by David Nobbs
‘I’m reading Jocasta a story, Uncle Reggie,’ said Adam. ‘I read better than her, but only because I’m older.’
‘What’s the story?’ said Reggie.
‘Uncle C.J. wrote it for us,’ said Adam. ‘It’s all about ants. It’s frightfully good.’
I like Uncle C.J.,’ said Jocasta.
December was a quiet month. Fewer people came to Perrins, although forward bookings remained good.
The alterations proceeded steadily.
The weather remained wet and windy.
The great days of Perrins lay ahead.
5 Christmas
Christmas really began on the morning of Saturday, December the seventeenth.
That was when the snow came.
And the letter.
The letter was curiously brief.
‘Dear Mother and Father,’ it read. ‘This will come as a complete surprise, I’m in Paris on my way back to England. I got your address from one of your adverts. My news can wait until I see you. I’ll arrive on Friday, 23 December. I’m looking forward to seeing you all. Your loving son, Mark.’
The snow began at half past ten. It wasn’t heavy, but it caused the cancellation of eleven football matches.
Their festive plans received a further boost that morning. C.J. announced that he was going to spend Christmas with Mrs. C.J. in Luxembourg.
Doc Morrissey would also be absent. He had committed himself to an Indian Christmas in Southall. He would miss the festivities at Perrins, but he couldn’t let his old friends down.
The majority of the guests would be going home.
‘It’s going to be more a family Christmas than a community Christmas,’ said Elizabeth in bed that night, snuggling against Reggie’s chest.
‘The community is a family,’ said Reggie.
‘I enjoy being secretary,’ said Elizabeth. ‘But I want to be a wife over Christmas.’
‘So you will be, darling.’
There’s a fly in the ointment.’
‘Fly? What fly?’
‘McBlane.’
‘I realize he needs a lot of ointment. I didn’t know he was a fly in it.’
‘Reggie!’
A carload of revellers squished homeward through the soft snow that carpeted Oslo Avenue.
‘I want to cook the Christmas dinner myself,’ said Elizabeth.
‘No problem,’ said Reggie. ‘I imagine McBlane will be going home to his family.’
‘Has he got a family?’
‘Yes. He told me all about them the other day. I think. It was either that or the history of Partick Thistle.’
‘He frightens me sometimes.’
‘Nonsense, darling. I’ll go and see McBlane tomorrow, and tell him that he’s having Christmas off. No problem.’
Next day Reggie’s predictions proved partly true and partly false.
He did go and see McBlane. There was a problem.
It was four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, and the slim, dark culinary wizard was slumped on a wooden chair at the kitchen table. There was a pint bottle of Newcastle Brown in his hand, and his vest was stained with fat, oil and sweat. He had a rash on both arms.
‘Good afternoon, McBlane,’ said Reggie. ‘I just called in to say that we .. . er .. . the .. . er .. . carbonnades of beef were wonderful today.’
‘Bloody foreign muck,’ said McBlane.
‘Well, everyone is entitled to his opinion. At the risk of upsetting you, McBlane, I have to admit that we found them delicious. Now, the thing is, McBlane, the thing is that we .. . er .. . my wife and I.. . would like it if… if we could have the carbonnades again some time.’
McBlane grunted.
‘Oh. Good. That’s settled then.’
McBlane took a long swig of beer.
‘Oh yes. There is one other thing,’ said Reggie. ‘Not long till Christmas now.’
‘Ee flecking wae teemee hasn’t oot frae grippet ma drae wee blagnolds,’ said McBlane.
‘Well of course it is a bit over-commercialized,’ said Reggie. ‘But I expect you’re looking forward to seeing your family.’
‘Och nee I nivver flecking wanna same baskards ee flecking baskards ee immeee lafe wathee dunter mice stirring baskard done baskard firm baskard ling wasna flecking low dove haggan brasknards.’
‘Well, no family’s perfect, of course, McBlane. You’ll go and stay with friends in Scotland, will you?’
‘Willy fleck in ell? Wazz cottle andun firm ee? Eh? Fock loo her. Fock loo her. Banly sniffle baskards. Albie Stainer.’
‘You’ll spend Christmas with Albie Stainer! Absolutely splendid. Where does he live?’
‘Albie Stainer. Albie Stainer.’
‘You’ll be staying here! Ah! Oh, what a relief. Oh, good, you’ll be able to .. . er .. . cook the Christmas dinner then. That is splendid news.’
Reggie hastened from the kitchen, and McBlane tossed off the remains of his Newcastle Brown. A smile hovered around his sensitive, powerful lips. He had a cold sore coming.
The wedding between James Gordonstoun Anderson and Lettuce Isobel Horncastle was scheduled for two thirty on Wednesday, December the twenty-first. The venue was St Peter’s church in Bagwell Heath, the very church at which, more than twenty months ago, Jimmy had failed to arrive. Once again the weather was wintry. Overnight there had been four inches of snow, and more snow fell intermittently throughout the morning. The same organist gave the same spirited rendition of the same old favourites. The same heating system accompanied him with a slightly increased cacophony of squeaks and gurgles.
It was an unevenly balanced congregation that had gathered in the spacious fifteenth-century church, with its famous Gothic font cover.
On the left of the aisle there sat just one person. Lettuce’s mother was a formidable lady in her late sixties, with a large square face. She wore her moustache defiantly, as if relishing the displeasure that the world felt in looking at it.
On the right were the friends and relatives of the groom. There were Tom and Linda, with Adam and Jocasta, C.J., Doc Morrissey, the Websters, and the Harris-Joneses. There were the same old army colleagues, their noses even redder from liquid indulgence, and the same assorted cousins with their even more assorted wives, and thirty-six past and present guests of Perrins had made the wintry journey to Bagwell Heath to pay homage to the leader of their expeditionary forces.
Altogether there were seventy-one people on the right-hand side of the church, yet it was Lettuce’s mother who looked proud, and the seventy-one who looked sheepish.
Lettuce’s mother’s isolation seemed to say, ‘We could have filled our pews twice over for a suitable groom.’
The massed ranks of Jimmy’s friends and relations seemed to say, ‘We felt we had to come, in case he doesn’t.’
Outside, the snow fell steadily, carpeting Bagwell Heath in silence.
Elizabeth stood by the handsome lych-gate, sheltering from the snow under a smart, red umbrella.
The bride and her father sat in an upstairs room at the Coach and Horses, from which a fine view of the church could be obtained. They had large brandies in their hands. The beribboned car was parked in the pub car-park, whence it would not stir until the groom had put in his appearance.
The vicar turned to his wife, said, ‘Oh, well, may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb’, and set off through the snow in his Wellington boots. He carried his shoes in a Waitrose carrier bag.
Reggie’s beribboned car slowly approached the churchyard, with the groom sitting petrified in the passenger seat beside his best man.
It was twenty-seven minutes past two.
The car skidded on a patch of ice concealed beneath the fresh snow, and struck a lamp-post. Jimmy, who had forgotten to do up his safety belt, was jerked forward and cut his nose against the windscreen.
Blood gushed out.
‘Oh my God,’ said Reggie.
‘Bit of blood, no harm,’ said Jimmy, attempting to staunch the flow with his demob handke
rchief. All to no avail.
‘Lie down,’ said Reggie.
‘No time,’ said Jimmy. ‘Think I’m not turning up again.’
‘I can’t drive on till you’re bandaged,’ said Reggie, ‘or you’ll be having your reception at the blood transfusion centre.’
He ripped the ribbons off the bonnet, and managed to produce a make-shift bandage.
It was two thirty-four.
The vicar changed his shoes. Lettuce and her father sipped their brandies and watched. Elizabeth stood at the lych-gate and waited. The organist returned to the beginning of his meagre repertoire, but he played it more slowly this time.
Uneasiness grew, inside the church and out.
‘It’s flooded,’ said Reggie. ‘And there’s no juice left in the battery.’
‘Done for,’ said Jimmy, slumping in his seat.
They set off to walk to the church, trudging frantically through the snow.
A car came towards them. They thumbed it. Reggie pointed at Jimmy, whose face was criss-crossed with yards of ribbon, and tried frantically to mime a wedding. He mimed church bells, standing at the altar, putting on the ring, eating and drinking at the reception. When he got to the honeymoon night, the driver accelerated, lost control of his vehicle and crashed into a lamp-post on the other side of the road.
‘We’ve got to see if he’s all right,’ said Reggie.
‘Absolutely. First things first,’ said Jimmy stoutly, public-spirited even in his greatest crisis.
They approached the motorist.
‘Are you all right?’ said Reggie.
‘Go away, you bloody lunatics,’ said the motorist. ‘Get back to your bloody asylum.’
‘He seems all right,’ said Reggie.
They struggled on desperately through the snow. An AA break-down truck approached. They hailed it and it stopped.
‘Wedding. Two-thirty. Bagwell Heath. Cock-up on car front,’ said Jimmy.
‘That your car back there?’ said the driver.
‘Yes,’ said Reggie. ‘Never mind the car.’
‘Are you AA members?’ said the driver.
Jimmy produced his membership card.
‘Fair enough,’ said the driver.
It was two forty-six.
Inside the church. Lettuce’s mother rose majestically to her feet, turned scornfully towards Jimmy’s seventy-one friends and relations, and strode off up the aisle, like a footballer who has been sent off for a foul that he hasn’t committed. She strode out of the church just as the AA van pulled up at the lych-gate. She watched Jimmy step gingerly out, the ribbons heavily stained with red.
‘You’re bleeding,’ she said accusingly.
‘A mere bagatelle,’ he countered bravely.
He marched proudly up the aisle. Lettuce’s mother slunk in behind him.
The vicar entered, and smiled with grim astonishment at Jimmy.
Reggie took his place beside the wounded groom, and Elizabeth slid unobtrusively into her seat from the side-aisle.
It was two fifty-one.
At last they had a groom, but they still had no bride. Lettuce was arguing with her father in the car-park of the Coach and Horses.
‘I want to arrive by car,’ she said.
‘There’s no time,’ expostulated her parent. ‘We’d have to go right round the new experimental one-way system.’
‘Whose life is this the greatest day of, yours or mine?’ said Lettuce. ‘I’ve waited twenty-one months. Jimmy can wait five minutes.’
Lettuce’s father’s mistake was to try and knock a minute off that estimated time. At the furthest point from the church, the car slid across the snow into the hedge.
The desperate organist began his repertoire for the third time.
Jimmy whispered, ‘Serves me right. Biter bit. Shove off?’ to Reggie.
‘Give her five minutes,’ whispered Reggie.
Lettuce’s mother didn’t know whether to smirk or have a nervous breakdown.
It was two minutes past three.
Lettuce and her father limped exhaustedly through the drifts.
Behind them, two tearful little bridesmaids tried unavailingly to hold the train out of the snow.
The procession hobbled into the church at seven minutes past three.
The organist, in his incredulous relief, made a horrible mess of the first bars of the wedding march.
It was twenty-four minutes past three before Jimmy mouthed the first sentence of the day that even he was unable to shorten.
‘I do,’ he said.
‘I really feel festive now,’ said Elizabeth, as they lay in bed on the morning of Friday, December the twenty-third. ‘Mark’s arriving, CJ.’s leaving, and we’re going to have a white Christmas.’
Mark did arrive, C.J. did leave, but they didn’t have a white Christmas. All day it thawed, slowly at first, then faster, mistily, steamily, nastily. The snow was already losing its sparkle by the time the postman arrived. One of the cards which he delivered contained the heart-warming message ‘Dynamite. Thanks. The computer programmer from Alderley Edge.’ The W288 was churning up waves of brown slush by the time C.J. set off for-Luxembourg. By the time Mark arrived there were great pools of water lying on the snow.
Mark looked well. Africa hadn’t heightened him. He was still five foot seven, but he had filled out and looked even more disconcertingly like a smaller and younger version of Reggie. He kissed Linda affectionately, and was even polite to Tom. That was the trouble. He was too polite. As the evening went gently on its way, it was as if he wasn’t really there at all. Reggie tried hard to venture no criticism of his way of life, and to avoid those awkward phrases like ‘old prune’ which he had always found himself using to his son. They told him about the Perrins set-up. He seemed interested, but not unduly impressed.
Reggie discovered that he desperately wanted him to be impressed.
They told him about ‘Grot’, and the departure in disguise of Reggie and Elizabeth. He seemed interested, but not unduly surprised.
Reggie discovered that he desperately wanted him to be surprised.
McBlane laid on a good dinner. Reggie felt proud of it.
Mark ate well, but made no comment.
Afterwards, the family held a private gathering in Tom and Linda’s bedroom. The new double bed had been folded away, and comfortable armchairs had been moved in for the evening. Tom provided the drinks. There was apple gin, raspberry whisky and fig vodka. Mark praised the drinks politely. Linda took the bull by the horns, and said, ‘Now then, shorthouse, what was all that theatre business in Africa?’
But Mark was not to be drawn on the subject of the group of freelance theatrical mercenaries, dedicated to the incitement of revolutionary fervour through the plays of J. M. Barrie, freely adapted by Idi ‘Post-Imperialist Impression’ Okombe.
Nor did he call Linda ‘fatso’, as in days of yore.
‘Let’s just say it was a phase I went through,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s got to go through their wanting-to-overthrow-the-established-order phase. Anyway, it’s over and done with. I don’t really want to talk about it.’
‘Supposing we do want to talk about it, old prune?’ said Reggie.
Damn! Damn! Damn!
Mark shrugged.
‘Well, this is nice. All together again,’ said Elizabeth too hastily.
‘Another drink, anyone?’ said Reggie. ‘More fig vodka, Mark, or would you prefer to enjoy yourself?’
Mark held out his glass, and Reggie poured a goodly measure of fig vodka. It was extremely pale green.
‘It doesn’t matter if we get a bit olivered tonight,’ he said.
‘Olivered?’ said Mark.
‘Oliver Twist. Pissed,’ said Reggie. ‘You were always coming out with rhyming slang in the old days.’
‘Was I?’ said Mark. ‘I think I must have been going through a solidarity-with-the-working-classes phase. Everybody has to go through their solidarity-with-the-working-classes phase.’
‘Unless they’re working class,’ said Linda.
‘I never did,’ said Tom, pouring himself some of his raspberry whisky as if it was gold dust. ‘I know the working classes are the salt of the earth, but the fact remains, I don’t like them. I’m just not a working class person.’
‘You still haven’t told us what you were doing in Paris,’ said Elizabeth.
‘No,’ said Mark.
‘Oh come on, shorthouse, don’t be infuriating,’ said Linda.
‘I met this film director in Africa,’ said Mark, ‘and he wanted me to make a couple of films in Paris.’
‘How exciting,’ said Elizabeth. ‘When will we see them?’
‘Never, I hope,’ said Mark. ‘They’re blue films. I think I’m going through a reaction-against-my-political-period phase.’
When it was time to go to bed, Elizabeth said that she hoped Mark could stay a long time.
‘Fraid not,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go to Stockholm on the twenty-seventh, I’m making a film there.’
‘Are you still in your blue period?’ said Reggie.
‘Fraid so,’ said Mark. ‘It’s about a randy financier. It’s called “Swedish loss adjustor on the job”.’
In the morning, all traces of snow had gone.
Christmas day was grey, still and silent, as if the weather had gone to spend the holidays with its family.
Elizabeth had to agree that McBlane’s dinner was a good one. As he himself put it, if she understood him aright, ‘There’s none of that foreign muck today’. The turkey was moist and tasty, the home-made cranberry sauce was a poem, and even the humble bread sauce was raised to the level of art by the scabrous Caledonian maestro. If there was any criticism, it was perhaps of a certain native meanness with regard to the monetary contents of the Christmas pudding.
The wine flowed smoothly, the smokeless fuel glowed smokelessly, Mark passed cruets and sauce bowls with unaccustomed assiduousness, David Harris-Jones got hiccups, Linda found a pfennig in her pudding, Prue Harris-Jones got hiccups, Joan told Prue that her togetherness was slipping because her hiccups were out of phase with David’s, Tom informed them that some people were hiccup people and other people were burp people and he was a burp person, Jocasta didn’t cry when she found a shirt button in her pudding, Reggie asked McBlane to join them for the port and stilton, and received an incomprehensible reply, the four guests joined in as best they could, Tony proposed a toast to Absentfriendsville, Arizona, there was speculation about the honeymooning activities of Jimmy and Lettuce, some of it ribald and the rest of it obscene, everyone agreed that the jokes in the crackers were the worst ever, the candles flickered, the grey light of afternoon faded, and the very last, somewhat drunken toast was to the future of Perrins.