Fellsman
12-08-2011, 02:14 PM
Matty Clutterbuck is not the kind of name most people might forget in a hurry, it has a distinctly working class resonance to it not unlike the Lancashire Entwhistles and Holleringshaws. Suffice to say, you are unlikely to come across this particular name in Debrett’s Peerage.
Be that as it may, at the age of 92, Matty Clutterbuck was Merlinthorpe’s oldest resident and was revered as a life member of the village golf club, as well as Vice-President of the local Amateur Operatic Society, where until well into his seventies, he had sung with distinction in the chorus for more than half a century, his pleasant baritone voice just lacking the finesse required for a more high profile role.
He attributed his longevity to regular exercise, a three mile walk every day whatever the weather, and to being a lifelong non-smoker whilst enjoying the benefits of a decent glass of claret most evenings.
Now, all this you may consider pretty unremarkable, Clutterbuck being innately modest by nature, was simply typical of those Englishmen whose approach to life was fashioned in a bygone age, and who worked all their lives until retirement, and who paid their dues, served on juries and generally went about their everyday business in the kind of understated way typical of those who were once the very backbone of the nation.
Of course, a potted pen portrait such as the above gives only the merest glimpse of a man like Clutterbuck. One day, I happened to espy him sitting on the veranda of the Club House overlooking the eighteenth green, were he spent many an hour watching golfers complete their rounds, and he always knew simply by their demeanour how well they had played.
I called out: “Good afternoon! Mr Clutterbuck, may I sit here beside you?” The oldest member gestured me to sit next to him. Matty declined my offer to buy him a drink – “at my age, I know how to pace myself” he smiled courteously.
We looked out over 18th hole where a quartet were completing their mixed doubles match in fading light, the scene was idyllic with the golf course looking quite it’s best, framed under a reddening sunset against a backdrop of distant hills, a sight to gladden any heart.
“Isn’t this quite unsurpassingly beautiful?” I ventured. Matty gave a sigh, “I may just have that drink after all,” he said. “Yes, it does look quite beautiful now, quite beautiful indeed.”
Then, without pause, his eyes – I swear, tinged with a wistfulness I’d never noticed before, he began this tale of his youth from between the two World Wars.
“Aye, lad, it’s a beautiful sunset, but it wasn’t always like this…
I was still in my teens, and had just started walking out with the prettiest girl I’d ever seen, her name was May-Ellen, one day we were walking maybe a third of the way between here and yonder hills, it was a lovely day, not unlike today, and we were hand-in-hand, listening to a skylark, taking in the scenery and talking ninety to the dozen, of course, those days were an age of innocence, it was really hard work persuading her to even let me have a kiss.
We did get a little off the beaten track, and eventually decided to make our way back home. I decided to try a shortcut, May-Ellen had promised her parents that she would be home by 5-o'clock, and we had started to lose track of time. The short cut proved to be anything but, the tangled undergrowth and profusion of bramble bushes made progress very slow, and at times a bit painful.”
At this point, the old man’s voice trembled, and a stray tear traced a path down his weather-beaten cheek, he continued – “I got a few yards ahead of May-Ellen, trying to kick some of the bramble thorns out of her way, some way ahead I could see that the terrain looked a little easier. On my left I passed what seemed a small crater, paying it scant attention. At this point I heard May-Ellen shout ‘Don’t get too far ahead, I need a short rest.’
‘Here,’ shouted May-Ellen, ‘there’s like an old tin trunk in here, I will use it for a seat and rest a minute, my legs are getting quite tired.’ The old man paused once more, it was some time before he was able to continue – and there was a look of such sadness on his face.
“I decided to make my way back to where May-Ellen was stopping to rest, I was some fifty yards away from her when there was a most terrible explosion, what May-Ellen had accidentally stumbled upon was a forgotten stockpile of old World War One munitions.
She had no idea that the small coconut shaped piece of metal she had picked up was a live hand grenade, or that the small sliver of metal which she pulled to one side was the detonator pin… There was a terrific bang and two or three smaller explosions.
I reached her moments later, her right arm was completely blown away and there was a gaping hole in her chest, her lifeblood was staining the ground crimson. She reached out to me with her left hand, she had the sweetest of smiles on her pretty face – ‘Matty’ she said, ‘That was some firework display, you may kiss me now – if you wish.’
I held her left hand very gently as she slipped away, and I did kiss her so tenderly on her forehead, not that she ever knew anything about that, she was dead by then, and yet that smile was still there… Still there…
When I sit here looking out across that 18th hole and into the distance, I can still see May-Ellen, seventy five years on, and I can tell you this, she still looks as beautiful as ever, and I can still hear her angelic voice, there she goes now, ‘Matty, that was some firework display…'
Be that as it may, at the age of 92, Matty Clutterbuck was Merlinthorpe’s oldest resident and was revered as a life member of the village golf club, as well as Vice-President of the local Amateur Operatic Society, where until well into his seventies, he had sung with distinction in the chorus for more than half a century, his pleasant baritone voice just lacking the finesse required for a more high profile role.
He attributed his longevity to regular exercise, a three mile walk every day whatever the weather, and to being a lifelong non-smoker whilst enjoying the benefits of a decent glass of claret most evenings.
Now, all this you may consider pretty unremarkable, Clutterbuck being innately modest by nature, was simply typical of those Englishmen whose approach to life was fashioned in a bygone age, and who worked all their lives until retirement, and who paid their dues, served on juries and generally went about their everyday business in the kind of understated way typical of those who were once the very backbone of the nation.
Of course, a potted pen portrait such as the above gives only the merest glimpse of a man like Clutterbuck. One day, I happened to espy him sitting on the veranda of the Club House overlooking the eighteenth green, were he spent many an hour watching golfers complete their rounds, and he always knew simply by their demeanour how well they had played.
I called out: “Good afternoon! Mr Clutterbuck, may I sit here beside you?” The oldest member gestured me to sit next to him. Matty declined my offer to buy him a drink – “at my age, I know how to pace myself” he smiled courteously.
We looked out over 18th hole where a quartet were completing their mixed doubles match in fading light, the scene was idyllic with the golf course looking quite it’s best, framed under a reddening sunset against a backdrop of distant hills, a sight to gladden any heart.
“Isn’t this quite unsurpassingly beautiful?” I ventured. Matty gave a sigh, “I may just have that drink after all,” he said. “Yes, it does look quite beautiful now, quite beautiful indeed.”
Then, without pause, his eyes – I swear, tinged with a wistfulness I’d never noticed before, he began this tale of his youth from between the two World Wars.
“Aye, lad, it’s a beautiful sunset, but it wasn’t always like this…
I was still in my teens, and had just started walking out with the prettiest girl I’d ever seen, her name was May-Ellen, one day we were walking maybe a third of the way between here and yonder hills, it was a lovely day, not unlike today, and we were hand-in-hand, listening to a skylark, taking in the scenery and talking ninety to the dozen, of course, those days were an age of innocence, it was really hard work persuading her to even let me have a kiss.
We did get a little off the beaten track, and eventually decided to make our way back home. I decided to try a shortcut, May-Ellen had promised her parents that she would be home by 5-o'clock, and we had started to lose track of time. The short cut proved to be anything but, the tangled undergrowth and profusion of bramble bushes made progress very slow, and at times a bit painful.”
At this point, the old man’s voice trembled, and a stray tear traced a path down his weather-beaten cheek, he continued – “I got a few yards ahead of May-Ellen, trying to kick some of the bramble thorns out of her way, some way ahead I could see that the terrain looked a little easier. On my left I passed what seemed a small crater, paying it scant attention. At this point I heard May-Ellen shout ‘Don’t get too far ahead, I need a short rest.’
‘Here,’ shouted May-Ellen, ‘there’s like an old tin trunk in here, I will use it for a seat and rest a minute, my legs are getting quite tired.’ The old man paused once more, it was some time before he was able to continue – and there was a look of such sadness on his face.
“I decided to make my way back to where May-Ellen was stopping to rest, I was some fifty yards away from her when there was a most terrible explosion, what May-Ellen had accidentally stumbled upon was a forgotten stockpile of old World War One munitions.
She had no idea that the small coconut shaped piece of metal she had picked up was a live hand grenade, or that the small sliver of metal which she pulled to one side was the detonator pin… There was a terrific bang and two or three smaller explosions.
I reached her moments later, her right arm was completely blown away and there was a gaping hole in her chest, her lifeblood was staining the ground crimson. She reached out to me with her left hand, she had the sweetest of smiles on her pretty face – ‘Matty’ she said, ‘That was some firework display, you may kiss me now – if you wish.’
I held her left hand very gently as she slipped away, and I did kiss her so tenderly on her forehead, not that she ever knew anything about that, she was dead by then, and yet that smile was still there… Still there…
When I sit here looking out across that 18th hole and into the distance, I can still see May-Ellen, seventy five years on, and I can tell you this, she still looks as beautiful as ever, and I can still hear her angelic voice, there she goes now, ‘Matty, that was some firework display…'