Mr. Campion's Abdication

by Mike Ripley

  ‘What’s a “blazered buffoon”?’ she asked, turning in her seat. ‘Or is that just some patter from your double act? I mean, you two were on the stage once, weren’t you?’

  ‘You cheeky young … American,’ scolded Lugg. Then to the back of Campion’s head, ‘She’s saying we’re Morecambe and Wise.’

  ‘Who’re they?’ said the girl.

  ‘A sort of English Martin and Lewis, though much funnier,’ said Campion.

  ‘Again, who?’

  Mr Campion sighed theatrically. ‘I was forgetting your youth, my dear. But to answer your question, old Lugg’s description of blazered buffoons was, I suspect, a rather disparaging description of the population, or at least the male half, of Frinton-on-Sea, a coastal town popular as a retirement destination for those who like their greenswards trimmed with nail scissors and their pavements – that would be sidewalks to you – cleaned and buffed with a feather duster. It is a place where public houses are banned, motor vehicles discouraged and the trees in the municipal parks are not allowed to drop their leaves without written permission.’

  ‘Sounds soooo exciting!’ Precious put the tips of her fingers to her cheeks and mugged teenage ecstasy. ‘I think I’ll take my chances with the Italian bitch and join the digging crew. You can drop me anywhere here.’

  They were approaching the Sweethearting Barrow and the film unit’s parked Citroën, and Campion began to brake.

  ‘Remember, you are my eyes and ears,’ he said, ‘and try not to antagonize Signora Petraglia – well, not just yet anyway. Now let Lugg out of the kitchen so he can come and sit in the front with the adults.’

  As Campion applied the handbrake, Precious jumped out of the van and slid open the side door. Lugg heaved himself out, nodded his thanks and replaced the girl in the passenger seat.

  Campion touched a finger to his forehead in salute as Precious crossed the road to the Barrow, then engaged first gear.

  As the VW began to accelerate, Lugg, his eyes firmly on the road ahead, said, ‘About the pubs being banned. That was a joke, right?’

  Although he had no wish to rub salt into Lugg’s perceived wound, Mr Campion could not resist pointing out the King’s Head as they passed through Sweethearting, Perdita’s bright red Mini Cooper being the lonely occupant of the pub’s car park. Lugg muttered that the King’s Head looked no more welcoming from the outside than the Hythe Inn in Heronhoe, but probably attracted a better class of clientele, it being ‘country’ rather than ‘dockside’, and it had an archaeological tourist attraction on its doorstep whereas Heronhoe could only offer a few weatherbeaten fishing boats and a swollen population of angry seagulls.

  Campion reported the first impressions of the King’s Head as experienced by Rupert and Perdita, who had been all too eager to share them over last night’s dinner at Heronhoe Hall. If they were to be believed, Mr and Mrs Yallop, the landlord and landlady, were ‘characters’ though possibly not Lugg’s idea of the perfect publicans. The barmaid, Sonia, however, would surely be to Lugg’s taste. Being even older than he was, they must have plenty in common, although Sonia did have an inconvenient aversion to climbing staircases and the unfortunate tendency to faint dead away at the sight of strangers.

  Lugg’s instant reaction to this intelligence was that it was no more than the typical behaviour of the Suffolk-bred female, who were well-known for their propensity to swoon at the slightest provocation. Campion, who had married one, did not rise to that but dangled his own bait to gently tempt the professional interest of his companion by reporting that the King’s Head possessed, or so he had been told, a fine collection of historic bottled beers behind the bar. Although in retirement, Lugg had accepted the position of Beadle at the Brewers’ Hall, one of the City’s less ostentatious but eminently content livery companies – a role which he always claimed was mostly ceremonial but did involve an element of what he referred to as ‘quality control’ – he feigned disinterest in the pub’s vintage ales, muttering that even if you ‘swept the cobwebs off ’em’ they were probably not worth drinking.

  Mr Campion allowed Lugg to sulk quietly although the fat man perked up considerably as they drove through Pontisbright as he had not seen ‘the old place’ on his journey from London, albeit in comfort, in the back of a Harrods van. For the next dozen miles, they reminisced about adventures they had shared there and characters they had known, most of whom, Campion pointed out sombrely, were still there in the churchyard.

  By the time they crossed the border into Essex and, at Colchester, had taken the coast road, Lugg was relaxed and sociable enough to complain that he was hungry and even proposed, assuming there were provisions on board, that he climb into the back of the VW and attempt to get the little gas stove going with a view to a swift fry-up. Mr Campion expressed horror at the prospect of Lugg climbing over the seat while the vehicle was moving, let alone experimenting with gas and flame, and he was sure there were neither eggs nor bacon and probably not even a frying pan on board. To prevent another attack of the sulks, Campion mollified his passenger by saying that he was sure there were many excellent fish-and-chip shops in Frinton, though not – before Lugg could ask – a single whelk stall. That, of course, grumbled Lugg, would be common.

  Assuming the role of counsel for the defence, Mr Campion argued that Frinton really was not such a bad place and had been much maligned by newspaper cartoonists and comedians. True, he had seen with his own eyes the spoof, but convincingly official-looking, sign at Colchester railway station which told the unwary traveller that trains departed ‘To Harwich for the Continent; Frinton for the Incontinent’ which had probably originated during a students’ rag week.

  But with all good jokes, argued Lugg, acting for the prosecution, there was an element of truth and in his not-so-humble opinion, Frinton’s louder and more colourful neighbour, Clacton-on-Sea, was a far more attractive retirement destination. It had a pier for one thing, and the most popular stars of variety appeared in the summer shows at the end thereof. Plus, it boasted a growing population of ageing East End villains and criminals who had avoided (or completed) a long vacation at Her Majesty’s Pleasure and sought to end their natural life sentences in a nice bungalow with a sea view. Not surprising really, as Clacton had for several generations been a traditional destination for day-at-the-seaside outings for East Enders, just as Margate had been for south Londoners.

  Campion claimed that he could call just as many character witnesses in defence of Frinton and that they would probably be of a better character than any Lugg could call for its neighbour only seven miles distant in geography but a world apart in gentility. It was well-known that there were two Frintons: Summer Frinton, which existed for between six and eight weeks each year, and Tranquil Frinton, where for between forty-four and forty-eight weeks a year the town snuggled quietly down under the security blanket of its own self-confidence with very little to worry about. There was hardly any crime recorded in the town and the municipal authorities had plenty of time to concentrate on ironing the greensward and dusting the beach huts before the next year’s invasion of summer visitors.

  The invaders were not, of course, a barbarian horde but a rather civilized selection, who came by private car rather than charabanc or train and indeed, in the ‘golden times’ of the Twenties and Thirties, the fashionable set of holidaymakers included no less a personage than the Prince of Wales. In the past decade though, the railway – always crucial to the town since Victoria’s reign – had assumed a new significance with the level crossing gates near the station forming a barrier between the old, established town and the sprawling new township which had sprung up in a fit of post-war expansionism. Now, in effect, there were two physical Frintons – one inside the gates and one outside – as well as two Frinton time zones.

  Campion piloted the VW over the famously divisive level crossing and headed for the seafront and the Frinton greensward, under the many watchful eyes peering out from behind the regularly cleaned windows of stately Edwardi
an villas and frequent Art Deco houses. When a panorama of the grey and chilly North Sea filled the windscreen, Campion pulled into the kerb and parked. It being Tranquil Frinton, there was parking space a-plenty although the arrival of the lime-green campervan drew looks of disbelief mixed with downright suspicion from two elderly ladies sitting on the nearest park bench. They were well-muffled against the breeze coming off the deserted beach, with tartan blankets across their laps and matching red scarves tied around their heads like nuns’ wimples. At their furry-boot-clad feet two shivering Pekinese dogs sat on their haunches like Chinthes – or ‘Chindits’ as the British army had called them – the stone lions which stood guard at the entrance to a Burmese pagoda.

  As they disembarked, Campion tipped the brim of his fedora to them and Lugg strained a polite smile but both ladies and dogs remained impassive apart from a slight synchronized twitching of nostrils as if a bad smell had wafted in on the ozone.

  They made their way towards the landmarks Campion recognized: the Free Church and clock tower in all their redbrick glory, the Grafton restaurant and, next door, The Galleon café and ice-cream parlour. Religion would have to take second place to more human appetites if the rumblings from Lugg’s stomach were anything to go by, and so the pair veered towards the scent of frying fish.

  Over a substantial portion of haddock, chips, peas and white sliced bread, followed by weak milky coffee and a rather embarrassing Knickerbocker Glory for Lugg, Mr Campion informed his companion between spoonfuls that they were about to call on Gerald Wemyss-Grendle in his new domicile, the Harbour Lights Residential Home for retired gentlefolk.

  It turned out to be one of the Edwardian villas halfway along Connaught Avenue and offered no safe entry to, nor even a view of a harbour. Furthermore, according to the slightly dishevelled and clearly harassed middle-aged woman wearing a nurse’s uniform and sensible flat shoes who answered the doorbell, it contained few gentle folk.

  ‘Who? Compton? Oh, Campion. Yes, you rang, didn’t you?’ The nurse almost had to shout to be heard over the sound of loud military music coming from the upper floor of the house. ‘You’d better come in. We’re trying to get some of the residents down for their afternoon nap but one in particular is being uncooperative.’

  Campion leaned in close to the nurse’s ear. ‘Captain Wemyss-Grendle, by any chance?’

  The woman nodded violently. ‘That’s him – Old Grumpy. We keep hiding his records but he always finds them. He’s particularly fond of the band of the Coldstream Guards.’

  ‘So it would seem. That’s Gounod’s Marche Militaire, I think, and clearly a favourite,’ said Campion as the music increased in volume. ‘This is Mr Lugg, by the way,’ he shouted.

  Lugg took the nurse’s offered hand and leaned in perhaps closer than was necessary to her starched aproned bosom.

  ‘Be a proper angel, Matron, and go tell His Lordship that we’re a delegation from Wellington Barracks come to complain about the noise. Then see if you can rustle up a pot of tea, would yer?’

  The nurse wrenched her hand out of Lugg’s paw and leaned back out of range of his leering face.

  ‘Tell ’im yerself,’ she snapped in a tone she would not have used to Campion but a vulgarian such as Lugg was fair game. ‘I ’aven’t the patience, me feet are killing me and I’m not running round after visitors – ’specially not Mr Wandering Hands up there. Up the stairs, first door on the left, or you could just follow that blasted noise. You can tell him from me where he can stick his trombone section!’

  With a crackle of static from her blue uniform, she spun on her heels and stamped off down the hallway, leaving Campion and Lugg to mount the staircase in time to the music pouring down on them.

  ‘I see you have not lost your touch with the fairer sex,’ Campion said.

  But Lugg merely cupped a hand around an ear and said, ‘Eh?’

  Captain Gerald Wemyss-Grendle, sometimes erroneously promoted to the rank of major and in many eyes fairly accurately described as mad, failed entirely to notice the two intruders until the music stopped completely and the room went silent. Even then, he remained seated in a fiddle-back rocking chair facing the window and continued to conduct the band of the Coldstream Guards in absentia though with a hand clutching a tumbler of orange-brown liquid rather than a baton.

  Lugg had gone immediately to the portable record player balanced on the sideboard and, while he disabled the instrument, Campion took up a position in the centre of the room to distract the resident music lover when he finally realized that the band had marched on out of earshot, and turned his head.

  ‘Who the …? What in God’s name …?’

  ‘Hello, Gerald; long time no see.’

  ‘Campion? Well, I’ll be blowed! Is it really you? I was sure that stupid mare who calls herself a nurse had got it wrong. Nobody visits me these days anyway, ’part from debt collectors and bookies’ runners.’

  ‘I can assure you, Gerald, it is me, and I can confirm I am here neither to collect debts or bets; and my apologies for interrupting your recital.’

  Wemyss-Grendle propelled himself out of his rocking chair without a drop spilling from his glass, his face a picture of confusion as if he had not yet registered that the music had stopped. In fact, it was almost as if he had forgotten there ever had been music in the room.

  ‘How long’s it been, Albert? You still go by Albert, do yer?’

  ‘It fits me like a second skin after all these years and I doubt if I’d respond to anything else now.’

  The captain peered over Campion’s shoulder to where Lugg was standing at ease, his bulk masking the record player and most of the sideboard it rested on.

  ‘And that grizzled old sod,’ said the captain, ‘who looks like the chucker-outer at the undertakers’ ball; I remember him, too, from before the war. He’s your butler. Grogg, that’s his name.’

  ‘Only by absorption,’ said Campion smoothly to cover the low growl being emitted by the fat man, ‘and please do not call him a butler – he loathes the term and it actually does a disservice to real butlers everywhere, but I am delighted you remember him, because it is your memory we wish to tap.’

  ‘Pah! According to the staff here – more like the Gestapo, they are – I can’t be trusted to remember me own name!’ He jiggled his glass gleefully in front of his face. ‘I can always remember where I’ve hidden the bottle, though, and they never find it. Didn’t bring any extra supplies with you did you, Campion? Running a bit low, so can’t offer you one.’

  Exactly when Gerald Wemyss-Grendle had gone to seed Mr Campion did not know, but the mental arithmetic needed to work out that the captain was not more than half-a-dozen years his elder was depressing enough. True, he had not seen Wemyss-Grendle since the war and men and women can change much in a quarter of a century, but Campion took a perverse pride in the fact that he could still fit comfortably into the officers’ mess dress suit tailored for him by Dege & Skinner of Savile Row in 1940. The captain, once the same height as Campion and far more muscular in build, had not only acquired considerable poundage but the additional weight had made his body somehow slump on its frame. His natural bow-leggedness – a stance due to years of enthusiastic horse riding – added to the reducing effect. The backs of his hands were liver-spotted, he had shaved only in a cursory fashion and his hair had made only fleeting contact with brush or comb that day. In the tumbler he clutched in his right hand lay the explanation for his florid complexion.

  ‘I am afraid I came empty-handed, Gerald,’ said Campion, ‘but perhaps we could arrange something before we leave Frinton, assuming they have allowed wine merchants beyond the Gates.’

  ‘I can name three,’ said the captain, his eyes lighting up, ‘but it would be cash, not credit, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That would not be a problem, but first, could we make ourselves comfortable while we discuss the reason for our visit?’

  Now Wemyss-Grendle’s expression changed to one of mild surprise as if suddenly rem
embering he had visitors. He sank back into his rocking chair and waved his drink-free hand vaguely in the direction of a rather grubby, chintzy two-seater sofa. Campion settled himself carefully and crossed one long leg over the other at the knee. Lugg preferred to remain standing, though he shifted his position so that he leaned over a small pine desk covered in copies of the Racing Post, in which he was taking a deep academic interest.

  ‘I don’t owe you money, do I? It’s difficult to keep track sometimes …’

  ‘Not at all,’ Campion reassured him. ‘As I said, I want to borrow something from you – your memories.’

  ‘My memoirs? Never got around to writing them; if fact, advised not to by several lawyer types. Too many ladies with blushes to spare, even in these permissive days, if you get my drift.’

  Campion replied calmly, ‘I think I understand. You never married, did you?’

  The captain expelled a sound which was part snort, part dirty chuckle. ‘Why buy a book when there’s a library on every corner? I never had any trouble with the female of the species – well, not until I fell on hard times and had to sell the hall and move into Colditz-by-the-Sea here. You got yourself hitched, though, didn’t you?’

  ‘Almost thirty years ago.’

  ‘Bet you miss your bachelor days.’

  ‘Honestly, Gerald, not a bit, but I want you to think back to when a rather famous bachelor visited you at Heronhoe Hall before the war – the Prince of Wales.’

  ‘You mean the Duke of Windsor?’ For a moment, it appeared that the captain was considering standing to attention as if the national anthem had struck up. ‘Has anything happened to him?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ said Campion. ‘He and the duchess are alive and well and living in Paris. They have a very nice house in the Bois de Boulogne, given to them by the French government.’

  ‘Typical French!’ the captain spat. ‘They chop the heads off their own royals then they commandeer ours. David was very shabbily treated, you know. Should have been king; would have been a popular one.’