A Little Bit on the Side (38 page)

‘And what about R & R if Josie moves on?’

‘Well if ever things get really desperate Jim I know a couple of very attractive ladies who apparently think I’m a lovely man. So I reckon I’ll be alright. Get another couple of pints, and I’ll tell you all about it’

They’d finished that pint and were well into another before Jack reached the end of his anonymised, but detailed and colourful account of the Eastgate Villa saga.

‘Well that’s quite a yarn Jack,’ said Jim. ‘And I thought life in taxes was dull. Trumps anything I saw or heard in the war, and I knocked about a bit. Nymphs and shepherds as a sex romp! Now you wouldn’t find that in the Berkha, though you might the saddle. Very imaginative those ladies: classy too.

And I must say I like the sound of your little Greek widow and her friend. And that was actually what they said when you left was it, that they’d be pleased to see you?’

Jack sipped his pint, and said nothing.

‘So that’s Josie: and now two others throwing themselves at your feet. What’s your secret Jack?

‘Oh I just play hard to get Jim. Works like a charm, but not with Kate it seems … Sorry Jim, shouldn’t dredge that up again. It’s being in The Pump. Always reminds me of the old days.’

Jim left the following morning with the understanding that Jack would be paying them a visit before the winter set in, and the belief that Celia was right after all, and that if Josie wasn’t in the way Jack and Kate might well be happy back together.

Jack returned to the Players a little more than a week before the production to find that Josie’s competence was such that he really hadn’t been missed. Everything was proceeding smoothly, and continued to do so right through to the curtain on the final night.

Audiences had been good at the start of the week, but were even better after a mid-week review in both the local and the county paper in which an excellent production was said to be notable in particular for the outstanding performance of Justin Hanna in his first appearance with the Players.

The after-show party began, as they invariably did, with Brandy’s address of compliments and constructive criticism to the company. ‘Just a few words,’ he said, but inevitably they went on to become many, as Dot knew they would.

‘Dear God,’ she whispered to Jack. ‘Have you ever known a man who loves the sound of his own voice as Brandy does? He promised to be brief, and now the bugger’s been at it for almost ten minutes. Be a darling please, and sneak across and top up my glass for me. I mustn’t let him think he hasn’t got my devoted attention, or he’ll sulk for the rest of the evening.’

The after-show party, or booze-up which more accurately described it, had been an aspect of his association with the Players that Jack had particularly enjoyed, but on two earlier occasions he’d been happy to fit in with Josie’s preference to leave before the serious drinking began.

This time, however, he was surprised when she not only showed no inclination to slip away, but seemed quite happy to mix it with the men, and apparently relish the attention. As Jack’s enjoyment of such affairs was mainly that of an interested and entertained observer of proceedings as inhibitions fell away under the influence of drink, particularly those of one or two senior ladies, he remained attentive enough to notice that as things began to get rather silly (Josie’s words at an earlier party) she was still nursing the same almost untouched glass of wine, and very easily fending off any unwanted attention from the men.

By one in the morning, when Jack was himself ready to suggest to Josie that they might leave, he noticed that she was tucked away in a corner, deeply engaged in conversation with Brandy and Dot, and so they remained for some time. Eventually, however, Brandy heaved himself to his feet with much assistance from Josie and Dot, and after a valedictory address to the assembled company that not one of them heeded, was ushered out of the room and home by Dot, who cursed him roundly under her breath the whole of the way.

Only then did Josie walk across, and for the first time that evening, devote a little time to Jack.

‘Enjoyed the evening Jack?’ she said, giving him a peck on the cheek and taking a sip from his glass.

‘In my own quiet way Josie: on the outside looking in.’

‘Is that what you meant when you called yourself semi-detached once?’

‘Yes, I suppose it is in a way. Surprised to see you mixing it with the boys though. I thought you didn’t like that sort of thing.’

‘Now don’t be jealous Jack. Just fancied a bit of a change. We mustn’t let ourselves get into a rut’

‘Oh I hadn’t realised we were doing that: must be careful in future.’

He took back his glass and emptied it.

‘Ready for off?’

‘Ready for off Jack, but you won’t mind if I ask you just to walk me home tonight will you? I’ve got a bit of a thick head, and would really like to get some sleep, and have a long lie-in tomorrow. It’s been a hectic week.’

If Jack’s expressions of understanding and commiseration were touched with a hint of irony, it was only half-intended, and apparently went unnoticed by Josie, but as they sauntered back through the silent streets he was very conscious that it was the first time that Josie had made an excuse. A headache: such a cliché, but that was Josie.

Her kiss on parting was just as warm and generous as ever, but she didn’t linger, and was soon gone with just a brief, ‘I’ll give you a ring later in the week Jack.’

A post-party Sunday would normally be a day of rest and recovery for all concerned, and as it would be at least a couple of weeks before any consideration was given to the next production, Jack was surprised to receive an early afternoon call from Dot.

‘Sorry to interrupt your day of rest Jack, but I wonder if you could pop up in about half an hour and join me for afternoon tea at Bosewell’s. It’s ever such a genteel affair on a Sunday: altogether fitting after last night’s excesses.’

‘Secret assignation is it Dot? No Brandy?’

‘Don’t mention the bugger Jack. Even after all he put away last night he was up at The Pump at lunchtime, and now I can hear him snoring his head off in the next room. Just you and me Jack: a little tête à tête.’

‘Sounds very mysterious Dot. Not a seduction scenario is it?’

‘Oh I think my seducing days are past Jack, but there was a time when I might have been tempted by a fine upstanding young fellow like you. And you by me I might add. But all will become clear when we meet. Shall we say three-thirty? I’ll see you inside.’

‘I’ll be there.’

It Is A Bosewell Tradition That Gentlemen Do

Not Smoke Pipes At Afternoon Tea On Sunday

Sunday tea at Bosewell’s was a Barlow ritual that Jack was experiencing for the first time, but the sign hung prominently on one of the double doors gave notice of what he might expect within, where on the dresser by the door
The Sunday Times, Church Times
and
Barlow Briefings,
the Parish magazine, were the only reading on display.

Beyond the dresser he found a genteel (Dot had chosen her words wisely) world of jackets and ties, stylish millinery, doilies, wafer-thin sandwiches, three-tiered cake stands, subdued conversation and the soft chink of high quality epns on fine china: all of it serviced by Bosewell’s long-pensionable brigade of ‘nippies,’ perhaps not as mobile or attractive as their predecessors of the thirties, but beloved of Bosewell’s regulars, who mourned the passing of each one as that of an old friend.

‘Isn’t it wonderful Jack?’ said Dot looking around her. ‘A window on a lost world. I can remember tea in Hathaway’s before the war on my early trips to Stratford: it was just like this. That was when I first caught the bug of course. It always takes me back when I come here: shades of Wolfit, who was really much better in those early years, and not the bit of a joke that he became later: but that’s not it Jack.

In fact it’s a bit of a long story I’m afraid, so enjoy your sandwich, listen to your aunty Dot, and perpend. For as long as Brandy’s been out of the business himself and working with amateurs, he’s wanted to do a
Much Ado,
but he’s never yet found his Beatrice and Benedict: at least not at the same time in the same place. We played the roles together in our early days: great fun and not bad either.

Then as soon as he worked a little with Justin, he knew at once that he’d got another Benedict, but still no Beatrice: great frustration and much fuming around the house of course, until I suggested we should make one last attempt to lure Josie back on stage. We both knew she’d be perfect for the part, and that was why you may have seen us in a bit of a huddle at the party.’

‘I noticed, but Josie said nothing, and I had no particular reason to ask her what was going on.’

‘So she didn’t mention that she had finally agreed to take the part then?’

‘No she didn’t. I’m surprised, but it’s up to her. I’d know soon enough anyway, and surely you and Brandy are delighted aren’t you? Why the urgency to tell me?’

‘Well Brandy and I know pretty well how things are with you and Josie, and it wasn’t so much that she’d taken the part, but that she only did so when she knew she’d by playing opposite Justin.’

Jack thought about that for a moment.

‘And you both think that’s significant for reasons other than the play?’

‘Sorry to say we do Jack. You’ve been away for most rehearsal meetings until the last week or so, but from what I’ve seen, I feel pretty sure that Josie’s rather keen on our Justin, and Brandy’s inclined to agree. You’ll have noticed how chummy she was with the men last night: a bit unusual that. Usually keeps them at arm’s length, present company excepted of course, but last night Justin was of the party.’

‘I’m greatly touched by your concern Dot, but I’m not Josie’s keeper you know. We each have our own lives, and go our own way if and when we want to. Let’s say we’re just special friends: nothing permanent.’

‘Special friends. What a lovely way of putting it Jack: very delicate. But it wasn’t only you we were thinking about.’

‘I’m sorry Dot, you’ve lost me. If Josie and Justin choose to get together who else is going to be concerned?’

‘But that’s just it you see.’

‘Dot, please say what you want to say, and don’t be so bloody opaque. What’s just it?’

‘He’s gay Jack.’

‘I don’t believe it. I’d have sworn that he was absolutely straight. Why on earth do you think otherwise?’

‘Oh I don’t just think Jack; I know. Johnny told Brandy when he had a word with him about Justin’s work with the Oxford group: said there was no doubt about it. As far as Brandy and I are concerned it’s neither here nor there; chacun à son goût say we. I thought though that perhaps Josie should be told, but Brandy says it’s not for us to say anything and won’t hear of it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Think about it Jack. He might seem hail-fellow-wellmet in The Pump, but when it comes to a production nothing else matters, and he’s quite unforgiving of anyone causing a problem. If Josie gets to know she’ll almost certainly pull out, and then he loses his Beatrice.

And he’s so enthusiastic and happy at the prospect Jack that I haven’t the heart to say anything to spoil it for him, but I still feel mean at not saying anything to Josie. So …’

‘So you’re putting the ball in my court to ease your conscience about fouling things up for Brandy. You think that I’ll tell Josie for my own personal reasons.’

‘You’re being very hard Jack. Try to look at it from a woman’s point of view. Brandy doesn’t want her to be told. You might very well want to tell her, and I’m entirely in two minds about it. In brief it all seems to be very nicely balanced, so my female intuition tells me to leave it to the gods, whose wisdom is profound.’

‘Having delivered yourself of all of this, I take it that you are paying for tea Dot’

‘My pleasure Jack. Now let’s indulge ourselves in some of these scrumptious cakes, and you tell me which of these God-fearing, church-going gentlemen you see around you is fiddling his taxes.’

The end of the affair came with the same light touch and good-humoured banter with which it had started and been conducted. On the Saturday after the show Josie had telephoned Jack to ask him to drop in for a pre-lunch drink before they strolled up to The Pump for lunch together.

‘It’s such a lovely morning you’ll find me in the garden,’ she said. ‘Come in through the side gate, I’ll leave it open.’

The gardens of the houses on High Street and Priory Hill were generally considered to be one of the features that made life there so attractive, and enabled the properties to command such high prices. Having their origins in the long burgess plots of the medieval town, they were almost without exception high-walled, secluded and secret, apart from the one day of the Barlow Flower Show, when a dozen or so might be opened up to the common gaze for a small fee in aid of a good cause.

The gardens might at one time have been entered through their coach houses on The Narrows or Withy Lane, but as these had one by one been sold off and converted into bijou residences, the owners of the big houses had to suffer the inconvenience of their gardeners gaining access through the house: boots in hand of course. Josie, however, was one of the lucky ones with a garden gate opening to the High Street through which Jack entered to make his way up the narrow tiled side-passage into the garden.

The real work of the garden, mowing, hedge trimming and all that grubbing around in the dirt, as Josie described it, was done by Arthur, who for thirty years had earned what he regarded as a satisfactory living in the gardens of the same dozen or so houses on High Street. Josie’s personal horticultural activity was never such as might be calculated to leave a lady in a glow. She gardened as she passed through life generally, with style and grace, and dressed as she would for a garden party.

As Jack passed out from the passage he was just able to catch sight of her at the far end of the garden. Half-screened by greenery and distance she seemed dryad-like to be hovering effortlessly in mid-air, until he moved forward, and was able to stand unseen behind her, silently admiring her figure posed elegantly before him, three feet above the ground on the capping stones of a raised flower bed. Poised with assurance on one attractive, nylon-clad leg, and bending gracefully forward to trim a few faded blossoms from a rambling rose, she preserved her balance by raising the other leg gracefully behind her, to expose just as much of a shapely, eyecatching calf and thigh as she might have been happy with had she been in public view. As he stood unobserved observing her, he felt a passing twinge of regret that his enjoyment of all of that he saw before him might soon be a thing of the past.