My love of Yahtzee came from my great, GReat, GREAT Uncle Henry Bush. Now, obviously I was not around to witness his exploits, but I have heard many stories in my brief(ish) forty years on this spinning ball of ours. What follows is the story of this great human being; pioneer, if you will, at least as I know it. It could all be complete nonsense or it could be all true. I will leave it to you to make up your own mind.
Henry was born into great wealth in the early nineteenth century. For context, it was the kind of wealth that could easily get you out of legal troubles. I'm not talking minor brushes with the law, I'm talking about the kind of infractions that would see a person of more modest means swing from a noose. Henry's parents commanded great respect from their peers in high society, although it really wasn't deserved. You would think with his vast fortune Henry's father would be some kind of forward thinking pioneer of commerce. This was not only untrue, but, in fact, the exact opposite was true. He was a lazy pompous slob who was about as endearing as ringworm. Every penny of his wealth was thanks to his dead father, who WAS a forward thinking pioneer of commerce. He was also an exceptionally terrible father. Belittling, condescending and abusive.
Henry had an interesting upbringing. You could place it in that grey area that sits between that of the Von Trapps and that of Oliver Twist. That is to say Henry and his siblings were always prim and proper, polite and smiling to the last, while in the public eye, but once home, and behind closed doors, it was akin to a Victorian workhouse.
So he was a cross between one of those kids you want to slap because they say "good 'morrow" rather than hello and a latch key kid that would steal an orange from a market stall and have six pelted at them as they run away.
Anyway, the point is, when they weren't "on show" for society to see what a great job his woeful parents had done, Henry and his siblings were left to fend for themselves, at least after they'd done the housework; this saved money on staff. Why pay for slaves if you can breed them?
So once the chores were seen to, Henry was off out the door. He would make sure to make himself look as unrecognisable as possible. No one could know who he was, so he dressed up like a bargain basement version of a highway man. This brought many a titter to those that would see him, but he couldn't care less. He was out on a mission of prosperity. He would spend the early hours of the evening on the mean streets of Windhill, West Yorkshire, as a Shoe Shine, earning a few shillings to earn his way for the rest of the evening. As soon as he had earned his way, polishing the boots of those that would look down their noses at him, all the while readying themselves for an evening of cigars and brandy at his very own abode (well, the good bit, he and his siblings dwelled in the coal cellar, a bit like my own childhood), he would make his way to the local graveyard. Why the graveyard? Because that's where he could go ply his trade under the cover of darkness. No, he wasn't a hooker. Not that he didn't get offers... no, he was a professional gambler. His weapon of choice? Well, what do you think. He rolled the bones, and he rolled them well.
He had made a bit of a name for himself in the gambling community, (not that they knew his name, he was just known as the Highway Man), usually among the youngsters who were stuck in similar dismal circumstances, so they would come to his games hoping to make a few extra pennies to help them afford their supper. There was just one problem. Nine times out of ten these children of the street, these seekers of a pittance for a crumb, would walk away empty handed, pockets lighter, wishing they'd never challenged young Henry.
The thing you need to know about my Uncle Henry is that he was pretty much born with dice in his hand. In fact, his mother used to say that when she was pregnant with him she could sometimes hear a strange rattling emanating from her swollen stomach. Whatever the truth of that is, by the time he was only three years old, he was extremely adept at the fine game of Yahtzee. By age six, he was already playing children for money on the filthy cobbled streets he learned to call his home. By age twelve, young Henry was challenging all those willing to lose a few bob in the aforementioned cemetery.
Word spread about this young lad's prodigious talent with the dice. Soon he was recieving challenges from people that had travelled for miles just to attempt to gain the upper hand and take Henry down a peg or two, young or old, it didn't matter. Because of this, Henry would up the stakes and soon he was gamblimg pounds not shillings. The challengers too, would soon see the error of their ways and slink back from whence they came, poorer than they were before they set out. You would think that a young boy who saw so much wealth and opulence at home but was forbidden to partake themselves would seek wealth just to bathe in opulence himself. But not Henry. He was in it for the long haul. He kept his wealth safe and simply watched it accumulate.
By the age of sixteen, Henry had amassed a modest, but not insubstantial, amount of savings. His side hustle had become a full time venture. He was raking it in and the challengers just kept on coming. He was on to a good thing, and he knew it. It was, at this point, that he was now considering getting himself out of his oppressive homelife and going it alone. He was done with being the household dogsbody, the whipping boy. He knew the grass was greener elsewhere. So one night, sat by candlelight in the damp, cold coal cellar, munching on a meat pie he'd bought out of his winnings for himself, and one each for his siblings, of course, he decided he was out of there. Gone. He would be a ghost to his grotesque caricatures he called parents, never to be seen again.
All he had to do was tell them...
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