The Minister of State for Education and Science was a lean, angular individual with a prominent Roman nose and well-cut silver hair. Sir Bryan was a man of few words and forceful opinions. He did not like any fuss, drank only mineral water, insisted on seeing the itinerary in the minutest detail before any visit, and was punctilious about keeping to schedule. I had only been in my job for a few months when he had visited the Staff Development Centre and, as we had toured the building, he had been embarrassingly uncommunicative. Despite my best efforts to engage him in conversation, the man had remained resolutely unsmiling and tight-lipped. It was clear he was taking in everything he saw and heard, but he expressed no view nor made any comment. He merely nodded and grunted when spoken to.
‘Sir Bryan,’ chortled Dr Gore now, as the minister walked through the door with his two colleagues. ‘Such a pleasure to see you again. I trust you have had a pleasant journey?’
‘Passable,’ he replied.
‘And how are things at the seat of government?’ asked the CEO. The minister stared at him, raised a silver eyebrow but made no reply. ‘So much legislation,’ Dr Gore rattled on. ‘So much to do and education always seems to be at the top of the agenda, doesn’t it? Education, education, education.’
The minister nodded. ‘Indeed.’
‘Well, let me introduce you to the Earl of Marrick in whose magnificent home the conference is taking place.’
‘Morning, Sir Bryan,’ growled the peer, who was looking somewhat worn out after the trials of his journey back from Italy.
‘Good morning, Lord Marrick,’ replied the minister.
‘Do you know Yorkshire at all?’ he was asked.
‘A little,’ he replied.
‘You must spend more time here,’ said Lord Marrick. ‘God’s own county.’
‘An interesting family motto you have above your door, Lord Marrick,’ said the Minister of State.
‘Lancastrienses manu dei occidantur,’ said the peer. ‘Been the family motto for generations: “Let the hand of God smite the Lancastrians”. Typically Yorkshire, of course – blunt and to the point.’
‘I should perhaps tell you, Lord Marrick, that I was born in the Red Rose County,’ said the Minister of State.
‘Well, you can’t help that,’ said Lord Marrick. ‘Best thing that ever came out of Lancashire is the road to Yorkshire.’
‘I fear, my lord,’ said Sir Bryan with a thin smile, ‘that we will be fighting the Wars of the Roses all over again if we continue this conversation.’
‘Perhaps we should move on,’ suggested Dr Gore, clearly worried that hostilities might breakout at any minute. ‘I appreciate that you are on a very tight schedule. May I introduce Lord Marrick’s son, Sir Bryan – Lord Manston.’
‘Good morning,’ said the minister. He then caught sight of Mrs Savage standing a little behind Tadge, and extended a long white hand. ‘And you must be Lady Manston. Good morning.’
‘Oh no, Sir Bryan,’ simpered Mrs Savage. ‘I’m not Lady Manston. I’m a mere minion.’ I could think of many words to describe Mrs Savage but ‘minion’ was not one of them. She was the least obsequious person I knew.
‘This is my Personal Assistant,’ explained Dr Gore, ‘Mrs Brenda Savage, who has organised the conference and next to her is –’
‘Ah, yes, Mr Phinn,’ said Sir Bryan. He turned to the CEO. ‘We met when I last visited the county.’
‘Yes, yes, of course you did,’ said the CEO.
‘You may recall, Mr Phinn,’ said Sir Bryan, ‘that you took me around the Teachers’ Centre where that remarkable janitor – Connie, wasn’t it? – kept everything so spick and span.’
‘That’s right. What a memory you have!’ I said. ‘She will be very pleased to hear that you remembered her, Sir Bryan.’
The minister thought for a moment and then became uncharacteristically eager to impart his pet philosophy. ‘I make a point of never forgetting a name nor a face, Mr Phinn,’ he told me. ‘In life, one meets many people, particularly if, as I, one is in the political arena. All people are significant in their own way, and all deserve our attention. Whether one is a peer of the realm or a gardener, a chief education officer or a cleaner, a minister of the Crown or a chauffeur, all play their part and have important jobs to do.’
‘Indeed,’ said Dr Gore. ‘Now, if I may lead the way…’
Later that afternoon, when the delegates broke into discussion groups, I rushed home to get my dinner jacket. I certainly did not wish to be underdressed at the formal dinner that evening. As I drove through Hawksrill, I smiled as I passed the pub. The brightly painted board with the outline of an oak tree and the lettering THE OAK had been replaced with the original sign featuring the oaktree in full leaf, with the smiling figure of the restored Merry Monarch standing beneath it. I could imagine the contents of the interior: the round tubular steel stools, matching tables and minimalist prints would have been consigned to the skip or given to a charity shop, and the trestle tables, hard wooden chairs, old photographs, hunting horns and horse brasses would have been reinstated.
‘I see the pub is back as it was,’ I said to Christine, as I rootled in a drawer for the studs of my dress shirt. ‘That’ll please the “gang of four”.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I saw Harry earlier today when I took Richard out in the buggy for a walk. He was looking almost ecstatically pleased.’
‘That makes a change from his grumblings. Oh come on, where are these wretched studs?’
‘Are these what you’re looking for?’ Christine asked, holding up a cupped hand.
‘What would I do without you?’ I said, pecking her cheek. ‘And now I must get back to Manston Hall. The evening awaits me.’
The after-dinner speaker, a round, jolly man, was a great success and he entertained the delegates for a good forty minutes with anecdotes about the world of law courts, police cells and solicitors’ offices. Even Mrs Savage managed a smile or two.
On Sunday morning, everything went to plan. My fellow inspectors joined me in the South Hall, and the delegates seemed genuinely interested in the various exhibitions that we had mounted. After coffee, the delegates returned for a final time to the North Hall. Here they listened to a short but very impressive performance by the brass band. Finally, wearing his chain of office, Dr Gore gave a rather tedious presidential address, which generated polite applause, and by noon the delegates had all departed for their hotels.
Mrs Savage and I wandered through the now strangely silent building.
‘It went well,’ I said.
‘Yes, it did,’ she replied. ‘And now we are left to organise all the clearing up.’
‘Where’s Dr Gore?’ I asked.
‘A good question,’ she replied. ‘I believe he’s gone off with Lord Manston for lunch at his golf club.’ I could tell by the tone of her voice that she was distinctly peeved. ‘It certainly wouldn’t have hurt him to invite us. After all, we did all the work.’
‘Ah well, Mrs Savage,’ I said with a smile, ‘that is the fate of the mere underlings of the powerful. We are the foot soldiers and not the generals, the workers and not the master builders, the minions and not the powers-that-be, but we too play our small part in the scheme of things.’
She looked at me for a moment. ‘Nonsense!’ she said. Then with long decisive steps, her high heels clicking on the polished marble floor, she walked towards the South Hall. And as she passed the portrait of the crusty old ancestor hanging on the wall, she tossed her head at him.
25
I was the last inspector to arrive at the SDC for Miss de la Mare’s Christmas get-together. Everyone had gathered in the lounge area, which had been decorated with silver streamers and coloured balloons, sprigs of mistletoe and holly. A large, slightly straggly Christmas tree, over-decorated with bright baubles and fairy lights, stood in one corner where I saw David and Miss de la Mare deep in conversation.
I approached Sidney, who was dressed in a black velvet jacket and ostentatious
pink bow tie. He was explaining to Geraldine the finer points of modern art, waving a newspaper in front of her as if swatting flies. Julie was standing next to them, with a weary expression on her face. She grimaced, rolled her eyes and tilted her head in Sidney’s direction as I approached, which told me he was in the middle of one of his loud, passionate and not-to-be interrupted monologues. Julie was dressed in an incredibly tight-fitting, crimson polo neck, a thin black strip of a skirt and her red stilettos. She wore silver earrings the size of onion rings.
‘It is all a matter of symmetry and balance, my dear Geraldine,’ Sidney was telling her, ‘and the dexterous juxtaposition of primary colours and shapes which give that stunning, symbolic effect. I would not expect that a scientist would, for one minute –’ He caught sight of me, stopped mid-sentence and made a deep flourish. ‘Hail the conquering hero cometh, sound the trumpets, beat the drums.’
‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ I asked.
‘Our esteemed leader, Dr Gore, was singing your praises to high heavens when he spoke to Della recently – so I have been reliably informed by Julie here.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ said Julie. ‘He phoned her up saying how well things had gone and what a good job you did at his conference. Marlene on the switchboard just happened to hear the conversation when she put Dr Gore through to Miss de la Mare the other day.’
‘Evidently that ‘knackers’ conference of his was a huge success,’ added Sidney.
‘From what I heard, Sir Bryan singled out the art display for special mention,’ said Geraldine, ‘so you too can feel a little bit smug, Sidney.’
‘It is a miracle I was even able to start to set up the wretched exhibition,’ said Sidney, ‘with Mrs ‘I’m in charge and do as you are told’ Savage doing her utmost to jeopardise it with her shrubbery and fronds – the patronising, tyrannical besom.’
‘Sidney!’ said Geraldine. ‘It’s the season of goodwill. Show a little more Christmas spirit.’
‘But to give her her due,’ I told him, ‘she did have all the shrubbery removed.’
Sidney waved around the newspaper theatrically, dismissing Geraldine’s gentle reprimand. ‘Be that as it may, I have to agree that it was an unusually impressive display but the teachers are the ones who did all the work. I merely designed it. I believe the part our young Lochinvar here played is more deserving of the plaudits. I am sure after this last startling success, our malleable colleague will have quite a few more of the CEO’s ‘little jobs’ to take on.’
‘No fear,’ I spluttered.
‘Sidney’s in a particularly good mood,’ Geraldine told me, ‘because his exhibition in York has caused something of a stir. Listen to what it says in the review in the Post.’ She took the newspaper from Sidney and read. ‘“Sidney Clamp’s sumptuous, decadent oil on canvas paintings are a welcome breath of fresh air. His vibrant landscapes both shock and delight the eye. They are fast and furious, bold and strongly wrought energetic contortions in bright crimsons, saffron, vivid greens and blues. His images of the frenetic nudes dancing through a rural landscape are stunning and his neurotic expressionist portraiture is both grotesque and glorious.”’
‘Wow!’ I said. ‘I’m planning to go to the exhibition as soon as term ends. Well done, Sidney.’
‘A trifle wordy, perhaps,’ observed Sidney, looking immensely pleased with himself, ‘but very gratifying nevertheless. I must let David read this.’
I left Geraldine and Sidney to continue their discussions of modern art and turned to Julie. ‘So are you looking forward to Christmas?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she told me bluntly.
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m not,’ she said. ‘I’m one of those people who finds it a real drag.’
‘Come on, Julie,’ I said, ‘it’s the best time of year. Where’s the Christmas spirit gone?’
‘Down the neck of my father if he gets his hands on it.’
‘I love Christmas,’ I said. ‘There’s something so special about it.’
‘It might be for you, but you don’t live at our house. Christmas always ends in arguments, recriminations, simmering silences and some sort of disaster. Last year was worse than usual. My granddad dropped his false teeth down the toilet bowl, Gran nearly choked on a silver sixpence put in the pudding, Uncle Albert had one of his turns and had to lie in a darkened room until the Queen’s Speech. My little nephew Kenny spilt gravy all down my mum’s new skirt, and Paul, my boyfriend, sat in front of the television all afternoon watching The Towering Inferno, which he must have seen ten times. Why they have to put on a disaster movie at Christmas time, I don’t know. Then my Great Auntie Doreen, who must be a hundred if she’s a day, went on and on about my cousin Bethany who’s just got married. ‘It’ll be your turn next, our Julie,’ she says. The number of times I’ve heard her tell me that.’ Julie adopted a squeaky quavering: ‘“Oh yes, it’ll be your turn next, our Julie.” I was tempted, when we went to my Great Uncle Horace’s funeral to say the same thing to her. ‘It’ll be your turn next, Great Auntie Doreen.’ You have no idea the stresses and strains Christmas puts on me, Mr Phinn. I’m always glad to get back to work.’
I left Julie and joined Connie. She looked very Christmassy, dressed in a scarlet blouse buttoned high at the neck and with balloon sleeves, and a green and red apron. Her hair was newly permed and tinted, and she was sporting a pair of dancing reindeer earrings. She was standing by the buffet, watching proceedings with eagle eye.
‘Good evening, Connie,’ I said. ‘You’re looking very festive.’
‘I don’t feel very festive,’ she said. ‘I’m thinking about all the clearing up which will have to be done when you lot have finished. Them pine needles get everywhere.’
‘No overall today?’
‘I don’t sleep in my overall, you know, Mr Phinn,’ she said sharply. ‘When the occasion merits it, I do dispensate with it. In any case, as you well know, my pink one went walkabouts and I’m not at all happy with the colour of that blue one. Incidentally, I have a good idea who walked off with my pink one.’
‘Really?’ I said with feigned innocence.
‘I reckon it was Mr Clamp. He was always making disparaging comments about it, and that I looked like a stick of Blackpool rock. It’s just the sort of thing he would do. He’s forever moving my stepladders, rearranging things, putting his horrible pictures up all over the place and playing tricks. He wants to grow up. It was him what told me that that flowering plant in the tub at the front of the Centre was a flaming alopecia and that creeper up the wall was a clitory, or something. Oh yes, he thinks he’s very funny. Anyways, I won’t be requiring any overall after this week.’
‘Why’s that?’ I asked.
‘Because I’m leaving, that’s why.’
‘You’re not!’ I exclaimed.
‘I am. Finishing at the end of the week.’
‘For goodness sake, why didn’t you say something?’
‘You know I’m not a one for any fuss,’ she told me. ‘I can’t be doing with it. As I put in my letter to Dr Gore, I’ve done my job to the best of my facility and now I want to enjoy my retirement while I can, with only my own house and the caravan to clean. Also, I want to be able to spend a bit more time with the grandchildren.’
‘But you must have a send-off, Connie’ I said. ‘You can’t walkout of the door after all these years, not finish without a bit of a do.’
‘It’s been a bit of a do all these forty years, Mr Phinn, having to deal with all the destruction and debris you inspectors leave behind. I don’t want no ‘bit of a do’. They had a ‘bit of a do’, as you call it, when my Ted retired from driving buses for forty years, rain or shine, wind and snow, ice and fog. They gave him a clock, ugly shiny gold thing it were, far too fancy for us. It stopped a week later. Anyway, I’ve got more clocks than I know what to do with. I don’t know why they always give you a clock at the end. Is it so you can spend the rest of your time looking at
it and seeing your life ticking away? Anyway, Ted’s clock had a label on the bottom saying where they bought it from – Just Clocks in Station Parade in Brindcliffe – so I took it back and got a refund. Do you know that when my Ted retired, the General Manager – some youngster, wet behind the ears – said what a valued colleague he had been and how much he’d be missed. Didn’t even know my Ted’s name. Kept on calling him Ed. Didn’t know him from Adam.’
‘I think everyone knows your name, Connie,’ I said, ‘and I know for certain that you’ll be greatly missed.’
‘Well, that’s as may be,’ she replied, dismissing the compliment with a shrug. ‘Any road, when I won on the bingo, I said to Ted –’
‘You won on the bingo!’ I exclaimed.
‘I did,’ she hissed, ‘but keep your voice down. I don’t want all and Sunday knowing. I scooped the Christmas jackpot, so you see going to bingo wasn’t such a waste of time, like what you said.’
‘Congratulations! How much did you win?’
Connie shrugged again. ‘That’s for me to know,’ she told me. ‘It’s given me and Ted a bit of a nest egg, and it will supplicate my pension. So, you see, I won’t be needing no overall after this week. Mr Clamp is welcome to it.’
For a moment, I considered telling her the truth, that her prized pink overall would be enshrined forever on the wall at St Margaret’s School, preserved for all time in a fancy frame for the entire world to see, but I thought better of it. I somehow didn’t feel she would find it amusing. ‘I’m sure Sidney didn’t take it, you know,’ I said.
‘Oh, yes he did,’ said Connie. ‘He went all quiet and guilty-looking when I brought it up at your meeting. He looked like a naughty child who had just been found out. I’ve known him long enough to be wise to his little japes and shenanigans. And if he thinks I’ll take that letter he sent me seriously –’
‘Letter?’
‘He’s sent me a joke letter.’ She reached underneath the table for her handbag and, after rummaging through the contents, found a rather crumpled envelope, which she handed to me. ‘He must think my brains are made of porridge to fall for this one.’
The Heart of the Dales Page 38
