Arnold The Shed King

Arnold Armitage was the (retired) shed king of south-west Kirklees;
his empire consisted of a wedge-shaped piece of land bordered by the
M62, the main Sheffield to Huddersfield road and the bleak windy ridges
of the Pennines. He was a slightly dour man, blunt to the point of
offensiveness, but his customers could see the honesty in his broad
face; his eyes were direct and guileless, and he built good sheds. It
was said that Armitage sheds sold themselves; this was true, as Arnold
had never employed a salesman in his life. Nor would he hold any truck
with accepted sales techniques; he would not over-inflate his initial
price, nor be bargained down by a sharp householder:

"This is Marsden, not bloody Marrakesh," was the sort of gruff reply he
would give to those who sought to drive a keen bargain. But he would
offer a small discount to those who lived on major roads and were
prepared to place their new sheds firmly in the public gaze, for he
knew that during the storms bus passengers would look down on the
wrecks of competitors' sheds, and see sturdy buildings with the
trademark Armitage brass plaque above the lintel standing unscathed.
But eventually he decided to call it a day and took retirement, which
pleased his wife Maureen, who had feared that he would work himself
into an early grave.

"Early grave, eh?" he said with a straight face. "Better start makin'
my coffin out o' Armitage shed panels, then, they'll keep damn worms
out for years!"

Maureen loved to visit her three sisters; Ethel, the eldest, was
unmarried and the other two were widows and all welcomed company. But
the newly-retired Arnold did not make the best company, being ill at
ease in what he described as a "gabbing shop", and had mortally
offended Ethel on his most recent visit. Ethel was one of the last
bastions of a Liberal Methodism which still hung around in pockets like
morning mist on the Huddersfield Canal; she was convinced that her
home-made sarsaparilla was the very thing with which to slake the
raging thirsts of the few remaining mill workers, and had until
recently sold it on draught from a tiny kiosk in Slaithwaite until the
health inspectorate had begun to take an interest. Arnold had hung
around in Ethel's parlour listening to the latest news from the chapel
for half-an-hour before deciding:

"I'm off out for a jar; you ladies comin'?"

Ethel gave him a basilisk-like glare and began to lecture on the perils
of alcoholism, but by then he was out of the door and heading for the
High Street.

The other two sisters had moved away from their native West Yorkshire;
Audrey had retired to Llandudno whilst Beatrice's husband had recently
died and left her stranded in Walsall; both were too far to visit in a
day and in both cases Maureen took the train and stayed the best part
of a week. She was very anxious about leaving Arnold to his own devices
at home but he told her not to worry; there were plenty of pubs which
provided decent lunches and if he couldn't walk to the fish shop then
it was about time they had him bloody well put down. Maureen packed her
case and Arnold drove her to Huddersfield station.
She rang him every evening from Llandudno to ensure that he was eating
and sleeping well, and to check up on any other news. On the first
night, however, he had bad news to communicate; their cat, Ginger, had
been run over and killed.

"Anything happened, love?" she asked.

"Aye," Arnold replied, "cat's dead."

There was a gasp and a sob at the other end of the line, followed by a
sudden patter of feet as Maureen rushed for the toilet.

When Maureen returned home she gently remonstrated with Arnold for the
way in which he had broken the news of poor Ginger's demise.

"You could have caused me a heart attack!" she declared.

"What was I supposed to say, then?" replied Arnold, looking
bemused.

Maureen considered.
"Let's see, you knew I wasn't due home for another three days. You
could have said that Ginger had got stuck up a tree all night. Then,
when I rang home the second evening you could have told me that you'd
had to take him to the vet's and that he was quite ill. Then you could
have told me that he'd passed away on the third night; I'd have been
expecting it by then and it wouldn't have been such a shock to the
system."

Arnold looked very uncomfortable.

"I don't tell you lies, lass," he stated bluntly.

No you don't, thought Maureen, and that's one of the reasons I love
you&;#8230;

"It's not really lies, love; it's just delaying the truth until it's
ready to be received."

But she wasn't sure that Arnold was convinced.

Two weeks later Maureen was on her way to visit Beatrice in Walsall,
having restocked the freezer and cleared the washing and ironing
basket. On the first evening she followed her usual routine of ringing
Arnold to ascertain that everything was all right back home. This time
Arnold did not reply immediately, but commenced a most uncharacteristic
grunting and spluttering. Finally he managed to blurt out what he
needed to say.

"It's your sister Ethel, love &;#8230; She's been stuck up a tree
all night!"