Tableland (9 page)

Butt was on the ‘phone at 6.30 am complaining of the noise coming from the garage, but I was quick to retort, ‘And what about that stinking manure, eh?' and slammed down the phone.

I remarked to Julie over my boiled egg, ‘Do you know, the more Butt complains about that dog, the more I warm to it.'

‘We're going to keep it, aren't we, Dad?' Trev asked, but I'm not promising anything.

Left Julie and Trev discussing dog food, names, etc.

Who is going to pay for the dog's upkeep, that is the question I ask myself.

When I returned home, was relieved to find that no serious damage had been done to the house or garden during the day. As Trev is still on holiday, he was able to take the dog for a long walk with Craig. They must have tired it out as it lay down in front of the fire this evening and looked rather doleful. It even licked my hand – it won't get round me that easily though. Oh, no.

Steve called by. When he saw the dog, he said, ‘You should keep gerbils, old chap – far less trouble.'

‘Oh, we're not keeping this dog, no, no, this is just a very temporary arrangement,' I replied.

‘Be that as it may, how about a game of tennis on Thursday evening at the back of the Cock and Bull?'

‘Are you serious?' I asked.

‘Never more so. One racquet will be supplied, courtesy of Kevin. You needn't wear whites. Keith and Ken will join us at the appointed hour – half past six.'

‘I'm a bit rusty,' I protested.

‘No excuses – see you then, cheers,' and he was gone.

To be truthful, I have hardly ever held a tennis racquet in my life. Julie was rather keen at one time when we were engaged – she said it was good for the figure, so I had one or two half-hearted attempts at the game. However, it was good of Steve to ask me and I must say I was rather honoured to be asked to make up a four with three Round Wheelers – we can all have a “noggin” afterwards and I can find out yet more about entering that “select band” (another step further towards my ambition).

It rained heavily during the night and I thought of my car out there in the wet, probably starting to rust already. The dog will have to go – my car is not going to spend another night outside and that's that. Hope it rains tomorrow then the tennis will be cancelled.

Avery leaves on Friday – the bright spot of the week. P.H. called me into the cupboard that he calls his office this morning and informed me that there would be no replacement for Avery at the moment due to “trade being somewhat thin” but that he hoped Brimcup and I would “pull our weight” and share Avery's calls between us. No mention of salary increase in the foreseeable future. So much for the “certain conversations” overheard by Brimcup.

Felt rather self-conscious strolling along to the Cock and Bull this evening in my pale blue terylene slacks and red T-shirt left over from last year's holiday, and, sure enough, the others were wearing whites. They were very pally, however.

I was getting hungry by this time as we usually have supper at about half past six.

I hadn't expected the whole c1ientele of the Cock and Bull to be watching. They were either looking through the French windows, at the back of the pub, or standing around outside in groups with their drinks, discussing the play and every now and again clapping a good shot, when they could find somewhere to park their glasses.

Over in the corner, standing by himself, I spotted a vaguely familiar figure, running a comb through his hair.

‘There's Les Crow watching the talent,' said Keith, and by the way he said it, I don't think he was referring to the tennis. There were two young women just finishing their game as we approached the court.

‘Oh, it's Val and Vera getting in some practice for the Inner Circle knockout tourney,' Ken Dugeon remarked and he, Keith Goodchap, and Steve discussed the forthcoming tournament and their respective wives' chances of winning it.

I must admit, I was feeling more and more hollow in the stomach, whether it was due to hunger or nerves, I don't know, but at that moment the usually fickle finger of fate changed direction and smiled on me. In other words, it started to rain.

The spectators dispersed and Val and Vera fled into the bar.

‘It's only a shower,' Steve said and the others agreed.

‘Yes, it'll be over in a minute,' added Keith. I said nothing.

We braved the elements for a few minutes, twirling our racquets, but it soon became too wet for even these redoubtable three.

‘We'll just pop in for a quick one, shall we?' said Ken.

‘Good idea,' I replied.

Inside it was crowded and noisy. Steve went to get some drinks and we squashed into a corner with Val and Vera. Waves of relief swept over me and, as I drank my beer, my chat became quite witty – the others seemed to enjoy my company and the girls were laughing loudly at my jokes.

‘I hear you're coming to our Gourmet Evening,' shouted Ken.

‘Looking forward to it,' I shouted back.

‘You coming, Les?' Keith hailed Les Crow as we spotted him weaving his way towards us, his gold medallion glinting in the light of the fruit machine.

‘Sorry, can't make it.'

This reminded me of the casual way he'd rung up the night of our party.

‘How's your good lady wife?' he asked Keith. ‘Long time no see!' He then planted a loud kiss on Vera's lips and fondled her shoulder in a very familiar way, although she didn't seem to mind, said ‘Bye, bye my darling – see you Saturday' to her and was gone in a whiff of aftershave.

Val and Vera followed after him like a couple of tracker dogs on the trail of a scent.

‘How does he get away with it?' Ken asked and Steve shook his head.

‘Hardly ever turns up at any of our functions either,' Keith said. He looks quite different when he frowns. ‘He'll go too far one of these days.' Was somehow glad to note their disapproval.

Keith lowered his voice. ‘D'you remember the affair of Sue Uppe's lost thingamybobs when they went on holiday with the Crows?' The others nodded. ‘To be perfectly honest, Alan's never forgiven him – and who can blame him?'

‘He'll be for the chop if he doesn't watch out,' Steve said into his beer and Ken and Keith sounded fully in agreement.

Serious stuff. There was a moment's silence.

‘However, to get back to more pleasant topics, i.e. the gourmet do. Location still top secret?' he asked Ken.

‘Very much so,' he replied with a wink.

Felt like one of the gang after I had bought a round of drinks, then Keith peered out at the weather.

‘It's clearing up. I think the rain has stopped. How about that game now?'

‘Oh dear, oh dear,' I said, looking at my watch. ‘It's half past seven and Julie said supper would be ready at seven forty-five sharp. She's making coq au vin tonight. What a pity. I was looking forward to a good game. Could just do with the exercise too but, still, there we are.'

‘What a shame, old chap – another time, eh?' They seemed genuinely sorry that I was going.

I hurried home and, as I helped Julie dish out the shepherd's pie, I regaled her with the chat at the Cock and Bull with special reference to the Inner Circle tennis tournament. ‘With a bit of luck, you'll be playing in that next year,' I told her.

The great day at last, and I don't think any of us were really sorry to bid farewell to Avery – with the possible exception of Trina, with whom he had always had a merry quip.

No mention of us all going out for a goodbye drink or anything like that, and as we shook hands and he said, ‘Well, you must come over to Lumberjobs and I'll show you round the place properly, one of these days – give me a ring sometime.' I could swear he was wearing add-height heels – he never looked down on me before.

I tried to get a glimpse of his shoes but his trousers were so long that nothing was visible.

‘Cheerio, and good luck,' I forced myself to say and left as he was describing his new private office to Brimcup, who was lapping it all up, much to my disgust.

Felt like celebrating and I rang up this new eatery, B & 0, when I got home. Julie and I will go and try it out tomorrow and Sue can babysit for us.

The dog slept in the kitchen last night – I put my foot down about the garage at last and was pleased to think of the car being dry. Gave it a polish and cleaned the inside out this morning – still a few cat hairs clinging to the carpet. Trev has decided to call the dog Kippers (personally I think we've had enough of those lately): Kipps for short. Julie found an old cushion for him and put it by the back door. At least he'll be a good guard dog, there have been several break-ins in the neighbourhood recently.

Two things slightly marred our otherwise pleasant evening. The first being a telephone call. Just as Julie was opening the door for Sue, the telephone rang. Kipps had been out in the road this afternoon and I had caught him snarling at Lulu Belle next door. I had just managed to grab him by his makeshift collar as he moved in for the attack and I could hear sounds of Vi Butt getting agitated. Feeling sure that this was now another phone call of complaint from my neighbour, I decided to deal with it decisively. I picked up the receiver and shouted, ‘And manure to you, sir!'

There was silence from the other end, instead of the abuse I had expected. My heart sank – who was it at the other end of the line?

A thin voice sounding a long way away said, ‘Is that you, Pete?' and I didn't know whether to deny it or not. Curiosity got the better of me.

‘Yes – who is that?'

‘It's me – Bri!'

I do not usually feel well-disposed towards my brother-in-law, who is, on the whole, a tiresome nuisance and could do with getting a haircut and a good steady job, but after the unfortunate greeting I had given him already, I felt it necessary to make amends somewhat and was therefore more polite and civil than I would usually have been, which rather annoyed me.

‘I may come over and see you next month.'

‘Oh, yes,' I replied warily.

‘I'm with The Dregs at the moment and we're doing a one night stand at Liverpool on the 23rd. I've changed my name to Bryllan by the way.'

‘So I've heard.'

‘See you then – chow.' And that was that.

‘Well, maybe he's grown up a bit since we last saw him and at least he's doing some work,' said Julie, loyally trying to defend him.

Thank goodness it wasn't Ken Dudgeon on the phone. That would have been a disaster – shutting the door on any hopes of being a Wheeler.

Our meal chez Bertrand and Oliver was very enjoyable. The decor was Victorian, with dark brown walls and brass lamps, and Bertrand and Oliver were there in person, wearing matching plum-coloured velvet suits, dealing with the wine orders and generally making sure everyone was happy.

‘Really, you know,' I remarked to Julie, ‘You could imagine you were back in the last century with a pea-soup fog outside, the horses and carriages rattling by and Sherlock Holmes on his way to solve another mystery.'

‘Don't let that sherry soup go to your head,' Julie said – no soul.

I heard a voice to one side of me saying to his companion, ‘You'd have to file your teeth to eat that steak,' and, looking round, had the second unpleasant moment of the evening when I recognised the petrol pump attendant from Leftburke's.

I don't know why, but all the advertisements in the Sunday papers this week – and that includes the colour supplement – seemed to be for either hair restorers, toupés or clinics doing hair transplants, whatever that may mean. It was really quite depressing.

Decided we all needed a bit of exercise. Trev had been to the pet shop yesterday and had come back with a tartan collar and lead and it's amazing how much better the dog looked when they were fastened on.

A very strange thing happened while we were out. We went for a brisk walk round the estate, chatting to one or two people we now know by sight who were car washing or doing a spot of gardening, and we can't have been out for more than forty-five minutes.

When we got back, I unlocked the back door and Julie shrieked, ‘We've been broken into!' It was obvious that she was absolutely right. Cupboards and drawers had been left open and papers strewed about. Keeping my head, I said, ‘I'll ring the police while you and Trev check up on what is missing.

The police said they'd be right over and I joined the others with pencil and paper ready to write down a list of stolen articles.

A thorough search of the house revealed that nothing whatsoever seemed to be missing, not even my most valuable possession – my great grandfather's stamp album, with its page of Penny Reds. None of Julie's costume jewellery was gone either, nor our wedding presents, although there were one or two good glass vases among them. Not a thing.

‘Thank goodness for that,' said Julie.

I felt a little foolish when the police arrived and am convinced they thought there wasn't a word of truth in our story and that we always live in this untidy state.

‘Most unusual, sir,' one of them said with an accusing look.

On reflection, I don't know whether to feel pleased that our home is intact or to feel strangely insulted.

Julie heard during the day, via the grapevine, that another house in Springcroft Meadow had also had a ‘break-in' over the weekend.

‘They took all Marie's jewels, the colour TV and a valuable antique clock. They are going to make an insurance claim for £1,000.'

Took over one of Avery's calls today – Sandrops, a toilet roll and disinfectant factory. I don't know what sort of impression Avery had been making, but my reception was not one of great warmth. I had had hopes of a good order from them as rumour had it they were planning to expand due to a merger with a Swedish firm.

Had a cup of tea with the foreman, who grudgingly showed me round and said, when pressed, that if the extensions to the factory were built, in all probability the firm of builders employed would be “Proones”. Made a mental note to go and make myself known to them in the near future – they may be interested in our new range of softwoods.

The manager called me into his office.

‘Ah, yes,' he said, ‘you are taking over from Bob.'

I had to think for a minute. ‘Oh yes – you mean Avery.'

‘That's right – Bob. My name is Redknap, Vic Redknap – you can call me Vic.'

‘Alright, Vic' I said, trying it out. He looked me up and down with a beady eye.

‘Perhaps Mr Redknap would be better after all,' he said.