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Great Writing - Home > Extended > Vivaldi And All That - Chapter 11
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Extended Work
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| Vivaldi And All That - Chapter 11 | |
| By petmarj | ||||
| 23 September 2007 | ||||
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I put on my best suit, picked up Edwina from her cot and carried her downstairs to find Mum had arrived. I thought, bloody hell, she was quick! Mum sat Edwina on her lap while Laura fixed me a selection of sandwiches. She must have made the fire while I was asleep in the bath for it was roaring merrily in the grate, flashing sparks against the fireguard. Laura looked striking in a mauve dress with half-length sleeves. She had a buoyant bounce about her that made you feel lucky to be in her company. I thanked Mum for coming round. She didn't respond. With us being late, we decided to use the car and we left Mum and Edwina watching a television program. The White Horse car park was full so I left the Austin against the railway embankment fence. The concert room was packed. Nick spotted us coming in. I shoved through steadily to the bar, taking it easy, for there were plenty of big fellers around who could push you back: coal miners, railway workmen, factory hands - Shatley was loaded with them. If you fancied yourself in a fist fight, there were plenty of takers, but they all avoided tangling with Joe Hillian and his massive, gnarled hands. "It's been like this since we opened at six," Nick said. "What will you have - the usual?" "That will do just grand," I said, my reply almost lost in applause as Lucky Needham and his band came on stage. People swayed at the bar. My arms were pinned to my sides by the crush of bodies. Nick held out a pint of Rundles best. I struggled to take it. A head popped up in front of me. It was Joe Hillian. He passed me the glass. Laura's port and lemon followed. "I'll get these," he said. "Where are you sitting?" "We've only just come in," Laura said. "Don't worry," said Joe. "Follow me. You can shove in with us." He held a full tray of drinks in front of him and bored through the mob. We reached a corner table and squeezed in next to Joe's wife, Bertha, a formidable woman twice the body weight of her husband. Further conversation became difficult as Needham went into a crashing drum solo. I was starting to enjoy the smoky rowdiness of the evening until I saw Rita Savanna sitting three tables from us, her green hair glinting under the ceiling lights. I squinted through the haze. She gave me a wave and spoke to Tony sitting next her. I would have changed my position to avoid him seeing me but I was jammed so tight next to Laura and Bertha Hillian that I couldn't move. It was then I saw Mickey Davis and his wife at the same table. Mickey's magnetic eyes latched onto me. He waved. I nodded. He spoke to Tony. The dreadful scenario happened: Tony got up, shoved past people to get to us and came round the back of me. I knew he would be looking down Laura's well-endowed front. He shouted in my ear. "Hello, mate. A tough match today, wasn't it? How are your balls then - still got two of 'em?" Laura detested Tony. Even now, on a Saturday night, he was dressed in army shirt, jumper, denim trousers and army socks and boots. His blond hair had been stuck down with something resembling margarine. I said I wasn't feeling too bad. "You'll feel better when you've had a couple more games," he said, placing a hand on Laura's shoulder and saying, "Keep your eye on your Al, Laura. He's too good-looking to be trusted." With that, he returned to his friends. Laura shot me a mixed look of embarrassment and annoyance. I held back my anger. Lucky Needham grabbed hold of the mike. "Okay, jazz lovers. Are there any singers amongst you? Another George Melly, maybe?" "I'll give you a song," said Jackie Ballinger, standing up. Nick Lewis rang the bar bell to silence the room. "You are not allowed to sing, Jackie," Nick said using a megaphone. "You may recite; you may tell jokes; you may even speak on behalf of the Government - but you do not sing." Jackie sat down. Fred Thompson failed another table headstand and fell off, scattering glasses. Joe Hillian shook his head. "Fred's very lucky he isn't a tightrope walker." "He already is," said a voice, "but some body's cut the rope." It was my round. I excused myself and pushed through to the bar. A woman got up an stage and surprised everyone by singing a Helen Humes classic, Million Dollar Secret. The bar staff were working at full stretch. Nick's wife, Sheila, took my order. Wally Mullins came from nowhere, tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I wanted a pint. I said no, I was buying, and I bought him a pint of Guinness. He said what about Terry Bonsall. I looked round and saw red-faced Terry at the far end of the bar looking severely pissed. "Terry's had enough," I told Wally. Wally grinned. "Aye, that's Terry's trouble - he can't hold his ale." He hiccuped. "How's the wife?" "She's fine." "Where is she?" I pointed toward her. "She's over there with Joe Hillian and the Vospers." Wally didn't bother looking - he was excessively short to see above the crowd. Somebody nudged his glass and spilt Guinness on his coat sleeve. "I'm surprised you've brought Natalie," he said. I whispered viciously in his ear. "I haven't brought Natalie. I'm with my wife, Laura." "No, you're not," he slurred. "You're with Natalie." I took him by the arm and led him outside. By some miracle, he didn't spill a drop of Guinness. "What are we doing out here?" he mumbled, swaying on unsteady legs. "Are we waiting for a firkin taxi?" "Here, give me that." I released the Guinness from his grip and drank half of it. "Listen, Wally. If you're not careful, you're going to drop me in it." "I wouldn't drop you in it, you're my mate. He sulked in the patio light. "You've supped half my Guinness, you have." "I'll buy you another when we get inside." He turned to the door. I grabbed his arm. "We don't go in until you realise I'm with Laura. Understand? Laura...my wife." "Laura...your wife?" He was sliding into Dreamland. "I thought you...were with Nat...Natalie." He was ready to mouth off about Natalie. There was only one thing I could do. I drank the rest of his Guinness, left the glass on the patio, bundled him inside my Austin, drove to his home on Reap Lane, which happened to be next door to old man Dingle, and left him sitting on the doorstep. I jumped back into the Austin and bumped my knee on the steering wheel. It hurt like hell. Laura would be steaming mad by now for I had been away a full ten minutes. I arrived back at the Horse. Yet again, Lucky Needham was lashing into a drum solo. Nick Lewis waved frantically at me. I shoved my way to the bar. "What about your order?" he said, indicating a loaded tray. "You've paid for it and left it." I bought a complete box of crisps to go with the round and somehow juggled crisps and tray to the table. Joe Hillian took the tray from me. Frank Vosper cheered when I passed him the crisps. I excused myself to Laura and said I'd been caught short. Bertha Hillian said Bobby Patterson had arrived and would be playing in the next session. I heard Joe and Frank Vosper discussing gardening. Frank said he loved growing flowers. "Flowers don't interest me," said Joe, passing round the drinks. "They used to do, at one time, but when the war started we had to Dig For Victory, didn't we? We had to grow vegetables. I've grown them ever since." The pressure was off me now that I'd taken Wally home. However, I'd forgotten Mickey Davis. He came over, pint in hand, and told Laura she was a lucky girl to have a doting lad like me for her husband. That wouldn't have bothered me much but while he was saying that he was giving me a look that said, 'you're a two-timing bastard, Al, and one day you'll come unstuck.' He gave me a smirking nod and returned to his table. Joe Hillian was still talking Wartime. "I remember the '40 blitz," he said. "Hitler was giving us some what for. They dropped a time bomb at the end of our street and it was leaning against a privet edge. Bernie Masters was a bookmaker, if you recall, and he was offering odds of when it would explode. The police came and stopped him having his photo taken standing next to it. They gave him a bloody good telling off! He said to them, "Don't tell me off - tell Hitler. He dropped the bloody thing." "That's enough of Hitler," said Bertha. "The war's over, so drink your beer, behave yourself - and straighten your tie." The band took a break. I needed a minute in the toilet. Frank Vosper said he was buying and I went with him as far as the bar. In the toilet, I found Terry Bonsall dousing cold water on his face over a washbasin. He asked had I seen Wally. I said he had gone home because he was feeling ill. "He's not as ill as I am," said Terry. "My head hurts. I'm sure some git has hit me with a mallet." Terry was in hazardous time-bomb mode: he could go off any minute. And if he spilled the beans to Laura about Natalie...I left him retching over the washbasin. I helped Frank Vosper take drinks to our table. Lucky Needham introduced Bobby Patterson to tremendous applause. He played some great stuff, including Dinah, a Benny Goodman number. By ten o'clock, Laura had taken on board plenty of port and lemon. She asked when we were going home. "Not before we've called in at the Paper Road chippy," said Joe. "You can't have a Saturday night out without having fish and chips with salt and vinegar wrapped in newspaper." Nick Lewis called time. The Needham band, including Bobby, gave their closing number, accompanied by Fred Thompson failing another table headstand. We finished our drinks and were moving with the crowd toward the door when Tony pulled me aside. "It's been a great night, ain't it? It's a pity you didn't bring Natalie." I grabbed his shirtfront. "Tony, if you or Mickey mention Natalie's name again - I'll kick you both in the nuts." Tony's face turned puce. "It was just a joke, Al." He was much stronger than I was and easily escaped my grip. "I'm here with Rita, just having fun." He straightened his ruffled shirt. "You're working late till ten all next week, aren't you?" I said yes. "Right," he said, "I'll phone your works number on Thursday night around nine to confirm who and where we are playing. I think it's against Byron Street at Dilworth, but I'm not sure." Quite suddenly, the usually easy-going, dumb Tony Ross had become cold sober and businesslike. He nodded cheerio and went out to the cold, blustery night. I gave Joe and Bertha a lift to the chippy. We arrived the same time as did the Vospers in their old Morris. Rain was setting in. The aroma of fish and chips sprinkled with vinegar and salt always completed Saturday nights for me. Joe said that after eating a fish and chip supper he could have taken on and beaten heavyweight boxer, Ezzard Charles. We took home six pennyworth of chips and a large piece of cod for Mum. To my surprise, she said thanks, and enjoyed them. She said she had put Edwina to bed around nine o'clock. Rain drummed against our front window. Laura said she was very tired and wanted to go to bed. I told her to do that while I drove Mum home. Neither of us spoke as I drove her front door. She got out, slammed the car door and hurried down the garden path. I waited until she had gone in and closed the front door and when she had switched on the living-room light, I drove home. Well, that's what I intended doing but I found myself wandering round the Shatley estate, driving along roads I rarely used, just thinking of Natalie. Why hadn't she turned up at the game? Had she decided to drop me? Surely not - we were getting along just fine. Was she ill? Had something happened to her? There was only one way for me to find out. I pulled up at a telephone kiosk on Kelly Street and dialled her number.
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