Moggie Moo
Dedicated Member
Episode 6
TEA FOR TWO and A BICYCLE MADE FOR WU
It was an unusually quiet morning in the frosty town of Holmfirth. The chirping of the birds had ceased, and the usual clatter of tray bashing from Sid's Café was absent. The café, the heartbeat for shift workers, and a clippies' redoubt before the hooters blew, had accepted the transformation, now adorned with a gleaming sign that read "Sid's Palace." Until the blackout. It was a place where the townsfolk had gathered during these war years, to share laughter, tears, and the strongest tea this side of the Pennines. But today, there was a different sort of buzz in the air, one that couldn't be attributed to the brewing leaves.
Sid, his eyes reflecting the excitement and a hint of nervousness, was packing his travel bag with essentials for his upcoming trip to Ceylon. The United Tea Ladies commission had sent an urgent message, their voices echoing through the heavenly office, all the way to Blamire, who had relayed the news with a solemn nod when he handed him the brown envelope.
"They want me to go to Ceylon, to help 'em with their tea selection in a new plantation," Sid mumbled to Ivy, who had looked at him with a mix of pride and worry. She knew he was the best man for the job, after all he had brewed tea, a workers brew all his life, those days when he worked for his mum and dad's mobile canteen, but she couldn't help the fear of him leaving the safety of their town behind.
"Ah, but you'll be back before Christmas," she said, trying to reassure herself more than him. "And you're not going alone, remember? You've got Blamire's word on that."
Indeed, Blamire had promised to arrange for Compo and Cleggy to accompany Sid on his journey. The heavenly office had agreed that Cleggy's unique talent for laying Lino was an essential skill for the mission, especially considering the bungalow at the Chandri Heights Plantation needed a sprucing up. It was a task that would make any man's knees wobble with excitement, or in Cleggy's case, wobble from the sheer effort of fitting it. With Blamire in charge of the operation, what could go wrong?
The quartet met at the station, their breaths visible in the crisp November air. The platform was lit in blackout regulation, and the stationmaster, a man named Arkwright, was fussing over the timetables. He had a look of confusion etched on his face, as if the very fabric of reality had been altered by their presence. The midnight train to Keighley was a rare sight, but it was the first leg of their journey through the Bingley Tunnel time warp, a route that had not been traveled since before the war.
Arkwright, scratching his head under his hat, approached them with a puzzled expression. "Where might you be heading at this hour, lads?" He asked, his curiosity piqued by the sight of Sid, Compo, and Cleggy, all dressed as if they were about to embark on an adventure rather than a simple trip.
"It's a bit hush-hush, Arkwright," Blamire replied with an air of authority that seemed to emanate from his very soul. "War effort, you know how it is."
The stationmaster nodded, his eyes lingering on Compo's pith helmet that seemed utterly out of place in the chilly Yorkshire evening. "Ah, I see," he said, though it was clear he didn't see it at all. "But why the Bingley Special?"
"Tea, Arkwright," Sid interjected, his voice carrying the weight of his newfound importance. "We're off to Bingley to sort out a blend for the troops and workers. The United Tea Ladies Commission needs our expertise."
Arkwright's eyebrows shot up. "Tea, is it? Well, I wouldn't say Bingley's tropical at this time of year. But if it's for the war effort..." His voice trailed off as he considered the gravity of their mission. "Whose pies do you sell at that Palace of yours? They're a right hit with the railway lads."
Sid's chest puffed up with pride. "They're all Ivy's own recipe, mate. Can't get better than that, not even in heaven."
"Aye," Compo chimed in, his mouth watering at the mere mention of Ivy's pies. "They're the best in the land, that's for sure." Hiding the fact that they came from Hunsworth’s down Abattoir Street, delivered daily.
"And what about you, Cleggy?" Arkwright asked, his eyes resting on the raincoated man who was busy checking the train's timetable. "What's your part in this grand scheme?" " I 'd rather have a sticky bun" chirped Cleggy. "The pastry 'tends to give me indigestion." Arkwright looked at his clip board, "It says here, two rolls of Co-op Lino to accompany the Tea Travellers Lino fitter. That'll be you then, Cleggy?" stated Arkwright. "That's right, if only I could remember how to lay the damned stuff," grimaced Clegg. "No worries me old luv, it's like riding a bike, you never forget," chirped in Compo. "If it’s owt like my old bike chain, I'm gonna need plenty of sweet tea," moaned Clegg. Blamire came rushing back to the waiting company, "come on, you lot, the co-op van's here, let's get this Lino ready to load into the guards van," ordered Blamire.
The train whistle pierced the stillness, signaling the arrival of the Keighley train. A plume of steam billowed from the engine, and the metal beast pulled up to the platform with a labored groan. The four friends climbed aboard, eager to avoid any further interrogation from the curious Arkwright. The carriage was cold and draughty, a stark contrast to the warmth of Sid's Palace. They found their seats, the leather upholstery crackling beneath them, and stowed their bags in the overhead racks.
Compo pulled out an Hunsworth's pie, still warm from the café's oven, and offered it to Sid. "Here you go, Sid. Thought you might need some extra fuel for the journey." Sid took it gratefully, his stomach rumbling as he broke the golden crust. The rich, meaty aroma filled the compartment, making Cleggy's mouth water. He hadn't had time to grab a bite before they left, assuming there would be a buffet car on the train.
Blamire, ever the prepared leader, produced a pack of Player's cigarettes from his pocket and offered them around. "It's going to be a long night," he said, his voice a comforting rumble. "We'll need to stay sharp. So sharp that I’m counting every ciggy little tatty takes from me, before he puts his hands in his own pockets." Sid took one and lit up, the flame from the match briefly illuminating his face. Cleggy, who was sucking a boiled sweet, declined with a shake of his head. Instead, he reached into his canvas bag and pulled out a flask of tea. The amber liquid sloshed gently in the quiet carriage.
"Ivy packed me this," he said, unscrewing the top. "It's got a bit of a punch to it, she says. Just what we need."
The train jolted into motion, sending a tremor through the compartment. Compo, his mouth full of pie, nodded in agreement, his cheeks bulging like a squirrel's. "Aye, you're right there," he managed to say, swallowing hard. "We're going to need all the energy we can get, especially if the women are anything like Dorothy l’ Amour, I love her films" “Hark at him, forgot already why we’re going, women, beer, and horses. A one-track mind,” retorted Blamire. “Well, he bets on one-track ponies, and judging the women he collects, I shouldn’t think he’d be in with much chance with the Dorothy L’Amour’s of Trincomalee,” laughed Cleggy. “Trinkle me tea! Where the heck is that?” snorted Compo. “It’s where we are going to in Ceylon, the port and dockyards, the tea plantation is a couple of miles out of town, Trincomalee!” smiled Cleggy. “I looked it up in them encyclopedia’s that book salesman palmed off on me last month. Did you know that they export cinnamon spice from there. I love a bit of spice cake at Christmas,” digressed Cleggy. “Mince pies for me, Ivy does a lovely mince pie,” glared Sid, in a daze. “Hey come on! snap out of it, we’ve only been gone two minutes and your getting homesick. There’s a job to be done, we are the chosen ones, Snap out of it!” demanded Blamire.
The journey to Keighley was uneventful; the darkness outside the window punctuated by the occasional light from passing signal boxes. They talked in hushed tones, the gravity of their mission weighing on them. Blamire, ever the pragmatist, had brought a letter to post to ENSA, the Entertainment National Service Association. It was a polite inquiry about the possibility of Ann Shelton performing in the Far East in early December. He had a feeling that a bit of home-grown entertainment would do wonders for morale on the other side of the world.
The letter was carefully folded and tucked into the pocket of his Blazor, ready to be sent the moment they arrived in Keighley. It was a small token of hope in a time of uncertainty, a reminder that life went on, even amidst the chaos of war.
As they approached Keighley, the anticipation grew. They knew that once they stepped off this train, there would be no turning back. The Bingley Special and the Bingley Tunnel time warp lay ahead, a path into the unknown that would take them far from the familiar comforts of Holmfirth.
The train pulled into the station, the hiss of the brakes the only sound in the quiet night. The platform was eerily empty, save for the flickering regulation gas lamps that cast long shadows. No buffet car waited for them, just the cold embrace of the night air and the looming darkness of the tunnel beyond. They gathered their things, Blamire jumped off the slowing train to get to the post box.
Sid looked at the others, his face, a picture of determination. "Where’s he bogging off to? let's get this done, come on, get the Lino onto the other train," he said. "We're going to find the best blend of tea that Ceylon has to offer, and we're going to get it back home. For the troops, for Ivy, and for everyone who enjoys a good cup of tea. Despite that lanky so and so bogging off on another errand"
The two of them nodded, and together, they stepped off the train and into the adventure that awaited them, ready to conquer the Bingley Tunnel and the challenges of the Chandri Heights Plantation, all for the love of tea and country.
As they made their way down the platform, Cleggy couldn't help but notice the rolls of co-op Lino stacked neatly, each one labeled with the name 'Mrs. Dillis Peacock, Chandri Heights, Ceylon'. His mind wandered back to his days at the co-op, where he and Ivy had worked alongside Dillis behind the food and provisions counter. They had been close, all three of them, sharing laughs and cups of tea during breaks. Dillis had lost her husband early in the war, one of the few, one of the many Blenheim’s that never returned. She had to bring up their new daughter singlehanded. He had always liked his cousin Brad. There was Sherbet, who had a knack for making people smile even in the grimmest of situations. Sherbet was probably out there near El Alamein, dodging bullets and repairing the officers' Humber staff car, or cutting barbed wire for another push. He probably thought it was better than working on his dad’s allotment.
The thought brought a lump to Cleggy's throat, but he pushed it down. Now wasn't the time for nostalgia. They had a job to do, and if laying some Lino could help win the war, then that's exactly what they would do. He looked at the rolls with a new sense of purpose; the thought of Dillis and Sherbet's sacrifice fueling his resolve. Blamire came running back to meet them, breathless he uttered, “Just made it, caught the midnight post, they’ll have it tomorrow, first class you know.” It fell on deaf ears, as the other three stumbled down the platform with the Lino and bags of tropical kit. “I’ll explain later.” Shouted Blamire as he took hold of one end of a Lino roll.
As they approached the Bingley Special, the train looked like a ghostly apparition, shrouded in steam. Its engine chuffed and snorted impatiently, as if it too knew the urgency of their mission. The four friends climbed aboard, finding their designated compartment with the ease of seasoned travelers.
The interior of the train was a stark reminder of the times. The once-plush seats were now worn and threadbare; the mahogany panels chipped and faded. But it was the warmth of their friendship and the shared belief in their cause that made the journey feel at home.
The conductor, a stern man with a clipboard, checked their tickets and nodded curtly before moving on. They were the only passengers on the train, a testament to the secrecy of their mission. The doors slammed shut, and with a jolt, they were off, hurtling through the night towards the Bingley Tunnel.
As the train picked up speed, Cleggy took a swig of his tea from the flask, the warmth spreading through his body like a balm. He glanced at the others, their faces a mix of excitement and apprehension. They had a long way to go, but they were in this together, and nothing would stop them from bringing the finest tea blend back to Holmfirth.
The Bingley Tunnel was a different story altogether. The moment they entered, the air grew thick with anticipation and that smell of antique soot. The darkness was complete, save for the flicker of the lamps that lined the arched coach ceiling. The train's running lamp pierced the blackness, casting eerie shadows that danced across the ancient brickwork.
"Crash the Ash," Compo murmured, breaking the tense silence that had settled over them.
Blamire, ever the realist, shot him a look. "That man there," he said, nodding towards Compo, "has all the diplomatic qualities of the enemy, and can you feel it, we're getting warmer. I do hope when he changes into his tropical kit, his shorts aren't short of all their allotted material."
The tension in the compartment broke with a burst of laughter, the sound bouncing off the mahogany walls and disappearing into the void. It was a small victory, a brief reprieve from their mission.
As the train chugged deeper into the tunnel, the air grew warmer, almost tropical. They knew they were being transported through time and space, and not just the English countryside. They knew they were about to enter a new world, one fraught with challenges and adventures. They decided to change into their tropical kit. They had been supplied army issue tropical shirts and shorts, socks, six pairs, underwear, and boots. They each had their own pith helmet. Compo was soon changed, he looked so smart, if any one looked disheveled it was Sid. He did not have the correct number of buttons on his shorts for his own braces to be applied evenly. He had to ask Compo if he could borrow his piece of string, on an impermanent basis until he could get some extra buttons sewn to his shorts. “By heck!” Cheered Blamire, “if this mission has any success, it’s getting tatty there out of those wellies.” Cleggy still insisted on wearing his cardigan until at least he had assessed the climate. “You never know if it’s going to get chilly in the evenings, once the sun goes down, and I noticed they have not supplied us with any vests.” He squirmed.
The light grew brighter, and gradually the tunnel walls began to recede. The train burst forth into the bright sunshine of Trincomalee, Ceylon. The friends looked out in awe at the lush greenery that surrounded them. The air was thick with the scent of spices and exotic flowers, a stark contrast to the cold, damp air of a November Holmfirth. "Just like Yorkshire Relish, beautiful" gasped Cleggy as he buttoned up his cardigan.
They had arrived in Trincomalee. The Chandri Heights Plantation awaited them, and with it, Captain Peacock, a man known for his flamboyant strut and sharp tongue. But they were ready. Armed with Sid's tea-making skills and Cleggy's unrivaled Lino expertise, they were ready to tackle whatever lay ahead.
The train pulled to a halt, the wheels screeching against the tracks, and the door swung open with a creak that seemed to echo through the dockyard. They stepped out into the heat, their eyes squinting against the sudden onslaught of light.
"Welcome to Ceylon, lads," Sid said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. "Let's get some breakfast. Where's the Char Waller, I could, right do a bacon banjo."
Their adventure had begun, and already, they could feel the warmth of the sun and the promise of a successful mission. They had tea to find, Lino to lay, and a war to win. And not even the most feared time warps had deterred them from their quest. A paragraph from The New User Manual, for Time Warps and Celestial Portals came to mind, as Blamire stepped off the train.
The heavenly civil engineering service had redesigned the Bingley Tunnel after the fall of Khartoum. It was thought it might be used both ways, but the engineers had discovered that the exit module had malfunctioned on two occasions, the first had brought a brigade of cavalry out into the path of a barrage of cannons in the Crimea. The second time a train carrying Rhubarb was derailed coming out into the Khyber Pass, closing the tunnel for one hundred years. A subsequent celestial inquiry provided for a complete overall of the existing exit modules, and any newer portals would only be supplied with Yorkshire materials and fittings.
Blamire thought it would be best not to burden his team with this information. “I bet they don’t make bacon butties like your Ivy does.” Sighed Blamire. “Now, who’s getting home sick?” Chortled Sid.
A truck was laid on to pick them up and take them to the plantation Bungalow. They loaded the Lino and the rest of their tropical gear, got themselves a seat in the back of the truck and it slowly made its way up to the bungalow.
They found Captain Peacock at the plantation house, a grand structure that overlooked the sprawling tea fields. He was a man who took up space, his uniform adorned with an array of medals and his moustache waxed to sharp points. His eyes lit up when he saw Sid, and he extended his hand, a wide smile spreading across his face.
"Ah, the legendary tea-maker," he boomed. "We've been expecting you. The Tea Ladies Commission spoke very highly of your urn's prowess."
Sid blushed, his hand disappearing into the captain's firm grip. "Just doing me bit, Cap'n," he said modestly.
Peacocks gaze flickered to Compo and Cleggy. "And these are your... associates?"
"The best there is," Sid said proudly. "Compos got a way with words that could charm the birds from the trees, and Cleggy here can lay Lino like nobody's business."
The captain raised an eyebrow. "Lino, you say? Well, I'll be damned. The bungalow could do with some sprucing up before the ministry arrives. They said that the Lino was a complimentary extra, but I'd call it a bung for the goods" Then the Captain burst into a roaring laugh.
The mention of the ministry brought a new level of urgency to their task. They had to impress, not just for the sake of the tea ladies, but for the officials who held the fate of the plantation in their hands.
But first, there was a small matter of meeting the locals. A group of tea pickers had gathered at the edge of the plantation, watching them curiously. One of them, a young woman with a baby on her hip, stepped forward and offered them a steaming cup of tea.
"Thank you, love," Sid said, accepting the cup with both hands. He took a sip and grimaced. It was unlike anything he had ever tasted, a blend that could wake the dead. "This is... interesting," he managed to say.
The woman, her eyes twinkling with mischief, replied, "It's our special blend. It keeps us affirmative all day long."
The men looked at each other, their resolve hardening. This wasn’t going to be a tough crowd to win over. Sid had a plan. "Ivys got just the thing back home," he said with a wink. "We'll show 'em what real English tea is all about." "What's Ivy got then," irritated Compo. "Perhaps it's that bromide she keeps adding to the urn on a morning, to stop them bus drivers and clippies from cavorting," chuckled Blamire lighting up his player. “No! you know what Ivy likes, everything prim and proper, Cut the edges off the cucumber sandwiches, fancy curtains and table cloths, you know, that sort of thing.” Smiled Sid. “We could turn one of those sheds into a tea room, teach the locals how we do it at home.” He continued.
But it wasn't just the tea they had to worry about. The plantation was teeming with life, and not all of it was friendly. They encountered a troupe of monkeys that had taken a liking to Compo's hat, a snake that had slithered into the bungalow and had to be persuaded to leave, and a particularly feisty rooster that would take to waking them up every morning at dawn and when Blamire was doing his morning inspection, it would chase him to the tea room, pecking at his ankles until he threw it a piece of bread.
And then there were the rumors of Japanese spies, lurking in the shadows of the plantation, looking to sabotage their efforts. The war was never far from their minds, a constant reminder of why they were there.
Sid took it all in his stride, enthusiasm for the task never waning. He threw himself into tasting every blend, making notes and suggestions, while Cleggy worked tirelessly on the Lino, sweat pouring down his face despite the shade of his flat cap. He might have to remove his cardigan if it should become even more humid.
Compo, ever the charmer, had struck up a friendship with the tea pickers, there were no Dorothys, but he regaled them with tales of his ferreting, poaching, and the escapades of Sherbet and the others back home. He showed them how to swing dance and croon. They listened, enraptured, and soon, they were sharing their own stories, their laughter carrying on the breeze.
One evening, as they sat around the campfire, sipping on the latest blend, Captain Peacock leaned back in his chair and studied them. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "you're a peculiar bunch, but you've got something special. Something that's going to make this plantation the best in the region."
Sid grinned, his eyes alight with the challenge. "You just watch us, Cap'n," he said. "We'll have this tea sorted in no time, and those Japanese won't know what's going to hit 'em."
The captain chuckled, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "I've no doubt about it," he said. "But let's keep our focus on the tea for now. We've no war at the moment, but it's coming, that's for sure. The war tonight can wait for a cup of good brew."
They continued their work for the next few days, filled with the sweet scent of tea and the sound of laughter. The plantation was their home away from home, and the people, their newfound family. But the clock was ticking, and the ministry's visit was drawing ever closer. Would they be able to pull it off? Or would the heat, the monkeys, and the ever-present threat of espionage or sore ankles, be too much for the four friends from Holmfirth?
The night before Dillis was to return with the new curtaining material; the air was electric with anticipation. They had worked hard to prepare for her arrival, the bungalow gleaming with fresh paint and the smell of polish. Cleggy had laid the Lino with a meticulousness that would have made even the most fastidious of housewives proud.
They sat on the terrace, sipping on a cocktail that Compo had managed to procure from a local black-market hooch, smoking cigars that had been a gift from the captain. The stars above them twinkled like the lights of home, a reminder of the life they had left behind.
"You know," Compo said, his eyes on the distant horizon, "I never knew tea could be so bloody complicated."
"Aye, that’s true" Blamire agreed, his voice low and contemplative. "But it's more than just a drink. It's a way of life. If we could take this, all back to blighty with us, I don’t think we would be far from paradise. Now I’ll explain my kafuffle back at Bingley Station. I sent a letter to ENSA about troop entertainment, requesting information about who, or if anyone would be here in Ceylon. Particularly ascertaining to Ann Shelton.” Compo chirped up, “He goes on about me! and all the while he’s trying to shack up with Ann Shelton.” Compo folded his arms and slumped back in his chair. Blamire retaliated “No listen, I wanted to bring some comfort for the troops, and as you know Ann Shelton is a great comfort to me. However those in charge back home have sent me a letter, which I shall read.
Dear Mr. Blamire thanks for your letter of the 20th November 1941. Also, for your serial no HH45061976 which we will keep for future reference on this matter. It appears from our records that you are working for a higher echelon than the ‘Far East Command.’ After consultation with your higher authority, it appears that we have to give you a situation report as to upcoming arrangements for entertainment artists recruited by ENSA.
Ann Shelton will not be appearing anywhere in the Far East for the foreseeable future as she has committed herself to working the Works Canteen circuit of West Yorkshire and surrounding areas, along with radio broadcasts on the world service. Because Ceylon has not yet been classified as a War Zone, there are no plans to include your area on any Itinerary. ENSA, as a working body is creating an expeditionary entertainment troop to be stationed at Number 8 Garrison Rawalpindi before the end of the year.
Artistes approached with possible confirmation are George Formby, Max Wall, depending on medical results for RAF Call UP. Musical accompaniment may be forth coming from Geraldo and his Groucho Orchestra but his commitments are somewhat limited due to his contract with Cunard and the U-Boat situation in the Atlantic. However, there is a contingency plan to offer David Lee of the Stanhope Arms, Pudsey, a long-term contract providing he can make his own way there. We are reliable informed he can tickle the ivories with the best of them. We have hopes for a lady’s section of chorus girls but this all depends on which piers they close for the war effort.
I hope this finds you with less disappointment as it does to us, here at the Hippodrome Cleckheaton, West Yorkshire. Should any further correspondence be necessary please enquire as to where we are billeted. All being well this looks like a safe gaff, there is nothing to bomb here. Good Look
Captain Jonathan Tarquin "Tippy" Dashwood senior entertainments Co-Ordinator.
So, there we have it my friends, it seems that this part of the world is being forgotten, the sooner we can get this war over the better things will be all round.”
Sid nodded, his thoughts on Ivy and the comfort her tea had brought to so many. "It's our duty," he said solemnly. "To make sure our boys get the best cup of tea, no matter where they are, a taste of home."
They raised their glasses in a silent toast, the flame from the nearby candles flickering in the warm breeze. They were ready for whatever the morrow would bring, be it beautiful curtains or a visit from the most feared officials in the land.
But the morrow had more surprises in store for them. As Sid was taking his morning stroll through the plantation, he stumbled upon an ancient tea ceremony being performed by a group of religious men, in a hidden clearing. The air was thick with incense and the sweet aroma of a blend he had never encountered before.
The men, seeing his curiosity, beckoned him closer. Through gestures and a few words of broken English, they communicated the importance of this ceremony. It was a blend that had been passed down through generations, a secret that could give them the edge they needed in the war. Drinking this brew could make men lust for victory, although not narcotic, the caffeine and tanning strengthen their resolve to win but it had the added ingredient, "The Way of Life. It did mark the furniture but if wiped up quickly it didn't leave much of a stain, in fact it covered any scratches.
Sid's eyes widened as he realized the gravity of what he had stumbled upon. If they could get this tea to the troops, it could mean the difference between victory and defeat. The workers would sing about it during their canteen breaks. His heart racing, he knew he had to share this with the others.
That evening, over a dinner of fragrant curry and sticky rice, Sid recounted his discovery to Blamire, Compo, and Clegg. Their eyes grew wide as they listened, and when he had finished, they sat in stunned silence.
"Blamire," Sid said urgently, his voice low. "We've got to get this back to England. And fast."
Blamire nodded gravely. "I'll see to the security arrangements," he said. "We can't let this fall into the wrong hands."
They knew the Japanese spies were everywhere, their eyes and ears hidden in the most unexpected places. It was a risk, but one they had to take.
The next morning's hours were a flurry of activity as they worked to procure the blessed brew. Blamire, with his knack for diplomacy, negotiated with the religious men while Sid perfected the blend. It meant that every chest of tea had to be blessed before it could be loaded. Cleggy, ever resourceful, had come up with a way to smuggle out samples of the tea in the old Lino cardboard rolls and asked the ministry officials to get them on board a submarine and back to the Blighty research and development department at Whitehall. Compo, for his part, kept the local tea pickers distracted with his tall tales of the Blitz and with games of Doms and cards.
The plan was simple: they would present the new blend to the ministry officials, all while keeping the true source of its power a secret.
The day of the inspection dawned bright and hot. The air was thick with the scent of tea leaves, and the chirp of birds filled the plantation. Dillis had arrived, her eyes wide as she took in the transformation of the bungalow. "You've done a right good job, lads," she said, her voice thick with emotion. " Oh, Mr. Clegg, I seem to know your face. Are you from Holmfirth, CO - OP? I knew a Norman Clegg once; he would blush just like you when I spoke to him. He's probably in the desert rats or something now. I do hope he will be ok. I was married to his cousin, one of the few," she said, holding back the tears. Cleggy looked at her, his cap in his hands, he replied," It's a common name around those parts, an old man like me would have to dig deep into my memories to see if I was connected in any way. I seem to remember seeing your face behind the provisions counter from time to time, but you are bearing up no end after your loss. Your little girl is safe, back home. You'll be safe here, take my word. You've had enough sadness from what the captain told us. " She smiled at him saying, " have you heard that saying 'Deja vu', it's just made my neck hair stand on end." " That's funny mam. The pattern on this Lino did exactly the same to me," laughed Cleggy. She explained that she had met Captain Peacock at a dance, it was a fund raiser for a Spitfire. “The Huddersfield Spit, they nicknamed it. I don’t know if he felt sorry for me or what? Anyway, Mam said I’d had enough bad look and to take a chance, so here I’ am.” Thrilled Dillis.
The officials arrived promptly at ten, sweating in their stiff collars and crisp white blazers. They looked around the plantation with a critical eye, making notes and asking questions. Sid's heart hammered in his chest as they approached the urn of tea, He had so painstakingly crafted.
With a flourish, he offered them each a cup, watching as they took a sip. The effect was instant. Their eyes brightened, their shoulders straightened, and their faces broke into smiles.
"This," one of them said, setting down his cup with a clink, "this is what we need. This is the tea that will keep our boys fighting."
The others murmured in agreement, and Sid felt a swell of pride. They had done it.
But the day was not without its drama. As they were packing up the tea to ship home, they caught wind of a Japanese trade delegation heading their way. Panic set in, but Blamire was unflappable. "We've got to get the tea samples in the Lino rolls back to the docks," he said. "let's get ourselves through the bushes and down to the docks to guard them."
They made their way to the vehicle compound, their hearts racing as they approached the docks. The bustle of the port was a stark contrast to the tranquility of the plantation. The cacophony of voices, the honk of horns, and the clank of machinery was overwhelming. And there, in the midst of it all, was Foggy Dewhurst, his pith helmet askew, barking orders at the native bearers as they loaded the tea chests onto a truck.
"Foggy!" Sid shouted, his voice barely audible over the din.
Foggy spun around, his face a picture of surprise and relief. "Sid! Blamire! Cleggy! What the blood and stomach pills are you doing here?”
They explained their mission, and Foggy's eyes grew wide. "Tea for the troops, you say? Well, I've got just the thing." He led them to a corner of the compound, where a large crate was labeled 'Fragile: Tea Sets'.
"I've been working on this," he said, a twinkle in his eye. "A little something to keep the Japanese guessing."
Inside the crate was a collection of exquisite tea sets, painted with the most lifelike British lions Cleggy had ever seen. "I figured if they're going to steal our tea, we might as well give them a taste of home," Foggy said with a chuckle.
The friends shared a knowing look. If ever there was a man who could make a cup of tea feel like a declaration of war, it was Foggy Dewhurst.
As the Japanese trade delegation arrived, Foggy took the lead. He approached them, pointing to the closed tea set chests, his gait that of a man who had been born to sell. His words flowed like honey, sweet, and persuasive. The Japanese officials eyed the chests with interest, their curiosity piqued by the fervor in Foggy's voice.
"This isn't just any tea," he said, his voice rising to a crescendo. "This is the finest blend from the Chandri Heights Plantation. It's got the strength to wake the dead and the flavor to conquer nations."
The Japanese exchanged glances, and a murmur of excitement rippled through their ranks. They hadn't expected to find such treasure here.
Compo, meanwhile, had donned a disguise. With a fake mustache and a borrowed turban, he blended in perfectly with the local workers. His job was to keep an eye on the Lino rolls, ensuring they made it onto the submarine unnoticed.
The delegation was led to the truck, where Cleggy, sweating profusely, had ingeniously hidden the tea sets under the Lino rolls. The Japanese, impressed by the gleaming chests and the promise of English tea, didn't give the rolls a second glance or even check inside the tea chests.
Foggy watched as the officials inspected a chosen proper chest of tea, with greedy eyes. His heart was racing, but he kept his cool. He knew that one wrong move would mean disaster for their mission. The tension was palpable as the lead Japanese delegate pulled out a thick envelope.
"We will pay the top price," he said, his voice thick with excitement. "Our country craves this tea. Name your price."
Foggy's eyes lit up. He had them hooked. "For this," he said, pausing for dramatic effect, "we require a... banker's draft. Payable to the crown."
The delegate nodded, and with a flurry of bows and handshakes, the exchange was made. The envelope was passed over, and Foggy tucked it into his pocket without even looking inside.
"Now," he barked at Billy Ingleton, who was hovering nearby. "Get the rest of these chests loaded on the truck and down to the steamer. We don't want to keep the captain waiting." Billy nodded, his eyes wide with excitement. This was more of an adventure that he had ever dreamed of.
Compo and his team swiftly removed the carboard rolls with the tea samples, and scurred them to the other dock where the submarine was waiting.
Billy and his crew completed the loading, and waved the driver off.
As they watched the truck drive away, the friends breathed a collective sigh of relief. They had done it. They had fooled the enemy and secured the future of the plantation. There would be a constant supply of Tea at least from this plantation.
"How did you end up in Ceylon, Foggy?" Sid asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
Foggy wiped his brow with a handkerchief and leaned against a stack of crates. "Ah, that's a story for another time," he said with a wink. "Let's just say I got tired of the same old grind back in the heavenlies and decided to take a little detour."
The truth was, Foggy, back in his own personal heaven, had got on the wrong train from Wales back in June 1978; his mind set on an oriental cruise seeing the exotic lands he had tall taled so much about. But as fate would have it, he had landed right in the middle of their tea mission, and he couldn't resist the opportunity to lend a hand. He thought of himself as the advanced party. " Oh, and Billy there, He was sent out with the Yorkshire Light Band to tune their touring piano, but they said he was tone deaf and transferred him to the regimental signs and information office" Laughed Foggy " I found him painting a no entry sign outside the Fe Fe Club. I asked him if it should have said OFF LIMITS? Then he said no, it's a no entry for motorcycles and pillion riders, because the owner has stopped making home deliveries, cos of the war, fuel and that." " Strewth," sighed Blamire " I thought takeaways were a modern invention."
The next day, the 6th of December, the air was thick with the scent of brewing tea and the faint whiff of fear. News had reached them of the Japanese troop buildup at the Hong Kong boarder. The coming war had reached a terrifying new height, and the whispers grew louder about the fate of Singapore.
Dillis, who had been helping in the kitchen, brought them the latest newspaper, her eyes red from crying. "My sisters in Singapore," she said, her voice trembling. "Oh God, what will become of her?"
They all fell silent, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily on them. Even in the midst of their victory, the shadow of war was looming large. “They say that Singapore is impregnable, but we all know contraception is only ninety nine percent safe, if you don’t believe me, look at all the air raid precautions they have back home, the bombs still get through,” shrugged Cleggy, as Compo took a swipe at Clegg with his cap.
Ther was no time to dwell on the bad news. They had another mission to complete. The Japanese had shown interest in all the local bicycles, and it was Cleggy who came up with a daring plan to use this to their advantage. He had noticed that the Japanese were obsessed with bikes, often dismantling them to study the design for their own war efforts.
"We'll sabotage the bikes," he suggested, his eyes alight with the brilliance of his idea. " We'll give 'em the ones that we've removed the cotter pins and pedals."
The others looked at him skeptically, but as he explained further, they began to see the merit in his plan. Compo chirped up, "Aye we can take out the glue from the free puncture outfits that'll fox 'em." " That's the spirit, mi boys," smiled Cleggy. "The last freighter on the docks will leave in the morning can we sabotage the last load " Piped up Blamire. " We'll have to get on board now " insisted Sid.
So, under the cover of darkness, the four of them donned the disguises of deck hands. The freighter loomed large in the moonlit harbor, its cargo hold, a treasure trove of bicycles destined for the Japanese war machine. They moved with the ease of men who had known each other for decades, their friendship a silent bond that made their movements synchronized.
They worked quickly, their nimble hands removing the crucial parts from each bike with the precision of a surgeon. They had to be careful not to arouse suspicion, their breaths coming in short gasps as they listened for any signs of discovery.
As they worked, they whispered to each other, sharing memories of home and joking about the absurdity of their situation. It was a tense ballet of sabotage, each step calculated to ensure their safety and the success of their mission.
The night air was thick with the sound of waves lapping against the hull and the occasional shout from the dockyard, but they remained undetected. By the time the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, they had managed to sabotage every bike on the freighter.
Early dawn's light back at the bungalow saw them saying their goodbyes. Foggy, ever the adventurer, declared, "I'd like to try and get up to Burma, see those little people I helped during my younger days' stint out here." Compo and Cleggy exchanged knowing smiles; their faces etched with the fatigue of their night's work, but spirits undimmed. Sid, ever practical, remarked, "Don't forget your camouflage training, Foggy. It'll get a bit hairy up in Burma." Just then, Blakey's battered bus rattled to a stop at the front gate. Blakey leaned out, his voice a familiar, weary moan: "This way, lads! Bingley train's been cancelled, leaves on the line! Only way backs with me, via Cairo. Come on, chop chop!" They were reluctant to leave Ceylon's warmth and the camaraderie they'd forged, but thoughts of home—of Ivy's pies and pints at the pub—stirred a deep longing. With a final wave to Dillis and Captain Peacock, they piled onto the bus, its engine coughing like an old smoker.
The journey was a blur of dusty roads, tunnels and makeshift checkpoints. They swapped stories—Foggy embellishing his Burma plans, Cleggy fretting about the Lino's durability, Compo lamenting the lack of decent dominoes—all while Blakey navigated potholes with grumbled curses and sigh of relief as they emerged from Calverley Cutting, out on to the Harrogate Road turning south to Huddersfield. Finally, Sid's Palace loomed ahead, its familiar sign creaking in the Yorkshire wind. Ivy burst from the doorway, arms wide. Before she could cry "Welcome home!", Compo chirped up, scratching his head, "Hey Ivy, what's this stuff you put in the tea? Think you might've ruined my love life! " Nora chimed up, "It didn't stop me wearing my yard brush out, that's for sure." A roar of laughter erupted. Blamire, already heading for his usual table, bellowed over the noise, "Three teas, Sid! And a sticky bun—proper Yorkshire fare!" Sid grinned, the Ceylon adventure settling into memory as he reached for the urn. “Tomorrow morning, I’m straight on that Cleckheaton bus. That Tippy Dashwood is going to get a piece of my mind.” Squawked Blamire. Ivy looked at Sid and whispered, “Glad to be home luv.”
TEA FOR TWO and A BICYCLE MADE FOR WU
It was an unusually quiet morning in the frosty town of Holmfirth. The chirping of the birds had ceased, and the usual clatter of tray bashing from Sid's Café was absent. The café, the heartbeat for shift workers, and a clippies' redoubt before the hooters blew, had accepted the transformation, now adorned with a gleaming sign that read "Sid's Palace." Until the blackout. It was a place where the townsfolk had gathered during these war years, to share laughter, tears, and the strongest tea this side of the Pennines. But today, there was a different sort of buzz in the air, one that couldn't be attributed to the brewing leaves.
Sid, his eyes reflecting the excitement and a hint of nervousness, was packing his travel bag with essentials for his upcoming trip to Ceylon. The United Tea Ladies commission had sent an urgent message, their voices echoing through the heavenly office, all the way to Blamire, who had relayed the news with a solemn nod when he handed him the brown envelope.
"They want me to go to Ceylon, to help 'em with their tea selection in a new plantation," Sid mumbled to Ivy, who had looked at him with a mix of pride and worry. She knew he was the best man for the job, after all he had brewed tea, a workers brew all his life, those days when he worked for his mum and dad's mobile canteen, but she couldn't help the fear of him leaving the safety of their town behind.
"Ah, but you'll be back before Christmas," she said, trying to reassure herself more than him. "And you're not going alone, remember? You've got Blamire's word on that."
Indeed, Blamire had promised to arrange for Compo and Cleggy to accompany Sid on his journey. The heavenly office had agreed that Cleggy's unique talent for laying Lino was an essential skill for the mission, especially considering the bungalow at the Chandri Heights Plantation needed a sprucing up. It was a task that would make any man's knees wobble with excitement, or in Cleggy's case, wobble from the sheer effort of fitting it. With Blamire in charge of the operation, what could go wrong?
The quartet met at the station, their breaths visible in the crisp November air. The platform was lit in blackout regulation, and the stationmaster, a man named Arkwright, was fussing over the timetables. He had a look of confusion etched on his face, as if the very fabric of reality had been altered by their presence. The midnight train to Keighley was a rare sight, but it was the first leg of their journey through the Bingley Tunnel time warp, a route that had not been traveled since before the war.
Arkwright, scratching his head under his hat, approached them with a puzzled expression. "Where might you be heading at this hour, lads?" He asked, his curiosity piqued by the sight of Sid, Compo, and Cleggy, all dressed as if they were about to embark on an adventure rather than a simple trip.
"It's a bit hush-hush, Arkwright," Blamire replied with an air of authority that seemed to emanate from his very soul. "War effort, you know how it is."
The stationmaster nodded, his eyes lingering on Compo's pith helmet that seemed utterly out of place in the chilly Yorkshire evening. "Ah, I see," he said, though it was clear he didn't see it at all. "But why the Bingley Special?"
"Tea, Arkwright," Sid interjected, his voice carrying the weight of his newfound importance. "We're off to Bingley to sort out a blend for the troops and workers. The United Tea Ladies Commission needs our expertise."
Arkwright's eyebrows shot up. "Tea, is it? Well, I wouldn't say Bingley's tropical at this time of year. But if it's for the war effort..." His voice trailed off as he considered the gravity of their mission. "Whose pies do you sell at that Palace of yours? They're a right hit with the railway lads."
Sid's chest puffed up with pride. "They're all Ivy's own recipe, mate. Can't get better than that, not even in heaven."
"Aye," Compo chimed in, his mouth watering at the mere mention of Ivy's pies. "They're the best in the land, that's for sure." Hiding the fact that they came from Hunsworth’s down Abattoir Street, delivered daily.
"And what about you, Cleggy?" Arkwright asked, his eyes resting on the raincoated man who was busy checking the train's timetable. "What's your part in this grand scheme?" " I 'd rather have a sticky bun" chirped Cleggy. "The pastry 'tends to give me indigestion." Arkwright looked at his clip board, "It says here, two rolls of Co-op Lino to accompany the Tea Travellers Lino fitter. That'll be you then, Cleggy?" stated Arkwright. "That's right, if only I could remember how to lay the damned stuff," grimaced Clegg. "No worries me old luv, it's like riding a bike, you never forget," chirped in Compo. "If it’s owt like my old bike chain, I'm gonna need plenty of sweet tea," moaned Clegg. Blamire came rushing back to the waiting company, "come on, you lot, the co-op van's here, let's get this Lino ready to load into the guards van," ordered Blamire.
The train whistle pierced the stillness, signaling the arrival of the Keighley train. A plume of steam billowed from the engine, and the metal beast pulled up to the platform with a labored groan. The four friends climbed aboard, eager to avoid any further interrogation from the curious Arkwright. The carriage was cold and draughty, a stark contrast to the warmth of Sid's Palace. They found their seats, the leather upholstery crackling beneath them, and stowed their bags in the overhead racks.
Compo pulled out an Hunsworth's pie, still warm from the café's oven, and offered it to Sid. "Here you go, Sid. Thought you might need some extra fuel for the journey." Sid took it gratefully, his stomach rumbling as he broke the golden crust. The rich, meaty aroma filled the compartment, making Cleggy's mouth water. He hadn't had time to grab a bite before they left, assuming there would be a buffet car on the train.
Blamire, ever the prepared leader, produced a pack of Player's cigarettes from his pocket and offered them around. "It's going to be a long night," he said, his voice a comforting rumble. "We'll need to stay sharp. So sharp that I’m counting every ciggy little tatty takes from me, before he puts his hands in his own pockets." Sid took one and lit up, the flame from the match briefly illuminating his face. Cleggy, who was sucking a boiled sweet, declined with a shake of his head. Instead, he reached into his canvas bag and pulled out a flask of tea. The amber liquid sloshed gently in the quiet carriage.
"Ivy packed me this," he said, unscrewing the top. "It's got a bit of a punch to it, she says. Just what we need."
The train jolted into motion, sending a tremor through the compartment. Compo, his mouth full of pie, nodded in agreement, his cheeks bulging like a squirrel's. "Aye, you're right there," he managed to say, swallowing hard. "We're going to need all the energy we can get, especially if the women are anything like Dorothy l’ Amour, I love her films" “Hark at him, forgot already why we’re going, women, beer, and horses. A one-track mind,” retorted Blamire. “Well, he bets on one-track ponies, and judging the women he collects, I shouldn’t think he’d be in with much chance with the Dorothy L’Amour’s of Trincomalee,” laughed Cleggy. “Trinkle me tea! Where the heck is that?” snorted Compo. “It’s where we are going to in Ceylon, the port and dockyards, the tea plantation is a couple of miles out of town, Trincomalee!” smiled Cleggy. “I looked it up in them encyclopedia’s that book salesman palmed off on me last month. Did you know that they export cinnamon spice from there. I love a bit of spice cake at Christmas,” digressed Cleggy. “Mince pies for me, Ivy does a lovely mince pie,” glared Sid, in a daze. “Hey come on! snap out of it, we’ve only been gone two minutes and your getting homesick. There’s a job to be done, we are the chosen ones, Snap out of it!” demanded Blamire.
The journey to Keighley was uneventful; the darkness outside the window punctuated by the occasional light from passing signal boxes. They talked in hushed tones, the gravity of their mission weighing on them. Blamire, ever the pragmatist, had brought a letter to post to ENSA, the Entertainment National Service Association. It was a polite inquiry about the possibility of Ann Shelton performing in the Far East in early December. He had a feeling that a bit of home-grown entertainment would do wonders for morale on the other side of the world.
The letter was carefully folded and tucked into the pocket of his Blazor, ready to be sent the moment they arrived in Keighley. It was a small token of hope in a time of uncertainty, a reminder that life went on, even amidst the chaos of war.
As they approached Keighley, the anticipation grew. They knew that once they stepped off this train, there would be no turning back. The Bingley Special and the Bingley Tunnel time warp lay ahead, a path into the unknown that would take them far from the familiar comforts of Holmfirth.
The train pulled into the station, the hiss of the brakes the only sound in the quiet night. The platform was eerily empty, save for the flickering regulation gas lamps that cast long shadows. No buffet car waited for them, just the cold embrace of the night air and the looming darkness of the tunnel beyond. They gathered their things, Blamire jumped off the slowing train to get to the post box.
Sid looked at the others, his face, a picture of determination. "Where’s he bogging off to? let's get this done, come on, get the Lino onto the other train," he said. "We're going to find the best blend of tea that Ceylon has to offer, and we're going to get it back home. For the troops, for Ivy, and for everyone who enjoys a good cup of tea. Despite that lanky so and so bogging off on another errand"
The two of them nodded, and together, they stepped off the train and into the adventure that awaited them, ready to conquer the Bingley Tunnel and the challenges of the Chandri Heights Plantation, all for the love of tea and country.
As they made their way down the platform, Cleggy couldn't help but notice the rolls of co-op Lino stacked neatly, each one labeled with the name 'Mrs. Dillis Peacock, Chandri Heights, Ceylon'. His mind wandered back to his days at the co-op, where he and Ivy had worked alongside Dillis behind the food and provisions counter. They had been close, all three of them, sharing laughs and cups of tea during breaks. Dillis had lost her husband early in the war, one of the few, one of the many Blenheim’s that never returned. She had to bring up their new daughter singlehanded. He had always liked his cousin Brad. There was Sherbet, who had a knack for making people smile even in the grimmest of situations. Sherbet was probably out there near El Alamein, dodging bullets and repairing the officers' Humber staff car, or cutting barbed wire for another push. He probably thought it was better than working on his dad’s allotment.
The thought brought a lump to Cleggy's throat, but he pushed it down. Now wasn't the time for nostalgia. They had a job to do, and if laying some Lino could help win the war, then that's exactly what they would do. He looked at the rolls with a new sense of purpose; the thought of Dillis and Sherbet's sacrifice fueling his resolve. Blamire came running back to meet them, breathless he uttered, “Just made it, caught the midnight post, they’ll have it tomorrow, first class you know.” It fell on deaf ears, as the other three stumbled down the platform with the Lino and bags of tropical kit. “I’ll explain later.” Shouted Blamire as he took hold of one end of a Lino roll.
As they approached the Bingley Special, the train looked like a ghostly apparition, shrouded in steam. Its engine chuffed and snorted impatiently, as if it too knew the urgency of their mission. The four friends climbed aboard, finding their designated compartment with the ease of seasoned travelers.
The interior of the train was a stark reminder of the times. The once-plush seats were now worn and threadbare; the mahogany panels chipped and faded. But it was the warmth of their friendship and the shared belief in their cause that made the journey feel at home.
The conductor, a stern man with a clipboard, checked their tickets and nodded curtly before moving on. They were the only passengers on the train, a testament to the secrecy of their mission. The doors slammed shut, and with a jolt, they were off, hurtling through the night towards the Bingley Tunnel.
As the train picked up speed, Cleggy took a swig of his tea from the flask, the warmth spreading through his body like a balm. He glanced at the others, their faces a mix of excitement and apprehension. They had a long way to go, but they were in this together, and nothing would stop them from bringing the finest tea blend back to Holmfirth.
The Bingley Tunnel was a different story altogether. The moment they entered, the air grew thick with anticipation and that smell of antique soot. The darkness was complete, save for the flicker of the lamps that lined the arched coach ceiling. The train's running lamp pierced the blackness, casting eerie shadows that danced across the ancient brickwork.
"Crash the Ash," Compo murmured, breaking the tense silence that had settled over them.
Blamire, ever the realist, shot him a look. "That man there," he said, nodding towards Compo, "has all the diplomatic qualities of the enemy, and can you feel it, we're getting warmer. I do hope when he changes into his tropical kit, his shorts aren't short of all their allotted material."
The tension in the compartment broke with a burst of laughter, the sound bouncing off the mahogany walls and disappearing into the void. It was a small victory, a brief reprieve from their mission.
As the train chugged deeper into the tunnel, the air grew warmer, almost tropical. They knew they were being transported through time and space, and not just the English countryside. They knew they were about to enter a new world, one fraught with challenges and adventures. They decided to change into their tropical kit. They had been supplied army issue tropical shirts and shorts, socks, six pairs, underwear, and boots. They each had their own pith helmet. Compo was soon changed, he looked so smart, if any one looked disheveled it was Sid. He did not have the correct number of buttons on his shorts for his own braces to be applied evenly. He had to ask Compo if he could borrow his piece of string, on an impermanent basis until he could get some extra buttons sewn to his shorts. “By heck!” Cheered Blamire, “if this mission has any success, it’s getting tatty there out of those wellies.” Cleggy still insisted on wearing his cardigan until at least he had assessed the climate. “You never know if it’s going to get chilly in the evenings, once the sun goes down, and I noticed they have not supplied us with any vests.” He squirmed.
The light grew brighter, and gradually the tunnel walls began to recede. The train burst forth into the bright sunshine of Trincomalee, Ceylon. The friends looked out in awe at the lush greenery that surrounded them. The air was thick with the scent of spices and exotic flowers, a stark contrast to the cold, damp air of a November Holmfirth. "Just like Yorkshire Relish, beautiful" gasped Cleggy as he buttoned up his cardigan.
They had arrived in Trincomalee. The Chandri Heights Plantation awaited them, and with it, Captain Peacock, a man known for his flamboyant strut and sharp tongue. But they were ready. Armed with Sid's tea-making skills and Cleggy's unrivaled Lino expertise, they were ready to tackle whatever lay ahead.
The train pulled to a halt, the wheels screeching against the tracks, and the door swung open with a creak that seemed to echo through the dockyard. They stepped out into the heat, their eyes squinting against the sudden onslaught of light.
"Welcome to Ceylon, lads," Sid said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. "Let's get some breakfast. Where's the Char Waller, I could, right do a bacon banjo."
Their adventure had begun, and already, they could feel the warmth of the sun and the promise of a successful mission. They had tea to find, Lino to lay, and a war to win. And not even the most feared time warps had deterred them from their quest. A paragraph from The New User Manual, for Time Warps and Celestial Portals came to mind, as Blamire stepped off the train.
The heavenly civil engineering service had redesigned the Bingley Tunnel after the fall of Khartoum. It was thought it might be used both ways, but the engineers had discovered that the exit module had malfunctioned on two occasions, the first had brought a brigade of cavalry out into the path of a barrage of cannons in the Crimea. The second time a train carrying Rhubarb was derailed coming out into the Khyber Pass, closing the tunnel for one hundred years. A subsequent celestial inquiry provided for a complete overall of the existing exit modules, and any newer portals would only be supplied with Yorkshire materials and fittings.
Blamire thought it would be best not to burden his team with this information. “I bet they don’t make bacon butties like your Ivy does.” Sighed Blamire. “Now, who’s getting home sick?” Chortled Sid.
A truck was laid on to pick them up and take them to the plantation Bungalow. They loaded the Lino and the rest of their tropical gear, got themselves a seat in the back of the truck and it slowly made its way up to the bungalow.
They found Captain Peacock at the plantation house, a grand structure that overlooked the sprawling tea fields. He was a man who took up space, his uniform adorned with an array of medals and his moustache waxed to sharp points. His eyes lit up when he saw Sid, and he extended his hand, a wide smile spreading across his face.
"Ah, the legendary tea-maker," he boomed. "We've been expecting you. The Tea Ladies Commission spoke very highly of your urn's prowess."
Sid blushed, his hand disappearing into the captain's firm grip. "Just doing me bit, Cap'n," he said modestly.
Peacocks gaze flickered to Compo and Cleggy. "And these are your... associates?"
"The best there is," Sid said proudly. "Compos got a way with words that could charm the birds from the trees, and Cleggy here can lay Lino like nobody's business."
The captain raised an eyebrow. "Lino, you say? Well, I'll be damned. The bungalow could do with some sprucing up before the ministry arrives. They said that the Lino was a complimentary extra, but I'd call it a bung for the goods" Then the Captain burst into a roaring laugh.
The mention of the ministry brought a new level of urgency to their task. They had to impress, not just for the sake of the tea ladies, but for the officials who held the fate of the plantation in their hands.
But first, there was a small matter of meeting the locals. A group of tea pickers had gathered at the edge of the plantation, watching them curiously. One of them, a young woman with a baby on her hip, stepped forward and offered them a steaming cup of tea.
"Thank you, love," Sid said, accepting the cup with both hands. He took a sip and grimaced. It was unlike anything he had ever tasted, a blend that could wake the dead. "This is... interesting," he managed to say.
The woman, her eyes twinkling with mischief, replied, "It's our special blend. It keeps us affirmative all day long."
The men looked at each other, their resolve hardening. This wasn’t going to be a tough crowd to win over. Sid had a plan. "Ivys got just the thing back home," he said with a wink. "We'll show 'em what real English tea is all about." "What's Ivy got then," irritated Compo. "Perhaps it's that bromide she keeps adding to the urn on a morning, to stop them bus drivers and clippies from cavorting," chuckled Blamire lighting up his player. “No! you know what Ivy likes, everything prim and proper, Cut the edges off the cucumber sandwiches, fancy curtains and table cloths, you know, that sort of thing.” Smiled Sid. “We could turn one of those sheds into a tea room, teach the locals how we do it at home.” He continued.
But it wasn't just the tea they had to worry about. The plantation was teeming with life, and not all of it was friendly. They encountered a troupe of monkeys that had taken a liking to Compo's hat, a snake that had slithered into the bungalow and had to be persuaded to leave, and a particularly feisty rooster that would take to waking them up every morning at dawn and when Blamire was doing his morning inspection, it would chase him to the tea room, pecking at his ankles until he threw it a piece of bread.
And then there were the rumors of Japanese spies, lurking in the shadows of the plantation, looking to sabotage their efforts. The war was never far from their minds, a constant reminder of why they were there.
Sid took it all in his stride, enthusiasm for the task never waning. He threw himself into tasting every blend, making notes and suggestions, while Cleggy worked tirelessly on the Lino, sweat pouring down his face despite the shade of his flat cap. He might have to remove his cardigan if it should become even more humid.
Compo, ever the charmer, had struck up a friendship with the tea pickers, there were no Dorothys, but he regaled them with tales of his ferreting, poaching, and the escapades of Sherbet and the others back home. He showed them how to swing dance and croon. They listened, enraptured, and soon, they were sharing their own stories, their laughter carrying on the breeze.
One evening, as they sat around the campfire, sipping on the latest blend, Captain Peacock leaned back in his chair and studied them. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "you're a peculiar bunch, but you've got something special. Something that's going to make this plantation the best in the region."
Sid grinned, his eyes alight with the challenge. "You just watch us, Cap'n," he said. "We'll have this tea sorted in no time, and those Japanese won't know what's going to hit 'em."
The captain chuckled, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "I've no doubt about it," he said. "But let's keep our focus on the tea for now. We've no war at the moment, but it's coming, that's for sure. The war tonight can wait for a cup of good brew."
They continued their work for the next few days, filled with the sweet scent of tea and the sound of laughter. The plantation was their home away from home, and the people, their newfound family. But the clock was ticking, and the ministry's visit was drawing ever closer. Would they be able to pull it off? Or would the heat, the monkeys, and the ever-present threat of espionage or sore ankles, be too much for the four friends from Holmfirth?
The night before Dillis was to return with the new curtaining material; the air was electric with anticipation. They had worked hard to prepare for her arrival, the bungalow gleaming with fresh paint and the smell of polish. Cleggy had laid the Lino with a meticulousness that would have made even the most fastidious of housewives proud.
They sat on the terrace, sipping on a cocktail that Compo had managed to procure from a local black-market hooch, smoking cigars that had been a gift from the captain. The stars above them twinkled like the lights of home, a reminder of the life they had left behind.
"You know," Compo said, his eyes on the distant horizon, "I never knew tea could be so bloody complicated."
"Aye, that’s true" Blamire agreed, his voice low and contemplative. "But it's more than just a drink. It's a way of life. If we could take this, all back to blighty with us, I don’t think we would be far from paradise. Now I’ll explain my kafuffle back at Bingley Station. I sent a letter to ENSA about troop entertainment, requesting information about who, or if anyone would be here in Ceylon. Particularly ascertaining to Ann Shelton.” Compo chirped up, “He goes on about me! and all the while he’s trying to shack up with Ann Shelton.” Compo folded his arms and slumped back in his chair. Blamire retaliated “No listen, I wanted to bring some comfort for the troops, and as you know Ann Shelton is a great comfort to me. However those in charge back home have sent me a letter, which I shall read.
Dear Mr. Blamire thanks for your letter of the 20th November 1941. Also, for your serial no HH45061976 which we will keep for future reference on this matter. It appears from our records that you are working for a higher echelon than the ‘Far East Command.’ After consultation with your higher authority, it appears that we have to give you a situation report as to upcoming arrangements for entertainment artists recruited by ENSA.
Ann Shelton will not be appearing anywhere in the Far East for the foreseeable future as she has committed herself to working the Works Canteen circuit of West Yorkshire and surrounding areas, along with radio broadcasts on the world service. Because Ceylon has not yet been classified as a War Zone, there are no plans to include your area on any Itinerary. ENSA, as a working body is creating an expeditionary entertainment troop to be stationed at Number 8 Garrison Rawalpindi before the end of the year.
Artistes approached with possible confirmation are George Formby, Max Wall, depending on medical results for RAF Call UP. Musical accompaniment may be forth coming from Geraldo and his Groucho Orchestra but his commitments are somewhat limited due to his contract with Cunard and the U-Boat situation in the Atlantic. However, there is a contingency plan to offer David Lee of the Stanhope Arms, Pudsey, a long-term contract providing he can make his own way there. We are reliable informed he can tickle the ivories with the best of them. We have hopes for a lady’s section of chorus girls but this all depends on which piers they close for the war effort.
I hope this finds you with less disappointment as it does to us, here at the Hippodrome Cleckheaton, West Yorkshire. Should any further correspondence be necessary please enquire as to where we are billeted. All being well this looks like a safe gaff, there is nothing to bomb here. Good Look
Captain Jonathan Tarquin "Tippy" Dashwood senior entertainments Co-Ordinator.
So, there we have it my friends, it seems that this part of the world is being forgotten, the sooner we can get this war over the better things will be all round.”
Sid nodded, his thoughts on Ivy and the comfort her tea had brought to so many. "It's our duty," he said solemnly. "To make sure our boys get the best cup of tea, no matter where they are, a taste of home."
They raised their glasses in a silent toast, the flame from the nearby candles flickering in the warm breeze. They were ready for whatever the morrow would bring, be it beautiful curtains or a visit from the most feared officials in the land.
But the morrow had more surprises in store for them. As Sid was taking his morning stroll through the plantation, he stumbled upon an ancient tea ceremony being performed by a group of religious men, in a hidden clearing. The air was thick with incense and the sweet aroma of a blend he had never encountered before.
The men, seeing his curiosity, beckoned him closer. Through gestures and a few words of broken English, they communicated the importance of this ceremony. It was a blend that had been passed down through generations, a secret that could give them the edge they needed in the war. Drinking this brew could make men lust for victory, although not narcotic, the caffeine and tanning strengthen their resolve to win but it had the added ingredient, "The Way of Life. It did mark the furniture but if wiped up quickly it didn't leave much of a stain, in fact it covered any scratches.
Sid's eyes widened as he realized the gravity of what he had stumbled upon. If they could get this tea to the troops, it could mean the difference between victory and defeat. The workers would sing about it during their canteen breaks. His heart racing, he knew he had to share this with the others.
That evening, over a dinner of fragrant curry and sticky rice, Sid recounted his discovery to Blamire, Compo, and Clegg. Their eyes grew wide as they listened, and when he had finished, they sat in stunned silence.
"Blamire," Sid said urgently, his voice low. "We've got to get this back to England. And fast."
Blamire nodded gravely. "I'll see to the security arrangements," he said. "We can't let this fall into the wrong hands."
They knew the Japanese spies were everywhere, their eyes and ears hidden in the most unexpected places. It was a risk, but one they had to take.
The next morning's hours were a flurry of activity as they worked to procure the blessed brew. Blamire, with his knack for diplomacy, negotiated with the religious men while Sid perfected the blend. It meant that every chest of tea had to be blessed before it could be loaded. Cleggy, ever resourceful, had come up with a way to smuggle out samples of the tea in the old Lino cardboard rolls and asked the ministry officials to get them on board a submarine and back to the Blighty research and development department at Whitehall. Compo, for his part, kept the local tea pickers distracted with his tall tales of the Blitz and with games of Doms and cards.
The plan was simple: they would present the new blend to the ministry officials, all while keeping the true source of its power a secret.
The day of the inspection dawned bright and hot. The air was thick with the scent of tea leaves, and the chirp of birds filled the plantation. Dillis had arrived, her eyes wide as she took in the transformation of the bungalow. "You've done a right good job, lads," she said, her voice thick with emotion. " Oh, Mr. Clegg, I seem to know your face. Are you from Holmfirth, CO - OP? I knew a Norman Clegg once; he would blush just like you when I spoke to him. He's probably in the desert rats or something now. I do hope he will be ok. I was married to his cousin, one of the few," she said, holding back the tears. Cleggy looked at her, his cap in his hands, he replied," It's a common name around those parts, an old man like me would have to dig deep into my memories to see if I was connected in any way. I seem to remember seeing your face behind the provisions counter from time to time, but you are bearing up no end after your loss. Your little girl is safe, back home. You'll be safe here, take my word. You've had enough sadness from what the captain told us. " She smiled at him saying, " have you heard that saying 'Deja vu', it's just made my neck hair stand on end." " That's funny mam. The pattern on this Lino did exactly the same to me," laughed Cleggy. She explained that she had met Captain Peacock at a dance, it was a fund raiser for a Spitfire. “The Huddersfield Spit, they nicknamed it. I don’t know if he felt sorry for me or what? Anyway, Mam said I’d had enough bad look and to take a chance, so here I’ am.” Thrilled Dillis.
The officials arrived promptly at ten, sweating in their stiff collars and crisp white blazers. They looked around the plantation with a critical eye, making notes and asking questions. Sid's heart hammered in his chest as they approached the urn of tea, He had so painstakingly crafted.
With a flourish, he offered them each a cup, watching as they took a sip. The effect was instant. Their eyes brightened, their shoulders straightened, and their faces broke into smiles.
"This," one of them said, setting down his cup with a clink, "this is what we need. This is the tea that will keep our boys fighting."
The others murmured in agreement, and Sid felt a swell of pride. They had done it.
But the day was not without its drama. As they were packing up the tea to ship home, they caught wind of a Japanese trade delegation heading their way. Panic set in, but Blamire was unflappable. "We've got to get the tea samples in the Lino rolls back to the docks," he said. "let's get ourselves through the bushes and down to the docks to guard them."
They made their way to the vehicle compound, their hearts racing as they approached the docks. The bustle of the port was a stark contrast to the tranquility of the plantation. The cacophony of voices, the honk of horns, and the clank of machinery was overwhelming. And there, in the midst of it all, was Foggy Dewhurst, his pith helmet askew, barking orders at the native bearers as they loaded the tea chests onto a truck.
"Foggy!" Sid shouted, his voice barely audible over the din.
Foggy spun around, his face a picture of surprise and relief. "Sid! Blamire! Cleggy! What the blood and stomach pills are you doing here?”
They explained their mission, and Foggy's eyes grew wide. "Tea for the troops, you say? Well, I've got just the thing." He led them to a corner of the compound, where a large crate was labeled 'Fragile: Tea Sets'.
"I've been working on this," he said, a twinkle in his eye. "A little something to keep the Japanese guessing."
Inside the crate was a collection of exquisite tea sets, painted with the most lifelike British lions Cleggy had ever seen. "I figured if they're going to steal our tea, we might as well give them a taste of home," Foggy said with a chuckle.
The friends shared a knowing look. If ever there was a man who could make a cup of tea feel like a declaration of war, it was Foggy Dewhurst.
As the Japanese trade delegation arrived, Foggy took the lead. He approached them, pointing to the closed tea set chests, his gait that of a man who had been born to sell. His words flowed like honey, sweet, and persuasive. The Japanese officials eyed the chests with interest, their curiosity piqued by the fervor in Foggy's voice.
"This isn't just any tea," he said, his voice rising to a crescendo. "This is the finest blend from the Chandri Heights Plantation. It's got the strength to wake the dead and the flavor to conquer nations."
The Japanese exchanged glances, and a murmur of excitement rippled through their ranks. They hadn't expected to find such treasure here.
Compo, meanwhile, had donned a disguise. With a fake mustache and a borrowed turban, he blended in perfectly with the local workers. His job was to keep an eye on the Lino rolls, ensuring they made it onto the submarine unnoticed.
The delegation was led to the truck, where Cleggy, sweating profusely, had ingeniously hidden the tea sets under the Lino rolls. The Japanese, impressed by the gleaming chests and the promise of English tea, didn't give the rolls a second glance or even check inside the tea chests.
Foggy watched as the officials inspected a chosen proper chest of tea, with greedy eyes. His heart was racing, but he kept his cool. He knew that one wrong move would mean disaster for their mission. The tension was palpable as the lead Japanese delegate pulled out a thick envelope.
"We will pay the top price," he said, his voice thick with excitement. "Our country craves this tea. Name your price."
Foggy's eyes lit up. He had them hooked. "For this," he said, pausing for dramatic effect, "we require a... banker's draft. Payable to the crown."
The delegate nodded, and with a flurry of bows and handshakes, the exchange was made. The envelope was passed over, and Foggy tucked it into his pocket without even looking inside.
"Now," he barked at Billy Ingleton, who was hovering nearby. "Get the rest of these chests loaded on the truck and down to the steamer. We don't want to keep the captain waiting." Billy nodded, his eyes wide with excitement. This was more of an adventure that he had ever dreamed of.
Compo and his team swiftly removed the carboard rolls with the tea samples, and scurred them to the other dock where the submarine was waiting.
Billy and his crew completed the loading, and waved the driver off.
As they watched the truck drive away, the friends breathed a collective sigh of relief. They had done it. They had fooled the enemy and secured the future of the plantation. There would be a constant supply of Tea at least from this plantation.
"How did you end up in Ceylon, Foggy?" Sid asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
Foggy wiped his brow with a handkerchief and leaned against a stack of crates. "Ah, that's a story for another time," he said with a wink. "Let's just say I got tired of the same old grind back in the heavenlies and decided to take a little detour."
The truth was, Foggy, back in his own personal heaven, had got on the wrong train from Wales back in June 1978; his mind set on an oriental cruise seeing the exotic lands he had tall taled so much about. But as fate would have it, he had landed right in the middle of their tea mission, and he couldn't resist the opportunity to lend a hand. He thought of himself as the advanced party. " Oh, and Billy there, He was sent out with the Yorkshire Light Band to tune their touring piano, but they said he was tone deaf and transferred him to the regimental signs and information office" Laughed Foggy " I found him painting a no entry sign outside the Fe Fe Club. I asked him if it should have said OFF LIMITS? Then he said no, it's a no entry for motorcycles and pillion riders, because the owner has stopped making home deliveries, cos of the war, fuel and that." " Strewth," sighed Blamire " I thought takeaways were a modern invention."
The next day, the 6th of December, the air was thick with the scent of brewing tea and the faint whiff of fear. News had reached them of the Japanese troop buildup at the Hong Kong boarder. The coming war had reached a terrifying new height, and the whispers grew louder about the fate of Singapore.
Dillis, who had been helping in the kitchen, brought them the latest newspaper, her eyes red from crying. "My sisters in Singapore," she said, her voice trembling. "Oh God, what will become of her?"
They all fell silent, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily on them. Even in the midst of their victory, the shadow of war was looming large. “They say that Singapore is impregnable, but we all know contraception is only ninety nine percent safe, if you don’t believe me, look at all the air raid precautions they have back home, the bombs still get through,” shrugged Cleggy, as Compo took a swipe at Clegg with his cap.
Ther was no time to dwell on the bad news. They had another mission to complete. The Japanese had shown interest in all the local bicycles, and it was Cleggy who came up with a daring plan to use this to their advantage. He had noticed that the Japanese were obsessed with bikes, often dismantling them to study the design for their own war efforts.
"We'll sabotage the bikes," he suggested, his eyes alight with the brilliance of his idea. " We'll give 'em the ones that we've removed the cotter pins and pedals."
The others looked at him skeptically, but as he explained further, they began to see the merit in his plan. Compo chirped up, "Aye we can take out the glue from the free puncture outfits that'll fox 'em." " That's the spirit, mi boys," smiled Cleggy. "The last freighter on the docks will leave in the morning can we sabotage the last load " Piped up Blamire. " We'll have to get on board now " insisted Sid.
So, under the cover of darkness, the four of them donned the disguises of deck hands. The freighter loomed large in the moonlit harbor, its cargo hold, a treasure trove of bicycles destined for the Japanese war machine. They moved with the ease of men who had known each other for decades, their friendship a silent bond that made their movements synchronized.
They worked quickly, their nimble hands removing the crucial parts from each bike with the precision of a surgeon. They had to be careful not to arouse suspicion, their breaths coming in short gasps as they listened for any signs of discovery.
As they worked, they whispered to each other, sharing memories of home and joking about the absurdity of their situation. It was a tense ballet of sabotage, each step calculated to ensure their safety and the success of their mission.
The night air was thick with the sound of waves lapping against the hull and the occasional shout from the dockyard, but they remained undetected. By the time the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, they had managed to sabotage every bike on the freighter.
Early dawn's light back at the bungalow saw them saying their goodbyes. Foggy, ever the adventurer, declared, "I'd like to try and get up to Burma, see those little people I helped during my younger days' stint out here." Compo and Cleggy exchanged knowing smiles; their faces etched with the fatigue of their night's work, but spirits undimmed. Sid, ever practical, remarked, "Don't forget your camouflage training, Foggy. It'll get a bit hairy up in Burma." Just then, Blakey's battered bus rattled to a stop at the front gate. Blakey leaned out, his voice a familiar, weary moan: "This way, lads! Bingley train's been cancelled, leaves on the line! Only way backs with me, via Cairo. Come on, chop chop!" They were reluctant to leave Ceylon's warmth and the camaraderie they'd forged, but thoughts of home—of Ivy's pies and pints at the pub—stirred a deep longing. With a final wave to Dillis and Captain Peacock, they piled onto the bus, its engine coughing like an old smoker.
The journey was a blur of dusty roads, tunnels and makeshift checkpoints. They swapped stories—Foggy embellishing his Burma plans, Cleggy fretting about the Lino's durability, Compo lamenting the lack of decent dominoes—all while Blakey navigated potholes with grumbled curses and sigh of relief as they emerged from Calverley Cutting, out on to the Harrogate Road turning south to Huddersfield. Finally, Sid's Palace loomed ahead, its familiar sign creaking in the Yorkshire wind. Ivy burst from the doorway, arms wide. Before she could cry "Welcome home!", Compo chirped up, scratching his head, "Hey Ivy, what's this stuff you put in the tea? Think you might've ruined my love life! " Nora chimed up, "It didn't stop me wearing my yard brush out, that's for sure." A roar of laughter erupted. Blamire, already heading for his usual table, bellowed over the noise, "Three teas, Sid! And a sticky bun—proper Yorkshire fare!" Sid grinned, the Ceylon adventure settling into memory as he reached for the urn. “Tomorrow morning, I’m straight on that Cleckheaton bus. That Tippy Dashwood is going to get a piece of my mind.” Squawked Blamire. Ivy looked at Sid and whispered, “Glad to be home luv.”