The Pursuit of Truth

by Arthur Hughes

  The two women stood up and went into the house through the French windows, the youngest child following them. To Healey, who watched them, it was remarkable that two women physically not dissimilar could be so different in character. His wife, moody, endlessly worried, with little motivation it seemed for anything except the reading of trashy novels; Farrell’s wife, lively, interested, clearly full of energy and now working for a degree. He turned his attention to the children. The three girls seemed to be getting on well, and Jamie appeared flattered to be allowed to play with them. Healey remembered his mother saying once that the only reason she had married was to have children. After fifteen years of marriage, he knew how she felt. He went into the house, climbed the stairs and lay down on the bed. The Guinness did its work and within five minutes he was asleep.

  When Healey got to the Hall that evening, it was strangely quiet and he wondered if he had made a mistake of some kind. The reception desk was empty and so he made his way to the bar, where Farrell had told him the party would be taking place. Just as he was about to open the bar door, he heard voices from inside, singing softly, holding a low pitched chord, before beginning a slow melody. He pushed open the door slowly and stepped inside. The two Bulgarian women he’d met on the barge were standing at the far end of the room, with another five dark-haired, smaller women, all of them with their hands clasped in front of them, and singing a dirge whose tone was reflected in their mournful expressions.

  There must have been at least fifty other people there, mostly women, sitting around the edge of the room, listening in silence. Bulbs had been taken from half of the lights, presumably to create a more intimate atmosphere but the result was to make it gloomy. The bar itself was just inside the door, to the left. Leaning against it, dressed in a blue velvet dinner jacket and a bow tie of the same cloth and colour, was Farrell. He mouthed an offer of a drink to Healey, who accepted, asking the barman in a whisper for a scotch and water. Sipping his drink, he leaned with his back to the bar and looked around the room.

  In the darkest corner, just to his right, were three pairs of mostly fair-haired men and women, sprawled over the sofa that Wright and Farrell had been sitting on earlier. Along the wall next to them was a group of women whom Healey took to be of Latin origin. One of these was Silvia, who made a tiny wave to him with the fingers of one hand, to which he responded with a slight nod of the head. Next he saw Teague, who, pint glass in hand, was looking intently at the singers. Beyond him was an Asian contingent, all women, huddled together, the furthest of them only a foot or so from the Bulgarian singers, and looking as if they might burst into giggles at any moment. On the other side of the singers, along the wall leading back to the bar, stood a number of black Africans, a group of what might be people from the Middle East and finally a tall blond man who stood next to Farrell.

  When the singing ended there was a silence followed by loud clapping. The Bulgarian ladies smiled and bowed and then immediately walked over to Teague and flopped onto the empty seats around him. At this, the group that included Silvia stood up and took the place of the Bulgarians and, after an exchange of nervous glances, began to sing Guantanamera. Healey moved along the bar to Farrell.

  ‘Very impressive,’ he said. ‘Those Bulgarians, such beautiful sound from …’

  Farrell nodded. ‘Thank God that by the time it’s our turn, everyone will have had a lot more to drink, including us.’

  ‘So you sing too?’

  ‘Oh yes. Rehearsals are in progress even as we speak. You’ll notice none of the tutors is here.’

  ‘None? Wright and Walters. Who else?’

  ‘Good point.’ Farrell looked somewhat the worse for wear. ‘But there is one other member of the team. We’ve persuaded the lovely Olivia to step into the breach. Hence the need for rehearsal.’

  ‘Olivia?’

  ‘Of the British Council. And Sam as well.’

  ‘But you’re not taking part?’

  ‘Oh I’ll be taking part, don’t worry.’ Farrell then began to join in with the singing. ‘Yo soy un hombre sincero,’ he uttered in a loud voice which Healey, though he was no great singer himself, recognised as decidedly out of tune. The participants, who were almost all singing along by now, seemed not to notice his wayward notes. And nor did Farrell apparently.

  Guantanamera over and cries of encore ignored, attention turned to the group huddled on the sofa. Someone shouted ‘Come on Finland’ and when there was no response from the group, chanting of ‘Fin-land, Fin-land’ began, to the obvious embarrassment of the sprawlers. Eventually, one of their number, a stocky middle-aged man, was pushed forward and he walked slowly to the other end of the room, to loud clapping. Putting up his hand for silence, and drawing himself up to his full but not very considerable height, the man began to sing in a rich, deep bass voice. He had only sung a few words, however, when he stopped, shook his head, and set off back down the room, where he was greeted with laughter from what Healey took to be his fellow countrymen and women.

  ‘Finns,’ said Farrell. ‘They’ve been here three weeks, hardly said a word to anyone in public, including themselves, and all the time they’ve been having it away with each other. And getting pissed. On this.’ He pushed a bottle towards Healey. ‘They gave me this earlier. Whinberry liqueur, I think it is. Lethal. Try it.’ He turned to the barman. ‘Give him a glass, Mark, will you.’

  Healey poured himself a small shot in the glass that the barman gave him.

  ‘Take more,’ said Farrell. ‘You won’t taste that.’

  Healey did as he was told. Taking a first sip, he made a grimace. ‘Tastes like disinfectant. Sweet disinfectant.’

  ‘Don’t sip, take a swig.’

  Again Healey did as he was told. He coughed and screwed up his eyes. ‘Powerful stuff,’ he said.

  ‘Have some more.’

  And Healey did. ‘How did the quiz go?’ he asked.

  ‘The quiz?’

  ‘You said that you and Wright were planning a quiz.’

  ‘Oh, that. We decided against it. Too much trouble.’

  Seeing no point in pursuing this, though it made him think that perhaps it wasn’t a quiz at all that Farrell and Wright had been talking about, Healey asked, ‘Who is the tall blond fellow who was standing next to you?’

  ‘Ah, that’s Sven. The silent Swede. You won’t hear anything from him tonight.’

  By this time, the tutors had entered the bar, accompanied by Sam and the British Council woman, and Healey watched them split up and join various national groups. At the end of the room three tiny oriental women were singing what sounded like a lullaby, though in what language Healey could not guess. As soon as they had finished, the participants sitting next to where Farrell was standing, the ones Healey had thought were from the Middle East, rose and went to the far end of the room, where they began to fiddle with hi-fi equipment on a low table. People took advantage of this pause to come to the bar for drinks, including Teague. ‘Enjoying it, sir?’

  Healey, who had by now drunk three glasses of the Finnish liqueur, smiled happily. ‘Very good. Yes, very good. Let me get you one, Mike.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll have a pint of Directors.’

  While this was being poured, music came from the hi-fi and one of the women who had been involved in setting it up began to dance a belly dance. She was tall, young, swarthy and fleshy, and she danced with slow languorous movements, her hips rolling round and round. The others stood to the side, clapping, until at a certain point one of the men began to dance too. Eventually all of them were dancing. The young woman who had begun the dance then swayed across the room to the bar, where she stopped in front of Farrell and began to make suggestive movements and beckoned him to join her in the dance. Farrell smiled broadly but did not move.

  Seeming disappointed, the woman was about to turn away when Teague stood up, stepped forward to her and began to move from side to side and clap his hands. This drew shouts of encouragement and soon Teague was dancing
in the middle of the group, where one of the Bulgarian ladies (Ludmilla wasn’t it?) joined him. The music ended, Teague returned to his seat with Ludmilla, to much applause and slaps on the back. Ludmilla gave him a quick peck on the cheek and Teague beamed.

  Immediately, the Africans stepped forward and forming a line facing the bar, with no music, began to stamp their feet. They danced forwards and backwards and then from side to side, chanting in low tones. Healey decided he needed a pee.

  When he got back, the Africans were no longer dancing. Their place had been taken by the tutors, Sam, and the lady from the British Council. Wright was dressed in a cream linen suit; Mary Walters and Sam in jeans and T-shirts; and the British Council woman in a beige jacket with padded shoulders, worn over a long floral dress. They stood in a line with Farrell and Wright at the centre. Farrell put up his hand and asked for ‘a bit of hush’. The room went quiet.

  The course members, said Farrell, were about to enjoy a rare cultural experience, one which he hoped they would treat with the respect and seriousness which it deserved. He nodded to his colleagues and they began to sing about a young maiden who encounters a certain Sir Roger. After each verse there was a brief chorus, the first being ‘Oh, Sir Roger, do not touch me’. As the song went on, they proceeded to drop one word from their singing of the chorus. Soon they sang ‘Oh, Sir Roger, do not touch’. Before long they had the young maid pleading ‘Oh, Sir Roger, do’, and they eventually ended with an orgasmic rendering of the single word ‘Oh!’ to the cheers and laughter of most and what seemed the painful embarrassment of a few, including the British Council lady, who broke away from the group and made for the door, swiftly followed by a short silver-haired man in a double-breasted blazer, whom Healey had not previously noticed.

  So that was all that the English could contribute, thought Healey. But no, that wasn’t all. Farrell was going round the room, pulling people to their feet and into the centre of the room. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘the Hokey Kokey!’ He paused for the effect of his words to sink in. ‘Come on everybody. In a circle. Arms round shoulders.’ Once something like a circle had been formed, he began to sing, ‘You put your left leg in, your left leg out, you put your left leg in and you shake it all about,’ doing just what he said with his own left leg. The participants soon grasped what was involved and joined in with enthusiasm.

  Healey stayed with his back hard against the bar. He may have drunk more than he should but he wasn’t going to be drawn into this. It wasn’t long before people were throwing their ‘whole self ’ in and out, falling over and staggering to their feet again. Healey wiped his brow. God, it was hot in here. So many bodies in such a small space, with the windows shut, doubtless as an attempt to avoid complaints from the local residents. He took off his jacket and gestured to the barman that he put it behind the bar, which the young man did. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ asked Healey.

  ‘Well I’d quite like to try that Finnish stuff, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘It isn’t mine, so I don’t mind at all. And he doesn’t look as if he’d mind either,’ he added, gesturing towards Farrell, who was at that moment being dragged to his feet by Silvia and Sam. Healey pushed the bottle forwards. ‘Help yourself.’

  Once the English had completed their performance, the young man behind the bar went over to the tape deck. He put in a cassette and after a few seconds of hissing from the speakers, loud music emerged. It began with a couple of Rolling Stones songs and a Beatles number, during which people either sat in their groups or stood around the bar. Farrell went behind the bar and switched off more of the lights.

  ‘That should help get them onto the floor,’ he explained to Healey. Sure enough, three or four couples made their way to the darker corners of the room and began to dance. The music was all from the two previous decades. There were more songs from the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, and some from Queen. When Chubby Checker began to sing Twist Again, Teague, who until then had sat drinking with the Bulgarians, stood up and pulled Ludmilla to her feet, and the two of them began to gyrate vigorously, more or less in time to the music.

  After a minute of this, Teague, still twisting, left Ludmilla and made his way to other course members sitting around the edge of the room and drew them from their seats. One after another, he convinced them to join in, until almost everyone in the room except the Finns was dancing. When the music stopped, there were shouts of ‘More!’ and the barman was persuaded to rewind the tape so that they could carry on twisting, which all of them did.

  When the music ended again, Teague made his way to his seat and for the second time that evening was given a loud round of applause. Despite himself, Healey felt admiration for Teague. He was in his element and was helping to make a success of the party, something Healey knew he could never do himself. Picking up his pint of beer, Teague gestured with it towards Healey and gave him a big wink. Healey smiled back and nodded.

  When ABBA began Dancing Queen, all of the Swedish course members (at least that was what Healey took them to be) stood up and joined in as if it were their national anthem, jiggling about in an awkward and self-conscious fashion. Healey wanted to point out to Farrell that he had been wrong about Sven; he was singing as loudly as any of them, holding the hand of one of his female compatriots. But Farrell was nowhere to be seen.

  It was so hot in the bar, that Healey decided he had to get some fresh air. Walking somewhat unsteadily, he made his way out and down the corridor and through reception, where there was no one on duty. Once outside, he breathed more easily. There was a slight breeze. He looked up and saw that the sky was beginning to cloud over. It looked as if the weather forecast might be right. As he stood there, he heard what sounded like two voices in quiet but definite disagreement. A man was repeatedly interrupted by a woman saying ‘No!’ Moving round the corner of the building, Healey traced the sounds to the open window of the secretary’s office. The light was on. From the shadow of a tree he could see Farrell and the British Council woman, standing face to face. Farrell was opening his arms in apparent supplication, while the woman shook her head. Behind them was Wright, watching them but making no contribution himself. Believing that whatever was being said could hardly be connected with the case, and therefore none of his business, Healey turned round and walked back to the entrance.

  Approaching the bar he heard Boney M and Rivers of Babylon. As he opened the door, Farrell and Wright came up behind him. ‘I was just getting some air,’ said Healey.

  ‘Don’t blame you,’ said Farrell. ‘We need to open some windows but that bloody Council woman says she’s agreed with the Warden that we shouldn’t, so as not to disturb the neighbours with our noise. Tim and I have just been arguing with her.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘She still says no but we’re going to open them anyhow. Bugger her.’ Farrell and Wright then set off round the room, opening every window as wide as it would go. While they were doing so, Boney M stopped and Village People began YMCA. No one was dancing. Farrell turned from the window he had just opened and scanned the room. He walked across to where Mary Walters was sitting by herself and held out his hand to her. She shook her head. Healey watched as Farrell then approached Wright and the two of them went to the middle of the room and began to dance together, side by side, Farrell affecting an exaggerated butch manner, while Wright moved effeminately at his side. As the music ended there was a smattering of applause and the two men bowed deeply before making their way, holding hands, to where Healey was leaning against the bar.

  ‘Something for them to think about,’ said Farrell. Wright looked as if he were about to say something too but didn’t.

  ‘She seemed embarrassed, that British Council woman,’ said Healey.

  ‘What?’ asked Farrell. ‘Oh you mean when we were singing. I told you she was a wet blanket.’

  ‘Who was the man who followed her out? Silver hair, blue blazer. I haven’t seen him around before.’

  ‘Oh, him. The great guru
. He gave a lecture in the first week. Future of English language teaching. We had to pay him top whack to do it. Complete waste of money.’

  ‘And is he connected with the woman?’ Healey asked only out of curiosity.

  ‘I doubt it. He’s another wet blanket. Probably home now, drinking his cocoa.’

  Healey realised that this ‘guru’ must have been the little man with the big reputation that Silvia had complained about at the Cunning Man. Then, for no obvious reason, it suddenly came to him who the jogger had been that morning. She was the wife of someone in the Criminology Department at the old university. They had invited Jill and him to a dinner party once. What an ordeal that had been. Dreadful food, cheap wine, and him going on about the need for the police routinely to carry guns and expecting Healey to agree with him, which he had resolutely refused to do. And then there was that framed certificate for Sexual Excellence on their bathroom wall, bearing his name and signed by the wife. He had never seen either of them since, until this morning, when she had ignored his greeting. Healey poured himself another whinberry liqueur.

  The music was now slower. The barman had put candles on three or four tables around the room and turned off all of the remaining lights. At this point the Finns took the floor for the first time, pairs of them holding each other tight, shuffling about in nothing resembling any known dance step. Other couples got up to join them. Healey’s mouth was dry and he asked the barman for a glass of water. Farrell was dancing with Sam, the course assistant. Teague was clutching Ludmilla, a dreamy expression on his face. None of the dancers bothered to sit down between tracks but remained leaning against each other until the next began. Healey felt someone take his hand. It was the Italian woman, Silvia.

  ‘Will you dance with me?’ she asked.

  Healey was about to refuse but as she tugged him gently away from the bar, he relented. She folded her arms around him and whispered, ‘Hold me, Richard.’ He felt a lump come to his throat as they moved slowly around the room. Peering over her shoulder, Healey tried to see who was watching them but no one seemed interested. Put Your Sweet Lips a Little Closer to the Phone was playing, and Silvia murmured, ‘Put your sweet lips a little closer,’ and reached up to kiss him. Despite himself, Healey was aroused. Silvia smiled up at him. ‘Will you come to my room? Two-two-one. Please come.’ She released her hold on him and walked slowly out of the bar without looking round.