‘Where the hell is Jazzy?’ asked Petula with some of her old authority. The whereabouts of her son suddenly seemed by far the safest thing to worry about. ‘He’s meant to be conducting the main course, not that anyone would have noticed the starters anyway,’ she added guiltily, trying to avoid eye-contact with her old friends the partridges. ‘If we can get everyone sitting down then at least there’s a chance of reinstalling order. Let’s knock some heads together…’
‘Listen Petula, don’t take it to heart, I can see you’re not feeling yourself, this party can take care of itself. Why don’t you lie down…’
‘No. No need.’
‘No I mean really Petula, you look a bit peaky to tell the absolute truth.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘I’m just thinking of your best interests.’
‘I’m fine, alright!’
‘I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to offend.’
Stunned at her own anger Petula wavered and in a fit of inspiration raised her voice even further in the hope of making a joke of her outburst. ‘No offence taken. Fact is, I’ve rarely felt perkier, perky okay, not peaky! Don’t worry about me. I’ve plenty of perk. I’m perky alright…’
Finding that Astley was looking at her as though she were mad, Petula quietened her voice in stages, pretending it had never been raised in the first place. ‘Forget rest Max, I’m alright, I don’t need that or wise words, I’m relying on your presence alone to sustain me, together we can… make things a little better. I’ll just need a little help from my friends. Oh look, here are two now…’
‘We were looking all over for you Petula!’
Margy and Esther Middleton, retaining the slight and slightly larger relationship in relation to one another’s size as they had when Petula first came across them years before, grinned together and asked, ‘Where were you?’
Rather than admit that she had been far below eye level communing with the first course, Petula replied, in an attempt to replicate her overpowering best, ‘I am this house which is why it’s no good looking for me in it, I am everywhere,’ laughing she gestured at the ceiling and doors to give them the general idea.
The sisters smiled too politely: they had either heard this kind of thing before or else there was another aspect of Petula’s countenance that disturbed them.
‘Like God,’ said Astley helpfully, ‘everywhere and nowhere at the same time.’
‘Don’t mention him,’ said Petula, glad to get a bit of sympathetic banter going, ‘avoiding him is why I can treat life as my special place of worship; it’s the one place he’s guaranteed never to be.’
The Middletons chuckled deferentially at this and Petula felt a rush of self-restoration pass through her. Perversely she knew this must be another attribute of the drug, but it was so welcome that she forbade herself to quibble about the source.
‘Could someone get that fire down,’ ordered Petula, a command helping to further settle her nerves, ‘it’s like having the bloody devil in the room watching you all the time.’
‘I won’t put any more logs on,’ said Astley, and whispering in her ear, ‘sorry if I misjudged you Petula, didn’t mean to send you to bed.’ Loudly, he turned to the others and added, ‘It looks like it might be a bit too late to do anything with the seating plan, so you might like to join us Petula. A few of our table have already dropped out by the looks of it.’
Petula glanced the length of the long hall, the tables arranged in a broken line, their occupants manifesting some of the more extreme aspects of the human condition. Despite the sound and fury there were absences and gaps, with the room no more than two-thirds full. A number of the older guests had followed Trafalgar’s example and filed off towards the exit, others sat in stunned and comatose shock as the actors picked them off, one by one, couple by couple; the fervour of the few failing to disguise the passivity of the confused remainder. More disappointing for Petula was the behaviour of those pillars of the community who, taking advantage of the mayhem, had simply copied the actors’ thirst for annihilation: Tom Scone, the ex-Mayor of Shatby, pinching Jenny Hardfield’s bottom and guffawing uproariously as his son, the current Mayor, tipsily followed his lead.
‘Are you all meant to be sat together, I’m sure I didn’t mean to put you all on the same table,’ said Petula, doing her best to ignore the evidence of her senses. Picking up the card next to Eager’s she frowned and shook her head thoughtfully, ‘Donald, case in point, you were supposed to be next to a lovely old friend of the family, Chips, Chips Hall. Why don’t you help me find him?’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘You spoil sport. I’m giving you an opportunity to meet new people!’
‘But what if I don’t want the opportunity? I’d rather be a spoil sport than take my chances on a table with any of that lot.’ Eager thrust his thumb up at the next table along. Two of the actors were arm wrestling as a third put out a cigarette on a chewed partridge wing. The Corbetts, cousins of Noah, were looking longingly at the trickle of departing guests, and Mathilda, a friend of Regan’s, was biting into her hand to stem a flow of tears.
‘You see Petula, I’ve got to this place in life where I prefer people I know. Boring of me, but there it is.’
‘Don’t you think dispersing our numbers will be a better way of quelling the rioters, Don?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Eager, ‘and even if I did I wouldn’t want to, if you see what I mean. Really Petula, I’d rather just enjoy myself if that’s alright. I’ve already fought in one war. That was enough.’
‘But we can’t just ignore them as they tear the place apart…’
‘Why not?’ said Astley carefully lowering Petula on to the chair next to him, ‘I don’t think they’re capable of much more monkey business anyhow. Let’s not give them the satisfaction of giving them any more attention. Don’s right. Let’s just try to enjoy ourselves.’
Petula could feel her position undermined by her allies’ complacency. She did not know whose behalf she could pretend to be indignant on. Her anger was at its most effective when hidden behind the guise of defending those who could not defend themselves. But there were no takers for her kind of wrathful protection. This time she would have to come clean and express it on behalf of herself.
‘It’s just not good enough, we can’t let them get away with it,’ she protested, ‘they’ve tried to ruin the evening, created a horrible ordure and God knows, probably trashed my reputation into the bargain. I’m finished in Yorkshire!’
‘Not at all,’ said Esther taking Petula’s hand into her own and caressing it. ‘This is exactly the kind of mayhem the country bourgeois thrives on. They’ll be talking about it for the next twenty years alright, but not for the reasons you’re afraid of. It’s the perfect antidote to their stuffy, frightened little lives. You’ve opened their eyes to another way of being, a new reality.’
‘Me? I haven’t done anything of the sort, have I?’ protested Petula, squeezing the actresses talon-like finger needily, ‘do you really think they’ll forgive me?’
‘Oh more than forgive you, they’ll thank you!’
‘Even though I didn’t want any of this to happen?’
‘Don’t be so naive Petula, of course you did! Why else would you have brought, and not by chance, a lot of stuffed shirts into contact with a different world? Tonight was what you meant it to be, whether you know it or not!’
‘God, not more negative solidarity Esther,’ spluttered Eager, ‘you don’t mean to pretend the bozo army here are some kind of freedom-fighting anarchist collective?’
‘Well why not? If their targets are the same as ours.’
‘Ours? Piss Esther, unadulterated, leaking, yellowy piss. Don’t include me in any of this Maoist balls. You’re moving towards even greater stupidity than when you hung about with those Trot poseurs of yours. I sometimes think your only public ambition is to remain left of left of centre until your dying day, despite every provocation to switch. The irony is, look
ing at these wasters,’ Eager allowed his large hands to take in the room, ‘the man I’d like to hand them over to would be your Chairman Mao. He’d know what to do. And he wouldn’t waste time with any flowery eulogising; they’d be sent off to a labour camp without so much as a by-your-leave. I agree that there is something fundamentally uncivilised about right-wing politics, but for this rabble there is no excuse.’
‘Donald, there are parts of you that are absolutely uninhabitable. Mao would support their protest.’
‘Protest?’ asked Petula shakily. ‘Who are they protesting against, me? What have I done?’
‘Why, not you silly, you’ve given them the stage to make their protest.’
‘I suppose that is what it is in a way,’ said Petula, ‘tonight, their way of showing they don’t enjoy the same things as us… that we’re irrelevant old farts.’
‘Don’t you start Petula or else there will be no one left to hold the line,’ counselled Eager, ‘getting pissed on somebody else’s booze and dropping your trousers is bad manners, no ifs or buts. Protest, balls!’
‘Look at those two square up, delusion versus illusion,’ interrupted Astley diplomatically, ‘anyone fancy taking bets?’ Petula’s solicitor, Jerry Winkle, having mustered the courage to leave the safety of the curtain with his wife, a paper crown sat clownishly upon her head, was cast in a struggle to retrieve a fur coat from Tackleberry, who having surfaced with it from under a table, now refused to let go of it.
‘It’s mine!’ screamed Tackleberry, ‘it’s my foxy! No one can take my foxy away!’
‘Blast you,’ groaned Winkle, the sleeve of his black-and-white check suit a victim of this frantic tug of war, ‘blast you!’
‘Foxy!’
‘But I’m its rightful owner! Give it back or we’ll, we’ll sue you!’ screeched Rowena Winkle, holding on to her husband’s wrist. ‘It cost a thousand pounds!’
‘To wear that suit and marry her, he just doesn’t care does he, your solicitor, you’ve got to admire a man for that, even if he is a limb of the law,’ laughed Eager cruelly, ‘I’d help him if it wasn’t for our table’s neutrality. You know, I do have to agree with Esther on one thing. I have always thought some of your local associates were a little on the stiff side Petula, but really, they never deserved anything like this. Bleeding Tinwood. Go on Max, give him a hand and get the coat back. And poke that piss-weasel Tackleberry in the eye from me.’
Astley got up custodially and then sat back down again. ‘Actually, I think it best to honour first impressions and stay out of this one.’ Tackleberry had abandoned the coat and was lying, like a beached seal, on his front and beating the floor with his fists, one eye still following the relieved Winkles who were embracing to mark the end of their ordeal. Taking advantage of his adversaries’ hubris, he reached for Rowena Winkle’s ankle without warning, and bit at it testily.
‘Rabies! He’s given me rabies!’
‘Should we invite Regan over or do you think she’s alright where she is?’ asked Margy, ignoring the clamour. She had collected a respectable stack of partridge parts on her plate, and as the others had chatted, finished the best part of a bottle of champagne, her hands, the food, the drink and her plump mouth forming a conveyer belt of efficacy and speed.
‘Where is she?’ asked Petula, afraid that in her paranoiac preoccupations she had left her daughter behind in the world, untended and without a guardian.
‘Over there and taking it all in her stride,’ said Eager, ‘you must be very proud of her. She is splendidly unruffled.’
Petula felt got at; an unflattering comparison had been left out for her to wear. It was hardly her fault if Regan shone simply by virtue of having no responsibility or stake in either the evening or life in general. She was sat on the table furthest from theirs, at the end of the line, listening to a group headed by Royce, and nodding with the airy indulgence she often showed towards bullshit in public places. Petula suspected that Regan’s view of people was hesitant and uncertain, likely to fall into place when they were nice to her, certain to turn sour once they were not, contravening her own preferred way of dealing with the mob. It was doubtful whether Regan yet had the guts to cut an undesirable ex-shag at two paces or turn the other way from a lovesick fool who could ruin her life. Until she did, she was no threat to the world, or, for that matter, to her. Theirs was a love that must always recognise rank; the only people Petula loved that still interested her were the ones who left her wanting more, and she would induct Regan into this knowledge, if she could first get out of this night alive. As it was, of the two, Regan was having the easier time of it: Royce was making her excuses and saying her goodbyes, a casualty Petula was glad the party had claimed. There was still no sign of Jazzy however, and acting on the assumption that a traffic jam of food must be building in the wings, Petula shouted to Hardfield who was hovering by the table, ‘Tell that Japanese bloke to bring forth the sushi. We can’t wait all night.’
‘What about Jazzy, Petula, don’t you want him to conduct service? You were ever so insistent about that, you know you were, you said Jazzy had to do it.’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake forget all that! People are starving here, get the fishy stuff out quick, alright? They’ll think it’s only another starter anyway. Don’t worry,’ she added quickly to Margy, ‘the sushi’s just a trendy decoy for the girls, there’s real food to come too. Meatloaf and lots of it.’
Margy wiped her mouth of partridge debris, and to conceal her embarrassment at being singled out as a proponent of the benefits of meatloaf said, ‘I actually quite like sushi Petula.’
‘So,’ said Tinwood, ‘do I.’ The agent had reappeared with a goofy grin, his shirt stuck unflatteringly to his chest and a powdery stack of mucus hanging dangerously from his left nostril, poised to fall like a globular icicle, ‘this is a hell of party Petula, I’ve just been talking to the most interesting young woman who I believe is a mate of your daughter’s, Belinda or Melinda? I think she’d be a good fit for the next Radio One road show...’
‘You mean you’ve plied a minor full of cocaine you slimy swine. Honestly Tim, talk about two worlds colliding, you’ve turned the evening into a complete circus! Half these people are in fear of their lives, and the rest have left, and you haven’t even the manners to bloody apologise,’ said Astley, his hand resting protectively on Petula’s shoulder. ‘We’ve told Petula to not mind, but can you blame her?
‘Whooah, steady there Max. Hold those horses! It wasn’t my idea to bring the boys along, it was Petula who asked me to, as it happens.’ He pointed a finger accusingly at his hostess. ‘She insisted. And I obliged. That was all I did, obliged. Okay?’
‘Oh, you’re very obliging, only following orders,’ said Eager, ‘so much so that I think I may be looking for a new agent on Monday. This, along with you allowing Larry to get ahead of me in the queue for the part of the old boy in Brideshead, which I tried to forgive you for but can’t, takes the biscuit. It’s closing time at the last-chance saloon for you Timmy boy.’
‘I got you the part as the family doctor, didn’t I?’
‘Piss to that; I wanted to play Lord Marchmain and you were bloody well instructed to fulfil that aim!’
‘You know, you’re getting kind of irascible in your old age Donald, you always were a bit, but it’s beginning to get very noticeable.’ Tinwood wiped the cocaine-strewn snot off his nose and raised his eyebrows at the others. ‘What’s got into him?’
‘I’ll tell you what’s got into me, you flaky fraud, years of accumulated disappointment, try that for starters. Followed by the shameful way you’ve repaid Petula’s hospitality this evening, how’s that for a bolt on?’
‘Please gentlemen, this isn’t the place,’ intervened Margy. Turning to Petula she said, ‘I agree with Esther, I don’t think the evening is ruined at all. Weddings are simply pantomime, and funerals so depressing; only a good dinner party like this without speeches offers any hope of sincerity. And isn’t that what we have
here? Look, hardly anyone has touched the wine, here,’ Margy filled up her glass and did the same with Petula’s, ‘cheers, here’s to many more wonderful evenings!’
With a practised flick of the wrist Margy consumed the contents of the glass in one and mechanically filled it again. Her eyes popped, then glazed quickly over. Repeating the process, she threw back her glass a second time, and reaching for the bottle, proposed a toast ‘to those nice men, Donald Eager and Tim Tinwood,’ sliding down her chair as she did so, her breasts resting on the table beside her empty plate.
‘Does she look okay to you?’ asked Petula despairingly, another sliver of acidic dread worming its way through her gut and stoking the fear that her psychedelic turn would never end.
‘She’s pissed,’ muttered Eager, ‘not that anyone would regard that as an exceptional state to be in, given the current melee.’
‘Yes, to the great Donald,’ agreed Tinwood mischievously, his chemical balance poised most nicely after that last line. ‘Who’s that girl by the way, the short little thing in the tights, she’s a pocket rocket. I’d crawl over broken glass to empty my ’nads in that!’
Petula – who to her disconcertion had watched Margy morph into a wasabi-glazed salmon, further proof that the lSD was not through with her – had only just thanked her stars that everything else was normal, when she noticed Tinwood unravel his tongue and mutate into a lizard with red stools on its face. ‘What did you say?’ she asked, her voice tilting towards panic.
‘I asked who she was,’ replied the lizard, the fork in its tongue darting about lasciviously as it spoke, ‘that chick has an air of the castanets about her.’
Tinwood was inquiring after Diamanda, Regan’s best friend, dressed in a black boob-tube with ‘minuscule but perfect’ emblazoned across it in silver, her appeal attributable to her entropic green eyes which patrolled a pert, lively face. Having come alone out of the lavatory she had retired to with Rex Wade ten minutes earlier, she was on her way back to Regan’s table, the actor showing no sign of surfacing from the same commode.
Nature and Necessity Page 28