PAST SAMPLER 1

To bring the website in line with the Black Hearts And Blue Devils facebook page, I shall be including at intervals copies of those past posts, such as this one:

‘As promised yesterday, there follows one of several ‘samplers’ from Black Hearts And Blue Devils. Like many of the anecdotes and threads in the book it is based upon a true story. The scene for this one is in and around the California pub in 1887. Although the pub still stands today it has unfortunately not been used as a pub for donkeys. The unusual name? Given to her by a one-time owner who made the money to buy her during the great California gold rush in the middle of the nineteenth century. I could not find a photo of the pub itself, although I would have thought I would have taken one during my research (some years ago, and it’s a long way to nip back now. I do have a shot taken from outside the California looking down the Oldbury Road and the Shoulder Of Mutton, which I will attach. Anyway, here’s the first extract, which was quite popular in a recent straw poll:

Thus, inevitably, Monday night was an important drinking night, there being precious little alternative for those wishing to hide away for a few hours than to pass the time in an establishment which purveyed alcohol. And that many men had the same Monday-phobia was testified to by the fact that, on the first working day of the week, the numerous pubs were always more packed than usual for a work day, crowded out with large numbers of beardless men who quite obviously had not been home yet. In those days, extravagant facial hair had really had its day, at least amongst the labouring classes, though still almost a badge of self-perceived rank amongst office wallahs, and figures in authority such as magistrates, business owners and the police. On that Monday in 1887 Steve Biddulph and his mate William Westwood had elected to drink at the ‘California’ on Halesowen Street. Only miners and railway workers usually drank there. The clothes told you that. But if you had been loitering outside, as did many a youngster, and were only just tall enough to see over the occluded section of window glass, and could only see faces, you would have known that this was a working man’s pub, a working-class pub. For each face, apart from the odd renegade moustache, was clean shaven. But not in the interests of fashion, not primarily. No. Keeping your face clear of hair was just a sensible thing to do when you worked in hot and dirty or dusty conditions. A quick swill of the face at the pit-head and Steve and Bill had been ready for a nice relaxing night boozing. They deserved it. They were hewers, spending their life at the coalface, often undermining the Thick, and risking their lives routinely. The pair’s latest drinking companion was young John Till who had been a part of their gang for a couple of years now. They had all been doing very well and the butty had decided to promote John, from hurrier, pulling tubs of coal from the face to the horse ways, to working with Biddulph and Westwood as hewer. John had never been in the California and so they decided to celebrate his change in status there. The pub was really no different to many of the others within spitting distance. It did have a few unusual ornamental fittings on the inside, but that was all really. Plus the unusual name of course. The name was a hangover from a previous owner who had emigrated to the west coast of America in the thirties or forties and had struck it lucky in the gold rush of forty-nine. Eminently sensibly, said adventurer, one Benjamin Gadd, had not pushed his luck and had returned home, investing his money in a sure-fire business venture, namely a pub. Given the source of his funds, the name, ‘California’, was an understandable choice. Unfortunately, both his luck and his judgement lacked stamina: the varnish was hardly dry when the incautious Mr Gadd lost the whole kit and caboodle gambling with a brewer from Lichfield.

Be that as it may, the provenance of the place was the last thing on the minds of Messrs. Biddulph, Westwood and Till that night. They were out to celebrate! And why not? So it was that when the bull sounded at six the three pals repaired straight to the front door of the California, ducking out of one kind of fog into another. They nabbed a table in the corner, and let the beer flow.

It was sometime after ten when the newly-promoted hewer found himself outside in the street, bent forward with both hands planted against a cold brick wall, substitute for his truant sense of balance. The other two stood with him and now, instead of exhorting him to ‘ger it down ya’ they were advising him to ‘ger it up,’ together with the assurance that, “yoh’ll feel much better.”

But young Till couldn’t get it up, at least no more of it. The retching had tied his guts in knots. He just wanted to be home. He tried a few steps but only fell back, heavily, against the wall, before sliding slowly down it. He was a well-built young chap but after much huffing and puffing, not to mention effing and blinding, his companions, somewhat the worse for wear themselves, succeeded in getting him to his feet. Once upright, the two older men supporting the young man, and each other, they set off. It all went well for all of half a dozen steps, when they were all pulled down by the unmanageable weight. Despite what awaited him at home, or perhaps because of it, collier Biddulph was the least inebriated of the three.

“’old up. Doh yoh move, ah’ve gorran idea,” he announced. Then disappeared. Over the hubbub from the pub Bill Westwood could make out the banging of a yard door and some squeaking and clanging. A large wheelbarrow came wobbling out of the fog, propelled by Biddulph.

“That’s bostin’,” said Bill. “Where did yoh ger et?”

“It’s out o’ Doreen Pickering’s fowd. Her woh mind. Ah’ll tek et back tomorra.”

With teamwork and little more grunting young Till was wedged into the barrow, problem solved. The propelling pair made their way toward the Oldbury Road, purposefully striding out, in their own minds, but in reality, describing a very inefficient zigzag line all over the road. But for one random factor, which after all might not immediately suggest itself to minds less than sober and otherwise occupied, the only result of failing to maintain a straight course might have been that the half-conscious body of John Till would have arrived at his mother’s doorstep about ten minutes later than the drivers of his improvised cab had planned. However, on that particular night the random factor loomed rather large, for out of the wet fog came clattering a huge black horse pulling an enclosed cart which, devoid of any cargo, provided only minimal resistance for a fizzy animal anxious to get back to its hay net. Thus it was that the drunks in charge of the wheel barrow had very little time to react. And reacting in haste, not to say terror, they caused the inert mass that was the oldest son of widow Till to spill out of the overturning receptacle, into the road, and under the iron hooves of the horse, which, suspecting a sneak attack from a predator, did what equines are prone to do, and panicked. In the resultant rearing and neighing and flailing of hooves, young John was struck a mortal blow. Reprieved, in its own mind, the horse bolted for it. Presumably, the driver eventually got things under control. Strangely however, he never returned to the scene.’

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