Mr Gandy's Grand Tour

by Alan Titchmarsh

Genres: Family Life

Synopsis

Timothy Gandy has kept his lifetime's ambition secret for 40 years. Now, suddenly (if tragically) released from the henpecked tedium of his ordinary existence, he is unexpectedly free to realize his dreams. He will embark on a grand tour of Europe, following in the footsteps of the aristocrats of the 18th century. He anticipates high art, culture and pleasant weather. He never expects to encounter new friendships - and possibly even love - along the way.

It seems that Mr Gandy has embarked on the journey of a lifetime....

Release date: September 8, 2016

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

‘Chumps always make the best husbands … All the unhappy marriages come from the husbands having brains.’

P.G. Wodehouse, The Adventures of Sally, 1920

‘In every marriage there are moments when one partner comes to the fore and takes charge. It is the natural state of things and plays to the respective strengths of either party. Traditionally, on the domestic front, men remove mice and spiders and women know how to load the dishwasher properly. It is seldom wise to express such a view for it can give rise to criticism, especially when articulated by the male of the species, but, nevertheless, it is a situation which prevails in most households. On weightier matters, of course, the decision making is best arrived at by means of give and take. Happy the couple whose sense of values is so aligned that these more important issues can be arrived at by free and frank discussion and then acted upon in unison. That is the ideal. Alas, in many circumstances, the balance of power may shift with the years until one party is regarded as the decision maker and the other as the passive partner. Should the male dominate then he is regarded as a tyrant. Should the female take charge, then the husband is described as being henpecked. For the male of the species marriage is a battlefield where the best he can hope for is a truce.’

Timothy Gandy closed the book and looked again at the title on the excessively lurid dust jacket: Marriage: An Insider’s Guide. His facial expression gave little away. He looked at the author’s name: Dr Randy Finkelstein. His eyebrows rose a little. An American; a resident of the land of the free. This was not the sort of sentiment loudly expressed on this side of the pond – not by anyone keen to avoid the wrath of female society anyway.

The book was not his. Neither did it belong to his wife. It sat on the kitchen table on top of a teetering pile of paperbacks collected by Isobel Gandy for the bookstall at the local Lib Dem Coffee Morning where she regularly did her bit to redress the balance of power. It was a wonder she had not binned it. Perhaps she had not really noticed it was there, or not registered the title. She had most certainly not opened it and absorbed its sentiments, otherwise she would have had a lot to say about Mr Finkelstein’s attitude to marriage and the book would have been found a comfortable home in the recycling bin outside the back door.

Timothy smiled – well, half smile, half wince – and slipped the book underneath the topmost volume, The Diary of a Dog, and mused on the appropriateness of that as a title for his own life. Silly really. Then he shivered involuntarily and walked to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. He was not ordinarily so introspective, so downcast, so … morose even. But today was no ordinary day. The electric kettle began its slow hiss – the hiss that would, in a moment or two, turn into a bubbling hum that signified boiling point – a feeling which, inside himself, he had not felt for a long time now.

This unwonted introspection was the result of one thing – a complex state of affairs summed up in two deceptively simple words, ‘early retirement’. This would be his last day at work. He was fifty-five, had hoped to go on working until he dropped – working at something at any rate. Granted, he expected to be pensioned off when he reached sixty-five (or was it seventy, now that the government explained that we would all have to work longer?). The prospect of delaying the evil moment suited him fine. But then it had all come to a head. The small but successful company for whom he had worked – Novio Graphics – was taken over by a larger conglomerate. Timothy’s job was safe, they said, but there would be some reorganisation; a re-allocation of duties; a realignment. It was the sort of management-speak that made his spirits sink.

When push finally came to shove the choice lay between a role that would fail to satisfy one fluid ounce of his creative juices, or voluntary redundancy. He lay awake night after night – while Isobel slept soundly beside him – weighing up the pros and cons. He finally came to the conclusion that it would be better to leave a job that he had so far enjoyed and attempt to find another – even at fifty-five – than to labour on soullessly for another ten or fifteen years in some managerial role akin to that of social worker and diplomat rolled into one. The decision was made and communicated to the powers that be. And to Isobel, too – the other power that was. He had asked for her input, of course. Would have valued it. But she said it was entirely up to him. What did he want to do? It was his life, after all. Funny how it didn’t feel like that.

Should you have pressed him, he would not have described his marriage as an unhappy one. Not really. Though to outsiders it might have seemed a little … ordinary. It was, in common parlance, comfortable for the most part; a situation arrived at by virtue of kindness, familiarity, pragmatism and Timothy’s ability to make the best of whatever life threw at him. From childhood he had been possessed of the ability to be happy in his own company. He was not antisocial, indeed he was capable of quite sparkling conversation when the occasion demanded, and when those listening could discern, underneath the calm carapace that others might have considered to be insularity, a ready wit and an engaging smile. His was a quiet humour, not in the least ostentatious, but well developed nevertheless. It was just that in certain circumstances it was not always obvious. Loud and raucous gatherings would cause it to be submerged beneath a veil of reserve; a veil that would allow the wearer to observe, to understand and to marvel at the variety of temperaments displayed by his fellow beings. There was within him not a trace of smugness nor an ounce of animosity, though when circumstances dictated – perceived injustice, rudeness or cruelty – he would feel anger rising within him and an uncontrollable urge to intervene and put matters right. It was something his fellow students at university had come to be wary of and also to secretly admire.

He had met Isobel there, all those years ago – he studying art, she politics. They had married within a month of leaving. Timothy would have happily cohabited for a year or two, just to see how things went, to see if they were really suited, but Isobel was adamant that she would not live with him – or enter into any kind of physical relationship – until they were wed. He acceded to her wishes; it would be the first of many occasions when he would do so. Sometimes he wondered if he should have been more assertive, but the willingness to make her happy had seemed to override other considerations.

Both families were dubious of the alliance. Isobel’s were strict Methodists who at least waived their objection to alcohol for the day of the nuptials. (Timothy suspected that judging by the way they took to the sherbet on that rainy July day in 1980 they had had more than a little practice.) His own parents were lapsed Anglicans devoted to a 6pm gin and tonic followed by a bottle of wine. At the end of the wedding breakfast both sets of parents exhibited an air of unsteadiness and facial expressions that betokened the drowning of sorrows rather than the celebration of a happy union. They never met each other again.

After honeymooning in Bournemouth in the attic of Isobel’s auntie (a complete lack of funds precluded anything more luxurious), the happy couple settled along the coast in Chichester. Like so many things in his life it seemed to have happened by chance – fate taking a hand while he was still thinking about what to do next. There was no conscious decision on his part to find work and set up home there, but Isobel had spotted an advertisement in the Bournemouth paper and pushed it under his nose. It seemed churlish to spurn her apparent enthusiasm, and at least it was a start – a foot on the commercial ladder. The owner of the graphic design firm – Ted Henderson – was pleasant and encouraging. He offered Timothy the job and asked if he could start the following week. Timothy was surprised and relieved in equal measure. The job gave him the opportunity to be creative – albeit in a small firm and on a small scale. Yes, he did wonder if he should have been more daring; gone it alone, perhaps, and worked for himself. But that would mean touting himself around; making contacts, and he was never very good at selling himself. And this was the definite offer of a job, an income, and he had a wife to support now.

At first they lived in a flat overlooking the harbour in the coastal town of Emsworth. Small and rather shabby, the flat was another property owned by Isobel’s aunt – a savvy lady, Timothy discovered, whose idea of a balanced investment portfolio was a fiver each way on the horses and a string of rather dilapidated apartments in houses along the south coast. As the small firm grew, due in no small measure to Timothy’s talents and his capacity for work, his income expanded, albeit slightly. He and Isobel took out a mortgage on a modest town house in Chichester – it would be closer to Timothy’s work. He could walk there now, as Isobel pointed out, and she could use the car. The first of their three children arrived two years after the wedding.

Always a challenging child, Oliver lost none of his intractability with the passing years. His general demeanour – ebullience coupled with a stubborn streak – along with the slightly arrogant expression he wore even in repose, perfectly suited him to his subsequent role as a barrister. He was now a junior advocate in chambers in Gray’s Inn; not exactly at the top of his game, having succeeded in irritating most of the senior partners in the practice. He battled on, convinced that one day he would take silk and rise to the top of the judicial tree. He was married to Vita, a fair-haired stalwart of the local NSPCC tennis championship and rivalling her mother-in-law when it came to organising ability. The epitome of a head girl, Vita had a voice that was not so much cut glass as capable of shattering it. There were, as yet, no children of the union. In moments when thoughts that he considered were unworthy rose to the surface, Timothy reasoned that it was probably just as well. He could not imagine what sort of offspring these two strident powerhouses would produce. Whenever such thoughts occurred he chastised himself for his lack of generosity of spirit. He tried hard to feel some kind of empathy with Oliver, but it was, he frequently admitted to himself, an uphill struggle.

Alice, the second child, was the exact opposite of her brother. Sickly and rather fey from birth she remained a single woman whose outlook was never of the sunniest and who seemed to make her way through life managing never to quite enjoy herself. After displaying a surprising degree of academic ability at school, she had settled into the quietude of librarianship at an Oxford college. The obligatory silence seemed to suit her introspection. Holidays, when they came, were reviled, and she frequently took to her bed with some imagined ailment until the beginning of term put her on her feet once more and she could resume her duties and greet favoured students with a weak smile and a habitual sniff.

Having produced two children who were less than companionable, Timothy would happily have called it a day, baffled as to his own input in creating two such disparate charges who seemed to owe nothing to their easy-going father in terms of genetics or general demeanour.

Then along came Rosie. The choice of name was his – it seemed to suit the sunny disposition and the general pinkness she displayed as a baby and, as luck would have it, her outlook on life altered little with age. She was twenty-seven now; the only fair-haired child of the three and the only one of his children to show any interest in having children of her own which was, as far as her mother was concerned, unfortunate, since she was unmarried and now with child, courtesy of Ace, a conservation officer with the local naturalists trust. (On first hearing of his existence, Isobel had assumed that he had a fondness for nudist beaches, but Rosie swiftly explained the difference between a naturist and a naturalist. Isobel thought the distinction a narrow one).

Relations between mother and daughter became strained. Timothy, while surprised by the speed at which his daughter’s relationship seemed to be progressing (and the responsibility about to be thrust upon her in terms of an imminent family) could not bring himself to dislike her chosen partner. There was a freshness, a warmth of personality and an openness about Ace that Timothy found both engaging and infectious. His name was an acronym of his initials; Ace thought Alexander Charles Elliott sounded far too upper crust for comfort. His parents had not been nearly so aristocratic as his names suggested – the father a council worker, the mother a shop assistant.

Ace and Rosie might have little going for them as far as Isobel was concerned (conservation officers were paid a pittance, the pair had only a rented flat and little in the way of prospects with Rosie soon to relinquish her job as a primary school teacher) but as far as Timothy was concerned they were in possession of the greatest thing in life – an adoration of one another and shared values that would, he hoped, see them through thick and thin. In that at least he had to agree with Dr Randy Finkelstein. He hoped and prayed their mutual affection would last.

The kettle was almost boiling now and he reached into the kitchen cupboard for the favoured Colombian roast. That was one of the first things he would do: buy one of those espresso coffee-making machines. Isobel would be grateful – she hated the messy coffee grounds he kept depositing in the sink. As the thought occurred to him, he carefully laid down the spoon and stared out of the window across the damp autumnal garden scattered with dew-laden leaves.

He knew in his heart that re-employment was unlikely and, if he were honest with himself, his appetite for job interviews was non-existent. He would need to look elsewhere now for a sense of purpose. Money would not really be a problem. Oh, they would not exactly be living in the lap of luxury, but his assiduous nature had ensured that a modest pension fund was fully paid up and would allow a comfortable … retirement. That word again. He turned his gaze from the damp garden to the small kitchen. Was this house and garden to be the manifestation of his ambitions now? Was this what it had all been leading up to: a new coffee machine? No; there must be more to life than that; his release from work must be regarded as a new-found freedom. He must shed the self-analysis and the sense of foreboding, and treat what lay ahead as a new and exciting chapter in his life; a chapter with its own delights. He must alter the obvious mindset and find a sense of purpose that had been sadly lacking of late.

Here he was, on the brink of his own precarious future, with three grown-up children and a grandchild on the way, wondering what tomorrow held and with the uneasy feeling that he had totally squandered the life that lay so promisingly before him thirty-five years ago. Surely his aspirations must exceed the acquisition of a state-of-the-art coffee maker? He knew, in his heart of hearts, that it would take more than that to turn him into George Clooney.

The sky showed some promise of breaking from an even shade of grey. There were small patches of blue perforating the otherwise all-enveloping blanket of cloud, and the wind, whipping off the sea, although keen, still possessed a vestige of late summer warmth. Timothy was walking along the beach at West Wittering, the better to shake himself out of the gloom that threatened to overwhelm him.

Wavelets broke on the sand with a faint sigh and he walked a yard or so back from them, feeling his heels sink into the firm but slightly yielding sand. The marram grass of the dunes imitated the rippling serpentine motions of the sea itself – both grey-green in the watery light. A salty tang gave the air a welcome astringency.

That, coupled with the stiff breeze, helped to clear his head and gradually he found his spirits rising. The words of old man Henderson’s son, uttered the previous evening at his farewell drinks party, echoed in his head. There was talk of ‘gratitude’ for how he had taken the firm to new heights. ‘Regret’ that they had finally come to a parting of the ways after more than thirty years. And ‘good wishes’ for the future, whatever it held. All the customary platitudes rehearsed once more. Today they would have moved on. Someone else would be doing the job he did. He was no more significant than … a grain of sand on West Wittering beach.

And yet somehow, with the sea lapping at his feet, the wind ruffling his grizzled hair – mercifully still present in quantity, though now greying at the temples – and the sun trying its best to break through and promise future brightness, his thoughts became more positive. Never one for pointless soul searching he breathed deeply and mused on the possibility of future plans, whatever they might be. His foot caught a shell. He bent down and picked it up, rubbing the sand from it on his jacket and running his finger over the hollow side to reveal a rainbow light that glistened upon the mother-of-pearl surface. The convex side was rough and blackened; a row of neat holes ran along its rim. An ormer: rare in this part of the world. Not something you would have expected to find much further north than the Channel Islands. Perhaps the current had washed it here after it had perished or been discarded by a diver once the tender contents had been eaten. He turned it over in his hand and remembered eating ormers on Guernsey during childhood holidays. He would watch the fisherman flip them out of their shells with a knife, flatten them with a wooden mallet, coat them in flour and fry them with onions and bacon. His mouth watered at the memory. He slipped the ormer shell into his pocket and looked up, to see a figure walking along the tideline towards him. At first he was unsure, but then the camouflage jacket and the sturdy boots, the binoculars and the loping gait confirmed his suspicions. It was Ace.

‘’Ello, guv’nor! What you doin’ ’ere?’

Timothy put his hand out to greet his putative son-in-law, who ignored it and, instead, enveloped him in a bear hug.

The older man half laughed at the friendliness of the greeting and, when they had parted, said, ‘Just blowing the cobwebs away.’

Ace glanced at the chronometer on his wrist. It was one of those ‘outward-bound’ type instruments with assorted dials and a rugged plastic strap. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’

Timothy regarded him apologetically.

Ace realised his mistake. ‘Oh, God yes! Today’s the day isn’t it? I mean … the last one.’

‘That was yesterday. This is the first.’

‘Well, yes. Of the rest of your life … and all that. How was it? I mean, did they give you a gold watch.’

‘No.’

‘But they gave you something?’

‘Yes. They gave me a coffee-making machine.’

Ace’s look, at first incredulous, turned into one of amusement. ‘You’ve worked there for thirty-odd years and they gave you a coffee maker?’

‘It’s a very good one,’ offered Timothy. ‘And I do need one.’

Ace shook his head. ‘I don’t know, guv’nor. You’d find a kind word to say about Genghis Khan, you would.’

‘Well, he wasn’t all bad. Apparently he did allow people to worship the God of their choice, you know. And he abolished torture.’

‘Was that before or after he slaughtered them?’

‘But it’s true.’

Ace slapped Timothy on the back. ‘So what now?’

‘Oh, I was just having a walk to clear my head. To leave it all behind I suppose.’

‘Anything planned for the rest of the day?’

Timothy looked out to sea and murmured softly. ‘Not sure. Think I might walk a bit longer.’

Ace thought he detected the merest note of fear in his girlfriend’s father’s tone. ‘I’m just about to have a bite if you fancy a spot of lunch.’ He pointed to the dunes. ‘I’ve got the Land Rover over there. We can nip to the pub.’ And then, seeing Timothy’s hesitation, ‘Just a quick one. I’ve a fence to put up this afternoon.’

Capitulating, the older man smiled. ‘Yes. Yes; that would be nice. Sea air gives you an appetite.’

‘An appetite for the future, that’s what you need, guv.’

Over thick soup, jaw-fatiguing ‘artisan’ rolls and a pint of local bitter in a quiet corner of the quayside pub, they talked about Rosie and the imminent arrival; a welcome break from the self-absorption that had dogged Timothy over the last few days.

‘They asked again if we wanted to know what sex it was,’ confided Ace.

‘What did you say?’

‘No. We don’t. It’s not natural. It’s against nature. We’ll take what we’re given and be thankful.’ Getting into his stride Ace explained how he and Rosie planned to manage once the child was born. Through all of this there played upon his mind the fact that Ace could, temperamentally, so easily have been his own son. The shared values, the love of the outdoors, the enquiring mind, the belief in a positive outlook so lacking in himself recently but, hopefully, soon to re-emerge as the old life was left behind and the new one began to materialise more clearly in his mind.

He remembered the ormer shell and pulled it from his pocket. ‘I found this on the beach. Not seen one here before.’ He passed it to Ace who turned it over in his hand.

‘Haliotis tuberculata.’

‘I thought it was an ormer,’ offered Timothy.

‘It is but …’ Ace saw the smile on the older man’s face. ‘Yes. Not a very attractive Latin name is it.’

‘But an attractive shell. A wonderful example of natural design. Look at the arrangement of the holes around the edge.’

Ace held the ormer so that the inner surface caught the sunlight now streaming in through the window of the pub. ‘Fancy finding it here. And so late in the year. It must have been washed up from Jersey.’

‘Or Guernsey. I ate them there as a boy. On holiday.’

‘In a stew?’

‘No, fried with onions and bacon. I’ve never forgotten the flavour.’

‘They can only dive for them between January and April you know. And only when there’s a new or a full moon – and two days after. To conserve them.’

‘It sounds wonderfully mysterious.’

‘But practical.’ Ace saw that Timothy was withdrawing into himself once more. ‘A bit like you, guv’nor.’

‘Mmm?’ murmured Timothy absently.

‘Mysterious but practical.’

‘Well, I’m grateful for the former compliment, but I’m not yet sure if the latter still applies.’

‘Uncertain of what to do?’

‘Yes. I’ve a few ideas but … I can’t get my head round it really. I’d like to travel, but Isobel … well, she’s got so many commitments – charity work, that sort of stuff. I can’t see us finding the time.’

‘What about doing it on your own?’

Timothy lurched backwards, laying down his soup spoon. ‘I couldn’t really do that. It’d be a bit selfish, gadding off and leaving Isobel behind.’

Ace wanted to say ‘Do you think she’d notice’ but he thought better of it. Instead he said: ‘You could go for a week or two, surely.’

‘Maybe. But I think Isobel has a few jobs lined up for me.’

‘Jobs?’

‘About the house. Well, not just ours. Oliver and Vita’s. They need a wardrobe fixed in their bedroom, and some shelves in the spare. Oliver wants to use it as an office.’

Now it was Ace’s turn to sit back. On his face was a look of incredulity. ‘You can’t settle for that, guv’nor.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, becoming an odd-job man. It’s a waste.’

‘But I’m good with my hands and Oliver …’

‘Isn’t.’

‘No.’

‘Is that what you want to do.’

‘Well, I don’t mind helping out …’ . . .