Head Over Heels in the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

‘Me neither,’ she replied sadly.

  We didn’t say anything for a while. We just sat there in our silent disappointment.

  ‘Well,’ I said at last, ‘I suppose we had better look for something else – and quickly or we will find ourselves living in this dump for months to come.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Christine replied. There were tears in her eyes.

  ‘It is so sad. It’s such a lovely cottage.’

  ‘It is,’ she murmured. ‘I love it from the name onwards. Peewit Cottage – it has such a sonorous ring to it.’

  ‘And a beautiful setting.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just the right size.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘And those magnificent views. We’ll never find a view like that again.’

  ‘Oh, don’t go on, Gervase, you’re making it worse. I need you to tell me it’s a dump and it wants pulling down. Tell me that the people who buy it will have bought a millstone which will be around their necks for the rest of their lives. Just don’t tell me how beautiful it is.’ And she began to cry.

  ‘Come on, Chris,’ I said, holding her close and wiping away her tears. ‘We’ll find somewhere else. I promise.’

  ‘Like one of those smart but oh so predictable apartments or town houses in Fettlesham which Sidney suggested? I had my heart set on that cottage. I fell in love with it as soon as I saw it.’

  ‘But just think of all the work needed.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, snuggling closer. ‘I know.’

  ‘We’d be spending all our lives renovating it and –’

  ‘You needn’t go on, darling,’ she told me. ‘I know it’s impossible. I know well never have it now.’

  Later that evening, after a subdued supper, most of which we left, Christine said quietly, ‘Do you remember what brought us together in the first place?’

  ‘Your blue eyes,’ I said immediately. ‘I was captivated by your blue eyes.’

  ‘Yes, well, I was in fact thinking of something else. Something else blue.’

  ‘Blue?’ I said. ‘Blue what?’

  ‘How about a certain blue-and-white plate?’

  ‘Ah, ifyou’d said “blue-and-white”,’ I laughed, ‘I’d have known exactly what you meant. But why bring that up now?’

  ‘Well, it occurred to me that that plate brought us together – we were in Roper’s Saleroom in Collington at an auction. And look where it led? We could go to next Saturday’s auction – we’ve nothing on – if only to see what the cottage goes for. I mean, we wouldn’t bid or anything. Just go out of interest.’

  ‘I suppose we could,’ I replied.

  ‘I mean, it’s sure to be out of our price range anyway.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I said and, remembering the occasion when Christine left me to bid for the blue-and-white plate on her behalf, added, ‘We could go, for old times’ sake.’

  ‘It can’t do any harm seeing what it fetches.’

  So at twelve noon the following Saturday, Christine and I sat nervously on hard stackable chairs in the back row in Hawksrill Village Hall for the auction of Peewit Cottage.

  The estate agent, a round, jovial man with a shock of silver-white hair, a paunch of mountainous proportions and a nose like a hatchet, consulted his heavy silver pocket watch and banged his gavel on the table.

  ‘Good day, all,’ he said. ‘My name is Wesley Harper of Harper, Read and Harper, Auctioneers, Valuers and Estate Agents of Fettlesham. On my right is the vendor’s solicitor, Mrs Sonia Stackpole.’ He gestured in the direction of an elegant young woman in a dark suit sitting on his right. ‘We are here for the public auction of the freehold property known as Peewit Cottage, Hawksrill, in the county of Yorkshire. The particulars of the sale, setting out the conditions, are here’ – he stabbed a large official-looking folder before him on the table – ‘should anyone who has not received a copy wish to view them before the sale commences. Peewit Cottage is sold with vacant possession on completion of the contract. I would like to remind the successful bidder that ten per cent deposit is payable today and that, in addition to the purchase price, there will be, of course, stamp duty, land registry fee and solicitor’s charges.’ He smiled and scratched his hatchet nose. ‘So, is there anyone wishing to view the particulars of sale?’ He scanned the faces before him. ‘No? Has anyone anything to say before we begin with the auction?’ He glanced around the room. ‘Good. So, will anyone start the bidding. Shall we say…’

  Christine and I sat outside the Golden Ball pub in Hawksrill, staring in silence at the wonderful view before us. The auction had finished over an hour before.

  ‘Well,’ I said, breathing out heavily.

  ‘Are you worried?’ Christine asked.

  ‘Very, and still a bit shell-shocked.’

  ‘You don’t regret it now, do you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I never realised you were so impulsive. I couldn’t believe it when you started bidding.’

  ‘I didn’t notice your stopping me,’ I replied, looking into her beautiful blue eyes. ‘I knew you had your heart set on it. I did too. I just couldn’t stop myself, once I’d started. Just like the blue-and-white plate – it was something you really wanted.’

  ‘Come here,’ Christine said and gave me a great hug and a kiss. ‘Oh Gervase, think of the views and the beams and the quarry-tiled floors and the old fireplaces and the little garden.’

  ‘And all the work.’

  ‘We’ll manage that even if we have to sleep on the floor for a few years and put up with the damp and woodworm and collapsing gutters and crumbling walls. I can’t believe it. It’s ours, that lovely cottage. It’s ours.’

  Although the village hall had been packed to the walls there had only been three people interested in buying: a local builder, an architect from Leeds and myself. The others who crowded into the musty room were, no doubt, the villagers who were interested in what the cottage would fetch and who the new owners were.

  The bidding had started low but increased quickly past the guide price. Apart from the serendipitous visit to Roper’s Saleroom in Collington, I had only been to a few auctions and then to buy books, so I was not at all experienced. However, when the builder waved his paper ostentatiously and the architect nodded confidently, I had entered the fray, and like a bulldog with a bone, hung on until Mr Harper of Harper, Read and Harper, Auctioneers, Valuers and Estate Agents had banged his gavel loud enough to wake the dead and shouted: ‘Sold to the young gentleman at the back.’

  People in front of us swivelled in their seats to see who this ‘young gentleman’ was. ‘Young, mad gentleman’ would have been more apt, I thought, my heart hammering so loudly that I thought everyone could hear it.

  Before going for our celebratory drink at the Golden Ball, we had walked out of the village and into the open country beyond, in order to turn back and look at the property we had just bought. The cottage looked small and rather sad in the early afternoon sunshine. The roof, covered in cracked orange tiles, sagged in the middle and the chimney leaned to one side. Tiny windows were set in the old red sandstone walls and the paint was flaking from the wooden shutters. A thick stem of ivy writhed like a snake over the porch and grass sprouted like tufts of green hair from the broken guttering. The small garden was – well, no one could call it a garden: it was a jungle of weeds and thistles, choking brambles and wild bushes which might once have been called shrubs.

  Christine wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tightly. ‘Isn’t it just idyllic?’ she sighed.

  I could have provided a more appropriate adjective but bit my tongue and thought of all the hard graft ahead. The thought uppermost in my mind was thank heavens I had not got the Senior Inspector’s post after all because I would be spending every spare moment trying to get Peewit Cottage habitable.

  ‘Happy?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you think?’ she replied and her eyes shone.

  That afternoon I had agreed to speak about children’s
books on the local radio. The usual contributor, a librarian with the county library service, was on holiday and I had agreed to step in. I had not spoken on radio before and, although I was in a buoyant mood thinking about the cottage, I also felt more than a twinge of nerves as I sat in the small studio, headphones on waiting to be introduced.

  The radio presenter, Lenny Walters, was a loud young black man with a completely bald head and an assortment of gold rings in one ear and on his fingers. He told me that each week there was this slot – not too long – when the librarian recommended a few books for children. ‘All very laid back and chatty, nothing too heavy,’ he explained. I gulped and looked down at my notes.

  The music that was playing came to an end, and Lenny leant towards the microphone. ‘For those of you who have just tuned in,’ he said, ‘this is the “Listen in with Lenny” show and I am Lenny Walters and I will be with you for the next hour with all the news, views, reviews, record requests and lots and lots of old-time favourites and popular hits. If you have a point of view, if you have something you want to say, if you have anything you want to get off your chest or if you just want a record playing for someone special, then pick up the phone and dial Lenny on Fettlesham 820340. Now,’ and he picked an index card from the top of the pile in front of him, ‘the next record is for Mrs Doreen Roberts of Victoria Terrace, Fettlesham who wants me to play “Come back to Sorrento” sung by the late, great Josef Locke. Doreen tells me she’s never been to Sorrento – she’s a Skegness person herself – but the record will bring back very happy memories of the Italian prisoner-of-war she met when she was a Land Girl.’

  Lenny pressed a button on the huge deck before him and Josef Locke began his very emotional rendering of “Come back to Sorrento” for lucky Mrs Doreen Roberts of Victoria Terrace, Fettlesham, then he swivelled around in his chair to face me.

  ‘So, what’s it like being a school inspector then?’ he asked, tilting back and reaching for a plastic cup of coffee. Before I could respond he rattled on: ‘I bet you put the fear of God into teachers, don’t you, when you arrive at their classroom door? It’s the sort of job I reckon you never admit to doing, is it? School inspector? Like a traffic warden or a tax inspector. If I were you, I wouldn’t mention being a school inspector when I put you on. I’ll just tell the listeners you’re filling in this week for June. We don’t want a load of angry teachers shouting down the line, do we?’

  ‘OΚ,’ I replied.

  Josef Locke faded, Lenny prodded another button on his deck and announced: ‘And now for our weekly look at books. This week, we have a new face in the studio. Jarvis Phipps, who’s standing in for our lovely June, is with me this afternoon. June’s on holiday this week, sunning herself on a beach in Tunisia, lucky June, so we have another bookworm here – if I may call you that, Jarvis – to tell us what books are in the shops and what you might enjoy reading over Easter.’

  I talked a little about some popular books for five minutes or so and then Lenny came back in. ‘Thanks, Jarvis. Stay with us because there might be some listeners out there who want to phone in.’ He picked up the next card off the pile on the console in front of him. ‘The next record is for Rosemary Mulligan of Broom Valley Road, Kirby Ruston. Rosemary wants a record for her dear grandfather, Patrick – known as Paddy – Mulligan who lives at Holly House Residential Home, Fettlesham, and is one hundred and eleven years old. Wow! That’s a fair old age, Paddy, and no mistake. One hundred and eleven and not out! Did you know that score in cricket is called a Nelson and is considered bad luck? I hope it doesn’t bring you bad luck, Paddy. David Sheppard, the England cricket umpire, always stands on one leg when that score is reached. Perhaps Paddy should stand on one leg all year! Anyway, Rosemary wants Tina Turner singing, “When the Heartache is Over”.’ Lenny tried to suppress his laughter. ‘I’ll tell you what, Paddy, if I reach a hundred and eleven and still like listening to the likes of Tina Turner, I’ll be happy man. And I can see Jarvis nodding away in the studio. So here’s Tina Turner singing “When the Heartache is Over” for the remarkable one-hundred-and-eleven-year-old Patrick “call me Paddy” Mulligan.’

  ‘Actually, it’s Gervase,’ I told Lenny while Tina was belting out her song.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘My name, it’s not Jarvis, it’s Gervase.’

  Lenny’s mind was clearly on other things. He was flicking switches and pressing buttons on his console. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Hey, it’s amazing, isn’t it? This old bloke. One hundred and eleven!’

  ‘He must be the oldest man in England,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose he is,’ replied Lenny.

  When Tina Turner had finished singing, he stabbed the console before him. ‘Jarvis and me have been having a little discussion here in the studio,’ Lenny told his listeners, ‘and we reckon Paddy Mulligan of Holly House Residential Home is the oldest man in England. I’ve heard of a woman in France who’s one hundred and fifteen and she’s the oldest person in Europe, and there’s a man in India, I think, who’s older, but I reckon Paddy Mulligan at one hundred and eleven must be the oldest man in England. Now, this is what I’m going to do. I’m going to invite Paddy to come into the studio and tell the listeners about his wonderful long life. He must have seen some things in his one hundred and eleven years. I’ll arrange a car to collect you, Paddy, and your lovely granddaughter, Rosemary, of course, and we’ll get you into the studio next week. And there’ll be a bottle of champagne waiting for you to celebrate your long life. How about that? I’m sure the listeners would love to hear from you. Give us a ring, Rosemary, and tell us if you’re willing. Now I’m going to play the next track for Paddy, and it’s another Tina Turner number, “Simply the Best” because that’s what you are, Paddy, simply the best.’

  During the next record the console before Lenny began flashing madly. He prodded a button and spoke to some disembodied voice. ‘Yeah, yeah, I see. What did she say? Really?’ He stroked his bald head. ‘Oh, no! Is he? OK, OK. Yeah, I’ll sort it. I said, I’ll sort it.’ He looked at me shrugged and shook his head. ‘We’ve got a problem,’ he mouthed.

  My immediate thought was that poor old Paddy had finally gone to meet his maker.

  ‘That was Tina Turner singing “Simply the Best”,’ announced Lenny into the microphone in a rather more subdued voice. ‘Now, we’ve just received a telephone call from a rather distressed Rosemary Mulligan of Broom Valley Road, Kirby Ruston. Her grandfather, Patrick, is not, as I stated earlier, a hundred and eleven years old.’ He paused, looking at the index card he held in front of him. ‘He’s ill.’

  That evening, Christine and I were curled up on the sofa together in my flat. We had enjoyed a splendid supper and a bottle of good wine. It had been memorable day. We were so happy.

  ‘It frightens me sometimes,’ I told her.

  ‘What does?’

  ‘Just how lucky I am. To have you for the rest of my life in our dream cottage. It sometimes feels just too good to be true.’

  ‘I’m lucky, too,’ Christine said, giving me a kiss.

  ‘On the radio programme today,’ I told her, ‘the presenter played this record, “Simply the Best”, and I thought of you. That’s what you are, Chris, simply the best thing that’s happened to me. I’m the luckiest man alive.’

  ‘I love you too,’ she replied, snuggling close to me and then, after a pause, murmured, ‘Gervase?’

  ‘Yes, what is it, darling?’

  ‘You will always be honest with me, won’t you. Tell me if there is anything that’s on your mind, anything which I do which upsets you?’

  ‘Of course, and you’ll be honest with me as well, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course I will. In fact, on that subject, I hope you won’t mind my mentioning this but when we are married you won’t leave your dirty clothes on the floor, will you, and… er… about your socks…’

  13

  Christine and I were married on 15 April at St Walburga’s Church. I wore a charcoal-grey morni
ng coat and Christine a simple white dress and veil. She needed no elaborate silk wedding gown, embellished with intricate embroidery and studded with pearls, she needed no long lace train held by page boys in velvet, no fancy necklace or diamond tiara to look stunning. She would have looked the same to me in a threadbare army greatcoat. On that bright spring morning with the sun shining through the stained glass and bathing her in a pale golden light, Christine looked a vision as she walked down the aisle on her father’s arm. In her hands she held a delicate posy of muscari and freesia in the centre of which was a small, but very special sprig of broom.

  The last day of term had been an emotional occasion. I had been invited to Winnery Nook Nursery and Infants School to be introduced to the children not as the school inspector but as Miss Bentley’s future husband and for a presentation from the governors, staff and children. One small boy in particular had touched our hearts.

  Barry was six and it was clear to everyone who met him that he was a neglected child who desperately sought affection. His shirt was invariably dirty, his trousers frayed, his jumper spattered with stains and he had that unpleasant, unwashed smell about him.

  ‘He’s from a large one-parent family,’ Christine had told me, when I had met the little boy on a previous visit to the school. ‘I don’t suppose he gets much attention at home. His mother is a sharp-tongued, miserable woman and, from what I gather, finds it difficult to cope. Demanding young children, too little money, mounting debts, absentee father – or, more likely, fathers – a string of violent boyfriends. It’s perhaps no surprise that she looks permanently exhausted and that she flies off the handle at every opportunity. But Barry deserves better. She seems to have no interest in him at all.’

  ‘What a life!’ I had said.

  Despite his background, Barry was a remarkably cheerful little boy who never complained and always tried his limited best at his school work. ‘Hello, Miss Bentley,’ he would shout brightly each morning as he waited for her at the entrance to the school. ‘Any jobs, miss?’ He loved nothing better than straightening the chairs, giving out the paper and pencils, collecting the books, tidying up the classroom and picking up litter and he took on all these tasks cheerfully, whistling away as if he had not a care in the world.