Read Ebook: Tales of the Ridings by Moorman F W Frederic William Vaughan Charles Edwyn Commentator

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"There's nowt like Bridlington sands," he would say, in self-defence. "I'm noan sayin' but what there's a better colour i' t' watter at Blackpool, but there's ower mich wind on' t sea. Sea-watter gits into your mouth when you're swimmin' and then you've to blow like a grampus. Scarborough's ower classy for t' likes o' Mary an' me; it's all reight for bettermy-bodies that likes to dizen theirselves out an' sook cigars on church parade. But me an' t' owd lass allus go to Bridlington. It's homely, is Bridlington, an' you're not runnin' up ivery minute agean foreign counts an' countesses that ought to bide wheer they belang, an' keep theirsens to theirsens."

There had been no improvement in Job's state of mind during the long summer days that preceded his holiday. In his most robust days inquiries as to his health always elicited the answer that he was "just middlin'," which is the invariable answer that the cautious Yorkshireman vouchsafes to give. Now, with a shrunken frame, and fever in his eye, he was still "just middlin'," and, only when hard pressed would he acknowledge the carking fear that was gnawing at his heart. I was, however, not without hope that change of air and sea-bathing, for which Job had a passion almost equal to that for fox-hunting, would restore him to health and tranquillity of mind.

The Heskeths started for Bridlington on a Friday, and on the following Sunday the news reached me that my old friend had been drowned while bathing. I was stunned by the blow, and a feeling of intense gloom pervaded my mind all day. But next morning the rumour was corrected. Job, it seems, had gone for a long swim on the Saturday morning, and, not realising that he had lost strength during the last six months, had swum too far out of his depth. His strength had given out on the return journey, and only the arrival of a boatman had saved him from death by drowning. Relieved as I was by this second account of what had happened, I was, nevertheless, a prey to the fear that this second encounter with death would have enhanced that agony of mind which he had endured ever since the moment when his friend, Abe Verity, had fallen into the cauldron of molten steel. I waited anxiously for Job's return home and determined to go and see him on the evening following his arrival.

I was in my bedroom, preparing to start off, when, to my surprise, I heard Job's voice at my front door. I ran downstairs and was face to face with a Job Hesketh that I had not known for six months. His head and shoulders were erect, he had put on flesh, and the cowed look had entirely vanished from his eyes. I at once congratulated him on his improved appearance.

"Aye, aye," he answered, "there's nowt mich wrang wi' me."

"Bridlington, I see, has done you a world of good."

"Nay, I've bin farther nor Bridlington," he replied, and the old merry twinkle, that I knew so well and had missed so long, came into his eyes.

"What do you mean?" I asked. "Have you been on board one of the Wilson liners in the Humber and crossed over to Holland?"

"Farther nor Holland," he replied, with a chuckle. "I've bin to heaven. I reckon I'm t' first Yorkshireman that's bin to heaven an' gotten a return ticket given him."

"Sit down, Job," I said, "and stop that nonsense. What do you mean?"

Job seated himself by my study fire, leisurely took from his pocket a dirty clay pipe and a roll of black twist, which he proceeded to cut and pound. As he was thus engaged he would look up from time to time into my face and enjoy to the full the look of impatience imprinted on it.

"Aye, lad," he began at last, "I've bin to heaven sin I last saw thee, an' heaven's more like Leeds nor I thowt for."

"Like Leeds!" I exclaimed, and, as Job seemed in a jesting mood, I decided to humour him. "I fancy it must have been the other place you got to. To think of you not being able to tell heaven from hell."

"Nay, 'twere heaven, reight enif," he continued, undisturbed. "I could tell it by t' glint i' t' een o' t' lads an' lasses."

I could see that Job had a story to tell of more than ordinary interest. His changed appearance and buoyant manner showed clearly that something had happened to him which had dispelled the pall of gloom which had settled on him since Abe Verity's death. I was determined to hear the story in full.

"Now then, Job," I said, "let us get to business. Take that pipe out of your mouth and tell me what you have been doing at Bridlington."

Job laid down his clay pipe, cleared his throat, and polished his face till it shone, with a large red handkerchief, and began his story.

"Well, you see, t' missus an' me got to Bridlington Friday afore Bank Holiday, an' next mornin' I went down to t' shore for my swim same as I'd allus done afore. 'Twere a breet mornin', an t' chalk cliffs o' Flamborough were glistenin' i' t' sun-leet. T' fishin' boats were out at sea, an' t' air were fair wick wi' kittiwakes an' herrin' gulls. So I just undressed misen, walked down to t' watter an' started swimmin'. Eh! but t' sea were bonny an' warm, an' for once I got all yon dowly thowts o' death clean out o' my head. So I just struck out for t' buoy that were anchored out at sea, happen hafe a mile frae t' shore. That had allus bin my swim sin first we took to comin' to Bridlington, and I'd niver had no trouble i' swimmin' theer an' back. I got to t' buoy all reight an' rested misen a bit an' looked round. Gow! but 'twere a grand seet. I could see t' leet-house at Spurn, and reight i' front o' me were Bridlington wi' t' Priory Church and up beyond were fields an' fields of corn wi' farm-houses set amang t' plane-trees an' t' sun-leet glistenin' on their riggins. Efter a while I started to swim back. But it were noan so easy. Tide were agean me an' there were a freshish breeze off t' land. Howiver, I'd no call to hurry misen, so when I got a bit tired I lay on my back, an' floated an' looked up at t' gulls aboon my head. But then I fan' out 'twere no use floatin'; t' tide were driftin' me out to sea. So I got agate o' swimmin' an' kept at it for wellnigh ten minutes. But t' shore were a lang way off, an' then, sudden-like, I began to think o' Abe Verity, an' t' fear o' death got howd on me an' clutched me same as if I'd bin taen wi' cramp. There were lads fishin' frae boats noan so far off, an' I hollaed to 'em; but they niver heerd. I tewed an' better tewed, but I got no forrarder; an' then I knew I were boun' to drown."

As Job got to this point in his story something of the old terror crept into his eyes, and I did my best to cheer him.

"Well, Job," I said, "they tell me that drowning is the pleasantest kind of death that there is."

His face brightened up immediately, and he replied: "Thou's tellin' true, lad, an' what's more, I know all about it. If anybody wants to know what it's like to be drowned, send 'em to Job Hesketh. If I'd as mony lives as an owd tom-cat, I'd get shut on 'em all wi' drownin'."

Job's spirits were evidently restored, so I urged him to get on with his story.

Job paused, and I looked up into his face. A strange radiance had come over it, such as I had never seen there before. I had heard it said that all that was brightest in a man's past life rises like a vision before his eyes when, in the act of drowning, his body sinks once, and then again, beneath the water, but I had never before confronted a man who could relate in detail what had happened to him. Then there was Job's story about his return ticket to heaven, which puzzled me, and I urged him to continue his story.

"Thou'll reckon I'm talkin' blether," he went on, "but I tell thee it's true, ivery word on it. I'll tak my Bible oath on it. All on a sudden I were stannin' i' a gert park, and eh! but there were grand trees. They were birk-trees, an' their boles were that breet they fair glistened i' t' sunleet. An' underneath t' birks were bluebells, yakkers an' yakkers o' bluebells, an' I thowt they were bluer an' breeter nor ony I'd seen afore. There were all maks o' birds i' t' trees--spinks an' throstles an' blackbirds--an' t' air aboon my head were fair wick wi' larks an' pipits singin' as canty as could be. Weel, I followed along t' beck-side while I com to a gert lake, wi' lads an' lasses sailin' boats on it. So I said to misen: 'My word! but it's Roundhay Park an' all.' But it wern't nowt o' t' sort. For one thing there were no policemen about, same as you'd see at Roundhay on a Bank Holiday, an' at low side o' t' lake there was a town wi' all maks an' manders o' buildin's; an', what's more, a steel works wi' blast-furnaces. Weel, I were stood there, watchin' t' childer paddlin' about i' t' watter, when somebody clapped his hand on my showder an' sang out: 'Hullo! Job, how long hasta bin here?' I looked round an', by t' Mass! who sud I see but Abe Verity."

"Abe Verity!" I exclaimed.

"Ay, 'twere Abe hissen, plain as life.

"So I said: 'Hullo! Abe, how ista?'

"'Just middlin',' says Abe, 'an' how's thisen? How long hasta bin here?'

"Well, I didn't hardlins know what to say to him. You see I didn't fairly know where I was, so I couldn't tell him how lang I'd bin theer. So I says to him: 'Sithee, Abe, is this Roundhay Park?'

"'Raandhay Park,' says Abe. You see Abe allus talked a bit broad. He couldn't talk gradely English same as you an' me. 'Twere all along o' him livin' wi' them Leeds loiners up at Hunslet Carr. 'Raandhay Park!' he says. 'Nay, lad, you'll noan see birk-trees like yon i' Raandhay Park.' And he pointed to t' birk-trees by t' lake-side, wi' boles two foot through.

"'What is it then?' I asked. 'Have I coom to foreign parts? I'm a bad 'un to mell wi' foreigners.'

"'Nay,' said Abe, 'thou's i' heaven.'

"'Heaven!' I shouted out, an' I looked up at Abe to see if he were fleerin' at me. He looked as grave as a judge, did Abe, but then I noticed that he were donned i' his blue overalls, same as if he'd just coom frae his wark. So I said to him: 'Heaven, is it? I can't see mich o' heaven about thee, Abe. Wheer's thy harp an' crown o' gowd?'

"'Harp an' crown o' gowd,' said Abe, an' he started laughin'. 'Who is thou takkin' me for? I'm noan King David. I'm a vesselman at t' steel works,' an' he pointed wi' his hand across t' lake to wheer we could see t' forge.

"Gow! but I were fair flustrated. There was Abe Verity tellin' me one minute that I were in heaven, and next minute he were sayin' that he were workin' at t' steel works. You see I had allus thowt that i' heaven iverything would be different to what it is on earth. So I said: 'Does thou mean to tell me, Abe, that lads i' heaven do t' same sort o' wark that they've bin doin' all their lives on earth?'

"'Nay,' says Abe, 'I'll noan go so far as to say just that. What I say is that they start i' heaven wheer they've left off on earth; but t' conditions is different.'

"'How's that?' I axed.

"'Well, for one thing, a lad taks more pride i' his wark; an', what's more, he's freer to do what he likes. When I were at Leeds Steel Works I had to do choose-what t' boss telled me. Up here I'm my own boss.'

"When I heerd that, I knew that Abe were weel suited. You see he were a bit o' a Socialist, were Abe; he used to wear a red tie an' talk Socialism of a Setterday neet on Hunslet Moor. So I said to him: 'Doesta mean that heaven stands for Socialism, Abe?'

"But Abe laughed an' shook his heead. 'Nay, lad,' he said, 'we haven't gotten no 'isms i' heaven. We've gotten shut o' all that sort o' thing. There's no argifying i' heaven. There's plenty o' discipline, but it's what we call self-discipline; an' I reckon that's t' only sort o' discipline that's worth owt.'

"'That'll niver do for me, Abe,' I said. 'If it were a case o' self-discipline, I reckon I'd niver do a stroke o' wark.'

"'Nay, lad,' he said; 'thou'll think different now thou's coom to heaven. Thou'll hark to t' inner voice an' do what it tells thee.'

"'Inner voice,' I said; 'what's that?'

"'It's a new sort o' boss,' says Abe; 'an' a gooid 'un an' all. When thou wants to know what to do or how to do it, thou just sets thisen down, an' t' inner voice starts talkin' to thee an' keeps on talkin', while thou gets agate o' doin' what it tells thee.'"

Job's story was gripping my imagination as nothing had done before. Heaven was a place of activity and not of rest; a place where the labours of earth were renewed at the point at which they had ceased on earth, but under ideal conditions; so that labour, under the guidance of self-discipline, became service. Job's account of his conversation with Abe made all this as clear as sunlight, but I was still somewhat puzzled by the story of the inner voice.

"What do you think Abe meant by the inner voice?" I asked.

"Nay," replied Job, "I can't tell. But what he said were true. I'm sure o' that. There were a look in his een that I'd niver seen theer afore; 'twere as if t' inner voice were speakin' through his een as well as through his mouth."

"It's something more than conscience," I went on, speaking as much to myself as to Job. "Conscience tells a man what it is his duty to do, but conscience does not teach him how to do things."

"I know what it is, Job. The inner voice is the voice of truth." And I read aloud the verses in which Paracelsus, that eager quest after truth, speaks his mind to his friend Festus:

Truth is within ourselves; it takes no rise From outward things, whate'er you may believe. There is an inmost centre in us all, Where truth abides in fullness; and around, Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in, This perfect, clear perception--which is truth. A baffling and perverting carnal mesh Binds it and makes all error: and to KNOW Rather consists in opening out a way Whence the imprisoned splendour may escape, Than in effecting entry for a light, Supposed to be without.

Browning was, perhaps, somewhat beyond the comprehension of Job Hesketh, but he liked to hear me reading poetry aloud.

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