First published Friday,
26 March 2010
''You
are coming along to the Women's Institute meeting tonight, aren't
you? We're not at all stuffy...and you can forget about the film
'Calendar Girls' - in all the years I've been going nobody's ever
asked us to pose naked for a calendar.''
''Oh what a shame, Hen. I'd been rather looking forward to that part. Sorry, but I don't really think my Welsh is fluent enough.''
''Oh Heavens! You needn't worry about that dear! Our WI group is English-speaking. You're thinking of our sister branch in town - Merched y Wawr - their meetings are in Welsh, but not ours. No, you really must come, I insist.''
I racked my brains for a better excuse. ''I would, but it's not really my thing...I mean I don't do cookery and the like. Last time I made a cake the oven had to be replaced.''
''You won't be asked to bake anything, not if you don't want to.''
''And I'm not a church-goer.''
''Oh, we have all sorts, even Women Who Don't Go To Church.'' Ouch, at that one. But then I was talking to Henrietta the Happy Clapper. She'd once told me ''My God is bigger than your God.'' Seriously. When losing an argument, Henrietta's most infuriating insult was to say with a patronising smile: ''I'll pray for you!''
''Look, I'm not really sure I'd fit in with the other ladies at WI, Hen. As a divorcee I sort of float about now on the fringes of local society. I just don't do the wifey, mothery thing these days. And I have friendships with disreputable people.''
''Nonsense. Everybody's welcome whether they've still got their husbands or not, and I'm quite sure all your friends are perfectly nice. Perhaps they'd like to come along too? Why don't you ask them? - All the more the merrier!''
''Nooo!...They're uh...busy! Oh and I can't crochet and don't like sewing things. Not even for Orphans.''
''Well dear, not everybody does. I mean, I do, I love sewing and knitting...I can't just sit in front of a computer screen doing nothing all night like some people. I always knit a new set of dishcloths for each of my daughters and daughter-in-laws every Christmas. But I'm sure you can contribute in other ways. After all you are Artistic.''
I was starting to get pissed off now. There are certain things you just shouldn't say to an artist and somewhere fairly near the top of the list is informing them they're 'Artistic'. ''Look Hen, I'm awfully sorry but I just don't think I'm Women's Institute material!''
''Rubbish, you'll love it. I'll pick you up at half-past six. Don't be late.''
Enough was enough: it was time someone in the village finally plucked up the courage to stand up to Henrietta's bossiness and put her firmly in her place. ''Uh no Hen...it's OK...Delphine's going tonight - I'll...erm...I'll get a lift with her.''
Thus I sealed my fate.
I must admit I was secretly curious...the rebel in me hankered after a new order to insidiously overturn from the inside, whilst the innocent within sought redemption from a perfectly terrible time at Girl Guides. Memories came flooding back from when I was ten and newly settled in Kent: my new best friend had invited me along in an ultimate gesture of sharing. I remember a sea of mushroom faces in berets and uniforms parading in a draughty church hall that smelled of fusty plimsolls...a complex series of codified salutes, marches, songs and prayers - none of which I ever fully got to grips with - and a never-ending list of indistinguishable sew-on fabric badges to be earned through such unrelated acts as the tying of ridiculous knots, being excessively kind to the elderly and fire-starting without matches. These girls had known one another since their mothers attended antenatal class together and my status as interloper was not helped by a speech impediment due to the industrial-strength brace which at that time was rearranging my organ-pipe teeth, together with my strange accent and even stranger (many would say eccentric) mother who'd just taken up teaching at the very secondary school many of my fellow Guides attended. I couldn't have been a clearer target had a bull's-eye had been painted on my front. I lasted three miserable months before finally admitting defeat and handing in my woggles (toggles? Boggles?- I forget) to a coldly disappointed Helter Skelter - or whatever bizarre title it was by which the irascible old bag who led us had to be addressed.
Now somewhere deep in my traumatized psyche I felt the desire to make good the past, and without raising further objection resigned myself to the ordeal. I telephoned Delphine to make arrangements and set about preparing for the evening ahead. Strangely, as though already succumbing to subliminal domestic programming, I began by cooking an extremely pleasant meal for my son and myself. I hadn't been entirely truthful with Henrietta about the culinary skills...I cook quite well, but leave it to others whenever possible...life is a little too short to squander time in a kitchen that could be better spent - having possibly the second most fun you can have alone - in a studio. Any beams of Stepford pride over my appetising dinner preparations however quickly turned to uneasy twinges of guilt at the pathetic expression of rapturous gratitude on my son's face when he arrived home from work.
At six-thirty sharp Delphine pulled up wearing a nice suit, lippy and eyeliner. I'd never seen her in make-up. For her part she normally only ever saw my hair plaited or piled up: I'd let it down for the occasion and we spent long minutes in her car staring fascinated at each other. ''Do I look ok? Is the hair too much?''
''No, it's great.''
''It's too much isn't it. I'll get my hat -''
She put her foot on the accelerator and we roared into the night.
Of all my friends who would be there that evening, Delphine - clever, outspoken and down to earth - was the closest. She'd told me some months before that she and her neighbour Frances had decided to join the WI; she subsequently reported that it could be quite a laugh sometimes, especially when war broke out between opinionated ladies of strong character (in other words Henrietta and anybody who dared disagree with her) and being in their early forties Delphine and Frances were easily the youngest there by several decades.
''Oh what a shame, Hen. I'd been rather looking forward to that part. Sorry, but I don't really think my Welsh is fluent enough.''
''Oh Heavens! You needn't worry about that dear! Our WI group is English-speaking. You're thinking of our sister branch in town - Merched y Wawr - their meetings are in Welsh, but not ours. No, you really must come, I insist.''
I racked my brains for a better excuse. ''I would, but it's not really my thing...I mean I don't do cookery and the like. Last time I made a cake the oven had to be replaced.''
''You won't be asked to bake anything, not if you don't want to.''
''And I'm not a church-goer.''
''Oh, we have all sorts, even Women Who Don't Go To Church.'' Ouch, at that one. But then I was talking to Henrietta the Happy Clapper. She'd once told me ''My God is bigger than your God.'' Seriously. When losing an argument, Henrietta's most infuriating insult was to say with a patronising smile: ''I'll pray for you!''
''Look, I'm not really sure I'd fit in with the other ladies at WI, Hen. As a divorcee I sort of float about now on the fringes of local society. I just don't do the wifey, mothery thing these days. And I have friendships with disreputable people.''
''Nonsense. Everybody's welcome whether they've still got their husbands or not, and I'm quite sure all your friends are perfectly nice. Perhaps they'd like to come along too? Why don't you ask them? - All the more the merrier!''
''Nooo!...They're uh...busy! Oh and I can't crochet and don't like sewing things. Not even for Orphans.''
''Well dear, not everybody does. I mean, I do, I love sewing and knitting...I can't just sit in front of a computer screen doing nothing all night like some people. I always knit a new set of dishcloths for each of my daughters and daughter-in-laws every Christmas. But I'm sure you can contribute in other ways. After all you are Artistic.''
I was starting to get pissed off now. There are certain things you just shouldn't say to an artist and somewhere fairly near the top of the list is informing them they're 'Artistic'. ''Look Hen, I'm awfully sorry but I just don't think I'm Women's Institute material!''
''Rubbish, you'll love it. I'll pick you up at half-past six. Don't be late.''
Enough was enough: it was time someone in the village finally plucked up the courage to stand up to Henrietta's bossiness and put her firmly in her place. ''Uh no Hen...it's OK...Delphine's going tonight - I'll...erm...I'll get a lift with her.''
Thus I sealed my fate.
I must admit I was secretly curious...the rebel in me hankered after a new order to insidiously overturn from the inside, whilst the innocent within sought redemption from a perfectly terrible time at Girl Guides. Memories came flooding back from when I was ten and newly settled in Kent: my new best friend had invited me along in an ultimate gesture of sharing. I remember a sea of mushroom faces in berets and uniforms parading in a draughty church hall that smelled of fusty plimsolls...a complex series of codified salutes, marches, songs and prayers - none of which I ever fully got to grips with - and a never-ending list of indistinguishable sew-on fabric badges to be earned through such unrelated acts as the tying of ridiculous knots, being excessively kind to the elderly and fire-starting without matches. These girls had known one another since their mothers attended antenatal class together and my status as interloper was not helped by a speech impediment due to the industrial-strength brace which at that time was rearranging my organ-pipe teeth, together with my strange accent and even stranger (many would say eccentric) mother who'd just taken up teaching at the very secondary school many of my fellow Guides attended. I couldn't have been a clearer target had a bull's-eye had been painted on my front. I lasted three miserable months before finally admitting defeat and handing in my woggles (toggles? Boggles?- I forget) to a coldly disappointed Helter Skelter - or whatever bizarre title it was by which the irascible old bag who led us had to be addressed.
Now somewhere deep in my traumatized psyche I felt the desire to make good the past, and without raising further objection resigned myself to the ordeal. I telephoned Delphine to make arrangements and set about preparing for the evening ahead. Strangely, as though already succumbing to subliminal domestic programming, I began by cooking an extremely pleasant meal for my son and myself. I hadn't been entirely truthful with Henrietta about the culinary skills...I cook quite well, but leave it to others whenever possible...life is a little too short to squander time in a kitchen that could be better spent - having possibly the second most fun you can have alone - in a studio. Any beams of Stepford pride over my appetising dinner preparations however quickly turned to uneasy twinges of guilt at the pathetic expression of rapturous gratitude on my son's face when he arrived home from work.
At six-thirty sharp Delphine pulled up wearing a nice suit, lippy and eyeliner. I'd never seen her in make-up. For her part she normally only ever saw my hair plaited or piled up: I'd let it down for the occasion and we spent long minutes in her car staring fascinated at each other. ''Do I look ok? Is the hair too much?''
''No, it's great.''
''It's too much isn't it. I'll get my hat -''
She put her foot on the accelerator and we roared into the night.
Of all my friends who would be there that evening, Delphine - clever, outspoken and down to earth - was the closest. She'd told me some months before that she and her neighbour Frances had decided to join the WI; she subsequently reported that it could be quite a laugh sometimes, especially when war broke out between opinionated ladies of strong character (in other words Henrietta and anybody who dared disagree with her) and being in their early forties Delphine and Frances were easily the youngest there by several decades.
''You
know Del, I feel a bit nervous about this, not really too sure how
I'll fit in...but your remarkable powers of resistance to
indoctrination have left a good impression on me. That's the main
reason I feel okay about coming along tonight to give it a try.''
As I spoke I pulled a lumpy carrier bag out from underneath me and put it on my lap.
''Oh sorry, meant to move that before you sat down. Remind me please to hand it in this evening.''
I peeked inside. It was filled with tiny knitted cones with pom-poms on the ends. ''Del...what am I looking at?''
''Oh, we're all making them. It's for charity.''
''The Women's Institute asked you to knit willy-warmers for charity?''
''What? - God no, they're hats, knitted hats for Fruit Smoothies. They had to be ready to be collected tonight, but I couldn't get the pom-poms right...they kept unravelling until I remembered you have to use four - ''
''Why would a Fruit Smoothie need a hat to keep it warm?''
''B*ggered if I know. Everybody was asked to do it. Anyway they're all finished now. And I enjoyed making them too, it got me knitting again for the first time in years. So there!''
As I spoke I pulled a lumpy carrier bag out from underneath me and put it on my lap.
''Oh sorry, meant to move that before you sat down. Remind me please to hand it in this evening.''
I peeked inside. It was filled with tiny knitted cones with pom-poms on the ends. ''Del...what am I looking at?''
''Oh, we're all making them. It's for charity.''
''The Women's Institute asked you to knit willy-warmers for charity?''
''What? - God no, they're hats, knitted hats for Fruit Smoothies. They had to be ready to be collected tonight, but I couldn't get the pom-poms right...they kept unravelling until I remembered you have to use four - ''
''Why would a Fruit Smoothie need a hat to keep it warm?''
''B*ggered if I know. Everybody was asked to do it. Anyway they're all finished now. And I enjoyed making them too, it got me knitting again for the first time in years. So there!''
I winced a bit but there was no turning back..what else was I in for?
''Tell me Del, what exactly goes on at these meetings?''
''Well the first bit's rather boring: they read out the minutes from the last meeting and everybody agrees to pass them. Then we usually have a Guest Speaker who gives a short talk on something - often with slides - and that's followed by a cup of tea and the chance to chat with each other. Some of the talks can be quite interesting, although admittedly the last one was bloody tedious: this woman had just taken part in a sponsored bicycle ride round India for charity. Her slides basically consisted of fat women on bikes, not my thing really, and since they were all knackered from cycling each day the whole lot of them went to bed early each night so there were no pics of them screwing the natives or anything. There weren't even any decent photos of curry. Afterwards a school brass band came and performed for us...to say they were bad would be an understatement: I spotted several of the more senior WI ladies removing the batteries from their hearing aids.
''Tell me Del, what exactly goes on at these meetings?''
''Well the first bit's rather boring: they read out the minutes from the last meeting and everybody agrees to pass them. Then we usually have a Guest Speaker who gives a short talk on something - often with slides - and that's followed by a cup of tea and the chance to chat with each other. Some of the talks can be quite interesting, although admittedly the last one was bloody tedious: this woman had just taken part in a sponsored bicycle ride round India for charity. Her slides basically consisted of fat women on bikes, not my thing really, and since they were all knackered from cycling each day the whole lot of them went to bed early each night so there were no pics of them screwing the natives or anything. There weren't even any decent photos of curry. Afterwards a school brass band came and performed for us...to say they were bad would be an understatement: I spotted several of the more senior WI ladies removing the batteries from their hearing aids.
'Tonight
should be quite interesting though - it's the St David's Day
celebrations so we're in for a bit of a treat: singers from some
local Amateur Operatic Society are coming to perform and there'll be
a buffet afterwards as well, lots of the ladies are bringing stuff
for it.''
''Yum! Will there be quiche and cake?''
''Hmm, low-fat Pringles and Tesco's dips more like.''
''Cheese straws?''
''Only if we're very, very unlucky.''
We arrived at the First World War Memorial Hall a little before seven, parked the car and trudged downhill through the frosty night air. I was wearing a fully-lined, long black velvet skirt I'd picked up in Oxfam the previous week: this was its first outing and the short walk was sufficient to explain why it had ended up on the rail of a charity shop - the lining writhed upward with every step and by the time we stopped at the hall door had bunched itself around my waist in the form of an enormous, irremovable fake belly.
Delphine tried the big wrought iron door handle but nothing happened. "Odd. Must still be locked. Oh well, I expect someone'll come and open up soon.'' We stamped our feet gently in the cold and tried to look nonchalant. Several small girls squealed up on chunky pink bikes and stared at us intensely.
''Be ti'n neud?'' one of them demanded, and then again in English: ''What are you doing here?''
''We're waiting for the Hall to open.''
''Why? Why are you waiting? What are you doing here?''
"Well, erm it's a Women's Institute meeting."
At this point two other ladies arrived. ''Is it still locked? - Oh dear, not a night to be stuck out in the cold.'' Her companion - dressed for the Arctic in what appeared to be a waterproof beige duvet - made a sad whimpering noise implying imminent hypothermia and began rhythmically beating her own torso with flailing arms to maintain an apparently collapsing circulatory system.
''What are you doing here?'' yelled the little girl at all four of us. I glanced at her...she didn't actually look retarded. Before I could fashion a suitable reply a third woman manifested from nowhere, stepped calmly between us and easily opened the door in one fluid movement. There was almost a log jam as we tried to escape the cold, our own embarrassment and the Midwich Cuckoo children as quickly as possible. ''Ah! They had to wait for that little old lady to come and help them turn the handle'' the small girl behind us explained to her friends.
Inside all was warm and bright and full of bustling female activity. Waiting in line to pay my entrance fee I recognised a dozen faces amongst the thirty or so there and mouthed big deaf hellos to them. Henrietta - who at nearly six foot towers over me - grabbed me in a chortling bear-hug of triumph and only put me down at the insistence of Jill the treasurer who wanted me to pay up and move on. For someone with reasonable accounting skills Jill's wits seemed to have temporarily deserted her in the excitement of having a Visiting Non-Member...''How much do I charge a Visitor again?'' she asked an equally dithery accomplice. ''One pounds fifty? Right, so you've given me two pounds...so now I have to give you...uh...five pounds in change - no, two pounds...no, wait, that's not right either...uh, one pound - is that right dear?''
Clutching my very own free copy of the carefully typed 'Minutes of Last Month's Meeting' I made my way through the throng to be greeted by those who knew me and quite a few who didn't but seemed to want to...did I merely imagine hearing the words 'fresh blood' muttered nearby?
''Yum! Will there be quiche and cake?''
''Hmm, low-fat Pringles and Tesco's dips more like.''
''Cheese straws?''
''Only if we're very, very unlucky.''
We arrived at the First World War Memorial Hall a little before seven, parked the car and trudged downhill through the frosty night air. I was wearing a fully-lined, long black velvet skirt I'd picked up in Oxfam the previous week: this was its first outing and the short walk was sufficient to explain why it had ended up on the rail of a charity shop - the lining writhed upward with every step and by the time we stopped at the hall door had bunched itself around my waist in the form of an enormous, irremovable fake belly.
Delphine tried the big wrought iron door handle but nothing happened. "Odd. Must still be locked. Oh well, I expect someone'll come and open up soon.'' We stamped our feet gently in the cold and tried to look nonchalant. Several small girls squealed up on chunky pink bikes and stared at us intensely.
''Be ti'n neud?'' one of them demanded, and then again in English: ''What are you doing here?''
''We're waiting for the Hall to open.''
''Why? Why are you waiting? What are you doing here?''
"Well, erm it's a Women's Institute meeting."
At this point two other ladies arrived. ''Is it still locked? - Oh dear, not a night to be stuck out in the cold.'' Her companion - dressed for the Arctic in what appeared to be a waterproof beige duvet - made a sad whimpering noise implying imminent hypothermia and began rhythmically beating her own torso with flailing arms to maintain an apparently collapsing circulatory system.
''What are you doing here?'' yelled the little girl at all four of us. I glanced at her...she didn't actually look retarded. Before I could fashion a suitable reply a third woman manifested from nowhere, stepped calmly between us and easily opened the door in one fluid movement. There was almost a log jam as we tried to escape the cold, our own embarrassment and the Midwich Cuckoo children as quickly as possible. ''Ah! They had to wait for that little old lady to come and help them turn the handle'' the small girl behind us explained to her friends.
Inside all was warm and bright and full of bustling female activity. Waiting in line to pay my entrance fee I recognised a dozen faces amongst the thirty or so there and mouthed big deaf hellos to them. Henrietta - who at nearly six foot towers over me - grabbed me in a chortling bear-hug of triumph and only put me down at the insistence of Jill the treasurer who wanted me to pay up and move on. For someone with reasonable accounting skills Jill's wits seemed to have temporarily deserted her in the excitement of having a Visiting Non-Member...''How much do I charge a Visitor again?'' she asked an equally dithery accomplice. ''One pounds fifty? Right, so you've given me two pounds...so now I have to give you...uh...five pounds in change - no, two pounds...no, wait, that's not right either...uh, one pound - is that right dear?''
Clutching my very own free copy of the carefully typed 'Minutes of Last Month's Meeting' I made my way through the throng to be greeted by those who knew me and quite a few who didn't but seemed to want to...did I merely imagine hearing the words 'fresh blood' muttered nearby?
A
brief and inelegant tug of war ensued between Delphine and Henrietta
as to where I should sit and a victorious Delphine led me to our
table companions: Gruff Roberta, a kind and quirky woman in her early
sixties who lumbers around in men's clothes and drives the school
coach collecting children from their homes in the more remote
mountain villages; my dear friend Heather - who has never let her
Calling to the Church stand in the way of forwarding me the filthiest
funny emails I receive; the sad-eyed lady who'd opened the door for
us (evidently our utter incompetence appealed to her sense of humour)
who turned out to be called Lynn, bringing the total there that night
with this name to eight and the ever-placid, blank-faced Frances -
living proof of the theory behind cosmetic botox: having never felt
the need to employ any kind of facial expression during her entire
life she looked exactly the same age now as she did when we first met
fifteen years ago. Some people's 'O' face is frankly impossible to
picture...I could only imagine that in the throes of ecstasy Frances
might momentarily close her eyelids.
Directly before us stood the broad wooden stage, draped with black curtains that twitched incessantly as members of the Amateur Operatic Society faffed about behind them. Occasionally they accidentally parted to briefly reveal the entirety of someone looking distracted, and at one point I glimpsed an unpleasantly familiar face from my recent past. I took a deep breath: this was going to be interesting...yes, of course she'd be amongst those performing tonight, she was a trained contralto.
At an unseen sign the hall fell silent and we arose en masse to belt out their WI anthem - not as I'd hoped Blake's goosebump-inducing 'Jerusalem' with it's references to the dark satanic mills of England - but a far sunnier ditty in Welsh that bore all the hallmarks of a 1950s Primary School hymn, including several rather unnecessary octave jumps and much mention of flowers, implied sisterhood and nurturing duties. Once we'd subsided back into our chairs, Iris the President took the floor, picked up a microphone and bellowed a greeting into it. Screaming feedback looped round the hall and we quailed in anguish. After five punishing minutes of consonant-huffing mic-adjustments she announced that she now would ask Olwen - her tiny, quivering sidekick - to read the minutes from the last meeting. Holding the notes at shaky arms' length from longsighted eyes, Olwen commenced by announcing that having forgotten to bring her spectacles to the meeting she was effectively blind for the night. Many occupants of the hall promptly removed their glasses and passed them forward: around twenty-five pairs arrived on the desk. The only pair with a suitable prescription happened also to have the highest comedic value: bottle-bottom lenses with heavy black frames which slid constantly down Olwen's straight little nose - requiring that she continuously tilt her head at an angle so peculiar she looked like she had brain damage - since both her quaking hands were occupied holding the paper and microphone.
Olwen's monotonous delivery was that of the reluctant child in reading-class: "Erm, Mrs Mair Evans-gave. A-demonstration-of-flower. Arranging-and-erm. She-very-kindly-showed-us-how-to. Effectively-arrange-erm-many-diff. Erent-kinds. Of-flowers-to. Produce-a-pleas. Ing. Erm-seasonal-bouquet. Mrs Alwena Williams-erm. Expressed-our-heartfelt. Thanks-for-a. Very-interesting. Talk."
Having put my mobile on Silent, I'd become so preoccupied guiding Bobby Carrot round a maze of deadly traps I genuinely didn't hear Olwen officially greet me as Guest Visitor for the evening and only came-to when a vicious prod from Delphine threatened to send me sprawling to the floor, too late to return any of the smiles of welcome that were already waning as I looked about in confusion. I was relieved to notice several other ladies discreetly playing games on their phones, one slightly deaf member had even left the volume on: one could distinctly hear the bleeps of battleships firing at meteors and collecting plutonium fuel rods.
Olwen's onerous duties fulfilled, it now fell to Iris to introduce this month's Quiz Question sponsored by Lancashire Tea: "Now then ladies, what prevalent weather condition is chiefly associated with the South American Rain forest? Is it A: Snow, B: Hail, or C: Rain?"
"Oh for God's Sake" someone muttered behind me.
"Difficult one, that, isn't it." snorted Iris.
Directly before us stood the broad wooden stage, draped with black curtains that twitched incessantly as members of the Amateur Operatic Society faffed about behind them. Occasionally they accidentally parted to briefly reveal the entirety of someone looking distracted, and at one point I glimpsed an unpleasantly familiar face from my recent past. I took a deep breath: this was going to be interesting...yes, of course she'd be amongst those performing tonight, she was a trained contralto.
At an unseen sign the hall fell silent and we arose en masse to belt out their WI anthem - not as I'd hoped Blake's goosebump-inducing 'Jerusalem' with it's references to the dark satanic mills of England - but a far sunnier ditty in Welsh that bore all the hallmarks of a 1950s Primary School hymn, including several rather unnecessary octave jumps and much mention of flowers, implied sisterhood and nurturing duties. Once we'd subsided back into our chairs, Iris the President took the floor, picked up a microphone and bellowed a greeting into it. Screaming feedback looped round the hall and we quailed in anguish. After five punishing minutes of consonant-huffing mic-adjustments she announced that she now would ask Olwen - her tiny, quivering sidekick - to read the minutes from the last meeting. Holding the notes at shaky arms' length from longsighted eyes, Olwen commenced by announcing that having forgotten to bring her spectacles to the meeting she was effectively blind for the night. Many occupants of the hall promptly removed their glasses and passed them forward: around twenty-five pairs arrived on the desk. The only pair with a suitable prescription happened also to have the highest comedic value: bottle-bottom lenses with heavy black frames which slid constantly down Olwen's straight little nose - requiring that she continuously tilt her head at an angle so peculiar she looked like she had brain damage - since both her quaking hands were occupied holding the paper and microphone.
Olwen's monotonous delivery was that of the reluctant child in reading-class: "Erm, Mrs Mair Evans-gave. A-demonstration-of-flower. Arranging-and-erm. She-very-kindly-showed-us-how-to. Effectively-arrange-erm-many-diff. Erent-kinds. Of-flowers-to. Produce-a-pleas. Ing. Erm-seasonal-bouquet. Mrs Alwena Williams-erm. Expressed-our-heartfelt. Thanks-for-a. Very-interesting. Talk."
Having put my mobile on Silent, I'd become so preoccupied guiding Bobby Carrot round a maze of deadly traps I genuinely didn't hear Olwen officially greet me as Guest Visitor for the evening and only came-to when a vicious prod from Delphine threatened to send me sprawling to the floor, too late to return any of the smiles of welcome that were already waning as I looked about in confusion. I was relieved to notice several other ladies discreetly playing games on their phones, one slightly deaf member had even left the volume on: one could distinctly hear the bleeps of battleships firing at meteors and collecting plutonium fuel rods.
Olwen's onerous duties fulfilled, it now fell to Iris to introduce this month's Quiz Question sponsored by Lancashire Tea: "Now then ladies, what prevalent weather condition is chiefly associated with the South American Rain forest? Is it A: Snow, B: Hail, or C: Rain?"
"Oh for God's Sake" someone muttered behind me.
"Difficult one, that, isn't it." snorted Iris.
"I'd
also like you all to look at sheet three of your Meeting Notes: you
will see there that Evelyn has very kindly copied out for us all a
warning issued by the police: certain over-excitable young men have
been climbing into women's cars while they fill up with petrol and
hiding on the back seat until the woman drives away, when they spring
out and surprise them, so ladies, when you get out to fill up, please
make sure you lock all of your car doors behind you."
"I leave my car door wide open all the time when I'm at the garage" muttered Gruff Roberta, "Doesn't matter what I do, I just can't get excitable young men to climb in."
Iris cleared her throat meaningfully and the underlying buzz of comment - more concerned with the increasing price of petrol than the prospect of ambush - subsided. "And I'd like to draw the attention of all you budding writers out there to this month's competition: it's the Lady Deadman Prize for literature. Anyone who likes to write is invited to compose a short ghost story of no more than five-hundred words, which has to end with the sentence 'So remember, you NEVER KNOW who may be sitting beside you at a Women's Institute meeting!' If you'd like to enter this, please have your submissions ready to hand in at next month's Meeting. So come on ladies, I hope you're all going to have a go!"
"You up for that then Del?" I whispered with slightly more sarcasm than intended. Delphine had told me several months back that she was starting a novel. Having heard nothing further about it in the interim I assumed Our Mysterious Heroine was still preoccupied with the interior decoration of the country cottage into which she'd mysteriously moved. Perhaps the local D.I.Y shop had run out of paint. Maybe the house was mysteriously bigger than it had looked from the outside.
"Yeah, I might have a go."
"If you get time in between knitting Smoothie hats, that is."
"Smoothie hats are sooo last month. It's egg-cosies now."
"Those pointless knitted covers to keep boiled eggs warm, like we used to make at school? Does anyone over the age of five actually eat boiled eggs? Aren't they supposed to be high in cholesterol?"
"Yes, I think you're only supposed to eat one every six months or something, and they bung you up horribly and make you fart like a..." She trailed off: business concluded, Iris was now introducing the Amateur Operatic Society.
A slender elegant lady in her early sixties and quite a lot of slap swung out from behind the curtains, dressed entirely in black. Against the black of the drapes the immediate impression was that of a disembodied head. She began by telling us in tinkling Welsh and English that the last time she'd been on this particular stage was as a child when her ballet and tap teacher Miss Gwendolyn had forced her - despite her tears of protest - to perform in too tight shoes. Some of the older members of the audience nodded and murmured knowingly - evidently they too shared terrible memories of Miss Gwendolyn's enforced dancing on bleeding feet.
"Now then, tonight, ladies" she continued archly, "We have put together - for your pleasure - a little medley of our own devising, incorporating various popular arias from several different operas which we've tied all together with a little story all of our own...the scenes all take place in a little cafe where you'll see a picture, a book, a game of cards, a ring and a bouquet of flowers. All of these items connect our little tale!" She tripped daintily down from the stage to seat herself at the ancient upright piano in the corner, delicately lifted the lid and attacked the keys with unbridled ferocity: it was as though each hand had six fingers as wrong notes shot out everywhere like shards of broken glass.
The curtains now parted with a jerk to reveal three wonky cafe tables covered with red gingham, each set with a vase of wilting freesias and a water-filled wine carafe. Four women and two men, all dressed in black with scarlet accessories filed trembling onstage and nervously took their places at said tables. As is typical round here, the waiting staff were nowhere to be seen. The youngest of the singers, a blocky woman with bright green sparkly eyelids, catalogue jewellery and the face of a bank teller rose to her feet, took an audibly massive breath and warbled her way unsteadily uphill to a note that vaguely corresponded with that issued by the pianist. I glanced at Delphine's face: she enjoys opera, she was wincing.
''I know one of those women on stage'' I whispered to her, ''She used to be my friend a long time ago. She was instrumental in the demise of my marriage.''
''Ooh really? Which one? What's her name?'' Del looked excited.
''Candida, the short, red-haired one with bingo-wings, sitting beside the girl who's singing at the moment. The one whose eyes are darting everywhere except here because she just spotted me in the front row.''
''What, that geriatric, mad-looking one - that's the Candida you've mentioned before?''
''The very same.''
''Well, b*gger me! No accounting for taste, is there?''
''Have I ever told you what a lovely friend you are Delphine?''
We smirked at one another and settled quietly back in our creaking seats.
Aria followed aria in quick succession over the next forty minutes...most were indifferent, a couple were bad, but one vocalist captured my full attention: an old codger who had obviously been roped in at the very last moment to fill an emergency gap - this was afterwards confirmed by their presenter - as evidenced by the fact that he was reading the libretto from his cafe 'menu' and had none of the stilted stage mannerisms of the others. Clearly not one of their members at all but an amateur Welsh Male Voice Choir tenor, his searing voice rang out accurate and true, comfortably radiating masculine pride and power. The soul of the Welsh Hills poured out through his vocal chords and the hair on the back of my arms stood up while he sang. (If you've ever had the privilege to hear a Welsh Male Voice Choir sing live you'll know what I'm talking about.)
The group's production might have passed for mildly mediocre had not their director - still enthusiastically pounding the piano to a pulp in the corner - felt it necessary to link the works with a complicated plot involving second-rate props and melodramatic stage direction: the singers wrung their hands and sobbed; pursued one another round the tables knocking chairs askew in the melee; sat on each other's laps and got pulled off by someone else; fought over an artificial bouquet; grabbed a book and leapt around strangely with it; pretended to hit one another; wept over a Polaroid photograph no-one in the audience could see and ran off stage and then straight back on again several times, shrieking and pointing at nothing. Since the songs were being performed in Welsh, German, French and Italian and their diction was appalling the whole mongrelly thing amounted to incomprehensible gibberish.
For the most part I managed to completely ignore Candida, something I'd resolved to do with those I no longer wanted in my life ever since reading somewhere that 'hating someone is like drinking poison and then waiting for the other person to die'. When it came to her solo however I couldn't resist a little mischief. Accordingly, I glowered directly at her from the front row with more icy disdain and scorn than I actually felt which, together with my unfortunate and protracted coughing fit, had the gratifying effect of making her performance even more self-conscious than expected: beaming madly in the spirit of true professional defiance, she rose above my heckling body language, and flinging over-gesticulating arms wide, howled off key like a rabid werewolf under a rising moon. Job done.
We all applauded keenly at the end but not so enthusiastically as to elicit an encore; the elegant lady in black had been attacking the piano at the speed of light for some forty-five minutes now without a moment's let up and I suspected the tendons might well be detaching themselves from her hands even as she took her bow: none of us wanted any part of something that might require a visit to A&E at this time of night.
After a speech expressing our heartfelt thanks for their renditions Iris gestured for the hall lights to be put back on and the buffet to be served: "I do hope you all remembered not to eat before you came out tonight ladies, as we have a veritable feast for you all."
"Ooh dear, I completely forgot about that, I've already eaten" murmured Lynn, from the end of our flag-covered table. Tonight we were celebrating St David's Day, the patron saint of Wales. Each table had therefore been draped with Y Ddraig Goch (the Red Dragon) - and decorated with a small vase of daffodils (our national flower) which I'd had to remove as quickly as could be deemed within the bounds of patriotism since the pollen was causing me serious snot paroxysms.
"I leave my car door wide open all the time when I'm at the garage" muttered Gruff Roberta, "Doesn't matter what I do, I just can't get excitable young men to climb in."
Iris cleared her throat meaningfully and the underlying buzz of comment - more concerned with the increasing price of petrol than the prospect of ambush - subsided. "And I'd like to draw the attention of all you budding writers out there to this month's competition: it's the Lady Deadman Prize for literature. Anyone who likes to write is invited to compose a short ghost story of no more than five-hundred words, which has to end with the sentence 'So remember, you NEVER KNOW who may be sitting beside you at a Women's Institute meeting!' If you'd like to enter this, please have your submissions ready to hand in at next month's Meeting. So come on ladies, I hope you're all going to have a go!"
"You up for that then Del?" I whispered with slightly more sarcasm than intended. Delphine had told me several months back that she was starting a novel. Having heard nothing further about it in the interim I assumed Our Mysterious Heroine was still preoccupied with the interior decoration of the country cottage into which she'd mysteriously moved. Perhaps the local D.I.Y shop had run out of paint. Maybe the house was mysteriously bigger than it had looked from the outside.
"Yeah, I might have a go."
"If you get time in between knitting Smoothie hats, that is."
"Smoothie hats are sooo last month. It's egg-cosies now."
"Those pointless knitted covers to keep boiled eggs warm, like we used to make at school? Does anyone over the age of five actually eat boiled eggs? Aren't they supposed to be high in cholesterol?"
"Yes, I think you're only supposed to eat one every six months or something, and they bung you up horribly and make you fart like a..." She trailed off: business concluded, Iris was now introducing the Amateur Operatic Society.
A slender elegant lady in her early sixties and quite a lot of slap swung out from behind the curtains, dressed entirely in black. Against the black of the drapes the immediate impression was that of a disembodied head. She began by telling us in tinkling Welsh and English that the last time she'd been on this particular stage was as a child when her ballet and tap teacher Miss Gwendolyn had forced her - despite her tears of protest - to perform in too tight shoes. Some of the older members of the audience nodded and murmured knowingly - evidently they too shared terrible memories of Miss Gwendolyn's enforced dancing on bleeding feet.
"Now then, tonight, ladies" she continued archly, "We have put together - for your pleasure - a little medley of our own devising, incorporating various popular arias from several different operas which we've tied all together with a little story all of our own...the scenes all take place in a little cafe where you'll see a picture, a book, a game of cards, a ring and a bouquet of flowers. All of these items connect our little tale!" She tripped daintily down from the stage to seat herself at the ancient upright piano in the corner, delicately lifted the lid and attacked the keys with unbridled ferocity: it was as though each hand had six fingers as wrong notes shot out everywhere like shards of broken glass.
The curtains now parted with a jerk to reveal three wonky cafe tables covered with red gingham, each set with a vase of wilting freesias and a water-filled wine carafe. Four women and two men, all dressed in black with scarlet accessories filed trembling onstage and nervously took their places at said tables. As is typical round here, the waiting staff were nowhere to be seen. The youngest of the singers, a blocky woman with bright green sparkly eyelids, catalogue jewellery and the face of a bank teller rose to her feet, took an audibly massive breath and warbled her way unsteadily uphill to a note that vaguely corresponded with that issued by the pianist. I glanced at Delphine's face: she enjoys opera, she was wincing.
''I know one of those women on stage'' I whispered to her, ''She used to be my friend a long time ago. She was instrumental in the demise of my marriage.''
''Ooh really? Which one? What's her name?'' Del looked excited.
''Candida, the short, red-haired one with bingo-wings, sitting beside the girl who's singing at the moment. The one whose eyes are darting everywhere except here because she just spotted me in the front row.''
''What, that geriatric, mad-looking one - that's the Candida you've mentioned before?''
''The very same.''
''Well, b*gger me! No accounting for taste, is there?''
''Have I ever told you what a lovely friend you are Delphine?''
We smirked at one another and settled quietly back in our creaking seats.
Aria followed aria in quick succession over the next forty minutes...most were indifferent, a couple were bad, but one vocalist captured my full attention: an old codger who had obviously been roped in at the very last moment to fill an emergency gap - this was afterwards confirmed by their presenter - as evidenced by the fact that he was reading the libretto from his cafe 'menu' and had none of the stilted stage mannerisms of the others. Clearly not one of their members at all but an amateur Welsh Male Voice Choir tenor, his searing voice rang out accurate and true, comfortably radiating masculine pride and power. The soul of the Welsh Hills poured out through his vocal chords and the hair on the back of my arms stood up while he sang. (If you've ever had the privilege to hear a Welsh Male Voice Choir sing live you'll know what I'm talking about.)
The group's production might have passed for mildly mediocre had not their director - still enthusiastically pounding the piano to a pulp in the corner - felt it necessary to link the works with a complicated plot involving second-rate props and melodramatic stage direction: the singers wrung their hands and sobbed; pursued one another round the tables knocking chairs askew in the melee; sat on each other's laps and got pulled off by someone else; fought over an artificial bouquet; grabbed a book and leapt around strangely with it; pretended to hit one another; wept over a Polaroid photograph no-one in the audience could see and ran off stage and then straight back on again several times, shrieking and pointing at nothing. Since the songs were being performed in Welsh, German, French and Italian and their diction was appalling the whole mongrelly thing amounted to incomprehensible gibberish.
For the most part I managed to completely ignore Candida, something I'd resolved to do with those I no longer wanted in my life ever since reading somewhere that 'hating someone is like drinking poison and then waiting for the other person to die'. When it came to her solo however I couldn't resist a little mischief. Accordingly, I glowered directly at her from the front row with more icy disdain and scorn than I actually felt which, together with my unfortunate and protracted coughing fit, had the gratifying effect of making her performance even more self-conscious than expected: beaming madly in the spirit of true professional defiance, she rose above my heckling body language, and flinging over-gesticulating arms wide, howled off key like a rabid werewolf under a rising moon. Job done.
We all applauded keenly at the end but not so enthusiastically as to elicit an encore; the elegant lady in black had been attacking the piano at the speed of light for some forty-five minutes now without a moment's let up and I suspected the tendons might well be detaching themselves from her hands even as she took her bow: none of us wanted any part of something that might require a visit to A&E at this time of night.
After a speech expressing our heartfelt thanks for their renditions Iris gestured for the hall lights to be put back on and the buffet to be served: "I do hope you all remembered not to eat before you came out tonight ladies, as we have a veritable feast for you all."
"Ooh dear, I completely forgot about that, I've already eaten" murmured Lynn, from the end of our flag-covered table. Tonight we were celebrating St David's Day, the patron saint of Wales. Each table had therefore been draped with Y Ddraig Goch (the Red Dragon) - and decorated with a small vase of daffodils (our national flower) which I'd had to remove as quickly as could be deemed within the bounds of patriotism since the pollen was causing me serious snot paroxysms.
"God
yes, I've just had a huge tea - been working all day and I was
starving" said Gruff Roberta.
"Well I did remember," said Del, "it's just that I'm a pig."
"It doesn't matter anyway" I said "I don't think this type of food's got any calories in it." This last met with general agreement round the table.
Like ancient elves a dozen small women appeared from nowhere clutching somewhat bent tinfoil trays: a waxed cardboard coffee cup containing twiglets was plonked on our table, followed by a paper plate of Pringles and two Tesco own-brand dips, both of which tasted vaguely like variations on sugary coleslaw with added citric acid. This was just the beginning...cubes of cheese smaller than dice then materialised together with assorted multicoloured rice snacks; sausage rolls less than a centimetre wide; some peanuts; damp, salty scotch eggs roughly the size of a hamster's testicles (and similar in imaginable texture and flavour); drooping carrot and celery sticks; a leaf or two of rocket; several strands of cress, and finally a slice of fruit cake which was delivered at the same moment as a sardine paste sandwich with the crusts cut off. By the time we'd finished helping ourselves to this eclectic spread our plates looked like the floor-sweepings from a chav's wedding buffet. One lovely old lady offered us some fabulous homemade bara brith - upon which we pounced with the alacrity of seagulls - and about halfway through eating this a random ham sandwich arrived followed by several cocktail sticks: a relief too late since by that point I'd pretty much finished off the miniscule cheese cubes by spearing them with a cunningly sharpened twiglet and I was not about to engage in public tooth picking before the assembled Ladies of the Institute.
The piece-de-resistance however were those confections known in Britain as 'Tea Cakes' - which have nothing whatsoever to do with either tea or cake - and are actually small marshmallow domes sitting on a jammy biscuit-base and coated with chocolate. We saved these - the best bits - until last. Sadly, the first bite of these degenerate delicacies was enough to inform us they'd been purchased at the local Aldi store: how the Germans can actually worsen British food is beyond me but they never seem to fail at the task. Thus the marshmallow - which had the peculiar property of tightly whipped adhesive - was so sweet it made your eyelids sweat and so large it splurged all over one's face; the biscuit that tempers the whole experience almost non-existent and the chocolate some novel, wafer-thin carob confection that instantly exploded in all directions upon contact with teeth. The prudent amongst us gave up after a couple of mouthfuls but gluttons like myself persevered in the vague hope things might get better after a while - they didn't - and subsequent attempts to remove smears of chocolate and marshmallow from around one's mouth and nose resulted in shreds of torn paper tissue sticking to one's skin. I derived great satisfaction from observing Candida – shamelessly flirting at the next table with the youngest of the tenors - trying to nonchalantly fellate her marshmallow tea-cake in his face. It all went horribly wrong: cougar to corgi in three bites.
Afterwards, sticky and with queasily confused stomachs, we sat around and chatted for a good half hour while tea and coffee were served, catching up on local news and all the latest gossip. I was intrigued to learn that Gruff Roberta had in fact been driving coaches for 43 years, since passing her test in 1965. She'd been one of the first women coach drivers in 1960's Britain and certainly the first and only one for many years in the company she worked for. She'd had to endure a lot of teasing from her male colleagues of course, but admitted she'd looked cute too "Except when I was pregnant. Didn't look too great then, mind." I was really quite taken with this image of a 19 year old Roberta peering over the wheel of a 60's tour bus, Carry-On type comments being flung her way as she thundered through the leafy lanes of the home counties. ('Oo-er Missus, that's a nice big clutch you got there, fnarr fnarr'.)
We were interrupted by the announced results of the raffle, the winning tickets picked from a Tupperware container by members of the singing troupe. Delphine had very kindly bought me a strip at the door that I too might participate in the opportunity to win a funereal triangular arrangement of gloomy red carnations or a box of rash-inducing scented bath products evidently purchased from the local pound shop. Strangely, the first two numbers called did not appear to belong to anyone in the room, and a third ticket had to be selected before a reluctant prize-winner was pushed forward by her table companions. Everyone's Smoothie hats were safely gathered in and someone else came round collecting names for an impending trip to one of the Staffordshire Production Potteries, which worryingly sounded quite interesting. Iris, Henrietta, Olwen and several others from the 'top table' stopped by for a chat and the time passed quickly.
Suddenly my hair-trigger boredom response kicked in and without really noticing I began to gather up our paper plates. I must have been reacting to a pheromone sent out by the President for all around me ladies were doing the same: we were a happy hive of bustle as we bore our left-overs to the huge bin bag held out for us by Roberta. "No! Don't throw that away - I'll eat it!" she roared, rummaging thru the cascade of paper plates within for the still upright cup of twiglets I'd just posted. "That's disgusting, Roberta, you can't eat that stuff! Think of all the cough and sneeze germs on it!" I protested. "Don't be daft - course I can eat it - there's no germs on it! Never could stand seeing good food go to waste. This lot'll keep me going at least two nights!" She gestured at the table behind her strewn with an ever-growing pile of retrieved left-overs. Iris was equally appalled and remonstrated with her as I walked away to clear more tables, with the result that upon my plate-laden return, Roberta was now collecting the left-overs for her 'chickens'.
Delphine who'd gone to the kitchen behind the stage to help with the washing up reappeared with a face like a smacked arse: apparently Henrietta had used her massive shoulders and vast hips to physically shove Delphine right out of the sink area and across the room with the words "What do you think you're doing? Get out of the way, that's MY job!" One of the other women in the kitchen had pulled a face behind Henrietta's back, shrugged at Delphine and suggested she vacate the kitchen and leave Henrietta to it. Delphine expended her adrenaline in useful fashion swinging emptied stacking tables onto their sides and collapsing their legs inward with a resounding crack. For someone with arthritis, rheumatism, tennis elbow and housemaid's knee, Delphine can be formidable when hacked off.
It was not long before we had the hall cleared and tidied, and hugging our goodbyes to the handful of people still there, made our way from the light and warmth back into the cold damp night which seemed to have been waiting for us.
"We did well tonight." Delphine announced as she started her grumbling car.
"We did?"
"Oh yes! Didn't you see, the big guns from the top table were coming to talk to us at our table, they never do that normally. We always have to go to them." I had to confess I hadn't actually noticed.
"And we helped clear up: big brownie points for us there. I think Iris was rather taken with you. Both she and Olwen asked if I thought you'd come back for next month's meeting."
"Did they?"
"You think you might? Did you enjoy tonight?"
I smiled. "Yeah, I did enjoy it, actually, it was kind of nice. Everybody was really friendly, and quite a lot of it was very funny, albeit unintentionally."
"Yeah, I love that aspect, that's why I started going really. And then I sort of got into it as well, if you know what I mean. So, d'you think you'll come back again?" Delphine was trying to sound unconcerned, trying not to pressure me but I could sense my answer was important to her and I was touched.
I leaned back in my seat, watching the vapid glare of the streetlamps flicker by as we left the village and headed out into the darkened countryside. Girl Guides was so long ago it might as well never have happened. Cat's-eyes glittered whitely from the road ahead and a new moon floated serene above the hills beyond.
"Yeah Del, why not."
"Well I did remember," said Del, "it's just that I'm a pig."
"It doesn't matter anyway" I said "I don't think this type of food's got any calories in it." This last met with general agreement round the table.
Like ancient elves a dozen small women appeared from nowhere clutching somewhat bent tinfoil trays: a waxed cardboard coffee cup containing twiglets was plonked on our table, followed by a paper plate of Pringles and two Tesco own-brand dips, both of which tasted vaguely like variations on sugary coleslaw with added citric acid. This was just the beginning...cubes of cheese smaller than dice then materialised together with assorted multicoloured rice snacks; sausage rolls less than a centimetre wide; some peanuts; damp, salty scotch eggs roughly the size of a hamster's testicles (and similar in imaginable texture and flavour); drooping carrot and celery sticks; a leaf or two of rocket; several strands of cress, and finally a slice of fruit cake which was delivered at the same moment as a sardine paste sandwich with the crusts cut off. By the time we'd finished helping ourselves to this eclectic spread our plates looked like the floor-sweepings from a chav's wedding buffet. One lovely old lady offered us some fabulous homemade bara brith - upon which we pounced with the alacrity of seagulls - and about halfway through eating this a random ham sandwich arrived followed by several cocktail sticks: a relief too late since by that point I'd pretty much finished off the miniscule cheese cubes by spearing them with a cunningly sharpened twiglet and I was not about to engage in public tooth picking before the assembled Ladies of the Institute.
The piece-de-resistance however were those confections known in Britain as 'Tea Cakes' - which have nothing whatsoever to do with either tea or cake - and are actually small marshmallow domes sitting on a jammy biscuit-base and coated with chocolate. We saved these - the best bits - until last. Sadly, the first bite of these degenerate delicacies was enough to inform us they'd been purchased at the local Aldi store: how the Germans can actually worsen British food is beyond me but they never seem to fail at the task. Thus the marshmallow - which had the peculiar property of tightly whipped adhesive - was so sweet it made your eyelids sweat and so large it splurged all over one's face; the biscuit that tempers the whole experience almost non-existent and the chocolate some novel, wafer-thin carob confection that instantly exploded in all directions upon contact with teeth. The prudent amongst us gave up after a couple of mouthfuls but gluttons like myself persevered in the vague hope things might get better after a while - they didn't - and subsequent attempts to remove smears of chocolate and marshmallow from around one's mouth and nose resulted in shreds of torn paper tissue sticking to one's skin. I derived great satisfaction from observing Candida – shamelessly flirting at the next table with the youngest of the tenors - trying to nonchalantly fellate her marshmallow tea-cake in his face. It all went horribly wrong: cougar to corgi in three bites.
Afterwards, sticky and with queasily confused stomachs, we sat around and chatted for a good half hour while tea and coffee were served, catching up on local news and all the latest gossip. I was intrigued to learn that Gruff Roberta had in fact been driving coaches for 43 years, since passing her test in 1965. She'd been one of the first women coach drivers in 1960's Britain and certainly the first and only one for many years in the company she worked for. She'd had to endure a lot of teasing from her male colleagues of course, but admitted she'd looked cute too "Except when I was pregnant. Didn't look too great then, mind." I was really quite taken with this image of a 19 year old Roberta peering over the wheel of a 60's tour bus, Carry-On type comments being flung her way as she thundered through the leafy lanes of the home counties. ('Oo-er Missus, that's a nice big clutch you got there, fnarr fnarr'.)
We were interrupted by the announced results of the raffle, the winning tickets picked from a Tupperware container by members of the singing troupe. Delphine had very kindly bought me a strip at the door that I too might participate in the opportunity to win a funereal triangular arrangement of gloomy red carnations or a box of rash-inducing scented bath products evidently purchased from the local pound shop. Strangely, the first two numbers called did not appear to belong to anyone in the room, and a third ticket had to be selected before a reluctant prize-winner was pushed forward by her table companions. Everyone's Smoothie hats were safely gathered in and someone else came round collecting names for an impending trip to one of the Staffordshire Production Potteries, which worryingly sounded quite interesting. Iris, Henrietta, Olwen and several others from the 'top table' stopped by for a chat and the time passed quickly.
Suddenly my hair-trigger boredom response kicked in and without really noticing I began to gather up our paper plates. I must have been reacting to a pheromone sent out by the President for all around me ladies were doing the same: we were a happy hive of bustle as we bore our left-overs to the huge bin bag held out for us by Roberta. "No! Don't throw that away - I'll eat it!" she roared, rummaging thru the cascade of paper plates within for the still upright cup of twiglets I'd just posted. "That's disgusting, Roberta, you can't eat that stuff! Think of all the cough and sneeze germs on it!" I protested. "Don't be daft - course I can eat it - there's no germs on it! Never could stand seeing good food go to waste. This lot'll keep me going at least two nights!" She gestured at the table behind her strewn with an ever-growing pile of retrieved left-overs. Iris was equally appalled and remonstrated with her as I walked away to clear more tables, with the result that upon my plate-laden return, Roberta was now collecting the left-overs for her 'chickens'.
Delphine who'd gone to the kitchen behind the stage to help with the washing up reappeared with a face like a smacked arse: apparently Henrietta had used her massive shoulders and vast hips to physically shove Delphine right out of the sink area and across the room with the words "What do you think you're doing? Get out of the way, that's MY job!" One of the other women in the kitchen had pulled a face behind Henrietta's back, shrugged at Delphine and suggested she vacate the kitchen and leave Henrietta to it. Delphine expended her adrenaline in useful fashion swinging emptied stacking tables onto their sides and collapsing their legs inward with a resounding crack. For someone with arthritis, rheumatism, tennis elbow and housemaid's knee, Delphine can be formidable when hacked off.
It was not long before we had the hall cleared and tidied, and hugging our goodbyes to the handful of people still there, made our way from the light and warmth back into the cold damp night which seemed to have been waiting for us.
"We did well tonight." Delphine announced as she started her grumbling car.
"We did?"
"Oh yes! Didn't you see, the big guns from the top table were coming to talk to us at our table, they never do that normally. We always have to go to them." I had to confess I hadn't actually noticed.
"And we helped clear up: big brownie points for us there. I think Iris was rather taken with you. Both she and Olwen asked if I thought you'd come back for next month's meeting."
"Did they?"
"You think you might? Did you enjoy tonight?"
I smiled. "Yeah, I did enjoy it, actually, it was kind of nice. Everybody was really friendly, and quite a lot of it was very funny, albeit unintentionally."
"Yeah, I love that aspect, that's why I started going really. And then I sort of got into it as well, if you know what I mean. So, d'you think you'll come back again?" Delphine was trying to sound unconcerned, trying not to pressure me but I could sense my answer was important to her and I was touched.
I leaned back in my seat, watching the vapid glare of the streetlamps flicker by as we left the village and headed out into the darkened countryside. Girl Guides was so long ago it might as well never have happened. Cat's-eyes glittered whitely from the road ahead and a new moon floated serene above the hills beyond.
"Yeah Del, why not."
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