I arrived at the Staff Development Centre a little after five to find Connie and Mrs Savage outside the kitchen in heated conversation. Connie, attired in her usual bright pink overall and with arms folded tightly over her chest, was facing her adversary with an expression of distaste. Mrs Savage was wearing a magnificent scarlet dress into which she looked as if she had been poured. The assortment of heavy silver jewellery which was draped everywhere was jangling as usual. The pink and scarlet duo clashed horribly, as, obviously, did their opinions.
‘Look,’ Connie was saying, ‘I knock off at five o’clock. I’ve been here since the crack of dawn and I don’t get paid for stopping on, pandering to the likes of all these councillors and officials. I’ve been in and out, up and down like a fiddler’s elbow all day, taking them in refreshments and I don’t know what. They must have bladders like air balloons the tea and coffee them lot have consummated. And biscuits. They are like gannets, the lot of them.’
‘I am only asking you to provide one further tray of refreshments, not to lay on a running buffet for a hundred people,’ said Mrs Savage tartly. ‘It sounds a perfectly reasonable request to me.’
‘Yes, well, it might do to you, because you’re not the one what has to do it,’ retorted Connie undeterred. ‘There’s all them in the interview room and then there’s the candidates waiting outside and now all the inspectors are arriving. I bought six bottles of gold top and four packets of Garibaldi biscuits this morning and now there’s nothing, not a crumb to be had.’
Mrs Savage caught sight of me approaching. ‘Ah, Mr Phinn, perhaps you can persuade the janitor here —’
‘Excuse me!’ snapped Connie, ‘I am no janitor. I’m the Centre Caretaker.’
Mrs Savage sucked in her breath and screwed up her face as if she had something unpleasant in her mouth. ‘I am attempting to get the caretaker here to provide some tea and biscuits for the interview panel but she is most reluctant to do so.’
‘And I’ve just told her that I knock off at five and it’s ten past now and there’s no biscuits or milk left. I have a bus to catch and a home to go to.’
‘Well, perhaps you could pop down to the shops and get some milk and biscuits before you depart,’ said Mrs Savage.
‘I’m doing no popping down to no shops. Only place I’m popping to is home.’ With that Connie took off her pink overall, hung it behind the kitchen door, put on her outdoor coat and marched off down the corridor.
‘I shall, of course, be mentioning this altercation to Dr Gore,’ shouted Mrs Savage after the departing figure.
‘You can tell the Queen of Tonga, for all I care,’ yelled back Connie without turning her head. ‘I’m off home.’
‘The woman is impossible!’ Mrs Savage told me with a twist of the mouth. ‘I don’t intend to be spoken to like that by a cleaner. I shall be referring the matter to Dr Gore first thing in the morning.’
‘Actually, Mrs Savage, Connie does a very good job here at the Centre.’
‘That’s as may be, Mr Phinn,’ said Mrs Savage, bristling like an angry cat, ‘but that is no excuse for such outrageously ill-mannered behaviour.’
I decided to change the subject. ‘I gather that the interviews haven’t finished yet,’ I said.
‘Well, the interviews themselves have,’ said Mrs Savage, regaining her composure, ‘but the panel is still deliberating. Some of the presentations ran over and then one candidate, having gone all the way through the interview and sat the various tests and done his presentation, withdrew. He gave no reason, I gather, just pulled out. Dr Gore was extremely disconcerted. I have never seen him quite so angry. Now, I’ve got to go back in and tell him that there are no more refreshments.’ She waited for a reply but when it was not forthcoming, continued in a much sweeter tone of voice. ‘I think it will be some time before the panel has made up its mind, so I wonder, Mr Phinn…’
I knew what was coming next. ‘I’ll go and get some milk,’ I said before she could complete the sentence.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she said. ‘That is most kind of you. I would, of course, go myself but Dr Gore does like me to be on hand at all times. He does tend to rely very heavily upon me.’ There was an enigmatic smile playing on her lips. ‘Oh, and some biscuits, too – chocolate digestive, I think. The ones the caretaker provided tasted like cardboard.’
Connie was waiting at the bus stop when I drove out of the Centre. I pulled into the kerb. ‘Come on, get in, Connie, I’ll give you a lift.’
She climbed in next to me. ‘Thanks, Mr Phinn, you’re a real gentleman. But don’t take me home, I’m a fair way out of town.’ She put on the seat belt. ‘In fact, to tell the truth, I wasn’t going home. If you could take me to the High Street, I can walk to my bingo from there.’
‘Righto!’ I said, in my best Winco-style.
‘You weren’t long at the Centre. Have they picked somebody then?’
‘No, I’m on a commission to get the milk and biscuits,’ I replied.
‘Huh!’ she snorted. ‘Well, I wouldn’t do it. It wouldn’t hurt Lady High and Mighty to get on her bike and go to the shops. All she’s done all day is swan around the Centre, on those high heels, in that fancy outfit and the dynamite earrings, looking important and pretending to be busy. She’d be overdressed if she was going to the Buckingham Palace Garden Party. She wants to watch it, walking round like something out of a jeweller’s window. Fall over and she’d have difficulty getting up with all that metal on her. She’s like a gramophone record which has got the needle stuck. “Oh yes, Dr Gore”, “Oh no, Dr Gore.” She’s about as much use as a pulled tooth, as my father used to say.’
‘I forgot to ask you, Connie,’ I said, ‘how is your father?’
She was quiet for a moment and stared down at her lap. ‘He died,’ she said quietly.
‘Oh, I am sorry, Connie,’ I replied. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘We had his funeral last week.’
‘I thought he was on the mend.’
‘Well, he’d come out of hospital, seemed to pick up a bit, much like his old self, then he had another stroke, more serious this time. He lingered for a bit but then we lost him. Mind you, he’d started having conversations with his brother who was killed in the war, and he thought I was my mother at one point. I think he was losing some of his facilities.’ She was silent for a moment, then sniffed and shook her head. ‘It was a lovely service and that young vicar, I’ve got to hand it to him, was wonderful. I’ve not always seen eye-to-eye with him, what with his jeans and his motorbike blocking my entrance, but my goodness he was good. Gave a beautiful sermon about Dad and how he had served his king and country and how there ought to be more people in the world like him. Lucy, my little granddaughter read a poem called “Granddad” which she wrote special and we had all his favourite hymns: “Fight the Good Fight”, “Onward Christian Soldiers”, “To be a Pilgrim”. It was lovely.’
‘Well, I’m very sorry, Connie. He was a remarkable man, by all accounts.’
‘He had his moments, did Dad. He could be as stubborn as a limpet on a rock but he was a marvellous father. Kept his sense of humour right up to the end. “Live in hope,” he said, “and die in casualty.” Oh, I will miss him.’
‘You never get over losing a parent.’
‘We had him cremated. Well, it’s more environmentally friendly, isn’t it? That’s what my Ted said. I drew the line, though, at a cardboard coffin. I wanted him to go out in style. He always liked a bit of a ceremony.’
‘So everything went off all right, then?’
‘Yes, but we was worried about the crematorium because of what happened at my mum’s funeral.’
‘What happened there?’ I asked.
‘Well, it was a couple of winters back, just before you Started and, oh, it was bitter. I’ve never known such a raw wind. The path up to the crematorium was like an ice rink. We were slipping and skidding, slithering and sliding, hanging on to each other for dear life. My Auntie Dot nearly went full length. S
he could have broken a leg or worse. You’d have thought they’d have put some ashes down, wouldn’t you?’ I didn’t say anything. ‘Then the music was all mixed up. It was a right fandango. You can have modern music there, you know, at the crematorium. It doesn’t have to be religious or anything like that. When everything’s been said, this little curtain comes across to hide the coffin, and they play some tune or other. Some have quite happy ones. I remember my neighbour having “Look on the Bright Side of Life” when her husband died. Well, my mother was called Sally and always loved Gracie Fields. She’s a bit before your time. Singer from Lancashire, but I don’t hold that against her. My mother used to love all her films and had all her records so we thought it would be nice for her to go out to “Sally”, you know, the Gracie Fields’ number, “Sally, Sally, pride of our alley, You’re more than the whole world to me.”’
‘That’s nice,’ I said.
‘It would have been if she’d have got it.’
‘What happened?’
‘They played the wrong track, didn’t they? The curtains closed with Gracie Fields singing, “Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye”.’ I had to bite my tongue to stop myself laughing. ‘So I said to my Ted, I said, “You must check that Dad has the right tune.” He loved Frank Sinatra so we thought a good exit would be Frankie singing “I did it my way”.’
‘Very appropriate,’ I said.
‘So I told Ted to check with the man on the tape recorder. After all, I didn’t want Dad disappearing to “Smoke gets in your eyes”.’
This time, I couldn’t help myself but luckily was able to turn my laughter into a sort of spluttery cough. I was relieved that we reached the High Street at that moment, and Connie asked me to stop.
‘Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do, Connie,’ I said.
‘Thanks, but it’s all sorted out now.’ She put her hand on the door handle but sat there for a moment. ‘I hear you put in for Dr Yeats’s job then?’
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘It’ll take a big man to fill his shoes.’
‘Yes, it will,’ I agreed.
‘Salt of the earth is Dr Yeats, a real gentleman. So, why didn’t they interview you, then?’ she asked bluntly.
‘It’s not really a question I can answer, Connie. You would have to ask those who did the shortlisting. I suppose they thought I hadn’t the experience.’
‘I think you would have done a good job myself,’ she said, nodding.
‘Thank you, Connie, that’s very kind of you.’
‘You mustn’t get too down. As my old dad said to me when I failed my eleven-plus examination: “When one door closes, another shuts.”’ She climbed from the car, then bent for a parting piece of advice. ‘And you make sure you let Lady Hoity Toity make the tea. Mind you, she probably doesn’t know the difference between a teapot and a bedpan.’
When I arrived back at the SDC with the milk and biscuits, my three colleagues had arrived and were sitting in the staff lounge.
‘It’s not like you to be late, Gervase,’ said Gerry, glancing at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s nearly six.’
‘I’ve been on an errand,’ I explained. ‘We had run out of milk.’
‘They’re certainly taking their time,’ said Sidney. ‘They’ve been rattling and prattling on all day. You Would think that by now they could have arrived at a decision. The trouble is, you see, people who sit on these interview panels have one thing in common – too much time on their hands and verbal diarrhoea.’
‘Isn’t that two?’ asked David.
‘Isn’t what two?’ demanded Sidney.
‘Two things in common: “too much time on their hands” and “verbal diarrhoea”.’
Sidney sighed heavily. ‘I really do despair of people who like the sound of their own voices.’
‘I’m saying nothing,’ I remarked.
‘Are you going to bid for the house in Hawksrill then, Gervase?’ asked Gerry.
‘Yes,’ I said, reaching into my briefcase and pulling out the estate agent’s brochure. ‘So long as we get a positive surveyor’s report, we will bid. It will be a complete waste of time, I’m sure, because it is bound to go miles beyond what we can afford. But it will give us some practice at bidding in an auction.’
Sidney plucked it from my hands and read: ‘A beautiful listed cottage in a delightful position overlooking a water-colour landscape near the picture-postcard Dales village of Hawksrill. The ground floor partially and tastefully modernised and decorated. The upper floor would benefit from further attention. Entrance hall, cloakroom, living room, kitchen, two bedrooms. Small mature garden to front, magnificent view across open countryside to rear.’
‘Sounds lovely,’ said Gerry.
‘Sounds full of estate agent’s fanciful language,’ said Sidney. ‘You have to read between the lines, Gervase. When they say “small compact garden to front”, they mean a window box. When they say “in need of modernisation”, they mean a ruin. If they say “would benefit from an extra bathroom”, they mean it has an earth closet. This is what they really should have said about this property: “The previous owner of Peewit Cottage, an incontinent hermit who suffered from a twisted sense of humour, hence the name – the bird, pewit, only having the one ‘e’ – let it go to rack and ruin. The crumbling pile is at the end of a rough muddy track, well trodden by herds of smelly cattle and flocks of lazy sheep. Those looking for a primitive and lonely life will relish the absence of a toilet, mains electricity or gas, central heating and running water but there are lovely views beyond the power station and grain silos.”’
‘Very droll,’ I remarked. ‘And “pewit” with one “e” is only a variation on the double-e spelling. I know that because it happened to be in a crossword last week. But don’t worry, Sidney, we’re having a thorough survey,’ I told him.
‘I’m not in the least worried, dear boy. It’s you and Christine who need to worry. You never stop shelling out money when you buy an old house. You want a smart apartment or a modern town house in Fettlesham, in walking distance of the office. Anyway, who’s doing the survey? Dr Livingstone, I presume. It must be uncharted territory up there. No one would find it except an intrepid explorer.’
‘Oh, I wish they would hurry up,’ sighed David. ‘Some of us have homes to go to.’
‘Go and reconnoitre will you, Gerry,’ said Sidney, ‘and get Connie to rustle us up a cup of tea on the way back.’
‘Connie’s gone,’ I told him. ‘She went nearly an hour ago.’
‘And you can rustle up your own cup of tea, Sidney,’ said Gerry.
‘I shall,’ said Sidney springing to his feet, ‘and, being such a good-natured fellow, I shall bring one back for my slothful colleagues.’
When he had gone David shook his head wearily. ‘I really don’t know what the new Senior Inspector will make of Sidney. I hope he has a strong constitution, a bizarre sense of humour and the patience of Job.’ It was the kettle calling the pot black, I thought to myself.
Sidney returned five minutes later with the tea. ‘It looks as if they’re finished,’ he said conspiratorially as he set down the tray. ‘They are all standing about looking pleased with themselves and shaking hands. I think I have seen everything now. I have just passed Mrs Savage pushing a trolley like a tea lady down the corridor back to the kitchen. I asked her if she had a new job. Her face was a picture, well, not really a picture, more of a gargoyle.’
‘Did you see who they appointed?’ asked Gerry.
Before Sidney could respond, the door opened and Harold breezed in rubbing his large hands together and with a great toothy smile on his face. ‘Colleagues,’ he boomed, ‘may I introduce you to my successor! This is Mr Simon Carter.’
‘Well, I rather took to him,’ said Sidney the next morning in the office. We were discussing the Senior Inspector designate. ‘I was very pleasantly surprised with Mr Simon Carter. He seems a most amiable and positive sort of chap and he certainly had a lot about him. What
is more, he was most interested in the work I have been doing in art and design. Asked me all about my projects, courses and exhibitions. He was genuinely interested, I could tell.’
‘Yes,’ added David, nodding. ‘I have to agree for once, Sidney. He seems like a good sort. I’ve met him before, of course. I recognised him as soon as he walked through the door. He was a keynote speaker on a mathematics conference I attended a couple of years back – his subject is maths, you know – and he was excellent, very well organised, knowledgeable and interesting. He went down really well with the delegates. I think he’ll be a real asset to the team.’
‘Well, it’s a great relief to know we have somebody reasonable,’ said Sidney, leaning back in his chair and scrutinising the ceiling. ‘I feel a whole lot better now. It will not be the same, of course, without Harold but life goes on and this fellow seems a pretty good egg.’ Sidney looked over in my direction. ‘You are very quiet, Gervase. How did you find our Mr Carter?’
‘I liked him,’ I replied. ‘He certainly seemed a very friendly man, as you say, and keen to know all about us and, from what he said, he has plenty of ideas for various initiatives. I think he’ll be good.’
‘And, of course,’ said Sidney mischievously, ‘he’s relatively young as well, intelligent, quite good-looking and he isn’t married. Play your cards right, Geraldine, and you could be in with a chance. Now, that would be interesting.’
Gerry grimaced and shook her head. ‘And completely out of the question, Sidney,’ she replied. ‘So don’t start getting any ideas. Mr Carter is definitely not my type.’
‘And what is your type?’ asked Sidney.
‘Well, let’s just say not Mr Simon Carter.’
‘Do I take it you are less than impressed with our new SI?’ asked David.
‘No, I am impressed. He seemed smooth, good-humoured and very positive about everything and everybody,’ she replied. ‘He certainly knows the right things to say and how to make a good impression.’
Head Over Heels in the Dales Page 18