by D. E. Harker
H. Hutter LDS
V. Hutter LDS
P. Roth LDS
I had been assigned to V. Hutter. I had supposed the two Hutters to be brothers, or father and son, but I was mistaken. They were husband and wife and V. Hutter was the wife. This did nothing to allay my fears as I chattered to the receptionist. In fact, they increased.
The waiting room, although glossy and modern, seemed to be full of dental magazines and enlarged and horrific photos on the wall showing how you would look if you didn’t go to your dentist for regular check-ups.
A small child came down the stairs howling loudly and, by the time my name was called over the intercom, I was ready to run in the opposite direction.
Mrs Hutter turned out to be small, neat and efficient and much younger than I had imagined, which did nothing to bolster my confidence.
I sat on the chair and, at the press of a button, my legs flew into the air and my head sank towards the ground. A white-coated assistant rammed a pair of tinted goggles over my eyes and the taped music was turned up. Felt as if I was about to go into orbit.
The offending tooth was soon spotted and probed, as were two or three others, and I had to make two more appointments as I was leaving. ‘And I’d better make one for my wife as well,’ I told the receptionist, through swollen lips.
On leaving the dentist’s, I spotted Keith Goodchap’s wife, Suzette, who waved and started to cross the road towards me. This was a very tricky situation as my mouth was completely frozen and I could only manage a tortured ‘hello’, my mouth turning sideways with a will of its own. Rather than make a complete fool of myself, I hurried into a nearby side street and then had a dreadful job finding my car. Was a bit worried, on reflection, in case Suzette thought I was being rude.
June 3rd – Wednesday
New timber trade publication called Chips arrived at the office this morning. It will appear monthly. P.H. called Brimcup and self into his office.
‘This is a complimentary copy of Chips and the editor has enclosed a typed letter with it asking for contributions from members of the trade. I thought it would be a good idea if we submitted something from I.C.T. to show a willing, as it were. How about it Brimcup?’
‘Will do,’ he said
‘And you?’
‘Good idea,’ I replied
‘I, of course, will also write an article,’ said P.H. ‘I thought I’d do one on “The Why and Wherefore of Timber with Relation to it’s Sources in the Northern Hemisphere”.’
Brimcup and I chatted about this project over lunch.
‘Old P.H.’s article sounds very profound, not to say dull,’ he said. ‘I thought of doing a snappy little number on “Quick Selling Techniques” myself. How about you?’
‘Oh – I shall do a crossword,’ I said and was quite amazed to hear the words coming out of my mouth as it was the first time I’d thought of the idea.
‘That sounds very intellectual. How do you propose to introduce the timber theme into it?’ he said.
‘I shall build the whole thing around wood. All the clues will be various types of wood – oak, ash, etc. – with the odd difficult word like veneer and chipboard,’ I said, warming to the idea. I could sense Brimcup was quite impressed as he chewed on his battered cod.
June 4th – Thursday
The crossword idea seems to be working out fairly well. Trev and I had another session on it tonight, with the aid of the dictionary. Julie was not much help and kept making fatuous remarks. When I asked her if she could think of a wood beginning with the letter B, she said straight away, ‘Barton Wood, where Trev goes with the Cubs.’ She was quite cross when I said, ‘Don’t be so silly.’
There is a lot more hard work in devising a crossword puzzle than one would think and it is going to take me at least a week to get this finished.
June 5th – Friday
Brimcup says his article is going very well. ‘It’ll only take me twenty minutes this evening to polish it up a bit and that will be that,’ he said.
P.H. is on his fourteenth page. I’m still trying to think of a wood beginning with the letter B with seven letters in it; this is holding me up at the moment.
June 6th – Saturday
The Downes’ are back from their London trip. Kevin came round to borrow some of Trev’s modelling paints so I asked him, ‘Did your mum and dad enjoy their stay in London?’
‘Yes,’ said Kev. ‘Except for a terrible boring play they went to see on Thursday called Yellow Pages or something. It was about a Chinese Statesman and went on for nearly four hours.’
June 7th – Sunday
Hardly liked to appear at the Downes’ house after the failure of my recommended play but felt that it was about time I asked Steve for more details of the gourmet evening to be held this month. It was alright as it turned out. Steve made no mention of the play.
‘Have you been given the date of your gourmet dinner yet? Just so that I know – don’t want it to clash with another engagement, do I?’I asked.
‘Haven’t I given you the formal invitation card? Keith Goodchap has a cousin in printing who does these things rather nicely,’ Steve said.
‘No, I certainly haven’t had the card,’ I said, feeling a little annoyed.
‘Oh well, it must be here somewhere.’ He started poking about among several papers behind the clock. ‘Here it is.’ It read:
Your Entertainments Committee proudly present
A Gourmet Dinner
With Guest Speaker
Rendezvous: car park at the Mucky Duck
Time: 7pm
Date: Friday 12th June
Dress: Informal
£5 including transport to mystery venue
The 12th – that is this coming Friday. It’s lucky that I have no other arrangement for the night.
Was rather surprised at the expense of the evening and feel gratified at Steve’s generosity in treating me to such an extravaganza. Or is he treating me? He did ask me to go as his guest but perhaps this was before he’d seen the price on the ticket. I wondered what to do about this situation. Placed the card on the mantelpiece, where it looks very good.
June 8th – Monday
A brilliant idea occurred to me this afternoon while driving to another appointment with Vic Rednap: BEECH – for my crossword. If I made it BEECHES, it should fit. The problem now was – what clue could lead to the word Beeches?
Was having a political discussion with Mr Rednap when the solution suddenly came to me. ‘Burnham,’ I said it out loud.
‘Well, we’re not living in medieval days, but you could have something there, laddie. There are times, I must admit, when I feel like burning the lot of them,’ he said.
I wondered what on earth he was talking about for a minute then realised that he had thought I had said ‘Burn ‘em’. He obviously seemed pleased by my little remark so I did nothing to disillusion him, and his manner seemed to become more friendly by the minute. I broached the subject of their possible expansion if they merged with the Swedish laboratory cleanser firm. ‘Yes, yes, I think we’ll have to expand if the merger goes through – a great opportunity business-wise. How’s that young fellow Bob Avery getting on?’ I recounted the tale of the wet car and he chuckled.
A promising visit – nothing concrete, as it were, but a good relationship being built up. Before I left, he said, ‘By the way, you can call me Vic.’
I started to work on my crossword after supper. There was quite a lot of research to do on Burnham Beeches – a beauty spot, I knew, but in which county? Bedfordshire, Northamptonshire or Buckinghmanshire?
‘I’m sure it’s Oxfordshire,’ Julie said. We tracked it down eventually – Buckinghamshire, as I had thought all along.
June 9th – Tuesday
Crossword almost completed last night. Took it to the office today as P.H. wanted to see the contributions before sending them off first thing tomorrow morning. ‘This is a very novel idea,’ he remarked, studying it closely, ‘but why
have you spelt walnut with two Ls?’
June 10th – Wednesday
With having to start my puzzle again from scratch, it was not ready this morning to hand in.
‘Very bad luck, Porter – but don’t be discouraged. It was a very interesting idea and as soon as you finish it, we’ll send it off,’ he said but somehow the impetus has gone. Perhaps I’ll get round to it again one of these days.
The climbing roses round my arbour are doing well. No buds as yet but the leaves look healthy enough. Steve recommends a rose manure by name of Grokwik. ‘Our firm handles their account,’ he said, ‘and I sometimes get free samples.’ Thought for a minute he was going to offer me one but nothing transpired. Julie out to tennis this evening – she seems to be getting quite keen.
June 11th – Thursday
Visited O’Hooligan today. The neo-Georgian houses seem to be selling quite well and phase two of ten more houses is to start soon. Hopeful of good order for roof trusses. ‘They’re selling like hot cakes at the moment,’ O’Hooligan shouted over the noise of his transistor radio, ‘and it’s all due to this new American idea at the show house. Have you been in there?’
‘No, but I’d like to,’ I said. ‘Is it open the whole of the weekend? My wife would be interested to see it.’
‘Yes, come any time. There’ll be someone in the site office with a key over the weekend.’
Over the usual brew of almost black tea and while half listening to the commentary of a flat race, he told me a very good joke about a priest, the Leaning Tower of Pisa and a bulldog. Hope I can remember it word for word as it might go down rather well tomorrow evening.
What with the possible roof truss order and the gourmet dinner to look forward to, felt in an especially good mood this evening, which was not dispelled even when Trev suddenly said ‘I think you’re going bald, Dad.’
June 12th – Friday
Am writing this entry on Saturday due to the fact that we didn’t return home from our function until the early hours.
We all assembled in good spirits in the car park at the Mucky Duck and I found I knew many of the chaps by sight – among the group being greeted by Ken Dugeon were Alan Uppe, Neville Price-Potter, Ron Spicer and Keith Goodchap.
Had been slightly worried as to the words on the invitation – Dress: Informal – and, after much deliberation, decided on my grey checked suit and “launderette pink” shirt, and was relieved to see I was not overdressed.
‘So it’s to be a fish and chips supper on a coach then, is it, Ken?’ Steve joked as we joined them.
‘How did you guess?’ replied Ken. ‘Seriously though, I think you’re going to enjoy this evening, I’ve organised a first-class speaker – but no more for the present; my lips are sealed.’
The coach was twenty minutes late and we could all see that Ken was getting anxious. Some vanished into the Mucky Duck. A cheer went up as it came round the corner and the buzz of conversation, which had been flagging somewhat, started up again. Steve was sent to tell the others, some of whom, by this time, had become involved in a game of darts.
Found myself sitting next to one Rodney Blade, a chartered surveyor, as we drove out of Weston. ‘You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?’ he asked and, not bothering to wait for a reply, lit up. ‘Where do you live?’ he asked, favouring me with a dazzling smile, which vanished immediately as I said, ‘Springcroft Meadow.’
‘How about you?’ I enquired politely.
‘Barton Wood. We’ve converted an old barn.’
‘That’s a pretty village. We’ve been to church there,’ I said chattily.
‘The organ’s in the wrong place,’ he remarked, drawing heavily on his cigarette – I noticed he never offered me one. He looked out of the window and there was a silence.
Felt I had to say something to keep the chat going, ‘I’ve come as Steve Downe’s guest. Are you someone’s guest or are you a fully- fledged Wheeler?’
‘For my sins,’ he said, continuing to gaze out of the window.
‘Have you any idea where we’re going this evening?’ I persevered.
‘Somewhere ghastly I expect,’ and he gave a short laugh.
I gave up after that and turned my attention to Alan and Steve, who were sitting behind swapping Irish jokes.
At about nine o’clock, we arrived at the small market town of Nantford and the coach dropped us off in a deserted street by a tiny narrow, timbered house which leaned over the pavement and had a sign over the door saying “Bistro de Tante Fannie”.
Couldn’t imagine how we were all going to fit into the place but Ken led the way in confidently up the creaking stairs and under oak beams, saying, ‘This way to the function rooms.’ And, sure enough, at the back of the building a new extension had been added. We saw a large room ahead lit by candles in wine bottles, which had been placed on a long table covered with a red and white checked cloth.
Posters of France covered the walls and when a concertina from nowhere suddenly started playing “Under the Bridges of Paris”, we all started to feel in a continental mood.
Maurice Chevalier accents were much in evidence and a touch of the Sacha Distels was provided by Steve.
Ken had vanished. There was a small bar for our own use in one corner and we were in the middle of placing our orders with a barmaid, who resembled an elderly Apache dancer, when he returned, followed by a tall stooping gent wearing a monocle and clutching a large whisky.
‘This, gentlemen, is George Ferris, who we are lucky to have here this evening. George will be telling us of his years as a connoisseur of wine – but more of that later. I see the first course is arriving – bon appetite.’
I was ready to eat anything by this time and the French onion soup slipped down very easily. The jokes flew fast and furious as we ate and drank, the noise being so uproarious at one stage that the waiter had to ask us to be a little quieter as the Nantford Psychic Society were in the adjoining room having their annual dinner. ‘They usually wind up their celebration with a séance,’ he said. This brought more laughter and thumps and bangs on the table.
While we were attacking our “Veal Tante Fannie”, Rodney scraped back his chair and vanished from the room, returning a few minutes later and sat, not touching his food, with an enigmatic expression on his face. We’d almost finished our meal when a white-coated waiter arrived with a plate of smoked salmon sandwiches, which he placed ceremoniously in front of Rodney. What a cool nerve the fellow has. This did not go unnoticed by Ken.
George Ferris was also having trouble with his food and helped down what little he ate with double whiskies. Now, I may not know much about connoisseurs of wine, but I have heard that drinking too much spirit ruins the palette and I could see that Ken was thinking much the same thing.
After the loyal toast and a toast to “the Big Wheel”, Ken banged on the table. ‘Silence! I think I’m speaking for all of us when I say how very much I appreciate George Ferris’ presence here among us this evening. He is well known in these parts and I’m sure we are all going to enjoy a witty and informative talk on wine.’
We all gave an appreciative clap and settled back for an entertaining discourse.
Four minutes later, it was all over. I don’t think any of us could honestly say that we had learnt a thing. George Ferris sat down heavily and finished his drink.
‘Now, come on – how about a few questions?’ Ken looked round wildly. Steve asked something – I can’t remember what – and we all looked expectantly at George, who said, ‘I haven’t a clue, dear chap; and no more questions, if you please.’ He arose and lurched unsteadily towards the adjoining room. Someone tried to stop him but it was too late and the door closed behind him.
‘Well now, what about one for the road?’ asked Ken a shade desperately, while Keith quickly started to sing “Mademoiselle from Armentieres”, which we all joined in with great gusto.
A tankard was passed round and into it was put the money for our evening’s jollification. Was getting my
£5 note out when I caught Steve’s eye.
‘It’s alright. I’ve got the money for both of us here,’ he said. Was about to thank him profusely when he continued, ‘You can pay me back later.’
A loud revving noise outside told us that our coach had arrived.
‘I’m not sitting anywhere near the door after that business about the cork screw last year,’ Rodney announced with a dark look. This brought a laugh from the others.
‘He has to be careful about his position, he’s trying for a seat on the council,’ Steve muttered.
Sat next to Ken on the journey home. ‘A very good evening had by all,’ I said to him.
‘Glad you were able to come aboard, so to speak.’ He was looking more relaxed now.
‘Where did you get hold of old George?’ Steve shouted to him.
‘A friend of mine, name of Diplock, mentioned him, said he was very interested in drink,’ he replied.
June 13th – Saturday
Woke late this morning. Julie claimed that I snored all night. Was intending to get down to some serious gardening this afternoon but it was altogether too hot. Trev went to the swimming baths and Julie settled herself by the wattle fence in the sun lounger and covered herself with sun tan oil. ‘Must work up a tan before our holiday,’ she said, as, in fact, she says each year optimistically. It always annoys her that I can achieve a splendid tan with no effort at all, whereas, despite hours in the sun, Julie’s pale complexion alters not at all.
I said nothing and dozed for half an hour in the deckchair to the sounds of other people’s lawn mowers and the Butts entertaining Diane’s boyfriend in the garden. Their conversation was quite interesting and it was with reluctance that I roused myself to go and settle my money matters with Steve. Must admit that I was eager to see how his barbecue was getting on too.