Chapter 15 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 15.

The fitter I became, the higher the wall, and the higher I
stretched the fitter I grew, again a discovery by luck. `Are you
coming round to cricket practice?' a voice interrupted as I laid the
last block.

`You must be joking,' I checked the block with my spirit level.

`Do you good,' Ernie pressed.

Why not? I thought, work now at a standstill, the window frames
still lost north of Watford.

`Come on, yer late, get yer pads on,' shouted three bowlers,
prowling, the only ones there, each sweating to have a go at a
batsman.

Ernie was smiling. `Me?' I looked round, who else were they
talking to?

`Yes, you,' bellowed the huge one, his boots stomping at the
turf like a bull ready to charge.

Oh, I got it, he was not the only one. The other two were
lining up, each with their ball polished for maximum speed, waiting
to knock something over, not bothered whether or not it was
breathing.

I looked at the grass, rough, uneven. `Why not you?' I returned
the invitation to Ernie.

`I'm a wicket keeper, not a batsman. I'll have my turn
later,' he started painting the boundary fence, ready for the new
season.

The rooks cawed three times. Oh, well, probably my last chance,
I rummaged through their kit for the biggest thickest pair of pads,
desperate to resist all they could hurl at me.

Ten minutes later they were sweating, having hit everything
except my wickets. `Next,' they shouted, tired by my stonewalling.
`You'd have been out in a match, caught in the slips.'

`Aye, and caught in the gully,' coughed one who was bowling
with a fag in his mouth, now lobbing down slow ones, having given up
wasting his energy on me, saving his pile-drivers for the next
victim to bat.

`They seemed more like blockbusters to me.'

`Pile-drivers is what I calls `em.... If they don't gives a
batsman the shits `ee ends up with piles.'

Thank goodness for that, I was glad to knock off, the other two
were getting into their stride, becoming more accurate. Bruises were
one thing, but things other than my M.S. were at risk of being put
to the test to see if they still reacted to pain. The rook, having
held high hopes of me being humbled, flew even higher, cawing upon
all rooks within cawing distance to circle and rise upon a discord
of complaint.

`How did it go?' Lena asked, repairing a split in Claire's
school clothes when I got home, in better humour now the extension
was beginning to take shape.

`Not bad, thanks,' I flopped into a chair, disguising the
bruising. Better go to the chemist's tomorrow, I thought, flicking
through the Radio Times, and get another prescription of vitamins -
anything to speed up tissue repair. Potty idea, of course, the
experts said so, but anything offered promise in the absence of
cures.

`Someone's at the door,' Lena said, brightening up at the sound
of male footsteps.

`Come in,' she switched on the kettle. It was Ernie.

`You've been picked for Saturday.'

`Me?' I waited for the joke.

`Look,' he showed me the list. `It's early season, and a lot of
the team are still playing soccer.'

`Cup of coffee?' Lena asked, enjoying the prospect of company.

`I thought you'd like to go for a drink, we can pick up my wife
on the way to the pub.'

`We haven't a baby-sitter,' Lena said.

`They'll be all right on their own,' he pressed. I suspected he
needed an alibi before going home.

`Wouldn`t dare risk it. You don`t know Clare,` we made up
excuses, being short of cash.

`I'm buying the rounds,' he guessed our predicament.

`No, thanks. Really, we daren't leave them, not on their own.'
Pity, for he was obviously in deep trouble with Mabel.

`All right, then,' he settled for coffee.

Don't know about Mabel when he got home but at least Lena was
happy.

For the rest of the week I nurtured myself, taking particular
care whilst lifting weights, especially when the Hansel and Gretel
transport company finally arrived. `Got yourself lost in Watford
Gap?'

`You what, mate?... Never `urd of `em,' the driver unsheeted
his load. `Cor, what you on abowt, this business of bread crumbs?"

`Nothing, no nothing. Must be somebody else I was thinking of,'
I dismissed my remark and helped him off-load.

`Talk abowt gettin' lost. It's a right bloody place to find,
this one, in'it?'

`I suppose it is,' I felt it politic to agree in the light of
everything having been supplied at trade price, and then directed
him back to the main road. But what to do now with the windows? I
wondered, - they're too big to handle alone. But Stonehenge was a
much larger problem, so I began nudging the frames using levers and
rollers, taking my time, balancing each one into place.

Lena's car arrived, the children were home from school, their
faces alight, Claire signalling thumbs up whilst John loudly
cheered. Obviously they could now see the building had shape, their
enthusiasm lifting my spirits, boosting my health since I was making
it for them. Take it easy, knock off, I told myself, don't let
success go to your head. Leave everything propped,... cement them
tomorrow, just pray there's not a wind during the night.

My luck held and by the weekend the extension was roofed, I was
definitely ready for Saturday's match.

`Caw,' my black rook flapped across overhead, returning to try
yet again.

It was wasting its time, the first ball was so easy and I hit
it out of the ground. `Sod it,' I'd missed it, the death rattle of
wickets knocked over. Out for a duck, didn't even hit the ball.
`Caw..Caw...Caw...Caw..' the sky was wheeling with satanic
blackness. Twelve months' exercise squandered in one reckless
wrecked moment. Weighted down with a bat, totem pole of my
humiliation, I trudged as slowly as quickly as I could back to the
changing hut where I hid in silent depression, dwelling upon the
barren ego upon which I'd just cast my mustard seed. Please let me
have a second chance, I'll never be stupid again.

Another week of strict regime and practice, more in hope than
promise. Were the double vitamins responsible as my improvement in
health continued? `You've been picked again,' Ernie checked the team
sheet. I'd not dared to go round and look.

The news left me floating, an unfortunate response, for on
Saturday it poured, rain running in waves over the bitumen tiles of
our pavilion roof to cascade as liquid icicles of water onto the
turf `Cheer up, we've all got ducks this time,' laughed Ernie. `Can
we go home?'

The umpire, lifetime occupant of the same flat cap, referred to
his watch, made a note on his match sheet, stood facing the elements
before solemnly shaking his head. `Premature abandonment of the
pavilion is against the rules.'

`You'd think `e were master of t'Titanic."

The rain stopped, ready for our game to begin. Umpire again
checked his watch. `I officially abandon the match."

`Ohhhh,' a chorus of complaints.

`Regulations state....'

`He's not bothered, whether we play or not. Once it gets to
this time the old bugger qualifies for being paid,' someone shouted.

`Who said that?' he got out his pencil.

`Mickey Mouse. Ignore him.'

`I'll remember your face, I've got a photographic memory.'

`Well, picture this, mister Umpire man, tha's being locked in't
this `er shed til next Saturday if tha doesn't move tha' sen
quickly. We're off,' and everyone left for the pub.

`Shandy, please,' I ordered, finance restricting my intake of
alcohol. Perhaps I just might get another game - next week a lot of
them would be watching the F.A. cup final.

The mustard seed flourished and seven days later sunshine lit
up my pads, be damned if I was going to be out. Trouble was, this
time they sent me in next to last, with an hour left to survive, and
all hope gone since eight of our batmen were already out.

Defeat was inevitable, with not long to bat unless I could stay
in and pinch the bowling at the end of each over. `Batsman's name,'
a shout from the score box.

`Forgotten,' I shouted back, first ploy in my attempt to upset
the other side.

`Got a right nut here,' muttered the bowler, not suffering
fools lightly. He set about teaching me a lesson, aiming the first
ball straight at my head.

I gave him a you're-not-going-to-get-me-out-that-way look and
smiled, practising a stroke, sharpening my reflexes. That made him
even madder. At the end of the over I was still in and he looked
distraught and distracted.

`Run,' I screamed at the other batsman, pinching the bowling,
upsetting the opposition still further. Ninety minutes the game was
drawn, we saved a point, and my place in the team was secure.
The air remained silent, my rook being made to laugh on the other
side of its beak.

Mind you, it was a brilliant summer and, apart from the tennis,
Lena soon lost interest in my attempts to remain fit, particularly
when I started batting and bowling midweek for the Gilbert and
Sullivan Society. I'm not singing, so what's she grumbling about,
would she prefer to look after an invalid? `I still think you'd be
better with a job,' she retorted.

`I've tried, they sent me on an ogu.'

`A what?'

`An O.G.U., Occupational Guidance Unit.'

`Well, that's more like it. How did you get on?'

`They want me to go on a course to fill in a year.'

`What's wrong with that?' she brightened up. `At least you'd be
employed.'

"Oh no I wouldn't.. It was just to fill in a year.'

`That can't be all, there must be other jobs for you to apply
for?'

`There were, but I was either too old, or without enough
experience, or overqualified."

`Nothing?'

`Not a thing. In fact the queue for my last interview was so
long I waited a day, got home late, and missed the evening cup
match.'

`Never mind cricket, what was the job?'

`Don't know, they said I shouldn't have been there in the first
place.'

Lena refused to believe that someone with a degree could not
get a job. `Huh,' she dismissed my attempts. `Well, next week it's
my turn, I'm having the week off, it's half term.'

`Good! That's a coincidence. Tom and Ola offered us their
friend's cottage in Wales.'

`We can't afford a holiday,' she recited.

`Why not? My pension's been increased... Apparently I'm now
classified as being a permanent invalid.'

`You can't be, you're getting better.'

`I know that, but that's got nothing to do with it, at least
not so far as the way in which square wheels of bureaucracy revolve.
Anyway, it'll make up for them not paying me when I was disabled
and, look on the positive side, it'll cover the cost of us going on
holiday if you can afford the price of the food.'

She stared at the fireplace, flickering uncertainty. `I'll have
to ask Ransley?'

`Ransley! What the hell's it got to do with him, it's half term
when we're intending to go?' I paused, half way through dialing a
telephone number, having been intending to confirm our booking with
Tom.

Still she had doubts, pondering doubts. `What about your
cricket?'

`That doesn't matter. In any case, they've dropped me from the
team for turning up late after going for that interview.'

`I might have known,' she exploded.

`Please, mum.'

`Please.'

`Please, please,' the children pawed Lena with outstretched
emotion. They had been eavesdropping.

A week's a long time in politics, half a week even longer to
children waiting for Saturday. `Are we setting off now?'

`You've only just had breakfast, we've still got everything to
load, so we won't be ready to set off before lunch.'

`I'm not bothered about lunch. A packet of crisps will do for
me.'

`Me too.'

`Oy,' Lena wagged her finger, taking the J out of joy, `It's a
long journey, so you're having a proper meal before we set off, or
else we don't go.'

Eventually the rear doors of Lena's Morris Traveller were
bulging shut and the car settled onto its haunches, like a camel
laden with more than was needed - just in case. `Have you got
everything, games to play?' I squeezed into the driving seat. Claire
and John bubbled excitedly, `Yes, yes,' ignoring the discomfort of
being buried under a humpload of baggage, they were ready for off.

Lena struggled to make room so she could open the road map.

`We won't be needing that, not on the way there. Their cottage
is near Tal-y-Bont, not far from the main road, apparently third
turn past Aber, Tom said.'

The twin lanes of the M62 climbed to Lancashire in lazy curves
and eternal inclines, through cuts where discoloration from
surrounding moors had already seeped across the fresh cut rock - and
our engine whined in stoic servitude......... Until we reached where
the car sat back less heavily and the Pennine Way crossed high
overhead, its concrete arch walked by pin-sized hikers from
Blackstone Edge to Standedge - passing others migrating in the
opposite direction.

It is hereabouts that a wedge of air from the North Sea, often
chilled and stubborn, would block the soggy westerlies and frost
would turn to murk, or sun to shower, or fog to drizzle. But this
afternoon a Saharan sun breathed heavily upon our roof. We could
have seen as far as the Irish Sea had it not been for the haze from
the obscured Lancastrian fish and chip shops and black pudding
factories. One more battle like Towton Moor and we'd have driven
the lot of them into the bloody Mersey, I mused in wild imagination
to stifle a yawn. `Pardon?'

`Um?.... Oh, nothing. I was just counting the miles.'

`Well, our teacher says that the War of the Roses had nothing
to do with the present size of Yorkshire.'

`Ah.' Just how many mutterings had been aloud? `He would say
that, wouldn't he, with him coming from Ramsbottom?'

`Delph.'

`All right, Delph then. That's what I mean. Yorkshire stretched
even further than here before the government changed our
boundaries,' I retaliated in mock bluster.

`I spy with my little eye something beginning with H,` the
children reverted to games.

`It can't be house, there aren't any on top of these moors, and
we've already had hill a hundred times.....?'

`Hypocrite,' Claire laughed, pointing her finger to my back.

Across the plain the journey fell into a doldrum, the engine
purring as the sun we were chasing began to set over Colwyn Bay, the
orange colour upon the shops being highlighted by yellow sodium
street lights as they flickered on. `Look, a fish and chip shop.'

`Yes, please.'

`Just fish for me.'

`I'll have yours,.. and scraps, too.'

`You'll be sick.'

`Shan't.'

Our headlights sped past parched stone walls, and hedges, and
signs, the engine soothing the children to sleep as it cruised even
more willingly in the night's cooling air.

`That was Aber.'

`Which was?' I muttered, concentrating on the driving.

`That was, back there,' Lena repeated.

But I had other things on my mind, like trying to make up time
and at the same time attempting to read road signs in Welsh.

`Don't you think we should have asked that man for directions?'
Lena looked back whilst checking the children.

`Which man?'

`The one who was waving.'

`In the dark!.. in the middle of nowhere? Probably someone
thumbing a lift,' I peered through squashed flies on our windscreen,
concentrating on the road ahead over which we were racing

`No, he was definitely waving.'

`If you insist,' I braked, steered the car round, and
backtracked towards Aber, grudgingly conceding that, on this
occasion, I might have overrun whilst doing my best to make up time
after not being the only one to be responsible for us setting off so
late .... Um, she was right, there was a man waving. Perhaps it was
Morgan, owner of the cottage, at least he looked a bit like what we
expected from the description given by Ola and Tom.

`The speed you raced past I thought your brakes would never
stop you until you reached Caernarvon,' he ratatat-tatted on the
part open sidelight, saying something about his instincts having
told him to turn out to meet us.

`Pardon?' I wound down the window.

`Celtic instinct, you know,' he sang on.

Was he joking, or serious, I wondered as he inspected my face,
the light of our headlamps being reflected off the hedgerow.

`High cheekbones,' he repeated, `High cheekbones.'

Was that good news or bad, I wondered?

`What did Tom say your name was?'

`Martin, Martin Mytholmroyd.'

`Mytholmroyd, Mytholmroyd,' he repeated slowly. `That's an old
name. It's not English, is it..... at least not Southern English?'

`No,' I risked, `It's Yorkshire. There's a place called
Mytholmroyd not far from Halifax.'

`Halifax,.. Halifax near Leeds?'

I nodded.

`That's alright, then, Leeds having been in Elmet, a British
kingdom before the English stole it from our ancestors, you know.'

`Mmm,' I tried to sound sympathetic, and thought of my father
who was a Leeds born man of small stature. `My father's as tall as
you, and dark hair too.'

`Tall? I wouldn't say I was that tall,' he perked up. `You had
better follow my car, then,' he smiled, `Foreigners can't find my
place during the daytime let alone when it's dark.'..... He
hesitated, keeping his hand on my door, preventing me from winding
up the window, `You don't smoke, do you?'

I shook my head.

`That's alright then, don't want any fires, no mains water, you
see.'

No water! Lena and I looked at each other.... What had Tom and
Ola let us in for? Better take a look, we agreed - besides, it was
too late for second thoughts, what with us being in the middle of
Nowhere,in danger of being abandoned if we didn't chase after
his
car which was racing off in the direction of Aber.”

He braked sharply, swerved, and abandoned the main road for a
track. No, it wasn't a track, more a half-macadamed lane along
which he and his car disappeared. But we could tell they were not
far ahead going by the smell of burnt oil of blue exhaust fumes as
we lunged around corners between winding banks, sunken and narrowed
and lumpy cambered by the trunks of old trees, their canopy arched
overhead with branches, and leaves, and an undergrowth through which
we caught sight of the occasional flicker of his rear lights.

`We can't be lost,' I reassured Claire and John, now both wide
awake, their faces dancing with excitement as we raced on.

`It's a haunted forest,' Claire whispered.

`With dragons,' John tried to deepen his voice until it was
down in his boots - not an easy thing for a lad aged eight.

Rounding another corner we suddened upon a ford, too late to
stop. `Can't see a damned thing,' I held deftly the steering wheel,
trying to interpret its vibrations and guess where the lane was
whilst the windscreen wipers sloshed under the drenching until,
almost as suddenly, we were driving between gates into a glade with
a cottage straight ahead. Morgan was already opening its door,
switching on an outside light, around which moths immediately
circled singeing their wings.

But to our right a light - perhaps a torch, seemed to be
dancing through the darkness. `It's Bronwen, my wife, you see,'
Morgan reappeared against the door of our car. `She's avoiding the
beehives,' then he vanished as swiftly into the night.

Beehives, at night?.... And no water?.... we wondered what
next.

`The other path would have been better,' his wife arrived,
breathless, having wound her way through an overgrown kitchen
garden. `Yes, the other path would have been better, instead of me
risking bumping into the hives..... But along the other path I would
have disturbed the geese, and then you'd have never got to sleep.'

`You're.....'

`Yes, that's right. Ola and Tom phoned, said you might be bit
late.... Hello you two. You'll be, er, John and Claire, is it?' she
smiled, spotting the children still on the back seat

`That's right. Morgan left rather quickly before
introducing....'

`Ohh, he would. Couldn't wait to get back to his river, fishing
for sea trout, you see...... That's right, stretch your legs,' her
helping hand eased the children over the luggage and through the car
door. `Not much room for you in there, was there?'

`We'll start getting the stuff out,' Lena started to busy
herself.

`That's right..... No need waiting for Morgan, you won't see
him until breakfast, and then only when he can smell that it's
cooking,' her warmth led us inside. `This is river water, for
washing,' she turned a brass tap, gargoyling brown fluid into the
stone sink. `Pure, you know. Comes off the mountain, colour of peat.
Good for the skin, use it in the bath, see,' she repeated the
demonstration, this time using the same plug for their cast iron
bath, restricting its flow because of the river being low.

`It's,.. er,.. a bit different,' we were unsure of what best to
say.

`Yes, that's right... More modern, Morgan got it from a hotel
in Bangor,' she said, showing us how he had used pieces of slate to
prop up its legs on the uneven floor.

`Is there a television?' John whispered to Claire.

`Television? No. What do you want with television, you're on
holiday?' her broad smile illuminating the cottage as she led us
into the kitchen. `This one is for drinking,' she stopped by the
sink, with its third tap fed from a filtering device. `It uses
clean water, collected off the roof and stored in a rain butt
outside.' She paused, ensuring that the children were not listening,
before confiding, `I also use the filtered water for washing my
hair.... But don't tell Morgan.'

Read the following chapters that tell of how Martin "cured" his M.S. and climbed mountains by the following year.

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