TP Fielden - Died and Gone to Devon

‘Don’t think we’ve seen you here since last year,’ challenged Betty; she voted Labour when she could be bothered. ‘Of course, under your government, rail fares have increased so much people can’t afford to travel down to Temple Regis like they used to. I expect you have the same difficulty – affording it, I mean.’

‘Come over here and sit down,’ smarmed Sir Frederick, ‘I do like a woman with an independent mind.’ He reached out and tickled her knee. ‘Featherstone, you say? Related to the Featherstonehaughs of Arundel, by any chance?’ He knew how to patronise a person all right – he could tell by her shoes that Betty had gone to the local secondary.

‘How does it feel to be giving your last party?’ riposted Betty, notebook flapping and eyes blazing. ‘And don’t do that, Sir Frederick. If you don’t mind.’

The old boy settled back and eyed her with amusement.

‘Must be a relief to be retiring,’ went on Betty. ‘So many calls on your time in London, so many people to see. You missed the annual fête back in the summer, I recall – they had to get Sam Brough to make the speech. You were very much missed.’

Sir Frederick’s eyes were on Betty’s knees. ‘I think you must play tennis rather well,’ he smiled, as if this were a compliment.

‘Are you making the speech tonight? Or will it be Mrs Clifford? We’ve only got a moment,’ she said, nodding towards her photographer, ‘then we’re off on a real story.’

This was unlike Betty – sharp, rude, insubordinate – maybe she was hoping there’d be a complaint and she wouldn’t have to cover politics any more. After all, they were still talking about what Judy Dimont said and did at the Annual Conservative Ball two years ago!

‘Clifford?’ pondered Sir Frederick. ‘That name seems familiar. Could swear I’ve heard it before somewhere.’

Betty fell for it. ‘She’s your successor, Sir Frederick! You’re retiring, she’s the new candidate. A much-respected figure…’

The MP’s gaze turned to scorn. It said, of course I know who the woman is, I’m not a complete idiot. But one does not, in the presence of an honourable Member who has served his community loyally, unflinchingly, tirelessly, for thirty years mention some pipsqueak piece of fluff who’s only been selected because she has nice curly hair and wears a skirt.

FLASH! Terry got a nice one in, Sir Fred’s face a death-mask tinged with contempt. Of course the editor wouldn’t put it in the paper – no chance. But it would make a nice addition to the Thank Heavens! board, usually reserved for the photos of less attractive bridal couples (as in ‘Thank Heavens they found each other – nobody else would have them’).

A pretty girl wandered by, heading for the bar. ‘Over here!’ ordered the MP. ‘Just the sort!’ The girl smiled vaguely but walked on.

‘Over here ! ’ he repeated, louder. ‘Sit down, put your arm round my shoulder, smile at the camera!’ The girl blushed timidly and tried to say something, but the MP was edging forward in his seat and sticking a fiendish grin on his face. ‘Want your picture in the paper, don’t you, sweetie?’ he said through his practised smile. ‘Look at the camera now. Young adoring party worker looks up to her hero Member!’

His victim did not directly respond but said to Terry. ‘I… I… shouldn’t be here. Don’t put my picture in the paper, please!’

‘Why ever not !’ roared Sir Frederick.

‘I’m not one of your party workers,’ she said, getting up. ‘I work behind the bar. And I vote Liberal .’

Unabashed, the old boy managed to get a tickle to the back of her knees before she scooted away.

‘We’ve got all we need,’ said Terry, who always maintained a cheerful demeanour no matter the circumstances – good photographers never sulk on duty.

‘Can’t stay for the speech,’ said Betty to Sir Freddy. ‘But I’ll write that our outgoing MP hasn’t a clue who his successor will be.’

‘No you won’t,’ replied Sir Frederick with confidence. ‘I’ve got your editor’s home number.’

Good, thought Betty. No more politics for me, then.

‘So you see,’ Mrs Phipps was drawing on a Player’s Navy Cut and her quite astonishing memory, both at the same time, ‘Eglantine’s only ambition was to marry a moat.’

Miss Dimont shook her head slightly, as if to clear it. They were sitting in the coffee room after breakfast, and her old friend’s endless flood of reminiscence gushed on like a mountain stream.

‘She had a thing about castles – there were one or two in her family, you know – and she thought the only way to show you’d married well was if, when you went home, you were surrounded by a moat. Preferably with a drawbridge to pull up.

‘So she did – marry a moat, that is. She collared Sir Jefrye Waterford, but little did she know that in the wink of an eye he’d lose the lot – too many wagers, too much crème de menthe. Too many popsies.’

And were you one of those, thought Judy, and would that have been while he was married to Eglantine? She changed the subject.

‘You were going to tell me, last night, your royal story.’

‘I wonder how that particular tale escaped,’ said Mrs Phipps, her eye travelling around the room to check if the drinks waiter was out of bed yet. ‘We got talking about other things, I suppose. You really are terribly good company, Judy, it’s such a pleasure to have the time to chat.’

‘Why don’t you call me Hugue, Geraldine? My close friends do.’

‘Hugue?’

‘Short for Huguette. I stopped using it at school because they used to call me Huge – I wasn’t! Well, just a little bit, and only then sometimes… Judy’s really a work name.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ asked Mrs Phipps. ‘We’ve known each other for years.’

Because most of the time we’re talking about you, and there never seems to be the opportunity, Miss Dimont thought, but not unkindly. Mrs Phipps’ stories were worth a guinea a minute and anyway, she was an actress – and who else do actresses talk about but themselves?

‘I like it,’ opined Mrs Phipps. ‘French, of course.’

‘Actually Belgian. My father was a diamond merchant in Antwerp, though my mother’s English. I grew up there until I was four but what with the war… we moved to England when my father was imprisoned by the Germans.’

‘Did he escape?’

‘No, he couldn’t. He was treated very badly and was never quite the same again. I did a year or two at university but then I took over a lot of the business from him – travelling around Europe, buying and selling. The diamond business is like a club for men – they think you know nothing. As a result I was quite successful.’

‘Good Lord,’ said Mrs Phipps. ‘Then you must be quite well off.’

‘Well,’ said Miss Dimont, reflecting. ‘There’s a nice house in the Essex marshes, and we still have a tiny home in Ellezelles – that’s where we come from – but I’m very happy down here.’ And a million miles away from my overbearing mother, she thought with relief.

‘So you…?’

‘Let’s talk about you. You were going to tell me a royal story.’

‘It’s rather a long one.’

‘That’s all right, it’s my Saturday off. I’ll get the bus back to Temple Regis after lunch, if the snow allows. What’s it all about?’

A petite breakfast waitress was clearing away the coffee things, and Mrs Phipps fixed her with a commanding gaze, borrowed from when she played Lady Bracknell in, oh, 1934, was it? The Adelphi. And wonderful reviews, naturally…