Died and Gone to Devon

by TP Fielden

  ‘No, no, no!’ shouted an infuriated Thurleston, the wig on his head waggling. ‘You can’t say anything like that!’

  ‘Court privilege,’ said Sirraway, reaching for a handkerchief to wipe his nose. He’d certainly done his homework.

  ‘I really don’t think we need…’ said the Colonel, who’d had dinner with Sir Freddy only the other week.

  ‘… guilty of a number of malfeasances inconsistent with the public office he has held for the past forty years. In simple terms I pointed out to the party workers that their MP was a crook, is a crook, has always been a crook.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ snapped de Saumaurez. ‘I’m ordering you to put that piece of paper away! Anything else to say?’

  ‘It’s jolly easy to knock a copper’s hat off his napper. Have you ever tried, Your Worship?’

  The chief magistrate growled through gritted teeth. ‘Anything known?’

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ said Sergeant Stanbridge.

  ‘Fined ten shillings. Bound over to keep the peace – and I mean that, Mr Sirraway, keep the peace – for a year.’

  ‘It’s Professor Sirraway,’ warbled the man joyously over his shoulder as he was bundled away.

  Such a moment is always a testing time for the reporter. Your duty is both to cover the rest of the court proceedings, but also to chase up anything that could make a bigger story which might shine its light from under the hedge clippings of the gardening column. An impossible dilemma for Betty when, as on this occasion, there was no other reporter in court. Should she go out and chase the professor, if that’s what he was, and lose the next three cases while she interviewed him and called the office to get a photographer round, or should she carry on drooping over her notebook, inspecting her split ends and waiting for the endless day to be over?

  Boldly, she decided on action. Gathering up her things she made for the door under the furious gaze of Mr Thurlestone, who knew his proceedings had been abandoned by the Fourth Estate and that whatever secrets the man Sirraway had been prevented from airing by the Colonel would now go before a greater court, that of public opinion.

  ‘Just a moment!’ called Betty as she emerged into the front hall. Sirraway was making a quick-march out of the building. ‘Mr… er… Professor…!’

  ‘Can I help?’ The man who’d been so beastly about the Christmas tree in the public library seemed perfectly charming, if more than a little odd.

  ‘Betty Featherstone, Riviera Express. I was there at the Conservative Hall the other night. I didn’t see you, though.’

  ‘You arrived at approximately 5.39 p.m.,’ said the Prof. ‘With a photographer.’

  ‘Yes, yes I did. But I didn’t…’

  ‘I thought I recognised you while I was in the dock,’ he went on. ‘But I wasn’t sure. You’ve changed your hair.’

  ‘Oh,’ blushed Betty, ‘d’you like it?’

  The professor did not say. Instead he explained that he started his protest almost as soon as Betty entered the building, then went on until about 6 p.m., by which time his throat was hoarse, his wrists were bound, and a police constable was chasing his helmet down the gutter.

  ‘It gave me time enough to let the party faithful know the worst.’

  ‘And what is it they need to know?’ She had her notebook out and nodded with her head to a nearby bench.

  ‘I came to give Sir Frederick Hungerford a bloody nose for Christmas,’ said Sirraway in lordly fashion. ‘Perhaps you’d like to help me do that.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Betty. She could smell a big exclusive, even though she didn’t know the details yet, and how she loved to see her name in big print on Page One!

  ‘Won’t you come and have a cup of tea in Lovely Mary’s?’ she smiled, touching her newly permed hair and secretly blessing M’sieur Alphonse for his finesse.

  ‘Will ya no’ look at this rubbish,’ spat John Ross. He’d adopted his customary posture in the chief sub-editor’s chair, lolling sideways and flipping bits of copy paper over his shoulder as he read and rejected them. His foot pushed the bottom drawer of his desk back and forth, and from within you could hear the rattle of a half-empty bottle of Black and White whisky.

  A couple of junior reporters looked up, then hastily down again. They may only have been here since leaving school in the summer, but already they’d learned the perils of being sucked into Ross’s vortex of cynicism and derision.

  ‘Betty Featherstone at her vairy worrrst! Listen to this:

  FOND FAREWELL TO TEMPLE’S

  TREMENDOUS SIR FREDDY.

  ‘Friends, admirers and well-wishers gathered at the Temple Regis Conservative Club at the weekend to give a rousing send-off to Sir Frederick Hungerford, who steps down as the town’s MP next spring.

  ‘Sir Freddy, as he is known, has for forty years served the constituency with distinction and dedication. His place as Conservative candidate at the general election will be taken by Mrs Mirabel Clifford, a prominent Temple Regis solicitor whose Market Square practice was established in 1950.

  ‘A much-loved figure in the…

  ‘I canna go orn,’ wailed the chief sub-editor. ‘Did the man write it himself? I canna imagine anyone else getting it so wrong!’

  He got up and stalked over to the juniors’ desk. ‘I’ll expect better of ye when it’s yeur turn to write about politics. This man – he’s turned himself into a saint.’

  There followed a lengthy monologue along the lines of how this businessman’s son had reinvented himself as a member of the aristocracy, and even now was awaiting the call to the House of Lords as reward for the years of his devoted service in the bars of Westminster and Whitehall.

  Hungerford, ranted Ross, never visited the constituency, discouraged visitors to the House of Commons, served on no parliamentary committees, and spent a lot of time toadying round the fringes of royalty. His service to self-promotion was exemplary, however.

  ‘Betty!’ he yelled, but to no avail – she was having her hair done. Again. She’d taken the wiser course of action and written a chunk of syrupy prose rather than the mutinous squib she’d threatened Sir Freddy with on Friday night. The editor liked Betty and gave her extra big bylines on Page One – why rock that particular boat?

  With a grunt Ross picked up the pieces of copy paper he’d scattered to the four winds and shoved them viciously on the spike. ‘Picture caption only,’ he ordered one of his underlings. If Freddy Hungerford lived by the oxygen of publicity, he could suffocate as far as John Ross was concerned.

  ‘Next!’

  It was Tuesday morning, and though the Riviera Express described itself as a ‘news’ paper, most of what would appear on its pages this coming weekend was already sewn up – Renishaw’s entry-fee piece for Page One and a small picture of Betty having her hair done with a turn to Page Two. Page Three top, Judy’s hospital crisis. Then, through the rest of the newspaper, the customary smorgasboard of inconsequence and run-of-the-mill which each week was lapped up by the readership.

  There was a piece on a new operating table at the local vet’s, an item about lost anchors in Bedlington Harbour, and a picture story on an irritating child prodigy who would go far (and the sooner the better). The centrepiece, as always, was Athene Madrigale’s glorious page of predictions for the coming week:

  Sagittarius – Oh, how lucky you were to be born under this sign. Nothing but sunshine for you all week!

  Cancer – Someone has prepared a big surprise for you. Be patient, it may take a while to appear, but what pleasure it will bring!

  Capricorn – All your troubles are behind you now. Start thinking about your holidays!

  If there was a ring of familiarity to these soothing phrases – indeed, if any reader had a sharp enough memory – Athene might easily be accused of self-plagiarism. But no right-minded Temple Regent would do that, for she was a much-loved figure in the town with her long flowing robes a kaleidoscope of colours, her iron-grey hair tied back with a blue paper flower and, often as not, odd shoes
on her feet. When Athene spoke – whether in print or on the rare occasions she granted an audience – the world slowed its frantic spin and everything in it seemed all right again.

  Only slowly had Rudyard Rhys come to realise what an asset this ethereal figure was to his publication, but when he tried to make Athene his agony aunt – offering tea and sympathy, solving problems, restarting people’s lives – she was driven to despair. For Athene discovered, when given her first batch of readers’ letters, that there is no solution to some problems – indeed, to most problems. And being Athene, she could not bear to face that eternal truth.

  So instead she now doubled as Aunty Jill, writing the Kiddies’ Korner which featured the birthday photographs of some of the ugliest children in the West Country. This, too, was a great success – they loved her and, having no children of her own, she loved them.

  A centre-spread of photographs sent in by readers, a welter of wedding reports, a raft of local district news, and pages and pages of football reports, made up the rest of the wholesome mix which constituted the Riviera Express. That was enough for its readership – leave the scandal to the Sunday papers!

  Temple Flower Club – Our demonstrator for the evening was Mrs Lydia Sabey, a florist from Dartmouth, and her exhibit was titled Going Dutch. She started off with a copper urn and created an arrangement depicting the Dutch artists using coral and red dahlias, cosmos, red trailing amaranthus, berries and grapes…

  Riviera Writers’ Group – Mrs Bellairs read her first piece since joining the group and held us spellbound with her account of a Christmas party with a twist – she took us on a visit to a stately home with dark-panelled walls, hidden chambers and relics belonging to a persecuted Catholic priest. She then proceeded to find herself trapped between time dimensions…

  Bedlington Social Club – Mrs Bantham led the meeting and introduced our speaker, Mrs Havering from Torquay. Her first recital was the Devon Alphabet, never heard by any of us before!

  Occasionally there was room in the Express for something meatier, and certainly the goings-on down at the Magistrates Court could provide enough spice to fill the paper several times over. But as an editor Rhys lived cautiously, caught between angry city fathers desperate that nothing should besmirch the town’s reputation, and underlings desperate to tap out the truth on their Olivettis and Remingtons. It was the city fathers who invariably prevailed.

  In the far corner of the newsroom by the window overlooking the brewery, a tremendous thundering could be heard. It was the newcomer David Renishaw, evidently putting the finishing touches to what was destined to be the bombshell Page One splash – that Temple Regis would soon be charging holidaymakers for the privilege of walking its gilded streets.

  The rate at which you could hear the ‘ting’ from the carriage return showed just how rapidly Renishaw worked, with barely a pause to consult his shorthand notes. Such industry in a weekly newspaper was unusual and, to be frank, unnerving: if you were lucky enough to get the splash, you could save up writing it till Thursday morning – this was only Tuesday!

  Seven

  With a final flourish, Renishaw wrenched out the last sheet of copy paper and walked it over to the subs’ desk. Just then Miss Dimont came through the door and they engaged in that embarrassed sidestepping dance which comes from two people bent on achieving their destination without giving way to the other.

  ‘After you,’ said Renishaw finally. There wasn’t much of a smile on his face.

  ‘How are you getting on, David? We haven’t had a chance for a chat. You’re a very busy man.’

  ‘Fine, thank you, Miss Dimont.’

  ‘Judy.’

  ‘Actually isn’t it – Huguette?’

  How the hell does he know that? thought Miss Dimont but replied with a forced smile, ‘Most people find it easier to call me Judy.’

  ‘I’m just handing this in and then perhaps there’s time for a chinwag,’ said Renishaw.

  ‘Come and have a cup of tea, I’ll put the kettle on.’

  As Miss Dimont spooned Lipton’s best Pekoe Tips into the pot, she watched the reporter and John Ross in earnest discussion. Ross was smiling, nodding, fingering the copy paper – quite a contrast from his usual Arctic welcome to a new piece of news. Then the two men laughed and Renishaw walked over to Judy’s desk.

  ‘Just talking about the old days. Great to find a kindred spirit,’ he said.

  ‘You worked in Fleet Street?’

  ‘Oh, all over the place,’ said Renishaw, his eyes skimming over Judy’s notebook, unashamedly attempting to translate the upside-down shorthand.

  ‘You’re enjoying Temple Regis? Have you got somewhere nice to stay?’

  ‘Staying with Lovely Mary – you know, the Signal Box Café lady.’

  I know her very well, thought Miss Dimont – but obviously not that well. Why didn’t she tell me she’d got a lodger? One whose desk is not ten yards away from mine? I’ve only spent most lunchtimes at her place over the past five years, why didn’t she tell me?

  ‘How lovely,’ she said, not meaning it. ‘And then… Mrs Renishaw? Is she coming to join you down here?’

  Her question really was – are you planning to stay in Temple Regis, Mr Cuckoo? What are you really doing here? What are you hoping to achieve?

  ‘Why don’t we have a drink later?’ he replied. ‘I don’t much myself, but since I’ve been here I discover that most social activity takes place in close proximity to liquor.’

  His body was wiry, eyes clear, complexion fresh – so unlike most local reporters of his age who were already allowing the middle-age spread to develop, learning new ways to comb their receding hair. He really is quite handsome, thought Miss Dimont, the eyes are a very sharp blue.

  ‘Why not?’ said Judy. Maybe then I can ask you about Pansy Westerham – or is it you who’s going to be asking me about her? What a strange fellow you are.

  ‘The Nelson, at six?’

  ‘We usually go to the Old Jawbones or the Fort.’

  ‘The Nelson’s very comfortable. But then you know that, of course – you were in there at Easter.’

  How on earth would you know that, thought Miss Dimont – Easter was months and months ago, long before you arrived in Temple Regis, and who would you ask in there who knew me, and how would they remember from all that time ago?

  Renishaw smiled knowingly. ‘Man called Lamb,’ he explained. ‘You took pity on him. Bit of an old soak – well, that’s putting it mildly – hadn’t quite got enough change to buy his whisky. You got out your purse and coughed up. He hasn’t forgotten.’

  It still doesn’t make sense, thought Judy. Why would a man, who clearly doesn’t drink, spend time in a pub in the company of a sad old down-and-out long enough to learn I once gave him ninepence so he could make it a double?

  ‘See you there at six,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to write up the Caring Volunteers story.’

  ‘If you need any help,’ said Renishaw, and sat down in Betty’s chair opposite.

  ‘Er, no thank you. I think I’ve got all I…’

  ‘Did you talk to Hugh Radipole?’

  ‘No, I did not,’ said Judy, taking out her crossness by ratcheting copy paper viciously into the Remington QuietRiter. She banged the space bar several times as if to say, go away, I’m busy now.

  ‘Only I think you should,’ said Renishaw, smoothly. ‘I told him about the crisis and he responded very positively. He said he’d put on a party at the Marine Hotel for all those who volunteer this year. Pop in and see an oldie, get rewarded with a cocktail. That should take care of the problem.’

  Dammit, thought Miss D, this is my story – go away and leave me to it!

  ‘See you at six, David,’ she said, as sweetly as she could, and shoving her spectacles up her nose, began to type furiously.

  The Caring Volunteers piece should have come easily. She’d already thought of the introductory paragraph – always the hardest bit – but suddenly it didn’t seem to work any more.
She decided to carry on typing in the hope the story would come good – she’d have to retype the whole thing, but better for the moment to press on – but eventually after rapping out a few more paragraphs she ground to a halt.

  Renishaw! The smug way he’d sat himself down and told her how to do her job! He hadn’t been rude, hadn’t been patronising, but now she knew she’d have to ring up Hugh Radipole, get a couple of extra quotes, include the whole thing about cocktails in return for care, and rewrite the entire story just as Renishaw had dictated. The cheek of the man!

  At the same time, at the back of her mind was the unsettling matter of Pansy Westerham. And then again, that old soak Lamb. When you collected these together with the Caring Volunteers, it suddenly seemed as if Renishaw had deliberately plugged himself into her life.

  But why?

  ‘Miss Dim!’ the editor’s voice trailed out from his office, a combination of tired regret and impending retribution. ‘Here please!’

  She walked, not particularly quickly, across the office.

  ‘Yes, Richard?’ She addressed him just as she’d done during those intense days in the War Office. No matter he now called himself Rudyard after a failed attempt to reinvent himself as a novelist; he would always remain the erratic naval officer who, though older, was junior to her in the spying game they conducted from that cold uncarpeted basement deep below Whitehall.

  They’d known each other for twenty years but now their roles were reversed, and Judy worked for Rudyard – Richard – Rhys. It was not an arrangement which suited either.

  ‘Freddy Hungerford,’ grunted her editor. ‘There’s been a complaint. Where were you on Friday?’

  Drinking cocktails with a fascinating old lady, a lady who at a very late stage in life decided to make herself a fortune by putting young men on a stage who stripped themselves to the waist and shouted into microphones. Who went around getting young girls in the family way, and then left town.

  ‘I got stuck out at Wistman’s Hotel. Snowed in – had to spend the night.’