I saw her out. As I made my way back to my room, who should I see coming out of it but Franny Roote!
“What the hell are you doing?” I demanded.
“Looking for you, of course, Andy,” he said. “A few of your fellow convies—sorry, convalescents—are interested in Third Thought, and after I finished with them, I asked Pet where I’d find you.”
“Pet?” I said.
“Nurse Sheldon. I’d have thought you’d have been on first-name terms by now, Andy.”
“Well, we’re not. And neither are you and me,” I said grimly. “Now bog off!”
I wasn’t in the mood for chatting with Roote, not the way things had gone with Cap. Don’t know who it was said that pleasures are always paid for, but the bugger got it right. My pleasure had been a couple of pints of ale, one of which I didn’t really enjoy, and here I was, still paying for it.
Which reminds me. I owe yon fellow Parker twenty quid. Well, it will have to wait. I know its only teatime, but I need my beauty sleep!
11
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: titled hunks & legless wonders
Hi!
No reply yet to mine of yesterday. Too busy? Doing what?—I ask myself.
Well—Im busy too—but its not going to stop me finding time to tell you all about it—which youd better read—therell be a test!
If theres anyone left in Sandytown that I havent met yet—anyone of importance I mean—they must be living in a cave! Late breakfast this morning—Tom & Mary said I should ignore all sounds of early reveille—their kids like kids everywhere want to sleep forever during term time but are up with the lark in the hols. Minnie—I suspect—must have got a death threat warning to keep her away from my door—but it worked—& I didnt come down till half ten!
Just enjoying a coffee with Mary—Tom I guess was out even earlier than the kids!—when the doorbell rang. Mary went to answer it—& came back with this hunk—in tight black motorcycle leathers—& you know what they can do for a guys figure.
Not that this one wouldnt have looked good in pinstripes.
6' 2''—handsome as hell—in that old fashioned Hollywood kind of way—before the new 3 day dead look came in—athletic build—wide shoulders—narrow hips—lovely bum—not bronze exactly—his face I mean—dont know about his bum—yet!—but a very even & natural looking light tan! OK—he clearly thinks hes Gods gift—but like the man said—when you got it—baby—flaunt it!
This was Teddy Denham—Sir Edward Denham no less—Lady Ds nephew-in-law—& one of her hopeful heirs! Having heard from Lady D that Tom was back—hed come straight round to say hello—& check on the now famous ankle.
Mary introduced us—& he said Lady D had mentioned me—with a bit of a grin to suggest I might be amused by the terms of the mention—& he shook my hand—with enough warmth to make it personal.
My gaze had been so fixed on him that I hardly noticed his companion—which was OK—as she made it pretty clear she didnt really think me worth noticing either!
This was his sister—Esther—beautifully turned out—beautiful too if shed give her face a chance. Thought she looked a bit familiar at first glance—but her first—& only—glance at me when introduced made me change my mind. Reminded me of dads comment about the vicars wife—like shed bent to sniff a flower & found it were growing in a cowpat! If anyone had looked at me like that before I think Id have remembered.
She looked like her idea was to say hello-good-bye!—but he said yes hed love a coffee—& sat down beside me—& soon we were chatting away like wed known each other forever. After ten minutes—Tom turned up. He & Teddy greeted each other like old mates—Esther gave him a condescending cold fish nod—which he took like it was a loving hug! Then Teddy asked after Toms ankle & got the full miracle recovery story.
—of course—declared Tom—I benefited from instant & expert first aid from our dear friend Charlotte here (this got me a well arent you the talented one grin from Teddy the bart)—but—Tom went on—I feel I must also give credit for the incredible speed of my recovery to Mr Gordon Godley of Willingdene (he stressed the long e & smiled at me as if to say he was glad of the error that had led to me being here in Sandytown)—the famous healer whom I hope to entice to join our caring community—
As he spoke—he did a little jig to demonstrate his recovery. Esthers face had screwed up like a pigs bum at the mention of healer—& when she saw the jig I thought she might vomit in disgust. Fortunately for the high polished floor-boards her mobile rang at that moment. She looked at the caller display—& her face rearranged itself so quick it might have been computer enhanced.
—Aunt Daphne!—she trilled—how are you?—
She rose & moved away—not with the usual sorries most of us mutter when the mobile catches us in company—but more like shed have preferred the rest of us to move out of the room & leave her sitting!
But the change of expression revived my first impression—now I was really sure Id seen her before—or her twin! Remember—last December—the skiing in Switzerland near Davos—I gave you a full account about me & louse Liam—unlike the censored stuff youre giving me! Dad did his nut—till I assured him Id be back for Xmas—& it was costing hardly anything—travel by bus—hostel accommodation—bunk beds in dorms—which made him think—wrongly!—naughties would be out of the question. But it was George asking if he could come too that persuaded dad to cough up the readies. The HB thought George would be a chaperone—I thought hed just be a bit of a drag—but we were both wrong! In the end—like I told you—turned out he was getting as much action as I was!
Anyway—our après-ski consisted of a beer-swilling disco in the Bengel bar—cross between Willingden Village Hall & the Black Hole of Calcutta—where all the impoverished young stuff went—& thats where Id seen the sourpuss look-alike—but not sourpuss—laughing like a drain—as she did high energy dirty dancing with this skinny blond guy—with hair down to his shoulders—& a soup strainer mustache. His name was Emil—second name Geiger-Counter according to George—but that was just his version of something like Kunzli-Geiger. How G knew him—I think they had a pee together—thats how guys bond—its in all the textbooks!—& next day hed met him on the piste & they had a bit of a race—which G lost. G was clearly impressed that a skinny fellow like Emil should be able to beat him at skiing—&—I suspect—tho he didnt spell this out—should have such a big whang! Must ask G when I ring home. She didnt have a name—just an initial—Ess—& one of my mates—watching the way they danced—christened them Ess & Em—which I had to explain to George—who thought it was the funniest wordplay since madam Im Adam—remember?—& rewarded my mate accordingly!
But still couldnt believe dirty dancing Ess & sourpuss Esther could be the same—though I recalled Mary had mentioned Lady D took the young Denhams on a ski holiday last Christmas. Shed stepped into the hallway—but her voice stayed at that upper-class level that assumes that servants—& others of that ilk—like me & the Parkers—are—or better had be—stone deaf. So we heard her quite clearly saying—no—not in the least inconvenient—no—a social call merely—in the circumstances you might call it a sick visit—an irksome duty—but a duty nevertheless—as you of all people will understand—Aunt Daphne. Five minutes—scarcely that—
Tom meanwhile had asked Sir Teddy how work was going—& the bart pulled a face—& said—lets just say I hope Aunt Daph doesnt serve up pork for lunch—again!—
I said—do you have much actual contact with the pigs?—
—indeed—he said ruefully—from first squeak to final freeze pack—I oversee quality control—
This was nepotism—Yorkshire style!—I thought.
Then Mary said—I wish theyd put someone in charge of odor control too—
Teddy smiled sadly—& said—you should try living out at Denham Park Mary—
From the doorway Esther said—Teddy—we have to go—Aunt Daphne has some family ma
tter shed like to discuss with us—
Very peremptory—sweetness soured—light switched off—normal service resumed.
—whats the panic—Ess—said Teddy—glancing at his flashy Rolex—we arent due there for ninety minutes—
There! Hed called her Ess! Short for Esther—which is one of those names that really need shortening! It had to be her—tho the resemblance had faded as she was now back in sourpuss mode. But if—as I recall G saying—Emil was just a poor student—then that would explain why they were meeting in the Bengel bar—where there was no chance of running into Lady D or her chums—who were probably drinking over at Klosters—with Big Ears & his tribe of Noddies.
—so why cant she just talk to us over lunch?—Teddy concluded.
—in front of Clara?—said Esther.
She spoke the name like it was a nasty taste.
—Claras family too—said Ted—winning a Heywood Brownie point.
—not our family—& besides the legless wonders going to be there too—
I saw Tom & Mary exchange disapproving glances—but neither spoke.
—is he? Whys that?—asked Teddy frowning.
—he seems to amuse her—& he doesnt eat much—look—Im off—you can follow whenever you find the strength to drag yourself away—
She nodded at the Parkers—didnt even glance at me—& spun on her heel—very tall sharp heel it was—she knows how to dress—must run in the family—the bart looked a real dish in his leathers—& I could imagine him peeling them—James Bond-like—to reveal an…immaculate dj! (Got you going there!)
Disappointingly—despite his protests—Teddie didnt have much trouble dragging himself away—tho he did gabble a rueful apology before heading after the Ice Queen.
As he left—Tom said to me—come on Charley—time to finish our tour—
When Tom decides something—its instant action!—& we were out of the house in time to see Esther climbing behind the wheel of a Range Rover—what else?—pretty ancient—but the landed gentry probably regard new RRs like new Barbours—as evidence of arrivisme. Ted—by contrast—was straddling a new looking Buell Lightning—in midnight black—with the words Sexy Beast scrawled across the tank in silver. Narcissism? I wondered. Or a gift from an admirer…?
As they processed at speed down the drive—I said—thought Mary said they were a bit strapped for cash—no wonder if they spend it on 7k mobikes!—
—as much as that?—said Tom—well—he really was lucky then—Ted didnt buy it—won it in a charity lottery—cast your bread upon waters—eh Charlotte?—
Lucky old Ted—I thought. No wonder he thinks the world owes him a living!
Walking down the hill—I wondered—dead casual—if there might not seem to be some conflict between Toms eco-enthusiasm & the bloody great carbon footprints the Denhams—young & old—seemed bent on planting all over the roads of Sandytown.
—just so!—cried Tom—as if delighted by some sharp & helpful aperçu—this is how I see things too. Physician—heal thyself—then pass the cure on! To convert is better than to convict—to persuade than to prescribe. We all have our complementary roles—mine I see as a gatherer—bringing together the full spectrum of ability. It did not take long—dear Charlotte—to see how useful a talent like yours—to observe & analyze—would be to our little community—
It dawned on me then that in Toms eyes I was—like Gordon Godley—an opportunity not to be missed. The bugger was trying to recruit me!
But hes such a poppet I could only feel flattered!
As we once more approached Witch Cottage—recalling the small incident yesterday—I asked how Miss Lee—the acupuncturist—got on with Lady Denham. Tom—whos clearly into universal love—said—fine—fine. But hes also into transparent honesty—& he added—there has been a small contretemps—I believe—regarding the terms of Miss Lees tenancy—but Im confident a mutually satisfactory resolution has been reached—
I said—you mean Lady D owns Witch Cottage?—
—indeed—he said—& much more besides—the Breretons were substantial property owners in the town—& Hog Hollis—Lady Ds first—rarely missed an opportunity to invest in bricks & mortar—
Id have liked to hear more—but realized I was only going to get a sanitized version of any unpleasantness from Tom—& made a note to bring the matter up with that young mistress of unsanitized versions—Minnie!
At the cottage—after a little delay—Miss Lee answered Toms knock. I was introduced—briefly. She did a little Chinese bob thing—like Pitti-Sing in the musical. She was wearing a sort of kimono—but close up her face looked a lot less oriental—more plastic than porcelain—& Id say the almond blossom complexion comes out of a jar. Her voice was pretty neutral—very precise—with the occasional Yorkshire vowel suggesting shed been around the county for some time.
She had a patient—she explained—but would join us shortly. We were standing in a narrow passage with a steep staircase up to the first floor—& 2 doors to the right—& another at the far end—open to reveal a kitchen. Miss Lee slipped through the first door—presumably not wanting us to see some poor devil stuck with needles like a hedgehog!—& Tom led me through the next door—clearly very much at home.
I found myself wondering—this alternative medicine thing—does he try them all?
We were in a crepuscular living room—small 16th cent windows in walls a yard thick—bit of a change from bamboo & rice paper—or is that Japan? Couple of pictures on the wall—prints of Chinese art—& a framed professional certificate—in Chinese characters. No—I havent taught myself Chinese—alongside it in the same frame was what I presumed was an English version—telling the world that Yan Lee had earned her qualifications—with distinction—at the Beijing Institute of Acupuncture & Moxibustion! (You tell me—youre the familys medical expert!)
Tom settled into a dusty armchair—to read a dusty newspaper—& I wandered around—checking out the bookshelves. Us psychologists can tell a lot from bookshelves! Fiction mainly—chic lit—historical romances—couple of classics looking like they were lifted from school. Nonfiction limited to royal reminiscences—& Delia—plus—which I almost missed—a very tatty paperback—Teach Yourself Acupuncture. Set book from the Beijing Institute maybe?
Miss Lee reappeared as I was looking at it—so I quickly shoved it back into place—& hoped she hadnt noticed. Tom chitchatted for a moment or two about local matters—then started talking about my thesis—making me sound like an FRS on a WHO funded research project! Miss Lee listened—then said—so you would like to talk to my patients to see if I really do them any good physically? I said—no—I would like to talk to those whose physical improvement is undeniable—with a view to understanding the mental processes involved. I have no interest in passing judgment on the status of acupuncture as medical therapy—
She gave me a little smile—like she didnt believe a word of it—& said—OK—Ill have a word with a couple of them—see what they think—& get back to you—now I must get back to work—
After that Tom whipped me round his aromatherapist—middle aged Madonna look-alike—his reflexologist—like an undertakers receptionist—pallid complexion—black skirt & top—probably a Goth in her teens & couldnt yet afford to upgrade—his herbalist—funny little man with a young-old face—would have made a good Lord of the Rings elf. All happy to help me—after consulting patients first of course—Tom very persuasive—or—more likely—they see Toms enthusiasm for a complementary therapy center at the manor as their route to fame & fortune—so what he wants—he gets!
(Cynical? Moi? A lifelong beleiver its love makes the world go round? Love of self—or love of money—of course!)
Tried to see Toms homeopath but he was laid up with a bad cold.
—maybe hes treating himself for pneumonia—I said.
Tom thought this was very funny—once hed worked it out—& insisted on repeating it to everyone else we encountered—adding Wildean wit to my other talents. He was stil
l chortling as he led me into the Hope & Anchor—the pub wed left Mr. Deal heading for. Wouldnt have surprised me to find him still drinking there after what dad said about him—but no sign of him among the tourists eating bar snacks in the main bar—nor in the smaller room we turned into. No food here—just four or five men drinking pints—& one leaning on the bar—in close confab with the barman.
Tom introduced me to them. Barman was Alan Hollis—the landlord—& the other was Hollis too—Hen Hollis—the disaffected sibling—who was the 1st guy Id met clearly not a fan of Toms. Must see him as tarred beyond redemption with the Denham brush! Talking of tarred—this miserable old sod looked like hed not been near a bathtub since his 21st. If theres any family resemblance—Lady D must have been mighty releived when the pigs et hubby Number 1! Sorry. Shouldnt judge by appearances—specially in my line of work—but hes one of those long rangy guys—mean little eyes in a small narrow head—& a beard that made Mr Godleys look like it had been worked on by Errol Douglas—full of crumbs from the crisps he was stuffing between his sharp yellow teeth. Like a ferret on stilts—I thought—& he didnt like the look of me either—glowering at me like I was the whore of Babylon—I wish!—before he banged his glass on the bar—& left.
Landlord Alan is v different—midthirties—not bad looking—easy to talk with—hard to believe hes related to horrible Hen—no physical resemblance—hes one of those steady calm-looking guys—the sort you want to see slipping into the pilots seat when the aircrew all go down with e-coli—while Hen looks like hes on friendly terms with most known bacilli! But cant choose your relations—can you? As we well know!
The seated drinkers were fine too. Tom introduced me round—but I only really registered one of them—a man in a wheelchair. Hes called Franny Roote—& Tom made a big point of him being one of his alternative therapists.
Then Tom said—but shouldnt you be up at the hall—lunching with Lady D?—
The Price of Butcher's Meat Page 9