Faking it (VILLAGE TALES EP. 10 )

Most people are honest, aren’t they?

 When a so-called Major rents in the village and starts telling his far-fetched stories

 and collecting a fan base it’s got to be suspicious, hasn’t it? 

Some people are not what they seem.

During my years dealing with antiques it wasn’t unusual to be offered a piece as genuine that turned out to be a fake. Some are fake in every sense, others less so. For instance before I moved into the village and a small cottage I had a splendid pine dresser, in appearance a genuine period piece, but only the pine complete with shakes and woodworm, had any age to it. With a little experience it’s not difficult to tell when one piece is re-constructed from many others. Antique pine furniture became impossible to find and imports made from sticks rather than broad timber, took their place, look at a cupboard panel and you’ll see what I mean.

Major Parker-Smythe was in many ways just like my old dresser. If you can remember the actor Terry Thomas and the confidence trickster parts he used to play, that was my immediate impression of him. Upper crust accent, blazer with military insignia, an MCC tie, and highly polished shoes, all to contrive an indication of trustworthiness and reliability. He arrived one spring renting in the village while apparently house-hunting, and immediately collected a small coterie of adoring fans during the early session at our local, The Old Drum and Monkey.

‘Looking for a little place to rest me’ bones don’t you know, had enough of rambling mansions. Something that’ll do till I pop me clogs eh?’

‘Oh, I’m sure that’s a long way off, Jeremy.’ Snorted one of his admirers, which was echoed by two or three others not wishing to be left wanting when the dividends were paid out. If they ever were.

I’d seen it before and if you have it’s so blindingly obvious that when Paul at the village shop asked me what I knew about ‘the major’, I had a good idea what was coming.

‘How much?’ Was all I needed to say, to his surprise. It seemed that he too had been seduced by the Major’s performance.

‘Getting on for a couple.’

‘Have you mentioned it?’

Paul became evasive, saying he had only just realised, but I know the truth. Being typically English he would rather not offend someone he thought was of a better class than himself. The same is true of Blythe Hall, ‘posh tones and unpaid bills’ is a saying from Georgian times, though in the case of Blythe Hall they do eventually pay. The trades would rather not pursue an outstanding bill in case it risks the chance of any further business, something that is regularly promised, but seldom realised. 

Early that evening sat in my usual corner of the Drum, the Major arrived on his own then made a great play buying his ‘large Scotch’. When his sycophants arrived for the early session he would feign an offer to buy a round which was always refused for all sorts of footling excuses. On one occasion it nearly backfired and he had to fumble through his blazer pockets until the gesture was forgotten. Whenever he could see they were about to leave, he would make another offer knowing it would be refused.

I have to admit to some prejudice, we all have prejudices mostly borne out of personal experience, and the likes of the major are not uncommon in the antiques trade. I made some discrete enquiries regarding where the Major was staying. The rumour was that he was in the area looking to buy a substantial property whilst waiting for the funds from the sale of his Richmond town house to be forwarded. Apparently there were tax issues delaying payment. ‘Yeh, right.’ Were my thoughts on that. 

Then I had to eat my words.

As Paul was walking his dog one morning he whistles from my gate. 

‘He’s paid up,’ was all he whispered before continuing his walk.

For a moment I was confused, but soon my prejudice returned and I was convinced that the Major had conned someone into lending him a wadge on the promise that he had ‘expectations’. I wasn’t surprised therefore when a few days later he actually bought a round of drinks, insisting that Dave, the Landlord, also partake and making sure everybody in pub was witness. There is never a truer saying in confidence trickster circles than, ‘speculate to accumulate’. Splash a little in the right place, ask for a big loan until the weekend before which you’ve disappeared. 

After a week or two concerning family matters I had not visited the Drum but when I did there was a slight change in the atmosphere. The Major’s fan base was gathering but with one or two exceptions. The most notable absentee was the Major himself. The mood of the group was frosty and they were gone in less than an hour. I reckoned my guess had been spot on and I asked landlord Dave just for confirmation.

‘The Major’s disappeared,’ he told me, and I made a face indicating it was no surprise, and thinking I could have told him that would happen. 

‘That’s not all,’ continued Dave, ‘Pru’s gone too.’

I asked him if Pru was the petite blonde with a fondness for pink, and he said she was.

‘Are they . . .’

Dave shrugged his shoulders.

‘What about the husband?’

‘Apparently,’ Dave leant towards me, ‘they weren’t married.’

‘But they were living together, weren’t they? I mean everyone thought they were.’

‘Oh yeh, they were sort of married but just hadn’t got the paperwork, like driving a car and not having a licence, don’t make you a bad driver.’

Not sure I followed Dave’s logic but I knew what he meant, I think.

‘Ok, so what about Pru’s partner?’

‘Roger? Well he’s gutted, and for good reason.’

‘Yeh?’ I asked, 

‘Pru had all the money, Roger hasn’t got a bean, the house is in her name. She’s taken the Merc and left him with the Mazda.

‘Adding insult to injury,’ I observed, ‘He’s got friends though,’ I suggested, ‘the other couple they always drank with, they always seemed to get on.’

‘Looked like it didn’t it.’

‘Go on . . ‘

 ‘Well, Roger used to run a pub near Shaftesbury where Pru and her first husband were regulars. Roger and Pru were carrying on an affair in an upstairs room over the saloon bar when her husband found out. Roger left the pub, and moved in with Pru when she bought Brook Cottage at the end of the high street. Then two weeks later Roger bumps into Cynthia who he had been engaged to when he had the pub, but Cynthia had never told Morris.’

‘Morris?’

‘Cynthia’s husband. He’s quite funny about things like that. He gives the impression of being open minded but underneath he’s a real prude. Anyway somehow he found out, or she told him, and their relationship has never the same, apparently they’ve had some right ding-dongs . . ‘

‘But they appear happy together.’

‘Marriage init? There’s couples get in the Drum who you’d think had the perfect marriage, but you’d be wrong, so wrong.’

‘So what you’re telling me is that not only do Morris and Cynthia have a problem, but Morris and Roger have a problem, what about Cynthia and Pru?’

‘There’s a window to the ladies out back by the kitchen door where I go for a crafty fag, if they’re in there together I never stand too close to the glass, just in case something comes flying through it, if you get my meaning.’

And I did.

I haven’t seen any of that group in the Drum since the Major left. Paul at the shop told me the Major had bought a converted barn and three acres near Shipston. He and Pru both put money into a company selling prophylactics which I still prefer to think is something you take for cramp. Roger still lives in Brook Cottage which he now rents it from Pru. Cynthia has moved out of the house that she and Morris said they owned, but now it seems were renting. I’m embarrassed that the only character in this tale who seems to not to have been faking it was the Major, but I comfort myself with the idea that he’s the exception that makes the rule. Prejudices aren’t that easily given up.

Listen to Village Tales and other short stories from the HONKEYMOON CAFE

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Google Podcasts, Breaker and other platforms. 

Written and read by Barkley Johnson.