On a soporific afternoon in the last week of April, the air is filled with the sounds of the summer game. From Whimsey’s compact cricket ground, down Lover’s Lane, we hear shouts of “Owzat!”, followed by desultory clapping from the spectators (Ben and Carol Flowerdew). As one batsman makes his way back to our makeshift pavilion, another one wanders out to the middle, nervously adjusting his box.
There’s a poisonous atmosphere in the pavilion today: a heady pot-pourri of sweat, fungus, unwashed socks, cheap deodorant, horse liniment, athletes foot lotion, talcum powder, mildew, hand-rolled tobacco and unrestrained flatulence. It’s gloomy too; the grubby windows are shrouded with spiders’ webs, where the trussed-up corpses of unwary flies are marinading gently. A prawn salad sandwich, thoughtlessly discarded under a bench at the end of last season, is giving off a pale phosphorescent glow. Scientists seeking the perfect conditions for the propagation of virulent bacteria need to look no further than Whimsey’s premier sporting facility.
The pavilion is essentially a masculine environment. Women - even those up to date with their typhoid jabs and blessed with strong constitutions - do not cross the threshold on match days. In any case, the wives and girlfriends of the Whimsey XI have better things to do with their leisure hours than watch a bunch of overweight men chase a small red ball around a field.
Dennis, our captain, has come to terms with the disappointments of last season: having no new silverware to brighten up the optimistically large trophy cabinet mounted above the bar in the Farrier’s Arms. Talk of ‘silverware’ rings a little hollow, though, now that the league’s trophy budget is being sliced ever more thinly. Instead of lustrous metal, the trophies are cheap and nasty: just plastic sprayed to look like gold. On top of each little plinth is a figure who either bats or bowls, designed by someone ill-acquainted with both cricket and human anatomy. The batsman looks like he’s throwing a stick for a dog; the bowler appears to be dancing a jig. The gold paint soon peels away; after a few weeks the figures appear not merely deformed, but leprous too.
There are trophies for winners, runners-up, best individual performances and most sportsmanlike team. There are commemorative medallions for plucky losers. There’s the ‘clubman’ award: given to good-hearted guys who, though useless at cricket, bring other talents to the game. Like turning out uncomplainingly every weekend, even though they’ll bat last (if at all), never get a bowl and have to field down at third man where the most vicious horseflies lurk. Or mowing the wicket every Friday evening. Or shouting “Drinks all round” on a slow night in the pub.
After the game the players repair to the Farrier’s. After a few pints of cooking bitter they tend to forget just how soundly they’ve been beaten. The team’s performance will, in beery retrospect, be awarded a heroic perspective that was entirely lacking on the field of play. Yes, the unwarranted optimism of third-rate cricketers is an inspiration to us all.
Sunday, April 26, 2020
6 The Gazette & Advertiser...
Everyday life is chronicled in our venerable weekly newspaper, the Gazette & Advertiser, ‘serving Whimsey and the other flatland villages since 1847’. It’s a publication of few ambitions and even fewer readers; we read it to see if we’re in it and, if so, to check that Frank has spelt our names correctly. A local paper is supposed to reflect the tenor of village life, but the Gazette & Advertiser has lost its way over the years. On how many other newspapers would a story be spiked for being “too interesting”?
Some of the stories almost write themselves. Every year Frank begins his report on the Whimsey & District Agricultural Show in exactly the same way: “Torrential rain failed to dampen the enthusiasm of the crowds who flocked to the showground last Saturday”. Over the years Frank has developed the unerring knack of elevating the dull and the uneventful into headline stories, and burying anything of genuine significance towards the bottom of page five, next to the results of the Womens' Institute's Most Exciting Tea-towel Competition. Week by week Frank takes a long hard look at what makes Whimsey shine in the presence of its less exalted neighbours, and ignores it altogether.
After all this time Frank is part of the furniture: so firmly ensconced in the editorial chair that some days - after one pie too many - he has to be prised out of it with a crowbar. Journalism courses through his veins; even his conversation can be measured in column inches. He’s spent more years than he cares to remember, stabbing one-fingered at the keys of his ancient Remington typewriter like a demented woodpecker. When a computer appeared on his desk one day, he tried to make it work. But the internet baffled him, and his emails remained resolutely earthbound, like pinioned birds. Fortunately, the CD tray was just the right shape and size for holding a doughnut.
The people Frank writes about every week are the very same people who read the paper. There isn't much call, in a place the size of Whimsey, for scoops, exclusives and salacious headlines. Even the village’s recent “crime wave” was just a few local felons, selling contraband snuff, forging library tickets and rustling geese: not so much a crime wave as a crime ripple. Revelations about nefarious goings-on might briefly attract a few extra readers. But what's the point of upsetting everybody, just to double the circulation? Readers and advertisers are the most important ingredients of a local paper, though not necessarily in that order. And if Frank’s readers were ever to develop an unhealthy interest in kiss-'n’-tell exposés, they'd be unlikely to salivate over the paper's more mundane headlines, such as this week's offering: Whimsey Man Dies of Natural Causes.
Some of the stories almost write themselves. Every year Frank begins his report on the Whimsey & District Agricultural Show in exactly the same way: “Torrential rain failed to dampen the enthusiasm of the crowds who flocked to the showground last Saturday”. Over the years Frank has developed the unerring knack of elevating the dull and the uneventful into headline stories, and burying anything of genuine significance towards the bottom of page five, next to the results of the Womens' Institute's Most Exciting Tea-towel Competition. Week by week Frank takes a long hard look at what makes Whimsey shine in the presence of its less exalted neighbours, and ignores it altogether.
After all this time Frank is part of the furniture: so firmly ensconced in the editorial chair that some days - after one pie too many - he has to be prised out of it with a crowbar. Journalism courses through his veins; even his conversation can be measured in column inches. He’s spent more years than he cares to remember, stabbing one-fingered at the keys of his ancient Remington typewriter like a demented woodpecker. When a computer appeared on his desk one day, he tried to make it work. But the internet baffled him, and his emails remained resolutely earthbound, like pinioned birds. Fortunately, the CD tray was just the right shape and size for holding a doughnut.
The people Frank writes about every week are the very same people who read the paper. There isn't much call, in a place the size of Whimsey, for scoops, exclusives and salacious headlines. Even the village’s recent “crime wave” was just a few local felons, selling contraband snuff, forging library tickets and rustling geese: not so much a crime wave as a crime ripple. Revelations about nefarious goings-on might briefly attract a few extra readers. But what's the point of upsetting everybody, just to double the circulation? Readers and advertisers are the most important ingredients of a local paper, though not necessarily in that order. And if Frank’s readers were ever to develop an unhealthy interest in kiss-'n’-tell exposés, they'd be unlikely to salivate over the paper's more mundane headlines, such as this week's offering: Whimsey Man Dies of Natural Causes.
Monday, April 20, 2020
5 A late breakfast
Bob knew something was wrong the moment he opened his eyes. Normally, on a Sunday, he would wake to the reassuring aromas of coffee and burnt toast, with the prospect of doing nothing more strenuous than tackling the Sunday papers and the pile of aspirational supplements. He would read about cars he’d never own, restaurants he’d never visit, exotic holiday destinations that would remain off-limits to a man on a postman’s salary. But not today. He wrinkles his nose; he can smell something caustic and lemon-scented, and that doesn’t seem right. It’s noisy too; why the hell is Cath banging pots and pans together so early on a Sunday morning? Bob pulls the duvet over his head and tries to blot out the noise.
Cath’s been up and about for an hour, which has given her the opportunity to rehearse what she’ll say to Bob and the kids when they finally show their faces. “Look at this place”, she’ll say. “It’s a dump. I’m not prepared to go on living in this squalor for one more day. Whatever you had planned for today, forget it. We’re all going to roll our sleeves up and give this house a proper spring clean”. She’s all fired up and doesn’t want to lose momentum; she runs upstairs, taking two steps at a time, and whips the duvet off Max’s bed. “Up, up!”, she yells. Emma tries to hang on to her bedding and her dignity, but she’s no match for Cath in full flow. “Up, young lady, up!” Bob is next. One minute he’s warm and cosy, lost in his Sunday morning reverie. Then, without warning, he’s exposed; a postman can feel very vulnerable when he’s curled up in a foetal position wearing only his underpants. “Get up!”, says Cath. “There’s work to be done.”
Straight from sleep they’re disorientated and confused. What greets them, in the kitchen, is an array of mops, dusters, brooms, and buckets. Cath issues instructions, before anyone gets the chance to plead a prior engagement or think up a convincing excuse. She tells Bob to take the rugs outside, and hands him a carpet-beater. Emma gets a bucket of hot water, foaming with detergent, and is dispatched to the bathroom. Max, blinking away tears, is given a duster; he’s never seen his mum like this before, and it’s scaring him. Cath tackles the greasy cooker, with a proprietory cleaner and a quiet ferocity.
Emma scrubs at the tenacious tide-mark around the bath, and rehearses what she’ll say to Social Services when she reports Cath for cruelty to children. Max flicks a duster round, without much enthusiasm. When Cath isn’t looking, he slips back upstairs, to his bedroom, and starts reading a comic. But Cath finds him, drags him downstairs and gives him a sweeping brush. Will this nightmare never end?
Bob, in contrast, is warming to his task, as he wipes beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Beating a rug, and raising clouds of dust, is proving quite cathartic. Thwack! That’s for the owner of the Lakeland Terrier that nips at a postman’s ankles. Thwack! That’s for his bank manager, who last week refused him a loan. Thwack! That’s for his boss who kicks up such a fuss when Bob delivers letters to the wrong address. It’s a mistake any postman could make, especially if he’s keen to finish his round and get to the Farrier’s for a lunchtime pint. An hour later an exhausted Bob has gone right through his roster of retribution, and the rugs are ready to be taken back inside.
The house looks better - even Bob can see that - and smells more fragrant too. The cooker gleams, and the work surfaces are pristine, right up to the moment when Max attempts to pour cornflakes into a bowl. He expects a telling off from his mother for making a mess, but the spring-cleaning whirlwind seems to have blown itself out and Cath, thankfully, is back to normal. Coffee and burnt toast have never tasted so good. “It’s too late for breakfast”, she says, smiling for the first time today. “We’ll call it brunch”.
Cath’s been up and about for an hour, which has given her the opportunity to rehearse what she’ll say to Bob and the kids when they finally show their faces. “Look at this place”, she’ll say. “It’s a dump. I’m not prepared to go on living in this squalor for one more day. Whatever you had planned for today, forget it. We’re all going to roll our sleeves up and give this house a proper spring clean”. She’s all fired up and doesn’t want to lose momentum; she runs upstairs, taking two steps at a time, and whips the duvet off Max’s bed. “Up, up!”, she yells. Emma tries to hang on to her bedding and her dignity, but she’s no match for Cath in full flow. “Up, young lady, up!” Bob is next. One minute he’s warm and cosy, lost in his Sunday morning reverie. Then, without warning, he’s exposed; a postman can feel very vulnerable when he’s curled up in a foetal position wearing only his underpants. “Get up!”, says Cath. “There’s work to be done.”
Straight from sleep they’re disorientated and confused. What greets them, in the kitchen, is an array of mops, dusters, brooms, and buckets. Cath issues instructions, before anyone gets the chance to plead a prior engagement or think up a convincing excuse. She tells Bob to take the rugs outside, and hands him a carpet-beater. Emma gets a bucket of hot water, foaming with detergent, and is dispatched to the bathroom. Max, blinking away tears, is given a duster; he’s never seen his mum like this before, and it’s scaring him. Cath tackles the greasy cooker, with a proprietory cleaner and a quiet ferocity.
Emma scrubs at the tenacious tide-mark around the bath, and rehearses what she’ll say to Social Services when she reports Cath for cruelty to children. Max flicks a duster round, without much enthusiasm. When Cath isn’t looking, he slips back upstairs, to his bedroom, and starts reading a comic. But Cath finds him, drags him downstairs and gives him a sweeping brush. Will this nightmare never end?
Bob, in contrast, is warming to his task, as he wipes beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Beating a rug, and raising clouds of dust, is proving quite cathartic. Thwack! That’s for the owner of the Lakeland Terrier that nips at a postman’s ankles. Thwack! That’s for his bank manager, who last week refused him a loan. Thwack! That’s for his boss who kicks up such a fuss when Bob delivers letters to the wrong address. It’s a mistake any postman could make, especially if he’s keen to finish his round and get to the Farrier’s for a lunchtime pint. An hour later an exhausted Bob has gone right through his roster of retribution, and the rugs are ready to be taken back inside.
The house looks better - even Bob can see that - and smells more fragrant too. The cooker gleams, and the work surfaces are pristine, right up to the moment when Max attempts to pour cornflakes into a bowl. He expects a telling off from his mother for making a mess, but the spring-cleaning whirlwind seems to have blown itself out and Cath, thankfully, is back to normal. Coffee and burnt toast have never tasted so good. “It’s too late for breakfast”, she says, smiling for the first time today. “We’ll call it brunch”.
Saturday, April 18, 2020
4 Putting things right...
Civic pride is one of those virtues - like politeness and sportsmanship - that we seem to have abandoned as being quaintly old-fashioned. But Hayden has an old-fashioned view of things, and he doesn’t mind who knows it. With his collarless shirts, waistcoats and corduroy trousers, he even looks like he belongs to another age. Some find his behaviour a little baffling but, if pressed on the matter, will offer grudging admiration. To those of us who know him better, he’s a saint.
Hayden is a fixer, a handyman; he’s a jack-of-all-trades, and master of quite a few. His neat little house confirms the wisdom of doing those vital jobs a few weeks before they really need to be done. He doesn’t lie awake on stormy nights, wondering whether his house will still be standing in the morning. He enjoys the untroubled sleep of a man who is up to speed with his maintenance programme. When a job needs doing, Hayden doesn’t talk about it... he just does it.
Whimsey belongs to Hayden. Most people are fiercely proprietorial about their little fiefdoms. When they re-point a wall or trim a hedge, they go to the limit of their property and not an inch further. It just wouldn’t occur to them to pop next door and say “I’m tidying up my bit of the hedge; shall I do yours while I’ve got the clippers out?” The results look ludicrous, of course. But Hayden has a stake in Whimsey that has nothing to do with deeds and contracts. When he says “It’s my village”, he isn’t merely confirming that he was born here fifty five years ago and that, with luck, he’ll be buried here too. It’s his village because he looks after it.
Hayden takes pride in his little fiefdom too, but his gaze extends far beyond the boundary of his property. Whenever he spies some little corner of the village that needs sprucing up, he takes action. Instead of complaining to the council, or writing a stroppy letter to the local paper, the Gazette & Advertiser, he changes into his overalls and sets off with his canvas bag of tools to put things right. Yes, Hayden has a different agenda altogether. He’s a free spirit, an independent thinker... almost an anarchist.
Hayden is a fixer, a handyman; he’s a jack-of-all-trades, and master of quite a few. His neat little house confirms the wisdom of doing those vital jobs a few weeks before they really need to be done. He doesn’t lie awake on stormy nights, wondering whether his house will still be standing in the morning. He enjoys the untroubled sleep of a man who is up to speed with his maintenance programme. When a job needs doing, Hayden doesn’t talk about it... he just does it.
Whimsey belongs to Hayden. Most people are fiercely proprietorial about their little fiefdoms. When they re-point a wall or trim a hedge, they go to the limit of their property and not an inch further. It just wouldn’t occur to them to pop next door and say “I’m tidying up my bit of the hedge; shall I do yours while I’ve got the clippers out?” The results look ludicrous, of course. But Hayden has a stake in Whimsey that has nothing to do with deeds and contracts. When he says “It’s my village”, he isn’t merely confirming that he was born here fifty five years ago and that, with luck, he’ll be buried here too. It’s his village because he looks after it.
Hayden takes pride in his little fiefdom too, but his gaze extends far beyond the boundary of his property. Whenever he spies some little corner of the village that needs sprucing up, he takes action. Instead of complaining to the council, or writing a stroppy letter to the local paper, the Gazette & Advertiser, he changes into his overalls and sets off with his canvas bag of tools to put things right. Yes, Hayden has a different agenda altogether. He’s a free spirit, an independent thinker... almost an anarchist.
3 Springtime...
Colour is returning to the flatlands, like the blush to a maiden’s cheek. The grass is greening up, and the trees are laden with blossom; from a distance it looks like freshly-popped popcorn. The scene is softened – for a few days, at least – by the pastel, candyfloss colours. It’s like finding youself in a particularly sentimental Walt Disney cartoon. You half expect a flock of bluebirds to land on your shoulder and trill in three-part harmony.
The trees are filled with songbirds, their little chests puffed out with springtime fervour. What they are actually singing about is anyone’s guess. Maybe it’s a heartfelt paean of love from a cock bird to his mate, as she sits on the nest and incubates the eggs. Or maybe it’s something more prosaic, like “This is my tree... clear off”.
A sunny day in April is quite a shock to the system. For the first time this year - but hopefully not the last - we have to shade our eyes against the harsh spring sunlight. The unforgiving light penetrates every cobwebbed corner of our homes, revealing what havoc has been wreaked by another winter of household neglect. Our failings and foibles are held up to the light as well, subjected to closer scrutiny than we either want or need.
Lewis Hamilton would feel at home in Gemma’s cottage: it's the pits. She'd like to do something about the mess, she really would. Getting rid of all those self-help books piled up on the coffee table would be a good start; they just make the place look untidy. Gemma compensates for her lack of home-making skills with an active fantasy life. She dreams about a life less cluttered: cooking candle-lit dinners for sophisticated friends, swapping recipes, having animated discussions about the vital issues of the day, not having to sniff the milk before pouring it into a glass.
She moves the sofa to see what's underneath, then moves it back again quickly. She waves a feather duster around, without much enthusiasm, succeeding only in whipping up the dust in thick clouds. Over recent months a deep layer of dust has helped to lag pipes, stop draughts and impart a silvery bloom to the pile of unread feng shui books. But now the dust seems to dance in the rays of light. It's Disney dust…
The trees are filled with songbirds, their little chests puffed out with springtime fervour. What they are actually singing about is anyone’s guess. Maybe it’s a heartfelt paean of love from a cock bird to his mate, as she sits on the nest and incubates the eggs. Or maybe it’s something more prosaic, like “This is my tree... clear off”.
A sunny day in April is quite a shock to the system. For the first time this year - but hopefully not the last - we have to shade our eyes against the harsh spring sunlight. The unforgiving light penetrates every cobwebbed corner of our homes, revealing what havoc has been wreaked by another winter of household neglect. Our failings and foibles are held up to the light as well, subjected to closer scrutiny than we either want or need.
Lewis Hamilton would feel at home in Gemma’s cottage: it's the pits. She'd like to do something about the mess, she really would. Getting rid of all those self-help books piled up on the coffee table would be a good start; they just make the place look untidy. Gemma compensates for her lack of home-making skills with an active fantasy life. She dreams about a life less cluttered: cooking candle-lit dinners for sophisticated friends, swapping recipes, having animated discussions about the vital issues of the day, not having to sniff the milk before pouring it into a glass.
She moves the sofa to see what's underneath, then moves it back again quickly. She waves a feather duster around, without much enthusiasm, succeeding only in whipping up the dust in thick clouds. Over recent months a deep layer of dust has helped to lag pipes, stop draughts and impart a silvery bloom to the pile of unread feng shui books. But now the dust seems to dance in the rays of light. It's Disney dust…
Thursday, April 16, 2020
2 Chapel Sundays...
The building on the right of the photograph is the Methodist chapel, where the Rev Atkinson Grimshaw presided over his flock. Of course, religion was a more compelling proposition at the turn of the 20th century, when the picture was taken, than it is today. It was a time when the devil walked among us, and wasn't just your dad dressed up. Sunday may have been a day of rest, but that didn’t mean locals were free to visit a garden centre or car boot sale, or nurse a pint through a lazy afternoon in the beer garden of the Farrier’s Arms. Attendance at chapel was compulsory. If anyone failed to to occupy his cusomary pew on Sunday, the minister would be round on Monday morning demanding to know why.
There was no escape from the minister’s gimlet gaze, as he cast his eyes over his parishioners and itemised, one by one, their moral frailties. For those who’d transgressed, the future looked bleak. Even if they escaped censure in this life, Grimshaw warned them, unambiguously, that the fires of hell were waiting. With his stern demeanour and mutton-chop whiskers, he looked like he’d be happy to stoke the flames himself. One thing was certain: sinners wouldn’t be needing an extra sweater in the next life.
There was no escape from Grimshaw’s foghorn voice either, as he banged his fist on the edge of the pulpit and reminded his forgetful flock about the ten commandments. His sermons were of such length and ferocity that parishioners with nervous dispositions - or weak bladders - tended to sit near the back. For those who had given in to temptation, Grimshaw’s sermons hit home. When he mentioned theft, the landlord of the Farrier’s Arms sat bolt upright, wondering how the minister could possibly know he was watering down the workers’ beer. When the minister mentioned adultery, the blacksmith’s wife could feel his eyes boring into her, even though her head was bowed and she was staring at her shoes.
Relief finally came when they were able to file out of the chapel - men ashen-faced, women weeping, children traumatised and damp. After an hour of fire and brimstone, spring sunlight never felt so good.
Tuesday, April 14, 2020
1 Middle of the road...
If we want to see how the village looked, before our world was rocked by two world wars, one world cup and a worldwide pandemic, we can revisit the photographs taken by renowned photographer, Archbold Quinlan. Shot at the turn of the 20th century, these sepia-toned images capture a vanished way of life, when men wore hats, beer was a penny a pint and the only people who had tattoos were sailors. They offer an intoxicating glimpse into a world that, though only four generations away, already seems infinitely and achingly distant.
In the picture at the top of the page, the presence of the photographer - a man dressed in Harris tweed plus-fours and a deerstalker hat - has encouraged curious locals to stand about in the dusty roadway. The arrival of a travelling photographer was probably the most exciting event they had witnessed since Queen Victoria’s diamond jubilee, which they celebrated, as village tradition demanded, with cock-fights, strong liquor and a street-party.
A boy and his sister don’t seem in any great hurry to move. There’s no good reason why they should; another dozen years would pass before the first motor car appeared in the village. They look towards the camera with studied indifference, giving the distinct impression that they have nothing much better to do with their time: very much like the youth of today, in fact.
The village blacksmith remained out of shot, in the smithy; he didn’t have time to stand around and gawp. With the fire going full blast, the forge was as hot as hades. Shoeing horses was thirsty work; almost single-handedly he kept the Farrier’s Arms in business. Anyway, he was unimpressed by photography and other short-lived fads. He knew that as long as we needed to get from A to B, we would need horses, and as long as we kept horses they would need shoeing. Sadly, he was still repeating this mantra when the first car eventually did career through the village: raising dust, scattering chickens and changing the tenor of village life for ever. The blacksmith took early retirement (he didn’t have much choice in the matter), and spent his declining years propping up the bar in the Farrier’s, bemoaning the invention of the internal combustion engine.
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