A Scandinavian voice, apparently not understanding the principle of the rhetorical question, asked, “Where?”
“I actually live here. In fact, we are standing right outside my house.” He put his arm round Jude’s ample waist and drew her face to his. Then, with elaborately manufactured anxiety, he sprang apart from her. “Oops, better be careful! The wife might see!”
The Japanese couple laughed immoderately. The rest of the group shuffled their feet. Jude felt residual distaste from his beer-breath and the scratch of his white moustache.
“This is Pelling Street, which also, as you see, contains some fine examples of Georgian and Victorian architecture. Pelling Street has always had an inferior status to Dauncey Street…though some of the residents don’t see it that way. They’ve even been heard to express the view that Pelling Street is better than Dauncey Street…” He chuckled conspiratorially, and added in an exaggerated whisper, “They are of course wrong.”
“Pelling Street has always had a slightly Bohemian reputation. The respectable people of Fedborough live in Dauncey Street. Down here you get more painters, photographers and people like that. At least two of the houses in Pelling Street were reported to be brothels during the early nineteenth century.” The way he juxtaposed the two ideas left no doubt about James Lister’s views on artists.
“ Some of you, of course, may have heard of Pelling Street recently on the television or radio, because of the macabre discovery that was made here a few days back. The house in question is Pelling House just along there on the left, with the big white pillars. I would ask you, as we go past, not to snoop too obviously. There is a family in residence at the moment, and of course we wish to preserve their privacy.”
Again the stage whisper was brought into play. “On the other hand, I would point out that at the front of the house there are ventilation grilles from the cellar, so if you lean down and cop a look through there, you’ll be able to see the actual place where the Fedborough torso was found.”
James Lister smacked his lips with relish. The Japanese couple nearly wet themselves.
“Down the bottom of the High Street here we have some fine old shops, of which this, in my view, is the finest. Had you been here five years ago – even three years ago, the sign outside would not have been advertising an estate agents. It would have said ‘John Lister & Sons, Purveyors of Fine Meat Since 1927’. The John Lister in question was the father of yours truly, and very fine meat it was too…before any of this BSE nonsense put people off a nice bit of beef on the bone.
“Next door here, what is now rather quaintly called ‘Yesteryear Antiques’ used to be the local grocer’s. And behind the shop, if you look up the alley there, what has now been converted into a bijou artist’s studio used to be the smokehouse for our shop, where we cured our own bacon and fish and all kinds of other produce.
“Right here we have what used to be the local bakery. Everything was home-made and fresh-baked every day. But now do I need tell you what we have there instead?”
“No,” replied the Scandinavian who didn’t understand rhetorical questions.
“We have,” James Lister continued, ignoring him, “another antique shop. ‘Bygones and Bric-à-Brac’. Which is all very nice for the tourists, I dare say, but isn’t so great for the people who live here. Because now, instead of walking down the road to get our meat and eggs and cheese and bread, we have to get into our cars and drive all the way to some out-of-town Sainsbury’s or Tesco’s and load up with exactly the same stuff as you could buy in any other supermarket in the country.
“Shopping’s no longer a personal experience. You used to have businesses that passed from father to son, everyone in the family involved, real skills being developed actually on the job, without any of these meaningless college qualifications and…”
Realizing that he was well astride his hobby-horse, James Lister reined himself in, breathing heavily. “Anyway, on we go. Down towards Fedborough Bridge.”
The river – which is called the Fether – is still tidal for another four or five miles upstream. It reaches the sea at Fethering, and twice a day the tides wash up and down, so there’s considerable variations in the water level. Which is why, as you see, the houseboats along there are moored with rings around those tall poles, so that they can ride up and down with the tide.
“Now, although some of the houseboats look as if they’re about to sink into the river for ever, they are in fact all still inhabited by various Fedborough characters. The one nearest to us is, as you can see, the posh one. It’s a very fine modernization of a purpose-built Edwardian houseboat – kind of place where King Edward VII himself might have sneaked off for a dirty weekend with Lillie Langtry. It’s now the offices of a local architect. He’s another Chub, like me, actually…though I don’t know whether or not he uses his houseboat for dirty weekends.”
More merriment from the Japanese. And from the literal-minded Scandinavian, “Is it because there is so much mud on the riverbank that you call the weekend dirty…?”
The Pelling Arms had two bars, the back one refined and elegant for hotel residents and the front one, the Coachman’s Bar, more functional for the townsfolk. Since people had drunk there since the eighteenth century, it might have been expected that as many old features as possible would have been preserved, but that wasn’t the way the hotel’s latest designers had seen things. They had panelled over the old brick walls and wooden beams, and superimposed on to this a structure of false beams. From a hatstand by the log-effect gas fire hung a highwayman’s caped cloak and a few tricorn hats. On shelves were piled pieces of strapped leather luggage, dating from at least a hundred years later than the garments. Framed on the walls were ancient bills of fare and price lists for drinks, as well as prints of hunting scenes or of rubicund Dick- ensian coachmen cheerily flicking whips over their enthusiastic horses.
To Carole and Jude it all seemed a bit perverse, making so much effort to dress up a genuine eighteenth-century bar as a contemporary designer’s idea of what an eighteenth-century bar should look like.
James Lister had insisted they have a drink with him. He’d said the same to all of the group, but did little to disguise the fact that Carole and Jude were the ones he wanted to stay. Just Jude really, was Carole’s instinctive thought.
The offer of a drink had followed a little ritual, which again felt like a regular part of James Lister’s Town Walk routine. He’d made the ending of the tour very precise, leading them all back into the Felling Arms courtyard, and announcing, “Well, that’s it. As you’ve probably gathered, I’m extremely proud of this town, and I hope I’ve given you some interesting insights into its history. Do come and see us again – we’re friendly folk in Fedborough – enjoy the rest of your day and remember: be good, and if you can’t be good, be careful.”
The roar of uncomprehending laughter from the Japanese couple was followed by an awkward moment of silence. Then one of the Scandinavians reached into his pocket, prompting a bit of wallet-fumbling from the others. James Lister let the man come all the way up to him, proffering a fiver, before he said, “No, thank you. I do these Town Walks for the pleasure, not the money. I won’taccept your thanks in folding form, but if you were to suggest thanking me in liquid form, well, that’s another matter altogether.”
His syntax, however, was too confusing for the Scandinavians. Not understanding that he was asking them to buy him a drink, they backed off in some confusion. Within seconds, the rest of the group seemed also to have vanished.