Mr Campion's Fault

by Mike Ripley

  Perdita held up the large buff envelope – an envelope more usually associated with official demands from the Revenue – which bore the smudged crest, possibly depicting books quartered with leopards, of Ash Grange School.

  ‘It’s in here,’ she said. ‘Watermarked stationery, sealed and addressed in copperplate to “Lady Amanda”. I’m surprised it’s not scented. I just get the standard brown job they probably use to send out the detention slips. I’ll pop it round at lunchtime. As it happens, she’s taking me shopping this afternoon.’

  ‘Carnaby Street or the King’s Road?’

  ‘Probably both. Your mother wants to buy me a present; it’s possibly a reverse dowry of sorts – due recompense for me taking you off her hands. I’ve had my eye on a little black number by Kiki Byrne, but if I’m going to the frozen north I might go for one of those black-and-white optical check wool suits from Foale and Tuffin. Are miniskirts allowed in Yorkshire?’

  ‘You’re not seriously thinking of taking the job, are you?’

  Perdita sighed dramatically. It was, Rupert noted silently, her stock ‘Blanche DuBois’ sigh.

  ‘What other choice do I have? After the Lucky Strike debacle producers are not exactly beating a path to my door and it’s too late to get into the back line of the chorus for Dick Whittington at the Palladium with Tommy Steele unless there’s an epidemic of twisted ankles. There aren’t any other jobs going.’

  ‘Oh yes there are,’ said Rupert soberly, holding the single sheet of paper before him as if it were a bloody dagger.

  ‘What is it? What does Brigham say?’

  ‘It seems Ash Grange is not only short of a thespian, but also a games master. I’ve been offered the job.’

  ‘Games master? What are you talking about? Are you sure it doesn’t say “groundskeeper”?’

  ‘Why on earth should it say groundskeeper? I’m not a groundskeeper.’

  ‘You’re not a games master either,’ said Perdita logically.

  ‘I know that – and you know that – but your godfather seems to think that anyone who is an Old Rugbeian is qualified.’

  ‘Old?’ Perdita’s eyes widened in realization. ‘You mean your old school, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, and it seems that Brigham Armitage is an Old Boy too.’ Rupert floated the letter back across the table. ‘Look, he even signs off Floreat Rugebia. That’s the school song.’

  ‘So we’re both off to the frozen north then.’

  ‘We are?’

  ‘I’ve got nothing better – not until the Panto season finishes – and you seem to have been lassoed by the old school tie. Anyway, you can’t refuse.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because if I’m going to make a fool of myself with a hair-brained musical based on Doctor Faustus, I’d like to know that my darling husband is making an even bigger fool of himself on the rugby field.’

  The two women assured the taxi driver they could manage their parcels and bags perfectly well as they were bulky but not heavy, and the cabby’s disappointment was short-lived as the older woman tipped him generously anyway.

  ‘I thought The Cavendish would be a good place for tea,’ said Amanda, gathering up her shopping trophies. ‘Albert will be joining us. He’s only just around the corner in Jermyn Street having a haircut and, if I know him, treating himself to some new shirts.’

  Perdita, distributing her own shopping bags into a more symmetrical and comfortable pattern, said: ‘I do hope he has. I will feel far less guilty that way.’

  ‘No need for guilt, my dear; banish that thought immediately,’ instructed her mother-in-law.

  ‘But you’ve been so ridiculously generous …’

  ‘And you would deny me that tiny pleasure? How mean of you! Now, don’t be silly. Think of them as early Christmas presents and, anyway, you’ll need the warmer things if you’re going to the frozen north.’

  Perdita knew better than to argue further and followed Amanda into The Cavendish where the two women were greeted by a porter who relieved them of their packages, and by Mr Albert Campion, who beckoned them to a table with a teapot in one hand and a silver jug of milk in the other.

  ‘Perfect timing!’ He greeted them both with a kiss. ‘A splendid choice of venue, Amanda, the lovely old Cavendish – of course, they’ve done it up. I’ve not been here since it reopened a couple of years ago, but I remember it from the war when it was called a “social first-aid centre for servicemen”. No wonder the Luftwaffe bombed it. Now, do let me be Mother.’

  Once tea had been poured and savouries or fancies selected, Amanda prompted Perdita into repeating the news of her recent offer of employment. Mr Campion listened in polite silence but Amanda noticed the smile behind his spectacles growing in luminescence.

  ‘How splendid!’ he exclaimed when Perdita had told her story. ‘A chance to enter a world where the youth of this country are instructed in all languages, living and dead, the use of globes, algebra, writing, arithmetic and every branch of classical literature known to man. Terms: twenty guineas per annum.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Perdita between mouthfuls of scone.

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Amanda briskly, ‘he’s just being clever. It’s what he does.’

  Not for the first time, Perdita wondered if strangers or newcomers to the world of the Campions ever mistook the pair’s exchanges for bickering. She had observed her in-laws long enough to have decided that their rapid-fire cross-talk was a well-honed double act and everyone in the performing arts knew that the basis of a truly successful double act was love. They had, after all, been married for almost thirty years now and their act was well rehearsed and always performed with a twinkle in the eye. More telling, Perdita had noticed, were the delicate, minuscule gestures which they exchanged when no one was looking at them; sometimes when even they themselves were not looking at each other. The way their fingertips met as if by accident across a table; the soft, comforting smile when they saw their partner enter a room; the relaxed snugness of their bodies when the two of them sat next to each other; the lithe smoothness as they walked down a street side by side – apart and yet, somehow, together.

  ‘I’m not trying to be clever, darling, merely quoting an appropriate source, should we be in need of inspiration,’ said Mr Campion over the rim of a tea cup.

  ‘Source?’ queried Perdita.

  ‘Don’t let him draw you in, dear,’ said Amanda, selecting a daintily trimmed smoke salmon sandwich.

  ‘In to what?’

  ‘His little joke. He was just waiting for you to mention your godfather’s school in Yorkshire so he could quote Dickens at you. I think that was the advert Wackford Squeers put in the newspapers for Dotheboys Hall in Nicholas Nickleby. Somebody mentions Yorkshire and schools and it’s the first thing Albert thinks of. Don’t ask me why his mind works that way; it’s a mystery.’

  ‘It must run in the family,’ said Perdita gently. ‘Rupert quoted Dickens too this morning when he heard what was in the letter. He went for Hard Times, though.’

  ‘Ah, of course, Mr Gradgrind,’ murmured Campion as if to himself. ‘Clever boy.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think either of you are being quite fair,’ said Perdita, feeling she should ride to her godfather’s defence. ‘I’m sure Yorkshire’s not horrid and the schools there have moved on a bit since Dickens’ day.’

  Mr Campion smiled at his daughter-in-law and it was a beam of genuine affection.

  ‘Yorkshire is not horrid at all, my dear, though a fair bit of wuthering does take place on the higher ground, so I’m told, and I am sure the schools have moved on since Dotheboys Hall closed for business. Although’ – he paused mischievously – ‘if the schools there are performing a musical version of Doctor Faustus then one might think that perhaps they have moved too far.’

  Perdita reached for another sandwich. As a ‘resting’ actress it was a natural reaction to take advantage of free food whenever and wherever it was offered.

  ‘I may have le
t Rupert believe that it was a piece of experimental musical theatre,’ she said coyly, ‘which might just have been inspired by that hippy show Hair with all its nudity and … well, hair …’

  ‘Darling, that’s delicious!’ Amanda laughed. ‘Did he fall for it?’

  ‘Pretty much, and to be fair Brigham’s letter was a bit vague, so when Rupert was out I telephoned the school and got “the full S.P.” Did I say that right? It’s something Lugg would say, isn’t it?’

  Mr Campion nodded his approval. ‘Correct on both counts, I’m sorry to say. Pray, continue. What did our esteemed headmaster have to say?’

  ‘It turns out it’s not a musical at all – well, not a musical like My Fair Lady or Oliver. It’s actually the play – the real Marlowe deal – done pretty straight as far as I can work out, but with musical accompaniment from the school brass band. That probably makes it sound even more awful than it should.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Campion, patting Perdita’s arm. ‘I would take that as a good sign – a sign of quality.’

  ‘You would?’

  ‘But of course. Yorkshire insists on excellence when it comes to brass band music, just as they do with their cricket.’

  ‘Are they any good at rugby?’ the girl asked innocently.

  Mr Campion allowed his brow to furrow. ‘I’m told it’s a hot-bed of professional Rugby League rather than Rugby Union which, as I am sure you know, is a game designed for hooligans and berserkers played by gentleman amateurs. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well …’ Perdita strung out the moment whilst rearming her plate with more sandwiches. ‘It seems that this poor chap Bertram Browne, the one who died in a road accident, was not only the English master and did the drama productions but also coached the boys at rugby. My dear godfather has had the brilliant idea that I can do his dramatic duties whilst Rupert stands in for him on the playing fields, chasing the school teams round the goalposts or whatever it is coaches are supposed to do. It would only be for a couple of weeks until the end of term, and it means we don’t have to be apart.’

  ‘And Rupert is happy with the prospect of the sporting life?’ said Mr Campion, supressing a smile.

  ‘If it means he can be with his beautiful wife, of course he is,’ said Amanda firmly.

  ‘Oh, naturally,’ her husband agreed quickly. ‘It’s just that I don’t remember the boy enjoying the game when he was at school. He could play well enough but the game simply didn’t interest him. Still, with his thespian training he should be good at the morale-boosting team talk. Once more into the breach and all that. More tea?’

  ‘Godfather Brigham says it will only be for a couple of fixtures,’ said Perdita, holding out her cup and saucer, ‘because term’s nearly over and there’s always the chance that games will be called off due to bad weather at this time of year.’

  ‘I told you,’ smiled Campion, ‘it always wuthers in Yorkshire, especially on the heights. Make sure Rupert packs his thermal long johns and wish him luck. And of course, all the best with your production of Faustus, which I’m sure will be splendid, though you may have casting problems.’

  ‘I will?’

  ‘Probably. From memory – admittedly a very unreliable and cobweb-strewn one – somebody has to play Helen of Troy. You know, the beautiful face that launched a thousand ships. Always a difficult casting choice in an all-boys’ school.’

  ‘Perdita will manage supremely,’ said Amanda, ‘and we will be the first to shout “Bravo” and “Encore” when the cast take their many, many curtain calls.’

  ‘We will?’

  ‘We certainly will, for I too have received a job offer from Brigham Armitage.’ Amanda snapped open the gold clasp of her Morris Moskowitz black leather handbag and, delving into its capacious interior – Mr Campion referred to it as her ‘doctor’s bag’ – produced the letter Perdita had delivered and handed it across the table. ‘Required for one Speech Day: an inspirational speaker with experience of the modern world and the white heat of modern technology. I paraphrase, of course, but it clearly means me, not you, though you are welcome to accompany me.’

  Mr Campion scanned the letter out of politeness, folded it and handed it back. ‘The headmaster has chosen wisely,’ he said, ‘and I would be honoured to stand by your side and pass you the Lower Fifth’s trophy for raffia work, or the Snodgrass Shield for Greek translation or whatever gongs you’ll be handing out, and I promise not to pocket the Footling Cup for smoking behind the Fives’ Court. I always felt short-changed that I never got one of those when I was a whining schoolboy with a satchel and a shining face.’

  ‘That’s Shakespeare,’ said Perdita confidently, ‘not Dickens.’

  ‘Almost,’ said Amanda. ‘He’s just showing off again.’

  ‘Seriously, my darlings, I think it’s a splendid idea,’ said Campion. ‘The two of you will perform your respective duties admirably and Rupert – well, it will be an experience for Rupert; probably a good one. When do we go north?’

  ‘Rupert and I are needed immediately, according to godfather Brigham, but Speech Day isn’t until the end of term in December. We were thinking of driving up there tomorrow.’

  Mr Campion reached fondly for his wife’s hand. ‘Why don’t we make a long weekend of it around Speech Day, darling? We could go tramping on the moors, pop over to Haworth and worship at the Brontë shrine or take a run up to the ruined abbeys at Fountains, Jervaulx and Rievaulx. They’re all pretty impressive, even in deep midwinter in darkest Yorkshire.’

  ‘Winter in Yorkshire …’ Amanda murmured to herself, then turned to Perdita as if she had had a revelation. ‘Never mind reminding Rupert to pack his thermal long johns, my dear – let’s go and buy you some right now!’

  THREE

  Great North Road

  If a bright red second-hand five-year-old Austin Mini Cooper had seams, then Perdita’s was bulging at them as its stubby snout nosed its way up the A1, its windscreen wipers squeaking in protest at the morning drizzle and the spray of lorries thundering past.

  Rupert had been amazed at both the amount of luggage Perdita had insisted on bringing and the fact that it had all fitted into the Mini, but had said nothing. When they had married, Rupert and Perdita had agreed unreligious but eminently sensible additional vows that they would not quarrel or dispute any matters pertaining to money or to driving. And just as Rupert refrained from commenting on the plethora of bags and cases accompanying his wife, so Perdita bit her tongue and said nothing when Rupert chose to follow the A1 north rather than the recently extended M1 motorway.

  It was only when they were free of London and almost through Hertfordshire that she questioned her driver’s grasp of geography, albeit tangentially.

  ‘There’s another sign for Biggleswade,’ Perdita said conversationally. ‘It must be the fifth one we’ve passed. Why is Biggleswade so popular? Where is Biggleswade, anyway?’

  ‘It’s in Bedfordshire, darling, and I think its main claim to fame is that it has more signs than any other place bypassed by the A1. Nobody goes there but everyone knows they’ve passed a turning to it.’

  ‘One of the joys of travelling the Great North Road,’ sighed Perdita, digging into a shopping bag at her feet for the emergency packet of travel sweets she always carried on long journeys. ‘How long will it take us, do you think?’

  ‘Another three hours,’ said Rupert. ‘We can stop for lunch if you want to.’

  ‘I’ve brought sandwiches and a flask of tea so let’s push on. Though I’m happy to do some of the driving if you want a break.’

  ‘If Dick Turpin can make it to York in a day on a horse, then I think I can manage Huddersfield or thereabouts in a car.’ Rupert grinned.

  ‘You won’t mention Dick Turpin when you’re in Yorkshire, will you, darling?’ Perdita said, pointedly looking out of her side window.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Turpin was an eighteenth-century Essex thug. His famous “ride” from London to York – two hundred mil
es in a single day – was a story made up later and based on a seventeenth-century Yorkshireman called John Nevison who supposedly robbed a man in Gad’s Hill in Kent at four a.m. and then rode to York by eight p.m. the same day to establish an alibi.’

  ‘Did the alibi work?’

  ‘Yes, it did. No one believed he could have ridden that far in sixteen hours, but he had witnesses to say he was in York that evening so he couldn’t have been in Kent that morning.’

  ‘Clever fellow.’

  ‘Not that clever,’ she said, her hands busy rustling something inside the shopping bag now balanced on her knees. ‘He was hanged about ten years later, though he went to the scaffold like a true gentleman. Humbug?’

  ‘Yes, please. Where did you learn all that?’

  Perdita stretched out an arm and pressed a black-and-white sweet into her husband’s mouth.

  ‘From dear old Brigham Armitage, no less, a story he told me when I was little. The curse of the schoolmaster, I suppose. You have to teach an innocent child a fact a day.’

  ‘A bit like the Drink-A-Pinta-Milk-A-Day campaign,’ mumbled Rupert as he tackled a hard, minty mouthful. ‘When you spoke to him yesterday did he say any more about the teacher you – we – are replacing?’

  Perdita unwrapped a sweet for herself and popped it between her teeth, then daintily kissed the stickiness off her fingers before answering.

  ‘A little. It was strange really, almost as if he was rehearsing a funeral oration. Perhaps he was. Lots of what you might expect: trusted colleague, admired by the boys he taught, driving force behind the school’s drama productions and an inspiration on the rugby field …’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Rupert, ‘I’m going to be a terrible disappointment.’

  ‘The late Mr Browne – that’s Browne with an “e”, if it matters – used to play for something called the Sappers Rugby Club in his youth apparently, though I’ve no idea where that is.’

  ‘It’s based in Chatham in Kent, I think,’ said Rupert, ‘at the home of the Royal Engineers. Quite a famous old club, though the Sappers always were a sporty lot. The Royal Engineers played in the first-ever FA Cup Final, you know. That’s the other sort of football.’