Langford Mud

By Bretwalda Books

A humorous novel about life in the small coastal village of Langford Quay in the nineteen fifties. The book is by turns charming, witty and bitingly astute.

Gordon Drake wields considerable influence for a man whose lifestyle includes beachcombing, cockling, fishing, boat repairs and being honorary steward of the lake.
Not everyone likes Gordon. Some villagers think him a rogue, of no breeding, a despicable little duck man. However he has friends. Commander Reggie Frogmore RN retired, the Rev Hector Chorley and his next door neighbour Miss Felicity Trimble. She, the secret writer of steamy fiction, is often responsible for the ideas behind much of the mischief.
Between them, this little group of friends manage to spice up the harvest supper, discover the burial cask of Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine’s lap dog, arrange a grand Mud Race to save the village shop, organise an undercover surveillance to trap a criminal and save the village from a marina and much more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bretwalda Books
• Release date: Aug 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781909698383

Bretwalda Books

Bretwalda Books is a publisher based in England that concentrates on history, folklore, politics, paranormal and travel books. We were founded in 2010 and have an ever expanding list of books available in both print and as ebooks. Bretwalda Books can be contacted through our website.

Book preview

Langford Mud

By

Derek Hayes

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Published by Bretwalda Books at Smashwords

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

First Published 2013

Copyright © Derek Hayes 2013

Derek Hayes asserts his moral rights to be regarded as the author of this work.

ISBN 978-1-909698-38-3

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 1

New tricks on an old punt

Just look at those two, Freda Baishley could hardly speak the words. Slitty eyes hovered over the top of the garden hedge and her nose followed, nostrils gliding backwards and forwards across the village green in the direction of Loose Ends, like gun barrels. Her breath might have singed the top of the neatly cut privet. Beneath the hedge line fists of blood red manicured fingers pounded the air.

He’s to blame, she hissed at her husband, mark my words.

The object of Freda’s venom was the distant figure of Gordon Lancelot Arthur Goodfellow Drake, bachelor and life long resident of the Parish of Langford Quay. Gordon was leaning on his front gate talking to his friend and neighbour standing beside him at her front gate.

That Felicity Trimble should know better than to be talking to the evil little man.

Steady on old girl, no harm in the fellow; bit of a rascal that’s all. The Major, as Freda referred to her husband in polite village circles, pushed the yard brush aimlessly backwards and forwards across the small patch of lawn trying to make the flood water disappear. Lady Baishley, as Gordon called her, sloshed around in stylish green wellies. The lawn and flower beds squelched under her feet but she was undeterred. With a dustpan and brush she scooped at the water tipping it over the hedge, oblivious to the fact that one entire side of the village green including her own front garden was submerged. If he noticed how fruitless was their labour, the long suffering Marmaduke Baishley chose not to point it out. He fell in with the absurd pretence as if it were the most sensible thing to do. The dustpan at his elbow was wielded erratically to and fro as if each stroke were causing Gordon Drake serious injury.

Major Baishley, with intuition born from long years of martyrdom, thought discretion was the better option.

He’s not a fit person to be Steward of the Lake, she trembled. The responsibility should be given to someone like yourself Marmaduke, someone with mi-lit-ary, she pronounced each syllable with relish, discipline and training; a figure accustomed to command and worthy of the trust. Freda felt passion rising in her breast and glanced in admiration towards her own Army Pay Corp major retired; and then she sighed disappointedly.

Drakes have been Stewards in Langford for several lifetimes. You can’t change traditions just like that my dear old thing, the major replied.

We’ll see what you can change and what you can’t, said Freda. I’ll get him, her voice lifted at the end of the sentence, a definitive indication to Marmaduke of immeasurable anger and determination. And don’t call me dear old girl, She screamed.

Freda had never asked herself why she so disliked Gordon Drake. She just did. She enjoyed a long standing scorn for the man, but self examination was not her forte. It may have been his reputation in the village and the contempt he showed for the social order to which Freda Baishley was a dedicated life long member. Breeding was everything thought Freda, and Drake had none of it. Freda was content to loath the man and no one, least of all Marmaduke Baishley would convince her otherwise.

Whilst Freda’s passion was momentarily on the rise, Marmaduke was deliberating whether to offer further support for Gordon Drake. Trying to put the best face on an explanation of the Steward’s good character was not an easy task at the best of times. But in his dear lady wife’s present disposition, he thought it might amount to suicide. He resolved to shut up while still unscarred. Retreat, he thought was the best option.

Cup of tea I think Freda he called edging toward the kitchen door. Jasmine or Earl Grey? he asked and to himself perhaps not the Chinese Gunpowder?" The Major had no great dislike for Gordon Drake.

Companionable fellow, he thought. Confirmed bachelor, never without the company of ladies. Confident sort of chap in anyone’s book. Winning ways, and makes scrounging free drinks in the Ship’s Bell in to an art form. Likes nothing more than to be spinning a yarn to tourists for the price of a pint of ale.

He took Freda out a cup of tea and retired again quickly to the upstairs room he called his crows-nest. Looking out across The Green he could see the two figures still standing with little more than a gate post between them.

Can’t really dislike the fellow, he thought. He sat on the stool in front of the tiny window and shifted the tripod of his telescope; swinging it away from the sea-shore towards the distant figures across The Green. A tiny corner of his mind begrudged Gordon Drake his life style and he reflected on the man with the faded green waistcoat, plaid shirt, and baggy corduroy trousers.

Utterly fulfilled with his beachcombing, fishing and fixing things.

‘Bit of welding on your old iron bedstead? You must be getting heavier Mr Pardew’.

‘Looking to replace the painter Steward? – thought you might have something washed up on the tide?’

‘Replace my mooring if you’ve got some time this week, Drake?’

‘Repair the dingy?’ Drake might frown thoughtfully at that. "I could do it but I’ll have to replace the transom as well. You won’t have it for a while?’

You just can’t dislike that sort of fellow for too long.

Baishley moved the telescope slightly so that Miss Felicity Trimble filled the eye glass.

The difference between those two makes even gate-post neighbourliness surprising. Marmaduke considered himself, an enlightened scholar of village life.

Fine looking woman; well bred; University education.

Spinster of the Parish and financially independent; quite a catch for the right fellow. So what in heavens name does she see in Gordon Drake?

***

Beware the ides of March Gordon.

Golly you’ve got a way with words Miss Felicity, Gordon said without turning his head.

He and his next-door-neighbour were aware of the commotion from the direction of the Baishleys, but chose not to notice. It was a very fine early spring morning, the tide was high covering the mud flats, and the sky promised a clear, even warm day. For some hours the Steward had been deeply puzzling about the unpredictable water levels in the lake which had caused the flooding.

Not me Gordon, It was Shakespeare, said Miss Felicity.

Oh that’ll be it then, Gordon was genuinely in awe of his friend’s learning.

From his Julius Caesar, he was being warned by a soothsayer that there was trouble afoot and he should watch out for his life.

If I’d known a soothsayer I might’ve’ opened the sluice gates earlier this morning.

I’m rather surprised there isn’t one amongst your wide circle of friends. She said with a hardly disguised smile. Alongside Gordon, Miss Trimble looked petite; stylish even in a spring outfit which included a very fetching straw hat and silk gloves. She was never seen without gloves.

Gordon lifted his flat cap to scratch the mass of curly greying hair, something he often did. It gave the impression a matter was being considered, very carefully; even when nothing of the sort was going on.

Beats me why the rivers are behaving so. Not expected; not at all.

Not like you to get it wrong. Perhaps you slept too heavily. Miss Trimble said with just a tiny hint of concern. For a reason he hardly understood Gordon felt an embarrassing warm glow at the thought of Miss Trimble being concerned about his sleeping habits.

Miss Trimble had been heard to say that Gordon Drake had the likeness of a well worn Toby Jug. She referred to his stature and slightly sticking-out ears which with the wind tanned complexion gave the impression he just might once have been a male model in the pottery factory in Portisham. It would never have occurred to her to dwell on the cultural differences between them. But it was that carefree nature and his mischievousness which Felicity admired and it made her think of him as something of a kindred spirit. A consequence of this mutual admiration was a companionship not very well understood by most people. Those who knew them best would say that as neighbours they simply enjoyed one another’s company. The more perceptive observer might comment that if Drake was up to mischief, Trimble would quite likely be involved.

For her part Miss Trimble seldom dwelt on the curious nature of her neighbour’s reputation in the village. She thought about it now, just momentarily, and smiled to herself.

‘What does the Steward think about this or that?’

‘Could someone tell the Steward there’s a dead something washed up on the shore past binny’s point.’

‘What’d you think the Parish Council should do about that stile on the back lane Mr Drake?’

‘Gordon should I talk to Sergeant Philpott about young Reggie secretly smoking behind the garden shed …?’

‘Is five shillings too much to pay for that old lawn mower Pickles has got for sale?

‘Does the Steward think it’ll rain tomorrow?’

Miss Trimble sighed and shook her head. So much responsibility for one man.

***

Item four on the agenda, the chairman announced smoothing the thin tuft of facial hair beneath his nose and looking around the table at members of the Parish Council. Councillor Stubbs had affected a way of sounding bored with the entire proceedings. He thought it imparted the impression amongst his fellow councillors that they were lucky to have him as chairman. A busy solicitor by profession his one regret was that the position of Chairman did not include a chain of office. However he brought a certain dignity to the post with the help of the bowler hat which he was never without.

The Steward, he smiled condescendingly, wants to spend some money repairing the punt before we start cutting back the rushes this year.

Tidying the three acres of lake was an annual event in Langford Quay. A group of the more available and able bodied residents participated and it usually became a bit of social event. Gordon provided the tools and much of the expertise. Whilst the men folk waded in to battle with the mud and weed, the women brought picnics to be consumed amid lots of good humour and some boisterous play on the water edge.

Councillor Freda Baishley, who had been waiting for this agenda item with great patience, jumped to her feet. Gordon was not a Parish Councillor and therefore could not speak even if he attended as member of the public. She launched her offensive.

Mister Chairman, she stood and waved her agenda paper and weighed every word with slow and aggravating thought. No one ever stood up to speak except Freda Baishley. She looked around the table to make sure everyone was listening.

I and some of my neighbours would like to discuss Mr Drake’s stew-ard-ship of the Lake. The Chairman sighed inwardly and one or two Councillors around the trestle table looked up at the ceiling. Freda was soon in full flow and convincing everyone of Gordon Drake’s incompetence. Felicity Trimble sat quietly scribbling on her agenda.

What is more Mr Chairman, banging her fist on the table, the fellow is never here when needed, too busy in his back yard, or interfering in other peoples business. Three times this month our gardens have been flooded out, There were murmurs of agreement from around the table.

The Chairman was no match for Freda Baishley’s relentless persecution. It was Councillor Trimble who rescued Stubbs from the onslaught, although at the time she seemed to be playing straight in to Freda’s hands. Everyone around the table was relieved and Freda was finally silenced by Miss Trimble’s suggestion.

Gordon’s honorary title of ‘Steward of the Lake’ committed him to look after the wildfowl and control the water levels in the lake. Two streams fed the lake on the North side and there was a ten foot bridged causeway separating the lake from the seashore. On the bridge crossing the channel, sluice gates controlled the water levels. If the rivers caused the water level to rise, the Steward would open the sluices to prevent the meadows and gardens surrounding the village from flooding. If the water level dropped he would close the sluices to safeguard the wild life. Lately the river levels had been quite unpredictable.

***

Push me off Drake there’s a good fellow. Marmaduke Baishley had been nominated by the committee, in his absence, to sort out the Steward. How grateful the chairman had been with Felicity Trimble’s suggestion and Freda Baishley could hardly believe her good fortune at having Felicity as an ally.

The Major was thoroughly enjoying his new role. At the moment he visualised himself; a tall and rugged figure, he hadn’t actually been rugged for many years, in command of a sea-going vessel. Standing amidships he pushes down with the punt pole, humming Hearts of oak quietly to himself. He was as keen as mustard to demonstrate his mastery of the craft.

Now watch carefully Drake.

Just as you say Major, Gordon pushed the punt firmly away from the bank and the major glided out towards the centre of the lake.

The Steward with apparent anticipation, seemingly shared with a small group of ducks chattering expectantly, watched the Major. He loosened a battered old lifebelt and held it at the ready.

Major Baishley, helpless, but losing none of his poise, shivered as the vessel filled and sunk gracefully up to his waist in the icy cold water.

Gordon lifted his cap and scratched his head,

You’ve been torpedoed major. The timing of the event was better than Gordon could possibly have imagined, for at that very moment the Chairman of the Parish Council and his good lady wife were passing. Stubbs raised his bowler hat politely to the sinking major and without stopping, confided to his wife,

Good to see Baishley getting down to it. Good idea of mine to get him supervising the Steward.

Gordon with a twinkle in his eye leaned casually against the door of the boathouse. He slipped the small wooden plug back in to his pocket and murmured quietly, Oh dear, oh dear, forgot the bally bung Major.

The Major finally acknowledging he was out of his depth, with unusual presence of mind thrust the punt pole towards Gordon and shouted, give a hand there Drake, there’s a good chap. This tub needs some repairs.

***

Gordon Drake had an encyclopaedic knowledge about the village of Langford Quay. Five generations of Drakes had lived in the same cottage and in that time a fair amount of information had been accumulated about everything and anything.

Ask the Steward, would be the cry if somebody wanted to know what happened to Bagshaw who once ran the post office twenty five years ago before his wife ran off with a lighthouse keeper. Or what was the name of the unforgettably famous showbiz person who once lived in the old mill house. Gordon was always the one to ask.

His own childhood had been spent in the village. Initially he was schooled along with several other local children in the Manor House; company for Squire Dymley-Whyte’s children. The climax of his academic achievement was reached at a local secondary school in Portisham. Around about his fifteenth birthday it was decided there was nothing more he could be taught. It was just after he had received a caning for some awfully mischievous behaviour and Gordon had laid a horse hair across his palm, which as everyone knows breaks the cane in two. It did and that was that.

What the headmaster actually said was. It’s either you or me Drake. If you don’t leave I’m going to.

***

It was a very black, starless night; most suitable for another shamefully mischievous deed to take place. Along the lake side the rushes stood thick and tall, protecting the sleeping lake dwellers like a boggy picket line, ready warning against any poacher on four legs or two.

Gordon trod the hidden paths through rushes as sure-footed as if he were in his own back yard. True to say the swampy water was no great danger. Unlike the mud in the bay it was nowhere more than waist deep.

Gently he picked up a mallard. One he knew to be a matriarch in the duck community and whispering quietly all the while carried the trusting bundle of feathers from her resting place amongst the rushes. As he walked away, behind him there was a flurry of movement along the bank and a little procession of ducks quietly followed.

Come on my little beauties, he whispered leading his procession across the village. Gordon felt like the pied piper. He struggled to remember the poem from his school days.

Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,

Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,

And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,

Out came the children running.’

He smiled at his own cleverness. The excitement of his little plan for vengeance was getting the better of him.

If the chairman of the Parish Council could see us now…, he whispered to his flock. They crossed the village green and the Steward gently lifted the latch to the front gate of Baishly manor. They waddled after their leader, chattering contentedly as if on an exciting expedition.

***

The following morning, returning from his regular walk along the foreshore, Gordon raised his cap to Felicity Trimble who was busy in her front garden. It had not been a particularly productive morning but he carried best part of a yard of ships hawser over his shoulder and a dingy fender which he would have no trouble selling on.

I expect you’ve heard, she said walking up to the front gate, the ducks made the most dreadful mess on the Baishleys’ patio last night. Seems when they woke this morning the entire population of the lake was camped on their back doorstep. They left quite a calling card by all accounts.

Well I never did, replied Gordon. They’re usually a bit fussy about where they go.

I should think the Baishley’s might begin to feel rather persecuted with all the mishaps they’re suffering.

Gordon raised a frown at the thought of this.

I shall begin to feel sorry for them soon, Felicity went on.

Almost too subtle a criticism for Gordon to take much notice of, but it left him thinking for a very short while.

***

The Steward stood in the stern of the reconditioned punt, poling himself effortlessly across the lake. He cut quite a dashing figure. With his natural poise he might have been a gondolier negotiating the Grand Canal; except for the well worn cap, faded green waistcoat and baggy trousers. There was turmoil of uncertainty going on in his head. Gordon knew he had gone too far. An inquisitive pair of swans drifted alongside and stretched in to the punt looking for food in the bucket he carried.

"Not today my beauties. Steward’s in trouble today I can tell you. He moored up on the bank alongside the boathouse and sat leaning against the tarred wooden door. The boathouse was a ramshackle affair, extending out from the edge of the lake on short stilts. No floor, so a boat could be guided in through the large doors at front and then pulled up on a slip out of the water within the boat house itself. On the inside it was just bare timber. But the Steward kept all sorts of odds and ends in the old building. On the walls hung coils of rope, a long wooden ladder led up in to a roof space. There were tools for cutting the reed and dressing the banks of the lake.

This was a favourite spot. From where he sat he could see across the Lake and beyond to the village. He could see his own front gate and in the far distance he could see the Downs in which the village nestled like something precious; he didn’t know what. His presence attracted the usual crowd of pond dwellers. The swans were there still looking for food; ducks making more noise than anyone else, and moorhens who knew their place and kept a respectful distance.

He took the crumpled letter from his pocket and placing on a battered pair of spectacles read it again for the forth time.

‘…the committee has decided by a majority decision that the post of Steward to the Pond should be reappointed every year…. You will therefore be required to re-apply…other candidates may be considered.’ bla bla bla.

Let em get on with it then, he said miserably to the gathered assembly. His boldness had deserted him utterly and completely.

You’ve done it this time lad, no mistake about that, gone too far. He trudged round to the back of the boathouse with the bucket brim full with frogspawn. He poured it in to a boggy pool amongst a thick clump of rushes. Like so much else he did around the Lake he had learned it from his granddaddy. It made sure at least some tadpoles would survive the hungry attention of predators, at least until they had grown big enough to look after themselves. But he felt very low. He knew that if he had to compete with others for the position of Steward he would fail.

No learnin, they won’t give it to someone with no learnin. The words brought some bitterly painful memories from unhappy days in his childhood once more. It wasn’t all like that but there were times when schooling nearly broke Master Gordon Drake when it should have been nurturing him. His mind went back to primary school and Beaky Burbidge a master who took his pleasure crushing the minds of children with a whistle in his pocket and a cane up his sleeve. He was a man who persecuted children who would not be moulded to his way. The whistle to rap across tiny hands and the cane spoke with a whisper except when he would slap it across a desk as a warning of something worse to come. Years later Gordon was the only ex-pupil to attend Beaky’s funeral. He watched the coffin being lowered and wondered if they’d left a new cane up his right sleeve.

You didn’t succeed Mr Burbidge, Gordon had said over his coffin. You didn’t know I broke your cane with a horse hair across my palm. I’ve made it this far no thanks to you.

Thank you for coming, the widow had said to him after the service, tearfully slapping an icy hand at Gordon. Ernest would have been gratified that a pupil of his attended to pay last respects.

Best I don’t tell you why I came, thought Gordon. No learnin indeed.

***

He stopped his daydreaming; suddenly removed the cap and scratched his head.

A strategy, he said firmly to the feathered audience gathered around, that’s what I need a strategy. He had heard the word mentioned somewhere