Tableland

by D. E. Harker

  ‘It all seems a bit of a storm in a teacup,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, but have you tasted Sue’s cooking? Beware! Don’t you notice how Alan always looks as if he’s suffering from indigestion?’

  I had always put it down to catarrh.

  Una appeared briefly to pop coasters under our beer mugs and, when she’d gone out again, Steve said in a hushed voice, ‘Keep off the subject of tennis if you don’t mind – it’s a sensitive subject with her at the moment. She missed the last match of the season, due to no fault of her own.’

  ‘Les Crow?’ I ventured to ask.

  ‘Exactly so,’ he said. ‘I hear on the grape vine he’s in Malta and likely to be there for some time. Best not to mention his name’.

  ‘Count on me,’ I replied. I felt I’d be glad to forget all about him.

  ‘Mind you, you’ve him to thank for these two tickets he won’t be needing, for the dance on the 30th.

  Found some suitable nails and nailed back the piece of windowsill. With a touch of putty to “make good” and a coat of yellow ochre, it’ll be as good as new.

  September 24th – Thursday

  Julie went to enrol us for French conversation evening classes.

  ‘I was always rather good at French at school and it would be useful if I get a part-time job as a receptionist,’ she announced.

  September 25th – Friday

  Had to attend PTA meeting at Trev’s new school this evening. It was an opportunity for the parents to meet the staff and group masters. The hall was very crowded and we had to join a queue to have two minutes’ chat with the head of Tudor House – a Mr Fisher. He seemed a decent sort but didn’t seem to know Trev at all, although he said the name “rang a bell”. As he said he was leaving the school at the end of the term, I suppose it doesn’t really matter anyway.

  September 26th – Saturday

  Strains of “Viva L’Espana” announced to the world that the Butts were at home last night, and the usual accompaniment of car horns, singing and laughter made it impossible for us to get any sleep until the early hours. Consequently, we didn’t wake up until 11.30. Was annoyed to find the morning gone as I had planned to do various things in the garden.

  A number of people came to view the house next door including, surprisingly, Ron Spicer. He popped his head over the fence while I was in the midst of applying the yellow ochre and wishing I’d made a better job with the putty. ‘Good little houses, these,’ he said, ‘solidly built.’ I stood with my back to the sill and agreed.

  ‘Thinking of a change of scene?’ I asked him.

  ‘Just looking, just looking,’ he replied. ‘It must be nice having a detached house with no immediate neighbours.’ Putting the Butts firmly to the back of my mind, I agreed heartily. ‘Yes, it is nice to be detached.’

  Steve came over to join us. ‘We’re just off to the mere for a spot of the old waterskiing. Rick Trent – he’s in eye ointment – has just bought a very slick new speedboat “Shirl Girl” by name – so it’s on with the rubber suits.’

  ‘Rather you than me,’ I lied, having always rather fancied a try at waterskiing.

  ‘Now then, jealousy will get you nowhere,’ he laughed. ‘Hurry up, Una, Kevin, Tracey.’

  ‘It always looks rather a dangerous sport to me,’ Ron said. ‘I’m surprised more people aren’t injured.’

  ‘It’s simple when you know how – it’s a knack really,’ Steve explained, ‘and of course it’s essential to be fit.’ At this point, Una and the children appeared with a picnic, Steve’s rubber suit and transistor radio and off they all went.

  ‘Well he’s certainly fit,’ I said, ‘with all that golf, squash, tennis… ‘

  ‘Jogging,’ added Ron, ‘and I gather he’s going to dry ski lessons this autumn in preparation for a winter sports holiday.’

  ‘It must be nice to have all that energy – one game of golf and my back starts playing up,’ I said, ‘and I’m prone to tennis elbow.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ Ron said sympathetically. ‘Brenda’s the energetic one in our house. She’s been playing a bit of tennis lately and even got into one of the Cock and Bull matches. Les Crow has been giving her a lot of encouragement, but of course,’ he added hurriedly, ‘he had to go off to Greece.’

  Hang on, hang on, I thought, this doesn’t add up – something wrong somewhere. Didn’t bother to argue with him but is it my imagination or did Steve say that Les was in Malta and didn’t someone mention Spain… and Hamburg? How does he get to be in four places at once?

  Well, wherever he is, I hope he stays there a long, long time and I don’t suppose I’m the only one who wishes that.

  September 27th – Sunday

  NEVER FAIL GREEN TOMATO CHUTNEY

  Chop and cook ½ lb onions in ¼ pint water

  Add 2 lbs chopped green tomatoes

  Add ¼ pint. vinegar and simmer 25 minutes

  Add to 12 oz orange jelly marmalade and warm until tepid

  Add 4 oz sultanas

  1 teaspoon cayenne pepper

  ½ teaspoon ground ginger

  ½ teaspoon salt

  Mix together and bottle

  September 28th – Monday

  Tackled Trev about the above recipe, written in his familiar illegible handwriting. He said, ‘Oh it was something on the television that Mum wanted to get down in a hurry and your old exercise book was all I could find.’

  September 29th – Tuesday

  Came home to quite a shock this evening. Prior to tomorrow evening’s festivities, Ju1ie had paid a visit to the hairdresser’s and is now sporting what she calls “highlights”. The effect of blond streaks on her usual dark brown hair is startling and resembles a Zebra. Managed somehow to stifle a cry of horror and when she asked, ‘Well, how do you like it then?’ said, ‘It’s certainly striking.’ This remark seemed to please her.

  Given time, I suppose I’ll get used to it.

  September 30th – Wednesday

  Spent my lunchtime in Barton’s trying on dinner jackets. Thought I might as well kit myself out once and for all – there being every possibility of attending further functions of a formal nature in the future, if I get my Wheeler membership. Decided on a round lapel style. They say “clothes maketh the man” (or words to that effect) and I must say, viewing myself in the full length mirror at Barton’s, I agreed with the salesman when he said, ‘It’s a style that suits you down to the ground, sir.’ He assured me the sleeves would ride up with wear and when he suggested a Beau Brummel dress shirt with frills, I took the plunge.

  The time being 6.30 precisely – two hours before “kick off” – am just about to jump into a hot bath. Julie is ironing her dress (finished last night). Trev has gone to spend the night with Craig and Una has just rung up to say that they will meet us at the Station Hotel in the “Bare Knee Knee” Bar. Strange name.

  October 1st -Thursday

  A night to remember! The dinner dance turned out to be a ladies’ evening – a very special occasion for which the Inner Circle turned out in full force. Was glad to see that Julie knew so many members and Nina Price-Potter came over for a chat. But I’m rushing on too fast.

  We swung out of Springcroft Meadow with the eyes of the Butts upon us. Felt we made a handsome pair and said so in as many words to Julie, who agreed, remarking, ‘Yes, my dress has turned out better than I’d hoped.’

  Wondered why Una had suggested we travel separately – thought maybe Steve had been held up at work.

  Arrived at the hotel in good time and, while Julie was leaving her coat in the powder room, decided to pay a quick visit to the gents and check that the sleeves of my dinner jacket weren’t hanging down too far. Found the gents eventually – had actually passed it twice without realising the significance of the painted figure resembling Mozart on the door. It was only when I saw Alan Uppe going in that the truth struck me.

  Was adjusting my sleeves in the mirror and flexing my arms to assist the riding up process when a cool voice b
ehind me said, ‘Having trouble?’

  It was the ever immaculate Rodney Blade. ‘Not at all, thanks,’ I replied civilly and went to find Julie, feeling that my sleeves were flapping round my knees.

  Followed the general drift to the bar, where Ken Dugeon was greeting everyone by the fruit machine, over which hung two carved cherubs.

  No sign of Steve and Una yet, so bought a couple of drinks and joined the throng around Ken. The Uppes were in the middle of revealing their holiday plans for next year – a large cottage in the Yorkshire Dales – when there was a loud crash. The fruit machine jackpot had been won and the victor, wearing a tartan dinner jacket, turned round – it was Keith Goodchap, grinning all over his face. A crowd gathered round him demanding to know the secret of his success and someone shouted, ‘I suppose it’s drinks all round now, eh, Keith?’

  Keith raised his hand and announced, ‘A drink for the ladies on me – it being ladies’ night.’ A cheer went up.

  This was a crafty face saver, there being only five or six women present at the time.

  Alan was enlarging on the virtues of the holiday cottage he had heard of – with large inglenook fireplace. ‘I’m into wood,’ he said, when Ron Spicer slapped me on the shoulder in a friendly manner. ‘Hail, squire, glad to see you. I hadn’t realised you were joining our little gathering.’ Alan turned away, rather pointedly, I thought.

  ‘Dead man’s shoes,’ I explained. ‘Les Crow’s to be precise.’ It was one of those moments when everything goes quiet and my voice suddenly sounded far too loud.

  The words hung around in the air, echoing in the silence that followed, and no one seemed able to break it, so for the want of something better to say, I asked, ‘Where exactly is Les, by the way?’

  Replies came loudly from all sides – Keith, Nev, Alan, Ken and Ron all chimed in and I picked out Spain, Greece, Paris and India. Julie said, ‘No, but really.’ But before I could get to the bottom of this, Una appeared looking a bit pale.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ she said. ‘Steve won’t be a moment, he’s had a slight accident – cracked a bone in his ankle. I never thought we’d make it but Steve…’ She broke off as Steve appeared, hobbling on crutches, with his foot in an enormous plaster.

  Many jokes cracked as he made his entrance and although he kept up a cheery smile and gave as good as he received, there was about him an undeniable sense of annoyance.

  ‘I don’t want to make a big thing out of this, so play it cool,’ Steve muttered to me.

  ‘Will do,’ I replied, ‘but how did it happen – rugger practice, water skiing?’

  But Steve had spotted someone over the other side of the room, which was becoming crowded now. ‘There’s Rick,’ he said. ‘Come and meet Rick and Shirlene.’ And he hobbled over towards a suntanned, blonde young man with a dark red cummerbund, and an equally suntanned, blonde young woman in a slinky black dress.

  ‘Well, well, well, what’s all this then?’ demanded Rick.

  ‘Just a slight contretemps,’ said Steve, trying to pass it off lightly.

  ‘Golf, judo, squash or have you been taking on that dry ski slope?’

  ‘Something like that. Now what are you imbibing?’ Steve changed the subject and we were introduced to Rick Trend and his girlfriend, who were also going to be on Steve’s table.

  Suddenly Ken Dugeon leapt up onto a chair and announced that dinner would be served in five minutes and we filed into the Baroque Room, candlelit for the occasion, where we were on table number five. The “top” table, presided over by Ken, were the last to make their entrance and we gave them a slow handclap as they appeared and took their places (there are obviously a number of rituals I shall have to acquaint myself with if I become a Wheeler).

  A short grace was said by a past chairman and we all sat down.

  Found I had Shirlene on my left and, to make a little chat while we drank our minestrone soup, I commented on the little bottles of perfume, made up to look like poodles, which had been placed beside each lady’s plate.

  ‘They’re magic,’ Shirl said, continuing to drink her soup.

  ‘The menu cards are attractive too,’ I continued. ‘I like those romantic, old-fashioned scenes of stagecoaches and crinoline ladies.’

  ‘Magic,’ Shirl breathed, flicking her long blonde hair back into my eye and making it water.

  Julie was busy chatting to Alan so I concentrated on Una. She was sitting opposite, and still looking rather pale and depressed.

  Heard about some upcoming Wheeler events including a Halloween safari party, a cowboy and western evening, a raft race, a bonfire night bonanza and a carol singing and toga party at an old folk’s home. Mention of these soon brought back the sparkle to her eyes.

  Rodney Blade and his wife were also on our table, as were Mike Grope, hopeful of becoming a Wheeler, like myself, and his wife, Angie. They seemed to know everyone and had even gone as guests of Ken himself.

  ‘Anyone know what’s become of Les Crow?’ Mike asked. ‘I wanted to put a little business his way, so to speak. I rang his agency but no reply.’ There was no reply here either, everyone was preoccupied but he persisted, ‘He’d even offered Angie a part-time job, hadn’t he, Angie?’ Angie looked aggrieved and nodded.

  Steve was seized by a sudden fit of coughing and we forgot about Les in our efforts to effect a remedy – chief one being hearty slaps on the back till he begged for mercy, to the amusement of people at the other tables.

  It was generally agreed that the roast Aylesbury duckling was very passable and, after the sherry trifle, a toast to Her Majesty the Queen and the Big Wheel was proposed by Ken Dugeon, after which, cigarettes were lit all over the room and coffee was dispensed.

  Thought I would give Shirl the benefit of one last attempt at repartee and said, ‘Do you water ski too?’

  She looked at me with an intense expression and I felt sure she was going to have a lot to say on the subject, but all that came out was, ‘It’s magic.’ So I gave up after that and sat back to listen to the speeches.

  Ken made a witty toast to the ladies, which was followed by a “response” from Bob Bone – a leading light from the Oxborough Wheel. Only wish I could remember half the jokes he made. There was a good one describing an Irish cocktail (a potato in a glass of Guinness) and a very funny one with a play on the word “aperitif”, which was transformed into “a pair of teeth” – that brought the house down.

  Must say, I considered one or two of Bob Bone’s jokes a bit “near the bone” so to speak and told Julie so, but she didn’t seem to mind and laughed loudly – although she probably didn’t understand the double entendres.

  There was a general rush to clear the tables and chairs back after this. The ladies vanished to the powder room and I collected some more drinks. Steve was his usual jolly self by now and I felt free to ask him confidentially, while we were waiting for the girls, if he could predict the outcome of the annual general meeting. In short, would I be elected to the Round Wheel?

  ‘It’s pretty well in the bag,’ he replied, ‘but I can’t promise anything definite at this stage as we’re pretty full up at this moment in time and Mike Grope is hoping to be elected too.’

  ‘Yes, you said,’ I said. It sounded fairly optimistic though and I feel sure that Steve will do his bit when the time comes.

  The Baroque Room was suddenly revealed in all its splendour on our return. The columns and decorated plasterwork on the ceiling were picked out in gold and scarlet and the painted murals, with scenes of woodland revelry, were much admired.

  Ken Dugeon suddenly jumped up on a chair once again and announced, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen – you will now be able to lose some of those extra pounds you’ve put on this evening while dancing to the music of “Time”.’

  ‘Well, Ken doesn’t need to lose any extra pounds. He looks like an animated skeleton,’ Angie Grope said, in what I thought was a very familiar way.

  ‘Missing Janice’s cooking,’ someone quipped and this led on to an
imated talk and envy among the girls about the fact that Janice Dugeon was away on some course. Even Julie said something about wanting nothing more than to start one herself as a means to a meaningful career but think it was only the drink she’d had talking.

  ‘Time’ turned out to be the name of a very popular discotheque imported for the evening’s festivities from Liverpool and run by a fast-talking young man called Basil who works as a hairdresser by day.

  The room was plunged into darkness again except for the patterns of light and colour changing every moment. Ken’s face looked green.

  Had a dance or two with Julie and we watched Rick and Shirl display their prowess on the dance floor. Amazingly athletic. Quite an exhibition really. Made us feel a little staid. As we were going to sit down, Julie nudged me and looked at Una. It was no use speaking as the noise was so great. Luckily I got the message and, when the music stopped, asked Una for the next dance. We were trying a little step of our own, which involved a great deal of hip shaking and hand waving, at which Una was much more adept than myself, when I caught sight, through the gloom, of a familiar zigzag pattern. It was Julie’s dress. Craned my neck to see who she was dancing with out of idle curiosity and thought for one nasty moment that it was Les Crow, before realising with relief that of course it couldn’t be. He was in… well, where exactly? Bit of a mystery. The Mystery of the Carrion Crow – sounds like an Agatha Christie I remember thinking and recall smiling at the notion, but I had no time to dwell on it as Una, at that second, caught my hand and whirled herself under my arm. The record seemed to go on endlessly and when we eventually staggered back to the table – exhausted, deafened and dehydrated – Julie was already back, chatting with Steve.

  ‘When does Steve hope to be fighting fit again?’ I asked Una.