“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 facades, 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?”
A Scandinavian voice, apparently not understanding the principle of the rhetorical question, asked, “Where?”
“I actually live here. In fact,
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-a-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.
