‘Red underwear! That’s what I got. Shocking, skimpy, red silk underwear. Now who in their right minds – apart from Mrs Savage and a French prostitute – would be seen dead in red underwear?’
‘Although I am not an expert on ladies’ lingerie,’ said David, ‘I do think red underwear sounds rather attractive – on a woman that is.’
‘There’s the typical man speaking,’ Julie told him. ‘I wouldn’t be seen dead in red underwear.’
‘It could have been worse,’ I ventured. ‘Paul could have given you oven gloves.’
‘Well, at least I would have worn the oven gloves,’ retorted Julie. ‘He’s certainly not getting me into, red underwear.’
‘So what about Christmas Day?’ I asked. ‘Have you cancelled that?’
‘We’re going out for dinner. That’s the other big improvement. Christmas Day last year was a disaster. Mum put the turkey giblets in a dish and when she came to make the gravy they’d mysteriously disappeared. You would have thought that she’d lost all her life savings the fuss she made. Eventually, Uncle Tom admitted that he had given them to the dog. We had Mum moaning, Uncle Tom apologising, Auntie Pat crying, Dad ignoring it all – and then the dog was sick. Granddad nearly choked on a silver sixpence and Grandma lost an earring so we spent the afternoon playing clean the carpet, find the sixpence and hunt the earring. Then we watched Chitty, Chitty, bloody Bang Bang for the umpteenth time on the telly until we all fell asleep. It was a nightmare. Four days of living hell.’
‘You had a lively time and no mistake,’ remarked David, chuckling to himself.
‘That’s just it, Mr Pritchard, I don’t want a lively time. I have enough of a lively time with you inspectors all the year round. At Christmas I want peace and quiet, with no hassle, no noise, no stress.’
‘And speaking of hassle, noise and stress,’ said David, cupping a hand around his ear, ‘I think I can hear the dainty tread of the Inspector for Visual and Creative Arts on the stairs.’
‘And that’s another thing,’ said Julie, pursing her lips before holding up the papers in front of her, ‘I’ve got a mountain of work to finish for Mr Clamp and I was hoping to get off a bit earlier tonight to finish my Christmas shopping.’
A moment later Sidney burst into the office. ‘Happy Christmas!’ he roared, throwing his briefcase on Harold’s chair. ‘I just love this time of year. The smell of pine in the air, shop windows crammed with colourful gifts, carols and cribs, fairy lights, holly and mistletoe, and Santa’s grotto, ho! ho! ho! It just grabs you by the throat and says, “Peace and goodwill to all men”.’ He pulled off his coat, hung it up roughly and flopped at his desk. ‘Christmas makes you feel so well disposed to others, it’s… it’s… what’s the word, Gervase? Infectious, yes, that’s what it is, infectious. Why, at this time of year I could kiss Connie and hug Mrs Savage.’ Sidney suddenly stopped. The three of us were staring at him in bemused silence. ‘Is it something I’ve said?’
‘May I remind you, Sidney,’ said David, ‘that schools have not broken up for the holidays yet and Christmas has not arrived. We all have quite a bit of work to do before the term ends and I believe you, in particular, have a great deal to finish.’
‘I’ve somehow gone back in time,’ said Sidney dramatically, talking to no one in particular, ‘and found my way into the office of Ebeneezer Scrooge.’
Julie placed the thick pile of papers on his desk. ‘Dr Yeats wants the report on Loxley Chase School before the end of the afternoon. He was on the phone twice yesterday. You have six letters to sign, the questionnaire on “Painters in Schools” to complete, your January course applications to check over and you still haven’t finished the Arts Council response that Dr Gore asked you to do. In today’s mail there are two items marked “very urgent” and two more marked “urgent”. And, by the looks of it,’ she said, indicating the papers before him, ‘you’ve only got two greetings cards this morning in that little lot. Happy Christmas!’
‘Will someone tell me what I have done?’ appealed Sidney, watching Julie totter out of the door on her high heels.
‘It’s what you haven’t done,’ said David, pointing to the mound on his colleague’s desk. ‘Julie was not intending to work late tonight. She was wanting to finish her Christmas shopping. If I were you, Sidney, I’d make a start.’
Thereafter, the first part of the day was unusually quiet. Sidney soon settled down to his reports and letters and all that could be heard above the gentle hum of the traffic on Fettlesham High Street were the scratching of pens, the occasional sigh and grunt, and the scraping of a chair on the hard wooden floor. When the clock on the County Hall tower struck eleven o’clock, Sidney’s pen bounced off the page in a flourish as he stabbed the final full stop to the Loxley Chase Report. Then he leaned back in his chair, placed his hands behind his head and exhaled heavily. David peered over his glasses and I looked up from my work.
‘I take it that our young secretary,’ announced Sidney, ‘bearing in mind the mood she was in when I arrived, will not be forthcoming with the libations this morning.’
‘You know where the mugs are,’ murmured David, returning to his report.
‘And since you are so full of the Christmas spirit, Sidney,’ I told him, ‘oozing with goodwill to all men and infected with festive kindness, perhaps you would like to make David and me some coffee at the same time.’
Sidney thought for a moment, smiled dramatically, then jumped up from his chair. ‘Of course, dear boy, nothing would give me greater pleasure. I shall take these letters and this completed report through to Julie to placate her as well.’
Over coffee, Sidney began one of his all too familiar interrogations. ‘I assume that over Christmas you are taking the blonde love goddess of Winnery Nook to some faraway, exotic location, Gervase?’
‘No,’ I replied curtly.
‘No?’ he retorted. ‘Is it a wet weekend in Whitby, then?’
‘Actually, we are not spending Christmas together. I’m going to my brother’s in Retford again. I’m hoping we can have a few days together in the New Year.’
‘Barbados, Nice, St Tropez, Paris?’
‘Settle.’
‘Seattle!’ exclaimed Sidney, reaching for his coffee. ‘Well, well, Gervase, you are lashing out. This sounds serious. A trip to the States. Seattle will be beautiful at this time of year.’
‘No, Sidney, I said Settle, not Seattle.’
‘Settle! Settle!’ he cried. ‘You’re taking her to Settle? The pot-holing capital of the Dales. What are you intending doing? Creeping about on all fours underground with lamps on your heads? Hiking over the slippery limestone in driving sleet? Trekking through the snow?’
‘Actually, Settle is spectacular in winter,’ announced David, taking off his spectacles.
‘Don’t tell me you’re taking him with you as well?’ asked Sidney.
‘As a matter of fact, it was I who recommended Settle to Gervase. There is a very pleasant little hostelry there called The Traddles. The food is outstanding, the views magnificent and the people who own it very friendly. Also, it’s a very romantic place.’
‘But it is still Settle,’ groaned Sidney. ‘And has she agreed to go?’
‘I haven’t asked her yet,’ I said. ‘I want it to be a surprise.’
‘It’ll be a surprise all right!’
‘I booked a couple of days back in October and –’
‘Well, don’t hold your breath,’ Sidney told me, ‘I think staying at home is preferable to Settle in winter.’ He changed the subject. ‘And what have you got your inamorata for Christmas?’
‘A locket,’ I replied.
‘Oh dear, oh dear. A locket! A locket is something you give your maiden aunt or a little girl about to make her First Communion.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said David again, ‘it was I who recommended to Gervase the Mezzo Gallery in Skipton. They design and make the most unusual silver jewellery.’
‘But a locket is not a pres
ent you give to the woman of your dreams. What he needs for a feisty young beauty of Christine Bentley’s obvious charm, attraction and elegance is something particularly feminine, something which expresses his simmering passion, his ardour, something which speaks of his undying devotion, like a mass of red roses, an obscenely large bottle of French perfume, a huge box of Belgian chocolates, a delicate diamond pendant –’
‘You mean something tasteful like red silk underwear?’ suggested David.
‘That’s exactly the sort of thing women love,’ enthused Sidney. ‘They really go for men who are unpredictable and impulsive, who surprise them with unusual gifts. Unlike your other ideas, David, red underwear is an inspired suggestion. Now I will take you to Hoopers ofHarrogate, Gervase, and help you select –’
‘There is no way I am giving Christine red underwear!’ I said emphatically.
‘But she will adore it!’ cried Sidney, just as Julie appeared with his letters for signing. ‘Now what woman could resist red silk underwear? Wouldn’t you agree, Julie?’
Julie gave him a long, blistering look before slowly leaving the office.
‘You know, I think Christmas brings out the worst in some people,’ sighed Sidney shaking his head.
I decided to broach the subject of the couple of days in Settle with Christine that very evening. I had agreed to go with her to the Christmas production at Winnery Nook Junior School and was due to pick her up from her parents’ house at seven o’clock.
‘Please come with me,’ Christine had pleaded earlier that week, ‘and give me some moral support with the insufferable Mr Logan.’
To say that Christine did not get on with the self-opinionated Headteacher of the Junior School would be something of an understatement. Mr Logan was a large man with pale watery-blue eyes and heavy jowls. He had the irritating habit of waving his fat freckled hands in front of him as if conducting some invisible orchestra and he spoke at such a speed and in such a strident tone of voice that his listeners were eventually harangued into silence. He was hard-working and managed an excellent staff but it was his patronising attitude to early education which infuriated Christine. For Mr Logan, the Infant School was where ‘the little ones’ were ‘occupied’ and ‘taught a few basic skills’. It was only when they reached him in the Juniors that the really rigorous work began.
I arrived at Christine’s house a little before half-past six. Drops of rain began to fall as I drove up the curved gravel drive leading to the stone-built house. Christine’s mother opened the door to me with a warm smile and I was ushered down the long hallway and into the sitting-room.
‘What an evening,’ she said. ‘Come along in, Gervase, Christine won’t be long. She arrived back late from school as usual, so she’s still getting ready.’
It was a charming, elegant room and about as different as it possibly could be from my dark little flat above The Rumbling Turn café. A large Christmas tree in the corner sparkled with silver tinsel and tiny lights, the mantelpiece was lined with cards, red and gold decorations hung from the walls and a small crib had pride of place on an occasional table. I sat in front of a welcoming log fire which crackled brightly in the grate.
‘The room looks splendid,’ I said.
‘Oh, I just love Christmas,’ she replied, echoing Sidney’s words. ‘It seems to put everyone in such a friendly mood. People smile at one another in the street and strangers talk to you. It really brings out the best in people, don’t you think?’
‘So you are all prepared for Christmas?’ I asked.
‘Just about. I told Christine that you would be very welcome to join us but she said you had already agreed to go to your brother’s.’
‘That’s right,’ I replied. ‘I’m collecting my parents and my sister is coming down and we’ll have a family Christmas in Retford. But thank you very much for inviting me.’
‘Well, perhaps next year,’ she said smiling.
Let’s hope I will still be on the scene next year, I thought.
‘Ours will be a quiet affair,’ Mrs Bentley continued. ‘We never see a great deal of Christine at Christmas, to be truthful. She goes off on Boxing Day and –’
‘Goes off?’ I interrupted.
‘Skiing, you know. She’s gone skiing every Christmas since she left college. Didn’t she tell you?’
‘No,’ I replied, crestfallen, ‘she never mentioned it.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Bentley. ‘I hope I haven’t put my foot in it.’
‘You never told me you were going skiing after Christmas,’ I remarked as I drove towards Winnery Nook Junior School a short while later.
‘Oh didn’t I?’ she replied innocently.
‘No, you didn’t.’ I realised my voice had a rather petulant edge to it.
‘Well, I knew that you were off to your big family get-together in Retford.’ When I didn’t reply, she continued. ‘You didn’t want to come, did you?’
‘I might have done.’
Christine chuckled and put her hand on my arm. ‘But you don’t ski, Gervase.’
‘I could have watched. Anyway, who are you going with?’
‘Oh, just a friend,’ she replied, clearly enjoying this little exchange.
‘What friend?’ I could feel my heart thumping in my chest.
‘Someone you don’t know.’
‘Not Miles, is it?’
‘Of course not. I’ve not seen Miles for ages. Anyway, you know him.’
‘Who then?’
‘This is getting like the third degree.’
‘I think you might have told me.’
‘Are you jealous?’
‘No,’ I said peevishly. ‘Well, yes, I am as a matter of fact.’
‘Alex. I’m going with Alex, an old college friend. So there. Now you know.’
‘And what’s this Alex like?’
‘Tall, slim, attractive.’ She paused and chuckled. ‘She’s very nice.’
‘Oh, it’s a she then?’ I cried, vastly relieved.
‘Of course, it’s a she, silly. I’m not likely to be going off skiing with another man, am I?’ She moved closer. ‘I’m not that sort of woman.’
‘Oh well, that’s different,’ I said. ‘I just thought that we might have spent a couple of days together over the Christmas break – the last weekend before schools start again. There’s a really nice hotel that David recommended and –’
‘I’m only going for a week, and will be back on the second,’ said Christine quickly.
‘So you’ll come?’
‘I’d love to.’
‘Right then, that’s great!’ I said, sounding pretty pleased with myself.
‘But won’t hotels be full up at this time of year?’
‘I booked a couple of months ago,’ I told her. ‘I wanted to surprise you.’
‘You were pretty sure of yourself, Gervase Phinn,’ she said. ‘And where is this hotel?’
‘Well, it’s not Barbados, Nice, St Tropez or Paris, I’m afraid. It’s near Settle.’
‘I love Settle,’ Christine said. ‘I’ll really look forward to it.’
‘Good, that’s settled then,’ I said.
We both laughed out loud.
Winnery Nook Junior School was a modern and attractive building constructed in the same honey-coloured brick as the Infant School which was situated a couple of hundred yards away beyond a large square playground. It had the same low-angled roof of red pantiles and large picture windows but was certainly not as warm and welcoming.
I parked the car and Christine and I hurried up the path which was glistening with rain in the light of the street lamps. We passed a series of large black and white notices: ‘Property of Yorkshire County Council’; ‘Trespassers will be prosecuted’; ‘No public right of way’; ‘No dogs allowed on these fields’. Attached inside on the glass of the entrance door was a further series of requests and instructions: ‘All visitors MUST report to Reception’; ‘Parents must wait outside when collecting their children’; ‘Th
e car park is strictly for the use of school staff only’.
The place sounded as welcoming as a Ministry of Defence shooting range, and the entrance area of the school had the ambience of a hospital waiting-room. A few anaemic prints hung on a pale yellow wall and three hard-backed chairs had been arranged in a line facing them. On a small table were a couple of magazines and an unhealthy-looking spider plant, its green and white shoots trailing to the floor. As we headed for the school hall, following the throng, a freckly-faced boy of about seven ran up excitedly.
‘Hello, Miss Bentley!’ he cried, obviously delighted to see her.
‘This is John, Mr Phinn,’ said Christine, turning to me. ‘He came up to the Juniors at the beginning of this term and he was one of my star pupils, weren’t you, John?’
‘Yes, miss,’ nodded the child.
We moved out of everyone’s way. ‘Are you in the play, John?’ asked Christine.
‘No, miss, there’s only a few parts and they went to the older ones. I’m helping with the programmes and stacking the chairs at the end.’
‘Oh well,’ said Christine, ‘there’s time enough. You’ll probably be in next year’s play.’
‘I hope so, miss,’ replied the child.
‘And how do you like the Juniors?’
‘Oh, it’s all right, miss,’ replied the boy unenthusiastically.
When we had taken our seats, the lights dimmed, the hall fell silent and a fat man with pale, fishy eyes strode to the front. This was Mr Logan, the Headteacher. He waved his hands expansively in front of him, explaining that the evening’s performance was a dramatic episode from the well-loved children’s classic, Anne of Green Gables. He prattled on about there being so few really good Christmas plays suitable for children these days and how he believed in good quality writing, traditional values and high standards. What all this had to do with a school play was beyond me. He then reminded everyone that taking pictures during the performance was prohibited because the flash lights would disturb the actors, that there would be no interval and that there would be a retiring collection to supplement the school fund.
A Christmas production gives a school the opportunity of staging a large-scale dramatic event involving a great many children. It should be a lively, joyous affair, full of colour, music and often dancing, centred on a seasonal theme. I had been in the audience the week before at Willingforth Primary School, and had laughed and cheered with the parents and children at the outstanding performance of ‘Scrooge’. All the pupils in the school had been involved in some way.
Over Hill and Dale Page 12