TMA02

The Party Lines

Marlene wasn’t enthused with the idea of hosting Rick’s Office 2002 Christmas Party, but Howard Andrews, a director at Rick’s company, thought it a great idea, so on the agreed date their house was transformed from cosy home to roomy venue in preparation for the invited guests from Andrews Carlton Insurances Services Ltd.

It started as most do: a fuss of self conscious embracing, coat shrugging and bottle offering. The kitchen quickly resembled a public bar and the sitting room gradually transformed from a place of sublime private silences and comfortable routine living into a rumpus of handshakes, chaste kisses and loud weak jokes

In their lounge the 38 “ TV and its shelf of twinkling boxes sat cold and ignored in the corner, given a rare night off. The cream leather sofa where they normally slumped watching television, transformed into a couch for half a dozen tensed behinds. All other seats in the room were taken, including upright chairs recruited from the dining room. Every doorway and wall space was occupied. Filled wine glasses and beer bottles were balanced precariously on furniture or on the floor, teetering on the brink of spilling onto the flawless pale green carpet.

Flashing smiles to all arrivals, Marlene Sudbury age 45, hostess for the night. Her school girl ginger frizz-helmet she wore as Marlene Carter was now transformed by modern products into a luxuriant loose sandy curl, the perfect accompaniment to her sunlit grass green eyes. She looked vivacious and more confident than she was and as a bookmaker’s clerk hated having to rebuff punters’ advances and endure their amorous attentions and vacuous proposals of marriage.

Still ‘well made’ according to Rick, and once called ‘a sexy unit’ by an old boss. She knew all the euphemisms for women with generous curves, all of them she thought, disgustingly sexist. She was a mixture of loyalty, pride and quiet strength and the engine behind Rick’s ambitions.

Amid the mingling conversations, Marlene’s thoughts strayed. Soon the immaculate bathroom loo would begin to resemble a public bog with the assorted drips and stains normally tidied along the way, left to build up. The toilet paper roll would look like it had been completely unravelled and re-rolled by someone wearing gardening gloves. The air in the downstairs loo would hang heavy with the scents of air freshener, cologne and bleach, and the dining table buffet would look like it had been ravaged by a flock of starlings. And once the alcohol had taken effect, ‘her dreaded moment’ would begin, where anything from quizzes to confessions could be suggested.

Her thoughts were soon interrupted as the anticipated turn-taking ‘how did you meet’ game was about to start. At this point Rick would usually draw up his short 5’ 7” frame, once described by a family GP as ‘spare’, remove his spectacles and scratch his short grey stubbly hair, and suggest a different game. She caught his eye. He looked nervous. She was nervous.

‘I’ll start,’ said Rick, as his eyes swept the gallery of faces like a search light, no doubt testing his nerve thought Marlene. She knew his face would cool once he got started, his pulse would slow and his thoughts and breathing would stabilise to allow his timing to settle. His type of confidence was one born out of effort and will.

As a toddler he was nicknamed little Cato on account of his height and volubility, and it stuck all the way up to Westland Grammar. But this trait abated with the passing years as if some of his natural exuberance had somehow been sucked from him. Now when called upon to be decisive at work, he would often flounder. He sometimes felt ill and unfocussed when he chaired meetings, and when giving presentations he usually felt that his whole head boiled. But he always knew about toiling deep, and was still competitive. On the squash court he could still spring surprises, and was ambitious enough to want the senior manager’s job at Carson Andrews over the more qualified and younger Giles.

‘The first time I ever set eyes on Marlene we were both at infant’s school,’ Rick began. He glanced at her and she recognised the expression he used when he was controlling his apprehension.

‘Get away!’ said Giles, shaking his head incredulously whilst smirking at his partner.

‘It’s true,’ said Rick, who straightened up. ‘Let me take you back to where we began: It started on a summer’s day. It was so warm we were taken outside to sit under the willow tree for story time. I always loved Miss Fielding’s voice when she read. I would become completely transfixed. Once she started I was under her spell; which is why on this day I failed to report the uncomfortable urgent stirrings in my stomach. Soon a sense of panicky pain took over and I felt a warm, moist oozing fill my pants, a sublime guilt-filled relief. Gradually a terrible smell wafted through the circle of children who started to fuss and whine and pinch their noses. My heart punched and my eyes tightened as I visualised the vapour trail snaking towards Miss Fielding’s nostrils, who seconds later grimaced and closed the book with a thud.

‘I was extracted from the group by the headmistress who marched me to the place considered the sole domain of Mr Dickson the caretaker. I remember seeing his brown coat draped over one of the chairs and noted the frayed collar and the little row of screw drivers and pens sticking out of the top pocket and a copy of the Racing Post rolled up and poking though a lower one. His glasses were sat on his chair as if placed there to reserve the seat. There was a smell of disinfectant from a tin bucket with a mop planted in it like a stake, the head looking like a dead sea creature, partly concealed by fizzing grubby water. On the drainer there were two tins ofAjax, a slab of soap, a nail brush, a yellow glove that looked like a dismembered hand, a bunched up cloth and a silvery bloom of wire wool all placed out like a janitor-themed Kim’s Game.

‘A nurse in a blue coverall and plimsolls silently appeared. She nodded at the headmistress who clacked quickly away along the corridor. The nurse then blasted steamy water into this large Belfast sink which bubbled and foamed. My punishment was to be publically washed in a sink normally used by Mr Dickson for only the dirtiest jobs. I was stripped and dunked by the nurse who proceeded to wash me clear of this foul smelling stuff. The water turned frothily brown. The air was full of steamy soap-scented excrement and the distant shrill sound of children’s voices. I felt sad, confused and worried.

‘The nurse said, ‘Stop moving, there’s no one around who can see you.’ I was turning my head like an owl, checking desperately. No one was around. But it didn’t help.

‘‘Right, you’re done’ she said, and lifted me from the sink. ‘Dry yourself and put these on.’ She showed me a set of clothes that looked like they’d been retrieved from a nearby orphanage, like the ones I’d seen my father wearing in the creased black and white photograph he kept in his drawer. I looked like one of those evacuees you see clambering on and off trains in those wartime news reels.

‘As I tidied myself I saw a lone girl peeping from behind the duffle bag pegging area. She’d watched the whole thing in complete silence. She had ginger hair shaped like a wasp’s nest, and I liked her. But she’d seen me undressed, scrubbed and sluiced like a dog so I hated her instead. I never wanted to see her again, but a bond was already quietly forming. Later, sports day brought us back together again.

‘On the day the boys wore capacious shorts. Those tight-squeezers that made footballers in the Eighties look like they were wearing swimming trunks hadn’t yet caught on. The girls were even more unfortunate, forced to strip down into what appeared to be heavy-duty, navy-blue knickers which made even the slim girls look horrid. I suppose this was intended to thwart the stirrings we boys tended to get and the old navy blues were a good defence against any surprise twitches or unscheduled bulges appearing on sports day.

‘Looking at the group of girls mustering I noticed the ginger frizzy-haired girl sat with a teacher. She was fully dressed, quite plump.

‘I was also going through an unpopular phase as that toilet business hadn’t been forgotten and I’d started to wear glasses to correct a squint recently spotted at the clinic. But at least I was involved, as soon as the pairs were settled.

‘Once the ramshackle of minor events involving sacks, buckets and plastic objects were over, the wheelbarrow race was announced. Girls must choose boys to push. Boy’s legs to be tucked under girl’s arms and pushed along, wheelbarrow style.

‘Boys with their strong taut little arms would crawl, whilst their bitty legs were tucked under the arms of the girls who would then push them along like a wheelbarrow, as fast as possible towards the winning line.

‘As the pairing off neared completion, feelings of dejection began to come over me as the selection process neared the end. The final girl made her move and selected the boy next to me. The balance was wrong and I was left out. There was to be no wheelbarrow race for me. No more pushers were left.

‘Suddenly there was a commotion, a swirl of mums and teachers, all permanent waves and flouncy dresses, fussing over someone reluctantly being pulled into the open. It was the ginger girl sprung from the safety and anonymity of the spectator’s seating. She was ordered to strip down to her knickers and fill the gap. I was going to be barrowed after all, by this little ginger tank. My secret ginger girl.

‘The starting whistle was blown shrilly and, before its pea stopped rattling, the navy blues and their hand crawlers began. Pretty soon boy's legs were being dropped by slim pig tailed girls, their ribbons flicking in the wind. Tears and pouting accusations soon followed. But I was still going, pushed by a pile driver, my bony legs clamped tight by pudgy arms and the pent up emotions of this strong girl.

‘My twiggy arms and hands were a blur of desperate skittering. They had to be. If I hadn't kept them going I’d have fallen face first into a wreck of bloody nose, grass-stained teeth and comically twisted specs. She kept pushing. My weedy chest heaved; fear of worse pain drove me on and on. My lungs felt hot and sore and I could taste sweet acidy fluid in my mouth. But then, other feelings deeper inside me changed. I felt angry and proud and I wanted to win. I could tell that she wanted it too, the frizzy ginger girl, as determined, intent and as full of desire as I was. ‘

‘And?’ said Giles.

‘Oh, we won,’ said Rick as he sat down. ‘Best friends after that.’

Marlene watched him turn round. Some of the guests were nodding. Most look stunned. No one wanted to follow. Then unexpectedly, an air clopping sound, deep and regular, broke the silence. Howard Andrews was clapping. Gradually everyone else joined in.

‘That my dear Rick was brilliant’ said Andrews. ‘You were a gutsy little thing I reckon. Great stories, bloody honest too. Don’t you think so, Giles?’

Giles was about to say something snippy about the toilet accident, but left the sentiment unsaid.

‘Are you up next Giles, can you top that?’

Giles muttered something about things having moved on.

Rick signalled Marlene towards the kitchen

‘What do you think?’ he said.

‘I was really nervous for you,’ said Marlene. ‘And I thought you’d accidentally blow our little secret but you didn’t. Instead you just called me a ginger tank.’

They kissed.

‘I know that bit slipped out, but that and my little toilet accident made him roar. I stuck that in because one thing Andrews respects above all else is honesty and who’s going to make that up. And he now knows I can turn it on when I’m on my feet; he loves the whole make ‘em laugh, make ‘em like you stuff, though it’s normally impossible at work with Giles constantly poking his nose in.’ ‘

He looked at her, ‘When I’m made senior manager over Giles we can decide when we tell everyone we really found each other properly on ‘SecondChanceDate.com’ if it comes up again, which I doubt.’

Marlene smiled. She actually never wanted that information out. She still felt sensitive towards her first husband’s memory whom she cared for until he died, and the sting of guilt she still felt putting herself first even after so long could only worsen if that was made known. She knew Rick had related those memories to deflect everyone, as well as grabbing the chance to show his mettle. And that he’d taken a risk, telling the sink wash story in front of that weasel Giles. That part they hadn’t discussed. He was being protective of her, digging deep as he always did. She knew his loyalty was to her and that his struggle for recognition at work was a quiet one. He deserved to win, she thought, and with her behind him again, she knew he would.