Campari for Breakfast (33 page)

‘It matters to me.’

‘Vienna, please, Roger’s gone. He’s gone and he’s not coming back,’ said Hawley, thu mping his wrist in frustration against the idiotic machine.

Again we applauded; there was a strong atmosphere of support, although this would end soon because at the gala we’d be pitted against each other.

‘Goodness me, a thriller! I literally can’t wait,’ said Aunt Coral. ‘Thank you Joe. Admiral Gordon?’

At Forty Knots

By Rear Admiral William Percival Gordon

He was only a lad, and it was only his first year at sea. He was like a duck on the bathroom floor. Yet when the wind got up and they opened the sails, something happened; it was like he hadn’t existed until they were moving at full speed.

‘I’ve seen many bright lads like this,’ said Cap’n John, ‘and they usually end up as Officers.’

‘Or overboard,’ said the deckie, whose own brother had been claimed by the sea.

‘Goodness, thank you Admiral Gordon, what a variety we’re offering!’ said Aunt Coral. ‘Thank you. And Delia?’

Don’t Wait

D Shoot

Would there come a day when he felt at peace, when he could forget the thorns in his side?

‘You’ll be seventy and you’ll still not have let go,’ said Imogen, prancing round doing her drama.

It was all right for her; nothing bad had happened to her yet, she hadn’t been alive long enough. But Ray was old and round with a goatee beard and a temper.

‘Thank you Delia, how mournful. And finally, Admiral Ted?’

An Excellent Hand

By Vice Ad miral Edward Anthony

The smoke-filled parlour played host for the last time before they left. Language was no barrier; they knew the language of the game. He shook the pot and the die was cast. Iris shook off her shawl.

‘Thank you, Admiral Ted, well done. Goodness, another cliff-hanger. Well, we shall all have to wait and see!’

We handed our stories in to Aunt Coral in proud A4 envelopes, and she placed them in a pile with significance.

‘I hope one day this will become a ritual,’ she said. ‘Well done everybody.’

At which point Glenn and Mrs Bunion came in with a Christmas cake, hats and sparklers. Pat stayed on and Glenn Miller tuned in while he planered one of the walls.

‘I’m just listening in, but I do keep a diary at home,’ he said.

One of the things I love most about Group is the totalitarian mix of people; there were the high-ranking Admirals sitting beside Pat Bunion, both equals in aspiration.

‘Now,’ said Aunt C, looking as though she had been up all night inventing things. ‘This is our penultimate exercise of the year, inspired by the Egham Hirsute Group itself which takes its name from a misunderstanding of language. And so, I would like us all to think of words which we have misunderstood. Hands up please if you can think of one. Sue?’

‘Dumb waiter,’ I said.

‘Excellent Sue . . . and Avery?’

‘Antimacassar; I thought it meant against Scotland.’

‘That’s wonderful Avery! And Admiral Gordon?’

‘Scruples; I thought it meant a kind of eczema.’

‘Oh dear! Admiral Gordon. And Admiral Ted?’

‘Uxorious doesn’t mean fragrant,’ he said.

‘What does it mean?’ she said.

‘It means wife-loving.’

‘Good, really excellent, that is a
very
good one. That little exercise shows us that words can mean anything which we
want
them to.

‘And now for some fun final questions! Quick fire, who can tell me what “N” is another word for something a lady might wear to bed?’

We all put our hands up.

‘Avery?’ said Aunt Coral.

‘Nightie?’ he said.

‘Well I’ll give you it, but I was actually looking for negligee.’ I couldn’t help suspect a plan. She was on full beam again, which he didn’t notice because he was so busy hoping to guess the next word.

‘Now, who can tell me, what word covers sprouts, carrots, parsnips, peas etc.?’

We all put our hands up.

‘Admiral Gordon?’ said Aunt Coral.

‘Gravy,’ he said.

‘Well I’ll give you it, but I was actually looking for vegetables.’

She was finally beginning to show signs of judgement on what was certain stupidity.

‘OK, let’s go again. Who can tell me what “P” is another word for bucket?’

‘Sue?’ she said.

‘Pisspot,’ I said.

‘Right. Perhaps we should crack open some champagne, and go out into the drawing room?’ I think she had realised we were all brain-dead from our stories.

The Admiral popped open the bubbles while Aunt Coral carried on. ‘What “L” is another word for affection?’

‘Like?’ said the Admiral.

‘Well I’ll give you it, but I was actually looking for love …’

Later

It has turned out to be an exciting Christmas Eve.

After champagne the Ad went out to do his shopping, leaving the rest of us to sit down to a hot broth of cheery tomatoes. We were just about to start, when we had a call from Egham Police to say that the Bentley had smashed into a parked car at high speed, in reverse, across two areas of grass, before driving off in front of a bus, taking out four bollards and an ornamental gnome. They were looking for the Admiral to get him to surrender his licence.

‘Avery’s at the club,’ said Admiral Ted. ‘What the blazers is going on?’

Then the Admiral telephoned from the station, having been arrested at his club, wondering in his innocence if Aunt Coral had been the one driving. Her alibis were quickly established, as were his, so he was set free.

Admiral Gordon took the Rover to go and fetch the Admiral while the rest of us checked for witnesses along Clockhouse Lane. Mrs Bunion stayed to answer the phone, and Loudolle went to unpack, being the only person not to be bothered at all by any of the fewrory. By the time we returned home after about an hour or so, the police had a sighting of the Bentley being driven by a male with long hair, ‘aka the Green Place Tramp, over’, said Papa X-ray on the radio.

‘Probably borrowed it to go to the hairdressers,’ said Aunt Coral, flippant as ever in misadventure.

The car was only insured for a thousand miles per year, being mainly used just for Egham, so Aunt Coral went upstairs to look at the policy. We were planning to go to ‘Carols By Candlelight’ after dinner, and there were still all the presents and bits to do, so the rest of us got on with our preparations.

I managed to find time this morning, before any of this had happened, to update one of my pinafores into a racey little dress – and although it shows my knees, it still had a devastating effect on Joe. I have never fully understood until now, the minx one can find in one’s wardrobe! Or maybe it’s because Joe sees me in this way, and so in a strange way I will become it, like he is the creator of a hitherto unknown croquette.

He had to go home for dinner before joining us at carols, but first he helped me set the table, handling Aunt Coral’s dishes with the care of museum pieces.

‘I’ll see you at the gala, if I don’t see you before,’ he said.

‘Thanks for everything, Joe,’ I said.

He didn’t speak but looked overwhelmed. I know he was feeling sad about leaving me again and returning to the madness of his mother. She is very strict with him over Christmas; I think he is her stand-in husband. I watched him ride down the drive, and as soon as he’d gone, I wished he’d come back. He has the power to make setting the table feel like jazz.

Mrs Bunion rang the dinner gong on her way out; she was heading to the village hall with our stories.

‘See you soon Mrs B, have a nice break,’ said Admiral Ted as he opened the front door for her forlornly.

‘I’ve put you a mousse in the bottom of the fridge. Just one, just for you,’ said Mrs Bunion.

Every chef needs someone to love what they make. Without that, life has no meaning.

Apart from the missing Bentley, there was an upbeat glow to the eve. The Admirals doused themselves with fragrance and all the bathrooms were singing. There was vanilla in the air, and butter and herbs and musk and chicory. I felt so under-scented that I went upstairs to put a dot behind my ears before we left. And then I went to the carols with the oldies who, hirsute,
did
know how to have a good time. (I’m using hirsute here deliberately – maybe it will become a convention.)

Christmas Day

The Bentley was found this morning on the drive with a few bumps and bruises. None of us heard a thing. There must be at least twenty tramps in Egham, and more than seven with long hair – although I’m not convinced that the tramp took the car at all. But PC Pacey believes that it must be the same tramp who broke into Green Place, as he would have had access to the car keys to make copies. He wants to come and see if the prints from the car match those in the house, but because it is Christmas, these things are bound to take time.

I hope it wasn’t my visitor. He is my strange friend, just mine, and he never once tried to hurt me.

When I came downstairs this morning, I stopped myself outside the drawing room, listening to my housemates’ snippets, neither being with them, nor being alone, in the no man’s land of the Hall. Bing Crosby was playing and they had begun to open their presents. Aunt C is a black belt shopper and was reaping the rewards of her trips.

‘Beryl’s a little belter,’ said Delia. She was talking about her new rabbit, which has been given complete run of its own suite in the East Wing.

‘Another G and T?’ asked Aunt Coral.

‘Oh, yes please. In fact make it a double, and save your legs,’ said Delia.

‘P. D. James,’ said Admiral Ted, in reply to some question or other.

‘If they don’t find any prints, then it means they’ve got the wrong man,’ said the Admiral.

‘Or that he was never here,’ said Aunt Coral. ‘Sue has quite an imagination …’

‘Ted, where are you?’ shouted Admiral Gordon. He was calling from the kitchen.

‘I’m fine,’ said Admiral Ted, on account of his tittinus.

It must be how we sounded to the tramp. Loudolle passed me on her way out. I pretended to be cleaning the door frame, so I don’t think she suspected. She was dressed till the nines and was on the way to a luncheon, having already generously given her mother a couple of hours of her time. She eyed me somewhat nervously in the hall. We hadn’t actually spoken since the Toastie.

‘See you at the gala,’ she said, elongating her vowels as though she was having difficulty sounding authentic.

‘See you at the gala,’ I said, knowing that, if there was any justice in this life, by the New Year she would be conkered.

‘There were so many birds on the feeder this morning, you just missed a starling,’ said Delia, coming to say goodbye to Loudolle.

‘Great,’ said Loudolle. ‘See you later.’

Delia believes that no matter what she does, her progeny walks on water. But both she and Loudolle have been very altered by their experience of life. Delia is a cynic who thinks men just want women to waft about, when back in girlhood she was an irrepressible optimist, and Loudolle has reinvented herself to the point where she is no longer even English. When Loudolle shut the front door, Delia went into the kitchen to write up her pretend calendar. There are dark shadows for each of us even in the Christmas light.

‘From the moment they are born, they are leaving you,’ she said in a moment of close confiding.

‘Indeed,’ I said, and it stung. I can’t remember why I ever preferred to sit at the bus stop with Aileen rather than watch Christmas TV with Mum.

After lunch, while Aunt Coral and her tenants were playing Beggar-My-Neighbour, I decided to go for a walk. I was feeling restless.

There was nothing open in Egham but a shop selling things like tins of peaches, and it was one of those days where the sky can’t be bothered to get properly light. I could hear a brass band in the distance and watched a paper bag blow down the road in time to the oom-pah-pah. And suddenly, like we were magnets, I found myself at Joe’s.

The Frys’ flat is in a conversation area, in keeping with them being part of the chattering classes. It was Mrs Fry who answered the intercom, surprised to hear my voice, and after a minute Joe came down in a private dressing gown with airplanes on it.

‘Sue!’ he said.

‘Hello.’

‘Sue.’

It was as though he had only one word in his vocabulary.

We weren’t allowed to fraternise at the flat, so we floated on his bike till teatime, stopping at a viewing point on the edge of Egham where he played me a tune on his Walkman. He confessed he had been playing it over and over to himself since we kissed. It’s called ‘Classic’ and the lyrics say something like ‘I wanna to write a classic, I want to write it in an attic . . . Yeah!’ I liked the idea of Joe going into an attic and writing me a love song. I wondered if that was what he was going to do after I’d gone, but he told me he had to go with his mother to visit relatives in Staines.

On the way home the streets were lit up by winter displays of lights. I looked in the windows of houses. I always think strange lives look nice in the evenings.

I have realised that I feel good with Joe. He appreciates the things I’d rather overlook: my turned-in foot that bends all my shoes out of shape; the way I pronounce a French starter. The time goes so quickly when I’m with him that I have to relive it at half-speed in my memory afterwards to get all the good out of it. I’m a sweet in a wrapper to the others, but Joe is able to unwrap me. It’s like the difference between sitting downstairs at a dinner, in uncomfortable tight trousers, hot and bored and tense, and then going up to lie on your bed with your trousers off, cool and interested and relaxed. My heart breaks at the thought that one day Joe will die.