Died and Gone to Devon Page 16

  ‘Anyway, if we have to have a general election, at least we have the best of all choices ahead,’ Judy went on. ‘Women candidates standing for all three political parties – just think of that!’

  ‘Very nice, dear. D’you like this tea? My friend at Lipton’s let me have a small packet to try out.’

  ‘The only constituency in Britain to field three women – it’s a breakthrough! And it means we’ll have a woman Member of Parliament to represent us, no matter who wins. A miracle!’

  ‘Won’t make any difference,’ said Athene with a sigh. ‘They disappear to Westminster and you never see them again.’

  ‘I can’t speak for the other two, but I can tell you Mirabel Clifford isn’t like that. She’s determined to do the right thing by the town after all those years of Sir Freddy being the absentee landlord.’

  ‘You really like her, don’t you?’

  ‘I do, Athene, but more than that, I admire her. She’s tough but she’s straight – well, almost,’ she added, remembering the scribbled piece of paper with the name and address of Sir Freddy’s popsy. ‘The other candidates are excellent, too, but there’s something special about Mirabel. And one thing you would like – she’s nice.’

  ‘Sagittarius rising.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’

  ‘I just sense it.’

  I wonder whether your astral powers are strong enough to tell whether she’ll win, thought Judy. There’s sure to be a backlash at the ballot box against Sir Freddy, however good she is.

  There was a faint rustle behind them: ‘Hello, you two.’ It was Denise Hopton, the sub-editor. ‘Glad to catch you – I’ve just handed in my notice, I’ll be off at the end of the week. Hooray!’

  ‘Heavens,’ said Judy, ‘that’s a bolt out of the blue! Why? Where? What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ve got a job working for Lilian Smee, the Labour candidate.’

  ‘Are you Labour?’

  ‘I most certainly am!’

  ‘Well, she’s worked hard and is very impressive. But Labour candidates don’t usually stand much of a chance in Devon – what’ll you do if she doesn’t get elected?’

  ‘Ah, but she will!’ said Denise, perching herself on a corner of the desk. In her six months at the Riviera Express she’d shown real promise and, what’s more, broken in pieces John Ross’s scornful view of women in the office. He now looked across the desk at her with what passed in Glasgow for adoration.

  ‘People are sick of the old ways,’ said Denise. ‘This clapped-out old warhorse who’s been there since the year dot. They want someone young, fresh – ready to fight for those who need it most.’

  ‘You could be describing Mirabel Clifford.’

  Denise laughed. ‘Yes! Aren’t we lucky? And the Liberal candidate’s pretty good, too. It’ll be an exciting contest for once, but there’s not a chance Mrs Clifford will win – she represents the party of Sir Frederick Hungerford. Not a good look!’

  ‘I rather fancy her chances,’ said Judy, smiling back, challenging.

  ‘We’ll have to see.’

  ‘But what’ll you do if she doesn’t win? Will you come back here?’

  ‘I went to see Mr Rhys this afternoon. He doesn’t like his staff to be seen taking sides politically, so I think the answer to that is no. I thought I’d chance my arm in Fleet Street, see if I can get a night shift or two, see how it goes.’

  Quite right, thought Miss Dimont. You’re young, you’re very bright, don’t take any nonsense, and are prepared to take risks – just what’s needed in the national press.

  ‘So what did you make of your time here with us?’ she said.

  Denise looked around, slowly surveying the newsroom. Over in the far corner David Renishaw had slipped behind his desk and was sitting there, turning over the pages of a notebook.

  ‘The Express? It’s like the estuary out there,’ said Denise, nodding at the receding tide she could see from the upstairs window. ‘Conflicting currents, dangerous waters.’

  ‘What d’you mean, exactly?’

  ‘The old versus the new. Shafts of brilliance, but big puddles of stick-in-the-mud. Ingrained prejudice versus vaulting ambition.’

  Good Lord, thought Judy, you have been thinking a lot about it.

  ‘So it comes down to a question of which wagon do you hitch yourself to?’ went on Denise. ‘I expect it’s the same in any office – I wouldn’t know, I came here straight from university. Do you side with the editor when you know he’s wrong, or court danger by siding with Mr Renishaw over there, when you know he’s right?’

  ‘He’s not always right.’

  ‘Mostly he is.’

  ‘Not always.’

  Sensing alarm bells, Denise knew better than to contradict. ‘Anyway, it’s been interesting and I’ve learned a lot.’

  ‘And tamed John Ross.’

  ‘Oh, him!’ You could tell she didn’t like that idea.

  ‘He’ll miss you. You’re very good at your job.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll find another galley slave.’ Denise smiled and wandered off in the direction of Renishaw. Since his great scoop about entry fees for Temple Regis, he’d become curiously withdrawn. There were no more invitations for Judy to the pub, no more mouse-racing, in fact the pair barely spoke. If he had a big story, Renishaw didn’t wait for the Monday conference but slipped into the editor’s office where they would discuss the idea behind a closed door.

  Rudyard Rhys, after hearing about Renishaw’s attack on Professor Sirraway, suddenly became far less enthusiastic about his new signing, and to the casual observer the new reporter appeared to be drifting into the nether world occupied by many a middle-aged journalist on local newspapers whose career had iced over, never to thaw.

  He’d never taken the trouble to say a word to Athene, though their desks were close, but having studied him through her ostrich-feather screen, she decided she didn’t mind – his aura was too green.

  Betty and he had walked out a few times, but nothing much came of it. He explained away his passion for righting injustice – the Underdog years – as being triggered by boredom, ‘and so would you be, stuck in Ontario, wondering what the hell brought you there in the first place.’ It turned out that there was a Mrs Renishaw, but that she’d declined his offer of a new start on the English Riviera, and divorced him instead.

  He sat alone at his desk, neither welcoming nor rejecting the approach of the young and clever Denise, lost in the pages of his notebook.

  Judy glanced at him as she gathered up her things and aimed towards the car park where the faithful Herbert waited, but as she reached the back door, the heat and smell of early summer made her reconsider.

  ‘An ice cream by the bandstand,’ she said to herself with a smile.

  By the time she got there, the Regis Brass Ensemble was parping its way through a selection of Gilbert and Sullivan tunes – a little rusty after the winter break, but showing promise. Judy sat on a bench, notebook in lap, thinking about nothing in particular but hoping that an idea for a story might come to her. It was certainly true that since Renishaw’s arrival everyone had upped their game, trying harder to produce something fresh for the news pages.

  ‘Hello, Judy, what a glorious evening.’ It was Mirabel Clifford.

  ‘Your last evening off,’ said Miss Dimont with a smile, ‘before the storm clouds break. Have you got a moment to enjoy the sun and the band?’

  ‘Just what I need! We’re already working full-tilt on the election – I came down here for a breather.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be reporting your every move, obviously. And those of the other candidates!’

  ‘Ah yes, the impartiality of the Press! Except that when Sir Freddy reigned, your Mr Rhys was a bit niggardly in giving space to his opponents.’

  ‘Duty. I don’t think he was a big fan any more than anyone else.’

  ‘And yet Hungerford reigned supreme, for years and years and years. That’s the hurdle I now face – showing the electora
te I’m not him.’

  Judy recalled Betty’s tale of the Christmas party where the MP pretended not to know the name of his successor. ‘Did he send you his best wishes when the election was announced?’

  ‘Not a dicky bird.’

  For a few moments the two women talked over the events which had brought them together at the time of the attack on Sir Freddy. His whitewash interview with the Daily Herald had turned the whole disappearance into a damp squib, and what with a scandal involving the film star Diana Dors, Hungerford’s name had been pushed out of the public prints overnight.

  At the same time the unwelcome attentions of Professor Sirraway suddenly ceased and, as always, the world moved on. But the two events had opened up between Miss Dimont and the solicitor-candidate a mutual respect; they’d occasionally lunched together, and though Miss Dimont had no political preferences, she hoped Mirabel would succeed.

  ‘How’s Mulligatawny?’ Not a politician’s question, but woman-to-woman.

  ‘Lost his good manners. Trips me up whenever I come through the door, bawls at me as though I’ve trodden on his paws when I’ve done no such thing, and refuses virtually everything I offer him to eat. And then he sleeps on my pillow when I’m at work.’

  ‘That’s males for you.’

  ‘Yes. And no.’

  They laughed.

  ‘How do you feel about this election, then?’ said Judy. ‘And by the way I’m not interviewing you – just curious. You’ve given up a huge amount of your private life to do something you believe in, it seems to me, and from what I gather you’ve no ambition to get on the gravy train and become a minister, any of that. What’s in it for you?’

  ‘What this town needs is a woman’s touch,’ replied Mirabel. ‘Less huff-and-puff, more action. If I’m elected, I’ll spend equal amounts of time here in the constituency and in the House of Commons. Show the men how the job should be done.’

  ‘And your chances? Of getting to Westminster?’

  ‘Funnily enough, the thing I fear the most is if that ghoul Freddy Hungerford opens his mouth. Doesn’t matter if he says something for me or against me, it’s just his poisonous braying that could spoil my chances.’

  She paused. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever said this of anybody – but if you asked me, I’d say I hated him. And if there were no laws in this land, I tell you, Judy, I would happily kill him.’

  Seventeen

  Betty was standing at the back of the crowd craning her neck – Temple Regis could get a bit star-struck when someone as famous as Fanny Cradock visited town and the Press, well, they could just stand in the queue along with everyone else.

  ‘And I had my hair done specially,’ she complained to Terry, who was waiting his moment to lunge forward in typical press-cameraman style. ‘Plus I paid a fortune for these shoes in Clark’s. You didn’t even notice!’

  ‘I wondered what was different,’ said Terry, turning to look at her for the first time. ‘It looks like you had your hair done on a hillside. Tilt your head to the left a bit, girl – go on, that’ll straighten it up.’

  ‘That’s the last time I have a perm! I’m going to let it go natural from now on – fifteen-and-six, it cost!’

  The crowd was getting restless. Granted that Suds & Duds was the first launderette ever to open its doors in town, and it was always a treat to see someone special come and cut a ribbon – but these were busy people, what with the holiday season coming on, and quite a few of them were getting restless.

  ‘Fifteen minutes,’ grumbled one woman to another.

  ‘And the rest! She’s always late, I heard,’ replied her companion. ‘A prima donna, she is.’

  Betty overheard this. She didn’t know much about Mrs Cradock because she never watched TV, but Fanny was one of the most famous people in the land so the wait was to be expected. As she stood there she realised her shoes were too tight – it should have been the next half size up, like the shop assistant said.

  Time ticked by, and finally a craggy-faced diva made her entrance into Fore Street, waving like Queen Victoria from the back of an open-top Daimler. Sam Brough, weighed down by his mayoral chain and with a tendency to self-abasement in the presence of celebrity, opened the car door and bowed as if Mrs Cradock were, indeed, the sovereign.

  ‘Gin and Dubonnet waiting inside, madam,’ whispered His Worship.

  ‘Will this take long?’ answered the cook in a tired drawl. Then, only as an afterthought, she turned to face the crowd and acknowledge their cheers with a curt wave.

  ‘Come in, come in! May I introduce Dudley Fensome, the proprietor? We’re so proud to have a launderette at last – there was quite some resistance from the die-hard brigade.’

  ‘I can quite see why,’ said Mrs C, looking with disdain around the delightfully painted shop and its shining machines. ‘In my generation one didn’t talk about laundry, it just arrived – open your drawer and it’s there. Now, people want to make a song and dance about it, have parties and knees-ups and who knows what. What next? A communal lavatory for us all to meet and chat?’

  Following Terry’s lead, Betty got herself inside the shop with her notebook at the ready, but so far there was little to report. As she turned away from the star of the show, Betty glimpsed a look of keening regret on Dud Fensome’s face; he and she had a bit of previous.

  Well, a lot, actually.

  ‘Hello, Betty.’

  ‘Congratulations, Dud. You’ve done really well. And I love the name – very clever. So now you have a shop and Fanny Cradock!’

  ‘She’s a friend of my aunt’s. Well, I wouldn’t say friend, quite,’ he replied, looking in trepidation over his shoulder. ‘My aunt is actually a very nice person.’

  ‘Whereas…’

  ‘I gather Mrs Cradock’s always like this. You don’t know the nightmare I had getting her here.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ The celebrity’s corncrake voice barged its way into their conversation. ‘Put some laundry – in a washing machine?’

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ Terry was saying politely, ‘tells the story neatly for the cameras. Don’t worry, it’s quite clean.’

  Mrs Cradock turned to face him with an ugly curl to her lip. ‘I have a woman who does that for me,’ she grated. ‘What would she think if she were to see me doing that? No doubt she’d have me up before her trades union! That’s all the workers want to do these days, isn’t it, gang up together and make trouble for those who’ve the money and the good grace to employ them?’

  Betty wasn’t quite sure whether to take notes or not – suddenly this was terribly good, if not quite the story she’d been sent to cover.

  ‘Go on,’ urged Terry. ‘Put the washing in.’ He could see she wasn’t going to.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go on! I’ll send a print to your woman, saying you promised me you’d never lift another piece of dirty linen in your life.’

  ‘No need, she knows that. Where’s my Dubonnet?’

  Sam Brough was so nervous he managed to spill the cocktail over his brass chain, but one swift swallow had the effect of oil on troubled water and after a hurried whisper in Fanny’s ear, Terry got what he wanted.

  That was the miracle of Terry, he never took no for an answer – and people could be as important as they liked, it made no difference. Terry always won.

  ‘You’re brilliant, Ter.’

  ‘That Mr Fensome likes your hair, even if nobody else does.’

  ‘Oh, please!’

  ‘Go on, he does. You could do worse, you know. First-ever launderette owner in Temple Regis – he’ll be on the town council next!’

  ‘Keep up, Terry. He’s yesterday’s news, that one.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Are you interviewing me?’ Fanny Cradock burst in on their conversation. She was wearing lilac gloves with a handbag to match, but her shoes were not very nice and the hat was a disaster.

  ‘No, I think I’ve got it all,’ said Betty. ‘But may I say, Mrs Cradock,
that your fans out there will be disappointed if you don’t go out and sign some autographs. A lot of them have been waiting here since breakfast.’

  ‘Well, they can wait! The trouble with all these people is that they want you, heart and soul – you try to be nice to them, and all they want to do is paw you about and ask personal questions.’

  ‘Well,’ said Betty, bristling, ‘you are a household name. You come out of their television sets, I’m told, every Thursday night. Telling them how to cook and how your husband Johnnie is good for nothing except pouring the drinks – they feel as though they know you. That you’re part of the family.’

  ‘They don’t know me at all!’ shuddered Mrs Cradock. ‘I’m a very private person!’

  ‘Come on, Betty, we’ve already taken up too much of this lady’s time,’ said Terry impatiently.

  ‘You aren’t going to interview me?’ rasped Fanny.

  ‘Not today, thank you,’ replied Betty. She’d get it in the neck from Rudyard Rhys – he was hoping for a nice spread across Pages Four and Five – but he’d have to whistle for it. A picture caption, no more – that’s all she deserved, the old dragon!

  ‘Are… are you going, Betty?’ said Dud hesitantly, seeing Terry packing his camera away.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dudley, we’ll give you some nice coverage. Good luck with the old monster, don’t let her drink you dry.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’re free on Saturday?’

  ‘Now, Dud, you know what we agreed.’

  Reporter and photographer hurried out of Suds & Duds into the May sunshine and made their way back to the office. Behind them the crowd waited, hoping shortly to shake the hand of the most famous person to come to Temple Regis this year. But as each moment passed, their chances grew slimmer while indoors the TV star was doing magic tricks with the Dubonnet bottle.

  ‘I wonder what other famous celebrities we’re in for this summer,’ said Terry dourly. ‘And whether they’re all going to be as charming as ’er.’

  ‘We were going to have Gene Vincent over at the Pavilion Theatre, but he can’t come. Such a shame – I wanted to see him tear his leather jacket off.’