Looking Back ... Part II

As we are in the midst of 1940s weekend as I begin writing this, I thought that would be a good place to resume my look back at 'The Leopard Years'. Hope you enjoyed the first instalment (what do you mean you haven't read Part I - go do it - I'll still be here when you get back) and are sitting comfortably as we journey into Part II.

This time 6 years ago, myself and the kids (there was considerably less of them then - Jodie was single and away, Sadie & Chris had provided me with grandchildren numbering one, and Callum was just a boy and also single, as was I) had recently obtained the keys to The Leopard and spent a couple of weeks clearing it out, trying to get the cellar organised and doing a spot of decorating. Fortunately someone (and we never did find out who) had left a huge skip in front of the pub which came in handy, as there was a lot of rubbish to get rid of.

May Bank Holiday weekend in 2010 was hot & sunny (unusual, but true), but as we had work to do the weather didn't matter to us. We also had all the curtains closed (lovely they were - red at some windows, gold at others and tatty as hell - seriously if we'd have washed them, they would have fallen to bits) so that we could work without interruption. Open curtains in pubs invites folk to gaze in a zoo visitor way that can be at best unnerving and at worst embarrassing, given some of the states we are often in before we open. (For example, Callum likes to do the cleaning in the buff, whilst Sadie does a great impression of Freddy Mercury a la 'Want to Break Free' video, when she's on cleaning duty). So, here we all were, cocooned from the outside world, decorating, sorting the cellar and carrying out a hundred other tasks that required our attention.

I ventured outside to put some rubbish in the aforementioned skip. Now I should point out before I go any further, that whilst I am a local girl (& although I did a stint at the Dog & Partridge, back in the day, as a barmaid/waitress/chef and despite having visited the High Street shops, admired the castle, and having visited The Leopard as I knew one of the previous tenants) I didn't know that much about Tutbury really, and I certainly wasn't expecting to encounter a platoon of 1940s British Troops, especially not these squaddies, who were pointing their guns right at me and insisting that I 'halt'. At first I thought they maybe wanted to riffle through the skip. In response to their lowering their weapons, however, I ran back (well did a quick march, if you've seen me, you'll know I don't look like the running kind) into the pub and announced - 'We're not staying here - these Tutbury people are nuts!' - much to the amusement of my kids!

But stay we did, and eventually found out that 1940s weekend was just one of the events that the Castle hosts during the 'tourist season' (and that Tutbury folk are, on the whole, a friendly bunch of people). Of all the Castle events we've become embroiled in, 1940s weekend is among our favourites; we are always please to see the British, American & German troops, together with their very glamorous wives and girlfriends arriving and over the years many have become our friends, so welcoming them back each year is like having family visit for Christmas. We drink more, have fun and laugh - a lot!

Similar can be said of the Vikings. During one of their early visits to The Leopard, we went the 'extra mile' to ensure they enjoyed their visit. Back then, aside from food for pub games & buffets for parties etc., we didn't serve food on a regular basis. The Vikings popped in for a few pints and then said they were going somewhere else for food, as they were starving. (I'm guessing that head banging to one of our groups the previous night, swilling down copious amounts of our fine ale, followed by a day of raping and pillaging would give any Viking an appetite!) There was around forty Vikings, including woman and children, all with long hair and all dressed in Viking garb. Shortly after leaving us, they returned looking very downhearted. I asked why they were back so soon and they explained that they had been refused service because of how they 'looked'. I felt sorry for them - after all they were simply trying to enjoy their hobby, with their families.

Now to further set the scene to my little meandering, you need to understand that The Leopard, whilst sizable, is not the largest of pubs, and given that it was a nice weekend 40 or so Vikings added to an already busy Sunday evening, had increased our capacity to heaving. As I was trying to fathom out how to tend their drink orders and solve the problem of their hunger, the prodigal daughter returned. (Jodie, having had a few days off from work, came home.) She was a little shocked, but pleased, to see the pub packed out, and, off course, me. I smiled a welcome and then hit upon a plan. "Jodie, could you do me a favour, there's a catering pack of bacon in the fridge, and plenty of bread - knock us up some bacon sarnies will you?" Her response was typical Jodie and typical hospitality worker too. "Mother," she said sternly, indicating the waiting customers and packed pub, "I don't think this is a good time for you to be thinking about your stomach!". "They're not for me, you twit," I explained, waving my arm to indicate the assembled group of Vikings, "It's for them!".

As 'Mum' is a landlady, this often means that my family have to wait for a proper welcome home (and indeed for a whole host of other things too) but whilst they regularly wait for landlady to become 'mum' again, they understand that sometimes (OK - more often than not) I have to do other 'pub-related' stuff before I can actually be their mum. (Or myself). Needless to say, she not only accepted this brief welcome, but set about producing tray upon tray of bacon sandwiches, to a biblical 'loaves and fishes' standard, for all our ravenous Viking friends to enjoy. They were going down a treat, with both Vikings and regulars, when the door burst open and a very excitable couple of regulars burst through the door, happily announcing their engagement. The happy couple were followed by an assortment of their family and friends, obviously also overjoyed about the impending nuptials and looking to celebrate! The sight of the Vikings stopped them all in their tracks, as did Jodie's "Oooh Congratulations - would you like a bacon butty?" (Said couple are now married and have a baby!)

As the Vikings, the regulars and the party celebrating the engagement munched on the delicious bacon butties, and Callum and Sadie served behind the bar, take a wild guess what yours truly was doing? Drinking? Well yes, I did have a few horns of beer (the Vikings actually drink out of horns!), but no, you're not even close. Have another go. What's that? Eating bacon butties. Goes without saying - but that's no where near where I am HEADING! Do you give up? Right. In the midst of all this, I sat on my chair (I shall return to the chair, both literally and in this bolg) at the end of the bar, with a Viking between my legs (get your mind out of the gutter!) PLAITING his hair! Not just any old plait either, a bloody French plait! What's more, whilst several Vikings queued up to have their hair done by 'the landlady', I had to contend with smoothing their locks with a comb made of bone! Some of the things a Landlady is called upon to do can be odd, which is why there is no stock job description for us publicans!

I shall now return to my chair, as promised. If you have been in The Leopard, you will no doubt have noticed that 'My' chair is positioned at the 'Tapped End' (more of that in part III) of the bar. I need that chair, some days I need it more than others. Let me explain. In September 2009 I was out for the day, riding pillion on a motorbike, in the Peak District. It was a lovely day, summer was making way for autumn, and in the early evening we began to head home. I was chatting to the rider through our helmet intercom, discussing picking up some chips for supper and other mundane, regular stuff, when we found ourselves stuck behind a couple of cars and a tractor. The cars eventually overtook the tractor and the rider told me to 'hold on' (I rarely 'held on', I was comfortable on a bike) as he was going to overtake when the road ahead was clear. Again I heard the words 'hold on', which I did. The rider opened up the throttle, I felt the familiar surge as our speed increased and the next moment I got that feeling you experience in dreams when you are falling from a great height, and a kind of internal 'thud'. All I could see then was blackness. An expanse of shiny and oddly patterned blackness. That was coupled with an indescribable depth of calmness.

It took a while for me to recognise the blackness. Tarmac - up close and personal is quite beautiful, especially in fading, evening sunlight. I moved my head and saw sky. That too was magnificent, blue, yes, with a hint of sunshine and laced with pink and white clouds. Time stood still. I was content, serene and peaceful. There was no sound. Nothing. Tarmac one way, sky another and overwhelming peacefulness. Tranquillity. I thought I was in a dream. After what seemed like a huge measure of time had slipped by, and very gradually, I became aware of shoes, and boots. Then voices. None of which I recognised.

Someone was speaking to me. I was reluctant to leave the peace I found myself in, but eventually tried to focus on the voice, the shoes and the boots. I can't recall what the voice said. But I can recall the speed at which those boots and shoes were moving. I thought it odd, given the serenity, that anyone would want to move that fast. I then realised the boots and shoes were attached to legs, which in turn were attached to people, and their hustle, bustle and voices shattered through my lovely tranquillity like a bolder through a window. Roused from my blissful 'rest', I tried to make sense of things, of what had happened and what was now unfolding around me.

I was on the road. I tried to move, but was urged to remain still. I tried to speak but no words came. I tried harder. It took all my concentration, but I managed to raise my hand to my helmet and flick the visor up. Again I attempted speech. I don't know if I communicated with those around me or not. I do remember someone stopping me from removing my helmet. I remember being asked if I was OK, I said I was fine, that I felt good. So, I couldn't fathom why 'an ambulance was on it's way'. Then I remembered the rider and asked after him. When I was told he was fine, I became more confused as to why any medics were needed.

I do remember a policeman. He was lovely, kind smile, nice eyes and very clean boots! He assured me that everything would be alright. I laughed and said it already was. Still I felt so calm. He asked if I was in pain and I explained I could feel nothing at all. Then I heard a faint sound that took me a while to understand. Sirens. Next I began to notice more things around me. Anxious looks on some of the faces looking down at me. One woman looked noticeably sick, I couldn't help wondering why she looked so ill. The sirens got louder and louder until there were more boots at my side and a voice explaining that I had been in an accident, that everything was going to be ok. They asked where it hurt, I said it didn't hurt anywhere. After a while, more questioning (Does this hurt? No. This? No. And so on. I was told that they were going to put me in a splint as they thought I had hurt my neck and then remove my helmet. I thought the paramedics were making a lot of fuss about nothing, but I indulged them. With the helmet removed I had a clearer view of things. I could see grass to one side of me, lots of people, police officers, cars, ambulances, more paramedics and then I heard another strange noise. "What's that?" I asked. "The Air Ambulance." someone answered.

Suddenly, the peaceful, pain free, tranquil state I had been enjoying ceased. I began to shake, from the inside, out. I felt cold. Numb and yet increasingly aware of a sensation. This sensation seemed to have an striking momentum that was taking me to a place I really didn't want to go. Pain. Mind-blowing, all encompassing, acute, increasing, searing pain. I was hurriedly covered in extra blankets and told I was going into shock. To me it felt more like I was being dropped from heaven, where I'd been comfortable and Zen like, into the depths of hell! Then there was more panic around me. Someone told me I was be given something for the pain and that they were going to get me to hospital. More panic reigned around me. I began to panic too. I was given a mask and told to breathe deeply. I tried but felt like I was drowning. And the pain now surged up my legs at such an alarming rate and with such ferocity that I was struggling to focus on what I was being told. I vaguely remember a lady paramedic telling me she was going to give me a couple of shots. Eventually the pain and my senses ceased to be.

That was Saturday. Aside from a few scant memories - talking to my children, being questioned by the police (Them: What do you remember, Kaz? Me: Big wheel, Tarmac.), doctors (lots of them) and being told I was in A & E I remember nothing else of the next four days. And so it was Wednesday. Just like that.

After a very welcome cup of tea a surgeon came to see me and he filled in my numerous blanks.

I was on morphine and had been since Saturday. I had been operated on. (This I still have no memory of). I had been in an accident. The bike had hit the tractor we were trying to overtake, the driver had turned right, into a field, as we were trying to overtake him, and as the tractor was towing a silage trailer, he'd 'boxed us in'. Just before the bike hit the rear wheel of the tractor, head on, the rider had bailed into the ditch. With no weight on the front of the bike, the impact had turned a beautiful Yamaha into a treacherous catapult, sending me over the cab of the tractor and some twenty feet down the road. "How you didn't break every bone in your body is beyond us", said my surgeon, to which I replied "I've got a bit of natural padding!"

Ok, I hadn't broken any bones, so why the operation? I learned during a lengthy chat with the surgeon that I had ripped my leg open on some part of the tractor as I had been shot over it. The muscles, tendons and other bits that should be inside my leg had been pulled out and that he, the surgeon and his team, had painstakingly put things back into my leg, stitched all things that had been severed and tried to patch me back up. Having learnt all of this, I quietly asked, scared shitless of his answer, "Will I be able to walk?". When he told me that, in all honesty, it was very early days, there was a lot of damage, they had done their best and it was too early to tell, I remember being scared, very scared. I saw my future self - immobile, reliant on my kids, confined to a wheel chair and the feeling of impending doom that accompanied those images was almost more than I could bare. Then, I remember thinking, hold on Kaz, you cant do that to your kids, your guardian angel took the time to fly faster than you were travelling, the least you can do is get back on your feet.

AND I DID!

It took time, sometimes it was agony, I cried a lot during the next three months confined as I was to bed, wheelchairs and Derby hospital. I had two further operations, but eventually I learned to walk again. And once I had taken those first few steps, it gradually got easier. I had good days, I spent some days in hell. But, when I look back on it now, just as I did on this day six years ago, I still reach the same, weird, but positive conclusion. If not for that accident, if my legs weren't still such a mess, I wouldn't be where I am now, tapping on my lap-top, in the office of The Leopard. Where my legs are concerned, I still have bad days, so some days, I need that chair. There are days when I want to rip my legs off so that I can't feel the pain. On other days no one would suspect the damage that tractor did to me, and I am fine, these are the goods days leg wise. So, either I have to sit on that chair and wait for the pain to go or the chair get some time off. That's just how it is.

Some clouds do, however, have a silver lining. If not for that 'Big wheel, tarmac' incident, I wouldn't have come to Tutbury, I wouldn't be The Leopard's Landlady and myself and my family wouldn't be celebrating our six year anniversary today! If you fancy a good night out, you're welcome to come and celebrate with us (and Silicone Taxis) later. Now I'm off to get some sleep in readiness for our party, celebrations and good times. Legs willing, there may be some dancing tonight.

Cheers.

Kaz.

Coming soon to a blog near you: Looking Back . . . Part III >>>>>The Conclusion!