From Rags to Bitches: : Uncle Bill and Dago

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Each week we are serialising Vic Barlow's new book From Rags to Bitches on wilmslow.co.uk . Here is the third chapter. If you missed previous chapters these can be viewed by clicking on the 'From Rags to Bitches' tag below.

From Rags to Bitches

Chapter 4: Uncle Bill and Dago

I grew up in a small, but extremely entertaining family. Great Uncle Arthur was a chain-smoking Lancastrian whose only job throughout my entire childhood was night-watchman at an abandoned factory. Quite what he was 'watching' remains a mystery.
Arthur's main attribute appeared to be his ability to drain a pint mug of tea at one swig, which he did by slurping a small amount directly from a saucer to test both temperature and texture before upending the entire mug into his gullet.

This fascinated me especially as no member of the family ever noticed the massive stained crack slowly leaking hot tea down Uncle Arthur's vest.

I'm not sure how good Uncle Arthur was at 'watching' as the factory finally burned down overnight.

"Will you lose your job now?" I asked.

"Nah. I'll be all reet in my hut. Factory had now't of any value any road."

And so until the day he died Uncle Arthur spent his nights guarding a burned out abandoned factory of no value.

Aunty Anne, on the other hand, was beautiful. More than beautiful, in my eyes she was a movie star. The fact that she worked on a fruit and veg stall at Hyde Market was irrelevant. I adored her.

Anne was in the habit of turning up at school with some plausible reason for taking me home immediately. Once outside we'd hop on a bus to Belle Vue Zoo, picnic in the park or go to the pictures.

Her husband Bill was her Humphrey Bogart and the most colourful character of all. He had a wafer-thin moustache, some very natty suits and a penchant for making easy money. I'm not entirely sure what he did but he always had a large roll of bank notes in his pocket.

His abiding passion was racing pigeons on which he spent much of his time and most of his cash. Uncle Bill thought nothing of paying £2K for a brace of pigeons at a time when terraced houses could be had for £700.

Throughout the 1960's Bill Ferns was the man to beat in the pigeon-racing world until that fateful day his loft was raided. It was not the work of drunken idiots fooling around after a skinfull. This was deliberate theft of some of the finest racing pigeons in Europe.

Bill, always quick with a grin and a wisecrack, was unnervingly sullen.

"He's been like this all week," said Aunty Anne. "He's up to something but he won't say what it is."

Two days later Uncle Bill turned up with the biggest, loudest, maddest Alsatian I had ever seen.

"This is Dago, he announced hanging onto a chain more suitable for a rhinoceros.

'Where did you get him?" asked Aunty Anne hiding behind the half-open kitchen door.

"Never you mind where I got him it's what he's going to do that counts."

Anne looked nervous.... no... make that terrified.

Uncle Bill padlocked the chain to the leg of the pigeon loft and stepped into the kitchen.

"That dog's going keep the riff-raff away from my birds," said Uncle Bill puffing on an Al Capone style cigar.

Dago was effective at keeping people away, I'll give him that. From having a house-full of friends, relatives and neighbours Aunty Anne's house became a mausoleum. The milkman scuttled past like a frightened rabbit, mail was collected from the post office. Even Tommy Ticklemouse, who lived in Uncle Bill's shadow, stopped coming.

There were no more raids on the pigeon loft after Dago arrived. Aunty Anne no longer feared intruders... she feared Dago.

"He only wants to say hello," was Uncle Bill's unsympathetic response to any terrified visitor finding themselves pinned against the garden fence. If Bill was at home Dago was allowed inside the house where any sudden movement would send him crazy. This wasn't random snarling it was targeted at anyone stupid enough to move.

"Dago won't bite you unless you upset him," was Uncle Bill's way of reassuring nervous visitors, who subsequently found that smiling upset him and coughing sent him into a frenzy.

Everyone referred to Dago as 'that mad dog' but while Dago was fulfilling Uncle Bill's needs Bill wasn't fulfilling Dago's. He fed Dago on steak to make up for Dago's lack of exercise. I was too young to argue so kept my opinions to myself.

In any event Dago never left the small back yard ensuring he had minimum interaction with visitors. He completely chewed away the windowsill in the bedroom, where he was often confined when visitors called, and his frantic barking could be heard two streets away.

Alighting from the bus on my weekly visit to Aunty Anne I spotted Dago hurtling towards me howling like a werewolf dragging what appeared to be the remnants of an electric oven.

With the aid of a council workman, whose day had commenced with nothing more exciting than grid cleaning, I managed to untangle Dago's chain from the shattered oven and walk him home.

In stark contrast to his normal behaviour Dago was quiet and relaxed as we strolled along together. It was a complete transformation and it made me think.

"Uncle Bill tied him to the leg of the oven," said Aunty Anne by way of explanation. "I don't know what he'll say when he sees all this," she said pointing at the cables and plaster scattered over the kitchen floor.

"Don't worry, Aunty, I've got a plan that will make Dago a lot calmer."

"You do?"

"Yes, I do but I need you to persuade Uncle Bill to let me try it out."

Despite her anxiety Aunty Anne agreed and I turned up the following day with a length of rope and an old leather harness from my granddad's workshop.

"What are you planning to do with that, young 'un?" asked Uncle Bill.

"If you give me that old tyre out of your shed I'll show you, " I replied with more confidence than I felt.

Uncle Bill brought the car tyre then disappeared inside his loft to check his beloved pigeons convinced there was nothing to learn from a 12-year-old kid.

I used a knucklebone to distract Dago while I attached the harness. After several attempts I had the rope through the tyre and clipped to the harness.

Removing his chain I led Dago to the back gate and turned him loose in the adjoining field. He went berserk or would have were it not for the large tyre fastened to his harness.

I showed Dago my pocket full of biscuits which immediately took his attention and I strode off across the field. It was hard work for Dago to keep up with me while dragging a heavy tyre but when he did I gave him a biscuit.

Once Dago understood the game I ran away from him as fast as I could and fed him a treat every time he caught me up.

Within half-an-hour Dago was exhausted and we sauntered back home where I removed his harness. After a large bowl of cold water Dago lay on the kitchen floor and dozed.

Aunty Ann said she had never seen him so calm. Even Tommy Ticklemouse entered the house without fearing for his life.

(I'm not sure Aunty Anne appreciated that.)

I was just a kid with two paper rounds and didn't have the time to go to Uncle Bill's every day but I'd shown him the way. If he wanted a calmer dog Dago had to have constructive exercise.

Unconvinced Uncle Bill delegated the job to Tommy Ticklemouse who was often seen dragging behind Dago face down or having biscuits (and lining) ripped from his pockets.

Every dog has its day.

Photo: Beautiful Aunty Ann (and chubby me).

Tags:
From Rags to Bitches, Vic Barlow
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