Saint

I first met Saint one Saturday in May 1959. I was with my mate Billy Ellershaw and were walking to Billy’s house on Goodenber Road. The Children’s Matinee had just finished and we crept around the back of the Picture House taking the short cut, across the Brown Cow fields. Nowadays the fields have been replace by the Doctor’s Surgery a big housing estate and a Fire Station but in those days there was nothing but a few hens scratching around, and sometimes a few sheep.

We came out onto “New Street”, as the top part of Goodenber Road was called in those days. By the time we got to Billy’s House at no 44, we had forgotten all about Hopalong Cassidy , Micky Mouse and The Range Rider, and focussed our thoughts on the pending football match – the local derby between Bentham United and Ingleton.

‘Looks like Uncle Bob’s arrived,’ said Billy, as we noticed a maroon Ford Anglia parked by the gate.   As we turned to open the door I noticed a girl in our class called Sheila Tomlinson, who was sitting on the steps outside No 46.
‘Are you two playing out later?’ she said.
‘No, we’re off to t’ football match,’ said Billy.
Sheila pulled a face as we walked through the back door.
‘Uh boring!’ she said.

What I liked best when I went to see Billy was eating my favourite dinner. Nowadays I suppose I’d call it lunch but I still remember the taste. Spam on Mothers’ Pride bread washed down with a bottle of Vimto, and if you were still hungry a Nestles’ Milk Butty.

Today Mrs Ellershaw had made a big pile of sandwiches. I put one onto my plate, and then I noticed him in the corner. A big brown lump of a dog. It was hard to tell what breed he was. His coat was a sandy brown and he looked as though he should have been a Labrador, but his face was more like a Sheepdog, with the tail of a Cocker Spaniel and the paws of a German Shepherd. He was what we used to call a Heinz Dog, because he was made up of 57 varieties. That was a good description of Saint as he sat by the kitchen fire looking up at me and wagging his tail at the same time.

Just at that moment Billy’s dad and his Uncle Joe came in and Joe was asking about this Bentham and Ingleton football match.
‘They’ve got a young centre forward called Robin Adair,’ said Billy’s dad but we’ve got a good defence with the..’

At this point I felt half a ton of dog on my chest and large tongue across my mouth. Now I’ve read that this is the way a puppy greets its parents when it’s looking for food. All I knew then that I’d seen dog’s tongues in various places that I wouldn’t want near my mouth.  I spat out and coughed whilst rubbing my lips with my shirt sleeve – just in time to see a sandwich disappear off my plate.

‘Naughty boy Saint,’ said Billy’s mum as she gave me two more sandwiches. Saint was sniffing around my feet in case a crumb had been overlooked whilst I took a large swig of Vimto.   Uncle Joe, who seemed a bit embarrassed at the situation, dug deep into his pocket and produced half a crown.
‘Here lads.’ he said, ‘Get yourself a meat pie or something at the match.’

We set off with Saint on the lead, and had only just got out of the door when Sheila appeared with an empty paraffin can. Everybody used paraffin then, it was easy to buy from the local shop and it was a cheap way of keeping warm, although it did smell a bit.
‘Can I walk down to the shop with you,’ said Sheila as she began to skip
‘If you like.’ said Billy not looking her in the eye. It wasn’t long before Sheila noticed Saint,
‘What’s your dog’s name?’ she said
‘He’s, not my dog, he’s my Uncles and he’s called Saint’
‘That’s a funny name for a dog. Saint what?’ ‘Just Saint.’
‘He can’t just be Saint he must be Saint something. Like Saint Bridgid or Saint Teresa of the Roses. (Sheila was a Catholic and went to Church a lot,) or Saint Joan.’
‘He’s a boy dog, all those are girl’s names.’ said Billy looking annoyed.
‘Oh well’ she said, ‘Maybe St John or Saint Brendan or what about Saint Christopher he liked animals? Billy carried on looking ahead.
‘Does he do tricks?’ said Sheila.
‘No. he just does clever stuff.’
By this time we’d reached the end of the road and we left Sheila at the Paraffin Shop.
‘See you’ she shouted as we made our way to the ‘Horse and Farrier’, and then down the Old Lane.

On the way we talked about football, school and David Shaw’s new television which had ITV. However something had been niggling me, so when we got to the railway bridge I asked.
‘You know you said Saint didn’t do tricks just clever stuff what did you mean?’
Billy stopped suddenly and took a furtive look round just to check there was nobody looking. Saint stopped as well and sat down.
‘Well’ Billy began, ‘You know when you throw a stick, or a ball for a dog and it runs after it, brings it back and drops it at your feet?’  I nodded.
‘Well Uncle Bob is mad about Rugby League. Saint is named after the St Helens Rugby team. What he did when Saint was a puppy he taught him to catch a ball but not bring it back.
‘No? I said.

‘Yes. You had to run and touch him, then he would drop it.’
‘So what if you couldn’t catch him?’
‘Oh well he’d wait until you got tired out I think, but I don’t really know.’
‘Wow,’ I said. Can we have a go?
‘No not now, we’ll miss half the match.’ he said.

We climbed over the gate into the field opposite the Station Master’s House, I followed lifting Saint up whilst Billy caught him and lowered him down the other side.

It was a short run across the meadow to the far hedge. We soon found a gap in the hawthorn and squeezed through the hole. Laid out in front of us was the panoramic vista of Bentham Football Field.   In those days the field was covered with green grass, and the hill which looked onto the field had a number of sheep tracks. Over the years this had made it ideal as a terrace where the view of the football was as good any First Division Club – Deepdale, Turf Moor or even Old Trafford. It was here that we sat down to watch the match, with all eyes on the action.

We were just getting comfortable when the whistle went for half time. As we reached the field we passed a man with a cloth cap and pipe.
‘It’s 3-3 and Ingleton are pressing hard’. His took the pipe from his mouth and spat on the grass, looking into the distance with an air of melancholy.

We headed for the hut which served as a changing room and a kitchen which served coffee and meat pies. The coffee was always too hot to drink but the pies were out of this world. In my whole life I have never tasted a meat pie as tasty as that served on Bentham football field.

After we had eaten our pies, which we shared with Saint, we wandered off to talk to Raymond Jackson. Raymond was seated on a wooden chair next to the wall belonging to the Old Bleach Works. He wore an old suit, with trousers frayed at the edges and turned down wellingtons. Hanging from his mouth was a half-smoked Woodbine as he studied the racing pages of the Daily Mirror. Leaning against the wall next to him was an old fishing net, for Raymond had the important job of rescuing footballs which had rolled into the river. This was not unusual as there was nothing to prevent the ball falling over the river bank should it be kicked off the pitch.

‘Had any winners today?, said Brian.
‘Bugger off!’, said Raymond.

We were saved from this embarrassing predicament by the sound of a whistle which heralded the beginning of the second half. As the game was evenly matched pressure was on to score a deciding goal. The game had been resumed with an aggressive performance from Ingleton as Bentham found itself under a prolonged attack.
Suddenly Robin O’Dare pulled away from the Bentham half-backs and sent a powerful shot curving dangerously to the left top corner of the Bentham goal. Billy Noble saw it coming and leapt in the air and headed the ball out of play. It ricoched, into the field, with a double bounce, and rolled straight into the river.

‘River, River River’, shouted the excited supporters.
Raymond leapt up, dropping the newspaper and Woodbine, grabbed the net and began galloping as fast as he could to the river bank, which wasn’t very fast, followed by five cheering children and one large dog.

The River Wenning at this point can be quite shallow. Over the years the water had cut channels where the river is fast flowing as it meanders its way across the riverbed.

Raymond, who had done this many times before, ran downstream, and managed to wade along a shallow part of the river. Unfortunately for Raymond the river had divided into two channels and the ball was sailing merrily down the far channel, whilst the near channel was too deep to cross.

Raymond had worked out that if he leant over, his extended fishing net would just about reach the floating football. Now, as anyone knows, who has climbed ladders to paint windows or clear out the guttering, that it can be dangerous to over stretch. Despite this Raymond leant over and caught the football in his fishing net. The crowd of children cheered. Whether it was the noise that had distracted him or he had stretched too far, his feet slipped from under him, catapulting the ball out of the net and into the far, fast flowing channel of the river.
But all was not lost, Saint had joined the rescue by galloping downstream to where the ball had come to rest in a shallow pool.

Now it is important for our younger readers to know what a football was like in those days. It had a leather casing which could prove heavy when it got wet. Inside was a rubber bladder and the whole thing was held together by a large shoe lace, so it was quite easy for Saint to pick up the ball between his teeth, and run up the banking and along the river path back towards the football field.

Saint’s trotting was very much like that demonstrated by dogs at Crufts. His head was held high as he bounced along the path. Now the chance of Saint being entered in Crofts was unlikely, but he had that air of confidence that said, ‘Aren’t I clever. Catch me if you can!’

‘Oh No!’ said Brian as he scrambled up the river bank onto the path, and I knew exactly what he meant.
When we got back to the field Saint was sitting on the penalty spot, with the ball between his legs. His pink tongue was hanging out as he panted, looking at the referee as if for guidance for his next move. The referee had stopped the game and was talking to Saint.

‘Now come on. Nice doggie, give it to me?
‘That’s not going to work is it?’ I said to Brian.
‘Nope’ he replied.

Running out of patience the referee made a lunge at the ball. Saint leapt to his feet, grabbed the ball between his teeth and made a run for the Ingleton goal, sidestepping the entire Ingleton forward line. Ahead of him were only two defenders and a goal keeper. As they lunged at him he pulled away at the last minute. Finally he ran towards the open goal, where the goalkeeper was leaning against the far post drinking from a bottle of Tizer. Seeing Saint heading for the nearside post he made a spectacular dive. Waiting for him to hit the ground Saint jumped over him, ball in mouth, then jumped back and ran around the goal post and sat down behind the net.

‘What is he up to?’ I asked.
‘I think he’s scored a try’ said Brian.

It wasn’t long after that Saint picked up the scent of a discarded meat pie and finished it off. When he came back to the changing hut, an old man in a cloth cap appeared and gave Saint another meat pie.
‘Ee, that’s best game I’ve seen in years, he said, tha should be on’t pictures. Like Lassie’.
‘Or better still sign on for Bentham Football Team, said Brian.

On Monday I saw Brian at School. ‘What did your Uncle Bob say when you told him what had happened?’
’Oh’ he said ‘ It must have been a sign – St Helens beat Wigan 22 points to 3.’