Prior Engagement, or Plagued to Death!

by Allan Frost

  ‘I’m seventy-nine,’ she continued proudly. ‘Yes, really. And I’ve come to realise I can enjoy a healthy relationship despite the wrinkles and dried skin. It’s not what we’re like on the outside that counts, it’s the love, warmth and, dare I say, lust, that keeps us going. Age is not important. Not giving in to age is.’

  She waited patiently for the next round of applause to subside. Persephone took the opportunity to generously replenish Hilda’s glass.

  ‘I’ll run through tonight’s order of events,’ said Cynthia, reaching for a piece of paper. ‘We’ll begin by having a brief,’ More laughter. ‘Not that sort of brief, a short fashion show of the new garments in my Collection. They come in all sizes, so it doesn't matter if you’re as skinny as a stick insect or as large as an elephant. We’ve provided changing cubicles so you can try things on later. Oh, and don’t worry about the gentlemen of the Press. They haven’t been invited so everything that goes on in here won’t go beyond these four walls.

  ‘After the fashion show,’ she continued, ‘I’d like the gentlemen to move to the common room (Mr Rodd will lead the way) while the ladies remain in here. Arthur will show the gentlemen our wide range of private products for the male while I do the same for our ladies’ accessories.

  ‘Finally, there will be ample opportunity for you to buy whatever takes your fancy; we have provided brown carrier bags to avoid any potential embarrassment on the way home. We accept payment in cash, or by cheque or credit card. Oh, and batteries are free tonight! Now, as they say, let the show commence!’

  The lights in the hall dimmed. Strains of Air on a G String emerged from a screen behind which Wellingley & District G-String Quartet scraped their gut strings with gay abandon (they were all young men with strong wrists and bare chests, wearing black dickey bows and little else). This was their first public engagement and they were determined to play with extreme gusto, and more than a smattering of a counterfeit press’s worth of false notes.

  ‘First, the Razzle Tassel ensemble!’ boomed Lady Cynthia.

  A powerful floodlight penetrated the darkness to reveal a shapely young woman (in fact, all the models had been recruited from Cynthia’s most loyal and frequent customers) on the dais. She wore a sequinned baby doll nightie with matching underwear and accessories, including a short whip, all of which sparkled and shimmered. More applause; it was impossible to tell in the darkness whether it was the men or women who clapped loudest. As the hostess said, she catered for all tastes.

  ‘Secondly, the Collar Stud!’

  This time, a well-built hulk of a man with rippling muscles and a well-developed six-pack stepped onto the platform. He moved like a wild panther (the women went equally wild) wearing a clergyman’s collar, black leather thong, matching kid gloves trimmed with red fur and holding a short red-feather duster.

  By this time, most of the women were standing up, whistling and clapping until Lady Cynthia made a plea for ‘Decorum, please!’ Tim couldn’t see much but did notice Hilda and Persephone replenishing each other’s soft drinks at regular intervals. The atmosphere was certainly hotting up!

  And so the show continued to round upon round of rapturous applause and sweating faces. It crossed George’s mind he could have made a fortune selling handkerchiefs.

  Tim, on the other hand, found himself becoming slightly excited. Being a restrained sort of person, he’d never witnessed anything like this and, probably, nor had the other guests. But, he had to admit, everything was being performed in the best possible taste . . . well, just short of obscene, anyway. There was nothing to cause offence. Embarrassment yes, but not offence.

  Even Sir Cedric found himself speculating on which outfit Cynthia would don when they returned home (which was why he had resolved to decline strong drink tonight for a change); he rather liked the pink number fourteen ensemble.

  By the time the main lights came back on, the crowd was in a euphoric state. Sarah was pleasantly astonished to see her usually quiet husband standing on his chair clapping repeatedly until his hands smarted. The din of appreciation made Tim’s ears pop several times, although it could have been due to the high altitude.

  A few minutes later, the gentlemen left the hall and made haste for the common room. Appetites whetted, they enthusiastically trundled along to see what equipment and accoutrements were available for their manly consideration.

  Arthur did not disappoint. It was a good move on Cynthia’s part to get girls to demonstrate most of the goods on offer (one or two remained in the dining hall in case some of the female guests preferred same-sex activities). In no time at all, the common room resounded to the gentle whirr of battery-driven contraptions, cracking whips and the imperceptible swish of feather dusters.

  George and Tim sat together in a corner at the back of the room. At one point a tipsy vicar asked them if they were gay and would they like to meet him after evensong on Sunday when the vicarage was empty. They declined.

  They did their utmost not to show too much interest in case they got carried away. However, both made copious mental notes, especially when the girls explained why certain articles were, er, considered essential to enhancing a cherished relationship and went to great lengths to convince what was a predominantly ‘Wham! Bam!’ audience of the need to slow things down to beyond the usual two minute passion boundary. It was all very illuminating, a fact endorsed by innumerable comments like, ‘Well, I never knew that’ and ‘I always thought that was impossible!’

  The women’s proceedings were rather less restrained; in fact, they couldn’t wait to get their hands on Cynthia’s imaginatively designed goods. Sarah returned from the toilet on one occasion to see a balloon-fest of condoms blown up and either popped or sent whizzing around the room. It was a sight she associated, for some unknown reason, with boarding school girls messing about in the dormitory after lights out.

  Displays over, it was time for the guests to reassemble in the dining hall. Those who could still walk drifted around with telling smiles plastered across their faces; those that couldn’t were laid gently on the floor or propped up on chairs.

  ‘Going well,’ said Tim to Sarah. They each held a carrier bag but then, so did everyone else, although most guests clutched more than one.

  ‘Where’s Hilda?’ asked George nervously, looking around and under the chairs. ‘Not drunk, is she?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘Shouldn’t think so; she’s been on pineapple juice all night. Her glass is there,’ she added, pointing to their table.

  George picked up an empty glass, held it to his nose and took a sip of the dregs.

  ‘Oh, no!’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Tim.

  ‘Vodka!’

  ‘Hang on,’ exclaimed Sarah. ‘That’s Ms Chinn-Dribbling’s. This is Hilda’s.’ She handed him a different tumbler.

  George’s worst fears became reality.

  ‘That’s vodka as well. Where is she?’

  ‘In one of the changing cubicles,’ Sarah replied, nodding towards the far end of the hall.

  ‘What’s she doing in there?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue. You’re the detective, George, but it seems to me that she’ll be trying something on.’

  ‘I’d better go and find her—’

  Sarah held him by the arm.

  ‘Can’t do that, George. You might open the wrong door. Could be embarrassing.’

  ‘Not half as embarrassing as I hope it won’t be,’ said George glumly. ‘That’s the trouble with Hilda; doesn’t take much to make her tipsy.’

  ‘Yes, we’ve noticed,’ said Tim. ‘What should we do?’

  ‘Well, we can hardly smuggle her out of this crowd.’

  George was at his wit’s end. Please, God, don’t let her do anything stupid. Put her in a coma instead.

  Tim saw a cubicle door open. ‘Is that her?’ he asked, pointing to an overweight woman dressed in the scantiest of revealing underwear. Rolls of flabby fat, fortunately, hung down far enough to cover
her most private parts. She seemed to sway, or rather lurch, from side to side.

  ‘Don’t think so,’ said George, straining to get a better view. ‘No, it’s our illustrious mayoress Persephone Chinn-Dribbling. How awful! What a sight!’

  ‘Not to everyone’s taste, certainly, but she seems to have at least one admirer.’

  But Sandy Rodd was not, for once, on the prowl. He whipped the cloth off the nearest table (impressively, without spilling the drinks) and threw it over Persephone’s shoulders. With a bit of luck he could sit her down before anyone noticed.

  But luck has a habit of avoiding those who need it most. Wellingley & District G-String Quartet decided this was just the moment to break into an impassioned rendition of The Stripper. It had the same irresistible effect on Persephone as a light bulb has on a moth.

  It was an impressive, albeit not entirely rhythmic, performance. Sandy was knocked out cold when the mayoress’s ample fist flung one corner of the tablecloth to one side, exposing bits that should, in the council chamber, remain privy.

  Persephone, relishing as ever a captive audience of voters, responded well to the massive circle of Wellingley’s finest who rapidly surrounded her. There was no shortage of willing hands answering her call for assistance when her fingers fumbled with the clasp of the 48DDplus Razzle Tassel bra.

  Hilda couldn’t have picked a worse moment to peer round the door of her cubicle to see what all the fuss was about. Persephone caught her eye and weaved her way towards her.

  ‘Hilda, dearesht, ishn’t thish wonnerful? Don’t be a shhrinkin’ hic violet, come an’ join in the fun!’

  Persephone grabbed Hilda by the arm and yanked her into full view. Hilda was just about wearing an emerald green Dancer’s Dream tutu with Zircon imitation diamond tiara and matching handcuffs dangling from one wrist. She bore more than a passing resemblance to the Dance of the Hours hippopotamuses in Walt Disney’s original Fantasia. On balance, the hippos showed more grace and poise.

  The quartet switched to a seductive, pulsating rhythm. Persephone responded. She could have done with a few lessons from Salome and considerably more veils but, in her own mind at least, she writhed as only a trained seductress can, although folds of rippling fat danced to a different tune.

  Wiggling her stomach next to Hilda’s, she placed the mayoral chain over both their heads. Gazing adoringly into Hilda’s terror-stricken eyes, Persephone’s thick fingers tightened the chain, drawing their faces closer together.

  ‘Hilda, m’dear, why do you alwaysh shpurn me? Can’t you shee how much I love you?’ She pursed her lips like a suction pad, yearnings of forbidden passion uncontrollably unbridled.

  ‘Sod off, you perve!’ growled Hilda. ‘My heart belongs to Georgie!’

  Then, with a blow that would have impressed Mike Tyson, she landed a knockout punch on one of Persephone’s chins.

  XII

  Tim poured another mug of tea and passed it over to Sarah before joining her at the breakfast table.

  ‘Good do, last night,’ he said, taking a bite of toast smothered with blackcurrant jam. ‘Carrying Hilda’s becoming a habit.’

  ‘I feel so sorry for George,’ said Sarah. ‘If word ever gets out . . .’

  ‘It won’t,’ Tim sounded adamant. ‘Just remember who was there: Wellingley’s great and good. They won’t say anything in case their . . . what did Cynthia call them? Proclivities. They won’t say anything in case their proclivities become common knowledge.’

  ‘I hope the mayoress got home safely.’

  Tim chuckled.

  ‘She would have done if she hadn’t made a pass at the woman taxi driver. Threw her out, apparently. The police picked her up near Dyke’s Alley, of all places! Had to borrow a barrow to wheel her to the station to sober up. Serves her right for spiking Hilda’s drinks.’

  ‘I wonder how Cedric and Cynthia are.’

  ‘Probably on cloud nine. She must have taken a fortune in sales and orders. Oh, and Cedric was in a hurry to get home afterwards, can’t imagine why. Yes, a really good night, all things considered.’

  ‘Did you buy much?’ asked Sarah hesitantly.

  ‘One or two things,’ he replied mysteriously. ‘You?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?’

  ‘I hope it isn’t pink,’ said Tim. ‘Reminds me of Cedric for some reason. Quite off-putting.’

  Damn! thought Sarah, trying not to show her disappointment or reveal thwarted plans. I’ll have to change them.

  ‘What’s on today?’ asked Tim.

  ‘Finalising plans for the dinner party. Oh, Mick Sturbs said he’d drop off a brace of pheasants later on. I must remember to give them to Bert Nibbull when he calls round this evening.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll work on the layout of the Priory.’

  ‘Can’t work wait?’

  ‘I meant the layout for the party, not plans of the Priory itself.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, dear.’

  ‘I have to call Sadie about the marquees and Seymour about the portaloos tomorrow and ask them to come round. Need something to mark out the positions.’

  ‘There’s some white emulsion paint in the stables. And brushes.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll be in the library if you need me.’

  Augustus watched with mounting interest as Tim scribbled on a sketch map of the Priory ruins, trying to work out the best places where the marquees, portaloos and various vehicles (including Fred’s catering van) should go.

  ‘Elizabeth and I would appreciate the opportunity to visit the Priory, Tim. We did much of our courting there, away from my father’s prying eyes. It holds many happy memories.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Augustus, I really don’t know how you can.’

  ‘We’d also like to attend the party.’

  Tim shook his head emphatically.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. One of the guests is seriously allergic to ghosts and we don’t want to add to her stress. She’s had one or two bad turns recently.’

  ‘We’d keep out of the way. She wouldn’t know we were there.’

  ‘But how are you going to get there, Augustus? You’re confined to the house. The chest, remember? You chose it, not me.’

  ‘But you promised to think of a way round the problem.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid I haven’t.’

  ‘Elizabeth will be most disappointed,’ said Augustus. ‘She was so looking forward to meeting the guests. We haven’t spoken to anyone else except you and Sarah for almost twelve months. It was the day of the court hearing, if you recall.’

  ‘I know, Augustus, I know. I’ll have a word with Sarah and see if we can arrange something. Now, let me concentrate on this. There’s a lot to sort out and not much time.’

  Time? I know a lot about time, thought Augustus. You can have far too much of it, especially if you’re held prisoner with no visitors.

  He drifted off in a sulk to break the bad news to his wife.

  As arranged, Sadie Flapgatherer arrived at Priorton Hall later in the week and stood on the bridge admiring the building while waiting for Tim to open the door.

  ‘Marquees de Sadie,’ she announced, shaking Tim’s hand. ‘I’m Sadie. You asked me to come and look at the site.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tim. ‘Would you mind if we take your car? Then you’ll know how to get to the Priory. I’ll bring these,’ he added, picking up a tin of white paint, brush and tape measure.

  ‘Didn’t I see you at Lady Cynthia’s clothing launch?’ asked Sadie. ‘Great time. Did you see that photo of the mayoress spread across the entrance to Dyke’s Alley in the paper last night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s the talk of the town. She’ll have to resign, of course.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m very surprised. Bit over the top.’

  ‘And there’s an awful lot of top, according to the picture,’ Sadie chuckled. ‘You a regular customer?’

  ‘No, never been to the shop,’ he replied.

 
; ‘Ah! Mail order then. Very discreet.’

  ‘No, we’re friends of Sir Cedric,’ said Tim, wishing she’d change the subject.

  Sadie, sensing his unease, mentioned how nice the weather was while making a mental note of the route. Tim was pleased to see the good job Mick had made to the surface of the lane leading to the ruins.

  ‘Oh, what a lovely location, so peaceful and pretty,’ said Sadie with genuine admiration. ‘And such an impressive house as well. You are lucky!’

  Tim agreed. She had no idea of how fortunate he and Sarah felt.

  Sadie switched into efficiency mode.

  ‘You noticed in our brochure that the marquees you’ve selected link together. They each have sides which can be rolled up like blinds, in case it gets too hot; very easy to operate. I suggest the caterer’s marquee goes on one side of the dining section and the musicians at the opposite end. Will that be OK, do you think? Good. Where will the toilets be situated? Over there? Only just visible from the tables. Good.’

  They spent an hour or so measuring and painting marks on the ground. She agreed with Tim on the best sheltered location for the marquees to reduce the amount of noise made should it be windy or rainy on the evening of the event. Tim could swear he saw smoke rising from her clipboard pen, she wrote so quickly.

  ‘Have you thought about tables and chairs?’ Sadie enquired.

  ‘Oh, gosh, no! Completely slipped our minds!’

  ‘Not to worry. I have a friend who can help. He’s very reasonable and only uses good quality, sturdy furniture. I think I have a good idea what you’ll need. Party of six diners, four musicians, plus the caterer and his staff. How many?’

  ‘Staff? Two, as far as I know.’

  ‘I’ll bring a couple of extra chairs. Any children? No. How about tablecloths?’

  ‘The caterer will see to them. Ask your friend to send me a bill for the furniture hire, unless he’d prefer cash. I won’t expect a discount.’

  ‘No, he’s very honest; used to work for the Inland Revenue and feels he owes it to his ex-colleagues. A cheque will do nicely. I do hope the weather’s kind,’ she said. ‘Nothing worse than a howling gale or raging storm to dampen the spirits. Well, I think that’s all I need to know, Mr Eason. I’ll make sure the marquees are up and the furniture in place before noon on the day and I’ll send someone along to take them down the day after.’