Archibald Ward by Alfred Taylor

 

A door clicked open in the high white wall and a little man  stepped through. A sad-faced cocker spaniel followed him The little man had a russet-apple face, and bright blue eyes which twinkled merrily. He snapped his fingers at the dog and the pair walked smartly, proudly, with an air of some authority, along the narrow street of Markington. They disappeared into a tiny cottage by the post office-cum-general store. A moment passed. I followed them. The dog was curled up on a chair, already half asleep. He groaned, his melancholy eyes resentful. The little man said: "All right, Mick, lie down," and in the same breath, speaking now to me; "What can I do for you”?   

He had carried a gun as he walked down the street. It was lying against the wall. There was an empty game bag hanging from his shoulders; cartridges scattered on the table: another gun behind the kitchen door. A pan of something with an appetising smell was bubbling on the hob. 

The little man wore stiff brown leggings and his boots were caked with mire and wet with trampling through the undergrowth. A comfortable old tweed jacket, a stiff white collar and black tie and an oId cloth cap which sprouted wisps of strong grey hair completed his attire. 

The name of the little man is Mr. Archibald Ward. Most people know him within a radius of 30 miles of Markington. All and sundry call him Archie - from the nine to the ninety-year-olds; from the humblest cottager in the village to the master of Markington Hall. If there is a decision to be made in Markington, Archie has make it. If advice is required on any matter, Archie's advice is sought. If you want know how handle a horse, milk a cow, shear a sheep, shoot a pheasant, start a partridge, bolt a rabbit, train a dog, dance the ‘Scottische’, Archibald Ward is at your service - if you live in Markington

He leads busy life. He has eight acres of land on which he runs a few cattle and sheep and he is gamekeeper to the Wilberforce family of Markington Hall. He has handled guns since he was a boy and is what you might call a crack shot. His age is something of a mystery, although he admits to being "nigh on 70”. He has been M.C. at the village dances for over 40 years and says: "I can dance to-day as well as ever I could." 

The people of Markington agree, so when It was decided two years ago to run dancing classes in the village, Archie was asked to take charge. Since then he instructed most of the youth of the village in the intricacies of old-time dancing, and although no boaster says quite frankly: "They don't do bad . We've had some rare good do's”. 

He is one four brothers who were known locally as "the cricketing Wards." This year Markington cricket club presented him with a pipe, tobacco and cigars, in recognition of over 40 years' service on the committee and more than 50 years with the club. 

The cricket ground, known as the Westerns, is nearly a mile out of Markington. Recently the Wilberforce family have made the club an offer of a field in the centre of the village. But tradition dies hard in the country. What was must always be.  

There is some heartburning at the thought of closing the ancient ground. But when all has been said that can be said it will probably be Archie who has to decide. 

The Wilberforces of Markington are descendants of William Wilberforce who championed the cause of the slaves. “They used to have a coat of William Wilberforce’s at the Hall." said Archie, peering into the mysterious recesses of his simmering pot. “The one he wore in Parliament. I've heard my mother speak of being allowed to try it on. It's in Hull Museum now". 

Archie lives alone these days in his little cottage in the narrow single street of the tiny picturesque old hamlet. Mrs Ward is dead. Her grandfather was the first postmaster of Markington, and his son, Mr. G. P. Parkin, was a former Mayor of Ripon. 

There is a corn mill the village still run by water wheel, and two public houses. Buses run to Harrogate, but only once or twice week. The Ripon-Harrogate Road is rather more than a mile away .

There used to be a feast at Markington; Fun fair, racing, games and dancing in the public houses; but that has long been dead. 

“I’ve seen more beer floating on the floor at Markington Feast than they sell in a week at the pub these days”, said Archie, his blue eyes dancing at the recollection.

"And I've seen three fights going on together in one pub. I tell you, lad, we had some rare good do's. You don't know nothing nowadays."