A Likely Tale, Lad Read online

  ‘How does it work, Dad?’

  ‘It’s all very secret, Michael. I’ll maybe tell you when you’re a bit older.’ And he’d put a finger to his mouth. ‘Loose lips sink ships, and all that.’

  It all sounded very James Bond. I had visions of Sean Connery strolling around inside in a black sweater, gun at the ready – or maybe fighting some evil foreigner on the top of the golf balls. We all knew that Dad was doing some sort of engineering work for the forces, but he wasn’t allowed to tell us what it was exactly, and that made it all the more intriguing.

  ‘Here we go! Mungo Jerry.’ Phil had hardly said a word the entire trip, but now he pulled his earphones out of the radio, turned it up full blast, and we all sang along. ‘In the summer time, when the weather is fine. In the summer time … I got women I got women on my mind.’

  ‘All except you.’ He nudged me in the ribs. ‘All you’ve got on your mind is your blinking fishing rod, you little weed.’ And with that he plugged himself back in and closed his eyes again.

  It was mid-afternoon when we made the final approach to Staintondale, along a single-track road which crossed a moss-covered stone bridge before rising sharply towards the farm house. ‘Oh no!’ Christian and Gillian led a chorus of complaints as we were turfed out for one more march uphill.

  But it wasn’t far now, and we were soon driving into the farmyard, scattering the hens, the geese and two stray piglets. The sheepdogs, chained up around the yard, mostly ignored us, just lay there with their heads on their paws, taking it all in. I don’t think they liked having us invade the place – particularly as they had to tolerate Petra, who strolled around the yard with a superior air, off her lead, while they remained securely tethered until they were summoned for work.

  I don’t know how the connection was first made, but for generations our family had taken holidays at White House Farm. It was occupied by three sisters, Annie, Maud and Doris. To us they were all Aunties, and here they were to greet us as we piled out of the car. Mum and Dad were stiff and yawning after the journey, but as they greeted their friends we kids shouted a brief ‘Hello!’ and scampered across the yard to see who could get to the milking barn first – all except Phil, who was still glued to his radio in the back seat of the car.

  In the barn we found Billy and Jack, the two brothers who worked on the farm, and always had done as far as we knew. The pair of them seemed as old as the hills to me, with their brown leather boots with the long row of shiny buttons, their corduroy trousers tied by a length of string below the knee, Billy’s shapeless flat hat and Jack’s white clay pipe. That pipe was always smouldering. Some days, when he was having one of his forgetful turns, you’d see a wisp of smoke coming out of his jacket pocket as he wandered around the yard scratching his head and asking you if you’d seen it.

  ‘Now then, young feller-me-lad. Aren’t they feeding you back at your place?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Billy was always talking in riddles, it seemed to me.

  Jack laughed and sat on a straw bale. ‘Why, he means you don’t seem to have grown much since your last visit. Reckon you could do with some of Doris’s home cooking. Fatten you up for market.’ He patted his own ample belly and added, ‘Look at us – like a couple of little porkers, aren’t we? And it’s all her doing, bless her.’

  I stood up straight, puffed out my chest and flexed my biceps. ‘I’m almost four foot six,’ I said. ‘And guess what?’

  ‘Ooh, I’m no good at guessing,’ Jack said. ‘You’ll have to tell me, lad.’

  ‘I’m the fastest runner in our class. I won the hundred yards dash on sports day.’

  ‘In that case I reckon you’re big enough and strong enough to lend us a hand wi’ milking them cows when they come in. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, lad?’ He knew I would. It was one of my favourite jobs around the place. ‘Well then,’ Billy said, ‘why don’t you go and see if the ladies have got a spot of afternoon tea laid out for you. By the time you’re done there them cows should be ready.’

  The girls had gone to look at an orphan calf. Billy and Jack were keeping it in a pen with a mother who’d lost her own youngster in the hope that she’d adopt it. Any time now the rest of the herd, all black-and-white Friesians, would come ambling across the pasture and gather at the five-barred gate for evening milking. The farm had a proper modern set-up in the big shed, with electrically operated vacuum pumps, but they still milked the one Jersey cow, Amanda, the old-fashioned way, and made their own dairy products in a little room off the farmhouse kitchen. Often we would be allowed to ride Amanda in from the field for milking – with Billy and Jack walking either side. Amanda was what they called the house cow. Her milk was creamier than the Friesians, perfect for butter and cheese.

  Back in the house I got the usual hugs – one from each of the sisters in turn. Although they were sisters, and looked very much alike – like peas from the same pod, as Mum always said – you could tell them apart with your eyes shut. Annie always smelled of lavender, while Maud wore eau de cologne. I was getting to that age when I tried my best to avoid hugs – especially from plump old ladies like them – but the one person I never minded wrapping her arms around me was Doris. Doris always gave off an enticing aroma – of things like cinnamon, or almond essence, or vanilla. She was the baker in the family, and it was one of her wonderful creations that I spotted on the cooling-rack as she sat Mum and Dad down at the scrubbed pine table and filled the teapot from the big black kettle that seemed to simmer on the old stove all day long, whatever the weather.

  ‘Why don’t you children carry your Mum and Dad’s cases upstairs while I cut this cake and let the tea brew,’ Doris said. ‘Go on – won’t take you a couple of minutes; give us chance for a bit of grown-up talk. And here, fill that bowl under the sink there; give your dog a drink. Look at the poor old lass, she’s panting like a traction engine.’

  Phil had come in from the car at last, and he gave the dog her water while Gillian, Christine and I lugged the cases up the narrow staircase and along the landing where the dark, bare floorboards always seemed to creak no matter how carefully you trod. Even in the middle of the night when you were lying in bed you’d sometimes hear them. Dad said it was just settlement as the house cooled down, but I was convinced it was ghosts. Normally that would’ve terrified me, but we all slept in the same room – one bed for the girls, another for me and Phil – so I felt safe enough. They were old-fashioned sprung beds with thick feather quilts and big downy pillows. There was even a china pot under each one, not that we ever used those. Dad said they were for the winter nights.

  ‘When I used to stay here, back in the days when we had proper winters,’ he liked to say, ‘and before they had the inside privy built, believe me, a fellow could freeze to death going out in that yard. Those days we had to heat a brick up by the fire and wrap it in an old blanket to act as a hot water bottle. Otherwise our toes would’ve dropped off. Imagine.’

  Back downstairs, after we’d demolished Doris’s fruit cake, she got me to wind the grandfather clock that stood at one end of the kitchen. When I say kitchen you have to understand that theirs was a huge room – at least, it seemed so to me. The sink and the cooker were at one end, next to the Aga. The other end was where we all ate, around the table. There was a pine dresser too, with all the aunties’ best china on display; there was a single rocking chair with a hand-made rug under it, and beside that was the grandfather clock. At night it was so quiet, the ticking of the clock was all you could hear. If you opened it up you could still read the maker’s name, and the date. 1786. The story went that it had been made by a young clock-maker who’d come to the end of his apprenticeship and had to produce a finished item to prove that he’d learned his trade properly. It was what they called his masterpiece. I’d always been fascinated with the clock. Even when I was barely able to stand I used to watch as one of the sisters took the big metal key and opened the glazed front. Then she’d open the tall wooden door as well, exposing the pulle
ys and what they called the ‘mice’, the heavy cast-iron weights that rose to the top in a series of jerks as she wound it up. They used to let Phil do it, then Christine, and now it was a job I was deemed able to take on – under close supervision.

  Back in the milking parlour, the cows were all standing in their stalls, the machinery humming. I loved it in there. You could hear the milk sloshing around in pipes and emptying into the stainless steel vessels. Occasionally a cow would stamp a foot, or snort, or drop a huge wet turd on the straw-covered floor, which always made me laugh. Billy was checking that the animals were all comfortable. ‘Here,’ he said, pointing to the far corner where the solitary Amanda stood next to the stool I’d fetched out earlier, ‘you know what to do, don’t you?’

  Of course I did. It was only a few months since Billy had finally given in to my pestering and taught me. I positioned the three-legged stool carefully. I didn’t want a repeat of my first attempt, when the cow stepped back and trod on me. You’ve no idea how heavy they are until you feel the full weight of one on your foot. And I didn’t want her kicking me, as happened to Phil one time. He carried that bruise for weeks afterwards, and it turned just about every colour of the rainbow.

  On this occasion, though, Billy had placed a tub of food at the head end of the cow. ‘Just regular old cattle nuts,’ he said. Then he winked at me. ‘Sweetened ’em wi’ a bit of molasses. That’s the secret, lad. They can’t resist it. Keeps her occupied while you pull on the old teats, d’you see?’

  I was soon sat there, squirting the warm milk into the shiny galvanised bucket that I gripped between my knees, occasionally leaning forward to aim it into my mouth and savour the sweetness. There really is nothing quite like it. I was enjoying every moment of the task until my big brother crept up behind me, grabbed a teat and showered the milk all over my shorts.

  ‘I’ll get you for that!’ I shouted. But he was already gone, pausing at the door to shout, ‘No you won’t. Too slow to catch a cold, you are. See you at the beach!’ And he was off, his fishing rod in his hand.

  I’m afraid poor Amanda got short shrift after that. Phil had reminded me that the whole point of coming to Staintondale was to get down to the sea. I tugged away manically, barely bothering to take aim, and was soon standing in a puddle of milk, my feet squelching inside my shoes. The cow had abandoned her bowl of goodies and was stamping her irritation. I decided I had enough in my pail, hurried back across the yard and handed it to Maud. She was responsible for producing the cream, buttermilk, butter and an occasional slab of cheese for the household. ‘Hm, not a lot today,’ she said, peering into the half-filled pail. She went to the window and looked out at the sky. ‘Maybe it’s them clouds,’ she said. ‘They do tend to go off it when the weather turns.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, trying to sound as though I knew what I was talking about. ‘The weather. That’s what Billy reckoned too.’ Then I rushed out to the car, pulled out my fishing rod, my bag of hooks, spare line and other bits and pieces, checked that I had my knife in my pocket, and set off.

  ‘Where you going now, lad?’ Jack was just coming out of the big barn, pausing to strike a match on the wall and put it to his clay pipe.

  ‘To the beach,’ I said.

  ‘You mean the wyke, lad.’ He was referring to its proper name, Hayburn Wyke. Dad had told us all about that. He’d read it in a book he got out of the library. According to him, ‘wyke’ came from a Viking word. It meant a cove or an inlet, some little spot where you might land a long-boat in amongst the cliffs, hidden from view. ‘And what d’you reckon to catch down there, lad? Couple of codling, maybe?’

  ‘Aye. We got one last year. Two and a half pounds it weighed.’

  ‘Ah,’ Jack said. ‘Codling’s not bad – although you’ll have more chance of catching them towards the back end of t’year.’ Then he took his pipe from his mouth, tamped the tobacco down with his forefinger, and said, ‘What you want to be going after is trout. In the beck down yonder. Has nobody ever taken the trouble to teach you how to tickle a trout?’

  I didn’t answer at first. I was still looking at his hand, wondering how he could bear to put his finger into the bowl of his pipe like that, what with the tobacco glowing red and smoking. I’d seen him do it any number of times and I still couldn’t work out how he managed it. ‘No,’ I said, ‘they haven’t.’

  ‘Well, you take yourself off now – and in a day or two you come and have a word with me. Maybe on the weekend when things is a bit quieter. Then we’ll see if we can’t mek a proper fisherman of you. How’s that, eh?’

  ‘Wow, that’d be fantastic,’ I said, before hurrying on, across the little paddock and into the wood, puzzling all the way as to what he might mean by tickling them.

  To get down to the wyke you had to duck under a lot of low-growing branches and watch out for badger-holes, fallen limbs, trailing creepers. You had to cross three separate streams and be careful not to skid on the wet stones. And then came the best part, slithering down

  beside the waterfall that tumbled down the cliff into a deep pool

  surrounded by rocks, just above the high tide line. Then you were out on the sand, in a bay, more or less deserted apart from the occasional hiker doing the Cleveland Way – and the odd angler who knew what a great spot it was.

  When I got there Phil was already out on our rock, ducking to avoid the spray as a wave crashed lazily against it, turning to grin at me as he tugged on his line. ‘Got one!’ he shouted. ‘Got one!’ He was reeling it in as fast as he could, and there, on the end of his line, was a wriggling, glistening young cod. ‘Must be a two-pounder, at least,’ he called out.

  What we called our rock was a huge boulder, a great slab, thirty or forty yards from the base of the cliff. Even at low tide it was tricky to get to it because of the slippery rocks surrounding it. You had to keep your eye on the tide to avoid getting wet on the way back. Once you’d scrambled up on to it, it was reasonably level. You could set out your things, bait your line and cast into quite deep water.

  Phil had landed the fish. He whacked its head on the rock, and slid the hook out. Then he snapped his fingers at me. ‘Knife. Where is it?’

  ‘Where’s yours?’

  He jerked a thumb back towards the cliff. ‘Must’ve slipped out of my pocket when we were in the car. C’mon, hand it over.’

  ‘Why should I? After you squirted all that milk down me.’

  ‘That was just a joke. Now come on, gimme the knife. Or do you want me to come and get it off you?’

  My Swiss Army knife was one of my prized possessions. It had caused quite a stir at home as Mum wasn’t sure I was old enough for it. But my Dad had backed me up. For a boy who liked playing in the woods, making bow and arrows – and of course fishing – it was absolutely essential. For survival. I pulled it slowly out of my pocket. ‘Only if we share the fish,’ I said.

  Phil stood there for a moment, scowling. Then his face broke into a grin. ‘Aye, all right then. Fair enough.’ And with that he dropped the fish at my foot. ‘But you’ve got to clean it.’ He gathered his things together. ‘See you back at the farm, sucker.’

  You never really got the better of Phil. Who does get the better of a big brother? Still, as far as I was aware I’d got an honourable draw. The only trouble was, when I finally got back, wet through, my fingers stinging where I’d nicked them with the knife, and with the two halves of the codling stuffed into my trousers – one in each pocket – the whole family were standing by the car waiting for me. Dad was tapping his wristwatch. ‘Come on, Michael,’ he said. ‘Have you forgotten? It’s fish and chips tonight. Now get in that car, and be quick about it.’

  I dived into my seat. The girls shrank from my wet shirt, and shrieked dutifully when I pulled the dead fish out and waved it in their faces. ‘Just wait till tomorrow,’ I said, ‘after me and Billy have gone tickling trout. Then I’ll really make you jump.’

  ‘Downhill all the way!’ Dad was all but purring – and so was the old
Traveller as we freewheeled towards Scarborough. We were all in high spirits. Eating fried haddock and chips out of a newspaper while we wandered around the harbour watching the bobbing fishing boats was a real treat. The rest of the week, our meals would be home cooked by Doris, followed by quiet evenings playing board games and cards, or just chatting by the fire – if it was deemed cool enough to light one. There was no television out there, and Mum and Dad seemed to like that. It gave the family time together without the distractions of work, homework and all the other madness of our home life. And, as Dad liked to remind us, if war broke out there was plenty of grub and we could listen to the old valve radio in the sisters’ living room. Just now, though, peace reigned, and we could sit by the open fire with the toasting forks Mum had packed and make a bedtime snack of hot buttered crumpets.

  Tickling Trout

  ‘Now then.’

  Whenever Jack uttered those two words, I knew I had to take note. That’s the great thing about being the age I was then: you listen to what the old folk tell you, and you take it in. Later on, as you start to grow up, you get this foolish idea that they’re too old and you’re too clever – and you stop listening. You shrug off their advice. What do they know? By the time it finally strikes you that some of them actually talked a lot of sense, that some of them knew just about everything worth knowing, why, they’re most likely dead and buried. It’s just as Jack said to me one day when we were standing by a moss-covered gravestone in Cloughton cemetery. We’d gone to look at his ancestors’ resting-place, and I remember watching, mouth agape, as he tapped out his pipe against the back of the headstone and said, ‘There’s more wisdom buried under these slabs than you’ll find in any book, lad.’ He sighed and added, ‘It’s been the same old story – since the dawn of time.’ With that, he looked at me, tapped his pipe once more, patted the headstone, and grinned at me. ‘Don’t worry, lad. My old granddad enjoyed the smell of a good tobacco.’