Dandruff Hits The Turtleneck Page 17
Chapter Seventeen
The Cheese and Wine Bash
The day had finally arrived, and despite having felt his own spirits rise considerably since witnessing the shambolic lifestyle of the local vicar, Arnold Matson woke up on the Wednesday morning wondering if he had done the right thing by inviting a few passing acquaintances and local fruit cakes to his public house for a heart to heart. After all, any sort of get-together tends to end in tears if everyone in the room is as self-opinionated and eccentric as some of Arnold’s guests clearly were, and that’s before they’ve guzzled free wine and laid into the pork pie and canapés. Couple that with the fragility of his own mind at this moment in time, and the whole evening could develop into twelve rounds of amateur boxing. No, he must remain calm. ‘I know,’ he thought, ‘I’ll give Harold Garstang a call and see how many people he reckons might turn up.’
Without a great deal to concern or distract him on his social calendar, old Harold Garstang was just adding a decent dollop of Scotch to his morning porridge when the telephone rang. His all-time favourite’s The Ink Spots, were belting out ‘If I Didn’t Care’ on his wheezing but loyal gramophone player and his three-legged cocker spaniel, Pinky, barked along to the cacophony of noise as the telephone and Ink Spots collided. Matson, recognizing he must have got the right number, waited patiently as Garstang called ‘Hang on, hang on,’ and turned down the volume. The dog continued for a few more seconds. ‘Now, quiet Pinky, quiet,’ ordered Garstang. The dog mooched, or rather limped off, without further ado.
‘Good morning, caller,’ sang Harold.
‘Harold, it’s me, Arnold. Sorry it’s a bit early but I’m just checking about tonight. Is it convenient, I can always call back? Didn’t realize it was this early.’
‘Nonsense, dear boy. Up before the lark has shaved in this house. Just preparing a spot of sustenance on the old stove. Porridge with a drop of the water of life.’
‘Oh, in that case I’ll call back. Wouldn’t want it to go cold,’ said Matson.
‘No, no, no,’ insisted Garstang, ‘if I tuck into that now it’ll take my lips off. Speak away, old thing, speak away…’
‘Just wondering how many people you had managed to round up for tonight,’ asked Matson.
‘Well,’ replied Garstang,’It’s hard to call at this stage. I ended up contacting about thirty, thirty-five, I suppose.’
‘Thirty-five!’ squawked Matson, ‘I thought you were only going to invite about half-a-dozen or so!’
‘Calm down, Arnie, calm down lad,’ soothed Matson, ‘there won’t be anywhere near that number actually turns up. In any case, I found out at least four of the people I tried to contact were dead.’
‘Dead?’ gulped Matson.
‘Comes to us all, dear boy, comes to us all…hang on, I’ll just give the porridge a stir…starting to look like ready mixed concrete.’ Arnold listened to the odd clank and Garstang strangling a line or two from ‘If I Didn’t Care’ and continued to fret at the other end of the line. Harold returned from the stove.
‘Zed Victor One, are you receiving me?’
‘Yes, I’m here, Harold,’ said Matson wearily, and then picking up the pace, ‘So, what do reckon, Harold? If I put enough grub on for about a dozen, do you think that will just about do it?’
‘Ample, dear boy, ample. What can they expect for nothing?’ Garstang had a point. ‘And in any case,’ the old bloke continued, ‘it’s not as though they’re going to run out of booze, is it? See you tonight about six. Grub up…’
Arnold Matson heard Garstang burst into a refrain from ‘Whispering Grass’ and the receiver went silent.