Twelve
On the Sunday morning, before she went to Carole’s for her lift into Fedborough, Jude had a phone call.
“It’s Kim.” Her Pelling House hostess sounded uncharacteristically uptight.
“Anything the matter?”
“Harry.”
“What wrong with him?”
“Well, he’s been quite difficult since we moved down here…you know, keeps going on about having left all his friends in London and having no one he can talk to. And he says he hates his new school. I keep telling him that he’ll soon make friends down here, but…You know what they’re like at that age. They think everything they feel at any given moment is going to last for ever.”
“Yes.”
“But the thing is, since…you know, what he found in the cellar…Harry’s been much worse. Much more uptight and difficult. He’s even been rude to Grant, which is most unlike him. And, well, I’ve got him an appointment with the local doctor down here, and maybe they can refer him somewhere. Or we’ve got friends in London who’ve used behavioural psychologists and could recommend – ”
“Don’t do that yet, Kim. I’m sure Harry doesn’t need a psychologist.”
“No, well, I wasn’t keen. But Grant’s insisting. You know, Grant’s always had that American philosophy that, whatever kind of problem you’ve got in your life, you simply need to find the right professional expert to cure it.”
“Which is fine for architecture and plumbing – and probably computers, but I’m not convinced it always works with human beings.”
“Nor am I. I tried to make that point to Grant, but…” A silent shrug came over the phone. “You know what Grant’s like.”
Jude was getting a much clearer picture of what Grant was like by the minute.
“Anyway, what I said was, before we resorted to doctors and psychologists, I’d ask you to have a word with Harry.”
“Ah…”
“When we first met you in Spain, you were doing that sort of healing stuff, developing a holistic approach to integrating the mind and body.” That wasn’t exactly what Jude had been doing, but she didn’t contest the description. “And you seemed to have great sympathy – I mean, the people there got a great deal out of what you were doing – so I was wondering if you would mind talking to Harry…?”
“Mm…”
“Obviously we’d pay your going rate for…you know, by the hour or a flat fee or – ”
“There’s no need for that. Yes, of course I’ll see if I can help. When were you thinking of?”
“Soon as possible, really. I mean, we’ve got Sundaylunch coming up, and Grant’s a great traditionalist about liking to have all the family round the table for Sunday lunch, and Harry’s going through a phase of not sitting down with us…”
“Like at your dinner party?”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose so.”
“Which suggests that it’s not the shock of the body in the cellar that’s made him like this. That it’s just intensified something that was going on, anyway.”
“See, I knew you’d understand. Anyway, as I say, Sunday lunch is looming, and that’s going to mean another row between Grant and Harry and – ” Kim sounded already exhausted by the prospect, and pleaded, “If you could come…?”
“I can’t do it before lunch, I’m afraid, but I do in fact have to be in Fedborough today. Suppose I dropped in round about three…?”
“Oh, Jude. That would be wonderful.”
“I’ll be with a friend, though. Carole Seddon. I’m dependent on her for a lift. Do you mind if I bring her too?”
“No, of course not.”
James Lister had clearly been doing his Town Walks for a long time. There was an automatic quality to his delivery of local history anecdotes which suggested they had been honed over many years. The same applied to his jokes, if that was the right word to describe them. They had the shape of jokes, but the level of wit shown in them was not much above Rotary Club level. And it is common knowledge that Rotary is the lowest form of wit.
Indeed, as James Lister gathered his walkers in the courtyard of the Pelling Arms, he instantly made a reference to the Club. “This coaching inn, which dates back to the early eighteenth century, is home to the meetings of the local Rotary, and should you pass by on a Wednesday evening and hear laughter coming from the dining room, that probably means I’m in there, telling one of my jokes.”
There was a tremor of slightly anxious laughter from the group, uncertain what the nature of his jokes might be. Jude, who had heard exactly what they were like, was silent. About a dozen people had assembled in the courtyard – a Japanese couple in designer leisurewear, four Scandinavians in bright colours, the remainder English, including a young couple with a whining toddler in a buggy who Carole thought would probably not last the distance.
“My name’s James Lister – Jimmy to my friends – and, without false modesty, what I don’t know about the town of Fedborough isn’t worth knowing. I am a Chub, and for those of you who think there’s something fishy about that…” He waited in vain for a laugh. “Let me tell you that people who are actually born in Fedborough are called ‘Chubs’ because…”
The explanation was duly given. “Now what’s going to happen this morning is we’ll have a gentle walk round the town, and I will highlight various points of interest for you. The whole thing will take exactly an hour, which means that we will arrive back here where we started at the precise moment that the bar is opening, so those of you who want to can refresh yourselves with a pint of local Fedborough bitter. Don’t worry, incidentally, the older ones amongst you…”
Carole looked round. She must be the oldest in the group. No, of course she wasn’t, she reminded herself.
Jude was actually older than her. Why couldn’t she get that idea into her head?
“…this walk is going to be taken at a very leisurely pace. I’m over seventy myself…” no reaction “…which always surprises people…” no evidence of surprise “…but I do keep very fit. Fedborough people, according to a survey, are amongst the fittest in the country. This is due partly to the particularly benign climate of the region, but also, I believe, to the number of hills there are in the town. If you’ve spent your entire working life climbing up and down the streets of Fedborough, I reckon you’re as fit as an Olympic athlete…though I don’t myself have any gold medals to show for it – yet.”
Again, this sally of Rotarian wit fell on deaf ears.
“What did you do?” The question was asked in good English, with only slight Scandinavian singsong intonation.
“I’m sorry?”
“What did you do for your working life here in Fed-borough?”
“Oh.” James Lister seemed a little thrown by the question. “I was the local butcher.”
They walked up to the Castle ruins, and James Lister gave them a potted history of the siege of Fedborough during the Civil War. “I like to see myself as a Cavalier rather than a Roundhead – though, if you got my wife on to the subject, she’d say I was more of a bonehead!”
The Japanese couple, who didn’t have much English, had by now caught on to the idea that their guide was telling jokes, and greeted each sally with disproportionate hilarity. The rest of the group, who understood exactly what he was saying, was silent. The couple with the toddler had melted away in the Castle grounds and weren’t seen again.
From the Castle, James Lister led his party along Dauncey Street, at right angles to the High Street. “This road, being at the top of the town with views down to the sea at Fethering, has always been one of the most exclusive residential areas of Fedborough. It was here, as you can see from all these fine façades, that the successful merchant traders of the early nineteenth century chose to build their mansions. And Dauncey Street is still a magnet for property buyers, commanding some of the highest prices in the area. Many of the leading lights of the town live here. And,” he concluded coyly, “guess where I live?”