by D. E. Harker
Steve rested his leg up on the pouffe when I had finished and was just about to say something when, to my annoyance, Trev burst in, with his transistor going full blast.
‘Turn that thing off!’ I shouted above the noise.
He turned the volume down slightly and shouted back, ‘I’m sure the DJ said that this is a record by The Dregs.
‘Rubbish!’ I yelled. ‘Now turn it off or go and play it up in your bedroom. I want a bit of peace in here. It’s a hard thing when a man can’t get a bit of peace and quiet in his own home.’
Trev went out, banging the door behind him.
‘How about a jar of something?’ I asked Steve, wishing to get back to my saga and have some sympathetic advice from an old friend.
‘No thanks, old sport – thanks all the same. I really only called to let you know the A.G.M. has now been fixed for Monday the 14th.’ So at least that is one bright spot on the horizon, if all goes according to my hopes.
‘And I must dash round to Mike Grope and tell him.’ And he hobbled out.
December 6th – Sunday
At about 3 pm a pale watery sun appeared so I muffled myself up and went for a short walk. Met Keith Goodchap exercising his afghan hound and stopped to pass the time of day.
‘I’m having a snifter with Ken Dugeon at the Cock and Bull this evening, why not join us?’ he asked in a friendly fashion.
‘Why not indeed,’ I replied.
‘See you then, about 7.30.’ The afghan gave a sharp tug and he and Keith flew off down the road at lightning speed.
‘You shouldn’t be going out at all – the wind’s turned quite sharp,’ Julie warned as I muffled up for the second time. I told her that I felt quite warm as I went out of the door but my words were carried away on an icy wind.
On my way to the pub, I began to wonder if there was any ulterior motive behind Keith’s friendly gesture: Trev and Keith’s son Stewart, have not got on well at school in the past. Maybe there’d been another fight and the Cock and Bull was to be the setting for a showdown. Trudged along battling against the elements, more depressed with every step. Another fear occurred to me – were Keith and Ken about to give me the third degree about my continuing interest in Les Crow? I don’t know if it’s my present weak state but am becoming obsessed with the idea that everyone’s against me.
I needn’t have worried this evening, however, all was conviviality but thought it would not be politic to mention Anita or the glove with the A.G.M. around the corner.
‘What’ll it be?’ shouted Keith as he spotted me.
‘A Whisky Mac, if that’s alright with you,’ I shouted back through frozen lips and reached for a fag.
Ken appeared at this moment and slapped us both on the back.
‘Guess what? The Raintree Wheelers have challenged us to a flaming plum pudding relay race at their civic hall in aid of charity.’
‘Have we accepted?’ Keith asked, his eyes glinting with excitement.
‘Are we the men to turn down a challenge like that?’
‘Never!’ I found myself answering enthusiastically with Keith, and was struck anew by their fierce loyalty
‘Fair enough then,’ Ken went on, ‘but the big news is that this seasonal event,’ he took a long draught of his beer while we waited with bated breath, ‘which will duly take place on the 21st December, is going to be televised!’ He paused until we had fully digested this piece of information. ‘It will be shown on News from the North the following evening. So now all we have to do is find a team of sturdy runners.’
‘How many?’ Keith asked.
‘Ah, difficult one, this. Only five it seems, so we’ll have to put our thinking caps on, so to speak, over the next few days.’
We all thought for a moment.
‘Bob Gubber’s a must. I should think he stands 6ft 3in in his socks and he swims every day,’ said Keith and Ken agreed.
‘What about Dud Weekes?’
‘Not very fit. A weight problem there, I should say,’ Ken pronounced. ‘I suppose I myself will have to put in a personal appearance – being chairman and all that. Of course, if you don’t think I’d…’
We quickly reassured him that naturally he must go, that no team would be complete without him.
It’s a great pity that Steve’s out of commission. He says that ankle of his is going to be a long job,’ Keith said. ‘I think I’ll give him a ring later on and see if he has any recommendations to make.’
‘I gather Mike Grope is something of an athlete,’ Keith put in. ‘I could mention it to him – sound him out, as it were.’
‘Good idea.’ Ken slapped him on the back.
Returned home with a hacking cough, about which Julie was unsympathetic, especially as I smelt, so she said, of ciggy smoke.
December 7th – Monday
Determined to go to work today despite Julie’s protests and my persistent cough. Felt I must return to the office and try to get back to normal – or as normal as possible in the circumstances.
P.H. greeted me rather coldly with the news that I had been assigned to the Mid North West Wales region for a couple of months. Might as well have been banished to Siberia.
Was preparing to leave when Brimcup bounced in. ‘You missed a really good do on Friday – no kidding. Fantastic hotel, marble pillars, marvellous wine, decent band – the works. The food wasn’t up to much but what a cabaret. That Abdul certainly knows a thing or two – these oriental wallahs are up to all the tricks.’
‘I thought you said he was from Frodsham,’ I said but he affected not to hear.
‘And as for contacts – say no more!’ I didn’t, so he continued, ‘Actually managed a word or two with Coon of Trighton and Coon.’ I was impressed by this as they are one of the major firms in the North. ‘And I gave him one of my cards. Had a drink with a very good sort – Geoff Savoury by name. He was with the McPennines and I even got an intro there. So how’s that for an evening’s work? Good “vibes” as they say.’
‘Did Avril enjoy it?’ I asked.
He looked blank for a minute. ‘Av? Oh, yes, I expect she enjoyed it in her own way.’
December 8th – Tuesday
Cough not improved by visit to a small pallet factory on side of a slag heap today, nor was it improved by having to shout down the phone to Julie’s mother. Could hardly hear a word she was saying, the line was so bad. The only thing I could make out was ‘Watch Top of the Pops’ and I probably misheard this now I come to think of it. Julie was out at a coffee evening and bring and buy in aid of Nina Price-Potter’s playgroup and the message didn’t mean a thing to her either when I told her.
December 9th – Wednesday
Was coughing quietly in front of the fire this evening when Steve called round. I’d been going over and over the truss conversation with Jim Smears – had I really said sixty? I was ninety-nine percent sure that I hadn’t but there was still that one percent and my mind at the time had been full of unanswered questions about the War Games, the fish pond, Ken, Anita… Am I slipping?… Am I losing my grip on things?
Mentioned the forthcoming flaming plum pudding race, which surprisingly I don’t think Steve had heard about, although he tried to cover up and flexed his lame leg a little. ‘I’ve come to ask a favour,’ he said. ‘Una and I have to attend a conference this weekend in Paisley. The kids’ll be taken care of but not the fish and I wondered if you could do the honours as you’ve taken such an interest in them?’
He said it quite casually but I read a wealth of meaning into “as you’ve taken such an interest in them”. Is this the ultimate test of loyalty before the A.G.M? A double bluff? Or is it possible that he still doesn’t realise the extent of my suspicions?
Whatever, I saw it as a last chance for some on the spot investigation and said, ‘The honour would be all mine.’ He gave me all the gen on how to keep his fish happy and then, as he was leaving, said, ‘Una asked me to give you this – she swears by it. Filthy taste but extraordinary results
.’ And he brought out of his pocket a bottle of dark brown liquid.
It was marked Dr Feeney-Green’s Tonic but it might have been prussic acid and, as soon as he’d gone, I poured it down the drain.
December 10th – Thursday
A very amazing thing happened this evening. Was reading the sports page of the newspaper while Julie was writing some Christmas cards and checking addresses with me from time to time. Trev had the television on, not too loudly, and everything was peaceful.
Suddenly, without warning, Trev seemed to go mad. He leapt up and turned up the volume so loud that it nearly burst our eardrums. The dog started barking, Julie was shrieking for Trev to turn it down and I strode over to the set and switched it off.
‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ I shouted. He immediately switched it on again and started pointing at the telly. ‘Look – it’s Bri.’
We stared hard and to our complete astonishment it was Bri and his group.
Listened, transfixed, to the dreadful noise – the loud flat monotonous tones of the singer, who was stabbing the air with his fingers and giving wild looks in all directions. The drummer could not be seen except for a mass of long fuzzy hair which threatened to get entangled with his waving drum sticks, giving the effect of a chewed-up piece of knitting. At the keyboard, someone with dark glasses kept getting up and down like a jack-in-the-box and the two guitarists – one of whom was Bri – plucked their strings viciously and twirled their guitars with terrible force, rocking them back and forth. It was all over in a minute and the applause was deafening.
‘Yes, indeedy, boys and girls,’ the DJ prattled above the shouts and stamps. “Mud in Your Eye” by The Dregs is going to go straight to number one.’ More applause. ‘Mark my words.’
We were speechless for a moment or two then Julie said, ‘I must go and ring Mum.’ Trev said he must go and ring Craig and I was left pondering these latest developments.
December 11th – Friday
Damp and foggy morning. Had trouble starting the car, battery nearly flat. Was about to give it up as a bad job and ‘phone the garage, when I heard light padding footsteps behind me and out of the fog loomed Steve. ‘Having trouble then? What’s the problem? Want a push?’
‘Thanks, I’ll just give it one last try,’ I said. At the back of my mind, even while trying the starter again, I knew something was wrong somewhere. Then suddenly it hit me – Steve was wearing a tracksuit, had come running up to the car and had even offered to push it! Where was his limp, his stick? The car suddenly started and I reversed out into the road, ‘How’s the ankle then?’ I shouted.
‘Never better, old boy.’ And he jogged off into the gloom.
December 12th – Saturday
Steve and Una set off for Paisley today and tonight I set off for the fish pond, which led to a discovery confirming, only too clearly, my darkest… but first things first.
Julie had organised a Christmas shopping expedition today in Liverpool and, armed with our list, we duly set off at a reasonably early hour to find a good place to park. Found one in a multi-storey car park at the very top of the building after a long wait and we walked to the large store where Julie said we could get all the presents. Reminded her of the six photo albums she had already bought but she said, ‘Oh, those will do for birthdays as well.’ Couldn’t quite get the logic of this but I suppose she knows what she’s about. While she went to get her Christmas present to me, which she had already decided on and which was to be a secret, Trev persuaded me to go to the music and records department.
We were all still feeling rather stunned by Bri’s sudden TV appearance and Trev said, ‘We must get his record.’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t think they’d have it in, not yet anyway,’ I replied, not at all fancying the idea of going up to the rather supercilious-looking young girl and saying ‘Have you got “Mud in Your Eye”?’
However, Trev was insistent and went over to the assistant. ‘Have you got The Dregs’ latest?’ he asked (he told me later that this would make the group sound as if they had been in the charts many times before).
Her face softened. ‘Oh, yes – these are selling like hot cakes,’ she said as she reached up and took the record from the rack.
Was handing over the money to Trev when I heard him say in a hoarse whisper, ‘One of them’s my uncle.’ The girl’s eyes opened wide.
‘Never!’ she exclaimed. She nudged her friend and I had quite a job getting Trev away.
We were eating plaice and chips in the cafeteria, thinking it was a good idea to take an early lunch, when a voice came over the loudspeaker: ‘Don’t forget to visit our toy department this afternoon. As well as the grotto where Father Christmas will be handing out toys to the kiddies, a special demonstration of a brand new plastic construction toy, Bilditt, will be given by our guest celebrity and winner of many beauty competitions, Merseyside’s own very lovely and delectable Miss Diane Butt, who has also kindly consented to sign autographs.’
Had to pass through the toy department on the way to sports goods, where Trev wished to inspect an air pistol much admired by himself and Craig.
Quite a crowd had gathered round the Bilditt stand, leaving Father Christmas sitting alone outside his grotto looking cross.
Fathers had brought their sons and their daughters along to see the demonstration and there was Diane, resplendent in a low-cut, clinging blue evening dress and sporting her diamanté crown. She was smiling, signing autographs and attempting to assemble a complicated kit without much success. Some of the fathers were volunteering to help.
Examined the air pistol and satisfied ourselves that it was in no way lethal – though it will be used under strict supervision – and also that it was not too costly. This purchased, we wended our way through the crowds, out of the overheated store and into the cold outside. Started coughing again and was glad to get home. Felt exhausted. No way inclined to go out into the night to supervise Steve’s pond but I knew what had to be done and set out with spade and torch. After seeing to the fish, I got down to the grim business of the evening and don’t mind admitting that I was feeling scared out of my wits at what I should find.
Dug around the edges of the pond and seemed to strike some large stones. Luckily there were no plants around the sides so I worked down to quite a depth and then, breaking out in a sweat and a fit of coughing, had to stop. Sifting through the soil by the torchlight, I suddenly felt a surge of excitement as I spotted something metallic lying by a bit of black plastic (which in itself was sinister – part of a bag used to put body in?). Cleaned it up with end of scarf and, unless I’m very much mistaken, it is the medallion, minus its chain, as worn by the late Les Crow. Shovelled back the soil and returned home feeling anxious and “fragile”, to borrow a word of Julie’s.
My diary, incriminating as it is, must now reside, with this medallion, wrapped in tissue at the back of the airing cupboard under some towels, until I decide what to do for the best.
December 13th – Sunday
What a terrible quandary I’ve landed myself in – as if I haven’t enough on my plate at this moment in time. Have had no time to think of the terrible implications of last night’s visit but suffice it to say I now look forward to the A.G.M. tomorrow with mixed feelings, especially after Steve called round on his return from Paisley. Had expected some thanks for fish minding but he looked far from gratified.
‘No reflection on you, old son,’ he said, ‘but there’s something fishy going on and I mean that literally. I’ve had a nasty shock – only two inches of water in the pond. Can you throw any light on the matter? Remember I’m not blaming you in any way.’ He looked straight at me and I hedged a bit, remembering the clunk as my spade had struck something hard and realising it had probably caused the leak. ‘Are the fish alive?’
‘Only just. Kev’s quite upset.’
There was no way I was going to let him know the truth. ‘That’s bad news,’ I replied honestly and mentioned the frost we
’ve been having and how it can crack concrete.
‘Well, you could be right. I suppose it was rather a rushed job.’ This last part he said quietly, almost to himself.
My mind was in a turmoil after he’d gone. If my election for membership goes through, it will be the summit of one of my ultimate aspirations but at the same time I now feel as if I’m on the edge of a precipice. Am I about to be sucked into a web of intrigue? If, on the other hand, something goes wrong (and with the sort of luck I’ve been having lately, this is not inconceivable) and Mike Grope alone is elected… well, I don’t even like to think about it. There’s nothing I can do about it. The Wheels are in motion, as they say. Julie says I have black rings under my eyes. Is it any wonder? Will bury myself in my new Alister McLean and try to take my mind off things.
December 14th – Monday
I’m over the moon, up in the clouds, riding high – all those things, so to speak! At least I think I am. No, I’m sure I am. Nothing, no doubts or misgivings are going to spoil the memory of this evening and I herewith resolve to forget my former suspicions. Who would have believed me anyway, without any concrete evidence? I can just hear Julie saying, ‘Don’t be such a fool… What would people say? We’d be blackballed. No one would speak to us,’ etc. etc., and she’d be quite right. My lips and pen are now sealed on the subject forever. And now the BIG NEWS. I am at last a fully- fledged Round Wheeler! Thanks due in no little way, of course, to Steve, without whose help and advice I wouldn’t be in this happy position today.
Even seeing it down in writing pleases me and my recent troubles at work almost fade into insignificance beside this stroke of good luck. Not only have I been accepted into this select band of worthy citizens, but, and this means a lot to me, I have immediately been thrust into quite an important role – having been given the honour of looking after the souvenirs. A great responsibility this and one which I intend to take seriously. However, I rush on too fast.