Head Over Heels in the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘How do, squire,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, good afternoon,’ I replied, clambering down from the wall and joining him.

  ‘Admirin’ t’view, are tha?’

  ‘Yes and having a bit of rest.’

  ‘Hard work, then?’ he asked, gesturing towards the cottage.

  ‘Yes, and very dirty,’ I replied, brushing a cloud of dust from my overalls.

  ‘Tha must be t’new people ‘ere, then?’ he observed. ‘T’wife said a young couple ‘ad moved in.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m Harry Cotton. Live up by t’beck. I’m tha nearest neighbour.’

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Cotton,’ I replied, shaking a large hand as rough as sandpaper. ‘I’m Gervase Phinn.’

  ‘Foreign then, are tha?’

  ‘No, as Yorkshire as you are.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ He sucked in his breath, surveyed the cottage and then with slow deliberation announced, ‘I reckon there’s a fair bit for tha to do theer, Mester Phinn.’

  ‘There is indeed,’ I agreed.

  ‘I wun’t like to tek it on, I’ll tell thee that. Been empty for a fair owld time, that cottage, tha knaas. Old Mrs Olleranshaw, ‘er who ‘ad it afore thee and lived theer all ‘er life, must ‘ave been deead near on two year now. Her nephew, who inherited it, couldna make up his mind whether to live in it ‘imself. That’s why it’s bin empty so long. Aye, I reckon there’s a fair bit to do.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure we’ll get there,’ I replied, attempting to sound cheerful.

  My rustic companion rubbed his chin, twisted his mouth and cocked his head in the direction of the cottage. ‘Damp,’ the old man announced.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Fair bit of damp, is there?’ he enquired grimly.

  ‘Yes, there’s damp all right.’

  ‘I thowt so. And woodworm, I reckon?’

  ‘Yes, we have woodworm as well.’

  ‘And tha chimney needs pointin’ by looks on it.’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  ‘Bit of subsidence at t’front an’ all.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you have to expect that sort of thing in a cottage this old.’

  ‘Oh, it’s old all reight. One o’ oldest in t’village, they reckon. Prob’ly a few ghooasts knockin’ abaat. Tha wants to get t’vicar in to do bit o’ exorcisin’.’

  ‘I think not,’ I replied, smiling.

  ‘At least tha dunt ‘ave a reight big garden to keep on t’ top of, any rooad.’

  ‘No, it’s very small and, once I’ve tamed it, should be quite manageable,’ I replied, looking with some foreboding at the tangle of bushes and shrubs.

  ‘Mrs Olleranshaw owned all that little lot what’s next to thee.’ He gestured with his hand towards a large area of overgrown land. ‘Sold separate, I believe, by ‘er nephew few months back. I reckon they’ll be buildin’ some o’ them swanky, gret ‘ouses theer afore too long.’

  ‘I doubt they’d be allowed to,’ I replied.

  ‘Aye, well, they do all sorts of things, these planners and architects an’ surveyors. Wouldn’t trust ‘em as far as I could throw ‘em. Estate agents an all. They’re all t’same. Only out to mek a bob or two.’ The grizzled old man rubbed his stubble and nodded knowingly. ‘You mark my words, they’ll have a whole lot o’new houses theer afore year’s out, blockin’ tha view.’

  ‘I certainly hope not!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Any rooad, you won’t ‘ave a big garden to deal with.’

  ‘Actually, I wouldn’t have minded a bit more land,’ I admitted. ‘To grow a few vegetables – that sort of thing. Not enough room here’

  ‘Well, tha can allus get thissen an allotment. There’s one goin’ just down from me. Ted Poskitt give it up a couple o’ years back. Too much for ‘im what wi’ accident an’ all. Tha wants to talk to George on t’parish council, and ask abaat it. Nice little plot reight in corner, it is, sheltered. I’d tek it on missen but I’ve got enough on wi’ mi own. Mind you, it’d tek a fair bit of graftin’ to clear it and dig it ovver. Ted Poskitt let it go, tha sees, after ‘is accident. He was nivver same. Any rooad, tha wants to think abaat it. Tha go an’ talk to George Hemmings on t’parish council, he’ll see you reight.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ I said, thinking that it would be rather nice to have an allotment to provide endless supplies of fresh vegetables. ‘Thank you for mentioning it.’

  ‘Dry rot,’ the old man announced suddenly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I reckon thas got a bit o’ dry rot in that cottage, an’ all.’

  ‘I should imagine we have,’ I sighed.

  ‘Well, I hope tha fettles it,’ he said, staring up at the grey clouds oozing over the felltops. ‘I reckon we’re in for a bit o’ rain. My owld dad used to say when t’blackthorn blossoms come out in early March and when t’sheep is behind walls at midday and when you see worms crawlin’ on t’rooad, it’s a sure sign of a wet month ahead. Aye, we get a fair bit o’ rain up ‘ere. Thy shall ‘ave to get used to a bit o’ wet. I reckon yer roof leaks, an’ all. Well, I’ll be off.’ He raised his hand in greeting before going on his way. The prophet of doom, I thought wryly, and went back into the cottage to do battle with the bathroom walls again.

  Over the next few weekends, I worked not in the cottage but on my allotment. Chris had discovered that I wasn’t particularly handy when it came to painting. ‘I’d rather do it myself in the first place than spend precious time re-doing your botched attempts. Go and dig,’ she’d said, giving me a hug.

  I had tracked down George Hemmings the day after Harry Cotton had spoken to me about the spare allotment, paid the enormous rent of £5 for the year and was officially given the lease to cultivate plot 4. Each Saturday morning, I got dressed in my oldest pair of trousers and a shirt frayed at the neck. Once I had seen that Christine was happy with her paintbrush, I would walk at a brisk pace to the other side of the little village where the allotments were. I was like a child with a new toy. Here I set to and tackled the jungle. It was a back-breaking business. All the allotments, save mine and another at the far side, were lovingly tended and surrounded by either low, neatly-pruned hedges or wooden fencing. Some had brightly-painted sheds, one with a small wooden figure on top which moved in a digging motion in the wind. There was little growing at this time of year save for the fat shoots of early rhubarb pushing their way though the soil and tiny tongues of green where the onions and shallots were poking out. One allotment had a short row of cabbages, and one with the last of the leeks, standing erect like a line of soldiers.

  My allotment was quite different. It was thick with twisting brambles and sharp-stemmed briars, a crop of dandelions to have pleased a thousand rabbits, frothy white cow parsley, clumps of young and very painful stinging nettles and a mass of other weeds I didn’t know the names of. I set to work with a scythe, hacking, slashing, cutting and chopping, and eventually managed to clear the whole area. I carefully lifted the maverick daffodil and bluebell bulbs to the side; they could be replanted in the cottage’s garden. The worst job was clearing the tangle of deep-rooted prickly bushes which seemed to cover half the plot.

  Then, one memorable Saturday afternoon, I lit a huge bonfire and watched with great satisfaction as the whole mountain of weeds and branches, bushes and briars went up in smoke.

  ‘Tha’s made a good job of that, and no mistake.’

  I turned to find my neighbour, Mr Cotton, watching over the wall.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, feeling pretty proud of my handiwork.

  ‘Aye, tha ‘as that. Cleared the lot.’

  ‘I’m glad I’ve finished,’ I told him, wiping my brow. ‘It was a big job.’

  ‘It would be,’ he commented.

  ‘Those prickly bushes were the worst. The roots seemed to go down for ever.’

  ‘Aye, they do an’ all,’ agreed my companion.

  ‘Anyhow, it’s all cleared now and ready for planting.’


  ‘I nivver knew that owld Albert Tattersall had given up his allotment,’ my companion observed.

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘Albert Tattersall. He had this plot. He’s ‘ad it for near on fifteen year. I nivver knew he’d given it up. I was only in t’pub wi’ him past week and ‘e never mentioned owt abaat givin’ his allotment up.’

  ‘Well, I guess he must have done,’ I said. ‘George Hemmings confirmed that plot 4 was free for me to take on.’

  ‘Plot 4,’ he repeated.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, ‘I’ve leased plot 4.’

  ‘Aye, well, that one you’ve just dug up is plot 7.’

  ‘What!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Albert Tattersall’s, plot 7. Plot 4 is at t’other side of allotment.’ He waved a hand towards the jungle by the far wall. ‘It’s reight ovver theer. Tha’s gone an’ dug wrong plot, sithee.’

  ‘It can’t be,’ I said feebly. I pointed to the neighbouring plots. There were little white squares fixed in the earth with the plot number on. ‘Look, that’s plot 3 and there’s plot 5 so this one in the middle must be plot 4.’

  ‘It should be by rights, but it’s not,’ the old man told me. ‘This is Yorkshire, lad. Things are a bit different ‘ere. We’re one on us own. Tha sees it goes alternate like. It sort o’ runs contrary like a lot o’ things around ‘ere.’

  ‘You mean, I’ve gone and cleared the wrong plot?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye, that’s the truth on it,’ replied Mr Cotton, nodding sagely.

  ‘But it was all overgrown. Nobody has done anything to it for years and years.’

  ‘Aye, tha’s reight theer. Others who ‘ad an allotment were allus gerrin on to owld Albert to do summat wi’ it. I mean, all them weeds spread. Seeds blow ovver onto other people’s land. They were alius on at ‘im.’

  ‘But why did Mr Tattersall keep an allotment that he never cultivated and never intended to cultivate?’ I asked, still unwilling to believe what I had been told.

  ‘Gooseberries.’

  ‘Gooseberries?’ I repeated.

  ‘You see, owld Albert kept it on for t’gooseberries and then, of course, there’s the blackcurrants?’

  ‘Gooseberries? Blackcurrants?’ I cried. ‘What goose-berries and blackcurrants?’

  ‘Them what would have been growin’ on them bushes which you dug up and are now burnin’ on tha bonfire.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ I whispered. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘His wife wins prizes with her gooseberry and blackcurrant jams. Then there’s the briars and the parsley and the dandelions. Owld Albert makes a powerful wine, specially his dandelion wine – or used to, more like.’

  ‘And I’ve dug them all up?’

  The old man rubbed his chin and chuckled. ‘Every one.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Aye well, I shall ‘ave to be off. Happen tha’ll mek it reight wi’ owld Albert,’ he remarked.

  14

  It was the first day back after the Easter holidays and the full team was in the office, awaiting the arrival of the Senior Inspector designate who had asked to meet with us.

  ‘So how does it feel to be a married man?’ Gerry asked me.

  ‘Wonderful!’ I replied. ‘Marvellous!’

  ‘Let’s hope it stays that way,’ remarked Sidney, placing his hands behind his head and leaning back dangerously in his chair, ‘and that you feel the same way after twenty-five years of it. Marriage is not a bed of roses, you know, particularly for those like you, Gervase, who are dragged to the nuptial altar rather late in life.’

  ‘I was not dragged to the altar, Sidney,’ I replied, ‘and I am not yet in my dotage.’

  ‘I know you are not, old chap, but you have been used to only considering yourself, and no doubt are somewhat set in your ways. You will find that having to live with another person, cheek by jowl, day after day, sharing the toothpaste, waiting for the bathroom to be free, discovering damp bras draped over radiators, finding your favourite records scratched, means you have to make certain changes and concessions – some of which you will not like.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll manage,’ I said. ‘Millions do.’

  ‘And, of course, millions do not,’ continued Sidney, unabashed. ‘One in three marriages ends in divorce or separation, you know. A sad fact but very true.’

  ‘Cynic,’ mumbled David who, until this point, had remained uncharacteristically silent.

  ‘No,’ continued Sidney, ignoring him, ‘marriage is not all it’s cracked up to be.’

  ‘You will be getting a crack in a minute,’ David told him, ‘if you don’t shut up.’

  ‘I don’t know how his wife puts up with him,’ said Julie, having overheard Sidney’s doom-laden speech as she brought in the coffee. ‘His wife must be a martyr.’

  ‘Martyrs tend to be dead, Julie,’ Sidney told her, smiling.

  ‘A saint then.’

  ‘Those as well.’

  ‘His wife deserves a medal for bravery, having to put up with him.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Sidney. ‘Gervase is a decent enough sort of fellow and I am sure the delectable Miss Bentley, or I should say the delectable Mrs Phinn, will learn to put up with him in time.’

  ‘I was talking about you!’ snapped Julie, placing down the tray noisily on the nearest desk. ‘And you know very well I was.’

  ‘My dear wife, Lila,’ announced Sidney, putting on an angelic expression, ‘far from considering herself a saint and martyr, thanks her lucky stars she is married to such a creative genius as myself and she is prepared to take the rough with the smooth, the highs with the lows, the ups with the downs, It’s all a matter of give and take. Lila knows how to deal with my little mood swings, foibles and minor peccadilloes,’

  ‘I know how I’d deal with your little mood swings, foibles and minor peccadilloes,’ said Julie, placing a mug of steaming coffee before him. ‘Poison!’

  ‘Do you know, Julie,’ said Sidney, sitting up and pushing the coffee away from him in a very theatrical manner, ‘I think I will forgo the morning libation.’

  ‘If I had wanted to poison you, Mr Clamp,’ Julie retorted, heading for the door, ‘I could have done it long ago.’

  ‘And I suppose you will be the next one, Geraldine,’ Sidney casually remarked, picking up the mug and taking a gulp.

  ‘The next what?’ she asked. ‘The next one to poison you?’

  ‘To tie the old knot.’

  ‘Sidney,’ sighed Gerry, ‘you sometimes can be really tiresome. I am certainly not going to discuss my private life with you.’ She then pointedly changed the subject. ‘And how’s the cottage coming on, Gervase? Are you settled in at Hawksrill?’

  ‘Settled? You must be joking! You should see the state of it. We’ve managed to get a bit done. There’s a great deal more to do before we can move in but we are aiming for half term.’

  ‘I did warn you, dear boy,’ said Sidney smugly. ‘It will take an age to put the place right, by the sound of it.’

  There was certainly much to do but I was not going to fuel Sidney’s barrage of grim predictions by telling him about the leaking roof, the faulty guttering, the damp patches upstairs, the woodworm and the mass of other things which required attention.

  ‘We are really pleased with it,’ I told Sidney. ‘The cottage is well built, cosy, has magnificent views across the dale and we know we will be very happy there.’

  ‘Where is he, then?’ Sidney suddenly asked, glancing at his watch.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Carter. Simon. I thought we were here to meet our new leader early this morning?’

  ‘He said nine,’ I told him. ‘It’s only ten minutes to.’

  The Senior Inspector designate had called a meeting for us to get to know something about his educational philosophy, as he put it, and for him to consult with us well in advance about his plans for the future. We were all looking forward to meeting him but, understandably, were a little apprehensive.

 
‘Is Harold not coming, then?’ asked Gerry.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I think he felt it politic to let Mr Carter meet us himself. He thought he might inhibit him.’

  ‘Not much chance of that,’ murmured Gerry, picking up her mug of coffee. ‘I think it might have been courteous for Mr Carter to have asked Harold.’

  ‘Harold didn’t want to come,’ said Sidney. ‘I can see he would have found it rather difficult. Mind you, Mister Carter is certainly very keen. Making his presence felt. After all, he doesn’t start until September.’

  ‘I suppose he wants to meet us, get to know a bit about us before he starts and discuss the future of the service as he sees it,’ said David. ‘I expect he will want to make some changes and wants to talk to us about them. It seems a very sensible idea to me.’

  ‘Well, I sincerely hope there won’t be too many changes,’ said Sidney.

  At the very moment the clock on the County Hall tower struck nine, the door opened and the man himself entered. Mr Simon Carter was a lean, middle-aged man, impeccably groomed in an expensive light-grey designer suit, pristine white shirt and discreetly patterned silk tie. His pale face was long and angular; his hair, combed back in rippling waves, was coal-black and shiny, and his eyes were dark and narrow. He looked at the four of us staring up at him with an expression of impassive curiosity. Then the thin bloodless lips parted and he gave us the fullest and most charming of smiles.

  ‘Good morning,’ he intoned like a vicar about to start the morning service.

  As one, we four inspectors got to our feet. ‘Good morning, Mr Carter,’ we chorused – just like a class might welcome a school inspector into their midst.

  Simon Carter wasted no time. ‘Let us commence our discussion,’ he said, placing a large black briefcase on Sidney’s desk and pulling out a chair.

  The meeting started well with the Senior Inspector designate telling us how pleased he was to have the opportunity of meeting us, that he hoped we would all work together as a team, supporting one another and pulling in the same direction to raise standards of achievement in the county’s schools.