Yorkshire Vignettes

1975 – Alan

'Now, Gillian, take care!' cried Alan as his daughter rushed past him. Her twelfth birthday today – where on earth did twelve years go so quickly? He was only allowed a moment to think because here she was again, taking his hand and dragging him towards the car, her long brown hair blowing about her face as the wind renewed its assault upon the heath.

'Come on, Dad! Uncle Ted can walk faster than you can.'

'Well, I'm not Uncle Ted,' he chuckled good-humouredly as he endeavoured to catch his breath. 'Besides, I'm sure that not even your Uncle Ted wouldn't be out of breath after running up and down the moors like we have.'

He had taken Gillian out in the car to see the moors as a treat; like her uncle, she loved the country and he couldn't remember seeing her happier than when she was outdoors. He'd never profess to be a bookish man but he did tell her a bit about the Brontë sisters and their dark tales about the moors although he suspected that half of the things he told her were completely wrong. It didn't matter; Gillian always loved listening to him regardless of all the nonsense he came up with.

Now it was getting dark and it was at least an hour's drive back home. Eileen hadn't joined them as she had a cold but she did promise to have dinner ready by the time they got back. They got into the car, Gillian sweeping away an errant lock of his hair – now ash-blond – which had blown across his forehead once she got into the seat next to him.

'Thanks, love,' he said.

Just like Gillian to take care of him without thinking of herself first. Harry often joked that it was his daughter who was the parent and not the other way round. Alan swore that he was no better or worse than the rest of the fathers in Yorkshire, even the rest of the country, but it seemed that soon as she could walk and talk, she had always looked out for him. 'You were always a modest bugger, Buttershaw,' Harry had once said. 'Wish my daughter looked after me half so well as your Gillian.'

'What do you think Mum's going to have ready for dinner?' asked Gillian.

'Reckon you're going to have some of your favourites tonight,' smiled Alan and he patted her affectionately on the back.

'Oh, like cottage pie…and ice cream…and chocolate?'

'Well, I hope not all at the same time. You're going to have a right awful stomach ache if you carry on like that.'

'Like the time you and Uncle Harry had all those pints down at the pub last year?'

'Now, now, that were different!' said Alan quickly and reddening a little. He had hoped that Gillian had forgotten about that. 'Harry and me were simply celebrating his sister's wedding.'

Come to think of it, how on earth had his then eleven-year-old daughter come to know of it? Racking his brains, he suddenly recalled that he had indeed had a pint too many. Alan Buttershaw was, like when he was sober, a kindly drunk. He'd seen liquor do awful things to some lads but when some became aggressive or sentimental, he became giddy like a schoolboy. He remembered waking up in bed the next morning with a terrible headache, having no recollection of what had happened the previous evening. It being a Sunday, Gillian had been at home and had no doubt Eileen had told her what had happened.

'C'mon, Dad. I were only teasing.' Gillian was laughing now and despite his embarrassment, Alan could not help joining in.

'Impish little lass,' he murmured and looked at his daughter fondly.

Sometimes when a spot of low spirits struck him – which happened very rarely, mind – he would think of Celia and whether they would have had a life together had she not moved to Sheffield. He wondered how he would have summoned up the courage to ask her to marry him; his sixteen-year-old self had taken months to decide to even ask her out.

What if she had said yes? His heart would always skip a little at this – it was amazing really that even after twenty-four years Celia still had this effect on him. Other women, even Eileen, had never affected him as much as she did. When it came to Celia, it was like having a pint too many: he became as giddy as a schoolboy.

If she had stayed, and if he had asked her and if she had said yes… Alan knew it was pointless to conjecture but the thoughts came to him nonetheless. Would the life they had be as happy as the one he was living now – perhaps even more so? Or would they have been at each other's throats with regret, misery and anger reigning over them and he shuddered at the possibility. It was unlikely, of course, knowing his character and what he knew of Celia's, but still it was a possibility.

The car slowed to a halt and Alan turned to Gillian. She had fallen asleep, probably worn out after all that running about the moors and he smiled. Pondering and wondering was all very well but if he hadn't married Eileen, this little lass would never have existed and a life without his Gillian was very hard to imagine indeed.

'C'mon, love,' he said, rousing her gently. 'We're home.'

'Took us long enough.'

He chuckled.

A/N: Apologies for the delay in updating; life and work (not to mention writer's block) got in the way! Hopefully the next chapters will come along more quickly.

And the colour of Alan's hair when he was younger has never been mentioned in the series but since Derek Jacobi's hair was a sort of ash-blond when he was in his forties, I've decided to incorporate that here.