Chapter 8

Mr Robson sniggered, “Wives are pretty adept at telling their husbands what to do, I agree.”

Mrs Robson appeared at the door. “If you two boys are done blathering, you can help lay the eats on the table. Us girls have more important things to deal with. These two are wonderful now, Reg. Congratulations.”

“As I told your husband, it was my household that did the job, not me.”

“Whatever. The job was done, and done well; that is what matters,” she insisted.

Reg nodded, as no reply was needed.

Lunch was very amicable, with all three ladies chatting away over the meal, while Reg and Mr Robson talked about the vagaries of farming, and all the downsides to running a farm.

The two girls volunteered to clear the table and wash the dishes; to which Mrs Robson happily said, “Thank you, girls. That will be a lovely treat for me.”

She turned to her husband. “I thought you and Reg were going to visit the fields?”

He replied, “As soon as Reg feels up to it. I thought having lunch first would help him settle.”

“Quite right, so before he sinks into a sated snooze, take him out and do what you can: don’t overtax him, though!”

“Reg, old son, let’s go for that walk,” Mr Robson suggested, and Reg got up from his chair. They went to the door, where the farmer changed to his outdoor footwear. Reg was wearing the shoes he had arrived in. “Are these okay for the walk?” he asked.

“Sure. We’ll keep to the tracks,” he was reassured.

Stepping outside, they found that the weather had improved again, and the temperature was very pleasant. Reg guessed it was around fifteen degrees Celsius, so quite agreeable for walking.

“Hope it doesn’t get much warmer,” he commented.

The farmer looked up at the sky, and shrugged. “Should stay around the same, in my opinion.” he offered.

They sauntered from the farmhouse to the main track to the farm fields. It sloped slightly uphill, for the farmhouse was at the lowest point on the Robsons’ land.

“Feeling all right, Reg?”

“Yes. No bother at all.”

“Right. We should visit each field in turn, so that you don’t face your fears immediately.”

Reg nodded his agreement, and they stopped at the nearest field, one filled with grass for cattle grazing. It had no effect on him, so they retreated and went to the next field. There, it was the same, so they continued. Reg took a few steps into some fields; enough to make his assessment.

However, when they came to the upper field, where the bombs had been found, everything changed.

Reg found himself shivering while still outside the gate, and another step forward found him feeling nauseous. “That does it,” he exclaimed. “I can’t go into that field: it has too many bad memories for me. Sorry, sir.”

“Not at all, Reg, you poor boy.” He put his arm round Reg’s shoulders, to impart reassurance.

“You did well, only having an aversion to this one field. It means that I can depend on you being able to visit and scan the other fields when you are feeling ready for it. That is much better than what I expected. You are coping well, young man; remarkably well.”

“Thank you, sir; but if you don’t mind, I prefer my wives’ arms round me!”

Mr Robson removed his arm. “Sorry, Reg, I was just trying to be nice.”

“I know it, and I approve of the sentiment, but I have an aversion to be hugged by men; I don’t know why. It is just me, I suppose. Perhaps because I lost my father when I was a small child, so no other man can take his place; that may be it.”

“That is sad, Reg. I didn’t know you had lost your father at an early age. You missed a lot, not having your father there to look up to and get help from. I was fortunate in that way, and the old guy is still around, retired and doing his own thing with my mother: still calls her his girlfriend after sixty years of marriage!”

Reg was happy to hear that.

“I am pleased for you, Mr Robson. I want to be a good father to my children, too. That may be perhaps why I reacted badly to that bomb; I might have never been there for my children, had the bomb exploded.”

Mr Robson patted Reg on the shoulder. “I am sure you will make a good father, Reg. I can see that in you. Now can you walk okay, the way you are feeling, or do you need an arm for support?”

“I want to get away from this gate, then we can see how I feel. Just walk beside me, and catch me if I lose my balance, for I am a bit shaky.”

Within a short distance, the worst of the symptoms lifted from Reg, and he drew a deep breath.

“Looks like getting away from there was all I needed, sir. I am feeling much improved already.”

Mr Robson responded, “Well, let’s get you back to the house, and you can have a snort of whiskey or whatever spirit you prefer.”

“I don’t really drink alcohol much, sir. We used to have the occasional bottle of wine between us; but that stopped when the girls got pregnant. I wouldn’t mind a cup of hot tea, though.”

“Tea it is, then. Would you like to walk a bit faster, to get your circulation going?”

They took up a faster stride, and were back at the farmhouse fairly quickly, and Reg took the seat that Mr Robson offered him. He sank down gratefully, but his head drooped with his returning nausea as he sat.

Hermione and Jemima were quick to notice their boss’s condition, and clustered round him.

“Well? How did you cope, Reg?” demanded Hermione unnecessarily, having already noticed the colour of his face. She intended it to be jocular, but it failed to be that.

His head raised up, fully exposing his white face, showing his current distress, but he tried to be positive.

He replied, “Fine, until we got to the field where the bombs were found; then I lost it. Shaking and nausea almost immediately, without even stepping into the field. It was horrible; I couldn’t take a step further, and held onto the gate for support. It was all I could do to turn and come away from the gate. Walking back was a relief, and I slowly got better and better as we headed back here. I am still not right, but much improved from how I was at the field.”

Mr Robson told his wife, “Reg would appreciate a hot cup of strong tea, darling. Do you think you could oblige Reg that way, love?”

“Coming right up; the kettle is on the boil.”

Trying to divert Reg’s attention from his ailment, Mr Robson asked about the company that his nieces worked for. “Tell us a little about what you do, girls.”

Hermione glanced to Jemima, and gestured imperiously for her to speak first. Jemima explained, “I am an artist of sorts, so when they found that out, I was asked to do a head and shoulders sketch of Reg – Mr Robertson. They were talking about what I could do for the company - Hermione had already grabbed the P.A. slot for herself, so I said I had been shown by a friend how to write a press release. They all challenged me to write a piece about the company, so I did. Uncle, you know about the company name?”

“Yes, R.E.G; I had heard.”

“Well, it stands for Recovery Enterprise Group. It was Reg’s wives that came up with a name that would be Reg’s forename when you spelled it out. My draft was a sort of introduction to the company and what it could do, and they seemed to like what I wrote.

They appointed me as the company Public Relations Officer right away, and gave me targets for press releases and public relations ideas. It has been fun so far, with good feedback.”

Hermione stepped in. “My position means that effectively I run the company at the moment, day to day. Reg is Managing Director, and all his wives have jobs in the company and are on the Board, so they are in a position of power. Reg gets to speak to possible clients that we have lined up for him, and say yea or nay to a contract, but often his wives do the needed research, including field research.

Our company doesn’t take on a job unless we are pretty sure we can achieve something worthwhile, but we have already taken in several hundred thousand in fees for jobs well done.”

She turned to Mrs Robson, “I can hardly believe it, Auntie: I am doing the day-to-day running of a profitable company for my very first job!”

“Well done, dear. You have made much of yourself in recent months, and I am impressed with you both.”

“Thanks, Auntie. We are sorry for what we were like before. We like ourselves better now as well.”

Mrs Robson had been eyeing Reg on his a chair, noting his slouched posture and quiet demeanour. “Now, girls, instead of Mr Robertson walking home with you, why don’t you get someone to come along with a car to collect you. The lovely Jessica I am sure will be happy to do that.”

Hermione was surprised. “Oh, you know Jessica, Reg’s Paki wife?”

“Yes, dear. Great girl. She is driving the old car your uncle’s father left in our barn; such a nice and wholesome lady!”

“She can’t manage today, Auntie. She had a miscarriage and is not long home from hospital.”

“Oh, dear; the poor girl!”Please givbe her my love, and tell her to get well soon, so she can come back and visit us.”

“Will do. She is not the only Paki living with us now. You haven’t heard about Maryam and her daughters They are new.”

Reg was conscious enough of his surroundings to spot this faux pas and immediately said, “Hermione, please don’t brag. Maryam is not officially with us, so you should not reveal anything to outsiders.”

She put her hand to her mouth. “Sorry, Reg dear. It just slipped out. Auntie, please disregard what I just said: it was wrong of me.”

Mr Robson turned to Reg in amazement. “By God, you even have them willing to apologise these days!”

Reg spoke agitatedly, “Don’t put them down, sir. It takes great inner strength in a person to be able to apologise. It shows how well Hermione and Jemima are doing. They are wonderful girls now.”

Jemima beamed and even Hermione looked pleased at the compliment.

Mrs Robson added her bit.

“As you say, Mr Robertson, making an apology takes strength of character. These two have turned into wonderful women, thanks to your family. It was a great day when we met you, young man.”

She spoke to her husband. “See that a sympathy call to Jessica gets made, dear; right away. I have to speak to the girls about future contacts. Reg can tell you about the gifts they brought, after you make the call.”

Mr Robson went to get his phone, but Hermione was quicker off the mark. “I’ll pit the call through, uncle. The number is in my phone.”

She was swiftly ringing the Robertson number. As soon as she got through, she was speaking. “Sidra, get your mother to come to the phone. Also, we need someone to come with a car to pick us up. Reg is not too good, so needs a lift. Thanks.”

She turned back to Mr Robson, and handed him her phone, so he could speak with Jessica. She moved her attention to Mrs Robson.

“Okay, Auntie. Car being arranged. Anything else?”

They went off with Mrs Robson, leaving Reg and Mr Robson alone. The farmer commented, “Looks like us boys are being abandoned, Reg. Fancy a snifter to perk you up, as I offered before?”

Reg was willing, this time. “A very small whisky, then, sir, but well watered please.”

Mr Robson nodded, “I can do that. I keep some bottled soft water for such drinks. Our local hard water makes the alcohol in Scotch taste a bit different; not quite as it should be. Practically all of the water in Scotland is soft, but it is hard here in Yorkshire and most of the rest of England.”

Reg was reminded about the gifts. “We brought along a few items as gifts to you from the company: A Prinknash vase for your wife and a tankard for you; plus a whisky gift pack for you from me as Managing Director of the company. It all goes on our expenses sheet, so no hassle about it, please. Let me try this stuff you drink, sir.”

Reg tasted the offered drink, grimaced and gave as his opinion, “Nice, if somewhat of an acquired taste; still a bit on the strong side for me, sir.”

“In this case, it is not for taste, Reg, but to give your system a kick, and make you feel a little more confident. You don’t have to drink it all; have a few sips at a minimum to get the benefit.”

Reg tried a few more sips and smacked his lips a little. “It does grow on you, I agree, Mr Robson.”

“Fine. That’s Glenmorangie; a single malt. My favourite. Just sit there, lad, until your car comes for you. Care to explain the Maryam comments a little?”

“Just that she is an abused wife escaping from her husband. We are sheltering her and her children temporarily, and keeping her whereabouts secret. The local police know about us, and that is all there is to it; just secrecy for her protection.”

“An admirable action, Reg. I shall not mention it to anyone.”

“Thank you, sir. My, this whisky grows on you.”

The farmer gave a guffaw, “Shades of Rikki Fulton!”

“How do you mean, sir?”

“Oh, it was a reference to the old Scottish comedian and actor, Rikki Fulton. One of his TV comic characters was a Scottish Presbyterian minister, the Rev I. M. Jolly, who was as dour as get-out. He did one sketch where the teetotal minister is doing a religious TV slot at the end of the evening, and has a glass of water on a table beside him. By accident, one of TV crew tips some whisky into the glass, and the minister sips it from time to time. He praises the water quality, and gets progressively more tipsy as he tries to do his ‘thought for the day’. It was a hilarious sketch.”

Reg smiled at the word picture being portrayed. “I shall be careful how much I drink, sir, for I am practically teetotal myself. I feel I am lucky that way: so many people get addicted to alcohol.”

The word ‘lucky’ struck a chord with the farmer.

“Reg, do you think Hermione and Jemima are mature enough to be trusted?”

“I appointed them to posts in our company, sir. I wouldn’t do that if I didn’t think I could trust them. Mind you, I work on the basis of trusting them to respond with trust, and so far it has worked. I am rather pleased with the outcome.”

“Good. My Scarborough grandmother gave me a ‘lucky penny’ when I was still a lad, and I had to promise to keep it safe for ever. I was thinking of passing it to these girls, as their family is still Scarborough based.”

“What sort of ‘lucky penny’ is it, Mr Robson?”

“Very basic: a small rough square of silver with a picture of Scarborough Castle incised on it.”

“Weird! Anything on the other side: the obverse, I think it is called?”

“Nothing except the year: 1645.”

“1645? That was during the Civil War, wasn’t it?”

“Could be. History was never a strong point with me. I just knew it was old. I valued it because it was silver and came from my grandmother. I had to clean it from time to time, though, when it went black with tarnish. My mother told me it was my responsibility. Tell you the truth, I haven’t cleaned it for years; just left it in a drawer.”

Reg was pensive.

“You have made me think, sir. There was something about the Civil War that marked out Scarborough, but I can’t remember what. Do you have a computer I could look up?”

“Yeah. You want to Google something?”

“Yes, sir. If you could search for Scarborough, silver and 1645, and see what comes up?”

Mr Robson took Reg through to his office and switched on his computer. Once he had loaded all the programs, he did the suggested search on Google.

What appeared surprised him.

The Google search revealed that during the Civil War, when Scarborough was under siege, they ran out of cash for payments within the town, and resorted to making their own. The town council asked for donations of silver plate from the richer residents, and this was hammered flat, so that it could be cut up into rough squares, and the value was based on the weight of silver in the piece of coinage. Each piece was marked with an image of the Castle, to identify it as Scarborough coinage.

Several other towns did a similar thing, and what was produced was known as ‘siege money’. Other towns such as Newark and Carlisle issued similar temporary coinage, but in greater quantities, or more has survived. Some of the Scarborough pieces are rare and therefore have become sought after by collectors. A Scarborough Sixpence sold at auction in 2012 for £42,000, though another piece of greater apparent value only fetched £15,000 in 2015.

“Good grief!” exclaimed Mr Robson. “Do you think my lucky penny is one of these? Not a more recent copy?”

“I have no idea, sir. Even having a look at it won’t tell me, for I know nothing of these coins. You need to have it examined by a numismatic expert,” Reg gave as his opinion, “but if it is an original, it should be worth thousands of pounds. It is not the sort of thing to give over to your nieces, even if you like them now. They would value the money over the object. You might be the same, if it has been gathering dust and tarnish in a drawer for years.”

“Reg, you are mature beyond your years, my boy. I think I will ask the Spink or Sotheby auction houses to give an opinion of its genuineness and estimated worth. I will hang onto it for the present, for I agree with you, that it would be turned into hard cash, and I don’t want these girls to think cash is an easy asset to obtain.”

“You are a wise man, sir,” Reg remarked. “I agree with you entirely, so we let the matter drop for now, eh?”

“That is it, Reg. Oh, I hear a car arriving, and it sounds like dad’s old car. Must be your Jessica’s car.”

It was, and soon Reg, Hermione and Jemima were aboard, heading back home. Jessica had insisted on driving it as a test of her health, as it was only a couple of miles. On the way back she wanted to ask Reg about his experiences on the farm, but had to be intent on driving carefully.

Once they were all home, the women and girls of the household wanted to hear from Reg.

He admitted his failure.

“I managed as long as I was nowhere near the field that had the bombs, but as soon as I reached that gate, I became a wreck: Shaking, nausea, the works. It was terrible, but once Mr Robson got me on the way back down, I started to recover. It took me ages to get back to some sort of normality, but eventually I did, and was able to chat with Mr and Mrs Robson. They decided I could not walk home yet, so Hermione phoned for a car.”

The twins wanted to know what they could do. “Do you need a drink or a snack, Reg?”

“Thanks, girls, but Mrs Robson fed us well, and Mr Robson gave me a small watered whisky to steady me nerves, he said. I am not sure what exactly it did to me, but I calmed down. I don’t think I will take up whisky as a regular tipple, though.”

Maryam was with them, and remarked, “Alcohol is forbidden by the Prophet, Reg, and there was a good reason for that inhibition. It is bad for your body.”

Reg smiled to her. “I agree with your reasoning, Maryam, but as with many such restrictions, it is the regular use that is the problem. Your Prophet used a blanket instruction to cover all eventualities, but I think a small amount very occasionally is not a sin. The sin is to abuse alcohol.”

“You always manage to say wise things, Mr Robertson. I will not argue the point.”

“Have you heard anything further, Maryam or are you lying low?”

“Lying low is accurate, Mr Robertson. I would like to know what my husband is up to, but no information about him is better than information that might lead him to me. I would rather be safe.”

Behind her, Sidra was trying to attract his attention. “Excuse me, Maryam. I need to speak to Sidra.”

She moved aside, and Sidra came over and grabbed him by the arm.

“Reg, that man from the insurance company phoned. I told him you were out, and he said, ‘Just tell him that payment has been sent to his bank.’ and he rang off. Were you expecting that?”