Amos And The Cube - Part 3

Amos stirred his cocoa and sighed. “Well, to be honest with you, Mr Wilks, I’m not that ’appy about Seth Armstrong representin’ Woolpack at the Rubik’s Cube Contest. It’s been nigglin’ away at me all evenin’. I don’t trust ’im. But what other choice ‘ave I got?”

“Don’t trust him?” Henry never usually had a pipe before bed, they laid heavy on the chest, but now he was contemplating one. This Cube business was really getting to him. Amos’ happy mood of earlier that day had been evaporating since the start of the evening session. And now the reason: he didn’t trust Seth. So, what was new?

“I can’t say why…” said Amos. “I mean, I saw ’im do the Cube more n’ once this afternoon, Walter did an’ all… but I can’t help thinkin’ he’s somethin’ up his sleeve to make Woolpack a laughin’ stock. Either that or he’ll use it against me and be forever tryin’ to cadge free ale…”

There was a sudden tapping at the front door.

“Who can that be, this time of night?” Henry raised his eyebrows and looked at the clock, which showed 11.45pm.

Frowning, Amos went to answer. “Who is it?” he called, on reaching the door.

“It’s Mrs Armstrong - Meg!” came the reply.

Amos unbolted and unchained the door and opened it to admit Meg. “I’ve been to bed and got up again,” she said. “Mr Brearly, Seth’s not still here, is he?”

Amos was outraged. “Of course he isn’t! We close at closing time on the dot, you should know that, Mrs Armstrong!”

“Nay, I wasn’t implying owt,” Meg looked distracted with anxiety. “It’s just that Seth hasn’t come home… he’s not usually this late… I thought he might be practisin’ that Cube thingy ’ere or summat…”

Henry had appeared behind Amos: “John Tuplin was in earlier, wettin’ the baby’s head,. You know Maureen’s just had a little girl,” he said. “Seth were drinkin’ with him. Mary’s still in hospital, so perhaps Seth’s gone back to John’s for a couple?”

Meg seized on that. “Aye, that’ll be it! I’ll nip over to John’s.”

“Hold on a minute, I’ll come with you,” said Henry. “I’ll just fetch my jacket.”

For his part, Amos was silent, staring into space. He had this terrible feeling, a feeling he couldn’t possibly justify or give voice to, that Seth had disappeared on purpose and that he wouldn’t turn up until after the day of the Cube Contest, with some daft excuse. Nay, it didn’t make sense… but any concern Amos felt for Seth’s safety was far outweighed by the feeling that Seth was doing whatever he was doing to get at him!

Henry emerged from the living quarters, shrugging on his jacket. Meg was gripped by a momentary fear: “What if he’s not there?!”

“Now, Meg, we’ll cross that bridge if we come to it - and I don’t believe we will,” said Henry, reassuringly.

But he didn’t feel as sure as he sounded. He’d seen John Tuplin with a couple of the NY lads, and they’d bought a few cans to take to John's with them to continue wetting the baby’s head before they left. But he was sure Seth had still been in the bar after they’d gone.

Where on earth was he?

“Shaddupa your face!” and then blackness. A blackness that smelt of soil and damp, and was rough against Seth’s face. It felt as though somebody had just jammed an old potato sack over his head… but surely that wasn’t possible?

Why would anybody do that?

“Struggle an’ I’ll clock yer one!” hissed a voice very close at hand. Seth decided it was probably wise to take heed. He felt himself being lifted off his feet and then put down on something hard. And then something that felt slightly chill against his hands being placed over him.

Seth felt a moment of panic - with the sack on his head and this all enveloping second covering was he going to suffocate? He moved to struggle free, but suddenly the whole world seemed to lurch, tilt and vibrate and a loud trundling sound began…

“Keep still!” hissed the voice. “Or it’ll be the worst for you. You’ll not be under there long!”

The trundling sensation, linked to several prominent bumps and the alcohol swirling around in Seth’s stomach, made him pray that his tormentor spoke the truth.

Bump! Trundle, trundle. Bump! Trundle… would the nightmare never end? Seth gripped his stomach, swallowed hard and groaned.

Bump!

The world tilted, and then Seth’s all-enveloping covering was being removed and strong hands and arms were hauling him upright.

Glad to have his feet on solid ground again, Seth felt the waves of nausea that had threatened to engulf him subside.

The strong hands were gripping his shoulders, propelling him along. “This way!”

Suddenly Seth heard a second voice, a whispered voice, a voice that sounded vaguely familiar: “What the ’ell do you think you’re doin’?”

“Well, you didn’t think he’d ’ave come of his own accord, did yer? I kidnapped ’im, stuck a sack on ’is ’ead, stuck ’im in me ’and cart and covered him wi’t tarpaulin. Best way to get ’im ’ere! ’E’s come to no ’arm!”

“I should ’ope not - kidnappin’s a criminal offence!”

Something clicked and Seth recognised the voice. “Aye, it is, Ernie Shuttleworth! An Englishman’s entitled to walk round his own neighbourhood wi’out ’avin’ sacks stuck on ’is ’ead! There’ll be trouble over this - I shall see Sergeant MacArthur!”

There was an uneasy silence. Then Seth felt hands pulling at the sacking which covered his head. He blinked and lurched slightly as Ernie Shuttleworth suddenly appeared before him. Bernie Slater lurked in the background. They were in a whitewashed brick room, lit by a single, naked electric light bulb, with some old beer crates in the corner and a picnic table and a couple of chairs in the middle. It was one of the outbuildings at the back of the Malt Shovel, Seth guessed.

Ernie held his head high. “You’ll ’ave to prove it first, Seth Armstrong! I’m a respected local figure. If you think Sergeant MacArthur’ll take your word over mine… I’m admittin’ nowt.”

“Respected local figure, you?” Seth sneered. “We’ll see about this first thing in’t morning’, Ernie Shuttleworth. Now, I’m off ’ome!”

“Not so fast!” said Ernie and Bernie loomed threateningly. “Don’t you want to know why we brought you ’ere?“

“I couldn’t care less. It’s time all respectable folk were in bed, asleep. Meg’ll be wonderin’… Seth started for the door, but Bernie got in front of him.

And grinned.

“There’s just a little something we want you to do before you leave us, Seth. Just a little something!” said Ernie.

“Oh aye, wass that?” Seth was suspicious.

“This!” Ernie drew a scrambled Rubik’s Cube from his pocket. “Just solve this Cube for us, Seth - like you’re goin’ to do at the Contest day after tomorrow. Just do that for us and you can be on your way. We’ll sit by nice and close and observe…”

Seth gulped. “But I’m too tired, Ernie, far too tired. It’s been a long day.”

“But we’ve got all night,” said Ernie.

Meg and Henry made their way back up Main Street from John Tuplin’s cottage. The flush-faced, happy young father had had nothing to tell them He’d last seen Seth in the Woolpack earlier that evening.

“He’s not likely to have slipped off somewhere else, is he?” asked Henry.

Meg frowned. “It’s most unlike him, Mr Wilks. If he is late back it’s usually because somebody’s taken some cans of ale ’ome and invited ’im along.”

“Well, we’ll see if there’s any news when we get back to the Woolpack,” said Henry.

Meg looked more anxious than ever. “Don’t worry, Meg,” said Henry kindly. “I’m sure he’ll turn up. You know Seth!”

And sure enough he did turn up. As Meg and Henry neared the Woolpack, Seth appeared, rounding the corner from Station Road.

“Seth Armstrong! Where on earth have you been?!” Meg didn’t know whether to embrace him or hit him.

Seth was looking a little pale and uneasy. “Up Bickle Spinney, woman, checkin’ me traps! It’s a busy time of year tha knows!”

“Well, as long as I don’t find any more crows hanging in my kitchen!” said Meg. “It’s not like you to be off up there this late!”

“We’ve got a fox ’angin’ about!” said Seth. “Now, let’s be gettin’ ’ome!”

“You’re lookin’ a bit pale, poppet,” said Meg. “Come on then, I’ll make you some Horlicks.” She turned to Henry. “All’s well that end’s well, Mr Wilks. Thank you for your assistance!”

“Any time, Meg!” Henry smiled to himself as the pair crossed the road and made off in the direction of Demdyke Row, Meg chattering away ten-to-the-dozen, suddenly as happy as could be. What was that she’d said - crows hanging in the kitchen?!

Henry shook his head and let himself into the Woolpack, to find Amos anxiously awaiting him. “Well, Mr Wilks?”

“Panic over, Amos,” soothed Henry. “He’s turned up safe and sound, just been doin’ his rounds up Bickle Spinney. Now, I suggest we turn in for the night - it’s well after midnight!”

“Aye, right, Mr Wilks,” Amos heaved a sigh of relief. But he still felt more than a twinge of unease. This was what came of having dealings with Seth Armstrong. The sooner the Contest was over, the better!

Seth made his way slowly to the Woolpack at lunchtime. He was not a happy man. His Cube plan had been simple: a simple sleight of hand to convince Amos and other watchers that he could “do” the Cube. He’d practised and practised.

His method worked something like this: a solved Cube was concealed up his left jacket sleeve, securely wedged under the sleeve of the cardigan he wore beneath it. On display in his hands was a scrambled Cube.

Seth, always known for his deftness and turn of speed, had perfected the method of twisting a Cube so fast it appeared to blur. His plan for the Woolpack/Maltshovel Contest involved twisting the Cube like a man possessed for a minute or so, then turning slightly to one side momentarily, as though the Cube was a little stiff and he was having to strain at it. During that brief moment, he would stick his right hand up his left sleeve and pluck out the solved Cube, whilst jamming the scrambled Cube up his right sleeve.

Then, he would half twist the solved Cube one way, twist it back, and present it to his audience - voila!

Seth looked forward to lots of free ale as the congratulations poured in, and to having Amos beholden to him for the foreseeable future.

Seth didn’t envisage failure, but if by any chance some eagle eyed watcher at the Contest spotted his trickery, it wouldn’t really matter. Amos would be ridiculed for being taken in by Seth, and Seth could always transfer his custom to the Malt Shovel for a while. Ernie Shuttleworth would be right chuffed with him for making Amos look a fool.

Whatever way things turned out, Seth hoped to get some free ale.

Sadly, in giving a test demonstration to Jock McDonald a few days before up at Stony Wood, Seth had got into a bit of a tangle, and the completed Cube had fallen out of his sleeve and onto the ground.

“I’m doin’ it for Amos, yer see and for’t honour o’t Woolpack,” Seth had said, thinking quickly. “You know ’ow ’ard ’e’s tekkin’ not ’avin’ a Cubist for’t contest wi’t Malt Shovel…”

Jock was not convinced that Seth was acting solely out of concern for Amos. But he didn’t care. So long as Seth sent a few free pints his way when the Contest was over, he wouldn't say anything.

Amos, of course, had been quite taken in by Seth’s Cube solving demonstrations the day before.

And now the plan was ruined.

Jock McDonald was well known for having a mouth like a window’s cleaner bucket. He’d loudly and drunkenly told the tale of Seth’s duplicity to John Tuplin and a few of the other NY lads as they’d walked round to John’s house to continue their boozy revels off licenced premises last night.

And, at the same time, Bernie Slater had been out walking Branston, his mongrel bitch.

He’d heard everything and taken the tali straight to Ernie Shuttleworth, who had urged him to fetch Seth and bring him to the Malt Shovel immediately.

Still, it could have been worse. Ernie Shuttleworth had been quite generous: if Seth didn’t go around spreading stories about the “kidnapping”, Ernie wouldn’t reveal Seth’s sleight of hand antics with the Cube. All Seth had to do was to tell Amos that he’d hurt his hand and couldn’t take part in the Contest.

Seth walked into the bar to find Amos polishing a glass and chatting to Joe Sugden. Dolly Skilbeck and Pat Merrick were also at the bar, deep in conversation. Pat looked more careworn than ever. Her hands restlessly fiddled with one of Amos’ many Rubik’s Cubes which were cluttering up the bar top.

Seth wondered how things were going between her and Jack Sugden. There was much talk in the village.

“What can I get you?” said Amos, spying Seth and attempting a warm smile which, try as it might, looked more like a grimace.

Seth cleared his throat and held his hand up to reveal that his wrist was swathed in an old, grey bandage: “Amos, I’m sorry to let you down but I can’t be in’t Cube Contest. I ’ad a bit of a fall up at Bickle Spinney last night and I’ve sprained me wrist.”

“That’s it then, Mr Wilks,” Amos sighed a little later. “There’s nowt for it but for me to tell Ernie Shuttleworth Contest’s off.”

“Perhaps you can just postpone it?” Henry suggested.

“I did suggest that to Seth Armstrong, but he reckoned his wrist’ll be a long time mendin’,” said Amos.

“It’s funny he didn’t say anything about it last night when Meg and I met him,” Henry puzzled. “Still, he did look a little pale…”

“I’ll have to phone Ernie Shuttleworth…” Amos’ eyes bulged with horror. “And call it all off…”

“Do it now, Amos - get it out o’t way,” Henry suggested.

“I’ll do it at end o’t session,” said Amos.

“Well, I’m off up to Emmerdale,” Henry headed for the living quarters. “Phone me there when you’ve done it! The sooner you put this business to bed the better. And Amos - clear all those Cubes from’t bar - there’s no point remindin’ yourself of what’s ’appened.”

And Henry left, heading for a nice spot of dinner and a welcome dollop of sanity up at Emmerdale.

After the lunchtime session, Amos walked sadly into the deserted bar and gazed around him. Mr Wilks was right: his latest obsession had left its mark. The bar was littered with Rubik’s Cubes and Cube solving books and magazines. He’d scattered them around to encourage customers to experiment with the Cube. He’d hoped they’d read the accompanying material and that an unsuspected champion Cubist, fit to see off the Malt Shovel competition, would emerge.

But, of course, that hadn’t happened.

He sighed and began to gather together the Cubes, each one hopelessly scrambled, each one a colourful testament to the Woolpack’s impending shame.

If only Amos himself had been able to master the Cube, if only…

Suddenly, Amos stopped. He’d been moving methodically round the bar collecting the puzzles, and had now come to the corner near the dartboard. And sitting there, large as life, were three solved Cubes, Three beautifully completed Cubes.

Amos was startled. He put the other Cubes he’d collected down on the bar and cautiously picked one of the completed Cubes up. Had somebody been peeling off the stickers? he wondered. But no, the stickers were not loose or wonky and showed no signs of having been tampered with. Were the solved Cubes his Cubes, or had Mr Wilks or somebody else brought in some new, unscrambled Cubes, he wondered? But no, the Cubes were his all right: each one bore traces of, and smelt strongly of, Zam-Buk. Amos had smeared a number of the Cubes he’d bought with this wonder cure in his search for the perfect lubricant.

Yes, it certainly looked as though somebody had solved three of the Cubes, all fair and square. And recently too. Amos was sure they’d been as scrambled as all the others before the morning session.

He’d been in and out a bit so hadn’t been his usual vigilant self that session: the draymen had been late and he’d had a long telephone call from his Aunt Emily, who was holidaying in Norfolk and was having difficulty understanding the language.

Perhaps Bernie Slater had been in, practising on Amos’ Cubes for the Contest tomorrow?

Nay, that was daft.

Perhaps it was just passing trade?

But Amos was sure that he’d served no strangers in the bar that session.
Perplexed, Amos began to tick off on his fingers a list of all those he’d seen in the bar that day…

But then something else struck him and he gaped at the Cubes.

Surely it couldn’t be….?!

More 1981 Beckindale Cubist Conumdrums soon...

Amos And The Cube - Part 2

Monday morning, two weeks later, and Henry gladly escaped the Woolpack to join Annie Sugden and Sam Pearson for a cup of tea and a piece of Annie’s parkin up at Emmerdale Farm.

They had one of those conversations that go: “I don’t know what the world’s coming to, I really don’t”.

“It’s being a funny old year,” said Henry. “These terrible riots and a royal wedding. I was reading summat in the Courier the other day about the ’60s and how they’ve caused a lot of the current unrest.”

“Now that’s near sighted, that is,” said Sam. “It’s not a single decade that’s done this, it’s two world wars in one century, close together. It’s shaken everything up, people have lost sight of what’s right…” he shook his head, sadly.

“It just seems to get worse and worse, though,” said Henry. “Hippies, these Punk Rockers, and I saw a fella on the telly t’other day with a white line painted across his face and these funny little plaits and ribbons in his hair - couldn’t properly tell if he were Arthur or Martha!”

“You’re getting old, Henry!” Annie smiled. “But I must admit these riots are very troubling. They reckon it’s not only unemployed people joining in the looting…”

“Anarchy in the UK at last!” laughed Joe in reply, coming in for a morning cuppa. The gathering gloom was suddenly dispelled.

“Tea or coffee, Joe?” asked his mother.

“Ooh, tea please.” Joe sat down and attacked a piece of parkin. “Talking of things in the news, Henry, how’s Amos getting on with the Cube contest? I saw Ernie Shuttleworth in’t village this morning - he’s looking very confident!”

Henry sighed and rubbed his wrist. “Well, there’s one thing, I’m out of it. I’ve strained my wrist trying to do the blessed thing! And I did do it, an’ all!”

“You did!” Joe gaped. “You kept it quiet!”

Henry nodded: “Yesterday. I Followed this book by a thirteen-year-old lad. A thirteen-year-old, I ask you! I did it, but it took me nearly an hour. I certainly wasn’t championship material even before I ricked my wrist. And Amos gets nowhere near even doing a side of the thing! He’s like a soul demented. There’s not a minute’s peace. He’s got umpteen cubes, and umpteen books and magazines on how to solve the thing. He’s tried smearing them with Zam Buk, lard, butter, even got a bottle of vegetable oil in specially. He’s determined not to face the fact that we’re no competition for’t Malt Shovel.” Henry sighed and decided a change of subject was called for. “How are things at NY, Joe?”

“Busy,” said Joe. “And there’s an awful lot of them Rubik’s Cubes about amongst the estate workers, Henry. They’re provin’ to be a bit of a distraction.”

So much for a change of subject!

Henry sighed again: “I know. Amos has been through our NY regulars with a fine toothcomb seekin' a Cubist - he was on at Jim Brett last night, and you know how shaky he is.”

“He’s retiring next year,” said Joe. “Shame in some ways. Damn good cowman.”

“I knew his father, William Brett,” Sam chipped in. “Wonderful with cattle ’e were - told the vet a thing or two on many occasions. You remember William Brett, don’t you, Annie?”

“Aye, Dad, I do - a lovely man,” said Annie.

“Good cowman, eh? We could do with somebody as good with the Cube,” said Henry mournfully. “Because Amos won’t leave go. He’s fixated. You know how he gets. It’s ‘Cube, Cube, Cube’ from morning till night with him. Even the Royal Wedding seems to have passed him by.”

“Who is the Malt Shovel Cube chap, then?” asked Annie.

“Bernie Slater,” Henry replied, gloomily.

“Bernie Slater?!” Annie was startled. “But I’ve never known him to take interest in owt like that before. I wouldn’t imagine it was his type of thing at all.”

“Me neither,” Joe agreed. “He used to scare the wits out of us when we were kids, great gangling bloke… we used to think he was really creepy, the way he used to sit there outside Malt Shovel, starin’ into space, waitin’ for openin’ time…”

“He’s doo-lally - allus ’as been,” said Sam. “Runs in’t family. His mother…”

“Now, Dad, you speak no evil!” Annie broke in.

Sam subsided back into his chair. “I wasn’t going to, Annie! But it’s not speakin’ evil to tell’t truth and Mary Slater spent a lot of her adult years in Hotten Mental Hospital, as well you know!”

“Well, whatever his background, he certainly knows how to do the blasted Cube,” said Henry. “Ernie Shuttleworth brought him in the other day to give us a demonstration. You’re right, Joe, I’ve never seen him close up before, but he does seem a little on the odd side. Hardly spoke a word and his forehead really bulged with concentration whilst he was twisting the Cube about. Looked quite startling. He’s not real championship material, mind, wouldn’t get on the telly or owt like that, but three minutes and eighteen seconds is good by Beckindale standards - and that was his time at the Woolpack t'other day. Mind you, I know some of the youngsters round ’ere are a lot faster.”

“Shame Andy Longthorn’s too young to drink at the Woolpack,” said Joe. “I gave him a lift up to Lower Hall Farm a few days back and he did the Cube right in front of my eyes: 56 seconds. His hands were just a blur.”

“Hasn’t Ernie Shuttleworth asked to see the Woolpack champion?” asked Sam.

“Oh aye,” Henry shook his head. “But Amos just says: ‘Our champion will be revealed all in good time,’ - he’s bluffing for England!”

“Wish my eyes were better, I'd have a go,” said Sam, who had forgotten about his earlier negative stance regarding the Cube and adults taking an interest in it. He was now simply concerned that the honour of the Woolpack should be upheld.

“Never mind,” said Henry, brightening a little, as Annie poured him another mug of tea and offered the plate of parkin to him for a second time. “Amos’ll have to give up sooner or later. Then we can all get some peace!”
-
At the Woolpack, things were very quiet. Truth to tell, people were a little tired of Amos wittering on about the Rubik’s Cube and trying to get them to have a go at it. In the absence of anything better to do, Amos was moaning at Walter, his only customer that morning.

“It’s just like Mr Wilks, “ he was saying. “Just when I need support, he lets me down. He manages to do the Cube, then goes and hurts his wrist before he can get his speed up. I could’ve coached him, Walter, but no, ’e ’as to go rickin’ his wrist. Now I don’t know where to turn. And it has to be a regular for’t contest…”

“So it ’as, Amos!” said a voice behind him. Amos whipped round to find Seth Armstrong grinning at him.

Amos was not keen on Seth. For years, Seth’s local had been the Malt Shovel and Amos had rarely seen him. But he’d started popping into the Woolpack a year or two back, and had soon become a fully-fledged regular. This did not please Amos. He strongly suspected that everything Seth did was done simply to annoy him.

Amos was sharp: “What are you doin’, creepin’ up on me, Seth Armstrong?!”

“I weren’t creepin’ up on nawbody,” said Seth. “This is a public ’ouse and I’m a member o’t public. I’m entitled to come in. And don’t forget, I’m a regular, Amos, a regular! And you need a regular to ’elp you out of your current predicament wi’t Cube contest.”

“The matter is entirely in hand,” said Amos, loftily.

“That’s not what I’m ’earin’,” Seth grinned. “Tha’s a stubborn cuss, Amos Brearly! Now then, I can solve all your problems and the Woolpack needn’t lose face. What do you say?”

“Stop wastin’ my time, Seth Armstrong, that’s what I say!” Amos huffed. “Now are you havin’ a drink or aren’t you? Because if not I’d thank you to…”

“Watch this!” Seth broke in. He took a scrambled Rubik’s Cube from his pocket and began to twist it. Despite himself, Amos was riveted by the wily gamekeeper’s turn of speed. He’d recently seen somebody doing the Cube on the telly, and had been fascinated by the speed with which it was done. Now, in front of him, Seth’s hands became a blur…. Crrrk, crrk, crrk, crrk, went the Cube as it was twisted and turned. The bar was absolutely silent apart from that sound. And suddenly a completed Cube was resting on the bar top. Seth gazed at it with pardonable pride.

Amos was amazed. Even Walter looked rather startled.

“Well, Amos, what do you say? Shall I be Woolpack champion for thee?” asked Seth.

When Henry returned to the Woolpack an hour or so later, he found a very different Amos to the angst-ridden one he’d left. This one was light hearted and carefree, happy as a skylark. He wasted no time in filling Henry in on developments.

“Seth can do the Cube? Since when?” Henry boggled.

“That doesn’t matter, Mr Wilks - fact is he can,” said Amos. “He did it in front of me and Walter twice. Each time in less than a minute! And he’s going to represent Woolpack at the contest. Now, what do you say to that?”

“I say 'thank ’eavens for that!’” said Henry, with a great deal of feeling. “This has been the longest fortnight of my life, Amos. Get day after tomorrow here and it’ll all be over.”

Suddenly Henry chuckled.

“Summat tickled you, Mr Wilks?”

“I was just thinking how ironic it is that Seth’s turned out to be your saviour!” Henry began to laugh outright.

The merest trace of a frown crossed Amos’ brow. “Aye, well, I'll admit I’d rather it weren’t Seth Armstrong doin’ the honours. But I also have to admit, Mr Wilks, he’s saved the honour of the Woolpack.”

"Well, let this be a lesson to you, Amos, no more of these contests,” said Henry. “I can do without them - this one has put ten years on me! And look at all these Cubes and Cube-solvin’ books and magazines layin’ about - on the bar, under the bar, all over’t livin’ room. I sat on a cube last week. I’ve still not recovered. Once the contest’s out o’t way I never want to see another Cube or Cube book again. Ever!"

At 10.30pm, a very merry Seth left the Woolpack Inn, bound for home. He was grinning, some mean sprited souls might say, like an idiot. The soft scented breeze and glorious summer evening heightened his sense of wellbeing. He’d been very popular that night. The Woolpack regulars had been so pleased that somebody could at last do the cube and had got Amos off their backs that many a pint of Monk’s best had been placed before him on the bar top, free, gratis and for nothing.

Seth lurched slightly as he crossed Main Street and steadied himself against the post office wall. The blissful summer evening breeze brought a sound to his ears. Was it an owl? No… no... it was a voice… “What’s a matter, you? HEY! Gotta no respect?” it went. It was coming from behind him. He began to turn. Slowly and carefully. The voice was suddenly louder. It was in his ear: “Shadduppa your face!” And then there was blackness.

The traumas continue as we take the 1981 time tunnel back to Beckindale again soon...

1981: Amos And The Cube - An Original Back To Beckindale Short Story - Part 1

“They say it’s going to be the next big thing, Mr Wilks,” said Amos.

Henry looked doubtfully at the small plastic cube, composed of even smaller plastic cubes, six different colours, sitting on the bar top. “They do? Who’s they?”

“Those in the know,” said Amos, puffing himself up. “The trend watchers at the Courier. We’re in for a fascinating new era, Mr Wilks, a fascinating new era of computers and microbe technology. The Year 2000’s just round the corner.”

Henry let the “microbe” and the fact that the Year 2000 was in fact nineteen years away pass without comment, and picked up the cube. “So, what do you do with it?”

“You twist it,” said Amos.

Henry gingerly tried to twist the cube. Crrrk, it went.

“Hmm, very impressive,” said Henry. “You could amuse yourself for hours. Pretty colours!”

Amos sniffed. “Mr Wilks, I’d thank you not to poke fun at what you don’t understand. That cube is a mathematical masterpiece. It’s got…. Oh, BILLIONS of combinations and you’ve got to get each side ’t same colour.”

“Oh, I see!” Henry was grateful for the chink of light. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Bit like one o’ them Chinese puzzles, isn’t it? Piece of cake, Amos. I’ll have it done in no time…”

“Where’s Henry?” asked Joe Sugden some hours later, lifting a foaming pint pot of Monk’s finest to his parched lips.

“He’s in’t back,” said Amos. “Trying to do the Rubik Cube.”

“Oh, you’ve got one of them things!” Joe grinned. “There’s a couple going around amongst the Estate workers. They reckon it’s going to be the next big thing.”

“I reckon they’re right. Mind you, us journalistic types have to keep our finger on the pulse of events, so to speak,” said Amos, puffing himself up a little. “It’s come from’t behind’t Iron Curtain, Joe. Imagine that!”

Henry appeared from the back room.

“Henry, I hear you’ve been doing one of them cube thingies,” called Joe cheerfully. “Have you managed it?”

“No I have not!” said Henry, uncharacteristically sharp. “Three hours and not even one side done. And yet it looks so easy… like a tiny tot’s toy!”

“I told you, Mr Wilks!” said Amos, “I said, didn’t I, as ’ow it were mathematical? Work o’ genius, I’ve heard. It takes a special kind of mind to work out all the perlitations.”

Henry let “perlitations” pass. “And I suppose you have that kind of mind?” he queried.

“Eh?!” Amos hadn’t anticipated this.

“The cube - you can do it,” Henry elaborated obligingly.

“Aye, well… I haven’t done yet,” Amos admitted. “But I only got it yesterday. I’ve not had time to get to grips with it, as it were. But I’ve a very logical mind, you know that, Mr Wilks… Now then, Walter, another pint is it?” He escaped, gratefully.

Henry and Joe chuckled together.

Over the next couple of months, the Rubik’s Cube did indeed become the “next big thing”, just as Amos’ source at the Hotten Courier had predicted. The craze gripped local school kids the most - and it was reckoned that Andy Longthorn could “do” the cube in 53 seconds. There was some interest amongst the elders of Beckindale.

“People have got far too much time on their hands, that’s the trouble!” said Sam Pearson, “Getting all het up over kiddies’ toys - whatever next!”

Amos, who had been toying with a Lady Diana Spencer and Prince Charles cube behind the Woolpack counter bridled. “It’s got some of the world’s finest brains baffled!” he said.

“Well, Sharon Henshaw from below Demdyke can do it and, good girl though she is, I’d hardly call her a genius,” said Sam. “She’s only nine-years-old!”

“Amos has a book on the subject - and we still can’t do it,” said Henry. “I can manage one side, but that’s it.”

Amos glowered at him for this piece of treachery - fancy telling Sam Pearson that! It was at this point that Seth Armstrong came in. “Can I have a word, Amos?”

“I’m busy!” Amos snapped. “Mr Wilks will serve you!”

“I’ve a message for you from’t Malt Shovel,” said Seth, gravely.

“And what have you been doin’ at the Malt Shovel?” Amos demanded

“Oh, I ’aven’t been in,” said Seth quickly. “I saw Ernie Shuttleworth in’t post office just now.”

“Well, what’s this message?” Amos sniffed.

“I’d tell you, Amos, but I’m a bit parched,” said Seth. “I got all the way up to Primrose Dingle this mornin’ and found me flask ’ad sprung a leak. I’ve ’ad nowt to drink since breakfast…”

He made strange rasping noises deep in his throat to labour the point.

Amos was not about to submit to this outrageous piece of blackmail, but Henry stepped in. “Have a pint with me, Seth.”

“That’s right kind of yer, 'Enry,” said Seth, beaming. “You’ve a good ’eart, so you ’ave. Our Meg were only sayin’ this mornin’…”

“Never mind all that,” said Amos, icily. “You said you ’ad a message from Ernie Shuttleworth.”

“Oh, aye, that’s right. Now what were it now…” Seth was thoroughly enjoying Amos’ agony of curiosity. “Oh, that’s it - he wants to hold a contest wi’t’ Woolpack - Rubik Cube, he sez. Reckons he’s the got the champion Cubist of Beckindale as a regular at t’ Malt Shovel.”

“A contest?!” Amos made it sound obscene.

“Aye, that’s right - his best Cube man against Woolpack’s best Cube man,” said Seth and took a long swig of his pint.

“But we ’aven’t got…” started Henry.

Amos broke in: “Ahem, Mr Wilks! Tell Ernie Shuttleworth if he wants to ring me here we’ll confirm the details, Seth Armstrong. I‘m sure these licenced premises can hold their own in any contest wi’t Malt Shovel!”

Henry was agape: “But Amos!”

“I got the potatoes like you asked, Mr Wilks,” Amos was being very cool. “So if you want to make a start on the shepherd’s pie…”

“Annie’s recipe is that?” asked Sam.

“That’s right,” said Amos. “Mr Wilks?”

Henry sighed. “Oh, all right!” But as he went through to the back room to begin his task, he was sure of one thing: the Woolpack had no “champion Cubist” amongst its regulars. Henry was the best at the Cube in that establishment, and he could only complete one side of the blasted thing. What on earth was Amos playing at?

And, truth to tell, as Amos held his head high and discussed the virtues of Annie’s shepherd’s pie recipe with Sam, he didn’t really know either.

But if the likes of Ernie Shuttleworth thought they were going to get the better of him in any way, shape or form, they had another think coming!

Meanwhile, one of the Cubes sat happily beside old Walter’s pint pot, a multi-coloured jumble. It kept catching Amos’ eye, and finally he tucked it away under the bar. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn it was mocking him. It looked so simple, as Mr Wilks had said, just like a tiny tot’s toy. “Come on, solve me - surely you can?” it seemed to be saying.

And yet nobody at the Woolpack could.

And now Amos had committed the pub to a contest with the Malt Shovel, and Ernie Shuttleworth was bragging of having a “champion cubist” supping there.

Amos groaned inwardly: “Oh ’eck!”

PART TWO COMING SOON! Read the history of the Rubik's Cube here.