1980: Farewell To Maurice Westrop...

In the spring of 1980, Maurice Westrop (Edward Dentith), head of NY Estates' Beckindale holding, had momentous news for his daughter, Judy (Jane Cussons). He started with a question:

"How attached to this place are you?"

"The village or the house?"

"Both. Either."

"More attached than I have been for a long time. We've moved about a lot since Mother died," Judy sighed. She had experienced many problems since the death of her mother.

"Is that what you want - a permanent home?"

"Oh, perhaps not. It's one of those things you tell yourself will put everything right. It won't, of course. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go off on that tack."

"What you've just said is important. I hadn't realised when you were younger, moving on every couple of years to a new school, a different house..."

"It doesn't matter. It's just one of those things - plenty of people live like that. Anyway, what brought this on?"

"I'm moving on again. They want me over in North Wales, permanently."

"I see."

"It's not my choice."

"I know. When?"

"In a few weeks."

"Well, that's that then."

"If it's that important, I could get in touch..."

"No you couldn't. You're doing very nicely with NY Estates. And anyway..."

"And anyway I'm too old to change horses. You're right."

Judy made to escape the kitchen - "Today you're going to have a proper lunch. I'm doing complicated things to a chicken."

"We've got to talk this over. I hope you'll come with me."

Judy's mind was awhirl. Everything had changed in just a few minutes. "I don't know. I don't know." And she left the room, leaving an anxious Maurice behind her.

On a visit to Emmerdale Farm, Judy had a piece of good fortune.

"You still looking for a job?" asked Matt Skilbeck (Frederick Pyne).

"Why?"

"Huxleys', the auctioneers in Hotten Market, they're looking for someone."

"To do what?"

Matt shrugged: "All I know is that I couldn't see Ben Huxley this morning cos he was interviewing somebody for it. Give 'em a ring."

"Oh, there's not much point - I've just been telling Annie that Dad's been posted to North Wales, he's going to manage the big estate up there."

"It's like the Army - moving you about from pillar to post!" commented Sam Pearson (Toke Townley).

"He wants me to go with him," said Judy.

"Well, how long before you'll be going?" asked Matt.

"Three weeks. If I go."

"I thought you weren't interested in't job because you were going?"

"I don't really seem too sure of anything," said Judy, forlornly.

Word travelled fast in Beckindale. The next day, at Home Farm, Maurice commented:

"I hear you've been looking round for jobs? I'm sure I could fix you up with something in North Wales."

"I've started to make friends here."

"You'd do that anywhere!"

"Do you realise I haven't any old friends? Oh, there are plenty of people scattered all over the place that I've known for a few months before moving on. Friends I'll probably never see again. If I come to Wales with you it'll be the same thing all over again. Christmas cards for a few years before we cross each other off our lists... Dolly and Matt. Annie Sugden. Henry Wilks...."

She told her father that Huxley's were looking for an assistant to the auctioneer.

She'd grown close to her father during her stay at Home Farm and the thought of parting was not easy. But she told Maurice she'd decided to visit Hotten Market the following day, which was market day: "I thought I'd just like to get the feel of it before I commit myself."

And so the next day she went to Hotten. She took a good look around the market, then went to the desk: "Do you know if the vacancy for an auctioneer's assistant is still open?"

Back at Home Farm, Maurice was waiting:

"You want to stay here, don't you?"

Judy told him that she had been to Huxley's and that the vacancy was still open.

"You're taking it."

"Well, I asked for a day or two to decide."

It was all very difficult. Maurice told Judy that he felt a sense of responsibility for her, belated though it was. Judy confided in Jack Sugden that she felt a sense of responsibility towards her father.

Jack had lots to say: "These women who turn their backs on a career and marriage to look after their parents don't get a lot of sympathy from me. No parent has a right to bring a child into this world and then deny it a life of its own. And no child has a right to opt for martyrdom. Not these days, anyway." He grinned: "How come whenever I talk to you I start preaching at you?"

"Perhaps I'm in need of conversion," said Judy.

"Yeah, well, don't quote me when you tell your father you're stopping in Beckindale."

"Who said I was?"

"You're not the stuff that martyrs are made of."

"How do you know- you don't even know me?"

"I'm a writer, remember? We like to think we can explain our fellow creatures to themselves."

"Can you?"

Jack smiled - and shrugged.

"Whatever you do, it'll have to be your decision," said Maurice later back at Home Farm. "And if you find you've made a mistake you won't be able to get back at me."

Judy took a deep breath: "I've decided to stay."

"I know," her father replied, quietly.

"How could you possibly know, I didn't know myself till this morning!"

"What you mean is that's the first time you've admitted it to yourself. I've known all along - from the look on your face when I first mentioned going to Wales. You've never been able to keep any secrets from me. When you were a little girl I had only to look in your eyes - your mouth was saying one thing, your eyes were saying another."

"Thanks very much!" Judy smiled.

"I hope you'll settle down at Huxley's. I think you will - it'll be an interesting job - going round all the farms."

"I haven't said I'll take it yet. I'm not sure."

"They'll be very disappointed if you don't - they're banking on it." Then, as Judy looked at him quizzically: "Oh, I was there yesterday about the Mashams. Ben Huxley's under the impression that you'll be starting next week."

"What have you been saying?!"

"Nothing. Oh, er, I may have mentioned that they'd find you an honest, careful and conscientious worker."

"You really are an old devil!"

"I hope I haven't been speaking out of turn?"

Judy looked at him anxiously: "Do you mind?"

"Well, if you're not coming with me, I'd feel better knowing what you're doing."

"That's not what I meant."

Maurice smiled: "We'll see each other."

"You'll really be all right?"

"Oh for heaven's sake, I'm not in my dotage yet! And I've looked after myself for long enough. You'd have never have stuck North Wales anyway! Three months and you'd have been off again - heaven knows where!"

Judy grinned: "You really do know me, don't you?"

Some days later, on a visit to Emmerdale Farm, Judy talked things over with Annie (Sheila Mercier) and Dolly (Jean Rogers):

"I don't think Dad's altogether happy about my staying on."

"Oh, he's bound to worry," said Annie.

"It's difficult to explain really. I want to stay in Beckindale, but it's more than that. It's time I stood on my own two feet again. That's really what's at the back of it."

There was one remaining practical difficulty: accommodation.

"I don't want to be a burden at Home Farm - people too polite to throw me out, but wondering why I'm still there!"

"There's a simple answer - Demdyke!" cried Annie. Joe (Frazer Hines) was away in America and wouldn't be back for a couple of months - Judy could stay there until she found a place of her own.

"Well, thanks, Annie, but I don't know that Joe..."

"It's simple! When he rings from America I'll ask him. There's only two answers!"

And, of course, Joe said yes.

On the eve of his departure, Maurice was sad. Annie had invited the Westrops for a meal at Emmerdale, and Judy commented: "We're going to be very early."

"I thought we'd call in at the Woolpack on the way."

"You're really feeling it, aren't you?"

"I didn't think I would... all these years, moving about from place to place. I'd rather hoped this was the last stop."

"You shouldn't have started packing so early!"

"Well, it's no good pretending it isn't going to happen. It's you as well, Judy. Leaving you behind makes it all the more difficult."

"I won't be the other side of the world. We'll still see each other."

"On high days and holidays!"

"Oh, more than that! And anyway, can that be bad? Before I came here we hardly saw each other at all. We hadn't had a real conversation for years."

"I've been spoilt!"

"Nobody ever died of that!"

"I suppose you're looking forward to Joe coming back?"

"Oh, it'll be good to see him."

"And that's all?"

Judy laughed: "Oh, Dad, stop trying to get me married off!"

"It's just a fatherly interest. I'm not prying."

"I don't know what'll happen. Oh, there was a time when I thought it might take off - somehow it didn't. But he's a marvellous friend - and that's what matters. Now come on - it's gloomy here, let's go. Amos can cheer us up with tales of his vegetable patch." For Amos Brearly (Ronald Magill) had just gained an allotment in Beckindale, and spoke of little else.

After an enjoyable stop-off at The Woolpack, the Westrops, father and daughter, set off for Emmerdale Farm.

Before the meal commenced, Henry Wilks (Arthur Pentelow) proposed a toast:

"Let's just say this is not a farewell dinner. Maurice has become a good friend over the last two years and I know he'll be coming back to Beckindale - Judy's staying here to make sure that he does..."

Surrounded by friends and with new horizons beckoning, Maurice felt a little happier.

The gathering stood up to drink a toast:

"TO THE FUTURE!"

1980: Indoors, Outdoors

Lindley Farm was the real life exterior location for Emmerdale Farm from 1972-1993. Interior scenes were filmed in the studios at Yorkshire Television, and the interior of Emmerdale farmhouse was very different to the interior of Lindley Farm. Usually, clever camera work kept the illusion for viewers that Lindley Farm was Emmerdale Farm, but occasionally there was a slip up.

This scene from 1980 shows Dolly Skilbeck leaving Emmerdale Farm for a trip into Hotten. But what has happened to the underside of the staircase which protrudes into the farm kitchen, where are the familiar coat pegs, and what is that wallpaper and (what looks like a) water heater doing inside the kitchen?!

The studio interior set, 1980 - staircase and coat pegs included!

1980: A Crisis Of Faith...

The Reverend Donald Hinton, vicar of Beckindale, spoke of coming nearer to God than ever before in 1980. On retreat in the rarefied atmosphere of St Luke's, the vicar was able to ponder his role in the village. For some time he had been worried that the people of Beckindale did not use him properly: he was a useful signature for passport applications, gave advice on social services contacts and even, on occasion, plumbing contacts in the locality! He confessed to sometimes feeling like an "auxiliary to the Social Services Department".

Donald was gravely concerned that he was not meeting his responsibility for the spiritual welfare of the community, and determined to do something about it.

On his return, he gave a sermon which caused much controversy. Matt and Dolly discussed it at Emmerdale Farm:

"I've been thinking about what the vicar said," Dolly mused. "I reckon he were dropping hints about how the village needs to buck its ideas up."

"Well, no, not exactly," said Matt.

"Well, he were being unfair anyway," replied Dolly, who had quite made her mind up on the subject.

"I don't think he meant that. I reckon he meant that there are some jobs that are the vicar's and some that aren't - so don't go bothering him with things like passport applications which the doctor can do anyroad."

"Well, the doctor's as busy as he is - busier!" exclaimed Dolly.

"I don't think it's just that," Annie, who was doing some hand washing at the sink, broke in. "Happen he feels he does too much organising things and social work. He wants to remember what he is - a vicar."

The Reverend Hinton saw Mr Wilks outside The Woolpack. Mr Wilks felt that the vicar's sermon had given folk something to think about: "You should've heard the arguments in there last night." He indicated the pub.

"Arguments?" Donald was puzzled.

Mr Wilks told the vicar that people had been placing their own interpretations on what his sermon had meant, and that these interpretations were many and varied.

"What was your interpretation?" asked Donald.

"Plain enough to me. A vicar's got enough on his plate without having to worry about things like the church cottage drains - writing sermons, confirmation classes, visiting the sick, to say nowt of weddings and Christenings and funerals. Am I right?"

"Not really, Henry," said Donald. "It's not just a question of time, more of attitude. The village's attitude - and mine, of course. My first duty is to the spiritual welfare of the community."

Donald had a visit from the Bishop that afternoon. Whilst the Bishop was there, Donald received a telephone call from a villager enquiring about home helps. Having replaced the receiver, he spoke to the Bishop about his concerns:

"I'm here to preach the word of God, yet I seem to spend more than half my time on things like that!"

The Bishop felt that long retreats could be dangerous ("St Luke's has gone to your head!"), and reminded Donald that he wasn't a member of a closed order.

"If the vicar is regarded as... say, the man who gets the drains mended at Church Cottage, then no one is brought nearer the Kingdom of God!" said Donald. "People are lost in the maze that is 20th Century living. How am I to show them through the maze if I've just become another part of it?"

The Bishop admitted he was there on a mission - to ask Donald to become a rural dean. It would mean that Donald would be supervising half a dozen other vicars. But, with Donald's current thoughts and feelings, the Bishop realised he'd chosen the wrong time to ask.

"To save embarrassment I won't ask now. But when you've sorted all this out, I will. And I won't want the answer that you would've given me today."

Harry Moore was a cantankerous old man who lived in the village with his dog, Sparky. His wife had died over thirty years before and, after a recent fall, Harry was suddenly housebound.

He was lonely and spent a lot of time at his window.

The local Meals On Wheels service staff had long been told that only five minutes should be spent on each client. But Harry wanted more. He wanted company. As the Meals On Wheels ladies took their leave one day, Harry lambasted them from his window:

"You rush in, dump food on't table and rush out again! That's no way to treat a respectable senior citizen who's spent all his life upholding right..." The two women hastened into their car. "I'LL REPORT YOU TO'T SUPERINTENDENT!" wailed Harry. "NO TIME TO STOP AND BE CIVIL TO SOMEONE WHO CAN'T GET ABOUT! DO YOU HEAR? I'LL REPORT YOU!!"

Harry slammed closed the window and sat down, near to tears.

Matt Skilbeck bought some tobacco in for Harry after he'd requested it. Harry then began to regale him with tales of the past: "Did I ever tell you about the time Sam Pearson and me..."

"You'll have to tell me some other time, Harry - I've got sheep to tend to."

"Aye, you're same as all't rest!" said Harry bitterly. "You've no time to talk to an old man who gave best years of his life fighting for't likes of you!"

But Matt really had to leave.

"Vicar don't come to see me, so why should thee?" asked Harry mournfully. He'd knocked on the window to attract the vicar's attention only that morning, and had simply received a cheery wave in reply.

Matt was concerned about Harry and called on Donald to request he pay the old man a visit. "I'll come as soon as I can," promised Donald.

And he was as good as his word.

His visit was not an easy one. Harry wanted to have communion. But he hadn't taken the sacraments for over thirty years.

"My wife, Martha, used to. Only when you get to't near end you start to think about them things..."

Donald told him he hadn't come prepared to give communion.

"Don't you think we should have a chat first?"

"What about?"

"Well, you haven't set foot inside a church since I've been here. You haven't taken communion for over thirty years. I should like to know why. Did you just drift away?"

"I did not! I fell out wi't vicar!"

"You've fallen out with a good many people."

"Damnation to the lot of 'em! I don't like people. I like dogs. "

"God made man in his own image."

"More fool him then!"

"Harry, I don't think you're in the right frame of mind to take the sacraments."

"All't trouble in't world's caused by folk. Dogs don't cause no trouble - not if they're looked after proper. Dogs understand me."

"I don't pretend to understand you, not yet."

"You won't bring me communion, then?!"

"I'd be very happy to, Harry. But we've a good deal of talking to do first. And praying."

"I want it now! I'm not interested in all that. And if you're not going to give it to me, you can get out!"

Dolly, waiting to begin work at the local playschool in a fortnight's time, was helping out the Meals On Wheels service. Harry confided in her that he had a weak heart - he'd had a small heart attack two years ago, and the doctor had told him the next one might be his last.

Totally untrained in care for the elderly, but very well meaning, Dolly managed to patronise and upset Harry. Helping him to the table for his meal, she said: "Oops a daisy, here's your stick. Off we go then!"

"Oh, leave me be, woman!" cried Harry. "I'm not a baby! I can walk to me own table!"

Dolly was sorry for the old man, felt that he didn't mean half he said, and offered to return for a chat with him after she finished her Meals On Wheels round later that afternoon.

Dolly was with Harry when the vicar paid his second visit. Harry had confided in her that the vicar had refused to give him communion and asked her not to leave him alone with Donald.

"He's not gonna eat you!" laughed Dolly.

Outside Harry's cottage, Dolly asked the vicar: "What on earth have you done to Harry?"

"Only told him that he wasn't in a fit state of mind to take communion."

"But that's just him. You don't want to take notice of anything he says. All that matters is cheering him up a bit."

"No, not all. Cheerfulness you can bring him. I want to bring him peace of mind."

"Well, let him take communion."

"Oh, I've no intention of denying him. But not just to cheer him up. I may say I'm not looking forward to this."

And Donald went back into the cottage.

What followed was very difficult. Donald wanted Harry to pray with him. Harry refused.

"When did you first get like this?"

"Like what?"

Donald smiled gently: "A miserable old devil with not a good word to say for anybody? It wasn't your fall - it happened long before that. What happened all those years ago when you fell out with the vicar?"

"It doesn't matter now," said Harry quietly.

"How old were you then - fortyish?"

But Harry was no longer listening. "She liked dogs," it was almost a whisper.

"What?"

"I SAID SHE LIKED DOGS!!" tears were brimming in Harry's eyes.

"Who?"

"My wife, Martha. She killed herself. The vicar, he could've helped. He didn't - never had time. She left me a note. 'Look after Bess for me,' - see, that were her dog. 'Look after Bess for me'... That's all she said. 'Look after Bess... ' ". Harry was openly crying.

Donald leaned forward in his chair: "Do you feel like praying now?"

"Get out, Vicar," whispered Harry through his tears.

"We'll pray together."

"Go on, get out!"

"I'll see you again tomorrow. I think that's best." Donald left.

Harry, now alone in his cottage, sobbed.

The next morning found Harry's cottage door open and Sparky, Harry's beloved pet dog, running around the house and garden.

Sparky nuzzled his master's hand. But there was no answering movement.

At Emmerdale Farm, Annie was telling the family what she knew of Harry Moore's wife:

"It were a long time ago. She were a strange lass. The only child of elderly parents. Lived in that cottage t'other side o't bray. She was found drowned. Accident, the coroner said. But there was talk. That was more than thirty years ago."

A little later, Donald was making his way towards Harry's cottage, dressed to give the old man the communion he so desperately sought. As he neared the cottage, he saw an ambulance and a small crowd standing outside.

"Has Harry been taken ill?" Donald asked the postman.

The postman had actually found Harry: "He must've had a heart attack. He'd been dead some time. There's nowt anybody could've done, doctor said, unless they were with him when it happened and not much chance then. Best you can say is Harry probably knew nowt about it."

"Lord, let us us now thy servant depart in peace..." murmured Donald.

He was shocked to the core and went to the church to pray. Here, PC Ted Edwards, the local bobby, found him. He was trying to establish Harry's time of death and thought that Donald was probably the last person to see him alive.

"What was his state of mind?" asked Ted.

"He was a little upset. With me, I'm afraid. I'd refused him communion. It seemed to me that his attitude was not conducive to a state of grace. I'd no right to do that. I was guilty of passing a judgement that only God can make."

"Yes, well," - all this was way beyond Ted: "It's just a question of an approximate time of death..."

The vicar appeared not to hear him: "I knew about his heart. I let my own concerns and worries come first..."

After Ted had taken his leave, Donald sank to his knees again.

Later, up at Emmerdale Farm, Donald confided his inner turmoil to Annie:

"I passed judgement on a man without knowing him at all."

"You can't blame yourself for not knowing him."

"Oh no, if I'd done my duty... I should have talked to him - found out who he really was."

"Do that for everyone you'd have no time for owt else..."

"No, don't make excuses for me, Annie. I know I was in the wrong."

"You acted according to your beliefs. No man could've done more."

Donald was still deeply unhappy: "The balance was wrong - in me. There was nothing wrong with my decision to put prayer and the search for God before my social work obligations but I pursued that decision to the point when I let my own doubts interfere with my practical religious duties. I was guilty of a lack of balance, Annie. And that led to Harry Moore dying without the solace of the communion that he wanted."

"It's easy to see that now. But there's lots of things most of us wouldn't have done in our lives if we'd been able to see into the future."

Donald frowned and rubbed his forehead: "At least we can learn from the things that do go wrong. In St Luke's, I came nearer to God than at any other time in my life. I wanted that union to last. And others to join me in it. But for a parish priest I went about it the wrong way. Everything that happens in the parish is important because the people are important. There are so many roads in the search for the Kingdom of God, Annie. If I'm to do any good, I daren't ignore any of them."

"Seems to me if you want to take folk with you, you've got to make sure they're on your side."

Donald smiled: "Which sums it up far better than I could have done!"

"I'm on your side!" Annie declared. "And if you want any help gathering the lost sheep... First thing is to fix a new date for the Church Council meeting!"

"No," Donald corrected her, his balance restored. "First thing is to help you with the washing up!"

After thoughts...

Reading my account of this story is a very second rate experience compared to actually watching the episodes concerned. The story, which took loneliness, suicide, religious issues and sudden death as its themes was, quite simply, an example of 1980s Emmerdale Farm at its very best.

The lead players were absolutely brilliant - Walter Sparrow evoked great pity as Harry Moore - I was actually moved to tears, Hugh Manning, as the Reverend Donald Hinton, was, as always, a joy to watch, as was Sheila Mercier (Annie Sugden). Jean Rogers, newly arrived as Dolly Skilbeck also gave a sterling performance. This was an excellent and highly thought provoking piece of television drama.

1980: Domestic Crisis At The Woolpack...

There were no plane crashes in Emmerdale Farm in the 1980s, nor terrible storms, nor brawling Woolpack regulars, but Beckindale's favourite inn did have its fair share of crises in those days. Take this one:

Having just hand-washed a few tea towels at The Woolpack in the spring of 1980, Amos Brearly discovered that he couldn't disperse the suds left in the kitchen sink after he'd let the water out.

The vicar, the Rev Donald Hinton, paid a visit whilst Amos swished his marigolded hands around in the suds, and Amos confided in him:

"It's always't same. I can't get soap suds to go down't plug hole..."

"I have exactly the same problem," said Donald.

They pondered the problem long and hard, in fact the vicar was concentrating so hard he barely heard Amos discussing other matters.

Donald hit upon a possible solution: "Perhaps if you turn on the cold tap?"

Amos tried this and, with the aid of a little more hand swishing, the suds gradually disappeared.

Crisis passed.

1980: Something Fishy...

It all began when Sam Pearson returned from a competition prize holiday in Ireland with a large pike he'd caught. The time taken journeying to England had done the pike's personal freshness no favours at all and by the time it arrived at Emmerdale Farm it was distinctly smelly.

Some people, including Dolly Skilbeck, made fun, but Sam was so proud of his catch that he wanted to have it stuffed and mounted above the fireplace as a permanent reminder of his angling triumph.

This was easier said then done. As the fish exuded an increasingly unlovely odour out in Sam's shed, the old man set about trying to contact Fletcher's, the taxidermist in Hotten. The telephone was always a challenge to Sam and he was soon flustered and annoyed.

He shushed Annie and Dolly as he prepared to make the call.

"You haven't started yet!" Annie pointed out.

"Annie, I can't be doing with people talking when I'm on the phone! Oh, now I've forgotten where I was - I'll have to start again... Ugh, now I'm getting the 'Number Unobtainable' signal!"

Finally he got through to the number he required:

"Barbara's Boutique, can I help you?" asked a youthful female voice.

"What do you mean 'Barbara's Boutique'? Are you the taxidermist or are you not?" roared Sam. "No, no - not taxi service, taxidermist, someone who stuffs things?" Suddenly, Sam slammed the phone down.

"Now what?" asked Annie.

"She said she'd stuff me into a pair of jeans any day - the brazen young hussy!"

Annie rang directory enquiries. It transpired that Fletcher's was no longer in business and the number had been Barbara's Boutique since last February.

"Well, they've no right to go mucking about with the numbers like that!" cried Sam.

Annie suggested looking up a taxidermist in the Yellow Pages - but Sam had had enough and went stomping off out. Annie did it instead.

Sam hadn't gone far - just to his shed, where he began to wrap the pike in newspaper.

"This is where you've got to - ugh, ugh!!" Annie broke off to put her hand over her nose, overcome by the fishy stench. "I thought you'd like to know there's a taxidermist in Bradford."

"Too late now, I've made up my mind!" said Sam, busy with the newspaper.

"To do what?" asked Annie.

"You were all against my having it stuffed in the first place! Right, it can go in the dustbin!"

"Don't be so foolish. I've found a taxidermist for you - best thing you can do is to come down and ring him."

"No, Annie, I've gone off the idea," said Sam, rather sulkily.

"Get rid of that fish and you'll regret it tomorrow - you know you will!"

"It won't be the first thing in my life I've regretted, will it?"

"If you don't ring him, I will!"

"Suit yourself!"

"Promise me one thing - you won't throw that away until I've phoned him?"

The fire died. Sam sighed. "I'll phone him. I wish I'd never caught it now in the first place!"

Sadly, the taxidermist in Bradford only did casts and that wasn't what Sam wanted. He was now determined to get rid of the fish and in quite a state about it all, ranting away and doing a great deal of arm waving. Annie had a gentle word with him: "There's no need to take it out on me. Or yourself, now is there?"

Once more the fire died. Annie was quite right - as she so often was.

Sam was now calm and resigned. The pike was going in the dustbin. Matt Skilbeck caught him about to close the lid on the smelly article, and called: "Eh, Grandad - what you doing?"

"What's it look like I'm doing?" replied Sam, rather terse.

"Well, hang on a bit. You want a record of that pike, don't yer? Dolly's got some film left in her camera she wants to use up. Just wait a minute, I'll go and get it."

Sam was most impressed with the idea.

But it wasn't easy to smile for the camera...

Say "Cheese"? Say "bleurrggh" more like! The stench was growing ever more powerful.

"Couldn't you manage to look a bit more cheerful?!" asked Matt. Then he had a brainwave - a group photograph! He went to fetch Annie and Jack from the farmhouse...

... leaving Grandad alone with his pal. Although he wasn't posing for the photograph at that point, Sam still kept the fish at arm's length whilst he waited.

Annie and Jack came out to the farmyard. Everybody tried to look jolly. The fish was now absolutely reeking. "Er, hang on a bit... no, you'll have to get in a bit closer," said Matt looking through the camera's view finder. So, Annie and Jack did. "That's better. Right. Now then, look at the fish... and smile!"

Jack grimaced: "It's not the easiest combination!"

A week or two later, Sam was in the Woolpack: "Oh by the way, Amos, you haven't seen this photograph, have you? You haven't either if it comes to that, Seth."

"What photo's that then, Sam?" Amos asked, a bit dour.

Sam passed him one of the photographs Matt had taken - a particularly good one of him alone with the fish. He'd even managed to dredge up the semblance of a smile.

He suggested the photograph could appear in The Hotten Courier.

"Well, angling's not my area, Sam - I could pass it on, though," said Amos. "It certainly is a big fish, in't it, Seth?" He passed the photograph to Seth.

"Aye, it's a record of skill is that!" said Sam, rather boastfully.

"Luck!" said Seth, quietly.

"Eh, what did you say?!"

"I said there's luck an' all. Anybody can catch a big fish if they're in't right place at the right time!"

Sam and Seth had already had words recently about fishing and the importance of local knowledge. Sam had pointed out that he had been fishing around Beckindale since he was a nipper, and he could give Seth a few years.

Now, with his prized Irish pike catch being ridiculed, Sam was outraged: "Seth, that was skill and nowt but skill! Are you suggesting that my angling leaves summat to be desired?"

"Nay, Sam!" said Seth, innocently.

"Now then, Sam!" cried Amos, fearing verbal or physical violence on his licenced premises.

"All right!" said Sam placatingly - he turned back to Seth: "We'll have a competition - we'll go out fishing you and me and we'll see who catches the most!"

Seth was delighted. But it wasn't joy at the prospect of baiting fish that made him smile. It was joy at baiting Sam Pearson.

On the day of the fishing contest, Sam was all of a fluster. He turned his shed and the hall cupboard upside down in search of his fishing rod - despite Annie's insistence that it was in his bedroom. Finally she went to find it for him and discovered it immediately - under his bed.

Seth arrived...

... and the two set out to prove their angling superiority...

It was quiet down by the river side. And grim. The atmosphere was distinctly hostile. The negative atmosphere mainly came from Sam - Seth was thoroughly enjoying his sport.

Tired after the excitement of preparing for the contest and lulled by the sound of running water, Sam began to nod off.

"ALL RIGHT, SAM?!" bellowed Seth, making Sam jump out of his skin.

"Shut up!" Sam left his reel and went over to Seth: "It's a fishing competition not a bloomin' football match - shouting like that!"

At that moment there was the sound of something pulling on Sam's line. He hurried back over to his fishing rod but by the time he got there the only thing on the end of his line...

... was an empty hook. Seth, of course, laughed like a drain.

Jack arrived to see how the two were getting on. Seth said he wasn't doing badly. Jack went to see his grandfather.

"You winning, Grandad?"

Sam shushed him and told Jack he wasn't doing badly.

"You're about as communicative as Seth!" grinned Jack. "Can I have a look?"

Sam stopped him "Don't look in there! I don't want him to see!"

"All right with me. But he'd not see from there, not with me in between."

"Seth's got eyes like a hawk," said Sam. He looked across at the wily gamekeeper. "Got a face like one an' all!"

Jack took his leave, and Seth grinned at Sam and gave him the thumbs up. Sam glared back. This was war and Sam didn't fraternise with the enemy.

"How about calling it a day then, Sam?" called Seth at last.

"Oh, I don't know, Seth, I can go on for a bit longer."

"Aye, me too, but I've got a bit of a thirst up. 'Ow about it?"

"Fair enough, come on then," said Sam.

"Are you going to show first?" asked Seth.

There ensued a bit of haggling over which man should show his catch first. Finally, Seth did.

"There! I'm glad it's not strip poker!" said Seth.

"Is that it?!!" Sam was incredulous.

"You've beat me this time, Sam Pearson. It's Seth Armstrong, also ran." Seth gracefully accepted his defeat.

"Well, Seth, I'll not keep you in suspense any longer," said Sam, reaching down for his catch. "There!"

And he held up the sum total of his endeavours - a tiny fish to match Seth's.

Seth laughed: "It's local knowledge as does it! Put mine and thine together, lad, and we wouldn't be eating tonight!"

Sam joined in the laughter. "Well, Seth, it's like you said there's a lot of luck in it and today we had bad luck!"

"Aye, What we gonna tell folk, though?"

"We'll tell 'em it were a draw - we threw 'em back, no more, no less!"

"We threw 'em back?" asked Seth, doing just that with his fish.

Sam followed suit. "That's it. And if they keep asking us the same question we'll give 'em the same bloomin' answer!

And that's just what they did.

Amos Brearly told Seth the result seemed like an anti-climax. But Seth replied that there had been the thrill of the chase - "Two souls locked in combat to see who were't better man!"

The reality of the situation was that Seth had thoroughly enjoyed his sport. He'd wound Sam up a treat.