‘How very cosy,’ mumbled Sidney.
Mrs Savage gave him one of her famous withering looks.
‘I was merely commenting that everything in the garden appears rosy, Mrs Savage,’ he said.
‘I am sure,’ she continued, ‘that I do not need to impress upon everyone that this is a very prestigious conference and the CEO wants it to be the very best. I was only saying to Dr Gore this morning –’
‘Yes, Thank you, Mrs Savage,’ said the Chief Inspector quickly. ‘That was a splendid presentation. Does anyone have any questions for Mrs Savage?’ She paused.
‘No? Well, then, I think this is a good time to breakand have our elevenses, and then we can discuss the school closures.’
When I arrived home that evening, I found Christine standing by the kitchen table nursing a sleepy baby, and sitting opposite her was Andy, clutching a large mug of tea.
‘Hey up, Mester Phinn,’ he said, smiling widely.
‘Hello, Andy,’ I said as I entered. I kissed Christine and tickled Richard under the chin. ‘And how’s my little Tricky Dicky been today?’ I asked. The baby continued to suck his thumb earnestly.
‘Teething and nappy rash,’ replied Christine, ‘and he’s certainly let me know all about it. He’s been tetchy all day. The moment you walk through the door, he starts to settle down, the little tinker.’
‘I were tell in’ Missis Phinn that goats’ milk’s t’answer,’ said Andy. ‘Milk from my nanny goats works wonders on t’skin. Missis Poskitt swears by it an’ she’s got a skin as soft as a babby’s bottom an’ she’s gerrin on for eighty. I read it were reight good for clearing up eczema, rashes, impetigo an’ other skin complaints. Worked wonders on Bianca’s spots. I put this advert in t’doctors’ surgery sayin’ there were goats’ milk for sale an’ delivered to t’door an’ I’m doin’ quite a bit of business now.’
‘Quite the entrepreneur,’ I said, recalling that Bianca was the girl who rather fancied him.
‘You must put me on your list of customers, Andy,’ said Christine.
‘Nowt up wi’ your skin, Missis Phinn,’ he replied, reddening a little.
I had an idea that this young man had a bit of a crush on my wife, and his frequent visits were less to do with the garden and guttering than with seeing Christine.
‘Anyway,’ said Christine, ‘since Richard looks as though he might at last go to sleep, I’ll take him up.’
I slipped off my jacket, poured myself some tea and then joined Andy at the table. The boy’s large pink face looked scrubbed and the coarse bristly brown hair had been slicked back, accentuating the enormous ears. He was dressed in a clean white shirt, leather jacket and denim jeans. The green tie that he was wearing, on which a variety of game birds were disporting themselves, looked incongruous on such an outfit.
‘You look very smart, Andy,’ I told him.
‘Young Farmers meetin’ toneet, Mester Phinn,’ he told me. ‘I’m doin’ a bit of a talklike, so thowt I’d gerra bit dressed up.’
‘Doing a talk,’ I said. ‘What about?’
‘Well, not poetry,’ he said, laughing. ‘“Preparation for Sheep Breedin’”, an’ I tell thee this, I’m reight frit.’
‘Go on,’ I said, ‘there’s nothing to be frightened about. From what your Uncle Harry tells me, there’s few who know more about sheep than you do. And, as you well know, your Uncle Harry is not one to throw out compliments lightly.’
‘Aye, ’appen I do know summat abaat sheep,’ said the boy, ‘but it’s different tellin’ folka baat it, standin’ theer wi’ all these eyes like chapel ’at pegs starin’ at thee.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ I reassured him. ‘So is preparing sheep for breeding a long business then?’ I should never have asked.
The boy jerked upright in the chair, like a marionette that has had its strings pulled. ‘Oh aye, Mester Phinn, it’s a reight carry-on. You see, choosing yer ram is reight important. ’E’s got to come from good breeding stock for a start an’ be in tip-top physical condition afoor yer let ’im loose on t’yows. It’s no use at all ’avin’ a ram what’s well ’ung an’ wi’ an active sex drive if ’e can’t walkto ’is food an’ watter an’ can’t eat or drinkwhen ’e gets theer. You ’ave to start well in advance wi’ t’routine ’ealth treatment like foot inspection an’ cleanin’, dippin’, drenchin’ an’ clippin’. Yer ram’s got to be in prime condition to serve a yow so you ’ave to examine ’im good an’ proper at ’is feet and joints, lookfor swellin’s, checkteeth an’ gums for damage, backo’ mouth an’ cheeks for any lumps. Then you ’ave to check’is penis.’
‘Would you like another mug of tea?’ I asked the boy, keen to change the conversation.
‘No, ta, Mester Phinn. As I was sayin’, you ’ave to check’is penis.’ Andy was now well into his stride and was enhancing his description with various arm and hand movements. ‘This is best done by gerrin yer ram in a sittin’ position so ’e’s upright an’ then yer can give t’area a good goin’ ovver, mekkin’ sure it’s free o’ sores an’ scars. What you do is carefully force out t’ram’s penis manually. This is done by graspin’ ’old of –’
At this point, Christine returned to find me open-mouthed and lost for words. ‘And what are you two talking about?’ she asked.
‘Just saying what lovely weather we’re ’avin’ for this time o’ year, Missis Phinn,’ said Andy, winking at me.
‘And how’s your Uncle Harry?’ asked Christine. ‘He wasn’t too happy last time we saw him.’
‘Oh, abaat t’Royal Oak, tha means.’ Andy shook his head. ‘’E were abaat as miserable as a love-struckrigg, but ’e’s been as ’appy as a pig in shit lately. Sorry, missis, I dint mean –’
‘It’s all right, Andy,’ said Christine, smiling, ‘I’ve heard worse.’
‘And what’s put your Uncle Harry in such a good frame of mind?’ I asked.
‘’Ant thy ’eard? That new landlord at t’Royal Oakis up an’ leavin’.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Christine. ‘My, my!’
‘Aye,’ said Andy. ‘Tha knaas Mester ’Ezekiah Longton, who used to be ’ead gard’ner up at Manston ’All? Nice enough owld fella but dunt say much. ’E were a reg’lar in t’Royal Oak an ’e were not ’appy abaat all t’change, like rest o’ reg’lars. ’E were given ’is marchin’ orders wi’ mi Uncle ’Arry when ’e was banned. Well, ’e’s up an’ bought it.’
‘Bought the Royal Oak?’ I exclaimed.
‘Aye, lock, stock an’ barrel. There were a big piece abaat it in t’ Fettlesham Gazette – “Regular buys t’village pub that barred him”. Mester Longton’s become quite a celebrity.’
‘What made him thinkof buying it?’ asked Christine.
‘Place were goin’ dahn t’nick. Trade waint as good as t’new landlord were expectin’ an’ ’is missis never settled. Southerners, tha sees. Any rooad, landlord thowt it’d be filled to burstin’ wi’ folks out from town, “off-comed-uns”, ramblers an’ cyclists and such, but it never ’appened. Fact is, ’is trade dropped reight off. Then t’plannin’ people telled ’im that ’e needed permission to mek all t’changes ’cos pub were a listed building and of gret ’istorical hinterest, so ’e ’ad to put t’roof backas it were an’ change t’winders an’ all. ’E must ’ave been pig sick. Any road, ’e ’ad this offer to gu in wi’ a couple o’ pals who was openin’ a bar in Majorca. That an’ t’fact that Mester Longton med him a fair good offer, one ’e couldn’t refuse.’
‘Sounds like the Mafia,’ I said, laughing.
‘Mester Longton ’ad a bit put by, like,’ continued the boy, ‘an’ ’is wife weren’t short on a bob or two, an’ left ’im a tidy sum when she died.’
‘So Hezekiah Longton’s bought the Royal Oak,’ I said. ‘Well, well, well.’
‘An’ from what ’e says, ’e’s gunna put things backas they were inside. All owld tables an’ chairs, the lot, an’ it’ll be a traditional country inn ageean, wi’ nowt fancy. ’E reckons, from w
hat mi Uncle ’Arry says, that ’e’s gunna get owld Missis Poskitt to cook some good owld Yorkshire food.’
‘Tripe and onions, black pudding, pigs’ trotters?’ I suggested.
‘Nay, good owld Yorkshire hot-pot, that sort of thing.’
‘I thinkyou’ll find it’s Lancashire hot-pot, Andy,’ said Christine.
‘I waint trust a Lancastrian as far as I could spit. Steal pennies from t’eyelids of dead men, they would. I reckon they pinched t’idea of t’hotpot from a good Yorkshirewoman.’
‘And how’s young Terry getting on at school?’ I asked Andy. ‘You remember I wanted you to keep an eye on him.’
‘’E’s doin’ champion,’ said the boy. ‘Few days after yer were in school, I saw them three bullies follow ’im into t’boys’ toilets. I knew what they were up to, so I followed ’em in, and I ’ad a quiet word wi’ ’em.’
‘Had a quiet word?’ I repeated. I was worried that Andy might have had rather more than a quiet word.
‘I told ’em face-to-face – well, more hand-to-throat, really– that it wasn’t very nice to bully little kids. I explained to ’em that if they laid a finger on ’im ageean, I wunt be best pleased. They soon came round to my point o’ view an’ they ’aven’t touched ’im since. Young Terry’s been ’elpin’ me on t’farm, an’ I’ll tell thee what, Mester Phinn, ’e’s reight good wi’ beeasts. ’E’s gor a way wi’ ’em. I don’t know wor it is but, even Conrad, that Limousin bull in Mester Price’s top field, reight big, bad-tempered bugger ’e is an’ all, well, ’e’s putty in t’hands of that Terry. Aye, ’e’s been a real good ’elp to me.’ Andy paused, running a careful hand over his slicked-back hair. ‘I was tellin’ thee abaat how I prepare jocks for breedin’, weren’t I, an’ ’ow yer get yer ram in a sittin’ position so ’e’s upright. Well Terry were a gret ’elp an’ –’
I cut the boy short. ‘And what about you, Andy? How are you getting on at school?’ I asked.
‘Oh, all reight, I suppose.’
‘You know, if you really do want to go to Askham Bryan College,’ I told him, ‘you do need a few qualifications.’
‘Aye, I suppose I do but I just can’t get mi ’ead round all this learnin’. I’m not a one fer books an’ that. I’d sooner be out on t’land, in t’fresh air, wi’ t’wind in mi face an’ a view over Wensley like there’s no other in t’world. I telled mi form teacher, Mester Fairclough – ’e’s not a bad chap, Mester Fairclough – I telled him that I was ’avin’ t’day off come Friday to gu to t’sheep auction at Bentham. “Yer can’t just ’ave a day off like that, Handrew,” he telled me, “it’s truantin’. You ’ave to be at school workin’ an’ not gallivantin’ off to Bentham.” I said, “Look, Mester Fairclough, I’m bein’ ’onest wi’ thee. I could ’ave telled thee I were dowly.”’
‘You were what?’ I asked.
‘Ill, tookbadly, under t’weather, tha knaas. Any road, he said, “Well, Handrew, that would be deceitful, wouldn’t it?” I said, ‘That’s reason I’m tellin’ yer t’truth, Mester Fairclough, I shan’t be in t’school because I’m off to t’sheep auction. Tha sees, I’ve got two prime yows an’ a gradely jock up for sale an’ I wants to see ’ow they do.” “Well,” says ’e, “I commend your ’onesty but I can’t give yer permission to take the day off. Ye’d be missing your school workan’ it would be against the law.” I said, “Look’ere, Mester Fairclough, if you don’t let me ’ave t’day off, up till Friday I’d be whittlin’ an’ werritin’ abaat not bein’ able to gu to Bentham Market so I wunt be concentratin’ on mi work, now would I? Mi mind would be on other things. Then come Friday when t’auction were on, I’d come to school in a reight mardy mood, an’ mi mind wunt be on owt but ’ow mi sheep were doing at t’auction. I wouldn’t be concentratin’ on school workan’ that’s fer certain. Then t’whole weekafterwards, I’d be feeling really ’ard done by abaat not bein’ able to go to t’auction so I wunt be concentratin’ on mi workthen neither.” I explained to ’im that if ’e were to let me gu to t’auction, I’d workreally ’ard up to Friday an’ catch up on t’work I’d missed. “So tha sees, Mester Fairclough, if tha was to let me gu to t’auction, tha’ll be gerrin’ a lot more workout on me in t’long run.”’
‘And what did Mr Fairclough say?’ I asked.
‘He thought a bit, an’ then ’e said ’e’d put it down to work experience, an’ ’e ’oped mi sheep gu fer a good price at t’auction on Friday, an’ to be sure to let’ im know.’
‘Well, you had better be making tracks to the Young Farmers,’ I said. ‘I hope your talkgoes well.’
‘There’s a little matter of wages, Mester Phinn. That’s reason for comin’ to see ya. I’ve spent all mi brass an’ cum to get paid. Got to have enough to impress that Bianca toneet.’
‘Of course,’ I said, reaching for my jacket and taking out my wallet. ‘You’ve done a super job for us, Andy, and we are both very grateful.’
‘I mean,’ said the lad, ‘I liked doin’ that work for thee, Mester Phinn, but as mi Uncle ’Arry is allus remindin’ me, nob’dy does owt for nowt in Yorkshire, tha knaas.’
24
On the Friday morning, having collected some material for the English exhibition at the NACADS Conference, I reached Manston Hall about eleven o’clock. On my way from the car to the steps that led up to the front door, I passed a gardener who was forking a large pile of greenery into a wheelbarrow.
When I arrived in the South Hall, I discovered the inspector for Visual and Creative Arts in the middle of complete disorder and confusion. My heart sank when I saw the chaos. There stood Sidney, this great bear of a man, surrounded by cardboard boxes and crates, wooden sculptures, strange three-dimensional structures in shiny metal, stone carvings, twisted wire structures, bolts of brightly-patterned fabrics, collages, squares of batik, empty picture frames, not to mention dozens of paintings and photographs. He was shouting at and gesticulating to the three teachers who had agreed to help him, while Geraldine and David stood at the side, watching with folded arms and bemused expressions. I walked through the clutter to join them.
‘When Picasso has quite finished,’ David informed me in his sonorous Welsh accent, ‘Geraldine and I will try and squeeze in our modest efforts.’
‘Is there any sign of Mrs Savage?’ I asked. I could just imagine her reaction to this complete mayhem.
‘She made her bellicose appearance earlier,’ David said, chuckling, ‘and did attempt to engage Sidney in conversation but to no avail.’
‘And a battery of well-chosen words from our bearded colleague,’ Geraldine added, ‘were enough to send her on her way.’
‘What did he say?’ I asked.
‘When she mentioned the mess – and it was much worse fifteen minutes ago, I can tell you –’ David said, ‘he retorted that he had a profound belief that chaos and confusion had the effects of engendering seriously remarkable thinking, and that creative geniuses, such as himself, flourished in disorder and that the sooner she left him to get on with the exhibition, the sooner the hall would be tidy. As she was leaving, he yelled after her, “And take that blithering greenery with you!”’
‘When she had gone,’ Geraldine said, ‘Sidney told us that great creative minds very often encounter mindless opposition from those with mediocre ones.’ I flinched and Geraldine, seeing the anxious look on my face, rested a hand on my arm. ‘Don’t worry, Gervase,’ she reassured me, ‘everything will be fine. For a start, Mrs Savage did remove – or, rather, sent some flunkey to remove – the potted plants and the greenery she had draped over the Italian nudes.’
Geraldine was right. By the end of the afternoon, the exhibition looked stunning. The visitors would enter the South Hall to be confronted by a mass of brilliant colours and shapes, and a most impressive range of work from the county’s talented youngsters. Even Mrs Savage, when she finally dared to make an appearance, was impressed and nodded approvingly as she cast a critical eye over everything.
I had just an ho
ur’s turn-round at home; enough time to sit and chat with Christine, and dangle little Richard on my knee.
‘Most of the time, I don’t miss the world of education at all,’ she said, ‘but on occasions like this, I wish I could be there with you, especially staying at Manston Hall. Make sure you behave yourself, mind!’
I laughed, gave both her and the baby a kiss and went upstairs to pack.
The Manston estate looked magnificent that evening as I drove through the ornate iron gates, past the small lodge and up the long avenue to the great red-brick house, which stood square and solid before me, floodlit from the far side of the gravel sweep in front of the Hall. There was a clear sky above me and frost was already forming on the grass.
It was now six o’clock and the delegates were due to arrive in an hour’s time for the reception. I wanted to make a final check that everything was in place and ready.
A gigantic Christmas tree dominated the impressive entrance hall. It was rather early for a tree – Christmas still being several weeks away – but when Tadge had offered one from the estate, we had accepted graciously. However, this was no ordinary Christmas tree – it was white! Earlier in the afternoon, I had come through the hall and seen Mrs Savage organise the tree’s decoration, directing operations from both the grand staircase and the gallery above. No flickering fairy lights or coloured baubles for her: the tree was simply but most beautifully decorated with small fuchsia-coloured silk bows. Against the shimmering white of the painted branches, the effect was most dramatic. Even Sidney had approved.
My eyes now, however, were not drawn to the tree, but to Mrs Savage herself. Wearing a long burgundy-coloured and daringly low-cut dress, which clung to her as if she had been poured into it, and with a pale silkshawl draped around her shoulders, she stood beneath the portrait of the crusty old general, looking for all the world as if she were the chatelaine of Manston Hall.
‘Good evening, Mrs Savage,’ I said as I approached her. ‘You are looking quite splendid, if I may say so.’
The Heart of the Dales Page 36
