1972: Made in Yorkshire, #3

Warning

This book will contain large numbers of colloquialisms, phrases, and sayings that apparently make no sense at all. I assure you, I’m not utterly insane. That’s really how some of us speak in Yorkshire.

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Find out what happens to Richard Warren as soon as you can in James Farner’s Made in Yorkshire series.

Prologue

The orchestra played their well-rehearsed notes. They played Beethoven, Mozart, and other classical pieces from down the centuries. Rows of students, some dressed in suits and some dressed in casual wear, watched on respectfully. This was the Oxford University Music Society. Founded in 1872, it had played host to thousands of students throughout its history.

Applause and more applause came. The music wasn’t of a professional standard, but everyone clapped, regardless, as the musicians plonked their instruments down. The Sheldonian Theatre erupted into a chaotic mix of feet shuffling across floors and people beginning conversations anew.

Ghastly performance, one student remarked to a friend.

Agreed, Rufus, another student said.

I don’t know why we keep coming here. Father always said the Sheldonian Theatre was the heart of music in Oxford. If this is the heart of Oxford, I’m ashamed to be a student at this university. Perhaps Cambridge was the superior option after all? said Rufus Camberwell.

Both students straightened their ties as they agreed with each other. The orchestra disappeared to take a break before the second part of the concert began.

My father convinced me to come to Oxford instead of Cambridge. He said Cambridge had gone downhill. You shouldn’t regret your decision to come here. This is the best the country has to offer.

Harvard or a European university might have been better for me. Sometimes I regret taking my seat in the House of Lords so early. I suspect it has unnecessarily hindered me. What do you think, Johnson?

Come now, we’re only here for the degree. I sometimes wonder why our class has to come to university. We were set for life when we were born, said Johnson.

The two students watched the crowd amble across the hall and back in again. Christopher Wren’s design reminded Rufus of Rome; after all, it was designed based on a theatre built in the time of the Roman Empire. He’d always said Wren had done the right thing in breaking away from Britain’s Gothic style of architecture. He’d be ashamed to see such a terrible orchestra playing within his creation.

I’m tired of this, Johnson. We should go. I have little interest in listening to amateur musicians butcher every classical piece ever composed.

They rose and negotiated the groups of chatting students, out of the hall and into the cold sunlight again. The Bodleian Library’s spires overshadowed the theatre’s façade. It was quiet out here; silent, in fact.

So, how many years do you have left? said Rufus.

One after this. I will be sad to see you go. If only you could have stayed another year. You are only nineteen. Most students will be in their second year now.

Father thought I was too intelligent to go to university any later. I’m inclined to agree with him. The mathematics lectures here are barely a challenge.

Johnson chortled at this. My God, Rufus, you are unbelievable. Your father is a smart man and has surely made the right decision. There is indeed no sense in waiting.

Correct, said Rufus. The world is changing and it’s about time I did something. The upper class lifestyle is tiresome. I don’t understand how our class can sit on its haunches and let the world go by. We’re being eroded at every turn, or so father always said. The Lords is full of fat decaying laggards sleeping in the chamber. It’s a complete waste of time. I rarely turn up myself these days. If I wanted an unintelligent debate on the issues of the day, I would speak to one of my servants.

Rufus and Johnson walked on, with Rufus leading. Whenever something upset him he would head for the University Parks, a public park but home to the cricket club. He always liked to wander amongst the rare plants the university had placed there. It was the only place where he could be free from the bent ears of servants and lapdogs.

So how is your father? said Johnson. Last I heard, he had gout.

He’s had gout for a long time now. He’s barely worth remaining in this world any longer. Most of the time, he will lie in bed and ring a bell whenever he wants the servants. It was rather silly in the end. Still, he wasn’t helped by his leg.

Ah, yes, his leg. You told me about that once. Didn’t someone shoot him in your home?

Indeed. One of the tenants he was about to evict dressed up in some war uniform and managed to sneak past the servants. I wasn’t there at the time, but according to father’s butler, he came into the dining room and tried to blackmail him. In the end, he shot him and ran away. They never caught him, but I heard he died afterwards. Old beggar deserved nothing more.

Agreed.

Still, his leg never did heal. He’s practically bedridden now. If I couldn’t walk, I’d ask to be put down. A man’s legs are the most important part of him. Without them, he’d best fall on his own sword.

Well, almost the most important part, said Johnson.

Rufus burst into laughter. It was thick, yet smooth. Very droll, Johnson.

Rufus led them through the gate to the University Parks and approached the curiously named Duck Pond, where no ducks were ever found. Sitting on a nearby park bench, they clasped their hands in their laps and watched, waiting for something neither of them knew about.

Rufus always preferred the sound of silence. Music bothered him. It was too invasive. It felt like something trying to get inside his mind and force his own thoughts away. He always had to stay on top. It was his duty—no, his right—to be the dominant party in any relationship, and that included his relationship with music.

Will you be dining with us tonight, Rufus? said Johnson.

Of course. I wouldn’t miss a meeting of the Bullingdons. Meetings are so rare these days. I have no idea why the university keeps attempting to suspend us. We are the only club with any class whatsoever.

And when you graduate?

Graduation. One of the youngest students to graduate. It will be interesting. At the moment, I intend on returning to my family home in Yorkshire. Camberwell House needs renovations. My father let it fall apart during his time. As the new Lord Camberwell, I will have to uphold a certain reputation. I may take over the family business or enter politics. Imagine me as the Prime Minister.

Get a hold of yourself. I couldn’t even begin to imagine you running the country.

That backwards fool Edward Heath doesn’t know what he’s doing. I would finish the trade unions in six months. Perhaps one day I will become Prime Minister. Until then, there are more important matters to attend to.

Rufus didn’t yet know what these important matters were. He was only a minor lord at the moment. The baby of the house acted as a curiosity at best. Piquing the interest of Johnson like this was always worth the entertainment, though.

You want to know what these matters are, don’t you? Rufus rose from the bench and made to explore the rest of the park.

Johnson nodded.

Rufus let out a small smirk. You’ll have to find that out, I’m afraid.

Rufus. Johnson ran after him as he strode off. I was wondering if you weren’t too busy I could visit Camberwell House after I graduate. You know, we could reminisce about old times.

He allowed himself the most generous smile he could possibly muster. Of course, my dear fellow. I’m sure we could find you a suitable room.

Rufus had no intentions of allowing Johnson into his home. Johnson was nothing but a lackey, and no more than a glorified servant. He only tolerated his presence because he agreed with everything he said. The only reason he was at Oxford was because his father was a businessman who struck it lucky. There was nothing he despised more than new money. The old money classes were the established, and they were the true rulers of what remained of the British Empire. Boys like Johnson needed to know their place.

Chapter One

The year was 1972 and the world was awash with colour. The grey slacks and brown jackets had finally died an ignominious death. Miniskirts, platform shoes, and bright trousers accompanied practically anyone who wanted to fit in. The British youth had liberalised and the old ways were fading into history textbooks.

Richard Warren leaned against a fence, looking out onto a frozen field. Winter was melting in Yorkshire and the spring flowers were preparing to bloom again. The rolling green hills already started to break into bright and bold colour. He was eighteen and only months away from nineteen. The idea of becoming a proper adult didn’t appeal to him in the slightest.

A couple of years ago, his parents had thrown him out into the real world. He had no money. He had no home. He had no career. In fact, his home of Ledder Bridge was only a few miles down the road. By chance, he had encountered the son of a local farmer called Chris Spencer. He’d offered him the chance to stay with them for a few days before he moved on to Ripon and down to Harrogate. A long time later and he was still here.

Chris climbed on the fence and sat on top of the moist wood. You not doing anything today?

Richard shook his head. Nope. Nothing today.

You know you’re going to have to go at some point, don’t you? You can’t stay with us forever. My parents are alright for money, but you’re almost like a son to them now.

I know. Richard gave him a warning look. I just don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t go home yet. My da’ will kill me.

Dad would kill him if ever knew his first foray into adulthood had only taken him down the road. And that was nothing compared to what Mum would do to him. He suspected it was his mother who brought the idea of him leaving home up in the first place. She seemed too eager to get rid of him on the day he left.

Richard had avoided Ledder Bridge ever since. He didn’t want to look at it again. His friends who were still there could help him, but he didn’t want them to find out what he was doing, either. He knew they would tell his parents about his scam, and then he would be for it.

Come on then, Rich, it’s bloody freezing out here. Chris tapped him on the shoulder of his jacket.

Aye, you’re right. Not as if there’s anyone around today anyway.

You’ve not seen Anna lately?

Christ, you’re always on about her. No, she doesn’t come round here much. She’s normally in Ripon with her dad at their paper.

I keep telling you to ask her dad if he’ll get you a job. Then you could get paid and get your own place to live, said Chris as they walked down the dividing path between two of his family’s fields.

He won’t have me. Last time he saw me, I got the sack because I started talking to the wrong people.

Get Anna to do it. He’ll listen to her.

No chance. He’s a stubborn old bastard, said Richard.

Chris sighed and put his hands in his pockets as they walked towards the vast farmhouse next to one of the Spencer family’s fallow fields. It was less like a farmhouse and more like a palace. The Spencers had been here for years and had steadily taken over more and more land. They had workers toiling in their fields during the summer. Students and backpackers passing through would often take on temporary work for a small wage before they moved on again. It was twice the size of Richard’s home in Ledder Bridge.

The two boys went inside the house to find Chris’s mother Judith, or ‘Judy’ as she made everyone call her, stirring a pot of stew. The mix of meat and potatoes simmering in a steaming broth made the house smell like they could eat the whole thing, curtains and all.

When’s dinner, Mum? Richard heard Chris say from the hallway.

He didn’t hear the answer. Richard wasn’t hungry anyway, but he had to eat whenever they did. The only reason he could stay here so long was because his parents took a strange liking to him. He wasn’t sure what he had done, but it worked. He wouldn’t jeopardise that by questioning their rules.

He followed Chris into the kitchen. Is dinner ready soon, Judy?

Almost, love. It’s stew today. That’s alright, isn’t it?

Yeah, it smells nice.

By the way, love, have you seen that nice girl?

Anna, Chris butted in.

Anna, yes, that’s the one. You should bring her round for tea. There’s plenty for her.

Richard’s cheeks turned pink. He willed his face to stop changing colour. It never did seem to obey him.

Look, he’s getting embarrassed. Chris laughed at him.

Shut up, I’m not.

Yeah, you are. Look, Mum, he’s blushing.

You leave him alone. Judy handed Chris his bowl of stew and waggled her tea towel at him. She’s a nice girl.

Chris treated him like his brother Peter always had done. Richard was a few years older than Chris, yet he still felt like the little brother. The balance of power had been this way since he’d started to live here. Hitting him wasn’t an open as a guest.

They ate and slurped their stew quickly and departed to get on with their own activities without any further mention of Anna Perris. Chris often spent his time outside with the animals. Unlike his dad’s farm, the Spencer farm reared animals out in their grounds at the back. They had a small flock of sheep, about three cows, and countless chickens. Richard often wondered – and quipped – whether Chris was going to marry one of his dear chickens instead of another human being. He did have a funny look about him.

These days, Richard sat around and did nothing. His thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone for long enough to do anything else. Whether it was Peter’s last words in London or Anna’s latest conversation, or even Mr. Warner or Ginger, there was nothing he could do to escape them. He was a writer by trade, but he hadn’t completed anything in months. There was nothing but snippets and blank pages, like the thoughts of a dying man unfinished.

He was starting to feel like Peter. All Peter had done at home was stare at the ceiling.

Richard had once said, All you do is lay there and do nothing. You’re just lazy.

Peter replied with a prompt punch on the arm, if he was in one of his bad moods.

Now Richard was doing the same thing. If he knew how to draw, he could easily sketch out every facet of the ceiling’s texture. He lay there and thought and watched, listening to every small sound coming from downstairs. For a time, he dozed, flittering between his thoughts and reality.

Chris didn’t return to the bedroom until sometime later. They shared the same room. He was barefoot and had his jeans rolled up to his knees. Specks of mud sprinkled the bottom of them. Chris always smelled like he’d been sleeping with the animals.

Oi. Chris nudged him with his knee. You seen Anna?

Don’t ask dumb questions. You know I haven’t.

I have. He danced to the other side of the bedroom. I have just now. Shame you weren’t there or you could have talked to her as well.

Richard sprang off the bed. Where was she?

Outside on the road at the back. She was walking home and she called in for a few minutes.

Did she ask about me?

No, your girlfriend didn’t ask about you.

She’s not my girlfriend, he said, louder than he expected.

Chris snickered at him in that childish way he hated. Chris was smaller than him, but squat and strong from all the labouring he did on the farm.

So what was she saying? said Richard.

Thought she wasn’t your girlfriend? Chris busied himself with his clothes drawer.

She’s not.

Then what does it matter to you?

We’re friends only.

Friends only. Right. Fine. I see the way you’re always looking at her. You always go red when you see her or someone talks about her. If I read that book of yours, I bet it would be full of love poems about her.

Richard flushed. His writing book wasn’t full of love poems, but he didn’t like Chris thinking it was all the same. Chris bustled past him with a new pair of socks and sat on the bed.

So what were you talking about? said Richard..

Just stuff. She was late for something, apparently, so she went away quick. She’ll be back sometime. We’ve only just had winter. You know most people don’t come out in the winter. Most of the roads round here are mud. How’s she going to walk around with those platforms of hers? Wait until it gets warmer and you’ll see her again.

He wanted to see her now. Spring was too far away. He wanted to talk to her. Just to be within inches of her. There was something about that girl he didn’t understand. He dreamt of the kisses they’d had in Mr. Daligi’s café in London, and the time they’d shared in her flat in Battersea. He wanted it all back.

Write a few poems for her, in the meantime.

Richard lashed out with a fist, but Chris was too quick and darted