me. This was different. When I had come here before it had been as a
veterinary surgeon the man who knew, who was wanted, who came to render
assistance in time of need. It had never occurred to me how much this
affected my outlook every time I walked on to a farm. This wasn't the
same thing at all. I had come to take this man's daughter out. He might
not like it, might positively resent it.
Standing outside the farmhouse door I took a deep breath. The night was
very dark and still. No sound came from the great trees near by and only
the distant roar of the Darrow disturbed the silence. The recent heavy
rains had transformed the leisurely, wandering river into a rushing
torrent which in places overflowed its banks and flooded the surrounding
pastures.
I was shown into the large kitchen by Helen's young brother. The boy had
a hand over his mouth in an attempt to hide a wide grin. He seemed to
find the situation funny. His little sister sitting at a table doing her
homework was pretending to concentrate on her writing but she, too, wore
a fixed smirk as she looked down at her book.
Mr. Alderson was reading the Farmer and Stockbreeder, his breeches
unlaced, his stockinged feet stretched out towards a blazing pile of
logs.-He looked up over his spectacles.
"Come in, young man, and sit by the fire," he said absently. I had the
uncomfortable impression that it was a frequent and boring experience
for him to have young men calling for his eldest daughter.
I sat down at the other side of the fire and Mr. Alderson resumed his
study of the Farmer and Stockbreeder. The ponderous tick-tock of a large
wall clock boomed out into the silence. I stared into the red depths of
the fire till my eyes began to ache, then I looked up at a big oil
painting in a gilt frame hanging above the mantelpiece. It depicted
shaggy cattle standing knee-deep in a lake of 41_
an extraordinary bright blue; behind them loomed a backcloth of
fearsome, improbable mountains, their jagged summits wreathed in a
sulphurous mist.
Averting my eyes from this, I examined, one by one, the sides of bacon
and the hams hanging from the rows of hooks in the ceiling. Mr. Alderson
turned over a page. The clock ticked on. Over by the table, spluttering
noises came from the children After about a year I heard footsteps on
the stairs, then Helen came into the room. She was wearing a blue dress
- the kind, without shoulder straps, that seems to stay up by magic. Her
dark hair shone under the single pressure lamp which lit the kitchen,
shadowing the soft curves of her neck and shoulders. Over one white arm
she held a camel-hair coat.
I felt stunned. She was like a rare jewel in the rough setting of stone
flags and whitewashed walls. She gave me her quiet, friendly smile and
walked towards me. "Hello, I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long."
I muttered something in reply and helped her on with her coat. She went
over and kissed her father who didn't look up but waved his hand
vaguely. There was another outburst of giggling from the table. We went
out.
In the car I felt unusually tense and for the first mile or two had to
depend on some inane remarks about the weather to keep a conversation
going. I was beginning to relax when I drove over a little hump-backed
bridge into a dip in the road. Then the car suddenly stopped. The engine
coughed gently and then we were sitting silent and motionless in the
darkness. And there was something else; my feet and ankles were freezing
cold.
"My God!" I shouted. "We've run into a bit of flooded road. The water's
right into the car." I looked round at Helen. "I'm terribly sorry about
this - your feet must be soaked."
But Helen was laughing. She had her feet tucked up on the seat, her
knees under her chin. "Yes, I am a bit wet, but it's no good sitting
about like this. Hadn't we better start pushing."
Wading out into the black icy waters was a nightmare but there was no
escape. Mercifully it was a little car and between us we managed to push
it beyond the flooded patch. Then by torchlight I dried the plugs and
got the engine going again.
Helen shivered as we squelched back into the car. "I'm afraid I'll have
to go back and change my shoes and stockings. And so will you. There's
another road back through Fensley. You take the first turn on the left."
Back at the farm, Mr. Alderson was still reading the Farmer and
Stockbreeder and kept his finger on the list of pig prices while he gave
me a baleful glance over his spectacles. When he learned that I had come
to borrow a pair of his shoes and socks he threw the paper down in
exasperation and rose, groaning, from his chair. He shuffled out of the
room and I could hear him muttering to himself as he mounted the stairs.
Helen followed him and I was left alone with the two young children.
They studied my sodden trousers with undisguised delight. I had wrung
most of the surplus water out of them but the final result was
remarkable. Mrs. Hall's knife-edge crease reached to just below the
knee, but then there was chaos. The trousers flared out at that point in
a crumpled, shapeless mass and as I stood by the fire to dry them a
gentle steam rose about me. The children stared at me, wide-eyed and
happy. This was a big night for them.
KIR Alderson reappeared at length and dropped some shoes and rough socks
at my feet. I pulled on the socks quickly but shrank back when I saw the
shoes. They were a pair of dancing slippers from the early days of the
century and their cracked patent leather was topped by wide, black silk
bows.
I opened my mouth to protest but Mr. Alderson had dug himself deep into
his : j chair and had found his place again among the pig prices. I had
the feeling that if I asked for another pair of shoes Mr. Alderson would
attack me with the poker. I put the slippers on.
We had to take a roundabout road to avoid the floods but I kept my foot
down and within half-an-hour we had left the steep sides of the Dale
behind us and were heading out on to the rolling plain. I began to feel
better. We were making good time and the little car, shuddering and
creaking, was going well. I was just thinking that we wouldn't be all
that late when the steering-wheel began to drag to one side.
I had a puncture most days and recognised the symptoms immediately. I
had become an expert at changing wheels and with a word of apology to
Helen was out of the car like a flash. With my rapid manipulation of the
rusty jack and brace the wheel was off within three minutes. The surface
of the crumpled tyre was quite smooth except for the lighter, frayed
parts where the canvas showed through. Working like a demon, I screwed
on the spare, cringing inwardly as I saw that this tyre was in exactly
the same condition as the other. I steadfastly refused to think of what
I would do if its frail fibres should give up the struggle.
By day, the Reniston dominated Brawton like a vast mediaeval fortress,
bright flags fluttering arrogantly from its four
turrets, but tonight it
was like a dark cliff with a glowing cavern at street level where the
Bentleys discharged their expensive cargoes. I didn't take my vehicle to
the front entrance but tucked it away quietly at the back of the car
park. A magnificent commissionaire opened the door for us and we trod
noiselessly over the rich carpeting of the entrance hall.
We parted there to get rid of our coats, and in the men's cloakroom I
scrubbed frantically at my oily hands. It didn't do much good; changing
that wheel had given my finger nails a border of deep black which defied
ordinary soap and water. And Helen was waiting for me.
I looked up in the mirror at the whitejacketed attendant hovering behind
me with a towel. The man, clearly fascinated by my ensemble, was staring
down at the wide-bowed pierrot shoes and the rumpled trouser bottoms. As
he handed over the towel he smiled broadly as if in gratitude for this
little bit of extra colour in his life.
I met Helen in the reception hall and we went over to the desk. "What
time does the dinner dance start?" I asked.
The girl at the desk looked surprised. "I'm sorry, sir, there's no dance
tonight. We only have them once a fortnight."
I turned to Helen in dismay but she smiled encouragingly. "It doesn't
matter," she said. "I don't really care what we do."
"We can have dinner, anyway," I said. I tried to speak cheerfully but a
little black cloud seemed to be forming just above my head. Was anything
going to go right tonight? I could feel my morale slumping as I padded
over the lush carpet and my first sight of the dining-room didn't help.
It looked as big as a football field with great marble pillars
supporting a carved painted ceiling. The Reniston had been built in the
late Victorian period and all the opulence and ornate splendour of those
days had been retained in this tremendous room. Most of the tables were
occupied by the usual clientele, a mixture of the county aristocracy and
industrialists from the West Riding. I had never seen so many beautiful
women and masterful-looking men under one roof and I noticed with a
twinge of alarm that, though the men were wearing everything from dark
lounge suits to hairy tweeds, there wasn't another dinner jacket in
sight.
A majestic figure in white tie and tails bore down on us. With his mane
of white hair falling back from the lofty brow, the bulging waistline,
the hooked nose and imperious expression he looked exactly like a Roman
emperor. His eyes flickered expertly over me and he spoke tonelessly.
~You want a table, sir."
"Yes please," I mumbled, only just stopping myself saying 'sir' to the
man in return "A table for two."
"Are you staying, sir."
This question baffled me. How could I possibly have dinner here if I
wasn't staying.
"Yes, I am staying."
The emperor made a note on a pad. "This way, sir."
He began to make his way with great dignity among the tables while I
followed abjectly in his wake with Helen. It was a long way to the table
and I tried to ignore the heads which turned to have a second look at me
as I passed. It was Mrs. Hall's gusset that worried me most and I
imagined it standing out like a beacon below the short jacket. It was
literally burning my buttocks by the time we arrived.
The table was nicely situated and a swarm of waiters descended on us,
pulling out our chairs and settling us into them, shaking out our
napkins and spreading them on our laps. When they had dispersed the
emperor took charge again. He poised a pencil over his pad.
"May I have your room number, sir."
I swallowed hard and stared up at him over my dangerously billowing
shirt front. "Room number? Oh, I'm not living in the hotel."
"Ah, NOT staying." He fixed me for a moment with an icy look before
crossing out something on the pad with unnecessary violence. He muttered
something to one of the waiters and strode away.
It was about then that the feeling of doom entered into me. The black
cloud over my head spread and descended, enveloping me in a dense cloud
of misery. The whole evening had been a disaster and would probably get
worse. I must have been mad to come to this sumptuous place dressed up
like a knockabout comedian. I was as hot as hell inside this ghastly
suit and the stud was biting viciously into my neck.
I took a menu card from a waiter and tried to hold it with my fingers
curled inwards to hide my dirty nails. Everything was in French and in
my numbed state the words were largely meaningless, but somehow I
ordered the meal and, as we ate, I tried desperately to keep a
conversation going. But long deserts of silence began to stretch between
us; it seemed that only Helen and I were quiet among all the surrounding
laughter and chatter.
Worst of all was the little voice which kept telling me that Helen had
never really wanted to come out with me anyway. She had done it out of
politeness and was getting through a boring evening as best she could.
The journey home was a fitting climax. We stared straight ahead as the
headlights picked out the winding road back into the Dales. We made
stumbling remarks then the strained silence took over again. By the time
we drew up outside the farm my head had begun to ache.
We shook hands and Helen thanked me for a lovely evening. There was a
tremor in her voice and in the moonlight her face was anxious and
withdrawn. said goodnight, got into the car and drove away.
Chapter Eighteen.
i , If only my car had had any brakes I would certainly have enjoyed
looking down on Worton village from the high moor. The old stone houses
straggling unevenly along the near bank of the river made a pleasant
splash of grey on the green floor of the valley and the little gardens
with their clipped lawns gave a touch of softness to the bare, rising
sweep of the fellside on the other side of the Dale.
But the whole scene was clouded by the thought that I had to get down
that road with its I in 4 gradient and those two villainous S bends. It
was like a malevolent snake coiling almost headlong from where I sat.
And, as I said, I had no brakes.
Of course the vehicle had originally been fitted with the means of
bringing it to a halt, and during most of the year I had ridden in it a
violent pressure on the pedal would have the desired effect even though
it caused a certain amount `f veerin~ ~hr~'t nn the road But lately the
resdonse had been growing weaker and now it was nil.
During the gradual deterioration I had brought the matter up with
Siegfried now and then and he had expressed sympathy and concern.
"That won't do at all, James. I'll have a word with Hammond about it.
Leave it with me."
And then a few days later when I made a further appeal.
"Oh Lord, yes. I've been meaning to fix it up with Hammond. Don't worry,
James, I'll see to it."
Finally I had to tell him that when I put my foot on the pedal there was
nothing at all and the only way I had of stopping the car was to crash
/>
it into bottom gear.
"Oh bad luck, James. Must be a nuisance for you. But never mind, I'll
arrange everything." Some time later I asked Mr. Hammond down at the
garage if he had heard anything from Siegfried, but he hadn't. The motor
man did, however, hop into the car and drive it slowly down the street.
He came to a jerking, shuddering halt about fifty yards away and then
got out. He made no attempt to back up but walked thoughtfully towards
me. Normally an imperturbable man, he had gone rather pale and he looked
at me wonderingly.
"And you mean to tell me, lad, that you do all your rounds in that car."
"Well, yes, I do."
"You ought to have a medal, then. I dursn't drive across market place in
that bloody thing."
There wasn't much I could do. The car was Siegfried's property and I'd
have to await his pleasure. Of course I had had experience of this sort
of thing before in the shape of the movable passenger seat he had in his
own vehicle when I first came to Darrowby. He never seemed to notice
when I went over backwards every time I sat in it and I don't suppose he
would ever have done anything about it but for an incident one market
day when he noticed an old lady with a large basket of vegetables
walking into Darrowby and courteously offered her a lift.
..
"Poor old girl's feet went straight up in the air and she just
disappeared into the back. Had a hell of a job getting her out - thought
we'd have to get a block and tackle. Cabbages and cauliflowers rolling
all over the place."
I looked again down the steep track. The sensible thing, of course,
would be to go back into Darrowby and take the low road into Worton. No
danger that way. But it meant a round trip of nearly ten miles and I
could actually see the smallholding I wanted to visit just a thousand
feet below. The calf with joint ill was in that shed with the green door
- in fact there was old Mr. Robinson coming out of the house now and
pottering across the yard with a bucket. I could almost reach out and
touch him.
I thought, not for the first time, that if you had to drive a car with
no brakes one of the last places in England you'd want to be was the
Yorkshire Dales. Even on the flat it was bad enough but I got used to it
after a week or two and often forgot all about it. As when one day I was
busy with a cow and the farmer jumped into my car to move it so that one
of his men could get past with a tractor. I never said a word as the
unsuspecting man backed round quickly and confidently and hit the wall
of the barn with a sickening crash. With typical Yorkshire
understatement, all he said was; "Your brakes aren't ower savage,
mister."
Anyway, I had to make up my mind. Was it to be back to Darrowby or
straight over the top? It had become a common situation and every day I
had the experience of sitting wrestling with myself on the edge of a
hill with my heart thumping as it was now. There must have been scores
of these unwitnessed dramas played out in the green silence of the
fells. At last, I started the engine and did what I always did - took
the quick way down.
But this hill really was a beauty, a notorious road even in this
country, and as I nosed gingerly on to it, the whole world seemed to
drop away from me. With the gear lever in bottom and my hand jammed
against it I headed, drymouthed, down the strip of tarmac which now
looked to be almost vertical.
It is surprising what speed you can attain in bottom gear if you have
nothing else to hold you back and as the first bend rushed up at me the
little engine started a rising scream of protest. When I hit the curve,
I hauled the wheel round desperately to the right, the tyres spun for a