Died and Gone to Devon. TP Fielden

that? thought Judy. I never talk about my war work.

      ‘Mr Rhys is an old friend,’ explained Renishaw.

      ‘I doubt he told you anything about his war work,’ said Judy coldly.

      ‘There are ways,’ said Renishaw with a nod. He really was supremely arrogant – so self-assured, so careless how he stepped. This whole conversation is not about sleep, or Geraldine Phipps, or the weather, or lassooing cattle in Canada. It’s about him putting me in my place, demonstrating his supremacy, indicating he knows yards more than he will ever share. What’s it all about?

      ‘I still don’t understand why you chose Temple Regis.’ And I do wish you’d hurry up and choose somewhere else, you’re bothering me.

      ‘I was working in Fleet Street after I arrived from Canada. I didn’t like the atmosphere. I like fresh air, a small community.’

      And now you’re here in Temple Regis, are you going to go round knocking on people’s doors, telling them they can’t do this and they can’t do that? Is that part of a journalist’s job?

      ‘You mentioned Geraldine Phipps.’ She wasn’t going to do this, it felt as if she was handing Renishaw an advantage, allowing him to extract more information from her than she’d get from him, but she couldn’t resist.

      ‘Isn’t she wonderful?’

      ‘It does seem strange you know her and Mr Rhys. You, all the way from Calgary via Fleet Street, knowing two people who to my certain knowledge have never met. That’s an extraordinary coincidence wouldn’t you say, David?’

      ‘Not really. She knew my mother. I was walking past the pier on my first day here and she was just coming out of the theatre door. Hadn’t seen her for years.’

      How strange, thought Miss Dimont. How strange that two women whom I call my close friends – Geraldine, and Lovely Mary – both know about you, and yet don’t mention your name to me. I know we as human beings have a habit of making and keeping secrets but really, I work on the same paper as David Renishaw! I’m his chief reporter! Why haven’t they mentioned him to me? What is the mystery about this man?

      Pushing these thoughts to one side, she ploughed on. ‘And then, Pansy Westerham. I was a bit surprised about that – that you knew her name, and when I’d just been talking to Geraldine about her.’

      ‘Simple. My mother knew her too. They were all thick as thieves back in the old days. I brought up her name and it set Geraldine reminiscing. She does that quite a lot, doesn’t she?’

      And why ever not, she’s had an extraordinary life. And now the prospect of Gene Vincent, roaring his motorbike on stage next summer – there’s no stopping her!

      ‘She’s adorable,’ Judy agreed. ‘Well, I think I ought to be going.’

      ‘Oh, come on, we’ve only just got here. It’s fun – forget the fisticuffs earlier, they were just horsing around. You’ll find there’s real life here at The Nelson.’

      ‘I think that’s why we don’t come here.’

      ‘Then I’ve got a wonderful surprise for you,’ said Renishaw, getting up and taking her hand. ‘Come along!’

      Inside the pub, the crammed bar where they’d arrived an hour before was now empty. ‘Come on,’ said her fellow reporter, and pushed her through a side door. In this room, once a coach shed, cobwebs swung from the ceiling. An overpowering smell of dust and horse dung came up from under the feet of a crowd gathered in one corner.

      Nearby, a makeshift bar was making light work of replenishing people’s glasses, while next to it an old fellow stood on a chair shouting. There was a tall box on a bench with half a dozen shelves, around which a group of men, their sleeves rolled up, were busying themselves. What with the dust and the jostling crowd, it was difficult to gather what was going on.

      ‘What is this?’ asked Judy. He hadn’t let go of her hand.

      ‘Wait and see,’ he said and strode forward to the bar.

      ‘FYVTAWUNNERTHESIX,’ bellowed the man, red-faced and clearly loving every moment. ‘AAAAAYVANSTHETOOOO.’

      In a moment Renishaw was back with a ginger beer for Judy and one for himself.

      ‘What is this?’ he heard her shout, the noise was getting beyond a joke.

      ‘You’ve never seen this before? It’s mouse-racing.’

      ‘It’s what?’

      ‘MOUSE-RACING,’ yelled Renishaw, but his words disappeared into thin air.

      Miss Dimont had bolted.

Eight

      Though adored by many, there were a few who disliked Athene Madrigale intensely; and they tended to be the ones who worked closest to her.

      This wasn’t to say that Devon’s finest soothsayer was anything other than lovely. Miss Dimont felt instantly better if she could spot Athene across the newsroom, half hidden behind her lopsided bamboo screen adorned with ostrich feathers and silk scarves, staring at the ceiling for inspiration and puffing gently on a Craven ‘A’. She lit up the room with her clouds of smoke, her oddity and originality.

      No, it was the sub-editors, the down-table reporters, the photographers and, of course, the printers, whose lordly attitude towards all was a bit of a disgrace – these were the ones who sneered at her ethereal presence.

      ‘Call that work?’ one would say to another. ‘Dreaming up rubbish like Capricorn is rising – oh what a glorious week you’ll have! To think we struggle to fill the newspaper with real news and she just sits there making it up.’

      It was no coincidence that in the newsroom the editor’s placard, near to Athene’s desk, had had its message:

       MAKE IT FAST

       MAKE IT ACCURATE

       Augmented thus:

       … MAKE IT UP

      Mercifully, serene Miss Madrigale was above such common slights, and anyway at the moment she had too much on her hands to worry about trifles. Apart from her weekly column – the first item everyone turned to when they paid their sixpence for the Express