TP Fielden - Died and Gone to Devon

Over by the desk the occasional last-minuter would wander in, returning books before they collected a penny-ha’penny fine, but nobody lingered over the shelves – they were far too busy preparing for the festive season. As each one entered there would come through the door a mournful sound offering a reminder of the approach of Christmas.

‘There’s old Wilf, left behind again,’ said Miss Greenway to Miss Atherton. ‘I’d better take him a cup.’

The noise, like a cow calling for her calf, also wafted through the high window and irritated Mr Sirraway no end, but it wasn’t likely to cease any time soon – Old Wilf was a stalwart of the Salvation Army silver band, whose gentle harmonies stirred up the Christmas spirit in the marketplace and encouraged everyone to dip into their pockets.

Wilf was old and lame now, and could no longer wander through the town with his bandmates, so they would set him up on a chair outside the library with his euphonium and leave him to it. Somehow ‘Away In A Manger’ tootled through his silver tubes lacked joy and encouraged sorrow. You could get tired of it pretty quickly.

‘Thank heavens,’ sighed Mr Sirraway finally, pushing his plans and his books away from him. ‘That’s that done!’

‘Have you finished, sir?’

The scholar leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs and put his hands behind his neck. ‘Finished.’

‘Is there anything else we can get you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Cup of tea?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Well, I hope we’ve been of service.’ Miss Greenway wouldn’t have minded if her little library got a mention in the author’s acknowledgements when Mr Sirraway’s book came out, but was too shy to ask what its title would be.

‘Well, I’ll be wishing you a Happy Christmas, then. May I ask when your book will be published?’

‘I don’t think a fir tree covered in tinsel has a place in an establishment of learning,’ replied Sirraway, and with that walked out. As he opened the door they got a blast of Wilf’s ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’. It sounded more like someone sitting on a whoopee cushion.

‘He’s left a carrier bag behind,’ said Miss Greenway later, tidying up the desk and taking the books back to their shelves. It was all a bit of a let-down, it had been quite exciting having someone so – well, academic – about the place.

‘Let him come back for it, the miserable so-and-so,’ said Miss Atherton. ‘I’m not chasing after him.’

Miss Greenway was unconvinced. Maybe, too, she was still thinking about that mention in the acknowledgements. She picked up the carrier bag and put it on the desk. ‘I’ll just look and see if there’s an address. Though you could tell he’s not local.’

‘Not with those manners.’

There was little to give away the identity of the man who had colonised their small world over the past four days. Because he was conducting research and not taking books away from the library, there was no requirement for him to provide a driving licence or similar. And all there was in the bag was a large notebook with no name inside and a folder containing a large number of press cuttings.

‘Mostly about Sir Freddy Hungerford,’ said Miss Greenway, leafing through them. ‘Maybe he works for him. Oh, and look, quite a few on Mirabel Clifford.’

‘The one who’s going to take over from Sir Freddy?’

There’d been quite a lot in the Riviera Express about Mrs Clifford. The decision to field a female candidate in the forthcoming general election had been a controversial one, mainly because women were rarely allowed to stand in winnable parliamentary seats. There were plenty of no-hope constituencies where they could go and stand on a soapbox, if that was their thing.

But the Liberal candidate, Helena Copplestone, had made a huge impression on a populus that was growing tired of a self-congratulatory MP with a preference for the cigar and brandy to be found in his St James’s club; and there were real fears that when he retired, the Liberal would win the seat.

‘She’s prettier,’ Miss Atherton said one lunchtime. ‘She’ll win it.’

‘It’s a bit more complicated than that,’ countered Miss Greenway, though with precious little authority to back up her argument, for she had never voted. ‘Think of all the good things Mirabel Clifford has done for Temple Regis!’

‘Well,’ said Miss Atherton, who could take a bleak view when she wanted, ‘I can tell you if there are three women contesting this seat, it’ll be a fight to the death. The death!’

There was something faintly ridiculous about Terry when he put a hat on. Obviously he never looked at himself in the mirror or he wouldn’t do it.

The item in question was a deerstalker and he was wearing it with the flaps down. Out in Widecombe it had caused little comment – moorland folk have no dress code and offer little in the way of advice to incomers – but back in the office it was greeted with hilarity.

‘’Ello, Sherlock!’

‘Found your way back from the North Pole, Terry? Dog-sled drawn by the hounds of the Baskervilles?’

Shopping done, the newsroom had filled up again just ahead of opening time. Most would be taking their Christmas cheer with them down to the Fortescue Arms, and Betty promised she’d come to join them as soon as she’d got the Con Club drinks party out of the way.

‘Don’t wear that if you’re coming with me,’ she sniped at Terry. ‘It looks daft.’

‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d just been where I’ve been,’ snipped the snapper. ‘Three-foot drifts. Had to leave Judy behind – she’s snowed in.’

Betty was unimpressed. She rarely left Temple Regis, whose Riviera climate seldom permitted snow to fall on its rooftops; indeed it would be fair to say she never willingly exposed herself to the wilder elements – a tropical umbrella in her cocktail was more her idea of wet-weather gear.

‘Bet she could have got back if she wanted,’ she sniffed, cross at having to deputise for Judy. ‘Come on!’

They walked over to the Con Club in silence. Terry was marvelling at the new lens he’d bought for his Leica, which promised to do some amazing things with snowflakes – he couldn’t wait to get into the darkroom to see how well it’d done. Betty meanwhile was thinking about Graham Platt, who’d chucked her last week, saying he was thinking of taking holy orders.

Holy orders! If the bishop only knew what Graham…

‘Let’s make this snappy,’ said Terry. With Betty on a job, it was he who issued the orders; with Miss Dimont things were a bit different. ‘ Friday Night Is Music Night’ s on the wireless.’

‘Not half,’ she agreed, ‘fifteen minutes, tops. Then home for your programme.’

She knew Terry had a tin ear and couldn’t even whistle the national anthem in tune, so obviously there was a girl waiting. You knew very little about Terry’s private life – altogether a Mystery, as Betty labelled them when they didn’t make a pass.

‘Got a date, Ter?’

‘Over there,’ he rapped, heading through the crowd to where the sitting Member of Parliament for Temple Regis was, indeed, sitting.

Around Sir Frederick Hungerford were gathered the simple and the sycophantic of his party workers; everyone else with any sense had herded round the bar. A small but polite audience, they sat with vacant looks on their faces as the parliamentarian recalled a wartime exploit by which he’d single-handedly cut short the conflict by at least five years.

The old boy was looking tired, but then who could blame him? There’d been the lengthy business of being introduced to a lot of people he didn’t know because his visits to the constituency were so severely rationed, and the tiresome ritual of shaking everybody’s hand. Despite this, he put on a good show – well-practised in the art of flattery, he would repeat their names as if drinking in their identity, and then offer a whispered word. They went away on Cloud Nine.