Darkest Yorkshire Chapter Two

He had very few goodbyes to make. Maureen came with him to Kings Cross. They talked of the task ahead.

“… So in the event of matters not working out you must make your way to the Salvation Army hostel in Manchester Road, Huddersfield. I’m sure by now you know the procedure.”
Dave nodded.

“I would just like to thank you for all your help and patience. I’m sure that without you none of this would have been possible.”

Maureen smiled. “Now don’t go letting me down, and you find that uncle of yours. I have no doubt he will be pleased to see you.”

Having got his ticket and making sure, he had sufficient funds they shook hands.

“Goodbye Dave my heart and my prayers go with you. You will do well.” She turned and left.

Dave watched her disappear into the crowds. He picked up his bag with its few belongings, went to the barrier had his ticket checked, and walked down the platform to begin a new adventure.

***

It had rained heavily and for long periods in the dull overcast sky, thousands of migrating starlings dived bombed the carriages, swirling in a manic dance over the roof and passing fields. It became a frightening spectacle of undulating madness that for several miles remained unrelenting.

His head pressed against the soft cushioning of the window, the hypnotic rhythm lulled him into a thoughtless, shallow sleep. In the nameless towns that screamed by the window, the fire of autumn had tipped the leaves of the sycamore trees a mixture of bronze and purple.

Considering the period of time that had elapsed since he had last seen his uncle, Maureen suggested that he go directly to their hostel up there, and use that as a base from which to make enquiries in the village. He had been inclined to agree, yet as he got nearer to his destination and further from her influence, other thoughts entered his mind and it occurred to him to go directly to Kettlewell and to hell with the hostelry. Where better to start than the town he wished to live in?

The cheerless, forlorn faces of strangers appeared occasionally from above books or newspapers. Blue smoke swirled around the open carriage as people lit pipes and cigarettes, and the air smelled of sweet tobacco.

The sky had darkened by the time they reached Yorkshire and it had begun to rain. Outside the steamy windows, raindrops smeared themselves across the glass and ran in blizzard winds from seal to seal. By now, he ached, no matter which position he tried, and he could not get comfortable. He felt hungry.

The train pulled into Leeds shortly after four o’ clock. Taking his holdall from the rack above his head, he alighted, wishing all the miserable bastards he had spent the last four hours with, a good afternoon.

Even at that late stage he did not feel sure about what he wanted to do, the choice being whether to press onto Skipton and then catch the bus into Kettlewell or simply go to Huddersfield and surrender himself once more to them.

He knew he would be taken and then shown his room, after the prerequisites of nice conversation, which would be followed by prayer, more prayer, and a bit of tambourine bashing. Tea would no doubt be served in white china cups and saucers, and the metal teaspoons would be Sheffield’s finest. Somewhere he felt sure Mrs Goggins would appear with scones, cream, jam, and a hearty hello from the bottom of her navy blue stockings.

Deep inside of him he knew his very good friend Maureen on receipt of the news that he had absconded, would most likely approve of his actions. With that comforting thought, he walked to the departures board, noted the platform from which the train to Skipton would be leaving, got himself a quick cup of tea and a sandwich, and boarded the train.

The journey did not take long and in virtually no time, he arrived, went through the barrier into the town, and made his way to the bus station. There would not be a bus for at least an hour, so looking around he decided to take the enormous step of entering a pub. Across the road stood the George and Dragon lit by the street lamps. The town hall clock struck six o’clock.

As he opened the door and closed it, the noise from the street immediately cut off. It had been over four years since he had last been in a public house and it felt rather strange and exciting. The woman behind the bar spoke to him and for a second he did not understand what she said.

“What would tha like luv?” she spoke with such a deepness that at first Dave thought she might be a transvestite.

“Aye think yon’s a bit daft ya know,” she said this to her mate after she had served Dave with half of Tetley’s bitter, her finger whizzed in circles by her ear hole. “Speaks like one of those, cock – knees … reet posh.”

He sat in the corner, among the plush, deep red, velvet covered wall length seating, and looked at the dull, uninteresting, painted pictures of bygone battles strewn around the walls.

Across the blue smoke filled room the brightness of a street lamp shone through the full-length window. A number of rather tough looking men stood at the bar, most of whom seemed to be Irish and even when talking in subdued voices they gave the impression of animated violence. He felt out of place but he were not there to be their whipping boy, so when he went to the bar again he asked the young woman if there were a telephone book that covered phone numbers for Kettlewell and she pointed him to a phone on the wall and a pile of directories close by. He scanned down the pages and found the only Portillo in the book. He rang the number his heart beating faster.

“Tha what?” she said. He repeated himself.

“If me uncle’s not there could you ask him to ring the George and Dragon hotel at Skipton immediately he gets back, tell him it’s Dave from London ... his nephew. I’ve got a bus to catch in one hour – I’m coming there tonight.”

“Is that thee David – the one that went to prison? Oh ya poor sod he’ll be down at Racehorse Hotel by the river. I’m sorry luv but I don’t have number. Ya can speak to him there. Take care.”

He started to get concerned; for one thing it never occurred to him that his uncle might be married with children and also that nobody seemed to know him.

He put the phone down then scanned through the directory, and found the number.

“Hello is Ernest Portillo there please? His nephew's on the phone.”

Above the hubbub of voices, he could here his uncle’s accent.

“David? David is that you?”

“Yes uncle I know its difficult talking, but to put it quite simply uncle, I need a place to stay for a few days – I need some help. I don’t know where me dad is and you’re the only person I know that can do some good …”

“All right then look we can talk when you get ‘ere. Make it to the Blue Bell Inn … I’d come and pick you up me sen, but I’ve had too much to sup, so if you catch that bus I’ll meet ya down there and int’ meantime I’ll ask around and see what I can do - Well done son for getting ‘ere none of us had any idea where ya were. We've got a lot of talking to do particularly about yer dad - so hurry up best ya can.”

The beer tasted like witches piss, so he ordered dark rum. For a moment, he felt slightly nauseated and thought he could not face having another drink. Then he felt a glow of warmth in his belly and ordered another; the glow increased until at the fourth or fifth, a slatternly happiness sidled up to him like a comforting woman.

He put his hand up to his head to stop the dizzy feeling, to stop the oily fog that worked its way up his throat. The pressure increased until it seeped into his eyes. The chairs, the mirrors, and the rows of bottles behind the bar blurred, into a kind of slow whirling dance on the heaving floor and for a moment, he thought he had been slipped a Mickey Finn. He had obviously overdone it after such a long time. The bar had a brass rail and he clung to it tightly, alone on his shifting ship, he took deep breath after deep breath, until the floor stayed quiet.

“You ill?” the landlord asked.

He had a doughy expressionless face and a gratingly heavy voice that sounded like Jack Duckworth with croup.

Up to that point, he had been talking further down the bar to his bunch of cronies about football, and now he turned his unwanted attention on Dave.

Dave took his hand away from the rail and tried to clear his head by ordering rum. He tried to think straight, fighting his growing anger. The landlord didn’t move to serve him.

He spelled it out, “Are – you – feeling – ill?”

“No I’m not ill of course I’m not! I just asked for another drink didn’t I?” He looked at him slowly.

“Sorry sir!” he said in exaggerated mannerisms, “I think you’ve had enough, now push off!”

Everybody stopped talking and he felt himself being devoured by rows of glittering eyes hoping there would be a fight, and he would get his head kicked in. He had only been there five minutes, but even so, he couldn’t help thinking why? Maybe all the troubles in Ireland were coming to the surface and he had been selected as a punch - bag for their frustrations.

He had to think.

He prised himself off the barstool and picked up his holdall and moved towards the door. He had to hold onto what he already had. He could not become embroiled in a fight. It would be stupid - What if the police were called?
He walked away.

He came out into the acidly night light with a headache, usually a feeling reserved for film matinees. He managed to stagger down the street. Buses whizzed by. He leaned against a lamppost because he could not go on any further. He did not feel well.

For some reason he kept wishing he were in the country. He kept thinking that in the country they care about people. You could walk in the country without wanting to vomit, and nobody tried to hurt you because the place was full of trees, flowers, grass and water, and they did not care if you were different. They welcomed diversity. They would never be concerned about anything; but the town that should be full of love, understanding and kindness, had become full of hate, misery, ignorance, and boredom.

He fell onto a bench opposite the Town Hall, put his head in his hands, and started weeping not knowing what to do. He had come a long way and he now felt lost. He kept thinking he must get a grip; get a hold of his thoughts. Get to Kettlewell and everything would be fine.

A police officer passed by, looked at him, and Dave thought for a moment he were going to say something, but instead he just shook his head and moved away, probably thinking of the masses of paper work involved if he executed an arrest.

Dave felt ravenous, and after several minutes of deep breathing, and trying to collect his thoughts, he stood up to get his bearings. Across the street stood a fish and chip restaurant, he picked up his bag and concentrated on walking in a straight line towards the door, and eventually after a few moments, he seated himself inside by the bay window.

He ordered a plateful of haddock, chips, and peas, along with a pot of tea and several slices of bread and butter and sat there savouring the peace and quiet. Just simply listening to the frying fish and chips and the gentle chatter of people sat nearby calmed him and helped him to focus.

He then poured himself a cupful of dark, brown, mahogany coloured tea, and poured milk in and added a small spoonful of white sugar. It tasted marvellous. When the fish and chips arrived, he felt ravenous and soon polished them off, making huge chip butties, with lashings of brown sauce and placing pieces of succulent fish between slices of buttered bread by which it melted and ran down his chin, but he felt so hungry he did not care.

He wiped himself with a serviette and ordered another pot of tea, smoked three cigarettes and felt much better. He paid the bill and walking out into the street he headed for the bus station.

He felt pretty much in control of himself by then and he realised that getting drunk did not help in anyway whatsoever.

Rain clouds gathered above the hills as the bus set off. The town looked dark and abandoned, after the hustle and bustle of London. There were few cars on the roads, and most of the shops were now closing, men outside pulling down shutters and turning locks, switching lights off. Street lamps cast their light onto the pavements. They looked like yellow stepping-stones placed at intervals down the empty streets.

The Moors looked despondent and menacing, banks of darkness encompassing the town like a malevolent archangel.

He felt terribly alone.

The skeletons of disused mills with broken windows and toppled chimneys added to the overriding feelings of gloom. No longer would he be able to see the industrial north in all its glory, the fiery furnaces, the rattling looms, the factories, the thousands of boiler suited, flat capped workers and apprentices trudging the streets. All that he had read about had died. Everywhere he looked, there appeared to be graffiti and neglect. What would inspire Lowry now he wondered?

Down the valley, the mills stood empty. Rusty metal letters from company names hung from the walls and swung in the wind. Canals were stagnant and overgrown with pond – weed, and in the dying light, the bus droned miserably towards Kettlewell, labouring on the long incline through the black walled streets of Skipton.

He found the pub but did not go in immediately. Instead, he turned down the hill opposite and went towards an old Norman church that stood in the semi – darkness of the street lighting. He sat down on a bench by the double doors to the church and looked up the street. He could see the pub doorway and anybody who went in. He had the feeling that his uncle would not be there yet.

Dave let him walk up the hill past the churchyard. He knew it were him simply by his walk. He remembered he always walked with one hand in his pocket and his toes pointing inwards. Watching him, he realised he had drunk too much, he kept bouncing off garden walls and swearing to himself.

He sat and watched him for a while. He went into the pub. From the right he staggered into his life and then did a smart drunken exit through the doors of the Blue Bell to his left.

He had not considered this turn of events. He thought he would at least have been able to hold it together. It seemed to Dave he had no concept of what it had taken for him to come this far. He did not have the remotest idea despite his willingness to help him, of how to go about it. Being drunk did not bode well.

Dave wanted to forge a new life for himself here, but when he looked up and down the hill and felt the desolation of the small town he did not feel sure anymore. He needed a comforting arm around his shoulders, somebody to squeeze him and tell him he that everything would be fine. He needed a crystal clear purity of thought, not some murky miss – mash of ideas thrown together in a pub by a half drunken man. Seeing him staggering up the hill cast doubt in his mind, it reeked of selfishness and lack of concern, and a total misunderstanding as to his condition. He felt tired and slightly downhearted as he walked down the hill in the darkness of early evening.

He went into the Racehorse and asked if they had a room for the night. The blond haired landlady behind the bar told him she had rooms upstairs for £20 a night and that this would include a hearty breakfast. He agreed and followed her up the stairs to a quite largish room on the second floor that overlooked the river. Before she left, he asked if he could have a jug of Guinness sent up along with some sandwiches.

A smiling young girl of about twenty delivered them, and then left him in peace. He slowly undressed feeling extremely tired. He knew that in the morning he would have to face the situation, but for the time being he had better rest and get a good night's sleep. The world always felt better on a full stomach and a warm bed.

He turned off the light and lay under the bedclothes naked. He left the curtains and the window open, and listened to the river Wharfe running over a small, stone, weir. The moon, bright and full filled the room with a soft light - he fell asleep.