In Good Company: Bowling The Jack
Today we introduce a new columnist, Enid Blackburn. Enid worked in a public library in a Yorkshire township – a vantage point which gave her ample material to write about.
Enid, a delightful lady, is no longer with us. Her husband Bill gathered the columns she had written for a local newspaper and published them as a book. We are delighted to re-publish those columns on the Net.
Here Bill introduces Enid to Open Writing readers – then Enid, in her own breezy words, describes a certain sporting activity which commences in Yorkshire in the Spring of the year.
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In 1973 Enid Blackburn wrote her first article for the Colne Valley Guardian, a weekly newspaper which was published in the village of Slaithwaite, Yorkshire, where she lived.
She was always keen on writing as a hobby, thanks she said, to an excellent English teacher at Royds Hall Grammar School.
Whilst bringing up a family of five children she had little opportunity to pursue her interest, but kept jotting down little notes and happenings and special events in case they may be useful later on. She was also an avid reader, often reading as many as five novels a week, mainly thrillers. Enid was a regular user of Slaithwaite Public Library and eventually got a post there as a part-time librarian, a position she held for about 15 years.
She was invited to contribute a weekly column to a local newspaper. Working in the library she came into contact with hundreds of borrowers and often picked up little bits of gossip, as she did on her weekly trip to the hairdressers. In her effort to remain ‘incognito’ she decided to write under a pen name, and after a family summit meeting Kay Bennett was born.
Enid continued to write her weekly column until 1981 when she was knocked down when crossing the road on her way home from work at the library. It was touch and go for a while as she lay in a coma at Huddersfield Royal Infirmary having suffered amongst other things a fractured skull. Eventually she was allowed home but subsequent tests showed she had lost her sense of smell and taste, a bit upsetting when your other main hobbies are baking and cooking!
After some months she attempted to return to her writing but her powers of concentration and wicked sense of humour had deserted her and she decided to call it a day.
However, she regained her strength and for the next 20 years or so she spent most of her time helping to bring up twelve grandchildren, (which also restored her sense of humour) with each one holding a special place in her heart.
Enid sadly passed away on April 27th, 2004, and this book is printed as a tribute to a wonderful wife, mother, grandma and friend to many.
William Blackburn
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And here is Enid's first column.
In spring a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love. But what about the middle aged man? What are his thoughts turning to?
What’s all this muttering and mumbling on the street corners and in the fish and chip shops? About ‘thumb pegs’ and ‘funny marks.’ You’ve guessed it, the bowling bag brigade are coming out of hibernation once more.
Bad backs, which have kept sufferers confined to armchairs all winter, are cured like magic! The sprained wrist too weak to lift the coal bucket is now ‘in need of exercise, love.’
Husbands are fondly emptying the newly spring-cleaned cupboards in search of their ‘woods.’ The ones discarded last year as rubbish! Grown men are cooing like doves as they polish their oil-covered bowls with the wife’s best duster.
Weak, frail-bodied males, with hardly the strength to lift a pint to their lips are now preparing for battle with their opponents and the elements on the bowling greens of Yorkshire.
The long, the short and the corpulent are to be seen prancing prettily across the greens as they accompany their bowls into the gutter.
Faithful wives whose normal conversation with hubby is ‘wipe your feet!’ are now shouting kindly with tears in their eyes, ‘gerrum up lad!’
Tight-lipped women sit framing the greens, knitting needles clicking and the picnic bag bulging. If it rains each one, quick as a conjuror, transforms her mate into an Icelandic fisherman, with waterproof cap, leggings and jacket.
To the inexperienced viewer it may look a simple game of rolling bowls up and down the grass. But it takes years of practice.
First there is the delivery. One foot on the tiny mat, which is quite invisible to the more developed figure, knees bent, back foot raised, then hold this position so the other chap can’t follow ‘the road.’ It’s not easy.
Then the special walk across the green, one leg dragging or twisted behind the other. Some lean back as far as possible after delivering the wood in the hope it will slow its progress down, some perform something similar to a tango stamping the feet in the hope the wood will run further.
What an excellent team spirit there is amongst the lads! Eager volunteers are helping the greenkeeper whiten the boards and cutting and rolling the green while wives are wading through the back lawn searching for their washing!
It’s remarkable how they stick together on ‘away’ matches. ‘I couldn’t come home any sooner pet, we had to stop and support George, he was the last man on, you know.’
But at sunset when cricketers have downed their cocoa and said their prayers, dedicated bowlers can still be seen, supporting each other gallantly as they stagger under the floodlights of the more affluent clubs. Revealing such intimate confessions as ‘I like mine’ or ‘You’ve a good length, Joe.’
Did Sir Francis Drake realise what he had started when he kept the Spanish fleet waiting? I wonder.
