Solomon's Magpie

By Robert Crompton

With Solomon’s Magpie Robert Crompton returns to his favourite haunts in Cheshire to disentangle a story told by Solomon Whitaker, boatman, basket-maker, and brewer. Solomon heard the story from his mother and went to the trouble of learning to read and write so that he could set it down. Generations later, fifteen-year-old Judy must try to create a readable version of the tale. But there’s a problem - a large part of the story is missing, and it’s clearly the most important part. Supported by her unlikely friendships with Twirl and Tracey, Judy fills in the gaps herself. Nobody believes her, however, because she is a compulsive spinner of yarns and teller of tall tales. Nobody will be really sure of what happened unless the missing pages can be found - and with them Solomon’s magpie.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Crompton
• Release date: Jan 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370777587

Robert Crompton

I've worked in the chemical industry and in townplanning. I've been a barman and a parson. I suppose I have been a historian as well because my first book, Counting the Days to Armageddon, was a history of a fringe religious group. But at heart I'm a storyteller.

Book preview

Solomon's Magpie

by Robert Crompton

Copyright 2016 Robert Crompton

Smashwords Edition

Other novels by Robert Crompton:

Bunderlin

Leaving Gilead

Chapter One

A letter arrived for Judy one Saturday morning when she was alone in the house so her mum never saw it, never saw the post-mark or held it up to the light or anything daft like that as she usually does. It was a that’s it then things can be different kind of a letter, not for what it said but for who it came from. All he wrote was, I’m glad you enjoyed our conversation because I did as well. Best wishes for your exams. Do your best and then relax. She tucked it out of sight among her school things and smiled because she hadn’t really expected a reply.

It started long before then, of course, at the dining table where all Whitaker family stories get told – time and time again. Judy was sitting there saying nothing while her mum and dad were going on about grown-up stuff and Jack, her big brother who was already nearly eight, was whingeing about not liking shepherd’s pie. And Judy said, We get rice pudding after shepherd’s pie. They all looked at her as though she had just discovered penicillin when really it was no big deal to know that her mum always made rice pudding when she made shepherd’s pie. But she was three and that was the very first thing she had ever said. So they stopped thinking she was a bit, well, not very bright.

The trouble was, though, from then on they decided she was going to be a scientist. And when she eventually realised what that meant she decided she did not like the idea. No way. Her mum and dad were both scientists. That’s what they said, but they weren’t really. Not proper scientists like working at NASA or Jodrell Bank, nothing like that. They were teachers which was boring. Her dad taught biology and her mum taught chemistry - in the same school, for heaven’s sake, which meant they were always going on about school this and school that. Luckily they weren’t at Judy’s school which would have been absolutely dire. Imagine it. Well, no, don’t. Even the thought’s too horrible.

Jack was going to be a scientist once until he discovered he was hopeless at maths, rubbish at physics and okay at music. That didn’t stop him explaining things which is what Whitakers always do, but he couldn’t explain things to their mum or dad because they knew everything or to Uncle Freddie because he was the best explainer in the whole of Cheshire – he had written books explaining things, even silly things that don’t have explanations. So that left Judy who, being only a kid, was always sort of downstream of any explanations that were floating around. Which was annoying because she was a good finder-out about things but apparently that didn’t count because she was only a kid.

(The whole of Cheshire stretches from Stockport to Chester and from Warrington to Macclesfield. The hole of Cheshire, on the other hand, is Northwich or, more specifically, Billington Road Comprehensive.)

Jack was the sort of big brother who understood his kid sister and there weren’t many of those around. Nobody else had one as far as Judy could tell, so she was really quite lucky that way. He could still be a prat at times though which is what brothers are, even the good ones. He once tried to explain why people like Uncle Freddie could believe in a god even when they knew there wasn’t one.

How can you say he knows there isn’t one? Judy objected. Just because there isn’t, it doesn’t mean he knows it. If he knew, really knew it wasn’t real he wouldn’t write books about it, would he?

Course he does – he’s still a scientist even if he is a reverend. He didn’t stop being scientific, so he has to know. It’s like you when you were little, you had that friend that only you could know about. What was it you called her? Twist, or something? Judith and Twist, the dancing twins. That’s what you were.

What the frig are you talking about? That doesn’t make sense. And it’s Twirl. Get it right, can’t you - her name’s Twirl.

Whatever. Twirl was your imaginary friend and God is Uncle Freddie’s. So, like you talk to Twirl, Uncle Freddie talks to God and calls it saying prayers.

That’s silly.

Of course it is. That’s the point, said Jack. When you’re only about three or four it’s okay to have an imaginary friend but after that you drop it cause it’s babyish.

But it’s nothing like the same thing, Judy insisted. I talk to Twirl and she talks to me. And it’s only me. Nobody else. You couldn’t suddenly decide you wanted to talk to her and call out, ‘Hey, Twirl, are you there?’ But that’s what God is supposed to be like. Auntie Edith says, you’ve just got to start talking to him and he’ll answer. Only he doesn’t. And besides, they don’t just have conversations – they ask him to do things. And they say stuff like, thanks God for this lovely shepherd’s pie when it was Mum who cooked it, not God. That’s not like Twirl.

Well it is really, Jack replied, and that was the best he could manage.

Tell you what, said Judy because she suddenly had a bright idea. We should try what Auntie Edith says. Just talk to God. Ask him for something and then if we get it we’ll know they were right all along.

Yes, you could do that, he replied, but he’d already satisfactorily proved something or other, though Judy wasn’t sure what, and accounted for Uncle Freddie’s irrationality, so he went up to his room. He had a long way to go before he would be as good at explaining as the rest of them. Or even any good at all.

I’m still here, said Twirl as soon as he was out of the room.

Stick around, whispered Judy. I’m going to need you.

Jack only called her Judith to annoy her. It was what her mum called her when she was telling her off and it was the name teachers used on school reports and detention slips. So she was Judy, like she had been since forever and people ought to remember.

She wasn’t Jude either, especially not when her dad was around because he played the guitar and sang in a rock group which was just so embarrassing. Like the time when they were playing at a Rotary Club social, a members drag your kids along sort of thing and she had to go. And two girls from her class and Barbie Dolman, the student on teaching practice, were there and her dad – just imagine it, it was awful – he only had to go and sing that stupid Paul McCartney song, Hey Jude. She wanted to crawl under the seat. And then next day Barbie, the frigging airhead, she was like, Hey, he’s good, your dad. Rather dishy, in fact. Dishy? Dishy, for frig’s sake? He was fifty-four. Yuk, that was just yuk.

Nobody could ever say Uncle Freddie was dishy. He was lots older than Judy’s dad and he was bald and fat. Not very fat like gross, but definitely not skinny like Jack and their dad and he was a little bit scruffy and scrumply. But he was fun even if he was a lecturer in vicaring. He started off as a scientist, a pretend scientist like the rest of them, but he gave it up soon after Judy started at primary school when he decided he was going to be a vicar instead. Well, not a vicar actually. You have to be Catholic or Anglican to be a vicar. Methoes and Congoes and Baptoes and potatoes just have ministers. Uncle Freddie explained that. He explained it every time anybody got it wrong about what he was. Couldn’t just let it go, he had to explain it so of course Grandad always wound him up about it and Judy thought it was rather funny but her dad said it was tiresome.

One Christmas just after Uncle Freddie had been made Principal of his God College after a couple of years as a part-time lecturer and Grandad had retired, they were all at home together for dinner at the proper time for once. Everybody was there – Judy’s mum and dad and Jack of course; and there were Freddie and Edith and Amybelinda who needed two of everything because she was a twince, a pair of twins, the cousins. And there was Grandad and Auntie Vinnie Spencer who was only four feet ten and wasn’t anybody’s auntie. She was Gran’s friend but she just kept coming round long after Gran had died. Probably thought she was proper family but that was all right because she was nice and she made very good fruit pies. Having her around was like having an extra gran. They were all at the table and Judy’s mum came in with the soup and Auntie Vinnie said, So if you’re a full-time teacher again, Freddie, does that mean you’re not a vicar any more?

Uncle Freddie put her right about that, of course, and Grandad chipped in with, It beats me why you never turned Church of England. Then you could have been a real vicar. And when Uncle Freddie began to explain yet another of the mysteries of heaven on earth, Judy’s dad said, Oh for fuck’s sake, Freddie, does it matter?

Everybody sort of froze. Auntie Edith (real auntie) went all prim and tight-lipped like she did whenever anybody did anything that would make Jesus blush, and Amybelinda looked down and down and down to expunge from memory all record of having heard such a rude word because Jesus would still blush even if they only thought a word like that. Auntie Vinnie tried not to laugh and Grandad winked at Judy so she got the giggles cause her dad had blurted out, Fuck. Then everybody except Auntie Edith relaxed and Uncle Freddie said, Yes, right. Sorry.

Then, to ensure that all remained convivial and Christmassy, Grandad decided that a light-hearted story was needed. I remember during the war, he began, there was a time when some squaddies on Manchester Victoria were saying fuck...

Judy’s mum looked her here we go again look and Auntie Edith remained quite distinctly righteous.

… As you know, I was a sergeant in REME. Anyway, I was on a course at Bury Tech and in a billet up there. Of course, at weekends we’d all come home. Them as lived near enough. Not supposed to, but we did. Anyhow, as it happened, on this particular weekend I’d got leave – which was fortunate for me cause at Manchester there was a mob of Red Caps. Ugly looking buggers they were, and they were cracking down on blokes nipping off home without a chit. So there’s this bunch of lads wondering what the… well, wondering what to do. Right, I thought, I’ll see to this. And I marched up to them and bawled, ‘Get fell in, you bloody shower.’ And I marched them guys off the station, waved my own pass at the Red Caps. And you know what? Them daft buggers they saluted us as we went by. I sent them squaddies down Long Millgate and I legged it up to London Road to get a train home.

Thirty-seven. It was the thirty-seventh time Judy had heard that story – well that one or the one about Billy Pig’s gloves, or Great Grandad’s cured ham. But everyone always found it a little amusing. It was never tiresome for some reason, unlike Uncle Freddie’s endlessly repeated explanation of the vicar or not a vicar thing.

Her dad just sat there and grinned but he didn’t respond with his umpteenth recounting of how he rescued the fine antique dining table when he was doing a gig with his rock group. He could too easily get a bit niggled at Christmas which should be nice and fun and super and he hated things that looked like they could spoil it. He and Freddie had grown up with spoiled Christmases. Grandad was landlord of the Heron so every Christmas Day Freddie and Ken would be on their own while Gran and Grandad were in the pub. Gran would have to dash back and forth between the bar and the kitchen, getting ratty and harassed in the kitchen and being jolly and ho ho ho in the bar while Grandad got a bit sloshed with his customers. And then, with hardly any light left in the day, they would eventually have their Christmas dinner. So when Grandad decided at long last that he would retire and Uncle Freddie was in God college instead of church, the whole family could be together for a normal Christmas. But nobody knew what one of those might be. They were just starting to find out.

Judy was still expected to go and play with Amybelinda after dinner because they were only twelve which meant they still needed to play. The trouble was that Auntie Edith always told them to play nicely. Which they did – as if nicely was a game for especially good girls to play. So if Judy wanted to go on a bike ride to the forest (too far) and jump ditches (too difficult for Amybelinda but not for Judy) that wasn’t playing nicely which is what they were supposed to be doing.

On top of that, being polite was the big thing. Amybelinda was (or were?) very good at being polite and people would come from all over Cheshire to witness the spectacle. Like when they would hang around doors just so that they could hold them open for the person behind – even if that person was still on the opposite side of the street. And everyone would realise it was because of Jesus, of course, and they would invite him into their hearts all because Amybelinda was so good at being polite.

Naturally, frigging cricket was not Amybelinda’s favourite game. It was neither nice nor polite which meant that Judy always went in to bat first and Amybelinda didn’t even realise they were playing it. That day’s word was fuck, and Judy had found four occasions to utter it before any grown-up heard her. She and Amybelinda were having an argument about who was the author of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Judy said it was Ronald Dahl and Belinda said the name was Roald. And Amy said the name was Roald. And Amybelinda said the name was Roald. It was a bit embarrassing to get something wrong so, of course, they kept on about it until Judy said, For fuck’s sake does it matter? Like who would want to admit to being clued up about Charlie and the frigging Chocolate Factory?

Oi! said her dad and he slapped her gently across her bum with a Christmas cracker.

And it does matter. It matters a lot, said Belinda.

...matters a lot, echoed Amy.

Jack didn’t come to her defence like he should have done, until Belinda said, You’re a bit screwy, you are, and Jack told her that she didn’t even know what screwy meant. What sort of a name is Roald anyway? It’s silly. Never mind, though, four was a pretty good score. Your innings, Belinda. Four to beat. But Belinda wouldn’t even try and neither would Amy, of course. Not nice, not polite.

Judy’s mum looked her Judy! That’s not appropriate look with a sort of glance towards Auntie Edith who was looking very righteous. So that game of frigging cricket fizzled out. Politeness stopped play.

Later that evening, when Amybelinda had gone to bed, Judy went up to her own room and popped her head around Jack’s door on the way. We should try that prayer thing now, she said. because with Auntie Edith and the twince here, God can’t be very far away.

What are you on about?

Don’t you remember? What we said ages ago. Ask for something and see what happens.

Go on then, ask for something.

Do you think we’re supposed to kneel down?

You can if you want. I’m not, he replied.

No, me neither. Sod it. Okay then, God, if you’re there I want a puppy and Jack wants, er, I don’t know… a girlfriend probably. Yes, he wants a girlfriend. That’s all.

A couple of days later when Uncle Freddie and Amybelinda and Auntie Edith were getting ready to drive back to Cambridge, little Tracey Nuttall from the ironmonger’s who Judy used to babysit for came round. I’ve got nobody to play with, she said.

You’d better come in then, Judy replied. And from then onwards, Tracey was always somewhere nearby.

When it was getting near to the next school holiday after that Christmas and Judy was looking forward