The Heart of the Dales (23 page)

‘I like it like that,' I said. ‘It's rather quaint.'

‘Quaint!' exclaimed Christine. ‘Quaint! My understanding of the word ‘quaint' is ‘attractively old-fashioned'. There is nothing attractive about the Royal Oak. What it needs is pulling down and rebuilding. It is – or, rather, was – smoky, dirty, noisy and uncomfortable. It's a wonder there weren't spittoons on the floor and holes in the ground for the lavatories. The place needed more than a lickof paint, and the changes may not be that bad.'

‘That olde-worlde atmosphere is what is so appealing about the place,' I told her. ‘It would be a real pity if it has become like the Golden Ball, one of these dreadful modern pubs.'

‘Let's just wait and see what has been done to it,' said Christine. ‘It can't be worse than the last time we went in when you complained about the state of the bar and how the beer was off and how it tookan age to be served. You didn't say it was quaint then, did you?'

‘Yes, well, I still wouldn't like to see the old place being altered too much,' I said, wrapping my arms around her waist. ‘It's part of the history of the village. It's all about tradition. But I will go out with you, Mrs Phinn, only if you promise to get your whip out later.'

Hawksrill had the two public houses, the Royal Oak and the Golden Ball. When we first came to live in the village, we had enjoyed going to the Golden Ball – or the Lacquered Knacker as locals used to call it. Although it was a more modern building than the Oak, it was a popular place, and we got to know
many of the locals there. While we were busy working on getting the cottage habitable, we would often pop in for a pie and a pint of beer. However, when the landlord put in game machines and piped music – to encourage the younger generation, he said – some of the locals had shifted their allegiance to the village's other pub.

In contrast, the Royal Oakhadn't, until now, changed in years. Outside, a dilapidated wooden board, depicting a warlike be-wigged Charles II posing, one hand on his hip and the other holding high a sword, and standing regally beneath a huge oaktree in full leaf, had hung from a gallows-like structure to the front of the inn. Attached to the wall beside the heavy front door, with its flaking paint, had been a large faded wooden sign that read: ‘Purveyors of fine ales, liquor and porter since 1714.'

The public bar had been dim and smoky, reeking of beer and tobacco and had been as hot as a sauna. There had been four ancient and sticky-topped trestle-style tables, a selection of rickety hard wooden chairs, a dusty inglenook, and a flagged and heavily-stained floor. The walls had been bare save for a few oddments: a pair of old bellows, a tarnished warming pan, various rusty farm implements including a vicious-looking man-trap, and a couple of antique shotguns. There had been no attempt to provide any kind of physical comfort for the customers. Walkers would enter and ask if food was served, to be told bluntly by the landlord, ‘No, and close t'door on yer way out.' The other room, euphemistically called the Lounge, had had a threadbare red-patterned carpet and a further selection of dusty local memorabilia on the walls, a few round plastic-topped tables, a couple of Windsor chairs and an assortment of old armchairs, wing-backed chairs and stools.

The previous landlord, Tobias Clarke, known affectionately as Fat Toby, had bent down to lace up his boots one morning a couple or so months ago and had dropped down dead. He had been a lugubrious-faced individual of immense girth, a great barrel of a man with shoulders as broad as a barn door. He had been a man of few words and little humour and had
liked nothing better than to sit in a high-backed grandfather chair at the side of the open fire in the public bar while his long-suffering wife served behind the bar. Mrs Clarke was a small, slight woman; she was never seen wearing anything other than blackand as she scuttled about the inn she reminded me of an industrious little beetle. Her hair, silver-white and parted in the middle, was scraped backacross her head and into a tight little bunch. Christine and I, on the few occasions that we had visited the pub, often wondered why she put up with such a lazy and disagreeable husband, whose face and manner clearly demonstrated his will to dominate the poor woman. When the pub had more than the usual handful of customers, he would rise slowly from his throne to assist her but he had never been in any rush. He would take an inordinate amount of time to serve you. On one occasion when I asked if he had forgotten about my order, he had sniffed noisily, closed his eyes for a moment and then enquired tetchily, ‘Is there a fire?'

After his death, Mrs Clarke had promptly bought herself a new coat as red as a pillar box, had had her hair permed a pale purple and had put up the Royal Oakfor sale. The pub had realised a surprisingly large sum of money; as Harry Cotton observed lugubriously, ‘Ma Clarke were fair bow-legged wi' brass', and it was no surprise when she had booked herself onto a luxury P&O cruise to the Caribbean on the
Oriana
. Mrs Poskitt received a postcard from the Bahamas from ‘the Merry Widow', informing her that she had met a very nice elderly gentleman and was having a wonderful time. And that was the last we heard of her. The postcard showed a transformed Mrs Clarke with her ageing paramour, posing next to Captain Hamish Reid like a dowager duchess.

Much to the concern of the locals, things had soon started to change. The new landlord of the Royal Oakwas ‘nobbut better than t'landlord of t'Knacker' grumbled Harry Cotton. ‘Dunt know what t'word “tradition” means.' On Thursday and Friday nights, it was the custom for Harry and three other worthies of the village to arrive at the Royal Oakand take
their places at the corner table to play dominoes. The foursome comprised Harry, George Hemmings, Thomas Umpleby and Hezekiah Longton. Harry, George and Thomas were peas out of the same pod: all three had full heads of silver hair, thick bristling eyebrows, wide, weather-beaten faces and small shrewd eyes nestling in nests of wrinkles. They could have been brothers.

Mr Longton was very different. He was a tall, lean individual who, despite his advancing age, walked with a straight back and without the aid of a stick. He was one of those men whom it is difficult to imagine had ever been young, and yet, when this quietly-spoken man did venture an opinion, which was rare, it was clear to all that he had a lively, intelligent mind and a good command of the English language. Whereas Harry, Thomas and George would appear at the pub in their old working clothes, Mr Longton always made an effort to look smart. He was never seen in the village without a clean white collar and tie, a waistcoat (usually mustard in colour) with a heavy silver fob dangling across his chest, a finely-cut tweed jacket, green cord trousers and highly-polished brown boots. He looked incongruous amongst the company he kept, but he had never been known to miss his dominoes nights at the pub.

On Thursday and Friday evenings, the ‘gang of four' would ensconce themselves in their corner at the Royal Oak, discuss the day's events and share an anecdote or two before settling down to their game, which they played in complete silence. When the serious business of the dominoes was over and tankards were filled with frothing ale, Harry would light his old blackbriar pipe and fill the room with evil-smelling smoke. Sometimes Thomas Umpleby could be persuaded to recite a poem. His
pieèce de résistance
was ‘The Wensley Lass', a wonderfully expressive dialect poem, which he would declaim loudly and passionately, hand on heart, in his rough, rich, racy native idiom.

I had heard this verse a number of times but always loved to hear the deep resonant voice bringing the Yorkshire dialect to life.

Thou 'as nae need to worry, lass,

There'll nivver be another fer me.

Sin' time began, there's ne'er been man

Who cud luv as I luv thee.

As long as t'River Yore it flows

Atween 'igh Wensley 'ills,

An' bonny becks sing leetsomly Ower steeans in Wensley gills,

So I will luv thee 'til I dee

An' from thee nivver part,

Fer thy are the bonny Wensley lass

Who stole away my 'eart.

I had first heard him recite the poem one evening the previous autumn, soon after the locals had migrated here from the Golden Ball. We had called in at the pub just before what we thought would be closing time and an hour later we were still there sitting on the hard chairs listening to Thomas Umpleby's recitations. I had told him how much I had enjoyed his verses and the following morning the man himself had arrived at my door with a copy of his poem dedicated ‘For t'newlyweds – a long life and 'appiness'. It was neatly written in a large copperplate hand.

Harry later told me how Thomas had become quite a celebrity a few years before. A lecturer from Leeds University, together with a Norwegian academic who was undertaking research into the decline in European dialects, had called in for a drinkat the Royal Oakas they were passing through the village. They were in search of authentic Yorkshire dialects and their attention was soon caught when they heard the elderly men at the corner table conversing in their thick regional accents. But when Thomas Umpleby, who rarely ventured out of the dale and spoke as his forefathers had spoken, opened his mouth, the two academics thought they had struck gold and quickly reached for their notebooks. Old Thomas's conversation, peppered with unusual and archaic words and phrases and delivered in an almost incomprehensible accent,
completely flummoxed them. Finally, he had enquired of the two men, ‘So weersa banner lig?'

‘I beg your pardon?' the lecturer from Leeds University had asked, perplexed.

‘I sais, weersa banner lig?'

The Norwegian had replied, ‘We are staying at the Marrick Arms.'

His colleague had been astounded. ‘How on earth did you understand what he was saying?' he had asked.

‘He's a Viking,' the Norwegian had replied, ‘and is speaking Old Norse. ‘Weersa banner lig?' – Where do you lay down your head?'

The university lecturer had tried to persuade Thomas to visit Leeds and be a case study in his research but Thomas had shaken his old head. ‘Nay, nay, lad,' he had sighed. ‘I'm too owld to gu gallivantin' to t'city. I'm champion as I am.'

When we arrived at the pub that Sunday morning we were expecting change but, even so, were surprised by the extent of it.

‘I see that the Merry Monarch has been given his marching orders,' I said, looking up. The old inn sign had gone and in its place hung a brightly painted board with the outline of an oaktree and the lettering ‘THE OAK'.

We put our heads into the lounge bar. The old armchairs had been replaced with banquettes and shiny tables. The tarnished horse brasses and dusty hunting horns, framed sepia photographs and faded paintings of rural scenes had disappeared; the walls had been painted white and were bare save for two minimalist paintings. There were only a few people in there, none of whom we knew, so we came out and went into the public bar.

Gone was the old stone-flagged floor; instead there were polished anaemic-looking floorboards. The ancient and sticky-topped trestles and hard wooden chairs had been replaced by high round tubular steel stools and matching tables. In the fireplace, where there used to be a blazing log fire, blackened copper kettles and pans, a large wicker basket full of logs and
a huge brass fireguard, there was now a modern electric unit with flickering false coal. Perched on the stools like strange and shabby birds sat three of the regulars looking far from happy. Mr Longton stood, rather self-consciously, holding his pint tankard.

‘Hey up,' said Harry as we entered. ‘It's t'schoil hinspector.'

‘Hello,' I said cheerfully.

‘Don't offen see thee in 'ere,' said George Hemmings and then, raising his hand in greeting, said, ‘Mornin', Missis Phinn, looking as lovely as ever, I see.'

‘Good morning,' replied Christine, giving him one of her stunning smiles.

‘We've just called in to meet the new landlord,' I told the assembled company.

There were assorted snorts and sighs. ‘Aye sithee, tha mun see him reight enough if thy 'as a mind,' said Thomas Umpleby, picking up his pint glass and grimacing.

‘I was wantin' to speak to you, Mester Phinn,' said George Hemmings, ‘about that allotment of yourn. It wants fettlin'.'

‘Yes, I know,' I said wearily. ‘Harry mentioned it. I've been rather busy lately and haven't had a moment to get down.'

‘Way I see it,' said George, sucking in his lips, ‘is them what takes on an allotment have to look after it. It's all abaat 'ard work and commitment.'

‘Tha right there,' agreed Harry.

I began to wish that we had never set foot in the pub. ‘I thought I might askyour Andy to tidy it up a bit,' I said to Harry.

‘He did a grand job at the cottage yesterday,' added Christine. ‘He's a really hard worker.'

‘He's a good lad, our Andrew,' said Harry. ‘Not at front of queue when t'brains were given out, but not a bad worker.'

‘I thowt thy young un were doin' summat wi' beasts,' said Thomas Umpleby.

‘Aye, that's what 'e's gor 'is 'eart set on, workin' wi' sheep. Wants to gu to t'college in Yorknext year and leaarn all about 'em. I towld 'im, 'e could leaarn them a thing or two.'

‘I dunt 'ave no truck wi' eddication and bookleaarnin' and t'like,' observed Thomas. ‘Gives people ideas. Havin' prefixes after yer name dunt mean owt to me. All them fancy words an' such. I dooant knaa who said it but a cauliflower is nowt but a cabbage wi' a college education. An' as my owld mother used to say, “A 'andful of good life is better than a bushel o' leaarnin'.” Experience is t'best teacher in my book. Now you tek'Ezekiah 'ere.' Mr Longton smiled. ‘It's not as if 'e needed any books and college diplomas an' susstificates to become best gardener in Yorkshire. In't that reight, 'Ezekiah? I'll tell thee what, Mester Phinn, tha wants to let 'im 'ave a look at thy hallotment and tell thee what to plant.'