Between 1963 and 1976, I returned to the UK each summer for an annual holiday for as many weeks as I could afford. In 1965 I’d been away from my beloved Derbyshire for over 18 months and returned to a quaint world redolent with childhood nostalgia - smells, sounds and sights of scruffy folks crowded into quirky picturesque nooks and crannies such as Ripley Market Place.
It was intriguing to enjoy this thrilling reunion with early boyhood days. After a sterile existence in a well-scrubbed United States, I was fascinated by the friendliness of crooked oddities who constantly addressed each other as ‘duck’ - pronouncing it ‘dook’. The colliery cultural accent is thick and rich. When Ripley folk say 'duck' (which they often say) it sounds like 'dook'. Detroit offered nothing like the variety of odd bods interbred over generations from mining stock. I had arrived in a fairytale world of curiosities resembling toads, goblins and gnomes, more medieval than 20th century clean-cut American youth, more Grimm than US glitz and glamour. Here the crooked coal encrusted indigenousness seemed to be older, uglier and have more character making them all much more interesting. Wandering around Ripley Market pondering these quirky contrasts, I came on one stall which specialised in sweets, chocolates and all manner of confectionary in a cacophony of trivial chatter. ‘Umbug?’ [humbug] said the man behind the counter. ‘Tuppence, duck.’ ‘Arr [our] Fred wants it, you know,’ replied his customer, ‘no teeth, but he can still suck. Thanks, duck. How’s ya mam?’ ‘Bit better today, duck. It’s a fortnight since she took bad. ‘Ooo, duck. An you we no ‘ands! A think you’re a brick, duck.’ This was a magical experience, made all the more magical observing this common place exchange dominated by the one word ‘duck’. The old woman’s nose seemed to meet her chin giving a witch-like appearance. Her cackling inappropriate comments highlighting a serious disability made a contrast to the stallholder (with no hands) whose cushy caring voice seemed to blend with a downy personality. This ductile chap (known only as Duck) made an immediate impression on me. Somehow it made me feel safe and secure. Conceived in this moment was a lifelong friendship with plump, cosy Duck who was always kind and considerate. Duck transported me to the child I once was when I explored the River Gardens in Belper. It was a delight of glades, rock formations, alcoves, islets, avenues and terraces. I enjoyed the contrasts between the open promenade, lovers’ walk, the fish pond, the fountain bordered by special nooks and crannies. Here, the imagination could run riot. There were rocks picturesque and rocks grotesque. In an ecstasy of exploration, hunting out hidden glades with deep spongy moss growing on damp boulders; I imagined stories about ‘little people’ - the fairies. Bright sunlight became dazzling bright green when reflected off the ubiquitous fern. Such unusual illuminations complemented various dank corners and black caves. Little Narvel was told that if he had enough faith, if he tried hard enough, if he believed in the spirits of nature, if he was lucky enough - he might just get a glimpse of elementals in human form. The small boy was very happy. He recalled the warmth of the sun, the cool of the shade, the light and the dark, the scent of wild garlic and the music of birdsong. I never saw fairies, but Duck was real enough and we became lifelong friends. Duck projected warmth, oodles of affection within a halo of safe snug comfort. He was totally free from any pretentiousness and you felt you had known him all your life. Not well educated, in many ways a simple man, but Duck was a good listener. You could confide all your secrets. We were both teenagers but he was old-fashioned, looking and acting much older. He was comfortable talking about his baby arms ending in stumps. He mentioned that he was born with one leg, but walked quite well with a prosthetic limb. Naturally this disability curtailed his social activities. Duck was just one of the several curious characters of Derbyshire - goblins, hags, crones, gnomes, fairies, toads and other oddities. When writing Lost Lad, he and his mother gave permission to appear as characters in the novel and were delighted with the result as it appeared on pages 187 to 190. He was a regular visitor to Blackpool. Blackpool could be garish, cheap, tacky and tatty. This glittering and cheerful resort of the North West held my affection. As a child, various half remembered carers had brought me to sample the thrills and spills of the Pleasure Beach. They walked my little legs along the promenade full of shrieks of joy, jammed with the working-class at play, jammed with amusements, ghost trains, shooting galleries, dancing girls, palmists, vulgar postcards and the salty smell of jellied eels. Duck suggested we meet at the local pictures - the Ripley Hippodrome. Something of a flea pit. Eventually, I was invited back to Meet Mrs Duck at the Duckery around the corner from Ripley Market Place. It was just Duck and Mrs Duck, no Mr Duck. Occasionally, they were visited by a robin which hopped on to the window sill. Duck said - 'Ey oop, Arr [our] Mam, look - it's me dad, it's me dad coom back.' I was encouraged to visit anytime. You just walked in. I saw two large eggs. These eggs with faces were deeply reposing into a cosy sofa and had formed the impression they’d been sitting there forever. Each face wore a smile of welcome. Both fat faces were devoid of a single wrinkle which caused the visitor to wonder about the age of mother. Over the long years of friendship, Duck never changed. He had always looked the same. He was just ... Duck. The 'Mam' egg cocked up her legs which could not quite reach the floor and spoke first. ‘Eee it is nice ta see thee, dook. Are ya all right then, dook?’ The Duck egg appeared to do a quick funny wriggle with dancing shoulders. ‘Shall ya ave a coop a tea, dook? Put kettle on, Arr Mam.’ ‘No, Dook. Ave joost sat down. You put kettle Arr Dook.’ ‘All right, Arr Mam, I'll put kettle on.’ ‘You've made it really nice in here,’ I said. ‘So very cosy and comfortable.’ The Duckery was fixed somewhere inside a time warp, in this case possibly mid 1930's. Cosy and comfortable were apt terms here. Everything was soft and cushy. The conversation in this room was all ductility, well matched to the occupants, mild and downy. It became a favourite place. In this old-fashioned feathery room, I felt cushioned from the hard knocks of life. Nothing nasty or hurtful ever came from Duck, friendly podgy Duck, ever mellow and mellifluous. At worst, on the occasions in which he did criticise, he would begin with his characteristic wiggle, dancing shoulders and the one word - 'Meself'. Regarding the subject of corner shop keeper Annie Oaks and her pricing policy - ‘Meself, a think she's a bit dear. Don't ya think so, Arr Mam.’ ‘She is, Arr Duck! Them eggs were five pence cheaper int' town. She teks advantage. She knows a can't walk far.’ The conversation continued to touch on similar inanities which included the thoughtless Vivienne whose bouncing ball often annoyed 'Arr Mam', a dripping tap which Fred the neighbourly fixer had promised to fix last month and an unpleasant character in a popular 'soap' who was - ‘Nasty! Really nasty. No need ta be like that. It's oopset Arr Dook?’ These trifles amused. Concerns about a person on television who does not exist and an endless stream of minutia had a soporific effect. The Ducks were warm and generous, non-contentious and undemanding. The quaint chatter was balmy and mildly entertaining. I was always happy in The Duckery. Both long dead now, but I still become emotional every time I walk past The Duckery just around the corner near Ripley Market Place. Narvel Annable Comments are closed.
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