Bobby Shafter

By John Standingford

Bobby Shafter is a different kind of love story. Young Bobby meets Elizabeth on a train leaving King's Cross at midnight. She is going to a Yorkshire village to claim her inheritance; he is on the run from both sides of the law. It suits them both to team up for a while, at least until the big old house that is now Elizabeth's home has been made habitable. When Elizabeth finds out that her companion is not what he seems she decides to help him.
They share a sense of humour and a gift for mimicry, but when it comes to background, age, education and class they have little in common. When convenience turns to friendship, and then to something more, Elizabeth finds a bold and novel way to overcome those differences. Soon they are sharing the house with three alter egos who make carefully choreographed entrances and exits. Elizabeth's father comes to visit, and he is not what he seems either.
The story is set in Yorkshire in 1955, and every page evokes the time and place – from gossip to gangsters, steam engines to cider-making, coconut shies to corporal punishment, death duties to darts. There are hyperlinked endnotes and a glossary, to inform readers for whom Yorkshire in 1955 is culturally remote.
One might call this book a comedy of manners as much as a love story. The tone is lighthearted and the satire is never unkind.
Three years later the protagonists appear again in a sequel: Farley's Bend. This story starts with the discovery of a dead motorcyclist beside a country road. An accident...?

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Standingford
• Release date: Sep 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005235352

John Standingford

John was born in London, grew up on Merseyside and now lives in Adelaide, Australia. This is his wife Mary's home town, but they met and married in Bangladesh in the year of the first moon-landing. They now have two grown-up sons and two grandsons.John's life has been spent mainly as an itinerant economist, working in most countries in the Asia-Pacific region and most of the former Soviet republics.Now he is fulfilling a lifelong ambition to be a creative writer. His first work was The Eeks Trilogy, which uses speculative fiction to explore questions about Humanity's essential nature and likely future. All three books are now available in a single volume entitles Goldiloxians. His next book was HM4MEN - a light-hearted manual on household management for men.He has completed a fourth novel called Bobby Shafter, set in 1950s Britain, which was published conventionally by Elephant House Press and is now available (for a sixth of the price) as an e-book. John's latest book is Farley's Bend, the sequel to Bobby Shafter, set three years later.

Book preview

Endnotes    Click on (Note) where it appears.

Abbreviations and Glossary

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Other Books by John Standingford

Chapter 1

Catching a Train

The streets around King’s Cross Station are never empty, nor completely dark, and if the young man had behaved quite normally you would not have noticed him. But his efforts to be inconspicuous only made him less so. He kept looking around with exaggerated casualness. He seemed to be in a hurry but he stopped in front of shop windows, pretending to look at the merchandise while he glanced behind him. More than once he knelt to tie his shoelace.

As he approached the station entrance he made a sudden turn into a side street. After a dozen paces he pressed himself into a doorway and silently counted to 20. Then he peered out, looked left and right, and went back the way he had come.

A passer-by with time to spare might have been intrigued enough to follow him. But in Central London, even at half-past-midnight, few people had time to spare.

* * *

Thank you so much, please keep the change. Elizabeth Morley was not usually a big tipper but as she paid the taxi driver, who was panting a little from unloading her three suitcases and two heavy boxes, she felt obliged to share her good fortune. The taxi driver showed no sign of feeling fortunate as he looked down at the pound note and mumbled, I’ll try not to spend it all at once.

A porter appeared with a trolley and soon Miss Morley and her luggage were part of the churn of humanity that makes any great railway station an exciting place to be. She bought her ticket and the porter led her to Platform 4. The train’ll be here in a few minutes, Miss. D’you want me to wait and help you on board?

Oh no, just put everything on the platform. I’m sure I’ll manage. Her tip was better received this time and the porter whistled happily as he sauntered off.

* * *

The young man joined the same churn at about the same time. At the ticket office he leaned close to the window and said, in little more than a whisper, Single to Newcastle, please. The clerk had to ask him to repeat himself and speak up.

Platform 4 was to the right of the ticket office but the young man headed left at first, then made an abrupt turn and attached himself to a large family group, trying to look as if he belonged until it passed Platform 4.

As soon as he was through the barrier he looked for another group to blend with. There was none, but he spotted Miss Morley alone with her suitcases and boxes. The train pulled in as he approached her. Can I help you with your luggage, Miss? he asked politely. I don’t have much of my own to handle. He held up a single bag, such as a schoolboy might carry his football gear in.

Oh, that’s very kind of you! Yes please, if it’s not too much trouble.

No trouble at all. Chance to show off my strength!

His accent marked him as a true Londoner, with origins closer to Bow Bells than Berkeley Square. Hers was quite different, stamping her as educated and middle class. The vowels were sculpted by northern English winds, but she could have auditioned for a job at the BBC.

Miss Morley’s luggage filled the racks in the compartment and she set one of the boxes on the floor at her feet. I hope nobody else comes in with lots of luggage, she said. Perhaps I should have paid to put some in the guard’s van.

Nah! I’ll come in here too and we’ll spread ourselves out a bit, said the young man, sitting opposite Miss Morley and dropping his bag on the seat beside him. That’ll keep other people away. If you don’t mind, of course.

Miss Morley indicated that she had no objection and at the young man’s suggestion lifted her box onto the seat. She took off her coat and laid it on top for good measure.

That’s the way! said the young man, taking off his own coat and tossing it onto the seat beside his bag. Now the compartment’s full.

They laughed and Miss Morley took a paperback book out of her handbag. My name’s Elizabeth, by the way, she said, extending her hand.

Bobby, said the young man, giving it a manly shake.

Several people looked into their compartment but nobody tried to invade their territory. Elizabeth read her book and Bobby looked out of the window, his eyes flicking left and right along the dimly lit platform.

Occasionally he looked at his companion too. He noticed that she was wearing earrings and one ring, but not on the third finger of her left hand. He judged her to be about 30, average height, quite attractive, with lipstick but no other make-up. Her light brown hair was cut rather than styled and her clothes were chosen for comfort. Her shoes were sensible but smart, and the only things she had on that looked new. She reminded him of Miss Kettle, his teacher at secondary school. The children had called her Teapot. He chuckled at the memory of the tricks they used to play on poor Miss Kettle.

Elizabeth looked up. What’s funny? she asked.

Oh, nothing. I was just remembering a teacher I had. You look a bit like her. You’re not a teacher are you?

No. I did consider applying for teachers’ college, but I’m a librarian.

You read a lot then?

I do, but not during working hours. Do you like to read?

I’m not much of a reader to be honest. We had to read stuff at school of course, but since I left, well, I prefer to go to the pictures.

I like to lose myself in a book. I like to watch a good film too, but when I read I usually find the pictures in my own head are better than the ones on a screen.

They heard a deep-throated fwouh from the engine and the train started to move. They saw billows of steam which for a while obscured their view. Then with gathering speed the sound of the engine became a throb and they became aware of the chuchuk, chuchuk of wheels passing over the unwelded joints between the rails.

I love leaving London by train, said Elizabeth. You start in the city, with its grand old buildings and tall office blocks. Then you’re in the suburbs, which seem to go on for ever with their dull sooty bricks and chimneypots. And then quite suddenly you’re in the open countryside. I know the fields and trees are always there, but when I’m in the city they’re just not part of my reality. Do you know what I mean?

She turned to Bobby, who had no idea what she was talking about. You know, he said, I feel just the same way.

And I get a guilty sort of pleasure from seeing the backs of people’s houses, she went on. They seem so private. People scrub their front steps and clean their front windows, but it’s behind the house that they have their washing lines and their sheds and old prams and bicycles. The back gardens aren’t supposed to be on display to the world, but if you’re next to a railway line your back garden’s on display all the time.

Not much to see at this time of night.

No, but some people don’t bother to draw their curtains at the back of the house. If the light’s on you can see people sitting reading the paper, having a meal, putting children to bed...

Watching TV if they’ve got one.

Oh yes, with that eerie glow on their blank faces. They look like Martians!

They were soon in the suburbs and there were indeed a few lighted windows for them to peer through as their speeding world rubbed against the static worlds of Finsbury Park and Stroud Green.

Look, said Bobby, there’s a couple having a row!

Oh yes! I bet it’s about money. Her husband relies on working overtime but he’s had a falling-out with the foreman so he hasn’t been getting any lately. Their last baby was unplanned and they can’t really afford it. The woman’s buying cheap cuts of meat and the man’s not going to the pub so often, and she has to keep wearing her worn-out clothes. New shoes are just a dream.

How can you tell all that from just looking at them?!

Elizabeth laughed. Don’t you ever see people and make up stories about them? Just for fun?

Not really, no.

Past Enfield they were in open country. Nothing to peep at out here, said Elizabeth. Time for some shut-eye. She put her book away and arranged herself as comfortably as she could for sleep.

Good idea, said Bobby, doing the same. G’night.

* * *

When Bobby woke up it was already light outside. Elizabeth was awake and reading her book. Morning, Bobby, she said, You slept well. We should be coming in to York very soon. Would you like some tea? Bobby noticed a Thermos flask and an empty plastic cup on the little table under the window. He nodded and Elizabeth poured.

I’ve only got one cup. Do you mind sharing? I don’t think I’ve got any terrible disease!

I don’t mind. As the youngest in a big family Bobby was used to sharing.

It’s already got sugar in it and I didn’t bring any milk. Is that alright?

Yeah, great. Thanks, Elizabeth. It was the first time he’d used her name.

He watched as the green fields and patches of woodland slid past. There wasn’t much greenery in his world. There’s a cow! he exclaimed. Elizabeth glanced up, said, Mm, yes, and went back to her book.

After a few minutes she snapped it shut and said, That’s a very funny book. You should read it, I’m sure you’d like it.

What is it?

It’s called ‘Lucky Jim’. It’s by a new author called Kingsley Amis. We got a copy in the library and they let me borrow it as a sort of parting gift. I’ve got to post it back right away though, or else I’d offer to lend it to you. If you’d like to read it, that is. Well, I could lend it to you if you think you could finish it today. Are you a fast reader?

Not very, no. But how long have you got? I mean, are you going all the way to Newcastle?

No, I’m getting off at Framby. It’s a tiny place in the middle of nowhere. I don’t suppose you’ve even heard of it.

Bobby’s eyes widened. Framby? That’s where I’m going! As he spoke the words he felt like a high diver, launching himself into the air not knowing how deep the water was below him.

How extraordinary! What takes you to Framby?

I got family there. Near there. What about you?

Ah, thereby hangs a tale! I have family in Framby too, or at least I used to. My Aunt Hyacinth lived there in a big old house. She was widowed in the First World War and never re-married. She died last year and I got a letter from her solicitor saying she’d left me everything.

Left you the house?

The house and quite a lot of land. Money too, I suppose. Everything.

Bobby began to think that the water he was diving into could be both deep and warm.

Were you expecting it?

No! I thought she’d leave everything to her nephew’s widow and her children. They went to live with her after Ralph died.

Who’s Ralph?

Sorry, it’s a bit complicated. Aunt Hyacinth was my mother’s sister, quite a bit older, and they had a brother called Alexander. He died at Verdun but he had a son just before the war. That was Ralph. He married Christine and they had three children.

So why didn’t they get the house and the money?

Well, Ralph was killed in the Second World War, same age as his father was when he died in the Great War. I was 15 at the time and I remember how shocked everyone was. Christine and the children went to live with Aunt Hyacinth. She looked after them, supported them, even hired a governess. But five or six years ago Christine met someone and re-married. Aunt Hyacinth didn’t approve, there was a terrible row and she changed her will.

Bobby had aunts and uncles and cousins galore, sprinkled like stardust from Bethnal Green to the Blackwall Tunnel, but he’d never given much thought to how they were related and no-one had ever had anything to leave to anyone else – except debts maybe.

Have you ever seen the house? he said.

Oh yes. My parents used to take me to visit. I remember seeing the children there when they were very young.

And now you’ll live there?

That’s the plan.

What about your job? You said you had a job in a library.

They promised to keep it open for me for a month, in case I want to go back. But I rather like the idea of being a lady of leisure in a big country house!

Is there enough money for that?

I don’t know how much money there is. Aunt Hyacinth’s solicitor will come and see me tomorrow and give me all the details. But there are tenants on all the land and the rent should be enough to live on.

You’re bourgeoisie then?

Elizabeth burst out laughing. Wherever did you pick up that word?

There’s an old bloke down our way, goes around shouting about the Russian revolution and workers losing their chains and stuff like that. He’s always going on about the bourgeoisie. He reckons they should all be strung up and shot.

Well, strictly speaking I suppose I am a member of the bourgeoisie now, but I don’t think of myself like that.

You’ll be living well and not working, though.

Yes, that’s true.

Living off the sweat of the workers.

Are you a communist, Bobby?

Me? Nah! The old bloke says he is, but I’m not. Just interested. Good luck to you, that’s what I say. I expect you’ll do charity in the village, that sort of thing.

I suppose I will, if I find something I can do that’s useful.

Well then, good luck to you!

* * *

Why would this iron-fisted lord of a locomotive, which made its own cloud to ride on and dragged its domain of sound and smoke unchallenged through the countryside, bother to stop at Framby? The redbrick station made no attempt to assert its presence in the rolling farmland. Rather it seemed to be crouching, disguised as a cottage, complete with baskets of geraniums hanging from the eaves and pansies planted in old tyres that were themselves disguised as flowerbeds.

Elizabeth was ready to alight as soon as the train drew to a halt. She stepped lightly onto the platform and called out, Porter!

Bobby had been taught to avoid men in uniform, but this confident young woman treated them as servants.

I’ve got rather a lot of luggage, she said, raising her voice above the hiss of steam. Would you make sure the train doesn’t leave until it’s all out? And would you give me a hand with it?

Right you are, Miss, said the porter, touching the peak of his cap, I’ll fetch a trolley. In Bobby’s world uniformed men addressed people as ‘My lad’ or ‘Hoi! You!’. And they were more likely to fetch you a fourpenny one than a trolley (Note).

When the luggage was out and the train had left, enveloping the poor little station in its portable cloud, Elizabeth turned to Bobby and said, There should be a car waiting for me. Can I give you a lift somewhere?

That’d be nice, but my cousin’s supposed to meet me with a motor. He looked around and added, Er, I don’t see him. Perhaps I’d better give him a bell and see what’s what. There’s a ’phone box over there. Would you wait a couple of minutes, just in case?

Of course. Aah, this looks like the driver coming now.

Bobby jogged to the ’phone box. On the train he had been rehearsing what to do next. He avoided looking in Elizabeth’s direction while he made a pantomime of reaching into his trouser-pocket for change, putting four pennies into the slot, then pressing button A and speaking (Note). He was animated, gesturing with his free hand, keeping his face in profile to where Elizabeth was in case she was watching.

He walked back shaking his head. Elizabeth was standing by the barrier while the driver loaded her cases and boxes. Fortunately it was a biggish car, a Wolseley, with a roof-rack.

You’ll never believe this, said Bobby with a sigh in his voice. My uncle’s been took very ill and the whole family’s gone with him to York. He’s in hospital there. They got tenants in the house and no-one knows when they’ll be back.

But they knew you were coming?

Well, I wrote to Alan, that’s my cousin, and said I was coming. He never replied but I wasn’t expecting him to. I mean, we’re family ain’t we? I wonder if there’s a train going back to London soon.

I doubt it. Not many trains stop here.

Yeah. Anyway, I spent all my money on the ticket to get here. I remember Alan saying there’s always work you can get around here, farm work and stuff, so I thought I could earn a bit before going back home.

He stood limply in front of her, looking down. In an illustrated dictionary his image could have been used to elaborate the definition of ‘downcast’ or even ‘hangdog’.

Elizabeth was a problem-solver by nature. If there was a problem in the library – a borrower with an overdue book who’d moved to a new address, for example – it was always Elizabeth who was called on to solve it. I have an idea, she said. I’m going to need some help to get the house sorted out and unpack my things. Why don’t you come and stay with me for a day or two? Room and board in exchange for helping me.

Bobby brightened immediately. Really? That’d be great!

On one condition, though, added Elizabeth, I don’t want you telling me I’m ‘bourgeoisie’!

Deal!

They laughed together and went to the car.

Chapter 2

Bartholemew House

They drove for fifteen minutes through farmland and pastures, passing large isolated houses and clusters of cottages. They saw ducks on a pond beside a wood. They slowed to cross a narrow stone bridge. The road was empty except for a few tractors, a very old lorry and two men on bicycles.

Is there a bus service? asked Elizabeth.

Oh ay, said the driver. Every hour-and-a-half to the village. It’ll be a 10-minute walk for you to the nearest stop, but when the drivers get to know you they’ll stop anywhere if you wave. And they’ll let you off at Bartholomew House on the way back.

What’s Bartholomew House? said Bobby, thinking it sounded like a borstal.

That’s the name of Aunt Hyacinth’s house.

Bobby had never been inside a house that had a name.

* * *

The driver had the front door key. He and Bobby unloaded Elizabeth’s luggage and carried it into the entrance hall while Elizabeth walked around, poking her head into one room after another. She flicked a light-switch.

Mr Grimthorpe had the power put back on, said the driver as he brought in a cardboard box, and he told me to buy a few things you might need.

Elizabeth saw a loaf of bread and a big packet of Persil sticking up from the box. That’s wonderful, she said. How much do I owe you?

Nowt, Miss Morley. Mr Grimthorpe paid for the fare and the shopping. No doubt you’ll find it deducted from your inheritance though. Mr Grimthorpe’s not known for throwing his own money around. Oh, he said to tell you he’ll be here at 10:30 in the morning.

Elizabeth closed the heavy front door as the hired car pulled away. We’ve got a job-and-a-half ahead of us, Bobby, she said. The place is filthy. She’s been dead for a year but there’s a lot more than a year’s dirt here.

Together they went upstairs to see where they would sleep. There were five good-sized bedrooms. One seemed to be used to store junk, including a rusting bedstead with no mattress, several broken chairs and a galvanized iron hipbath. Two were furnished with double beds, and there were two single beds in each of the others. In the biggest of the four the double bed had sheets, blankets and pillows, but they were in disarray.

It looks as though Aunt Hyacinth just got up, exclaimed Elizabeth. I’d have thought someone would have stripped the bed after she died!

Mr Grimthorpe?

Well, he’s Aunt Hyacinth’s solicitor. And he’s her executor, so he’s got control of her money. At least he could have hired someone to come and tidy up.

Didn’t your aunt have a char?

She had a procession of housekeepers but none of them stayed very long. She wasn’t an easy person to get along with.

They found the linen cupboard and took out a pair of double sheets, a pair of single sheets and four pillow cases. Elizabeth sniffed them and wrinkled her nose. Ugh! They’re like a mummy’s winding sheet! There’s no time to wash anything and get it dry by tonight. Let’s just hang these out to air. I suppose there’s a clothes line at the back.

It’ll have to be a big one, with this lot.

Everything at Bartholomew House is big!

Elizabeth was right. There were three posts in the back garden and a coil of rope hanging on one of them that was long enough to make an aerial triangle, easily accommodating their little pile of bed linen. Bobby found a basket of pegs in the kitchen. When Uncle Charles was alive they used to entertain quite a lot, I think, said Elizabeth. Weekend house-parties, that sort of thing. So they’d have had oodles of washing.

It was a sunny June day and there was a light breeze blowing. The snow-white sheets billowed and danced, causing Elizabeth to spread her arms and say, They’re like the sails of a great galleon, and we’re setting out on a voyage of discovery!

Bobby played along. Haar, he said in a Captain Hook pirate voice, Thar be doubloons on the Spanish Main! He spotted a rusting butcher’s hook in the grass at his feet, held it in his fist and waved it in the air crying, Shiver me timbers, me hearties!

Elizabeth joined in the fun, cavorting and singing, Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum! Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest! Then she laughed and laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks. Bobby was alarmed until she managed to say, Oh Bobby, thank you! I haven’t had a good laugh like that for a long time. Thank you. She laughed again, and so did Bobby.

As their laughter waned they heard a snap and the sheets and pillowcases drooped onto the unkempt lawn. That set them off again.

Actually, said Elizabeth after a while, this isn’t so funny. We need bedding for tonight.

Hey, don’t worry about it. Why don’t you go in and start unpacking or something. I’ll fix this.

But how? The line’s broken. It’s probably rotten so you can’t just knot it together.

I don’t know how I’ll fix it but I will. Alright?

Mr Fixit.

Yeah, that’s me! Go inside. Trust me.

Eighteen years of finding his away around things – problems, people, the truth, the law – had taught Bobby to trust his own ingenuity. He started in the kitchen and a little store-room off to the side. He found some basic tools, rusty but usable, and with their help broke into a padlocked garden shed. There was no rope, but on a high shelf he spotted two balls of garden twine that seemed to be in good condition. OK, he thought, if I double this up it should be as strong as a clothes line. Hmm, maybe I’d better triple it just to be sure. I reckon there’s enough.

He set to work, tying it between each pair of poles rather than looping it around all three. When it was in place he lifted each of the fallen sections of line and carefully transferred the unruly rectangles of cloth from old to new. The ground wasn’t muddy so no harm had been done. He didn’t realize it, because his goal in life had never been more than survival, but he was happy.

Elizabeth was happy too. She had found a broom, a scrubbing brush, a bucket and some rags and was now upstairs sweeping and cleaning and putting away. Through the dirty window she saw Bobby absorbed in his work with the line. What a stroke of luck, she thought to herself, to meet Bobby on the train, and then for him to find himself with nowhere to stay.

A saying of her grandmother’s came to her: Be careful you don’t use up all your luck too soon! She had never really understood what the old woman meant, and she preferred her grandfather’s counterblast: Don’t listen to her, Lizzy! People make their own luck as they go along.

* * *

The rest of the day was spent cleaning. They started on two of the bedrooms - the bigger one for Elizabeth, with Aunt Hyathinth’s double bed, and a smaller one for Bobby with two single beds. That’s where the two boys slept, said Elizabeth, "Charles and William. I used to call them Charlie and Willy but Aunt Hyacinth insisted on using their proper names. ‘If Ralph had wanted them to be called Charlie and Willy they would have been christened Charlie and Willy’, that’s