Sometimes I manage to slip a mention of these scribblings into a conversation, in the hope it might attract new readers. But like the joke about the General who signalled "Send reinforcements, we're going to advance" causing consternation at HQ who descrambled it as "Send three and fourpence, we're going to a dance", sometimes the message gets a bit confused. Certainly, one new reader was a bit disappointed to find that this column is not stories about whippet racing in Barnsley, having mistaken the nature of the flat caps deployed herein. But hopefully the account of the following event will cheer at least him up.
For yes, this is a story of Yorkshire folk, and, as anybody who is acquainted with that proud race will recognise, it shows them operating at their finest.
"You can take the boy out of Yorkshire, but you can't take Yorkshire out of the boy." This old saw is very true, and much appreciated by half a dozen of us, approaching, shall we say, early middle age, whose proud origin is in that fair land and who have additionally in common an addiction to gun and rod. And to further keep the blood thick, each summer we all lunch together on beer and pies.
The time was approaching this May when Freddie, a lawyer formerly of Leeds, called to suggest that this summer we could push the boat out a bit and he could organise a dinner instead, at a well known smart West End (London that is, not Leeds) restaurant. The other five of us thought this was a touching and generous idea and the evening was duly booked.
The Yorkshireman likes his night out and we were all there on time - indeed four were early and made good progress at the bar before we even got to table. But we were seated soon enough and the orders given; and we can pass over the scoffing and quaffing simply by saying that a blxxdy good time was 'ad by all, ba gum.
So you join us again in a more or less empty restaurant, dregs of fine wines in the glasses, plates scraped clean, and the whisky glasses being regarded thoughtfully. The shooting stories had worn out a bit, the business environment was agreed to be appalling, the merits of Range Rover and the new Mercedes 4x4 compared, summer yacht charter costs complained of, and several juicy bits of gossip analysed and thoroughly wrung out. We were in fact feeling that it was time for the bill; and eventually the estate agent present (there's always one) turned to Freddie and said "Great idea this, Fred, we've thoroughly enjoyed it. Thanks very much old lad."
Freddie suddenly looked as though a violent bout of indigestion had overcome him, but not so much he did not manage to splutter "Nay, nay, I was just organising, I thought Tom might pick up the bill this year, accountants are doing very well; so he's just said".
The food poisoning seemed now to have spread to Tom as well, who went slightly puce and said chokingly "I paid for the pies year before last, it must be Kevin's turn; or is it B---'s?"
With that instinct with which they are born, the maitre d' had suddenly materialised close by, looking a little anxious. We all looked, one to each other, trying to avoid the maitre's increasingly steely look; and then, as if possessed by the same idea at the same time, we all turned to Frank. Frank is a our group billionnaire, his fortune made in construction and clever land buying, going public at the top of the market (twice), leaving his main care, as he had told us earlier, being which bank to keep the stache in. We all smiled gently at Frank; but Frank did not get where he is today.... "Na then, lads; share and share alike, that would be reet. What's damage, Freddie, lad?"
£900 was the damage.
With a groan that could not be heard, but could certainly be felt, six hands pulled out six wallets; cash was clawed unwilling from the dusty recesses and counted, and recounted. The maitre relaxed and the cash was piled up on the bill in the centre of the table. Or at least, £750 was. At that point a rugged hand reached out, grabbed the cash, and put down the company credit card. The cash disappeared into some mysterious inner pocket of Frank's jacket.
£750 cash, tax free. And a bill payable by the shareholders. Truly a Yorkshireman amongst Yorkshiremen.
