Tableland (20 page)

Well, what a busy and eventful day this has been! After an early breakfast, I wended my way to the playing fields to see if I could be of any assistance in putting up the stalls etc. What a scene of frenzied activity met my eyes! Stalls were being erected, as were the obstacles for the knockout races, and I spent the next hour digging trenches for the toilets. Then a quick dash to Market Street, where I dispensed balloons and sold programmes for this afternoon's events. A fleeting visit home for a ham sandwich then off again to the fields at 1.30 to be ready for the grand opening at 2 pm.

Despite a poor weather forecast, the sun shone in a cloudless sky and as the afternoon wore on it became hotter and hotter. Can't remember much about the actual opening ceremony as I was too busy counting my float and attending to various customers gathering round my stall, but in the distance caught sight of a familiar figure on a platform giving a wide smile and declaring the event open – it was Diane Butt in her role of local celebrity. She was given a round of applause, which was drowned by a rousing march played over the loud speaker and ushering in the Westoneers, our local morris dancing team. They strutted up and down for a while, waving paper wands, and then disbanded to allow the serious part of the afternoon to begin. Several teams were competing in the races – a local nuts and bolts factory, the youth club, a nearby bakery, a laundry, and a car manufacturers, and judging by the noise, they all had their share of supporters with them. The only competition I could see clearly was the piano bashing, run by Una and Les Crow. Julie, who had arrived with Trev by this time, was horrified and it was all I could do to restrain her when she threatened to rush in and make an offer for one of the pianos.

Most of the time I was too busy to take much notice of what was going on elsewhere. I had been given a sideshow, which proved very popular. Two young waitresses from the Old Stag arrived in bikinis, sat in the stocks and, with only a small frying pan apiece to act as a shield, had eggs shied at them constantly.

Had a great crowd round me all afternoon and, when Diane Butt very sportingly offered to sit in the stocks for ten minutes, things almost got out of hand.

The ice lollies ran out at about 3.30, which caused a general panic and Steve, who was in charge of the crockery-smashing stall and had a very nice line of patter, had to go and see if he could locate some more.

Julie brought me a lemonade from the tea tent, which turned out to be lukewarm, and then stayed to give me a hand for a while.

Was just giving some change to a young boy when a voice beside him shouted, ‘How did you like the marmalade then?' I looked up to see Beverley Tarbush tossing her red hair. My mind went a blank for a moment and then I remembered the pot of marmalade she'd given me. I must have left it in the garden – I'd forgotten all about it.

Quickly pulled myself together and said, ‘Oh it's delicious – just how I like it.'

She smiled and, as she wandered off with her son, Julie hissed in my ear, ‘Was it my imagination or was that woman talking to you about marmalade?'

‘I'll explain later,' I said as a crowd of youths came surging up to try their luck.

At five o'clock, the victorious team – a group of local firemen – did a lap of honour round the fields to a fanfare of trumpets and had their photo taken for the local paper. Keith Goodchap, whose voice was hoarse by this time from doing the running commentary all afternoon, announced, ‘Well, in actual fact, I think I can say with all honesty that we've all spent a very happy afternoon here today and on behalf of the Round Wheelers I would like to thank you one and all for coming along. The proceeds from this afternoon will be going to charity and will be announced in next week's Gazette.' Then, with a stroke of brilliance, he added, ‘And now, boys and girls, there will be a prize for the one who can collect the most waste paper and rubbish in the bins provided. We'll give you until 5.30, starting NOW!'

People drifted away, the children rushed round collecting rubbish and we dismantled our stalls.

Really felt as if I “belonged” especially when the Gazette reporter took all our names and a group photograph was taken.

By 7 pm everything was more or less “ship shape” and we all repaired to the Cock and Bull to celebrate, leaving the children running races on the field under the motherly eye of Janice Dugeon, who's tee total, according to Julie.

We toasted each others' efforts. Noticed that Les toasted his own and Una's. He raised his glass to her. ‘Here's to us and our old pianos – may we continue to make sweet music together.' Then, warming to his music theme, his voice growing louder every minute so that everyone else stopped talking, he came out with banter, fast and furious: risqué jokes, double entendres…

‘Sharps; flats; cadenzas, rallentandos, tubas…'

These words took on a whole new meaning as Les held forth. His dark hairy hand went round Una's head and he pulled her towards him – she, I may say, was lapping it all up. I saw him throw a mischievous glance towards Steve before he blew down Una's ear and muttered something about ‘tickling the ivories… con brio'. Una laughed. I looked at Steve – his face, although inscrutable, had grown very red and his fist was clenched tightly. I remembered the way Una and Les had been dancing together at the barbecue – and the thought of Julie possibly working with someone like Les Crow makes me see red. Alan, Keith, Ken and Nev seemed to gather round Steve in silent support as Les kissed Una's ear lobe but I didn't see the culmination of this scene as Julie suddenly said, ‘My feet are killing me, I just want to soak them in a bowl of cold water.' So we left.

A leisurely day after all the excitement of yesterday. Weather still hot and sunny so decided to go “continental” and have breakfast in the garden with the Sunday papers. Put up the little folding table by the bench against the back of the house and brought out a couple of chairs from the kitchen. Trev sitting on the bench, knocked over the pot of marmalade which I had put there the other evening. ‘What's this then?' Julie asked as I retrieved it and put it on the table.

‘That woman with red hair brought it round the other evening when you were playing tennis,' Trev explained.

‘Oh, yes?' said Julie. ‘Does she think we can't afford our own?'

‘No, nothing like that – she makes the stuff and just thought we'd like some. Perhaps it was a way of thanking me for repairing her hoover,' I said. ‘I said I'd have a look at her toaster some time too. Let's try it – it looks good.' And I spread some of the marmalade on my toast. ‘It is good – lots of chunks.'

‘I hate it like that,' said Julie and she reached for the jar we always have.

It was very pleasant to be eating outside. All was quiet next door. The Butts had been entertaining last night so were obviously still sleeping it off.

We chatted about the knockout and made guesses as to the amount of money raised. Julie said, ‘We'll have to make sure we get our copy of the Gazette on Friday. I wonder if your name will be in it and your photo.' I said that one name was sure to be in – Les Crow. He had pushed his way to the front of the group photo and I'd seen the way he'd taken the reporter on one side. Thought Julie might rise to the defence of her tennis partner but she didn't say anything.

Reminded P.H. today about my course in Manchester next week. He remarked that he'd hoped I was going to do the North Wales area next week, with Brimcup being on holiday, and that he's heard that this particular course isn't very good. However, he grudgingly said he supposed it would be alright for me to have time off.

Asked Julie where the new marmalade was at breakfast this morning and she said, ‘Oh, I dropped it – it made a terrible mess on the floor, but I found this grapefruit marmalade at Speedsave.

Julie was to have played in a match this evening but developed a headache. ‘I've asked Una to take my place – she seems keen,'she said. ‘By the way, I've been thinking it over and I've decided not to take up Les Crow's offer of a job after all.' Amazed and relieved but said nothing.

A postcard arrived from Uncle Charlie and Auntie Bee on holiday in Bournemouth, written in his usual cryptic manner and needing a genius to decode it.

B & B OK. Place full of O.A.P's some from the

U.S. 1 or 2 V.I.P's from T.V. L.S.D. running out!

Cheers Chas & B.

Steve came over in the evening and had an air of suppressed excitement. He came right out with it. ‘Opportunity for some fun and games, with accent on the “games” Saturday night. Venue – Barton Woods. Sorry, men only…' he said as Julie brought in the stuffed marrow.

‘The latest thing from America… War Games! A chance to play soldiers without actually signing on! It may never catch on here, but they're going wild about it in the States!'

‘How d'you mean exactly?' I asked. I was only too keen to be enthusiastic with him but not quite sure what he was getting at. ‘Put me in the picture, as it were.'

‘It's a them and us situation basically. Two teams, each defending their flag – chasing, dodging, BANG, BANG!' Steve fired off an imaginary gun.

‘A spot dangerous in Barton Woods,' I said. A spot dangerous anywhere, I thought. I'm no kill joy but the whole enterprise presented problems to my way of thinking.

‘Worry not, squire, the whole beauty of it is… we use splatter guns – paint not bullets. Rex Ebworth, from our office is just back from New York and he brought a dozen of these back with him as a tryout. Executives' War Games – that's what they call it – a chance for stress-ridden workaholics to let off steam.'

I began to see the light. ‘Could be just the job.'

‘That's the spirit,' Steve said. ‘I put it to Ken on Monday and he's managed to round up nine enthusiasts – ten counting your good self – so it's five a side – Keith, Ken, Alan, Ron, Nev, self, Mike Grope, who incidentally is also, like yourself, keen to be a fully integrated Wheeler, Dave Wilmot, you and who's the other?' He appeared to be lost in thought for a moment, then he said, ‘Les Crow.'

The more I think about it, the more the idea appeals. Yes, I can just see myself wiping out Les' suntanned smirk with a powerful squirt of black paint and I daresay Steve feels exactly the same. Roll on tomorrow evening 9pm.

Was eager to get home this evening and see the write-up about last Saturday.

The Gazette had certainly “gone to town” on it with a centre page spread – photos of the competing teams, the morris dancers, a large one of Diane Butt, another one of her in the stocks with my shirt sleeve just in view, the fifty yard “dash” in leopard skins and clogs and the group photo of “Wheelers and helpers”. There was Les Crow right in the centre of the front row. I was at one side next to Rodney Blade, who was puffing on his pipe.

The ‘phone rang and I went to answer it. ‘Blade here,' said a cold voice. ‘I just want to know if this is your idea of a joke.'

‘How do you mean?' I asked but he did not explain – just went on to say, ‘I take a pretty dim view of it. I'll be writing to the paper and expect a full apology.' And with that he banged down the ‘phone.

I told Julie what had transpired and she said, ‘Oh – it'll be about this.' She pointed to the group photo. Underneath we had all been named. My name, spelt wrongly, had been attributed to Rodney and I had been given the title Councillor Blade.

In many ways it was just as disappointing for me to have been misnamed as it was for Blade and felt like ringing him up to tell him so, but decided against it. He is obviously a man of uncertain temper and I didn't want to hinder my entry to the Round Wheel more than I could help – am still feeling a bit bothered about the knife and fork episode.

Was doubly relieved, therefore, when Ken Dugeon himself greeted me personally at our rendezvous by the end of the old quarry in Barton Woods this evening with a cheery ‘Good evening, Councillor.'

We'd all entered into the spirit of the thing, as far as possible – camouflaged clothes and ex-army boots being much in evidence. Thought I'd hit on a brainwave by borrowing Trev's black balaclava but discovered everyone else had had the same idea; Les Crow with the addition of a red cotton hanky worn bandit fashion and black eye patch, which someone suggested concealed a black eye. Personally thought Mike Grope had gone a bit far by borrowing the whole of his brother's T.A. kit but taken by and large we looked ready for some guerilla warfare and, I may add, not a little menacing, as we awaited our battle orders from Rex, who was twenty minutes late, in the gathering dusk. As we camouflaged ourselves further with mud and twigs, we were surprised by an elderly couple, walking their Yorkshire terrier. The old woman shook her stick at us and shouted, ‘Go home – your parents should be ashamed of themselves' and the dog bit Keith's ankle.

Rex, our umpire, barked out the rules (most of which I think he made up) in true military fashion. ‘Basically your object is to capture the opposing teams' flag.' He then handed out the “guns” (metal, welded pipes), the “ammunition” (paint pellets like small ping-pong balls), eye masks for protection and, after dividing us up into two teams, he unfurled, with due ceremonial procedure, two small, fraying flags – a scull and crossbones and a Blue Peter flag, off his childrens' rubber dinghy. ‘All I could get,' he said.

As luck would have it, I found myself on the same side as Les Crow.

We made our H.Q. by the ruined sandstone mill, set up our flag and waited for the sharp blast on the whistle which Rex had promised at precisely 9.30, and which, in the event, we never heard.

‘Not to worry,' Steve (our captain), looking impatient and aggressive, shouted in a hoarse whisper, saying that it was time by his watch.

‘Let battle commence – every man for himself now.' Les Crow crawled off into the undergrowth, followed at short intervals by the rest of us.

When my turn came, I felt a surge of adrenalin and the old familiar quickening of the heart beat I used to get when I played Cops and Robbers twenty-five years ago.

It was quite a challenge dodging round in the dark. Once or twice I heard a twig snap nearby and shot wildly. Sounds of a skirmish came from some bushes on my left but decided to ignore them and slid away, on my stomach, down a steep slope, straight into a stagnant pond. The splash must have alerted someone as I was immediately shot at in the eye, which obscured the guard over my eyes and I stumbled over a huge lump of sandstone and cricked my ankle. All good fun.

Don't know which was worse – the silence or the owl hoots, which could have been enemy signals. Now and then I could just make out a black figure darting out from behind a tree or diving into a clump of nettles and once I heard a strangled cry, but for the most part, I decided to lie low.

Never did discover the whereabouts of the enemy camp and it was only by pure luck that I found my way back to our own headquarters, when the rain, which had started about ten minutes after war had broken out, was joined by thunder and lightning and we had to call a “ceasefire”.

The battle was supposed to have been judged on a points system, depending on who had been shot and where, but unfortunately the rain had washed off a good deal of the paint (it also went a little way to washing off the smell of the stagnant pond, which we all seemed to have come in contact with during the course of the evening).

Rex gave three long blasts on his whistle and declared the war a draw. There was a cheer from one and all and for a second we were lit up by a flash of lightning. Then, in the subsequent downpour, Ken shone his torch and announced, ‘Hot dogs and cold beer at my place,' to which abode we duly repaired.

We all turned up at chez Dugeon with the exception of Les Crow and I don't believe he was missed by any of us. ‘He likes his beauty sleep, does Les,' someone shouted. Everyone laughed then the subject was changed.

Janice Dugeon had left the hot dogs and beer in the kitchen and had obviously turned in for the night. She's a good soul is Janice, not even coming down to complain about the noise we made – and, to be fair, with our sing song, we made quite a bit.