The Old Devils

by Kingsley Amis

  They had hardly settled in their seats before one of the long-aproned waiters went round unfolding napkins and spreading them across their destined laps. They were unexceptionably large and laundered and of linen, but they were also pale pink. Alun ostentatiously held his arms up well clear during the spreading. When it was over he put on an eager, didactic expression and said, 'This is called a napkin. Its purpose is to protect your clothing from the substantial gobbets of food that your table manners will cause to fall from your mouth or from some point on the way to your mouth, and to provide something other than your hand or sleeve with which to wipe your mouth. Explaining this to one of your understanding would take a long time and even then might not avail, so fucking well sit still and shut up.'

  'Oh Christ,' said Peter immediately, his eyes on the menu. They had each been given one in the bar but none of them had looked at it. 'A bloody Welsh lunch and dinner. Well, roll on.' Looking round for someone to accuse he caught sight of Charlie. 'What's the idea?' he asked, apparently in sincere puzzlement.

  'You have to do it in a way,' said Charlie. 'People are getting to expect it. We only do it on Fridays anyway, Fridays and St David's Day. And it isn't compulsory even then. Which is decent of us because it's pretty nasty, unless you happen to have a taste for chicken in honey.'

  'You mean you actually get people eating that?' asked Alun.

  'Not much, no. That's not really the point. Seeing it on the menu is what they like. Same with the signposts.'

  'But you don't give an English translation here,' said Peter.

  'Well, you see, that would rather spoil things for them.

  They like to feel they understand it, or could if they paid it a bit of attention. And they probably do understand some of it, like _pys__ is peas and _tarws__ is taters.'

  'Christ,' said Peter again, with weary disgust this time. 'We're not going to war over this, I hope. It's all fairly harmless, isn't it?'

  'No it isn't. There you're wrong. It's one part, a small part but still a pan, of an immense Chinese wall of bullshit that's, I mean Offa's Dyke that's... '

  'Threatening to engulf us,' supplied Charlie. 'I know.

  But I'm afraid I don't think putting a couple of dozen Welsh words on a menu lets the side down very far. Find a pass that's really worth holding and I'll join you there.'

  'There never is one. That's the trouble.'

  'We need more drinks,' said Alun. 'And I'd advise you to switch, Peter. I don't think that slimline tonic agrees with you.'

  'Can I recommend the soup?' asked Charlie. 'I hope you've noticed it's called soup, not _cawl__. I might even have some myself. Potato and leek today, he does it quite well. Unless Peter thinks the leek is there for impure reasons.'

  'All right, Charlie; said Peter.

  Just as they had ordered, Victor approached the table, using a much less emphatic gait than when making his exit from the bar. 'Do forgive me, but one of your fans, Alun, requests the honour of a brief word.'

  'What kind of fan?'

  'Well, I don't know what you'd call her, but if it was left to me I'd say she was a young person. There, over in the corner, just turning round now.'

  From what Alun could see without his glasses, which was all he was going to see of her, the fan looked perhaps rather good as well as young. 'All right, but you will see she knows I'm having a little private lunch-party.'

  'I'll make sure she understands that, Alun - leave it to me.'

  'You more or less have to do it,' said Alun after a moment. He felt a little embarrassed.

  'Don't worry,' said Charlie.

  'I mean you can always get out of it if you don't mind looking like a shit but I'm afraid I'm a bit too cowardly to do that unless I have to.'

  'We understand.'

  Seen closer to, the fan looked quite seriously good, and late twenties. Alun found himself signalling to Victor, who with what could have been piss-taking alacrity sent a waiter scurrying forward with a fourth chair. The fan shook hands nicely with them all and accepted a-glass of wine.

  'And what can I do for you?' There was no point, Alun considered, in trying to hide his satisfaction at this turn of events.

  'I'd like you to talk to my group.'

  'Tell me about your group.'

  It turned out to be a literary circle, thirty strong on a good night, though naturally there would be more for someone like him, twenty minutes' drive, and not worth asking about a fee. Yes, a reading would do if he preferred it.

  'I'll consider it,' said Alun. 'Perhaps you'd like to drop me a line incorporating all that, care of the local BBC. Very kind of you to ask.'

  'Nice to have met you.' Her voice was good too.

  Charlie watched her go. 'Is that the lot?' he demanded.

  'The lot? I might talk to her group if I'm feeling gracious.

  What are you getting at?'

  'What? A bit off I call that quite frankly.'

  'I don't know what you mean.'

  'I mean, is that the worst you could do? You didn't even ask her for her bloody phone-number.' Charlie shook his head.

  'Oh, I read you now. What I should have done was grab at her bosom. Of course.'

  'Well that's how you're supposed to behave, isn't it?'

  'You do me too much honour, Charlie. Age comes to us all.'

  The fresh drinks arrived, whisky and gin to make up for the relative thinness of the wine. Soon afterwards the scallops arrived, and they were all right, eatable enough anyway for Alun to praise them extravagantly when Victor came to inquire. At this stage too Alun carried his point that he must be allowed to pay for the meal or would feel inhibited in his choice, and Victor gave in very gracefully and accepted a glass of the second bottle of Chablis _grand Cru__. For obvious reasons Alun made rather a thing of not knowing about wine, but any fool could have seen that this one looked and sounded good. At a suitable moment he revealed that he had done television that morning, hence, he said, his desire to get clean away afterwards and have a couple of drinks with a pal or two. He added that that was how ht: always felt after a do like that, even a little local one.

  'You must have done a lot of it in London,' said Charlie.

  'Yes I did, and why not? Some of the people up there, you know, bloody intellectuals, Hampstead types, they look down their noses at you if you go on the box more than once in a blue moon. Cheapening yourself. Well I'm not. I don't consider I'm cheapening myself by appearing on television. What else am I fit for? I'm just an old ham after all, so why shouldn't I perform where a few people can see me?'

  'Oh, come along now, Alun, really,' said Charlie at once, and Peter said, 'No, you're not being fair to yourself.'

  'You're very kind, both of you, but I've no illusions after all these years. Quite a successful ham, mind, but a ham none the less. An old fraud.' Here he paused for a space, as if wondering whether this time he had indeed been to some extent unfair to himself, then went buoyantly on, 'Anyway, forget it. Bugger it. Now who's for cheese? And it must follow as the night the day, a glass of port.'

  Charlie said yes to that instantly, and it only took Peter a moment or two to do so. Alun asked for the cheeseboard, two large vintage ports and a glass of the house red, explaining that-port had been playing him up a bit recently, and went off to the lavatory with more explanations about being an old man and envying you youngsters.

  'We chimed in all right, did we?' asked Charlie. 'About the terrible injustice he was doing himself.'

  'We did the best we could. Does he think we think he means that about him being a ham and a fraud? Him seeing himself in that light, that is.'

  'I don't know. I doubt it. I shouldn't be surprised if he reckons that just saying that, whatever we make of it, is going to help his credibility in the future. Sort of, a fraud who's come out is more believable than a closet fraud.'

  'Maybe. Anyway, he's buying us an excellent lunch.

  Well, buying me one.'

  'There's always that. And it may go against the grain to admi
t it, but one's spirits do tend to lift a degree or so at the sight of him.'

  'I know what you mean. Even I know.'

  Alun came hurrying back as the drinks were being handed round by a wine-waiter who came out of the same sort of drawer as the barman and was got up in a fancy jacket with clusters of grapes depicted on the lapels. The cheese was there. Charlie took a small piece of Cheddar.

  'What is the vintage port?' asked Alun.

  'Port is a fortified wine from Portugal,' said the waiter, having perhaps misheard slightly, 'and vintage port is made from-'

  'I didn't ask for a bloody lecture on vinification, you horrible little man.' Alun laughed a certain amount as he spoke. 'Tell me the shipper and the year and then go back to your hole and pull the lid over it.'

  The lad seemed more or less unabashed at this. 'Graham 1975, sir,' he said in his Ruritanian accent, and withdrew. 'It's no use just relying on respect to get good service in a restaurant,' Alun explained, still grinning. 'There has to be fear too.'

  'Perhaps it slipped your mind that I'm part-owner here,' said Charlie.

  'Not at all, that's why I piped up. I could see it would have been difficult for you to say anything. '

  'Excuse me a moment.' Charlie got up with deliberation and made off after the wine-waiter.

  Alun watched him cross the room in an all-but-straight line, then turned purposefully to Peter and looked him in the eye. 'Gives me a chance to tell you this. What happened many years ago is over and done with as far as I'm concerned. For what that may be worth. I have no unfriendly feelings towards you at all. You'll want to hear about Rhiannon's feelings from her, and forgive me if I intrude, but as far as I know they're the same. I'll never say anything more on the matter.'

  'That's generous of you, Alun.' Peter had dropped his gaze. 'Thank you.'

  'One moderately interesting thing did emerge from that rubbishy TV chat this morning. It occurred to me while I was yammering away that it might be fun to take a few trips round the place.'

  Here Charlie came back and sat down, again in commendable style. 'Keeping staff is a hell of a problem these days,' he said. His manner was conciliatory.

  'I bet it is,' said Alun warmly, and went on in the same breath, 'I was just telling Peter I was thinking of going on a jaunt or two in the next few weeks, nothing fancy, a sort of scenic pub-crawl really. With, you know, some eventual literary creation held distantly in mind. Even a poem or two if the bloody old Muse can still walk.'

  Charlie and Peter looked at each other. 'It's an idea,' admitted Charlie.

  'Bit miserable, running about here and there on your own. Perhaps you two would like to come along sometimes if you're at a loose end. We might get hold of old Malcolm. Make a 'party of it.'

  In those few seconds the expressions of the other two had solidified, Charlie's into cheerful mistrust, Peter's into surly mistrust. The mistrust was natural enough, but out of place on this occasion. Alun liked company, he liked an audience and he liked almost any kind of excursion and that was it. For the moment at least. When he protested some of this his hearers soon started to cave in, not so much out of belief as because each calculated that any attempt at hanky-panky could be better resisted nearer the point of unveiling, and after all it had been a pretty lavish lunch. And what else had they got in their diaries?

  Charlie was the first to yield. Peter held out a little longer, declaring that he would have to see, maintaining that he was supposed to be taking things easy, but he was talked out of that in no time when it was explained to him that getting out and about a bit was just what he needed. All the camaraderie that had rather faded away over the wine-waiter was restored. Animatedly they suggested places to visit, discussed them, reminisced about them. Alun ordered two more large vintage ports and another glass of the house red, which he sipped at and seemed to lose interest in. After a few minutes he called for the bill, paid, tipped largely, and departed on his way - to take the car in and have its starter fixed, he said.

  4

  But when Alun reached his car and set about driving off, the engine fired in a couple of seconds, nor did he go near any garage or repair-shop before parking the machine at the side of the road in a smart residential area. There followed a brisk walk of a hundred yards to a short driveway, at whose entrance he abruptly checked his stride. Standing quite motionless he gazed before him with a faraway look that a passer-by, especially a Welsh passer-by, might have taken for one of moral if not spiritual insight, such that he might instantly renounce whatever course of action he had laid down for himself. After a moment, something like a harsh bark broke from the lower half of his trunk, followed by a fluctuating whinny and a thud that sounded barely organic, let alone human. Silence, but for faint birdsong. Then, like a figure in a restarted film, he stepped keenly off again and was soon ringing the bell in a substantial brick porch.

  Sophie Norris came to the door in a biscuit-coloured woollen dress and looking very fit. As soon as she had taken in the sight of Alun her routine half-smile vanished. 'You've got a bloody nerve you have, Alun Weaver,' she said in the old penetrating tones. 'I've a good mind to slam this in your face, cheeky bugger.'

  'Ah, but you're not going to, are you, love? And why should you anyway? Just dropped in for a cup of tea. Nothing wrong in that, is there?'

  Sighing breathily and clicking her tongue, she gave way. 'Ten minutes, mind. Ten minutes max. I've got to go down the shop. Think yourself bloody lucky I hadn't left already.'

  'Sure. Charlie not about then?'

  There Alun overplayed his hand a little. 'What do you take me for, Weaver, a fucking moron?' she said more indignantly than before, her eyes distended. 'Do you think I don't know you'd never dream of showing your nose here unless you were absolutely certain he wasn't around? You sod.'

  'Come on, only joking. Yes, as a matter of fact I've just come from the Glendower. Peter was there too. The three of us had a spot of lunch. Quite good it was. All right if I sit down?'

  She conceded this with an ill grace. 'Why didn't you say something the other night at the Morgans'? Or you could have just picked up the - '

  'I didn't get the chance. No, no, that's not true. I probably could have. I didn't happen to think of it then.'

  'And when did you happen to think of it, may I ask?'

  'Well... this morning. Can't remember what time.

  One moment nothing could have been further from my mind and the next I was full of it.'

  'And you reckon you can just turn up like this, out of the bloody blue?'

  'You could always chuck me out. I'd go quietly. You know that.'

  'Still the same old Alun, eh?'

  'Pretty much, yeah.' He paused. 'Go for a drive, shall we?'

  This· apparently innocent invitation held overtones for them that resounded from thirty years or more back, when their drives had taken them to a convenient spot behind the mental home, in better weather to the woods on the far side of the golf links and occasionally to the Prince Madoc out at Capel Mererid, in whose snug they had more than once behaved in a fashion that had never quite ceased to perturb Alun in retrospect, even today.

  'No need,' said Sophie in reply. Her manner was still faintly tinged with resentment. 'There won't be anyone along.'

  'What makes you so sure?'

  'I'm sure.'

  'Yes, but what makes you so sure?'

  'I'll tell you later.'

  'No, tell me now.'

  'All right,' she said. 'When Victor puts him in a taxi he always gives me a ring to let me know. Because once when he stayed very late he pitched up passed out on the stool thing in the passport-photo booth at Cambridge Street station. And it just so happened that old Tudor Whittingham was on his way back from London and spotted him and fetched him home in a taxi, another taxi. He couldn't even remember being put into the first taxi.'

  Alun pondered. 'But Victor giving you a ring won't stop him pitching up passed out at the station or anywhere else, will it?'

  'No, but
it sort of hands over the responsibility, see. I can understand it.'

  'Oh, and I can. What does Victor think? About how that arrangement might, er, have a bearing on your own plans for, er, whatever it might be.'

  'I don't know. I don't know what any of them think.'

  'Who does? Has it come in handy before?'

  'If I ever tell you that it's bloody going to be later.'

  'Has that arrangement with Victor come in handy before?' he asked later.

  'Do you consider you have the slightest right to expect me to answer that?'

  'Absolutely not and absolutely none. Presuming on an old friendship.'

  'You are a bugger. Well, sort of, just from time to time. Not ridiculous. Not like when... '

  'No, of course not. How much does he know?'

  'Same as ever, the whole score and nothing at all.'

  'I'd say you and he have a pretty good life together on the whole.'

  'I don't know about together exactly, but yes, we do really. Most afternoons while he's in town I'm down the shop.'

  'Yes, the serviceable shop. I remember well. What do you actually do there?'

  'I look at a pattern-book occasionally, and friends come in, and I drink a lot of coffee. I do about as much as he does at the Glendower. All quite relaxed. He knew all about me when he married me, of course. Well, quite a lot about me.'