Death in Devon. Ian Sansom

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СКАЧАТЬ caves. Would you prefer for me to write this down?’

      ‘No, it’s fine. I can remember, thank you.’

      ‘Good. So. When they have quarried the limestone it has left these … what would you say? Caves?’

      ‘Caverns?’

      ‘Yes, caverns. Used for smugglers. Wonderful. The stone of Beer was first quarried for the Romans, I think.’

      ‘Really?’ I rather wished I was drinking beer, rather than hearing about it.

      ‘Very big underground rooms, chambers. The rooms are the reverse image, you see, of the great halls and cathedrals quarried from them.’

      ‘Yes, that does sound very interesting,’ I said, feigning enthusiasm.

      ‘Where else?’ wondered my friend. ‘Where else would you like to visit?’

      ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I think we probably have an itinerary that will see us through …’

      He called across the table to a thin man, Mr Jones, a Welshman, who had earlier made the quip about the ineducable, and who was now engaged in the business of dismembering half a chicken. Woland explained to him the purpose of our visit.

      ‘Beer, Jon. They are visiting Beer. But where else should they visit?’

      ‘The Royal Oak at Sidbury?’ said the hilarious Jon Jones, the Welshman, pausing momentarily in his chicken-parting. ‘And the Turks Head at Newton Poppleford?’

      ‘Not just pubs, Jon!’

      ‘Only joking,’ said Jon, obviously, his mouth now full. ‘What about the caves? They should probably visit the caves.’

      ‘Yes, I have already suggested the caves,’ agreed my German friend. Jon Jones the Welshman had by this time nudged the woman on his left, and explained our purpose to her, and she had dutifully nudged the person on her left, who had explained our purpose to them, and etcetera, until soon I had recommendations from almost everyone seated at the table. In south Devon alone we were encouraged to visit Branscombe (‘Thatched forge, terribly pretty, longest village in the country’), Budleigh Salterton (‘You simply must go to Budleigh!’), Colyton and Colyford. Exmouth. Seaton. Shute Barton Manor. Ilfracombe. The moors. Great houses. Battlements. Tudor gatehouses. The usual.

      Fortunately, by the time we had reached dessert – of which there was an abundance, including huge fruit flans of cherry, raspberry and apple, with bowls of thick cream – I had managed to move the conversation forward. Unfortunately, the conversation we moved forward towards was education, a topic of course of great importance but frankly of strictly limited conversational interest, but upon which and about which my dear German friend, mid-flan, was very keen to offer his many insights.

      ‘You see, with teaching it is as it is with cooking, Mr Sefton.’ He clapped his hands together as he spoke, and then paused to ladle more cream into his bowl. ‘First’ – he clapped again – ‘you take your boy, yes?!’ He chuckled. ‘Some young barbarian with all the qualities of the natural savage – raw, if you like, yes? A hard apple, perhaps? Or a nut. A sour cherry. And then you chop him up, and you break him down, and you add your spices and your sugar and cream, and you combine him with all these other ingredients and – voilà!’ He held a spoonful of fruit flan aloft. ‘He becomes this delicious, delightful new thing. A young man!’

      ‘Quite,’ I said.

      ‘Good enough to eat!’ pronounced Woland, eating his spoonful of creamy flan.

      Miriam called across the table; she had been taking a quiet interest in our conversation.

      ‘You do know Mr Sefton was a schoolmaster himself for a long time. Isn’t that right, Sefton?’

      ‘No?’ said the German, his mouth half full. ‘But you should have said! You know exactly what I am talking about.’

      ‘Well, perhaps not quite—’ I began.

      ‘And then he went to fight in Spain,’ said Miriam. Unfortunately, this announcement coincided with a sudden lull in the table’s conversation.

      ‘Spain?’ said Alex.

      ‘See any action?’ asked Jon Jones the Welshman.

      ‘A little,’ I said, which was the answer I gave to anyone who asked such a stupid and offensive question.

      ‘Perhaps you’d be prepared to instruct the boys in a little rifle shooting?’ said Jon Jones. ‘We have an excellent little cadet corps here.’

      ‘No, thank you,’ I said.

      ‘Signalling, perhaps?’

      ‘No, thank you.’

      ‘Ah, that’s such a shame. We took some of them to a camp at Aldershot last year. Do you remember, Bernhard?’

      ‘I do, Jon, yes.’

      ‘Yes, a great success,’ said Alex. ‘Great success.’

      Our conversation, unfortunately, was now the conversation of the table.

      ‘Perhaps we could persuade you to assist the boys with some PT?’ said Dr Standish, from the top of the table. ‘Alex is on a mission to get our boys fit, aren’t you, Alex?’

      ‘I am indeed, Headmaster.’

      ‘We were all rather shamed, I think, by our dismal showing at the Olympic Games. Can’t let the Germans take over, can we – with apologies, Mr Bernhard.’

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