The Squashed Man Who Married a Dragon (13 page)

Sitting in the lounge, Vicki on her couch, half hidden under a festering dark brown, multi shaped woolly cardigan thing, rather like being in the centre of a rotting coil of old rope. Suddenly this little ‘hair bun' puts down her granny specs, puts down her turned down mouth, drops her crossword and a shower of papers, and stands up.

Time to get ready time……we are going out to a party to night. Now it is time for me to keep clear, be out of the way! The bedroom and bathroom are off limits until she's finished.

In a clandestine way, I'm enjoying a steamy German love affair. Looking out through the lounge windows, I can see her posing on the drive. Every metallic curve of her sensuous dark blue body promises excitement and pleasure. For the most part she more than lives up to the joy of her responsive and eager ways. She does however have odd and quirky moments, something that was not explained to me, in the palatial, ceramic tiled Cathedral (big enough for weddings and receptions) where the deal was done. The smartly turned out reception girls, with their subtle but noticeable hidden assets, provided attention in abundance, coffee, tea, newspapers, you name it. Even beguiling me with information of special offers. ‘Re-gassing the air con' or ‘pre-holiday summer wheel check', after avoiding all, including ‘extended warranties, lifetime polishing protection, several other insurance add-on's'. I paid the final ransom monies, checked out the controls, etc., off I went on my way home.

Ignorant of the open secret, which I would never have guessed in a thousand years (yet known the world over to all V. W. owners). Prior to starting the car you have to touch the brake pedal! The next day I drove into town, I had to get the A. A. man out to restart the car. It was this enlightened and patient man who told me the secret. The second day of ownership, we went to the supermarket in the rain, the glass roof was slightly open so were the front windows, down an inch or two. Vicki went in to shop, whilst I tried to re-park, and sort things out. Nothing would work, ignition key would not turn, gear selector locked solid, brake pedal too, windows went up and down, in a fast vigorous way, in a demented world of their own.

I read the hand book but needed a week or two of careful study, this was a nightmare. Nearly in tears of frustration I sought out the ‘all knowing', would you like me to have a go? Marriage does not get much better than this! Giving her the keys I trudge up and down the aisle, in deep depression pushing my empty trolley, putting things in…. then taking them out again. Soon she is back…. . the ‘Smiling one'…waving the keys…all fixed!

Her logic and explanation is to – touch, turn, and press every single switch and button on the entire car, She is right as always. Don't get the wrong idea, I love this sexy coupe but now every time I get in, I touch the brake pedal, kiss the steering wheel, say a little prayer to people in Munich, fingers crossed, and God knows what else, and it works !

By now the bathroom could be back in use, going upstairs past the half open bedroom door, I see a vision. Sitting on the end of the bed, is Miss Lush Bod all legs, high heels and tiny underwear, there is my Dragon in seductive Goddess mode, painting her nails blood red! This is not the time……the bedroom is off limits but how can the same person I saw not too long ago, fossilising on her couch, now be……my favourite ‘Venus creature'?

Now it's my time, after shaving, showering, careful grooming and the all important dousing of after shave lotion,……. not my every day ‘Eruption' purchased from ‘La Lidl' for one euro fifty cents a 100 ml bottle. I am wearing the much more expensive one that Angela bought me for my birthday, ‘Use it Dad,' she commanded.

You would not believe it, the trousers I was going to wear, won't fit, the button just won't hold. Same with the jacket, shirts now half their normal size, how things shrink if you don't wear them all the time. Clothes pile up on the floor. At last I manage to get dressed, things perhaps not quite a perfect blend but there I am. Maybe a sort of ‘bargain offer' for some woman, somewhere.

Down below, in our little lounge, it's a different story, centre stage is the One. A heavenly body of pure gorgeousness, to say she brushes up well, is an understatement of gigantic proportions. Untouched by time, she looks fantastic. Her dress a simple tube type style that almost hides her figure, yet when she moves it outlines enough secret curves to cause an earthquake.

I put my arm around her waist, and feel how tiny and ultra thin is the material that separates us. In this laughing, happy mood she smiles at me…help, I need help, I am having romantic feelings. My problem is I'm just not going to win, I haven't the will, worse than that, we have done two whole days without guerrilla warfare of any sort.

It just cannot last, this is the lull before the storm, like a verbal lashing of monsoon proportions,……when it breaks, it will be hell! Going from extreme to extreme is painful, even in truce time. I could lose a few teeth and need the aid of a neck brace apart from that, we have been rubbing along rather nicely. So you see these are warm and welcoming waters but filled with stinging jellyfish and jagged rocks.

So long ago, the Romans had just left.

Two of my oldest and dearest friends, I've known them since we started school together in Sept 1949. Ron, Clive and I have kept up regular contact, going to each other's family do's and we always ring each other on Christmas Day. Checking on each other, are we still alive! But to hear again voices from school days, this means a lot to me, comparing our lives, our current ups and downs. When we left school, I bet we hadn't ten ‘O' levels between us, but it didn't stop those two becoming very successful in every way.

Ron was my best man back in 1963 – his corny joke about the three rings in marriage – the engagement ring, the wedding ring and the suffering! Now I understand, Ron. That day 29
^th
June, was cold, grey, wet and windy, marked by the Gods, surely some sort of dire warning in the storm clouds.

So we went ahead anyway, and we are still battling on. Although I don't normally admit it…. I know we have been very lucky with each other! I just said that!

Last time we met up – Clive noticed how I had shrunk, from my claimed five foot seven and three quarters of hunky man to an almost insignificant little pensioner. ‘What's happened' Clive said ‘is this due to the way Vicki treats you?' I nodded meekly, hoping perhaps he will say something to her in my defence – but even rough tough men of farming stock can feel intimidated by her.

Ron's advice was less subtle – show her who's boss – don't let her trample all over you. You've got to be firm, Tony! This is how it's done in St Asaph.

It's quite noticeable that a great number of couples, who married in the nineteen sixties are still together – more obstinate or durable than those who married later, who have a higher rate of attrition, and marriages yet later again – who knows what the state of play is!

Now in later life my sporting qualities begin to shine, I can outrun and faster too, Freddy and Spike, our young grandsons on their huge grass lawn area. Hours were spent kicking footballs, dribbling and shooting. Grandma bought a goalpost set for the serious goal-scoring bit.

Such is the love of these two boys for their old GP that if my shot at goal looked like it might miss, the goalposts were instantly moved to ensure this couldn't happen. Complete with cheers and praise. ‘Goal, Grandpa, Goal', one of the rewards of being ancient.

Kay Tattersall was a special lady – the widow of my Uncle John, someone I called to see three or four times a year, and like an oasis of calm – it was a pleasure to quietly and gently talk to someone, after a heavy hectoring and verbal lashing of the woman – who had promised to obey and cherish me, usually over nothing at all.

Now, Uncle John and his second wife Kay – lived in a very large red brick house – the largest on the avenue, with a garden like a small corporation park. Complete with a small hill – named ‘the mound' – tennis court and a separate garage complex the size of a spacious modern bungalow.

Possibly in order to feel that they were setting up house in their own home, or maybe simply to downsize – they had built for themselves a new house in the grounds of the old one. It was designed so that the rooms were high enough and large enough to take some of their fine furniture, their huge, but wonderful Welsh dresser, and a sort of bookcase/glass fronted sideboard with a tall imposing top.

Uncle John died after a series of prolonged strokes – but Aunty Kay stayed put, enjoying her extensive garden, with ‘Patch', a Jack Russell from the RSPCA for company. Kay was a demon for the Daily Telegraph crossword puzzle – these she completed every day in no time at all. Born in 1919, and now in the later years of her life, she had shrunk till you could almost blow her over.

Bright, on the ball, active and still driving her Volvo, she continued to organise and fundraise monies for the RSPCA.

The Aga was always mad hot, all year round, the kitchen very warm – put the round special Aga type kettle on and it boiled in seconds. Aunty Kay was the ultimate of polite hospitality – brought up in a world where manners and good behaviour were everything. Would I like tea or coffee? Out came the chocolate biscuits…‘go on have a second one', ‘I won't tell' were the ways she spoilt me.

We talked about all sorts of topics, after I had filled her in – regarding the latest cruelties inflicted upon me. Aunty Kay allowed herself one of the five cigarettes a day, these she would have as an elegant and semi-secretive smoke. She'd had some sort of cancer in the past – but had not become monastic in her ways.

In the lounge – with the wall of glass window – looking out on the garden – we chatted away, often she would produce some very old family letters – or maybe a book or papers of her late husband's family i.e. my mother's family too. These were family mementoes, Uncle John had looked after – now I became the custodian of photographs – very old ones, along with certificates, deeds, newspaper cuttings and oddities.

Suddenly Patch would bark like mad, if he heard a car coming down the drive – or even more so if he saw a squirrel in the trees next to the bird table, off he went like a rocket – barking away – erratically – coming back with little left over barks of indignation – before he settled down next to Kay.

In her family home – Rockmount – a stone built residence – high up on a bank – overlooking the Blackburn/Whalley road and the Wilpshire railway station. This was the home of George Hindle, Kay's father, one of the family of cotton merchants, his father started by renting one shed, and as the business grew they rented more of the mill, until all the mill, or possibly building a new one. They ended up with four or five mills in the Blackburn area. Kay as a young woman was training to be a physiotherapist and travelled into Blackburn each day, a two or three mile journey by train. Often the train driver would blow the whistle to hurry her up if he saw her on route to the station, and on at least one occasion he held the train back in the station until she made it to her carriage.

Her father would leave his car, possibly a Humber or Rover, on Richmond Terrace, unlocked all day – so that when Kay had finished whatever she was doing – she would walk across town to the car, climb in and read until her father appeared, ready to go home. At some stage he was chauffeur driven; and his daughter was a career girl, although not entirely new, they were fairly few of them.

One of the stories; a family legend – perhaps – that happened about the turn of the century concerned young Gwendolyn, who was courted by her would be suitor, Archibald. Very much in love, they had reached the serious stage where they longed to become engaged, way before Archibald could ask for her hand in marriage – those long protracted courting/engagement periods had to be enacted. Gwendolyn – choosing the right moment, she hoped – asked her father for permission to become engaged. ‘No' his reply ‘quite out of the question, far too young to have such notions'.

Six months or so passed – the eager couple once again desperate to become engaged. So Gwendolyn sought out her father to ask him again, alas the same reply.

Nearing Christmas, their patience by now stretched nearly to breaking point, with thoughts of engagement, never mind marriage and a love nest of their own, almost beyond possibility.

Gwendolyn – found her father in the library, plucking up courage she faced him again – ‘When, father, when can we become engaged, we love each other very much' reluctantly and under pressure – for he loved his youngest daughter very much too – he said maybe – meaning yes – next year. A few days later she simply had to know – when in the next year? Did he mean the New Year? Questioned by ‘Gwennie' – father said with an expression of humour – ‘Spring time, how's that?' She must have thrown her arms around him perhaps kissing him on the cheek – ‘one last question, father, when in Spring do you mean?' Ah, he thought…‘Well…. perhaps when you can say Spring is here – is when the daffodils are out'.

Full of the joyful news, she must have told ‘Archie'…. . when the daffodils are out…. . we can tell the world and become engaged. Sometime after in the New Year – on an often used footpath – Archibald – passed a farm on a route he travelled a little infrequently, suddenly in the front window of this farmhouse was a bowl of daffodils. Archibald couldn't really believe what he was seeing, he knocked on the front door to be greeted by an irate farmer, trying to have a short nap – was that really a bowl of daffodils in the front window. Aye, it was – so what…Archie told his story and how at last this omen could open life up for their engagement. The farmer said he always had forced early indoor grown daffodils – and wished him all the best.

Archie walked Gwen round to see the lucky blooms for herself, whether they took father as well or perhaps he already knew, I don't know.

It's almost the sort of story Hollywood could have produced a musical around.