Our ‘dream home’, in fact, turned out to be something of a house of horrors. We soon discovered that we had an expanding family of woodworm in the quaint beams, persistent dry rot in the cosy little sitting room and rising damp in the dining room, cracked walls in the bedrooms, a leaking roof and broken guttering and nearly every conceivable problem that could face the home-owner. But we had been optimistic and cheerful and now, after nearly two years, we were getting somewhere. Having spent most of our spare time renovating and repairing, refurbishing and decorating, Peewit Cottage was beginning to take shape.
There was a rap on the side of the car, which made me jump. Outside, peering through the car window, was a wide-boned, weathered face I immediately recognised. It was our nearest neighbour, Harry Cotton, a man whose long beak of a nose was invariably poking in everyone else’s business. Harry was a man of strong opinions, most of which were usually complaints, pieces of unwanted advice and unhelpful observations. He was the world’s greatest prophet of doom and the incarnation of the good old Yorkshire motto:
’Ear all, see all, say nowt;
Eayt up, sup all, pay nowt;
An’ if ever tha does owt fer nowt,
Do it for thissen!
I wound down the window. ‘Hello, Harry,’ I said wearily.
‘I thowt it were thee,’ he said, scratching the impressive shock of white hair.
‘How are you?’ I asked.
‘Nobbut middlin’,’ he replied. ‘I were badly last week. ’Appen summat I’d etten. I ’ad tripe an’ onions an’ I reckon it dint agree wi’ me. Any road, what’s tha doin’ out ’ere, sittin’ in t’darkby thissen?’
‘Just thinking,’ I told him.
‘I thowt tha were deead or summat, just sittin’ theer. I was tekkin’ Buster out for ’is constitutional an’ I saw thee.’ Buster was Harry’s wiry-haired Border terrier that now barked excitedly at the mention of his name, and jumped up at the door of the car. ‘Get down, Buster!’ ordered Harry. ‘Sit down!’ He turned his attention back to me. ‘I thowt for a minit that tha’d ’ad an ’eart attack or summat an’ were deead at t’wheel. ’As tha ’ad a bit of a barney wi’ t’missis, then?’ he asked. ‘Been kicked out, ’as tha?’
‘No, no, nothing like that,’ I replied. ‘I’m just a bit tired after a long day and a lot of driving.’
‘How long ’as tha been wed now then?’ he asked. ‘Is it two year?’
‘Not quite,’ I said, reaching over to the back seat for my briefcase. The last thing I wanted at that moment was Harry Cotton and his potted philosophy.
‘Aye, when t’honey moon’s ovver, first flush of living together wears off. I’ve seen it time an’ time ageean. Once a woman’s got that ring on ’er finger, things change and they don’t change for t’better. I’m glad I nivver got wed. Too much trouble. Tek my sister, Bertha.’ He chuckled. ‘I bet my brother-in-law would like somebody to tek her. Talkabaat bein’ under t’thumb. Soon as ’e walks in through t’dooer she’s at ’im to do this an’ do that an’ when ’e does do it, nowt ’e does is reight. Comes in from work, ’e does, and just as ’e sits dahn she’s at ’im. ‘Are yer gunna sit theer all neet? That winder wants fixin’ an’ cooal wants fetchin’ in an’ yer can peel t’taties if tha’s nowt better to do.’ She’s nobbut five foot two an’ as thin as a lat but, by the heck, she’s gor a gob on ’er. Two year into t’marriage and –’
‘Harry,’ I said, attempting to get out of the car, ‘Christine and I have not had any barney, as you put it. We are very very happy and everything at home is fine. I’ve just had a bit of a bad day, that’s all.’
‘Tell me abaat it,’ he said and then, without waiting, started to describe his own ‘dreadful’ day.
Finally, I managed to extricate myself from the car and headed for the cottage, but Harry and his still yapping dog followed me up the path. ‘By the way, I’ve had a word with thy missis about yon garden,’ he called after me. ‘It needs sooarting out. I mean your missus can’t be expected to do all that diggin’ and prunin’ and plantin’ what wi’ a young bairn to tek care on, now can she, and it’s t’time o’ year when it wants fettlin’.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ I told him shortly.
‘Tha wants to,’ he told me, stubbornly pursuing his theme. ‘I was telling ’Ezekiah Longton last neet ovver a pint o’ mild at t’Royal Oak. His garden’s a picture, like summat out o’ one o’ these glossy ’orticultural magazines. Cooarse, it would be, what wi’ ’im bein’ Lord Marrick’s head gard’ner for nigh on fotty year. Any road, I were tellin’ ’im what a jungle your garden were and ’e says that tha can ’ave some on ’is ’ardy perennials if tha wants.’
‘That’s very kind of him,’ I said.
‘An’ that allotment of yourn needs a bit o’ work on it an’ all. It’s goin’ dahn t’nick, by looks on it. George Hemmings, on t’Allotment Committee, were only mentionin’ it to me last week in t’Oak. Now, if it was up to me –’
‘I’ll see to it, Harry,’ I said wearily, my hand on the back door latch.
‘An’ I’ll tell thee summat else an’ all,’ he persisted. ‘That new landlord at t’Oakis goin’ down like a dose o’ sheep flu. Tha wants to see what ’e’s gone an’ done to t’old place.’
‘Goodnight, Harry,’ I said, going into the cottage and closing the door behind me.
‘Goodnight,’ he called from the step. ‘Come on, Buster.’
Christine was in the kitchen preparing supper. The cottage was as cheerful and welcoming as I knew it would be, and I could see that a lazy fire burned in the sitting room grate. It was good to be home.
‘You’re late,’ said Christine as I wrapped my arms around her and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
‘Yes,’ I sighed, burying my face in her neck.
‘You don’t sound full of the joys of spring.’
‘It’s autumn,’ I replied holding her close, ‘and I need a strong drinkand some TLC.’
‘Hard day?’ Christine returned to the sink where she was peeling potatoes in a bowl.
‘Dreadful!’ I said, bending over Richard’s carrycot. He looked washed and scrubbed and was gurgling away contentedly.
‘Oh dear.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I said.
‘As bad as that, is it?’ she asked.
‘As bad as that,’ I repeated.
Of course I needed to talk about it so, as I sat at the kitchen table nursing a dark brown whisky, Christine had to endure a detailed account of my day. She was, as always, a sympathetic listener and full of good advice and by the time supper was ready, I felt slightly better.
‘Would you take Richard up, then we can eat,’ she said.
When I came downstairs, having tucked the sleepy baby into his cot, supper was on the table.
‘Harry Cotton’s been round today,’ Christine said, heaping beef stew onto my plate.
‘So I hear. He told me he’d had a word with you.’
‘Was that who I heard you talking to before you came in?’
‘Yes, he was practically lying in wait for me outside,’ I told her. ‘I had to endure five minutes of his blather before I could get rid of him. Once he gets started there’s no stopping him, and he’s always got the weight of the world on his shoulders. The last thing I wanted tonight was a dose of Harry’s words of wisdom.’
‘He’s not that bad,’ said Christine. ‘Harry’s quite endearing, really, and it’s good to have a neighbour who keeps an eye on things. He told me he’s a bit down in the dumps at the moment because of the new landlord at the pub. Apparently, the man’s causing a few waves, upsetting the regulars by changing things.’
‘He told me,’ I said. ‘Harry doesn’t like change and that’s for sure. If it was up to him, we’d still live in the dark ages. He’s always harping on about the good old days when bobbies walked the beat, nobody dropped litter and children did as they were told.’
‘Well, in my opinion, the Royal Oak wants changing,’ Christi
ne said. ‘It’s a smelly, run-down place at the best of times. Only the old villagers go there.’
‘It’s not that bad,’ I said. ‘It’s got character, although I must admit it could do with a lick of paint and some new furniture.’
‘It’ll take more than a lick of paint and new furniture,’ she said. ‘It’s very old-fashioned. People nowadays want a more cheerful place in which to drink.’
‘Harry also mentioned the garden,’ I said.
‘Yes, he did to me as well,’ said Christine, ‘and he wondered if we might be interested in his – er, brother’s grandson, I think, tidying it up a bit. I’m too busy at the moment trying to get the spare bedroom sorted, and Richard takes so much of my time, and I know you’re not up to it.’
‘It’s not that I’m not up to it,’ I replied, a little annoyed by the comment. ‘It’s just that I’m up to my eyes at work and have so much on my plate at the moment.’ I must have sounded like a petulant schoolboy.
‘Don’t be so touchy,’ said Christine, stretching out her hand to mine. ‘What I meant was that you’re far too busy and that you haven’t the time. Anyway, Harry’s brother’s grandson, Andy, leaves school next summer and could do with some extra money. He’s working up at Ted Poskitt’s farm at the weekends but it’s not a regular job and he’s trying to save enough to put himself through Askham Bryan Agricultural College near York. From what Harry says, he seems a willing enough lad and would be a real help with the digging and weeding and doing a few repairs. What do you think?’
‘So long as it doesn’t cost us too much,’ I said, ‘it sounds like a good idea.’
‘I thought you’d say that,’ said Christine, ‘so I’ve asked Andy to come up and see you. Now, what about the washing up?’
I just could not sleep that night. My thoughts kept returning again and again to the situation at Ugglemattersby Junior School and what I would say to Miss de la Mare when I faced her the next morning. In the bright light of day, problems always seem far less important than they do in the dead of night. When you’re in bed surrounded by the silence and the darkness with your mind going over things again and again, it is then you imagine the worst possible scenario.
Finally I drifted off into a fretful sleep but was soon wide awake again, with Christine jabbing me in the back.
‘Gervase! Wake up!’ she whispered.
‘What is it?’ I mumbled.
‘Can you hear it?’ Christine asked in a hushed voice.
‘Hear what?’
‘That noise.’
I rubbed my eyes and sat up. ‘What noise? I can’t hear anything. Is it Richard?’ I asked. ‘He probably wants feeding. Shall I get him?’
‘It’s not the baby!’ hissed Christine sharply. ‘It’s a sort of scratching noise, coming from the loft. There’s something up there, moving about.’
‘Somebody in the house?’
‘Not some body, some thing.’
‘A ghost?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘It’s some sort of animal.’
‘Oh no,’ I said, sitting up and gazing up at the ceiling, ‘I bet we’ve got mice.’
‘Don’t say that!’ exclaimed Christine, clamping her arms around me. ‘You know I hate mice. If I thought there was –’ She stopped mid-sentence. ‘There it is again. Can you hear it?’
There was certainly something moving about above us, a sort of scraping noise then a skittering sound obviously made by some small creature. ‘Yes, I can hear it,’ I said.
‘You don’t thinkit’s a rat, do you?’ asked Christine shuddering.
‘No, no, of course not,’ I told her in a matter-of fact tone of voice, as much to reassure myself as my wife. ‘Rats don’t make that noise and, anyway, they wouldn’t be up in a loft. They don’t like heights. It’s probably a little field mouse come in out of the cold.’
‘It’s a pretty big field mouse that makes that sort of noise. It sounds huge.’
‘It just sounds loud, that’s all,’ I said.
‘Go and look,’ Christine told me, getting out of bed and putting on her slippers and dressing gown.
‘Go and look?’ I repeated. ‘What, now? At this time of night?’
‘I can’t sleep with a rat in the house. I’m moving the baby in with us until you find it. The thought of a rat scuttling about in the cottage makes me feel ill.’
‘I’ve told you,’ I said, ‘it’s not a rat, but I suppose I’d better take a look.’
‘And be careful,’ Christine said. ‘Cornered rats are said to go for the jugular.’
‘Thanks very much,’ I said. ‘That makes me feel a whole lot better,’ and I plodded downstairs to fetch a ladder.
I poked my head up through the hatch but I saw nothing in the torch’s beam except the black water tank and a few large cardboard boxes that we used for storage. The rest of the loft was dark and dusty. I hardly expected the creature, whatever it was, to be waiting to wave at me. It was probably in some darkcorner, watching me at that very moment, but not moving an inch.
After my unsuccessful sortie, I found Christine sitting in the kitchen, feeding Richard. ‘Well?’ she asked nervously.
‘I can’t see anything,’ I told her, ‘but I’ll have another look in the morning when it’s light.’
‘What about giving Mr Hinderwell a call?’ suggested Christine.
Maurice Hinderwell was the County Pest Control Officer whom I had met the previous year when visiting one of the county’s schools. He was a strange little man, not unlike the rodents he caught and killed, with dark inquisitive eyes, small pointed nose, protuberant white teeth and glossy black hair bristling on his scalp. The school had had a nest of rats, which he had disposed of in quick time and with a great degree of relish. When rats appeared in the garden of Peewit Cottage, I had called on his services and since then not a rat had been seen. Now, it seemed, there was a strong possibility that a rat had returned and was in the house.
‘I’ll call him in the morning,’ I said.
As soon as I was back in bed with Christine snuggled up beside me and the baby in his carrycot beside us, the noise started again in earnest. Added to the scratching and scraping, there was now the noise of tiny feet racing up and down above us.
‘Sounds as though he is preparing for the Rat Olympics,’ I commented unwisely.
Christine gave a muffled shriek. ‘I’m going to my parents in the morning,’ she said, ‘and not coming back until you’ve got rid of it.’
As soon as it was light, I climbed the ladder to the loft, armed with a poker. I pushed my head charily through the hatch and saw our nocturnal visitor. Sitting on its haunches and staring at me with large black eyes was a grey squirrel. I could also see how it had got into the loft – light was coming through a hole in the corner where a slate had come loose.
‘It’s a squirrel,’ I called down to Christine. ‘A cute, little bushy-tailed squirrel. He’s getting in through a hole under the eaves.’
I could hear the relief in Christine’s voice. ‘Well, I’m glad it’s not a rat,’ she said, ‘but I still don’t want a squirrel, however cute, taking up residence.’
A moment later, I came down from the loft. ‘Well, he’ll not be back,’ I said. ‘I’ve blocked up his entrance and that should stop him getting in. That’s the end of our little visitor.’
Would that had been the case! As it turned out, the squirrel became yet another item on my list of problems.
6
The following day, Friday, was the day of the first meeting of the new autumn term of the team of inspectors. I wanted to get to the Staff Development Centre before my colleagues to discuss the situation at Ugglemattersby Junior School with Winifred de la Mare, the Chief Inspector.
I had been so looking forward to the start of the new term and little expected that in the very first school that I would visit there would be a problem, and what was likely to be a major one at that. After we had moved downstairs to our new office we had had a week before schools
went back, during which time I had planned all my forthcoming courses, worked out a timetable of school visits, and had organised support materials for teachers, and had then sat back in my chair the Friday before the start of the new school year feeling rather smug. I should have recalled the cautionary advice of one of my colleagues.
David Pritchard, the small, good-humoured Welshman responsible for Mathematics, PE and Games, had once warned me against the danger of becoming too complacent. In his sonorous, lugubrious Welsh valley voice he had told me that when things seem to be going swimmingly, disaster generally strikes – like someone poking a great stick through the spokes of your bicycle when you are least expecting it, with the result that you are over the handlebars and flat on your face. After my visit to Ugglemattersby Junior School I felt decidedly prone.
The child’s innocent question at that school, ‘What are you for?’ had stayed firmly in my mind. What was I for? It was clear to me that my function was to help improve the education of the young in the county by observing, recording, reporting and advising head teachers and teachers. It appeared I had not been very successful in the case of the Junior School and I guessed that the Chief Inspector would have something pretty sharp to say when she found out.
Winifred de la Mare had only been in post for a term, having taken over from the previous Senior Inspector, Dr Harold Yeats, an easy-going, tolerant, gentle giant of a man. Harold, ever optimistic, phlegmatic and of a kindly disposition, avoided confrontation and had been a delight to work with. Our new boss was a very different character altogether: extremely efficient, clear-sighted, frighteningly intelligent and, for anyone foolish enough to take her on, a formidable adversary. She did not suffer fools gladly and expected the highest professional standards and a great deal of hard work from her colleagues. Years of experience as a highly-respected and senior member of Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Schools, had prepared her well for the ups and downs of this new appointment and she was fully equipped to deal with difficult head teachers, unpredictable colleagues, well-meaning Chief Education Officers who liked to delegate, and demanding and frequently interfering elected members of the Education Committee on the County Council.
The Heart of the Dales Page 8
