by D. E. Harker
‘Sharps; flats; cadenzas, rallentandos, tubas…’
These words took on a whole new meaning as Les held forth. His dark hairy hand went round Una’s head and he pulled her towards him – she, I may say, was lapping it all up. I saw him throw a mischievous glance towards Steve before he blew down Una’s ear and muttered something about ‘tickling the ivories… con brio’. Una laughed. I looked at Steve – his face, although inscrutable, had grown very red and his fist was clenched tightly. I remembered the way Una and Les had been dancing together at the barbecue – and the thought of Julie possibly working with someone like Les Crow makes me see red. Alan, Keith, Ken and Nev seemed to gather round Steve in silent support as Les kissed Una’s ear lobe but I didn’t see the culmination of this scene as Julie suddenly said, ‘My feet are killing me, I just want to soak them in a bowl of cold water.’ So we left.
August 30th – Sunday
A leisurely day after all the excitement of yesterday. Weather still hot and sunny so decided to go “continental” and have breakfast in the garden with the Sunday papers. Put up the little folding table by the bench against the back of the house and brought out a couple of chairs from the kitchen. Trev sitting on the bench, knocked over the pot of marmalade which I had put there the other evening. ‘What’s this then?’ Julie asked as I retrieved it and put it on the table.
‘That woman with red hair brought it round the other evening when you were playing tennis,’ Trev explained.
‘Oh, yes?’ said Julie. ‘Does she think we can’t afford our own?’
‘No, nothing like that – she makes the stuff and just thought we’d like some. Perhaps it was a way of thanking me for repairing her hoover,’ I said. ‘I said I’d have a look at her toaster some time too. Let’s try it – it looks good.’ And I spread some of the marmalade on my toast. ‘It is good – lots of chunks.’
‘I hate it like that,’ said Julie and she reached for the jar we always have.
It was very pleasant to be eating outside. All was quiet next door. The Butts had been entertaining last night so were obviously still sleeping it off.
We chatted about the knockout and made guesses as to the amount of money raised. Julie said, ‘We’ll have to make sure we get our copy of the Gazette on Friday. I wonder if your name will be in it and your photo.’ I said that one name was sure to be in – Les Crow. He had pushed his way to the front of the group photo and I’d seen the way he’d taken the reporter on one side. Thought Julie might rise to the defence of her tennis partner but she didn’t say anything.
August 31st – Monday
Reminded P.H. today about my course in Manchester next week. He remarked that he’d hoped I was going to do the North Wales area next week, with Brimcup being on holiday, and that he’s heard that this particular course isn’t very good. However, he grudgingly said he supposed it would be alright for me to have time off.
September 1st – Tuesday
Asked Julie where the new marmalade was at breakfast this morning and she said, ‘Oh, I dropped it – it made a terrible mess on the floor, but I found this grapefruit marmalade at Speedsave.
September 2nd – Wednesday
Julie was to have played in a match this evening but developed a headache. ‘I’ve asked Una to take my place – she seems keen,’she said. ‘By the way, I’ve been thinking it over and I’ve decided not to take up Les Crow’s offer of a job after all.’ Amazed and relieved but said nothing.
September 3rd – Thursday
A postcard arrived from Uncle Charlie and Auntie Bee on holiday in Bournemouth, written in his usual cryptic manner and needing a genius to decode it.
B & B OK. Place full of O.A.P’s some from the
U.S. 1 or 2 V.I.P’s from T.V. L.S.D. running out!
Cheers Chas & B.
Steve came over in the evening and had an air of suppressed excitement. He came right out with it. ‘Opportunity for some fun and games, with accent on the “games” Saturday night. Venue – Barton Woods. Sorry, men only…’ he said as Julie brought in the stuffed marrow.
‘The latest thing from America… War Games! A chance to play soldiers without actually signing on! It may never catch on here, but they’re going wild about it in the States!’
‘How d’you mean exactly?’ I asked. I was only too keen to be enthusiastic with him but not quite sure what he was getting at. ‘Put me in the picture, as it were.’
‘It’s a them and us situation basically. Two teams, each defending their flag – chasing, dodging, BANG, BANG!’ Steve fired off an imaginary gun.
‘A spot dangerous in Barton Woods,’ I said. A spot dangerous anywhere, I thought. I’m no kill joy but the whole enterprise presented problems to my way of thinking.
‘Worry not, squire, the whole beauty of it is… we use splatter guns – paint not bullets. Rex Ebworth, from our office is just back from New York and he brought a dozen of these back with him as a tryout. Executives’ War Games – that’s what they call it – a chance for stress-ridden workaholics to let off steam.’
I began to see the light. ‘Could be just the job.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Steve said. ‘I put it to Ken on Monday and he’s managed to round up nine enthusiasts – ten counting your good self – so it’s five a side – Keith, Ken, Alan, Ron, Nev, self, Mike Grope, who incidentally is also, like yourself, keen to be a fully integrated Wheeler, Dave Wilmot, you and who’s the other?’ He appeared to be lost in thought for a moment, then he said, ‘Les Crow.’
The more I think about it, the more the idea appeals. Yes, I can just see myself wiping out Les’ suntanned smirk with a powerful squirt of black paint and I daresay Steve feels exactly the same. Roll on tomorrow evening 9pm.
September 4th – Friday
Was eager to get home this evening and see the write-up about last Saturday.
The Gazette had certainly “gone to town” on it with a centre page spread – photos of the competing teams, the morris dancers, a large one of Diane Butt, another one of her in the stocks with my shirt sleeve just in view, the fifty yard “dash” in leopard skins and clogs and the group photo of “Wheelers and helpers”. There was Les Crow right in the centre of the front row. I was at one side next to Rodney Blade, who was puffing on his pipe.
The ‘phone rang and I went to answer it. ‘Blade here,’ said a cold voice. ‘I just want to know if this is your idea of a joke.’
‘How do you mean?’ I asked but he did not explain – just went on to say, ‘I take a pretty dim view of it. I’ll be writing to the paper and expect a full apology.’ And with that he banged down the ‘phone.
I told Julie what had transpired and she said, ‘Oh – it’ll be about this.’ She pointed to the group photo. Underneath we had all been named. My name, spelt wrongly, had been attributed to Rodney and I had been given the title Councillor Blade.
September 5th – Saturday
In many ways it was just as disappointing for me to have been misnamed as it was for Blade and felt like ringing him up to tell him so, but decided against it. He is obviously a man of uncertain temper and I didn’t want to hinder my entry to the Round Wheel more than I could help – am still feeling a bit bothered about the knife and fork episode.
Was doubly relieved, therefore, when Ken Dugeon himself greeted me personally at our rendezvous by the end of the old quarry in Barton Woods this evening with a cheery ‘Good evening, Councillor.’
We’d all entered into the spirit of the thing, as far as possible – camouflaged clothes and ex-army boots being much in evidence. Thought I’d hit on a brainwave by borrowing Trev’s black balaclava but discovered everyone else had had the same idea; Les Crow with the addition of a red cotton hanky worn bandit fashion and black eye patch, which someone suggested concealed a black eye. Personally thought Mike Grope had gone a bit far by borrowing the whole of his brother’s T.A. kit but taken by and large we looked ready for some guerilla warfare and, I may add, not a little menacing, as we awaited our bat
tle orders from Rex, who was twenty minutes late, in the gathering dusk. As we camouflaged ourselves further with mud and twigs, we were surprised by an elderly couple, walking their Yorkshire terrier. The old woman shook her stick at us and shouted, ‘Go home – your parents should be ashamed of themselves’ and the dog bit Keith’s ankle.
Rex, our umpire, barked out the rules (most of which I think he made up) in true military fashion. ‘Basically your object is to capture the opposing teams’ flag.’ He then handed out the “guns” (metal, welded pipes), the “ammunition” (paint pellets like small ping-pong balls), eye masks for protection and, after dividing us up into two teams, he unfurled, with due ceremonial procedure, two small, fraying flags – a scull and crossbones and a Blue Peter flag, off his childrens’ rubber dinghy. ‘All I could get,’ he said.
As luck would have it, I found myself on the same side as Les Crow.
We made our H.Q. by the ruined sandstone mill, set up our flag and waited for the sharp blast on the whistle which Rex had promised at precisely 9.30, and which, in the event, we never heard.
‘Not to worry,’ Steve (our captain), looking impatient and aggressive, shouted in a hoarse whisper, saying that it was time by his watch.
‘Let battle commence – every man for himself now.’ Les Crow crawled off into the undergrowth, followed at short intervals by the rest of us.
When my turn came, I felt a surge of adrenalin and the old familiar quickening of the heart beat I used to get when I played Cops and Robbers twenty-five years ago.
It was quite a challenge dodging round in the dark. Once or twice I heard a twig snap nearby and shot wildly. Sounds of a skirmish came from some bushes on my left but decided to ignore them and slid away, on my stomach, down a steep slope, straight into a stagnant pond. The splash must have alerted someone as I was immediately shot at in the eye, which obscured the guard over my eyes and I stumbled over a huge lump of sandstone and cricked my ankle. All good fun.
Don’t know which was worse – the silence or the owl hoots, which could have been enemy signals. Now and then I could just make out a black figure darting out from behind a tree or diving into a clump of nettles and once I heard a strangled cry, but for the most part, I decided to lie low.
Never did discover the whereabouts of the enemy camp and it was only by pure luck that I found my way back to our own headquarters, when the rain, which had started about ten minutes after war had broken out, was joined by thunder and lightning and we had to call a “ceasefire”.
The battle was supposed to have been judged on a points system, depending on who had been shot and where, but unfortunately the rain had washed off a good deal of the paint (it also went a little way to washing off the smell of the stagnant pond, which we all seemed to have come in contact with during the course of the evening).
Rex gave three long blasts on his whistle and declared the war a draw. There was a cheer from one and all and for a second we were lit up by a flash of lightning. Then, in the subsequent downpour, Ken shone his torch and announced, ‘Hot dogs and cold beer at my place,’ to which abode we duly repaired.
We all turned up at chez Dugeon with the exception of Les Crow and I don’t believe he was missed by any of us. ‘He likes his beauty sleep, does Les,’ someone shouted. Everyone laughed then the subject was changed.
Janice Dugeon had left the hot dogs and beer in the kitchen and had obviously turned in for the night. She’s a good soul is Janice, not even coming down to complain about the noise we made – and, to be fair, with our sing song, we made quite a bit.
September 6th – Sunday
Woke up with terrible head at 11.30 this morning and won’t repeat Julie’s sarcastic comments on last night’s jollifications. Suffice it to say she was not impressed by what she heard from me. My jeans are now residing in the dustbin and I spent the greater part of the afternoon trying to eradicate a smell like blocked drains, which even now clings to the inside of my car despite vigorous use of Julie’s Symphony hair spray.
Am writing this sitting at the bedroom window. It is twenty past ten at night and, through a chink in the curtains, I can see some activity going on at Vymura opposite.
Julie, draining her mug of hot chocolate, is reminding me that a) it was 1.30am when I arrived home last night, b) that I was singing “Lili Marlene” and c) that I then proceeded to snore all night, and could I please now draw the curtain and put out the light because, in case I’ve forgotten, she’s taking Trev and Eric to her mother’s tomorrow and I start my course.
Ignore all this and continue my vigil. Racking my brains trying to remember if I was invited round to Steve’s this evening as I’ve just spotted Keith Goodchap and Nev turning in at the gate carrying spades, but the conversation of last night is just a hazy memory. Curse the council for not fixing that street lamp – think it was Alan Uppe who arrived earlier.
Asked Julie if Una had mentioned anything to her but she said that Una had taken the children to spend the weekend with her brother in Uttoxeter.
Think I might get a better view if I turn off the light. There’s a very strange noise coming from outside, getting nearer and nearer. Julie has sprung out of bed to join me at the window and suggests switching off the light.
Later
The sound we’d heard was a mixture of heavy rumbling and squeaking wheels. We craned our necks to see and opened the window a bit. Could just about make out, by the light over a neighbour’s garage, something large and unwieldy covered by black tarpaulin being trundled along, followed by some dark figures. Grotesque shadows were thrown up by the sycamore tree opposite which was blowing in the wind and whining round the window frame – definitely a touch of the Alfred Hitchcocks.
It came to a stop at Steve’s, someone shouted hoarsely, ‘One, two, three – heave!’ And whatever it was was lifted off, it being an “all hands on deck” situation, and carried amid muffled oaths round to the back and out of sight. A few minutes later, there came more noises, a grinding and churning which continue even now as I write. Is it some sort of secret Wheeler ritual from which I’ve been excluded? I expressed my thoughts on the subject to Julie, who just said, ‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation.’
September 7th – Monday
Had no time to ponder last night’s doings due to other things on my mind. After dropping Julie and Trev off at Macclesfield and hearing all about the gas leak in the house next door from Julie’s mother, I drove straight here, i.e. Beauchamp Manor, Adult Education College which is not far distant. The suburb it now stands in must once have been a small village and the building is, so it says in the brochure, early Victorian. Well I’ll take their word for it. It certainly looks very impressive, with huge windows and steps leading up to the front door. Inside it is like a five star hotel, with fitted carpets, chandeliers and I’ll swear the central heating is on already.
In the main hall a harassed-looking man with an untidy beard assembled a group of people who were clutching easels, boxes of paints and camp stools. I went up to him and told him who I was. I explained which course I had come for. He frowned and said, ‘Oh, but your group aren’t expected until six this evening. I suppose you can get a sandwich in the bar and then I’m afraid you’ll have to amuse yourself for the afternoon.’ He ushered his flock along, muttering into his beard. I had the feeling he didn’t like stray people cluttering up the place so I left my case by the stairs and went along to the bar. I found it at the end of a long corridor. It must have been part of the dining room at one time, with a very lofty ceiling covered in plaster mouldings picked out in pale blue. The small modern chairs were comfortable and the windows looked out on to pleasant gardens. After I’d finished two cheese sandwiches and an Eccles cake, I decided to explore the grounds.
Discovered that the “long salon” Wedgewood Room had French windows opening on to a terrace dotted about with tables and sun umbrellas. Stone steps led down to a lawn with a large lily pond in which a fountain played. Roses were blooming in
carefully tended beds and the grounds stretched as far as the eye could see, bounded by trees, shrubs and stone walls. This was the life!
I found a wooden seat under a cedar tree, sat down, put my head back and closed my eyes. I must have dropped off to sleep and awoke with the worrying thought that we’d forgotten to cancel the milk at home. Decided to give Julie a ring and see if she’d remembered. I jumped up and was startled to hear a sharp voice coming from a nearby rhododendron. ‘Would you be so kind as to keep that drooping position a little while longer?’ An elderly lady in a straw hat was bent over a drawing board. By her side was a small tray on legs holding an assortment of paints and brushes. ‘It’s so kind of you. I’m calling it “Gardener’s Boy Takes Well-earned Rest”. ‘It’s coming along nicely.’
‘Glad to be of assistance, I’m sure,’ I said, but the wooden seat didn’t feel so comfortable by now. I “sat it out” for an hour and then said I had some urgent business to attend to. Felt entitled to take a look at her work of art. ‘Yes, do come and have a peek,’ she said proudly. Think I managed to conceal my extreme annoyance.
Still had plenty of time to kill, so after a cup of tea, decided to see if Derek Wineglass was home. ‘Come on over,’ he suggested. ‘We’re only about twenty-five minutes from Beauchamp. You can’t go wrong if you follow the signs for the airport. See you later.’
Struck the right road at about 6.15 and had warm welcome from Derek. Marlene had gone to a rehearsal of Kiss Me, Kate, in which she has a small part, and both the boys were out.
After discussing the state of the timber trade over a glass of blackberry and prune wine and giving him a hand with some bottling, I realised that it was time I was wending my way back.