The Invisible Geordie Writer #3
Dear Readers,
The Invisible Geordie Writer has been invisible for some
time. Being invisible I suppose iis my
natural function. But I was never more
surprised as when I discovered I was the IGW than some time ago when I was informed
I was drowning. I was sitting
comfortably in a chair trying to look intelligent, wearing my I’m-listening-to-you-Doc-face. I had fluid on the lung. Sounds like a Devon watering place. I was ejected from the hospital at the end of
January 2025 to convalesce from taking tiny white tablets and urinating twenty-four/seven. No heroics.
How can one face anxious family & friends asking, “How was it, old
chap?” How could I tell them I drank Kielder
dry peeing into nappies big enough to accommodate a hippopotamus? I smiled modestly to say, “Nurse gave me a
badge. I WAS BRAVE. Still got it somewhere.”
I diverge.
BANGLA BOYS has been
published and doing well. The
Boys have their book A delicious supper
is delivered at six every Saturday evening.
For which I am very grateful. I
was coming to an end of my leading Bold As Brass, the young people’s theatre
company, when I wrote the Boys a script for a film. Couldn’t find the support to make the film, but I’ve kept my promise and
written the book.
You may remember back in 2023 my eldest great granddaughter
Tameeyah and I set out to write a book together. I’d never worked with a nine-year-old
before. We tussled with the plot. Dialogue was easier. I played the adults and Tameeyah corrected my
child dialogue. We went off in one
direction. Then changed course and started
again. Now in May 2025 The Brankley
Mound . . .A Tale of Magic & Mystery . . .Suitable for brave children. . .
has been published. Authors the old man & Tameeyah Wells. I was slightly
surprised to find it’s a very good story.
It reads real to me because of Tameeyah’s participation. We worked weekly by portal as she lives in
Leicester. When the excitement dies down
hopefully we’ll start again on a new book?
Uncle Freddie fans wwill be delighted to discover that’s
he’s been promoted by the BBC to Golden Oldie and will be available to have
episodes downloaed from August. I must go digging in the mountain of material
in the old computer recently set up by a grandson-by-law. Which classification bewilders my
granddaughter.
Scratching in the foothills I have found unfinished work
from long since. Once upon a time, dear
children, there was in the stubborn township of South Shields perched
precariously on the mouth of the river
Tyne, a quiet little park known as the Romain Remains. Up on
the Lawe above the river a haven of peace. Rarely visited. I loved the place as did others. It was
the Roman fort of Arbeia controlling the
river, feeding Hadrian’s Wall and the failed attempt to build a further wall in
Scotland. The last garrison, the Fifth
cohort of Gauls, marched out in 410 A.D.
The shadow of the fort was laid out by Victorian historians who wore
beards more ferocious than barbarians.
We patrons liked it that way.
Simple notices on barrack rooms, storehouses, administration & headquarters.
Then along came television and Mortimer Wheeler, an
ambitious archaeologist. Everything
changed. It was decided to rebuild the
West Gate. The quiet haven became a
building site. The neighbouring school
was demolished in part, Edith Street, Fort Street vanished. Volunteers were invited to come scratch the
familiar earth. A ploy to demonstrate
that the local community was involved.
The University students soon took over.
I joined to scratch and listen to my fellow scratchers & the old
faithful, sharing tea & aching knees.
There was a deep resentment at the
manner in which this new ‘management’ behaved. I gathered material particularly from the old
park patrons and I began to write stories.
BBC Morning Story broadcast a story I wrote ridiculing the West Gate
project. It caused a great deal of fuss
which betrayed how self-important the administration had become. The older folk asked me not to write any more
stories and I agreed. I was very
young. In between working on the family
history I’ve been writing stories set around the West Gate. I’m titling the little book STORIES I PROMISED NOT TO WRITE. I hope to be forgiven,
Why do I so dislike this rebuilding of an ancient
structure? The Tower of London, the Mary
Rose, Hadrian’s Wall are real. The West
Gate at Arbeia is a conceit. It’s not
real. It’s a place where middle-aged
men & teenagers may ponce about in
plastic armour pretending to be Roman legionaries. When family went to visit the attraction this
last weekend the site was closed for the Easter Bank Holiday.
Here’s the story that caused all the fuss.
COMMAND PERFORMANCE
Bernard
Merriwold regarded the biscuit with a deep sense of satisfaction. It was a large Milk Chocolate
Digestive. With a dusting of fine
crumbs that suggested its democratic origin rubbing shoulders with its peers.
The
biscuit was without blemish. Not like
so much one encountered in this museum business: cracked, broken, stained,
completely useless stuff. His first
impression was that three-quarters of their so-called treasures might well be
dumped on the Council tip.
That
was the problem with the Past. So much
of it was, dare one say it ?
Obsolete? Three syllables of
heresy to his new colleagues. To be
perfectly frank, ol'sport, what does it matter anyway? Who cares a toss about the Romans or the
Ancient Brits? Do they bring in bums on
seats? They do not. Thumbs down.
Bernard would change all that.
Of course, when one moved to the alien North
one accepted a distancing from the centre of things, but in his new capacity as
Coordinator of Antiquities & Social History, a mint-condition biscuit, a
china teacup, an unsullied saucer and a shining spoon, every day, twice a day,
made up for a lot.
How
he wished he had been in on the team's latest project! The reconstruction of the West Gate of the
Roman Fort. How he envied them the
kudos. There had been nothing like it
since the Byker Wall.
Perhaps with the passing of
administrative time the beginning and ending of the project might blur? So that, sucking his pipe, modestly silent,
but with a gracious nod of acknowledgement, he might claim a modicum of the
credit for this splendid achievement.
Still there was yet the visit of
Her Majesty to come. Now we're
talking Merriwold-OBE-time, ol’sport!
He would ensure he was at the old lady's elbow. Both elbows.
The
West Gate was only an indication of what might be achieved career-wise with
Antiquities & Social History. On
his first visit to the Roman Fort he had been generous with his praise, but
duly critical too as befitted a new leader.
The
West Gate was a potential charabanc all right; but, honestly, ol'sport, who is
really interested in all this old rubbish?
What date was your last entry in the Visitors' Book? And that prat only wanted to use a
toilet. His comment says it all. Toilet
as ancient as the Romans.
Don't
misunderstand me, nobody is more of an officiando for history than Bernard
Merriwold, but it has to be relevant.
It has to be contemporary! If
it's not socially significant it's a dead canard. Euro fund-wise.
Why
not, he suggested, get rid of all these old stones, tidy the place up a bit and
build a permanent exhibition of Roman life?
An orgy in full flesh tones with Dolby sound? Gladiators locked in immoral combat? There must be dozens of unemployed willing
to fight and die in the arena? Perhaps
slaves being whipped failing to keep contract dates for Hadrian's Wall? Think of the job-creation possibilities!
I
suggest we clear and landscape the whole site.
Build something tasteful, Asda-Farmhouse-New-Heritage style in textured
breezeblock. With a Roman burgerbar in
the foyer. A videogames hall with Ionic
columns ? A jungle gym with Roman arches? An ice cream kiosk tastefully designed as a
Mithrean temple? What was more Italian
than ice cream? Perhaps the salesman
might wear a Roman helmet? Or in the
case of a girl, a breastplate? The
possibilities are endless. Bring the
past to life!
Bernard
was very disappointed with the response of the archaeologist on site. He had simply walked away as Bernard was
speaking. God, I hate these eggheads
with beards! You put one chukka boot on
the desktop, ol’sport and they’re screaming about the patina!
"Look,
here, Rogers," Bernard explained, pinning his reluctant colleague against
a stone altar that he, Bernard, had wrongly, but enthusiastically
misidentified: there's a real newsy connection with the RSVP for you! Roman birdbaths! Dot them about the place. Kill two birds with one stone !
"Ontray
noos, ol'sport, when you've seen one heap of Roman rubble you've seen 'em
all. Besides there's this disease. Not ay good image. Not ay saleable image, ol'sport."
"What
disease? " the baffled archaeologist had asked.
"
Legionaires' disease," said Bernard.
Behind the barricade of his executive walnut
desk Bernard was at peace with the world.
His proposal to turn the West Gate & Roman Fort into a theme park
was now circulating briskly through all the appropriate departments. The Chief Executive had written on the
cover: A truly amazing document. Who is
this man Merriwold? Rare praise indeed!
Dunking
his biscuit, sipping his coffee, humming a symphony of self-satisfaction, he
was sketching a tentative outline of a new brainstormer. A project that might well outdo even the West
Gate Theme Park.
It had come to him in a lightning flash as he
drove down Baring Street. How about
rebuilding a slum! A typical Geordie
ghetto. Would it be possible to take it
further? Could families be persuaded to
live within its artfully crumbling walls embroidered with damp? They'd jump at the chance. They were used to deprivation and
semi-starvation. Surely a godsend to the
homeless? A testimonial perhaps from
SHELTER?
There were certainly dozens of useless old
plebs about. An old man and woman had
nearly committed suicide when Bernard accelerated to beat the lights. They'd be queueing up to get into the
project. COME SLUM WITH US ! What a title! That would bring in the euro money.
He was beginning to sketch a presentation with
one of his new pencils, inscribed with his name in gold, when his telephone
buzzed.
"Yes,"
he sighed irritably, "Didn’t I say no phone calls? I'm very busy."
"Sorry
to disturb you, sir, but it's Arthur Barraclough. Says it's extremely important he sees
you."
Bernard
sighed. It was ever the fate of
Renaissance man to be interrupted by a person from Poldark.
"If
he must, he must," he sighed, "Send him in."
"Good
morning, Councillor," said Bernard, diplomatically.
"Councillor?"
his visitor said, "Not yet."
"How'd'y'mean.
. not yet?"
"Nobody'll
vote for iss," said Arthur Barraclough.
"Phyllis,"
Bernard said savagely, squeezing the receiver as if it were her throat,
"Why did you tell me Mister Barraclough was one of our Members?"
The
voice in his ear said, "My name is not Phyllis. I did not tell you that your visitor was a
Councillor. Will that be all?"
The
chap had the nerve to take a chair without invitation, pulling it up to the
desk front and smiling fondly at Bernard.
"As
you can see,” said Bernard, “I'm very busy.”
"So
I see," said Arthur Barraclough, smiling admiringly, "Uneasy shits
the head that wears the crown."
Did
he say shits ? Bernard asked Bernard.
His visitor was a big man bulging in all the
wrong places. With a face shining like
the full moon. His spectacles frame
Bernard noted with distaste was jury-rigged with sticky tape.
"I
tried to see you last week."
He
smiled at Bernard. His scanty hair was
glued to his head. Big clumsy hands
held a supermarket cardboard box.
"Well,
you're seeing me now," Bernard retorted.
What does he smell of? Apart from stale cooking fat. Camphor?
Suddenly he realised that the man had wrestled his Sunday best from the
ravenous grip of moths for this interview. Now we're talking status-time!
"You
don't recognise me, do you?" Arthur Barraclough smiled, nodding like a
china mandarin.
"Should
I, Mr. Barraclough?"
Suddenly
his visitor was on his feet. From the
cardboard box he pulled out a badly made laurel wreath that he perched on his
head and a tablecloth with tassels that he draped about his shoulders with a
flourish. Bernard shot back in his chair,
alarm bells ringing in his bladder.
"Good
God, ol'sport! Are you all right?
"
Even
Bernard recognised the folly of the question when it was patently obvious that
Arthur Barraclough was anything but all right.
"Salway,"
cried Arthur, reaching across the desk to seize Bernard by the forearm. Bernard struggled helplessly in his iron
grip until he realised that his assailant was simply seeking to shake
hands, Hollywood Roman style. Bernard fell back into his chair in a cold
sweat of fear.
"Sextus
Calpurnius Agricola, imperial propraetorian legate to their Imperial Majesties,
Caesar Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Augustus and Lucius Aurelius Verus Augustus,
" declaimed Arthur Barraclough solemnly, as dignified as any middle-aged
man dressed in a plush tablecloth and laurel twigs purloined from the park can
possibly appear, "Commander of the imperial fortress, Arbeia, Defender of
the Northern shore."
I've wet myself, thought Bernard. How did this loony get in the building? My God, but he's strong! Dare I risk the phone?
"Shall
I. . shall I ring for coffee?"
"An
undeserved privilege," Sextus Calpurnius declared, "I come but to
present my compliments to your Honour, Lord of Brigantia, on my return to duty
at the Fort. Fear not! Citadel and citizens are safe in my
hands. You have but to command, my
Lord. And it shall be done."
He
paused as if awaiting a reply, staring at the Borough logo above Bernard's
head. The traditional coat of arms had
been discarded and a winning logo selected from competition entries submitted
by the mentally deranged. Bernard's
mouth was dry. He summoned up his
faltering resources.
"Well,
that's fine, Sextus, ol'sport," he stumbled, "Glad to know you're on
the team. Same goes for me. If there's anything I can do for you, just.
. . well, it's super to know the Fort's in good hands. Very reassuring."
The
Commander smiled down at Bernard.
"Please
accept this token of my regard."
Bernard opened the small box cautiously. It contained a dog turd.
"Really
super," ventured Bernard, "Thank you."
"Cave
canis!"
"My
thoughts exactly," agreed Bernard.
"Then
shall I leave you, my lord," declared the noblest Roman of them all,
"Doubtless you have business of state to conduct. Sal-way atque Var-lay!"
With
a flourish of his tablecloth Sextus Calpurnius Agricola backed respectfully
from Bernard’s presence, and vanished.
Bernard
held his breath until the door closed and waited for his secretary to scream.
There was no reaction. He reached for the telephone.
"That
visitor, Phyllis. . Arthur Barraclough.
Just who is he? I found him
somewhat odd?"
"Oh, he's one of our local
eccentrics, Mister Merriwold,” she said sweetly, "Perfectly harmless. Didn't you know?"
Gritting his teeth, Bernard said,
"Why did you let him in here?"
"Because
you said so, Mister Merriwold. Will
that be all?"
You
wait, thought Bernard, but the immediate problem was how to get past her
desk. He must change his trousers. What would Cordelia say? Doubtless she would smell a rat. What to do with the dog turd?
He
hid the box in his bottom desk drawer.
The
day of Her Majesty's visit dawned bright and cloudless. Bernard sat behind his desk, immaculate in
his interview suit, re-reading for the umpteenth time the itinerary of the
Royal visit. Oh, happy day!
Her
Majesty would make two stops to meet notables.
The Town Hall and the Roman Fort.
Bernard had wangled himself on to the list of those meeting the gracious
lady at the West Gate. The Town Hall was
old hat. The West Gate Theme Park, as
he liked to think of it, was where the action was at. We're talking royal-shoulder-rub-time here,
ol’sport!
The buzz of the telephone interrupted his
happy reverie.
"It's
Mike Rogers for you. The
archaeologist? Shall I put him
through?"
God,
that hairy eggplant at the Fort! Now
what? When the West Gate Theme Park
starts rolling you'll be the first to get the boot, ol’sport!
Bernard
snapped, "Well? You do know what
today is, don't you? "
"Exactly
so," said the voice in his ear, "Did you tell Barraclough that he
could take over my Fort? "
"Oh,
my God!"
"I
take it you did. Well, he's up on the
West Gate. In full cardboard armour. And he won't come down. He wants Bernard, boss of the Brigantes. That, I understand, is you, Merriwold? "
"
Oh, my God! " Bernard repeated.
"Is
that all you've got to say?"
"Oh,
my God!"
"Well
I don't think He's going to help us. So,
Merriwold, shift your royal arse over here, and bring that loony down before
you-know-who arrives! Or we'll all be
looking for new jobs."
Arthur
Barraclough was marching up and down the battlements. In full armour. Brandishing a sword. A real sword? God, I hope that's kitchen foil!
Bernard
scurried into the tower room where Mike Rogers growled, "You took your
bloody time. Hurry up. Get that suit off."
When
Bernard gawped he snarled, "He'll take no notice if you're not in
costume. Do what you're told. Don't waste any more time!"
Protesting
at the presence of Rogers' woman assistant: "Have you something I haven't
seen before, Mister Merriwold?"
Bernard
undressed to his underpants.
"Now
what?"
Before
he could protest further Bernard found himself daubed bright blue.
"Woad,"
said Rogers, "What did you expect ?
How about a big yellow streak down the back?"
Bernard bridled at the suggestion of
cowardice.
"I'll
bring him down, don't you worry."
The
woman rubbed grease into his scalp spiking his hair grotesquely.
"What
are you doing, you stupid cow?"
"Go! Go!" urged the archaeologist and thrust
the wooden sword into his blue hand.
Bernard
stumbled up the tower steps.
"Greetings,
Sextus Calpurni. . . " was as far as Bernard got before Arthur Barraclough
was upon him, his sword flashing in the morning sunlight. My God, thought Bernard, he's going to kill
me and parried the blow. Fighting for
dear life he was vaguely aware of the sound of cheering as the royal limousine
drew up at the West Gate. The battle
raging on the battlements caught her Majesty's eye.
"The
Entertainments Officer, Ma'am," said the archaeologist, "And a
friend."
"What
fun!" cried the gracious lady, clapping her hands, "And which is the
Entertainments Officer?"
"The
chap painted blue, Ma'am."
"Splendid,
simply splendid," said the Queen, " Quite the Command Performance,
wouldn't you agree?"
The real I.G.W. was my friend Tom Hadaway, a lost
child who was a brilliant writer disguised as a North Shields fishmonger. He was robbed of his TV series When the Boat
Comes In because he said it wasn’t real & it wasn’t. He accepted a commission to write a film in
Australia and lost it because he wanted to write the story of an aborigine
woman whose birthplace was a fence post.
I talked to him on the telephone the night before he left us. Our loss.
A true spirit. I am proud he called me friend.
I shall be on Shields promenade this Summer. To win a prize you have only to tap me on the
shoulder and announce, “You are the
Invisible Geordie Writer.”
March on!
I.G.W.
AMAZON:Alex Y.
Ferguson;writer
