The Heart of the Dales (33 page)

This sounded ominous. ‘I am not carrying a coffin,' I said.

‘No, no, it's nothing like that,' he said. ‘I have all the pallbearers I need. Anyway you haven't got the right features for a funeral assistant. You have to have a mournful expression, a sorrowful countenance, and a sombre outward bearing to carry a coffin. You lookfar too fit and happy.' I didn't feel it at that moment. ‘I'm in search of a speaker.'

‘No, no,' I began, ‘I know nothing whatsoever about funerals.'

‘Listen a minute,' he said, extending a thin white hand, which he placed around my shoulder. His cold grey eyes looked into mine and I could smell the rather sickly odour of embalming fluid. ‘I was just telling Margot Cleaver-Canning about the dreadful fix we're in over the Rotary District Governor's Conference in the Memorial Hall tomorrow. That's why I'm rushing to this extra-ordinary meeting now. It's crisis time. We're short of a speaker. We have tried a number of people already but they're all booked up – inevitable, really – and I was asking Mrs Cleaver-Canning if Winco might fill the slot with memories of his wartime experiences as a fighter pilot, but they're going to be in London for some big Air Force do, so that's no good. Anyway, to cut a long story short –'

I knew full well what I was about to be asked and made to move off. ‘Goodnight, George. I really do need to get home.'

‘Hold on, hold on!' said George, gripping my arm. ‘Mrs Cleaver-Canning said you'd be just the ticket.'

‘I'm busy tomorrow,' I said quickly.

‘Let me finish,' he said. ‘This isn't any old meeting, you know. It's the highlight of our Rotary calendar. There'll be upwards of five hundred people there. One of the speakers – Chuck Wiseman from Seattle, he's the International President's representative, by the way, and we were so over the moon to have secured him – well, he was to speak but he's had to cancel. Well, he hasn't had to cancel as such, but his widow has. I was looking forward to meeting Chuck and comparing notes because he is, or was, I should say, in the same profession, running a very successful funeral business in the States, very successful. You might have heard of it – the Primrose Path Bereavement Parlour. They're way ahead of us in embalming over there, you know. Anyway, as I was saying –'

‘This is all very interesting, George,' I told him, looking at my watch, ‘but I really can't help.'

‘It's only a paltry ten minutes,' he said.

‘Well, I can't.'

‘He was carrying a casket out of the Heavenly Meadows Chapel of Rest to the strains of Elvis Presley singing “Return to Sender” and he just keeled over.'

‘Who?' I asked.

‘Chuck. Heart attack. Best way to go, in my opinion. Fortunately, the bearers managed to hang on to the coffin – they call them caskets over there – otherwise it would have been even more tragic if they had dropped the corpse as well. There's nothing worse at a funeral than dropping the body. Anyway, he was going to speak.'

‘Well, I'm not!' I said firmly. ‘I have things planned for tomorrow.'

‘Come on, it's only ten minutes of your time,' he persisted. ‘We've got a really good speaker before you, a brigadier with experiences of commanding front-line troops. Since you're playing a colonel in the play you could pickup a few tips.'

‘No.'

‘It's not that it's a dinner where you would have to sit through the meal, and then listen to all the other speakers. It
is just ten minutes of light-hearted banter before the District Governor rounds things off.'

‘Light-hearted banter!' I repeated. ‘I'm not a comedian.'

‘I know that and, as I said to Mrs Cleaver-Canning, a school inspector isn't likely to have us rolling about in the aisles, but we are desperate and she said you'd spoken at her Golf Club Dinner and you were all right. She also said you didn't charge a fee and so they were able to afford a really good speaker for the following year.'

‘That's good to know,' I said, accepting the back handed compliment with a wry smile. ‘I'm glad I was ‘all right'.'

‘I mean, we don't want anything smutty, mind. Rotarians are professional business people. They don't like
risqué
material. We had a blue comedian once who used the DG's wife as the butt of his jokes. We don't want a repeat of that.'

‘There won't be anything smutty,
risqué
or otherwise, George,' I told him, ‘because I am
not
doing it. Much as I would like to help, I can't. I am really busy tomorrow.'

‘I see,' he said, looking deflated. ‘Well, you can't say I didn't do my best. As I said, it would only be ten minutes of your time which doesn't seem much to askand we would, of course, be prepared, if you insisted, to give a donation to a charity of your choice and we are desperate. I understand the Committee has tried everyone else, but if you won't do it…' He looked at me expectantly.

Malleable, Julie had called me and malleable I was. ‘Oh, for goodness sake,' I sighed. ‘Go on, then, but ten minutes only and not a second more.'

‘You're a gentleman and a scholar, that's what you are,' he said, clapping me on the back, ‘and if you are ever in need of my funeral services, I shall be happy to give you a good discount. The conference starts at nine thirty but you needn't be there until eleven.'

I heard the jangling of the keys that signalled the arrival of the caretaker and a moment later he appeared like the Ghost of Christmas Past around the corner.

George observed him for a moment. ‘Now, he'd be ideal as
a pallbearer,' he said. ‘Mind you, he would make a bloody good corpse as well.'

I duly arrived at the Memorial Hall just before eleven the following morning. To be honest, I wasn't sorry to get out of the house because Christine was not best pleased at my having agreed to give a talk on a Saturday morning. She had said some rather unflattering things about my resolve to say No.

I was met in the foyer by a large man sporting a straw boater and wearing a bright yellow sash with a wheel displayed prominently on the front.

‘I'm the Sergeant-at-Arms,' he announced, smiling widely. ‘Welcome to the District Governor's Conference.'

‘Good morning,' I said. ‘I'm one of the speakers.'

‘Chuck?'

‘No, no,' I said, ‘I'm standing in for Chuck.'

‘Is he not well?'

‘He's dead.'

‘Oh dear,' he said, shaking his head. ‘How did that happen, then?'

‘He was carrying a coffin – they call them caskets in the States – and I thinkhe had a heart attack.'

‘I see.'

‘Fortunately they didn't drop the coffin.'

‘That's a blessing, anyway. Does the District Governor know that Chuck won't be speaking?'

‘I believe so, yes.'

‘Everybody was expecting Chuck.'

‘Well, he's not here.'

‘You had better come this way. Where are you from?'

‘Hawk srill.'

‘We've a Hawk srill in Yorkshire, you know.'

‘Yes, I know. I live there.'

‘I thought you were from America.'

‘No, that was Chuck,' I said.

‘Poor old Chuck. Did you know him?'

‘No, I never met him.'

‘No, neither did I, but we were all looking forward to hearing him,' said the man disconsolately. ‘People will be very disappointed.'

‘Well, I'm afraid it can't be helped,' I said.

‘That's life, isn't it,' said the man. ‘It comes to all of us eventually – death, I mean.'

‘I think perhaps I should be making a move,' I said. ‘I'm supposed to be speaking in ten minutes' time.'

‘Things have been moved back,' said the man. ‘The brigadier's delayed. They're all having coffee at the moment so you've plenty of time. I mean, we can't start proceedings without the brigadier.'

‘No,' I sighed, ‘I guess not.' So much for the ten minutes, I thought.

‘First-class speaker, the brigadier, I'm told.'

‘Yes, so I hear. Incidentally, has George Furnival arrived yet?' I asked.

‘George? No. He had a ten o'clock funeral this morning, and will be here a little late.'

‘I see,' I said. I was somewhat irritated by the fact that the person who had inveigled me into doing this wretched talk would not be here himself.

‘Are you a friend of George's, then?' asked the Sergeantat-Arms.

‘Not really,' I said. ‘I'm doing him a favour and standing in for Chuck.'

‘So you're an undertaker like George, then?'

‘No, a school inspector.'

The man looked at me for a moment. ‘A school inspector?'

‘That's right.'

He sucked in his breath, ‘And what are you talking to us about then?'

‘My experiences in education.'

‘Doesn't sound a barrel of laughs,' he said.

‘Still, you've got the brigadier,' I told him.

‘That's true enough. Well, if you'd like to follow me,' said the man, ‘I'll take you to the District Governor and his guests.'

I was shown into an ante-room by the Sergeant-at-Arms. There were several knots of middle-aged and elderly men, all heavily chained and bemedalled, in earnest conversation. I joined a man standing by the window, furtively smoking a cigarette.

‘Good morning,' I said.

‘Morning,' he replied, breathing out a cloud of smoke. ‘Nasty habit. I'm trying to give them up.' It certainly didn't look like it to me. ‘Are you a delegate?'

‘I'm one of the speakers,' I told him.

‘Oh, you must be Chuck.'

‘No, I'm not Chuck. I'm standing in for him.'

‘Is he ill?' asked the man.

‘Dead,' I said.

‘Dear, oh dear, how did that happen?'

‘He was carrying a coffin and had a heart attack.'

‘Well,' said the man, inhaling the smoke from his cigarette, ‘if you have to go, I suppose that's the best way.' He coughed loudly.

‘Thankfully they didn't drop the coffin that Chuck was helping to carry,' I told him.

‘There's a blessing,' said the man. ‘Could have been nasty.'

‘So, you see, Chuck couldn't make it,' I said, ‘and I've been asked to speak instead.'

‘I was really looking forward to hearing old Chuck,' said the man sadly. ‘He was supposed to be a brilliant speaker, by all accounts. Spoke from the heart. Still, we've got the brigadier and are in for a real treat. Have you heard the brigadier speak before?'

‘No, I haven't.'

‘Supposed to be one of the best speakers in the British Army.'

‘Really?' I was heartily sick and tired of hearing about the wonderful speaking skills of the brigadier so decided to move on. ‘If you'll excuse me,' I said, ‘I must get some coffee.'

Reaching for a coffee cup, I accidentally knocked the arm of the man next to me in the queue. ‘I'm sorry –' I started.

The man turned slowly and smiled a wide rather unnerving smile.

‘Hello, Gervase,' he said pleasantly.

‘Dr Gore!' I spluttered.

‘And what are you doing here?' he asked.

‘I've been asked to speak,' I told him.

‘Really?'

‘I'm standing in for Chuck.'

‘Can't he make it?'

I was tempted to relate the whole sorry saga again, but resisted and settled for, ‘He's indisposed.'

‘Pity,' said Dr Gore, ‘we were all looking forward to hearing him. Quite a speaker, I am told. Still, we've got the brigadier to look forward to. The brigadier comes highly recommended. So you've been asked to speak to conference, have you?'

‘George Furnival asked me to stand in for Chuck,' I said.

‘And how do you know George?' he asked.

‘We act together in the Fettle sham Literary Players,' I told him.

‘Well, well, well. I didn't know you were an actor
and
a raconteur as well as a school inspector.'

‘I dabble,' I said.

‘Good, good! I hear from Mrs Savage that arrangements are progressing very well for my NACADS Conference.'

‘Yes, everything's in hand,' I told him. Butterflies were beginning to flutter uncontrollably in my stomach.

‘I said it would be a little job, not too onerous,' said the CEO, smiling his thin-lipped smile. ‘Anyhow, I very much look forward to hearing what you have to say about education.' My heart now sank down into my shoes. ‘Nothing too controversial, I hope.'

‘No, no,' I said quickly, ‘nothing controversial.'

‘You had better come and say hello to the District Governor,' Dr Gore instructed me, taking my arm. I accompanied the CEO dutifully and was introduced to a craggy-faced man with thick wavy silver hair.

‘I'm Harry Cockburn,' he said, ‘District Governor, for my
sins. And you must be the young man George was telling me about who has so kindly stepped into the breach.'

Before I could answer a loud, harsh voice I knew only too well came from behind me.

‘'E gets everyweer, this chap.'

I turned to find a large man with a fat red face, purple pitted nose and mop of unnaturally shiny, jet black hair. It was Councillor George Peterson, the most self-opinionated and wearisome member of the Education Committee, and husband of the head teacher of High copse Primary School.

‘You know our speaker then, Mr Deputy Mayor?' asked the District Governor.

‘I do indeed,' said Councillor Peterson, sticking out his chin. ‘Gev my wife a right goin' over when 'e hinspected 'er school. Looked at every thin' from t'books in t'library to t'locks on t'lavatory doors.'

‘Good morning, Councillor Peterson,' I said.

‘Mr Deputy Mayor,' he corrected me. ‘I've been elevated since we last met. Oh yes,' he continued in that strident tone of voice, ‘I know Mester Phinn very well. We've crossed swords – paradoxically, of course – in t'past, 'ave we not, Mester Phinn?'