A Grumpy Old Man’s Tale 37 Alf’s Philosophies and Youtube

Before dawn, the first Saturday of October had brought rain. By mid morning it had become a deluge lashing down in torrents several inches deep across the lonning despite the grikes(1) cut through the verges for water to run off into the beck that took water away to the lowest part of the eight miles of single track that outsiders referred to as a public highway, which it wasn’t, where it often ran back onto the lonning flooding it and isolating the village. Since it was expected that by Sunday afternoon the only route into Bearthwaite would be under several feet of water Gladys the landlady had made appropriate information available on the Green Dragon website. Alf and his mates knew the new village boat that enabled contact with the outside world when the road was flooded was in full working order, for it was tested every weekend, but as was their wont during heavy rain they had checked everything again at lunchtime. The boat was referred to as the new boat which though a fair enough description wasn’t strictly true. Some time ago Gladys, the landlady of the Green Dragon, had gone into labour during such appalling weather conditions that the lonning had been flooded at least four feet deep for several miles. Rather than risk trying to take her to meet an ambulance in an open boat during torrential rain, an ambulance that may not have been there due to the road conditions between the main roads and the Bearthwaite turning, she’d been attended by Susanna the village’s midwife and the half a dozen nurses who lived locally. Gladys had given birth to Gloria at home with no problems, but it had been decided a new covered boat was required. The cost of a covered boat approximately the same size as the village’s open boat had had been considerable. The villagers had been prepared to pay it, for due to a number of factors the village was wealthier than it had been not so long before, and it was a characteristic of Bearthwaite folk that those with money were happy to spend it so all could benefit.

Sasha who was a very wealthy man had said he and Elle were prepared to stand most of the cost. Other folk with money had been equally prepared to put their hands deep into their pockets, till that was Alf had telt them they were all daft. His argument was that given some help with internet research and enough practical help he could convert what they had to what they wanted. Not easily, he’d admitted, but there were any number of men in the village skilled enough at working wood to assist and given enough help he assured them he could do it for a far more reasonable cost than buying a covered boat. He’d argued that if he and local men did the work all the village could play a part in the design process and they’d end up with exactly what they wanted and not have to settle for what was available. Too, he’d argued that the hull of the boat they had was in first class condition and unless they bought a new boat at a horrendous price they would probably have to spend considerable time, effort and money on the hull of a older boat. His most compelling argument was the money should be spent paying the folk who did the work which at least would keep the money local. Keeping money local was always a major concern in Bearthwaite, so his argument was a powerful one that prevailed. The old boat had been named Bearthwaite Princess, but in a major village celebration she had been rechristened Bearthwaite Queen, and hence was referred to as the new boat.

The adults of Bearthwaite were keeping a close eye on the children, and all their whereabouts was known at all times, for in heavy rain the water cascaded off the hills in places like a force(2) two or more feet deep and tens of yards wide. Such a torrent could easily wash away and drown an adult never mind a child playing in the wrong place. It had never happened, and the adults’ diligence was to ensure it never did.

It was a source of constant bewilderment to the residents of Bearthwaite that during heavy rain the houses in some places like Carlisle which was not so far away flooded. That it happened over and over again and the people who lived there expected taxpayers elsewhere to assist them in their troubles because insurance companies wouldn’t insure their properties at any price for obvious and sensible reasons was seen by Bearthwaite folk as an insanity characteristic of outsiders. None had property insurance in Bearthwaite, for it was considered much cheaper and wiser in the long run to do without. In the event of troubles their neighbours rallied round and whatever issue had occurred was soon put to rights. That was the Bearthwaite concept of community. You didn’t have to like all your neighbours, but you did have to help them when they needed it, for they would help you when required. Pete the landlord of the Dragon had summed up local opinion in a nutshell years before when he’d said, “What kind of idiots build houses in places that have been known to flood regularly for over two thousand years? And what kind of bigger idiot buys one of those houses? You look at where the Vikings, the Romans, and even the Old Folk that were there before the Romans had even been heard of lived. High ground over looking the river Eden, ground that had never flooded. As far as I’m aware no property has ever flooded here in all known history, and that is because we’re not stupid enough to build anything where it floods.”

~o~O~o~

It was early Saturday evening, so the old men who with their womenfolk were the core of Bearthwaite society were beginning to gather in the taproom and the best side of the Green Dragon respectively. The weather was cool but by no means cold, so though the open wood fires in the taproom had been lit with logs cut and dried a couple of years before to provide a bed of hot embers to start the large fires going they were currently burning this years dried logs which though containing a little more water provided enough heat but did not burn quite as quickly. The heating in the much more genteel environment where the ladies gathered for gossip, assisted by a moderate quantity of socially acceptable and legal beverages, was provided by the central heating system powered by the twenty-eight second(3) kerosene boiler in the cellar. Their menfolk who gathered for stories whose veracity varied from one hundred percent, the relating of recent events for example, to zero, often outright fantasy and fabrication, adult færie tales if you like, often telt by Dave who seemed to have an endless supply of such matter. Often Dave’s tales were skilfully tailored urban myths crafted in the local dialect especially for his audience. The men’s stories were usually assisted by more than generous quantities of Bearthwaite Brown, a rich, nutty, powerful brown ale crafted by Clarence, Gustav’s master brewer, and liberal quantities of spirituous liquors of dubious safety and definite illegality that His Majesty’s customs and excise were completely unaware of the existence of. If you didn’t specify something else you were offered a pint of something brewed in Gustav’s brewery which was a just a few hundred metres away from the Dragon. The only beer available in the Dragon that was not brewed locally was bottled, and not much of such was selt due to the high quality of the local products. All of Gustav’s employees lived locally, and the village’s loyalty to their beers was fierce. That Gustav was a Bavarian German was irrelevant, for he was a local about to marry Harriet, Pete and Gladys’ daughter, and had committed his entire future and not inconsiderable fortune to the well being of his community. He was one of them.

~o~O~o~

Pete had made a unilateral decision concerning the spirituous liquors before most of the men had arrived and had poured a couple of dozen glasses of illicitly distilled Dutch Genever that he’d recently negotiated a very attractive price on provided he purchased a hundred two hundred litre containers. The containers had been brought into UK waters up the Solway on a German fishing vessel, transshipped onto smaller boats during the dark and landed on the beach some distance south of Allonby bay. At high tide the containers whose labels said they contained fertiliser were loaded onto trailers already loaded with a couple of dozen identical containers also labelled as containing the same fertiliser because they did. The trailers were towed off the beach by quad bikes before being hooked up to JCB fast track agricultural tractors capable of fifty kilometres an hour for delivery to nearby farms and premises. It was always some time before the containers started to arrive a few at a time in the ubiquitous white vans of small delivery firms at Bearthwaite. It was a well rehearsed procedure undertaken no more than twice a year though the same landing site had never been used twice and often the containers were landed on the northern Scottish cost of the Solway. The smugglers had any number of small scale customers like Pete all over the European coasts. The vessels they used were borrowed for the runs and for an appropriate consideration, usually paid in smuggled goods, they provided a welcome additional income to the vessels’ owners and crews.

That Pete had to subsequently bottle the Genever himself had been a matter of no consequence at all since the huge and recently extended cellars under the Dragon were hygienically clean and well lit as a result of the recent renovations which had been part of the above ground extension. He hadn’t done any of the bottling himself. The matter had been dealt with by some of the younger village men using the electrical pumps and the vast supply of two gallon supposed whisky bottles that Gee Shaw had obtained for next to nothing because they were neither used nor wanted by any else. He’d bought all the supplier had, two artic [eighteen wheeler] loads for five grand [$5583] delivered, and the other village men had willingly contributed knowing he’d taken a chance on their behalf using his own money. That Pete would surely be able to use them at some point was a secondary consideration. Julie had possibly been correct when out shopping in Carlisle with numerous other Bearthwaite women she’d described the old men as the local mafia. Pete left a couple of bottles of the Genever on the bar with a few other smaller bottles of assorted dodgy spirits too. Meanwhile he was pulling pints.

~o~O~o~

Given the moderate weather, moderate, for despite the rain it was not bitterly cold, Pete was expecting a complete turnout of local men of all ages and somewhere between sixty and eighty men in all in the taproom after the outsiders had arrived. He was aware Gladys had taken bookings for over twenty double rooms for both weekend nights by mid afternoon, and she’d telt him, “Outsiders must have read what I put on the website concerning the lonning or most of them wouldn’t have booked two nights. I reckon folk have had enough of the world outside and just want a bit of peace. I suppose if it comes to it I can always put camp beds in some of the single rooms. If I have to do that you’d better make sure the Cossack is on top form to avoid any complaints.” The Cossack was how she referred to Sasha Vetrov the Siberian decades long resident of Bearthwaite who was the master story teller who had started the Grumpy Old Men’s Society. It was known to all that she loved the old man as a father figure who regarded her and Pete in the light of his children, however it was never referred to in front of outsiders.

~o~O~o~

There was a rush of dogs coming in from the back door looking for the food that was always provided. The coming of the dogs indicated their owners were not far behind them and Pete looked to check the kibble and water bowls were full. He heard someone ask, “Where’s Bess?”

“She came into season, so I left her at home.” He didn’t recognise either voice due to the chatter and couldn’t recall who owned Bess. As a dozen or more men came in from the back door the matter went out of his mind as he kept pulling pints.

When Sasha came in he said, “I’ll take a glass of Talisker, Pete, and I’d appreciate a word at the end of the night. Pete knew by a glass Sasha meant a dram, a quarter of a bottle(4) [US 7 ounces, 188ml] and without a word did as requested. Sasha went to sit in his usual place, right in the middle of where the locals sat, and the taproom gradually filled up. There were over a hundred men in the taproom and to enable the evening to start four locals helped Pete and Gustav to serve and take money.

As the men settled down the conversation was typically about the British preoccupation: the weather which given the conditions outside was not at all surprising. One of the outsiders said, “The road’s a foot deep already and the water’s still rising. There was a convoy of us coming in. One of the lads I talked to in the car park said he hadn’t booked a room, but if he had to sleep in the taproom under his coat for ten days that was okay because he was sick of the crap he was getting from work. He worked sixty-six hours last week and his boss wanted him to work even more and gave him grief for going home. He telt him to stuff it. Folk are that short of workers he’s not bothered if he gets fired because he can choose from any number of jobs. His missus said the food here was excellent and if it meant they had a fortnight’s enforced holiday here that was fine with her.”

Gladys came in at that point to say, “According to Radio Cumbria the lonning is now impassable, more to the point Mavis has just phoned to say Michael telt her the lonning is impassable. To any who don’t know him, Michael is the local police sergeant and is Bearthwaite born and bred. If he says the lonning is impassible it is. When I find out how many folk require accommodation I’ll deal with it. If there’re more than we can accommodate here I’ll ring round and see what we can do to put folk up with neighbours. If the worst comes to the worst we can put you up in the dance hall like a dormitory. The heating’s on so it’ll be warm enough and you’ll be well fed, so it’ll not exactly be disaster relief. Your womenfolk aren’t bothered by the situation, some seem to think it’s the most exciting event that’s ever happened to them. I’ll let you know what’s happening as soon as I know. It’s haggis, bashed neeps and tatties with gravy for those as want it for supper and Veronica and Harriet are preparing a rhubarb crumble with custard to follow as we speak. The rhubarb is this seasons’ crop that Christine pressure canned early in the year. They’d appreciate being telt early how many want supper to make sure there will be enough for all. I suggest you enjoy the evening, Gentlemen.”

~o~O~o~

An outsider of about forty who none recognised said, “The weather is what it is and I’ll just live with it. My grandfather came from the Hebrides and used to maintain there was no bad weather just unsuitable clothes. May I tell a very short tale and then ask a question?”

Pete replied, “Go for it, Lad, we always welcome new faces or at least new voices. Tell us your name first and a bit about you please.”

“I’m Jeremy Caldbeck and I’m a chef. I have a tiny restaurante that seats twelve at a pinch just outside Kendal. It is a restaurante not a café because I serve quality food. It’s silver service and most of our evening clients are courting couples or married couples wanting a bit of romance. I’m doing more than okay and Lizzie my wife and I hope to save enough money to move to a larger establishment in about twelve months. I am self taught and obtain a lot of my menu ideas off the internet. Mostly my ideas are European cuisine, but I’m not fixed on that, and I look at ideas from all over the world on Youtube. Most have to be adapted, but that’s what cooking is all about. I have a couple of wonderful recipes based on South African Boer meals.” Jeremy chuckled and continued. “I say based on them because it’s difficult to obtain impala in Cumbria, but I imagine venison is not so very different in taste. Recently I’ve been looking at recipes from some of the older USA areas. The Appalachians are a good source of inspiration. However, I recently discovered a site that purported to shew traditional and popular US dishes of the twentieth century. The bloke didn’t actually sound American, but I knew he was a fake as soon as he cooked his first dish which he said was a traditional and popular US dish derived from fast food restaurantes of the sixties. I knew that was bullshit because there was no cheese in it.”

Stan snorted with laughter and said, “All the US government would need to do to virtually eliminate obesity in the States is make cheese illegal, but then the criminals and the politicians who all have their snouts in the same trough and piss in the same pot would corner the market on bootleg dairy products. Which reminds me of a short story I read once by F Paul Wilson called Lipidleggin’. It’s included as a historical prequel at the end of his novel An Enemy of the State, the version published by Infrapress. You had that one spot on, Jeremy, even though most American cheese is processed and is only about fifty percent cheese. I watched a Russel Howard Youtube clip a while back where he shewed an NBC headline reporting that more Americans die choking on their food than from terrorism, but what about your question?”

“It’s a puzzle rather than a question really. It’s about the single shoes that you see at the side of the road, often in the middle of nowhere. Babies’ and toddlers’ shoes I can understand because they’ll just have threwn them out of the window of a passing car, but adults’ single shoes at the side of the road just baffle me. Where did the other shoe go
? What happened to it?”

As the others were chuckling Dave responded to say, “I reckon you’re just going to have to stay baffled, Lad, because that is a puzzle closely related to the mysteries of sneezing and hiccups and the origins of navel fluff. You want another beer and something to help it down?”

As Dave and Pete pulled pints and Alf passed bottles of chemic around, the collection box for the kids Christmas party was gradually getting heavier as those drinking hard liquor threw a couple of quid in, not in exchange for the drink, for such a transaction was illegal. The money was purely a charitable donation and to ensure it remained seen that way the locals threw a couple of quid in from time to time when they were not drinking the hard stuff.

~o~O~o~

“Jeremy has got me thinking about Youtube stuff,” said Pete, “I’ve been wondering what they do on the other side of the pond when they’re not going ahead.”

“Easy,” said Stan, “I’m surprised you haven’t worked it out for yourself, Pere. They’re getting ready to go ahead.”

“I don’t get it,” said Alf. “What are you talking about?”

“You watch horticulture, engineering, wood working and general craft stuff on Youtube right, Alf, don’t you?”

“Yes. It beats the shine out of the garbage that’s on the TV, but so what, Pete?”

“It’s a common peculiarity of US English virtually all over the states that they don’t say for example, ‘I’m going to strip the varnish off this chair’. Many of them will say, ‘I’m going to go ahead and strip the varnish off this chair.’ Stan was saying a lot of them say ‘I’m getting ready to go ahead and strip the varnish off this chair.’ They don’t all speak like that, but a lot on Youtube do. Stan and I were just taking the piss. English as spoken over here is no different, we just use different expressions that are equally meaningless. A bloke I knew from Rawtenstall way would have said I’ll go forward and strip the varnish off this chair. Mostly I suppose like the Yanks(5) it’s those of us with less education that are more prone to using bullshit expressions that just use more words up to make what we’re saying sound more profound, though it has to be said neither we nor the Yanks talk as much bullshit as politicians on both sides of the pond do. You must have heard Yanks say going ahead and getting ready to go ahead surely?”

“Yeah, but one of the advantages of being as not clever as me is somewhere between my ears and my brain all the shit gets filtered out. Unless I have a reason to take notice of the bollocks a lot of those folk talk I only actually register the stuff that matters, probably because a lot of interesting stuff is provided by folk who don’t speak very good English because it’s not their first language so you have to make allowances. I watched a guy from a village in Vietnam repairing a machine a week or so ago with really primitive tools and facilities. The guy was a genius well worth watching despite his poor English. And of course a lot of stuff with subtitles has the subtitles done by Google translate or something similar which is often good for a laugh, though I admit the US twenty-five letter alphabet irritates me from time to time.”

“Is this one of those lame Christmas jokes about the angel saying Noel, Alf?”

“Is it buggery, Dave. Surely you must have heard them. A lot of the time there’s no tee in the US spoken alphabet which is why they wear pandies. Try listening to them sometime. It’s not just on Youtube it’s― What’s that word for God being everywhere all the time, Sasha?”

“Omnipresent, Alf.”

“Yeah, omnipresent is what I meant. To a lesser extent Aussies do it too.”

Dave whistled and said, “I’ve heard it all now. Alf using a non technical word that I don’t think I’ve ever used, and in a tale topping not only Pete but Stan too.

Alf grinned and added, “Funny isn’t it. I don’t have an issue with the ay sound in tomayto which is how Yanks would say tomahto, if only they knew how to pronounce the second tee, but the dee sound in tomaydo really grates on my nerves, almost as much as them constantly placing the emphar siss on the wrong bit of words, which I know is not their fault. I’ve often wondered if that’s because they insist on doing everything ‘real quick’, though maybe that’s just on Youtube. I prefer to take my time and get the job done properly. Just thinking about using puddy to glaze windows and fill wood, even if only a liddle bit is required, or having a glud of tomaydoes on the the allotment [US community garden] makes me wince almost as much as the jab supposedly giving me immunidy from Covid makes me. The stress of it all makes me need another pint and glass of chemic to soothe my frayed nerves.”

All were laughing uproariously at Alf’s clever and appropriate segue as Gustav headed for the bar to start pulling pints. Stan was topping up shot glasses with some noxious oily looking liquor with a vaguely violet colouration whilst the rest of the men passed empty glasses to Dave to wash. They all knew Alf didn’t really have a problem with folks from the other side of the pond. Some of his closest collaborators were from the new world, and were folk he had exchanged horticultural and workshop ideas and help with for decades, so far back for some of them their communication had originally been done by post which had taken a long time for letters delivered by ship from Australia and New Zealand. Pat was currently working on a video conferencing system whereby some of them could join in on Saturday evenings in the taproom as virtual, honorary grumpy old men. As Sasha had said after spending an evening at Alf’s house on his laptop, “Your mates from overseas certainly meet all the criteria that matter to be considered a grumpy old man, Alf.”

Alf had said, “That’s because I only bother with real folk, Sasha.”

~o~O~o~

When drinking was resumed, it was agreed that without doubt the summer was over. The heat waves that had threatened the health of the nation, in the south at least which didn’t bother the inhabitants of the taproom one little bit since they lived five hundred miles north and cooler than where the southerners lived, were already consigned to history, till as Sasha remarked next time. Alf who was their resident horticultural expert telt them, “It was close a couple of nights ago, Lads, but we’ve not had even a trace of the first ground frost yet, and I don’t reckon we’ll have one for at least a fortnight possibly more than twice that.”

“How do you know there hasn’t been any trace of frost yet, Alf? Couldn’t there have been just a few minutes when the temperature dropped below freezing?”

“My nasturtiums are still in full bloom, Eric. All nasturtiums are sensitive to frost, but I grow my own from seed and I noticed years ago, I was still in my teens, that the ones I grew went as dead as a doornail at the slightest trace of frost, a few seconds will do it. Different plants contain different amounts of natural anti freezes in their cells. Really hardy ones contain a lot, but nasturtiums and some other plants contain next to none. So frost freezes the sap in the cells almost immediately, and as the sap turns to ice it expands and bursts the cells, result no turgor in the cells, plant can’t stand up or move liquids around and it blackens and dies. I’ve kept on growing ’em, so as I know when it’s happened. They grow, and mostly self seed, just outside one of my green house doors though I always save a decent amount of seed just in case.

~o~O~o~

“Supper will be on the tables in fifteen to twenty minutes, Gentlemen. Does anyone want me to get them a drink, or can I top the dogs bowls up after letting them out for a run?”

“You deal with the dogs, Harriet Love, I’ll do the bar work.” Harriet nodded to her dad and after opening the back door went for her pails of kibble and water.

~o~O~o~

“I’ve a quick one. Not a tale, Lads, more of an observation. It won’t take us up to supper, but it’ll help.”

“Go on, Gerry,” Sasha encouraged him.

“Well it’s about flies, all of them, bluebottles, the biting buggers and the little ones that just bloody annoy you. If you want to kill the damned things you’ve a real problem on your hands these days because those new baited bags bags you open at the top, add some water to and hang up just don’t work. The clever buggers who make them have printed pictures of flies on ’em so you think there’re flies in ’em, but it’s all a con, and fly sprays, swatters and zappers have had all of the sugar, salt and fat taken out of them.”

“How do you mean, Gerry?”

“They’ve all become like the really tasty stuff of our childhood, Alf, victims of the nanny state. Whatever it was that made ’em work, taste good or whatever has been deemed dangerous and so banned, so they don’t work any more or taste any good. I’ll give you a few examples. Crisps, [US chips] all taste crap. Why? Because the government made the manufacturers take the salt and fat out, result is we all add extra salt, probably far more than was in them originally.” There was virtually universal agreement at that and many looked at the salt cellar on the bar for customers to help themselves to with a bag of crisps. “That favourite of childhood, Heinz cream of tomato soup is now tasteless unless you add salt and some butter, so what you eat probably contains more salt and fat than it ever did. Another example, Heinz baked beans are now tasteless beyond redemption, along with all other baked beans. Why? Because the sugar, salt and fat content have been reduced. The only baked beans worth eating are Branston’s and they’re only just worth eating. Even sweets are tasteless these days. I mean how the hell can you reduce the taste of pear drops?(6) You used to be able to smell someone eating ’em from half a mile away if the wind was blowing towards you. However, back to killing flies. I recently bought an electric fly swatter, what a beast of a gadget that is. It works, but you have to be on it all the time and your arm soon gets out of breath and you lose the will to live. I reckon the only way to make life bearable is the old fashioned way, fly papers. They look minging but at least the bastards work. Trouble is they’re really hard to get aholt of. However, Jaybees in Silloth sell ’em as do Saundersons in Wigton.”

Phil the mill said, “Taking of modern stuff having no taste, Sasha, you mind you were complaining about all ice cream tasting shite these days a while back?”

Sasha nodded and there were mutterings of “He wasn’t wrong,” in the background.

Phil continued, “Well Alice found some decent stuff in Lidl of all places. Aberdoyle’s it’s called and it’s made in Scotland. It’s hard and tastes good. I don’t know if it would pass muster in Belgium or Italy, but at least it tastes and feels like ice cream in your mouth as opposed to that soft mushy stuff.”

~o~O~o~
Tik toc
The men were looking around to see if any one had a tale to take them up to supper. Eventually Simon the blacksmith asked, “You seen any of those welding videos on Youtube, Gee?”

Gee looked pained and replied, “I try to avoid them if possible, Simon, not least because then I don’t have to calm Sam down if she sees one. She’s one of the the best welders I’ve ever come across and they really wind her up, probably because they’re all done by men who seem to be somewhat misogynistic. Doubtless they have a downer on the trans and any who’re different in any other way too, but I’m only assuming that, I’ve no evidence to support the view. One thing is certain though, most of them haven’t a clue how to weld. Not all of them, some of them are damned good, but most aren’t. Sam reckons most of them would do better using double sided sticky tape.”

“She was a good welder when she was just a slip of a girl, Lad,” Alf said. “And you’re right, she’s one of the best I’ve ever come across too. MIG, TIG, stick or gas she always was a natural. Her first weld was a stick weld, aged seven she was, and it was as clean as a whistle. What’s that expression she uses to describe tossers with a welding set up in their hands?”

Gee grinned and said, “ ‘A grinder, some filler and a can of paint makes them the welders that they ain’t.’ I’d heard it before, long before I met Sam, but when she says it it sounds particularly vicious.”

Alf said, “That’s me. I’m for the back to drain my brain before supper.”

As a number of men followed Alf to the gents Pete said, “Let’s clear the tables, Lads, and get set up for supper.”

~o~O~o~

“Damned fine haggis that, Vincent. Not that I expected it to be any different.” Vincent was the village butcher and some of the village women helped Rosie his wife make the haggis, as well as pies, sausage and various other things in the kitchens behind his shop, to a recipe that had been in his family for generations. Dave continued, “Your veg, Alf?”

“The neeps(7) were, but I’m not sure who grew the tatties.(8) A lot of the lads were growing Picasso(9) this year because we had the seed available from last year, Dave. If you want some I’ll have at least a ton [1000Kg, 2240 pounds] available.”

Dave, who with his wife Lucy owned the village grocers, nodded and said, “I’ll take you up on that, Alf. I need to take a walk down to the allotments to see what else is available.”

As Harriet was loading her trolley with the last of the supper plates she asked, “I know the red cabbage sauerkraut I make is liked and the stuff the staff make from cow cabbages to Gustav’s recipe is too, but I’ve been watching Youtube videos about fermenting all kinds of vegetable pickles and would like to try it. The question is would you be willing to try them? Too, I’d need fermentation locks, glass or glazed pottery weights to keep the vegetables below the brine to prevent any going mouldy, and I’d like a couple of sauerkraut jar packers. They sell the sauerkraut packers on Ebay turned from acacia wood, but the prices are silly money and if none likes the pickles that’s money down the drain. I’m using a wooden rolling pin at the moment, but it’s not ideal. Can any help?”

Alf replied, “I don’t have any acacia, fact is I’m not sure I’ve ever laid eyes on any, but I can turn the packers out of ash or beech for you if you shew me the clip. I’ve still got some nice straight grained beech left from when I made your rolling pins. As for the weights, I could make a mould and heat it and some broken glass up with oxy(10) or in my furnace till the glass melted into the mould. I’ve seen them, and they’re just like ice hockey pucks with a circular groove in one side so you can pick them up to take out of the jar by the raised bit in the middle of the weight, so they should be cheap and easy enough to make. Or you could get Steven Menzies that studio potter out Allonby way make you some glazed ones. As for air locks, just use wine makers’ air locks. Let me know and I’ll use a fly press to stamp holes in some lids for you to take a rubber bung. They sell bungs with holes already in ’em to take an air lock. I’ve tasted brine fermented dill gherkins and they’re good, so I’ll eat those for sure. Thinking about it I can’t see that other stuff won’t be tasty too. If you call in at my workshop tomorrow with the jars and lids you intend to use, Lass, I’ll measure them up, and we’ll look at Youtube and Ebay too. Okay?”

“Uncle Alf, you’re wonderful. Especially where food is involved.” Harriet kissed his cheek and left pushing her trolley.

~o~O~o~

Chance had been worried about the reception he would receive in the taproom after his moving to Bearthwaite to live with Stephanie who was adopting his children and whom he was going to marry. He had no need to worry, for to the local men he was a welcome new member of their community and the outsiders knew nothing of the recent changes in his life.

“So when’s the wedding, Chance?”

Chance laught and said, “I’ve no idea, Vincent. Elle’s still trying to find a registrar who will marry us here. Murray advised me to leave it all to the womenfolk and just to do what I was telt and turn up when I was telt. He’s my best man, so I thought it would be a good idea to accept his advice. Elle filed the paperwork on line for Stephanie to adopt the kids. The court acknowledged receipt of it almost immediately, but we haven’t got a hearing date yet. Changing the subject. Is there any possibility of me making an investment in something we can drink, Pete? Now I’m living and working here, I’d like to play my part and not just drink some one else’s liquor for a couple of quid a go.”

“Talk to me about it at the end of the evening, Chance, and I’ll explain what your options are, okay?” Accepting Pete didn’t wish to discuss the matter in front of strangers Chance just nodded.

~o~O~o~

“Oh bugger!”

John could be seen to be manipulating the fingers of his left hand with his right hand. “What’s to do John?”

“I spilt a bit of my ale, Stan. Bloody lucky I didn’t spill it all. Only reason I didn’t was because Harriet gave me a tankard with a handle and not a straight glass. It’s due to duck trainer’s contraption. I’ve got it in both hands. Most of the time it’s no bother and I’d rather have this than carpel tunnel. At least this doesn’t hurt or keep me awake at night.”

“What the hell is a duck trainer’s contraption, John?”

“It’s properly called a Dupuytren’s contracture, Alf. I can spell it, but I end up pronouncing it differently every time I try to say it, so I don’t usually bother and stick to duck trainers contraption. Too taking the piss out of it makes me feel better about it. It’s a lump of scar tissue in the palm of your hand. See.” John held his hands out palms up and they could see the lumpy shapes under the skin in the middle of his hands. “They don’t know what causes it, but I’ve been telt it’s been called the Viking disease because it can be inherited, especially if you have any north Scandinavian descent which like all of us from this neck of the woods I have, and Mum’s mum’s dad was an Icelandic fisherman, but I don’t recall any else in the family having it. Sometimes my finger sticks in the curled up position and I have to slowly and gently extend it using my other hand because it hurts. There’re half a dozen different treatments, but none are a certain cure and some seem to be decidedly risky, so I decided years ago that unless it gets a lot worse I’ll just live with it. Mostly when it happens which isn’t even once a day it just makes me clumsy. It mostly affects folk who are getting old and buggered like me. It’s why I always insist on a tankard with a handle. There’s less chance of me losing a pint to gravity that way.”

“It’s not all bad getting old you know, John. The good thing about being an old bugger is youngsters just assume you know nowt, which in the case of stuff you don’t give a toss about is probably true, well it is for me any road, but for stuff that really matters, they know nowt and I do. I love dealing with ’em because I won’t play their games and they have to play mine. I haven’t figured out what an app is yet never mind a bloody widget, and don’t bother telling me because I won’t listen because I don’t care. Tell you, Lads, dealing with youngsters is easy money.”

“How do you mean, Alf?”

“Well, while they’re busy doing a thousand quids’ [$1117] worth of damage to a car to rip out a hundred pound [$112] radio CD player to sell on a car boot [yard sale] for a tenner [$11], I’m busy making a legit living out of them. They can’t rip me off because I only deal in cash and direct bank transfers, after I’ve rung the bank to make sure I’ve got the money of course. I only deal in owt that guarantees I get paid up front, cash or goods it doesn’t matter as long as I can tell it’s actually worth what they say it is. If there’s any doubt I won’t accept the deal. I don’t do credit unless it’s someone that lives here. I don’t have owt to do with anything that comes over a mobile phone or a computer, and I don’t give a monkeys how smart it’s reckoned to be. I don’t trust credit card transfers and I’ve never accepted cheques. Result is I’ve never had any bad debts.”

“That must seriously knock your trade back, Alf.”

“Not at all, Oliver. I’ve never been short of work. Everyone knows I sell good stuff. Every vehicle I sell is kosher. That’s known for a hundreds of miles and is why folk from three counties over come to see me to buy cars, vans, trucks, whatever. All the work I do is guaranteed to be good and if something goes wrong I’ll either refund the money or put it right. None who’ve ever dealt with me have ever ended up out of pocket as a result, so folk deal on my terms or they can go back home. I’m not parting with a vehicle I may have invested god alone knows how many hours of my time into for plastic money or European gymnasts, that’s bouncing Czechs to you. I can fix stuff and give a guarantee it’s fixed, if kids don’t like my terms I tell ’em to fuck off and deal with some thief who purports to be a car dealer or whatever. I have no use for their world, and they all desperately need old bastards like us, because their generation is by and large incapable of actually doing owt. That’s why we all live so well here.

“Like Dad and Granddad before him and I dare say a few generation before him too, I’ve always grown vegetables and kept hens for eggs. My missus is a good cook and has always been able to put a decent meal on the table no matter how little money we had. She can knit and sew and knows I can fettle her sewing machine if owt is up with it. We’ve always had decent clothes, decent meals and the house has always been warm enough. Years ago we couldn’t afford coal, but I could always cut enough wood for Ellen to cook on and keep us all warm. What Ellen can’t do she deals with another lass and exchanges skills, same as I do. Truth is that’s how we all live here. We deal in real skills, real goods and real money that are all tradable commodities. I can’t do the tax and VAT(11) returns, but Murray and Emily can, though neither can service their car. I may not be explaining it well, but I know what I’m saying is right. The proof of that is that we fetch our kids up the way we were fetcht up and they do a lot better than outsiders’ kids even if they move away from Bearthwaite. Funny thing is most eventually return home disenchanted with the outside world because they discovered they can’t trust any to deal straight with them.”

“That it, Lads? Or has someone got another tale or else to say? No? Okay let’s have the dominoes out while I wash some glasses and I’d be grateful if some one starts pulling pints and we need more chemic from the cellar too. Chance, partner me and we’ll have that chat.”

“I’ll fetch some bottles from the cellar, Dad.” Few noticed Gustav call Pete dad. To the locals it was how it ought to be because he was marrying Pete’s daughter, and few outsiders knew the exact situation.

Whilst Stan went behind the bar to pull pints and Tommy collected money, in quiet voices Pete and Chance discussed what options were open as regards spirituous liquors and Chance opted for a hundred litres of the genever.

~o~O~o~

After the locals had gone home and the guests had retired to their rooms there were only Sasha, Pete and Gustav left in the taproom, Pete asked, “What do we need to discuss, Sasha?”

“You mind some time back I proposed trying to bring in some new businesses that will bring trade and money into the village. I now reckon we should be tracking down the ownership of and buying up all the old properties that have been empty for decades. Elle’s near enough bought up all the terraced properties behind the old allotments site that aren’t owner occupied, and she’s negotiating money on the few left that she hasn’t already bought. Buying them on behalf of the Bearthwaite Property Developments Company is no problem as they’re mostly worth bugger all, but modernising them will cost far more than the company has in the kitty. If need be Elle and I shall provide an interest free loan. I’m telt structurally they’re all in good condition, but many need new roofs before the rain gets into the brickwork and frost demolishes them, so it needs to be done quickly. Most of the houses not lived in are uninhabitable and Elle was right the owners want whatever they can get and are likely to settle for the site value which isn’t much. The good thing about them is they all have always had a right to a rent free full allotment plot(12) which transferred to the new allotment site. That will be of value to a lot of even our younger men and women. Any unused land round the village we need to look into too. We may as well because I can’t find a tailor who makes shrouds with pockets, and I’ll put the assets into the village trust.

“We need a good solicitor to handle it all, one with commitments to the village. I’ve had Sam Shaw do a little digging for me and that trans girl Adalheidis Maxwell trained and qualified as a solicitor, but due to bigotry and manipulation she left Cartmell Shepherd and now works as an office junior in a place where the money is abysmal and the working conditions worse, but there is no problem about her being trans. We need to sound her out about moving here. Elle suggested that if Murray, Emily and Chance formed a Bearthwaite financial and legal services company she could join that and we’d pay them all out of the rents and other incomes from the community holdings. If at a later date we acquired other professionals like architects or structural engineers its remit could be expanded to include those as well. From what Sam found out Adalheidis is a bright, decent lass who has been pushed to the end of her tether, possibly beyond it. As a result she over reacts and is seen by some as a stroppy mare, but that’s just a front to hide her insecurities and pain. Sam is worried about her and wants permission to approach her with an offer of a job and accommodation to come back to here after she has her GRS. Apparently she’s having that in a few weeks in London and Sam says with a decent future to look forward to her recovery, physical as well as mental, will be a lot faster and probably a lot better too. As Sam put it, ‘She’s a born and bred Cumbrian, Sasha, and won’t do well else where, so bringing here as soon as possible would be doing her and us a favour.’ I reckon Sam knows what she’s talking about, so I said I’d speak to you tonight and let her know tomorrow. However, I want a back up plan. To start with, she can have the flat Stephanie occupied in the old vicarage, but it’ll take time for her registration with the law society to come through so she can operate on her own as a solicitor. Will you give her a job as a barmaid if I can’t find anything else?”

“No need, Sasha. I need a couple of office staff at the brewery. I’ll give her a job for as long as she needs it. I’ve already been approached by a couple of young women who are interested in the jobs and am meeting them on Tuesday, but the finances will stand an extra office worker, and after all this is exactly why we set up the brewery isn’t it? To provide locals with employment and make every one’s lives better.”

Pete nodded at Gustav’s words and said, “I always did reckon my lass did all right with you, Son.”

Sasha said, “I’ll ring Sam when I get home, Gustav. However, one more thing. That Jeremy Caldbeck who telt a tale early on tonight. He said he was a chef with a small restaurante near Kendal, but was hoping to expand in maybe a year when he had enough money saved. I wondered at the time if he’d consider relocating to here, home and restaurante both. He seemed a decent man. I suggest we ask Gladys, Harriet and Elle what they thought about his wife. If they fit, a high class restaurante couldn’t help but bring trade and money here. Obviously from what he said about the food he cooks he’s flexible. We’re not cut off from outside for much of the year, and like many of us he may appreciate the odd break from working every now and again. We’ve certainly got enough empty buildings in good repair for him to have a choice to suit whatever ambiance he feels is appropriate for a clientele he described as courting couples or married couples wanting a bit of romance. The old granary opposite the church may be a good choice, and the ground floor [US 1st floor] could certainly seat fifty diners in the comfort one would expect from a silver service restaurante. And of course he would need staff which would be employment and training opportunities for our youngsters who could then find higher paying employment than fast food places when they move away for university or the like. I understand he’s booked in for two nights, so if we ask the womenfolk tonight and that is okay you could speak to him tomorrow, Pete.”

“Okay, Sasha. Gustav, you anything to add?”

“Other than that we tell him any agreement would have to be subject to the usual business checks and the properties would be rented for our usual twelve month initial term to give both them and us an exit if required in a year’s time. He seemed a reasonable man with a good sense of humour able to laugh at himself, but I’d like to know what his and his wife’s views are on members of the LGBT before offering him anything. Presumably he is aware that Harriet is trans, so we’re part of the way there, but there are a disproportionate number of the LGBT who live here because it’s safe. We need to know what his and his wife’s feelings are concerning that. We have enough problems without importing any more.”

Sasha nodded in agreement and Pete said, “Maybe it would be better, Sasha, if you spoke to him tomorrow. If that’s it I’m off to bed. Gladys went up as soon as they’d finished clearing up in the room.”

“I’ll lock up after Sasha goes, Dad. Goodnight.”

As Sasha left he said, “I’ll be round at nine, I’ll have a late breakfast here. Tell your dad. Goodnight, Gustav.”

1 Grike, a drainage channel cut into the verged so water can drain off the road. Also a gardening fork.
2 Force, this is an ancient use of the word. Used as a noun in this sense it means a powerful waterfall. There are any number of forces in northern England that are popular tourist destinations. Examples would be Aira Force and Force Jumb.
3 Twenty-eight second kerosene, a measure of viscosity used in the UK. It is based on the time taken for 50ml of kerosene to drip via an orifice of specified size under tightly specified conditions into a beaker below. Typically diesel is thirty-five second fuel.
4 A bottle, historically a bottle was a measure, and a bottle contained 1⅓ imperial pints, 26⅔ fluid ounces.
5 Yank, in the UK the term applies to all Americans and is applied equally indiscriminately to Canadians too.
6 Pear drops, a powerful smelling and tasting British boiled sweet whose main flavour is due to the esters isoamyl acetate and ethyl acetate. They are traditionally red and yellow, isoamyl acetate provides a banana like flavour and ethyl acetate a pear like flavour.
7 Neeps, Swedish turnips, swedes or rutabaga depending where you come from.
8 Tatties, potatoes.
9 Picasso, a variety of potato.
10 Oxy, oxy acetylene welding torch.
11 Owt anything
12 Nowt, nothing.
13 VAT, Value Added Tax. A UK tax of 20% on most goods levied at the point of sale. Intermediate users claim it back from His Majesty’s Revenue and Customs and charge their customer the tax on their sale price. The idea is only the end user should be paying the tax.
14 A full plot is ten poles, 302½ square yards, 252½ square metres,