It was just after the assembly on this final morning, where we had been presented with a large box wrapped in pale flowery wedding paper and festooned with ribbons and silver horseshoes, that Barry had appeared. Some of the children had brought individual presents and cards, others had arrived at school with great bunches of daffodils, tulips and other spring flowers. Soon We had been surrounded by a chattering, excited throng of children, all eager to wish us well. Barry had held back until Christine and I had begun to make our way to her room.
‘Hello, Barry,’ Christine had said, having caught sight of him lingering in the corridor. ‘Come along and meet my fiancé. Do you remember Mr Phinn?’
The little boy had surveyed me seriously. He was carrying two small branches of faded broom which had seen better days and a couple of forlorn irises, wrapped in a piece of colourful paper which I realised was a page torn out of a magazine.
‘Are you really getting married then, miss?’ he had asked sadly.
‘Yes, I am,’ Christine had replied, crouching down so she had been on his level. She had taken his grubby little hand in hers. ‘Aren’t you going to say “hello” to my husband-to-be?’
‘Hello,’ the little boy had mumbled disconsolately.
‘Hello, Barry,’ I had replied.
‘And next term I’ll be Mrs Phinn,’ Christine had told him. ‘Isn’t it exciting?’
‘I like you as Miss Bentley,’ he had said unhappily. ‘I don’t want you getting married. I don’t want you to. I don’t, I don’t!’ And he had burst into tears.
‘I’ll still be the same person, Barry. I won’t be any different.’
‘You will! You will!’ he had wailed piteously. ‘I know you will.’ Then he had looked up at Christine, sniffing and sobbing and rubbing his eyes. ‘I wanted to marry you.’
Christine had wrapped her arms around his small shaking body. ‘And are these lovely flowers for me?’ she had asked in a trembling voice. I knew she was as affected by this pathetic little scene as I was. He had nodded and sniffed. ‘They’re beautiful, and I shall put them in water and have them on my desk. These shall be my very special flowers.’
She had taken his hand, led him into the staff room, with me following, and found the most colourful vase from under the sink. The flowers had been arranged and we had followed Christine back to her room where she had put the vase in pride of place on her desk. She had then given the little boy a hug. ‘These are my very special flowers, Barry. Thank you so much. I like them better than any other flowers I have been given.’
Chris told me later that, at the end of the day, the little boy had appeared at her door.
‘Hello, Barry,’ Christine had said brightly. ‘Have you come to wish me all the best for my wedding next week?’
‘I’ve come for my flowers, miss,’ he had said bluntly.
‘Your flowers? Oh, I thought they were for me.’
‘They’re very special,’ the child had said solemnly. ‘You said they were very special.’
‘And they are,’ Christine had told him. ‘I think they are beautiful but I thought you brought them for me.’
‘They’re very special,’ Barry had repeated, ‘and I want to give them to my mam.’
Christine had smiled. ‘Of course, you do.’ She had removed the broom, virtually bare of its yellow blossom, and the two wilting irises from the vase and had wrapped them in some bright red tissue paper. Then, taking a ribbon from one of the wedding presents, she had tied them in a bunch. ‘They look really nice now, don’t they?’ she had said. ‘What a lovely surprise for your mummy.’ Christine had placed the flowers in the child’s hands. ‘Do you think I might have just a little sprig of broom for good luck? I’ll put it with my bouquet when I get married.’ The child had nodded and snapped a sprig from a branch.
Christine had watched Barry scurry down the school path to be met at the gates by a stocky, unkempt woman with short bleached hair and a cigarette dangling from her mouth. Two screaming toddlers were writhing and wriggling in the push-chair beside her. On seeing her son, she had stabbed the air with a finger and had begun shouting at him. Reaching her, the little boy had held up his bouquet like a priest at the altar making an offering. The flowers had been promptly plucked from his hand and deposited in the nearest bin.
‘What a life,’ I had said to Christine when she told me this. ‘What a life!’
*
The day of our wedding went like clockwork. For a start, the weather was perfect: it was one of those bright spring days when there was even a little warmth in the sun and the air was alive with bird song. The reception was held at the Bankfield Hotel, a grey, turreted building covered in thick ivy and surrounded by long lawns which were carpeted with great swathes of daffodils. We left the church and village square in a smart pony and trap and, as we approached the hotel, the building seemed to rise like a castle from a sea of green and gold.
All the speeches had been well received, particularly ‘Legs’ Bentley’s, Christine’s father. At one moment he had us all roaring with laughter as he described her childhood antics and the next he moved us to tears describing how much he loved this gentle, compassionate woman who had brought such joy into his life. Sidney threatened to make a speech about me, but I think he was only joking and was, for once, quiet when Geraldine playfully put her hand across his mouth. We were overwhelmed with presents and good wishes, and we even received a card from Simon Carter, wishing us all the very best and saying how much he was looking forward to working with me. So, my lovely bride and I could not have hoped for a better start to our married life. The honeymoon, however, was not without incident.
Christine and I drove to the Lake District in her Morris Traveller, talking non-stop. Most of the conversation was about Peewit Cottage – what we intended to do with the overgrown garden (typical of us to worry about the least important first), the improvements we envisaged to the completely out-dated kitchen, our plans for the cold damp bedrooms and the essential changes needed to the plumbing. We chatted about colour schemes and furniture, curtains and carpets, wallpaper and widow-boxes all the way to the Salutation Hotel in Ambleside.
On that first evening I was waiting for Christine to join me in the bar before dinner when I became aware of a familiar perfume, a perfume which brought back many memories. Turning, I came face-to-face with someone I had not seen for years.
‘Susan!’ I exclaimed, nearly dropping my drink. ‘Whatever are you doing here?’
‘Hello, Gervase,’ she said calmly. ‘I thought in this situation, when one hasn’t seen someone for a long time, that the line is usually: “How lovely to see you again.”’
I had met Susan at the Charlotte Mason College in Ambleside six or seven years before. I was still a teacher at the time and was attending a weekend course at the college where I met this stunningly attractive woman with long auburn hair and eyes the colour of polished jade. She was teaching in a large comprehensive school in Birmingham and I had been well and truly smitten. Susan was a lively, intelligent and amusing person and, when we had both returned home, I had plucked up the courage, telephoned her and asked her out. We had spent most weekends for the next year together. We went to the theatre and concerts, and spent many hours walking in Derbyshire which was about the halfway point between our two homes. Occasionally, we went further afield, liking especially to walk on the beach at Whitby. For me, the relationship soon began to become more and more serious. It was not quite the same for Susan. She was so consumed by her work that I suddenly realised she did not want the relationship to develop into anything permanent. There had been no mention of our settling down together, or engagement or marriage. Then one evening, after a quiet and unusually strained conversation over dinner, she had told me that she had decided to accept a senior position teaching in an army school in Germany. So we had parted on amicable terms to go our separate ways. Now here she was, with the same long auburn hair and eyes the colour of polished jade.
‘I’m sorry, Susan,
’ I stuttered now, ‘it’s… it’s… just that it’s such a shock seeing you here.’
‘Yes, it’s a bit of a surprise for me, too,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you propping up the bar.’
‘I just can’t believe it’s you.’
‘You really do look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ she said. ‘I don’t look all that dire, do I?’
‘No, no, of course you don’t… well… you look… er… wonderful. You haven’t changed a bit.’
‘Neither have you.’
‘It’s just such a surprise finding you here of all places. I’m sorry, I…’
‘I do wish you would stop apologising,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry, it’s just such a shock. So, you’re back from Germany?’
‘Yes, about a year. I’m a deputy headteacher now, in Buxton, but it has the rather quaint title of Senior Mistress.’
‘Congratulations. I knew you were destined for the top. Headteacher next.’
‘Hope so.’
‘And are you still working too hard, putting in all those hours?’
‘That’s the nature of the job,’ she replied, ‘as you well know.’
‘You look as if you are enjoying life, anyway.’
‘Oh, I am. I love the work. I live in a house with fabulous views, and am always busy. All the ingredients, in fact, for a very happy and fulfilled life.’ She did not sound all that happy and fulfilled, I thought to myself. It was as if she were trying to convince herself.
‘I just can’t get over seeing you. And what are you doing here in the Salutation?’
‘I’m attending a management and leadership course at the college. Lots of long lectures and discussion groups. We have a free evening tonight, though, so we are letting our hair down a bit. You are very welcome to join us if you’d like to.’ Before I could answer, she continued, ‘I did try and get in touch, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘I did, yes, but you were out inspecting every time I called your office and your secretary wouldn’t give me your home number.’
‘No, Julie never gives out our personal numbers. If she did, we’d be inundated with calls from angry parents and teachers and governors and I don’t know who else. Why didn’t you leave a message?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she replied quietly.
‘Why not?’
‘Pride, I guess. I suppose I was a bit afraid that you wouldn’t ring back. I was intending to try again but time moved on and I was busy and… oh… I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know me very well, Susan,’ I replied.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Of course I would have got back to you. You know how I felt about you.’
‘Yes, I know,’ she said. ‘I think about our times together often enough. Anyway, that’s water under the bridge now, isn’t it?’ When I didn’t answer, she continued trying to Sound cheerful. ‘And what about you? Do you like school inspecting?’
‘Yes, I love it. Best move I ever made.’
‘And are you the Chief Inspector yet?’
‘No, I did try for a senior inspector’s job, but wasn’t even interviewed.’
‘More fool them.’
‘I’m really glad things have worked out for you,’ I said. ‘I was sure you’d get to the top.’
‘Yes, I was always ambitious, perhaps a bit too much.’ I did not know what to say. ‘It was only when I had moved to Germany that I began to miss things. I missed the theatre trips and the walks, and our trips to Whitby and those ridiculously unhealthy fish and chips at The Magpies. Do you remember? And looking for pieces of jet on the beach. I even missed the school plays you dragged me along to.’ She looked into my eyes. ‘And I missed you, Gervase. I’ve thought about you a lot.’
‘Susan…’ I began. I could feel my face beginning to get hot with embarrassment. I was stuck for words again.
‘I suppose it’s one of life’s most hackneyed phrases,’ she continued. ‘If only…’
‘Ah, well…’ I began again.
‘To be truthful, if I had my time over again and had those choices to make and if…’
‘Yes… well…’
‘So, perhaps I should give you that ring?’
‘Ring!’ I gulped. ‘W… what ring?’
‘Give you that ring and arrange something, that’s if you are still… well, you know, unattached.’
‘Susan,’ I said gently, ‘I’m with someone tonight. A terrible cliché, perhaps, but true – I am with someone tonight…’ My voice trailed off.
‘Oh,’ was all she said.
I knew I had to get the truth out. ‘I met her just after I had started the inspector’s job in Yorkshire. We’ve been going out now for two years. Her name’s Christine.’
‘I see,’ she said again. There was an awkward silence. ‘Is she beautiful?’
‘Yes, she’s very beautiful.’
‘Silly question. Of course she’s beautiful and probably very clever and charming and successful as well.’
‘Susan,’ I said, ‘I’m married now. In fact, today. We are here on our honeymoon.’ The words now came tumbling out.
She looked aghast. Oh dear. How embarrassing! This is the sort of terrible situation we all dread. I think I’m supposed to say, “Well, I hope you’ll be very happy together.”’ She looked up and there were tears in her eyes. ‘I’ve made a bit of a fool of myself, haven’t I?’
‘No, of course not,’ I replied. ‘You weren’t to know.’
‘I do hope you will be very happy together, Gervase, I really do. You deserve it.’ She kissed me lightly on the cheek. ‘I had better go, the others will be missing me.’
‘Susan –’ I began, but she quickly walked away and was gone before I could complete the sentence. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.
‘Could I have a whisky, please?’ I asked the barman. ‘And make it a double.’
‘So who was that woman you were talking to at the bar?’ asked Christine when we sat down for dinner.
I had hoped she hadn’t noticed when she’d walked into the bar by one door just as Susan was leaving the bar by its second door. I had immediately cancelled my whisky and asked the barman to open the champagne I had ordered previously.
‘She’s a deputy headteacher, here on some sort of study course,’ I replied, now reading the menu and attempting to sound casual and rather vague, ‘I used to know her.’
‘She’s very attractive.’
‘Yes, she is, isn’t she, very attractive. What are you going to start with?’
‘And beautifully dressed.’
‘Yes, she was. I think I’ll start with the scallops.’
‘So how did you know her?’
Oh, it was some years ago. I met her on a course. Here in Ambleside, as a matter of fact.’
‘Gosh!’ exclaimed Christine. ‘You have a remarkably good memory for faces, pretty faces anyway.’
‘Actually, I knew her very well.’ I took rather a large gulp of champagne, and the bubbles fizzed in my nose. ‘In fact, I knew her very well indeed. I went out with her for nearly a year. We were just catching up on old times.’
Christine took a sip of her champagne and smiled at me. ‘You know one of these days, Gervase Phinn, someone will take you seriously.’ She laughed, throwing back her head.
‘Christine, it’s true!’
She clearly still did not believe me and thought I was teasing her. ‘Did you notice she was wearing an ankle bracelet?’
‘No, I didn’t. I don’t go around, especially on my honeymoon, looking at attractive women’s ankles.’
‘Well, she was. She didn’t look very much like a deputy headteacher to me.’
‘And what, pray, does a deputy headteacher look like?’
‘Well, certainly not like the woman at the bar.’
‘Christine –’ I began.
‘It would be something to tell your colleagues at work, wouldn’t it,’ she said, smiling ag
ain.
‘What would?’
‘That on your honeymoon you had met an old flame in the hotel. You have a wild and wonderful imagination, do you know that? Who was she really?’
‘Oh, just someone I met at the bar,’ I replied. ‘Now, Mrs Phinn, have you decided what to have?’
We stayed for just a week in Ambleside, walking on some of the Lake District’s beautiful fells. We spent the other week of the Easter holidays starting work on Peewit Cottage. An ancient great-aunt of Chris’s had died at the beginning of the year, and had left her some furniture which had been stored temporarily in her parents’ garage. To start with, we just took over a table and some chairs, ostensibly so we could eat in comfort the cold food we brought with us from the flat – but the end of a hard day’s work often found us eating the excellent pies produced by the Golden Ball.
There was absolutely no point in bringing any more furniture, nor having carpets laid, until the verminous woodwork was treated, the damp dealt with in the bed-rooms and the walls then re-plastered. Only then could we make a start on transforming the place into our dream cottage. We didn’t want to spend a single night more than necessary in my small flat above The Rumbling Tum café and aimed to move in during the school half-term holiday.
One afternoon, I abandoned the job of rubbing down the bathroom walls and came outside to have a breath of fresh air. I was sitting on the drystone wall which enclosed the small garden, staring abstractedly at the breathtaking panorama before me. I could not believe that we had this view from the bedroom window, that we would pull back the curtains every morning and gaze upon acres of green undulating fields studded with grey outcrops of rock and divided by thin white walls which rose like veins impossibly high to the craggy fellsides beyond. I suddenly became aware of a figure observing me from the gate. He was a grizzled old man with a wide-boned, pitted face the colour and texture of an unscrubbed potato, a long beak of a nose with flared nostrils and an impressive shock of white hair.
Head Over Heels in the Dales Page 22
