‘I can assure you, Mrs Cleaver-Canning, that I do not tell rude jokes or –’
‘No, no, I’m sure you don’t. Now, have you your diary handy? Can you come and see me this week?’
We had arranged that I should go to see her at four o’clock that Friday afternoon which suited me well, since I could call in on my way back to the office from a school visit. And so it was that I presented myself at I, Prince Regent Row just as the clock on Fettlesham Town Hall struck four.
I was welcomed inside by an elderly, slightly stooped man with thin wisps of sandy-grey hair and a great handlebar moustache. He looked like an ageing Biggies. I assumed this to be the old family retainer but it soon became apparent that he was Mr Cleaver-Canning.
‘Ah,’ he said in a deep, throaty voice, ‘Mr Phinn, I presume? Come in, come in. The better half is upstairs but she will be down directly. We’ll go into the library, if you’d like to walk this way.’ I followed the stooping figure into a room lined with bookcases set between tall sash windows, overlooking a long walled garden. The handsome cedar trees of Jubilee Park could be seen over the wall at the end. Everything exuded comfortable opulence, from the heavy velvet curtains to the thick crimson carpet, from the delicately-moulded ceiling to the deep armchairs and magazine-laden tables. ‘Do take a seat. I’ll just give Margot a call.’
The man shuffled off and once back in the hall he shouted up the stairs. ‘Margot! Margot! Your visitor is here.’
Back came a short and impatient reply, ‘I’m coming! I’m coming!’ There was the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs followed by a loud whispering from the hall. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t shout like that. It’s not Fettlesham Market.’ There was a note of sharp command in the voice.
‘Yes, I know, Margot,’ he replied, ‘but it’s a bloody long trek up those stairs and…’
There was another series of whispers before Biggies reappeared, followed by an ample-bosomed, impeccably-groomed woman with pale purple hair and grey eyes so large they made her appear permanently surprised. Her mouth was a shining scarlet bow of lipstick. The Honourable Mrs Cleaver-Canning certainly commanded presence. She examined me critically like a doctor might a patient, gave a short, quick smile and proffered a fleshy hand. The air had suddenly become thick with a heady perfume.
‘Mr Phinn, do take a seat. I think you have met my husband.’ She waved her hand in the direction of Biggies who stood by the door like a hovering butler. ‘Winco, please don’t stand there like a totem pole. Put the kettle on. I am sure Mr Phinn would enjoy a cup of tea.’
‘Thank you, yes,’ I replied, thinking a stiff whisky at that moment would have suited me better.
‘Righto,’ said Mr Cleaver-Canning genially, shambling out of the room. I sat down in the nearest armchair, practically disappearing into its depths. My large companion lowered herself regally into the middle of the sofa opposite and spread herself extravagantly. ‘My husband was in the RAF. Wing Commander. Called Norman but everyone calls him Winco. Now, Mr Phinn, Daphne Patterson tells me you are a school inspector. How fascinating.’ The tone of voice suggested that she did not sound particularly fascinated.
‘Yes, I’ve been an inspector now for a couple of years. Before that I was a teacher and —’
‘Have you ever visited Hamilton College?’ Winco had suddenly materialised at the door.
Mrs Cleaver-Canning tightened her lips and gave him a look which would curdle milk. ‘Winco, I am sure Mr Phinn is not able to discuss, nor is he particularly interested in discussing, the various schools he has visited. In any case, he’s probably never heard of Hamilton.’ She turned to me. ‘It’s a minor public school in Surrey.’ She turned her attention back to her husband, ‘Have you made the tea?’
‘Only just put the kettle on,’ replied Winco. ‘Anyhow, need to know what sort. Do you like Earl Grey, Darjeeling, Ceylon, Assam, camomile, Mr Phinn, or a good old Yorkshire brew?’
‘Winco,’ said his wife in exasperated tones, ‘just make the tea.’
‘Righto,’ he said good-humouredly and shuffled out of the room.
‘As I was saying, Mr Phinn, it sounds a very interesting profession, a school inspector. To be frank, I find children rather exhausting and very demanding. We have nephews and nieces but we don’t have any children of our own.’ I could tell that by the immaculate state of the house.
‘Yes, it is a very interesting profession. I get to meet a great many people, of all ages and from every background. I visit schools both in towns and the lovely Dales villages, and, on some occasions —’
‘Biscuits?’ Winco had appeared again at the door.
‘What?’ snapped his wife.
‘Are we having biscuits?’
Mrs Cleaver-Canning sighed heavily and heaved her substantial bosom before pursing her cupid bow lips and replying tartly, ‘Yes, Winco, I think we will have biscuits.’
‘What kind?’
‘Just put a selection on a plate,’ she told him wearily.
‘Righto,’ he said amiably, disappearing out of the room once more.
‘You were saying, Mr Phinn?’ continued my hostess.
‘Just that I get to meet a great many people and see the beautiful Yorkshire countryside.’
‘And do you do a lot of talking, Mr Phinn?’ continued Mrs Cleaver-Canning.
‘My colleagues would say rather too much, I fear,’ I replied.
My feeble attempt at a witticism fell on stony ground. ‘Oh really?’ She gave the short, quick little smile.
Winco appeared with a tray on which were three delicate china cups and saucers, a large silver teapot, jug and sugar bowl. There was also an enormous plate of assorted biscuits. He placed the tray on a table.
‘Coasters, please, Winco,’ ordered his wife, pointing to an elegant rosewood sideboard. ‘Top left-hand drawer.’
Having arranged various mats on the small mahogany table, Winco proceeded to pour the tea.
‘Why are there three cups?’ asked his wife.
‘Aren’t I joining you?’ Winco lifted a sandy eyebrow.
‘No, you are not joining us,’ she replied in low, measured tones. ‘I am discussing the Christmas Ladies’ Night dinner with Mr Phinn. It is golf club business. You have your errands to do.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes, you know you do. Tigger has got to go to the vet. Evening surgery is at five.’
‘Righto.’
‘And do make sure it’s the young woman vet who sees him. I have little confidence in that man.’
‘Righto,’ he said again, leaving the room.
Mrs Cleaver-Canning leaned forward and whispered confidentially, ‘Tell me, Mr Phinn, do you drink?’
‘Er, it’s a little early for me, thank you,’ I said.
‘No, no,’ she said with a fluttering laugh. ‘I was wondering if, in general terms, you enjoy a drink or are you a teetotaller?’
‘Yes, I like a drink, but in moderation.’
‘You don’t overdo it?’
‘No, I don’t overdo it.’
‘Good, it’s just that that vulgar little soap man had far too much drink for his own good and he became quite insulting. We have had a number of speakers in the past who have imbibed rather a lot.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said, feigning concern. ‘Well, I can assure you, Mrs Cleaver-Canning, there will be nothing of that sort.’
The interrogation continued for a further thirty minutes until my hostess appeared satisfied on my suitability to speak at the Christmas Ladies’ Night dinner.
‘Well, that sounds most satisfactory,’ she said. ‘I have enjoyed our little chat and would like to confirm my invitation for you to speak. I should point out that it will be a formal affair so you will need to wear a dinner jacket.’
Before I could reply, Winco reappeared and asked: ‘Where’s the cat basket, Margot?’
It was time for me to leave and I made good my escape at the same time as Winco departed, carrying a small wicker basket from which emanated
very cross-sounding mews.
Late Friday afternoons were the only times that all the inspectors were likely to be together in the office. On such occasions we could wind down, have a mug of tea, exchange incidents, and gossip and talk about the trials and tribulations of the week. We were never in a great rush and those who lived outside Fettlesham generally waited until the heavy Friday evening traffic had eased before setting off home. The exception on the team was Gerry who, having cleared her desk, was usually keen to get away.
I got back to the office from my grilling by Mrs Cleaver-Canning just after five o’clock. Sidney was in a particularly provocative frame of mind. He was standing watching Gerry as she attempted to push a set of thick folders into her briefcase.
‘Do you have to be so remarkably accomplished at everything, Gerry?’ Sidney asked her.
‘What do you mean?’ she replied, laughing.
‘Well according to “The Black Death” over in the CEO’s office, the pestilential Mrs Savage, in her latest poison-pen memorandum, you are the only one of us who had all the final reports, responses and guidelines completed by the end of last term and you are the only one of us who has correctly filled in her wretched engagement sheets.’
‘I just like to keep on top of things, Sidney,’ she told him, giving him one of her disarming Irish smiles. ‘It’s just the way I am. You know what I’m like.’
Actually, I thought to myself, I don’t know what you are like. None of us did. In fact, Dr Geraldine Mullarkey was something of a mystery. She had everything: brains, looks, personality, a sense of humour and, during her short time as the county inspector for science and technology, she had made a very big impression. Schools were always happy to see her, the CEO had received many complimentary letters and commendations from headteachers and governors, Harold declared her reports to be models of excellence, and her training courses for teachers were always vastly oversubscribed. She was an extremely pretty, slender young woman with short raven black hair, a pale, delicately-boned face and great blue eyes with long lashes, and men gazed at her with open admiration. She had been a member of the inspectors’ team now for over a term but we still knew very little about her, despite Sidney’s persistent probings. Gerry was a private person and kept her life outside work strictly to herself.
‘Were you one of those insufferably industrious little girls at school,’ Sidney now asked, ‘who was top in everything, best at sports, brilliant at music, answered all the questions, got all the prizes on Speech Day? A rather prissy, precocious little missy with long plaits and a butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth expression?’
‘No, not really, Sidney,’ replied Gerry, cramming yet more papers into her bag. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact. I think I was the bane of my teachers’ lives.’
‘Geraldine, how many more files are you intending to Stuff into your bag?’ asked Sidney.
‘Oh, do leave the poor woman alone,’ said David.
‘I just wish to impress upon our fair colleen from County Galway that there is more to life than inspecting schools and she must appreciate that by taking home all this extra work and being amazingly industrious, we mere, weak, inadequate mortals appear somewhat less than efficient by comparison.’ He gestured to his desk where an assorted heap of dog-eared files and thick folders balanced dangerously on the edge. Geraldine’s desk, by contrast, was empty save for a telephone, a large pristine square of blotting paper, two small neatly-stacked piles of reports, an empty in-tray and a full out-tray.
‘I can’t hang around tonight, either,’ I told no one in particular as I emptied the contents of my briefcase on my desk. ‘I have a meeting.’
‘On a Friday night!’ exclaimed Sidney.
‘Yes, on a Friday night,’ I replied.
‘Another workaholic.’
‘I know why our Sidney is feeling inadequate,’ said David. ‘He’s afraid.’
‘Afraid? Afraid, pray, of what?’ enquired his colleague.
‘Not of what but of whom,’ said David. ‘You are worried about Harold’s replacement. You are in a state of panic because you think we may get a martinet of a Senior Inspector who will watch your every move and get wise to your little games and ruses.’
‘Little games and ruses? Whatever do you mean?’
‘How, if something has nothing to do with your precious art and design, you slither and slip from the most difficult situations like an eel in a barrel of oil, wriggling your way out of anything which involves extra work.’
Sidney snorted. ‘Utter rubbish! Anyway, Geraldine, I think you are overdoing it. You should slow down a bit. Work is, after all, not the be-all and end-all. In fact, I think you are looking decidedly pale. What you need is a good man.’
‘Give me strength,’ sighed David. ‘Now he’s into marriage counselling.’
‘An attractive young woman like you,’ continued Sidney unperturbed, ‘could have your pick of dozens of panting males. I take it there is no one on the scene at the moment? Perhaps someone we don’t know about, tucked away in a remote cottage in the Dales?’
‘Not at the moment,’ replied Gerry, now clearly getting irritated by Sidney’s probing. The smile had disappeared from her lips. ‘I must be off.’
‘No secret lover?’
‘Sidney,’ she said sharply, ‘it really is none of your business, you know.’
‘Well said,’ agreed David. ‘Now, leave the poor woman alone.’
Sidney merely changed tack, and directed his questions to me. ‘By the way, Gervase, are you going to apply for Harold’s job?’
I decided to throw the question back at him. ‘Why don’t you apply, Sidney?’
‘No, not me. The more I view those who are at the top of the tree, the more convinced I become that I am much better off on the grass below, gently grazing, rather than being blown hither and thither by the constant winds of educational change. The very best reason for staying where I am is to look at those at the top. But you are somewhat younger, Gervase, so what about it?’
‘I haven’t decided yet,’ I replied in such a dismissive manner that it should have given him the signal to change the subject again.
Typical of Sidney, he carried on regardless. ‘You want to get on and apply,’ he advised. ‘You will need the extra funds – a newly-married man with an expensive wife, house and mortgage and then, of course, when the children start arriving…’
‘I agree, you should apply, Gervase,’ said Gerry as she put on her coat. ‘You’d make a brilliant Senior Inspector.’
‘I certainly would not go that far!’ exclaimed Sidney. ‘The Irish will exaggerate so. As David’s much more prosaic and tiresome old Welsh grandmother would no doubt remark from her inglenook: “He would make a tidy job of it.” Gervase is a reasonably personable young man, good company, has a pleasant enough manner. I’m sure he would be competent enough in the post of SI and be acceptable to we hard-working inspectors.’
‘Would you mind not talking about me as if I weren’t here?’ I remarked.
‘Yes, I think we could all live with him as Senior Inspector,’ continued Sidney, oblivious to my comment. ‘He is a good sort at heart, if a little stuffy at times.’
‘Stuffy!’ I exclaimed. ‘Stuffy!’
‘I wouldn’t say exactly “stuffy”,’ David said, joining in on this completely unnecessary conversation. ‘Just a trifle on the serious side perhaps, a little intense, prone to be self-critical –’
‘I’m going,’ I told them, rising to leave, ‘before my whole character is laid out like a body on a hospital’s operating table.’
‘Well, I’m off, too,’ Gerry said. She snatched up her bulging briefcase and headed for the door. ‘Have a good weekend everyone.’
‘She always rushes off, doesn’t she?’ said Sidney when Gerry had gone. ‘Never stays for a chat or a drink after work. Very mysterious about her private life. Whatever she says, I reckon it’s highly likely she has a secret man tucked away somewhere. And speaking of mystery, Gervase, pray t
ell us what’s this clandestine meeting of yours this evening? It’s not another woman, is it? You’re not playing fast and loose with the affections of the Aphrodite of Winnery Nook, the delectable Miss Bentley? In fact, the more I think of it, it is highly suspect that both you and Gerry are rushing to leave the office early.’
‘It is not early, Sidney, it’s just not late. And if you must know, I’m meeting Sister Brendan.’
‘A secret evening assignation with a nun, no less. This is getting intriguing.’
‘Since Gervase has told us where he is going,’ remarked David, ‘it is hardly a secret assignation, is it? But that apart, what on earth are you doing with Sister Brendan on a Friday evening?’
‘You are both as bad as each other. I am speaking at a CAFOD charity event at St Bartholomew’s School.’
‘CAFOD?’ cried Sidney. ‘CAFOD! That sounds like a prophylactic for constipation. What the devil is CAFOD?’
‘Catholic Aid for Overseas Development,’ I told him. ‘Sister Brendan has asked me to speak to the Yorkshire Branch to raise money for the street children of South America.’
‘It’s very noble of you to give up a Friday evening, I must say,’ commented David.
‘Well, it’s in a very good cause,’ I replied.
‘If it goes all right,’ said David, ‘I might just ask you to speak at my golf club dinner next year.’
I considered telling him about my invitation from Mrs Cleaver-Canning but thought better of it. Sidney was in his customary pose, leaning back in his chair, staring upwards. ‘It’s rather a contradiction of terms, isn’t it – Yorkshire and charity? Yorkshire people, I have found, are the least charitable of people. They rarely part with their money. The typical Yorkshireman, in my experience, has short arms and long pockets and lives by the Yorkshire motto of Brasso, Inclutcho, Intacto. There was the famous Yorkshire farmer –’
Head Over Heels in the Dales Page 8
