The Squashed Man Who Married a Dragon (7 page)

Beautiful women were not put on this earth just to do housework, a view firmly held by both of us. Surely, possibly a little housework, just to show willing wouldn't be amiss. Only when spiders trip over their own webs and mice petition for dust free footpaths does she notice it's time to clean. Still not acted on unless friends are due for a dinner party or an evening with the book club members is very close, and then panic, a quick whip round with the duster.

You could help – hoover the lounge, don't forget to move the furniture – she barks. I don't mind co-operating after all there are times when she helps me, but couldn't we have a distinctive and appealing uniform, something to encourage us to do this on a regular and organised basis. Me in a sort of boiler suit in pale grey almost military in style – and sweetness and light could have a very attractive short tunic to help with the stretching and bending complimented by fishnet stockings, perhaps.

This is a woman whose known powers are awesome, with more yet to be discovered. She has been known to shout at large untidy Alsatians, and making them cry. One careless look could curdle the five thousand gallons carried in a large milk tanker. But her party piece, only rarely witnessed, except at garden teas and village fetes – when the English Summer is really here, and people are out enjoying afternoon tea gathered round a table with plates of sponge cake, scones and jam. Suddenly a wild stinging wasp dive bombs the table – people panic, chairs are upturned, tea spilt, with arms flapping everywhere – then the voice fit to command says ‘Let it settle – don't move' almost immediately the obedient wasp finds the jam. The scene is then set for an event rarely seen but remembered for ever afterwards. The arm of authority stretches out over the table, a beautiful slim wrist with jewelled bracelet, complete with a dainty hand and blood red nail varnish, closing in slowly on the wasp,……. then it pounces, between thumb and finger the wasp is caught – before it has time to decide to sting or not, it's squeezed to death and in a final flourish, dropped into the ashtray. The effect on people ranges from deep gratitude to sheer intimidation. Normal practice – bog standard to a woman with dark and satanic powers. Imagine the carnage this woman could inflict on an eager husband brave enough to jump into bed in only his birthday suit – without the protection of his jim-jams.

This curious woman holds the strong belief that you don't need to do the cleaning yourself, if you have the right products. This means buying, and storing, thousands upon thousands of bottles, tins, sprays, polishes, wipes, mops, etc., each with its promise of a quick and easy life is enough, instantly banishing all germs and grime for ever is guaranteed. Open any of our cupboard doors, under the sink, the stairs, in the garage, upstairs in the bathroom cabinet or airing cupboard are hiding thousands of products. Why should she need to lift a finger with this army of powerful helpers?

In December, after numerous requests by me, desperate to know what she wants for her Christmas present, – ‘Oh, I don't know, I'm okay when I know I'll tell you' – such is her deep gratitude. I hate wasting money and for a woman who has everything, it's fatal for me to buy most things especially clothes, I learnt this years ago even if they did fit – ‘you should know I'd never wear that'. She doesn't eat chocolate so that's out – and to open presents followed by a deathly silence and false, forced thank you is too painful to bear.

So Christmas nearly here and only a book on sale or return and a bumper magazine of quiz questions, in my armoury of presents, she finds an advert in a free newspaper for electrical steam cleaners, at one of the German low cost supermarkets – the hand held size which looks terrific is around thirty pounds and the long handled even better, deluxe multi uses it is, of course, a lot more…. Which?…. at last one could be the present to buy……summoned to her presence – which I ask? seeking guidance. ‘Both, she cries – both…. Get down to Li…. . at crack of dawn tomorrow before they are all sold out'.

Next morning I drive into the deserted car park, not a soul on site. I watch the dawn, and the first rays of light, and people are still sleeping, the stores lights go on at last. . . First into the store in a crowd of three – I search for the steam cleaners. Nowhere can I see them, Oh no, a word with the manager then lo and behold great stacks of them that were hiding when I walked in. I get home with one of each, wrap them in Christmas paper – what good ‘surprise' presents these are! Nine months later the first box was opened, the hand held cleaner was used on the shower tiles for nearly a minute – over a year later I don't think the other has seen the light of day yet.

David and Christine moved into the next house to ours on the same day we moved into Nooks. That was 44 years ago. As friends and neighbours you couldn't get better ones. Although I must say David was different – he had a collection of old vintage Alvis. To him taking camshafts out, swapping cogs in the gearbox, all those technical sort of difficult and complicated things were second nature to this gifted man.

This is a man I know, who, when he was a boy ran around Harle Syke without under pants. This was not a once only event, rather a daily occurrence. To us, this is his claim to fame. He could have been unique in Harle Syke or maybe they all did that! (I must find out).

Before I even knew our man, he had owned a Jaguar X K 150, and in the early days of our friendship, he was still part owner of a night club in Wakefield. His main occupation was that of an architect, with his practice in Clitheroe, when he settled in Stonyhurst.

Whisper his name quietly, my friend and neighbour of over forty years, David Sunderland is a man of many talents, modest and quietly spoken, with interests far and wide. His vintage Alvis cars, Jaguars, transatlantic thirty-eight foot yacht, homes spread over three countries, a property portfolio, and a mill owner. What hasn't he got or done? All in an almost hidden way.

Now to the ‘nitty gritty'. I remember an occasion, when David and I went to see the God Father ( Marlon Brando ). For weeks after I went round speaking in a strangled Mafia whisper!

Halfway through, where the horses head is cut off and slid into someone's bed, I looked down to find David clutching my hand. He is always pretending that I had grasped his hand first,…. nonsense. Obviously this was a fear related thing, no more than that. In the pitch black as long no one noticed, we more or less got away with it! But on the way home, we stopped off for a drink, the only people, at a small table, in an empty bar. Later, after this place had been closed down, we learn it had a reputation that might have been a little difficult for us to explain away to inquisitive wives, two men on a night out!…. Not quite the right place for two budding Mafiaso men.

Vicki and I have, probably had more meals at the Sunderland home, than anywhere else. Christine is a Sagittarian like me, under-rated but a real gem! David plays the Guitar in a musical way, country western and folk, he even sings, sort of…….

This ‘no under pants thing', puzzles me…was it a badge of hard times valiantly endured perhaps? Still it did not stop them having three fine boys. Mathew the eldest is doing something with films and TV, Edward, our godson, the most laid back person you'll ever meet, lives in France and Diddy is amassing wealth so fast, it's making bankers feel insecure.

Now I think I have fathomed the truth about the lack of under wear. North east Lancs was a hot bed of religious sects, Methodists, Quakers, Inghamites and right in the centre is Harle Syke. There the penance inflicted on the young men was to be Nokecks or pantyless a sort of fresh air, no nonsense, toughening up cult type thing.

When the stage in my married life, nearly a midlife thing, urged me to want a classic car, something to polish and take out on sunny days, although mechanically I am not at all clued up. After a long time looking at car mags, and visiting the odd sharpish specialist car dealers, I decided an Austin Healey sports car was for me. At this time in Manchester there was a very large exhibition of classic cars, well worth visiting to see many makes and models under one roof. So there we went, to spend time gazing at car after car. The blue and white Austin Healey 100 was the one for me, Vicki didn't disagree either.

But stepping back, and looking round the corner, on the next stand was the most magnificent gleaming E type Jaguar – much more expensive – throwing me into a dither of indecision.

Some while later, my man, David, spotted a very small private ad in the Sunday Times, for an E type Jag, only 30 or so miles away. ‘That's nearly £20,000 far too much for me, out of my world', I gasped. Ah, said my neighbour, the wise one, ‘go and see it, and bid him in the ‘balls'!' That must be Alvis talk. Eventually I rang the seller up and went over on a wet November afternoon. Even for a novice like myself, I could see this was a really special car.

The owner, his manner and his home plus the unbelievable condition of this totally rebuilt car, invited confidence. This British Racing Green early Series 1, 3. 8 open car with light tan leather seat, beige mohair hood and tonneau. The fact that we had a test drive in the rain, told me more. Yet not only was the car too good for me, and compared with other cars I'd seen, it was far better and a much lower price than I could possibly have expected.

I didn't try to find fault to reduce the price, but told him – I loved the car it was all I could have wished for, I didn't want to insult him by haggling, but if I went ahead and bought it my wife would probably leave me. He said well ring me in two or three weeks, see what happens, he still had two other enquiries to deal with. After two sleepless weeks I rang the man, he told me frankly, that the other two enquiries had come to nothing, and that the car had to go, would I like to make an offer? I coughed and spluttered eventually telling him that I still didn't want to be rude or unreasonable but again if I bought his car, which I really wanted, and wished to remain living at home; I could only offer around three quarters of the price, putting this as diplomatically as I could. This sort of thing just doesn't happen in the tyre kicking, knock ‘em down world of normal car buying. Miracle of miracles it did, on this occasion, and I became the owner of a car that was really rather too good for me.

Later at home, after many closer and closer inspections of every aspect of the car it proved what a fabulous correct and painstaking restoration had taken place. All the invoices for work done came to a staggering amount.

Years later I bought a house in the UK for less than it cost to restore this Jaguar. The only problem was with a near perfect car if you use it or not the condition can be very difficult to maintain.

In readiness for the Jag, I up graded my garage, I insulated the floor, walls, roof, then built out of aluminium struts, polystyrene sheets and bubble wrap sheeting; an ‘oxygen tent' that could be raised and lowered over the car, together with a small greenhouse electric heater on a time clock. I took a lot of stick over how I molly-coddled this car. The ‘oxygen tent' was quite a novelty in itself, then. Whilst I was preparing the garage, the car was stored in David's barn, very generous of him, and much appreciated but not the safe secure damp free surroundings it was used to.

When its new home was ready, I couldn't drive it out of the barn, down a ramp, too much was at risk. The barn had shrunk; the doorway was now narrower than the car, the doors flapped in the breeze, my nerves of steel jellified.

There was only one person prepared to take on the task, the fearless one was approached with this challenge; this is the way I have found to get mountains moved, say it can't be done and your halfway there. She pressed the starter button, the six cylinders of 3. 8 litres burst into life, such a fabulous sound. A couple of blips on the throttle for luck and out she backed. The barn doors opened like the parting of the Red Sea for the Israelites, within two minutes the car was installed in its palatial new home.

Normally I didn't let her drive this car, it's too fast and too expensive. Only in emergencies – when I need help, then it's different. There were occasions, I don't know why, but for some reason the Jag won't start for me, I've done everything correctly, I have not flooded the carburettors, I've crossed fingers and toes, said silent prayers – and promised it everlasting polishing – but to no avail.

I would return to the kitchen a dejected and broken man – ‘Would you like me to start it?' she says. There is no logic to this – no face saving reason at all. ‘Yes' I whimper ‘if you think you can'. Within minutes the glorious sound of the Jaguar can be heard from the kitchen. How is this possible? It is not supposed to be this way, another chip off my fragile male superior ego. Tears dried ‘Thank you, sweetheart' and off I go – out to play.

Competent women are one thing, all knowing and all doing are quite another. Even if she dressed the solution up in a few nice gentle phrases ‘I wonder if we tried this' or ‘do you think that might help' but just to jump into the driving seat and be right – is too much to take.

I've been very lucky – the rapid rise in classic car values, particularly E types which rocketed up, was nothing to do with canny forethought on my part, it was pure good fortune, for which I'm very thankful. I also had for a while a Mark II Jaguar saloon, totally original with only 22,000 proven miles on the clock, and an Austin 7 Ulster type replica which was great fun . I have to admit my knowledge and spanner skills wouldn't fill a match box.

My wife is not of this world, not in the accepted sense, human to a degree – but certainly not normal. I've suspected this since our courting days – when we would go into the Cherry Gardens or a country pub and all she would drink was water, this is embarrassing for a young man ordering a pint and a glass of water – Please! – worse than this she once asked for milk, milk in a pub! That was a warning sign, how did I ignore it? Blinded by love is a sort of excuse.

Nowadays even a simple harmless question like – what's for tea? – can cause offence, apart from natural interest what am I going to eat to sustain life – it's more a general conversation piece, a sort of friendly remark. My mother might have replied ‘the smell of an oily rag'. To Hitler's sister, often because she's not yet thought of something for tea, she'll say – ‘what would you like?' not what she means at all. The first thing I suggest, she says in scorn ‘we had that the other day', the second suggestion I come up with is greeted with ‘not on the housekeeping I get'.

So I keep falling in love, constantly searching, not surprising really, for a gentle word or friendly greeting – I'm mentally seeking the shelter of a kindly soul anywhere. I can take my shoes for repair and fall in love, the woman at the filling station has the strong appeal of a life-saving way, Mrs woman in the Spar shop has appeal in abundance. I even fell in love with a ‘hand' once, just a solitary hand on its own.

I had a blocked saliva gland, a fairly unusual fault – it makes swallowing difficult especially food, as one side of my mouth was always bone dry. We had a private medical insurance policy so I decided to be fettled.

The evening prior to the op, I had checked in to the private hospital – signed various forms, sworn to abstain from smoking, alcohol and food and retired to my cell, wondering how to spend the evening. A knock on the door, and in came a fellow patient I had met very briefly at the check-in. Here he was clutching a six pack of extra strong lager, ‘thought you might like to help me get through these' – he says. In to have his nose broken then reset for the second time. I must admit it didn't look too bad to me, and what guts.

The anaesthetist came round like the warm-up act, checking blood pressure and general health, he wasn't too concerned about me, I was only having a local anaesthetic, a sort of part-time player.

Next morning, dressed in pale green hospital tent type gown, with peep through ties down the back I walked to the operating theatre. My lady surgeon explained – she would go in through my mouth – make some small incision at the bottom edge of my cheek to find the blocked saliva gland. Several hours later she was in trouble – my gland remained shyly hidden. There was a half-time conference and she said ‘not to worry'. She would enter through the outside of my neck, make a small incision in the tiny crease somewhere in the region, which wouldn't show when healed – good looks will remain unblemished, and then tunnel upward under or over my jawbone to locate the gland and undo the blockage. In truth ‘cutting my throat' was a pretty accurate description of the work involved.

Sometime later, lying there, not really worried yet – it was the problem for the lady surgeon – doing her stuff and murmuring things like ‘not to worry' ‘it's in here somewhere' something burrowed up around and over my left side, in a rather secret but arousing way. I had to have my hands down around waist level, with all the action in the head region. So I put a hand out to greet this new found friend, we touched, nuzzled hand to hand in greeting, palm to palm, fingers entwined – this was a soft warm loving hand, gentle and kind. Ever mindful that we were dangerously close to my erogenous zone playing carefully, our hands clutched, clasped and enjoyed each other's company. At first I thought it might be the furtive hand of the young nurse – perhaps trapped in an unhappy relationship seeking a tender moment of respite, or was it perhaps the other nurse slightly more mature that might be the owner of the hand, and finding me in a green backless gown lying tantalisingly close would be a strong aphrodisiac. And as she had time to study me close up – (only inches away) had caused her to throw caution to the wind and seize the moment. Either way this I knew this was real love – never mind fishnet tights and suspender belts at the top. Such are the fleeting images of love lost…. .

Vicki on the other hand can't even swallow any tablets/capsules; even the smallest Aspirin totally defeats her. It's an ‘in the mind' thing, like not admitting she's ill and denying herself all the new and modern advances of medical science. She is, however, full to the brim with hindsight, and if she died – she'd know exactly why and what caused it!

There is, however, one glimmer of hope; she sometimes becomes a powerful shaft of positive benefit to me a normal man. Vicki – the sweetheart…. . darling, angel, flower (sugar sugar baby)…will, if asked nicely, drive us home from parties or the pub – whenever manly drinking is involved. This is the good side of an alcohol-free wife and strange but true she seems just as happy and cheerful as anyone else, at least on the outside.