Likely Tale, Lad

Mike Pannett

Description

For a young lad like Mike Pannett, growing up in the North Yorkshire countryside in the late 1960s and early '70s was a dream come true. The sun always seemed to be shining, the summer holidays lasted forever, and when you were sent to buy a fish supper for the family there was change to be had from that crumpled pound note. They really were the good old days. Given a fishing rod, a bottle of pop and a jam sandwich, a lad could wander as far as his bike would take him, and the countryside was one big adventure playground peopled by larger-than-life characters and endless opportunities for laughs and larks. Like many a boy, however, Mike learns things the hard way. He goes on a bike ride and lands up in A&E. He tries to be helpful around the home - and nearly burns the place down. And when he goes on a fishing trip it almost ends with a shipwreck.He's a likely lad, is Mike, and these are his likely tales.

Sujets

• Humour

Informations

• Publié par: Country Publications Ltd
• Date de parution: 03 novembre 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781855683389
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

A LIKELY TALE, LAD

First published in 2014 by Dalesman
an imprint of
Country Publications Ltd
The Water Mill, Broughton Hall
Skipton, North Yorkshire BD 23 3 AG
www.dalesman.co.uk
Text Mike Pannett Alan Wilkinson 2014
eBook ISBN 978-1-85568-338-9
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored on a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without either prior permission in writing from the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 9HE. The right of Mike Pannett Alan Wilkinson to be identified as authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with Copyright, Designs and Patents Acts 1988.
Cover design, illustration and titling typeface Clumsy Baskerville by Lyn Davies Design.
CONTENTS
Beside the Sea
Tickling Trout
Can I Drive a Bulldozer When I Grow Up?
Bows and Arrows
A Star is Born
Butter Wouldn t Melt
Gunpowder, Treason Plot
Blood Brothers
Just Hanging About
A Moving Experience
It s Dark in Here
I m Freezing
Honk
Grandpa
Girls
Animal Farm
Staying Warm
The Mysterious Hut
Friday Tea
Gone Fishing
In the Bleak Midwinter
Girl Guide for a Week
AUTHOR S NOTE
This is a story about my childhood. It s not quite the story of my childhood. I ve allowed myself to take one or two liberties with dates and timing and even one or two locations, missing out a few dull bits, cramming all the good stuff into a few special years either side of our move into the countryside. But I ve tried to be paint a faithful portrait of my family, and my close friends. Should an eagle-eyed reader spot an error or two in the chronology, or the geography, I d say, Just take a look at the title of this book. Because the clue s right there: this is a likely tale, lad.
To my late dad Jeff (he would be proud) and my my mother Shirley, for putting up with me for all these years. My brother Phil, and my sisters Christine (a big help in remembering things) and Gillian. I love them all.
Beside the Sea
Right, inside with you.
Mum had packed the sandwiches into the back, followed by the brown paper packages. One, two, three, four. They were, we well knew, our Easter eggs.
Dad, of course, had his head under the bonnet. He d already conducted a final inspection of the car the previous day: water, oil, light bulbs, tyre pressures, checked with his special pressure gauge, and my big brother Phil and I had been given the task of washing it.
Now we were ready to depart.
I was standing on the drive with one foot inside the Morris Traveller, registration number TDN 6. I had my green Thunderbird 2 in my left hand, a bag of marbles in my right, and Petra s leash between my teeth. I was scanning the mound of luggage that was strapped to the roof-rack: three or four suitcases, several cardboard boxes, a wicker hamper and ah! There it was, protruding from one end of the tightly rolled, striped canvas windbreak: my fishing rod.
Satisfied that my most precious possession was safely on board, I lowered my head and looked into the car. Phil was hunched up by the far window, eyes closed, his transistor radio glued to his ear. My big sister Christine had bagged the near-side seat, with her Tiny Tears doll on her knee, her head buried in a copy of Jackie. The space in between - the space I was supposed to squeeze into - was occupied by my baby sister, Gillian, more or less buried under her huge rag doll, Jemima. Behind the three of them, the rear windows were obscured by a jumble of boxes, blankets, towels, buckets, spades and a plastic football.
Mum gave the rear doors a final shove to get them to close.
Come on, Michael, get a move on. Your Dad s almost ready.
There s no room, Mum, I muttered, my tongue rasping against the braided leather leash. It had a nasty salty taste. I threw up my hands in a gesture of exasperation, at which Thunderbird 4 fell out of the back ramp of Thunderbird 2. Oh Mum, now look what you ve done.
Never mind, Michael, you can pick it up. Mum bent down and peered inside the car. Girls, squeeze up. Both of you. They each leaned to one side, grudgingly, opening up a gap about nine inches wide. That s better. There you are, Michael - in the back with you.
Mum! Mu-um! Gillian wailed as I swept her dolls into the foot-well, then turned and plonked myself down, half on her lap, half off it. He s sitting on my leg. He s squa-ashing me! And Jemima.
Mum sighed. Well, do as I say and move over. Then he won t have to, will he?
I squirmed my way into the narrow space between the two girls, digging my elbow into Christine s ribs. Petra jumped onto her lap. My big sister wrinkled up her nose and shoved the dog across onto me. She needs a bath. She rubbed her hands on my shirt. And she s all yuk. All greasy.
That s natural, that grease, I said. I put my arms around the dog. All dogs have it. I saw it on Blue Peter. It makes em waterproof. Doesn t it, Petra?
I wriggled some more, trying to get comfortable. I didn t mention that I d been so worried about Petra s natural oils getting washed off when I took her down to the beck that I d nicked some of Phil s Brylcreem and rubbed it into her coat.
Ow! Now Christine was kicking off. Mum, Mum, can t you do something! He s pinching me.
Well, move over - like Mum said! I shouted, giving her a shove. Christine had her arm raised and was all set to smack me in the face.
Now, what did I tell you about fighting? Mum eased herself into her seat and closed the door, addressing us via the rear-view mirror. I don t want another peep out of either of you or - or there ll be no fish and chips tonight. You hear me?
Silence, just the sound of Dad closing the bonnet and putting away his oil can before locking the garage door.
Well, are you going to answer me?
But you said you didn t want another peep I began.
Dad was in the driving seat, wiping his hands on an old wash-leather. This is not the time for cleverness, Michael. You know very well what your mother means. Now, why don t we all take a deep breath and put a smile on our faces, eh?
With that he pulled out the choke and fired up the engine, put his arm around the back of the passenger seat and started to reverse through the gate. Starboard look-out? he said. My big brother opened his eyes, blinked and looked along the street. Yeah. Fine, Dad. Nobody about.
Dad backed us out onto Park Avenue, put her in first gear and set off towards the end of the road. I leaned across the girls and peered through the open window to watch, fascinated, as the orange plastic indicator flipped up in readiness for the left turn onto the main road. At last. We were off. On our holidays.
Throughout my childhood, holidays meant one thing and one thing only: the long drive over the North York Moors to the coast at Staintondale. When I say it was a long drive you have to understand that Dad rarely did things the easy way. You only had to mention the A64, the main route which connects the east coast with Malton, York and the West Riding, and he d shake his head.
Dreadful road, he d say. Absolute death-trap. And traffic? D you know, I once set off from York on a Sunday morning and there was a queue two miles long. They were backed up all the way from Malton to Huttons Ambo. No, I think we ll go the scenic way.
And so we did. Instead of nipping up the A64 main road, then over to Pickering and across the moors, we took the back-roads. What would be a brisk fifty-mile run to the coast for any normal family became an epic, a feat of endurance, the stuff of Pannett legends. A journey that would take me one hour today took us anything up to five. It was meticulously planned, of course. The night before our departure, Dad would sit at the living room table, a freshly sharpened pencil in one hand, a notebook in the other, studying his dog-eared Ordnance Survey maps - the old ones, I mean, the kind that were printed on canvas. Mile by mile he d go over the route we d used last year, and the year before that, even taking out his ruler and protractor to measure round the bends to see whether he could find a quieter way to the coast, and maybe shave a few hundred yards or so off the distance to be covered, thereby reducing his outlay on petrol.
The results of his research meant that we always ended up bouncing down some dusty farm track or winding our way along near-deserted lanes that snaked between fields of wheat and barley. From time to time we d have the excitement of a cattle-grid, and if we were behaving ourselves Dad would rattle across at speed and make us all giggle - even though he said it was bad for the suspension. Good for morale, but bad for the springs.
Every so often, we d meet an oncoming vehicle and Dad, being a courteous knight of the road, would put the brakes on, sling the old Morris into reverse and back up two, three, four hundred yards to let some flat-hatted farmer go past in a mud-spattered Land Rover, showering us with dust and chippings, acknowledging our good manners with a barely perceptible nod of the head or a stubby index finger raised languidly from the steering-wheel. And as he backed up, Mum would nod and smile.
Well done, Jeff dear. Did you see, children, how well your father reversed the car there?
We made our way across country to Sheriff Hutton, and there we faced our first challenge. Terrington Bank. Could we get up it in one run without having to bail out? You need a good run, a bit of momentum, Dad said as he put his foot down, gripped the wheel and gritted his teeth.
By now, barely a quarter of the way to our destination, somebody would be pleading for a toilet break, and everybody else would agree that that was a good idea because they were bursting too. But it would have to wait until we d tackled a much stiffer climb on the ap