TP Fielden - Died and Gone to Devon

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!

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.