Tableland (18 page)

Worked on the car this afternoon in readiness for our journey down to South Wales. Checked over the tyres and battery, and think I can safely say all seemed to be in good working order. Mentally arranged where we'll put all the luggage, but forgot about the dog – he'll have to sit on Trev's knee.

Julie said she must take her pressure cooker with her on holiday. ‘Una says it is a “must” on a caravan holiday.' She then remembered that Trev had said he wanted to take his inflatable dinghy.

If we go on like this, we are going to have to hire a removal van and said as much to Julie jokingly.

Collected Ian Porterhouse from Proones at 12.30 today prompt. Thought I would do things in style and take him to the Tosca, hoping we would not bump into Stan Swindlehurst there.

‘Well here we are again,' said Ian Porterhouse. ‘I was here only last week with young Bob Avery from Lumberjobs.'

My heart sank. What was Avery up to – had he got wind of the merger already? Were Lumberjobs hoping to submit a quotation too?

Tried to keep my mind off these thoughts and to keep the chat going during lunch. Felt I succeeded pretty well, without too much emphasis business-wise. Luckily one of Porterhouse's hobbies turned out to be metal detecting, a subject which has always interested me – have read several library books on it over the years.

The food was good except for the peach melba – Porterhouse said quietly in my ear, ‘This is an offence to the Trade Descriptions Act.'

Over coffee I manoeuvred the conversation round to the merger and what it would mean in the way of new buildings at the factory.

‘Enormous expansion,' he said and, drawing with his fingernail on the tablecloth, showed the existing small factory with another much larger one added onto it, plus a large new office block and store room.

Realised what this would mean in the way of a timber order, with wood needed for window frames, suspended ceilings, doors, form work for reinforced concrete, etc., etc.

Parted on very amicable terms and he said he would let me know as soon as they had instructions from the architects. This was as much as I could hope for at this stage and I returned to the office to report to P.H.

Was busy working out important calculations this evening which P.H. had asked me to do, when Julie interrupted me at a crucial point in the middle of a long sum requiring absolute concentration, merely to say, ‘We mustn't forget to take Eric's favourite cushion.'

Mentioned to Brimcup that we were going on a river trip this evening down the Dee and he said, ‘Oh, you'll probably go past Woodnut's house if you cruise up river. I had to deliver some papers there once. Tudorbethan style, I think they call it.'

Had not seen Woodnut for a while, and didn't pay much attention to Brimcup's chat at the time.

We “rendezvoused” with the rest of the Wheelers at a riverside pub called The Plasterer's Arms and I felt rather guilty as I had persuaded Julie to squeeze herself into an old pair of jeans for the occasion.

‘You don't dress up to go on a boat and have a hot pot supper,' I had said, but I was proved wrong. All the wives were wearing long skirts and covered their flimsy tops with stoles and shawls. Julie looked quite rugged in her fisherman's knit sweater and she gave me some furious looks. We joined the Downes and Uppes, who had come together, on the terrace overlooking the river. I suppose there must have been about two dozen of us altogether and I spotted Rodney Blade sitting aloof, puffing on a pipe and gazing over the heads of everyone else.

Keith Goodchap was organising this evening's event and kept counting heads.

‘We're still two short,' he said. ‘We'll give them another five minutes.' A couple turned up eventually, whom no one seemed to know, and we boarded our craft, called Patricia.

A fresh wind was blowing up and I hissed to Julie, ‘Aren't you glad of your thick sweater now?' But she pretended not to hear.

When we had been cruising up river for about ten minutes, a rough- looking, thickset chap, who I'd taken to be part of the crew, drained his bottle of beer and, without any musical accompaniment, suddenly launched into a loud and bawdy folk song, the chorus of which we were invited to join in with.

Rodney Blade's expression, I noticed, became more frozen as he re-lit his pipe.

Everyone else seemed to be enjoying the “sing song” and most knew the words without being prompted, also the right places to come in with a handclap – signs of a misspent youth no doubt!

Late picnickers on the banks laughed and waved at us and we soon shed our inhibitions and waved back. Someone had even brought a straw boater to wear, which added to the fun, and some cans of beer.

We were all singing a particularly dubious song about a Liverpool barmaid called Rita when Julie poked me in the ribs and said, ‘Lovely house.' She pointed to a black and white mock Tudor dwelling we were just coming to. There were some people on the lawn taking drinks and one I recognised immediately as Mr Woodnut.

‘Come on now, lads, give it all you've got,' shouted our folk singer.

For a fleeting moment, Mr Woodnut's eyes met mine and then I had the presence of mind to bend down and re-tie my shoe laces. When I surfaced again, the house had been left behind.

The point is, was I recognised? Couldn't help pondering this thought during the rest of the evening, which passed pleasantly enough.

The hotpot was served in the cellar of The Plasterers Arms and we were all ready for a hot meal, in spite of it being July. Found ourselves sitting at a table with Rodney Blade, who pointed out that I had spilt some pickled onion down my suede jacket.

Postcard from Trev this morning – all seems to be going well up in the Lakes. A stray cat has apparently attached itself to the camp. Sincerely hope it does not appear getting out of the coach with Trev tomorrow.

Steve is off on his Danish farm holiday this evening. Went over to tell him how much we had enjoyed the river trip (despite the uneasy moment) and to let him know how “integrated” we feel with the Wheelers already.

Collected Trev from the coach at 12.30 and was relieved to see there was no cat with his bags.

I took my camera and saw that he had taken about six photos.

‘I expect you managed to get some good shots of the Lakes,' I said. ‘We'll look forward to seeing them'.

‘No,' Trev replied. ‘We didn't see a single lake, all the photos are of the cat.'

Asked Trev to sort out the things he wanted to take on holiday this afternoon while Julie went to get a bit of tennis practice for the match tomorrow. Showed him his allotted case. He laughed, ‘I won't be able to get all my stuff into that,' he said scornfully.

A pleasant woman who lives further down the road on this side called round just after Julie had left for her tennis match. We know her only slightly – just a friendly nod when we pass her working in her garden. Her son, Barry, is at school with Trev.

‘I hope you don't mind me calling like this, but my vacuum cleaner has broken and with my husband being in the Navy…'

‘Funny time to be doing your vacuum cleaning,' said Trev, rather rudely, I thought, without taking his eyes from the television.

‘Would you like me to pop round and see if I can fix it?' I asked without much confidence.

‘Oh, that would be kind.'

Luckily it was only a fuse that wanted changing in the plug but she was very grateful and pressed me to have a cup of coffee. ‘And do call me Beverley,' she insisted as I left her house.

Julie returned home in high spirits after “smashing” the Hilbre Hell Raisers.

Les Crow had obviously been on form this evening. Later, she said, ‘I've been offered a part-time job.'

‘Oh, yes?' I replied.

‘With a very go-ahead travel agency called A.T.C.F.'

Had forgotten to mention the vacuum cleaner incident but at breakfast Trev said, ‘Have the Tarbushes got colour TV?'

‘And who are the Tarbushes?' asked Julie.

‘Dad went to fix her vacuum cleaner last night when you were out – her husband's in the Navy,' said Trev with his mouth full of cornflakes.

‘Don't speak with your mouth full,' shouted Julie.

‘You know her, rather pretty with red hair, always in the garden – the son's in the same class as Trev,' I said, but Julie seemed to be concentrating on her toast and marmalade.

Busy day at work, tying up loose ends before the holiday. Tidied my desk drawer and discovered a tatty booklet entitled “How To Get To The Top”.

‘Oh, that's where it got to,' said Brimcup, coming in at that moment. ‘Avery was looking everywhere for it when he left.' Was going to chuck it in the wastepaper basket but on second thoughts stuffed it into my pocket. Hope Julie will think better of accepting a job with Les Crow – the whole idea depresses me.

Was looking forward to doing a bit of tidying up in the garden this evening, to be followed by a relaxing bath and an early night, so was not altogether pleased when, as soon as I opened the front door, Julie greeted me with, ‘Isn't it great – the Price-Potters have asked us round to dinner tonight.'

‘It's a bit short notice, isn't it?' I asked, thinking to myself that it was in fact damned rude. ‘And who are we going to get to mind Trev at this 99th hour?' I asked.

‘Nina said he can bring a sleeping bag and spend the night there. By the way,' she added, ‘Nina said that one of the guests might be of interest to you business-wise.'

I gave in and at 8 pm we presented ourselves at The Pheasantry, the Price-Potter's semi-detached.

‘This is fantastic,' said Nina, opening the door and displaying a vivid crimson dress with plunging neckline. ‘Really great.' Trev was ushered upstairs scowling at the thought of missing The Avengers.

‘What'll it be?' asked Neville as we went into the lounge.

‘I wouldn't say no to a gin and tonic,' I replied.

‘Bacardi and coke for me please,' said Julie. ‘I've developed quite a passion for it – we always end up with one after a tennis match.'

‘Yes, tell Nev all about your tennis, Julie,' said Nina. ‘This clever girl has got herself into the Cock and Bull team, what do you think of that?'

‘Fantastic,' said Nev without enthusiasm.

“She's playing with Les Crow.'

Nev seemed about to say something but bit back his words.

‘I'm glad you two have arrived first,' Nina said in a confidential voice, ‘because I can put you in the picture, so to speak.' And she winked at us. ‘The fact is, the other couple who are coming tonight are divorced – not from each other, I hasten to add. In fact, they might take a fancy to one another – d'you know what I mean? Keely's a great girl – full of “go”, isn't she, Nev?'

‘I've never met her,' he replied.

‘And Geoff,' she continued, ‘is just fantastic. I really hope you and he will hit if off – he's considered very sharp in business circles. He's something big in vinyl.'

It was quite late by the time we all sat down to dinner. Nina's new rotisserie had got stuck and this necessitated much running backwards and forwards between lounge and kitchen.

However, if we lacked food, apart from olives and nuts, nobody could say we lacked chat. From the minute he leapt out of his Datsun and rang the doorbell, Geoff Savoury took over.

‘Now don't tell me, don't tell me,' he said when we were introduced, ‘I've got it – Sir Edgar Porter, Porter's Pork Pies. You're related to the Pontefract Porters.' And he looked me over with real interest, which faded as I replied, ‘No, the Finsbury Park Porters, as a matter of fact.'

‘Now, does anybody smoke?' Nev and I are trying to give it up,' said Nina, passing round a packet of king-sized Players.

‘No thanks,' I said and Julie shook her head.

‘Well, I'll be a devil for once,' said Keely.

When Geoff took one as well, Nina said with satisfaction, ‘I knew you two would have a lot in common.'

Over the courgette soup, we heard about Geoff's latest business mergers, takeover bids, invitations to Arabia, advice on the stock market – ‘straight from my London broker,' – and an “inside” story from 10 Downing Street – ‘told to me in strictest confidence by an old friend who happens to be the editor of the Sunday Gazettet.'

While Nev was carving up the chicken – badly scorched down one side – the telephone rang.

‘It's for you, Geoff,' said Nina.

‘Oh, yes, I was expecting this call – excuse me a moment.'

He wasn't gone for more than two minutes and returned looking very pleased. ‘That little deal seems to be going through nicely – it'll mean a visit to Brussels and Paris this week. Now where were we – oh yes – if you'd like an intro to Sir Richard McPennine, say no more,' he addressed me. ‘The fact is, I've known Rick since they did some building for us in Halifax. He's a great pal – the old rogue. Seriously though, do you want to meet him?'

‘That would be just great,' I said. What an opportunity. Gave Geoff my home and office telephone numbers and explained we'd be away for the next fortnight, but his quicksilver mind was already on other things.

‘The Common Market is what it's all about. We must “think Europe” or we're a doomed nation. And he brought his fist down on the table, making Nina's candelabra shudder. ‘Yes, Europe's the name of the game.'

‘I say, Britain for the British,' Julie suddenly said in rather a loud voice. I had noticed Nev topping her up with the hock rather frequently.

‘That, if I may say so, is taking a very short-sighted view of things. We all have to help each other and march forward into the future with confidence,' Geoff said firmly.

‘Now it's trifle or cheesecake – hope no one's on a diet,' Nina said brightly. Was relieved by this interruption as I could see that Julie was warming up to an argument and did not want to antagonise someone like Geoff Savoury, with all his contacts and influence. An ugly moment was averted.

Keely gave a loud yawn, while nibbling an after dinner mint, which was very catching and found myself unable to stop yawning. My eyes watered.

‘Well, I seem to be boring everyone to tears,' Geoff joked unsmilingly.

We all protested loudly, but the party broke up soon after this.

On the way home, Julie remarked that she didn't think Geoff and Keely had exchanged one remark throughout the whole of the evening.