Chapter Eighteen
From the Ripon and Thirsk Local History Society Facebook Page:
Tonight’s talk: Mental maths and a robust bladder! Twenty-five summers of manning the ice-cream stall at Newby Hall by Geoff Hall.
At about the same time as Thelma and Teddy were setting off home, Pat was waking from a sweaty doze, mouth dry, to find the bleached fields of North Yorkshire giving way to one of the brick and concrete estates fringing Stockton-on-Tees.
In spite of the air-conditioning in the car, the mere sight of the sun-baked pavements and bleached pockets of lawn was enough to bring back that dull woozy surge behind her eyes. She closed them again.
‘And you’re sure you’re feeling okay?’ Tiffany-Jane shot her a concerned glance from the driving seat.
‘I’m fine!’ Pat snapped her eyes open and spoke firmly, brightly, as if the strength of her words could drive away the remnants of that muzzy head.
‘Just let me know if you need to stop.’
‘Thank you, but I’m fine,’ she said, because she was, of course she was.
It really had been nothing – entirely her own silly fault –walking in the sun with Larson, her sun hat forgotten at home.
Was it any wonder she’d suddenly come over all faint on her return?
She remembered that horrible dizzy feeling, the blobs of violet and green blotching out her vision.
The offer from Tiffany to drive her to Ingleby Barwick library wasn’t one she’d have accepted in the normal way of things – the prospect of making conversation for the fifty-minute drive – or rather making conversation without referring to the row with Justin that left her with an engrained weariness.
However, Tiffany had been so matter-of-fact – it really wasn’t any trouble, she’d welcome a run-out, they’d be inside an air-conditioned car – it’d been hard to refuse.
Plus, Tiffany had been strongly supported in this scheme by a concerned Rod.
‘It’s forty-three point two degrees in Cambridge,’ he’d kept saying.
So what? Pat wanted to say This isn’t Cambridge, it’s Thirsk – but the bleariness had been too all-consuming.
‘Anyway, why exactly do you want to go and see this life guru?’ Rod’s tone had made it clear he equated ‘this life guru’ with one of her episodes of The Real Housewives of Tampa Bay. ‘Surely it can wait?’
There’d been a panicky concern in her husband’s eyes, which she’d found rather unsettling.
Honestly! She hadn’t fainted – just stumbled a bit … Throughout this Tiff had said nothing, merely handed her a large glass of iced water and Pat had wearily realised if she were to stand any chance of making it to Stockton to check out Son Masters, the girl’s offer was one she needed to accept.
Contrary to her fears, the journey had proved to be fine – more than fine.
After Tiffany had fed the postcode of Ingleby Barwick library into the satnav, she’d put on Classic FM leaving Pat free to close her eyes, caressed by the gentle waft of the air-conditioning and the strains of Medleys for a Summer Day (Sponsored by Specsavers).
‘About ten minutes, Pat.’ Tiffany’s voice roused Pat from what she realised had been another shallow doze.
‘It really is very good of you to drive,’ said Pat.
‘No problem.’ Tiff frowned as she slowed for a right-hand turn into one of the estates. ‘So – this Son Masters we’re going to hear.’ There was a bright curiosity in her voice.
‘Yes.’ Pat felt a resurgence of the muzziness. What should she say?
‘He’s a sort of life coach,’ she began rather lamely. Was she going to have to fabricate some story about redefining her life goals or some such? She really didn’t have the energy. However, for the second time that day a conversation she was expecting was not to happen.
‘Would this,’ said Tiffany-Jane carefully, ‘be anything to do with reasons someone might kill someone?’ At that moment a large leisure centre loomed before them, glowing a dull blue in the sunlight. ‘This looks like the place!’
‘Ingleby Barwick library?’ said Pat. Was this the right place? She’d been expecting a low pleasant building, perhaps surrounded by flowers, not this glass-and-steel edifice.
‘The library is part of the leisure centre,’ said Tiff, neatly negotiating the car into a parking space. ‘Anyway.’ She turned to face Pat. ‘What is it exactly you need to find out from this Son Masters?’
Pat sighed. ‘It’s complicated,’ she started but stopped herself.
Actually, it didn’t have to be very complicated at all. Suddenly by far the simplest and the best option was the truth. Briefly she outlined the story of the demise of Nev Hilton, Pity Me school and Davey Fletcher. Once again, Tiffany listened well, nodding a few times but not interrupting.
‘And you think Son Masters might be something to do with this woman who came to this Nev’s house?’ she said when Pat had finished.
‘Davey died in a car crash the day before the Ofsted report came out. People are saying he only drove off in a blizzard because he was in a state about it all. I want to see what Son thinks.’
Tiffany-Jane nodded, opened the car door and let the warmth of the afternoon heat roll in. ‘And this yellow line down the wall?’ she said, ‘Where does that come in?’
Pat shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’
‘I just feel like it’s all closing in on me – and I think, Just calm yourself down, you silly sausage.’ The bald man with the enormous damp patches under his arms shook his head in bewildered self-disgust.
‘Step four point three,’ said Son Masters mildly. ‘Step back and look.’
The man nodded. ‘That’s why your plan is bob on!’ he said enthusiastically.
‘So many people feel … y’know, um … a bit of a failure.’ Son Masters’ slightly high, nasal voice was pleasant enough without being in any way stirring. ‘But these feelings – failure, embarrassment, fear even – they’re these like invisible handcuffs – um, holding us back, y’know.’
Pat shifted uncomfortably in the plastic chair, her sweat cold in the small of her back. Surely handcuffs were more for restraining than holding back?
‘But with my simple five-point plan – sorry, six-point plan – you can, y’know, free yourself up and crush it – professionally and personally!’
Son Masters smiled amiably at the half-dozen or so people sitting in the Stephenson room of Ingleby Barwick library.
He didn’t sound much like someone delivering a life-changing message.
With his slight drawl, prominent front teeth and general laid-back demeanour he was reminding Pat irresistibly of Dylan the Rabbit from The Magic Roundabout.
She glanced at Tiffany, trying to gauge what she thought of all this.
The younger woman was sitting, slightly inclined forward, eyes wide, smile bright as though this were the most amazing thing she’d ever heard.
‘Okay, so that’s about everything I’ve got to say,’ said Son Masters, biting back a yawn. ‘Has anybody, like, got any questions? I will be signing books afterwards if anyone wants to ask me anything or chat about something.’
He waved a copy of a thick book titled Smash It! Six Significant Steps to Change your Life with a half-hearted smirk.
In the event there was only one person ahead of them in the queue – the man with the armpits. He, however, had as much chat for Son Masters as a whole queue full of people.
‘What you were saying – it could have been written for me … I just can’t get over it – it was bob on! I kept saying, “Col, this man’s got a direct line to your life!”’
Son Masters grinned amiably, seemingly oblivious to Pat and Tiffany queuing behind.
At this rate, Pat thought, they’d still be here when the library shut.
If Tiffany was getting impatient, she wasn’t showing it in her face, she was alternating between scrolling on her phone and listening to Col’s excited chatter with an expression of keen attention.
Could it be, Pat wondered, she was actually finding all this guff interesting?
To take her mind off her irritation Pat picked up a copy of Smash It!
Six Significant Steps to Change Your Life.
Self-published, she noted. Inside the glossy volume there seemed to be a lot of complicated-looking flow charts more suited to a boiler manual than a self-help book.
Plus, a lot of lurid green captions – Remember: no is yes!
Look at what IS, not at what ISN’T!’ All in all, ￡17.
99 seemed a lot to fork out for a book about life mastery written by a man who couldn’t even stem a flow of enthusiastic burble from an admirer.
Thumbing through to the front something on the title page hit her, two simple words that grabbed her attention more effectively than any one of the flow charts or captions.
To Davey.
‘I mean work at the moment is just so horrendous.’ Col’s plaintive tones made her look up. ‘A real culture of toxicity.’
The amiable smile froze. Without changing, Son’s face changed.
Suddenly there was a sadness, as palpable as the air-conditioning.
‘Society,’ said Son in even tones, ‘can be so – you know – judgy, so …’ He shook his head and his words tailed off.
Pat found herself wondering: could this amiable man be capable of bringing about a man’s death in some way, shape or form?
‘Hi, guys!’ Col was, at long last, retreating (carrying no less than three copies of Smash It! Six significant steps to change your life) and Son was looking at them, face once more relaxed and amiable. Pat felt a stab of shock that she had absolutely no idea what to say to him.
On this point, however, she needn’t have worried.
‘Son! Hi! That was amazing!’ Tiffany took a step forward, bright, confident, young – all the things that Pat wasn’t. ‘OMG!’
‘Thanks,’ said Son placidly.