Up and Down in the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘A Georgian eight-day long-case clock in exquisite condition, the twelve-inch brass arched dial having a silvered chapter ring with subsidiary seconds ring and calendar aperture incorporated into the unusual matted centre. The arched top is centred by a convex silvered plaque inscribed by the master craftsman Wilfred Dowson of Tickhill and flanked by scrolling dolphin mounts with ornate spandrels to the corners and engraved bands of imbricated leaves to the borders. The pagoda hood, surmounted by globe finials, has fluted columns

  And so it went on for another three paragraphs. It was all gobbledegook to me. I just wanted a plain grandfather clock that worked.

  ‘It’s a beautiful piece, isn’t it?’ said a distinguished-looking man standing next to me. He wore an expensive woollen overcoat hanging from his shoulders; beneath I could see an equally expensive black-stripe suit and a red-and-white spotted silk bow tie. ‘Interested are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  ‘What age do you think it is?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea,’ I replied. ‘I’m no expert on clocks, but it is splendid.’

  The man, who was obviously interested in the piece himself, clearly thought that I was intending to make a bid for the clock. He realised now that I posed no threat. ‘I should say circa1775,’ he informed me. ‘More late Georgian than early. I’m looking for a companion for my flame mahogany long-case. The one I have has a painted moon roller with phases of the moon.’

  ‘You don’t say!’

  ‘With Rococo scroll spandrels and dentil moulded hood.’

  My companion obviously knew his clocks and was intent on demonstrating as much to me.

  ‘How much do you think this clock will fetch?’ I asked him.

  He sucked in his breath. ‘Oh, anything between two and three, I should think.’

  ‘Hundred?’

  He wagged his index finger at me and chortled. ‘You’re a tease.’

  ‘You mean thousands?’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied.

  ‘It’s way beyond my pocket,’ I told him. ‘I just want a plain, ordinary grandfather clock.’

  ‘They’re called long-case clocks, to be correct, and I think you will find there are very, very few which are plain and ordinary. Each one is unique. They didn’t come off a production line, you know. However, you might try the new shop that’s just opened in Station Parade in Brindcliffe. I bought a very attractive oak-cased bracket clock from there only last week. Very reasonable prices. The chap deals mostly in mantel clocks but I did notice he has a long-case, a little the worse for wear but it might be the thing you’re looking for. Might have gone by now, of course. If it is still for sale, just make sure it’s not been cobbled together. You know, the top of one, the bottom of another, the workings of a third. He seemed a decent enough sort, helpful and all that, but just make sure.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you very much,’ I said, ‘I’ll pop along there now.’

  As I made my way out of the crowded showroom I heard an unmistakably strident voice. A woman with a florid face and bright copper-coloured perm was haranguing the poor young man behind the counter, who was trying to deal with prospective bidders. It was Connie, and I stopped to listen.

  ‘What I want to know is why these medals are so small?’ Connie demanded. ‘Why didn’t my father get big ones like everybody else?’

  ‘He would have done, madam,’ the young man told her. ‘These are miniatures.’

  ‘Well, why are they miniatures?’ snapped Connie. ‘Why aren’t they full size?’

  ‘If I might explain,’ sighed the man. ‘Your father will have been awarded the medals full size but he would wear the miniature versions for formal occasions, like regimental dinners and such.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Connie, mollified. ‘So they’re not his proper medals?’

  ‘No, madam, just smaller versions.’

  ‘Now I come to think of it,’ said Connie, ‘he did have some others, bigger ones. I think they’re in a drawer at home. I must look them out.’

  ‘I see here he was awarded the Military Medal,’ said the young man.

  ‘He was a brave man, my father,’ said Connie. ‘He lived in a cellar for a week at Dunkirk with nothing but a pound of sugar and rain water.’

  ‘Really?’ said the young man. ‘And are you interested in selling the medals, madam?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Put them in the auction?’

  ‘I most certainly am not!’ cried Connie. ‘Sell my father’s medals! Over my dead body.’ With that she scooped up the items in question and headed for the door.

  ‘Hello, Connie,’ I said, coming up behind her.

  ‘Oh, it’s you. Did you hear what he said about me selling my father’s medals? I only came in to see what they were and how much they might be worth and he nearly had them out of my hand.’

  ‘Some people have to sell them,’ I said. ‘It’s sad, but they need the money.’

  ‘I’d sooner live on bread and water than part with Dad’s medals,’ she replied. ‘The very thought!’

  ‘Can I give you a lift?’ I asked. ‘I have to go through the town centre to get to Brindcliffe. I’m looking for a clock for Christine.’

  She clearly wasn’t listening. ‘Sell my father’s medals indeed!’ she mumbled to herself, and I had to repeat my offer. ‘Oh well, thanks, if I’m not putting you out.’ Then, as we walked to the car park, she said, ‘I’m glad I’ve bumped into you.’

  ‘Not in trouble, am I?’ I asked.

  ‘No, it’s me what’s got problems,’ she told me. She tried not to look concerned but she clearly was. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything but my Ted said I ought to mention it. It’s been on my mind for quite some time now.’

  ‘Whatever is it, Connie?’ I asked.

  ‘Serious allegations have been made about me,’ she said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Allegations that I went swanning off on holiday to France and had not got proper permission. I got back after trying to scatter Dad’s ashes, in my highly peturberant state of mind, to find this very unpleasant letter waiting for me. Some nasty piece of work had words down at the Education Office, making allegations, and I got this written warning from them in Personnel.’

  ‘But that’s over two months ago!’ I exclaimed, knowing all too well who was behind it. ‘Why didn’t you say anything earlier?’

  ‘As I’ve said, I’ve been thinking things over. Brooding, my Ted says. Dealing with Dad’s medals just now has brought it all back. I reckon it’s about time I packed in the caretaking at the Centre. I’m not getting any younger and receiving nasty letters like that, after all I do, is very upsetting.’

  ‘Don’t be too hasty about packing in the job, Connie,’ I said. ‘We’ll get it sorted out. I’m sure that when Dr Gore knows why you went to France and –’

  ‘Oh, I’ve written to him. After brooding about it for a bit, I sent a letter just this last week. Speak to the organ-grinder not the monkey is what Dad always used to say. I’ve told him that they can stick the job. They just don’t appreciate the hours I put in at the Centre.’

  ‘But we do, Connie,’ I said reassuringly. ‘We think you do a brilliant job.’

  ‘Not so sure about that,’ she said through tight lips. ‘I reckon it was Mr Clamp what reported me after all that carry-on with the nudes.’

  ‘No, Connie,’ I said. ‘Mr Clamp might be difficult and untidy, and lots of other things besides, but he wouldn’t do such a mean-minded thing as reporting you.’

  ‘Well, somebody’s been making serious allegations about me,’ said Connie, ‘and I’ll tell you this, when I find out who the alligator is I shall give them a real piece of my mind.’

  Just Clocks was sandwiched between a health food shop and a dry cleaners on Station Parade. Its newly painted front, dark green with gold lettering above the door, stood out from the rest of the shops in the arcade. In the window a single clock was displayed – a large and impressive gilt
metal mantel clock, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and standing on a black marble base. As I turned the door handle, I resigned myself to the fact that the long-case clock I had come to view would be way out of my price range. But I had come all this way, so nothing ventured…

  The bell tinkled discreetly as I entered and then a voice came from the back. ‘I’ll be with you in one moment.’ I stopped in my tracks. I had heard that voice before. It was distinctive: deep, resonant, authoritative. Before I could escape, a lean, sallow-complexioned man with heavy-lidded eyes and black, carefully-parted hair emerged from behind the red velvet curtain which separated the showroom from the back of the shop. It was like the entrance of the villain at a pantomime.

  ‘Mr Frobisher!’ I gasped.

  ‘Mr Phinn,’ he said calmly.

  We stood staring at each other for a moment and then we spoke together.

  ‘I was –’ I started.

  ‘I hope –’ he started.

  We were saved further embarrassment by the bell as another customer entered, a small woman in a bright headscarf and large furry boots. ‘I’m looking for a clock?’ she said.

  ‘I’ll just have a look round,’ I said to Mr Frobisher, relieved by the interruption. ‘Please go ahead and deal with this customer.’ The thought entered my head that I could wander casually to the door, pretending to look at the nearby clocks and exit quietly, but that would be cowardly, so I crossed the room to peer at the fine selection of timepieces on display. There were bronze mantel clocks, intricately inlaid bracket clocks, portico clocks under glass domes, enamelled table clocks, mahogany-cased clocks, chiming bracket clocks, round wooden wall clocks, small brass carriage clocks, lantern clocks, clocks of every size and shape and colour. Despite my genuine interest, my mind was buzzing with wondering what I would say to the man who I had driven out of teaching.

  ‘I want a clock for my niece who’s getting married,’ the woman said. ‘Wedding present. Something a bit different but nothing too big and certainly not too pricey. That pink and gold one in the window is a bit too fancy for my taste but I like the shape.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the French mantel clock,’ said Mr Frobisher, smiling slightly. ‘Yes, it is rather ornate and not to everyone’s taste. Perhaps a trifle expensive, too.’

  The woman pointed to an exquisite bronze and marble timepiece. ‘That’s quite nice. How much is that one?’ she asked.

  ‘Four hundred and twenty pounds.’

  ‘What?’ she gasped. ‘Four hundred and twenty pounds?’

  ‘You will find, madam,’ said Mr Frobisher, ‘that these are fine quality antique timepieces and, as such, are expensive.’

  ‘I’ll try the Co-op,’ she said bluntly and left.

  Mr Frobisher then turned his attention to me. ‘Now then,’ he said, looking me straight in the eye.

  ‘How are you?’ I asked. It sounded so feeble.

  ‘Well, as you see, I’m pretty well.’

  ‘It’s a lovely shop.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  I coughed nervously. This was a nightmare. ‘I did ring the school a couple of times to have a word with you, but you were not available. I meant to say –’

  ‘Please, please, Mr Phinn, don’t look so abashed. You really don’t need to say anything.’

  ‘I wanted to explain –’

  ‘Your visit to King Henry’s College was quite possibly one of the best things that could have happened to me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘In a strange and rather unexpected sort of way, that is,’ he added. ‘No teacher likes to be told he is not up to scratch. I have to admit at first I was hurt, very hurt by your report and by what I considered to be some quite unfounded comments. Then I thought to myself, it was only the judgement of one person who had observed just one lesson, one person who has not had a great deal of experience in school inspection. Then I became angry, particularly when Mr Nelson seemed to accept without question what you had said. He had spoken to me a few times about my work but nothing of any consequence. I rather thought that he would spring to my defence but, sadly, he did not, no more than members of the English Faculty or my union representative. I found that the hardest. You really come to know who your friends are in situations like that. I know I was not the best teacher in the world, Mr Phinn, and, I have to admit that over the past few years I have been ground down, like many teachers, I expect, by the incessant paperwork, the interference of so-called experts, negative media reports, objectionable parents and the deteriorating behaviour of the pupils. However, I always thought I did a decent enough job. But that’s by the by. Water under the bridge, so to speak.’ Mr Frobisher took out a large blue handkerchief and blew his nose noisily. ‘When I was offered early retirement with a pension enhancement and a lump sum, I got to thinking that perhaps all this was for the best. Did I really want to go on for a few more years quite demoralised and depressed? I had toyed with the idea of opening a shop for some time. My father was a great collector of timepieces and I, too, am fascinated by them. Indeed, the prospect of clearing out all the clocks from the house was very attractive, not least to my wife.’ He paused for a moment and took a long, deep breath. ‘My wife is not a well woman, and retiring early meant I could spend more time with her. Time is very precious for one who has a limited amount. So why, I thought, should I not do something I really wanted to do and spend more time at home? The bank manager was most helpful, the premises came up for rent and, as you see, here I am and I have never felt more contented.’

  ‘Well, I’m very pleased it has worked out for you, Mr Frobisher,’ I said, and meant it.

  ‘And here you are,’ he said. ‘Not here to inspect me again, I hope.’

  ‘No, no,’ I said hastily. ‘I’m looking for a clock and I think I’ve seen just the one.’ I turned in the direction of the grandfather clock in the corner.

  ‘Ah, the long-case clock. Not very old. Nineteenth century. Quite plain but no less attractive for all that. Unusual painted dial, eight-day movement and signed Percy Farrington of Fettlesham. Some superficial damage to the case and at the top but the piece is all original, I can vouch for that.’

  ‘I was at Roper’s Salesroom earlier today looking at the clocks but they were a bit too expensive and, to be honest, rather too fancy for my taste.’

  ‘Ah, you like plain things, Mr Phinn?’ asked Mr Frobisher. ‘This clock, in fact, came from Roper’s. I bought it a couple of years ago and it’s been standing in my lounge ticking away as regular as clockwork, if you will excuse the cliche. Actually, it’s not been in the shop long. I have the provenance which is always of interest to buyers. It was a young man who sold it. Apparently he used to keep his cricket bats in it.’ He looked at it almost lovingly. ‘You would have thought he would have wanted to keep the clock, wouldn’t you.’ It was a part of his life, his boyhood. It has memories. But there’s no accounting for people, is there?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘There isn’t.’

  ‘Now, I expect you wish to know the price. Let me see.’ Mr Frobisher consulted a ledger on the counter and ran a long finger down the page. ‘Five hundred and fifty pounds. If you purchase it, I would, of course, deliver the clock and ensure that it works well in its new home. Long-case clocks are a trifle temperamental, you know. Rather like people. All different, all with their own personalities.’ He stroked the side gently as he might a treasured pet. ‘They have to be positioned correctly, standing perfectly upright. They have to be looked after. If they are cared for, they will go on and on. I’ll be sorry to see this clock go. It has a very companionable presence.’

  The man had become animated as he talked about his clocks. He gestured with his hands. His eyes shone. He smiled. Had he only shown the same enthusiasm with his pupils that he showed for his clocks, I thought sadly, he would still be teaching.

  19

  It was a bitterly cold January afternoon when I visited Mertonbeck Primary School. The overnight frost was still white on the ground. I drove deep into th
e dale along a narrow twisting road with a great rolling frosty expanse stretching out before me, and upwards to the curving shadowy woods and bare distant fells. As I approached the village, the road rose steeply and took a sharp turn by an old stone farmhouse drenched in a great mass of twisting ivy. I had just negotiated the bend when an ancient tractor trundled out through the farm gate, right into my path. I skidded to a halt and we ended up almost alongside each other.

  The farmer, a man with a red-roughened complexion and heavy grey stubble, surveyed me for a moment, before shaking his head. I had seen that face countless times before, a face seasoned by the weather, lined like leather and full of character. I could imagine this man striding out for miles across fields and moors, negotiating walls and crossing becks, living in the open, rain or shine. Here was the archetypal Dales farmer – craggy-faced, tough as old boots, with a bluntness, integrity and cheerful good humour. That day, however, the good humour was absent.

  “Ast there been a deeath, then?’ he asked, leaning forward and resting his arms on the steering wheel. His dog, a lean black and white collie which was perched beside him, fixed me with dark intelligent eyes.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Is t’somebody deead?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, tha wants to slow down, otherwise there will be. Rooads are treacherous at this time o’year. It’s like a bloody ice rink. Wherever tha’re off to, it’ll still be theer when tha gets theer. Tha not driving round Piccadilly bloody Circus, tha knaas.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry, I was driving too fast.’

  ‘Too fast!’ he cackled. ‘Tha came round that corner like a jack rabbit wi’ t’runs. It’s a bad bend is that, an’ icy an’ all. There’s sheep on these rooads and cattle and dogs. They don’t use zebra crossings, tha knaas.’