WITH THE STORY ABOUT ELVIS’S death dominating the television, radio, and daily newspaper headlines, we were desperate for some respite to lift the state of doom and gloom that had taken a hold of all our lives. It duly came on Thursday, the eighteenth day of August, when Auntie Maureen and Uncle Archie returned to their home at number sixteen Brockenhurst Avenue. It was located directly opposite Auntie Kathleen and Uncle Jim’s abode. Coincidentally, it was the day ‘The King’ was buried thousands of miles away in Memphis.
Maureen was my mum’s youngest sister. Just like her, she had bright, auburn hair that meant it was impossible to remain anonymous in a crowd. She had many great qualities, including a wonderful sense of humour and a caring heart. But she didn’t suffer fools gladly, so you always had to be careful about what you said (although I was lucky enough to never incur her wrath). I loved my aunt dearly. She had, after all, helped to raise me when she was only seventeen years old. I was newly born, mum had to work every day at Northern Dairies in Hull, and Auntie Maureen was called upon to play nursemaid for much of the working week. This created a special bond between us, which meant I always enjoyed her company, much of which was spent laughing and talking about family members and bygone times. Within a couple of years of my birth, she followed in the footsteps of her siblings and left home to join the Royal Navy, where she met and fell in love with my Uncle Archie. Together, they spent the first few years of marriage building a happy life – adopting along the way a delightful mongrel called Mac. As he closed in on his forty-seventh birthday, Uncle Archie’s retirement from the navy was confirmed and they decided to leave Tayside, where they had lived for several years while he served on the Ark Royal aircraft carrier, opting to move to Cottingham, of which she noted: “The place looks exactly as it did when I left.” From her new home, Maureen quickly settled back into village life, while Archie began a new chapter in civvy street after many years of service defending Queen and country. To cap things off, just a few weeks earlier they had welcomed their first child into the world. Emma, my cousin, had been born on the twentieth day of June.
While delighted I would be able to spend time with them all and meet my cousin for the first time (although I was clueless about what you did with a baby), I had no idea they would be returning home. I was led to believe I wouldn’t see them at all during my stay. They had gone to Kirkaldy in Scotland (or Kuh-kaw-dee, as the Scots prefer to pronounce it) to visit Uncle Archie’s mother, but something unknown to my Auntie Kathleen and Uncle Jim had necessitated an early return. And while I was very eager to be reacquainted with them, a sense of unease gnawed away at me, born less than twelve months earlier when I did a ‘swap’ with the son of one of Uncle Archie’s old naval friends. They had been visiting Yorkshire when I was on last year’s two-week pilgrimage, and their boy, called Jeremy, had some toys I desperately wanted. I traded an assortment of small soldiers and the like, but I also promised I would give him one of my coveted Airfix Churchill tanks, via Uncle Archie, who would ensure its safe passage to the lands north of Hadrian’s Wall. The deal meant I immediately got my hands on some Action Man clobber I desperately wanted, while Jeremy graciously (and very trustingly) agreed to wait to receive the tank. Unfortunately, I hadn’t yet fulfilled my side of the bargain, and I now feared my day of reckoning had arrived.
“Anyone would think there was a bad smell in the room,” exclaimed Auntie Kathleen when my face remained neutral after she had passed on the good news about Auntie Maureen and Uncle Archie’s homecoming. “I thought you would be pleased to see your aunt and uncle, after all, you are always talking about them. And then there’s Mac, who will need a lot of walking after the long journey from Scotland. Surely that, at least, is a rea- son to be jolly?”
Thankfully, Auntie Kathleen was unaware of the truth. If she knew what I had done, I fear she would have had a few choice words to say herself. As it was, I only had to worry about meeting Auntie Maureen and Uncle Archie and using the time I had left to come up with a plausible excuse for my behaviour. Under normal circumstances, I was usually up to this kind of task, having gained a reputation for pulling the wool over people’s eyes. What concerned me more than anything was, even if I came up with the perfect reason for not handing over the tank, Uncle Archie had this uncanny knack of cutting through what he referred to in his Scottish accent as “utter bull shite”, and I feared his withering gaze and interrogation would leave me totally exposed. Therefore, in a bid to settle down and hatch a cunning plan, I asked Auntie Kathleen if I could take Sweep for a walk. Mercifully, it was a request she always agreed to, so I took the dog’s lead from its peg and fastened it securely to the mutt’s collar. As I did so, he looked at me with utter contempt. We both knew I was disturbing his walk-rest cycle, for he never went out in the morning. Without making a noise, he made it perfectly clear he was comfortable and wanted to stay put. To emphasise the point, he stretched out on his blanket under the table and extended his rear and front legs while emitting the guttural sounds of a thoroughly contented animal. I realised I would have to be at my most persuasive to get him to comply with my wishes. But within a few seconds of trying to cajole him out of his pit, I was engaged in a battle of wills, and this was a fight I daren’t lose. So, with nobody looking in the general direction of the front room, I used my right foot to apply some pressure to one of Sweep’s paws, which caught him completely by surprise. He yelped, turned onto his stomach and, in a single movement, got up, expelling one of those foul, dog breath smells from his mouth as he attempted to shake off his acute drowsiness and the sudden pain I had inflicted. That’s the moment I had him. A quick yank on the dog lead enabled me to regain my dominance, and with supremacy safely re-established, we were out of the door before you could shout “Scooby Do”.
The walk lasted longer than I expected, a full two hours no less. Surprisingly, Sweep was as good as gold, only disgracing himself on one occasion when he attempted to impregnate an innocent-looking King Charles Spaniel whose inquisitiveness was nearly its undoing, much to the horror of its owner. Thankfully, I was able to drag my ungainly ball of fur off the unsuspecting victim before any lasting damage was done, and after mumbling several profound apologies and promising to be a more responsible owner, the walk continued down Thwaite Street, across the railway crossing and into the centre of Cottingham. It was a lovely day, one that should have seen me kicking my football on the field down the Lane, preparing for City’s big match against Sunderland, and not fretting about things. Thankfully, I was outdoors, the fresh air was doing some good and, without realising it, I was heading towards food – my constant source of comfort. On this occasion, I was making my way to Skeltons, a popular bakery that produced Yorkshire curd cheesecakes, one of the greatest concoctions to have ever blessed the oven.
Before I had reached the shop I knew so well, I had fumbled in my pockets and found a fifty pence piece. By my reckoning, that would buy me at least two curd cakes and may secure me a drink of orange juice as well. And so it proved to be, with the lady who served me adding a third cake in my bag that she said wasn’t fit to sell. I ate these Yorkshire delicacies in rapid succession as we walked past Saint Mary’s Church, which mum and I once attended, and the primary school, where I used to go until we moved to Leicestershire. Then I found the narrow snicket that ran past the walled playground. It would take us back all the way to Hull Road, and ultimately home.
When I was first introduced to the curd cheesecake by aunts Kathleen and Jessie, I was amazed at how something that was quite underwhelming in appearance could taste so good. And every time I have subsequently bought this treat, I have continued to experience these very same feelings. Thankfully, regardless of their lack of cosmetic appeal, the cakes helped to change my mood. For much of the return part of the walk, I told myself it might just be my lucky day if I could only find a good excuse to placate my aunt and uncle! But however I dressed things up and attempted to justify my behaviour of the last twelve months, there was no escaping the realisation: I was in the wrong, it was as simple as that! The stark reality was my only path to redemption was to take whatever punishment was bestowed on me – and give the tank to Uncle Archie, so he could belatedly give it to Jeremy. If my mum had become aware of things, I suspect she would have barred me from going to Saturday’s match, grounding me at least for the weekend. So, as we got closer to the rooftops of the Avenue, I prayed my Auntie Maureen and Uncle Archie would be in a merciful mood.
“Well, look who it is. Our very own Fagan has returned to the robber’s den,” boomed Uncle Archie, as I walked into the scullery, carrying the authority of a man who once held rank in the navy. “What ill-gotten gains have you brought with you today?”
Much to my alarm and disappointment, Auntie Maureen and Uncle Archie had enjoyed a good journey home, arriving back in Cottingham almost an hour earlier than expected. By the time Sweep and I made it back to number thirteen, they had unpacked their suitcases, tidied things up and made their way to Auntie Kathleen’s for a cup of tea and a catch-up. And to wait for me. Auntie Kathleen and Auntie Maureen laughed heartily at the quip, thinking Uncle Archie was pulling my leg, as he often did in a good-natured way. But I knew the truth, as did he.
“So what have you got to tell us?” enquired Auntie Maureen seemingly unaware of my betrayal twelve months earlier. She was perched on the settee holding what I presumed was Emma, my baby cousin, who seemed to be fast asleep. “How’s home? How’s your mum?” Auntie Maureen was always interested in how we were doing. So, I told her, warts and all. She learned mum was still adjusting to a new kind of life after the divorce from my stepfather, and she heard about Leicestershire, and how we both continued to struggle to settle into our new home. After a while, she sighed heavily; Auntie Maureen had heard enough.
“It sounds like this break has come at just the right time for you,” she said, unable to mask her concern. “I am really glad Uncle Archie came home early. How about we do something nice over the next few days. Does that sound like a good idea?”
I didn’t need to utter a word to indicate I was in complete agreement. My body language conveyed more than any book could ever do.
“Good,” continued Auntie Maureen. “Is there anything you fancy doing? The seaside, maybe, or perhaps we can go on a trip somewhere, after all there’s loads to do and see in God’s county?”
I would have been happy doing anything if it meant going out with my aunts and uncle and having a good time. But Uncle Archie had an idea to beat all others.
“How about we go on a picnic to the North Yorkshire Moors?” he suggested. “We can take sandwiches, cake and pop with us, maybe play some games and the like while we’re up there, and then have a Chinese on the way home. Does that meet with the approval of everyone?”
The suggestion was greeted enthusiastically by all. Even Sweep, who certainly wouldn’t be allowed to come along, thumped his tail on the floor in approval. I had only been to the Moors once before, but I remember it being a huge open expanse of land, comprising more than five hundred square miles stretching as far as the eyes could see. It took in towns and places like Helmsley, Whitby, Guisborough and Ravenscar. ‘Beautiful’ wasn’t a word I used very often, it was a bit too effusive for my liking. Yet it is very apt when describing this enchanting part of Yorkshire. After discussing possible places of interest, it was decided we’d head towards the spa town of Harrogate, a journey of about an hour and three-quarters. Five of us would be going – Uncle Archie, aunts Kathleen, Maureen and Jessie, as well as myself – and although it would be a squeeze, we’d somehow find a way of getting us all in the car even if it meant stowing me in the boot. Our day for adventure was set for tomorrow, the nineteenth day of August – the day before Auntie Maureen’s birthday (another family event I was looking forward to). We’d be leaving by ten o’clock in the morning, on pain of death, and Emma would be staying behind in Cottingham with a neighbour and good friend of Auntie Maureen’s who just had her own second child and insisted on doing some babysitting (as a tot, Emma spent about twenty hours a day sleeping, so there were unlikely to be any complications). Our goal was to get to our destination by lunchtime, without the need for Uncle Archie to set any land speed records in his Ford Cortina. It also meant I’d get the chance to sample my first-ever Chinese meal, as Auntie Maureen had requested we return specifically via Beverley, where she knew of a sit-down restaurant that made the very best Chow Mein. I wasn’t sure what that was, but I was definitely keen on trying it, particularly as the meal would be an early treat for my aunt, whose birthday it was the following day.
As we all contemplated the hastily arranged trip, Uncle Archie stood up, looked directly at me and said: “Tony, come and help me make a cup of tea, and pick up your aunts’ cups and bring them through.” Immediately, my stomach spasmed and a sense of dread took hold.
Auntie Kathleen remarked: “Are you okay?. You are as white as a sheet and look as though you have just seen a ghost.” I shrugged my shoulders and flashed a forced smile, inside, however, I was all churned up. I suspected my uncle was choosing this very moment to hold me to account. And these fears intensified as I walked into the scullery where he had already started washing the dishes.
“Just pop those cups and saucers down there,” he said when he was sure the ladies were all having a conversation about what tomorrow would bring. “And grab a tea towel. I will wash and you can do the drying.”
We set about the task, neither of us offering up another word. For a handful of minutes, the silence became all-consuming. When I got to drying the last cup, Uncle Archie broke the spell. “You and I need to resolve something Tony, and I am sure you know what I am talking about?” he said firmly, without any trace of anger in his voice. “Of course you do. You know very well what you did last year was wrong, and so do I. Only you know why you did it, but we’ll talk about it again sometime later, and we will also agree on how you will put right the wrong you committed. For now, let’s agree that this matter remains between you and me. Auntie Maureen knows nothing about it. Neither does your mum. And they won’t, just as long as you can convince me you will do the right thing as far as that blessed tank is concerned.”
With that, Uncle Archie returned to the sitting room, leaving me to make the tea and digest what had just been said. It was clear I wasn’t out of jail by any stretch. But neither was I being hanged, drawn and quartered. And I didn’t need to tell a fib, or make a ridiculous excuse; my uncle had spared me that. The tension in my stomach began to ease and by the time I took the tea through to my parched aunts, the colour had returned to my cheeks. I had been granted a reprieve, and all I needed to do was make sure I didn’t mess up again. I closed my eyes, recalled the prayers I had been taught at Sunday School, and spoke quietly with my Maker. “Thank you,” I said, my hands clasped tightly together as my gaze adopted an upward trajectory. “Thank you.”