‘I see, well that sounds most agreeable. I think I can say with absolute confidence that both Charlotte and I would be happy to attend, upon the morrow. Excellent, see you then. Bye.’
‘What have you committed me to, now?’ Said the voice over my shoulder.
‘Gore blimey! You never lose the art do you. The silent shimmer into the presence. That, was the Lady Victoria inviting us to combine an hour’s story-boarding and preliminary sketching with a dinner to follow, at what will forever be, in my mind at least, 221b, Baker Street!’
On entering the Tufnell residence however, all seemed changed. Reassuringly the seascapes remained, the walls had a fresh lick of paint though, and the watercolours themselves seemed better lit.
‘It’s the whole stairwell that’s been painted white and the skylight replaced.’
‘Ah! You must have been itching to do it for years?’
‘Well, yes, indeed... Tuffy! They’re here.’ Victoria called. We were invited into the ground floor front. ‘We’ve taken a leaf out of your own book, back to the original usage, as it were. I confess I toyed with the idea of reinstalling the service bells, but I doubt that would have been appreciated.’
‘Don’t, get any ideas.’ Said Charlie, leering in my direction.
‘Absolutely not. But then you anticipate my every need. Tuffy on the other hand...’ I registered a sudden Sparkwell eye-movement; ‘Old friend of my youth, how are you?’
‘Still not sure about it all, whether mother would have approved.’
‘Time moves on, take care of the living, aye?’
‘Yes, yes of course. Coffee, tea, something stronger?’
As polite afternoon tea chatter was fading, Victoria asked; ‘So, what’s this commission all about Tony? You said a nineteen thirties style railway poster, but what of?’
‘Well, I’ll leave you to it then, I’ll be in the Den.’ Said Tuffy, abruptly standing up.
‘Alright my own.’ And with that he was gone; ‘Isn’t he a sweetie?’
‘He means the attic, right?’ I asked.
‘We’ve done a bit of a turnaround in the rest of the house too. I’d quite imagined he’d want to take over his father’s study. But no. That is now my little artist's studio, whilst Tuffy has taken over the two attic rooms. At first, I thought he was just sorting, prior to a clear-out, but no he’s just reorganising a lifetime’s detritus.’
‘The attic was the play area when we were kids.’
‘Oh! Right.’
‘Then it became the dumping ground for all things not in use. I should warn you there’s a model train set in there somewhere.’
‘Oh my god! Talking of trains, I have on the side in the study, the studio I should say, Mr Tufnell’s railway books for you, as requested. But before you take them away, they may be of some use today. Also, as a prompt, I’ve brought up from the gallery the National Railway Museum big catalogue, index thingy of their poster collection. In fact, we might move upstairs now.’
‘So, you were about to fill me in on the background Tony.’ Said the Lady Vic after we’d made complementary comments on her new studio.
‘Well, obviously the idea, not very original I grant you, is to advertise the ER, R, the English Riviera Railway with what looks, at least, like a traditional screen-printed poster, but naturally available free in all legacy and social media formats. But it’s the sort of thing that would have to pass muster with the new board of the railway, so we just have a rough proposal. They might want to bring in professional artists, photographers and models, but we thought we’d just have a go, see how far we can get.’
‘Tony’s tailor thinks he can knock out a genuine looking GWR porter’s uniform to fit me, much to the same standard as my valette get up.’
‘Oh, I see! A series of posters with a pretty, loveable, cheery, female character.’
‘Well, actually I’ve only thought of one design.’ I conceded.
‘One fantasy you mean, shades of Buffy Trumpton’s night time scenarios perhaps?’ Chided Victoria.
‘Certainly not!’
‘I was at St. Hilda’s; we were only a couple of fields away; one did hear rumours.’
‘If it’s a fantasy, it’s subliminal, thank goodness.’ So asserted Charlie. ‘In fairness it was Daphne who cast me as the Valette. Don Wooley promotes me as a “fitness model”. Now it seems I’m being re-contextualised as a “poster girl”!’
‘You’re picking up all the gallery lingo then. I can see this is going to be two against one.’
‘Perhaps you’d be happier with Tuffy in the attic?’ This from the Vic, again!
‘No, no, I’ll stay and fight my corner. Actually, talking of St. Hilda’s do you remember a certain Bloomfield-Jones, E?’
‘Eleanor? She’s something in PR now, last I heard.’
‘Tell me, were she and I, ever friendly?’
‘Not that I recall.’
‘She’s becoming a non-executive director of the railway, like myself, but we’ve not met yet.’
‘So, she’d be passing judgement on whatever I come up with?’
‘I imagine so.’
‘So, let’s hear your fantasy, the full unexpurgated version, if you please.’
‘Well, the vision that appeared to me, was a scene at the Abbey station, appropriately restored of course, circa, say, late nineteen thirty-four. Imagine a world in which Cole Porter’s Anything Goes is still playing on Broadway, book by Wodehouse. Stanley Baldwin plotting, poised to return yet again as Prime Minster. A classic Manor or Castle class loco in the background, with first class carriages behind, an Up express of the holiday season. The foreground dominated by a female porter, uniform unbuttoned a little at the front perhaps, cap pushed back a bit and set at a jaunty angle, winking or grinning to camera. She leans on her trolley whilst one hand is outstretched to receive folding money as a tip passed from behind the back, by a gentleman, elegantly attired in pin-stripe and buttonhole, carrying on a conversation with his grand fashionable wife, the aquiline features of her profile...’
‘Wait a minute, wait a minute!’ Interrupted Victoria. ‘The smallest banknote in the thirties was a fiver, what are you paying this porter for? Perhaps you should be stuffing it down her front!’
‘Me?’
‘Obviously. I stopped you because you were clearly starting on a description of yourself married to Daphne...’
‘Ha! Old man’s dreams of what might have been.’ Mused Charlie.
‘You’re always complaining about me getting passed it, when in fact it’s all normal aging. Let me remind you, we’re all getting older at the same rate!’
‘Right, well let’s get on with it, if you’d care to strike a pose Charlotte.’ As she said this Victoria reached over and picked up her sketch pad and selected a pencil. ‘Yes er, okay but try pulling up that high backed chair as something to lean against, as if it were your trolley. Good, now hold that position for as long as you can. Quiet all.’
The silence held for a few minutes, apart from Vic’s scratching of course. Then Charlie whispered loudly in my direction; ‘We, sir, have become a parody of ourselves.’
I looked towards Vic; ‘Sorry, one can’t get the staff these days.’
‘Tony, be a love and go and remind Tuffy things will need looking at in the kitchen by now, there’s a good lad.’
End of season nine
