Tardy An’ T’ Ex-Reverend

T' other day, me an mi mate Joe Sykes, wer' enjoyin’ a reight pleasant stroll in t' warm evenin' sun along t' side o' t' Cleckhuddersfax canal, when in t' distance cum a vision o' a man weavin' abaat fra left ter right like an angry blue bottle baancin' between two parallel panes o' invisible glass. Ivvery few feet 'e wud veer wildly fra t' bushes an' wall on one side o' towpath, ter watters edge on t' other, an’ then back agayen. Mutterin' an chunterin' ter ‘im sen like a demented friar, 'e'd clearly bin in a monumental battle wi' t' demon drink, an’ lost! It wer' a blessed miracle 'e 'adn't fallen in.

As 'e drew closer, ah wer' marvellin’ ter me sen 'ow sum in-built sense o' preservation wer' drivin' 'im on like a mentally deranged homein' pidgeon, whilst in a similar way ter 'ow me mate Big Ron wud get a sow back to 'er stye using wooden boards, an invisible pair o' angelic 'ands wer' preventin’ ‘im takin' an early bath! 

Ah wer' totally lost in this thowatt, wen Joe says ter t' approaching 'uman cyclone: "Ey up - tha’s swayin’ a bit lad. Ast tha bin on t’ communal wine agayen?"

Lookin' up in surprise 'e says, "Oh, ey up lad. Ah didn't see thee theyer!" An' pausing slightly ter correct sum o’ t’ slurring in ‘is words an’ collect 'is thowatts fra canal bottom, continued, "Aye, well, Sunday. Nowt better ter do nowadays. So sometimes ah ‘ave ter commune wi' t' holy spirit tha kno’s."

"Appen tha's got up close an’ personal like!” says Joe reeling backwards from t' alcoholic smog rising up fra t' stranger.  

"But it's only Saturday!" ah says wi aat thinkin'.

"Is it?" 'e says lookin’ at me thru eyes that wer' independently trying ter get of 'is 'ead in different directions. "Really?"

"Yeah" says Joe an' me in unison, winning t’ olympic gold in synchronised smirkin’.

"Bugger!" 'e says. "Appen ah'll 'ave ter di it aal agayen tomorrow."  

"Well careful, tha dunt tek a nose dive in ter one o' them locks", says Joe. "If tha falls in theyer, tha'll not bite tha nails agayen!"

"Ah'll be reight!" 'e says. "Ah've bin walkin' this 'ere canal since ah wer' knee ‘igh ter a grass 'opper, an thanks ter t’ good Lord, ah 've not fallen in it yet! Appen ah'll sithee anon." 

An wi a dismissive backward wave o' is 'and, ‘e carried on 'is sway-ward journey - still mutterin’ ter 'im sen as 'e went. "O’ course it ‘elps if sum bugger’s lurcher dunt nab off wi' tha shepherds crook walkin’ stick, wen tha back is turned takin’ a whizz in t’ canal. Ah bloody ‘ate dogs ah do. T’ animals raand 'ere 'ave no consideration f' people, nooer onny personal standards neither!"

As ‘e staggered off, ‘is diatribe continued unabated but Joe an’ me ‘ad stopped listenin’. "Tardy!" we says together, lookin’ a tad concerned!

Tardy wer' Joe's agein' an’ scruffy lookin’ lurcher, rescued fra a greyhound centre atter a life o' cruelty an' 'ardship several years earlier. She wer' a beautiful, gentle an' attentive dog, mild natured an' lovin' -  as long as tha weren't a cat or a rabbit. In which case, tha 'ad ter be bloody fast ooer lucky. She so rarely did aat wrong at aal that a bond o’ trust 'ad developed between t' dog an' Joe. As a result, Tardy wer' often let off ‘er lead ter go explorin' t' cannal bankin' by 'er sen - an' like a ghost wud magically disappear an’ reappear at will, ooer wen called.

"Does tha often get lurchers prowlin' ter canal banks o’ Cleckhuddersfax waitin' ter mug innocent passersby fooer theyer walkin’ sticks?" ah asked Joe.

"Stranger things ‘ave bin known", says ‘e, not really believin’ ‘is own words like.

"Well in that case appen ther's a high probability that yon pooch 'as nobbled yer man theyer! Does tha want ter say summat ter ‘im or does tha want ter wait until 'e's aat o' sight afore we find aat? Ah tek it tha knows ‘im onnyroad?”

“Ah do. But not closely like. That wer’ t’ ex Reverend Toucher” says Joe, “not a man ter get riled up. So ah reckon we shud wait a few minutes like. We cud be doin' Tardy a disservice by assumin' she's guilty when she's not! Besides, if ‘e’s ‘eadin’ ‘ome, pooer sod’s going in t’ wrong direction - so ‘e’s baand ter cum back this way eventually.”

"Ok" ah says. "We'll park us arses daan on ter lock gate until Tardy shows up. “Nah tha did say ‘e wer’ t’ ex Reverend? Do tell us mooar.”

“Aye, f’ years ‘e wer’ t’ vicar ooer summat daan in Slawit. But ‘e started drinkin’ heavily at t’ Twitchin’ Pig an’ suppin’ aal t’ communal wine on a Sunday. Appen, as ‘is drinkin’ increased ‘e got mooar an’ mooar disturbed, upsettin’ most people at one time ooer another. Mostly thru suddenly running up an’ shrieking at them ooer pokin’ ‘em in t’ ribs wi ‘is shepherds crook walkin’ stick.

Ah remember this one Sunday in church, when old Mrs Doodle wer queuing ter tek communion – as she tried ter get daan on her knees ter tek t’ holy bread, she let aat t’ loudest bum parp ah’ve ivver heard fra that day ter this. It echoed raand t’ alter an’ ricocheted off t’ ancient stone walls f’ wot seemed like an eternity. Ther’ wer’ a moment o’ perfect silence afore Porky Branning spat aat ‘is false teeth an’ howled wi laughter.  T’ whole congregation then collapsed in ter a helpless mass o’ hysterics until t’ Reverend screamed fra t’ pulpit, ‘GOD DOESN’T FIND FARTING FUNNY!’ and a few minutes later ‘I DON’T MIND HOW LONG I STAY HERE!’  Ah reckon, p’rhaps ‘e used ter be a teacher. O’ course this did absolutely nowt ter help an’ in fact only served ter throw fuel on t’ fire o’ merriment!

Rumour ‘as it that ‘e wer’ eventually defrocked wen ‘e wer caught introducing t’ game o’ Pooh Sticks ter t’ choir.

A few days later sum o’ t’ mooar senior villagers broke into t’ church an’ faand sum peculiar things. T’ big Bible in t’ pulpit had had t’ middle removed an’ contained a half bottle o’ whiskey, several empty pill boxes an’ a loaded revolver; t’ parish record books wer’ mostly blank apart fra a few pages which contained crude sketches o’ animals; and aal t’ robes in t’ vestry cupboard had gone. In their place was a suspender belt an’ a fireman’s helmet. Ther’ wer’ also several copies o’ Ooh Sir! laying araand t’ office  - which mysteriously disappeared later. Ah personally reckon t’ nun’s took ‘em.

Onnyroad, t’ pooer sod ‘as nivver moved on since  - an’ by aal accounts nah preaches ter anyone oo’ll listen daan at t’ Twitching Pig. Tis aal very sad!”

Ah wer’ trying ter think o’ summat sagely wise ter say in answer ter this tragic tale wen suddenly I felt t’ familiar feelin’ o’ a cold wet nose against t’ inside o’ me thigh. Lookin’ daan, ah saw Tardy waitin’ expectantly – wi a shepherds crook walkin’ stick layin’ at ‘er feet.  Once agayen she’d managed t’ materialise wi aat us noticin’.

“Appen theyers no doubt abaat havin’ a thief in us midst nah” ah says ter Joe. “Wot ivver shall we do?”

In answer, an’ wi a determined look on ‘is face, Joe jammed t’ shepherds crook walkin’ stick in ter a hole in one o’ t’ lock stones, wayer it cudn’t be missed by onny passersby. He then got an old bettin’ slip aat o’ ‘is pocket an’ scribbled a note on t’ back o’ it. Finally he attached it ter t’ stick wi a bit a Double Spearmint chewing gum ‘ed been savin’ behind ‘is ear f’ a few hours.

T’ note said, “Who so ivver shall removeth t’ walkin stick fra this stone, shall enter t’ Kingdom o’ Heaven forgiven o’ aal sins!”

“Theyer,  that shud do it”, says Joe stepping back. “Appen ‘e’ll find this on ‘is way ‘ome an’ be chuffed as mint balls!”

“God-smacked?” ah offered.

“‘e might even think ‘e’s got redemption an’ turn ova a new leaf?” says Joe. “Nah wudn’t that be grand?!”

Ah ‘ave ter say that ter thowatt o’ t’ ex Reverend bein’ given a second chance in life warmed me little  ‘eart  as ah made me way back ter Topcliffe later that night. In fact t’ followin’ morning whilst readin’ t’ early edition o’ t’ Yorkshire Prophet, ah wer’ still picturin’ ‘is smilin’ face upon bein’ reunited wi’ ‘is beloved shepherds crook walking stick on t’ banks o’ t’ Cleckhuddersfax canal.

Ah wer’ thus mooar than a gnats teken aback wen ah read abaat ‘ow, only minutes atter we’d seen ‘im, ‘e’d battered ter deeth t’ landlord o’ t’ Twitching Pig - oo ‘ad simply offered ter sell ‘im a lurcher puppy!