by Nick Hopton
‘Could I have another gin and tonic?’ The waiter nodded respectfully and glided away. He reappeared a few minutes later holding a tray on which a sparkling glass sat. In it a pale lime floated symmetrically among the ice cubes. This restaurant was a bit more up-market than Si was used to. Mary’s choice, not his. A romantic treat. And some romantic dinner it had turned out to be—just him, the waiter, and several drinks.
The restaurant was now virtually empty and he felt self-consciously alone. Was it so obvious that he’d been stood up? He’d only been there for half an hour.
The waiter floated back towards him—he seemed to be practising for a career on the stage. Probably an unemployed actor waiting to be cast as Frankenfurter or perhaps Lady Bracknell. But the thought failed to keep his spirits up.
‘Sir, Miss Mary Cunningham called and left a message for you. She says she’s been detained and apologises that she won’t be able to join you.’
‘Ah… Right.’
‘Will you still be wanting to order, sir?’ Something in the waiter’s manner spoke volumes about what he thought of eager suitors being stood up.
Si determined to disappoint the cocky wanna-be thespian. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll start with the snails and then have the lamb, please.’
The waiter looked disappointed and, without even bothering to write down the order, nodded and turned away. ‘Very well, sir.’
Si caught him as he made to walk off. ‘Oh, and to drink a bottle of number sixty three.’ If he was going to dine alone he might as well do it in style. The idea of getting a bit tight strongly appealed.
‘Of course, sir.’ The waiter moved away like the QE II under full steam. Si drained the last of his gin and tonic. He knew his victory over the waiter would prove to be Pyrrhic. He fully expected a miserable day at work tomorrow, hung-over and exhausted. But for the moment he enjoyed some bitter satisfaction.
~
‘I saw your column today. It was very good.’
‘Really? I didn’t think you read The Courier. I thought you said it was too downmarket?’
‘Well, it is. But someone had a copy in the office and I thought I’d take an interest in your work.’
‘How very kind of you.’ Once again Si’s sarcasm seemed lost on Mary.
‘As I said, I thought it was very good. But too political.’
‘Why? Wasn’t it funny enough?’
‘No, not that. It was funny. At least I smiled, I think. No, what I didn’t like was the overt party-politicking. It was so cheap.’
Si knew what she was referring to. Since he’d had to show his copy to Dougy on a daily basis, the Editor had started to insist on certain pieces going in which Si would have preferred to chuck out. Not surprisingly many of these were stories with a strong right-wing political slant supporting the Government. Disconcertingly, Bill had written most of them. Si wondered if Dougy had started talking directly to his assistant and bypassing him. Only the day before, Dougy had made Si include a story praising a discredited Minister which Bill had put together. Clearly, Dougy didn’t find Bill’s evolving appearance difficult; even the nose stud hadn’t caused problems in the top office. But Si was beginning to wonder what lay behind Bill’s evident desire to shock.
Si tried to defend himself against Mary’s attack, but apathy prevailed. He just couldn’t get passionate about his job any more. ‘Sometimes I have no choice. I have to do what I’m told.’
‘Yes, I know. You explained. But that’s no excuse. If you’re going to sell out so easily, why not at least be subtle about it? There’s no virtue in propaganda—and that story was nothing more than that.’
Si was taken aback. ‘I didn’t know you were such a political animal,’ he countered.
‘I’m not. Money, not politics, interests me. But you obviously are. Or maybe you’re not… Simply that you’re manipulated by your boss.’
‘Is that so very strange? After all, if your boss tells you to invest in a certain market or company, you won’t question his wisdom, will you?’
‘Of course I will, if I think he’s wrong. Sometimes I argue just for the sake of it.’
‘Like now?’
‘Not like now. This is for real. It’s a real problem with you, Si. You shouldn’t be so pliant. Be yourself and stand up for what you believe. If you don’t want to write something, then don’t.’
‘I’m not pliant.’
‘I think you are. You don’t have the guts to publish things that you know your editor won’t like. Do you?’
Si looked at her sadly.
‘I thought so. You see, Si, I’m not like that. That’s why people respect me at work. Because I speak my mind and don’t give a damn if I offend people. You’ve got to be tough if you want to get to the top.’
‘At the expense of all else?’
‘If necessary, yes. D’you see?’
He nodded. ‘I see.’
Mary made to move on to another topic, having ticked off the last of her list of issues to be addressed that day. ‘So, what are you doing next weekend?’
‘Huh? Next weekend? Oh, I don’t know… Haven’t really thought about it. Why?’
‘Well, I don’t have to work and I thought we could go to a football match, perhaps on Saturday, like you wanted to, and then go to have lunch with my parents in Hampshire on Sunday.’
They had been together for almost two months and this was the first time that Mary had suggested going away for the weekend. Their short relationship had been limited to discussing when they would next meet. Normally for dinner and occasionally, when the wind was in the right direction, for sex. So far it had been a fairly clinical affair, no long term planning of any sort.
Si was vaguely aware that Mary had parents, and that they lived in the Home Counties. Her dad was a stockbroker who commuted to London each day. Her mother, about whom he knew nothing, was no doubt a braying, tweedy sort, all weekly manicures and ruthless charity fundraising. The thought of meeting Mary’s family raised a host of questions, not least whether he wanted to. But Si felt it would be unfair to voice such concerns. So he consented to the plan.
‘Only,’ he added, ‘there’s not much on football-wise this weekend…’
‘I thought you had a friend who was some kind of star?’
‘Yes, well, no… Actually, he’s just on the edge of the big time… Hasn’t quite made it yet.’
‘Oh well, never mind. We can go down to stay with my parents on Saturday, then. That’ll really give you a chance to get to know them.’
‘Great,’ said Si with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
~
A loud man with ginger hair barged into the bar. ‘Hey, Anne, gi’ us a pint, will ya?’
‘Ah, you noisy bugger, where’ve you been all my life then?’ the barmaid flirted back.
Si looked up. Since the new barmaid started at The Feathers, he’d never caught her name. Now he knew.
He recognised the other bloke. Declan, he was called. And despite twenty years of marinated living, he was still a good-looking man, if one ignored the puffy eyes and the web of burst capillaries spreading across his nose and cheeks. Anne apparently did, as she leaned over the bar to plant a playful kiss on his lips.
‘Steady, Anne, I’m not half the man I used to be. If you keep that up, it won’t just be my nose that’s turning red…’
‘You dirty old bugger. You just drink your pint and behave. If you’re good, I’ll talk to you again once I’ve served this gentleman. And that’s more than you’ll ever be…’ Her smile belied her words.
‘Anne, Anne, you’re hard on me,’ sighed Declan theatrically, and collapsed onto a barstool, brandishing his burnished pint glass like a god on the battlefield.
‘Are you listening or not, eh?’
Si turned hurriedly back to Jimmy who sat opposite him, hunched over his beer at the small hopelessly stained wooden table. ‘Yeah, course I am… Sorry, go on.’
Jimmy quickly got back into his stride. He’d been repeat
ing the same ideas over and over for the last hour, torturing himself with his failure. Or at least what he thought was his failure. ‘I just don’t know, Si, I blew it. But they really didn’t give me a proper chance. I mean, if they want me to show what I can do, I need more than a couple of minutes.’
‘I know, you were unlucky. But you’ve got to pick yourself up and carry on. You’re a great player, Jimmy, and if you stick at it, you’ll make it. I’m sure you will. There’ll be another chance. Who’s to say you won’t be on the bench again next weekend?’
‘You reckon?’ Jimmy looked up hopefully.
‘Yeah, I reckon.’ He watched enviously as Declan chatted away with Anne at the bar, unaware of the ambitions and cares which hung over the small table in the corner. Why couldn’t his life be so carefree? How had he got himself into such a depressing situation? Was it all his own fault?
‘Do you fancy another pint?’
‘Yeah, I’ll get them.’ Why not have another? It might help. In any case he might get to overhear some of Declan and Anne’s conversation. Some of their good humour might rub off…
‘I’ll chase mine with a Scotch,’ said Jimmy. He didn’t have to get back to Manchester for training at The Cliff until the day after tomorrow.
‘Fine.’ It was going to be a long night.
~
It had rained as they drove down to the country. Mary’s windscreen wipers had counterpointed the conversation’s more petulant rhythms. She’d been uptight since picking him up, partly because, Si guessed, they were running about two hours later than planned. He also suspected from Mary’s behaviour that going home disturbed her natural balance.
Since meeting Mrs Cunningham, or Beatrice as she insisted on being called—such women should not have first names, Si decided—Si had perfectly understood his girlfriend’s apprehension. After they’d dumped their bags in their rooms, at different ends of a long corridor separated by Mr and Mrs Cunningham’s own room, they’d come downstairs for a drink in the chintzy ‘drawing room’.
‘You must be exhausted after that drive,’ murmured Mr Cunningham sympathetically. ‘How’s about a drink?’
But just as Si was about to happily concur that he’d love a stiff one, Mrs Cunningham intervened. ‘No, no. Not a drink. I know what they’d like… Tea.’ And without waiting for an answer she exited briskly to prepare tea.
Mr Cunningham slunk back to his chair by the fire, shook his newspaper loudly and didn’t look up. Nor, to Si’s disappointment, did he mention the idea of a drink again.
They sat down to a beautifully presented dinner where the flavour of the food was matched only by the blandness of the conversation—Mary and her mother talked non-stop to, about and over each other, virtually ignoring the two men. It would have been easier if there had been some wine.
After coffee, Mrs Cunningham suggested an early night. ‘Bedtime. It’s a big day tomorrow and, Mary darling, you need your beauty sleep… No, no protests. That’s a good girl. You don’t want Simon thinking you’re a difficult girl, do you?’ Mrs Cunningham threw a well-judged smile vaguely in Si’s direction. ‘Beware wrinkles, Mary, I can see a few already…’
‘Mummy…’
‘No excuses. Off you go, good night. See you in the morning.’
‘Good night,’ said Si as he followed Mary from the room. When they were safely out of earshot he asked, ‘Is she always like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, you know. Bossy.’
Mary paused for a moment before replying tartly. ‘I don’t know what you mean. My mother’s not bossy and I think you’ve got a real nerve to say such a thing when you’re staying in her house…’
‘Calm down, calm down. Don’t get upset. I didn’t mean it nastily. I just… Well, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, good night.’ And at the top of the stairs he planted a chaste kiss on her rosy cheek and turned down the corridor away from her room.
~
The weather had improved when Si drew back the curtains and took in the view. Manicured fields and hedges stretched verdantly into the distance. The roll of the land invited participation.
At breakfast Si tried to draw Mary’s father into conversation, but he seemed distracted, looking nervously towards the door every few minutes. Mary’s arrival didn’t help much, although he shot her a thin smile of welcome.
Thankfully, Mary’s humour had improved overnight. ‘Where’s mum?’
‘In the garden, I think.’
‘Oh.’ At that moment Mrs Cunningham walked in. Her husband closed up like a clam and started reading the newspaper with an extraordinary intensity.
‘John, I do think the least you could do is help. There I’ve been, out in the garden picking vegetables for your lunch and do you think to come and help me? Of course not.’ Mrs Cunningham sighed theatrically and brushed back her immaculate, ceramic hair. She noticed her daughter and Si for the first time. ‘Ah, the lazy bones. You’ve missed the best of the day, you know.’
‘Mum!’ protested Mary.
‘Well, it’s not too late to do something. After lunch we’re going for a long walk. That’ll blow away all those London cobwebs.’
‘I thought we might just take it easy, stay in, go to the pub….’
‘Nonsense. You can go to the pub this evening if you insist. But this afternoon, we are going for a walk.’ And that was that. Mrs Cunningham moved on briskly. ‘Morning, Simon, did you sleep well?’
This seemed more of an accusation than a question and Si answered carefully. ‘Yes, very well thanks, Mrs Cunningham.’
‘Beatrice, call me Beatrice,’ she said coquettishly. Si noticed Mary look away and try to engage her mousy father in conversation.
‘Oh sorry… Beatrice. I keep forgetting.’
Mrs Cunningham giggled childishly. ‘Well, don’t.’ She fixed him with a look that made him squirm. ‘So, Simon, we understand you’re a journalist. But, apart from that, we don’t know much about you. Mary has been very secretive. She’s been rather unfair keeping you all to herself until now.’ Si smiled in what he hoped seemed a friendly manner. ‘So do you work for The Daily Telegraph?’ she suggested with a hopeful look inviting affirmation. Si was not totally unprepared for this as he had noticed a copy of that newspaper sitting crisply folded on the breakfast table.
‘No, The Courier,’ he replied gently.
‘The Courier?’
‘The Courier … It’s a national daily…’
‘Yes, yes. I know The Courier. Not that I read it.’ Mrs Cunningham’s flirtation had crystallised into hard disdain. ‘What led you to work for a newspaper like that?’
‘Well, it’s a very good paper. I don’t really see what’s wrong with working for The Courier.’
‘Of course there’s nothing wrong. But it’s a little dodgy… politically. Isn’t it? As far as I can see, it’s determined to destroy England and all that we hold dear.’
Si looked to Mary for help with a half-smile.
But if she saw the irony in the contrast between her own opinion of The Courier as a downmarket bourgeois rag, and her mother’s view of it as a subversive Trotskyite publication, she didn’t show it.
Si felt sick. Mrs Cunningham’s stony expression seemed to say, ‘Go on, then. What have you got to say for yourself, eh?’
‘No, I think you’re wrong, Beatrice.’
Mrs Cunningham flinched.
Si couldn’t think of anything else to say without risking rudeness.
Mrs Cunningham glared at him.
Si tried to assume a bland, nonchalant expression.
Eventually, Mary seemed to notice the developing atmosphere and, breaking off her desultory conversation with her father, intervened. ‘Right, I’m taking Si off for a while. I want to show him the garden.’
‘Yes, what a good idea,’ clipped Mrs Cunningham. ‘Lunch will be at one. See you’re on time.’
They escaped into the fresh air. But even when they were alone Si couldn’t think of much to say. Befor
e he knew it, they were back at the house.
‘Don’t come any further in your wellies. Put them over there.’
Si meekly obeyed Mrs Cunningham’s orders and took off his dirty wellies. He followed Mary indoors and collapsed with her before the fire.
Mrs Cunningham was the kind of woman one instinctively obeyed. Haughty, well preserved and conscious of her looks, but with as much sex appeal as a Barbie doll, thought Si. As his hostess shooed him into a small room to remove his mud-stuccoed wellingtons, he wondered idly what she had been like thirty years before.
~
‘This girlfriend of mine got married last week.’
‘Oh yeah. Who?’
‘You don’t know her. Anyway, she told me about it. Sounded a riot. She left all the arrangements to the last minute and was up till three thirty in the morning writing out place cards and arranging flowers. She started out carefully placing them in vases and ended up chucking them in milk bottles in bundles.’
‘Oh.’
‘Anyway, the next morning she was at the hairdressers and got stitching her veil…’
‘What?’
‘Don’t be thick. You know, what a veil is. To wear over your hair.’
Si realised he’d been ambushed and affected vagueness. ‘Of course. People still do that?’
‘Oh yes. At proper weddings.’ The way Mary said “proper” had an ominous ring to it. He resolved not to ask too many questions for fear of showing too much interest.