Clifford suddenly came into my mind, or rather, the shell that is now Clifford did. Even after two weeks of daily visits, I am still shocked by how small this huge man looks, trapped in his hospital bed. His substantial frame dwarfed by the array of machines and monitors that surround him – pulsing their information, both visually and audibly in a language that no one who sits by his bedside can understand. On the occasions, the regular occasions, when a piece of equipment suddenly drones out a shrill single note, we, Clifford’s visitors, look at each other, waiting for a member of staff to arrive to investigate. But always, in moments, with concern etched across all of our faces, one of us will retire to find a nurse. They will arrive, press a red or green button a number of times to reset the monitor in question and banish the sound. Turning their attention to Clifford, they take hold of his tired hand and ask if he feels comfortable. And always, the farmer simply nods his head meekly.
Today’s visit had a different feel. For the past fortnight, he has had two small plastic tubes taped to his cheeks that meet beneath his nostrils. These, we have been told, help get oxygen into his lungs easily. It was deemed a temporary measure, as they wait for his body to respond to the antibiotics that have been administrated to clear the lung infection that brought him here in the first place.
But today the plastic tubes were gone, replaced by a full face mask, clamped around his head with elastic. The clear plastic form resembled an imagined futuristic fighter pilot of yesteryear movies.
Now today we have been told that Clifford has not responded well to the antibiotics, so a different course will be tried.
The mask is, again, supposedly a temporary measure, in place to ease the strain on his heart and lungs. Yet with all this reassurance from the medical professionals, I watched today as his barrel chest heaved up and down in shallow breaths, attempting to use the pure oxygen pumped from the wall behind him.
He can speak with the mask on, but cannot be heard. With the mask off he can be heard, but very quickly runs out of breath and needs the mask replaced.
Eating, I have seen, is extremely challenging for him. The summer fete bouncer is reduced to taking a few mouthfuls of soup from a spoon held to his lips by Mary, before he slips the mask back over his nose and mouth to draw a breath and swallow the liquid down. And yet, the medics tell us to wait and let the antibiotics work.
Car doors closing and voices laughing brought me back into the golf club car park. I focused through the windscreen of my van and saw the car park now half full and the light beginning to fade around me. Through my wing mirror, I spied couples walking toward the clubhouse, now brightly illuminated from inside in the twilight. And all the while, my observations went unnoticed. I still hoped my initial enthusiasm for the Lombarders would hold steady, but looking at them heading en masse to the building, and with the knowledge from their treasurer of their extracurricular activities, I was reminded of moths attracted to a flame, or maybe, judging by their costumes, more like guests invited to the ugly bug ball. Their attire, manner and the venue brought me right back to that birthday celebration with Greg Dixon. Greg Dixon. My heart sank as my mind wrestled with the fact that he could be here tonight. I didn’t believe he would be a member, but as Mike had said, tonight was also a recruitment exercise for new blood. I was sure Sally’s brother would jump at the chance to enthuse about his beloved golf club to anyone unlucky enough to be in earshot.
I checked and straightened my bow tie slightly in the sun visor mirror, checked my new deck of cards was still firmly in the inside pocket of my dinner jacket and prepared to leave the sanctuary of my world and enter an alien one which I now foresaw would consist of rituals, toasts and tradition.
Well, I was wrong.
On stepping inside I was confronted by a scene of the ordinary; what I like to call normal people doing normal things. Groups stood around drinking, chatting, socialising. A mixture of excited chatter punctuated with regular cackles and laughter equalled a relaxed, friendly atmosphere.
I wandered around the edge of the bar searching for faces, smiling and nodding to anyone that caught my eye, choosing who to approach. I stopped when I was in close proximity to a group of four, two women and two men. All middle-aged, three listening to one of the ladies who was speaking, dressed in a shimmering black dress and patent leather high-heeled shoes. I moved around so as to be in her vision and smiled as our eyes met briefly as she continued to speak. She was aware I was listening but I knew she would conclude her story. With her anecdote delivered, they all laughed in unison and I waited for my chance. As the laughter died down to smiles I spoke.
‘Excuse me for interrupting; would you like to see some magic?’ I asked in a deep tone, which hinted at an air of authority. ‘Real magic!’ I stated in the same tone, directly at the woman in the shimmering black dress.
‘Mike said there was a magician here tonight,’ she replied excitedly. ‘Go on, it will be fun!’ she added, looking at her companions.
With the group turned to face me and smiling, I retrieved my cards from my breast pocket. I examined the pack, still in its clear plastic wrapping, turning it over and over in my hands. I looked up in mock horror at my audience, studying each of their faces individually. I cleared my throat and rubbed my fingers over my lips.
‘Well, this is quite embarrassing,’ I lied. ‘My wife has packed a new deck of cards.’
In response, my audience smiled politely.
‘I normally use my tried and tested ones,’ I lamented, while in reality, I had simply sealed up a set with duplicate cards already concealed within.
At this point I knew I was losing one of the men. His withdrawn smile showed a level of contempt for me and my audacity in interrupting his evening. But it was this very reaction that gave me the buzz; to be able to pull him back and have confidence in my ability was my reason for performing.
‘Well, you will have to perform real magic as you said you can!’ teased the woman in black, right on cue. I had, as always, chosen well.
‘Have you ever seen close magic before?’ I quizzed.
Three faces shook in front of me, while the fourth stayed still.
‘Me neither!’ I exclaimed.
Three faces smiled; the fourth remained tight-lipped.
‘You sure you don’t want to see a coin trick instead?’
She shook her head at me and wrinkled her nose.
‘Ah, okay. What’s the worst that could happen?’ I pleaded with mock distress in my voice. I cleared my throat as I unwrapped the pack. ‘I have the van running in the car park just in case though,’ I added quickly.
As predicted, three smiles turned into polite laughter.
I placed the plastic in my waistcoat pocket and withdrew the cards and discarded the two jokers, again into my waistcoat pocket. Keeping eye contact with the woman in the black dress, I then split the cards and shuffled them.
‘Pick two cards,’ I commanded, while offering the fanned-out pack to her.
I turned my head away as her fingers hovered over the cards.
‘Look at them and return them to the pack, but do not show me. Done it?’ I asked, already having hold of the card she had selected and returned.
‘Yes, I have,’ she replied, looking to her friends with a smile.
‘Very good. Okay, let’s…’ I trailed off as a round of applause emanated from the entrance and quickly engulfed the room.
I stood, puzzled by this commotion, and searched for an explanation on the faces around me.
Then the chanting began.
Initially, only two or three male voices could be heard, which were rapidly joined by others in the room.
‘Snoddy! Snodddy! Snoddy! Oi! Oi! Oi! Snoddy! Snoddy! Snoddy! Oi! Oi! Oi! Snoddy! Oi! Snoddy! Oi! Snoddy! Snoddy! Snoddy! Oi! Oi! Oi!’
And so it continued, almost tribal, above the applause a
nd occasional wolf whistle.
A small man with wayward, thinning grey hair and a shocking yellow bow tie appeared in the centre of the room. He unashamedly milked the adoration with a playful push of his hands at the wrists, while at the same time, lifting his eyes upward. This, evidently, was ‘Snoddy’. Accompanying him was a slightly younger woman who somehow had squeezed into a red dress that would have still been questionable for her to wear ten years and two sizes ago. Like Snoddy, she appeared to love the attention their entrance had commanded.
Before I could ask the group I was stood with to identify the couple, Mike the treasurer announced, loudly and to yet more thunderous applause, ‘Gentlemen and lady guests, I present to you, your chairman Roger Snodd and his lovely partner Melaine.’
The couple snaked their arms around each other’s waists and again held the moment for as long as was possible, both grinning broadly.
Eventually the chairman invited quiet with the repeated descent and ascent of his outstretched palm.
‘Friends!’ he began. ‘And that includes you, Freddy!’ he added, pointing to a tall, lean man standing at the far end of the bar, much to the amusement of all the guests. Freddy merely pointed back at the chairman in the same fashion, while those around him whooped their approval.
‘It’s been a hard year,’ he continued. ‘Especially that weekend in Berlin!’
His guests responded with more whooping and laughter.
‘But seriously, let’s not forget or lose sight of what this evening is for. To say thank you to our partners for all their support and understanding for those many, many times we could not be home during the year because of committee business.’
‘Hear, hear, Snoddy!’ came the murmured replies from the men present.
‘And also let’s also acknowledge we are all in equal partnerships,’ he added.
‘Hear, hear!’
‘For example, I drove here tonight and the lovely Melanie is going to drive home! A perfect example of equal partnership in action!’
The room erupted in hysterical, uncontrollable male laughter, the loudest of which came from Roger Snodd himself.
And that was, I sensed, the beginning of the end of the evening for me. With the arrival of Roger Snodd they all appeared to lose any idea of decorum or maturity. I say all, when in reality it was only the male guests behaving in this manner. It was as if the chairman’s arrival had ushered in a relapse into juvenile behaviour, where the males goaded and egged each other on. Being in this business for some time, you get a feel for how things will go and in these circumstances, it would be impossible for me to perform with the level of collective heckling this could release. As they were behaving like children, I could only hope they would calm down in the same way. My hopes lay with the meal and the Lombarders sitting at tables as responsible adults. Although the consumption of alcohol, if continued at the current rate, could provide even further complications in any future performances during or after dinner. I had to see how things panned out.
I knew Mike the treasurer would not mind me not performing at the reception, and I now thought I understood his nervous state as the tables were being laid out.
I decided that instead of wandering around the bar, I should go and have my meal in the kitchen. I pushed through toward the double doors leading to the dining room.
En route, through much ‘Excuse me, coming through’ on my part, my buttocks were pinched twice and playfully slapped three times, and on each occasion as I turned around, the male instigators merely commented, ‘Sorry, thought you were someone else!’ much to their own amusement and that of those around them. On the last occasion, near the swing doors, ‘Another round?’ was also uttered as the group downed the contents of their glasses in unison.
I was relieved to enter the dining room and found all the tables now set up, the lighting low, helium-filled balloons tied to each and every chair and copious amounts of as yet unopened wine bottles centred in the middle of each table.
Beyond the tables, in the far corner of the room, the DJ for the evening stood behind his decks, finishing his sound checks into the microphone.
‘Two-two. One-two. Two-two.’
This continued, with adjustments to the EQ, for some time. However, I am not sure why he bothered; I was convinced that if his audience heard feedback, they would probably cheer. I also had a good idea of the reaction if any of the waiting staff had the misfortune to drop and break any crockery or glasses once dinner commenced.
I entered the kitchen where a number of the waiting staff sat, relaxing after eating their meal, taking the chance to be calm before the storm brewing just beyond the double doors was unleashed. I introduced myself and was asked to join them, and moments later a plate of roast dinner was presented to me by a chef, which I gladly tucked into. Outside in the dining room all had become quiet, the sound check confirmed as officially over with the appearance of the DJ in the kitchen. He didn’t introduce himself to the house staff; he was the only male in the building (apart from the chefs) not wearing a dinner jacket and bow tie, instead sporting a short-sleeved purple shirt, bootleg jeans and tan cowboy boots. He had a mobile DJ air about him. He nodded hello to me, before he too tackled the food presented to him.
The waiting staff stood as one and headed out into the dining room for a final brief from the banqueting manager, leaving the DJ and me to eat our food in peace. We didn’t speakas we ate, the only sounds were the constant, frantic noise of cooking behind us.
‘Steve Monroe,’ he finally said to me while putting down his knife and fork on his now-empty plate.
‘Eddie Dungiven,’ I replied, and we shook hands.
‘You are the magician, right?’
‘Yes, although not sure how much I can do with a crowd like this,’ I stated, nodding my head toward the bar.
Steve laughed. ‘Just you and me tonight,’ he said.
‘What about the other guy? The comic hypnotist?’
‘A no-show, I think! I heard the guy who booked me taking a call when I arrived.’
‘Really? He seemed extremely stressed when I arrived, but back there in the bar now he’s giving it full throttle like the rest of them. Not a care!’
‘Maybe ’cause he knows they don’t really care about the acts! No offence, Eddie.’
‘None taken,’ I replied.
‘All they want is to let their hair down, have a laugh and a boogie. Nothing wrong in that, is there?’ asked Steve.
‘No, of course not.’
‘But you are like me, not happy getting paid unless you feel you have actually earned it. Am I right?’
I nodded and Steve laughed.
‘They booked me last year and it was an eye-opener, that’s for sure. You should hear some of the songs they requested – no, actually demanded that I play. Well, you will do in a couple of hours! It’s all very bizarre.’
‘What songs?’ I asked, intrigued.
‘Wait and see! My advice,’ Steve continued, ‘is just go with it.’
‘Are we ready?’ asked the banqueting manager, poking his head around the door into the kitchen.
‘Certainly, Seb,’ replied the head chef – I presumed he was the head chef; he had the largest hat on, the loudest voice and appeared to sweat the most out of all the kitchen staff.
‘Excellent! We need to get some food inside them out there,’ replied Seb.
With that, he let the door go and in thirty seconds we could hear him announcing at the bar entrance that dinner was now served.
The predictable cheer, though muffled by the space between us, rose up as they heard the news, accompanied by a different chant this time to the tune of Hot Hot Hot.
‘Time for food, food, food,’ was repeated over and over, and grew louder as the dining room filled.
Steve Monroe the mobile DJ was
right; I had to just go with it.
I wandered out from the kitchen and hugged the wall, observing the Lombarders before me. When all had taken their seats it didn’t take very long for someone at the table in front of me to untie the helium balloon attached to his chair and inhale the gas.
He turned to the lady guest to his left, tapped her on the arm and said, as she turned, in a comical, squeaky voice, ‘My name’s David, shall we get a room?’
The table erupted into hysterics. She took the balloon from him and inhaled deeply.
‘Piss off!’ she squawked back at him. That was the green light for the activity to flow to every table. And all this before the first course had even arrived from the kitchen!
Again, all attention swung to Snoddy as he and the lovely Melanie arrived minutes after all the other guests. All stood, surprisingly, in silence until he and his partner had taken their seats.
Food consumption did seem to calm them all slightly. Each course, bizarrely I thought, began and ended with a toast. It all seemed a bit excessive and overindulgent. All were asked by Snoddy to be upstanding and then recite back the name he was toasting. On each occasion, the full contents of their glasses were expected to be downed in one. I noticed, after the first few toasts, hands greedily taking a wine bottle and filling up their glasses before the next toast was announced. He began by toasting the Queen; then moved forward to ex-chairmen and onward to obscure historical individuals from New Zealand, Bermuda and Zanzibar who had connections, however loose, with the Lombarders. Before the cheese and biscuits Snoddy gave the ‘gentlemen’ permission to remove their jackets, which heralded whistling and hands banging on the table cloths all around the dining room.
I wandered casually toward the back of the room, looking for any signs that a table would be receptive to a trick.
A voice to my left caught my attention as I passed by.
‘Excuse me, another bottle of Chablis here,’ commanded a familiar voice.
Chasing the Sun with Henry Page 16
