Dandruff Hits The Turtleneck Read online

  Chapter Nineteen

  Suds and Hallucinations

  The failure of tomatoes, apples and figs to cross is not some magical property, but comes from descent with modification. Quite often, one local blend does not combine well with others. Sometimes – as in the two inherited errors that jointly cause the smoky grey fur of the Persian cat – the nature of the interaction is known, but more often it is not. If the failure of adapted mixtures to work together becomes complete, the populations find it impossible to exchange genes when they meet, and each becomes, in effect, a new species.

  Now, all of the above may be considered a little melodramatic when it comes to inviting a few mild acquaintances over for a few drinks, but as Arnold Matson shaved and nicked himself on the chin with a new disposable razor, he couldn’t help thinking that Darwin’s jottings had much in common with his current situation. ‘One local blend does not combine well with others’ could well prove to be bang on the button this very evening.

  Undoubtedly, his afternoon in the woods had done Arnold the world of good and after a hot soak the thawing-out process would be complete. His preparations had gone swimmingly. The food was ready, the lounge bar warming nicely as the evening approached, the curtains were drawn and the room was lit for the perfect conversational ambience. He had cheered the place up with a few fresh flowers and he would light one or two candles a bit nearer the time of his guest’s arrival.

  His bath now ready, Arnold steps into the warmth and suds and slides slowly into the herbal-scented pleasure, leaving only his glowing mini- pumpkin of a head lapping contentedly on the surface. Long sighs of contentment are gently exhaled in a rhythmic cycle and it is only a matter of minutes before the sighing is replaced by deeper breathing and a light snoring…The head remains perfectly still and safe above the bubbles, but Arnold Matson’s imagination has taken flight elsewhere…

  Lord’s Cricket Ground, St. John’s Wood, London…A capacity crowd of almost 30,000 are basking in warm sunshine and chattering with almost uncontrollable expectation as the clock ticks round to 11.00 a.m. Arnold Matson slowly makes his way down the famous pavilion steps and is, at once, greeted with a deafening silence. The only sound that resonates around the ground as Arnold makes his way to the middle is the odd cough in the distance. The food napkin he wears tucked into his shirt collar flaps appreciatively in the strengthening breeze as he strides towards the centre of the field. All the while Arnold is turning his disbelieving head to all four sides of the ground, only to be received by the same, silent stares from all the spectators. He eventually arrives in the middle and takes a seat at the head of a dining table that has places set for fifty people. The cutlery and glasses are immaculately arranged and he holds up a crystal wine glass to the light to inspect and approve of its unmistakable authenticity. He places the glass back on the table and casts a steely glance around the ground like a gladiator awaiting Caesar’s thumbs signal. The crowd remains absolutely silent and still…

  A crescendo of noise slowly begins to swell as the crowd get their first glance of Harold Garstang, resplendent in tuxedo and cummerbund, leading his entourage of forty, hysterical and hungry friends, down the pavilion steps and onto the field to milk the thundering applause from all parts of the ground. Some are letting off party poppers and all are glugging from champagne flutes as they make their weaving way towards the shocked and lonesome figure of Arnold Matson seated at the great dining table. Harold Garstang’s face is looming larger and larger towards Matson and he frantically waves his arms to get the old man out of his line of vision so he can identify the faces of the other guests trailing in Garstang’s wake. ‘Get out of the way, get out of the way!’

  Matson yells but Garstang’s laughing face just gets larger and larger as he finally reaches the middle of the field and stands over a cowering Arnold Matson. The crowd’s hysteria has reached bursting point as Matson covers his head with his hands and his body assumes the foetal position. ‘Leave me alone…leave me alone…I don’t know any of you, leave me alone!’ screams Matson.

  Arnold Matson splashes frantically in his bath tub and sits bolt-upright in the spinning, steaming room. He takes several deep breaths to calm his shaking, stares straight ahead for a few moments, and slowly takes a towel from the hand rail…