‘Good evening, Mr Phinn,’ she replied. ‘And, since this is a special occasion, yes, you may.’
At that moment, Tadge arrived in the hall. He stood a little way off, gave a low whistle and said, ‘My goodness me! How very flippercanorious you are this evening, my dear Brenda.’
I sensed Mrs Savage stiffen beside me. ‘Flipperwhaty, Lord Manston?’ she enquired in her most starchy voice.
‘Flippercanorious, Mrs Savage. Isn’t it a simply splendid word? I discovered it the other day.’
‘Well, it might be splendid if I knew what it meant,’ she replied.
‘Elegant, my dear, wonderfully elegant, is what it means. And I think it calls for a toast to the evening.’ With that, he turned on his heel and walked back across the hall.
I watched him go and realised that I was clearly underdressed for the occasion in my simple grey suit, white shirt and college tie. The heir to Manston Hall was no longer in his usual garb of old tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, but was now sporting a burgundy-coloured smoking jacket – had he and Mrs Savage consulted each other about their colours for the evening, since they matched perfectly – and a pair of close-fitting, red-and-green tartan trews. I immediately thought of Raymond, the producer, and his comment that I didn’t have the buttocks for trews. Tadge certainly had.
Tadge returned with a bottle of champagne and three glasses, but I politely refused the offer. ‘A bit early for me,’ I said.
‘We are merely making certain that the Moët is at the right temperature,’ Tadge said, pouring generous glasses for Mrs Savage and himself.
‘In my opinion,’ said Mrs Savage, holding the long-stemmed champagne flute delicately between finger and thumb, ‘there is nothing worse than warm champagne.’ She saw me smiling. ‘I do want everything to be just right,’ she added testily.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘That is what I came to check with you. Have there been any problems?’
‘Only that the caterers arrived with the savoury nibbles but forgot the salmon vol-au-vents for the buffet,’ she told me. ‘I told them to go and get them back here ASAP. Then I was less than happy with the floral centrepieces for the serving tables so they had to be done again. You just can’t rely on people these days. Apart from that, everything else seems to be in place.’
‘You’re a perfectionist, Brenda,’ Tadge commented. ‘A true perfectionist.’ Mrs Savage accepted the compliment with a slight nod of the head.
‘What an amazing Christmas tree!’ I said. ‘I’ve never seen one painted white before.’
‘Ah, then you’ve not seen our escutcheon,’ Tadge said. ‘The white tree has been on our coat of arms since the fifteenth century when Sir Launceston Whiteleaf-Cunninghame was ennobled. Back in the last century, when fir trees became all the fashion, the old Dowager Countess Elvira decided to have the Christmas tree painted white and we’ve kept up the tradition.’
‘In years hence,’ remarked Mrs Savage, ‘they might become all the fashion.’
‘I very much doubt it,’ I murmured.
‘One year, we couldn’t be bothered to paint the tree,’ said Tadge, ‘which obviously displeased the long-since dead Lady Elvira because she was seen by one of our guests in the dead of night wandering along the top corridor. Well, I must press on, so if you both will excuse me. I need to make sure Lucretia and Caesare are penned before the guests arrive. They get a bit frisky with a lot of people around. Wouldn’t want any accidents.’
‘Lucretia and Caesare?’ said Mrs Savage.
‘The dogs,’ he told her. ‘I’ll see you both later.’ He topped up Mrs Savage’s glass, and then strode off, whistling loudly.
‘I can’t say that I am at all keen staying here with a ghost wandering the house,’ said Mrs Savage.
I could have said she need not worry since she could put the wind up a banshee, but I said nothing.
‘Are you content with the decision over the headship of the new combined Ugglemattersby School?’ she asked, taking a sip from her glass.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Mrs Braddock-Smith needs taking down a peg or two, I think, but the governors will see to that. However, to have a familiar person in place is so much better than having to go through all those interviews.’
At that moment, a young man with curly hair and wearing a long black overcoat walked through the door, and hovered indecisively.
‘Good evening,’ he called across the hall.
‘Round the back, please,’ Mrs Savage instructed, pointing over the man’s shoulder to the front door.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he asked, looking thoroughly mystified.
‘Would you take the vol-au-vents round the back,’ she told him. ‘This is not the caterers’ entrance.’
‘Oh, I’m not here with the vol-au-vents,’ he replied, taking off his coat and revealing a shirt that sported an outrageously multicoloured parrot on the front. ‘Actually I could do with one or two vol-au-vents. I’m famished. No,’ he said, running a hand through his hair, ‘I’m here to work. I’m Vincent Barrington.’
‘Vincent Barrington, the pianist?’ exclaimed Mrs Savage.
‘The same,’ replied the young man.
‘Oh, maestro,’ she cooed, immediately changing her tone of voice, smiling widely to display a set of rather too white teeth and gliding towards him, extending a long red-nailed hand. ‘I’m so terribly sorry. I foolishly assumed you would be wearing rather different attire.’
‘Oh, I don’t travel in evening dress,’ Vincent Barrington told her amiably, ‘since it tends to get creased. It’s in the car.’
‘Well, it is such a great pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ said Mrs Savage. ‘I have heard so many wonderful things about you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said the young man, ‘but I don’t know who you are.’
‘How remiss of me.’ Mrs Savage tinkled a little laugh. ‘I’m Brenda Savage, who, for my sins, is the organiser of the conference. I’m Dr Gore’s Personal Assistant.’
‘Ah, yes. It was Dr Gore who invited me to play. I was at university with his niece.’
‘Hello, I’m Gervase Phinn,’ I said, offering my hand. ‘I am helping Mrs Savage with the conference.’
‘I knew a cellist once called Gervase,’ said the young man. ‘A very nice man.’
‘I expect you would like to freshen up,’ simpered Mrs Savage. ‘But first, let me show you where you will be giving your recital, and then I will show you where you can change.’
I stayed in the hall while Mrs Savage took Vincent Barrington to the North Hall and a few minutes later Dr Gore arrived, accompanied by Councillor Peterson.
‘Well, Gervase,’ said the CEO, rubbing his long hands together and taking in the surroundings. ‘This looks splendid, quite splendid!’
‘And no doubt costing a pretty penny, as well,’ grumbled the councillor, sniffing.
‘Not at all, councillor,’ replied Dr Gore good-humouredly. ‘Lord Marrick has very kindly allowed us to use Manston Hall without charge, and all other expenses are paid for by NACADS. It would be insensitive, to say the least, for the county to spend money on a conference when we are closing schools to cut costs.’
‘Just as well,’ mumbled the overweight councillor.
Dr Gore turned back to me. ‘Is Lord Marrick about? I’d like to have a word with him before the guests arrive?’
‘I’m afraid he’s been delayed in Italy, Dr Gore. He rang Lord Manston earlier this evening to say that a baggage-handlers’ strike has meant his plane from Rome has been delayed. He is expecting to arrive some time after midnight, and will be with us in the morning.’
‘Oh dear, what a shame. He will miss young Vincent Barrington who –’
‘And while we are on the subject of closing schools,’ interrupted Councillor Peterson, ‘in my opinion, I –’
I quickly made my escape. The very last thing I wanted to hear was George Peterson’s undoubtedly biased opinion about school closures.
I found Mrs Savage with Vin
cent Barrington and Tadge by the grand piano in the North Hall. I thought she was looking rather flushed. No doubt a surfeit of the champagne she had been testing was having its effect.
‘I do so love pianoforte music,’ she gushed at the pianist, ‘particularly the works of Brahms and Liszt.’ Rather appropriate composers, I thought to myself, considering the state she was getting into.
‘And do you have a favourite piece, Mrs Savage?’ Vincent Barrington enquired.
‘Liebestraum,’ she sighed. ‘I do so love that melody. It was my dear late husband’s favourite.’ I couldn’t believe what happened next. I saw Mrs Savage’s eyes mist over and she began to sniff inelegantly. A tear dribbled down her cheek. Perhaps, I thought, there was a sensitive soul after all beneath that icy exterior, that hard carapace. But, of course, it could have been the drink.
‘Ah, the “Dream of Love”,’ said the young man. ‘I shall play it tonight, especially for you.’
‘Really?’ simpered Mrs Savage. ‘Would you?’
‘And what about you, Lord Manston?’ he asked. ‘Have you a piece you would like me to play?’
‘I like the works of Schumann,’ he said. ‘He was my dear late wife’s favourite. I would love to hear one of the “Woodland Scenes”.’
‘Ah yes,’ said the concert pianist, ‘the great Schumann, who dedicated so much of his work to his beloved Clara. I see I have two romantics here. “You are my heart and my soul,” he wrote. “You are the world in which I live. You are the heaven to which I soar. You are my grave into which I will forever pour my grief.”’
‘How very beautiful,’ sighed Mrs Savage, dabbing her nose with a lace handkerchief. With glistening eyes, she looked in Tadge’s direction and smiled.
This was getting maudlin to say the least, so I left them to it.
The evening, thank heavens, seemed to be a great success. After the reception and buffet, the guests settled down to listen to young Vincent Barrington. Even I, who didn’t know much about classical music, recognised real quality. His playing of Beethoven’s Hammerklavier was superb, and Geraldine, whom I had smuggled in at the back and was next to me, sat eyes closed and totally enraptured, drinking in the wonderful music. At the end of the recital, the whole audience rose to its feet and gave the pianist a standing ovation. Everyone, that is except Councillor Peterson, who had slept through most of the evening.
‘And for an encore,’ announced Vincent Barrington, ‘I should like to play a beautiful piece especially requested by my elegant hostess. Liebestrau m – the “Dream of Love” by Franz Liszt.’ He smiled at Mrs Savage who, true to form, was not going to be relegated to the rear of the hall, out of the limelight, and had added a chair to the end of the front row. ‘And for Lord Manston, a piece by Schumann: Freundliche Landschaft – “Friendly Landscape”.’
‘If you’re doing requests,’ came a booming voice, ‘what about “On Ilkla Mooar baht ’at”?’ It was Councillor Peterson who had been roused from his slumbers by the applause.
I winced, imagining the expressions on the faces of Dr Gore and the pianist.
‘Of course,’ said Vincent Barrington, without a trace of annoyance. ‘It will be my pleasure.’
The guests clapped enthusiastically after the Liszt and Schumann pieces, but they sprang to their feet following a bravura rendering of the good old Yorkshire melody, played in the style of Beethoven, Chopin, Mozart and Rachmaninov. The pianist was indeed a maestro.
Once the delegates had departed for their hotels, the concert pianist had left in his taxi and I had seen Dr Gore’s car disappear down the drive, I trudged up the great staircase, more than ready for my bed. I had no idea where Mrs Savage was – I had expected her to be there, saying goodbye to the delegates with me. I had been a mass of nervous energy all evening and all I wanted now was to climb into bed and get a good night’s sleep. I had just changed into my pyjamas when there was a light tap on my door.
‘Yes?’
‘May I have a word?’ It was Mrs Savage’s voice.
‘I’m just about to go to bed,’ I called, standing rigid in the middle of the floor.
‘This is important,’ she insisted.
‘Wait a moment, please.’ I was taking no chances with an inebriated and concupiscent Mrs Savage at eleven o’clock at night. She had a reputation as a man-eater but she was certainly not going to get her teeth into me. She had tried it once, just after I had started as a school inspector, fluttering her eyelids and telling me how we ‘clicked’; she had terrified the life out of me.
I grabbed at my dressing gown, thankful that Christine had made me put one in. ‘You never know when you might need it,’ she had said. ‘Emergencies – like a fire in the middle of the night.’
I opened my bedroom door cautiously. Mrs Savage stood in the corridor in an expensive-looking smoky-grey dressing gown, probably silk. ‘Yes?’ I asked, keeping a foot firmly placed behind the door. ‘What is it?’
‘This may sound a rather bizarre question to ask,’ she said in a hushed voice, ‘but do you have a facility in your bedroom?’
‘A facility?’ I asked, utterly mystified.
‘A toilet?’
‘Toilet?’
‘Yes, a toilet, a lavatory.’
‘Yes, I do,’ I replied. ‘I have a connecting bathroom.’
‘I’ve got a bathroom, too, but it appears I have no – er, facility.’
‘You must have.’
‘Well, I haven’t.’
‘Have you looked?’
‘Of course I’ve looked,’ she said in an exasperated voice. ‘I’ve been looking for the last ten minutes.’
‘Is there no one around that you can ask? A member of the household,’ I suggested.
‘There’s no one about,’ she said in a weary tone. ‘Everyone must be in bed, and I can hardly go knocking on strange doors.’ Just mine, I thought.
‘So what now? Do you wish to use mine, is that it?’
‘Certainly not!’ she exclaimed. ‘I would like you to come with me and see if you can locate it. I mean, there must be a toilet somewhere. I’ve got a bath and a basin, but no toilet.’
‘Couldn’t you use the one downstairs?’ I asked. ‘There’s a cloakroom near the North Hall.’
‘No, I couldn’t,’ she replied. ‘I do not intend to wander around in the dark. Those dogs might be loose.’
‘And, of course, there’s the mysterious Lady Elvira,’ I said, wickedly.
That wasn’t a sensible thing to say since Mrs Savage gave a little shriek, and clutched at my arm. ‘Please, please, will you come and see if you can find it?’ she asked.
I followed her charily down the dimly-lit corridor, watched by the stern-featured figures in the gold frames that covered the walls. They seemed to have warning expressions on their faces. I just hoped this wasn’t some sort of ruse for Mrs Savage to get me into her room and have her wicked way with me.
Mrs Savage led me through her bedroom – and I quickly averted my eyes from the chair where her underwear was neatly laid out – into a spacious marble-floored bathroom. As she had said, there was a bath – a vast old-fashioned affair on claw feet – and a wash basin. The room was so big – bigger than our guest room at Peewit Cottage – that there was space for a circular alabaster table in the centre on which were copies of various journals, Horse & Hound, Country Life and The Dalesman. There was also a chaise longue, an elegant highly decorative eighteenth-century chiffonier and two heavy, ornate Chippendale-style chairs – but there was no sign of a lavatory.
‘Perhaps aristocrats don’t go to the toilet,’ I suggested flippantly.
‘Mr Phinn!’ said Mrs Savage sternly. ‘This is neither the time nor the place to be frivolous. I am in desperate need of a toilet.’
I examined one of the chairs. ‘Perhaps this is a commode,’ I said, poking and prodding at it.
‘A commode?’ Mrs Savage curled a lip in distaste.
‘A chair which conceals a chamber pot,’ I informed her.
‘Perhaps it’s in here,’ I said, examining the chiffonier.
‘In a cupboard?’ she said.
I pulled at the door and the whole front of the cabinet opened to reveal the lavatory – a polished wooden seat beneath which was a large glazed blue and white earthenware bowl.
‘Well, will you just look at that!’ I said. ‘How fascinating.’ I examined the bowl, which depicted three large, crudely painted Chinese figures beside a rickety bridge. ‘Good heavens! We have a plate just like that at home. It’s Delft. This is probably very old and valuable.’
‘Mr Phinn,’ said Mrs Savage, crossly, ‘it could be Royal Doulton, Clarice Cliff or part of the Ming Dynasty for all I care, but I have a pressing need to go to the toilet and I do not intend to use that. I require one of the flushing variety.’
‘Hold on, what’s this?’ I said, and pulled a small gilt fleur-delis on the back of the chiffonier. The bowl descended, hot scented water gushed out from the side and swirled around the bowl. Then, having been thoroughly scoured, it returned to its original position, spotless.
‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Mrs Savage. ‘How remarkable.’
‘How the other half live,’ I commented. ‘I will leave you to your ablutions, Mrs Savage.’
As I reached the door leading into the corridor, she called after me. ‘I do hope I can rely on your absolute discretion in this little matter, Mr Phinn? I am sure that neither of us wishes this evening’s adventure to become tittle-tattle around the corridors of County Hall.’
‘Of course, Mrs Savage,’ I said, smiling. ‘I shall be the very soul of discretion. May I bid you a good night?’
The Rt Hon Sir Bryan Holyoake arrived the following morning in a shiny black limousine at precisely nine o’clock. Dr Gore, Lord Marrick and Tadge Manston were in the grand entrance hall to greet him. Mrs Savage and I stood a little distance away. The delegates were all assembled in the North Hall, ready to listen to the CEO’s lecture.
The Heart of the Dales Page 37