Yesterdays
By
J. Robert Whittle
Joyce Sandilands
Published by Whitlands Publishing at Smashwords
This book is also available in print.
Ebook ©2010 J. Robert Whittle and Joyce Sandilands
Electronic Edition (Smashwords) ISBN: 978-0-9809834-5-6
Cover photograph ©2002 Joyce Sandilands
Cover design and layout by BookDesign.ca (formerly Desktop Publishing Ltd.)
Illustrations by Simone Padur
This book is a work of fiction. To enhance the story, real places have sometimes been used, although the characters are fictional and are in no way intended to represent any person living or dead.
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Whitlands Publishing Ltd.
Victoria, BC Canada
Tel: 250-477-0192
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Dedication
To our amazing fans who have made
this journey such a delightful adventure.
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Table of Contents
Janion Ring: Meeting Grandfather
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Yesterdays
A Collection of Short Stories
Part 1: Bobby’s Story
Bless your heart—I wish the cat had it! ~ Bobby’s granddad
Robert’s granddad was a larger-than-life person in Bobby’s young life and instrumental in forming the young lad’s personality and work ethic. He used many memorable quotes during the twelve years they shared. Some of them are used in this section.
Rubber Leg Disease
Being a man of his time, my grandfather was a heavy drinker as were most men in our village. The pub was the local social club’s meeting place, always the centre of any community activities. Inside its friendly walls, property deals were made, stock changed hands, and many a husband and wife fought wild battles over the demon drink.
From being a small boy and granddad’s constant companion, I had often frequented those places. With his high-stepping pony and shiny buggy, we would meander through the lanes, always calling at some ale house for refreshment.
Known far and wide, publicans got to know granddad’s order off by heart. “Pop for the lad, mild for me pony and bitter for me,” he would say as we entered.
We could hear the pony stamping impatiently as it waited for its beer. I think on reflection the pony was an alcoholic too; they made a great pair though the pony never became drunk.
Two pints of mild ale in a leather bucket were the pony’s limit. The bucket hung beneath the shafts was standard equipment and part of my job was to stand and watch until it drank the last drop, while granddad went inside.
I would wander through the farmyard attached to every country pub, checking the sheep, pigs and chickens, or playing with the landlord’s children as I waited for the call that granddad was ready to go.
As he wobbled outside grasping my tiny arm, he’d grin foolishly at me and say, “Ah think ’av got the rubber leg disease again lad.”
As I helped him into the buggy, his eyes would begin to droop and soon he would slip onto the floor snoring loudly. There was no panic; the pony knew its way home and I was in charge. I would take care of him.
Nearing home, I would try to stir granddad into life. Jumping on him sometimes had the desired effect. Other times, I would pull on his nose or tweak his cheeks in desperation, knowing my eagle-eyed grandmother would be watching for us and her temper would be boiling over.
Sometimes, if he was awake, he’d tell me to throw his cap into the house ahead of us, warning … “If your grandmother throws it back, we’re not welcome!”
I tried my best to protect him from the harsh ranting, standing between the brush my granny swung impatiently, and my pal.
“Don’t hurt him!” I would yell. “He’s just tired out.”
Once when my mum was there, she scooped me up into her arms and whispered, “It’s all right love, we won’t hurt him; we love him too.”
It’s grand to see the back of yer lad! ~ Bobby’s granddad
First Day of School
It was the first day of school for the small boy who stood by the farm gate, his eyes pleading with the mother he loved so dearly, as she reluctantly pushed him away toward the village school. He longed to feel the big calloused hand of his granddad, a hand he’d never been denied before. Peeking through the farm gate at the old man shuffling despondently across the yard to lean on a gate post, the boy had no way of knowing that tears were splashing on the old man’s shirt front.
Kicking rocks as he walked down the lane, the curly-haired youngster felt betrayed. School! Why did he need school? At five-years-of-age, and smart as a whip, he could read and write his name, and numbers were no problem at all. And, anyway, who needed school when his granddad knew everything.
The schoolmaster believed in a harsh discipline. Scaring the youngsters into terrified submission was his favourite pastime. He stood for no nonsense and was eager to show it to this bright-eyed little cherub. Alas, this man was in for the surprise of his life. He was about to meet the type of rambunctious courage only small boys with a wily old grandfather would attempt.
Moustache bristling, he bent over to stare the boy in the eye.
“Lad!” he hissed fiercely, expecting young Bobby to start quaking in fear. “If you’re the slightest bit noisy or naughty, I shall beat you to within an inch of your life.”
Then it happened … as if in slow motion.
The cherub’s eyes glinted with fire. In his mind, he heard his granddad’s words. “Don’t ever be bullied son, a bully never expects his victim to fight.”
The boy swung his lunch box … hard.
Crack! The big red nose on the schoolmaster’s face got even redder when the lunch box came in contact with it, sitting him down with a bang onto the floor of the schoolroom.
As the class gasped in surprise, Bobby ran for the door and out across the schoolyard. Looking back, as he raced down the fields for home, he realized the schoolmaster was in hot pursuit.
It was an uneven race and the lad beat him easily.
Bobby’s grandfather and mother met him as he tore into the farmyard. Here, the lad found sanctuary and protection in the giant arms of the old man, but the schoolmaster raced in after him.
“Give that boy to me. I’ll deal with him!” he snapped, holding a bloodied handkerchief to his nose as he reached for the lad.
“Now just you wait a minute,” his mother said softly, trying to hide her smile as she watched the blood trickle from the intruder’s red nose and into his moustache. “What have you done to our Bobby?” she asked, now glaring at the schoolmaster.
“Done to him? He burst my nose, the brat!” the man bawled reaching for the boy.
“Oh no, you don’t,” granddad growled. “You won’t lay a finger on this lad.”
“Tell me sir,” mother asked, smiling disarmingly, “what caused this upset?”
“I was only giving him a lecture on behaviour, scaring him a little. It’s the way I deal with all new starters.”
“Damnit man, you were being nasty without reason, admit it,” granddad growled. “Well, you picked on the wrong lad, didn’t you? This little man don’t scare too easy, does he? Now be off with you!”
The old man’s arms tightened protectively around the boy as he glowered at the deflated schoolmaster who turned reluctantly and walked away.
So ended the cherub’s first day at school.
You’re as welcome as the flowers in May! ~ Bobby’s granddad
The Race
Granddad was a great horseman and always ran his trotting horse in the Sunday morning village races. These were a local affair where wagers were made between the valley farmers. Standard equipment was a flat, shandy cart with a high seat for two and six-year-old Bobby always rode right beside him strapped into the seat from where he could yell encouragement at both horse and driver. There were even times when his grandfather let him drive, or hold the reins.
Bobby’s dad was the person who made the wagers, after a long conference with grandfather, of course, and rarely did they lose a bet.
This week, the two men had been offered a race on a road that had a big hill, against a horse that loved hills. The old man’s horse could run like the wind on level ground but was lazy and refused to go if it came to a hill.
Now, this was a well-known fact amongst the farmers and, despite this, Bobby’s dad still made several large wagers that granddad’s horse could beat the local champion. So, the money was laid and the farmers were chuckling that they were on a winner. Would this Sunday be any different?
Nobody noticed that over the wall next to the starting position lived Farmer Briggs who, as usual, was boiling potatoes to feed his pigs. Just before the race started, Bobby’s dad came over to the shandy and handed Bobby his folded cap.
“Hold that tight lad, until your granddad needs it,” he muttered, stepping away as the flag dropped.
The horses were off.
Bobby’s granddad was a tremendously crafty old man who had already been responsible for teaching the young lad many simple things that gave him an advantage over the other lads of his age. Most of all, he taught him to do what he was told without question. The questions could come later when they were alone, if there were any.
When his dad handed him the cap, young Bobby felt some warmth radiating from it but was so busy yelling encouragement at the horse, he didn’t give it a second thought. His grandfather was grinning from ear to ear as the horse galloped on wildly, pulling slightly ahead of his opponent as the big hills drew closer and closer.
Just before the first rise in the ground, the old man called over to his grandson, “Open the cap lad!”
Granddad’s big fist grabbed the still-hot potato and placed it quickly under the horse’s tail. Down came the tail and on went the acceleration! They went so fast they left the other horse like it was standing still.
That was a lesson in craft that Bobby never forgot.
Luck is a matter of preparation meeting opportunity. ~ Bobby’s granddad
The Jam Jar
In 1940, war was raging throughout Europe as well as in England, and rationing was a fact of life. For Bobby, an astute eight-year-old business kid, it spelt opportunity … opportunity to increase his growing fortune. Rationed to two ounces of candy a week, each child would closely guard his own small bag of goodies, usually eating it long before the week was up. Three pennies would buy a whole week’s ration at the local store.
Bobby’s plan was simple and gained his granddad’s immediate approval. He asked his mother to buy him candies that were wrapped from now on. When they came, he hid them in his drawer. Then, by mid-week, he would take them to school and sell them to his eager friends for much more than their original value. He was always careful to put the money away in his private bank—the row of jam jars lining the shelf in his bedroom.
No one except his grandfather knew just how much money this small boy was amassing. Occasionally, the old man would even change the small coins for silver, or pound notes, leaving more room in the jars.
Bobby’s skill, at recognizing an opportunity to make a penny or two, was growing in leaps and bounds. Thanks to his granddad, he quickly learned that beer and pop bottles, as well as empty jam jars, all had a value no matter how small it was. As he got older, he often remembered his granddad’s words—“It’s pennies that makes pounds lad, and every little bit helps.”
You can buy flattery, but you have to earn respect. ~ Bobby’s granddad
The Bicycle Ride
Every Saturday morning Bobby and his dad, a small moorland farmer, took their bicycles and travelled to the local feed merchants. They rode down the lanes, walked up big Botany Hill, and then rode again on the flatland to the store. This part of Yorkshire was a windy place with plenty of rain, so it was quite natural for them to wear raincoats and caps for this weekly trek.
One particularly memorable trip unfolded as they finished their shopping and turned toward home. Heading down Botany Hill, George, Bobby’s dad, noticed that even though his son had his head down to cut the wind resistance, his coat-tails were flying, and he was using his boot sole on the front wheel as a brake.
Arriving home, he gave the lad an ultimatum. “Better have some brakes on that bike next Saturday lad, or you will be in big trouble, believe me.”
“Yes dad,” the boy answered obligingly.
Well, the next week passed like all the others. Bobby tried his best to please, but didn’t get too upset when his dad blew his stack. The lad was inventive, had an excuse for everything and could get under his father’s skin in no time flat. It was a good job the kid moved fast or he would have been permanently bruised. Initiative was something Bobby had plenty of.
“Have you got some brakes on that bike lad?”
“Yes dad!” Bobby yelled back, as his father began to move even faster.
“Where did you get them from?” his father yelled.
“From your bike!” screamed Bobby at his fast-disappearing father.
As he careened down Botany Hill, George did not at first notice the horse and cart approaching the bottom of the hill, coming directly into his path. When they collided there was an ominous dull thud as bicycle and man separated.
Fortunately, the cart carried a full load of hay, and he was not seriously hurt, but his bicycle needed far more attention than new brakes!
Needless to say, the kid wore his bruises proudly and for a while his mother couldn’t hold back her laughter each time she thought about the near tragic incident.
You’re like a bucket without a handle lad—next door to useless! ~ Bobby’s granddad
Introduction to Reality
Darkness was falling in the colliery yard as he made his way from the shaft cage to the lamp room, a smile of tired satisfaction playing around his coal-dust-blackened lips. It had been a long day. He had stayed late to complete a job and was now looking forward to a hot shower.
“Bobby, I want to see you in my office as soon as you’re washed,” a familiar voice cracked from out of the shadows.
Grinning to himself, he nodded silently, slipping his lamp battery from his belt as he walked on.
“Have ya seen yer Uncle Arnold lad?” the lampman spluttered through his chew of tobacco.
“No, but I heard him, what’s he want?”
“How the hell would I know, he’s been pacing up and down the yard for the last two hours. You must have done something!”
“He can go to hell for all I care,” Bob said tiredly.
Shaking his head, lampman Fred Ellis glanced up from his workbench as the young miner made for the showers. He had known the lad since the day he was born. He also knew the man he called Uncle Arnold was really his godfather, manager and member of the executive council of the government coal board. Their relationship was abrasive at best and downright violent in an argument. No man would dare venture to interfere when a difference of opinion was under discussion between those two. It was a strange sort of love-hate relationship yet, when apart, they would defend each other to the death.
Recently built mine head showers made washing easy and the young man was soon standing at the canteen counter ordering tea and cookies, water still dripping from the curl on his forehead.
“Your Uncle Arnold was looking for you son,” the lady attendant warned, trying to look serious as she smiled at the handsome young man.
“I know.”
Sitting down at a table, he wondered why his godfather was looking for him. If it was so important, why hadn’t he told him when he saw him? It’s probably another blasting for some perceived misdemeanor, he thought.
Fifteen minutes later, as he walked toward the manager’s office, he saw the glow of a cigarette outside the dark doorway.
“What are you doing stood out here,” Bob asked, “are you trying to get pneumonia?”
“I told you I wanted to see you, but you took your own damned sweet time coming.”
“You never said it was urgent.”
“They want you at a meeting tomorrow, so come to work at nine in a suit.”
“Who’s they and what the hell have you volunteered me for this time?”
“That’s an order lad and, just for once, do as you’re told,” the older man grunted as he stormed off toward his car.
Arnold Piece was a distant relative of Bob’s father as well as the young man’s godfather, and he had seen the potential in the boy when he was still a schoolboy. Knowing he would never be allowed to go to grammar school due to family finances, Arnold had arranged for him to work at the mine. Registering him in a free education course at the mining college—three days a week at work and two days at college for the first year, meant lots of work and study but, as expected, the boy thrived on the work.
He had left school as a 14-year-old and, being a farmer’s son, had already worked every day of his young life. Not yet full grown, with a mop of curly hair and a penchant for laughter, he had a deceivingly innocent look in his twinkling hazel-coloured eyes. Those who knew him, however, recognized that these eyes hid a scheming, brilliant mind. Coupled with a pair of fists that could strike like lightning when the need arose, he was a man you didn’t want to aggravate.
His manners were impeccable and his smile disarming. He quickly became a firm favourite with everyone who met him, though his godfather and mentor could always find something to grumble about. Older workers often told him that when his godfather reprimanded him severely in public it would scare the other young men at the mine.
“If he’ll shout and yell at you lad, his own godson, then what would he do to them?” It worked and no one stepped out of line when Arnold was around.
This was the foundation of their animosity and, as the years went by, other things were added to the list—like every dirty job imaginable—under the guise of learning each facet of the mining industry. After Bob qualified as a mining engineer, the torment still didn’t stop—there was always more to learn and experience in the deep, dark bowels of a coal mine. It was time, experience and frustration that made him the complete mining man. He learned well, understanding the heart and soul of that violent underground world and soon had the reputation of being the best.
He was 24-years-old that fateful day he sauntered into the mine offices, a man with a purpose. The clock on the office wall showed 8:55. There were five minutes to spare before he was expected in the boardroom. It was just enough time to draw a bright red blush of colour to the attractive receptionist’s face when he smiled his boyish smile and, with that devilish twinkle in his eye, whispered ‘you’re so beautiful’ and carried on his way.
Moving on quickly as the clock stuck the hour, he stepped into the room, punctual to the minute. Three faces followed his progress to the table; these were the men who controlled the mining industry, powerful men who made the important decisions.
“Sit down son,” the chairman invited him with a smile. “Have you been told why you’re here?”
“No sir.”
“Then let me explain. We are here to offer you a chance to lead a first response team; we think you’re the right man for the job.”
“And just what would you expect from me?” Bob asked, flashing his ever-ready smile. “Do you have a contract already written?”
“Yes, we have a provisional contract written, it’s not the final word though. We expect you’ll want a few changes.”
“Do you want me to take it home and read this lot?” Bob chuckled as he picked up the documents pushed across the table toward him.
“No son,” his godfather replied, frowning, “we want a decision now, today.”
“Then why don’t you give me a quick synopsis, you know what it says in here,” he put the papers back down on the table.
“Basically you’ll lead a team of experts. It could be here in England or anywhere in the world where they need you. It won’t always be rescue work, but it’ll always be a problem or dangerous.”
A cold thrill ran through Bob’s brain, knowing the uncertain challenges he would be called on to face. They were asking him to risk his life and take the responsibility for others. His decisions could mean life or death for his team or the men needing their rescue effort. Several quick questions sprang into his mind.
“I can pick my own men?”
“Yes.”
“We all get a salary that reflects the job.”
“Say yes and we’ll start negotiating right now.”
“I have complete control of the job site?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll do it. I can give you a list of the men I want in about five minutes, and the salary will be …?”
“Hold it lad,” Arnold interrupted with a frown. “Before you start talking about money, hadn’t you better take a look at what we’ve offered?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Read it, it’s on Page 5.”
“It’s very generous Bob,” the third man at the table stated coldly with a hint of disapproval in his voice.
Bob quickly found the relevant page and quietly studied the numbers for a moment, frowning at the paper though chuckling inwardly when he realized it was more than he was going to ask for. “It’s not enough for what you want and there’s no mention of a bonus,” he muttered without lifting his eyes from the papers.
“Don’t get greedy lad, we’re offering you twice as much as an area manager, and you’re not the only one who is being considered.”
A smile played around Bob’s lips as he lifted his gaze to focus his twinkling eyes on the speaker. Slowly straightening the papers before him, he rose purposely from his chair, “Then go talk to them, because my life ain’t on sale for peanuts!”
“Damn ya, sit down!” his godfather’s voice thundered through the room. “And you Mr. Emery,” he addressed the third official, “keep your blasted opinions to yourself. He’s the one we need, and I know better than anyone what he’s capable of. I arranged every phase of his training.”
“You’re also his godfather.”
Leaping to his feet, his chair went tumbling noisily to the floor. Arnold Peace was obviously angry now. The thinly veiled accusation that he was unjustly favouring his godson was like waving a red cape at a bull and Bob sat back down to enjoy the continuing confrontation. Office staff outside the room chuckled as the noise reverberated through to them. Typewriters stopped their rhythmic chatter as everyone listened to the thundering row.
“He’s done it again,” an old gentleman clerk laughed. “Bob’s got them fighting among themselves. It’s like lighting a fuse when those two get together.”
“It’s not Bob who Mr. Peace is shouting at,” a typist whispered nervously, “it’s Mr. Emery.”
“I know lass, but you can bet yer last penny it’s Bob that caused it. You watch, he’ll come out of there all smiles and with a nice contract tucked in his pocket. He’ll get everything he wants now that he’s got them upset with each other!”
Inside the room, Bob struggled to control his urge to laugh, as the chairman banged the table in an effort to control the men. Shaking his head as the noise subsided, he watched calmly as Arnold picked up his overturned chair, irritably banging it on the floor before setting it back down.
“Can we get on with it now, gentlemen?” the chairman snapped sarcastically. “Bob, we want you to lead the team. Yes, you can pick your own men subject to our approval, and yes, there will be a generous guaranteed fixed salary which will be paid irrespective of whether you’re working or not. There will be times when someone gets hurt, it’s a very dangerous job son, and we all understand that. In any event, your salary will still be paid in full. Bonus within reason we’ll consider, especially if it’s outside your normal duties. Now would you like me to assign a lawyer to talk to you?”
“Yes sir, and when am I supposed to start this job?”
“You’re already doing it. We transferred all your papers last Friday. One of the girls will show you your office and any messages will be left there. Now, you’d better get us a list of those men you want.”
Quickly writing four names on a sheet of paper, Bob slid it in front of his godfather. Eyebrows raised, the fierce old man looked it over and nodded his approval, signing his name across the bottom before passing it to the chairman.
The chairman smiled as he also signed the paper, stating, “Oh, I think we forgot to mention, you’ll be on call 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, and we may send you abroad if the need arises. Right son, I think that concludes our business. You’d better start contacting your men and the chief safety officer wants to talk to you.”
Rising at the gentle dismissal, Bob brushed the stray curl that had flopped down over his eye back into place and smiled boyishly at his godfather.
The older man looked up at him and whispered emotionally, “Be careful son.”
Bob winked and walked toward the door. Stepping out of the boardroom, he noticed the dead silence in the outer office and grinned at the expectant faces.
“All right you lot, back to work now, they didn’t hang me yet!”
“I’ll show you your office if you like,” a senior lady clerk murmured.
“Only if you turn the light off Ann!” Bob replied with a chuckle. “I’m feeling quite amorous.”
“Will you behave yourself,” she snapped, “and act like a man with responsibility now you’ve accepted this new job.”
“How’d ya know I’ve accepted?” he asked.