More Cyril

Continued from the original article ‘Cyril’

My abiding memory of Cyril is inevitably wreathed in smoke.  Not by the mists of time but usually via a Players No. 6 Tipped which he held constantly in his mouth.  He was one of those people for whom a cigarette was something of a permanent appendage rather than an occasional enjoyment, even to the extent of breathing through his fag as he gave one of his detailed accounts about something you were either not interested in or had no connection with.

I can see him now, perched on the dining chair that sat just inside our living room by the door into the kitchen.  Grey hair brushed back surmounted a weather-lined face sporting small, thick, round wire-rimmed glasses through which he peered owlishly, the cigarette bounced around his lips, below a thin, wiry body dressed in an old check sports jacket with a grubby green polo shirt underneath leading to gardening trousers and boots.

Cyril could, and would, tell you chapter and verse about people you either didn’t know, or knew about very vaguely.  He could be a great repository of gossip but it was rarely the juicy sort about people in whom you were really interested.  Mostly he recounted his tasks for the day, which made him sound really busy but, when you boiled it all down, you wondered why he bothered.

Apart from his gardening, Cyril’s other main focus was composing poetry.  He was known as ‘The Burton Bard’ and always included this ‘nom-de-plume’ at the end of each poem, although whether this was a self-styled epithet or something someone had once said, I have no idea.  Cyril’s idea of poetry owed a little more to William McGonnagal than William Wordsworth but that’s being a bit unkind.  He specialised in poems in birthday cards and Christmas cards but particularly birthdays.  

When we became added to his significant list of recipients, I always looked out for the verse inside which was carefully and neatly penned and usually had the first letter of each line in a different colour.  It usually followed an AA, BB rhyming pattern, generally included truncations of words that only ever used to appear in 19^th century poems and hymns (such as “o’er” and “where’r”) and the way each line scanned rather depended on what he wanted to say rather than whether it fitted into the rhythm of its predecessor.  Another feature of his poems was invariably a count of the words in the printed verse in the card, and the recipient’s name shoe-horned in somewhere along the way.  Nevertheless, he must have spent hours composing and laboriously printing out each poem for the dozens of people he sent cards to and the whole exercise must have taken a big chunk out of his meagre weekly income.

It would have been easy to be sniffy about Cyril’s poems and many people were (and I guess I was probably as guilty as anyone in my youth) but the time and devotion they depicted was something it was less easy to mock.  I think we all looked forward to opening Cyril’s card and it was a real concern if one didn’t turn up.

Presents were less usual, which was hardly surprising given his vast audience.  For one significant birthday (which I suspect was my 21^st) he did give me a brand new Collins’ English Dictionary which has had a great deal of use over the years and still holds pride of place on my bookshelf.  This was in recognition of my being a fellow writer, which he clearly wanted to encourage.  Mum, whom he held in very high esteem, was the only one who got a present every year.  She had once mentioned that she liked Black Magic (the chocolates, not the satanic practice) and this went down in his little book.  Thereafter, she always received a quarter pound box of same for her birthday and the poem in her card made specific reference to this (which rather gave the game away!)

Quite how he afforded his hobby, I don’t really know.  Cyril had taken early retirement from the Railways when his Uxbridge St. Signal Box had closed with the demise of the brewery railway system.  Thereafter, he survived on his small occupational pension for years before his State Pension finally kicked in.  This was augmented by a few pounds here and there from gardening and doing odd jobs but there can’t have been an awful lot left to spare at the end of each week.  Cyril viewed the cards he had to write as a mammoth task requiring significant organisation and endless hours of toil and I’m sure that was the case.  He would never have seen all of this as a hobby, to him it was a sacred duty for which he would toil to his dying day.  The idea of ‘not bothering’ for once, for reasons of economy or time, would never have crossed his mind.

Next time, I’ll tell you how we came to know Cyril, about some of his more eccentric practices and about his eventual demise.

You can find a lot more of Philip’s nostalgic recollections here.

Cyril

I’ve been thinking about Cyril quite a bit over the past few days.

I should, at this point, make clear that I do not usually spend my days thinking about Cyril.  In fact, it must be quite a while since he last crossed my mind.  What brought him to the fore this time was that I have been mowing the lawn.  

This is the sum total of my efforts in the garden, apart from occasionally hacking some innocent tree to within an inch of its life.  This is not due to any particular indolence on my part, other than the regular background indolence that is such a feature of all my works (or lack of them).  No, it has more to do with (a) not being really interested and never having been and (b) having absolutely no knowledge of what should be there and what shouldn’t, (b) being quite clearly linked to (a).

Whilst mowing the lawn, I decided to try and do something about one of the edges which was being taken over by a bunch of delinquent wild strawberries (I only know what they are because I’ve seen the tiny strawberries in the past, otherwise I would just categorise them as ‘green stuff that spreads like nobody’s business’).  

The only reason that I am in a position to ‘do something’ about the edge of the lawn is because I have invested in an edging tool.  I normally keep as far away from tools as physically possible and try not to have them in the house, because I know that I would be tempted to try and use them and that way lies danger and guaranteed humiliation.  

I was only tempted to buy this one because I’m in a state of permanent warfare with the lawn, in an effort to curb its desire to spread over the paving slabs and the edging tool does that job nicely.  Stemming the Invasion Of The Wild Strawberries was slightly more problematic because it entailed creating a relatively straight line where none had appeared for quite some time.

I can’t do straight lines.  This was a cause of bemused sorrow for my metalwork teacher, Mr. T., back at Anglesey Secondary Modern but a cause of outrage in Mr. W., who attempted to teach me Technical Drawing and Woodwork. Mr. W. took it as a personal insult and once sent me for the cane for planing a piece of mahogany from a nice piece of wood with a vaguely straight edge into something resembling a cross-section of a particularly rough sea.

My efforts with the lawn edging tool were no improvement.  If anything it’s a slight diagonal with occasional kinks but at least the wild strawberries know what they’re up against now.  Looking miserably at my latest failure, I was forcibly reminded of Cyril and my mum’s wish to have a small, semi-circular flower bed.

In the course of his very long and somewhat singular life, Cyril wore many hats.  He had been a railway signalman at one time, which would have suited his orderly mind and solitary ways down to a ‘t’, but the demise of the brewery railways and, as a consequence, the multiple crossings which were such a feature of 1950s Burton-on-Trent, meant that his job was made redundant.  Taking early retirement, he filled his days with odd jobs, one of which was gardening.  He took on the management of a select number of gardens, usually owned by retired people who could no longer manage them.  In the summer months he could often be seen cycling to one or other of his projects with bags full of tools and cycling back with some vegetables or flowers.  He always cycled, whatever the weather, never owned a car and I doubt that he ever learned to drive.

I would have loved to have seen a garden under his management, I should think it would have been a sight to be seen.  HIghly ordered and neat, I would imagine, but whether any particular project would actually have been completed…I somehow doubt.

Take my mum’s flower bed.  She did want a semi-circular flower bed to break up the rectangular stretch of grass which we, laughingly, called a lawn.  The state of the ‘lawn’ can be judged by the fact that we never, to my knowledge, owned a lawnmower so the grass was only kept in check by a combination of my rabbit (who also contributed a few holes) and me hacking away at it with hand-held shears on a Sunday afternoon in an effort to avoid falling asleep and joining my dad in synchronised snoring to wear off the effects of Sunday lunchtime’s visit to the pub.

We could, of course, have dug something up ourselves but mum wanted to put a bit of work in Cyril’s direction as he always seemed to be teetering on the edge of poverty.  We did a fair bit of teetering ourselves, from time to time, so mum knew what it was like and tried to help discreetly when she could.  Cyril agreed to look at the job and went down our garden to suck his teeth and take a few measurements.  He then disappeared for weeks on end before reappearing, without any warning, and carefully marking out the site of the proposed flower bed with pegs and string.  This exercise took hours because, for him, it had to be geometrically perfect.  When it was finally laid out to his satisfaction, he disappeared again and I’m not sure whether he returned to the project again that summer.

It all became a bit embarrassing.  We had a flower bed that existed in theory only.  We could have gone ahead and dug the thing ourselves but mum felt that would only upset Cyril.  Tackling Cyril about the job was difficult because he always seemed so busy and seemed to look on it as a favour that he was doing us, when mum had only really asked him to do it as a back-handed way of giving him a bit more income.  I’m fairly sure that it was completed eventually, but I’m also sure that it took years when it ought to have been finished in an afternoon, at most.

I’m conscious that I’ve only really scratched the surface about Cyril in this, so I’ll tell you more next time.

You can find a lot more stories, in a similar vein, here.

Braving Benidorm

I’ve just come back from Benidorm.

There, I’ve told the world and I don’t care who knows it!

Benidorm has a particular place in the national psyche, it tends to be a useful shorthand for everything that it wrong about package holidays and, especially, the British holidaymaker.  It occupies the same place that Torremolinos used to hold in the 1960s.  I don’t suppose the T.V. series of the same name has done much to change its image, either, although my knowledge of that is limited to watching one episode, which I found was sufficient.  Not being snobbish about it, because I know it is hugely popular, it’s just not my thing.

All of which is rather unfair, because Benidorm has got a lot going for it.  The Levante and Poiniente beaches are huge, clean and very attractive.  The old town is charming and picturesque and there are a massive amount of places to eat, drink and be entertained, for all tastes and purses.  Also, it is not just a bolt-hole for package holiday Brits.  When we were there the British were easily matched, if not outnumbered, by retirement-age Spanish.

Nevertheless, you can’t get away from the ubiquitousness of the all-male and, increasingly, all-female group there for a stag or hen weekend.  Some resorts seem to attract this phenomena and it’s sometimes difficult to see why.  Blackpool is hardly a surprise, of course, but why Tenby, and even Whitby?  In my youth (which I’m prepared to admit, was a very long time ago, now) the tradition was for a stag or hen night which, at its most adventurous, might be in a different town.  Now it seems as if it must be at least a weekend and preferably longer.  This gives the definite impression that the preamble to the ceremony has become considerably more important than the life of marital bliss that is supposedly being entered into.

This phenomenon becomes more apparent at the weekend, I’ve discovered.  You become more and more aware of groups of girls, usually dressed similarly and often with sashes proclaiming the wearer to be part of ‘Trace’s Hen Do’ or some such.  You’re often surprised to find that the chunky girl at the head of the procession, carrying a six foot inflatable pink dildo and with the expression of a bulldog chewing a wasp, is also sporting a ‘Bride To Be’ t-shirt, which is somewhat straining credulity.  Despite the outward signs of frivolity, sashes, inflatable goods, fake tiaras and so on, it is often the case that none of the party look particularly happy, and that definitely applies to the putative Mrs. X.

The male version is not entirely dissimilar, although they mostly dispense with sashes and tiaras (but not necessarily).  The nod toward uniformity tends to be matching t-shirts with some sort of slogan such as ‘Baz’s Boys On Tour’.  The common denominator with these groups, apart from the pint of lager in a plastic glass usually held in the right hand like a sort of trophy, tends to be the walk.  I’ve studied this carefully and there seems to be some sort of rule that you should walk as if you had recently suffered a catastrophic rectal calamity and you’re trying to keep as far away from the product of this as possible.  Of course, in some cases, this might be not too far away from the truth.

It has to be said that the Brits do not cover themselves in glory here.  I think it tells a story that all the warning posters displayed around the resort by the police, urging people to respect others, drink alcohol responsibly and so on, are only available in English.

You might think that I’m just an old kill-joy who wouldn’t know how to enjoy himself it he tried, and you might have a point.  I have to admit to not behaving terribly responsibly on my first couple of visits to Spain in my teenage years (see 'Night Boat to Palma' and  'High Spirits')  

Oddly enough, the scene of my embarrassment that I depicted in the ‘HIgh Spirits’ article was replicated while I was in Benidorm, but fortunately not by me this time.  We had been having dinner in the hotel restaurant and some chaps who must have been approaching my age, if not actually overtaking it, were on the next table.  Shortly afterwards, as we were enjoying a quiet drink in the bar, I noticed this same group leaving the hotel, presumably to go ‘on the town’.  This was about 21.45.  At 21.55 they came back in to the hotel, this time escorting another chap of a similar vintage.  He was quite obviously not feeling a lot of pain, had a glazed expression and a tendency to giggle.  They had to work hard to stop him diverting into the hotel bar and managed to get him into the lift.  It was pretty obvious that he had been enjoying a rather good night out.  

The following morning I was surprised to see him up and about and attempting a little breakfast.  I couldn’t help but overhear his friends explaining to him what had happened the night before (which he clearly couldn’t remember).  Apparently they had gone into their first bar of the night and had seen their friend in the distance, much the worse for wear and clearly in trouble, and had rescued him.  

I felt as if I had found a kindred spirit!

You can find a lot more of Philip's ramblings about yesterday and today here.

Cast Your Fete To The Winds

Quite a while ago, the Derby Telegraph changed the format of its Bygones section.  The daily article was replaced with a photo and short summary and the bulk of the written nostalgia was now to be contained in a two-page or so supplement published on Mondays.  The upshot of this was that my regular monthly column, whichI had been cheerfully dumping on the good citizens of Derbyshire for over ten years, fell by the wayside.  However, I was encouraged to submit something for the new supplement and, ever the optimist, I did.  When this failed to emerge, as one month faded into another, I supposed that it had gone to the Great Wastepaper Bin in the Sky and I pretty much forgot all about it.  

Imagine my surprise, therefore, when a friend told me that he had seen an article of mine in the Derby Telegraph.  Sure enough, the article I submitted in May of 2018 had finally surfaced in April, 2019!  At this rate, by the turn of the next century, I could have enough for another book.  Admittedly, I would be 146 at the time, which might be a bit of stretch, but still...Today, Derbyshire, Tomorrow...Uttoxeter?

This is the article, if you're interested:

This is the time of year when any self-respecting village, society or association’s thoughts turn to holding a fete.  I’m not sure why, that’s just the way it is. 

Actually, like picnics, this is a classic example of the British habit of hope triumphing over experience because, with our climate, the odds of the whole thing being a wash-out are pretty high.  Yet, we all have this soft-focus image of sun-drenched fields bedecked by bunting and filled with rosy-cheeked children gambolling from stall to stall, instead of sullen and evil-tempered families glaring at the persistent rain from under the steadily sagging awning of the beer tent.

I rather suspect that the beer tent had a great deal to do with the apparent popularity of fetes and suchlike gatherings, particularly back in the days when the pubs shut at 14.00 on a Sunday and didn't reopen until 19.00.  The beer tent was often the only way to get an alcoholic drink on a warm summer's afternoon, even though it usually consisted of a glass of flat, warm bitter with some insect practicing the breast-stroke across the surface. Certainly it seemed to me that Burton Regatta's popularity probably rested more on the beer tent than a sudden interest, by the populace, in all things rowing, but perhaps I'm being cynical?

My earliest recollection of a village fete was also my first brush with fame.  Well, that’s probably over-egging the pudding.  It wasn’t so much a brush with fame as a passing nudge from its slipstream. 

The scene was Holbrook Village Fete at some point in the early 1960s.  The guest of honour was the Rt. Hon. George Brown (latterly Baron George-Brown), MP for Belper and a leading light in the Parliamentary Labour Party (he became Foreign Secretary in 1966).  He was a frequent feature on the television news, although not always in a complimentary light.  He therefore managed to combine fame with infamy and was something of a celebrity and quite a catch for a village fete. 

I joined the small crowd to listen to his words of wisdom, which I think largely consisted of "I therefore declare this fete, open!" but I was quite young so I may have missed some of the cut and thrust of witty repartee.  I was then caught up by the crowd and propelled to the first stall where the great man was showing willing by bouncing ping-pong balls at goldfish bowls, or something similar.  In the press of bodies, I suddenly realised that I was right next to the Right Honourable and was, in fact, brushing against the tails of his jacket.  Thus for years afterwards, I was able to say that I had touched George Brown's jacket, which may not have impressed many but was a claim to fame, of sorts.  I gave it up, altogether, when people started saying "George who?"

The second fete that lives in my memory, just in case you found the first example too exciting, was an occasion when I was with my wife and daughter, when my daughter would have been about 10 or 11 years old.  I can't recall where the fete was or what it was in aid of.  I just remember that it was a beautiful summer's afternoon and that the fete had one or two stalls that were being operated professionally by fairground people.  One of these stalls was the ubiquitous hoop-la stall.  My daughter was all for my having a go but I wasn't so taken by the idea.  I was keenly aware of my limitations and had always made a practice of avoiding anything that required skilled hand-eye coordination.  Nevertheless, I didn't want to lose face so I laid the ground for humiliating failure by pointing out the near impossibility of meeting the requirements of the stall for winning a prize.  Not only did the ring have to be thrown over the object in question, which I was pretty sure would be beyond me, but also it had to fall flat, not just over the object but also over the plinth and the wooden base on which it stood.  The odds, I pointed out, were not greatly in favour of the customer.  None of this dampened my daughter's enthusiasm, so five rings were purchased and I prepared for the worst.

I positioned myself at the stall, grasped a ring and sent a silent prayer to whoever looks after 'fathers who aren't much cop at anything'.  I launched the ring and was amazed to see that, instead of clattering sideways into the objects which was the normal outcome, it was floating horizontally above them.  The ring then fell in a beautifully controlled manner, over the object, over the plinth on which the object stood and, most importantly, over the wooden base, so that it lay flat on the stall.  To my absolute amazement, and that of the stall-holder, I had done it!  My daughter was chuffed to bits and my wife and I were astounded.

We were presented with a small stuffed toy animal as the prize for this heroic feat.  It was a dog (allegedly) in a sort of striped romper suit with a pom-pom hat, somewhat reminiscent of a canine Andy Pandy, if your memory stretches that far back.  He was christened Isaiah, because his manufacture had clearly left a lot to be desired and, as a consequence, one of his eyes was higher than the other. 

For many years after, whenever I was embarking on some endeavour where I really felt that I needed luck on my side, Isaiah came with me.  It seemed to work.  Well, more than George Brown’s coat-tails anyway!

You can find Philip's collected works at The Nostalgedy Collection

Performance Anxiety

Well, we've all been there, haven't we?

Before you all start leaping to unwarranted conclusions, I'd better explain.

Last year (2018) seemed to be a year in which either I gave things up, or things gave me up!  As a consequence, I had to re-evaluate what I wanted to do in my retirement (if anything).  I considered various volunteering options quite seriously but I kept coming back to the unhappy conclusion that, although all of these were very laudable, they weren't really something I wanted to do if I was going to be honest.  From experience, volunteering is a fantastic way to make new friends and acquaintances and to gain experience in areas that you might not have usually explored, but it can also become another full-time occupation, almost by stealth.

As I used to be an Outplacement Counsellor in another existence, I thought I should really take a dose of my own medicine and evaluate what it was I enjoyed about my previous occupations.  There were many aspects but the thing that I kept coming back to was that I enjoyed performing, whether I wanted to admit it to myself, or not (and I didn't). 

I like an audience.  

Admittedly, it also terrifies the life out of me but I also have to accept that that is part of the fun!  Having accepted, bedgrudgingly, my apparent superficiality and need for approbation, I then considered how to satisfy that part of my character.  I came to the conclusion that the simplest way, which would also neatly link to my writing, would be to resume the Talks that I started to give years ago but which I had to abandon due to pressure of work.

The upshot of all this was that I found myself, last Monday, appearing in front of an audience of about 13 people (you've got to start somewhere) at the United Reformed Church in Derby.  This was after weeks of rehearsals and revisions (you've no idea how stupid you can feel until you've spent time giving a talk your spare bedroom over and over again) and some cursing and oathing whilst wrestling with the technology inherent in giving a presentation.

My grateful thanks to everyone at the Derby Friendship Group for being so kind and, well, friendly.  Now I have to gird my loins for my next date in March which will be at Highbury Hospital, Nottingham for a meeting of the NHS Retirement Fellowship.  Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye!

You can find more about Philip's talks at Derbyshire Speakers List - Philip Whiteland

For the avoidance of doubt!

Yes, I know exactly how you feel.  The book sounds good but, then again, it's the author telling you about it so it would, wouldn't it?  How can you be sure that you won't be wasting your time and hard-earned money?  Well, the simple answer is that you can't, but solicitors have a phrase 'for the avoidance of doubt' which they often use when they're about to reiterate something that should be well known to everyone but they just want to make sure.  I thought I might do the same, so here's a run-down of what you can find in 'A Christmas Cracker', available as a Kindle e-book for just £1.99 or as a paperback that you can give as a gift for £5.99.

'A Christmas Cracker' is a compendium of seasonal nostalgedy (nostalgia mixed with comedy) observational humour and fiction all designed to make you chuckle and get you In The Christmas Spirit, a condition that gets more elusive with each passing year, if you're anything like me!

1. Coming to town for Santa Claus (nostalgedy) - recalling a trip to Derby in the early 1960s to see Santa.
2. The Fag-End of the Year (nostalgedy) - remember how much easier it was to give Christmas presents when tobacco products and related items were still acceptable
3. It's a Gift! (nostalgedy) - recounting some of the more memorable gifts from my childhood and, I'll bet, yours.
4. Gift Wrapping (nostalgedy) - more about Christmas gifts now and then.
5. By the authority vested in me (observational humour) - what to buy the man in your life (you might be surprised, but trust me, he'll thank you for it)
6. You'd Better Watch Out! (fiction) - Peregrine and Prudence apprehend Wayne, the Anti-Santa.
7. You'd better not pout, you'd better not cry (nostalgedy) - on believing in Santa Claus, or not.
8. The Night Watch (fiction - The Alternativity) - The first episode in the Alternativity series of stories.  The Shepherds debate the meaning of the star and moan about the effect on their sheep.
9. Lessons from Carols (nostalgedy) - about reading the lesson at the Christmas School service and misinterpreting the words of the carols.
10. Sing a Song of Christmas (nostalgedy) - the sheer embarrassment of touring the local pubs as part of the church choir, in full regalia.
11. Yuletide Greetings from the Smith's! (fiction) - you know those annoying 'round robin' letters that sometimes come with your Christmas cards?  Well, I've taken one to its logical conclusion.
12. Crackers at Christmas (nostalgedy) - the Christmas my dad promised to get the Turkey...and the ensuing unpleasantness.
13. The King Thing (fiction - The Alternativity) - the second part of the Alternativity in which the Shepherds meet the Wise Men and neither group are impressed.
14. Time, Ye Merry Gentlemen, Please! (nostalgedy) - remembering pub culture at Christmas
15. The Spirit of Christmas (fiction) - a white-bearded old gentleman finds himself joining the throng on Christmas Day lunchtime in a typical pub in the 1960s.
16. A Room at the Inn (fiction - The Alternativity) - in the eponymously named "House of David' inn, Old Jim has some thoughts on Herod, the Census and paternity whilst hot water and swaddling clothes are needed in the stable.
17. My Christmas Presence (nostalgedy) - how I disgraced myself at a Christmas Day family lunch.
18.  Luncheon for One (observational humour) - on the difficulty of dining alone on Christmas Day, even if you want to!
19. A Stable Upbringing (fiction - The Alternativity) - when the Kings met the baby and everything didn't go quite to plan.
20. Get Away, In A Manger (fiction - The Alternativity) - we hear a lot about the human contingent in the stable, but what about the Ox and the Ass, what did they have to say?
21. Brightest and Best of the Sons of the Mourning? (fiction) - Josiah and Archibald, of Oakshott & Underwood Funeral Directors, discuss Archibald's seasonal marketing strategy.

Will that do for you?  Do you think you might find something in there worth reading?  I do hope so 😁

A Christmas Cracker

For Those In Peril On The Sea

From time to time I have the urge to write a short story about my two hapless undertakers, Josiah and Archibald.  The other day someone recounted a true story to me which I thought sounded exactly like something they might be involved in, so with a few further fictional embellishment, I finished up with this...

Josiah Oakshott, sole proprietor of Oakshott and Underwood Funeral Directors, sat back contentedly in his comfortable office chair.  Happily he cast his eyes around the dimly-lit, oak-panelled room that acted as his workplace.  He loved it here, particularly at this time of day when everyone had gone home at the close of a busy working day and there was only him and his clients in the mortuary, none of whom were likely to disturb his repose.  He stretched a little, settled himself back further into his seat and returned to his study of the accounts.  The peace was, however, rudely shattered by his office door crashing open to admit the dishevelled spectre of Archibald Thurble.

"I've just about had enough and that's straight!"  Archibald announced with the hint of a sob in his voice.

"Archibald!  I thought you had completed your tasks for the day and returned home.  What brings you here, now?  Surely that business with Mrs. Papodopoulous was concluded a good while ago?"

"Erm, not quite"  Archibald shuffled his feet and fidgeted with his black bowler hat.

Josiah was perplexed.  He had tasked Archibald with the simple remit to accompany Mrs. Papodopoulous as she went to scatter her husband's ashes.  Strictly speaking, there was no requirement for the presence of an undertaker at this event, but Mrs. Papodopoulous was a member of a large and rapidly ageing family and Josiah had high hopes of future business.

"I take it that you have experienced some difficulties?"  Josiah asked with a grim foreboding.

"Did we ever!" Archibald said with feeling and crashed down into the chair opposite Josiah's desk, "first she wouldn't go in our car, she insisted that we use Mr. Papodopoulous' 'cause she wanted him to be able 'to take one last spin in it'" Archibald did a passable impression of Mrs. Papodopoulous' heavily accented voice.

"That does not seem unreasonable, given the circumstances, Archibald.  I trust you were suitably sympathetic to her wishes?"

"Oh yeah, I said it wasn't a problem but I wasn't really happy 'cause it's a big car and I've never driven anything like that before.  It was a bit weird having him next to me an' all"

"Him?"

"Mr. Papodopoulous.  She insisted on having the urn strapped in the passenger seat, so he could see out, like.  Mrs. Papodopoulous was in the back."

"Well, again, not entirely unreasonable" Josiah pointed out, "we do have to make certain allowances for the feelings of the recently bereaved, as I have made clear to you on numerous occasions, Archibald"

"Yeah, well, any road, we're travelling down the dual carriageway and we get pulled over by the Police for a routine check"

"Not speeding?"  Josiah asked with trepidation.  He still shuddered whenever he remembered the occasion when Archibald, in an excess of zeal and concern for punctuality, had hurtled past the hearse carrying the coffin, with the ashen-faced family of the deceased clutching each other in fright as he reached speeds in excess of 100 mph in his attempt to reach the crematorium on time.

"Nah, nothing like that.  They were stopping people at random, checking car tax, tyres and stuff. So, they pulled us up and the first thing they asked was, was I the owner of the car?"

"Indeed, standard procedure" Josiah nodded.

"Yeah, but they got a bit shirty when I said I wasn't but he was and pointed to the urn." Archibald crossed his arms and looked suitably put-upon, " I think they thought I was trying to be funny."

"I can imagine" Josiah sighed and reached for his notepad.  From past experience he found that any foray by Archibald into the outside world nearly always required a series of apologies, so he commenced what he expected to be his list of Apologies To Make with 'Local Police' at the top.

"Mrs. Papodopoulous had to get out and explain it all to them.  They were alright after that but they kept looking at me a bit funny, I thought"

"I can't imagine why" Josiah commented, sarcastically, knowing full well the nuance would be lost on Archibald.

"Anyhow, eventually we get back on the road and head for the cliffs where Mrs. P. wanted to scatter Mr. P's ashes.  Only, when we get up there, it's blowing like bugg… nobody's business.  I said maybe we should try somewhere else but she wouldn't hear of it.  So, she gets this bag of rose petals and stands on the edge of the cliff and chucks them over, 'cause she wanted to do that first before we sent the ashes down"

"Seems a nice, romantic touch" Josiah remarked.

"Yeah, well, it's just as well she did, 'cause the wind blew all the petals back and she was covered from head to foot.  She just stood there looking like a giant pimple!"

"I hope you were demonstrated a degree of compassion, Archibald?" Josiah asked with the definite feeling that he shouldn't have entrusted Archibald with this task, after all.

"Of course!" Archibald responded, indignantly, "mind you, you've got to laugh haven't you?  I think even she saw the funny side after we'd cleaned her up a bit.  We got most of the petals back in the bag, so it was alright, really.  I said to her, with it blowing like bugg…erm, blowing quite a bit up there I thought we'd better knock that idea on the head.  Anyhow, she started getting upset and said how as she'd promised Mr. P. that she'd 'commit his body to the waves' like he wanted, so I said why don't we hire a boat and do it that way"

"Very enterprising, Archibald.  I'm pleased you sought a solution"

"Yeah, well, I thought it was a good idea and she got all enthusiastic and said that her brother had a fishing boat, so we drove down to the harbour but her brother had already gone out fishing and there was no-one else about."

"That was unfortunate, Archibald.  What action did you take?"

"Well, the foot passenger ferry was just about to set off, so we piled on that.  I thought we could just dump Mr. P. off the back when we got about half-way across the channel"

Josiah nodded.  The ferry carried foot passengers from the harbour to a headland a small distance away so that they could access the next town without having to drive the much greater distance along the coast.  "A sound enough plan, provided the Ferryman had no objections" He agreed.

"Yeah, well, I told him about it and he took it ever so seriously.  When we got about halfway across, he stopped the engine, came to the back of the boat and lowered the little flag to half-mast.  Then he got all of the other passengers to stand up and made them sing "For Those In Peril On The Sea" while Mrs. P. chucked the rose petals out and I ditched Mr. P. into the drink"

Josiah had a mental image of the assembled passengers standing precariously and singing and had to stifle a smile.  "Were the other passengers alright about it?"  He asked, eventually.

"Well, there was a party of Chinese folk and they didn't seem to know what was going on.  They didn't look at all happy.  I was surprised that the Ferry bloke did all that 'cause Mrs. P. said that Mr. P. couldn't stand him.  Apparently, he always said 'he was a cheating bastard who abused his monopolistic position'" Archibald mimicked Mrs. Papodopoulous again.

"I hope she didn't say that to him"

"Well, no, not right then.  That came later."

"Later?  In what way, later?" Josiah asked with a good deal of trepidation.

"It was when we got back after we'd dropped the Chinese folk off. The Ferryman wanted Mrs. P. to pay for three round-trip tickets and she went off at him, a bit.  In the end he settled on two return tickets and one single on the grounds that Mr. P. didn't come back, which seemed fair"

"I suppose so" Josiah shook his head, he was definitely entering that state of total disorientation which always seemed to come from being in conversation with Archibald.  "All in all, from the sound of things, I suppose it could have been worse" He reached for his notepad and added 'Ferryman' to his list.

"Yeah, if that had been the end of it.  But, as we were driving back, we got stopped again but this time by a different lot of copp…policemen, 'cause we were on the other carriageway" Archibald explained, "going in the opposite direction.  They wanted to know the same stuff, like 'is this your vehicle,sir' and all that"

"And what did you tell them, this time?"

"Well, I said that by rights I supposed it was Mrs. P. who owned it now, and she nodded like, because it used to belong to her husband, Mr. Papodopoulous, but we'd just chucked him in the ocean.  You wouldn't credit how excited they got!  Next thing we know, we're both being dragged out of the car, bent over the bonnet and frisked"

"Oh no!  Poor Mrs. Papodopoulous!"

"Oh, I don't know.  I think she quite enjoyed it.  She certainly had a gleam in her eye when they loaded us on to the van"

"Loaded you on to the van!  Why?"

"They took us to the Cop Sh…Police Station, didn't they? 'Cause they thought we'd done away with Mr. Papodopoulous, you see."

Josiah added Mrs. Papodopoulous to his ever increasing list.

"I presume, given your presence here, Archibald, that this distressing interlude was concluded satisfactorily?"

"You what?" Archibald looked puzzled.

"I guess everything's alright as you're here now!" Josiah all but shouted.

"Yeah, 'cause that Inspector turned up, you know, that one who interviewed me after all that business with Mrs. Anderby and the compost (see Last Rights) and he took one look at me and said he wasn't going through all that again, not for a big clock, and they chucked us out."

Josiah added the Detective Inspector to the list and reflected that this was probably going to cost him at least one bottle of Malt.

"I think, on reflection, Archibald" Josiah said, faintly, as he buried his face in his hands, "that I was ill-advised to entrust you with this particular mission.  It clearly involved a good deal more complexity than I ever imagined"

"Oh, don't fret Mr. O.  It wasn't all bad news."  Archibald said, stoutly, "The Ferry bloke said, for the right money, you can chuck anyone you like off the back of his boat"

"I will bear that in mind, Archibald" Josiah said, resignedly. "I will bear that in mind" He was pretty sure he had a strong candidate on the tip of his tongue.

THE END

If you enjoyed this, you should check out the special Christmas story featuring this pair in my collection of seasonal stories 'A Christmas Cracker'