Winner of the inaugural (2011) Spyke Golding Literary Award has been awarded to Derek Clarke for 'Gideon'.
Derek Clarke, the first winner of the annual Spyke Golding Literary Award, was presented with his inscribed tankard and
cheque for £100 at the start of the 2011 Nottingham Robin Hood Festival. Derek of West Bridgford, Nottingham, is shown receiving his cheque and tankard from Steve Westby, branch Chair and festival organiser. This annual competition is open to people who reside or work within Nottinghamshire and are over the age of 18 by 1st October in the year of the competition.
Derek's winning entry is reproduced below and at 1154 words, fits comfortably within the 1200 word limit. The entries were judged by Mick Bajcar, Derek Adams, Chris Homes and Steve Westby.
Steve Westby, Chair of Nottingham CAMRA presenting Derek Clarke with his prize winning cheque for £100 and personally inscribed beer tankard on the first day of the hugely successful and well-attended Robin Hood Beer and Cider Festival 2011.
Congratulations to all three winners and a big thank you to all who participated.
And here is 'Gideon'
I first met Gideon when I moved to the village to take over the local; the outgoing landlord introduced me on hand-over day. Gideon sat in the snug, playing dominoes with his two comrades. "These are our esteemed oldies," the landlord beamed. The men noisily shuffled the dominoes on the marble board. "First, this is Major." The landlord signalled to a white whiskered chap who wore a regimental blazer; one sleeve was limp and tucked into a pocket. "While, we call him Major, I suspect he was a squaddie; I reckon he lost his arm peeling spuds – that right, Major?" Major chose his dominos and muttered to himself.
The landlord pointed to the second man. He was frailer than Major, and had a long face and flared nostrils. "Here's Tom – he was the stable jockey over at the Prentice yard. Come to think of it, with his boat-race, he rather resembles a horse – don't you think?" Tom wiped his dewy nose along his sleeve and glowered.
"Finally, here's Gideon: he thinks he's the village elder." The landlord gestured to a broad and solid man, with bushy eyebrows and grey beard. "Gideon was a woodman . . . chop, chop, eh Gideon?" The landlord made a scything motion and chuckled to himself.
Gideon stared at the spitting fire: 'Tha's bin buyin' those cheap spruce logs agen, I've told tha afore they're gud fur nowt." The landlord rolled his eyes and took me to one side. "The codgers live in the almshouse and, frankly, they're a pain – a pint lasts all day. I've tried everything to get rid, but the buggers won't shift.
You'll need to do up the snug and attract the diners – that's where the money is."
It took me a while to gain the old boys' confidence after that day. But I had plenty of opportunity as they came in every lunchtime for their pint of mixed. And I wanted to learn about them and the village. For this was a fascinating place – a squat village set amongst wooded hills on the Peak borders. In time the men opened up. And what reward – their memories delved deep into the mother earth of memory like the tap root of an ancient oak.
"This pub's bin at th' centre of th' village since way back," Gideon said one day. "It wor a favourite of th' woodmen in these parts. Not only woodmen, 'cus many villagers worked th' land – now everyone commutes ter Nottingham or Derby."
"Or they wor in service at th' big house," Tom chipped in. "My grandpa wor headgroom at th' Hall, an' grandma wor a scullery maid."
"Aye," Major reflected. "Menny a soldier's celebrated theer return from th' front in this pub an' all: from th' two big uns an' menny more."
"Mind," Tom said. "They reckon th' best do wor when Honesty won th' Midlands Steeplechase – back in th' 1900s at Colwick I think it wor. He wor trained by a local farmer called Chambers. Now Chambers knew he 'ad a gud jumper but he raced 'im on th' flat ter keep 'is ability quiet. On race day, 'he hoss wor 33/1. He won in a canter an' th' whole village celebrated fur a week."
"Mind, menny hanna returned," Major added. "Go an' look at th' village cross, tha'll see five of my family got it on th' Western Front. Mysen? I lost this in Malaya. Not a big price ter pay – as a nipper I recall three veterans from th' almshouse; they'd served in th' Boer an' they only 'ad two legs an' two arms atween 'em."
"Time danna stop fur any man," asserted Gideon. "Go back ten years an' theer wor thirty of us in 'ere com' a lunchtime – not anymore."
"Aye," Tom agreed. "I reckon he'll be fetchin' from our pen soon, an' all."
Gideon shuffled the dominoes and they played in silence. Major was first. They found him on his bedroom floor in the almshouse. He'd had a stroke as he tried to get out of bed after an afternoon nap. They reckoned it happened as he bent down to pull on his boots. "He'd ha'e bin proud of that," Gideon reflected. "No owd tommy likes ter die wi'out theer boots on." Tom was next. He'd slipped out of the almshouse before dawn to watch the gallops over at the Prentice yard. It was a frosty winter's morning and Tom caught a chill. Gideon sighed: "He hanna bin down th' gallops fur years, but sammat told 'im he 'ad ter go that day. Daft bugger never said why."
At first Gideon seemed to cope. It was as if his comrades' spirits filled the snug as he sat alone, listening to the tick-tock of the grandfather clock. Occasionally, he'd shuffle the dominoes and think about picking a hand, but he never did. And slowly the loneliness affected him. Then, one snowy day at the turn of the millennium, I went into the snug after the lunchtime rush was over. Gideon was arched forward in his fireside chair staring into the flames. Now and then he'd murmur something into the fire and it would crackle back. Suddenly, a log ruptured and a glowing ember shot out. Gideon waited for it to die, coughed and tossed it back. He noticed me out of the corner of his eye. Gideon took a swig of beer and slammed his tankard on the table. "Com' on, theer's sammat I want ter show tha afore it's ter late."
I locked up and we stepped outside into the snow.
"Where we going?" I asked.
"Ter Meredith's workshop, he's th' local carpenter."
Once there, Gideon took a key from under the mat and opened up. "Theer," he said, nodding to some broad planks. "That's what I've brought tha ter see. I cut 'em out of an owd oak that blew down in th' '87 gale. Weathering nicely, danna tha think?"
Gideon took an oblong timber and stood it on its end. He ran his gnarled fingers over the surface, feeling every knot and whorl. "A proper piece of God's craftin' this," he said, taking a deep breath to savour the spicy aroma.
"Now, I want tha ter make sure Meredith uses these timbers fur mysen," Gideon continued.
"Of course, but I don't understand . . ."
"Here, take this un," Gideon urged as he coughed.
"Now, hold 'im straight an' measure me up." He smiled as the timber inched above him: "Aye, that'll do nicely; I'll be snug an' dry in this beauty, that's fur sure."
Gideon's face grew purple as he began to cough again. He regained his composure and walked over to the open door. And suddenly an air of contentment seemed to overwhelm him as he stared out to the snowy slopes of the woods where he'd once toiled; and where the high trees – caught by the low setting sun – shone like halos.
('Gideon' was published in issue 107 of the Nottingham Drinker which can be downloaded here.)