As Kim and I got closer, the whippet came to meet us, and the two dogs went in to that slow, stiff legged, circling, sniffing ritual that is so important in canine society. Nature didn’t design dogs to fight every time they meet an unfamiliar member of their own species; the fact that it happens so often is because of misunderstandings caused by the dog’s owner. Imagine this scenario. You are a small puppy; you live in a big, safe, warm place with the other members of your owner’s family, your ‘pack.’ One day, the pack leader takes you out for a walk, all is going well until you meet Mrs Smith and her dog coming in the other direction, you rush forward to greet them. Suddenly your leader becomes agitated and calls you back to him; there is a note of concern in his voice. He scoops you up and holds you tightly, everything about his demeanour says ‘Danger, this is a threat’ you growl a little, you’re scared now, but instinct tells you to protect your pack leader. This impression is re-enforced on subsequent walks, and before you know it, every dog is a threat and must be attacked on sight. You, like so many other good-natured dogs with well meaning owners, have become an incurable fighter.
Socialise your dogs when they are young; it’s easy, just let nature take its course.
After an exciting couple of hours spent setting t’ nets, bolting rabbits, and digging out when the big hob polecat line ferret came back to the surface “Wi his mittens on” (fur attached to his paws indicating that he had killed a rabbit below ground), we set to on the important job of dressing (gutting) our haul to preserve its value. Rabbits spoil quickly if they’re not dressed. ‘Scoontin’ was the local terminology for this practice, which spawned the joke, “Do you want it scoontin?” “Aye, go on, it’ll do for t’ cat.” Later that day we walked into Darnall where we sold our booty to a local butcher for half a crown per rabbit. Ferreted rabbits were more valuable than ones that had been shot, the latter contain bits of lead, which break your customers' teeth, for some reason, they find this annoying. To my absolute amazement, I received five shillings as my share of the proceeds; I’d had a fantastic time and didn’t expect anything.
Siddy and I became great friends. I was a small, extremely skinny 10 year old, often with a dirty face and always with a snotty nose. He was about 25, 6ft 5in tall, with blonde curly hair and comic book hero good looks. Although he must have weighed about 18 stone, there was not an ounce of fat on him, his arms, legs and shoulders were massive, and when he moved the muscles bulged beneath his skin, like potatoes squeezed into a sack.
We were an unlikely couple, but we had a lot in common. I loved the outdoors, and he was one of the best outdoorsmen I ever knew. He took me everywhere, hunting, fishing, walking, and scavenging for golf balls, he taught me how to handle his four ten shotgun safely, how to fire it and how to clean it. I asked him endless questions, and he always took the time to answer, I must have driven him mad sometimes, but he was a gentle giant, with infinite patience.
Siddy was a sort of unofficial caretaker cum groundsman at the golf course, I don’t think it paid very much, but he was allowed to live in one small room in the big wooden club house, I suppose this also made him an unpaid night watchman. He supplemented his earnings by doing a bit of caddying, and he sold the second hand golf balls that he had trained the whippet to find. He also did odd jobs for anyone willing to give him a fair day's pay for a good day's work. If this involved digging, he was better value than a JCB; I have never seen anyone capable of moving so much earth. The only problem was, he could snap a shovel as easily as you would a toothpick, one of his regular employers got someone who worked in the machine shop at the pit to make him an unbreakable one with a tubular steel shaft, I could hardly lift it, but in Siddy’s massive hands, it looked like a toy.
Our ‘stopping place,’ about half a mile from Siddy’s clubhouse, was a clearing at the end of a very long lane in the lee of the wood. It was a traditional winter camp for my family and many others (For those of you who don’t know, I am a Romany Gypsy). It was even sanctioned by the local council, who provided hard standing for the caravans and delivered water to us in a bowser.
One night, at about 8pm, I saw through the caravan window, a red glow in the distance. I stepped outside and walked a little way towards it, on the still night air I could plainly hear raised voices, they were coming from the direction of the clubhouse. I suppose I should have told my dad, but it looked like something exciting was happening and I was afraid of being confined to barracks; I set of through the woods at a run.
I arrived at the clubhouse to find it in flames. Great orange tongues licked at the sides and caused the peeling white paint to bubble and blister. The windows were broken, and the door stood open. Firemen sprayed water in through the openings, and thick black smoke poured out. No sooner had the thought ‘Oh my God, where’s Siddy?’ entered my head, than he came tearing into view. He was in the habit of ‘nippin ter t’ local’ for a swift half after work, and had obviously seen the blaze while on his way home. He grabbed one of the firemen by the arm, almost lifting him into the air as he spoke... “Ave yer got me dog aht?” he shouted. The fireman answered his question with a blank stare. With that, Siddy pulled his coat up over his head and marched toward the open door. When they realised what he was doing, one or two people tried to restrain him, but they were cast aside as if they had no more substance than rag dolls. A moment later, Siddy has disappeared into the smoke and flames.
He could only have been in there for a few seconds, no one could have survived longer, but time took on that elastic quality, as it always does in moments of high anxiety and imminent disaster. Every little detail is scored into your memory; adrenalin seems to heighten your senses to a degree where you notice everything. I can recall that scene now, almost 40 years later, as if I am watching a slow motion video replay. I noticed that one of the valves that connect the hose to the fire engine had a leak, and the water, coming out under pressure, looked like a fan made of glass. I saw some sparks ignite the dead leaves on a nearby tree, and watched melted tar from beneath the roofing felt drip into the green, cast iron guttering. I could hear the spit and crackle of the burning wood, and the crunch of the firemens' boots on the gravel, I could hear my own heart beating.
When Siddy emerged, both he and the whippet that was hanging limp across his arm were smouldering, and his blonde hair was actually on fire. His huge hands were now lumps of raw meat, and a big strip of scorched flesh dangled from his cheek like a bandage that had come undone. A fireman twisted the nozzle of his hose to a different setting and sprayed them both with a fine mist of water. There was no ambulance, no paramedic, but someone put them into a car and drove them both away.
Autumn turned into winter, winter gave way to spring. We moved away, as we always did. and I didn’t see Siddy again that year. The following autumn when we moved back, it wasn’t long before I spotted him. He was walking through the woods, ferret box on his shoulder, the whippet, sporting a large, pink, hairless patch on its back, trotting at his side. He told me that he was in the hospital for a very long time. His hands had healed well, and his blonde curly hair seemed thicker than ever. His face though, was another story. A skin graft had become infected, and it had left an ugly scar that totally disfigured one side of his face. “Down t’ pub,” he told me with a crooked smile, “they calls me t’ Phantom of t’ Opera.
So that’s how I knew it was definitely Siddy sitting beside me on that bench in Blackpool. I introduced myself, and for half an hour, we talked as if the 40-year gap was no more than the twinkling of an eye. We walked together once more, in the woods at High Hazels.
Mrs Red returned from her shopping and suddenly the spell was broken. Before I knew it, he was gone, leaving me slightly dazed, and wondering if I had imagined the whole thing.
One fateful night in 1968, a fire, and an amazing act of selfless courage left an indelible mark on the face of my boyhood friend, but it’s not nearly as indelible as the mark he left on me.