There was a stunned silence.
"It's not Latin," murmured a timid voice.
"I am well aware of that, Mr Arbuttle. Using the French name makes a great deal more sense to me. We are on the south coast and almost in sight of France. My researches show that large numbers of émigrés landed in Little Piddling during the French Revolution and many stayed. Why, you only have to look about the town to see their legacy. Laporte's bakery and Dumaine's Wines, to give you just two examples."
They were, in fact, the only examples Sir Hereward had found in Spendlove's report, but it was enough. He glared around the table, daring anyone to argue with him. No one did.
"Very well. Can we have a show of hands? All those in favour? Against? Thank you. Mr Simister, will you please note that the motion was carried unanimously."
The clerk hesitated, pen poised. "Actually, Mr Mayor, not everyone raised their hands in favour."
"True," put in Mr Flint. "Now, while no one is against the idea, Mr Mayor, I think we need time to consider it. Changing the name of the town is a major decision. It is not something we can take lightly."
Mr Arbuttle slowly raised his hand. "If I might suggest, we should minute the proposal for discussion at the next meeting."
"Very well, but we must decide, and soon." Sir Hereward sat down heavily in his chair and began to gather up his papers. "I want to announce the new name at the Summer Festival in July. We must have new signs, too, on each of the roads into the town. They will need to be in place ready to be unveiled at the Festival. And we need a suitable memorial to this great occasion. A stone monument, I think, at the western end of the promenade, near the entrance to Jubilee Gardens."
"But that site has been set aside for a statue of Sir Copson Bosomworth," objected Mr Bretherson.
"Aye," agreed Percy Flint. "Sir Copson is Little Piddling's finest son. You know we have spoken about erecting a memorial to our intrepid explorer."
"It has been discussed, yes, but are we sure?" Sir Hereward turned to him, brows raised. "Do we really want to celebrate a man who got lost?"
"He never returned from the Amazon," replied Mr Bretherson. "That is hardly the same as losing your way when coming back from Much Piddling."
The Mayor dismissed this with the wave of a hand. "Nevertheless, it must be thirty years since Sir Copson went missing. That is history, my friends. History! We should be looking to the future. I believe we should have a monument on that spot, where the majority of our visitors will see it, and it should be emblazoned with the town name."
"It will need to be the size of an omnibus for a name that long," remarked Percy Flint, grinning.
"It will be as large as required," declared Sir Hereward grandly. He stemmed a sudden murmur of consternation by putting up one imperious hand. "And I shall pay for the whole."
As he had foreseen, his munificence silenced most of the objections.
"But what about Sir Copson?" demanded Mr Bretherson, battling on gamely. "Lady Bosomworth will be most disappointed."
"Ah, Lady Bosomworth." Sir Hereward shook his head sadly. "An estimable lady, but, ah, not very free with the purse strings, shall we say?"
"She made a very generous donation towards the public conveniences."
"The original ones, I grant you, Bretherson, but she was not so forthcoming for the refurbishments, was she? Neither did she contribute towards the new heating system for the Town Hall, nor the new wing of the Cottage Hospital."
"Perhaps if we'd told her she'd have her name on a brass plaque outside each of those buildings, she would have been more inclined to stump up," suggested Percy Flint.
Sir Hereward ignored this.
"I have already approached Mr Lamb, the stone mason, and he has agreed to start work on finding a suitable design."
"And no doubt he will make sure that has your name is on it, too."
"As the major sponsor, I believe that is entirely appropriate," retorted the Mayor, glaring at the builder. "But to avoid any doubt, we will ask everyone for their thoughts." He cast a hard stare around the table. "All those in favour?"
A majority of hands crept up and Sir Hereward bent his unwavering stare upon Mr Arbuttle, who reluctantly raised his arm.
"Carried! You will minute that, Mr Clerk."
Edward Simister gave an apologetic cough.
"We can do nothing more now until the proposal has been fully discussed and we have a formal vote, Mr Mayor," Edward Simister reminded him. "I have added it to the agenda for the next meeting, at the beginning of May, which should give us plenty of time to get in quotations for the monument and road signage. Now, is that everything?"
Sir Hereward walked back to Wakeleigh Towers in good spirits. He would have liked to decide the matter of the name change immediately, but another few weeks would not make much difference and he was confident he would get his way. Percy Flint was the councillor most opposed to the idea, but he was about to put in a planning application for more houses on the edge of the town and would need Sir Hereward's support to push that through. A quiet word to Percy before the next meeting should do the trick.
Rudolph Spendlove could not settle to his work. It was over a week since the council meeting and he had heard nothing. He had expected Sir Hereward to seek him out and tell him how his grand idea had been received, but the Mayor had made no attempt to contact him. A casual enquiry of his neighbour gave him no clue as to what had happened at the meeting. Edward Simister had been clerk of the council for many years, and was not in the habit of divulging council business to anyone.
As he was preparing to set off for the regular Saturday bicycle club, Rudolph toyed with the idea of stopping at Wakeleigh Towers, but decided against it, mindful of Sir Hereward's instructions. And perhaps it would not be wise to call upon Sir Hereward today. What if he was shown into the drawing room and Lady Wakeleigh should see him? The sight of a man so scantily clad in his racing attire might well cause her to faint. He would have to wait until the Mayor made one of his infrequent appearances at the Town Hall and find an excuse to speak to him then. It was unsatisfactory, but it would have to do.
His opportunity came two days later, when he learned from Edward Simister that the Mayor was expected at the Town Hall that day. Rudolph armed himself with a sheaf of papers, in case anyone should ask him why he was not poring over old texts in the fusty atmosphere of his basement archives, and spent the morning prowling the corridors.
Fortune favoured him and he came upon his quarry making his way towards the Mayoral office along an empty corridor.
"Good morning, Sir Hereward." Rudolph positioned himself in such a way that the Mayor had no option but to stop. Rudolph lowered his voice. "I wanted to ask you what the council thought about my proposal?"
"What?"
"To change the name of the town."
"Oh, yes. It went down very well."
"Ah, that's good. The evidence in my report convinced them it was viable?"
"Your—" Sir Hereward looked blank for a moment. "Oh, that. Yes, yes, everything is going forward." He gave a hearty laugh and clapped Rudolph on the shoulder. "Couldn't have done it without your advice, my boy."
"Then they have already approved it?" Rudolph felt a sudden rush of pleasure.
"There is no decision yet. That will be made at the next meeting, but I have no doubt we shall push it through." The Mayor dragged his pocket watch out by its chain. "Goodness, is that the time? I must get on, Spendlove. If you will excuse me?"
It took all his courage, but Rudolph did not move. "You will keep me informed?"
"Oh yes. Of course, of course."
The Mayor hurried away and Rudolph made his way back down the stairs to his basement stronghold, elation filling his soul. He was no longer merely Town Archivist. He was Little Piddling's historical advisor. In future he would be consulted upon all manner of matters. Perhaps he might even write a book. The History of Little Piddling. It was likely that, after this, he would be asked by Much Piddling to research
their past and produce a similar tome. After all, everyone knew they had lost their archivist years ago and now all Much Piddling's papers were locked away, unloved and disregarded.
Rudolph went back to his desk, but little work was achieved for the rest of the day. Instead he found himself drifting off into a beatific dream of fame and fortune.
The prospect of change wrought a transformation in Rudolph. It gave him confidence. He no longer blushed and looked the other way when he saw Millicent Simister. Instead he smiled and wished her good morning. They even, occasionally, managed a little conversation and, on the Sunday before the council's May meeting, he plucked up the courage to accompany her back from church.
It was all very circumspect, Mrs Spendlove following close behind with Millicent's parents while the two young people chattered away in front. When they reached their adjoining houses in Cosmo Terrace, Rudolph was encouraged to risk a further step.
He said, "It is such a lovely day, Miss Simister, I wondered—that is, perhaps you would like to take a stroll along the promenade with me?"
"What, now? Oh goodness, Mr Spendlove, I am not sure if my mother can spare me."
However, Mrs Simister was only too pleased to see such a steady young man as Rudolph Spendlove taking an interest in her daughter. If she was honest, she would have been pleased to see any man taking an interest in Millicent. At twenty-two, she was already past her prime and her fond mama had begun to despair of marrying her off.
"I can spare you very well, Millicent, my love," she said. "Off you go now and enjoy the sunshine."
For Rudolph, walking off with Millicent on his arm, the prospects had never looked brighter. They were getting along quite famously. They walked almost the whole length of the promenade and when Rudolph looked up, he saw the row of beach huts standing sentinel in the distance.
"My mother owns one of the beach huts, did you know?"
"No, really? How absolutely wonderful. I have always thought they looked so pretty. I should dearly like to see inside it."
Her words delighted him and he beamed. "Then you shall." He escorted her to the beach huts and stopped halfway along the boardwalk. "Here we are. This is my mother's hut."
The brown paint stood out in stark contrast to the pale pinks, blues and yellows around it. Glancing at his companion, Rudolph saw a shadow flicker across her face.
"Oh. It is…it is very different."
"My parents visited the Isle of Wight for their honeymoon," he said by way of explanation. "Mother was inspired by the cottage Prince Albert built for Queen Victoria and had the hut—" he drew in a breath, taking in the false support beams, the fancy glazing bars and elaborate carving on the eaves and the balustrade "—transformed."
"Oh." Her gaze travelled over the hut and came to rest on the carved nameplate over the door. "Rassendyll Lodge. That is from The Prisoner of Zenda." She clapped her hands together and turned to him, her pansy brown eyes shining. "That explains everything. That is quite my favourite novel."
"It is?" Rudolph looked at her eagerly. "I was named after Rudolph."
For one dreadful moment he thought Millicent was going to laugh. Certainly, her eyes twinkled and there was a distinct tremor in her voice when she responded. "How…how fascinating." She waved towards the door. "May I see inside?"
"Of course." He unlocked the door. "After you, Miss Simister."
Following Millicent into the beach hut, Rudolph was glad his mother had kept the interior plain. There were just a couple of comfortable chairs where one might shelter from a chill wind, a little table and a small cupboard.
"Do you use this place to change into your bathing suit?" Millicent asked him.
"Yes." Rudolph felt a blush heating his cheeks. "Although I do not bathe in the sea very often."
She sighed. "I can swim, but only a little, and I haven't been in the water for years. If I had a hut like this, I think I should bathe in the sea every day, when the weather was fine enough."
He was tempted to tell her she could use the beach hut at any time she wanted, but he refrained. Mother might object.
She took a step back, towards the open door. "Thank you for showing me your beach hut, Mr Spendlove."
"Please, call me Rudolph."
"Rudolph, then."
"May I call you Millicent?"
"If you would like to."
She blushed adorably and he felt a strong and rather frightening desire to kiss her. That, of course, was quite out of the question, but he was emboldened to take her hands and risk a question.
"And…and will you be my sweetheart, Millicent?"
Her eyes widened. She looked startled and snatched her hands out of his grasp.
He said quickly, "I beg your pardon. I should not have presumed, upon so slight an acquaintance." He turned away, mortified. "I did not mean to offend you."
She touched his arm.
"I am not offended," she said gently. "It is merely that—" She stopped and he thought he heard a sigh. "I should be very happy to be friends with you, Rudolph, but I am not…not looking for a beau. At least, not one from Little Piddling. You see, I want more from life," she told him. "I want adventure. I so want to see the world. I have no wish to settle down yet."
"You think I am boring."
"No. Well, yes." She flushed. "A little. You have told me all about your work, remember, so I know that you are cooped up all day in the archives, poring over dusty papers. You must admit that it is very dull work."
"No, no, you are quite wrong about that. It is fascinating, I am never happier than when I am working."
She gave him a pitying look and said gently, "I think that rather proves my point. I am so sorry to disappoint you, Rudolph. I hope— I hope very much we can forget what has happened here and we can still be friends?"
If only he could explain to her how much he enjoyed his work and the thrill of discovering a little-known fact in some obscure document. He especially wished he could tell her about his report for Sir Hereward and how he had been instrumental in improving the fortunes of Little Piddling, but he had been sworn to secrecy. However, when it became public knowledge that he was behind the grand plan to change the name of the town, he would be able to explain it all in detail to her. Perhaps even take her to the archives. She could not fail to be impressed when he showed her the shelves full of rolls, ledgers and boxes of papers that he had scoured to seek out and document the little details that had been required to support his argument.
But that was for the future. Now he had to rescue this very delicate situation. He straightened his shoulders and gave her a smile.
"Of course we can be friends, Millicent. Will you allow me to escort you back to Cosmo Terrace?"
Once again, the day of the council meeting arrived and passed and Rudolph heard nothing from Sir Hereward. However, this time, he was not kept wondering for long. A few days after the meeting, Rudolph came down for breakfast to find his mother already seated at the table, the latest copy of the Piddling Post in her hands.
"Good Heavens," she said, by way of greeting. "Have you seen this?"
She held the newspaper towards him and he read the headline emblazoned across the front page. "Grand Plans for Little Piddling."
At last. He schooled his face into a look of polite interest and asked her as calmly as he could what it meant.
"Sir Hereward has proposed that the town should in future be called Little Piddling sur Mer. Apparently he prepared and presented a full and comprehensive report, outlining the town's close ties with the Continent."
"He prepared a report?" It was as much as Rudolph could do not to snatch the paper from his mother's hands. "May I look?"
"Of course. Dear me. A change of name. We shall need new visiting cards, of course, and headed notepaper. But Little Piddling sur Mer has a certain…cachet, don't you think?"
Rudolph was not listening. His eyes ran down the page and with every sentence his anger and chagrin increased. Sir Hereward had claimed the idea for his
own. His fellow councillors praised his diligent endeavours on behalf of the town. Mr Sydney Arbuttle was even quoted as saying the move was a stroke of genius. Rudolph read the report over a second time before accepting the unpalatable truth.
He was not mentioned.
Injustice burning in his breast, Rudolph left the house, but instead of making his way to the archives, he strode up the hill to Wakeleigh Towers. Sir Hereward, he was informed, had not yet left his room. When the maid would have closed the door, Rudolph put his foot in the gap.
"Then ask him to come down. If you please."
Shaking at his own daring, he followed the maid into the drawing room and paced anxiously while she scurried away to find her master.
"Well, Spendlove?" Sir Hereward came in and closed the door behind him with a snap. "Is there an emergency? Has something happened at the Town Hall?"
"This has happened." Rudolph pulled the folded newspaper from inside his coat and thrust it at Sir Hereward.
The Mayor looked at the paper but made no attempt to take it from him.
"What of it?"
"The name change," said Rudolph. "This report says it was entirely your initiative. That the idea, the research, was all your own."
"But of course. What else should it say?"
"The name change was my idea." Rudolph spluttered. "I suggested we add 'sur mer', that we use French instead of Latin. It was I who sought out the historical evidence and compiled all the arguments in favour. I spent days, weeks, producing that report. All forty pages of it."
"And I appreciate your effort, Spendlove, but really, do you think anyone would have taken any notice if I had put this forward as your idea? If I had told them this was the brainchild of a mere office boy?"
Office boy! Rudolph flushed to the roots of his hair.
"But it was my idea."
"Ah, but would you have thought of it, if I had not asked you to look into the matter? That is where we differ, Spendlove. Mine is the creative mind, the intelligence that comes up with the grand design. Your role is to assist me in the execution of the plans."
Beach Hut Surprise: Escape to Little Piddling this summer — six feel-good beach reads to make you smile, or even laugh out loud Page 2
