“Can you stand plenty of drink?” I was putting away about three bottles of gin each week so I answered that question with confidence.
“Then my chauffer will pick you up at eight thirty sharp, be ready.”
I was ready alright but was taken aback when a luxury Rolls Royce drew up in the yard. It didn’t seem many minutes before we purred into the courtyard behind the Grand Hotel in Worcester. Sir Raymond was there to meet us and after giving me a crushing hug he thrust a glass of sherry in my hand with the comment, “The first of the day, Happy Christmas.”
He then dismissed his chauffer, “That’s it till five o clock Barnes, go home and help the kids open their presents.
Turning to me, Sir Raymond said, “Forget the Sir Raymond, I’m Ray to my friends. That is unless we are in company.”
He continued, “ I would like to visit the fishermen’s cottages. They were flooded last week so I’d like to give the people a little treat.”
Driving the Rolls himself, we called at the cottages that were still inhabited, bearing gifts for children and bottles for the adults.
“Next job is the hospital,” he said. Again gifts and bottles were distributed. The cavernous boot of the Rolls was absolutely crammed full of parcels. We spent the entire morning going round the wards. I was persuaded to have a drink in nearly every one whilst Ray stuck to orange juice as he was driving.
For the first time in years, I was looking forward to my dinner. Where and when I had no idea.
“Right” said Ray, it is twelve o clock. Christmas dinner at Greenbank House, the retirement home. This is where I’ll need help.” He wasn’t kidding. Residents and their guests meant one hundred meals to be served. . . . . . Mainly by Ray and myself.
The next hour and a half I worked harder than I had ever done in my life. But I enjoyed every minute of it. Then it was our turn. Ray and I dined with the staff. And what a luxury meal it was.
There was plenty of drink to follow, wasn’t I glad that I could take it.
There was no such thing as an afternoon nap though. But another thrill in store.
“Do you like helicopters?” Ray inquired.
Now my one ambition, even before John died, was to go in a helicopter, so when I said I would love to ride in one he replied “Come on then.” We went about half a mile and turned into a farmyard. Behind the main building stood a gleaming helicopter, his own. It only seemed moments later that we were passing over the white topped Pennines, Just like Santa with his sleigh.
Our destination, I was told, was a large country club, miles from anywhere. Quite simply,
“There is a party on. One or two people there.”
That was no understatement. I had been to parties and hunt balls many a time but absolutely nothing like this. Loads of food, drink, and so many of the top personalities that I couldn’t take it all in at first. I’d love to tell you some of the people that I was hob-knobbing with but Ray asked me not to name anyone, and I respect his wish, but there were celebrities from all walks of life, sporting, films and theatre, and more characters from the soap operas than I could ever imagine being under one roof.
What is more, Ray introduced me to many of them saying,
“I’d like you to meet a very attractive friend of mine, Brenda. Not only did she do sterling work helping me at lunch-time, but she has made the day for me.”
I felt chuffed; Ray had certainly made Christmas for me.
I was enjoying myself immensely when somebody came in saying,
“It really is a white Christmas now, look outside.”
Everyone rushed to the door and sure enough, it was snowing heavily, many cars were already covered and unrecognisable. Chances of the helicopter taking off were zero. The problem was, the club hotel was already full to bursting with Christmas guests. After partying till way after midnight, Ray, myself spent the night in the helicopter, chaperoned by his aircrew. An auxiliary engine was kept running to provide warmth and power. However, it was excitement that kept me awake, not the noise of the motor.
I’ll tell you one thing,
It certainly was an unusual Christmas.
Major General.
“You can’t go out like that,! She shrieked. “It isn’t decent.”
My mother was adamant. She always got so worked up about things that didn’t matter.
I was an army nurse with nine weeks service to my credit and was ready to go back to camp after my first leave.
I suppose it is unusual for my age group, but I can’t feel comfortable wearing jeans or trousers, so I planned to drive back in my mini skirt and my favourite crimson boob tube.
Like I said, mum was furious and Gran’s interference was no help either,
I took no notice of them and just got into my car.
Two hundred and twenty miles to drive, weather absolutely atrocious, and my faithful fiesta that I had had since I passed my test was on its last legs. So . . .
Who the hell cared what I looked like?
Having said that, I hated going away leaving a bad atmosphere. Trouble was, neither Mum or Gran had hardly ever been away from Oakwood Priory, the sleepy village that had been my home till nine weeks ago.
Their outlook on life bordered on Victorian.
The first few miles I knew like the back of my hand so that presented no great problem. Then I got to the motorway, and it was raining so hard that visibility was little more than zero.
I’d just about got acclimatised to the conditions when I came to a traffic jam. I just sat twiddling my thumbs in the middle lane when I looked to my right. Alongside me was a sleek dark blue chauffeured car. Naturally I had to stare at the occupant of the rear seat. I couldn’t be sure of his rank but he was certainly a high ranking army officer. And the dishiest looking bloke that I had ever seen in my life. My imagination went wild. Oh, to get a date with him. He saw me looking and smiled back. A smile that would turn any female to jelly. I knew at that moment that I wanted him however impossible that may be.
Then we started to move very slowly. One lane at a time. He passed me, then I passed him, then he passed me, just the way it is on the motorways. Then equally as quickly, the traffic in
front was gone. My officer (The cheek, calling him my officer) gave a royal type of wave and was gone. But the registration number of the car was unforgettable. To me anyhow. I assumed it was a very old English number, KG 4678. KG, which was my initials, followed by the numbers 4678 which were my birth date. The fourth of June nineteen seventy eight. That car was soon out of sight but certainly not out of mind. Thoughts were circulating in my head nineteen to the dozen. . . Yes, many of my thoughts are better not printed.
All too soon, I soon saw that number again. Over the brow of the next hill there was another mass of vehicles. This time many of them were in a tangled mess. I immediately grabbed my first aid kit and ran to see if I could assist. The dark blue car had the side smashed in and my officer, was slumped in his seat. Obviously he hadn’t been wearing his seat belt and I could see that he was badly injured. And didn’t seem to be breathing.
Oh to give him mouth to mouth resuscitation.
Yes please.
But it wasn’t quite as simple as you might think. I didn’t see the smiling lips from a few minutes earlier. His mouth was all blood, snot and slobber. But still there was still a job to be done. Fortunately I had a Brook airway in my kit and lost no time in giving assisted breathing till the ambulance arrived. I must admit, it was a bit of an ego boost when a paramedic told me,
“You have more than likely saved that man’s life“.
I didn’t crack on that I was a trainee nurse but I’ve a feeling that he had guessed as much.
It wasn’t the way that I wanted it but that was when I discovered the identity of my officer. The paramedic was just asking me details. Whether intentionally or not, he told me that Major General Laurence Blackwell was in a critical condition and the air ambulance was expected any minute. For what it was worth, I also found ou
t which hospital Major General Blackwell was being taken to.
Fingers crossed that he comes onto my ward.
Friends.
Barbara Bolton, or Babs as she was usually called, and I have always been friends. Through nursery school, girl’s grammar, and later at uni, we always stuck together, yet we were as different as chalk and cheese. I have always been laid back and easy going whilst Barbara was what I call a pushy go getter. Yet, there must be some latent bond somewhere because we are closer than sisters.
We have each worked hard, very hard, to achieve successful careers, Babs in banking and finance, me in retailing.
Neither of us ever married though I did once have a live in lover.
“It will all end in tears” said Babs every time we met. I argued otherwise but she was right. It did end with much heartache when his wife turned up hoping for a financial gain,
Secretly, both of us would have loved a romance but in our circumstances things were difficult. Every time either of us met someone, there was always that underlying suspicion that he might be a gold digger just hoping to tap into our hard earned wealth, a suspicion that always spoiled things. Babs always said that I was too easy going to get a husband whilst I thought that her pushy attitude frightened men off
Business often separated us but Babs and I had made a pact that, come what may, we would meet somewhere in the world for a meal at least once a month. Eighteen months ago we were both on home territory and arranged to have lunch at our favourite venue, The Huntsman, at High Ash. It was the most high class restaurant in the county, often frequented by high flying personalities.
This particular day we finished our starter and whilst waiting for the main course Babs gave me some interesting information that a certain chain of twenty eight shops was having cash flow problems and could be bought for less than half the market value. I wasn’t interested. As I said, I was always the laid back, contented one and was quite happy with the chain of stores that I already owned outright. Babs in her usual pushy manner was emphatic that I agreed to her wishes, she even offered to arrange any finance if I needed it.
(which I didn’t)
“Do you realise that you could treble your income by just signing one document? She said.
My reply annoyed her.
“I’m quite happy with what I’ve got thank you. It wouldn’t worry me if my income halved, there is still more than I need.”
“Have you no ambition? She stormed.
“I did have once, but then I achieved it and built up a successful business. What more could I want other than a quiet life and maybe a nice fellow though that doesn’t seem likely.”
I could see that Babs was getting very angry and worked up but I was determined and sat there very calmly. On the rare occasions that we did fall out, all was peaceful again by the time we had a few vodka and tonics.
Apart from Barbara’s persuasive ranting, something else gave me rise for concern. On the next table a party of six were settling, four adults and two seemingly teenage children. Without being snobbish, they were not the usual type of clientele that dined at the Huntsman.
In a sentence that included a few swear words one of the juveniles was emphatic,
“If I can’t have burger and chips then I won’t have anything.”
Presumably, it was his mother who responded using even more disgusting language,
“You’ll blank blank well have what you’re blanking given so there.”
I would have been happy to move to another table but Babs had other ideas. Already worked up with my complacency she turned her anger on this woman.
“Shut it will you, you foul mouthed creature. That sort of language isn’t what we expect in here.”
I froze, wondering what would come next when Barbara continued.
“I said shut your bloody mouth before I shut it for you.”
At that, each got up and faced each other. Who struck the first blow is unclear but within seconds they were both on the floor giving vent to their anger. When one of the men tried to separate them, the two juveniles joined in and a horrible melee ensued.
I had no fear for Babs, she had a black belt in whatever it is that she does. I just sat and watched in horror.
It wasn’t long before the maitre-d and the head waiter appeared.
They soon separated the flailing bodies. The Maitre-d escorted Babs to the cloakroom whilst the head waiter asked the other party to leave. Determined to have the last word, the woman answered,
“We wouldn’t stay here anyhow. Not now I’ve seen your blank blank price list.
I played with my meal, rather than enjoying it. Five minutes later, Babs reappeared, her torn and bloodstained blouse replaced with a white tee shirt bearing the logo of the Huntsman.
We decided to forgo the rest of the meal and retired to the lounge to do some serious drinking. Neither the fight nor my purchasing the chain of shops was mentioned again. We simply spent the time drinking and reminiscing.
That isn’t quite the end of the tale. A few days later I had a phone call asking if I would meet a reporter from The Clarion, our local weekly paper. That was not unusual. Most weeks the Clarion carried news about one or another of my businesses.
It wasn’t the usual business editor who called so I assumed that he must be sick or away.
The fellow that turned up was a very smart young man. If looks matter, he would be every woman’s dream. He was from the news and gossip section and wasn’t bothered about my business dealings.
He had heard about the fracas at the Huntsman and wanted the details first hand. I was reluctant to say anything but as he pointed out, either he had the full true picture or some hack would print their version of what they heard from rumours.
Then conversation was easy and I spent one of my happiest hours for a long time talking about everything under the sun.
We went out quite a few times after that, then decided to go on a last minute cruise together.
Did we live happily ever after, maybe, but there’s more.
Barbara, determined not to be outdone began going out with the Clarion business editor and guess what?
There will be a double wedding at the Cathedral next Saturday.
Dragged Through a Hedge Backwards .
Unlike my parents, I’m not a snob. I sincerely hope that I never will be.
In fact I hope that nobody ever has cause to think otherwise.
Having said that, I have an almighty job trying to convince my fiancée that there are certain standards that should, and I believe must be maintained.
My mother would have given anything for me to ditch my Peter in favour of her choice, Nigel Anson. Peter came from, . . . shall we say, a very humble background. Admittedly, his parents were struggling to buy their own council house and far too many of their meals came from take-aways, but believe me, that family were what used to be called the salt of the earth. Peter had served his apprenticeship and worked hard at night school to get his Higher National Certificate.
In the engineering world, the sky was his limit.
Mummy’s attitude was,
“He will always be messing with those dirty spanners.”
Regrettably, Peter deliberately aggravated mummy because he despised her as much as she disapproved of him.
Admittedly, in her own curious way, once she had reluctantly accepted that we were engaged, she did try to get on with him.
However, in one conversation she openly criticized his lackadaisical attitude to English grammar. His defiant reply was,
“’Er’s learnin may fer talk proper.”
After that there were many spats between the two of them, nobody ever won. Daddy found it difficult to get involved. He liked Peter who was handy at repairing our lawn mower, which was notoriously difficult to start. He also had a gadget that started the car when the battery was absolutely flat after mummy left the lights on. That made him good in daddy’s eyes
When Nigel Anson bought himself a bright red spo
rts car my mother renewed her efforts to make Nigel and myself an item.
She was so devious and would stoop to any level to get her own way. Even though Peter and I were engaged she still tried it on.
We were determined to get married with or without her blessing.
Typical mummy, snob to the end, finally declared,
“If you must marry that man, at least you will do it properly.
No village Church for you my lady. We will book the Cathedral.”
Protests were useless so we gave way on that one. In fact we left everything to her. My attitude was,
“Whatever I say or do will be wrong, so you get on with it.”
And she did. No expense spared.
The only thing that didn’t fit in with her plans was the fact that the Bishop said that he wouldn’t be available to perform the service himself due to prior commitments. The Rector of St. Thomas’s however would be willing and available. Rector of St. Thomas was a title unique to our diocese and applied to the bishop’s deputy or second in command. Mummy was quite miffed about that.
Meanwhile daddy just suffered in silence and signed the cheques.
What happened next however was sheer coincidence.
It was the evening that Peter and myself were to go to see the Rector about publishing the banns and a general talk about the ceremony. Peter telephoned to say that he had to work overtime so he would go straight to the Cathedral. Mummy could have easily taken me in her car but no, scheming as ever, even at this late stage, she rang Nigel and asked if he would do the honours.
“Of course I will,” he said. “No problem at all.”
Showing off as usual, he had the hood down even though it was chilly and looked like rain.
50 Short Stories Page 5