Withering Tights. Louise Rennison
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is the grocer’s store, church and bus stop. I suppose the road to the main shopping bit is the one that goes off round the back of the pub.
The pub is called ‘The Blind Pig’. It’s got a sign with a pig on it. The piggy has dark glasses on and a walking stick in its trotter. Must be an olde Yorkshire story about a pig that saved the village single-handedly from the Vikings, even though it was blind.
Actually, it wouldn’t be single-handedly, it would be single-trotter-dly.
I have always been good at English, even if I say it myself. Which I have to because I haven’t spoken to anyone except myself for about two years.
You can’t count the Dobbins.
As I turned down the lane to the shops, a girl about my age came out of The Blind Pig. She had a mass of curly hair and a cute sticky-up nose.
She smiled at me and said, “Hello, do you live here?”
I smiled back and said, “No, I’m Tallulah and I’ve come to Yorkshire by mistake.”
She laughed and crinkled her nose up. She had a very gurgling hiccupping sort of laugh. She said, “My name’s Vaisey and I’m going to the performing arts summer school at Dother Hall.”
Hooray! Someone else on the planet besides Brown Owls and basin-headed people. Vaisey was staying at The Blind Pig because her bed wasn’t ready at the school.
I said, “Did you come with anyone, or do you know people there?”
She shook her hair. “Not yet, but I think it’s going to be great, don’t you? I feel a touch of the tap dancing coming on, I am so excited. The landlord of the pub says that they call it ‘Dither Hall’ in the village and that it’s all scarves and tambourines up there.”
I said, “Um…who’s the landlord? Is he a bit of a—”
At which point, a big, red-faced man in tweed breeches came out and looked at us.
“Oh…I see, another of you. Are you breeding?”
He shouted back into the pub, “Ruby, I said this would ’appen. The ‘artists’ are breeding already, there’ll be bloody hundreds of them by tomorrow. All miming their way to the bus stop.”
He went off in the direction of the village hall, laughing like a rusty goose.
A girl of about ten popped her head out of the pub door to look at us. She had pigtails and gap teeth and freckles, and a sweet little face.
She said in a broad accent, “Ullo, I’m Ruby. Who are you?”
I said, “I’m Tallulah.”
Ruby laughed and laughed and then said, “That’s a mad name. I think I’ll just call tha Loobylullah for short.”
I laughed as well. I felt sort of nice that she had made up a special name for me. I said to them both, “I was going to go to the shops. Do you fancy coming?”
Vaisey said, “Yes, that would be cool, let’s go. Which way is it?”
I said, “It must be down this road because I know there is only the village green thing here.”
Ruby was just looking at us.
I said, “Are you not coming?”
She said, “No, I’ll leave it.”
“See you later then.”
Ruby said, “Yep.”
Me and Vaisey set off down the road and passed the back of The Blind Pig and its outbuildings.
Then we came to a line of cottages and a barn.
Vaisey said, “Which do you like best: cappuccino or hot chocolate? I think I will have hot chocolate…”
And that’s when we saw the sheep. Fields of them, stretching as far as the eye could see.
Oh no, of course I am exaggerating, there was a sign as well and it said:
Blubberhouse Sewage Works 10 miles
We were back at The Blind Pig two minutes later and Ruby was sitting on the wall eating a bag of crisps.
She said, “Did you not go to the shops?”
We shook our heads.
Ruby said quite kindly, “Have you two ever bin in the country before?”
We shook our heads.
Ruby said, “The woolly things are sheep. See thee later, I’m off to the pie-eating contest, my dad’s in it.”
Vaisey and me decided to make the best of things by looking round what there was of the village. I’ll give you a thumbnail sketch of the high spots.
The post office. What we could see through the window: stamps, ten ‘amusing’ birthday cards, sellotape.
The village shop. Pies, milk, teabags, paint and a selection of boiled sweets.
I won’t bother you with the low spots.
As we passed, we could hear loud cheering and heckling from the village hall. It was decorated with a banner that said: ‘Pie eating’.
A loud voice bellowed from inside. It sounded like Ruby. “Come on, Dad, get it down you! Only twenty to go!!!”
I looked at Vaisey. She said, “Do you want to see my room?”
The pub smelt all beery when we went in. It didn’t have what you would call a ‘cosmopolitan atmosphere’. It had a darts board and skittles atmosphere. It looked like one of those pubs that you see in scary old films.
You know, when two lost travellers are on the moors. Suddenly a thunderstorm breaks. They are soaking and the lightning is crackling across the sky. Then they hear something terrible howling. And as they walk on, the howling gets nearer. A flash of lightning illuminates a slathering monstrous dog with fangs. And they start running, and the beast starts running, and one falls over and then…Heavens to Betsy, they see lights! And hear a piano. The welcoming lights of an old inn. The sign creaks backwards and forwards in the howling wind. A flash of lightning illuminates the sign.
It reads, ‘The Blind Pig’.
Anyway, that is what The Blind Pig was like. I was glad the landlord was out eating pies.
There were pictures of the landlord all over the walls. Mostly with dead things that he had shot. Foxes, stags, deer. Chickens. A cow. Surely he hadn’t shot a cow? In each one he was standing with his shotgun and his foot on whatever poor thing he had shot. There was even one of him with one foot on a pie. Underneath it said:
Ted Barraclough Champion Pie-Eater:22 steak and kidney and 4 pork.
We went up the steep stairs to Vaisey’s room. It had dark oak beams and slanting wooden floors, it was so old. Yorkshire people seem obsessed with wood. There is very little city loft-living style around here. Where are all the shiny surfaces?
Vaisey prattled about her family as we looked through her things. Two brothers and a sister. Blah blah. Dogs, two budgies, both called Joey. Blah. Ordinary every-day legs. She told me she could sing and dance a bit and that she had played Titania in Midsummer Night’s Dream and her mum had made her costume.
I just looked at her as the edges of our planets drew away from each other.
Her mum had made her costume?
I said, “Your dad doesn’t go to work on a bike that has a handy basket, does he?”
She blinked at me in amazement. “Yes, how on earth did you know that?”
I shrugged carelessly and went to look moodily out of the window. Perhaps you could see Grimbottom from here. Sadly I forgot to duck so struck my head on the low beam.
Then