The G.P.’s tale
Nobody in the village knew how old Old Yorkie was. Nobody except myself, of course, and he had already been long retired when I inherited his medical records. From the tall tales he told the regulars in the Tiger, he could have been born at any time during the last century although only the highly gullible or those in their cups really believed his reminiscences about trench foot, shell shock and the effects of mustard gas. His eyes used to twinkle with mirth and good humour, especially at the offer of a free pint of Sam Smith’s, and when he chortled they disappeared altogether into the deep wrinkles. He loved to tell newcomers that his nickname had nothing to do with either football or chocolate, although he did support York City. Rowntree’s was an easy cycle ride from his parents’ house in Marygate but Yorkie had never wanted to work anywhere but on the railway like the rest of the men in his family. This ambition had been fostered by many happy memories of trips to the seaside, made possible by his father’s travel concessions. The young Yorkie used to dream that the tracks extended under the crashing, grey green North Sea as well, so that he could explore the lands on the other side.
He got his chance, although not in the way he had imagined, when his call up papers arrived. His new mate Scouse re-christened him during their first day as recruits when they were struggling to understand each other’s accents.. They survived Dunkirk, managed to stick together throughout the North Africa campaign and kept each other’s spirits up during the long crossing to Normandy. Seasick and hungry at the same time, they plunged from the landing craft into the cold and choppy water of the English Channel. For Scouse, the Longest Day turned out to be his shortest, but Yorkie made it to Bayeux, picked up a piece of shrapnel from which he nearly died and spent several months in hospital before he got his discharge. As a small tribute to his mate, he kept his nickname for the rest of his life.
He liked to talk about his late wife although there were few people around who remembered her. He used to bring out a battered photograph of a pretty, but rather stern looking dark haired girl in a floral dress and recall how they met one sunny afternoon on the neat gravel path of the Museum Gardens whilst he was convalescing. Her brother, an airman home on leave, recognised Yorkie from a fight they’d had at school over a gobstopper of all things. He introduced his sister and they ended up eating together at Betty’s Bar. Romance flourished over the spam fritters and Kunzel cakes. Sadly, it was to be Mrs Yorkie’s last meal with her brother but I think you might still find his name at Betty’s, scratched onto part of the old mirror downstairs in the Oak Room along with the names of other airmen, including many Americans.
Before the war, Mrs Yorkie had been in service at the old Haxby Hall, close to her parents’ home, and had had an excellent training in plain cooking. She was a godsend to the Naafi canteen at Fulford Barracks and, when it was all over, to the shy man in the demob suit who led her proudly down the long nave of St. Mary’s. After a few more years on the railway, he tried to persuade his wife to consider a holiday abroad. It was a big source of regret to him that his only real opportunity to travel had been in wartime when everything he would have liked to see had been bombed out or boarded up. Sadly, Mrs Yorkie was of a more practical turn of mind and insisted that most of their savings should go towards buying their own home. She did allow Yorkie to run an old Austin Seven, though. Lovingly polished every weekend, it took them to visit Mrs Yorkie’s sister in Nether Poppleton and her cousin in Tadcaster. Once, they even ventured as far as Fountains Abbey but Mrs Yorkie was adamant that, even before it was ruined, it wouldn’t have been a patch on the Minster.
Little Crossing was their pride and joy. The long garden at the back of the cottage allowed Yorkie to grow all the vegetables and fruit they needed and to keep a few hens. He sang out cheerfully whenever his wife brought him down a cup of tea and it was always the same song, My gal’s a Yorkshire gal.
Their little front garden was a riot of colour. No one in Haxby or Wigginton combined could compete with Yorkie when it came to sweet peas and he managed to have something in flower almost all year round. Mrs Yorkie was a model housewife. She cooked, cleaned and polished all day long and stuck to the routines she had learnt as a girl. After a certain date each year, no matter what the outside temperature, the cosy fire in the sitting room disappeared and was replaced by a dried flower arrangement. Yorkie never grumbled about having to take off his boots on the back doorstep, seeing his fingermarks wiped off the furniture as soon as he had made them or climbing in between icy cotton sheets in their unheated bedroom. As long as he had Mrs Yorkie to keep him warm, he was a happy man. They never had any children, but just accepted, as people did in those days, that it was not meant to be and doted on their nephew Stephen instead. He was always sure of a warm welcome and a good meal from the simmering stew pot on the shiny black leaded range or a piece of the Victoria sponge cooling on the scoured wooden table. After Mrs Yorkie died, the winter after their Silver Wedding, Yorkie continued to work in his garden, did his best to keep the house as she would have wished to see it and retreated to the Tiger whenever he felt the need for company, which was often. Nobody could remember when Yorkie became Old Yorkie, but I think grieving for his wife etched more lines into his already weather beaten face and bowed his shoulders.
The man who paid the keenest attention to Old Yorkie’s tales was Desmond Bilborough, Many years before I took over the local practice, he and his wife Edna had moved in next door to the Yorkies and modernised their cottage to within an inch of its life. It wasn’t long before Edna Bilborough developed a burning ambition to buy them out and knock through into their cottage. Mrs Yorkie wouldn’t entertain the idea, no matter how much Edna made Desmond offer, but her disappointment was so acute that she accused him of meanness. One row led to another and she left him. He was distraught and convinced himself, even after their divorce, that she would return to him if he could only get his hands on the Yorkies cottage and create her dream home. It became an obsession with him but he had to wait until Mrs Yorkie became ill and he had Yorkie at his most vulnerable. He wanted the best for his beloved wife, from a fire burning constantly in the shell shaped grate of the little cast iron fireplace in their bedroom to a private hospital room and finally a send off to be proud of. None of the family could understand why Bilboroughs spent so much time with Yorkie during those dark days. Neighbourliness was one thing, but he was never off the doorstep. At the funeral tea, he took it upon himself to hand round the ham and tongue sandwiches and tea in the best Crown Derby cups. It was the first time anyone had seen them outside the big mahogany china cabinet and he had even been into a sideboard drawer for a big crocheted doily to put under the fruit cake.
‘Acting as if he owns the place,’ sniffed Yorkie’s sister-in-law. Of course, as they were soon to discover, that was indeed the case. In return for enough money to ensure Mrs Yorkie’s comfort and dignity in her last few months and a small allowance for its maintenance, Yorkie had signed over all rights to the cottage after his own death. Both men had laughed when Stephen had insisted that the agreement should include provision for the possibility that the Bilboroughs might die first but saw no harm in it. Yorkie assured Desmond that, if his war wound didn’t carry him off, it wouldn’t be long before his dicky ticker did. The only thing that privately bothered him was that he wouldn’t be able to leave the cottage to his nephew as he and his wife had always intended, but Stephen was not one for cupboard love. He told him not to give it another thought and, when he joined the Navy, he sent his uncle a postcard from every port of call. Yorkie read them avidly, stuck into an album and, glad for his nephew but not without some envy and regret, followed Stephen’s progress around the world in his old school atlas.
As the years and then decades went by, Yorkie hardly seemed to change but Desmond Bilborough grew older, greyer and increasingly frustrated. Even when Doris had been married to another man for many years he couldn’t let go of his dream. He even had the gall to quiz me about Yorkie’s famous shrapnel wound and general state of health as though he’d never heard of doctor patient confidentiality. The day Yorkie fell off his ladder whilst trying to prune one of his fruit trees and was rushed into hospital, the paperboy swore he heard a champagne cork popping next door. The day his neighbour emerged from the ambulance and, cheerful and sprightly on the crutches he had been taught to use by the friendly physiotherapists at York Hospital, made his way up the path to his front door, Bilborough’s face was as white as the plaster cast on the old man’s leg. That night, he had a massive heart attack. As no relatives could be traced in time, Yorkie arranged his funeral and raised several glasses to him in the Tiger afterwards. A suitable ending, don’t you think?
‘Is Old Yorkie still living in his cottage?’ you might wonder, but no, that’s the best part. The day after Bilborough’s funeral, Yorkie sent for an estate agent to do a valuation. The amount he came up with made him blink. He put the place up for sale immediately and telephoned Stephen who’d retired from the Navy by then. They put their heads together, bought a big motor home and headed straight for the North Sea ferry terminal in Hull. They’ve been travelling around Europe for a couple of years now. I got a postcard from Yorkie only last week telling me that they’d made it as far as Istanbul and were just about to cross over into Asia. His wife may never forgive him, but Yorkie will certainly have plenty to tell her when they meet again.