***chapter 36***

***The Mystery of Little Cowboy Jimmy***

Tommy Jackson had never quite lost his schoolboy habit of chewing on pencils when deep in thought. Biros became a big no-no when, at the age of twelve, he almost swallowed a biro top while working on a knotty arithmetic question. Fountain pens, thanks to the manufacturers' inconsideration of providing an ink-filling lever for the user's convenience, often inconveniently pinched his lips or even broke altogether. Gel pens were an acquired taste that he never acquired. Oh, but pencils! Just perfect for getting one's teeth into, so to speak. When he walked through the school gates for the very last time and set foot in the big wide world, he left behind his initials carved on the inside of a desk lid, an incomplete painting of a world cup football match, and, should such an interesting archaeologist ever come to exist, a pencil specialist archaeologist's dream find of several well-chewed pencils.

Two years on, now seventeen, after drifting from job to job, and finding no interest or satisfaction in any of them, he was junior clerk in Whistledown Church's cold, draughty cemetery office. Where at that moment he leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head, chewing thoughtfully on a pencil and mulling over his dentist's warning that all his pencil chewing was wearing down his teeth.

It was a bright, breezy day, warm where the sun stole kisses in moments when the breeze paused to draw breath, and Tommy was taking advantage of the rare circumstance of being left alone in the office (Mr Semple and Mr Fergus both being out on business) by watching the silver clouds scudding over the seventeenth-century graveyard. Despite his mates' teasing, his parents' surprise, his sister Donna's hoots of laughter and his girlfriend Sophie's shudder when he told them of his latest employment, young Mr Jackson was not at all spooked about working in a cemetery office. A job was a job, a wage was a wage and the dead were dead, he reasoned. Besides it was hard to feel spooked when the brightly-coloured Yorkshire sightseeing bus pulled up outside twice a week, and eager tourists spilled out to spend half an hour taking photographs or making videos of the quaint church with its fascinating gargoyles and ornately carved pews, and to pause at the seventeenth century grave of Sir Richard Maddocks on which was carved the Maddocks family crest of horse, lion and eagle enclosed in a shield and the motto vires per licentia (strength through freedom). Some wanted to know more about the Follyfoot Farm that Sir Richard "was founder of", but, hailing from Ashtree, a small Yorkshire town several miles away, and having only worked there for three weeks, all that Tommy could tell them was that it was a home of rest for unwanted or retired horses and (which never failed to impress) had been built by the famous architect William Drumgold who also helped construct Buckingham Palace.

He kept to himself the additional fact that at Follyfoot Farm dwelt too Dora, a very pretty maiden with a toffee-nosed accent and a charming predilection for using Yorkshire colloquialisms, and who set his pulse racing whenever he glimpsed her out riding or shopping. But, having learnt who she was from the village baker (who observed the youth's smitten look as fair maiden purchased a loaf while amusedly relating the tale of how someone with the peculiar name of Slugger had burnt every single slice of the previous) and the baker, being an incurable romantic and keen to match-make, volunteering the information as she left) thought her so beautiful he was too tongue-tied to talk to her. Which news filtering through to Sophie, via a mutual friend he was fool enough to confide in, had been the cause of their blazing row and Sophie storming off. She had further thoughtfully shown great solidarity in his apparently being struck dumb by refusing to speak to him since.

With a deep sigh, Tommy had begun to chew on the pencil once more when the church bells chimed the hour, reminding him he'd done no work whatsoever since Mr Semple left the office at one o'clock and Mr Fergus at 2.15. He moved some paperwork around so that it looked as though he had, replaced the pencil he'd taken out of his mouth during the exertion, and leaning forward as a relaxing alternative to leaning backwards, rested his elbows on the desk, his chin in his fists, and contemplated the view.

And, as always, a certain grave, more recent than most, captured his gaze and made him frown in puzzlement. It was situated in a secluded spot near the old church wall, sheltered from the strong whistling winds that blow down from the moors and the wild thunderstorms that tear fiercely over this part of the country, by a large yew tree that bent its head like a tender guardian, and only creaked and sighed gently when the wind gathered all its strength or the rain lashed its branches, as if it were a stately old lady only slightly bothered by the antics of mischievous children. This was the last resting place of one James (Jimmy) Turner upon whose headstone was written the baffling epitaph "Little Cowboy Jimmy. For many years groom, chauffeur and beloved friend to Lord Arthur and Lady Prudence Maddocks. Our hearts were broken forever the day you left us." Carved on top of the stone, a later addition by a sculptor specially commissioned by the Maddocks, were the small statues of two black horses. (This had caused great controversy with Yorkshire council at the time as being "contrary to guidelines for headstones", but, as one newspaper wit, thoroughly enjoying him or herself with the story, wrote, "Lord and Lady Maddocks rode rough-shod over the protests and galloped away into the sunset. Or, rather, caught the evening flight to Brazil.".)

Directly opposite the grave was a memorial bench, the plaque of which was inscribed with "In Loving Memory of Jimmy Turner (Little Cowboy Jimmy) March 1900-December 1962. A dear friend, greatly missed." (The council, it seemed, did not raise any objections to the two black horses that illustrated the wording.) This bench, too, had been paid for by the Maddocks and every week, as requested, the cemetery officials placed fresh flowers on the late Mr Turner's grave, the weekly invoice being forwarded to their London office where, as both Prudence and Arthur were usually in Brazil, one of their administrative staff passed it for payment. (Tommy knew all this because he could apply himself when he wished to and his curiosity had led him to peruse the office records.)

Now none of this would have been surprising except, like everybody who had ever read a newspaper or switched on a radio or TV, the teenager knew a little about Lord and Lady Maddocks. He knew they were something to do with international politics (though he took scant interest in politics) and he saw their photographs gracing the gossip pages, Lord Arthur talking with the young Prince Charles or Lady Prudence at a high society wedding or both attending some charity ball (though he skimmed over their photographs in his haste to get to the sports reports). But what he did know for certain was that they were filthy rich and infamous for looking down their noses at those lower down the social scale. There was even a Yorkshire slang word, pruarty, meaning snobbish. He clearly recollected his late grandmother telling him the word originated from an old saying "as snobby as Pru and Art" and referred to Lord and Lady Maddocks. So how had a lowly groom/chauffeur become their great friend and why was he called Little Cowboy Jimmy? And what had they to do with Yorkshire anyway? Nobody he asked seemed to know though one or two elderly residents said the Maddocks had lived briefly at Follyfoot in the 1930s.

Of course he had asked Mr Semple and Mr Fergus, but they were very busy people (even more so now that they often found themselves doing the work of the office junior) and, likeable though Tommy was, they yearned nostalgically for the previous junior, who'd returned to her college for the new term. Check out Tockwith Library, they advised, as they hurried here and there, or wrote copious reports or put stamps on letters or filed away documents. In fact, it would be extremely helpful to them if he did, Mr Semple added, as, Whistledown Cemetery Office's upgrading to Tourist Information Office due to the ever-increasing number of tourists to the surrounding Yorkshire villages, had greatly increased their workload, and was the reason they'd hired a junior clerk in the first place. The sarcasm sailed blissfully over the junior clerk's head. He dipped another biscuit in his tea and grimaced at the very idea of all the work involved in checking out Tockwith library.

And, chewing over these thoughts, Tommy, who did not believe in ghosts, suddenly bit down on the pencil so hard that he broke two teeth and, to his dentist's delight and our pencil specialist archaeologist's (should he or she ever come to exist) disappointment, was cured of chewing on pencils for all time.

The little white cemetery gate had suddenly creaked open and an enormous bouquet of colourful flowers had sprouted legs and taken it into their heads to wander into the churchyard…