“Ah’m not aal that superstitious really”, ah wer saying ter me mates Big Ron an’ Joe Sykes, fra safety o’ t’ snug at t’ Angel Inn – whilst outside t’ summer deluge continued f’ a worryin’ 39th day - “but Friday 13th has a certain spookyness abaat it, wouldn’t tha say?”
“Noooo!” says Big Ron adamantly. “Nobbut a fool worries abaat things ‘e can’t control! As me granny used ter say: ‘There's many a swollen acorn ‘at nivver touched a cow.'”
“Wot’s that mean?” ah says.
“aven’t a chuffin’ clue!” ‘e replies, “but she’d oft’ say it at times like these. Ah reckon Friday 13th is nowt mooare than psychological mumbo jumbo clap trap! Nowt dreadful ‘as happened t’day at aal!”
“Well not so far at least!” says Joe, wi mooare than a bit o’ uncertainty in ‘is voice.
“Noooo!” says Big Ron adamantly. “Nobbut a fool worries abaat things ‘e can’t control! As me granny used ter say: ‘There's many a swollen acorn ‘at nivver touched a cow.'”
“Wot’s that mean?” ah says.
“aven’t a chuffin’ clue!” ‘e replies, “but she’d oft’ say it at times like these. Ah reckon Friday 13th is nowt mooare than psychological mumbo jumbo clap trap! Nowt dreadful ‘as happened t’day at aal!”
“Well not so far at least!” says Joe, wi mooare than a bit o’ uncertainty in ‘is voice.
F’ a second, silence descended on t’ room like a party in a mortuary, an we each involuntarily held us breaths an’ waited ter see if fate would intervene. Appen we must ‘ave paused a tad too long coz just as we wer’ abaat ter breathe agayen, t’ door crashed open wi’ a ‘uge bang causin’ us ter nearly cack us sens. It wer a chuffin’ miracle we didn’t spill a drop o’ ale!
Kim Barningham stood theyer, framed in t’ doorway like summat aat o’a Frankenstein movie - ‘is lobsided eyes bulgin’ like Marty Feldman on steroids. “Ther’s trouble at t’ mill” e says beckonin’ at Big Ron wi ‘is overly long bony fingers.
Kim wer an unlucky lad; ‘e wer that ugly wen ‘e wer born that t’ midwife slapped ‘is mam. She said, ‘e’d fallen aat o’ t’ ugly tree an’ must ‘ave hit ivvery branch comin’ daan. In fact ‘e wer that gnarled an’ bent, fer a while theyer they didn’t kno if ‘e wor a little lad or a lass. It wer rumoured that ‘is mother refused ter breast feed ‘im, sayin’ “She just wanted to be friends”.
Onny road, Kim’s luck didn’t improve much as 'e grew. Fust ‘is imaginary friend ran away, then e'd lost one o’ ‘is ears in a ferreting accident an’ ‘ad ter have ‘is spectacles tied ter ‘is head wi one o’ ‘is mother's old stockings. Mind you, that nivver stopped ‘im going on ter mek t’ stool that Prince Phillip fell ovva, but that's another story.
Aat o’ pity like, wen ‘e wer’ old enough, Big Ron hired ‘im as an apprentice at High Fields Farm wayer aginst aal t’ odds ‘e thrived! In fact, ‘e wer allus willin’ ter do aal t’ jobs t’ other farm labourers wouldn’t touch. So in t’end, Big Ron developed a reight soft spot f’ pooer’ lad!
Aat o’ pity like, wen ‘e wer’ old enough, Big Ron hired ‘im as an apprentice at High Fields Farm wayer aginst aal t’ odds ‘e thrived! In fact, ‘e wer allus willin’ ter do aal t’ jobs t’ other farm labourers wouldn’t touch. So in t’end, Big Ron developed a reight soft spot f’ pooer’ lad!
“Appen ‘e’s as subtle as a bloody air raid” muttered Joe Sykes fra be’ind ‘is pint."
“So wots tha stressin’ abaat?” asks Big Ron.
“Oh” says Kim bashfully. “Excuse me Mr Barker (coz that wer is name like)... tis Chatterton. ’e’s off ‘is ‘ead agayen.”
Chatterton wer another one o’ Big Ron’s “not a full shilling” apprentices: ‘e wer a strappin’ lad – three shovel ‘andles across t’ shoulders, wi a birth mark like a winged cowpat on ‘is back. ‘e only ivver wore vest t-shirts wot ivver t’ weather – an’ walked wi a limp ivver since blowin’ three toes off ‘is left foot atter usin’ a loaded shotgun as a crutch in t’ Topcliffe Amateur Dramatics production o’ Treasure Island.
“Well” says Kim, “instead o’ workin’ reight thru terday like ‘e shudda, ‘e took ‘is sen off f’ a lunch time session at t’ Constipated Parrot!” (A dingy dirty inn frequented by layabaats, bitter old crumblies wi pipes, an anyone oo ‘ad no brass ooer sense o’ smell.) “Onny road, by chuckin’ aat time, seems ‘e wer roarin’ drunk an’ full o’ mischief. ‘e stole some white spirit fra Widow Minger’s art-studio an’ ‘eaded back ter Highfield Farm wayer ‘e cornered a couple o’ sheep an’ tried ter set ‘em alight.”
“E DID WOT?” Says Big Ron, Joe an’ me, in unison.
“Seems ‘e wer that under t' influence” continued Kim, “’e did mooare damage ter imsen than ter t’ pooer woolys, which reportedly ran abaat bleatin’ wildly wi their arse ends on fire creatin’ smoke trails like wounded spitfires! T’ commotion brought aat ‘alf t’ village. Appen t’ endless rain ‘elped in t’ end like. Chatterton wer later faand fast asleep behind t’ war memorial, wi ‘alf ‘is ‘air missing, ‘is eyebrows an’ eyelashes completely gone, an’ a burnt patch on ‘is chest resemblin’ another cowpat!”
“Well ah’ll go ter t’ foot o ‘our stairs” ah says. “Appen there’s summat ter aal them stories o’ bad luck on Friday t’13th atter aal.”
“Tha’s not wrong theyer” says Kim grinning broadly, “Widow Minger’s said she’ll turn a blind eye ter t’ theft charges if she can ‘ave Chatterton up at ‘er studio ivvry night f’ a month!”
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