The Heart of the Dales (24 page)

‘I'd be more than happy,' said Hezekiah. ‘More than happy.'

‘That's very kind of you, Mr Longton,' I said. ‘I might very well take you up on that.' I was keen to move the conversation on from the discussion about my neglected allotment so, looking around me, commented, ‘It certainly looks a great deal brighter in here.'

‘Oh aye,' said Harry, ‘it does that an' I'll tell thee summat else an' all, some of us dunt like it.'

‘Nay,' agreed George, and shifted uncomfortably on the high stool. ‘I gets vertigo up 'ere.'

‘I 'ates and habbominates it,' growled Thomas Umpleby.

‘Is somebody serving?' asked Christine, looking towards the empty bar.

‘You 'ave to tinkle that little brass bell on t'bar to get attention now,' Harry scoffed. ‘New chap'll be chattin' up customers in t'lounge, few that are theer.'

‘Fancy London ways,' growled Thomas. ‘Bloody bells now, what next?'

I rang the bell and a fresh-faced young man with a ready smile emerged from the back. His black brilliantined hair was slicked back from the forehead in one smooth wave, and he wore a brightly coloured open-necked shirt and sported a gold chain and a heavy gold ring.

‘Good morning,' I said. ‘A pint of your best bitter, please, and a glass of red wine.'

‘Would you care to go into the lounge, sir?' He glanced in the direction of the four men in the corner. ‘It's a bit more comfortable in there.'

‘No, we're fine here,' I said. I was about to add that the public bar had more atmosphere but thought better of it.

‘We have a selection of fine wines,' he told me. ‘There's a particularly good Rioja, a couple of nice French wines – a Fitou Reserve and a Rhône from a small vineyard – and, if you like Italian wine, a
gallo nero
Chianti.'

A selection of disapproving noises emanated from the stools.

‘The house red will be fine,' said Christine.

The landlord began to pull the pint. ‘Just passing through, are you?' he asked.

‘That's what Winston Churchill asked this fancy American general during t'last war,' announced Harry in a loud voice. ‘This Yanksaid to Winnie that in 'is opinion Britain was the asshole of Europe. ‘Just passing through?' asked Churchill.' This was followed by raucous laughter.

The landlord look extremely embarrassed. ‘I'm sorry about that.'

‘We're used to it,' I told him. ‘We live here. We're locals.'

‘In Peewit Cottage,' added Christine.

The young man stretched a hand across the bar, tookhers and smiled. ‘Ah, yes, the wife of the school inspector. I'm very pleased to meet you. I'm David Fidler, the new landlord. I do hope I'll be seeing a great deal more of you.'

‘Oh, they dunt come in 'ere much,' said Harry, quite happy to involve himself in another's conversation. ‘Yon Mester Phinn is far too busy inspectin' schools an' tryin' to close 'em down.'

‘I was going to buy you a pint, Harry,' I said, ‘but I've thought better of it now.'

‘Gerron,' he said, ‘I'm only pulling thee leg. We'll join thee in a drink, won't we, lads? Mi throat's as dry as a lime-burner's clog. Mild for me, please.'

‘Very kind of you,' said Thomas Umpleby, draining his pint glass.

‘Don't mind if I do,' said George Hemmings, doing the same.

‘And what about you, Mr Longton?' I asked.

‘Thank you kindly,' said Hezekiah, raising his tankard.

‘Four pints for the regulars, please,' I said.

‘You've certainly made a big difference,' Christine told the landlord as he began to pull the pints.

He lowered his voice. ‘Well, I have tried to brighten up the place to attract more customers. Modernise it. It was like going backhundreds of years when I first walked in. But as soon as I saw the place, I immediately saw the potential. As you know, the other pub in the village, the Golden Ball, is a bit of a dive. I think I can really make a go of this. With professional people like yourselves coming to live here and passing trade, it could be very good. I want to attract a better class of customer and eventually offer high-quality food – a fashionable new menu featuring home-cooked dishes. I was manager of a pub in Chiswickin London, which was very successful.'

‘This is hardly Chiswick,' observed Christine.

‘Oh, I know that,' said the landlord. He leaned over the bar. ‘Quite frankly, I want to attract a rather better clientele. I have big plans for The Oak.'

‘Well, I wish you luck,' I said, thinking that he would certainly need it. I carried the drinks over to the regulars, and the landlord returned to the lounge bar.

Thomas Umpleby raised his pint. ‘'Ere's to us, all on us, an' me an' all. May we nivver want nowt, none of us, nor me neither. Good 'ealth, Mester Phinn.'

‘'As tha sooarted out them squirrels yet, then?' Harry asked me.

‘Yes, all sorted out,' I said.

‘Tha got rid on 'em, then?'

‘Yes, I got rid of them.'

‘What's this about squirrels?' asked George.

‘'E's 'ad an hinfestation,' Harry told him.

‘Two actually,' I said, ‘but they've gone.'

‘That's what thy thinks,' chuckled Harry. ‘They'll be back. Markmy words.' Ever the prophet of doom, I thought.

‘We used to eat squirrels, tha knaas,' said George.

‘Eat them?' I exclaimed.

‘I'm telling thee, my owld mam used to cook'em,' said George. ‘An' they were very tasty, an' all. My owld mam used to mekone o' them stews wi' taties an' carrots and onions. Tasted a bit like rabbit.'

‘I like rabbit,' said Christine, ‘but I don't think I could bring myself to eat squirrel and certainly not cook it.'

‘Sometimes it were t'only thing what there were to eat,' said George. ‘When I were a lad, times was 'ard. Many's t'time we 'ad to mekdo wi' bread an' jam an' what we could scavenge from fields an' hedgerows. It were quite a treat to 'ave squirrel 'ot-pot.' He tooka gulp of beer. ‘Aye, times were 'ard, all reight, but we was 'appy.'

‘More than can be said for us now,' grumbled Harry.

‘Tha reight theer,' agreed George.

‘Aye,' sighed Harry sadly.

‘Come on, you two misery-guts, stop yer moanin' and a-groanin',' said Thomas. ‘Tha two are abaat as 'appy as a pair o' funeral bells.'

‘What about a poem, Mr Umpleby,' I said.

‘Nay, I'm not reight in t'mood for poetry today, if truth be towld,' he replied.

‘Oh, please,' pleaded Christine.

‘Gu on then,' he said, taking very little persuading. ‘Just for thee, Missis Phinn, but only one mind, I'm not doin' no epics today. I'll give thee ‘The Laugh of a Child'. Mi sainted mother, God rest her soul, used to recite this. It were one of 'er favourites. She did a sampler of it when she were a little 'un. Beautiful it is. I 'ave it on mi wall.'

The old man stood and, with one arm outstretched, he declaimed his poem in a voice as bracing as a Yorkshire moor, and as clear and sparkling as the singing becks.

Luv it! Luv it! 'Tis the laugh of a child,

Now ripplin', now gentle, now merry and wild.

It rings in t'air with t'innocent cush

Like t'trill of yon bird at t'twilight's soft 'ush.

It floats on yon breeze like t'toll of a bell,

Or t'music which dwells in t'heart of a shell.

'Tis best music of all, so wild and so free

'Tis merriest sound in t'whole world to me!

We all applauded vigorously, and would have stamped our feet on the ground had we been able to reach the floor but the stools were too high; instead, we banged our glasses on the table.

The young landlord appeared at the bar. ‘Could you keep the noise down in here, please?' he asked. ‘You're disturbing the other customers in the lounge. And,' he added, ‘all breakages will have to be paid for.'

‘You know, I do feel sorry for Harry and his pals,' said Christine later when we were backat the cottage. She tooka steaming casserole out of the oven and placed it on the table.

‘That smells good,' I said, creeping up behind her and kissing her on the neck.

‘They were so out of place sitting on those horrible modern stools. They looked like parrots on a perch. And there was certainly no need for the landlord to say what he did.'

‘You're the best cookin Yorkshire, Mrs Phinn, do you know that?' I said, lifting the lid of the large metal dish and sniffing the contents. ‘Mmmmm.'

‘They looked quite pathetic. Like fish out of water. And you should have seen poor Mr Umpleby's face when he was told to be quiet.'

‘I thought they were parrots on a perch?'

‘You know what I mean. It's such a pity,' she said. ‘That traditional eighteenth-century inn with its timber frames, oak beams and horse brasses.'

‘You've changed your tune,' I said. ‘You were all for change before we went out.'

‘That was before I saw the changes,' she said. ‘The place now looks so pseudo. It's lost all its character.'

‘There's always the Golden Ball,' I said. ‘They could go back there.'

‘That's worse.'

‘They'll get used to the changes,' I said dismissively. ‘Now, can we eat? I'm starving.'

‘I don't think they will ever get used to the changes,' Christine replied. ‘And, yes, we are ready to eat. Will you call to Mum? She'll be upstairs putting Richard down for his sleep.'

I shouted up the stairs, then turned back to Christine. ‘Now the landlord at the Royal Oak–'

‘The Oak, you mean.'

‘The Oak, then. You have to admit that he's a vast improvement on the last miserable specimen.'

‘Now who's changed his tune?'

‘And he is making a bit of an effort to brighten up the place.'

‘Well, I didn't like him – or his decor,' said Christine.

‘At least he smiled,' I said, ‘and we didn't have to wait an age for the drinks.'

‘Well, I didn't like him,' she repeated. ‘He had clammy hands.'

‘Look, Christine, I'm starving,' I said. ‘Can we eat?'

Christine's mother appeared in the kitchen. ‘Hello, Mum, all well?' she said.

As she ladled out the steaming casserole, I said grace in the style of Thomas Umpleby, a true Yorkshire grace: ‘God bless us all and mekus able, to eayt all t'stuff 'at's on this table.' Then I asked, ‘What are we eating by the way? It smells delicious.'

‘I'm trying out an old Yorkshire recipe,' she told me, her eyes full of mischief. ‘Very traditional. It's called
écureuil bourguignonne
.'

‘And what's that when it's at home?' I asked.

‘Squirrel hot-pot!' she replied.

The Reverend Percival Featherstone, Chairman of the Governing Body at St Margaret's Church of England Primary School, was a stern-looking cleric with a sizeable hawkish nose, grey strands of hair combed across an otherwise bald head, and heavy-lidded eyes. His large eyebrows met above his nose giving one the impression that he was permanently scowling. Because he wore thin, gold-framed spectacles and sported great bushy grey sideburns, he looked every inch the Victorian parson. I could visualise this grimly-serious figure walking the streets of Barchester for he looked as if he had stepped out of the pages of Trollope's most celebrated novel.

I had inspected St Margaret's at the end of the previous term and had promised to make a return visit to the school – an austere Victorian grey stone building adjacent to the church in the village of Hutton-with-Branston – at the beginning of the new academic year to go through my conclusions and recommendations. Prompted by the situation that had arisen at Ugglesmattersby Junior School, I had quickly arranged a visit.

Fortunately for me, and in a quite unexpected way, things seemed to have sorted themselves out with regard to Ugglemattersby. The first meeting with the headteacher, Mrs Braddock-Smith, and the governors of the Infant School, where I had outlined the suggestions for the amalgamation, had gone amazingly smoothly and everyone present had been strongly in favour of the recommendation. The meeting with the head-teacher, Mr Harrison, and governors of the Juniors, had been less good humoured but, again, it appeared that my lucky star was shining brightly for the predicted ‘fly in the ointment', Councillor Sidebottom, was ‘down with the flu' and couldn't
attend the meeting. All in all, things seemed to be working out fairly well.

St Margaret's had an excellent reputation for creative arts and Mrs Kipling, the headteacher, a small wiry-haired woman with smiling eyes, was a regular delegate on Sidney's art courses. In fact, it was rumoured that she had quite a crush on him.

During the summer inspection, I had been given pride of place in the front row to watch the end-of-term musical concert. The choir had sung confidently and with genuine enthusiasm, the small brass band had played with gusto, and the twin girls playing the piano duet had been most impressive. But the star of the show had been a boy of eleven who had delighted the audience with a selection of violin solos. When he had finished, the applause had been loud and enthusiastic and the boy, with a massive grin on his face, had taken a very low and prolonged bow.

After the concert, I had gone backstage to congratulate the young performers.

‘You were excellent,' I had told the budding Paganini.

‘Oh, thanks, sir,' the boy had replied. ‘I was really, really nervous with all those people out there and my violin teacher as well. When miss said we'd got a school inspector in the front row, I thought I'd be sure to fluff it.'

‘Well, your nerves didn't show,' I had told him. ‘And I was impressed with that very professional bow at the end. You looked like a seasoned performer.'