Died and Gone to Devon
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.’
‘I hope you’re not thinking of putting that on your expenses. There’s nothing in the diary to say you should’ve been out there.’
‘I went to interview Mrs Phipps to see if I could get a piece out of her about next year’s season at the Pavilion Theatre.’ It was a lie, but lies never count when it’s the editor.
‘I don’t want any more rubbish about noisy beat groups – look at all the trouble they caused last summer,’ grumbled Rhys.
‘She’s thinking of Pearl Carr and Teddy Johnson.’
‘Who?’
‘Pasty-faced woman, man with a straw boater and bow tie. They croon sickly songs at each other.’
‘That sounds a bit more like it.’
Actually, Mr Editor, she’s going to have Gene Vincent – ripping off his leather jacket as he mounts the stage at full revs on his Triumph Bonneville. That’ll increase your heart rate a bit when he hits town.
‘Rr… rrr. Anyway, Freddy Hungerford – apparently Betty rubbed him up the wrong way at the Con Club on Friday night – when you should have been there, Miss Dim – and he wants an apology.’
‘Don’t call me that! I’ve told you, Richard, I am Miss Dimont, or I am Judy. I am not the other thing, and well you know it. Anyway, Betty’s at M’sieur Alphonse having her perm done, she can pop over to the club the moment she’s finished, it’s only round the corner.’
‘No,’ said Rhys, fishing in his pocket for a box of matches and not meeting her gaze, ‘I want you to go.’
‘And apologise for something Betty said?’
‘You can do it better than her.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Richard! What did she say, anyway, to upset the old goat?’
‘I have no idea. Just get round there and smooth him down.’
‘And have his hand up my skirt? No thanks! He’s retiring in the spring and finally we’re going to be represented by a woman who’s diligent, caring, and knows what she’s doing.’
‘Not necessarily. Could be the Liberal who wins.’
‘Same thing – she’s a good candidate too.’
‘I suppose you would say that of the Labour contender as well.’
‘Certainly! It would just be nice to have an MP who actually turned up here occasionally and cared what went on in the constituency.’
Rhys lit his pipe and a foul smell instantly filled the room. ‘Off you go. Smooth him down. Find some story to write. I see John Ross spiked the piece Betty wrote; there has to be something else worth saying.’
‘I suppose you mean his forthcoming peerage? That the lazy good-for-nothing has bought himself a coronet and an ermine robe?’
‘Don’t be so impertinent!’ snapped the editor. ‘You’re the chief reporter on this newspaper and my personal representative – an apology from you will go a long way. Hop round there now!’
‘Just got to finish the Caring Volunteers story first, Richard.’
‘Oh bugger the volunteers and their blithering care. Get round to the Con Club and get down on your knees!’
‘I don’t sleep much, do you?’ he was saying.
Miss Dimont could take it or leave it, but it was Mulligatawny who needed the requisite seven-and-a-half hours, trapping her feet under the eiderdown and prompting dreams of having been manacled and thrown into a dungeon.
‘I have the usual quota.’
They’d met in The Nelson but there was a bit of a scuffle going on so they’d come outside until it was sorted out. Apparently, the Tuesday night crowd tended to get a bit excitable.
‘I find the thoughts keep coming and it seems a waste not to get them down on paper,’ David Renishaw went on. ‘How about you?’
Miss Dimont found his conversational style a little alarming. Though he offered nuggets about his life, each sentence ended with an interrogative, as if he were trying to break into her house and steal her valuables.
‘Rest is essential in our job,’ she said, firmly. ‘Otherwise you lose concentration.’
She didn’t know why she was saying this, but Renishaw unnerved her. She was trying to get to the bottom of why he was here in Temple Regis, what he was running away from (that surely had to be the case?), and why he was interested in Pansy Westerham and her violent death all those years ago.
They were sitting outside The Nelson on a wooden bench. A small green square hemmed by fishermen’s cottages lay in front of them, illuminated by the winking lights of the neighbourhood Christmas tree. It was extraordinarily warm and as she unbuttoned her coat, Judy thought of dear Geraldine Phipps, still up on Dartmoor in Wistman’s Hotel, looking out of her window towards the snow-capped Hell’s Tor a mile distant.
‘Extraordinary, the meterological variances in the area,’ said Renishaw, looking up at the sky. It was if he was reading her mind. ‘Sun, snow – all at the same time.’
‘I was with a friend at the weekend, over in Brawbridge. Snowed in. She needed an extra Plymouth gin to keep out the cold.’
‘That wouldn’t be Geraldine Phipps, by any chance?’ asked Renishaw quickly, turning towards her.
In the glow cast from the Christmas tree he seemed strikingly handsome, but of course that was probably the light. She’d decided on first sight he was not to be trusted.
‘Let’s talk about you, David. It seems extraordinary that someone as gifted as you should want to come and work on the Riviera Express. How so, may I ask?’
‘I needed a change.’
‘From what?’ Good, now it’s me asking the questions, she thought.
‘Canada isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Land of infinite promise. You work hard, you get ahead. You don’t like one place, you go to another. Nobody bothers you, asking questions.’
‘Like me, you mean? Asking questions?’
He looked up at the sky again, smoothing back his hair, tamping down the irritating curl. ‘You’re an exceptionally clever woman, Judy, I don’t mind you asking. It’s all the others – with their official forms and their fact-checking and their overbearing manner…’ his voice trailed off.
This seemed a bit of a contradiction, but I’ll leave it lying where it is for the moment, thought Judy. ‘So what do you do while the rest of us are wasting our lives snoozing?’
‘Think up things.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, everyone has a novel in them, so sometimes I tap away at that. It started out as an autobiography but in everybody’s life there are bits which are plain boring, or you don’t want to revisit, and you need to skip if it’s going to be at all readable. So in the end it was just easier to change the names and make it into a novel.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘I’ve called it On the Road to Calgary.’
‘Would that be a tribute to Jack Kerouac? Or do you think you’ll end up being crucified?’
Renishaw turned to face her and leaned forward. She caught a whiff of something exotic – was it his hair cream? – and involuntarily drew a deep breath.
‘Calgary, Alberta. Where they have a stampede. I worked there for a time on the Calgary Horn. Cattle country. It’s a bit like the wild west out there – you’re an instant star if you can lassoo a chuckwagon to your ten-gallon six-shooter.’
‘Ha, ha!’
‘Fabulous people.’
‘Rather different from Temple Regis.’
‘I’ve travelled a lot. Something always seems to make me want to move on.’
‘And Mrs Renishaw…?’
‘Who can say?’
‘Anything else you do in the wee small hours?’
‘I started an organisation called Underdog. When you’re working on a paper you hear all sorts of things – you know that yourself, Judy – people with genuine grievances against their boss, or their neighbours, or the police. Sometimes as a reporter there’s nothing you can write to help them – the laws of libel and so forth – but a telephone call, or a foot in the door, from someone who’s not afraid of authority can work wonders.’
‘I don’t quite follow.’
‘A stiff talking to. A reminder of the complainant’s rights. A suggestion that they should think twice before bothering the little person again.’
‘That sounds like issuing a threat.’
‘I wouldn’t say that, Judy,’ he replied with a smile. ‘And anyway, don’t tell me that during the war you didn’t use threats to get what you wanted.’
Now how do you know about that? thought Judy. I never talk about my war work.
‘Mr Rhys is an old friend,’ explained Renishaw.
‘I doubt he told you anything about his war work,’ said Judy coldly.
‘There are ways,’ said Renishaw with a nod. He really was supremely arrogant – so self-assured, so careless how he stepped. This whole conversation is not about sleep, or Geraldine Phipps, or the weather, or lassooing cattle in Canada. It’s about him putting me in my place, demonstrating his supremacy, indicating he knows yards more than he will ever share. What’s it all about?
‘I still don’t understand why you chose Temple Regis.’ And I do wish you’d hurry up and choose somewhere else, you’re bothering me.
‘I was working in Fleet Street after I arrived from Canada. I didn’t like the atmosphere. I like fresh air, a small community.’
And now you’re here in Temple Regis, are you going to go round knocking on people’s doors, telling them they can’t do this and they can’t do that? Is that part of a journalist’s job?
‘You mentioned Geraldine Phipps.’ She wasn’t going to do this, it felt as if she was handing Renishaw an advantage, allowing him to extract more information from her than she’d get from him, but she couldn’t resist.
‘Isn’t she wonderful?’
‘It does seem strange you know her and Mr Rhys. You, all the way from Calgary via Fleet Street, knowing two people who to my certain knowledge have never met. That’s an extraordinary coincidence wouldn’t you say, David?’
‘Not really. She knew my mother. I was walking past the pier on my first day here and she was just coming out of the theatre door. Hadn’t seen her for years.’
How strange, thought Miss Dimont. How strange that two women whom I call my close friends – Geraldine, and Lovely Mary – both know about you, and yet don’t mention your name to me. I know we as human beings have a habit of making and keeping secrets but really, I work on the same paper as David Renishaw! I’m his chief reporter! Why haven’t they mentioned him to me? What is the mystery about this man?