Over The Border For A Leg-Pull (17 February 1978)

I was much interested in the two photographs of pre-war Queensway, Bletchley, published in the Gazette a fortnight ago, for that was how the road looked when I first saw it in 1946.  With one exception.  The photographs show the street lighting to have been by gaslamps, whereas by 1946 Queensway was lit by what I think were called mercury-arc lanterns.  These cast a fairly good light, but had one great drawback.  The light was such a baleful blue that it turned young women into old hags, and old hags into I don’t know what.  So much so that at least one trader had a side-window made into a pinkish mirror to put a better complexion on them, so to speak.

Despite its appearance in the photographs, that end of the town was a fairly busy little spot – at least it was in 1946.  There were well over 40 shops that I recall, and I think all but two, the Co-op and W H Smith and Sons were family businesses.  Practically all the shops had previously been private houses and in many cases the proprietors lived on the premises.

Most of the shops were ranged along the sunny side.  Only about 10 were on the other side, the main cluster being where the Castle Wool Stores is now, and was then.

One of the traders on the sunny side was Mr Angel Dindol.  He was what at that time was called a haberdasher.  He had the premises later occupied, among others, by the now-defunct Mokaris Café.  And, as if to emphasise his unusual name, there was a small statue of an angel in a special niche over the front door.  The angel now appears to have flown away, and I would dearly like to know where it has gone.

A characteristic of most of the Jews I have known has been the sharp distinction they have made between their business activities and other aspects of their lives.  To put it baldly, they have beaten you down to a penny over some business in the afternoon and then spent sixpence on you while socialising the same evening.

Shortly after noon one summer’s day I called at the Conservative Club on an inquiry, when who should follow me in but Angel.  He was happy and excited because he had just become a grandfather.

“Drinks on me, everybody, to wet the baby’s head” he cried.  “Pour ‘em out, Mr Steward, and then another.”  Naturally the company in the back room were only too willing to oblige.  All except myself.  I was not a member of the club, though I knew all the people in the room.  But Angel insisted that I join the party, and how could I refuse?

There are a lot of stories involving Scotsmen, Yorkshiremen and Jews, usually in combination.  I think it is a case of birds of a feather flocking together, though some are more feathery than others.

Relations between Scotties and Yorkies like myself tend to be specially ambivalent.  On the whole, as far as a Scottie is concerned, a Yorkie is a southerner, a Sassenach, and little better than a Londoner.  And to a Yorkie a Scottie is a sitting duck for leg-pulls about his kilt, his haggis, his bagpipes, his wholesale misuse of the Sassenach language because he has none of his own that he can speak.

They are drawn together by business and by a mutual desire to kick one another to death on rugby fields.

I spent Christmas in the beautiful border region of Scotland along with Jack, my Yorkshire brother-in-law.  We were given a very pleasant time, to put it mildly.  We were also drawn into various parties where the usual banter took place, Jack by no means getting the worst of it.  He was on top form at the last one, and ready for a scrum down with anybody.

Inevitably, someone gleefully told the hoary old tale of how Yorkshire came to be populated.  I first heard it when I was about ten, and I last heard it when Lord “Manny” Shinwell told it anent Mike Parkinson the other Saturday night.  It goes like this:

When King James VI of Scotland was marching down to take over the throne of England, many of his men had worn out their brogues (shoes) well before reaching London.  So James sent to Scotland for either 2,000 brogues or 20,000 (I forget which).  Unfortunately, when the message reached Scotland the letter “b” was missing from the word “brogues”; and the scum of Scotland were sent instead.  This rabble had reached Yorkshire when James heard of the mistake.  He didn’t want them and Scotland had been only too glad to get rid of them so they settled in Yorkshire instead.

Now that story always irked me a little.  I didn’t mind being descended from a rogue, but I strongly objected to being descended from a Scottie.  So this time I was ready for It.

When the laughter had subsided, I suggested they might like to be brought more up to date with their history.  I began by reminding them of how one of the Roman Legions had marched out of the north gate of York never to be seen again.  Then I went on:

“About the turn of this century whispers of a strange discovery in the Forest of Galtres, to the north of York, came to the ears of the city’s archaeologists.  Quietly, they set off to investigate.  They were away for some days.  When they returned, weary from excavating, they refused to say exactly where they had been or what they had found, and they never reported it in their journal.

Over the years, the episode was forgotten by the public at large.  One by one the members of the party died, taking their secret with them.  In 1950 the last of them was on his death bed and was about to pass away when he whispered that he had forgotten exactly when the excavation had taken place, but that they had discovered an awful truth.  This was that on separate occasions, over 1,000 years apart, their forefathers had had both the Roman Legion and the 2,000 or 20,000 Scottish rogues for breakfast.

Jack let out a lout guffaw.  Then, before the others could get their breath, we made our getaway.  As yet, there are no border guards and as we motored into England the only challenge came from a small boy who tried to beat us over the Coldstream Bridge on his Christmas bicycle.