable by two strong men and over lapped to produce a single smoke tight cooking surface. Local scrapyards were more than happy to gas axe(3) old brake drums, axles and the like off scrap vehicles for the premium price Daniel was prepared to pay for the readily available source of quality metal suitable for casting.
The womenfolk had been more receptive to this than of using repurposed old Rayburn and Aga type appliances since they could be built in to their kitchens at a full room wide. Most were mayhap fifteen feet wide and two and a half foot deep and proved to be easily capable of cooking for their rapidly expanding extended families in a world that seemed to them to be increasingly dystopian for ordinary folk outside. A major benefit was that several folk could use the cookers at the same time and most women had started cooking together for their families. It saved time, effort and fuel, and it was a social activity they could enjoy whilst their daughters widened their culinary skills in an environment of total female solidarity. Their menfolk were happy to provide the fuel they required and telt them. ‘We no longer have to cut wood all year because we have enough growing every year to just cut when the sap is not in it and we have enough fully dried wood, faggots and brash blocks in store both grown here and from the demolition crews to last for nigh on two years, and even firing your big stoves you are now using less fuel in total.
The villagers were not unrealistic. They knew there was no possibility of becoming completely self sufficient and living reasonable lives. What they wished was to become as independent from outside as was possible yet still live well, and if and when it hit the fan they would just deal with it and find a solution, for they always had in the past. If the worst came to the worst they would find a substitute or do without. Much to the joy and benefit of the Bearthwaite residents large numbers of their relatives had started returning to the village. It had started as a trickle, but eventually became a torrent as more Bearthwaite reared folk became increasingly disenchanted with the world out there Most of the returnees opined that the world outside the valley was rapidly degenerating and it was becoming more unsafe by the day.
Nancy who’d worked as a midwife for an area health authority had explained, “Joel my husband worked at the same hospital I did, but for the ambulance department. He usually drove a car to collect folk as would have no other way of making it to hospital appointments. Mostly they were elderly persons, but not all. When he caught Covid, we were expecting him to be telt to stay at home, but his boss telt him that he could keep working, because that was the new NHS policy. After what we’d been through with lockdown, that was what did it for me. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back for Joel too. I telt him it was time for us to hand our notices in and get the hell away from idiots who could put elderly folk at risk like that. I telt him that I wanted to go home. He wasn’t sure about coming here, but he’s glad he did now. He served his time as a mechanic and mostly he’s working with Bertie, but he’s had a weather recording station since he was a boy, and long before I met him he’d upgraded to a state of the art thing that sends information to the meteorological office. The Met Office use data from their own weather stations, but they have thousands of amateurs like Joel sending them data too. They use the data for weather forecasting.
“Joel’s always been fascinated, or obsessed is nearer the truth, by weather, and he’s doing a bit of part time teaching doing the meteorology parts of the syllabuses at the school. Once he saw the valley, the opportunities for indulging in his hobby here had him hooked on the place in minutes. Most folk just aren’t interested in weather, sure they talk about it, but not in the way that he enjoys. Here he has the opportunity for serious conversation with a lot of mostly older folk who know a lot about local conditions, and getting the chance to talk about weather to kids and shew them some of the interactive stuff that’s available on line, which they enjoy, has made his day. He spends hours talking to Old Alan Peabody. Joel says Alan may be in his middle nineties, but he has crystal clear recollections of the bad winters of forty-three and sixty-two, the drought of seventy-six and much else too. What he’s especially interested in is the plethora of minutiae that Alan remembers about the weather and wildlife behaviour in the months leading up to those extreme events. Joel records all their conversations, so as to document Alan’s detailed local knowledge for future generations.”
Many returnees, like Nancy, brought like minded spouses and their children back with them and outsiders who were wishful of a trial as Bearthwaite folk too. Bearthwaite folk were good judges of character and over the next twenty years only three out of a couple of thousand incomers were unacceptable and they had decided to leave without any prompting, and no others left of their own accord. Many like Joel had brought highly valued skills, knowledge and new ways of looking at old problems, and many, again like Joel, worked two or more jobs as circumstances required.
Several years before, the Ofsted(4) inspection of the primary school had been a disaster for Ofsted. They’d had to obtain a right of entry permit from a magistrate to travel to the school at Bearthwaite. When the inspectors arrived all the staff, not just the teaching staff, had walked out, and the parents of all the children had removed them from the school premises. The lead inspector had been angry but controlled and had threatened Murray as the headteacher with legal action. Murray had calmly informed her that he had no more control over the parents than she did and he had no intention of doing anything concerning the staff without proper consultation with their professional associations and unions which would take time and any court would regard that as a perfectly reasonable and proper process during an industrial dispute. For the first time Ofsted had been forced to realise that they could only inspect a school with the coöperation of the inspected and since Bearthwaite school’s staff and the parents of its children had taken a shoulder to shoulder stance of non coöperation there was nothing they could do about it.
Initially they had tried to claim that the parents were illegally denying their children education, but on behalf of the entire parent body Murray had explained in writing that the children were being tutored, not just by their parents, but by experts too, most of who, which whilst it was not a legal requirement, providentially just happened to be qualified teachers, to wit the ex teachers that the school had employed. Hoping to find a crack in the Bearthwaite stance to exploit in court, Ofsted demanded to be told just how were those tutors being paid. Adalheidis had dealt with that by telling them it was an entirely private matter between the tutors and the parents who employed them and as such it was not within their remit to ask such questions and they certainly had no right to receive answers. The entire matter stalled, and the consequences of that were still being argued about though Ofsted had been telt by their legal advisors that they had no case against any, be they school management, teachers, parents or pupils, that would stand up in a court of law.
Back to the present, Ofsted sent notice to the much expanded Bearthwaite school, now a secondary as well as a primary education establishment, of an inspection, but by the date given the road was flooded for several weeks due to rain, judiciously assisted by controlled release of water from the reservoir, whilst matters were discussed and arrangements put into place ready to deal with Ofsted. The Ofsted inspection team had been incredulous that there still existed places on the UK mainland where folk actually lived that were so isolated that the weather could prevent all access to them for weeks. They had put up at a hotel in Carlisle till the situation became a little clearer. In conversation with locals in the lounge the lead inspector had said they were waiting to go to Bearthwaite, but the road was closed at the moment. He and his team had no idea what to make of the ensuing talk.
The lead inspector asked, “These floods, how bad is they? There surely must be a way in and what if some is ill or hurt so badly they need a hospital? How do they manage then?”
A smartly dressed, prosperous looking man in his late twenties or possibly his early thirties replied, “The road can flood eight feet deep for several miles. The marshes at the sides of the road are not safe under those conditions. You could I suppose walk in over the fells, but the shortest route must be going on for twenty miles [32km]. It’s anything but straight, or even obvious, and if the road is flooded the fells like the marshes will be saturated and not safe either. The old pack pony trail out of the back of the valley that centuries ago was used as a short cut in summer to Caldbeck will be a force with the rain.” Seeing puzzled faces on the Ofsted inspectors’ faces he explained, “A force is a waterfall to those that don’t know. It’s a word widely used in these parts. As to the requirements for a hospital, there’s the air ambulance, or if it’s that bad Sasha Vetrov would order a helicopter in. He’s not short of money, and has done it before. For less critical situations there’re a doctor, dentists, midwives and nurses that live at Bearthwaite. Dr Wing has done a couple of appendectomies and a caesarian or three in the operating theatre that’s in the old bobbin mill. He’s not a surgeon, but is knowledgable and skilled, and he has access to experts who can assist him in real time via video link at every step of the way under emergency conditions. Anyway I must go. I’ve somewhere to be. I’ve just come up by train from London and I’m going home, for good this time, but Mum will still give me hell if I’m late.” At that he left.
“He seemed to know a lot about the place didn’t he?” one of the inspectors said.
An elderly man said, “Aye well he would wouldn’t he. He’s one of ’em. You can tell by his voice. Bearthwaite folk speak different from the rest of us.”
“He said he was going home. If he can get home that must mean there is a way for us to get there too doesn’t it?” another of the inspectors asked.
“No. Not so. He’ll phone or text home and a small boat will collect him and take him home over the flooded road. They wouldn’t take you. If you try to get there by boat there’s a good chance you won’t be coming back, well only with your lungs full of water. It’s well over eight mile [13km] from the highways maintained road to Bearthwaite village and it’s all privately owned by the villagers. They maintain the road themselves. In fact they receive no services whatsoever from the local authority or any other organisation, which means none have the right of entry and that’s the way they like it. They have no mains water, electricity, gas, sewers, education, street lighting or anything else. They provide all those and more for themselves. If they don’t want you in they won’t let you in, I suspect even if they had to sink your boat and watch you all drown. Those folks don’t mess about. Like I said, they speak different and they think different. Oh right enough most of them have been living here for centuries, possibly millennia, but for all that they may as well be foreigners.
“Their shepherds speak a version of English that is so ancient they have no trouble talking to fishermen from Scandinavian countries that put in to local ports, whilst folk from Bearthwaite mostly understand ’em other than the high fell shepherds and the drystone wall lads the rest of Cumbria isn’t even sure they are speaking English, and any one else has no chance at all of even passing the time of day with ’em. They are the truest descendants of the Vikings that lived round here a thousand years ago, and the Vikings were not known for dealing gently with their enemies. One explanation of the name of Buttermere is that the area was an estate belonging to a Viking chieftain named Buthar and Buttermere would have been rendered in his folks’ speech as Buthar’s lake. It is noteworthy that the name Buthar is still used in Bearthwaite. It’s not sensible to antagonise any of them, for they are a tightly knit, clannish folk, and if you do you will have antagonised all of them, and they are reputed to have ways of dealing with that that you wouldn’t like to find out about. Tis said that folk who upset them have died out there due to the weather, and they were quite happy to turn their backs on them and let them die. Tis also said some of them did not turn their backs whilst they watched them die.”
A well spoken woman who appeared to be in her early forties said, “A child died in the reservoir up there years ago. It must be going on thirty years ago, perhaps a bit more, I believe. The crowner(5) put it down to accidental death. The report said he hit his head on a rock and drowned. The report also said he’d been seen diving in from overhanging trees and been told not to by several adults, for it was shallow there with a rocky bottom. That reservoir has been there since Queen Victoria was a young girl, and that boy has been the only one to die in it in all that time. He was reputed to be a bullying thug from a long way south of here, Manchester or Liverpool I think, but I could be wrong. The Bearthwaite children cheered when they were told he was dead, and any number of them said they’d been the victims of the dead child’s bullying. Hitting them and stealing their lunch money at school. It makes you think doesn’t it? If you treat Bearthwaite folk as good neighbours then they’ll treat you the same way. If you antagonise them then they’ll deal with you harshly. During Covid lockdown, there were folk they didn’t get on with that lived there. When the road flooded the Bearthwaite folk schooled their own children, and there’re plenty of clever and educated folk who live there to do it. Their own children didn’t suffer an hour’s loss of education, but they wouldn’t educate the children of the families they didn’t get on with. They lost nigh on a year’s schooling.”
“Aye,” a middle aged woman with gray hair said, “They’re used to being shut off from the world, and have huge food and fuel reserves stored there, but they wouldn’t share, nor even sell to the folk they didn’t like. There was a story that did the rounds that they caught one of them stealing. They stripped him, tied him to a tree and flogged him with a cat(6) like they used to do with criminals on the Isle of Man. According to the tale they left him out all night in a storm and only allowed his wife and family to untie him from the tree the following morning. The matter was never reported to the police, so god alone knows what they threatened to do to him and his family if he opened his mouth. Seemingly, not surprisingly no one tried to steal owt off them after that. They have a big boat that they can use to get out if they wish, loads of small ones too, but they’re their boats and they wouldn’t accommodate those other folk. Those other folk would have starved if they hadn’t selt their houses to the folk there, and the Bearthwaite folk made no secret of that they would have watched ’em starve.
“There’re no properties in the valley not owned by Bearthwaite folk any more, and they won’t sell to any they don’t like. Even if they do like you they’ll only rent for a twelvemonth at a time till they accept you as one of themselves. That way if they change their minds about you they can evict you, and make no bones of it they would, for they’re gey hard folk. And even then if you want to leave and sell up you have to sell back to them. Mind I heard the others were keen to leave and the Bearthwaite folk paid a fair price for their houses, but till they had the deeds registered with the government and knew the money was in the sellers’ banks they wouldn’t help. I also heard when the others left they had to have furniture vans and taxis on this side of the flood water, for the Bearthwaite folk took them across the water and left them there with all their stuff. I don’t know if that is true for sure because there’s a lot of folk don’t like them and will say owt about them whether it be true or not just out of spite.”
“Oh aye,” cackled an old crone who appeared to be drinking neat gin from a very large glass. “It was right enough, for they’re gey strange folk, and tis said they’ve been inter breeding in that valley of theirs for centuries.” Her voice dropped to a whisper as she said, “Not just cousins, but mothers and sons, fathers and daughters and brothers and sisters too, but for sure it’s well known there’re a lot of those trans types, gays and other perverts and weirdos living there too, though I can’t see for the life of me what two women can do for each other.” Her voice rose to its former level as she said, “What really sticks in my gullet is that none of the rest that live there are bothered. Can’t say as I’d like them sorts living with decent folks like me and my neighbours. Taint nachural and shouldn’t be allowed. You just watch your back if you go avisiting, Sonny.
“Mind my old man goes to the pub there regular of a Saturday night when the road’s open. He always used to have a good head for the drink, but now when he comes home he’s wasted for two days. They tell stories in the taproom there. Wild and dirty stories I reckon by the look in his eyes when he’s asked about it. Tisn’t a decent spot though, for in the bar there’s still spittoons and sawdust on the floor and the place is full of dogs, or so he says. Can’t say as I’ve ever bin and I’ve no intention of ever going. Folk should stick with their own kind I say. Tis well known that in the days when the pack ponies used the valley as a short cut to Caldbeck there used to be a dozen or more women who were no better than they should be(7) that haunted the place waiting for the men that had the pony trains, for they always had money in their pockets. Gipsies for the most part I dare say. I reckon probably nowt’s changed, for he hasn’t bothered me that way for years now, not since he took up with a couple of workmates that had been going there for years.
“Still my old mum always said we should be grateful to those sorts of women because they kept girls safe to walk the streets and married women from having to put up with it. Too, they say the landlord’s daughter was his brothers son and she’s married to a German. I thought coming out of the EU was supposed to have put a stop to us having to put up with foreigners over here. Tekin up with a German! Some folk’ll do owt. Dirty buggers. As for Dr Wing, with a name like that he ain’t from these parts that’s for sure. And Sasha! I ask you what kind of a man is called Sasha? He’ll be another of those half and halfer types who can’t make their minds up what they are, probably like those dirty buggers on the tele the other month, cline feelers(8) or something such filth like that they were called. Tis easy enough to find out, just look down in the bath. It makes you want to spit. I reckon a good kick in the knackers would solve most so called gender confusion issues. My sister is into astrology and she says that men are from Mars and women are from Venus, but I reckon all those other so called genders are from your anus.” She cackled with laughter at her witticism before draining her glass and saying, “Ah well, somehow my glass has gone and got empty, so I’ll just go for a refill.” With that she limped off to the bar somehow managing her glass and two walking sticks.
Before they left, the inspectors heard every kind of tale concerning Bearthwaite possible. Some were clearly motivated by bigotry and hated, some by ignorance. They heard from many who clearly thought well of the folk who lived at Bearthwaite, but the thing that stood out was a degree of perplexity for none claimed to understand Bearthwaite folk. They were obviously different, but none could explain exactly how. The team weren’t bothered, for they were from Ofsted and different or not when inspecting a school they had the upper hand for they wrote the report, and it was rare indeed that an Ofsted report had been successfully challenged. They were there a week before it became obvious they weren’t going to get into Bearthwaite any time soon, so they returned home.
Before the road was finally opened Bearthwaite school had ceased to exist on paper, and every Bearthwaite parent had notified the Local Education Authority that their children were being home schooled leaving the inspectors yet again with nothing to inspect. The LEA (9) had been reminded by Adalheidis on behalf of every Bearthwaite parent that since Bearthwaite no longer had a school the LEA was obliged by law to make provision for any home schooled children whose parents or guardians requested it for their children to be able to take their examinations in LEA controlled schools. She added that she was requesting that on their behalfs. The LEA found that impossible to accommodate because the senior managements of their schools were proving to be difficult and unwilling to be coöperative, for all had long been resentful of the Bearthwaite private school and even more so of the educational achievements of Bearthwaite children. Now Bearthwaite school was educating its own secondary school aged pupils that had deprived Whiteport Academy of hundreds of children which in turn dramatically reduced the budget provided by the LEA which was worked out in the main on the basis of a head count, with the amount per head increasing as the children moved up through the years. The loss of the sixth form pupils who were above the legally required age for children to be in full time education and carried a premium in their budget allocation was a serious financial blow. As a result the powers that be at Whiteport Academy were having to make deep and stringent retrenchments and refused point blank to coöperate with the LEA producing spurious grounds for their attitude that would have taken the LEA more time than they had available to refute at arbitration or in court.
Adalheidis suggested to the LEA that since they couldn’t meet their legal obligations perhaps they were in need of some assistance, and since Bearthwaite school was still licensed by the examination boards to conduct examinations and had the spaces which could serve as examination halls and more than enough adults to serve as invigilators under the supervision of the schools’ old senior management team that the Bearthwaite children’s examinations were conducted ‘in house’. She added that should the LEA accept her generous offer, which would get them off the legal hook they were currently dangling on, it had been decided by the Beebell directors that graciously they would not charge them for the assistance. Even though they were over a barrel, the LEA were difficult and stupidly said that the proposed adults were not teachers. At that they were gently but firmly reminded that it was illegal under government regulations that had been in force for well over a decade for teachers to waste their highly expensive training on routine tasks and invigilation was specifically mentioned as one of those routine tasks they were not to undertake in the regulations. However, Adalheidis had added, the invigilators available to her though qualified as teachers were no longer working teachers and they certainly were not in the employ of an LEA which those regulations applied to, and they would be would be paid via exactly the same mechanism that all of their LEA schools used to pay their invigilators who were mostly unqualified parents, administrators, cleaners, dinner ladies and the like.
The LEA and Ofsted were stymied and they knew it. The LEA also knew if they did not provide somewhere suitably staffed for the Bearthwaite children to take their examinations they were staring down the barrels of what would be class action law suit that would cost them many tens of millions, for they would be deemed to have seriously damaged the education and life opportunities of scores, probably hundreds, of children. They’d heard that Adalheidis had been preparing the Bearthwaite case for months at least. They stalled for as long as they could, but when they finally agreed to allow the examinations to take place at Bearthwaite insinuating that they were the ones doing the favour they received a serious shock when they received a written reminder that the offer of free examination provision had been rescinded by Beebell in writing over two months before. To the fury of the senior LEA officers they discovered that the Beebell offer had been withdrawn as the reminder had said over two months before, but the document saying so had not been passed on to them by their subordinates. One of the subordinates had explained, “We were told that all communication with Beebell was at a standstill in order to make them capitulate. In the months when we had been incommunicado with Beebell they emailed us to say they had taken our silence to be a spurning of their offer and due to what they described as our recalcitrance the next move would be ours. We were still being told by our senior officers that there was to be no communication on our part with Beebell and they, the senior officers, were not interested in anything Beebell had to say. Emails to that effect were circulated to all staff and we all have copies.”
That was the point at which the senior officers realised that their choices were between forcing their secondary head teachers to accommodate the Bearthwaite children by threatening immediate budget cuts, which would create animosity lasting years if not decades, and eating humble pie by caving in to Adalheidis and paying what she informed them Bearthwaite assistance in the matter would now cost them. She’d reminded them of the money they’d saved when the Bearthwaite secondary school had opened by neither paying it to Whiteport Academy nor to Bearthwaite which they no longer seemed to have in their possession. She accompanied that with a request under the freedom of information act asking where the money was or if they no longer had it what had it been spent on. They’d taken the matter up to the wire and it had cost them dearly, far more than they’d initially thought they’d saved. It had also cost several of the LEA senior personnel their jobs. They’d been warned by their legal advisors that Adalheidis had one of the best legal minds in the country and she was backed by equally good accountants with access to what seemed to be limitless funds and a research team that was second to none. She was a virtuoso court room performer, a veritable Rottweiler when it came to extracting compensation and she only ever gave one opportunity to compromise before going in for the kill. Their advisors had also warned them months before of what she had done to the utilities company, but they were civil servants and as such considered themselves untouchable, so they’d scoffed and listened even less than the directors of the corporate utilities company had to their legal advisors, and now she was biting chunks out of their budget and their careers too and there was nothing they could do about it. The Rottweiler had its teeth well and truly around their jugulars.
The pay masters of the LEA senior officers had sacrificed them and told the remaining officers to have the problem solved within three days or they would have no jobs either. The remaining officers of the LEA caved in immediately as regards the children taking their examinations at Bearthwaite, and as demanded by Chance had paid in total in advance. Chance had informed them that till he knew the money was in the Beebell account he’d instructed that no one was to sign the agreement on the Bearthwaite side. The new LEA senior officers found out over a year later that long before the issues between the LEA and Beebell had been settled Murray had negotiated with the examination boards’ umbrella organisation that the children could take their examinations at Bearthwaite supervised by their ex teachers, in the presence of a couple of board officials that Murray had requested be there in order to avoid any subsequent claims of irregularity, no matter how they were deemed to be educated and regardless of the LEA’s stance at the time or in the future. The examination boards had been happy to reach a conclusion to what had been to them an amicably and quickly resolved matter with a friendly and reasonable group of persons. They had expressed that they wished they could have that kind of relationship with the LEAs most of who were difficult for them to negotiate with.
The senior LEA officers were angry to discover the pre existing agreement between the examination boards and Beebell because initially they’d believed they’d been conned and that Adalheidis had finessed them into paying what they need not have paid. That was till they found out that should they not have paid the money Adalheidis had intended to sue them for three of their years’ entire budget under discrimination and hate crimes legislation. It was the opinion of their legal advisors that given the documented, upheld complaints concerning poor treatment of various Bearthwaite children over the years at Whiteport Academy, and the LEA primary schools before Bearthwaite started it’s own, she’d have won the case hands down. “That fucking bitch is definitely no fucking lady,” one of the recently promoted LEA officers had remarked when he’d realised that right from the start Adalheidis had been many steps in front of them.
He’d been startled when Clerkwell James, one of the legal advisors, had said, “In some ways maybe you’re correct, she’s trans, but I wouldn’t shoot my mouth off about it if I were you. It’s not only not a stance taken by a reasonable person it’s illegal and could get you sacked, gaoled and subsequently unemployable upon release for using a position of public responsibility, paid for incidentally by the public purse, to proselytise what amounts to views that constitute hate crimes. I’ve met her and her husband socially when she wasn’t in solicitor mode. I like her, and she definitely is a lady. Her husband is a good bit younger than she and lays brick for a living. He is built like a brick built outhouse if you’ll pardon the almost pun. He’s a decent bloke, and I wouldn’t fancy your chances if he heard you were bad mouthing his wife. The last bloke who did he crippled and would have killed if his brothers and their mates hadn’t dragged him off. The CCTV shewed that the other bloke threw the first punch, so apart from his permanent injuries it all came to nowt. It was all in the papers and on the telly. What I think you really mean is that you resent that she is an awful lot better at her job than you are at yours. I admit she’s a lot better than me, and we do the same job. I would be prepared to hazard a reasonable sum of money that she’d been preparing for this confrontation for years not months. It’s the way she works as the utilities company found out when she led them round by the nose for a couple of years.
“I’d give more than is decent to talk about in mixed company to have a research team like hers. They produced the material that kept the utilities legal team on the hop so badly after she’d given them a thrashing in court that their bosses didn’t dare replace them with a fresh team which is what they should have done the moment they’d lost the case. Having been beaten once they were three parts beaten before they went into court the second time, and all she’d been doing by all those demands under the freedom of information act was keeping them wondering what the hell she was up to and what she’d be doing next. All she was doing was wasting their time and keeping them there. She knew she could thrash them again, and didn’t want to face a fresh team with no history of loss behind them. Some of those questions, demands and information that she threw at them I found out she’d had her researchers dig out of London archives two and a half years before the second court case which was twelve months before the first court case. That is one sharp lady.
“And by the way, she’s financially backed by a multi billionaire who lives at Bearthwaite and regards her as family, her mum is like a daughter to him. We were doomed before we started. That Ofsted team shot themselves and all the rest of us too in the foot and the senior officers the county fired were so far up their own arses nothing could ever have penetrated their hubris. Now you’re a senior officer, Frank, and I see the signs of you going the same way, but before it hits the fan and nemesis brings your just rewards home to roost I’ll be gone. I can retire in three years and I’m thinking of finding out what my chances are of moving to Bearthwaite. I reckon for sure working for her has got to be better than working for the county, and I’d like to be on the winning side for a change.”
Whilst the negotiations were under way regarding Ofsted’s rôle in the education of Bearthwaite children the education of those children didn’t suffer as lessons took place as before in the school taught by their usual teachers in their usual classrooms, and ultimately the examination results spoke for themselves as to the quality of Bearthwaite education. Not all Bearthwaite children were clever, but all achieved their full potential. The secret to that that outsiders just couldn’t perceive was simple: Bearthwaite children grew up in a caring and loving environment with adults that genuinely lauded their achievements, be they academic or other. For many of the less academically able children Alf was their rôle model if not to say hero, and that too was something outsiders simply did not have the ability to understand, for their thoughts were totally channelled and conditioned by the prejudices and stereotypes they had lived with all their lives. Prejudices and stereotypes that had been hard for Bearthwaite folk to rid themselves of, but hard or no they had done so, and were now reaping the benefits of those efforts. As a result Bearthwaite children wanted to learn, to do well and ultimately to become an accepted and respected adult member of their society. As Murray had repeatedly said when interviewing potential teachers, “What we do here is not rocket science, if you can’t see that I would suggest that Bearthwaite is not the right environment for you to teach in, and we do not want you teaching here.” Eventually it was understood, if not legally agreed upon, that Ofsted would in future have no part to play in Bearthwaite education. Once that had been made public, it was the thin end of the wedge for Ofsted because the precedent had been set, and elsewhere other educators including most of the private schools in the UK, and some LEAs too, were researching how they too could remove their children and their schools from under the heels of Ofsted’s jack boots.
The clocks had long since been set back an hour and Bearthwaite like the rest of Britain was operating on Greenwich Mean Time. It was dark in the morning when children went to school and it was dark in the afternoon before they left school to return home again. Fortunately the weather was being kind for the time of year. The wind was blustery but relatively warm. There had been little precipitation to speak of for ten days and the forecast was for the weather to remain unchanged till after the Solstice bonfire on the village green and possibly till into the new year. The children were looking forward to the bonfire and to Jeremy’s barbecue. Jeremy, who owned the Granary restaurante, an upmarket silver service establishment that directly and indirectly provided considerable employment and brought a lot of money into Bearthwaite from ‘out there’, had long taken charge of all village communal entertainment cooking. True the women still baked and provided what they had always provided, but Jeremy was the one they spoke to for ideas, and he coördinated every one’s efforts and the supplies they would need from various sources for their contributions. It was universally agreed that though things had been good before Jeremy moved to Bearthwaite they were much better after.
Before Jeremy moved to Bearthwaite the village had spit roasted quarters of beef for public celebrations on the green, but Jeremy had had some of Bertie’s associates provide two huge spit mechanisms that could road an entire beast(10) each with ease and he used the lesser ones for the ridiculously easy tasks of roasting sheep, pigs, and even poultry. Traditionally the children had taken it in turns to rotate the carcasses to ensure they cooked evenly, but now they were rotated by old twelve volt car batteries that had been stripped, fettled and rebuilt. For the children that was a mixed blessing. They no longer had the tedious task of turning the spits, but it hadn’t been all bad, for there’d always been a group of them doing it and the craic had been good. Too, it had been a twenty-four hour a day task for three days and working through the entire night and being provided with mugs of cocoa whilst they did had been exciting, especially for couples still exploring their relationships. After a battery failure things became even better as they had to watch the spits without having to manually turn them. They were still provided with cocoa and rarely had to do any work. Bertie had remarked to Alf, “I didn’t have the heart to tell them another couple of batteries in parallel would obviate any need for them to be up all night, Granddad.”
Alf had smiled and replied, “The most efficient way is not always the best, Lad.”
Parent’s lives, especially those of mothers, and grand mothers and older sisters too, were now easier than even a few years before, for there was now a wide variety of activities for children of all ages to engage in to prevent boredom and its concomitant poor behaviour. Even the men were now substantially involved in childcare. The model railway society, self defence, martial arts, gymnastics and ballroom and other dancing styles had recently been added to by weight training and similar fitness activities. Though there were some women involved, notably Felicity who was head of games and sport at the school, and Sophia and Maybel her two female games teachers, most activities other than the dance classes were in the main overseen by men.
Pete held his hand up for some quiet and announced, “Lads, I’d like you all to meet Hamilton. He’s Diane as was Diane Graham’s old man. She’s in the room right now and any as would like to welcome her back can do so, after the ladies have finished with her that is. They’ve a room here at the Dragon, and Matt Levens is shewing them round tomorrow looking for a place to live. Diane’s home and she’s back for good.” Hamilton was taken aback by the stamping of boots and the cheers. He knew that the expressions of goodwill that he accepted were mostly due to Diane’s return, but there was considerable interest shewn in him too. He accepted from what Diane had telt him over the years that folk would be concerned that he could fit in in the rather unusual society that was Bearthwaite, but he already felt that the welcome he was being offered was genuine and he couldn’t understand why, for he was essentially a stranger, some one these men didn’t know from Adam.
That the Bearthwaite philosophy was to offer outsiders friendship and every opportunity to succeed as one of themselves from the outset was as alien to him as it was to most outsiders. He’d yet to realise that if he failed it would be due to his own actions and not due to any pre conceived views of theirs. In short they offered him a rope, and he could use it to secure himself a place in their society with or he could hang himself with it, but whatever he did with it they would not string him up, for to do that was his responsibility not theirs. Theirs could on occasion a be brutal society that was prepared to take vicious steps to protect itself, but it was a fair one, even if it did stray from time to time over the edge of what others regarded as the law. Although Diane had telt him a lot about the place of her birth he’d never visited Bearthwaite before, but hearing the voices around himself he had realised within minutes of his arrival where Diane’s unusual accent and turns of phrase originated. Some of the older men in the taproom he found rather difficult to understand from time to time and to his embarrassment he’d had to ask one or two to repeat themselves, and he didn’t understand one word in ten that Joey, a retired shepherd he’d been telt, spoke. Under other circumstance he was aware that he wouldn’t have recognised that Joey was speaking English, though his four dogs seemed to have no trouble understanding him and every one else in the taproom too who interacted with them. To Hamilton he sounded similar to the Scandinavian fishermen, friends of his parent’s and family, whom he’d met years ago as a child from time to time when they had taken him back to Scotland to stay with relatives.
Hamilton had been amazed when thirty or more men of all ages had stood up to walk round into the best side to greet Diane hugging her tightly and kissing her cheek. None had said much more than, “Welcome home, Lass. Your mum and dad would be pleased to know you’re back where you belong.” Clearly Diane had arrived home, and she was rather emotional about it, but he worried about how he would fit in in a society that he now realised was obviously far more different from anything he’d ever come across before than he’d expected. What Diane had explained in trying to prepare him for Bearthwaite fell far short of the reality of it.
Sasha had telt him, “I’m Siberian, and I’ve lived her for a gey lang time as they would have it round here, yet I still have to ask for explanations, not often these days, but it still happens, so don’t worry about it, or as some of these heathen illiterates would say, ‘Dinnae fash yoursel aboot het.’ Still it could be worse you could be in Maryport, no bugger understands them, and Gustav’s kids have Cornish accents as broad as a pasty.(11) Pete, another pint for the lad if you would please.”
There was a lot of laughter at Sasha’s remarks and the heathen illiterates he’d pointed out were obviously not offended in the least. Joey clearly thought Sasha’s remarks were hilarious. Pete returned with a pint and said, “It’s Bearthwaite Brown brewed just up the way in Gustav’s brewery by the bloke who sits at the right hand of God. Clarence be a good lad and take a bow if you would, Lad. That’s Clarence, Gustav’s master brewer.” Clarence stood and literally bowed to the cheers of the taproom crowd. “Now, Hamilton, tell us about yourself. Mek it a good tale and tonight you drink and eat supper for free. This is the weekly Saturday evening meeting of the Bearthwaite Grumpy Old Men’s Society where story telling, lies, jokes and owt else we can think of to entertain ourselves with are followed by dominoes. The rule is story tellers get a few free drinks and supper is free.
“Sasha started it all years ago and is the chairman because as we tell any and all he’s the biggest bloody liar ever to enter the premises. He by the way strenuously denies that and says he just creates the new truth. Dave over there is almost as big a liar, but doesn’t tell anywhere near as many lies and he is a comedian to boot.” The laughter took a while to abate and Hamilton was poured a glass of what to him was a strange looking liquid. “It’s the local distillate, Cyanobacta. Gustav’s master distillers Jean-Claude and his mate Græme, who have a side line being god, make it and sell it to out there by the tanker load. Some of the lads are putting a bottling plant together so that we can up the profit margin. The stuff reserved for sale in here is considerably stronger than the stuff selt out yonder. It’s made using the blue green, toxic, algae sludge stuff that blooms from time to time on the reservoir in the summer, though Jean-Claude and Græme keep some as pets breeding in poly bags(12) at the distillery to use in the still. They feed ’em on god alone knows what and artificial sunshine from fancy LED(13) strip lights. HMRC(14) know all about it, but we buy it at cost.” That was a lie for the benefit of outsiders but none of the locals even blinked at the statement. “Off you go, Lad.”
“At forty-eight I’m a few years younger than Diane. I was born in Portsmouth. Mum was from Hamilton near Glasgow. Dad was from not far away, East Kilbride, so I was named Hamilton Kilbride McDonald. My family moved to Hammersmith before I was a year old and that’s where I lived till I left school for University.”
“Where’s Hammersmith, Lad?” a toothless old man sitting by the fire asked in a local accent.
“It’s in west London about four or five miles away from Charing Cross railway station. After I graduated I never went back to London to live. I was the youngest of ten and my parents were almost old enough to be my grandparents. Mum died while I was at university and Dad a couple of years after I left. His funeral was the last time I went to London. I don’t really get on with any of my siblings. They all just messed about at school whereas I studied hard. They resented the support our parents gave me, and all live on benefits and on the wrong side of the law. I haven’t seen any of them for years. After I graduated I went to Cheshire for work which was where I met Diane. She’d left Terry the year before I met her and was divorced by then. We married and had four children all of who did well for themselves. They all graduated from university and eventually married. Some of them have families now and we’re close. We see them from time to time, but it’s not easy because they live and work all over the place, two of them abroad a lot of the time. After Jilly got married Diane decided since I was unhappy at work after the firm got bought out and the new owners made dramatic changes in the interests of economy, and the kids and the management at the school she worked at were becoming a nightmare she’d rather return home. I agreed we had to change jobs, but I was easy either way about us coming here, so that’s how I’m sitting here telling what to me is a pretty boring and mundane tale about myself. Diane wants to work at the school here because she believes the kids here will be better behaved than anywhere else, and I suppose I’d better start looking for job soon. It’s not critical for a few months because though we’re not loaded we do have a bit of cash behind us.”
Sasha asked with a thoughtful look on his face, “You said Diane worked at a school and wants to work at the school here. As what? I thought she had a landscaping business.”
“She did when I met her, but it always reminded her of Terry, so when she was pregnant with Jamey our eldest she sold the business and started a degree in physics with the OU.(15) After that she did a PGCE(16) with them to enable her to teach. She’s been teaching physics for a good while now. Why?”
Murray asked, “What age kids did did she teach?”
“A’ level(17) and GCSE(18) down to eleven year olds, but they were only taught physics as a component of a general science course.”
“Halle bloody lujah! Tell her to see me tomorrow with her qualifications and she’ll have a job as soon as I have sight of them. I’ve got folk who can teach A’ level physics and are good at it, but to have a teacher specifically qualified to teach it is serious icing on my personal cake, and my existing A’ level STEM teachers will be even more pleased than I to have her teaching here.” Murray looked around with a decidedly smug smile and said, “Another round, Lads, I’m buying, and fetch some more chemic someone. For some strange reason I feel like celebrating.” He noticed the puzzled look on Hamilton’s face and said, “Technically I was the school’s head teacher, but that’s only because we had to have one for legal reasons. When the road flooded in the past and our kids couldn’t get to school we taught them ourselves. We have enough knowledge base to cover everything even if some subjects were taught by half a dozen of us. I’m a retired accountant and I taught part of the A’ level economics syllabus. I’m the also chairman of the School’s Management Group and of Beebell too. Beebell is the company that owns and manages the community assets here. Beebell is what the media referred to it as when we went to war with the utilities company. Bee, Bee, Ee, eLl is the Bearthwaite Business Enterprises Ltd, company Beebell. Some of what the kids do we still take part in. Gustav and Charlie are involved in German conversation groups. Eli teaches photography and numerous aspects of art. Harry drives a waggon but teaches astronomy. We have a goodly few folk who aren’t teachers, but are still involved in teaching. It’s worked for years, it ain’t broke, so we don’t try to fix it. I’m still after a few more teachers, but it not critical. We have enough to get by with, but we want some more to cover sickness, maternity, compassionate leave and the like, and to give our teachers more time for planning, feedback to the kids and the like. Legally we don’t have a school any more and the staff aren’t teachers. We have an educational establishment where the kids are tutored privately paid for by their parents. That’s how we get away with having nowt to do with Ofsted.”
It was fifteen minutes before Hamilton was ready to be grilled further due to dealing with the dogs, visits to the gents and the washing and refilling of glasses. Sasha asked, “Where did you study and what did you study there Hamilton?”
“I read Veterinary Science at Glasgow. I lived with my Dad’s younger sister whilst I was there. Even my full scholarship didn’t run to board and lodging, and it’s an expensive course to follow.” The outsiders weren’t particularly impressed by that, but in the silence that followed you could have heard a pin drop, and the local men had looks of incredulity on their faces. Some looked like they’d just won the lottery.
It was Bertie who casually asked, “I don’t suppose you know owt about bees, fish and coneys do you?”
“Yes. I’ve kept bees since I moved to Cheshire and was a County Bee Inspector there for a number of years. On my last patch I had three fish farms that farmed rainbow trout and a large rabbit farm on a world war two air base that utilised the hangers as rabbit housing, but though I’d describe myself as very knowledgeable concerning bees and I keep up to date on development in apiculture and science I certainly couldn’t be described as an expert on pisciculture, aquaculture or cuniculture Why?”
There laughs around the taproom and Dave said, “I think I’m glad your no expert on Pisciculture and cuniculture. At least you’re not a graduate pervert in topics that shouldn’t be spoken of in front of the womenfolk.” There were roars of laughter at that even though most of the men knew what the words meant, even Alf who’d only ever heard of aquaculture realised what Hamilton was talking about.
When the laughter faded, there was a gentle sigh from Murray who said quietly, “I think I’ve just died and gone to heaven. Hamilton, a month ago I embarked on what I thought may be a search lasting years to find a vet for here. I may not be a proper head teacher, but I’m the one who advertises for staff and in the main interviews them, though I had to bottle out(19) on our chiropodist manicurist and get help from Adalheidis to talk to her about the pros and cons of the different types of false nails. Adalheidis is one of our solicitors and she was giggling at me for days after that incident. However, Bertie asked what he did because one of our local farmers pointed out that we needed that knowledge base, or at least a willingness to acquire it. We have several bee keepers with over a hundred hives apiece and any number with round a dozen hives. They obviously have access to the heather that surrounds us, and it’s a profitable business with no need for marketing due to the tourists we get.
“We also have a hatchery that raises a wide variety of fish species, some for reinforcing the bio diversity of the environment here, but most to sell elsewhere. We farm carp and breed brown trout for the table. The trout also form the basis of the recreational angling business on the reservoir. We also have a medium sized business here breeding a New Zeeland white strain of coney for meat, though Rhona wishes to expand to be large enough to enable her two sisters who moved here some months back to make at least a partial living out of it too. However, those are just peripheral things. It is impossible to get a vet here when the road floods, and our farmers have had to shoot cows with calving issues which is a serious financial loss to them. We also have a highly intelligent young lass who’s eleven going on twelve who needs regular work experience with a vet to get into Glasgow to study veterinary science. Livvy has kept ferrets for coneying since she could walk near enough and now has a lurcher pup for the same purpose. She’s worked with the shepherds during lambing for years, and they say her small, strong hands make easy work of some lambs that they’d struggle to have out alive.
“In addition we earn significant amounts of money from a rather unique form of eco tourism that is reliant on everything from unicellular life forms found in ditches right up to medium sized mammals and large trees. Our success is due to the animals’ relative indifference to human presence which means if tourists are quiet they can easily obtain photographs that are extremely difficult to obtain elsewhere. Unfortunately I’m not sure we have enough veterinary work for a full time vet, but if you were willing we could pay you a full time vet’s salary, and you could use your spare time to be involved with the abundant Bearthwaite wildlife and the international experts who advise us on all aspects of the welfare of the valley wildlife and their environment. In addition I’m sure you would be offered any number of business opportunities raising livestock of whatever sort you were interested in. Please think about it.”
“I don’t need to think about it. I know that Diane would not be happy living elsewhere. I know she left here because of what her brother and niece went through. I also know she has wanted to return for years. She wishes to live here, and I wish to live with her. If she can teach here and reëstablish relationships with her family and friends, and she is aware that things have changed here for the better since she left, she will be happy. As for myself, I was disenchanted with working with huge herds of black and white udders on legs that never saw the sky or grass. Disenchanted to the point of depression. Sure I know vets can’t expect to work regular hours, it goes with the job, but when the new owners took over our hours went up without our pay going up to match. When one of my colleagues quit she was not replaced, and the rest of us were expected to take on her work load too for the same money. When another colleague told me he had accepted a job offer at a rural practice in the Highlands and he was going to hand his notice in I thought ‘enough is enough’ and both of us quit at the same time. When the senior partner asked me why I was leaving I told him it was because he was an overbearing, greedy, pompous arsehole. God, that felt good.
“I was bothered about what Diane would say about me quitting, but she just said ‘fine’ and handed her notice in the following day. My bosses told me not to bother working my notice because it wouldn’t be good for the atmosphere at work, and Diane worked her notice on the sick. Stress the doc put on her sick note. Working here sounds much more interesting, and even if the pressure builds up from time to time, that is part of the job too. At least here I’ll enjoy life and the pressure will be due to events beyond human control not due to some fat bastard living the high life on my sweat. Farm and small animal work, bees, fish, coneys and wildlife along with possible commercial interests in raising stock. What more could a man ask for. As for your young lady who wishes work experience, there isn’t a good craftsman or tradesman alive who doesn’t wish to have a youngsters to pass it all on to. I suspect those who don’t have that interest aren’t that good at what they do and don’t want that to be realised by a youngster.”
“Welcome to Bearthwaite, Neighbour. You’re the vet for me, Lad,” said Alan Peabody offering a hand the size of a shovel. “Alan Peabody. I farm here, and have had to shoot a number of cows with issues calving over the years. You hit the spot right on with me when you referred to black and white bags on legs. I keep pure bred, original population Dairy Shorthorns and pedigree Jersey cattle. I have my own bulls too to catch any that the AI(20) lass didn’t manage to have in calf. That way I avoid too much in breeding. but don’t have to stand the loss of a calf and a lactation. Duffy my shorthorn bull is a nice lad. I can trim his feet with no bother just by offering him something he like to eat like a few heads of kail, but Vlad my Jersey bull is about as nasty and dangerous as they come. He’s appropriately named after Vlad the impaler and was a bad tempered little piece of work from the day he was born. To trim his feet involves a crush and a jab of something to calm him down. I’ll give you a call next time around.
The bull calves from our farm, and from a few other farms too including all the farms in the valley, Elleanor, one of my daughters raises for veal, and Vince the Mince there slaughters them at his abattoir that’s right behind his butchers shop.” Vincent nodded at the mention. “That doesn’t make a great deal of money, but it makes some and provides employment. It also keeps the money local, which as you’ll soon find out is a major issue with all of us as live here. However, the market for veal seems to be expanding a little, mind it’s only doing so slowly, but there are a couple of spots down south that are interested in buying, but for them we’ll put the price up. Elleanor has been negotiating to get a couple of bison cows and a bull over here from Poland for a couple of years now which has been really upsetting some of the authorities at DEFRA,(21) but it looks like she’ll have her cows some time early next summer. Seems it’s the bull that’s the sticking point, but if push comes to shove she can obtain AI bison semen easily enough from sources in the UK and then raise her own bull. Once she has a bull here it’ll be no problem to import a quality bull, for the authorities will have no real argument to offer other than the one they have for importing cattle of any breed. Her plan is to see if the bison cows will suckle a shorthorn or a Jersey bull calf alongside their own to save her a deal of work when they’re young and possibly some milk from the herd too.
“Just a suggestion, Lad, before you go looking for a place to live have a word with Sam, your missus’s niece. She farms at Pant Pedwar up at the valley head. It’s a huge place, and there’re just her and Gee her old man with their two kids. Gee’s usually here for an hour or so of a Saturday more often than not with Sam, maybe he’ll be by later. I reckon they may be glad of you living there. Family is always better than taking in lodgers. Murray will fill you in later, but our usual deal for folks like you is we set you up with a surgery and whatever equipment you need. The doc, the dentists and others have all been set up like that. The valley management company, Beebell, owns the stuff, but you use it on our behalf. Beebell is owned equally by every adult that lives here. Like I said, welcome to Bearthwaite, Hamilton.”
Hamilton had just been given a lot to think about, but Pete, Murray and Alan had said all that could be said for the now and he was left to his thoughts, though a fresh pint and a topped up glass of Cyanobacta were put in front of him.
Clarence said, “I’ve a tale related to the brewery rather than the distillery which will be coming later. Janet the daughter that lives near Birmingham and her family were staying with us last weekend. The little lass is only three and tends to mangle her words a bit when she gets excited. She telt me we were having soaked smammon for tea. I understood that was smoked salmon, so I said nowt and kept my face straight. Well I did till she said she was having Burpuh Lion and Dandock to drink with hers. Rather than upset her I left to have a good laugh somewhere else. Thing was even after they went home I couldn’t get it out of my mind. There was something there that I couldn’t let go, you know what it was like when you were a kid and had a wobbly tooth, you just couldn’t let it be. Eventually it came to me we should be brewing super low alcohol fizzy drinks. Drinks that are below the alcohol limit, so don’t have any duty on them, just enough alcohol to provide the fizz from the carbon dioxide. We’d already discussed making elderflower champagne for the summer visitors, but that has to have duty paid on it, admittedly not much because it’s a seriously low octane(22) drink, typically that of a relatively strong beer but that of a seriously weak wine, say five percent.
“I want to brew dandelion and burdock, but I think we should label it Burpuh Lion and Dandock, Ginger Beer, Sarsaparilla, Cream Soda and whole host of other exceedingly low alcohol content drinks mostly enjoyed by children ready for the summer, and if we can get some off the wall names for them from the kids so much the better. I’m prepared to try owt, whether they be traditional like the ones I mentioned or new like say brewed raspberry or other fruit flavoured beverages. At the least I’d like to have some of the concentrates available before then, and if possible have whatever we need grown locally. Christine has said she’ll can large jars of fruit concentrates for us as they become available and owt else when we can get our hands on the ingredients. If we do that we don’t need to buy in pop, and we can buy the minimum amounts of concentrates, and we won’t need carbon dioxide to gas them up. It’s another source of income for the allotment growers, possibly even for some of the farmers. I’ve talked about it to Gustav and he said anyone interested needs to have a chat with us, so put the word out, Lads.”
Norman took up the tale telling. “Alan had one of his lads lightly flail my hedge on the outside for me. That makes it easy for me to finish the job. I stop infection getting into the flailed ends of the branches by going over the hedge with loppers and secateurs. I should have worn a helmet because a high branch I lopped off lower down dropped on my head. Unfortunately for me it was blackthorn and it drove a spine into my skull. I could feel it was big and had to get Eunice to dig it out. It was in tight and the skin had been pushed up. She had a hell of a time getting it out. It took her ten minutes because it had gone under my scalp which had shifted and covered it over. I felt like throwing up while she was on the job. I suppose one of the nurses could have given me a local and cut it out, but it was hurting, and that would have taken a couple of hours before it was out. Once Eunice had managed to move my scalp to expose the end of it she still had a hell of a time because it was embedded in the bone. She got nowhere fast with a pair of forceps and ended up digging it out with a darning needle that she sterilised in a candle flame, though she didn’t have to say anything about the bone splinters that came with it, but that’s nurses for you. I knew if I’d complained she’d have said, ‘You’re supposed to be a man, and it’s only pain.’ Here look, this is the bastard thing.” At that Norman produced a piece of kitchen paper that contained a thorn that as he’d said was half an inch [13mm] long and maybe a two-thirds of a sixteenth of an inch [1mm] in diameter at one end tapering to a blunt point at the other.
There quiet whistles of surprise and expressions that amounted to what Alf said, “That’s one mean bastard of a thing to have fast in your head, Norman Lad. You okay now?”
“Aye. The spines are sharp, but the tips are fragile and drop of just looking at them, so the point of the bloody thing is probably still in my skull, but it’ll be forced out or be dissolved soon enough. Either roads I can’t feel it. Karen gave me a tetanus and an anti biotic shot at the surgery, so I’ll be okay. I’ll be even better than okay if someone passes me that bottle of chemic over here. It looks interesting. I presume this bottle contains the same stuff that Hamilton is supping. What is it, Dave?”
“Aye, both bottles contain Cyanobacta and it’s the new poison that Jean-Claude and Græme have had the distillery lads meckin from that nasty looking, blue green, toxic, gunky, sludge they got out of the reservoir. They’re growing it themselves now and have some fancy equipment to clean out the really dodgy stuff and mek sure we don’t die from it, but you’re okay, Lad, they’ve not teken out owt that matters, so you won’t miss out on having a bad head tomorrow.” That caused a minute’s hilarity before matters resumed.
Norman poured himself a goodly glass and drank going on for three parts (23) of it before smacking his lips and saying, “Christ, Lads, that hits the spot. Got a fair bite to it ain’t it? Please tell me there’s no danger of us running out is there, Gustav?”
“Not a chance, Norman. They’re meckin it to sell by the tanker load, though ours is not quite as ladylike as what we sell to out there. It’s got more bite and going on for fifteen percent more alcohol in it. We’ve been asked to sell some of our stuff to spots out there, but Jean-Claude and Græme are against it on the grounds that restricting its sale to here enhances Bearthwaite’s and the Dragon’s reputation. Guinness do the same with their brew. There is a variety that’s only available in Dublin. If you like it that much put twelve quid in the party box and tek a half gallon bottle home.”
Cyanobacta was the name of Gustav’s distillate made from potatoes using water containing artificially bred cyanobacteria widely referred to as ‘blue-green algae’, a type of so called blooming algae that was actually a bacterium. Some cyanobacteria, like the microcystin producing bacteria genus microcystis, produced neurotoxins, cytotoxins, endotoxins and hepatotoxins which were collectively known as cyanotoxins. Those toxins could kill wild animals, livestock and pets. They could also harm people, producing rashes after skin contact and illnesses if swallowed. With Gustav’s encouragement Jean-Claude and Græme had invested in a laboratory full of sophisticated analytical equipment to ensure the safety of the product after distillation whilst still maintaining the taste which provided the marketing edge that the thrill that accompanied drinking the liquor that derived its characteristic taste from the deadly cyanotoxins provided.
Jean-Claude had said, “It like the Japanese eating that fugu pufferfish. It’s toxic and chefs have to study for at least three years to be allowed to prepare it. It’s been illegal for restaurantes to serve the liver since nineteen eighty-four because it contains the highest concentrations of toxins, though it’s said there are spots where folk in the know can get to eat it. It’s bloody expensive and I reckon folk only eat it for the thrill or to shew off their wealth. Every year there are a few deaths in Japan, Korea and parts of China as a result of folk preparing it themselves domestically.” They were also breeding the bacteria to eliminate the toxins without affecting the taste, so far with only a little success, but they had eliminated the most toxic cultivars as breeding stock and were heading in the right direction. Bearthwaite men were just happy to enjoy the tasty bite of what they knew was a harmless but potent drink, some of the other beverages they consumed though potent definitely could not be described as harmless, that provided employment for a goodly few and wealth for them all indirectly.
Later as Norman went to collect his bottle Gustav whispered to him, “Just a fiver will do, Norman. That’s the Bearthwaite price. It’s only twelve quid to outsiders.”
Dave indicated he’d a tale. “I mind years ago when Lucy’s folks still ran the shop. I was working down Manchester way and there was an Indian or maybe a Pakistani take away we used pretty often, three times a week I’d say. It was interesting because it had a full width shop window and when you went in there was the counter in front of you and the entire kitchens were visible behind it. There was no wall behind the counter so you could see the staff cooking your food. You should have seen the size of the pans they cooked rice in, they looked like oil drums cut in half, and the pans they used for cooking curries in were at least three foot across and looked like woks but with steeper sides. There were called called karahis and I was telt that karahi was where the English word curry came from, not the food itself, but the thing it was cooked in. I mind one day six of us were having a korma and a vindaloo with the usual rice and chutneys, popadom and naans to go with it. I wondered what the bloke meckin the korma was doing when I saw him pouring milk from a four pint plastic bottle like you see in supermarkets into the pan. It was only when he put it down I could read the label which said it was double cream. That’s the only time I’ve ever seen cream in one of those bottles. Maybe in big cities dairies sell it like that to catering outlets. You ever come across that, Alan?”
“No. I’ve seen it selt in one litre pots like is typically used for yoghurt often enough. We sell cream and yoghurt like that, and plenty of spots sell it like we do in twenty-five litre drums to restaurantes, but I’ve never come across it in milk bottles. It’s not a stupid idea, I’ll ask some of our wholesale customers if they’d be interested. I doubt any housewife would be though. Pete, ask your missus if her lasses in the kitchen here would be interested, and I’ll ask Jeremy when I see him if he’d be interested for the restaurante. Thinking on it, I suspect four pints would be much more convenient than twenty-five litres which is forty-four pints, close to five and a half gallon [6.8 US gallons]. That weighs twenty-five kilos, [4 stone, 55 pounds] and is not easy to handle and pour from. Even if only a few customers like the idea it’s no problem to us to keep them happy because we use tens of thousands of those bottles a year for milk. Funny thing about that, some shops, like Spar shops, sell milk in two litre bottles which is what? three and a half pints, and others, like the Coöp, sell it in four pint bottles. All our customers prefer four pint bottles. There was a time a few years ago when I could only buy two litre bottles for a while, and my customers were not happy about it.”
Alf took up saying, “Talking about strange things seen in take away spots down country. I was in a Chinese chippy(24) that did take away meals years ago. That might have been Manchester way, but I suspect it was north of there somewhere round Preston maybe even Lancaster. I noticed the main gas pipe coming in through the wall to feed the rings they cooked Chinese food on was huge. I’d never seen four inch Yorkshire self soldered copper capillary fittings before and I’ve never seen them since either. Mind they might have been hundred mil for all I know, which ain’t exactly four inch but is close to it. Four inch is one point six mil more than a hundred mil. I asked the lad serving me if he knew what power the rings were. He said they were fifty kilowatt rings. I don’t do heat in kilowatts, but I later worked that out to be just over a hundred and seventy thousand BTU(25) per hour. Mind that was each ring and there were six or maybe eight rings. A small well insulated house like some of the ones the Levens brothers renovated by the old allotments can get by easily on eighteen or twenty thousand BTU per hour. I know a lot of Chinese food is stir fried for just a few seconds, but that is an impressive amount of power for a cooker.”
As Brigitte entered the tap room with a pail of kibble for the dogs, Alf asked her, “What’s for supper, Love?”
“Veal pie, mashed potatoes, red cabbage cooked with apples because Dad asked for it the way Granny Meltzer cooks it, and there’re carrots and gravy as well. Followed by apfelstrudel with white saus, again because Dad asked for it. Granny gave me the recipes for the Veal pie, the cabbage and the strudel, and I helped Mum and Auntie Veronica prepare them. The veal pie has veal meat and some veal kidney in too. I gave Uncle Vincent the recipe yesterday, and he chopped all the meat up for us ready to cook this afternoon. It has also onions and celery in it and is topped with Auntie Veronica’s flaky pastry. The potatoes, cabbage, carrots, onions, celery and apples all came from Auntie Christine’s stores, but she said they were all locally grown by Uncle Alf and his mates. The veal was raised by Elleanor Peabody. The strudel has spices and raisins in it, and the white saus is sweetened and flavoured using sugar that has had vanilla pods stored in it. Supper won’t be on the tables for at least three-quarters of an hour. I must go. I need to fetch some water too.”
“Where’s your brother, Pet? I haven’t seen much of him for a while.”
Brigitte smiled before replying, “He spends a lot of time at Violet’s house these days, Uncle Charlie.” She winked and added, “No doubt they’ll be studying.”
Charlie laughed and said, “No doubt. Is that what you get up to at Ron’s house then?”
Without a trace of a blush Brigitte replied, “Of course, he needs to study harder. I just provide him with the incentive. I’ll nip and get that water.” With that she was gone.
“Lovely lass, Gustav. That grandson of yours, Charlie, will have done well for himself if he manages to keep her interest.”
“I don’t think he has a snowflake in hell’s chance of getting away from her, Stan, and truth to tell the entire family is more than happy about it because Ron’s doing a lot better at school since she took up with him. Seemingly she’s not over impressed by under achievers, and he’s terrified if he doesn’t do well she’ll dump him and move on. Needless to say none of us are saying owt about it. True love! Wonderful ain’t it?” There was a lot of laughter and head shaking at that. Most of the locals knew that Ron was a decent lad, but Charlie had been known to complain about his lack of application at school from time to time.
Dave said, “He’s on the slippery slope to wedded bliss, Charlie. There’s no hope for the poor lad now. It’s what happens to us all once we become old enough to keep our brains in our trousers.” Amidst the roars of laughter, and many were laughing so hard they had tears in their eyes, there was a general nodding of heads. Dave had made it funny, but the effects of growing up was something all were familiar with and many had grandsons or sons of Ron’s age. By the time Brigitte returned with a pail of water the conversation had moved on.
It was a heavily pregnant Gladys who waddled into the taproom to say, “Gentlemen, Harriet and Brigitte will be fetching your supper in about ten minutes. Veronica and I shall be serving in the room. Please have the tables ready cleared for them. Doubtless you are aware that it’s veal pie tonight. This is the first time it’s been on our menu, and we’d like some feedback please especially regards herbs and seasoning. You have Elleanor to thank for this, for she was the one who decided to raise veal. I suggest you talk to Vincent regards the meat itself.” It only took ten minutes for the tables to be cleared, glasses washed and refilled, dogs let out and back in again and for superannuated bladders to be drained. Once the men were settled one of the outsiders, who was not known by name, said, “I’m Jason. Gladys said it was your lass Elleanor who raised the veal, Alan, and this is the first time it’s been on the menu here. What happened before?”
Alan as always didn’t bother to prevaricate so as not to offend outsider sensibilities because as all knew, and agreed with, his views were if they couldn’t stomach reality then they should drink elsewhere. “Veal is always raised from bull calves usually from pure bred dairy breeds. I breed high quality dairy shorthorns and Jerseys for milk. I’ve never had my cows in calf to beef breeds because one of my pure bred heifers and a bull calf killed at birth always fetched a better price than two cross bred calves which I’d have if I raised the heifers and the bullocks as stores for beef as well. Heifers we keep till at least their first calf and lactation. If they’re good enough they join the herd, if not we sell ’em on. They still fetch a good price because I have a good reputation for breeding quality beasts, but I cream the best off for my own herds, if you’ll pardon the pun. Most farmers in our position slaughter bull calves at birth, and we always used to do the same. A tap on the head with a hammer is all it takes. Then we used the calf for dog food. Tony used to take most of them for his lurchers.” The local men knew that Alan was pushing the incomers to see if he got a reaction. Like Vincent he hadn’t any time for folk as were okay eating meat, but tried to pretend to themselves it was made in a factory somewhere and had never existed outside of a polystyrene [styrofoam] tray covered in cling film [Saran wrap]. He wasn’t bothered by folk being vegetarians, one of his sons who raised pigs was, it was the hypocrisy he couldn’t stomach. However, this time none bit at his lure so he continued.
“It has always been generally believed that it was a money losing proposition to raise the bull calves off pure bred milking strains, and for a good few decades that was true, which is why unless pedigree cows are required the black and white bags on legs are had in calf to a meat breed because the cross bred calfs, bulls and heifers alike, put some weight on and are worth raising as meat animals. There has long been a public out cry in the UK concerning the way most Europeans, especially the French, raise veal. They keep them in small crates, so they can’t exercise to keep the meat tender. They are also kept in the dark and bled from time to time to keep the meat as pale as possible because that’s what the French want to eat. They are also slaughtered gey young because that’s what the French market demands.
“Once that became know over here the demand for veal dropped through the floor because most of it came from France. The meat market over there is by our standards bizarre. They buy our lambs when they are gey small, so small that we couldn’t sell them at that age over here because they are virtually tasteless. The result of that was nobody raised veal here because there was bugger all market for it, and the few that wanted to buy it couldn’t lay their hands on it. My lass did her homework on the situation and reckoned she could make a go of it. To be honest I wasn’t convinced. Vincent supported her. I didn’t, though when she said if I gave her the calfs and selt her the milk at the price the big dairy was paying me at the time, which was peanuts, she’d stand any losses herself. It wasn’t going to be costing me owt, but I’m her dad and I didn’t want to see her losing money on it, or getting upset by a failed venture, so I took some persuading. My lads wanted to start a dairy of our own on the farm producing butter, cream, cheese and yoghurt like was done in my granddad’s day, though they didn’t do yoghurt then because nobody had ever heard of it. Their aim was to use all of our milk ourselves and tell the outside dairy outfit that was paying us bugger all for the milk where to go, and eventually they convinced me to let them give it a go. Now we’re buying in milk from other farmers in the valley. However, next thing I knew was Elleanor and the girls were accusing me of sexism. What can you do? So I said okay go for it.
“She’d had the word put out that the calves would initially be milk fed and subsequently on a decent fibre diet too with enough iron in it to be healthy and they were to be raised loose so they could socialise with each other. They don’t do any of that in France because the meat gets darker and the muscle develops a bit. She conned me into leaving them on the tit for a couple of weeks, heifers and bulls both. She raised them in a big barn all together with straw litter, no pens never mind crates and when they were old enough they had access to grass, but the barn was there for them if they wanted it to get out of the weather. She’d advertised that there were no French techniques like bleeding being used and they were being raised humanely and anyone who wanted to visit was welcome. Mum and Veronica encouraged that because they reckoned we’d make money on it when the tourists bought a cup of tea and a meal in the coffee shop, and letting visitors kids bottle feed lambs and calves has long been a money earner because their parents appreciate a bit of a sit down, a cup of tea with a scone and the peace their kids being occupied provides. I’m no fool, Lads. With my mum, wife and daughters against me I just let them get on with it.
“Vincent slaughters them at eight month. The meat would be unsaleable in France because they are too big and the meat has too much colour, but now Elleanor could sell every calf a dozen times over despite a small number of other farmers doing it now too, but as far as we were aware nobody else was doing it when she started. Funny thing is the computerised milk records show a slight improvement in overall milk production despite the fortnight’s loss of milk to the calves, which is not what the experts say happens, but I doubt if any of them have ever kept cattle, so what do they know? Technically if a calf is over eight month old the meat ain’t veal, but the few spots down country that are making the job pay slaughter at twelve months and call the meat rose veal. Elleanor says she’s going to try it sometime.
“The big supermarkets and some of the London hotels are sniffing, but they’re all offering peanuts. I heard her on the phone to one of them one day. I was shocked at her language, so it’s a good job her mum didn’t hear. Actually thinking on it Veronica uses choicer language than that, so that’s probably where she picked it up from. Talking of her using ripe language, what feed I buy in comes in by bulk tanker and goes straight into a feed silo, but the kids buy in smaller quantities of various kinds of feed and the like that comes in twenty-five kilo bags [25Kg, 56 pounds]. We’re all constantly trying to reduce what we need to buy in and we’re getting there, but there’s no instant fix. Seems the girls decided that they we sick of having to deal with empty plastic feed bags. At the moment the only way to deal with the plastic bags is to burn them in one of the forced air inlet blown furnaces, but it’s not ideal. Some of the lads think they could remelt them to use for fence posts and the like, but it’s a lot of work for little reward, and everyone would rather we didn’t have ’em to deal with.
“Elleanor was on the phone to the supplier the kids all use asking for all their feed and the like to be delivered in paper bags sewn up with cotton or some other bio degradable thread. The idea was if it came to it the allotment lads could threw them in a compost pit and every one except the worms could just forget about them. The supplier buys in in bulk and bags up himself, and some of his plastic bags are stitched not heat sealed, so he obviously has the equipment to do the job. Since plenty of the type of heavy duty paper bags that she was asking for have been used for agricultural supplies for years it was not an unreasonable thing to ask for. From the half of the phone conversation I could hear she must have been talking to a bloke who thought he could mess her about because she was a lass. That wasn’t very sensible of him because she buggered him off by cancelling the entire order. Telt him she wasn’t asking his permission to spend her money and she’d find another supplier.
“That was before she called him some seriously offensive things that questioned his masculinity and slammed the phone down on him. I thought her mum was bad, but Mitchel must have nerves of steel planning to marry her. I’ve tried to persuade him to leave the country and hide, but the poor lad isn’t for having it even though he knows what she’s like. He must do because when I asked him once why Elleanor was driving his truck he grinned and telt me her broomstick was down at Alf’s for service and MOT.(26) Mind, what can you expect from a lad that raises ducks and geese? The feed supplier they use now is in Annan just over the border and buys their paper bags in from a German firm based in Bavaria. They offer a choice of heat sealed plastic bags and cotton sewn paper bags, so the lasses are happy about that, and even happier because the feed is cheaper than from the outfit they used to buy from which was based in Yorkshire somewhere. The original company has rung the house several times since then, and she just uses it as an excuse to practice her insults. Greg Armstrong is now offering bagged feed in a choice of heat sealed plastic or cotton sewn paper bags and mixing up new formulations so it won’t be long before they’ll be buying everything local from him. I buy feed by the trailer from Greg, but Alf is working on making me some trailers that double as feeders too. Idea is one of my lads takes a trailer to Greg’s, he fills it direct from a silo, and my lads just leave it in a field for the cattle to feed from. It should save a powerful lot of work and time. One of my lads saw the idea on a farming program on the telly that was on a farm in the States somewhere.
“Elleanor’s next plan is to integrate veal production with raising bison beef. Probably starting next summer some time. One of her sisters telt me they are toying with the idea of raising highland cattle on the bracken down the lonning side. One of my lasses wants to try Soay sheep on the Calva marsh. Murray is negotiating for some farm land that way, and telt her that now he knows someone can make use of the poorer land he’ll push a bit harder for whatever is available over there regardless of the land quality. He reckons if folk think they are putting one over on him eventually he’ll get a better price. The kids are a nightmare, there’s no keeping up with them, but it serves me right for having eight of them. Still, at least when I retire there’ll be Peabodys ready to take over, and the kids all get on with each other. Veronica telt me they have an agreement that they all have to get on with each others’ boy and girlfriends so as to prevent future friction when they all have families, so maybe it’s not so bad. It’s funny though, my lads are all into dairying and pigs and my lasses are all raising meat with no interest in dairying at all. You’d think it would be the other way round wouldn’t you? Vincent, you want to take it from here?”
“After a fresh pint and a glass, Lad,” When all was organised Vincent said, “I’ve got some customers in the hotel trade mostly in Scotland, but some in the Lakes too that will try owt if the initial price is right. They’re sensible folk who know that when they reorder the price has to reflect my economics not theirs. So I knew I could get them to try it, and I knew that the Bearthwaite market would be strong, so I reckoned that there would be no problems selling Elleanor’s calves for veal in her first year, but I’d no idea how the second year would go. That’s all a few years ago now, and Alan was right. These days I can shift what ever his lass can raise. She’s been taking the dairy bull calves off all the farmers in the valley for a while now and a few from outside too. I’m trying to source some more from out there, but the bastards are greedy. I telt the ones I’ve recently spoken to ‘If you knock ’em on the head you mek nowt and have the cost and trouble of disposal. If you give ’em to the lass at the least you’ll get some meat back when I slaughter ’em. The trade is still very uncertain, and her dad is a mate of mine, so whilst the lass is establishing her market I’m not going to let her take a risk on the kind of money you’re talking. Any fool can trade at a loss, and I’m nobody’s fool.’ I knew that sooner or later they’d learn. Doubtless they’ll get back to me some time. Elleanore shrugged her shoulders and said, ‘Let them come to us, Uncle Vincent, cap in hand like.’ She’s a tough lass that’s for sure.
“A while back a few of the outsiders I’d spoken too and refused to pay what they were asking, said by way of retaliation that they’d have a go raising veal themselves, but I knew they wouldn’t mek a go of it because none of ’em were over bright, and it was a gey steep learning curve to get to where Elleanor was at the time. Like all that Bearthwaite folk do she’s always been in it for the long haul, and as long as she wasn’t losing too much money she wasn’t bothered about meckin any while she did her learning, whereas those others would be want the job to shew a decent profit right from the word go. The ones that actually tried it soon gave up, so she’s still the only raiser of veal in the county, and probably the only one north of Preston, but like I said other folk down country are getting into it, but not many. A few of the hotels will tek whole carcasses, but most just tek what they consider to be the best cuts, which are all too lean for our taste. Local women tek all of the so called second quality cuts which have enough fat to be tasty and I reckon are actually the best meat on the carcases. It’s good meat especially if you cook it with a bit of ox liver for the taste. Some of that, the trimmings and the rest of the offal is what you’ll be eating the night. It’s good business for Elleanor, myself and for local womenfolk all subsidised by the hotel trade. She’ll be meckin it pay big time in two or three years. I’m looking forward to the day when I’m butching(27) bison for her.”
“That was well beyond excellent!” exclaimed an outsider eating in the taproom to Jeremy who he knew from his previous visits to the Granary, Jeremy’s restaurante. He was a person that other than Jeremy none of the locals had seen before and he wasn’t much liked for he came across as a pompous little man who was over full of himself. “I’m Alphonse le Breton and I am a cookery critic for any number of major publications that circulate across the entire western world. I’ve been instructed by two of my editors to sample a meal here. To be completely honest, I was expecting a good meal simply because the Green Dragon Inn at Bearthwaite has a nationwide reputation for its excellent food and drink, which I was aware was brewed in the village. However, I was not expecting to be served food that could go head to head with anything served in any five star establishment anywhere in the world. What truly took my breath away was that it cost me a fraction of a barely edible, sub standard sandwich in just about anywhere I have ever been, and I was served by pleasant, helpful staff who had no idea who I was, and I suspect even had they known wouldn’t have given a monkey’s.(28)
“What was described simply as veal pie was one of the finest and tastiest meals I have ever come across. That the veal was admixed with a trace of beef liver, obviously for the flavour, was a master chef’s inspiration beyond doubt, and the flavours were balanced to perfection. That the vegetables were fresh and local was obvious, and their texture and flavour was delightful. I couldn’t identify the sources of the gravy, but it too was of the highest quality. The apple strudel was delicious in taste with a texture to the apple pieces that remained even after cooking. The apple reminded me of the varieties the French use for Tarte Tatin, Reine des Reinettes(29) and Calville. The spicing was barely there and complemented rather than distracting from the essentially apple taste. I suspect the locally grown apples are a heritage variety not available elsewhere. This was one of the finest few meals I have ever eaten in my life, and without doubt I shall be back without any instruction to do so simply because because I can not remember ever eating a meal I have enjoyed as much.”
Gladys, Harriet and their staff were completely unimpressed by his words, for he was from out there, and all that counted to them from the likes of Alphonse was in the till. It was much more significant that Alf had said, “Damned fine meal that, Harriet. That black kail was an excellent choice to go with the pie. The spuds were good, but I suggest you try using a waxier potato next time. I’d try Anya. Dougie grows ’em, and Christine has two or three ton in storage. Vincent, that veal mix would mek a good Cornish style pasty for lads to tek to work for bait.(30) Some potato and swede [rutabaga] and maybe carrot and you’d have a winner. Tell the lasses as work at the back of the shop for your missus to put a pinch of pepper in ’em too. You could have Lucy in the store sell a load of ’em for you too.”
In the best side Harriet announced, “After a lot of discussion with a lot of folks Eli has realised she is trans not gay.”
There were a number of women who agreed with Gladys when she said, “I’m glad she has finally realised that. I didn’t like having to watch her suffer trying to be a gay man. She wasn’t any good at it. She didn’t find the company of men easy, not even gay men, and wasn’t prepared to do what she perceived as forcing herself upon the company of women. How did it come about, Harriet Love?”
“Sam Graham and I went to talk to her months ago. We were blunt, and telt her we were both trans, it was okay here, and there were over a dozen of us, a few trans girls, a couple of trans men and a trans boy too. Sam said it was fine if he were gay and it was equally fine if she were trans. We left her with the contact details of a good gender counsellor, and advised Eli to to get in touch with him for at least that would help to resolve the conflicts any reasonably perceptive person could see he was suffering from. A fortnight ago she came to see me for a chat, and I have her permission to talk about this. She said the gender counsellor we’d recommended had moved on, and the man who took over not been particularly helpful, nor she believed empathetic. She’s seeing a woman in Glasgow now, and some of their chats use zoom. Interestingly, at least to all the Bearthwaite trans women and girls too, Elin, as she now names herself, said that talking to the trans women and girls here had been more helpful than both the counsellors, and it had been something one of the girls had said that finally crystallised her self identity issues and provided her with a solution. I thought that she’d become Elin because it was like Eli, but it was anything but. Her mum’s mum was one of the few member of her family who tret her well. She was Swedish and named Elin which is a traditional Swedish name.
“She is now taking appropriate medications, and has started presenting as a woman. Initially Sun didn’t know what to make of it, but now he has accepted that he has a fiancée not a fiancé, and they’re talking about a wedding in the spring. Elin went to the mill to do some photographic work for the model train layout with the kids this Monday night after school was out, and was asked why she was wearing a frock by one of the boys. I’m telt that there was no malice in the question, just curiosity. Janine, the trans one of Sam and Gee Shaw’s eleven year old twin lasses, as quick as a whip replied for her saying, ‘Are you stupid or what, Finn? Elin’s trans. You ever seen any of the women or girls here wearing trousers? I’ll remind you that only men and boys wear trousers here, and other than some of the men wearing the kilts for special occasions it’s only women and girls that wear frocks and skirts and bras too, unless of course there’s something you want to tell me? so the choices for Elin are obviously a frock or a skirt aren’t they. Boys!’ Needless to say Finn backed off immediately muttering what one of the boys later confided to his mates was, ‘Dad’s right, they’re all bonkers and that’s on the okay days of the month.’ Which apparently was the end of that, not least because Janine and Finn are on kissing terms.” There were smiles and more than a few chuckles around the room at that.
Jane added, “I managed to talk her into joining us later on. Stephanie will be going round to accompany her here to make sure she doesn’t have a crisis of confidence and stays at home. Some of the men are going to be dragging Sun to the taproom for a celebration drink on deciding to marry at last. I wonder what kind of a frock she wants to get married in. Still that’ll give us something to talk about without embarrassing her when she arrives won’t it?”
Hedging and ditching, a trade resurrected from over a century ago, provided work for some dozen, mostly men and boys not all of who worked at it full time, and baking bread provided similar employment for many mostly women and girls. It had been decided that the hedgers and ditchers and the coppicers too should be paid as employees of the Beebell estate management group which made both Harvey and Max smile when they were telt. Both had been odd job men who for years had done what ever earnt them a crust. Both had worked as part time coppicers for a few years and recently taken up hedging and ditching too. Max explained in the tap room of the Dragon, “Talk about things coming full circle, Lads. Both our great granddads were estate workers in the old days, and they did a lot of hedging and ditching, and coppicing too though not so much. Now we’re both turning the clock back by being paid by the estate to do the same job.”
Harvey added, “The difference this time, Max, is we are part owners of the estate. I just wish great granddad were here to see it.”
Sasha asked, “Has any one read what’s recently going on with that Jordan Peterson bloke? No? Well he’s a Canadian clinical psychologist, author and media commentator who has a big Youtube presence. He talks a lot of sense, and though I don’t agree with everything he says I believe in free speech and would defend his right to believe and say what ever he choses to say. He is never offensive though it seems a lot of the left wing, woke brigade say they are so offended by him that they want him closed down and to see him barred from speaking at universities, and everywhere else too it seems. It seems from what I can tell that he has been effectively suspended by his university and telt he has to be retrained. I take that to mean that if he wants to keep his job he has to shut the fuck up till what he says is acceptable to the neo Nazi useless bastards who are doing a fine job of losing Canada all credibility internationally, and if allowed to continue will bankrupt their nation financially as thoroughly as have have morally. Well done the Canadian thought police.
“I can’t believe I seriously thought about going to live there once, which was obviously a close escape. Frighteningly I can’t remember why I didn’t. Recently, I’ve just turned down an invitation that came with a serious money offer to lecture on my particular speciality. For those of you who don’t know I’m a retired academic mathematician. I telt them that since my work can be used in connection with social sciences, though I’ve never used it thus, I was not prepared to be attacked whether it be verbally or physically by their so called students who were no more than an out of control mob that they had not even tried to control for decades not years. Since I am Siberian I suspected that I would be used as a target for their uninformed and unintelligent views concerning the Russian activities in the Ukraine. I concluded by saying that till they put their house in order by restoring free speech there was no way I would visit Canada.
“Now I know there are plenty who would disagree with my views, maybe some of you in here do, but I am entitled to hold those views and further more to express them in public, and I know that Pete will tell you that even if he does not agree with me he gives me the right to say what I will in here. So if you wish to present a view in direct opposition to mine that’s all fine and good, and I’ll listen. I know Pete won’t have a problem with that, but if you wish to challenge my right to say what I have just said I recommend that you shut the fuck up before Pete throws you out. That’s the price we all pay for free speech.” Sasha had no takers willing to present a view that differed from his, though there were a number of men who said though they didn’t agree with all of what he’d said they would defend his right to say it. There were none that said he had no right to say what he did, which was not surprising to any, local and outsider alike, for such folk would not be likely to seek entertainment in the taproom of the Green Dragon at Bearthwaite on a Saturday evening which was known county wide, and further afield too in some circles, as being a hotbed of non politically correct, anti conformist, if not to say anti establishment, separatist philosophy where good craic, off colour jokes and completely unbelievable tales could be enjoyed in like minded male company accompanied by an excellent supper available at a very moderate price before finishing the evening off with a score or so games of very competitive dominoes.
Denis said, “Well whilst not on quite the same line as what Sasha said, but in my mind there are connections, I read recently that a UK farmer was absolutely livid at finding a mountain of trash fly tipped on his land which was obviously generated by ‘Just Stop Oil’ whose most significant sponsor has recently repudiated them and cut off all funds from himself because they were not what he had thought them to be. He’d believed in what they were saying, and to an extent I do too, but their actions were not compatible with those beliefs. Violence, severe disruption and their hidden woke agenda were unacceptable to him, and again I agree with him.”
Mackenzie, the Bearthwaite chiropodist and manicurist had acquired two assistants. The first was Evelyn who’d just left school with respectable GCSEs and was specifically interested in manicure and pedicure. She wished to go to college to study beauty therapy and hairdressing, and the second was Leo who’d just come out as gay, had just passed four A levels and was interested in doing a degree in podiatry. Both wish to find courses they could mix with their employment with Mackenzie whilst they studied. Mackenzie, Ellery Graham the Bearthwaite ladies hairdresser, who also cut men’s hair, and the nurses were convinced both Evelyn and Leo could be accommodated even if Evelyn could only work with Mackenzie at the weekends and out of college term time and Leo could only do so out of term time though if a local degree course could be found perhaps more would be possible.
“Well, Ladies, unfortunately there are no newborn arrivals though there are a few unborn babies that could be accused of procrastinating.” There were chuckles going round the room, and a number of heavily pregnant ladies including Gladys gave sighs of exasperation in agreement with Aggie’s words. “The adoptions situation remains the same. I do understand it’s important that proper checks are carried out, but from this end one can’t help but wonder if someone somewhere in an office is dragging their feet. Thank goodness no one has died, and there’re none in danger of doing so to discuss. So that’s dealt with births and deaths, and there’s only marriages left. As far as I’m aware there are no imminent celebrations planned in the church though I am aware there are some couples planning on dealing with the paper work at Carlisle registry office in the near future. So that only leaves us with newly formed relationships. My question is who knows what about whom?”
“That was pretty blunt, but typical for Aggie. I guess at her age she’s entitled to speak her mind.” There was a lot of chuckling at that, for Aggie was one of the local gossip repositories and she was completely unabashed about it. That the words came from Lucy who, along with Alice and Rosie, was another such repository as a result of being the village store owner was considered to be amusing. Lucy, however admitted, “Yvonne, Jenny’s technician at the opticians, has moved in with Eamonn who works at the brewery, but I don’t know anything about wedding plans. I also know Jenny was seeing Finley, but I don’t know if they’ve taken it any further, or even if they are still seeing each other.”
Frances said, “Yvonne and Eamonn have been to the Carlisle registry office for the paperwork. I’ve no idea when they’re planning on having the ceremony, but I know they’ve registered with the NCSG to adopt specifically older teens, or even kids who’ve aged out of the system. I also know they’ve placed advertisements in the LGBT press looking for kids up to the age of thirty or so who want to get the hell out of the insanity that is out there and could fit in here.”
“How on Earth did you find that out, Frances?”
“Eamonn telt my old man about it at work. Eamonn said they were both nervous about it, but believed it was a proper thing for them to do. Needless to say my old man agreed that it was fraught with risk, but it was a proper thing for a Bearthwaite couple to do. He also promised as much support as was necessary. I’ll never admit it to him, but that made me gey proud to be Wilf’s woman, for that was a proper Bearthwaite man speaking.”
Alice said, “Jenny is a war widow with four kids, two of each, and Finley’s ex wife walked out on him and left months ago leaving him with the two girls. I never liked her much from the day she came here. She went through the motions of being one of us, but some how it never seemed natural to me, like she was forcing herself. For sure she never quite got it right. I always thought she considered what she had to do was beneath herself and that she was somehow better than us. Came from Leeds she telt me once, and I always expected her to cut and run and go back there. Still, she’s gone now, and I reckon Finley and his girls are better off without her. Jenny I do like, and more to the point, so do Finley’s lasses.” There were nods of agreement around the room as women expressed agreement with Alice’s evaluation of Finley’s ex. “Jenny came down to the mill a few days ago for some bread and muesli and chatted for a while. Seems the six kids all get on and are keen for their parents to get together, and she and Finley have decided they like each other enough to move in together. It was obvious love was growing. She said Murray had sorted out somewhere for them to live, but due to her lack of familiarity with Bearthwaite she didn’t know where it was because she’s not been there yet, though Finley had said it was a big spot the other side of the green that would suit them fine. There’re a few empty big houses over there so it could be any of them. Finley is probably next door in the tap sorting out a few men to move them and their kids from two dwellings into a house big enough to accommodate them all and from what she suggested maybe another couple of kids too. I gathered they’ve already had a few trial runs.” There was some laughter at that, but the local women considered it wise for couples in their situation to have another couple of children ‘to seal the deal’ as the Bearthwaite ladies’ expression went.
Harriet said, “I know that Ellis has been spending his nights at Mackenzie’s flat for a while and his two kids too. Mackenzie gets on really well with the children, and they call her Mum, but despite that I can’t see them taking things any further for a while, but I can’t see them breaking up either. I suspect they’ll be looking for a bigger place for them all soon. There’s a wedding there, but it’ll probably be the year after next rather than next year, unless of course she seals the deal with a baby.”
Suzie informed them, “Jessica, my eldest lass, telt me that Evelyn, who left school at sixteen this year, has apprenticed to Mackenzie as a manicurist and pedicurist and wishes to go to a local college to study beauty therapy and hairdressing. She has taken up with Oscar. He’s eighteen and is one of Bertie’s brighter apprentices. Early days yet. They’re just kids enjoying being in love. I suspect they’ll end up together permanently, but maybe not for three or four years.”
Harriet had more news. “Leo who is eighteen passed four A levels with good grades this year. He, like Evelyn, works with Mackenzie, but he wishes to study a degree in podiatry. He’s just come out as gay and is seeing Noah who is twenty and works for Saul in the demolition crews. I wouldn’t like to speculate on how long they’ll last as a couple, because if Leo wants to study a degree in podiatry he may end up spending a lot of time away from here, and that as we all know is no ingredient in a recipe for a stable, lasting relationship. If they manage to survive prolonged separations for three years and are still a couple at the end of it doubtless they’ll marry more or less immediately. Interestingly, about a week ago Leo asked me to find out what the NCSG’s attitude was to gay couples adopting. I didn’t need to ask them because I already knew it was the same as it was to any other couple. When I explained that to him there was a smile on his face, so it’s obvious he’s thinking long term with Noah at the moment, but whether with Noah or someone else he wants kids.”
“Any more information or is that it regarding hatched, matched and despatched?”(31) Since no one had anything to offer Aggie said, “Well in that case, Gladys, I’ll have another dose of mother’s ruin please.”(32)
“You know where it is, Aggie. I suggest you fetch the bottle since you’ll see it off before you go home and that’ll save both our legs.” There was a lot of laughter at that for Aggie’s capacity for gin and her ability to see a bottle of gin off and then walk home, sometimes near enough carrying Frank as a result of his endeavours in the taproom, was proverbial.
When Stephanie arrived with a very nervous looking Elin Gladys greeted them saying, “Good evening, Ladies.” She went behind the bar as the two moved towards it and asked, “What may I get you? Your usual Windjammer and coke with ice, Stephanie?”
Stephanie nodded and asked, “What do you usually drink, Elin?”
“I can’t drink, but I like brandy and Babycham.” She blushed and added, “I know it’s old fashioned, but it’s what Mum drinks and I like it, though two will last me all night.”
“We don’t stock Babycham because no one here drinks it, but I can provide a sparkling perry (33) which is what Babycham is and I can offer a wide selection of brandies, cognacs and even a couple of Armagnacs. When I’m not in this condition,” Gladys indicated her pregnancy, “I like Asbach, it’s a German brandy with a distinctive taste. I’ll get out of your way so you can better see what we have to offer. If it’s what you like I can order in a case of Babycham for you it’s no bother.”
“I’m not sure I have a sophisticated enough palate to tell them apart. May I try that German one you mentioned?”
“Certainly. What kind of a glass would you like? I can offer a very large brandy glass that if full probably holds three-quarters of a pint. If I put a double brandy in it and three parts fill it with perry out of the keg that would probably last you all night, but if it doesn’t there’s plenty more of both available.”
As Gladys chuckled she passed Stephanie her rum and coke and waited for Elin to make her mind up. “Yes please. Thank you. I’ll go with your suggestion.”
When both ladies had been served Gladys and Stephanie shepherded Elin to a long low table with more than a dozen women sitting there. Faith, who was a blue eyed blonde, said, “I couldn’t get away wearing that frock with my figure or my colouring, but it suits you. I’d kill for your eyes though.”
Elin had large soft brown eyes, had used barely a trace of make up because she didn’t need it and she looked gorgeous. She’d been to see Ellery Graham the Bearthwaite ladies’ hair dresser earlier in the day who’d transformed her nondescript hair into a feminine pixie cut and they’d discussed hair extensions for a later date. She was wearing a rather vintage styled, sable coloured, below the knee A line frock with a fitted bodice that suited her and enhanced her slender figure with a lighter, undyed, woollen cardigan that shewed many subtle shade variations of the wool’s natural colours. “Where did you get that cardie from?” Madeline asked. “I’d love one, but perhaps a bit darker if possible. The undyed look is fabulous.”
Elin blush bright red and admitted, “I knitted it myself, and I bought the wool and the pattern in Ambleside when Sun and I went for a day out at Windermere. The shop has a lot of different undyed wools from all sorts of different sheep. She had a really harsh, tough, dark one from a sheep called Karakul that she said was usually the wool used in quality carpets like Axminsters and Wiltons before foam backed synthetic carpets were made. I bought some to make a jumper for Sun that he could use when working in the garden. I’ve not quite finished it yet.”
Veronica said, “I’ll get back to you on those sheep. Alan, my old man, farms and some of the kids may be interested in looking into those sheep. They’re into at least a dozen things, but I’m always on the look out for projects to keep them interested to stop them from driving their dad round the bend.”
“How many children do you have?”
“Eight, which I enjoy, but Alan, bless him, is a typical bloke, and true to form he enjoys the process, but from time to time is unimpressed by the product.” At that there were appreciative chuckles from every mother in the room. “However, that is beside the point. What we need to know is what are you doing about the wedding? Where, when and more to the point the gown. Details are what we need.”
There was murmuring of agreement and dozens of nodding heads at that. Elin was a little surprised by the interest being shewn. She was encouraged to answer Veronica by Elle who said, “Veronica can’t help herself. With eight kids all on the edge of marriage, most of the time, even when she’s working, her head is completely taken over by wedding planning and the prospect of grandchildren. I suspect she dreams about nothing but weddings these days. She’s not exactly subtle about it, but yes we’d like to know, so take your time. You were one of us, Bearthwaite folk I mean, when you came here. Now you are one of us in here, a Bearthwaite woman. Our children have always been impressed by your skills, abilities, but most of all by your kindness and that you are now a woman makes no more difference to them than it does to us.” Elle continued in a much softer tone, “And if you’d like to take the final step, motherhood, we’ll support you all the way.”
Elin went bright red, way beyond mere blushing and finally managed to whisper, “I’d love that. That was what finally made me realise I was truly trans, but I don’t think they allow folk like me to adopt and―”
Erin was loudly interrupted by Sam Graham who said, “Not true, Elin. You already know that Harriet over there and I are both trans. I was married before I adopted Janine and Michaela, but Harriet wasn’t when she adopted Brigitte and Peter. We decided we wished to adopt children who’d had a hard time and been rejected for trans issues. Harriet’s kids came from the far end of Cornwall though mine originated much closer to home in Ulverston. We can put you in touch with the NCSG,(34) which is an agency that serves as an umbrella organisation that covers every adoption agency in Great Britain as well as all the Social Services departments. They cover Eire and the Isle of Man as well as the UK. The most problematic and difficult to place children end up on their books, and that includes most of the abused and rejected trans children in Great Britain. They are very good at their job, and always manage to place the children on their books appropriately, and usually almost immediately they become aware of them. They don’t care what you are as long as they are convinced you will offer children who have probably been seriously scarred, often physically as well as psychologically, a loving and permanent home.
“There are a number of couples here where neither of them are trans who have registered with them and wish to adopt trans children. Bearthwaite folk don’t accept the concept of unwanted kids, and the NCSG are very familiar with the culture here, even if they don’t really understand how it works. Just by being accepted by us and living here you already will be regarded favourably by them. I’m not saying it’ll be a shoe in,(35) it won’t be. They do deeper and more significant background checks on every applicant than every other agency does simply because they don’t care what you are as long as they believe you will be good parents. What that means in practice is it takes a little longer to get on their list as prospective parents. Too, it’ll take longer to get Sun cleared than you because he grew up outside the UK. You’ve already met most of us, and we will be there for you whenever you and your old man are ready. There’s no pressure, if it doesn’t happen it doesn’t happen, and none will think any the worse of you for it. It’s not an easy decision to take, but every single person who lives here women, men and girls and boys too will be behind you. This is the one place that can guarantee you will never be on your own. However, the place, the date and the frock, especially the frock, need to be discussed.”
Elin took a while to reply but eventually said, “I’ve discussed it with Elle who said she wouldn’t say anything till I did. Sun suggested we go to the Carlisle registry office to sort out the legal paperwork sometime in the next fortnight. Elle suggested that we leave the wedding in the church here till the weather improves, so every one could enjoy the party and the dancing outside, which even Sun thought was a good idea, though he’s not one for much socialising. I’m amazed the men managed to coerce him into going out for a drink with them tonight. I’m certain he’d have needed to be subject to considerable pressure to make him agree.”
“Not really,” said Gladys. “They brought out the biggest gun they had to bear: Elle’s old man, Sasha.” At that there was considerable laughter, for all knew once Sasha had made his mind up there was no resisting him. Elle, however was aware that Sasha had been concerned for a while that if Sun did not integrate with the village more he would soon become seen as a necessary outsider in their midst. Their doctor, but not really one of themselves. He’d have used this opportunity as a lever and he’d use that lever as often as he could till it was no longer required. Sasha liked and respected Sun, as did all the senior Bearthwaite men, and appreciated why he’d become the way he was, but he needed to be shewn that it was no longer necessary. Sasha was also aware that now he had a wife he needed to understand that for women the company of other women was critical to their well being. Some believed that was not the case for men, but Sasha also knew that was not true, and he’d no desire to see Sun or Elin hurt at Bearthwaite by events in their past that others, outsiders of the worst kind, had inflicted upon them. However, like Sasha she was now convinced all would be well.
Harriet added, “So many folk turned up for my wedding that when I arrived at the church I had to have those inside it dragged out, so we could have the ceremony where every one could see and hear what was going on. We reckoned about four thousand folk were there. It was fun though, but you’ve said nowt about the wedding gown yet, Elin. I suggest you talk to Freya and Louise. Both are really good dress makers, and between them they’ve made dozens of wedding dresses for brides here and hundreds for outsiders for serious money. You probably don’t know, but it’s got to be white. All Bearthwaite brides marry in white. Even the ones who gave birth in the church married in white!”
Elin didn’t know what to say to that, and decided to say nothing. Eventually the silence made her finally admit, “I’d like to marry in white. Would a skirt suit be acceptable?” At that there were exclamations of surprise at the novelty of it, but it was fully approved of, and the arguments as to the details commenced in earnest. Within minutes Elin had put all her fears behind her concerning being accepted by the women, the other women as she then realised. When Gladys asked if she’d like another drink, she smiled and nodded in agreement no longer afraid of what others would say if she became a little silly. “I like this, Gladys, so there’s no need to order any Babycham, but thank you for the offer. Just a single brandy this time please.”
“How’s the writing going, Sasha? You haven’t said much about it for a while.”
“Funny you should ask, Denis. I’ve been doing a bit of pondering about and researching into how folk are addressed as regards titles, honorifics and pronouns. Most of you are aware that I regard most of the plethora of so called preferred pronouns that are bandied about these days to be complete bullshit that I simply won’t engage with. In my view folk are entitled to call themselves whatever they like, but they are not entitled to demand that I belittle myself by using bastardised, substandard, degraded English. I worked far too hard to learn quality English to throw it away just because some ugly, fat, purple haired virago covered in tattoos with a violent temper, a negative IQ and more metal piecing her face than could be found in a scrap yard demands I address her as zway or something else equally bloody stupid and meaningless. You know immediately that some one needs put down(36) when as soon as they have introduced themselves they tell you what their preferred pronouns are. You know how it goes, ‘How do you do. I’m Arsehole, and my preferred pronouns are shit and shat.’ Tossers need rendering for bio diesel.” The laughter took a while to fade enough to allow Sasha to continue. “However, I recently came across for the first time the Mx honorific or title whose history seems to date back to nineteen sixty-five. It’s pronounced mix or mux. The latter sounds derogatory to me, but I can go with mix. It’s a non gendered version of Mr, Mrs, Ms and even Miss. Mx makes far more sense than anything else I’ve ever come across in this context.”
“You reckon Sasha is reaching the end of a very bad day, Dave?”
“Nah. He’s probably had a tax demand, so he’s running a bit short on chemic, Pete. Push that bottle close enough to him so he can top his glass up whenever he needs to and he’ll be fine.”
Sasha grinned at the pair but continued, “Slightly differently, other than you which in standard usage has become both singular and plural, although like everyone did once the shepherds and wallers still use the older thee forms as singulars and you as a plural only, the use of a plural is grammatically unacceptable in the place of a singular pronoun. Such usage is a solecism in the true sense of the word. I’ve always considered English needs non gendered third person singular pronouns when referring to an individual of unknown sex. It has become the practice, unacceptable to users of quality English, to use them when they don’t know whether to use him or her. Since it is neither really suitable nor acceptable for a human being perhaps hem would work. His, hers and its present similar problems and theirs is not good, another solecism, so maybe hets or perhaps hems would be better. He, she and it again are problematic and they is yet another solecism, so maybe xhe? or xe? I’m really open to suggestions on that last one.
“An interesting modern usage that is not entirely without merit is the use of singular you and plural yous. The usage is mostly to be found amongst ill educated inner city estate [US hood] dwellers. That they feel the need to distinguish the singular and plural forms of you is fascinating, at least to me it is. As far as I am aware they have not as yet, however, created similarly distinguishable versions of your and yours though I have heard of youse being used in some contexts. Also interesting to me are the Dutch pronoun usages which are more complex than in English. They have stressed and unstressed versions and formal and informal versions too, and they also have equivalents of the thee forms that are only of significant usage in their bible and in Flemish. Without going into any depth U is formal you singular, jij is informal you singular and gij is, to a first approximation, equivalent to thee. However, U is also formal you plural, but jullie is informal you plural which is nearly always the form used these days in the Netherlands. The possessive forms are often different again, but the point I’m making is that most of the time you is different in the singular and the plural forms.
“Why do you care, Sasha?” asked a puzzled Alf.
“I don’t give interviews, so what I say doesn’t matter because other than the DVDs of our meetings here there’s no record of it. However, I do write rather a lot of fiction some of which which gets printed and even more gets posted online on various sites. Once either is done there is a permanent record out there of what I have written that is completely outside my control, so I do my damnedest to write work of as high a standard as I can, and I just can’t make myself refer to an individual of unknown sex as them. As things stand it has to be him or her. Whenever appropriate I use the English language default which is him. Occasionally her is most likely to be the case and so is the appropriate default, but often neither is appropriate. Like I said it is not acceptable, but no appropriate non gendered words exist. As a result I end up doing a lot of rewriting to work around the problem. It’s strange since modern English is essentially a non gendered language, and it would be good if appropriate words existed. That’s all.
Dave announced, “Talking about languages, here’s a short one I found on my mobile phone the other day that should give you a laugh. The headline was, Cops beat Chinese man after asking for his name. ‘I’ve now lost all faith in our police,’ said Fuk Yu, who came to Britain twenty years ago from the city of Wanking.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Dave. Only you could come up with that. Surely to god that can’t he true can it?”
“No idea, Frank. Does it matter? I’ve looked it up and Fuk Yu is usually a girl’s name that means fragrant jade that is usually pronounced fook yoo in Cantonese and foo yoo in Mandarin. I printed off what it looks like written in Chinese characters, here.” At that Dave passed over a piece of paper with 馥瑜 written on it. “The concept of the Chinese language as such is a nonsense because there are dozens of languages and even more dialects of those languages spoken in China. It’s a huge place with a billion and a half folk. Cantonese as spoken in Hong Kong is nothing like Mandarin as spoken in most of China. Neither is understood by a speaker of the other though the written languages are more or less the same to the point where they are mutually understood. Depending on whom you talk to and where about in China you are each word or perhaps I should say glyph can have three, four, five, six or even seven related sounds that mean different things. To a Chinese speaker from anywhere fuck you and Fuk Yu sound nothing alike and most are surprised that English speakers associate the two.
“Regarding Wanking, I added that for humour and interest. It is, or at least it was, a city that I recall seeing on a map in that atlas book we had for geography when we were at school. We’d all seen it. It was really funny when we were eleven or twelve. It doesn’t seem to exist now, but I suspected the spot was renamed some time back for obvious reasons as over the last half a century China’s interaction with the rest of the world intensified, so I asked Sun about it and he said he vaguely remembered it and thought it was in north east China somewhere, but he wasn’t sure because the name had ceased to be used before he was even born. Even if it’s not true it’s just a creation that is part of the new truth. What do you reckon, Sasha?”
Sasha smiled and replied, “We’re here for entertainment and that’s enough said isn’t it? Sit you down, Sun. Pete, fetch the lad a glass of brown. What do you reckon to Dave’s Tale, Sun?”
Sun had not long entered the Taproom and few had noticed his presence.
“Dave was correct in what he said, and he shewed me the joke on his phone when seeking understanding. I speak Cantonese and don’t understand much Mandarin, though one of my sisters who works for a mainland company speaks both. I can read newspapers printed on the mainland as well as the Hong Kong papers. Pin Yin which is the most common romanisation system for standard Chinese is not as useful to ordinary persons as the powers that be would like them to think it is. It is also known as the Chinese Phonetic Alphabet.” Seeing puzzled looks he explained, “It’s a way of turning Chinese writing into the alphabet that you use. It’s used to teach westerners Mandarin. Mostly what Dave said about different but related sounds is true, but as far as I’m aware in the main there are three sometimes four. Certainly what he said about fuck you and 馥瑜 being nothing alike when spoken is true. I’ll repeat that for you. Fuck you, and now 馥瑜.” Sun had given 馥瑜 its usual Cantonese pronunciation, and it was agreed that it was no surprise that Chinese speakers failed to perceive any connection between the two. “As for the city of Wanking, it would have been properly pronounced Wan King in English and 旺 in any Chinese language which are in no way similar. Wang is a Chinese word, and one of its meanings is king, so I suspect wang king was a mistake, a doubling of the word into what would more properly translated as King king that made an appearance on English maps, made years ago in the early days when Europeans first went to China, that was corrected many years later, but I’m only guessing.” The way he’d pronounced it in his native Cantonese indeed sounded nothing like the way it had sounded in English.
“Congratulation on the wedding finally being decided on. You planning on having it here with Murray doing his parson’s bit in the church?”
Sun was taken aback by the casual and friendly acceptance of his marriage. He’d initially been devastated at the thought that his relationship with Eli was over when Eli became Elin, but had been relieved that Elin still loved him and he felt the same about her as he’d felt about Eli. Sun knew the word was now out that Elin was trans not gay, and in turn that meant he would now be perceived as straight not gay which took some getting used to. He also knew that the entire population of Bearthwaite would be aware of it with in forty-eight hours at most, but after their unpleasant experiences in London purely because they were different it was hard for him to accept acceptance readily. “Yes. We’ll probably go to the registry office in Carlisle next week to sort the official paperwork out, but leave the wedding till the weather improves. Elle told Elin that the entire village would appreciate that because then the party would be better with dancing outside on the green. Thank you.” Sun said the last as he was given a pint of Bearthwaite Brown and a glass of strange looking liquid too. No matter how others perceived him, gay or straight, it had been a puzzle to him as to whether he was still gay or not. Elin had expressed a desire to ultimately have GRS, and he knew none anywhere, not just at Bearthwaite, would consider him to be gay if he were married to a woman, even if she be a trans woman which it was unlikely any outsider would ever be aware of. In the end after a lot of soul searching he came to the conclusion that labels had little objective reality, for the reality was he loved Elin and was loved by her. That their relationship made them both happy was reality, their reality, and the rest was just so much hot air.
“It’s okay, Sun, it won’t hurt you. Gustav has it made just down the lonning. Once the tales are over I’ll partner you when the dominoes come out if you like.”
Sun had been in the taproom on Saturday evenings before, though not often, and knew he was not a good player of dominoes. Stan was a seriously competitive player, and Sun knew he was offering friendship, for by partnering himself there was no way Stan stood any chance of winning. He was an intelligent man and decided that he should become a regular attender at the Saturday evening sessions, become better at the game and consider telling a tale or two. Perhaps tales of Hong Kong and Singapore would be unfamiliar and of interest to the men.
“Thank you. I’d appreciate that, Stan.”
“Right, Jeremy, since we no longer have male access to Eli as a result of her becoming Elin, you are our only top level source of information concerning the Model Railway Society.” Gee was typically blunt, but obviously interested in the activity that was keeping so many Bearthwaite children happily occupied during the inclement weather when previously at such times it had been difficult, onerous and tiring to keep the children safe. He was interested and involved in the activity, but was a busy farmer and father of two girls who did not have as much leisure time as he’d have liked to keep up with the Society’s activities. Sam, his wife, encouraged him to be involved, but to Gee his family came before anything else. Despite his outsider origins he was truly a Bearthwaite man.”
Jeremy took some time to gather and organise his thoughts, which gave others time in which to visit the gents, wash and refill glasses, let the dogs out, sort out the various noxious mixtures they drank and regarded as essential to a good Saturday evening, let the dogs back in and settle down for a good tale. “The first area that most of the children worked on was the Silloth station, the convalescent home and its siding, the docks and the World War Two airfields and hangers. That has been time consuming, but not particularly difficult as there are a huge number of photographs, maps and written records to use as reference materials. Only slightly more problematic was the Solway Junction Rail Viaduct across to Scotland, but eventually enough reference materials were discovered enabling what we consider to be an excellent small scale reproduction to be envisaged. The children are still working on it with the aid of Elin. There are no commercially available locos or rolling stock of the type that used the Viaduct, so some of our members are scratch building them from the photographs and technical details that we have managed to obtain copies of. Elin is working on the creation of detailed three dee printed models too, but writing the programming software is time consuming.
“Some of the children are working on modelling Skiddaw which is on the English side of the Solway and Criffel which is on the Scottish side. Skiddaw at nine hundred and thirty-one metres [3054 feet] high is the sixth highest peak in England whilst Criffel which is five hundred and seventy metres [1870 feet] high is in height terms of no particular significance. However, both are isolated peaks and offer commanding presences in the Solway environment which makes them of significance to the modellers, for naturally the estuary and its floodplain are virtually flat. Skiddaw in HO scale is just over thirty-five feet higher than the water in the Solway and Criffel is about twenty-one and a half feet higher which will make for an extremely impressive model. The mill ceilings are about twenty-five feet above the floors, but for reasons none seems to be aware of the ceiling and floor over where the models are being built was never installed. Instead at the same level in the building as where the ceiling and floor should have been is a twelve feet wide balustraded walk way all around the perimeter of the building that has what appears to be book shelving wherever there are no windows. It provides perfect viewing, so the children decided they wished to make both Criffel and Skiddaw to full HO scale. Such high models will require considerable internal support to be safe and some of the building trades men are working on ideas. Brick, steel and timber were all discussed but I suspect they will be using a solid insulation foam.
“There is yet a huge area to be used, but as yet none have provided us with any ideas as to what to use it for. I’m sure ideas will come.”
“The next part of our layout under consideration was that envisaged by Gustav’s son Peter. He was keen to utilise the type of animated scenes that Patrick McFarlan the creator of Ranoak had done, but he had no intention of copying his work. He was especially interested in the bridges over the Manchester Ship Canal, the swing bridges, the high level bridge at Warrington, the Salford Quays Millennium Footbridge, but most of all the parallel canal and road swing bridges at Barton. There has been little visible progress of his vision on the layout, but he has made huge strides forward concerning the electronics and the mechanisms that will be required to turn his vision into working models. He is truly a prodigy, and I suspect he will turn this into a high paying career one day. I’ll give you an idea of the complexity of his thoughts. He is working on model ships sailing up and down the ship canal, and model barges and boats going in both directions on the over head Bridgewater canal swing bridge along side model motor vehicles of all descriptions, as well as cyclists and pedestrians, travelling in both directions on the parallel B5211 swing bridge all being computer integrated automatically. I’ll be honest, I don’t understand how it will work, but Pat assures me it will.
“Without doubt the most challenging part of the railway layout is the futuristic spectacular stuff, the Heinlein stuff, of which the Japanese shinkansen bullet trains are without doubt the easiest component. We have made a commitment to not just HO scale physically, but to HO scale as regards speed too, which means that to model something moving at say mach one, the speed of sound, it has to move on the layout at about four metres a second which is about thirteen feet a second. Some of what we are trying to model moves four times or five faster than that. Some of the slower models we have already made a reality, but others leave us with a long way to go. We are nearly there as regards the levmatic trucks, but as yet we are a long way from realising the hypersonic ring trains. We are without doubt getting there, and at our current rate of progress shall be there within five years. The science and engineering that we shall have to uncover on our way there will I don’t doubt make us, and by us I mean Bearthwaite folk, prodigiously wealthy, which shall be a serious slap in the face for the US powers that be who constantly belittled Heinlein as no more than an idiot who was a fantasist like Walt Disney, but unlike Walt a fantasist without any economic clout.
“I consider Heinlein to be a man who didn’t recognise there was a box to be thought out of, a genius who has provided millions with thoughts to extrapolate, and I shall be more than happy to tell the US powers that be, and all others too, to use Sasha’s wonderful expression, to go and shit in their hats when they come cap in hand to beg us to disclose the results of our research. Our children are maybe not unique, but they are certainly very rare in that we do not try to force their minds into so called acceptable modes of thought at any age. As a result all our children’s thoughts are available to us, and some of those thoughts are startlingly original and creative. Every now and again one or two have genius level creativity. Out there they force their children's thinking into acceptable moulds, and thus deny themselves anything that can propel their society forwards in huge leaps rather than at a snail’s pace. Without doubt their societies shall collapse under the weight of their stupidity while ours shall thrive as a result of our care for each other.
Tommy asked about what a number of the men had been interested in, “So, Seb, what’s the score concerning all that new weight training equipment Felicity ordered for the gym? And when will it be delivered?”
“We, and by that I mean all the school sport staff and George who was involved in fitness training when he was in the army, had decided months ago that we could make good use of some professional standard fitness training equipment. The stuff costs a fortune, but when we spoke to Murray about it he shrugged his shoulders at the cost and asked how much use we reckoned we’d get out of it outside school hours. We’d no idea, so we surveyed the kids and asked around the adults. You probably received the questionnaire.” At that there were a considerable number of nodding heads and murmurs of agreement. As professionals with amongst us many years of experience we knew that you can’t just turn folk loose on that kind of kit. They can do serious damage to themselves. So we had a word with Sun about it. Sun, you want to take it from there for a bit?”
Sun nodded and happy to be talking about medical matters said, “We realised it wasn’t practical to have the gymnasium locked at all times other than when in use for lessons or for evening and weekend fitness sessions. The situation regarding keys would have been a nightmare, and sooner or later someone would forget to lock up and youngsters would have a go unsupervised. They wouldn’t be able to resist it, and it’s no use getting hot under the collar about it, it’s just part of being a child, it’s what they do, and sooner or later we all forget to do something important. It’s up to us to plan so that such events can’t happen. Eventually we decided it was practical to have the fitness equipment fitted with locks or chains such that though the gym was open the equipment couldn’t be used. If the keys were kept in a locked key safe in the school office the situation would be manageable. Felicity spoke to the equipment suppliers and was fobbed off. The manufacturers were a little more helpful, but could not help with every piece of equipment. However, Bertie said one of his teams could sort out what the manufacturers couldn’t. We had Murray ring them, and he managed a substantial discount in return for Bertie’s working safety drawings. I’m happy about things now from the safety point of view. Seb?”
“To answer one of your easy questions, Tommy, it’s already been delivered, but a fair bit is down at Alf’s workshop with Bertie’s lads fitting the safety locks. We reckon to have it all up and running in a fortnight. We’ve worked out a time table, so we can have the equipment in use three evenings a week and weekend days, but not weekend evenings. At the moment we’ve the school sport, gym and athletic staff available, that’s Felicity, Myself, Sophia, Ralph and Maybel, and George will be helping out whenever he can. We’ve a dozen or more adults and older teens wanting to learn and eventually become certified as fitness trainers. Certification can be done in any major city, we’ll either use Glasgow or Newcastle because we know folk in both places.
“Give it six months, and we’ll have the equipment and trained staff available for seven evenings a week, all day over Saturday and Sunday and during the school holidays seven days and evenings a week, which should provide a lot of our teens with something constructive to do. Sophia and Maybel will be starting gentler keep fit classes primarily for women, but not exclusively so. They are also working with the nurses to provide something for the pregnant. Maybel says they will be entirely appropriate for the elderly and Sun approves. They’re starting next week.” Sun nodded in agreement with that. “Felicity wants a full size swimming pool down on the old allotments site. She’s been talking to Tony Dearden concerning excavation costs and Murray has folk researching construction costs. It’ll be damned expensive, so we may have to pull our horns in(37) a bit and do it incrementally over two or three years. It would make sense to employ another sport teacher who specialised in swimming and water games, but we have plenty of time before that becomes necessary, unless of course we run into such a person by accident. It would be stupid not to take advantage of such a piece of good fortune.”
Tony Dearden who was the local machine driver and did most of the excavation and the like required in the valley said, “I read in one of the contractor trade journals the other day about a development that I don’t know whether to be worried about or not. Most heavy plant these days isn’t bought it’s operated on some sort of a lease buy back arrangement which is just fancy talk for hired on hire purchase with an option to upgrade to a newer machine in two or three years. I’ve read that a lot of the combine harvesters that work their way up the States and Canada as the season advances are replaced after just one season. I don’t really understand how it works because I own my machine and Bertie’s lads keep it working. Anyway back to the tale. These days the manufacturers, or maybe it’s the dealers can remotely cripple the machine from anywhere in the world. It can be done using a mobile phone. One touch and whatever it is just won’t run. The operator rings the supplier up in desperation about it to be telt, ‘You’ve not made this month’s payment. Make the payment and you’re back in business.’ I suppose it beats the hell out of getting a court order to repossess the tackle which may well be only worth a fraction of it’s new cost by then and then actually going about the repossession possibly hundreds or even thousands of miles away from what could be an extremely hostile group of folks. You come across this before, Alf?”
Alf shook his head but said, “No, but it’s no surprise is it? That’s why I’m buying up older equipment, waggons, cars and the like. There’re no computer chips in them and we can maintain them indefinitely. The moment you have stuff with chips in them you give up a degree of control. It’s far better to own in total cheaper kit that you have total control of and more importantly a total understanding of how it works.”
Oliver who was a long established drinker at the Dragon and lived outside the valley said, “It’s not new technology. I knew a bloke from down country maybe ten years ago who manufactured sophisticated and expensive printing machines that selt all over the world, and every one of them was fitted with such a mechanism. If folk didn’t pay the printer didn’t function. A lot of his stuff went to ex Soviet Union places where an attempt to repossess something would have been suicide. His stuff was build so that attempting to disable his shut down mechanisms trashed it beyond repair. Most modern waggons, agricultural plant and even top end cars are fitted with the same sort of mechanisms. In fact just about anything that’s expensive is. You could be driving a big waggon down the motorway and pull in at a services and the waggon is dead when you get back to it. They have fitted trackers and know when the vehicle is moving, so it’s only immobilised when it safe to do so. I can see it from the point of view of the outfit that’s losing money, but it does seem a bit big brotherish, and doubtless it won’t be long before they’ll be fitting ’em to domestic appliances like food mixers and toasters.”
Alf had a sour look on his face as he said, “There’re no computers nor connection to bugger all except the ignition key on owt that comes out of my workshop. I’ve said it before and doubtless I’ll say it again, computers are nowt but trouble. They’re just some thing to go wrong. They’re like electronic sheep. What is it you say about sheep, Joey?”
The venerable retired shepherd said in barely explicable tones, “Sheep are critters just looking for a place and an excuse to die.” He laughed and added, “Eighty-odd years I spent with sheep up on the fjäll(38) tops. My granddad telt me that when I was a boy and in all those eighty-odd years I never saw reason to doubt the old bugger.”
“There you have it,” said Alf as he had the final word using a phrase all who knew him were familiar with, “Bring back Bob Cratchit (39) I say.”
“If that’s it. Lads, I’ll wipe the tables down ready for the dominoes, if some one will deal with the glasses and the chemic.” As he was speaking Pete was already reaching for a damp cloth.
The locals had gone home and the visitors had retired to their rooms. As usual Sasha, Elle, Pete, Gladys, Gustav and Harriet were relaxing with a pot of tea in the best side discussing the events of the week and anything significant that the evening had brought to their attention, “The only new project that I’m aware of that needs some serious thought is Felicity’s desire for a full size Olympic swimming pool at the old allotments site. Tony is going to do the excavation and the farmers are going to take excavated material away as he digs it out to level out some of their rougher fields and the hollow swampy ground down at the new allotments site. Saul’s demolition crews are going to use explosives on any large rocks to reduce them down in size so the crusher can reduce them to gravel. Murray says that the financial implications are nowhere near as serious as Felicity had feared may have been the case and there is no reason why the pool shouldn’t be open for use next summer. The school will then have sport facilities as good as anywhere. We have all the teaching staff we need, and we still have the emergency teaching provision that we utilised over the Covid lock down, though Murray is now going to be looking around for a retired top lever swimmer to teach all to do with swimming and water games like water polo. I take it you ladies have heard about Diane and Hamilton?”
Gladys replied, “Indeed, Sasha. A specialist physics teacher and a vet. That must have made Murray’s day. Changing the subject we were all glad to see that Elin’s problems had finally been resolved. It seems that Sam’s daughter Janine was the person who facilitated that. The children as one would expect gave her no problems down at the mill when she appeared for a photography session with them wearing a frock. She’ll do well here and is looking forward to a good weather wedding next summer. Jenny and Yvonne are sorting their lives out and settling in well. Both have found a man and are happy to have done so. I don’t think things had been too good for Yvonne before with regards to romance, but Eamonn is a calm, quiet man who is perfect to make her happy. Jenny and Finley have made their six children into a family, and all seems to be going well there. There are a number of new relationships in the making amongst younger folk, and the only one of any concern is that of Leo and Noah. Leo will be spending time out there studying at university and that is always problematic, but time will tell, and whatever happens there are enough folk around to support them both.”
Elle said, “Unless there is anything else that needs to be said, it’s been a long, exciting and tiring day, and I’m ready for bed. No? Well goodnight. Sasha, home.”
Gustav as usual locked all the doors and checked the windows whilst Harriet went upstairs to check on the twins.
Gladys was holding hands with Pete about to go upstairs to bed. Her foot had just touched the bottom stair when she said, “Time to ring for Susanna, Love. Clodagh is about to make her appearance.” There was to be no peace for any that night in the Green Dragon.
Susanna the midwife arrived twenty minutes later with Elle, Karen, Vera and Margaret. The women all nurses albeit three of them retired took over and Susanna telt Pete, “We’ll tell you when your presence is required. Sasha is down stairs with what he described as a select party of drinkers to help you through your ordeal. Men! You put us in the straw and then fall apart as a result of your handiwork. Go, don’t drink too much.” Harriet was chuckling as her Dad looking like a coney in front of a stoat did what he was telt.
Susanna asked, “Where does your mum keep her nursing bra’s, Harriet? Or did she get rid of them after weaning Gloria? We may as well be ready.”
“Mum?” asked Harriet.
“Fourth drawer down in the chest to the left of my dressing table. Get the pink one please, Love. I’m thirsty would someone make me a cup of tea please?”
“Shall I make us all one, Ladies?” Harriet asked.
“A good idea, Love, any biscuits?” asked Elle.
“I’ll deal with it.”
The night passed slowly and when Aggie arrived at just before five Susanna telt her that Gladys still had a few hours to go. Things started to happen rapidly at ten past ten when Pete was telt his presence was required. It was twenty-five to eleven when Clodagh arrived. A six pound twelve ounce [3.068 Kg] baby with possibly bright read hair and definitely powerful lungs. Gladys was tired but as she said, “I’m nowhere near as tired as last time.” Susanna and the nurses left shortly afterwards leaving Gladys and Clodagh to the care of Harriet and Aggie.
Brigitte was a little put out that she’d not been awakened, but Aggie calmed her by saying, “It’s nothing to do with your age, Love. Your gran has a history of losing babies and had you’d witnessed that it would have badly upset you for a long time. Susanna and the nurses, particularly Elle, were not prepared to risk that and I agree with them. They made the decision using their profession judgement. You shouldn’t criticise them for that, it’s what they have been trained to do. If you must be upset with anyone, far better you be upset with me.”
“Gran has had babies who died‽” Aggie nodded solemnly. “Babies plural‽” Again Aggie nodded. “How many?”
“It’s not my place to tell you. I suggest you ask your Gran. If she wishes you to know she’ll tell you. If she doesn’t she won’t.”
“You were there for all of them, Auntie Aggie?” Brigitte was crying silent tears as she asked.
“I was. It’s the tragic side of womanhood, but it is part of womanhood and we all have to accept it. However, Gloria and Clodagh are the joyous part of of your gran’s womanhood, an equal part of womanhood that takes no effort to accept. Being a mum is a mixed blessing, Pet. Fortunately the joy far outweighs the tragedy. I know you have been telt about Delia. For your gran Delia was a tragedy, as bad a tragedy as a daughter who died. To your mum Delia died years before she did. She was depressed badly by the way Delia turned out for years. I’m sure you must know that was none of you gran’s nor your granddad’s doing, for they are just not like that. The only thing that cured your gran’s depression was adopting your mum. You know your mum had a tragic life as a child, as did you and your brother. Now you have brought joy into each others’ lives. You are not a woman yet, but you will be sooner than you realise, and sooner or later you will have to accept being a woman, the tragedy and the joy, for you can’t have one without the other. Now, Pet, dry your tears and go to see your gran and your Auntie Clodagh, though it’s probably best to call her Cousin Clodagh. I’ll send your brother to see them too.”
1 The process of converting vegetable oil into bio diesel is called transesterification. Chemically, transesterification involves taking a triglyceride molecule or a complex fatty acid, neutralizing the free fatty acids, removing the glycerol and creating an alcohol ester. The process typically uses potassium or sodium methoxide which due to its instability has to be made at the time. The methoxide is made by reacting sodium or potassium hydroxide, which are corrosive and will damage skin, with methanol a toxic liquid with toxic fumes that is readily absorbed by skin. The methoxide is a dangerous substance that needs to be handled with caution. More sophisticated processes use a two step reaction involving acid before the hydroxide. The glycerol by product from the reaction has numerous commercial applications, but the crude material from the process has to be purified to be of much value.
2 Sisal Agave sisalane is a plant from which a stiff fibre used in making rope, twine and string and various other products can be obtained.
3 Gas axe, common term used for an oxy acetylene cutting torch.
4 Ofsted, the Office for Standards in Education, Children's Services and Skills is a non-ministerial department of His Majesty's government, reporting to Parliament.
5 Crowner, archaic usage of the modern word coroner.
6 A cat, the reference is to the cat o' nine tails, commonly shortened to the cat. It is a type of multi tailed whip or flail. It was used as an implement for physical punishment, notably in the Royal Navy and the British Army, and as a judicial punishment in Britain and some other countries. The cat is made up of nine knotted thongs of cotton cord about 75 cm or 2½ feet long designed to lacerate the skin and cause intense pain. The punishment of birching and cat o' nine tails continued to be used in Northern Ireland into the 1940s. The Isle of Man [not in the UK] caused a good deal of controversy by continuing to birch young offenders until 1976. The birch was also used on offending teenage boys until the mid 1960s on the Channel Islands of Guernsey and Jersey [neither are in the UK].
7 Women that were no better than they should be, an old and scarcely veiled reference to prostitutes.
8 Cline feelers, Klinefelter's syndrome is being referred to. A genetic condition where an extra X chromosome is present. Such XXY type individuals may present as males or females though the former is more common.
9 LEA, Local Education Authority.
10 A beast, used thus refers to an ox or a cow.
11 The Cornish accent is broad and can be difficult for others to follow due to the number of dialectal forms used. Cornwall also has it’s own language, Kernowek, a Celtic language with similarities to Breton which is having a resurgence. The Cornish pasty, or tiddy oggy as it’s referred to in those parts, is a local dish whose name is protected and pasties made elsewhere may not be called Cornish. There are numerous explanations of the origins of tiddy oggy, but tiddy is naval slang for proper and an oggy is reputed to be a potato pasty. Nowadays a tiddy oggy is taken in Cornwall and its neighbour Devon to be a proper pasty, i.e. a Cornish pasty.
12 Poly bags, in this context the reference is to vertical thin polythene tubes two feet in diameter used for the culture of such organisms.
13 LED, Light Emitting Diode.
14 HMRC, His Majesty’s Revenue and Customs, the tax man.
15 OU, the Open University. A distance learning environment.
16 PGCE, Post Graduate Certificate of Education, one of the UK qualifications that licences one to teach in the UK.
17 A’ level, Advanced level. The qualifications that follow on from official school leaving age in the UK. Usually taken in three or four subjects and examined at the age of eighteen.
18 GCSE, General Certificate of Secondary Education. Examinations usually taken by 15/16 year olds in the UK.
19 Bottle out, retreat, withdraw. It implies a lack of bottle or courage.
20 AI, Artificial Insemination.
21 DEFRA, The Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs is a department of His Majesty’s Government in the United Kingdom responsible for environmental protection, food production and standards, agriculture, fisheries and rural communities in the entire United Kingdom.
22 Octane, normally a measure associated with petrol [US gasoline] here used as a joke referring to alcohol content.
23 Three parts, in this context is an expression that means three-quarters.
24 Chippy, a fish and chip shop, a specific kind of fast food outlet. UK chips are fries in the US and UK crisps are chips in the US.
25 BTU, British Thermal Unit.
26 MOT, Ministry of Transport annual certification of road worthiness, a legal requirement in the UK.
27 Butching, dialectal butchering.
28 Couldn’t give a monkey’s, a shortened, or more polite, version of couldn’t give a monkey’s fuck, British slang to not care about something.
29 Reine des Reinettes translates as King of the Pippins. A pippin is an apple.
30 Bait colloquial usage for a working man’s meal when at work.
31 Hatched, matched and despatched, a well known UK expression equivalent to born, married and died, which is not quite the familiar order of the quality daily newspapers which inform of births deaths and marriages.
32 Mother’s ruin, a centuries old name familiar all over the UK for gin.
33 Perry, like cider but made from pears rather than apples.
34 NCSG, National Child Support Group, the umbrella organisation referred to elsewhere. In reality there is no official such group, though unofficial mechanisms based on the idea exist in the UK.
35 A shoe in, a foregone conclusion.
36 Put down. The term is usually used in connection with elderly pets that are living in pain. It is usually used in connection with veterinary practitioners. Here used in this context it means killed.
37 To pull one’s horn in, to begin to behave in a more circumspect manner, especially to spend or invest money more carefully.
38 Fjell, dialectal fell or mountain.
39 Bob Cratchit is a fictional character in the Charles Dickens 1843 novel A Christmas Carol. The abused, underpaid clerk of Ebenezer Scrooge, Cratchit has come to symbolize the poor working conditions, especially long working hours and low pay, endured by many working class people in the early Victorian era.
Comments
Sorry to see this series coming to an end (for now)
I have had the privilege to read every detailed and highly entertaining installment, and will miss them. That being said, I look forward to more of your fine writing down the road.
Thank you.
A lengthy GOM Tale ....
.. That took me all of yesterday evening to read. I enjoyed every moment but at the end, and on reflection this morning, it felt like a summary and "State Of The Village" report. However, I know that Number 47 has been published and I'm looking forward to reading it.
Dear Eolwaen, I have read every GOMT to date and commented and made suggestions too. I do so hope that your Muse will allow you to continue this splendid series but, like the great Teddie S' Tommy series, there comes a point that it concludes naturally. All I can do is to thank you for many hours of happy and enjoyable reading and escapism into a better place.
Brit