Winter never really came to West Yorkshire in 2017. Or rather, the days rolled around as per always but the bad weather didn't happen; it was generally mild with not so much rain and the one snow fall only covered the higher hills. In fact it wasn't just mild, it was occasionally hot. I saw May blossom in the last week of February which was, to my way of thinking, three months early.
Of course the media put it down to "Global Warming". Well excuse me but that's bollocks. Way I see it, the globe has been warming and cooling for billions of years. Haven't there been at least five major ice ages so far? And wasn't it hot enough in Britannia for the Romans to grow vineyards and produce wine when they were in occupation?
Sorry, I'm starting to rant. Let's just say I believe Global Warming is a con.
(And let's also say that at least the unusually warm weather gave the media something else to rabbit on about, instead of flipping "Brexit"!)
Spring that year carried on from where winter left off. March came in like a lamb and went out like . . . well, like another lamb. And anticipated April showers were few and far between. By May the blossom had been and gone and outdoor conditions encouraged T-shirts. That was good news for me because by May a snap election had been called and I'd got roped in as a canvasser.
I am, by the way, Chrissie. I will soon be twenty-two and still haven't the faintest idea what I'm going to do with my life. I graduated last summer, with honours in English Lit, and I did once intend to teach. But right now I'm decidedly undecided. If I believe what I hear, the UK teaching profession is heading the same way as the National Health Service . . . and the NHS is going down like the Titanic.
Oh yes: and the media says Brexit is going to finish the job for both of those once "secure careers".
Hedging my bets, since I left uni I have been working as a clerk at the head office of West Yorkshire Bank. The money isn't brilliant at WYB, but that suits me. I don't earn enough to have to start repaying my student loans, but I do get enough to rent a place of my own and to chip away at my other debts. Maybe one day soon I'll wake up with a vocation clear in my head. In the meantime I'm happy to just muddle along as I am.
I'll leave it at that for the time being. You'll find out more about me as we go along (as they say every evening on Pointless).
The election canvassing was, I must admit, out of character for me. I hadn't previously had much of an opinion about general elections and hadn't even bothered voting in 2015. That was partly due to the place I was born. We'd had a Labour MP for only eight out of the last sixty-seven years. A feeling of inevitability pervaded every new campaign. It had often been said that a scabby dog could win that seat, so long as it wore a blue rosette.
The difference in 2017 was that my friend's mum had been nominated to stand (not for one of the big two political parties, I hasten to add). Realistically, she had zero chance of winning but could possibly save her deposit. And, in the current climate, if she got a following wind she might even finish second. So it was all hands to the pumps and, along with a dozen other former schoolmates, I was "recruited" to be part of the support crew.
Although I hate to admit it, it was exciting to be involved. For once I could make a difference. For once my voice would be heard. I would become famous by association and be recognized in the street.
Or so I'd thought in my parallel universe.
The reality wasn't quite the same. I'd expected to be standing on soapboxes, knocking on doors and kissing babies, but our campaign manager had other ideas. Her first "action point" was to have glossy, professionally prepared leaflets delivered to every single home in the consistency. And, as there were a lot of homes and the cost of postage had gone through the roof, that called for hand-deliveries.
While I admired the leaflets (they featured the candidate's attractive, smiling face and a list of failings at national level by the Reds and the Blues) delivery rounds were apportioned. I only knew Bingley town centre well and assumed all the rounds would be similar: lots of terraces and semis where a few hundred flyers could easily be distributed. Consequently I didn't complain when I got Micklethwaite.
Big mistake!
I haven't checked actual distances, but Micklethwaite was a village sited on a long, mostly uphill lane. And by long, I mean "long". The houses tended to be set apart and as different to terraces as could be. No way could I simply bob from letterbox to letterbox and be rid of my satchel-load in an hour or so. No, that round involved a lot of footslogging.
Still, I was only young and we were meeting up in The Potting Shed for "refreshments" when we were done. A little uphill footslogging would only put an edge on my thirst.
I won't bore you by recounting my early deliveries and several encounters with dogs, including a giant Alsatian that fortunately turned out to be soft and sweet. Put it this way, with a lot of garden paths and side roads to negotiate, it took me two hours to distribute about a hundred leaflets, and even then I'd a hundred or more left.
The last place I had to look out for was known as Hunters Farm. I hadn't a clue where it was but had been told it was after a hairy hairpin bend, right at the very top of the village. Apparently a lot of "new" houses had been built there over the last decade or so, on old farmland. Apparently that was the part of my round when I could speed up and finish in no time.
By the time I neared Ilkley Moor I was starting to think the place didn't exist. Then, as the lane at last levelled out a bit, I saw a sign off to my right: HUNTERS FARM (without the apostrophe). That side of the road had a thick growth of mature trees on it. The sign was indicating what appeared to be a farm track between the trees. It was a fancy farm track, though; it had been expensively resurfaced.
Confident I was nearing the end of the night's quest, confident that the track would lead me to lots of homes which I could whizz through, I walked along it. An hour and I'll be in the pub, I told myself. If I run back down the hill and fall lucky with a bus, maybe half an hour . . .
The track twisted and turned a bit but wasn't too long. I rounded the last turn and stopped dead.
Oh my God, that wasn't a housing estate; it was a magical home in the woods!
I blinked as I took in my surroundings. That sign had misled me, I realized. I was looking at what must have been the original farmhouse. Obviously renovated, it seemed to have been set down in a forest clearing. On closer inspection I saw that it was surrounded by a mix of old and much younger trees, the newer ones presumably planted to give added privacy.
'Bugger it,' I muttered, 'the estate must be next door.'
Flyer in hand, I looked at the farmhouse again. It had a stylishly paved forecourt on what had evidently once been the farmyard. Or should that be barnyard? Whatever it was, it was a big one. The forecourt alone could have easily taken ten motors and the unpaved bit was much bigger. Hell, there was even a duck pond away to my right, complete with tall reeds and water lilies.
Anxious to be done, I hurried up to the front door and dropped my flyer into the box. Then I turned and, seeing no obvious shortcut to the estate, set off back toward the track.
A sudden noise alarmed me. It was a blend of honking and hissing and believe me, it was scary.
But the sound was not as scary as the sight of a gaggle of geese charging at me from the direction of the pond.
Or was it a flock of geese?
Whatever they called themselves, they were scary indeed. Instinct kicked in and, ditching my satchel, I bolted to my right. I couldn't possibly outrun all of them; my only hope was a solitary tree, set apart from its neighbours, actually growing out of the farmyard proper. I had no idea what sort of tree it was, but it was an old, sturdy one and it had low branches.
Sprinting for my life, that honking and hissing closing on me with every step, I made it close enough to dive, grab and swing . . .
