Recalled to Life

FIVE

'What is it?' 'News from the other world!' Within two minutes of driving out of the Partridge estate, Peter Pascoe suspected he was lost. The clincher was a small village pub called the Pear Tree which he was sure he hadn't passed on his outward journey. A good cop noticed such things. He stopped before it to examine his map, glanced at his watch, groaned at how late it was and decided that this might be his best chance of getting a bite to eat before evening. The pub was empty except for a solitary drinker who looked like he could be on his way to a Wizard of Oz party as the Scarecrow. 'Morning,' said Pascoe as he went to the bar. There was no one serving, so after a while he tapped a coin on an ashtray and said 'Hello?' in that tiny tentative voice used by well-brought-up Englishmen to draw attention to themselves without actually drawing attention to themselves.

Nothing happened. ‘TURD!' The thunderous bellow came from behind. He spun round in time to see the scarecrow's mouth closing. What unwitting offence had he committed to merit this abuse? Pascoe wondered. 'What's this bloody din, then?' He spun back to the bar. A large red-faced man was standing there as if he'd been standing there all along. He was glowering angrily at Pascoe. Even for rural north Yorkshire, this was unwelcoming. 'Man wants a drink, turd.' No, not turd, Ted, with the vowel stretched and given a West Country or perhaps Welsh openness. 'You take care of thy own business, Vince Tranter, and I'll take care of me customers. What'll it be, sir?' The man's tone became if not polite at least politic as he addressed Pascoe direct. 'Half of best,' said Pascoe. 'Do you do any food?'

'Pasties,' said Ted. The scarecrow sneezed into his beer. It was a sound as non-phonemic as a sound can get, yet it conveyed derision and warning clear as a Party Political Broadcast. 'I'll just have a packet of peanuts,' said Pascoe. 'The Pear Tree. Interesting name. Because of the Partridge connection, is it?' It was partly polite conversation, but also an instinctive reaction to a potential source of relevant information. 'Likely,' said the landlord. 'That'll be eighty-two pence.' 'I've just been up at the house,' said Pascoe as he paid. 'Is that right?' 'Yes. Matter of business. It was a sad loss to the country when he gave up his seat. Thank God that his son was cast in the same mould, that's what I say.' 'He does well enough,' said the man. This came close to being a thaw and Pascoe, hoping that a very little more pressure would crack the ice, went on, 'We got to talking about the old days. By coincidence I happen to be a friend of the old nanny, Miss Marsh. You'll likely remember her if you've been around some time.' It was like the touch of the Snow Queen's finger. 'Never heard of her,' snapped the man. 'You want owt else?" 'I don't think so,' said Pascoe. 'Grand. I'll get back to me dinner.' He sent a scowl at the scarecrow which included Pascoe in its penumbra, and left.

'Used to be the Green Man,' said the scarecrow. 'I'm sorry?' 'The pub.

He changed it few years back. Said he didn't want a name that had anything to do with them Greens. All long-haired anti-bloods wanting to stop a man doing what he liked with his own property, that's what he said. Asked his lordship's permission to change it to the Partridge Arms.' 'And his lordship said no?' 'Sharp, that one." There was definitely a Welshness there. 'Knew it would make him look bloody ridiculous, grubby little drinking hole like this called the Partridge Arms, so he suggested the Pear Tree.' 'And the landlord agreed?' The scarecrow sneezed again. 'Ted? He'd have called it the Bare Behind if his lordship had told him to. You'll get nothing about the big house out of Ted, nor any of the others round here. These locals know who butters their parsnips!' Pascoe picked up his drink and nuts and went across to the man's table. On closer examination, the scarecrow proved to be a man of about sixty whose unkempt appearance was due to sartorial eclecticism rather than simple scruffiness. Taken separately, his dress shirt, tartan muffler, brocaded waistcoat, striped blazer, moleskin trousers and military forage hat were all of the highest quality, and, though antique, scrupulously clean. 'You're not local, then?' said Pascoe. 'Don't be silly!' 'How long have you been in these parts?' 'Oh, thirty years and a bit more.' Pascoe laughed. 'How long do you have to stay before you become local?'

'There's people born here who aren't local,' said the man earnestly, ‘it's a burden inflicted on only the select few, thank God.' 'If you rate them so low, how come you decided to stay around?' 'Man with one eye travels the world till he finds a spot where most of the people are blind.' 'So what do you do?' 'This and that. Anything the locals can't manage, which is quite a lot.' 'And you don't think I'll manage to find one who can give me any information about the Partridges and their nanny?' 'No way. Bribes are no use either. They don't understand them, see? Offer them a pint and they'd take it and lie to you. Offer them a pony and you'd scare them off.' 'Whereas you…?' 'I'll lie for nothing. But for a pony you'll get gospel.' Pascoe looked at him dubiously. 'Twenty-five quid's a lot for a pig in a poke,' he said.

'Bargain basement,' retorted the scarecrow. 'I'm only offering you that price because you're British. It cost the Yank fifty.' 'The Yank?' ‘Him who got the other nanny out. I saw him on telly.' 'Waggs, you mean? You spoke with Waggs? When was that?' 'Couple of years back,' said the man vaguely. 'Taking inflation into account, you'll see I'm offering a real bargain.' 'So what are you selling?' asked Pascoe. 'What are you paying?' replied the man. He produced his wallet and counted out twenty-five pounds. He meant to wave it seductively in front of the man but somehow the notes were pulled from his fingers without him feeling the friction. 'Nanny Marsh left the Partridge house about twenty years ago.' 'Yes, I know. Under a cloud.' The scarecrow laughed. 'Oh, she'd been under something right enough, but it was a bit more substantial than a cloud.' He patted his stomach significantly. 'Good lord,' said Pascoe. 'But who…?' 'Well, I wasn't actually present at the coupling, but if you put a heifer in a field with a randy old bull, you don't need to look far when she drops a calf, do you?' 'Partridge, you mean?' said Pascoe, who liked to have things clear, especially when dealing with a Celt. 'Who said that? Not me. You may be a libel lawyer for all I know. But take a stroll round the village and after a while you get used to seeing the same little round faces peering at you.' 'So what happened to Miss Marsh?' 'Off to a clinic somewhere, was the word. Quick clear-out, large severance payment so to speak, impeccable references, carries on her career elsewhere.' It made a good old-fashioned bodice-ripping yarn. Except it was hard to imagine Mavis Marsh letting anyone rip her bodice without administering a sharp slap round the ear and a decree of banishment to bed without any supper. ‘Is that it, then?' he asked.

'Not much for twenty-five quid.' 'Depends what you do with it, I'd say. Mr Waggs seems to have done all right. When they make the film, I wonder if I'll be in it?' 'Which film?' 'Bound to be a film, isn't there, boy? Haven't you noticed? There's nothing the Yanks do, from making love to making war, that doesn't end in a film. Must be written into their constitution. Pity Burton's gone, he'd have done me nicely, I reckon. Now we've got the bribing out of the way, I can let you buy me a pint with a clear conscience.' Pascoe looked at his watch.

'Sorry,' he said rising. 'No time. I've got to dash.' 'Another time,' said the scarecrow. 'Perhaps. One thing you could help me with before I go. Just idle curiosity, but how come you're dressed with such… variety?' 'Souvenirs,' said the man smiling. 'Also advertising.'

'Advertising what?' 'One of my little lines of business. I am as it were a living memento mori. I do most of the undertaking round here.

And when they put on their garments of immortality, I get first choice of their garments of mortality, see? Drowning man sees his whole life pass in front of him, they say. We're a long way from the sea here, so they have to make do with me instead!' On his way back to town, Pascoe thought of many things, of randy lords and pregnant nannies, of the way in which Welshmen were somehow normal in their eccentricities and Yorkshiremen extraordinary in their normalities, of his empty stomach, his fragile marriage, and whether Dalziel would reimburse him the twenty-five pounds he'd paid the scarecrow plus the twelve ninety-five he'd paid for the book. He found himself whistling We're off to see the Wizard. But when he finally entered the Emerald City, he found the Wiz was still not back. Sergeant Wield was waiting for him. There was no art to read emotion in the Sergeant's moraine of a face, but his body language was eloquent of reproach. 'I'm sorry, Wieldy. Has anything been happening?' 'Nowt I haven't been able to keep on top of with threats, promises and a few downright lies,' said Wield. 'Only good thing that's happened is Jack at the Black Bull gave me extra chips when I told him you and Mr Dalziel wouldn't be in.' 'You got some lunch, then? Lucky you,' said Pascoe. 'It were business. Your business,' said Wield producing his notebook. 'What? Oh, the Harrogate business. Did you get anything?' The Sergeant consulted his notebook.

'I got three pints, a steak and kidney pie, and two helpings of Black Forest. Who do I claim off?' 'Don't be so mercenary,' reproved Pascoe hypocritically. 'Who was the glutton anyway?' 'Friend of mine from the town hall. He's got a friend in Harrogate.' Wield's eyes had fallen on the copy of In A Pear Tree which Pascoe had laid on his desk. He flicked it open delicately and read the inscription. 'Mate of yours, is he? Didn't know you kept such rich company.' There was a note of irritation in his voice and Pascoe heard himself responding in kind.

'You've got some objection?' 'It's your business.' 'But you reckon because he's a Tory lord, he's someone to be steered clear of? I'd have thought you'd be suspicious of knee-jerk prejudices like that, Wieldy.' It was a low blow, but Wield shrugged it off with a show of indifference. 'What do I know? It's another world.' 'Come on, it's our world too, he's a public figure,' said Pascoe, finding himself forced into a defence of Partridge by his guilt at his own irritability. 'He does a lot of good.' 'Charity, you mean. Aye, I heard him making a radio appeal for them handicapped kids' homes, the Carlake Trust, is it? I even sent something. But it's not exactly Mother Teresa stuff, taping a five-minute chat, is it?' 'He does rather more than that,' said Pascoe with dust jacket expertise. 'He's co-director. And the royalties from his book go to the Trust.' 'Likely he can afford it,' said Wield. 'I mean, a man who can hand out leases on two-fifty quid a week flats can't be short of a bob or two.' Suddenly Pascoe was diverted from seeking the cause of his own irritation to understanding Wield's. 'What's that you say?' 'That flat you asked about. There's a management company runs the house, and behind them there's a property company called Millgarth Estates. And you know who the principal shareholder is? That's right. Your favourite author. Lord Partridge.'

'You said, hand out leases…?' 'Aye. This woman lives there, free and clear of all rent, ground rent, management charges, the lot. Who is she, anyway? His bit of stuff?' It dawned on Pascoe that they had a common source of irritation. Wield's was at being kept in the dark, his was at having to work in the dark. He said, 'No, she is his old family nanny.' Wield whistled and said, 'Nice work if you can get it.

What's it got to do with us?' It was a good question. Better perhaps was, what's it got to do with Ralph Mickledore? With Pam Westropp?

With Cissy Kohler? He said wearily, 'God knows, Wieldy. And He's not in today.' Sometimes the dark was the safest place to be.