The Heart of the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

  As she climbed into the car, her ostentatious jewellery jangling, she sniffed the air.

  ‘Babies,’ I said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The smell of babies,’ I said. ‘It’s my little boy. He tends to splash a bit when he has his milk.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The smell lingers.’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ she agreed, winding down the window a fraction. She then produced a bottle of scent from her handbag and sprayed herself liberally.

  I set off. There was an embarrassed silence as we made our way down Fettlesham High Street. It appeared that Mrs Savage was not, for once, in a very talkative mood.

  ‘So what’s wrong with your car?’ I asked, deciding to break the ice.

  ‘Oh, it’s… er… something mechanical,’ she replied evasively, examining a long red nail.

  ‘Did it just cut out,’ I asked, ‘or wouldn’t it start?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about cars,’ she said dismissively, turning to stare out of the window.

  Good gracious, I thought, so there is something that Mrs Savage doesn’t know about.

  There was another protracted silence.

  ‘And how are the school closures progressing?’ I asked.

  ‘Slowly,’ she replied.

  ‘Things certainly seemed to have moved with regard to the schools I have been involved with,’ I told her.

  ‘The schools at Ugglemattersby are somewhat different,’ she said. ‘They are not in actual fact closing, they are merely amalgamating. Everyone there, with the exception of a few mavericks, as Dr Gore is wont to call them, is in favour. Would that were the case with the others.’

  ‘So they’re not going too well?’ I asked.

  ‘I am not at liberty, Mr Phinn,’ she said, ‘to discuss the other schools.’

  And that was the extent of our conversation until we arrived at our first port of call.

  After I had collected the two cases of wine from Fine Wines of Fettlesham, and a hamper from Roper’s Salesroom, we left the centre of Fettlesham, and headed for the rather insalubrious northern side of the town. The area was run down, and the road sweepers that kept the High Street as neat as a pin obviously never came out here. I pulled up outside an ugly grey building. High walls topped with broken glass enclosed the litter-strewn car park. A sign above the entrance announced in large red letters, ‘FETTLESHAM WORKING MEN’S CLUB’. Below it, a notice warned would-be trespassers that they would be prosecuted, that the building was protected by security cameras and alarms, that guard dogs patrolled and that no money was kept on the premises.

  ‘I shan’t be a moment,’ I told Mrs Savage.

  ‘I don’t intend to remain in the car,’ she told me curtly, hurriedly unfastening the safety belt. ‘This area does not look at all safe and I would be foolhardy indeed to be sitting here with two cases of wine and a hamper full of food on the back seat. I’d be a sitting target for muggers.’ She touched the gold necklace at her neck. ‘I shall come in with you.’

  Pasted on the wall outside the club, between the graffiti, was a series of bright and showy posters, advertising the ‘star turns’ that were due to appear. The first one brought a grin to my lips. ‘Hello to Striptease!’ it stated in large red letters. ‘Featuring the ravishing and adorable Big Brenda of the Body Beautiful. She’s pert, pleasing and tasty.’ Mrs Savage averted her eyes. Another poster announced, ‘Olga, one of Sweden’s loveliest models and her muff in classical nude studies. She’s saucy, spicy and sexy.’

  ‘Are we going to be long in this establishment?’ asked Mrs Savage, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

  ‘Not long,’ I replied jovially.

  After repeated ringing and banging, I managed to gain the attention of someone who poked his tousled head out of an upstairs window. He looked like a tortoise emerging from its shell.

  ‘What?’ he shouted.

  ‘It’s Mr Phinn,’ I shouted back.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Phinn. I think you were expecting me.’

  ‘You’re early!’ he snapped.

  ‘I can’t recall giving a time,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, you’re early,’ he repeated. ‘I was told you’d be arriving at six. I haven’t had time to finish the cleaning. I’ve the dressing rooms to finish and then the bar to sort out.’

  ‘There’s no need to worry about that,’ I called up to him.

  A group of youths appeared from around the corner of the street and paused to observe us. One wolf-whistled.

  ‘Do you think we might get inside?’ asked Mrs Savage, stepping closer to me.

  ‘Shall I call backlater?’ I asked the head at the window.

  ‘No, hang on, I’ll come down.’

  After a great deal of noise from chains and bolts from the other side, the substantial door finally opened. An overweight and under-shaved man, dressed in a threadbare cardigan and shapeless grey flannel trousers, peered myopically at me. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ he said. ‘I’m Reg, by the way. Watch them barrels. I’ll have to shift them before tonight’s show. You’ll be pleased to hear that it’s a full house. Very popular is Friday night. We’ve got Dougie Draper, the comedian. Have you heard of him?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ I said, following the man, with Mrs Savage close behind.

  ‘He’s brilliant!’ exclaimed Reg. ‘Back by popular demand. Has them rolling in the aisles and he’s got a lovely voice. And then we’ve got Patsi Ronaldo with ‘Songs from the Shows’. She’s appeared here a few times. Bit past it now, but she can still belt out a good number.’

  ‘Sounds a good evening,’ I said.

  ‘Oh yes, we have class acts here,’ the man said. ‘The sound system is on the blinkagain, but we’ve got someone coming to see about it.’

  I had no idea why the man thought I would be interested in all this technical information but I nodded politely and said, ‘Really?’

  Reg tookus into the vast hall, which had a big stage at the far end, a long curved bar area, an assortment of tables and chairs, while the unmistakable smell of stale beer, old smoke and toilets permeated the air. The walls, painted in garish greens and blues, were lined with photographs, no doubt of performers who had appeared at the club.

  The grubby caretaker stared at Mrs Savage as she walked into the room with her usual long and decisive step. He observed her as one might study a strange decorative item on show in someone’s house. Mrs Savage sniffed the air, placed a finger delicately under her nose then sat down at a small round plastic-topped table near the door, having first dusted down the plastic chair with her hand. From her ruched handbag, she produced her perfume, and sprayed her wrists liberally. She looked most ill at ease, perched on the edge of the chair. Her face was as set as a death mask.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ Reg asked, still with his eyes fixed on Mrs Savage.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I replied.

  ‘What about… er…’ he gestured in Mrs Savage’s direction.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

  The man turned slightly so we were facing away from the door and from where Mrs Savage was sitting. He leaned towards me and whispered, ‘You’d never tell, would you?’

  ‘Tell what?’ I asked, recoiling from the man’s foul breath.

  ‘You know.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’

  He came closer. ‘That it was a man.’

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘I honestly don’t know what you’re on about.’

  ‘We’ve had one or two performing here before but I could always tell. It’s the hands that are the give-away, that and the prominent Adam’s apple. Yes, I’ve seen one or two in my time,’ he continued in a hushed voice, ‘but I have to say, he’s the best. He’s incredible. Spit and image of Danny la Rue. I suppose he’s had cosmetic surgery and had his hormones seen to and, of course, make-up covers up a multitude but he certainly could have fooled me.�
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  Was I in some parallel universe? ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ I asked.

  ‘Veronica.’

  ‘Who?’

  He tilted his head in the direction of Mrs Savage. ‘Him, the female impersonator.’

  ‘Female impersonator!’ I exclaimed. ‘I think we have some crossed wires here. Who in heaven’s name do you think I am?’

  ‘You’re the agent for Veronica, the female impersonator who’s appearing here tonight.’ Then a shadow of doubt crossed his face. ‘Aren’t you?’ He nodded towards Mrs Savage. ‘That’s Veronica, the drag act, isn’t it?’

  I nearly choked. ‘No, no, I’ve come to collect the television for Sister Brendan’s charity auction. That’s… that’s not a man – it’s Mrs Savage!’

  ‘Bloody Nora!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m sorry, mate, I thought you were this evening’s drag act. I’ve been expecting them for a sound and lighting check before the show. And when I saw you both standing out there, well, I put two and two together.’

  ‘How long is this going to take?’ asked Mrs Savage im patiently, getting to her feet and smoothing her hands down the front of her skirt.

  The man started to stifle a laugh and so did I. Our amusement became so much greater when we caught sight of the stiff-backed figure with the stony countenance, looking at us as if we had both gone completely mad. Thankfully, it appeared that Mrs Savage hadn’t heard any of the previous exchange.

  ‘You won’t tell her, will you?’ Reg spluttered.

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ I replied as I headed for the door, indicating to Mrs Savage that we were on our way.

  A few minutes later, the television set was safely stowed on the back seat, and we set off for Manston Hall.

  ‘Something seems to have amused you and that awful man,’ Mrs Savage said as we drove out of the car park.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, smiling.

  She was clearly curious. ‘Are you going to share it with me?’ she asked.

  I thought for a moment. ‘It was nothing, really,’ I said. ‘Not worth bothering about. I’m sure you’d find it a bit of a drag if I told you.’

  Yorkshire is blessed with many gracious stately homes, from magnificent piles to handsome manor houses. Manston Hall, although not a large house by the standards of Castle Howard or Harewood, is undoubtedly one of the most elegant. The visitor drives though great black ornate gates, past the gate-house, and along a seemingly endless avenue of beech trees, until he arrives at this perfectly proportioned early eighteenth-century mansion. Built in warm, red brick and standing square and solid amongst lawns, rose gardens, scenic lakes and woodland, it had been the home of the Courtnay-Cunninghame family since the eighteenth century.

  I pulled up in front of the flight of steps that climbed up to the great black front door, which was flanked by two stone pillars. Above, carved into the stone lintel, was the family motto writ proud and large: Lancastrienses manu dei occidantur.I smiled to myself. My Latin wasn’t that good, but I got the gist.

  As Mrs Savage and I got out of the car, the door opened and a tall man appeared and stood at the top of the steps, his feet slightly apart and his hands in the pockets of his dark green corduroy trousers.

  ‘Mr Phinn, is it?’ he called down.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You were expected,’ he said. ‘Do come along up.’

  The speaker was a striking-looking man with broad, brown face creased on the forehead and around the eyes, and with a crop of curly brown hair – attractively flecked with grey at the temples. His gaze settled on Mrs Savage as she came up the steps towards him.

  ‘This is Mrs Savage,’ I told him, ‘Dr Gore’s Personal Assistant.’

  ‘I say,’ he murmured, clearly taken with the vision who, having got to the top of the steps, stroked the creases out of her skirt, draped her coat around her shoulders and looked around imperiously. She nodded at the man.

  ‘I’m Tadge, by the way,’ he said, giving her a broad and winning smile.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said formally.

  ‘Good journey?’ asked the man.

  ‘Interesting,’ replied Mrs Savage. Her tone was undisguisedly sarcastic.

  ‘The last time I came to Manston Hall,’ I said, ‘it was shrouded in thicksnow. It looks very different at this time of year. Very beautiful.’

  ‘Autumn is my most favourite season,’ said the man. ‘The colours are magnificent, the beeches in particular…’ he waved his hand towards the beech avenue we had driven through. ‘All the golden and red, the bracken slopes rusty brown and, of course –’

  ‘Do you think we might go inside?’ enquired Mrs Savage. ‘It is getting quite chilly.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he said. ‘How very remiss of me. Do come along in.’

  The spacious entrance hall, which was decorated in the palest of yellows and blues, was dominated by a magnificent ornately-carved chimneypiece in white Italian marble. Hanging above was a large oil painting depicting a heavily bemedalled, moustachioed and severe-looking soldier in crimson uniform.

  ‘One of the ancestors,’ Tadge explained, seeing me lookup at it. ‘Not a happy chappie, is he?’

  Tadge led us from the hall and down a long corridor, past numerous shut doors, to the room I knew was the library. On my first visit to Manston Hall – on another of Dr Gore’s ‘little jobs’, of course – we had met in this elegant room. The walls were lined with bookcases, from floor to ceiling, and there was a not unpleasant smell of leather from the handsome bindings. Over the fireplace was a large portrait of a young woman with pale blue eyes and a dreamy look. Dressed for the hunt, she was astride a dashing chestnut horse. I didn’t remember seeing that before.

  ‘What a handsome room,’ observed Mrs Savage, taking in everything with a sweep of her head. She then glanced in my direction. ‘Somewhat a contrast to the last one we were in.’ She allowed herself a small, self-satisfied smile.

  Our host indicated a large green leather armchair. ‘Do have a seat, Mr Phinn,’ he said to me, smiling. He waited until Mrs Savage was seated on the matching chesterfield sofa and then sat down beside her.

  The man stared at her like a hungry cat might watch a bowlful of goldfish. ‘I’ve arranged for a cup of tea later, when we’ve dealt with all the business,’ he said. ‘I thought we’d discuss your requirements first and then have a lookaround the house.’

  Mrs Savage opened the leather document case, removed a wad of papers and put on a pair of stylish small gold-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘We have two halls,’ said Tadge, ‘North and South. Either would be suitable as the main conference hall. I suggest you have the lectures in one and the exhibitions in the other. Delegates are very welcome to use the billiard room, this room and the dining room but the drawing room and the morning room – the private apartments – will not be available. Of course, the grounds are –’

  ‘Excuse me,’ interrupted Mrs Savage, her carefully-plucked eyebrows arching, ‘do I take it that you will be liaising with us?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Tadge replied good-humouredly.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, clearly sounding disappointed. ‘My understanding was that Lord Marrick would be meeting with us to discuss arrangements for the conference.’

  ‘He’s with the gamekeeper at the moment,’ she was told, ‘but he will be along later.’

  ‘So he is leaving the organisation to you?’ asked Mrs Savage, stressing the last word. Her tone was as sharp as ever.

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  For goodness sake, I thought, will the woman shut up! ‘Mrs Savage –’ I started.

  ‘One moment, Mr Phinn,’ she said. ‘I do like to know with whom I am dealing. I take it then, Mr Tadge, that you are Lord Marrick’s secretary or an administrator of some kind?’

  ‘I suppose I am, in a way,’ said Tadge, smiling widely.

  ‘Well, you are or you are not,’ said Mrs Savage, somewhat coldly and pulling one of her faces. Her tone bordered on the brusque
. ‘I do like to know with whom I am liaising. As Mr Phinn is well aware, on previous occasions when I have been asked to take on various initiatives, there have been certain crossed wires and misunderstandings.’

  ‘May we get on with the meeting, Mrs Savage,’ I said irritably.

  ‘No, no, Mr Phinn,’ said our host amiably. ‘I foolishly imagined you knew who I was. I clearly didn’t introduce myself properly. I deal with most of the business now at Manston Hall, running the estate, managing the business interests.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘So you are the Estate Manager?’

  ‘I’m Lord Marrick’s son,’ replied the man. ‘Tadge Manston.’

  Mrs Savage jumped as if touched by a cattle prod. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘Lord Marrick’s son?’

  ‘Most people call me Tadge – it comes from my names, Thomas, Arthur, D’Aubney, George, Edmund Courtnay-Cunninghame – Viscount Manston, if you want the full thing. Bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?’

  Mrs Savage’s demeanour changed completely. ‘Oh,’ she cooed, smiling so widely that it was a wonder she didn’t leave traces of her red lipstickon the lobes of her ears. ‘I’m so very sorry, Lord Manston. You must have thought me extremely rude. I had no idea you were Lord Marrick’s son.’

  ‘Please, please, Mrs Savage,’ he said, patting her hand. ‘Think nothing of it. I don’t stand on my dignity. Dignity to me is like a top hat, it looks rather silly when you stand on it.’

  She ought to take a leaf out of his book, I thought to myself.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I just didn’t realise who you were,’ said Mrs Savage in a syrupy tone of voice. She looked quite flustered.

  ‘That’s the second case of mistaken identity in one day,’ I said.

  ‘Did you say something, Mr Phinn?’ asked Mrs Savage tartly.

  ‘No, nothing,’ I said, smirking before asking, ‘Shall we get back to the business in hand?’

  Tadge took us on a tour of the house, at least of the rooms which the conference delegates would be permitted to use. When we returned to the library, a tray with the promised pot of tea was waiting for us. As we finalised the arrangements for the NACADS Conference, Mrs Savage never took her fluttering eyes off Tadge Manston, and smiled winsomely every time he opened his mouth. He, too, seemed equally struck with Mrs Savage. I might have been invisible for all the notice they took of me.