‘Visiting tomorrow was to be the primary purpose of our visit to York,’ Albert explained. ‘I’ve come here to learn how to make a Yorkshire pudding.’ To Albert, it seemed embarrassing to tell people he couldn’t manage so simple a task at his age, especially standing in the entrance to a museum dedicated to the famous dish. Yet it was with glee that the museum curator received the news.
Clapping his hands together, he cheered, ‘Well this is wonderful. I shall arrange a private lesson for you both.’ He spun around to face the direction of travel and led them both into the old building. ‘Come now, gentlemen. I have so much to share with you. I am also the event organiser and chief judge, you see.’
Who’s in Charge
After a brief exchange with the man inside the ticket booth, who Albert at first thought to be a mannequin because he looked so lifeless, Albert and Gary were handed two passes on lanyards. They were for the competition tomorrow and had the following day’s date on them. However, Alan assured them there was no need to buy a ticket for today’s entry to the museum itself. He led them on a short walking tour of the museum, which wasn’t a big place and set only on one floor of what they learned to be the former house of a famous eighteenth century poet laureate. Neither Albert nor Gary had ever heard of the writer in question but chose not to voice their ignorance since the curator was talking about the person’s work and achievements in excited tones.
Rex caught a trace of cat on the air and wrinkled his nose with displeasure. There were very few things worse than squirrels in his opinion, but cats were at the top of the list. They had such terrible attitudes and back home he knew there were some that came into his garden at night just to do their business because he kept them out during the day. Were they bothering to defile his human’s flowers beds while Rex was away? Or did they see no point because he wasn’t there to be angered by their insult?
‘Through here is the entrance to the marquee,’ Alan announced, leading the party through a door at the rear of the museum.
Albert stopped by a wall where something was clearly missing. It wasn’t the first space where sun and time had faded the paint on the wall to leave a shadow where a missing something ought to be. ‘Do you have items in for cleaning?’ he asked, curious.
Alan’s expression turned serious. ‘No. We’ve had some thefts. Unbelievable, isn’t it? It’s not just historic pictures and artefacts though, the thieves broke into my office and made off with a computer and an office printer we had on hire. The police were not much help, sad to say.’
Albert could understand that – some stolen goods were just impossible to track down, but what value could an artefact from a Yorkshire pudding museum have?
‘Are the thefts recent?’ Gary asked, a pertinent question from a serving police officer.
Alan nodded. ‘Unfortunately, yes. They spread over the last few months. Inexplicably, there is no sign of break in. The police were not able to determine how the thieves might be able to get in and out.’ Keen to change the subject, Alan led them away from the missing museum pieces. ‘In previous years, visitors have been guided around the building to get to the competition and championships, but this year I felt it was time for a change. Everyone will come through the museum and be treated to the wonders inside. It will really spread the word about our county’s most famous dish.’
‘And ruin the carpets,’ snapped a voice from behind them.
All three men spun around to look where the voice had come from and Rex growled for lazing in the man’s arms was an overweight Burmese cat. Its tail dangled over the man’s left arm, twitching in a way that made Rex want to bite it.
‘Oh, a dog,’ said the cat. ‘That’s what the terrible smell is.’
Rex growled some more, giving fair warning of retribution to come if the cat didn’t learn some manners.
Alan found himself the wrong side of his guests and had to go around them to approach the man. ‘Now then, Brian, we discussed this at length already and the committee agreed I was right.’ He was being diplomatic in his response, Albert thought, but it had little impact on the man whose eyes would cut through steel if he glared any harder. Alan saw fit to introduce the unpleasant man. ‘Gentlemen, this is Brian Pumphrey, the deputy head of the event committee.’
Brian was a tiny, squat man, less than five feet tall. Unkindly, Albert remarked in his head that with the addition of a beard and fishing rod, he could model as a garden ornament. Like Alan, he wore a suit, yet his was a sombre brown and green tweed.
‘I am the rightful event organiser who was unfairly ousted by political shenanigans,’ snapped Brian, glaring even harder at the museum curator.
With a sigh, Alan said, ‘Brian, we have been through this. The mayor believed my concept for the future of the event was vastly superior to yours.’
‘He never got to hear mine though, did he, Alan?’ Brian said in a candy-laced voice. It was clearly an old argument that refused to die. Speaking again before Alan could find a retort, he demanded, ‘Who are these men?
