A Cure for All Diseases

She brayed a laugh like it never struck her some poor sod in a wheelchair might not find this all that funny. Roote just grinned and said, ‘If Tom Parker wants a living testimony to the health-giving properties of Sandytown, he need look no further than you.’

She preened herself and said, ‘Kind of you to say so, Franny. It’s true I have been blessed with a strong and lasting constitution. In fact I do believe I never saw the face of a doctor in all my life on my own account, but only on the two unhappy occasions when I was told of the death of a husband.’

Roote looked solemn for a moment, then said slyly, ‘But surely, Lady D, you have seen the face of Dr Feldenhammer, very much on your own account, and on occasions not so unhappy?’

She laughed archly, like a cracked hurdy-gurdy playing ‘The Rustle of Spring’, and I reckon if she’d had a fan, she’d have rapped his knuckles with it as she said, ‘You naughty boy, that tongue of yours will get you into trouble one day.’

‘Then I shall call on you for a character reference,’ said Roote. ‘Can I introduce my old friend Andrew Dalziel?’

I’d seen those buffalo eyes taking me in during all this by-play and I don’t think she much liked the look of me or mebbe it was just my outfit.

I said, ‘How do, missus?’ and in return she gave me a nod that would likely have broken my nose if she’d been close up, then turned to hoist herself on to a bar stool, showing off a pair of haunches a man would be proud to have the tattooing of. The landlord put her drink before her and she leaned forward to engage him in a low-voiced conversation.

The lass gave Roote’s hand a quick sympathetic squeeze, then went to the bar to join her aunt.

I took a drink of me ale. Didn’t taste as good as before. Nowt wrong with the beer, but. It were me. Should have stopped with the first and certainly skipped the scotch. I definitely weren’t feeling up to snuff. Mebbe that was what made me say, all surly, ‘You’ll not get anywhere there, lad. Rich aunts look after dependent nieces.’

One thing for Roote, he may play games but he doesn’t play silly games, like pretending not to understand.

‘Dependent nieces have wills of their own,’ he said giving me a stage wink.

‘Aye, and so have rich aunts, and they make bloody sure anyone gets cut out of them who doesn’t toe the line,’ I said. ‘Any road, it could be a long wait if she’s as fit as she looks.’

‘Oh yes. Dear Lady Denham is nothing if not healthy. And wealthy, of course,’ he murmured.

‘And wise?’ I said.

‘In making and keeping hold of money, very wise indeed,’ he said.

‘Why am I not surprised?’ I said. ‘And I bet you know how much she’s kept hold of, to the last decimal place.’

He grinned and said, ‘You are forgetting, I suspect, that thanks to dear Peter Pascoe’s aid and acumen, I am now a man of moderately independent means, even without the income I generate by my writing. If such a one as I could have any interest in the fair Clara, it would only be centred on her pilgrim soul.’

When an ex-con starts talking about pilgrim souls, I know he’s talking crap, but I knew Roote weren’t lying about the money. Pete had felt so grateful and guilty, he’d moved heaven and earth to make sure Roote got top compensation from Criminal Injuries, plus the leisure complex where he got shot had had a Personal Injury clause in their insurance which a smart brief persuaded a judge covered Roote’s case. Best of all, Roote had just got back from the States on the day he got shot and when Pete were sorting out his stuff, he realized his travel insurance didn’t expire till midnight. The buggers wriggled and wiggled like they always do, but in the end the same brief who’d done the leisure complex got them to cough up for total disability. When eventually it turned out Roote was going to be able to manage a wheelchair, this got considerably pared down, but it still amounted to a hefty chunk of money.

I said, ‘Independent means ain’t the same as independence.’

I were just talking about money but soon as I said it, I saw it could be taken as a crack about his legs. Me and buffalo woman had a lot in common. But I knew better than to say sorry and get the piss taken out of me, so I went on quick, ‘So what’s this writing that’s making your fortune? You’re not Lord Archer in disguise, are you?’

‘Happily not,’ he said. ‘Nor did I mention a fortune. It’s academic stuff mainly, so it pays peanuts when it pays at all. I managed to finish my PhD thesis during my convalescence. Yes, strictly speaking it’s Dr Roote now, but no need to be embarrassed – I don’t use the title. Strangers find it confusing and keep telling me about their back pain. Now I am completing Sam Johnson’s critical biography of Thomas Lovell Beddoes. You recall dear Sam, my old supervisor, who was so foully murdered before he could finish his masterwork?’

‘Aye, I remember the case,’ I said. ‘So you’re getting paid in advance for writing this Bed-loving fellow’s life?’

‘I fear not,’ he said. ‘Though my publishers in California, the Santa Apollonia University Press, have made a substantial research grant available to me. There are however profitable spin-offs in the form of articles and interviews and seminars. In addition I have a small retainer fee for my work as a consultant for Third Thought.’

Why was he so keen to impress me with his ability to earn an honest living, if you can call all this airy-fairy arty-farty stuff honest?

‘Third Thought?’ I said. ‘You mean that dotty cult thing the lentil and sandals brigade are into?’

‘How well you grasp the essence of things, Mr Dalziel! What more is necessary to say? Though the movement’s founder, Frère Jacques, has written a couple of hefty tomes to bring out the fine detail.’

Always a sarky bugger!

He rattled on about how this Jakes fellow had nearly died and realized he weren’t ready for it, so he’d started his movement to help folk get used to the idea afore it were staring them in the face, so to speak.

‘A Hospice of the Mind, he calls it,’ said Roote. ‘My own initial connection with Third Thought was, I freely confess, based purely on self-interest. Then I had my own close encounter, and as I struggled to come to terms with my lot, my mind turned more and more frequently to Frère Jacques’s teachings, and I renewed my connection, but this time with genuine fervour. Eventually Jacques invited me to become a paid acolyte.’

He glanced at me sort of assessingly then leaned forward and said in a low voice, ‘It occurs to me, Mr Dalziel, that after your own recent trauma, you yourself might be seeking a new philosophy of being …’

The bugger were trying to convert me!

I said, ‘If tha’s thinking of sending me a bill for this chat, lad, I’d advise thee to have third thoughts about it.’

He laughed so loud the two women at the bar glanced our way, the old bird with a disapproving glower. Probably thought I’d just told a mucky joke.

Roote settled down after a bit, supped his parrot piss, then said, ‘So how are you getting back up to the Home?’

‘On my own two feet if I have to,’ I answered. ‘If you’re thinking of offering me a lift, I warn you, I’m not sitting on thy knee!’

He grinned and said, ‘I’ll be delighted to take you back in my car, though I suspect it may not be necessary.’

‘Why’s that?’

He glanced at his watch. It looked expensive.

‘I suspect that within a few more minutes someone from the Avalon staff is going to arrive. They’ll order a drink, glance round, look surprised to see you, have a quick chat, finish their drink, head for the door, then as an afterthought say, “Would you care for a lift, Mr Dalziel, or are you sorted?”’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Because not long after you arrived, Alan will have made a call to the Avalon in case they haven’t noticed one of their convies has gone missing. And he’s probably just been reassuring Lady Denham that she needn’t worry about you frightening off the more sensitive customers all afternoon as you’ll be out of here in ten minutes tops.’

‘Why’d she be worried about that?’ I asked.

‘Because she owns the Hope and Anchor,’ he said. ‘In fact, dear Lady Denham owns a great deal of real estate in and around Sandytown. I told you she was wealthy as well as healthy. Moby’s, however, where they are going to lunch, belongs to her dear friend Mr Parker. She enjoys the food there but never goes unless someone else is paying, in this case her nephew, Teddy Denham, who can ill afford it.’

‘For someone not interested in money, you’ve got a sharp eye for how other folk spend it,’ I said.

He said, ‘Only because as a disciple of Third Thought, I have a deep interest in the human condition. Doesn’t Paul tells us that the love of money is the root of all evil?’

‘Paul?’ I said. ‘Thought that were one of Ringo’s. No, sorry, bit further back. Adam Faith, right?’

Not often you can shut Roote up, but that did it.

The women finished their drinks and slipped off their stools, the lass like a snowflake, the old lady like an avalanche.

Clara gave a shy little wave as her aunt said, ‘Alan, perhaps my scatterbrained nephew has gone straight to Moby’s. If he does turn up here, tell him that’s where we will be. And don’t forget to get payment for our drinks. A gentleman does not invite guests and expect them to pay for themselves. Talking of money, these ideas you have about modernizing the cellar, I think we really need to do an in-depth costing. I need quotations, not estimates. If I have time I’ll drop in later to take a closer look.’

The landlord bowed his head deferentially, or mebbe he were worried in case his expression showed this weren’t the best news he’d had today!

‘Of course, Lady Denham,’ he said.

Now she glanced our way and said, ‘Toodle-pip, Franny. Don’t forget you’re lunching with me this week.’

‘Engraved on my heart, Lady D,’ said Roote.

Her gaze shifted to me and she ducked her head and gave a little snort like she were wondering whether to charge but headed for the door instead.

I muttered, ‘Will that be lobster at Moby’s?’

‘Alas, no. Belly pork at Sandytown Hall, I fear,’ said Roote with a little shudder.

Afore I could ask what he meant, the door opened as the women approached and a Yankee voice gushed, ‘Daphne, Clara, how nice. How are you, dear ladies?’

Toilet tooth Festerwhanger.

Well, at least they really had sent Prince bloody Charming not some snotty-nosed orderly to round me up. Always supposing that’s why he’d come. I could see Roote thought it was. He gave me one of them little looks. Quizzical I think they call ’em. Like Pascoe sometimes. Mebbe him and Roote had more in common than I realized.

Stepping into the bar, Festerwhanger flashed the young lass a spotlight smile, then got folded into buffalo woman’s arms. It were like watching one of them Cumberland wrestlers tekking hold, except they don’t clamp their gobs on to their opponent’s face and give his tonsils a tongue massage. I saw now what Roote’s little insinuation were all about.

Eventually he broke loose, staggering a bit like a diver who’d come up too quick. But to give him his due, he made a quick recovery, and soon him and Lady D were chatting away – him all Yankee charm and her sort of girlishly flirtatious – like an elephant dancing in that old Disney cartoon. I almost felt sorry for old Fester. Got the feeling she could chew him up and spit him out all over his consulting room couch. Finally she gave him a farewell kiss which made the first one seem like a rehearsal and set off again but stopped dead in her tracks as the door opened to admit another man.

Different this time, but. No gush and hugs. In fact if I can read a face, there’s neither of them would have lost sleep if t’other had dropped dead on the spot!

The new guy had halted right in the doorway so she couldn’t get by.

‘If you don’t mind,’ she said, haughty as a duchess talking to a gamekeeper she don’t fancy shagging.

He didn’t move. He looked about ninety and I’ve seen healthier looking faces at an exhumation. His eyes were deep sunk, his few bits of hair clung to his pate like mould on an old plum, and he had a beard like a wildlife sanctuary. Despite the heat, he were wearing a mucky old donkey jacket, an old-fashioned striped shirt without a collar and the kind of baggy pants farmworkers used to tie up with string, only no self-respecting rat would have cared to run up these.

Suddenly I didn’t feel so badly dressed.

Still he didn’t move or speak. Then the landlord said warningly, ‘Hen.’

Now he smiled. Bare gums mainly, and the few teeth you could see through the foliage were greeny yallery shading to black at the roots. I half expected Festerwhanger to faint.

Then he stepped to one side and did a piss-taking bow and said, ‘So sorry, Your Ladyship. Didn’t see you there. So sorry. Would hate to get in Your Ladyship’s way.’

‘You won’t,’ she said. And went sweeping past him, young Clara in pursuit looking a bit embarrassed.

The old boy kicked the door shut behind them. The landlord said, ‘Watch it, Hen. It’s me as is responsible for fixtures and fittings. Your usual, Dr Feldenhammer?’

The Yank who’d been watching the incident with interest nodded. His usual was a short. Dark amber, enough ice to sink the Titanic. Jack Daniel’s mebbe. At least it weren’t purple. Festerwhanger sipped it, then turned and leaned against the bar. His face split into that toothy grin as he acted like he’d just noticed us.

‘Well hello there, Franny’ he called. ‘And Mr Dalziel too. Glad to see you’re getting around, sir. You’re looking well.’

Roote gave my thigh a told-you-so jab under the table. I’d have given him a let’s-wait-and-see kick back, only with him not having any feeling in his legs, it didn’t seem worth the effort.

‘Aye, I’m not so bad,’ I lied. Truth was, I felt distinctly woozy. The ancient geezer had got himself a pint without opening his mouth or handing over money, so far as I could see. Another time I’d have been interested to find out what had just gone off here, but at the moment, I didn’t give a toss.

‘Good. And you, Franny, how are you? Coming to Tom’s meeting on Friday, I hope?’

‘Of course. Exciting times, Lester. Won’t you join us?’

Franny and Lester. Like an old music hall act. Roote had really got his useless legs under the table round here. Sounded like his social calendar were pretty full too.

‘Thanks but I mustn’t stay,’ said the Yank. ‘Just came out to drop an express packet into the post office. My niece’s birthday back home. Almost forgot, which would have been a capital offence. Felt I’d earned a quick one, but I need to be back up at the clinic pretty well straightaway.’

I weren’t so ill I didn’t notice there were too much bloody detail. Think a shrink would know summat like that. Plus, most country post offices I’d come across shut up at midday on a Saturday.

The door opened again. This were getting like a French farce. New arrival were a well set-up young fellow, one of them craggy faces that has five o’clock shadow at half past one. Looked like he reckoned the world owed him a living and the women in it owed him a shagging.

He said, ‘Alan, any sign of my aunt?’

‘Been and gone. Says she’ll see you in Moby’s.’

‘Oh dear. Bit pissed off, is she? That will mean the lobster thermidor, I fear. But then she was never going to choose the monk fish pâté, was she?’

He made a wry sort of face to show he was joking, only he wasn’t.

Now he let himself take in the others in the bar. Worzel Gummidge he ignored, me and Roote he shot a cocky grin at and said, ‘Ah Franny, nursy taking you for a stroll?’, then he did a double take as if he’d just noticed Fester and cried, ‘Is that you, Dr Feldenhammer? Didn’t recognize you in a sitting position, sir. I hope I find you well. Mustn’t keep auntie waiting.’

Then he left, whistling raucously.

I saw Festerwhanger flush the colour of old port. Either he were seriously narked or he was going to have a seizure.

He downed the rest of his drink like he needed it, ice cubes clanging against his snowy teeth hard enough to dislodge a polar bear, slid off his stool, gave the landlord a curt nod, and marched through the door.

I said to Roote, ‘Got that wrong, didn’t you, lad?’

He said, ‘I just think the game changed, but never fear, he’ll remember. That tune Teddy Denham was whistling, I’m trying to recall what it is. I’ve got it on the tip of my tongue.’

Meaning he hadn’t the faintest idea but would be glad to know what caused the Yank doctor to lose his cool. Didn’t miss much, our Franny.

‘Sorry, no idea,’ I said. Which was a lie. I’d recognized the notes of a little ditty I’ve heard belted out at the back of rugby coaches more times than I care to remember.

Don’t expect Roote spent much time in rugby coaches, and I didn’t see any reason why I should enlighten him.

Roote were giving me one of his looks which said he knew I were holding out on him. Then his expression turned to I-told-you-so! as the door opened again and Fester stuck his head back in.

‘It just occurred to me, Mr Dalziel – would you like a lift back up to the Home? Or do you have transport arranged?’

I suppose I could’ve told him I preferred to walk. Or that Roote were giving me a lift. But sod that. Only a fool turns down what he wants out of pride, and what I really wanted now were to crash out in my pit.

‘Nay,’ I said. ‘That ’ud be grand.’

I looked at my beer glass. It were half full. I realized I didn’t want it.

Only a fool sups what he don’t want out of pride.

But I could feel Roote watching me, and this time pride won.

I drained the glass, set it down, and hauled myself out of my chair.

‘Thanks, mate,’ I said to the landlord. ‘Good pint that.’

‘Thank you, sir. Hope we see you again soon,’ he said.

‘Never fret, I’ll be back.’

Roote caught my arm and said in a low voice, ‘Mr Dalziel, just one thing. About Mr Pascoe, I’ll leave it up to you.’

Whether I told him or not, he meant.

I gave him a nod and left.

I wouldn’t trust Roote as far as I could throw him, which, the way I were feeling just then, was about half a yard. But credit where due, I couldn’t fault him over how he’d dealt with Pete.

Which don’t stop me wondering now they’ve finally got me tucked up in bed and talking to myself under the sheet, if one of the reasons Franny Roote took off abroad with no forwarding address was ’cos he didn’t want Pete Pascoe feeling responsible for him, then why when he came back to England did he opt to settle here in Mid-Yorkshire? OK it’s right on the fringes of our patch, but it’s still our patch!

Can’t get that tune buffalo woman’s nephew were whistling out of my mind. How did the words go? Let’s see … summat about an Indian maid … aye, that’s it!

There once was an Indian maid, and she was sore afraid that some buckaroo would stick it up her flue as she lay in the shade.

And so on. Gets dirtier. Not the kind of thing I’d expect Fester to choose for his Desert Island Discs. And why should it bother him so much?

Questions, questions, lots and lots of sodding questions hopping madly round my mind to that jaunty little tune. But it’s always the same one leading the dance.

What the fuck is Roote really up to here in Sandytown?

Never fear, one way or another, I’ll find out afore I go!

But all I want to do now is sleep.

So it’s goodnight from you, Mildred, and it’s goodnight from

7

FROM: [e-mail] TO: [e-mail] SUBJECT: Min of Information!

Hi Cass!

Thanks for pic. He is truly gorgeous! I want one of my own. Does he have a brother? Nice smile. Whats he got to smile about – I wonder?!!

Back to dull old Sandytown! After lunch yesterday Tom excused himself – to catch up with all the stuff that had piled up in his absence – & Min – whos clearly decided to make me her own! – asked me if Id like to go swimming with her. I thought she was being kind – & meant the sea – & said yes please – but it turned out she meant the swimming pool at this 5 star hotel Tom told us about – the Brereton Manor. Seems the Parkers have membership of the Health & Leisure Club – natch – but the kids arent allowed in without a responsible adult – so Min the minx had elected me! Mary tried to rescue me – but I said – no problem – & off we went.

Minnie led me over the road – & through a gate – then across a golf course that looked to be in the final stages of construction.

– Should have been finished for Easter – Min told me proprietorially.

Serious money being spent here – I thought – confirmed when we reached Brereton Manor. Must have been a grand old house – now much modified & extended – all the eco friendly – carbon unfriendly – stuff theyve got at Kyoto – but tastefully blended in – the kind of detail that costs a fortune. Presumably the idea is youve been invited to a 1920s weekend house party – rather than asked to cough up a small fortune for b & b! Not many people around. Still bedding in. Official opening is not for a fortnight – Bank Holiday weekend – when Tom launches the Festival of Health – which I shant be around to enjoy – thank heaven!

This info again supplied Min!

She sailed in thru the front door like a grand duchess – & the receptionist greeted her with a big Hi Minnie! & gave me a smile too.

Everyone else we met en route to pool seemed to know Minnie. Swish pool – long way from Olympic – but big enough if you like that sort of thing. I did 10 or so lengths – very boring – specially as I had to stop from time to time to admire Minnies breast stroke – or back stroke – or diving. At 9 you need a lot of admiration! After – we sat in some very comfortable chairs in the café area – & had a coke – talked. Or rather – I listened! Didnt mind. I was getting interested in what made Sandytown tick – you know me – never happy till Ive got the inside of things outside! – & nothing that goes on round here seems to escape Mins sharp little eyes & ears! By the time shed done – I was thinking of her as my personal Min of Information!

The original house – as I knew – belonged to the well-heeled Breretons – the famous Lady Denhams family – but became superfluous to requirements when she married even better-heeled Hog Hollis – local lad made good – who built up his pig farm into Hollis’s Ham – the Taste of Yorkshire – & ended up master of just about everything he surveyed – Lord of the Sandytown Hundred – at Sandytown Hall.

He died – fattening the pigs who helped fatten him – (I had to practically kick Minnie onward from all the gory details – mostly imagined I guess – of the poor sods death!) – leaving his wife even richer than hed found her – & eventually she remarried – Sir Henry Denham – & Denham Park became her official address – though – probably not caring for the pig pong but reluctant to do anything that might interfere with her pig profits – she spent a great deal of her time at the Hall.

When Sir Harry in his turn died – (dont know what she does to the poor sods!) – she returned permanently to Sandytown Hall – refusing the chance to move back to her childhood home – Brereton Manor – when her ancient father finally died – because – according to Minnie – the Hall was a more prestigious address – & the Manor had certain inconveniences of access – & had fallen into such a dilapidated condition it would cost a fortune to put right.

– daddy owns nearly all the land all around – explained Minnie – where the new entrance drive is – & where theyre building the golf course. I think it was Uncle Sids idea that they should work together & turn the manor into a posh hotel. Uncle Sid knows all about money – which is why Lady D listens to him – mum says –