The three boys rearranged themselves rather selfconsciously.
'You know these creeps, do you? Joe, Colin. And the gooseberry's Stanley.'
Jenny smiled.
'Hi. I've seen them around. How's your dad, Stanley?'
'Fine,' mumbled the boy.
Jenny smiled again, feeling a kind of desperate brightness sweeping over her, a need to avoid silences. 'Stanley lives in our road. It used to be his main ambition to see my knickers. Stanley the Watcher I used to call him.' She laughed, the others smiled politely. Stanley went very red, then very pale. That's a lie. That's a stupid thing to say. I don't know why you . . .' He trembled to a stop as the others looked at him in mild surprise. 'You mean you didn't want to see her knickers?' said Sheila. 'That's not very complimentary. Why don't you make yourself useful, get Jenny a drink or something? You can't expect her to get them in on a student's grant.' Miaow, thought Jenny as young Curtis stood up awkwardly and set off for the bar, turning after a couple of steps to ask, 'What do you want?'
'Bitter, please. Pint.'
'Female emancipation,' said Sheila. 'I can remember doing that for "O" level history.'
'So?'
'Well, so old Wilson used to tell us that lots of men opposed it because they felt it would lead to women in trousers sitting in pubs drinking pints of bitter. It was one of his jokes. He'd laugh if he could see you.' 'Perhaps he can,' said one of the two remaining boys. 'He's dead, so he might be watching.' Something violent happened under the table, and the boy looked startled, then apologetic. 'Look, Jenny,' said Sheila, 'we were all dead sorry to hear about your mother. That was rotten.'
They all nodded agreement, Mavis carefully as ever.
'Yes, it was. Thanks,' said Jenny. 'But life goes on.'
'That's one way of looking at it,' said Sheila.
'No, that's two ways of looking at it,' answered Jenny. 'One way, my life goes on despite my mother's death; the other way, someone else's life goes on because of it.' 'My, college has made you even sharper,' said Sheila with a thin smile. Jenny sensed she was losing a friend, or rather, cutting the last few strands which held their friendship together. She and Sheila had been very close at school up to the Fifth Form. They had both planned to stop on in the Sixth, then at the last moment, half way through the summer holidays in fact, Sheila had announced she was getting a job.
That had all been more than two years before. They'd
seen each other fairly regularly since, but more and more competitively as time went on.
Now it didn't matter who won or lost.
Thanks, Stanley,' she said, taking the pint which had been deposited rather ungraciously before her. 'Cheers.' She took a mouthful, coughed and grimaced wryly at Sheila, who smiled back with something of their old affection. In fact Jenny was really very fond of beer, but she recognized that while an attempt to show off could be tolerated, careless expertize would only antagonize further.
'What're you all up to, then?' she asked.
'We, that is Mavis and me (or I, should I say?) are being entertained by these young gentlemen. Lavishly, as you can see.'
'What about you, Stan?'
'He's waiting,' interjected one of the boys quickly.
Tor what?'
They all laughed. Stanley shrugged and tried to look unconcerned. He made quite a decent job of it too.
'Cheer up. She might be along later,' said Sheila.
'He fancies Gwen Evans.' It was Mavis who spoke. Jenny remembered that the joke had always stopped at Mavis.
'All the men fancy Gwen,' said Sheila.
But not all the women, eh? thought Jenny. She knew Gwen Evans only slightly; she had seen her at the funeral, and previous to that a couple of times, but the memory stuck. 'I'd have thought she was a bit old for you, Stanley,' she said.
Sheila wrinkled her nose scornfully.
'It's all in the mind anyway. This lot read about all these teenage orgies and think they're missing out somehow.'
Joe and Colin grinned unconcernedly.
Now you don't look as if you're missing out, my lads, thought Jenny. 'Anyway,' Sheila went on, 'it's all happening at the universities and colleges, isn't it, Jenny? The intellectualsexual bit.'
Here we go again.
'Yeah,' said Colin with some enthusiasm, 'all those wild birds. It's all wiggle-waggle and jiggle-joggle at those places.' 'We have our moments,' said Jenny. She looked around the room. She wasn't quite sure why she had come here at all, but it certainly wasn't so she could sit and chat with this lot. They were too young for a start. Whoever it was that was menacing her with letters (a letter, she corrected herself, but feeling certain there would be more), whoever it was that had anything to do with her mother's death, that person, or those persons, would belong to her father's age group. What do I want anyway, she thought. To find out who wrote that letter? To find out if there was any truth in it? He could have denied it, he could have been positive, but all he did was tell me he loved me, that it didn't matter. Not matter? Something matters. If it doesn't matter, that matters. Miss Freud, that's me. Shortly to be Miss Sherlock Holmes. But how to start? What do people like Fat Dalziel and Popsy Pascoe do to get things moving? On the telly they just talk to people and find things out. But how do you know who to talk to in the first place?
'There she blows, Stanley,' said Joe.
Jenny turned her head. Her first impression was of an exotically beautiful woman lightly covered in a very revealing dress. But this was only for a second. Gwen Evans wore neither less nor more make-up than most other women in the room, her skirt was by no means the shortest there, her dress zipped up the front right up to the collar and she had a cardigan draped casually over her shoulders. It was the way she moved, the animation of her face, the way she held herself that made her presence so electric, not any ultra-daring revelation of flesh. Her husband was in close attendance at the moment but Jenny knew he was due at the meeting. The man behind the bar said something to him, probably a reminder, for he nodded, spoke to his wife, then with a quick look round the room, he left. Gwen too was looking round the room, more slowly, deliberately. Her gaze met Jenny's and paused. Then she smiled an acknowledgment and dropped an eyelid in half a wink. Jenny was surprised to feel herself flattered by this hint of intimacy between them.
'What're you waiting for, Stan?'
Stanley stood up awkwardly. 'Excuse me,' he said. 'I've got some work to do at home.' He moved across the room and out of the door without a glance at Gwen. 'My!' said Sheila. 'Perhaps he's got delusions of grandeur and is playing hard to get.' Jenny suddenly didn't care for her in the least. She downed the remaining beer in her glass in one easy draught. T think I'll circulate a bit,' she said. 'It's been nice having a chat.'
'Suit yourself,' said Sheila.
'Cheerio.' Near the bar she caught a glimpse of Marcus's round head and began to make her way towards him. When she got a little closer she saw he was talking to the man she'd had the brush with when she first came in, and she hesitated in her progress. Marcus turned at that moment and saw her. His face showed surprise, then pleasure.
'Jenny,' he said. 'Come and have a drink, love.'
She smiled back and squeezed through the intervening people to his side. 'Are you by yourself?' he asked, his eyes probing the further corners of the room.
'Daddy's in the committee meeting.'
'Of course. I'm glad he decided to come. It'll do him good to get out and about. You too. Here, what'll you have?'
'I'll have a scotch if you insist.'
'Oh, but I do. One scotch. You ready for another, Ted?' He took the large man's glass without waiting for a reply. 'You know Ted, do you? Ted Morgan. This is Jenny Connon, Connie's daughter. This is Ted. He's the biggest gossip in the Club so be careful what you tell him about me. Won't be a sec.' Marcus turned to the bar and ruthlessly elbowed his way through to the pole position.
Jenny looked at Morgan with interest.
'Look,' he said. 'I'm sorry if I was rude
before. But I didn't recognize you at first. I've only ever seen you a couple of times, with your dad at matches.' His face was set into the perfect sympathetic mould now. But his eyes were still assessing what lay beneath her Marks and Spencer jumper. Perhaps I should introduce them to him. Now this one on the left is Marks, and this other is Sparks. Say hello nicely. She grinned at the thought and the solemn angles of Ted's mouth relaxed also.
'I'm sorry if I was rude to you, too, Mr Morgan.'
'Call me Ted.' Ts it true what Marcus said? That you're the biggest gossip in the Club?' 'Certainly,' said Ted. 'Bigger than that, even. There's not much happens here that I don't know.' He nodded with mock-solemnity. Jenny found herself quite liking him.
'And how long have you been a member?'
'Since I was a nipper. My dad didn't like to beat me, so he made me join him.' Jenny laughed with more enthusiasm than the witticism merited. Ted hasn't told you one of his jokes, has he? Be careful, Ted, will you? Jenny's not one of your ancient barmaids.' Marcus handed her a goblet of scotch and Ted another pint.
'I'm being entertained very well, thank you, Marcus.'
'Good-oh. Well, here's how.' They all drank. A loud outburst of laughter came from the bar. Jenny glanced over. The source was the group round Gwen Evans. Beyond them, just coming in through the door, she saw Pascoe. He edged his way through the standing drinkers and for a moment she thought he was going to join her, but he merely nodded and drifted down the room, taking up a position by the wall where he seemed to become engrossed in watching the efforts of a group of youngsters on the one-armed bandit. I shouldn't be at all surprised if he didn't fancy me, thought Jenny. Perhaps not though, I seem to fancy every man I meet fancies me at the moment. Either I'm at the height of my powers or I'm suffering from delusions of grandeur. Like poor Stanley. Gwen Evans wouldn't bother with a kid like that, not when she could have the pick of the men in this room. Or any of the other rooms either. And her heart gave just a little kick of worry as she turned to Ted Morgan again. Clickity, clickity, clickity, click. A lemon, a bell and a cherry. Clickity, clickity, clickity, click. Two bells and an orange. Clickity, clickity, clickity. If you had stood as I have done for five hours in a draughty ante-room of a courthouse sticking sixpences into one of those things to see how frequently it paid out, you wouldn't be so keen to chuck your money away, son. Couldn't understand it, could he? Two or three jackpots a night in the Club. Anyone'd tell you. My client wonders if the police have been as thorough in their research as they seem to imply. Perhaps the constable who carried out the test was merely having a run of bad luck. It is in the very nature of the entertainment offered by these machines that the result should be irregular, unforecastable. Odds must be measured over weeks, months, not hours. And me with my second-class honours degree, standing there with corns on my hands saying yes sir, no sir, till I made my smart answer, my quick repartee. Then everyone tut-tuts. And they all jump on me from great heights till corns on my hand seem like the fringe benefits of delirious joy. But no joy for Pascoe, nowhere. Little Jenny there, glad she's there, not elsewhere, listening to phone calls, opening letters; but no joy there for you Pascoe. Not yet. Not ever? She's very friendly with those two, though; Felstead, Marcus, and Morgan, Edward. Lucky them, but not her style, not big Ted. He looks as if the pools have come up for him. And over there, beyond the blue horizon of desire, Gwen, backseat driver. Gwen, change any gears and we're airborne. That brass ring at her neck, attached to the zip all the way down that dress, like the ring you hold on to when you leap from a plane, plunging in free fall till you dare no more, then you pull the ring down, down and float in airy freedom, master of all you survey. For a CID man you've no head for beer. Another pint and you'd be like those young lads all falling over themselves to make an impression. Or like fat Dalziel. Worse. Please God, don't let me become like fat Dalziel. But he at least is probing, sniffing around, trying to get things moving, not losing himself vainly in mazes of mental erotica. Listen. Look. Look and listen. That's why you're here. And don't just look over there. 'Everything?' said the highly made-up girl on the table behind him, her eyes rounding with interest into O's of mascara. 'Yeah,' said one of the two boys at the table, 'that's what he told me. He said he reckoned she wanted him to see. You know. Sort of egging him on.'
'More wishful thinking,' said the other girl scornfully.
'Mebbe. Mebbe not. Anyway, you know what he did?' 'No. And I don't want to. Let's go next door and dance a bit. Coming?'
'Oh, all right then. Off we go.'
Even when I eavesdrop I hear nothing but sex, thought Pascoe watching the four of them disappear out of the bar. Now there was that fellow Roberts. Jacko Roberts. He seemed an interesting kind of man. Perhaps worth a word or two.
Dalziel might not like it, of course.
'Dalziel,' he murmured audibly enough for the fruitmachine victims to glance his way, 'is not bloody well going to get it.' He began to move towards the end of the bar where Jacko Roberts was drinking alone.
'Any other business,' asked Willie Noolan.
There's this competitive rugby survey thing that's come round from The Times,'' said Reg Certes, the club secretary. 'Propose that a general meeting of members be convened to discuss the whole question,' said Connon.
'Seconded,' said Sid Hope.
'Any opposition? Right, carried. What about timing?'
'Week Friday'd be all right,' said Certes.
'Agreed? Right. Anything else?'
'Just one thing if I may, Willie.' Noolan glanced at his watch. If it had been anyone other than Connie . . . but he could hardly choke him off.
'Yes, Connie.'
Connon looked round the table for a moment as though choosing his words carefully. But they had been chosen for some little time already. 'Mr President,' he said, and the formality of his voice made the others pay him even closer attention. 'Yesterday, the day of my late wife's funeral, my daughter received an anonymous letter. I believe it came from someone connected with this Club.' Evans let out a long whistle. The others merely looked stunned. Then Noolan and Sid Hope both spoke at once.
'What grounds have you . . .?'
'What did it say . . .?'
They both tailed off.
'Your ball, I think, Willie,' said Hope. I'll answer you both. Or rather, I won't,' interjected Connon. 'I won't reveal my grounds. Nor will I tell you what the letter said. The writer already knows. It concerns no one else.' 'Well, Connie,' said Noolan expansively, 'I'm sure we're all very sensible of the strain of your situation and the shock this kind of thing, whatever it said, must have caused both you and Jenny. But I don't think that a committee meeting is the proper or best place to discuss this, do you? Let's close the meeting, then we can talk informally. This isn't the kind of thing we'd want to see in the minutes, is it?' 'Yes,' said Connon. 'It is. I'd like to propose that the writer of this letter when known should be barred for life from the Club.' 'You're being a bit bloody silly there, aren't you, Connie?' snorted Arthur Evans. 'I mean, how can you bar him from the Club if you don't know who it is, then?' He looked round, acknowledging the triumph of logic by a small rocking movement of the head. The others were looking at Connon, however, each doubtful what to say. Certes, the first team secretary and the youngest there, the man most likely to succeed Hurst as captain, had a rather different problem. He was the least well acquainted with Connon and had no intention of saying anything at the moment. His problem was knowing what to write. His pen rested, unmoving, on his notebook. 'Connie,' said Noolan finally, 'I don't think this is an admissible proposition. Firstly, Arthur's right. We can't bar someone we don't know.' 'I didn't say I didn't know him,' said Connon. Now jump, you buggers. Now stare in wild surmise. This is that thing called change. Things will never be the same again. Till I let them.
Noolan was the only one who did not react.
'Then it is your plain duty to inform the police of your knowledge.'
'Haven't I just done that, Willie?'
Now
there's one in the breadbasket for you, you old goat, thought Evans. That's got you nonplussed. Spend all your life hanging around on the edge of the scrum and it comes as a bit of a shock to get a pair of fingers up your nostrils. 'Our discussions at these meetings are minuted, Connie, and as such are published to our members.' 'I know. I haven't noticed Reg writing much for the past few minutes, though. Have you made a note of my proposition, Reg?'
Still without speaking, Certes began to scribble.
'Very well, Connie,' said Noolan resignedly. 'We have a motion proposed by Mr Connon. Is there a seconder?' The blare of music from the social room came in very loud. Connon felt a drum start beating in his head. The edge of pain began to intrude between the muffled notes. He put up his hand and began to massage his temple.
'Are you all right, Connie?' asked Hurst.
'Yes, fine. Just a headache.' The wheels were turning now. He hadn't felt anything for three days now. But it was back. McManus would have to do something. Old fool. Long past it. What can he know about . . .
I'll second it.'
Well, that's scuppered you, Willie.
It was Arthur Evans's distinctive lilt.
'In that case, unless there's any further discussion we'll take a vote.' 'Just one point,' said Hurst. 'What does it mean if we pass this motion?' 'Nothing until they catch this fellow, whoever he is. Then if he's in the Club, he gets thrown out. If he's not in, he can't get in.' 'We're still very much in the dark though, Connie. Can you assure us that the contents of this letter were such as make such action reasonable?' 'You know my daughter? They caused her very real distress. Actionable assertions were made.'
'Right-oh. Go on, Willie.'
'Let's have a vote then. Those in favour?' Firmly, Arthur's hand went up, Hurst's. Certe's. More slowly Hope's.
'And you, of course, Connie.'
'Of course. And you, Willie?' 'It's not part of my function to vote here, unless the meeting is deadlocked. Carried unanimously. Anything else? No? Then I declare the meeting closed.' They sat still for a second, then Evans stood up and pushed his chair back and the others followed.
Hill, Reginald - Dalziel and Pascoe 01 - A clubbable woman Page 8
