Monday June 17, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

The Bakers.

I went driving with Karen H at 9. My first lesson in a month. I do need some practice, not just my weekly £6.50 jaunts. My test is in nine weeks. Dad, staying with Lynn, set out walking into Guiseley with Katie, supposedly to settle his bill with the undertaker, but she became hysterical in the bank, and she walked around Guiseley wailing uncontrollably, his task unfulfilled. The poor Baker girls are forbidden to sleep in the day, and Dad blames this lack of sleep, the exhaustion, on their violent tempers. He received his police insurance money for Mum today (£1700). He has increased his own cover by £1000 taking it to £5000. It matures when he is 60 (in 1994) when it will have to be transferred. I am named as his executor or beneficiary. He can only name one. Jack Denison's bill was remarkable. We expected it to be £1000, but he charged just over £500. Dad says he chose that particular undertaker because, as a policeman, he has observed him at work and says he has always found him a 'gentleman' behind the scenes treating his corpses always with the greatest respect. Some undertakers must be appalling and slapdash.

-=-

Sunday June 16, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

2nd Sunday after Trinity

Father's Day

The £1: still tucked in the journal pages.

Samuel gave a card and a crumpled £1 note. I might save it forever. I certainly cannot buy anything of value with it. At first I thought Ally had forgotten but after breakfast, made by me incidentally, I found the little envelope tucked behind the telephone. 

To John's at Menston. Then to Guiseley. Janette was just getting up and both had forgotten we were expected. ____. Catherine has had a severe haircut. On to Sue's. They were sitting down to lunch. Dad was there and we gave him a card, but left after half an hour. I sprawled on the floor clutching an apricot wine feeling quite miserable. Sue and Pete had been to the cemetery and the sight of mud and dead flowers broke her up so much so that she says she doesn't ever want to return. Dad says this is the problem with burials. People, he says, feel as though they should visit and then feel guilty when they don't. Dad asks me to decide upon the wording to go on the headstone.  A busy night. Just Gary and I. Ally stayed above.

-=-

Saturday June 15, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

The official birthday of HM. Honours, Trooping the Colour, &c. I have taken little interest in the activities of our dear Queen this year. Everything overshadowed by domestic events. This morning I couldn't be bothered listening to Tom Fleming going on and on broadcasting from Horse Guards Parade. HM was on the news earlier this week unveiling a Falklands war memorial at St Paul's.

No real bombshells in the birthday honours list. Most of the victims from last October's Brighton bomb tragedy have collected gongs. Bob Mellish is a peer, and a poet from Hull becomes a Companion of Honour. Nothing for me. 

Ally and Samuel went to Club St to weed the garden. I haven't been inside since Mum left the place. Ally did a lot of shopping afterwards. Four weeks since Mum died. Dad will be on top of Ingleborough with John this afternoon. 

Jill and Tim came in at 9 o'clock and we drank with them until almost 2am. Ally regrets such late nights as she takes days to catch up on her sleep and recover. I had alcohol. I have been drinking only minerals at the Moorhouse. Watching my weight, and there's nothing worse than a pissed up publican.

-=-

Friday June 14, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

A cellar service man called in from the brewery at lunchtime and reported that Chris and Elaine Wills have just been fired for returning a cask of Old Brewery Bitter to Tadcaster which contained 20 per cent water. Silly bugger. It must be a very recent sacking because they were at the Gaston Ladies Darts final on Wednesday, where our own Vicky Pearson was defeated. Only Jim Precious accompanied her. The Moorhouse has never been very 'sporty'. A busy lunch. Teri (the cook) needs some motivation. No menus on the blackboards were displayed in our absence and a pound of three week old roast beef crawled out of the fridge to greet us this morning. It was positively green. Oh dear.

Dave L is 30 today. He will not enjoy this anniversary. It might not complement his Mohican hairstyle and trendy image. I sent him a postcard of the Ribble Head viaduct as a birthday greeting. He ceased from sending greeting cards some years ago. He is my oldest friend. Eighteen years, in fact.

A busy pm. Much merry-making in the tap room. A festive air in fact. A slow-witted old woman consumed about a dozen 'snowballs' demolishing almost a bottle of Advocaat. Yuk. 

We are now going all out to produce another baby in '86. God willing. Samuel really needs a playmate. Susan has seen a doc who says she is due on January 1st. Dad jokes that the baby could come any time before next Easter. Sue is always way out with dates. _______.

-=-

Thursday June 13, 1985

 Waltergarth

A fine morning. We had to be up at 6:30 to prepare for our journey home. Ally had a bath and then made breakfast. Dad looked sad. What will he do with himself when we are gone and he is left alone? We drove off just after 8am. To Leeds for 9:30. As we drove down Admiral Street a bloody van threw itself into reverse and backed into us denting the number plate. Ally's first bump in a decade. The attitude of the van driver was frustrating. He explained he could not be liable because "you can't expect me to see a little mini metro out of the back of this thing". He looked at Ally and sneered: "women drivers". Offensive bastard. Ron Brooks, the stock-taker, escaped as we arrived. He was going to the Butcher's Arms at Pudsey and then returned to us to do a print-out of the stock at lunchtime. A £10 surplus. The place was a general mess. Someone has scratched their initials into our polished mahogany table. The beer cellar looked like Hiroshima. We are told that L. Gledhill and Colin Black were here snooping around yesterday. Coming home after a holiday is the worst aspect of pub life. Totally disorientated. The customers and staff singing the praises of the relief manager. "He had everyone out for ten past eleven", &c. He doesn't have customers he wants to keep a hold of though, does he? A relief manager is free to be a Mussolini. I have to be slightly more sensitive. An atrociously quiet evening. Phoned Dad. He seemed lost.

-=-

Wednesday June 12, 1985

 Waltergarth, Horton-in-Ribblesdale

Bright, but wet. We went with Dad to Hawes. Beautiful countryside. We walked around the village looking at pub menus. Samuel toddled along with his grandad. We went into a pub - the name escapes me - and we had rabbit pie. Samuel had an enormous sausage which looked to be raw in the middle. Pink. Driving back to Ribblehead we had a burst tyre. Dad found the spare and changed it. Later, Dad, Sam and I played in the garden. Dad blowing down a large tube, an old water pipe, making noises reminiscent of those similar to the ones made by Sir Rolf Harris, that ancient Australian musician. Samuel then played with a spade digging holes on the drive. He got very wet, and cold too. Tonight we just sat with mushroom soup watching TV. Mum's homemade soup out of the freezer, made last autumn. Dad then ate the last piece of fruit cake that Mum had made. We watched 'Dallas' and went to bed early. Well, 11pm. Dad was better this evening. News: The Waleses attended the new (James) Bond premiere, but we didn't bother watching.

-=-

Tuesday June 11, 1985

 Waltergarth

Awful weather. We sat at Waltergarth by a blazing fire. Mum saved old newspapers and I went through them clipping out the relevant items. Birth announcements, engagements, weddings, &c. It was easier to do than I imagined. Ally doesn't feel guilty going through Mum's possessions. Mum would have wanted us to do it. Afterwards, when Samuel was asleep and after I had consumed a large whisky, Ally and I went to Settle. Dad wanted some new lampshades. We didn't find any. Shopkeepers openly laughed when we asked for them. We spotted a nice little restaurant and decided to go back there tonight. We booked for 8:30. Dad looked particularly sad today. He says that he and Mum once tried to book a table at the Little House Restaurant (for that is the place), but it was full. We dressed, had a drink with Dad and went to dine. To Fred's first. Ally in her blue frock. A beautiful dinner. Home for 11. Dad was in his dressing gown. We could hear him sobbing in his dark bedroom. What a hopeless, bleak situation.

-=-