As Mr Parsons droned on, I glanced at the solemn faces in front of me, and recalled Sidney’s reassuring comments after one of his talks had not gone as well as he had expected. He had addressed a group of reactionary elderly ladies at a luncheon club event on the theme of modern art. He had said he had felt like a garlic salesman at a vampire convention. The Madame Chairman had told the audience at the end of his talk that she was grateful to Mr Clamp for sharing his interesting views and that he had very kindly waived his fee. As a result, she had said, beaming widely, they could save up to get a really good speaker for the following year.
Finally Mr Parsons finished and introduced me. Once I started reading extracts from books and peppering the talk with anecdotes about children, the atmosphere in the hall improved. I heard a number of chuckles and saw people smiling and nodding in approval. During the talk I glanced occasionally in the direction of the Headteacher and the Chairman of Governors. Each time I looked their way, I saw Mrs Thornton, perched motionless on the edge of her chair, staring into space like someone who had been told some devastating news. I guess the anxiety over the boys’ lavatories paled into insignificance compared with the problem sitting on her right.
The vote of thanks was not the most effusive I have received. ‘Thank you,’ said the Chairman of Governors, when I sat down to a ripple of applause. ‘I’m not taking any questions,’ he said, pushing out his chin, ‘because time is getting on and I’m sure Mrs Thornton and the janitor are anxious to get to bed.’
A pained expression crossed the Headteacher’s face.
‘And I shan’t be far behind them,’ added Mr Parsons, oblivious to the titters from the audience.
The Headteacher walked with me to the school gate. ‘Thank you very much for coming, Mr Phinn,’ she said. She sounded exhausted. ‘It was good of you to give up your evening. I know the parents very much enjoyed your talk. As for Mr Parsons…’ She did not finish the sentence but gave me her martyred look and shook her head. ‘Goodnight,’ she said quietly.
As I walked to the car, I thought again of my mother and one of her favourite sayings, ‘There is always somebody else worse off than you.’
I headed for home, tired but happy with the way Children’s Reading Day had turned out, arriving just as the clock at County Hall chimed nine. The small flat which I rented above The Rumbling Tum café in the High Street would seem very cold and lonely after such an entertaining and eventful day. I parked behind a little green Morris Minor which I recognised immediately and I jumped out of my car like – er, a rabbit with the runs. The side window of the Morris Minor slid down.
‘Hello,’ said Christine. ‘I’ve just put the cauldron on. I wondered if you would like to join the Wicked Witch of the West for supper?’
7
Valentine Courtnay-Cunninghame, 9th Earl Marrick, Viscount Manston, Baron Brafferton, MC, DL, was a larger than life character, whom I had met for the first time one cold, bright day the previous autumn. I had been driving casually along an empty, twisting road on my way to a small rural school, when a pheasant he had just shot landed on the bonnet of my car. I don’t know who was the more surprised, me or the pheasant. Having come to an abrupt halt and whilst contemplating roast pheasant for Saturday supper, a rotund, red-cheeked character had climbed over the drystone wall, shotgun in hand. He had a great walrus moustache and hair shooting up from a square head and was dressed in Norfolk jacket, plus-fours and deerstalker hat. He had come to claim the bird he had bagged. That was Lord Marrick.
I had met him on a number of occasions after that – at school governors’ meetings, staff appointments and when I took reports to the Education Committee on which he served as Vice-Chairman. I had also accompanied him round a number of schools to look at aspects of the curriculum and show him good educational practice. I found Lord Marrick to be a plain-spoken, shrewd but extremely warm man with a cheerful good humour and a deep sense of reverence for the land his family had been so much a part of for many generations. He had received the little-awarded Knight of the Order of St Sylvester from the Pope himself the previous year.
On one occasion Lord Marrick had told me how he had been walking through Nether Brafferton Wood, which formed part of his extensive estate, when he came upon a large hairy individual at the entrance to a shabby tent.
‘Who are you?’ he had asked abruptly.
‘Jack,’ the man had replied. ‘And who are you?’
‘I am Lord Marrick and you are on my land.’
’Am I?’
‘Yes, you are. Would you be so good as to de-camp, pack up your things and depart.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, as I have said, this is my land.’
‘I’m not doing any harm,’ the man had said amiably.
‘That is beside the point. This is my land.’
‘Where did you get it from?’
‘I got it from my father,’ Lord Marrick had explained calmly.
‘Well, where did your father get it from?’ the man had asked.
‘From his father.’
‘Well, where did he get it from?’
‘He got it from his father who got it from his father who got it from his father, right the way back to the Norman Conquest when Sir Richard de Courtnay acquired it.’
‘Well, how did he get it?’ the man had asked, making no effort to move:
‘He fought for it,’ Lord Marrick had replied.
‘Well, I’ll fight you for it!’ had come the reply.
‘Good story, isn’t it?’ Lord Marrick had roared. ‘The very devil. “I’ll fight you for it.” Of course, I let the fellow stay, told him not to go lighting fires and disturbing the grouse and said there’d be a hot meal up at the house. I mean you can’t just throw “a gentleman of the road” off your land, certainly not one who possesses such wonderful impertinence and wit. Well, can you?’
*
The evening before my appointment with Lord Marrick, the snow fell unexpectedly and in bitter earnest. Peering from the window of my small flat which overlooked Fettle-sham High Street, I watched the great flakes begin to settle and gradually form a thick carpet along the pavements. Walls, trees, road signs, letter boxes, rooftops were soon shrouded in white. I thought of the farmers. I had seen a Dales winter the previous Christmas. The icy wind had raged, the snow had packed up in great mounds and piled into drifts which froze until the whole landscape had been transformed into one vast ocean of crusted billows. I recalled seeing a farmer, his collie dog leaping at his heels, tramping through the thick snow in a field behind a school, in search of his foundered sheep. I remembered well the grim, determined expression on his face. His was a hard life.
The next morning, 25 November, I was up bright and early. I pulled back the curtains to find the snow had stopped but had settled. The main road out of Fettlesham, however, looked to have been cleared and traffic was moving as usual. The weather forecast said there would be no more snow on the way and that a thaw would likely set in during the day, so I decided to chance it and drive out to Manston Hall.
I called into the office to check if any papers for the meeting had arrived, but apart from a couple of messages, a summary of a policy document from the Ministry of Education and the usual circulars and publishers’ catalogues, there was nothing for me.
‘You’re in very early this morning, Gervase,’ said Harold, whom I bumped into at the door to the office as I was on my way out.
‘I called in on the off-chance that the papers for the Feoffees meeting would have arrived, but they’re not here. Mrs Savage said she’d send them over. So much for liaising.’
‘Well, they’ll perhaps have them for you when you get there – if it’s still taking place. It’s very thick snow this morning and you’ll have a tricky drive up to Manston. You have to go over Ribbon Bank. I think this cold spell has caught everyone out and you’ll not find any gritting lorries along that road yet. Perhaps you ought to ring through and see if the meeting is still on.’
‘Yes, that’s a thought,’ I said, returning to my desk and picking up the telephone. I looked up the number and dialled. ‘I thought you were on inspection this week?’ I said to Harold, whilst waiting for someone at the other end of the line to pick up the receiver.
‘I was but the school’s snowed in and those children who did arrive have been sent home, so we are postponing it. I got a call from the Headteacher very early this morning.’
The telephone was answered by Lord Manston’s secretary who confirmed that the meeting was going ahead and looked forward to meeting me later that morning. She reassured me that the weather further up the dale was not too bad and that all the roads were passable.
‘Well, it’s still on,’ I said and then had a thought. ‘Harold,’ I said, ‘if you have nothing else on today, why don’t you come with me to the meeting or go in my place? You know far more about these Feoffees than I do.’
‘No, no,’ said Harold, ‘it’s good experience and they are expecting you anyway. Just be careful on the roads. Oh, and give my regards to Lord Marrick.’
Once I had left the main Fettlesham–West Challerton road, I wondered to myself whether it had been such a good idea after all to risk such a potentially hazardous journey. The fields and hedgerows, hills and fells which surrounded me, merged into one great white expanse, unbroken and shimmering to the horizon’s brim. The scene was magnificent but I was too concerned with keeping my eyes fixed on the road ahead and avoiding careering into some ditch to appreciate it on that cold, bright morning. The car skidded a good few times on the narrow untreated roads and it took three or four attempts to get up Ribbon Bank, but thankfully there were no sharp inclines after that and I was soon, with a great feeling of relief, crawling towards the tall ornate gates and square lodge which marked the entrance to Manston Hall.
Manston Hall was not a large house by stately homes’ standards but was a beautifully proportioned building of extraordinary charm and beauty. Built in warm, red brick and with many large rectangular windows, it stood out square and bright and solid in its vast parkland. All around the hall stretched a strange white world stroked in silence. No wind blew the snow into drifts, no birds called, no animal moved and, save for the sporadic soft thud of snow falling from the branches of the towering dark trees which bordered the drive, all was silent. There was a stillness, as if life itself had been suspended.
There were several large saloon cars, a Range Rover, a Rolls-Royce and a shiny black limousine with a small flag on the bonnet, parked in front of the hall. The old Volvo estate which I drove looked very much out of place in such expensive company. I looked at my watch. Ten minutes past ten. I was late. I checked my hair in the rear view mirror, straightened my tie, collected my note pad and climbed out.
The great black door to Manston Hall, flanked by elegant stone pillars, was opened by an ancient retainer. He was a tall man with a long, pale, angular face, dark deep-set eyes, very thick wild white hair and a large nose which curved savagely like a bent bow.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he intoned sepulchrally and gestured for me to enter.
I walked into a spacious entrance hall which was painted in pale yellow and blue. While the retainer pushed shut the heavy door and re-arranged the draught-excluder in front of it, I gazed round in wonder. The ceiling was a jungle of decorative plasterwork, the intricate twisting designs standing out from the darker background. A series of matching panels was set in the walls, between which were large oil paintings showing different animals: grazing cattle, fat black pigs on stumpy legs, bored-looking sheep, leaping horses, packs of hounds. The floor, of white inlaid marble, matched the huge and magnificently carved chimney-piece, above which a full-length portrait in dark oils depicted a severe-looking man posing in military uniform. An organ case with massive Ionic columns and elaborate carving stood at one side, flanked by a pair of pale, delicate tables with dark marble tops. On the opposite side, the entire wall was covered by a vivid tapestry depicting some classical theme. The central character, a woman with a great tangle of hair and piercing eyes, looked remarkably like Medusa.
‘May I have your name, sir?’ asked the retainer straightening up. He spoke in a hushed voice and his face was entirely expressionless.
‘Gervase Phinn,’ I replied.
‘Is that Mr Phinn?’ he enquired.
‘It is,’ I replied.
‘If you would come this way, Mr Phinn.’
I followed his slow, measured steps down a long corridor. We passed one rather formal-looking room with dark portraits on the walls and porcelain on the antique, highly polished furniture and then a more comfortable lived-in study with rather shabby sofas and armchairs. Our unhurried progress ended at two tall carved wooden columns. The retainer opened the door and I was ushered through it.
‘Mr Gervase Phinn,’ announced the retainer and then departed without a glance. I was in the library, a panelled room with a ceiling rich in fine plasterwork. One wall had shelving which stretched from floor to ceiling and which was crammed with leather-bound books. A huge Persian carpet covered the dark polished wooden floor. There was a group of men in animated conversation, standing before a great roaring open fire. On hearing of my arrival, Lord Marrick glanced in my direction, waved his hand expansively in the air and strode across to meet me.
‘Mr Phinn. Gervase. Good of you to come. Dreadful weather, isn’t it?’ He did not wait for a response. ‘Hope you had no trouble finding us? Come along in and meet everyone.’
Taking my arm he led me towards the group and began introducing me, as the education representative, to the frighteningly august group of individuals. There was Brigadier Lumsden, a big-nosed, big-voiced ex-soldier; Archdeacon Richards, a plump, cheerful-looking little cleric with a round red face; the present Greave of the Feoffees, a stocky man in a loud-checked tweed suit with a face as soft and brown and wrinkled as an over-ripe russet apple. Then there was Dr Coulson-Smith, the-High Sheriff, a short, thick-necked individual with a curiously flat face; a tall silver-haired policeman in impressive uniform with a short toothbrush moustache; and finally Judge Plunkett, a painfully thin man with a face full of tragic potential. It sounded like a page from Who’s Who. I shook hands, smiled fatuously at each one and wondered why I was there. What exactly could an insignificant school inspector contribute to this gathering of the great and the good?
‘Gentlemen!’ boomed Lord Marrick. ‘We appear to be all present and correct so shall we make a start? If you would follow me, I’ll lead the way to the morning room.’ We followed the peer into another equally magnificent room in the centre of which was a long, highly polished table at one end of which sat a young woman with black lustrous hair and big dark eyes. Carved, balloon-backed rosewood chairs were arranged around it and I was seated between the tweed suit and the policeman.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ Lord Marrick began, when we were all seated and looking in his direction, ‘I’ve asked Janet, my secretary, to take a few notes.’ He indicated the woman by his side who smiled down the table. ‘I appreciate your giving up valuable time to join me here this morning,’ continued Lord Marrick, ‘particularly in this bloody awful weather and I want to assure you that this meeting will be short, sharp and to the point and not ramble on like a lost sheep in a snowstorm.’ I glanced to the window and noticed that heavy flakes of snow were beginning to fall. So much for the weather forecast I thought. ‘Now I hope you got all the papers that Janet sent out last week.’ There were nods and grunts of agreement and the shuffling of various documents. Everyone seemed to have a batch of papers except me. Mine were no doubt sitting on Mrs Savage’s desk. ‘Now, as I have said in my notes,’ went on Lord Marrick, ‘I want to mark the five hundred years of the Feoffees by a major event at Manston Hall. I want the general public to know about those traditions which are so much a part of our cultural heritage. Whenever I mention the word Feoffees to people, they look at me as if I am not quite right in the head.’
‘It was the same when I became High She
riff in April,’ said the thick-necked individual with the curiously flat face. ‘I would mention the word “shrievalty” and people thought I was talking in Polish.’ He looked across the table at me. ‘You wouldn’t credit it, would you? That people had never heard of the word “shrievalty”?’
‘You wouldn’t,’ I said, feigning disbelief. I hadn’t a clue what the word meant.
‘The number of times I have had to explain that it refers to the office of sheriff –’
‘Quite so, quite so,’ said Lord Marrick impatiently. ‘I am sure we could debate the decline in the English language until the cows come home, a topic which I am sure Mr Phinn, as something of an English specialist, would love to do, but we must press on. Could we throw a few ideas around regarding how the area for which you have responsibility can play its part in the celebration? The Feoffees, as you know, have existed for five hundred years, helping the unfortunate, supporting the sick, giving bursaries and scholarships to deserving causes and I want to have a really good bash up here at Manston Hall to celebrate our achievements. So come on, colleagues, what can you suggest?’
During the next half-hour the ideas came fast and furious. The brigadier suggested a parade of army vehicles including tanks, and a display by the army motorcycle team; the policeman said he could arrange a march past by the police band, and a demonstration by dog-handlers and mounted police; the archdeacon offered a recital by the abbey choir; other suggestions came forth for exhibitions of local history, craft stalls and information stands of all kinds. Then there was a sudden silence and all eyes seemed to be on me.
‘Mr Phinn,’ snapped Lord Marrick suddenly. ‘You have been unnaturally quiet. What can the Education Department offer?’ I was on the point of mumbling something about having to consult Dr Gore, gleaning suggestions from schools and discussing certain ideas with my colleagues when my neighbour, the large russet-cheeked individual in the tweed suit, jerked up in his chair as though he had been stung, twitched madly and exclaimed, ‘What the devil!’ His head then disappeared beneath the table.
Over Hill and Dale Page 9
