THE KATES HILL PRESS, DUDLEY, ENGLAND

STORY OF THE WEEK, #6. AUTHOR; GREG STOKES

From the collection The Gulf. For more details click here.

NO AGE IN HIM

There were lots of isms before ageism joined the ranks of forms of oppression. There was sexism and racism, people facing oppression on the grounds of their gender or the colour of their skin. Then there was ageism, people facing oppression on the grounds of their age. Old people - people who are elderly being discriminated against by people who are not so elderly. Then there was disablism - people with disabilities facing oppression on the basis of their disability. And homophobia. That it is not homoism is, well.... you make your mind up. And if you said queer, may the great PC God herself send bolts of lightening in your general direction. In your specific direction actually because why should any of the rest of us suffer just because you are a mindless bigot.

Another odd thing about the PC isms of the 80s and 90s is that they denote against-ness. The sexist is against women, the racist against blacks etc. Yet, the great isms of the 60s and 70s denoted being for something. The communist was for a certain political system. The fascist was for a bundle of sticks tied up together, and a certain political system.

The other odd thing is that, culturally, in the Black Country, ageism had been around long before the negatively framed isms surfaced, and it was not young against old, it was the other way round. There was, particularly among the men, a mysterious age which had to be attained, before which ones opinion was not worth a jot, hill of beans, tinker’s cuss, or any other saying one wishes to employ to denote nothing.

Expounding anything below this age was not worth the candle because it would be met by the glorious put down, “there’s no bloody age in him,” usually accompanied by a tut, a heavenwards glance, or some other dismissive gesture. Even at the age of 40, I am not sure whether I have sufficient age in my tank for my opinions to be culturally viable....

Ken put his pen down. The flow stopped for the moment. He took a sip of coffee and was instantly glad it was only a sip. Cold. He screwed his face and swallowed, nothing worse than cold coffee. He must have been writing longer than he thought for the coffee to go cold. The next thought was more alarming. Brian and Dee were coming down at the weekend. He had said he would ring on Thursday evening as the last time they had come to the Black Country he had lived in another corner of it. It was now 10.30 p.m. Too late to ring in the normal run of events, but there would be no way of making contact on the morrow, he would be out of the office all day.

He was about to err on the side of being a nuisance when the phone rang. Problem solved. It was Brian. Getting from Manchester to the west midlands wasn’t the problem. It was how to get to Ken’s on Kates Hill from the motorway network that might prove difficult.

In fact it was simple. M6 onto M5. Get off the M5 at junction 2 then come along the new road towards Dudley. Follow the new road for a few miles. Turn left onto Kates Hill just before Burnt Tree island which will be the first one you come to from the motorway.

Brian said he understood. M5 junction 2. New Road to Dudley. The new road seemed to be the key.

Built in 1927, one of the first dual tracks in the country, the only dual track in the Black Country for many a year, it certainly was the key. And despite its age, it was still “the new road” to generations of locals.

Brian had given Ken an E.T.A. of around seven thirty. Dee was a teacher and able to pick him up straight out of work at five. Manchester rush hour apart, it was a conservative estimate. The Manchester rush hour hadn’t proved much of a barrier and they were pleased with their time, six thirty a full ten minutes off and the M54 sign flashing by on the left.

Half a mile on and they came to a standstill. Ken had once told Brian of the daily road report that it was heavy on the M6 southbound from junction 10A to junction 8, Ray Hall. In other words the M54 down to the M5 turn off. Apparently some character on one of the local radio stations would always say “so you can add twenty minutes onto your journey if you’re on the M6 southbound.” Ken was looking for the person who travelled the M6 south with an E.T.A. based on a clear road.

Friday was always heavy. 10A to 8 was always heavy, but a pile up on the M5 had tailed back and made a slow creep into an inch by inch crawl.

Forty minutes on and the executive decision had been reached to leave the motorway at the next junction, junction 10. It was another half an hour before the manoeuvre was executed.

At junction 10 they reasoned that if they hung a right, they would be heading in the general direction of Dudley.

Dee spotted the brick wall in the middle of which had been emblazoned “The Black Country Route”. Dee was quite excited. It wasn’t on their map book, which was a few years old, but it jogged something in her memory.

“This is it. This is the new road. Kinnock opened it last summer. I remember seeing it on the news. It joins the M6 to the M5. We’ve just got on it at the other end.”

Secure in the knowledge of what sounded like sound reasoning, Ken settled back. 7.30 wouldn’t be too far off the mark even if it was now a few minutes in the past. He was speeding along a traffic free dual track towards Dudley and he was on the right road.

At the big roundabout in Bilston Ken did a full orbit before heading back towards Walsall. At the other island about a quarter of a mile on he again did an about turn. If the big island was Burnt Tree, then because he was going the wrong way down the new road, the turning onto the estate must be beyond the island.

Ken quickly surmised that he was not on a council estate as he entered the car park of Morrison’s Supermarket. Best ask.

Ken wasn’t to know that being 5 miles off the mark from Burnt Tree and Kates Hill would probably have rendered blank looks to the faces of anyone he asked for directions there. Ken didn’t know he was 5 miles off. He was within an ace, and besides, the new road was the key.

It was a young man who came to the car window, late teens, early twenties, the first bloom of youth on his face. The new road was the key.

“This is the new road isn’t it?” Ken asked, gesturing towards the highway he had just left.

“No,” the young man said authoritatively. “That’s the route.”

“The what?” Brian asked, trying to hide the hint of accusation.

“The route. The Black Country Route.”

“It’s the one they call the new road?” Brian quizzed, feeling he had got a grip on the situation.

“It’s new, ar, but it ay the new road.”

Brian nodded when the young man asked him if it was the new road he wanted.

“The new road is back the way yo’ve come. Turn right at the one two three fourth.... no, might be third...” By now a little crowd of helpful souls had gathered and an old woman chipped in “follow the signs for West Bromwich.”

Brian did as he was told - headed back the way he had come and turned right at a big roundabout towards West Bromwich.

Just as he picked up speed on the new road, Dee piped up “We should have asked that young man which island was Burnt Tree.”

Brian gave Dee a yes-we-should-have look but Dee’s next sentence was something of a trump card.

“No, this is definately the new road, I remember it now, it was on the news. Only a couple of weeks back. Heseltine came up and opened this one. It links the M5 with the M6. There was a big bean feast. Some people cut a jib about it. The road was going to be called the Black Country Spine Road but they decided to hold a competition among local schools to give it a name the planners hadn’t thought of and the school kids came up with the new road.”

Dee’s accuracy in repeating news reports from even the dim and distant past was beyond doubt. Brian now held the firm belief that they were on the right road.

About a mile along he mused “the new road eh. And they wonder why the rest of the country think west midlanders are thick.”

“Or just practical,” Dee countered. “And if you look,” she added, “all the islands are named.

“No problem then,” Brian enthused. “Look out for Burnt Tree.”

“I have been. They were on that route road as well. West midlanders, thick or what?”

They finally came to an island with no name where you could get on the M5. They must have missed Burnt Tree they concluded, but here was an even better fix on Ken’s instructions. From the junction of the M5 they could follow the new road back to Burnt Tree and turn off accordingly. Unfortunately for them it was junction one not two they were starting from.

It was about 8.30 when they pulled up outside a pub in West Bromwich High Street.

Dee invoked the first law of Ken’s common sense. If lost, park up, get in a pub, and phone.

Ken was with them by nine. Brian was shaking his head ruefully. “Those bloody directions you gave. We’ve been all over the Black Country.”

Dee explained as best she could the trip from the M6.

Ken was quickly able to surmise that they had taken the Black Country Route and then been put, on advice, onto the Black Country Spine Road which he conceded had been renamed the New Road, not that anybody called it that.

“Who did you ask?” he accused, seeking to divert attention.

“A young lad.” Dee responded. Ken was dismissive.

“No bloody age in him. Everybody knows the new road is the Birmingham New Road.”

“The New Road is not the new road then?” Brian asked, seeking enlightenment.

“Course it ay the new road,” Ken said. “It’s only just been bloody built.”

An old boy across the bar had overheard and said aloud, “He’s right, ar.”

Dee spotted it without realising the significance. Ken had just reached that point in life where he had some age in him.

Greg Stokes

HOME