The Heart of the Dales (47 page)

‘I told 'em face-to-face – well, more hand-to-throat, really– that it wasn't very nice to bully little kids. I explained to 'em that if they laid a finger on 'im ageean, I wunt be best pleased. They soon came round to my point o' view an' they 'aven't touched 'im since. Young Terry's been 'elpin' me on t'farm, an' I'll tell thee what, Mester Phinn, 'e's reight good wi' beeasts. 'E's gor a way wi' 'em. I don't know wor it is but, even Conrad, that Limousin bull in Mester Price's top field, reight big, bad-tempered bugger 'e is an' all, well, 'e's putty in t'hands of that Terry. Aye, 'e's been a real good 'elp to me.' Andy paused, running a careful hand over his slicked-back
hair. ‘I was tellin' thee abaat how I prepare jocks for breedin', weren't I, an' 'ow yer get yer ram in a sittin' position so 'e's upright. Well Terry were a gret 'elp an' –'

I cut the boy short. ‘And what about you, Andy? How are you getting on at school?' I asked.

‘Oh, all reight, I suppose.'

‘You know, if you really do want to go to Askham Bryan College,' I told him, ‘you do need a few qualifications.'

‘Aye, I suppose I do but I just can't get mi 'ead round all this learnin'. I'm not a one fer books an' that. I'd sooner be out on t'land, in t'fresh air, wi' t'wind in mi face an' a view over Wensley like there's no other in t'world. I telled mi form teacher, Mester Fairclough – 'e's not a bad chap, Mester Fairclough – I telled him that I was 'avin' t'day off come Friday to gu to t'sheep auction at Bentham. “Yer can't just 'ave a day off like that, Handrew,” he telled me, “it's truantin'. You 'ave to be at school workin' an' not gallivantin' off to Bentham.” I said, “Look, Mester Fairclough, I'm bein' 'onest wi' thee. I could 'ave telled thee I were dowly.”'

‘You were what?' I asked.

‘Ill, tookbadly, under t'weather, tha knaas. Any road, he said, “Well, Handrew, that would be deceitful, wouldn't it?” I said, ‘That's reason I'm tellin' yer t'truth, Mester Fairclough, I shan't be in t'school because I'm off to t'sheep auction. Tha sees, I've got two prime yows an' a gradely jock up for sale an' I wants to see 'ow they do.” “Well,” says 'e, “I commend your 'onesty but I can't give yer permission to take the day off. Ye'd be missing your school workan' it would be against the law.” I said, “Look'ere, Mester Fairclough, if you don't let me 'ave t'day off, up till Friday I'd be whittlin' an' werritin' abaat not bein' able to gu to Bentham Market so I wunt be concentratin' on mi work, now would I? Mi mind would be on other things. Then come Friday when t'auction were on, I'd come to school in a reight mardy mood, an' mi mind wunt be on owt but 'ow mi sheep were doing at t'auction. I wouldn't be concentratin' on school workan' that's fer certain. Then t'whole weekafterwards, I'd be feeling really 'ard done by
abaat not bein' able to go to t'auction so I wunt be concentratin' on mi workthen neither.” I explained to 'im that if 'e were to let me gu to t'auction, I'd workreally 'ard up to Friday an' catch up on t'work I'd missed. “So tha sees, Mester Fairclough, if tha was to let me gu to t'auction, tha'll be gerrin' a lot more workout on me in t'long run.”'

‘And what did Mr Fairclough say?' I asked.

‘He thought a bit, an' then 'e said 'e'd put it down to work experience, an' 'e 'oped mi sheep gu fer a good price at t'auction on Friday, an' to be sure to let' im know.'

‘Well, you had better be making tracks to the Young Farmers,' I said. ‘I hope your talkgoes well.'

‘There's a little matter of wages, Mester Phinn. That's reason for comin' to see ya. I've spent all mi brass an' cum to get paid. Got to have enough to impress that Bianca toneet.'

‘Of course,' I said, reaching for my jacket and taking out my wallet. ‘You've done a super job for us, Andy, and we are both very grateful.'

‘I mean,' said the lad, ‘I liked doin' that work for thee, Mester Phinn, but as mi Uncle 'Arry is allus remindin' me, nob'dy does owt for nowt in Yorkshire, tha knaas.'

On the Friday morning, having collected some material for the English exhibition at the NACADS Conference, I reached Manston Hall about eleven o'clock. On my way from the car to the steps that led up to the front door, I passed a gardener who was forking a large pile of greenery into a wheelbarrow.

When I arrived in the South Hall, I discovered the inspector for Visual and Creative Arts in the middle of complete disorder and confusion. My heart sank when I saw the chaos. There stood Sidney, this great bear of a man, surrounded by cardboard boxes and crates, wooden sculptures, strange three-dimensional structures in shiny metal, stone carvings, twisted wire structures, bolts of brightly-patterned fabrics, collages, squares of batik, empty picture frames, not to mention dozens of paintings and photographs. He was shouting at and gesticulating to the three teachers who had agreed to help him, while Geraldine and David stood at the side, watching with folded arms and bemused expressions. I walked through the clutter to join them.

‘When Picasso has quite finished,' David informed me in his sonorous Welsh accent, ‘Geraldine and I will try and squeeze in our modest efforts.'

‘Is there any sign of Mrs Savage?' I asked. I could just imagine her reaction to this complete mayhem.

‘She made her bellicose appearance earlier,' David said, chuckling, ‘and did attempt to engage Sidney in conversation but to no avail.'

‘And a battery of well-chosen words from our bearded colleague,' Geraldine added, ‘were enough to send her on her way.'

‘What did he say?' I asked.

‘When she mentioned the mess – and it was much worse fifteen minutes ago, I can tell you –' David said, ‘he retorted that he had a profound belief that chaos and confusion had the effects of engendering seriously remarkable thinking, and that creative geniuses, such as himself, flourished in disorder and that the sooner she left him to get on with the exhibition, the sooner the hall would be tidy. As she was leaving, he yelled after her, “And take that blithering greenery with you!”'

‘When she had gone,' Geraldine said, ‘Sidney told us that great creative minds very often encounter mindless opposition from those with mediocre ones.' I flinched and Geraldine, seeing the anxious look on my face, rested a hand on my arm. ‘Don't worry, Gervase,' she reassured me, ‘everything will be fine. For a start, Mrs Savage did remove – or, rather, sent some flunkey to remove – the potted plants and the greenery she had draped over the Italian nudes.'

Geraldine was right. By the end of the afternoon, the exhibition looked stunning. The visitors would enter the South Hall to be confronted by a mass of brilliant colours and shapes, and a most impressive range of work from the county's talented youngsters. Even Mrs Savage, when she finally dared to make an appearance, was impressed and nodded approvingly as she cast a critical eye over everything.

I had just an hour's turn-round at home; enough time to sit and chat with Christine, and dangle little Richard on my knee.

‘Most of the time, I don't miss the world of education at all,' she said, ‘but on occasions like this, I wish I could be there with you, especially staying at Manston Hall. Make sure you behave yourself, mind!'

I laughed, gave both her and the baby a kiss and went upstairs to pack.

The Manston estate looked magnificent that evening as I drove through the ornate iron gates, past the small lodge and up the long avenue to the great red-brick house, which stood square and solid before me, floodlit from the far side of the
gravel sweep in front of the Hall. There was a clear sky above me and frost was already forming on the grass.

It was now six o'clock and the delegates were due to arrive in an hour's time for the reception. I wanted to make a final check that everything was in place and ready.

A gigantic Christmas tree dominated the impressive entrance hall. It was rather early for a tree – Christmas still being several weeks away – but when Tadge had offered one from the estate, we had accepted graciously. However, this was no ordinary Christmas tree – it was white! Earlier in the afternoon, I had come through the hall and seen Mrs Savage organise the tree's decoration, directing operations from both the grand staircase and the gallery above. No flickering fairy lights or coloured baubles for her: the tree was simply but most beautifully decorated with small fuchsia-coloured silk bows. Against the shimmering white of the painted branches, the effect was most dramatic. Even Sidney had approved.

My eyes now, however, were not drawn to the tree, but to Mrs Savage herself. Wearing a long burgundy-coloured and daringly low-cut dress, which clung to her as if she had been poured into it, and with a pale silkshawl draped around her shoulders, she stood beneath the portrait of the crusty old general, looking for all the world as if she were the chatelaine of Manston Hall.

‘Good evening, Mrs Savage,' I said as I approached her. ‘You are looking quite splendid, if I may say so.'

‘Good evening, Mr Phinn,' she replied. ‘And, since this is a special occasion, yes, you may.'

At that moment, Tadge arrived in the hall. He stood a little way off, gave a low whistle and said, ‘My goodness me! How very flippercanorious you are this evening, my dear Brenda.'

I sensed Mrs Savage stiffen beside me. ‘Flipperwhaty, Lord Manston?' she enquired in her most starchy voice.

‘Flippercanorious, Mrs Savage. Isn't it a simply splendid word? I discovered it the other day.'

‘Well, it might be splendid if I knew what it meant,' she replied.

‘Elegant, my dear, wonderfully elegant, is what it means. And I think it calls for a toast to the evening.' With that, he turned on his heel and walked back across the hall.

I watched him go and realised that I was clearly underdressed for the occasion in my simple grey suit, white shirt and college tie. The heir to Manston Hall was no longer in his usual garb of old tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, but was now sporting a burgundy-coloured smoking jacket – had he and Mrs Savage consulted each other about their colours for the evening, since they matched perfectly – and a pair of close-fitting, red-and-green tartan trews. I immediately thought of Raymond, the producer, and his comment that I didn't have the buttocks for trews. Tadge certainly had.

Tadge returned with a bottle of champagne and three glasses, but I politely refused the offer. ‘A bit early for me,' I said.

‘We are merely making certain that the Moët is at the right temperature,' Tadge said, pouring generous glasses for Mrs Savage and himself.

‘In my opinion,' said Mrs Savage, holding the long-stemmed champagne flute delicately between finger and thumb, ‘there is nothing worse than warm champagne.' She saw me smiling. ‘I do want everything to be just right,' she added testily.

‘Of course,' I said. ‘That is what I came to check with you. Have there been any problems?'

‘Only that the caterers arrived with the savoury nibbles but forgot the salmon vol-au-vents for the buffet,' she told me. ‘I told them to go and get them back here ASAP. Then I was less than happy with the floral centrepieces for the serving tables so they had to be done again. You just can't rely on people these days. Apart from that, everything else seems to be in place.'

‘You're a perfectionist, Brenda,' Tadge commented. ‘A true perfectionist.' Mrs Savage accepted the compliment with a slight nod of the head.

‘What an amazing Christmas tree!' I said. ‘I've never seen one painted white before.'

‘Ah, then you've not seen our escutcheon,' Tadge said. ‘The
white tree has been on our coat of arms since the fifteenth century when Sir Launceston Whiteleaf-Cunninghame was ennobled. Back in the last century, when fir trees became all the fashion, the old Dowager Countess Elvira decided to have the Christmas tree painted white and we've kept up the tradition.'

‘In years hence,' remarked Mrs Savage, ‘they might become all the fashion.'

‘I very much doubt it,' I murmured.

‘One year, we couldn't be bothered to paint the tree,' said Tadge, ‘which obviously displeased the long-since dead Lady Elvira because she was seen by one of our guests in the dead of night wandering along the top corridor. Well, I must press on, so if you both will excuse me. I need to make sure Lucretia and Caesare are penned before the guests arrive. They get a bit frisky with a lot of people around. Wouldn't want any accidents.'

‘Lucretia and Caesare?' said Mrs Savage.

‘The dogs,' he told her. ‘I'll see you both later.' He topped up Mrs Savage's glass, and then strode off, whistling loudly.

‘I can't say that I am at all keen staying here with a ghost wandering the house,' said Mrs Savage.

I could have said she need not worry since she could put the wind up a banshee, but I said nothing.

‘Are you content with the decision over the headship of the new combined Ugglemattersby School?' she asked, taking a sip from her glass.

‘Yes,' I replied. ‘Mrs Braddock-Smith needs taking down a peg or two, I think, but the governors will see to that. However, to have a familiar person in place is so much better than having to go through all those interviews.'

At that moment, a young man with curly hair and wearing a long black overcoat walked through the door, and hovered indecisively.

‘Good evening,' he called across the hall.

‘Round the back, please,' Mrs Savage instructed, pointing over the man's shoulder to the front door.

‘I beg your pardon?' he asked, looking thoroughly mystified.

‘Would you take the vol-au-vents round the back,' she told him. ‘This is not the caterers' entrance.'