TP Fielden - Died and Gone to Devon

She wasn’t thinking about him, however – she’d already formed certain conclusions about this genius in their midst – she was thinking about Pansy Westerham.

‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ Terry was saying, shaking his head in disbelief.

They were in the Minor, the only editorial vehicle the Riviera Express possessed. Mostly if you were a reporter you had to catch the bus or use Shanks’s pony, though Miss Dimont was something of a legend in Temple Regis the way she manoeuvred Herbert, her trusty moped, around the town.

For a time she’d enjoyed the novelty of young reporter Valentine Waterford’s tinny red bubble car – indeed, enjoyed the novelty of Valentine himself – but local newspapers have the careless habit of losing those most talented or attractive and one day he’d gone, never to be heard of again.

There was always Terry, though. He had a strong, sturdy profile, an enviable work ethic, an agile mind and a lust for perfection. He could also burble on about the most dreary topics, and his taste in clothes – witness the deerstalker – was nothing short of a crying shame.

‘D’you know he spent forty years photographing snowflakes,’ droned Terry. ‘The pictures are incredible – specially when you consider they were taken using a plate camera attached to a microscope.’ They were off to the cottage hospital to see what they could work up on the Caring Volunteers crisis.

‘Mm,’ responded Miss Dimont, the sound from her closed lips a dipthong of apparent interest and barely concealed boredom. She was careful never to encourage him.

‘The only way he could capture them – this is the 1890s, Judy – was by catching the flakes on a piece of black velvet. Wilson Bentley – what a genius! That’s why I got the new filter for the Leica and, Judy, while you were holed up with that old biddy in Wistman’s Hotel I managed to capture a few.’

‘Oh?’ A fleeting moment of interest.

‘Didn’t really work – too much sunlight. You see, when you photograph snow there are no shadows…’ and on he rambled. Judy looked out of the window as they climbed the hill and came down the other side to Ruggleswick, where the cottage hospital was to be found.

At the lookout point halfway down the hill, Terry stopped the Minor and switched off the engine. He quite often did this when they came out this way, just to stare in amazement at the view. For Terry, the shifting light on the water was a technical challenge never to be mastered, and this morning’s brilliant sunshine, despite the proximity of Christmas, threw up extra hurdles.

For Miss Dimont the seascape recalled memories and moments, captured like flowers pressed into a book, forgotten, only to be rediscovered by chance. The inexorable roll of the waves diminished life’s hurts and filled one’s heart with new hope. There would come a moment, when the sun shone on water on a winter’s day like this, when she would forget about Eric Hedley. But not quite yet.

‘This chap Renishaw,’ said Terry, breaking into her thoughts. ‘’E’s good.’

Miss Dimont swivelled her head round to look at the photographer. ‘You think so?’

‘We went out last week and I’ve never seen anyone work so fast. Brilliant. ’E won’t last long at the Express, far too good for the likes of us.’

Judy took this personally. She had a sharp eye for a story and was – until Mr Renishaw appeared – the best interviewer in the West Country. She could create a story out of a handful of dust.

‘Did he tell you what he’s doing down here, sharing that towering talent with us lesser mortals?’

‘Something about wanting a change. I think he worked in Fleet Street for a bit. Or maybe he was on one of the nationals in Canada. A bit vague. We spent most of the time talking about ballroom dancing.’

‘What would you know about that ,’ snapped Judy, memories of bruised toes flooding back.

‘You’d be surprised.’

‘Coffee?’ They often brought a Thermos on trips away from the office – it was nice, once you were out, to stay out.

‘I wanted to ask you something – but Terry, don’t go all technical on me. Just a simple answer.’ She poured the coffee into two tin mugs and the Minor’s windows started to steam up. Glimpsing the silhouette of their heads together, a passer-by might think they were lovers.

‘What?’

‘I’d like to find some photographs of a woman who died, oh, thirty years ago. She was a socialite, very glamorous, but only appeared on the scene for a very short time before she fell off a roof and was killed.’

Terry looked at her keenly. ‘Killed? D’you mean murdered?’

‘I have no idea. But yes, it could be. On the other hand she may just have been depressed, or taken drugs – I don’t know. But I want to know more about her, and to do that I need to see what she looked like.’

‘Socialite, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘Two places you go, then. The Illustrated London News has the best society picture library. Failing that, the Press Association. Or possibly Tatler .’

‘I thought of that – but how do you ask?’

‘Leave it to me. Hadn’t we better get on?’

They rolled down the hill into Ruggleswick, parked outside the cottage hospital and were greeted by the Matron, Miss Stanway.

What followed was standard fare for the Express and any other local newspaper – a sad tale of the current flu epidemic leaving the town shorn of its crop of volunteers who traditionally swarmed in around Christmas to cheer up the lonely or those abandoned by their families.

In forthright tones Miss Stanway issued the plea that those more comfortably placed in the community might put their seasonal priorities to one side and step forward to fill the gap, while Miss Dimont’s flawless shorthand took down every word. Terry took a picture of Matron standing in her hospital ward, and managed to capture the poignancy of the story by snapping her with a shaft of light behind her left shoulder, pouring down onto a bed whose occupant had turned her head away, as if in despair.

It’s what made Terry brilliant. He may not be able to do The Times crossword and heaven knows when he last opened a book. His love of music was eccentric, and as for his dancing! It infuriated Miss Dimont that someone who wandered through life so immune to its glories could come up with the perfect picture to illustrate her story. How did he manage it?

When they came outside the sun had gone. The seascape had turned grey and nightfall was marching rapidly towards them, even though it was not yet four o’clock. A flock of seagulls suddenly took an interest and circled overhead, noisily beseeching these two isolated human beings to eat something and leave behind the remains.

Miss Dimont felt unnerved by how close they dared to come and rapidly got back in the Minor. Terry stopped to take a shot of them, but when he got in the car started complaining he’d got his stop wrong, or something. When he’d finished whinnying Miss Dimont asked if he’d drive her over to Bedlington.

‘Not going back to the office to type it up? That’s not like you, Judy.’

‘My uncle’s staying with Auriol. We’re all going to have a not-so-nice evening together.’

‘Isn’t he staying with you?’

‘He doesn’t like cats.’ Mulligatawny would have to do without her tonight.

‘Why not-so-nice?’ Terry was full of questions today.

‘Because he’s doing his best – yet again – to get my mother and I together in the same room.’

Terry knew a lot about the redoubtable Madame Dimont, who despite her English birth still insisted on being addressed that way, supporting her demand with a flimsy Belgian accent. Ever since her arrival at the Riviera Express Judy had filled empty conversational moments in the Minor regaling Terry with the Madame’s awfulness and the avalanche of reproving letters with which Grace Dimont bombarded her only child.