ALTHOUGH, of course, I am known for the diplomacy of my observations on village life here in Beggarsdale, there are some subjects which I believe must be treated with extra-special delicacy.

One is, eh, the, well, the shape of young ladies. Especially young, newly married ladies. For sometimes they have been known to, shall we say, swell.

Now this is, after all, a farming community and most of us are fairly conversant with what used to be called the birds and the bees - except in this case, the ewes and the heifers.

And it is, after all, some five months since the Easter double wedding of Yun' Tom and the Bull to Theresa and Bernice who, thanks to the good will of Hermione Hyphen-Hyphen, have set up home in the newly converted apartments in the Big House.

So when Terry and Bernie, as they are inevitably known, happened to be in the post office the other day on pensions morning, many a sidewards glance was being thrown at their middle regions. Nothing!

Bernie is, of course, a farmer's lass from over the tops in Crookedale and consequently was instantly aware of what was going on.

"Keep tha eyes to tha sens," she remarked acidly to the queue. "When there's any news, tha'll know soon enough."

Terry was a lady soldier Yun' Tom met when he was doing his spell in the signals and is not yet so tuned into local ways. "What's up?" she asked puzzled.

"They're trying to spot if we're in the family way, you daft townie you," explained Bernie. "Didn't they teach you nothing over Halifax way?"

These two are now good friends, which is why they can insult each other.

But Terry was still puzzled: "What's it got to do with them?"

And there's the rub.

For, you see, the breeding fettle of all the young women in the Dale is a matter of some concern to the whole community.

Ever since the village school was closed down a decade or so ago. For lack of pupils.

Since then, the old schoolhouse has lain empty and any kids have to be bussed out to Mark'ton six miles away.

And even wrinklies like myself miss the days when we could hear the strains of "All things bright and beautiful" coming from the school.

The council has promised to re-open the school if we can crop a few more young 'uns.

Down the road in Elysian Fields, the so-called "executive housing" estate built on the old isolation hospital site, the ladies seem to be doing their bit.

But no-one in the village proper wants to see us outbred by the offcumdens.

Which is why Bernie and Terry are the subject of such speculation.

Teacher Tess, who works in the city some 30 miles away, explained the logistics involved in the Beggars' Arms the night of the post office confrontation. Another half dozen kids or so, she said, and we might get our school back.

"Then why dun thee not 'ave a brood ?" asked Owd Tom.

"Me? Have kids?" said Tess in horror. "I'm surrounded by them all day. I most certainly don't want them at home too. I have a career to think of."

What can you say?

* The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.

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