Authors: Michael Arditti
‘I don’t think so.’
‘It’s before your time. Before mine too,’ I add lamely, wondering what it is about his guileless gentleness that makes me so self-
conscious
. ‘I don’t have any music, I’m afraid.’
‘No problem, I only play by ear. You hum it and I’ll see if I can pick it up.’
He proves remarkably adept, although I suspect that he may find himself floundering when he has to deal with Richard. ‘He can be a little erratic,’ I explain.
‘Try keeping time with Fiona! I bet you it’ll be fine. The concert’s just a bit of fun. Besides, everyone’s so tanked up on free wine they never notice when anything goes wrong. In fact they look forward to it.’
‘Great!’ I say gloomily. Envying his composure, I go in search of Sophie, whom I find perched on a laundry basket in the
corridor
, staring disconsolately at her phone. I resist any ‘watched pot’
analogy for fear of losing her goodwill, which I shall need if she is to be my emissary to Gillian.
‘You know I’ve become friendly with Gillian Patterson.’
‘Come on, Vincent, I’m not one of the nuns!’
‘No, of course not.’ Stung, I see why Giles might have taken the opportunity to stray. ‘I was wondering if you might ask her out after the show.’
‘What?’
‘On my behalf.’
‘You mean “my mate really fancies you”? Aren’t you old enough to do your own dirty work?’
‘That’s just it – I don’t want her to think it’s dirty. If I ask, she’ll assume it can only lead to one thing.’ Sophie snorts. ‘She’ll feel
pressurised
, compromised. That bloody conscience of hers will start working overtime.’
‘Whereas this way she’ll be able to kid herself!’
‘Exactly.’
‘What is this?
High School Musical 3
?’
‘It’s our last night here. I don’t want to waste it. Please.’
‘Whatever,’ she says wearily.
‘That’s great, Sophie – I owe you. Now I’d better check that Jamie and Jewel are on the case.’
I join the crowd heading for the dining room, finding myself alongside Patricia and Maggie. ‘Let’s ask Mr O’Shaughnessy,’
Patricia
says.
‘Ask me what, ladies?’ I reply, with a rush of alarm.
‘Did you know there are more churches per person in Trinidad and Tobago than anywhere else in the world?’
‘Strangely enough, that’s one statistic that seems to have passed me by.’
‘Mona swore to it. I told her: “It’s no wonder you people are always smiling.”’
‘And what did she say to that?’
‘She smiled.’
Patricia and Maggie enter the dining room, avoiding the empty seats beside Gillian and Richard in their eagerness to sit at the front. I confer with Jamie and Jewel, agreeing that we will film any of our
core interviewees who take part, with the strict exception of Richard. First up is Father Humphrey who, with his wheezy vowels and
quivering
chins, might pass for the compère at a workingman’s club. He starts by leading us in a decade of the rosary, neatly ensuring that even the lamest of his subsequent jokes is greeted with relief. He is followed by Sheila Clunes, who trills ‘Danny Boy’ to an ovation that owes more to tact than to taste; four young brancardiers, who camp up ‘Dancing Queen’ with a relish that is lost on the current audience; Frank, who grunts ‘How Much Is That Doggy in the Window?’; and Martin, who stammers ‘The Shadow of Your Smile’.
The protracted pause after Martin’s song encourages me to move forward. Before summoning Richard to join me, I pay an impromptu tribute to the audience’s hospitality and trust. Conscious that I must now exhibit a similar trust – namely, that they will not yawn or gaze at their watches, let alone compare our version with a slicker one playing in their heads – I call on Richard, who leaps up like a newly promoted understudy. I glance at Gillian, whose face is a rictus of horror. Anxious to reassure her, I tell Alan to strum the opening chords. ‘Ready, Rich?’ I ask. He nods, remaining silent long after Alan has begun the first verse. He gradually relaxes and mouths the odd word. On the fifth line, I turn to find him staring me full in the face. I take his shoulder and twist him very slowly towards the front. His mumbling grows louder, although scarcely more coherent, until we come to the final couplet:
‘You must have been a beautiful baby
‘Cause baby look at you now.’
As if aware that it is his last chance, he belts it out straight at Gillian, which emboldens me to do the same. To my relief, she is smiling broadly, having banished – or at any rate concealed – her fears. After milking the applause, Richard returns to his seat and I rejoin Jamie and Jewel, ignoring the ironic edge to their compliments.
‘I’ve got to hand it to you, chief,’ Jamie says. ‘Talk about covering all bases.’
‘I just wanted to help Richard thank his wife.’
‘That’s what I like about you, Vincent,’ Jewel says. ‘You’re all heart.’
There is a further lull after our performance, not, I fear, because nobody feels confident to top it, but because of an unwitting
duplication in the programme – too many doggies in the window – which requires all Father Humphrey’s diplomacy to resolve. His success is rewarded by a double act from Fiona and Frank, which is even more mismatched than Richard’s and mine. After that Maggie, with unsuspected gusto, sings ‘I’m a Pink Toothbrush, You’re a Blue Toothbrush to Ken’, who looks as if he would rather suffer both
halitosis
and plaque. One of the nurses sings a nondescript love song, before Mona brings the show to a close with a stirring rendition of ‘Climb Every Mountain’.
Louisa steps forward with her usual blend of diffidence and determination. ‘If I may have your attention a moment longer.’ The hubbub dies down. ‘First, I’d like to thank all the wonderful
performers
for the very best show I can remember.’
‘You say that every year,’ Brenda interjects.
‘It just gets better and better. Now we’ve one final duty – or I should say, pleasure – to perform. The raffle. Thanks to your
generosity
every ticket has been sold, which will enable us to offer two subsidised places to hospital pilgrims next year.’ This prompts the loudest applause of the night. ‘So, if I may call on Father Humphrey to do the honours.’
‘Got your tickets ready, Vincent?’ Sophie asks.
‘All five of them,’ I reply, ‘thanks for that!’
‘Sh-sh!’ Maggie shouts, clutching her stubs as reverently as a rosary.
‘Rien ne va plus,’
Father Humphrey calls out, as he plunges a pudgy hand into the bag. ‘Third prize – a 2 lb box of Belgian chocolates, courtesy of our sponsors, Harringtons of Stroud, goes to number 26.’
‘That’s mine. Mine!’ Sheila Clunes shrieks, pushing herself forward so fast that I half-expect the sixty-eighth miracle of Lourdes, with her leaping out of her wheelchair to tear the voucher from his hands.
‘If there is a God, He has a sense of humour,’ I whisper to Sophie, just as her mobile goes off.
‘Shit! Sorry.’ She slips out of the room.
‘Occupational hazard,’ Louisa says indulgently. ‘Well done, Sheila. Promise not to eat them all at once.’ A roar of laughter prompts her to bite her lip. ‘Now our second prize please, Father.’
‘Our second prize is … what is our second prize?’
‘A two-hour session with a beautician and stylist followed by a unique personalised portrait at a studio near you, courtesy of another of our sponsors, Cyril’s Photographic Galleries,’ Louisa reads out.
Father Humphrey jiggles the bag and pulls out a ticket. ‘Number 333.’ There is no response. ‘All the threes – three hundred and
thirty-three
. Come on! Someone must have it.’
‘Over here!’ one of the brancardiers shouts. ‘Don’t be shy, Kev.’
‘Kevin, lad, is it you?’
‘I’ve got the ticket, yeah,’ he says grudgingly.
‘Well come up and get your voucher.’ As Kevin trudges to the front, I detect a measure of pride beneath the truculence.
‘I can give it to my mum,’ he says.
‘She may prefer to have a picture of you,’ Louisa says gently.
‘Does it include a plastic surgeon?’ Geoff calls out.
‘Don’t mind them, Kevin,’ Louisa says. ‘They’re just jealous.’
‘I don’t!’ Kevin says, his face resuming its habitual scowl.
‘Finally, we have tonight’s star prize. A weekend for two in Lourdes, courtesy of our tour operators, Remington Travel who, I’m sure you’ll all agree, have once again done us proud.’
‘And the winner is …’ Alan strums a few suspenseful chords on the guitar as Father Humphrey dips his hand into the bag. ‘Number 158. Who has number 158?’
No one speaks until Jamie, peering over my shoulder, exclaims: ‘It’s you, chief.’
‘What?’ I look with horror at the offending ticket.
‘This way!’ Jewel says, as everyone claps.
‘Well this is a turn-up!’ Louisa says. ‘Come on out, Vincent.’
‘I think someone must have paid a secret visit to the Crowned Virgin,’ Father Dave says, adding to my misery as I creep to the front.
‘Here you are, sir,’ Father Humphrey says, handing me an
envelope
. ‘You’ll be back again sooner than you thought.’
‘It’s a fix,’ Brenda shouts. ‘A bloody swindle!’
‘Now now, Brenda,’ Louisa says, in mollifying tones.
‘Yes, it’s all so as you can get your ugly mug on TV,’ Brenda shrieks at Louisa, before rounding on Father Humphrey. ‘Call yourself a priest? You should be ashamed. And you!’ She turns to Linda who sits, tinsel dangling over her face and a brimming glass of wine in
her hand. ‘Get off your bony arse and take me back to the room. That’s if you’re not too pissed.’
‘Watch out!’ Linda says. ‘The royal knickers are in a twist.’
‘Something else’ll be twisted in a minute. Get up!’
Linda stands tipsily and pushes Brenda out of the room.
‘Oh dear,’ I say, ‘I’d be happy to give the holiday to her, or anyone else for that matter.’
‘Nonsense,’ Louisa says. ‘Every year it’s the same. Isn’t that so, Marjorie?’
‘I’m afraid Brenda doesn’t always enter into the spirit of the
occasion
,’ Marjorie says. ‘Once she won second prize: a bottle of perfume – which I must say she … Anyway, she raised merry hell because it cost less than the third prize.’
I rejoin Jamie and Jewel who are now openly smirking, as Louisa winds up the proceedings. ‘Well done to Vincent and to all our winners. And to all our losers, because they’re winners too,’ she adds, with the usual Lourdes logic. ‘I’d like to remind you that we’re due at the baths at nine thirty. Meanwhile, enjoy the rest of the party. The night is yet young.’
Alan strums his guitar and Louisa herself moves to the piano, while handmaidens bring round wine and Coca-Cola. Sophie returns, looking relieved. ‘Sorry about that. It was Giles. He’s been in meetings all day. He left his mobile at the hotel. Everything’s sorted.’
‘I’m very glad. Now remember, you have a matter of a similar nature to arrange.’
‘I’m changing my job description – dogsbody, nursemaid and dating agent.’
As she walks over to Gillian, I turn to Jamie and Jewel for
distraction
. ‘Are you two hitting the bars?’
‘Not at all,’ Jewel says. ‘We’re off to the Solitude to join the brancs and girls in a game of charades.’
‘Just remember some of them lead sheltered lives,’ I say to Jamie. ‘We don’t want a repeat of the
Fanny by Gaslight
incident.’
Sophie comes back with the news that Gillian will meet me at the hotel as soon as she has settled Richard. I thank her warmly and hurry out of the room in the hope of triggering a general exodus. Nobody stirs.
I walk over the bridge to find the path blocked by the Torchlight procession which, yesterday, formed such a felicitous prelude to my encounter with Gillian. As I wait for a convenient gap, an old man with a wall eye wordlessly offers me a candle. Reluctant to offend him but refusing to dissemble, I shake his hand, which is itself waxy, and indicate that I am just passing through. I cross in front of a party of African nuns, whose black faces and white habits feel gloriously incongruous, and hurry up to St Joseph’s Gate and back to the hotel. While not even Madame BJ’s basilisk stare can daunt me tonight, I am relieved to see her young assistant at reception. I explain that Gillian will be arriving shortly and ask him to show her to the bar. One glance at the beery Liverpuddlians watching football is enough to change my mind. I return to the foyer and tell him that I will wait in my room.
I sit, stand and lie down, flicking through my newspaper and notebooks, as time plays its usual tricks. I hide the crystal angel under the pillow, ready for a chance discovery when she rests her head. I am torturing myself with all the reasons for her to cry off when a knock at the door makes me jump. ‘
Entrez
,’ I call, finding to my delight that it should have been ‘
Entres
’.
‘I told the receptionist to ring.’
‘I like to catch you off-guard.’
‘I’m always off-guard where you’re concerned.’
I leap up and kiss her: first delicately, even tentatively, to re-
establish
contact; then rapidly and repeatedly, to make her laugh; then deeply and at length, so that nothing can come between us.
‘I need to sit – to lie – down a moment,’ she says eventually.
‘Mi casa es tu casa.’
‘Spanish too? I thought you weren’t a linguist.’
‘Is it Spanish?’ I ask with a grin. ‘No wonder that Swiss guy looked confused.’
She stretches out on the bed, plumping up the pillows in a
thrillingly
proprietorial way. I perch on the edge, frightened of moving too fast.
‘Sophie knows?’ she says.
‘Jamie told them both. But don’t worry. They’re utterly discreet.’
‘What must they be thinking?’
‘That I’m a very lucky man. That we are very lucky people. That we should seize every scrap of happiness we can.’
‘I see you’ve picked a crew who share your philosophy.’
‘Are you angry with me?’
‘Of course not. Why should I be?’
‘Because of the song.’
‘I was touched … well, taken aback and a little terrified, but touched. I was touched.’