Raining cats and dogs, where does that saying come from? I do not
know, but my Grandfather told me this story just before he died.
When was that? Oh, thirty years ago or more. I had been to see him
on account of Gran dying. He was ok, bearing up, much more talkative
than usual, not surprising I suppose. He specially wanted to talk
about the war, the first one. They were terrible stories of terrible
times, gassed at the Somme, that is how he lost the sight of his right
eye, lucky to escape with so little damage. His stories ranged further
back, before he met Gran, but this story stuck in my mind , and it has
stuck ever since.
In June 1912, my Grandad, Searby, from whom, I am named, was staying
with the Moreland side of the family, who farmed ten or eleven acres
up near Hebden Bridge. One Saturday evening Searby was having a
solitary pint - the Morelands were teetotal Quakers - at the Railway
tavern by the canal. Because it was warm he was outside, watching
courting couples stroll up and down the towpath. A sudden cool
breeze made him look up and he was surprised to see dark clouds
building up over the moors. Before long the clouds rolled over and
Searby retreated to the Saloon Bar as the first heavy drops fell. He
was just about to roll a cig when he heard screams coming from
outside.
With several others he rushed out to find a small crowd staring open
mouthed at something covering the road. At first he could not make
out what he saw, the road seemed covered by a mass of small wriggling
shapes. To his undying amazement, the road was littered with small
people. He had to look once, twice and a third time and still he
could not accept it. The road was covered with writhing and wriggling
tiny human beings, each one about a foot long. They all seemed to be
dressed perfectly, in little suits or dresses or overalls or frocks.
And they seemed quite ordinary apart from their size and condition,
for they were obviously in great distress, wailing and screaming in
tiny voices. They all, without exception, had their eyes tightly
shut, as if they dare not open them for fear of some terrible vision.
And if they had, they surely would have received such a shock,
surrounded by flabbergasted giants.
Well, everyone was mighty upset, with mouths hung open and touching
their heads in sheer disbelief. The tiny people were still falling as
Searby emerged from the Pub, but the fall soon stopped, he remembers
hearing the last one plop in to the canal behind him. They soon died,
the mass of small bodies stopped wriggling. No one had touched any of
the fallen "little people", as they were to be named. But a few men
now nudged the little corpses with their hob-nail boots. As if
responding to some signal the crowd all started talking at once.
Opinion varied wildly as to what to do. Some wanted to destroy the
ungodly shower, others wanted to put them all in boxes till a man from
the Council could arrive and take charge. The local bobby looked as
bemused as all the rest. Matters were taken out of their hands when
the lay-preacher Mr Smollett arrived. He was a fearsome man, a
domineering presence in the Parish Council. While the crowd
prevaricated, he and some cronies gathered up all the little
corpses; he dowsed them with petrol and, denouncing the works of the
Devil, incinerated the lot. No one tried to stop him.
But Searby had not been idle. He had picked up a small body at his
feet and concealed it beneath his jacket while Mr Smollett was busy
with his matches. As a pall of dark smoke rose to mingle with the
clouds he hurried away from the Pub. He walked down the towpath and
then in to a small wood by the Church. He looked round, then sat on
the damp earth to examine his bizarre acquisition. It was, or had
been, a small man dressed just like a postman, dark blue suit, cap
clutched tightly in a little fist, tiny sensible shoes, and a small
grey sack tied around his shoulder. Already the miniature postman was
becoming stiff, the skin waxy and yellow. He was not as perfect as
first sight had indicated, the uniform was made of a coarse material,
his facial features were blurred and indistinct. Even so, tears fell
from Searby's eyes as he looked at the postman's tiny moustache, at
the way he had valiantly held on to his cap. A strange grief came
over Searby, as he sat holding the small corpse. Where had they come
from? What had befallen this small race? Why had they fallen from the
sky like some Biblical omen? He never found out. Nothing was ever
reported, thanks to Mr Smollett no doubt.
Over time the little postman became mummified, with hard black skin.
Searby's curiosity lessened with the years and he eventually sold the
small body to a man in a pub. I best remember Grandad sat by the fire,
having just told this story. I can see him leaning over to stick a
taper in to the flames, than leaning back to light his pipe. He
puffed quietly and then said a strange thing, I will never forget it,
I remember it word for word:
"It wasn't in my mind you know, it happened pal, it happened. But
sometimes, perhaps just once even, things can be different for us.
That was a chance and I blew it."
I questioned him repeatedly, but he never spoke of this again.