Sibling Rivalry (a short story)

James and Stephen Hawke jostled for position on the starting line, alongside the other participants in the 2012 Weston Underwood Fun Run.

Juliette watched from amongst the gathering crowd, and waved excitedly to James as she caught his eye whilst he scrambled to hold his place on the front of the race line. Juliette and James had only met two weeks ago at College, when she and her family had first moved into the village. In September, she would be leaving for University, but was relieved to strike up an immediate friendship with James, a friendly face at last, and someone who relieved the tedious prospect of a long, lonely summer, stuck at home with her warring family in a strange village.

As the air-horn announced the start of the race, the runners sped forward to cheers from the crowd. The 5-mile, cross country fun run, would take the runners up Wood Lane, past Cowpers Memorial and on through Dickens Spinney, along the disused railway line before turning back into the village, ending up at The Cowpers Arms Pub, which was where the crowd started to make their way, as this was the focal point for the annual summer village festival that traditionally began with the renowned fun-run.

Stephen, although the younger brother, was the more talented runner, but James was a natural sportsman who would push his brother hard all the way. They were also the youngest of the participants, which is why many saw them as strong favourites, but their competitive spirit was renowned, a fierce sibling rivalry, they didn’t like losing at anything, and the smart money was spread evenly between the two brothers to win this year’s event.

Juliette wandered homewards after the race started. She had some unfinished family business to resolve, and she wanted to clear the air now, so she could enjoy the festival later.

The runners faded into the distance and soon became strung out along the hilltops. With a mile to go, Jack Keeley was ahead, but he was fading fast as he hit the final, but longest of a series of punishing hills, and as they climbed the brow, James and Stephen made their move, easing past Jack who knew he was finally beaten.

Juliette was still at home as the race reached its climax. She was fighting and arguing once again, the all too familiar, tired arguments resurrected once more, squabbling over the same old minutiae that had polluted the family for as long as they could all remember. She had hoped the move to a new village would mean a fresh start, but nothing had changed, except she felt even more lonely than ever before.

It was James who made the break for the line, intuitively sensing his younger sibling was lacking the stamina required, and he found the strength to take first position to the cheers of the gathering crowd.

As was tradition, everyone repaired to the Cowpers Arms where the summer festivities began, and the race winner drank the first pint to open the event, which would continue late into the evening.

James was the toast of the village, but it was dusk before he finally spotted Juliette at the far end of the pub. Rather the worse for wear on free beer, he made his way through the crowded bar and gave Juliette a hug, surprising even himself with his unexpected confidence, no doubt fuelled by drink.

”I missed you today. I feel like I hardly know you yet I missed you terribly!” he exclaimed, slurring his words slightly and talking rather more openly than he should, as the alcohol started to take effect.

“I know, I missed you too” came the reply, and with that she took his hand and led him out of the pub into the still, quiet, summer evening.

“It’s the longest day of the year today” she said, looking into James’s eyes.

“I think my aching body would agree with that” he said in reply, and they both laughed.

”Come on, let’s go for a walk,” and with this she took his hand and walked him away from the crowds and along the country lane past Cook's Farm.

And under a perfect, cloudless, moonlit sky on the summer solstice, they made love for the first time.

They walked hand in hand, in silence, back to the Cowpers Arms, but they parted as they approached, and they both faded into the crowd, to regain their place in their local community before anyone suspected anything, or anyone, was amiss.

As James walked home that evening he smiled to himself and felt contented. Today had been a good day in so many ways.

However, the following morning, James rose and breakfasted hurriedly, before leaving the house. He felt unsettled and he had to find Juliette.

He was rather nervous as he approached their cottage, the butterflies in his stomach making him feel weak as he walked along the path.  He shamefully couldn't remember everything about last night, but he remembered what had happened, and he felt a pang of guilt. He hadn't wanted it to be quite like that, quite so hurried.  It had only been two weeks, he hardly knew Juliette at all. They had struck up an immediate friendship the moment they met, an obvious physical attraction that had been cemented by a few lunchtime conversations and several text messages. And whilst those two weeks had been intense, their relationship had always been platonic, but last night that had all changed. 

He knew so very little about her, about her family, about her background. He wanted to make sure she was OK, and he wanted to make sure she felt the same way as he did. 

He knocked anxiously on their door, and he was relieved when it was Juliette who greeted him.

“Hiya!”
“Hi James”
“Listen … about last night” He began to stammer awkwardly …
“No”, she interrupted, glancing nervously back into the house. “I need to apologise. I meant to come to the festival yesterday, but I had this horrible fight with my sister and I just wasn’t in the mood to …”
“Wait … what do you mean?" It was his turn to interrupt.
"Listen, James, I really had intended coming to the pub, especially after I heard you had won, I felt so proud but ..."
"I don't get it, what do you mean?" He began to question his own mind, none of this made any sense. 
"I wouldn't have been very good company, I'm sorry, it's complicated"

There was a silence, James was thoroughly confused, but then he saw someone else approaching from behind Juliette, and the colour drained from his face as he saw this girl approaching, a girl who was the spitting image of Juliette.

“Hi, I’m Charlotte, Juliette’s twin sister. We haven’t met. Well, we hadn’t, not until last night” and she smiled the smile of an angel, a fallen angel, before turning back into the hallway, leaving James and Juliette on the doorstep, looking crestfallen.

=== The End ===

Giddy Kippers and Cocks

I'm feeling a bit giddy as Christmas approaches, and that reminded me of the phrase "Giddy Kipper".

My Gran used to call me a "giddy kipper" whenever I got, well, giddy.  Actually, the full saying is "Eeee by 'eck yer giddy kipper!", said in an exclamatory manner in a Yorkshire brogue. It's always struck me as an odd saying as I've seen numerous kippers over the years and none of them have ever been remotely giddy.

Had I been acting like a statue and been called a "statuesque kipper" I could appreciate that, because kippers are the most lifeless things I have ever come across.  If I have seen one kipper I have seen at least 34, and none of them have ever moved.  Ever.  Not ever.  Never.

Intrigued, I looked it up online, here is what the first google entry says:

Wot does the saying giddy kipper mean and where does it come from? X

'Giddykipper'- A very talkative and excitable person. No definite origin but likely from giddy being something tiring. Kippers are excitable male salmon.

Read more http://www.kgbanswers.co.uk/wot-does-the-saying-giddy-kipper-mean-and-where-does-it-come-from-x/1906768#ixzz2FaqoLIz7

Kippers are excitable male salmon apparently.  And there's me thinking a kipper is nothing but a dried herring?  How do people get away with such stuff?  That definition is so outrageously inaccurate it defies belief.  Not only is a kipper not a salmon, but it isn't anything remotely excitable.  Cut a herring in two, let it dry in the sun and tell me if it's 'excitable'.  See?

But hang on, search and ye shall find, for later on I saw this:

Origin: 
before 1000; Middle English kypre, Old English cypera  spawningsalmon, apparently derivative of cyperen  of copper, i.e., copper-colored

Now, I should imagine a salmon that's just about to spawn might in truth be a little giddy, so maybe there is some truth in the saying after all?

But wait, there's more:

kip·per

²  [kip-er]  Show IPA

noun, Australian Informal.

a young male Aborigine, usually 14 to 16 years old, who has recently undergone his tribal initiation rite.

I could also hazard a guess that a male, 16 yr old boy who has just undergone his tribal initiation rite might also be a bit giddy.  I know I would be.  In fact aged 16 I was often giddy.  As a teenager I got giddy at the drop of a hat.  Once, a girl in my school dropped her hat in the playground and I picked it up for her, and I went so giddy I had to sit down:

1981, Barnsley

Girl: Damn I've dropped my hat

Me: Err, here ... {hands over retrieved hat}

Girl: Ta cock, You alright?  By 'eck you look as giddy as a kipper Ramsbottom!

Me: Hi, err, hi .... Christ.  Err ... I mean I love you.

Girl: You what? What did you say, you geeky skinny freak?!!!!

Me: Err nothing (runs away ... then sits down)

"Cock" was another popular saying in the old days.  As used by the 16yr old girl from my childhood playground played out in the scene above, it was often a kind of term of endearment. Nowadays it might be "mate" or "pal", but back then in my part of the world it was "cock".

"Cock" had another popular usage too, but unlike the one above, this wasn't Yorkshire wide, but seemed much more local.  It was also the name of the best fighter in your school year.  It was as rough as a buzzard's crutch where I grew up and there was a clearly defined pecking order, as discussed in an earlier blog entry, and my cousin Nige was cock of the year above me, which was nice.

"Eyup Cock!" first example

"Eyup sithy, that's Nige, he's cock o't'school!" would be an oft used phrase encompassing the second example, and:

"By 'eck cock, thar a reyt giddy kipper thee, thar wants to watch theesen else Nige'll knock yer block off, he's cock on't school thar knows!" 

is a sentence that neatly encompasses all aforementoned phrases all in one. So there.  You've learned something today.

Of course, if you said "cock" to a kid today they'd just laugh in your face.  And then the Police would arrest you.

Dad

The first, draftiest of drafty drafts of this blog was actually written around the first anniversary of my father's death in July 2007.  I have taken that draft and tidied it up, updated it and polished it. I decided it needs a permanent home, like a photo on the wall.

=================== 

Dad had rarely ever been ill, and had never spent a day in hospital as far as I know. Aged 64 he should have been starting out on the last few chapters of his life rather than finishing up his final sentence. Retirement beckoned and both he and Mum had plans. Aged 63 3/4 he was the epitome of good health, so why wouldn't he?

I look back on my childhood with incredible affection. We weren't rich, but we were safe and we were happy. Earliest memories are of me aged about 3 or 4.  Dad was the car. I sat on his tummy (the seat), his upright arms were for steering, his nose was the horn, his ears were the indicators. We screeched around corners and I screamed and giggled as I fell from side to side. Always safe.  

I remember we also played a game of cowboys and when he was shot, lying on the floor taking his last breaths, he would whisper to me that he had left me all his chewing gum (we loved Wrigleys back then, the white packet, and to receive his Bootee was the best thing I could imagine), and he would start to tell me where the his secret stash of chewing was stored.

"it's in ... the ... in ... the ..."

"Quick! Tell me!" I would scream excitedly. But he would always die before I found out.

He was frustrating too.

"Do you know, if your legs were an inch shorter, they wouldn't touch the ground?  Isn't it amazing how everyone's legs JUST touch the floor?"

"Daaaad that's not riiiight! If my legs were shorter I would drop down!"
"No you wouldn't, your legs wouldn't reach.  Think about it.  They only JUST reach the floor"

And I did think about it, rather too much than was good for me.

"Aren't French people clever, they can speak French aged 3 or 4, whereas we can't speak it until we are grown up?"

"Daaad, that's because they are French!"

"But they couldn't speak it when they were born, just like you, yet by your age they are fluent.  Very clever they are".

I thought about that a lot too.

And as I grew older I remembered his work ethic. As a young man finding my way in the world, I was always aware I had privileges he never had. I had opportunities he never knew, and I often felt guilty, drinking away my university education, acting the joker, doing as little as possible to get by, yet he had none of those trappings.  

Finally, I left university with a crappy maths degree yet still fell into a decent job in London. Dad had spent his entire life in Barnsley leaving school to find much needed work aged 16, working in the day and studying in the evenings, but he was still infinitely wiser than I would ever be with my university education handed to me on a government plate. Materially, aged 30 I already had a bigger house than he had, yet he was always "better" than I would ever become.  Not superior, he was never that, just more genuine.

I now realise why he was, and always will be, a better man than me, and that's because he lived a genuinely noble and honest life. He believed in endeavour, first and foremost. His Conservatism annoyed me, but I came to realise it was the work ethic he most admired. I felt like a fraud in many ways because I tended to coast through life. I always got by in the end, somehow. I achieved, but never in the way Dad achieved things. It was like he worked hard and earned everything. He was never lucky, he was just deserving. In my dad's world you invested to make gains. In my world you took the piss as much as you could, and hoped against hope that you would never get found out.

As an adult, returning home was always a treat - whether it was from University, from London, with girlfriends, with Donna, or with Donna and the kids - Dad was always the perfect host. He was always interested, with an innate ability to connect to anyone, and everyone, at all levels - students, male, female, young, old - he was able to tune in to people.  

That was his second greatest quality, his greatest undoubtedly being his approach to dying. He had every right to be bitter and angry - just four months from beginning to end, the world pulled from under his feet. I often wonder how I would (will) react? Badly, angrilly, self pityingly no doubt, yet Dad showed none of this. 

I'm never sure if he did that just for us, his family, but he never faltered. Right until the end we talked football, talked about the minutiae of life like nothing was different, although he knew it was different, he knew he was dying long before we ever really understood how bad things had become.  

When I saw him for the last time in hospital before we left for a family holiday to America, I'll never forget the moment. Everyone else had left the hospital room and we were alone. And we shook hands. Father and son and all we could do was shake hands, that's the closest we ever got to physical affection and it remains my biggest regret to this day, but shook hands we did, northern stylee, and he looked at me knowingly, like he knew he wouldn't see me again, and yet he managed to remain completely noble, suggesting I remind Mum to give the kids, their grandchildren, some pocket money to spend in America.  

He had a look in his eye as he nodded his farewell and raised his arm as I left, and in that moment I remembered everything. I remembered playing cars and cowboys. I remembered playing football with him on the beach, I remembered him taking me to Oakwell in 1972, I remembered his last game at Oakwell earlier that year and I like to think he was having similar thoughts too.  

The difference was I thought I would see him again. The consultant was confident he had some time left but Dad had insisted we still go on our planned holiday, like there was nothing to worry about. But when we shook hands I think he knew, he just wouldn't let on. He didn't want to spoil the holiday for the kids.  

He died a week later.

It's been over five years and I'm no longer sad. I still think of him most days, and always think of him when I go home and whenever I visit Oakwell, but it doesn't hurt any more. Of course I miss him, we all do, but as the pain fades, the good memories remain and for that I'm very thankful.

And I never found his secret stash of chewing gum either.