Brindley Hallam Dennis aka Mike Smith

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The Ballad of Matty Lonnin

Joan Wainright looked good for her age, in her widder’s weeds, and that bright twist o’ silk around her neck like someone had just cut her throat. She warn’t his widder of course, not in’t technical sense o’ t’word, but then marriages is made in heaven they ses. It’s only t’weddings as is arranged local. T’owd feller on opposite side a’t’grave, wi’ mutton done up as lamb on ‘is arm, that were real mister Wainright. Billy Wainright. Married her for t’farm, but that’s another story.
Bloke in the turban? Now he war in it right at the start, though not many in’t Stirkebeck graveyard remembered that. T’graveyard were at back of stone church mid-way twixt Stirkebeck itself and junction wi’t main road. Village weren’t nae more than a dozen houses clustered round Stirkebeck Inn.
La’al Indjun feller had fetched up theer nigh on thirty years back, with his old leather suitcase full of scarves and joss sticks. That’s weer thee wants tae be Mustapha, lad had said who drapt him aff at rode end. Course it were nowhere near where he wanted to be. I think he was having a joke with me, he told Matty Lonnin later, when they stood outside the inn together. Aye, that wad be it, mebbe.
Thee’s allus an incomer in these parts tha knaws, if’n thee wasnae born an’ bred in’t parish. Next village us far enough away, ne’er mind next county. Next country? Aye, that were right off t’radar. La’al Indjun feller were frae Leeds, and that’s all t’way to bloody Yorkshire. Matty must’ve bin wrang side o’ fifty back then, and most folks took him fer a local. But he weren’t tha knaws. Bred he might ha’ bin, but born i warn’t. Teks wan tae know wan mebbe, when it comes dahn to Yorkshire men. Tho’ Matty had t’auld twang on ‘im, good as any o’t’others in Stirkebeck.
Inn fell quiet when that la’al feller walked in with his suitcase, just like in t’movies, when batwing doors swing open and t’bad guys stroll in. He weren’t no bad guy tho’, but just one o’ God’s children, lost, like t’rest of us. Brian at bar should ev knawn better. I’ve heerd that man defend gypsies to people who knew nae better than tae call ‘em thieves, but he were cowt on t’blind side that day.
We doan’t want your sort in ‘ere, he said, and whole room heard ‘im. La’al feller was stopped in his tracks half way te t’bar, like a rabbit cowt in headlamps of a neet. He were embarrassed more than angered I reckon, embarrassed aye, that wad a’ bin it.
Matty Lonnin was sittin’ at his usual place, just af’n the fire, wi’ Billy and a couple o’ t’other yans, sippin’ a pint a’ Cumberland Ale. La’al Indjun feller turned to go, and mebbe, but I doan’t knaw fer sure, but mebbe their eyes met. Summat it was anyrode called Matty to stand up.
What sort wad that be Brian, he said into silence of room.
Brian, t’landlord, ducked his head a little, like a man dodgin’ a slow punch. Tha knaws Matty. Then he leaned a little forrard ower t’bar and said almost as a whisper, tho’ ivryone theer heard it clear as breaking crystal. He’s a nigger, Matty.
Then Matty Lonnin, without lookin’ down, found the rim of his glass with one finger and tipped it, slow as a felled tree’s topplin’, beer and all, down onto t’able top.
Bloody hell, Matty, Billy Wainright said, jumpin’ back out a’t’way with t’other fellers.
So am I Brian. Matty said. So am I.
Then he walked round table, and took Indian feller by t’arm, said summat like, there’ll be a better place to drink in than this down t’road, and out he went with him. He niver set foot in that pub agin for a decade.
T’warn’t a decade later, but a few days, when Joan Wainright cowt him on street. She had grey eyes, calm as lake water on a still day, Joan Wainright. I heard what you did, Matty, she said. I’m proud of you. Aye, well, he said. Mebbe t’was a mistake, I’m thinking, seein’ as it’s a two mile walk to pub at lane end.
Joan Wainright smiled. That were no mistake Matty Lonnin and you know it. Then she looked past him, as if in t’ t’future, or t’past. Thee knaws as well as I do about mistakes. Aye, well. He said again, and he fumbled in his pocket an’ browt out a little pad o’ bright red cloth. Indian feller gave me this, he said. No use to me tha knaws. He passed it ower. It were a scarf. Persian silk, he said it were. Aye, and he said a good deed wad nat be forgot, but Matty didn’t tell her that.
Billy Wainright had nowt good to say for him. Wastin’ that beer were bad enough, but stickin’ up fer t’incomer were wuss. Folks like him, Matty, he said, leaning close and speaking quiet, they’re all right in theer way, but nat one of us sithee. Locals should stick together, even if Brian were a bit ower top. Matty said, but I weren’t born in’t village either Billy, had thee forgotten that?
Well, he hadn’t knawn. That were truth on it. Billy Wainright hadn’t knawn. He’d just assumed, and he went away wonderin’ what there was, about Matty Lonnin, that made him different, and that he’d missed all those years.
Landlord moved on eventually, and second night new boy was in Matty Lonnin walked in through t‘public bar door. Billy Wainright were up at bar, sat next to a woman who must a’ borr’ed her dowter’s skirt. Up round her thighs it was, and them bulgin’ out ower t’bar stool, and Billy’s free hand creepin’ under t’hem. Matty walked about half way to t’bar and said.
Dost serve niggers in here these days? That fettled ‘em sharp. Whole bloody room went silent, just like t’neet all those years afore. New landlord were young. Wiry old man with grey hair and eyes blazing like coals in the middle of his floor, sayin’ what he’d said, took him by surprise, but then he remembered hisself.
We’ll not have language like that in here sir!
Glad to hear it, Matty said, and his face relaxed into a smile. Billy Wainright said. Get him a pint son, Cumberland Ale. He’s been a long time comin’ for it. Then he said to Matty. They’re all bloody incomers now.
Matty Lonnin went back to his chair by the fire, but that warn’t the end o’ the story. Foot and Mouth year was comin’ and when it did it hit Stirkebeck hard, took out the farms either side. Only Joan Wainright’s farm it spared, and she shut the gate, padlocked it. Old Billy warn’t for that. Compensation would’ve suited him. So they had words, and he went, and the padlock went back on behind him.
So the landlord told Matty, quiet in his ear one night, while Billy sat with his free hand up the skirt of his mutton done up as lamb on the bar stools in the Stirkebeck Inn. Has she now? Matty said. He finished his pint and took a walk up through the village. Evening sun was splashed on the stone walls. Shadders were comin’ out to play. Birds were singing, unnaturally loud it seemed, but that were because there was nowt else to make a noise much by that time.
Joan Wainright! Matty Lonnin called up from the gate. I’m comin’ in! He called three times afore she came out, but when she come she was wearin’ that bit o’ red silk, and he knew, no matter what was said, what outcome wad be.
Don’t you be making a fool of yourself Matty Lonnin, Joan Wainright said, standing half way down the drive towards him. I’m comin’ in woman. She leaned forrards a little. What ef’n you’ve a got it Matty Lonnin? She said, almost in a whisper.
Well there was an old washing up bowl full of disinfectant down by that gate, an’ Matty just bent down and picked it up and upended it ower his head, just like he’d tipped that beer glass ower all those years afore.
Joan Wainright gave a shriek, and then a little laugh. You daft old bugger, she said, then quietly again, you’ll not be able to leave you know, if you come through that gate. Well Matty Lonnin didn’t come through, but he went up and ower it like a young tup ower a dyke, and he didn’t come out neither, not while disease was about, nor ever after, save for goin’ down the pub, an’ taking Joan Wainright into town and places; not until the day they took him to Stirkebeck graveyard.
(Written under the name Culbin Forrest, The Ballad of Matty Lonnin won the Cumbria Life Short Story Competition in 2006 and was published in the April/May 2007 edition.)

SO STILL
It is so still here tonight
That were it not for birdsong
And traffic on the main road
And distance
I might hear your voice
Should you be calling

But like me
You are only listening.

(So Still won the Carlisle Ottaker's Poetry competition in 2004, and has subsequently appeared in various publications, including the Selkirk Lapwing anthology, Both Sides of Hadrian's Wall, 2006. It was also one of the poems in Beccy Sweetman's film Eternity.)

Brindley Hallam Dennis aka Mike Smith

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