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  Having met neither of the P-Ps, I wasn’t sure about this. However, Julie seemed keen so I agreed.

  ‘We must ask the Uppes of course – and no time like the present,’ I said and telephoned him then and there. Delighted to say they can come. Julie saw the elusive Nina at Badminton, who said they’d be very pleased to come if Neville hadn’t anything else on that evening – she’d let us know.

  It only remains for me to ask the Downes’, which I will do tomorrow, being Saturday.

  February 21st – Saturday

  In the morning, dug the roses in and saw Steve over the road polishing his car. ‘How about you and Una coming over for coffee on Friday evening?’ I shouted. ‘That’s very civil of you, squire,’ he replied, ‘I’ll just have to check that it’s OK with my better half,’ and he vanished into the house. It was OK with his better half.

  In the afternoon went for a run in the car to New Brighton and partook of some sea air and interesting views of the Liverpool skyline. Trev had a friend with him sitting in the back of the car and they enjoyed seeing various ships docked in the port and tried to guess where they came from.

  After baked beans on toast, which we had sitting round the telly, had the sudden urge to start the re-papering and there was some commotion as we moved furniture etc. By the time I’d changed into old clothes, rolled up the carpet, spread newspapers everywhere and mixed the paste, I’m sorry to say the urge had gone and felt quite exhausted.

  Put the television on again, brought back two chairs and saw the end of a variety show, interrupted by commercials for non-drip paint and, of course, wallpaper, depicting a bright, energetic young chap with flashing teeth proudly showing his glamorous wife his fantastic skill at re-papering the bedroom. I lay low and said nothing.

  February 22nd – Sunday

  Luckily, enthusiasm returned in full spate and spent the day slapping on the pale mauve paper. Julie pleased with results and must admit it looks rather good, but still unsure of Yellow Fever being in same room.

  February 23rd – Monday

  Visited building site and tried chatting up the foreman, a stocky fellow with beard and dark glasses, name of O’Hooligan. Gave my usual chat and produced my samples of veneer flush door finishes and patent cladding materials, which I think always look rather impressive, but he gave no sign of interest and proceeded to conduct me on a tour of the houses he was building (neo-Georgian), talking non-stop. In the pocket of his filthy anorak he carried a transistor radio, which he took out from time to time to listen to the horse racing.

  ‘Put a fiver on Dragnet in the 3.30 at twenty-five to one and a tenner on Sir Gerald in the Gold Cup – Now would you look at this fine brickwork here. The drains were approved first go by the building inspector,’ he said, swelling with pride and pointing to a manhole cover. He lifted it up and we peered down, seeing a bit of concrete, a bit of brickwork, a bit of brown shiny pipe and an enormous quantity of tea leaves. O’Hooligan let out a roar, ‘That Mick’s been at it again,’ and some other very strong language.

  As it was cold, we went over to his caravan on the site, where he lives, and he got the luckless Mick to make a can of tea – a very strong brew, into which he poured some whisky out of a flask and smacked his lips.

  ‘Up the Pope,’ he toasted.

  ‘Cheers,’ I said. He then told me his life story, gave his ideas of a solution to the Irish problem and elaborated on why Everton hadn’t won the Cup Final last year.

  A savage-looking Alsatian suddenly appeared from under the table.

  ‘Down, Slasher,’ shouted O’Hooligan. Slasher lay on his back and waved his legs in the air, waiting to be tickled. ‘He’s fourteen and practically toothless, but looks good from a distance. Have some more tea?’

  I thought the time right to present my samples again but it was now 3.30. The transistor was turned up to full volume and, I must say, I got caught up in some of his excitement. Unfortunately, Dragnet wasn’t even mentioned, which meant more out pouring of choice language and I thought I’d better be on my way.

  ‘Good luck in the Gold Cup, and cheerio,’ I said breezily but he was sunk in gloom and added an extra large quantity of whisky to his next cup of tea. A wasted day but not to worry. Perhaps I’ll call again next week. May catch him on a good day. O’Hooligan, man of uncertain temper.

  February 24th – Tuesday

  Telephone call from Julie’s mother this evening. Wants to fix definite date for visit. Agreed on March 11th as being convenient for all (as convenient as a visit from her could ever be). Trev still very keen to own a dog. Discussed this in a reasonable manner and think I can safely say that I dissuaded him from the idea.

  February 25th – Wednesday

  Busy making preparations for Friday evening when Stan ‘phoned again saying I’d be “foolish not to reconsider” and so on about “wasted opportunities” but I was adamant (I think that’s the word).

  Sorted through gramophone records – still have some old 78s I had when I was a boy.

  ‘You can play this, if you’re careful with it,’ said Trev, proffering his highly prized new LP of “The Drain”. Well it might give us a trendy image, I thought, so I gratefully accepted and put it in among Mantovani, Edmundo Ros and an old one of Elvis Presley’s “Rock with Me, Baby”, which I bought when Julie and I were going out together. She was rather a good dancer and the sight of the record cover brought back many memories.

  Chatted over old times together over a mug of coffee. Bed 11.15.

  February 26th – Thursday

  Arrived home from work to find that Julie had been to hairdresser’s and had had practically all her hair cut off. Horrible shock but had to cover feelings and show pleasure at the sight as she seemed to have had second thoughts about it herself and appeared upset. Trev didn’t help matters by saying, ‘You look just like a picture of Henry V in my history book.’

  Suppose I will get used to it.

  February 27th – Friday

  Am writing this up on Saturday as were rather late to bed last night. Think I can safely say, for both of us, that our party was quite a success.

  Spruced myself up when I came home and moved the furniture around, plus rocking chair. Julie had on her new caftan, which she had just finished making up, and attended to the “eats” side in the kitchen. We had a quick bite of meat pie and tomato then Trev got the record player going and stacked our programme of LPs for the evening. Something classical like Mantovani to start with. Meanwhile, I was in a bit of a dilemma –of whether or not to put the two bottles of peach wine (which I had bought at the local off-licence – a good buy at £1) into the fridge or not. Decided against it owing to the cold air temperature outside. Wondered if I should have mulled it but, not knowing much about these things, abandoned the idea – it was too late now anyway.

  Was just trying out the Mantovani and Julie was heating up the vol-au-vents, in an atmosphere of quiet panic, when the phone rang.

  A voice said, ‘Les Crow here. Thanks for the invite but no can do, after all. Prior engagement. Tell Julie, kiss kiss, I’ll see her Friday. Cheers.’

  Just like that – not even a chance for me to get a word in.

  I asked Julie for an explanation.

  ‘Oh, just someone from Badminton… you remember, we met him in Staynes the other day.’ I recalled the greasy type with the tan and felt thankful that he wasn’t coming to our party but at the same time felt it was very off-hand to ring us up at the last moment like that and would have said so to Julie in no uncertain terms but she burnt her wrist on the oven at this point. While she was yelling, the record got stuck and the doorbell rang loudly.

  It was Steve and Una. They remarked how nice the room looked (especially the new wallpaper) and Steve pressed a bundle of pamphlets into my hand.

  ‘Thought these might interest you,’ he said. Glanced down and saw they were leaflets and brochures on caravanning holidays. Will enjoy browsing through them when I have time.

  Offered them my pea
ch wine, which was well received, and the doorbell rang again. Ju1ie ushered in Nina and Neville P-P, who in due course also partook of the wine. It appears Neville is a sanitary engineer. ‘Would you like to inspect our plumbing?’ I joked but he didn’t seem very amused. Seems rather humourless sort of fellow. However, Nina seems chatty enough and appears to belong to every society, organisation and club in Weston. She and Una belong to the Inner Circle – female counterpart of Round Wheel, apparently – and the girls soon started the usual talk on schools, prices, shops, part-time jobs, badminton and so on, while we chaps got on to the topic of holidays.

  ‘We’re thinking of going on one of these Danish farm holidays,’ announced Steve and he made it all sound very enticing as he told us about it.

  ‘Nina’s keen to try a barge holiday on one of these inland waterways, if she can get time off from this playgroup she’s organising,’ said Neville.

  At nine o’clock the Uppes hadn’t arrived so Ju1ie put the coffee on and organised her bits of pastry while I kept the conversation going and changed the records.

  I was just passing the coffee round when the doorbell rang and, to my surprise, there were three people on the doorstep – the Uppes and an enormous suntanned stranger, who put out a hand to me and said cheerily and with a strong Australian accent, ‘I’m Bruce Bridge, second cousin of Sydney. Glad to know you, sweetheart.’ I shook hands and said I was pleased to meet him while Sue explained. ‘Bruce is over here on an Anglo/Australian educational exchange scheme at Alan’s school and I knew you wouldn’t mind me bringing him with us this evening. He was eager to see a typically English social get-together.’

  I didn’t know what to think. Julie hid her surprise well, I thought, and introduced him to the others and he settled himself into the rocking chair, which creaked violently. He looked thoroughly at home.

  Our room seemed to shrink, with his vigour and suntan, and every now and then he would jerk his left shoulder, which gave him a casual “don’t care” attitude, but which was really, I guessed later, a nervous tic.

  ‘Now these pineapple and spam tit-bits are really something,’ he said as he put a whole one into his mouth, ‘and what coffee.’ I could see Julie was pleased.

  ‘Bruce teaches P.T., geology, biology and physics,’ said Sue.

  ‘Tell us all about schools in Australia, they must be fascinating,’ said Nina.

  ‘Fair comment,’ said Bruce and, three-quarters of an hour later, he was still telling us about Australian education.

  I must say, he was the ideal chap to have at a party. There were certainly no lulls in the conversation.

  Julie brought in more coffee, the eats had run out by this time, and I put on the prized record of ‘The Drain.’ The rhythm really shook the foundations of the house. Bruce’s shoulder started to twitch more violently as he heaved himself up out of the rocking chair.

  ‘This is really swinging, man – what is it?’ he asked.

  ‘“The Drain”,’ I said. I noticed Neville turn round with an enquiring look at a familiar word.

  ‘I didn’t ask what the smell was,’ responded Bruce, quick as a flash, and guffawed loudly at his own joke.

  ‘How’s about shaking a leg, sweetheart?’ and Una was grabbed around the waist and swung around. I could tell she was embarrassed but she managed to keep up quite a good show, though I could sense that Steve wasn’t too pleased. Julie said later, ‘I’m glad it wasn’t me he picked on – I would have sunk through the floor.’

  To cover up, Julie and I danced half-heartedly in a corner of the room, and, taking the hint, Alan Uppe asked Nina for a dance. Who would have thought Trev’s record would have had such an effect.

  It came to an end, at last, to Una’s relief. ‘Good on you, Una, You’re a sport.’

  I was afraid Bruce was going to ask for an encore but he suddenly caught sight of our beautifully-bound, red-leather volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, which riveted him.

  ‘I must just look something up, mate,’ he said and he buried himself in volume three for five minutes. The topic of conversation returned to holidays and Steve was praising the Pembrokeshire beaches when, ‘Now if it’s good beaches you’re looking for, you couldn’t do better than Sydney. Straight up, Bondi’s a beaut,’ Bruce interrupted, lifting his head out of the encyclopaedia, and went on to tell us about his surfing experiences, sailing, swimming, and when Sue said, ‘Our eldest is keen to go pony trekking,’ he laughed and said, ‘Say no more, if it’s riding you want to know about, come to me – why, when I rode out into the bush… ’ and this kept us going until midnight, when I again passed round the remains of the peach wine and some biscuits Julie had found in a tin in the larder.

  Shortly after this, Bruce stretched himself and announced, ‘Well, I must think about getting some beauty sleep, and that’s a fact.’ This was a hint for the Uppes to say, ‘Yes, we must be going, our babysitter will wonder what’s happened to us.’

  The P-Ps thanked us for a lovely evening and hoped we’d visit them at “The Pheasantry”, Widgeon’s Covet.

  We shook hands with Bruce. ‘Hope you’ll come and see us again,’ I said. ‘Say no more,’ he replied. Was not sure what he meant by this.

  The Downes’ were the last to go. As he left, Steve put his head close in a confidential way so that I could smell the peach wine on his breath and said something which sounded like ‘Beware dark stranger bearing badminton racquet’ and nodded sagely. Did he mean Nina Price-Potter? Una dragged him away before he could elucidate.

  Bed at one o’clock after very successful but quite exhausting evening.

  February 28th – Saturday

  Have nearly got writer’s cramp describing last night’s events and suffice it to say that we spent this morning clearing up. Put feet up after lunch and went to sleep.

  March 1st – Sunday

  Am not really blessed with green fingers, as the saying goes, but always return from a visit to Wellkept Garden Centre fired with enthusiasm and great ideas for turning our front garden into a “Showplace of the North”.

  Spent all afternoon there and, despite the icy wind, the place was crowded with enthusiasts.

  We spotted the Downes’ in the distance, struggling round with a laden trolley.

  ‘“What-ho!’ I hailed them cheerily. ‘What have you got there?’ But although Steve was very pleasant and he and Una kept saying how they’d enjoyed Friday evening, they seemed reluctant to divulge the secrets of their trolley and stood firmly in front of it.

  ‘Well, we must be on our way,’ I said to Julie eventually – my feet were turning numb.

  ‘There is a lovely selection of herbs over there,’ said Una, pointing to a spot on the horizon.

  ‘Thanks, we’ll go and have a look’ I replied, intending to do no such thing. Perhaps he had bought the last tin of a fantastic weedkiller, or a magic spray–on velvet lawn, or an exotic and rare tropical tree which would dazzle Springcroft Meadow in the summer. Actually, the contents looked no more interesting than a couple of lavender bushes, from what I could see.

  Trev helped me choose two apple trees for our proposed orchard. ‘They look a bit weedy, Dad,’ he kept saying. ‘Hope the wind doesn’t blow them down.’

  Thought we’d better have a couple of lavender bushes, one for each side of the front door, and then Julie wandered off to the packets of seeds, where her eyes grew quite glazed. With gay abandon, she chose about a dozen packets showing garishly-coloured flowers and well-scrubbed plump vegetables and lettuce. ‘Well, if the Downes’ can grow such good veg from seeds, I don’t see why we can’t. ‘I’ll make a little patch under the kitchen window. Think what a saving it will be.’

  Decided we’d better leave after that before we became broke, and before tea we put in the apple trees and the lavender bushes. It gave me a glow of satisfaction to think of them growing there and really feel that we have literally dug our roots in Springcroft Meadow now, so to speak.

  March 2nd – Monday

&nb
sp; Spent day at the office – routine paperwork. Note that Avery is looking more shifty every day. Felt a bit low, due perhaps to imminent visit by Julie’s mother, the weather – and possible lost opportunities. Kipper fillets for supper didn’t improve matters and there was nothing good on television.

  March 3rd – Tuesday

  Very windy and rumbling from steel works kept me awake most of last night – was concerned for apple trees. Relieved to say they are still standing – no doubt due to supporting props.

  Sorted through the caravan brochures in the evening and picked a good site in South Wales, where we can hire a caravan. It is near a beach and has all “mod cons” and every facility. Decided to write then and there and book. Spent rest of evening discussing this and making plans.

  March 4th – Wednesday

  Julie seems to be going mad, turning the house upside down in preparation for the “visit” next week; her mother likes everything to be spotless. Had to go over to Liverpool to a Building Exhibition to man our trade stand, which bears the legend ‘I.C.T. Everything from the Tree.’

  Spent rather boring and cold morning in St. George’s Hall, regret to say not much interest shown in our stand.

  Stick ‘Em Up (Timber adhesive) stand had more success.

  Palled up with chap from Manchester branch of I.C.T. called Derek Wineglass, who suggested lunch at Jeannie’s fish bar in town. Interesting experience and must take Julie there for evening out sometime. We descended into basement, rather dimly lit and strewn with fishnet, into which appeared to be sewn millions of green sequins, which glittered in the light of copper ship’s lantern and a vast illuminated aquarium.