Authors: Nicola Barker
Beede looked horrorstruck.
‘I think Beede’s probably already
perfectly
familiar with the concept of a Playboy bunny, Laura,’ Charlie snarled.
‘Beede,’ Pat pointed to an empty place on Cheryl’s left, ‘you squeeze in there, next to Cheryl. That’s right.’
Beede pulled out a chair and sat down. He removed a large, linen napkin from its silver ring and spread it out with methodical – almost exaggerated – care across his lap.
Cheryl watched on, intently.
‘You have my intense sympathy,’ she murmured, when he was finally done, ‘bright whites can be such
bastards
to maintain, can’t they?’
‘So an old
Douglas
, eh?’ Charlie returned staunchly to his former subject.
Beede glanced up, still struggling to process Cheryl’s last comment.
‘Pardon?’
‘Dragonfly?’
‘Uh…The bike?
Yes.
’
‘As a point of interest, how long did that marque actually survive?’
‘I believe they ended production in ‘56.’
Beede took a tiny, brown roll from his bounteous hostess.
‘So what’s the grunt?’
Beede’s brows rose slightly. ‘The engine’s a 348cc horizontally opposed twin cylinder four-stroke.’
‘Heavy, is she?’
‘365lbs.’
‘So top speed…I’m estimating seventy-odd?’
‘Seventy-five, at a push.’
‘How the hell d’you find parts?’ Tom butted in.
‘On the internet, mainly…’ Beede tore his tiny roll in half. ‘There’s a handful of extremely useful dedicated sites.’
‘So what do you
do
, Beede?’ Laura suddenly interjected, plainly still mesmerised by the bright gleam of his uniform.
Beede placed the two halves of his roll down on to his side-plate. ‘I run the Laundry Department at the Frances Fairfax.’
‘The
laundry
?
Really?
’ Laura looked astonished.
Beede nodded.
‘
Wow
…’ Laura continued to look amazed.
‘Believe it or not,’ Pat stepped in, leaning over his shoulder and filling one of his glasses with wine and the other with sparkling water, ‘Beede here has actually been awarded the Freedom of the Borough for a lifetime of service to the community. It’s an incredible honour.’
‘The Freedom of the Borough?’ Laura parroted.
‘Yes,’ Beede muttered, embarrassed, ‘for what it’s worth.’
‘The Freedom of the Borough…’ Laura repeated. ‘What’s that
mean
, exactly?’
‘It means he can go anywhere he likes in the town without any kind of restriction,’ Cheryl told her.
‘Anywhere at
all
?’
‘Oh
God
…’
Charlie shook his head, despairingly.
‘Of course…’ Cheryl smiled, ‘his big speciality is turning up – at mealtimes – to demand a free feed.’
Beede shifted in his seat, uneasily. Laura frowned, as if not entirely convinced.
‘There’s an ancient custom,’ Beede volunteered, spontaneously, ‘among certain nomadic desert tribes which demands that whenever you meet a stranger on his travels you’re duty-bound to feed and to water him: however much – or however little – food and water you actually have. It’s a charming – even
altruistic
– tradition in many respects but entirely based on pragmatism, because – of course – if ever you find
yourself
in dire need then you can always depend on the kindness of others.’
Silence
‘Apparently they were phenomenal speedway bikes…’ Charlie observed.
‘The Dragonfly? Yes.’ Beede nodded. ‘They were.’
‘I have several lucrative contracts with the Saudis,’ Tom piped up, ‘and let me tell you, those people really
know
how to entertain.’
‘So what did you actually
do
,’ Laura asked, ‘to get this Freedom?’
‘Did you see the
look
that woman gave you?’ Cheryl suddenly asked Pat, ‘when you took the rolls off her?’
‘What look?’
Pat seemed bemused.
‘What
look
? You didn’t notice the
look
?’
‘
Was
there a look?’ Tom asked.
‘
I’ll
say there was.’
‘I have a friend who once managed the women’s clothing department in the Marble Arch branch of Marks & Spencer’s,’ Laura told Beede, ‘which is always
full
of Arabs. And she told me how one of her girls was crouched down – picking up some stock which’d fallen off its hanger – and as she was bent over this Arab came across and just and sat down on her.’
Silence
‘How do you
mean
?’ Charlie asked.
‘He sat down on her back, like she was a chair or…’ Laura frowned, ‘or a
pouf.
’
‘A pouf?’ Cheryl repeated, blankly.
‘Yes. Like a little chair without arms. A pouf. Or a footstool.’
‘And an Arab
man
came and sat down on her
back
?’ Tom repeated, as Emily re-entered the room holding a soup tureen.
‘Yes.’
Silence
‘Because apparently in Arabia it’s quite commonplace behaviour. But my friend said she went up to him and she told him – very firmly – that we didn’t treat our shop assistants in that way. Not here in England.’
Emily began ladling some soup into Tom’s bowl, the corners of her lips tightened into a supercilious smile.
‘In all my years of visiting the Middle East,’ Tom mused, picking up his spoon, ‘I’ve never witnessed the kind of behaviour you describe.’ Laura shrugged.
‘If I may be so bold…’ Beede said, ‘that story has the slight ring of an urban myth to it.’
‘A what?’ Laura asked, as she jinked over to the side to receive her portion.
‘An urban myth,’ Beede repeated.
‘He means a
lie
,’ Charlie translated, somewhat unhelpfully. Laura looked horrified. ‘It’s not a lie at all,’ she insisted, ‘my
friend
told me…’
Her eyes filled with tears.
Emily served Charlie. Charlie was grinning broadly, apparently utterly delighted by the trouble he’d instigated.
‘That’s
not
actually what it means at all…’ Beede rapidly backtracked.
‘
Isn’t
it, though?’ Cheryl asked.
‘No. Urban myths are stories which possibly have some fundamental
basis
in truth but which become…’ he paused, carefully, ‘
exaggerated.
’
‘Kind of like a game of Chinese Whispers, Laura,’ Pat explained, diplomatically.
‘But a Chinese Whisper starts out one way and ends up
completely
the other,’ Laura reasoned, ‘and my friend actually
worked
in Marks & Spencer’s. She was
there.
’
‘In Marble Arch. Yes. We
know
,’ Charlie interrupted.
Laura turned to him. ‘Alice Wilson told me.
You
know Alice Wilson. She wouldn’t just
lie
, would she?’
‘Alice Wilson?’ Charlie frowned. ‘Oh
Christ.
You mean that awful cockney woman who runs the salon?’
Laura nodded.
Charlie rolled his eyes. ‘
Appalling
creature.’
Laura stared down into her bowl, her mouth tightening.
‘I mean what were you
thinking
,’ Charlie casually fished a prawn out of his soup and popped it into his mouth, ‘idly repeating some stupid story she told you in the salon
here
, at Pat and Tom’s anniversary dinner?’
Emily was now poised across Beede’s shoulder with her ladle. ‘I’m sorry…’ Beede suddenly covered his bowl with his hand, ‘but are there prawns in this soup?’
‘It’s a spicy Thai seafood broth,’ Emily informed him, in clipped tones.
‘It sounds delicious,’ he smiled, grimly, ‘but I’m afraid I’m extremely allergic to prawns.’
‘Oh
dear
,’ Pat said, ‘I wish I’d known that.’
‘It’s fine,’ Beede smiled, ‘I’ll just eat the roll. The roll’s more than enough.’
He picked up his roll.
‘Emily could always fish the prawns out…’
Pat tried to work her way around the problem.
‘Uh…
No.
I don’t think…’
‘Could you do that, Emily?’
Pause
‘I suppose I could
try.
’
‘No,
honestly
, I’m allergic to prawns. If I eat even a tiny piece of prawn…’
‘What happens?’ Cheryl asked.
‘I suffocate and die.’
‘Oh.’
Emily moved back, stiffly, as if Beede’s allergy might prove contagious in some way.
‘Can you eat vegetable soup?’ Pat wondered.
‘I can eat pretty much anything so long as there aren’t any prawns involved.’
‘Well here’s an idea then…’ she smiled, ‘Emily, I have some leftover vegetable soup from lunch in a Tupperware container in the refrigerator. Would you mind heating
that
up for Beede?’
‘You want me to heat up some
old
vegetable soup?’ Emily asked, aghast.
‘Yes. You said the main course would be half an hour late, so hopefully you should have…’
Pat inspected her watch.
Emily turned and left the room.
Pat glanced up, with a slight frown, surprised to see Emily gone.
‘Well
that’s
good then,’ she said.
‘Please,’ Beede gestured expansively to the table, ‘don’t let your starters get cold on my account.’
‘Are you
sure
?’ Pat asked.
‘Never more so.’
‘Tom’s already started,’ Cheryl murmured, picking up her spoon.
They all commenced eating, except for Laura.
‘I see no earthly reason why Alice would feel the need to
lie
…’ she suddenly said.
‘Please forgive my wife,’ Charlie told the table, ‘she’s taking antidepressants and they’re making her a little…’ he paused, speculatively, reaching for the perfect word ‘…
irritating.
’
Laura’s hand flew up to cover her mouth.
‘So do you work on a
rota
system in the laundry?’ Cheryl asked.
‘Yes,’ Beede answered.
‘I was always under the impression that you worked alongside Isidore,’ Tom interjected.
‘
Isidore?
’ Beede looked momentarily anxious. ‘Yes.
Yes.
I
do
, occasionally,’ he hastily conceded, ‘on the local guided tours.’
‘Isidore?’ Charlie looked up from his soup. ‘You mean the German who works for Jeff Ronsard over at Ronsard Security?’
Beede nodded.
‘Lovely chap. Know him well. I provide their fleet. Jeff’s an old pal of mine.’
‘Aren’t you
hungry
, Laura?’ Pat enquired, tentatively.
Laura picked up her spoon and tried to eat a mouthful of soup, but her hand was shaking, almost uncontrollably.
‘Would you like to come to the
bathroom
?’ Pat asked, making as if to stand up.
‘No,’ Laura said, ‘I’m fine.’
She paused. ‘And I’m very sorry,’ she added, ‘if my behaviour’s proved
irritating
to anybody this evening.’
‘Don’t be
silly
,’ Tom chided her, fondly.
‘You said it, old boy,’ Charlie seconded him, perhaps a fraction less tenderly.
Laura threw down her spoon. ‘That’s
it
,’ she hissed at her husband. ‘You’ve been taking pot shots at me
all night
and I’ve had just about
enough.
’
‘Let’s go to the bathroom, Laura,’ Pat stood up.
‘I don’t
need
to go to the bathroom,’ Laura snapped, ‘I’m not a
child.
Just
sit down.
’
Pat sat down, shocked.
‘You’re just tired,’ Charlie told her, ‘and a little
confused.
’
‘I am
not
confused. I know
perfectly well
what’s going on here.’
Emily re-entered the room, carrying a bowlful of soup. She whisked away Beede’s empty setting and placed it down, reverently, before him.
‘Nothing’s going
on
, Laura,’ Cheryl muttered.
‘If you
must
know, Cheryl,’ Laura snarled, ‘hell’d freeze over before I’d look to
you
for support.’
Cheryl seemed taken aback.
‘Is your soup warm enough?’ Pat asked Beede. ‘Because it didn’t seem to take her very long…’
Laura also glanced over at Beede, as if perceiving
him
, at least, to be a dispassionate observer.
‘Have
you
noticed him taking pot shots?’ she asked.
‘Uh…’ Beede picked up his spoon. ‘This looks
delicious
,’ he said, dipping it into the soup and then consuming a large mouthful.
The soup was ice cold. He tried not to grimace as he swallowed.
‘Is that good?’ Pat asked.
‘Wonderful,’ he patted his lips with his napkin.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
He took another spoonful.
‘It’s cold,’ Cheryl said, peering down into his bowl, ‘isn’t it?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Am I not only
irritating
but
INAUDIBLE
now?’ Laura yelled.
Beede leaned back, slightly alarmed, as Cheryl touched the side of his bowl.
‘Ice cold,’ she pronounced.
‘Is it?’ Pat asked.
‘
Ice
bloody cold.’
‘Are you sure?’ Tom asked.
‘
You
feel it.’
Cheryl picked up Beede’s bowl and passed it over to her brother.
‘Perhaps he has,’ Beede quietly conceded ‘…been a little…a little
sharp
at points. But I don’t think…’
Charlie glanced up from his soup, shocked.
‘Sharp? Me? Absolutely not.’
‘That
is
cold,’ Tom pronounced, sticking his spoon in and trying some. ‘Jesus
Christ.
It’s disgusting.’
‘
See?!
’ Laura spat.
‘But obviously I don’t…That’s just…that’s…’ Beede stuttered. ‘You may be the new Chairman of the Road Crossing Initiative, Beede,’ Charlie told him, perfectly cordially, ‘but you are not – Thank God – the Chairman of my marriage.’
‘No. Of course. And I wouldn’t…’
Laura picked up her spoon and began eating, voraciously. Charlie glanced over at her. ‘This soup is good, Laura,’ he said, ‘isn’t it?’
‘
Fuck. Right. Off
,’ she sang.
‘She shouldn’t get away with that,’ Cheryl told Pat. ‘I mean how much are you
paying
her?’