She was speaking of the man who no doubt had faced a wing of Messerschmitts, guns blazing; who had scrambled into the cockpit of his Hurricane or Spitfire four, five, six times a week, risking life and limb; who flew lonely dawn patrols, knowing that behind every bank of clouds enemy aircraft could be waiting. I sipped my sherry and stared at the formidable woman in black. Enemy aircraft must have been a bit of a breeze compared to her, I thought to myself.
Shortly, Winco appeared, smart in a dark blue blazer, flannels and RAF tie.
‘Right,’ stated Mrs C-C, ‘I think we are ready. Shall we go, Mr Phinn?’
I did not believe what next came out of my mouth. ‘Righto,’ I said, following her to the door.
*
The Totterdale and Clearwell Golf Club was packed with about a hundred or so obviously well-heeled women. I let my gaze sweep across the figures and felt my heart lurch. Why on earth had I agreed to this? I asked myself. The only man there. However, I did not have time to dwell on this since Mrs C-C introduced me to the ladies of her committee. I made small-talk with Mrs Daphne Patterson, who had recommended me as a speaker in the first place, until the Master of Ceremonies ‘banged up’ and announced, ‘Dinner is now served, if you would like to make your way to the dining-room.’
After everyone had wended their way into the adjoining dining-room, I followed Mrs Cleaver-Canning as she made her queenly progress to the middle of the top table where she stood and faced the chattering throng. She did not need to speak. She stood as though posing for a photograph, her commanding stare flicking over the guests until their voices fell away and she had secured their full attention.
‘Please be seated, ladies,’ she said authoritatively, ‘and gentleman,’ she simpered. After we had settled ourselves, she continued: ‘Welcome to our Christmas Ladies’ Night and may I wish you all the compliments of this very special season. May I also welcome our principal guest and speaker, Mr Gervase Phinn, whom we shall be hearing from later. Mr Phinn has waived a personal fee, which is very generous of him, and will be donating the cheque to a charity close to his heart.’ There was a flutter of applause. ‘I’m not exactly aware what it is, but it has something to do with child prostitution in South America.’
‘To prevent it rather than promote it,’ I muttered under my breath.
The dinner was a very convivial affair. Mrs C-C, who sat on my left, proved to be a surprisingly interesting dinner companion after she had imbibed a good few glasses of wine. Between mouthfuls of melon and prawn cocktail, poached breast of guinea-fowl and lemon mousse, all of which she tucked into with relish, she told me about the golf club, which had a distinctive history, and gave an entertaining description of the various activities which had taken place during the previous year.
She was halfway through demolishing a mince pie when she said, ‘We do like our speaker to present the balls.’
‘The balls?’
‘Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. You can do it before you speak. It’s not too arduous a task. We always ask our guest speaker to present the balls. It’s a bit of a tradition in the club.’
‘What balls would these be?’ I enquired, imagining some sort of esoteric ceremony.
‘The golf balls there,’ and she pointed to a pile of boxes on a nearby side-table. ‘We award the cups, shields and medals at the annual Christmas dinner to the winners of the year’s competitions. I, as the lady captain, dispense these, but a presentation box of golf balls is given to the oldest member, the newest member and the member who has spent most time this year on the greens. We like to give them something as a small token and to encourage them.’
‘I see,’ I replied. ‘Well, yes, certainly I’ll make the presentation.’
‘As I have said,’ she continued after another hearty quaff of wine, ‘we ask our guest speaker to do the honours. Everyone looks forward to the presentation, although that vulgar little actor who spoke last year and consumed far too much alcohol for his own good, made a disgraceful exhibition of himself and used the occasion to make some very tasteless and lav—, er, lavi—, ah, lascivious observations.’
As I watched the waiter re-charge her wine glass for the third or fourth time the words ‘pot’, ‘kettle’ and ‘black’ immediately came to mind. ‘I should be delighted to present your balls,’ I said – and then wished I hadn’t.
Mrs Hills, the lady captain-elect, sat on my right and also proved to be an interesting and informative dinner companion. I learned that she was a woman of property and she gave me some excellent advice on where to look for houses and the best estate agents to contact.
‘I have four cottages,’ she informed me. ‘A couple on the coast at Robin Hood’s Bay and two more here in Totterdale, just north of Fangbeck Bridge in the village of Hawthwaite.’
‘You don’t want to sell one of them by any chance, do you?’ I asked.
‘No, no,’ she replied. ‘They are a precious source of income and, anyway, I couldn’t part with them. They’ve been in the family for years and years. Old aunts and uncles died and I sort of accumulated them. But one of the cottages in Hawthwaite might be free to rent soon. Have you thought of renting until you find somewhere you want and can afford?’
‘It may come to that, but we would really like to start married life in a house of our own. I expect we will end up in a modern semi in Fettlesham,’ I said. ‘It’s so beautiful here in Totterdale, isn’t it? I think it has some of the most magnificent views in the entire county. My fiancée and I have looked for property here but it is so expensive.’
‘It’s in the National Park, you see, so there are strict regulations on the building of anything new, and conversions have to follow very stringent rules. It’s a whole lot cheaper to the north of Crompton or at Ribsdyke. You ought to try there.’
My thoughts, however, were still on Totterdale. ‘Actually, I have an idea one of my colleagues lives somewhere in Totterdale and she rents a cottage.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Geraldine Mullarkey. I don’t know whether you know her but —’
‘Well, well, well!’ Mrs Hills interrupted. ‘What a coincidence!’
‘You do know her?’
‘Of course I know her. She’s one of my tenants in Hawthwaite. Delightful young woman. But I didn’t know she was in your line of work. I thought she must be a medical doctor. She’s never in during the day and keeps herself very much to herself when she is at home. So she’s a school inspector, is she?’
‘Yes, Geraldine and I actually share an office in Fettlesham.’
‘I imagined she worked in the hospital there,’ said my companion.
‘Oh no,’ I replied.
‘Well, I couldn’t hope for a better tenant. She’s so pleasant and friendly, she’s done wonders with the garden, and the inside is like a palace. I’ve only called a couple of times because, as I said, she is a very private person.’
‘She’s like that at work. Very friendly and conscientious and her desk is the tidiest, without a doubt.’
‘And her little boy is a poppet, isn’t he?’
I’m sure my mouth fell open. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’
‘Dr Mullarkey’s little boy, Jamie. I said he was a poppet.’
‘Little boy?’
‘Yes, her son, Jamie. You surely knew she had a little boy?’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I replied, trying to conceal the shock of the revelation. ‘I’d just for the moment forgotten his name. Jamie, that’s right. How old is Jamie now, then?’
‘He must be three, nearly four, because he starts in the nursery next year. He’s such a good little boy and as bright as a button. I know this because my sister’s girl is the child-minder in the village, and she loves him to bits. I don’t know anything about Dr Mullarkey’s husband except I think he works abroad.’
My head was in a whirl, and I had to escape. ‘I wonder if you would excuse me for a moment, Mrs Hills, I need to wash my hands before my speech.’ I began to push back my chair.
<
br /> ‘Getting a few butterflies, Mr Phinn?’ she teased. ‘You mustn’t worry about your audience. The lady members are always very appreciative. They won’t eat you. Mind you, there were more than a few eyebrows raised when the man from the television soap stood up last year.’
‘Don’t mention that odious man,’ snapped Mrs Cleaver-Canning, turning towards us. Then she added, ‘Hurry back, Mr Phinn, it’s almost time to present your balls.’
‘I’ll not be long,’ I said and dashed for the Gents.
‘Ladies!’ boomed Mrs Cleaver-Canning behind me. There will be the Loyal Toast in five minutes, then a comfort break and after that we will start the proceedings.’
In the Gents, I tried to come to terms with the bombshell which had just landed. Geraldine had a child! She had never breathed a word, not a word to any of us. None of us in the office had had an inkling. And what about her husband or partner? Did he work abroad or was she divorced, separated, a widow? Why was she so secretive? But now I thought about it, things did make more sense. She was always evasive about where she lived. ‘Somewhere in the wilds,’ she would say. She had never mentioned anything about her life before she had become a school inspector, or her interests outside the office. There were the times when she had looked anxiously at her watch if a meeting had continued past six o’clock as if she were late for some appointment – she had obviously been keen to collect her little boy from the child-minder. She never stayed in the office for the usual badinage at the end of the day and only attended speech days or evening functions like school plays and concerts when she had to; I suppose she found it hard to find a baby-sitter. When I had had that chance meeting with her in the chemist earlier in the term, the tablets had been for her little boy and not for some mysterious lover as I had imagined. Then there were her questions about the most appropriate books to buy for young children. It all made sense now. But why had she never said anything? Why the mystery? Well, I decided, if she wanted to keep Jamie a secret, so be it. I wouldn’t spill the beans.
I was too preoccupied with the news of Gerry’s secret life to feel nervous about the rest of the evening. Following the presentation of the balls and the trophies, I stood and spoke for twenty minutes and received a very warm reception, probably because a great deal of alcohol had been consumed and my audience were in Christmas good-humour. Clutching a generous cheque for CAFOD, I clambered into a beautifully warm car to be chauffeured back to I, Prince Regent Row by Winco. The lady captain of the Totterdale and Clearwell Golf Club slumped in the back, breathing like a hippopotamus which had remained too long underwater. She was rather worse for wear.
‘I hope you haven’t been winking, drinco,’ she remarked. ‘It’sh very icy and we don’t want an accident and all end up in hopsital. So take your time and go shlowly.’
‘Righto!’ replied the Wing Commander, pushing his foot down on the accelerator pedal and skidding out of the car park.
7
Standing outside the Foxton School office was a small boy of about six or seven. It was clear that he was in trouble for he held his head down so far his chin rested upon his chest. His hands were clasped behind his back and he remained motionless in an attempt to be as inconspicuous as possible. However, as I approached, he glanced up furtively before thrusting his head back down again.
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Hey up,’ he mumbled, not looking up.
‘You look to me as if you’re in trouble.’
‘I am,’ he replied, still staring at the floor. ‘I’ve been sent out to cool off.’
‘Cool off?’ I repeated.
‘I can only go back when I’ve cooled off,’ he said.
‘And have you cooled off?’ I asked him.
‘Not yet,’ he mumbled.
‘And what have you been up to?’ I asked.
The small boy relaxed a little, sniffed, wiped his nose on the back of his hand and looked up at me. ‘We’re not supposed to speak to strange-looking men.’
‘I’m not really a stranger,’ I told him, tapping the large square badge on my lapel. ‘I’m a school inspector.’
The child’s bottom lip started to tremble. ‘I don’t mean to do it,’ he moaned. ‘I only learnt how to do it yesterday and now I can’t stop miself.’ He sniffed noisily. ‘I’d stop if I could, but I can’t.’
‘Whatever have you been doing?’ I asked, rather intrigued.
‘I can’t tell you,’ he replied mournfully, his eyes now brimming with tears.
‘That’s all right,’ I reassured him. ‘You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to, but I won’t be angry with you if you do.’ The small boy replied by giving me an enormous wink. ‘So are you going to tell me what you were sent out of the classroom for?’ I persisted. He winked again in the same exaggerated manner. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me?’ He winked a third time, contorting his face as if he had a mouth full of vinegar. ‘Go on, tell me what you have been doing,’ I urged. By this time I was desperate to know.
‘I’ve been doing that,’ he replied pointing at a squinting eye. ‘I’ve been winking.’
‘Winking?’ I chuckled. ‘Well, that doesn’t sound too bad.’
‘Mrs Smart doesn’t think it’s funny,’ he told me in a stage whisper. ‘She went bananas. She said she was sick and tired of me winking at her all morning, so she sent me out to cool off.’
‘I see.’
‘I just can’t stop winking, you see. I’ve only just learnt how to do it and now I can’t stop miself. I just keeps on winking all the time.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said, trying to keep a straight face. ‘Bit of a problem that, isn’t it?’
‘Are you Becky’s granddad?’ he asked suddenly.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I told you, I’m a school inspector.’
‘You could be Becky’s granddad as well.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I’m not.’
‘He’s coming in this morning is Becky’s granddad. He’s dead old but he used to be a referee. He’s going to take us for football after playtime. Mrs Smart says that if I haven’t cooled off before break, I can’t play.’ He sniffed again, and the nose-wipe with the back of his hand seemed an automatic follow up.
‘Well, you had better stop winking then,’ I told him.
‘It’s not that easy,’ sighed the boy. ‘I’ve tried but I just can’t. I wish I’d never learnt how to do it.’ I was about to make my presence known by pressing the buzzer at the reception desk when the small boy asked, ‘Can you wink then, mester?’
‘I can,’ I replied.
‘Can you?’
‘I can wink with both eyes. Like this.’ I went down on my haunches so I was on a level with him and proceeded to demonstrate how it was possible to perform a double wink. I was blinking and winking madly and screwing up my face like someone with tear gas in his eyes when the frosted glass on the window of the school office slid back sharply.
‘Is there anyone there?’ a disembodied voice floated into the air above us. ‘Justin, who are you talking to?’
‘Oh yes, yes,’ I spluttered, springing upright like a puppet which had just had its strings yanked. ‘I’m the school inspector.’
‘Indeed?’ she said, eyeing me suspiciously and looking unconvinced as to the authenticity of this statement.
‘Mr Phinn,’ I elaborated. ‘From the Education Office in Fettlesham. Here to see Mrs Smart.’
‘Oh, yes, Mr Phinn,’ she replied. ‘The headteacher is expecting you. She’s teaching at the moment but asked me to send you down to the classroom when you arrived. I see you have met our Justin.’ The secretary popped her head through the hatch the better to see the recalcitrant pupil. ‘Now then, Justin Heath, have you cooled off?’
‘Not really, miss. I was getting cooler but then mester here was showing me how to wink with two eyes.’
‘Mr Phinn!’ exclaimed the school secretary, and all I could do was look up at the ceiling, and whistle gently.
‘Well, you had better ret
urn to your lesson anyway. It’s nearly playtime.’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Perhaps Mr Phinn will take you back down with him to Mrs Smart’s classroom.’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘You can show him the way.’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘And no more winking.’
‘No miss, I’ll try,’ said the child.
The secretary gave me a look as if to say, ‘And don’t you go encouraging him any more, either.’
On the way down the corridor, I felt a sticky little hand slip into mine. By the time we were approaching Mrs Smart’s classroom, the little boy was swinging his arm, and mine, backwards and forwards.
‘Justin,’ I said, ‘I don’t mind you holding my hand, but cut out the swinging. OK?’
‘Sorry, but I can’t seem to stop miself from doing that, either.’
Mrs Smart, a plump woman in a shapeless knitted suit and sporting a rope of very large yellow beads, put on a theatrically disapproving expression when she caught sight of me entering the classroom with the little boy in tow.
‘Oh,’ she announced, ‘I see our little winker has returned. Come along in, Mr Phinn. Justin, you go and sit down and let that be the end of your winking. And if I see you doing it again this morning, you will face the wall.’
‘Yes, miss,’ replied the boy, scurrying to his seat.
‘Do you know, Mr Phinn, we’ve had Justin winking away all morning and distracting the entire class. I looked round at the children at one point and found he had set them all off. It was like teaching a flock of owls with conjunctivitis.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said, having to restrain myself from bursting out laughing.
‘Well, anyway, it’s very pleasant to have you with us this morning. Shall we all say a nice “Good morning” to Mr Phinn, children?’
‘Good morning, Mr Phinn,’ chanted the class obediently.
‘If you would like to take a seat,’ continued Mrs Smart, ‘we’ll get on with the lesson. We’re doing the tenses, Mr Phinn – past, present and future.’
Head Over Heels in the Dales Page 11