Dolly's Mixture (7 page)

The compere arrived and made a few jokes at which everyone screamed and clapped and then, with his little coloured balls shooting up and down, we were off. All evening it seemed that I had only just begun to cover the numbers on my card (some people managed three cards) when someone called ‘Bingo!' None of our party won that night. Alby and Edie seemed surprised. I wondered if I'd brought them bad luck. We waited outside in the chilly night air while Alby collected the car. ‘We'll go back through Upper Holloway,' announced Edie, as though that area was the promised land. I felt I had been a damper on the proceedings and if Edie hadn't been so ‘refaned' I would have told Ade of the time when, during the war, I stayed with some people at Hampstead. As the L.N.E.R. train aproached its destination each morning a funny little porter would dash out of his box and scream, ‘I-git-up-er-ollo-waaay' (Highgate, Upper Holloway), and everyone would smile, even the city gents. But if I couldn't imitate the little porter's excited yells then the joke would fall flat and the lady would think me incredibly vulgar, especially if Ade broke into one of her masculine guffaws.

Edie was still assisting in the driving of the family saloon when it happened. We were driving along a wide main road. At a side turning was a stationary grey car, a beautiful car. At the wheel was a handsome black man, chatting to his passenger, another black man. They were laughing and Ade said, ‘Now don't they look happy.' Suddenly I felt apprehensive and I said, ‘They're going to dash out in front of us.' Edie laughed her refined and affected laugh. ‘Not having a car, Mrs S., you wouldn't know that Alby has right of way, isn't that so, Alby?' ‘Definitely, dear,' said Alby, driving straight on, a man with a set purpose.

The grey car shot out in front of us at terrific speed. Alby spun his steering wheel and we shot right, across the main road, out of control. Brakes and people screamed as we raced in front of a car, a bus and a lorry. We mounted the pavement and I closed by eyes and thought of Chas, William and Susan, for in front of us was the enormous, plate-glass window of a car showroom. Ade put her arms round me. ‘Christ, thank you, we've stopped.' Edie was chattering now in her normal voice, all refinement gone. ‘We've got to thank Alby for being such a wonderful driver, haven't we?' I was never sure about this; I thought some praise should go to the drivers we passed on our way to the car showroom. The police arrived but there was really nothing to do, for the happy travellers in the grey car were nowhere to be seen. But there were many lucky winners that first and last time I went to bingo.

I never expected to see Edie and Alby again, for I knew Ade had nothing in common with them, but Edie became president of a local ladies' circle and Ade felt she had to go on Edie's first night as president, a sort of ‘thank you' for our free transport to the bingo hall. So I went to keep Ade company. Edie did very well and it was obvious she would be a much loved president, for she really threw her heart and soul into the position. It was my flippancy and Ade's reaction to it which spoilt a beautiful friendship between Edie and Ade.

Edie opened the meeting with a short talk. ‘People forget that the best things in life can be had merely for the asking. Today, for instance, has been a lovely day, but how many of us have yet thought to thank God for it?' (Certainly neither Ade nor I had, and I, for one, began to feel guilty.) ‘The best things in life are still free,' went on an enthusiastic president, ‘and I would like to ask all you ladies a question.' The ladies looked very interested at this point. ‘What could be lovelier on one's table than the beautiful sight of one of God's fragrant flowers from the hedgerows?' ‘Something with steam rising from it?' I whispered to Ade, stealing one of my father's famous remarks. Ade exploded, always unable to laugh silently as I could, and as Edie and the congregation turned to stare at Ade, she whipped from her pocket an enormous white handkerchief, the largest of its kind I have ever seen, and pretended to be sneezing. The noise was like thunder. Because I had been the cause of the contretemps I thought I had better say something by way of an apology or explanation. ‘The thought of the flower the president mentioned has brought on my friend's hay fever.' Ade retired to the cloakroom until the ‘hay fever' had subsided.

A few days later I met Edie on her own. I apologised and explained what had happened. ‘It's Benny I feel sorry for,' remarked a sad but understanding lady. ‘He is so noble and never reproaches Ade for her robust behaviour. He certainly must have a difficult task to lie on the bed which he has chosen. Our hearts [she and Alby spoke as one] go out to the poor fellow constantly.'

‘Silly old moo,' was Ade's retort when I told her of my apology. ‘She should have heard Benny laugh when I told him of your father's preference for hot, steamy risings. Why
do
some people always judge others by the way they talk?' I didn't know, but I agreed with Ade that they do. ‘You want to hear Edie on the telephone, Dolly, she really goes to town then. I like to hear her spell words out, for she has no idea she gives herself away. For instance, she says “hache” for “aitch” and “ungyon” for “onion” and “nothink” for “nothing”. Poor old dear,' said Ade, suddenly sorry for our ladylike acquaintance, ‘she's had a hard life, I believe, having to scrimp and scrape for every ha'penny and wouldn't have been able to go in for their house if she'd stopped work and had children.' It was a sort of affectation that she always called Alby ‘Daddy'. ‘I wonder when she started calling him that, Ade?' ‘When they were sure they wouldn't have children, I expect. It was probably a sort of compensation title for him.' ‘P'raps that's when she started to lisp so that in one way she became Alby's, or, rather, Daddy's girl, as well as his wife.' ‘The child-bride of the north,' I remarked, which made Ade snort. ‘My twins always call her Violet Elizabeth, when she's not there, of course. They had a stupid teacher who once said the twins were Jus' William and Ginger [one of the boys was red-headed] so ever after that they just acted up to those two heroes, although they didn't need any excuse to act like grubby urchins, it seemed natural to them. Anyway, I had to read the riot act to them when one mum called on me to say that they wouldn't allow her boy in their gang. The twins said this boy was such a sneak he should have been head of the rivals, but he was so ambitious he wanted to be number one after my two.'

To make it up to Edie, alias Violet Elizabeth, I suggested to Ade that Chas would take us out one evening for dinner at a posh restaurant. ‘Oh Gawd, wouldn't she like that, she'd be in her element, we'd have to get a copy of the menu for her to bring home to show her “colleagues” at work, and I bet she'd say, “Now don't be nervous, Ade and Dolly, just follow my example and do what I do, I'm used to this sort of thing.”' Apparently Edie was a waitress in the directors' dining-room at a large business concern. She had worked at this place since leaving school, the directors still called her ‘missie'. ‘I believe that's where she gets her clothes, from the directors' wives. She even lays up the table at home in the same way, even for the baked beans or egg on toast Alby gets when he comes home. And candles, too!' I wondered how Ade knew all this. ‘Oh, they eat in the window, I can see them from my kitchen.' Ade went on, ‘I don't know what she thought of us the night she called for change for her slot meter. I was eating on the kitchen table, Johnny had a tray on the floor in front of the TV, the twins were wandering about after their meal, nibbling the remains of chop bones, and Benny was eating off a tray on the coffee table.

‘I'll tell you what we'll do if we go for that meal. We'll sit Benny next to Edie, for he speaks French, he'll know exactly what's on the menu without asking the waiter, and then she can pretend that she and Benny are giving their four retainers an evening out. It'll mean a lot to her and the rest of us can then enjoy our nosh. Could we find a place with an orchestra so that Edie can ask for a request?'

We did have dinner for six in a posh restaurant in the West End, although by the time the evening came, having changed my mind about the whole idea, I felt as though I was literally being dragged there. But it was my fault, the dragging feeling, for, as Chas said, ‘Dolly is like
this
.' (Sometimes the word varies to
that
, since my inconstancy of mind and subsequent lack of enthusiasm is never forgotten.) ‘Perhaps this occasion will teach her a lesson. I tell you, I dread waking up in the mornings for
then
it is that Dolly gets all her “good ideas”.'

So it was that, with a false smile, I greeted Ade, Benny, Edie and Alby when they arrived in the shiny limousine Chas had ordered. Immediately I sighted Edie my thoughts went back to the programme girls at the old Stoll theatre in Kingsway, for in her much be-frizzed hair stood an erect blue bow. It looked much too large for her tiny, marmoset face. Her long dress was also blue, lacy and very flouncy. But Ade! Well, I forgot I was bored and reluctant to go; surely she was a Dame Nellie Melba, or Clara Butt, for her magnificent body was gowned in classical black velvet; pearls draped her throat; she wore long, white gloves. ‘You look like a prima donna, Ade.' ‘Primo Carnera, you mean, Dolly. Old Solly's wife insisted I borrow it, she had it for one of her grandsons' barmitzvahs.' ‘Old Solly' was the gentleman Ade machined for. I wondered if we were not overdressed for the restaurant we were bound for. To my mind it was just a glorified Joe Lyons, but Edie had been impressed for, ‘You can't just walk in there, Dolly, you have to be “booked”.' Her tone gave me a vision of the six of us at a laden table while at the doors and windows the starving pleaded for entry. ‘You are not booked,' would be the head waiter's cry.

We sat at tables round a polished floor, a floor for dancing or cabaret. A very large table, or tables in a group, had been placed next to ours. It was a celebration dinner for a young man's twenty-first birthday, and Ade and I were fascinated by the enthusiastic relations assembled around this, aunts, uncles, cousins. I wondered if dad had saved for this night for years on an endowment policy. Then the waiters brought to the birthday table an enormous dish covered with a huge silver cover and, as the band played the young man's favourite tune, the boy was invited to lift the cover. Underneath was not the huge turkey I had guessed there would be, but his school cap, tie and football boots!

Ade and I got so friendly with the birthday people that, by the end of the evening, after they had invited us to have a birthday drink, our six became part of the family, as also did the band. They asked for requests and Edie asked for Alby's tune for her, ‘My Blue Heaven'. I could see why she had garbed herself in blue for the evening. The end of the night's festivities was approaching when Ade went to the platform and spoke to the leader of the band, and then stood by the pianist. Suddenly I felt worried: she was going to sing! ‘Oh no, Ade, don't.'

The evening had gone so well, I didn't want my Ade to embarrass anyone, not only with her singing voice but also with what she might sing. A thorough coward, I made my way to the door; I would languish in the cloakroom until all was over. Benny caught my eye, took hold of my hand and said, ‘Don't worry, Dolly, it'll be all right. Come and sit in the corner with me.' There was the usual restaurant noise, people talking and laughing, crockery and cutlery clattering. Perhaps it would drown anything untoward. I couldn't look at Ade and closed my eyes.

As the first notes reached my ears I opened my eyes with a start and looked at Benny; he was smiling a proud and gratified smile. It surely couldn't be Ade, this rich, marvellous, contralto voice? The words, ‘Mighty Like a Rose', flowed like wine. All outside noises ceased and when Ade had finished the applause was deafening. ‘Encore, encore,' and then she sang (looking every inch a prima donna) ‘Land of Hope and Glory'. I hadn't known it was such a lovely song with such marvellous verses.

The birthday boy's mother was crying, my scalp had gone all tight, and crowding round the doors were people from other rooms mingling with the restaurant staff. Even the chef was there. ‘Did you know about Ade's voice?' Benny smiled. ‘I know all about my lovely Adeline.' I wanted to ask so many questions. Why was Ade leading such an ordinary life, why was she bent daily over a machine when she had possessed this miraculous gift? But somehow I couldn't. ‘All right, Dolly?' said Ade, as we came home to ordinariness again. I supposed everything was all right; all I could think of was some Bible saying or other about hiding one's light under a bushel.

‘Oh, I didn't ask for my request for Dolly,' remarked Chas sadly on the way home. ‘What a pity,' said Ade. ‘Never mind, Dolly, the thought was there.' ‘Was it a tune you have for each other, like our “Blue Heaven”?' asked Edie. ‘No,' I replied, ‘it's the only tune he knows by title, “Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life, At Last I've Found You”.' ‘It's “Love”, not “Life”,' shouted Chas, suddenly bereft of the lovely sentimental feeling Ade's singing had induced.

In Chas's days as a waiter, his restaurant was serviced by a Palm Court Orchestra, which possessed a repertoire of about ten tunes. The restaurant comprised three balconied floors, with a deep well for the ground floor and the second floor representing another well in reverse. The orchestra played on the balcony of the first floor. ‘Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life' was the sung solo. At the piano was a grandfatherly type of gentleman in evening tails; the soloist (who normally played the cello) was an elderly lady in long, black, satin gown with lace handkerchief at her wrist. For this solo the two figures from the past were accompanied by a ‘gipsy' on a musical saw. Chas said proudly to Ade, ‘This solo brought the house down, the customers went mad for it.' Since ‘Ah, Sweet Mystery' came round about every hour all the years Chas waitered there, it was hardly surprising this ballad stayed with him eternally, even though I insisted it was ‘Life' and not ‘Love'. ‘Of course,
you
would be different,' he said indignantly when I was amused by the incident and remarked that I had always hoped Chas would one day be a finalist in an important quiz, when ‘his' tune was played, and he would be the only entrant to know the title.