‘You’re not actually making sense, Mr Astley,’ Loopy remarked from her position at the window where she had been standing nervously smoking a cigarette while her guest spent what seemed to her to be an inordinately long time staring at her paintings.
‘What I meant to say, but must have omitted to do so, is that you possess a quite exceptional talent.’
Loopy stared at him, her heart seeming to be suddenly in her mouth, unable to think of anything to say, which was probably why she stubbed out her cigarette only half smoked and with unusual ferocity.
‘Very well,’ Waldo continued. ‘You might well say, and I wouldn’t blame you, what does he know? And I might well answer – really very little, which would be the very truth. I’m no art critic, and I haven’t studied art at any level other than a domestic one. But I can also answer that, possibly above everything else, I love fine painting. I have always loved painting, ever since I was young. I even wanted to be a painter. But guess what – I found I couldn’t paint. I couldn’t draw a box let alone paint it. I have absolutely no talent whatsoever, and as soon as I found this out – well before the war as it happened – I determined to discover as much as I could about painting. See as much as I could, learn to know what I liked – and I have to say I really like your work, Mrs Tate. Really. I like it quite inordinately. Nor am I judging it as the work of some unschooled amateur – I can assure you that your talent is up there along with that of many contemporary painters. These seascapes particularly are exceptional. I don’t know how you developed this style—’
‘Neither do I.’
‘It’s a kind of cross between pointillism and post-expressionism, but no matter how you came by it this is your style and it is both quite original and utterly beguiling.’
‘Are you sure you’re not just being kind, Mr Astley? I won’t mind if you are because I have to tell you – and this really is to go no further – you’re the first person, apart from my maid, who has actually noticed my work.’
‘Is that so? I can’t believe that.’
‘I can.’ Loopy laughed, and lit a fresh cigarette, even though she didn’t really want one, but she felt so excited that if she didn’t do something she thought she herself might go up in smoke, not just the cigarette.
‘And I’m not just being kind. If I were being kind I would say quite different things, in different words. I would say these paintings are fun – and colourful – and I would say that I imagined you got a lot of pleasure out of your hobby. And I would more or less leave it at that – and most certainly I would not have taken the best part of half an hour to come to these conclusions. But since I have, and I can hear your husband calling us from downstairs as well as the gong being sounded for dinner, I suggest we abandon the topic of your genius for the moment and pick it up again at a time convenient to you.’
‘What are you going to tell my husband, Mr Astley? Because he’s never thought too much of my paintings. I don’t want him to make fun of you. You’ve been too kind for that, really you have.’ Loopy carefully closed the door behind them, as if closing it on their secret.
There was a pause as they both stood looking at each other, Waldo realising at once where her problem might lie, and Loopy knowing instinctively that she could trust him.
‘What would you like me to tell him, Mrs Tate?’
‘Maybe that you liked my works. That you didn’t think they were a waste of time, but nothing more. Don’t eulogise about them, whatever you do. Too much praise might be embarrassing for both of us.’
‘Very well. Then that is all I shall say.’ Waldo nodded, understanding completely.
‘Thank you, Mr Astley.’
‘It is entirely my pleasure, Mrs Tate. I assure you.’
By now, to the relief of both himself and Meggie, Richards was well and truly installed as the new landlord of the Three Tuns. If there had been a good time to question his determination to maintain his sobriety Meggie knew that this had to be it, Richards let loose in his own public house. Yet as he explained to Meggie after his first week in residence – paraphrasing Shakespeare as he so often did – the more he saw people putting liquids in their mouths to take away their brains, the less he felt inclined to follow suit.
‘In fact, Miss Meggie, to be absolutely frank, when I see how utterly daft people become when they’re under the influence, I wonder not only how Madame Gran and you put up with me, but how in all honesty one put up with oneself.’
Although she said nothing to him Meggie was slightly concerned as to how the check cap, blazer and cravat brigade would react to someone of Richards’s character and demeanour running what they considered to be their local hostelry. She wasn’t worried about the fishermen and the boatmen. They would drink in the Three Tuns as long as the beer was good and as long as it was competitively priced. If the beer got cloudy and the prices got fancy, then first they would complain and then if their complaints were not attended to they would vote with their feet and take their trade elsewhere, even if in this case it meant having to travel another mile and a half to the Crown and Anchor, further along the estuary.
The check cap and blazer brigade, however, were of a totally different complexion, particularly since many of its members came from the ranks of the local Yacht Club. Meggie was concerned lest some of their number might find it funny to subject Mine Host to a barrage of what Richards always liked to call unsolicited comments. She knew such a type of person always found confirmed bachelors like Richards fair game, and took cruel enjoyment in trying to discomfort them.
Happily she had reckoned without Richards’s lifetime ability to deal with mockery.
‘Excuse me, miss?’ one of the Blazers enquired on the retired butler’s first day as landlord. ‘A pint when you’ve a moment, please, my sweet.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ Richards had replied with great aplomb. ‘With a straw?’
‘No. Straight from the tap, please, miss.’
‘Very well, madam. Coming straight up.’ After which Richards had placed a pint of water in front of the Blazer with a smile.
‘No, no – I meant a pint of ale – dearie.’
‘Whoops – my mistake, but you know how it is.’ Richards had sighed, taking the drink away. ‘I didn’t think we were quite adult enough to try alcohol yet.’
Having witnessed that early exchange and others similar, Meggie soon found her worries diminishing. In fact the more she observed with what panache Richards was able to handle contentious moments the more she realised her concerns had been quite groundless. Just as Richards had coped superbly with the vagaries of being a manservant before his drink problem overcame him, so too did he seem to quickly master the art of being a landlord. Besides, the years he had spent as a butler stood him in excellent stead, since not only did he have an encyclopaedic knowledge of drink, but he had also long since mastered the art of tact. He knew when to continue a conversation and when not to prolong it, when to pass comment and when to stay silent, and when to give advice and when not to, always bearing in mind the most important point of all: that, just as in the drawing room or dining room, those in his bar who asked for counsel must only be given the counsel they wished to hear.
As a result it was soon very obvious that Richards’s tenure of the Three Tuns was proving to be more successful than any of the village could have hoped, and of course his stock went up even further when the regulars learned of his record in the Great War. Naturally Richards never volunteered this information himself, leaving it to others to find out, which of course they soon did, the old inn being the centre of so much of the life of the village. So it was that after only a short space of time, Meggie found that she could stop worrying about the abrupt change in both their lives and turn her thoughts to other things.
The only advice Richards himself found he needed was about catering for large numbers at a time, since not only were supplies of most foodstuffs still rationed, but there were often acute shortages of the foods that were meant to be more freely av
ailable. Although he was not at all happy with having to deal with the only alternative suppliers, it soon became abundantly clear, as always, that if you could not beat them then you had to join them, particularly if you wanted your business to stay solvent. Fortunately he soon discovered that the local police were more than prepared to turn blind eyes to the ever ready stock of victuals at the Three Tuns, since they themselves were only too pleased to be able to frequent a local where they were assured of an unwatered down drink, and the sandwiches and pies had a decent and appetising filling.
One of Richards’s more original innovations was to section part of the saloon bar off into a Ladies Only snug, since not only was it still frowned upon by many for women to frequent public houses, but, as with clubmen in London, a high percentage of his male custom did not enjoy doing their drinking in the presence of women. His sympathy did not just extend to the women of the village, however. Realising that many of Bexham’s young men had few sociable places to meet members of the opposite sex, Richards soon redecorated one of the many small bars, renaming it the cocktail lounge, he made sure it was warmly lit and comfortably furnished. Meggie wondered about the wisdom of such a conversion when the supply of spirits was still noticeably short, only to be told by the new landlord that his youthful clientele met in the cocktail lounge not to drink cocktails but to be smart.
‘I should imagine that most of the young men who frequent the lounge think a Sidecar is something in which to drive their lady friends to the Three Tuns,’ Richards replied, delicately slicing a hardboiled egg. ‘Although the other day we did have the dearest of older couples in – down from the north on holiday. They were most taken with the cocktail lounge – so much so that when the gentleman came up to the bar he ordered a pint of brown and mild for himself, and for the wife – a bottle of cocktail. Too dear for words it was really.’
As always, regulars to the Three Tuns had their favourite seat, stool or position at or in their chosen bar, and Hugh and Loopy were no exception. They always called in for a drink Saturday midday after they had finished their shopping and this particular Saturday they made no exception, taking their place in their usual window seat from which they could watch the comings and goings on the quays. When Hugh went up to the bar to order a second round, Loopy saw the now familiar figure of Waldo ambling along the street that led up to the quays, a cigar stuck in one corner of his mouth and his big black slouch hat tipped at a rakish angle almost over one eye. As if feeling her stare, Waldo looked up at the bow window of the pub high above him, saw Loopy and stopped, doffing his hat with an extravagant flourish and bowing equally excessively. Loopy put a hand to her mouth and laughed then waved back in greeting with the other, amused not only by Waldo’s theatricality but most of all by the reactions of the fishermen who had witnessed the flourish.
‘Who are you laughing at?’ Hugh wondered, putting down their drinks and glancing out of the window. ‘Oh. The Yank. I might have known it.’
‘I imagined you liked the Yank, as you call him,’ Loopy replied. ‘Do you still think of me as a Yank, I wonder?’
‘Of course not,’ Hugh replied grumpily, taking out his packet of cigarettes and shaking the last one out. ‘Don’t think I ever thought of you as anything other than you, really. Cheers.’
He lifted his glass and drank, then lit his cigarette, just as the door swung open behind him and Waldo ambled in.
‘Greetings, local people,’ he said generally, taking off his hat and his long black overcoat preparatory to making himself comfortable somewhere. ‘A little bit warmer today, I think. Spring can’t be long now.’
‘Will you join us, Mr Astley?’ Loopy asked, indicating an empty chair, accompanied by an indicative frown from her husband.
‘Most kind, Mrs Tate, most kind,’ Waldo replied, looking round the crowded bar. ‘But I am otherwise engaged for the moment. Perhaps later.’
‘Delighted,’ Hugh said, drawing on his cigarette, safe in the knowledge that by the time Waldo might have prised himself free he and Loopy would be well on their way home.
‘I have to look into what is somewhat quaintly known as the public bar,’ Waldo mused, folding his coat over one arm. ‘As if the other bars in here were for private use only. A business contact you understand. Until later, perhaps.’
Having excused himself, Waldo went in search of his quarry, whom he found just as he hoped he might finishing a pint of light and bitter in the public bar.
‘Good day to you, Mr Sykes,’ he said, joining Peter at the bar. ‘Please – let me buy you a beer. I see your glass is empty. While you tell me if you have any news for me yet regarding any suitable sports car that might be for sale. I trust you have heard of something?’
While their drinks were being poured, Peter told Waldo about the few cars of which he had indeed so far heard. Unfortunately nothing seemed really suitable, judging from the disappointment he saw on his new client’s face. But that was just a snare and a delusion, a trick of the trade. Peter hadn’t learned his business at his father’s knee for nothing. Peter Sykes was keeping the best until last.
‘It isn’t definite,’ he said slowly, loading his words with as much doubt as possible. ‘It is only hearsay. But there is word of a Jaguar SS 100 that might be coming up for sale. Belonged to an RAF chap, Battle of Britain pilot, so I gather. Survived the Big One, only to get killed in the last week of the war flying his kite on some exercise or other. Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? Getting through the war, and then your number coming up coming in to land after some pointless exercise. Anyway – about this motor. It’s been laid up since 1940 – never driven during the war at all – which again is odd, seeing how the fighter lads liked to show off to the girls, know what I mean? Anyway, this chap laid his pride and joy up instead of joyriding, and now it might be up for sale. Might be of interest. Like new, so they tell me, sir. A Series 3 it is, three and a half litre, or if you want to be precise three thousand, four hundred and eighty-five cc.’
Waldo nodded appreciatively, but said nothing.
‘Which is a fair old lump of engine, sir,’ Peter continued. ‘The Series 3 was built in 1939. This example has only done just over fifteen hundred miles and when it was out of action it was properly laid up – wheels off, bricks under the axles, engine and sump drained, whole body covered with several layers of dust sheets. So it really should be like new. She’s barely run in yet. In a way you’d be buying a better than new car.’
‘Then no doubt you’ll want a better than new price for it, Mr Sykes,’ Waldo smiled, lighting up a fresh cigar, much to the interest of the locals in the public bar. ‘You have a figure in mind?’
Peter hesitated. Having bought the car well below the market value, at a figure of two hundred and eighty pounds, and having obtained an agreement to delay final payment for a week, he was hoping to double his money at least. Yet, being disinclined to take the American for a fool, he was a long way yet from counting his chickens.
‘You know what they cost new, sir?’ he wondered aloud instead. ‘New they cost one thousand two hundred pounds.’
‘In that case go no further. If that is what the car costs new, then that is what I shall pay. Plus your buyer’s commission, of course.’
Peter Sykes stared at Waldo, whose expression was deceptively innocent.
‘Is that not enough? You look surprised, Mr Sykes. What sort of figure did you have in mind then?’
‘The car is eight years old, Mr Astley,’ Peter stuttered. ‘When I said it was better than new—’
‘It was just a façon de parler? Your sales pitch? A little bit of an exaggeration?’
‘Well, no sir, no, not exactly. What I meant by better than new was that what with the engine being just about run in now, and the fact that if there had been any teething troubles they’re all over and done with – and the fact that it has been so well stored, as I said – what I meant was that I don’t imagine you would find a better one anywhere. They only built the Series 3 for a year, sir,
so they’re as rare as rocking horse droppings – if you’ll pardon the vernacular.’
Waldo smiled broadly and drew on his cigar.
‘Go on.’
‘I think you’d have to pay a London dealer well over seven hundred for her, sir,’ he said, plucking a figure out of the air. ‘But that’s not the figure I have in mind.’
‘You have a better than new figure, Mr Sykes!’ Waldo laughed. ‘And why not? Something good, rare and beautiful is worth good money. Tell me what you were thinking.’
For some reason Peter felt himself outrun, and yet he didn’t know why. The American’s benign affability and apparent willingness to pay whatever was asked plus commission had unnerved Peter, unused as he was to this sort of negotiation. He wished devoutly his father was still alive to handle the deal for him, because he knew his old man would have got every available penny out of the Yank plus a few more, but Peter wasn’t made like that. All he wanted was to get a fair price for the car plus say a twenty per cent commission. If he could get that, then he and Rusty would be able to afford to rent the little flat above the greengrocery in the main street; have a proper home of their own.
Yet he still hesitated, feeling that to try to achieve his aims by what amounted to cheating someone as affable and generous as Mr Waldo Astley would be iniquitous. He sincerely believed he would not be able to live comfortably with his conscience after that.
‘The thing is, Mr Astley, sir. The thing is the car would cost you a lot of money anywhere else, particularly one with this history and such a low mileage, but I’m prepared to let you have it for five hundred and sixty pounds, plus commission.’
Waldo frowned. ‘I can’t accept that, I’m afraid, Mr Sykes.’
‘I understand, sir—’
‘I can’t accept that for the simple reason that you can’t be making enough money on that deal. That is sheer economic lunacy, besides being appalling business.’
‘You asked me to find you a car, sir—’
‘The deal didn’t include cutting your own throat. Look, what I propose to do – if the car is as good as you say I propose to pay you what you and the car deserve. I shall pay you one thousand pounds and that will include your commission. As long as the car is as described. If it isn’t, then woe betide you. Now, have we a deal, young man?’
The Wind Off the Sea Page 13
