A Little Bit on the Side (26 page)

For those like Jack who already owned their home when the madness began it was, by and large, a free ride as property values raced away, and wages piggy-backed upwards on soaring inflation, but other factors were also operating to put an additional premium on country properties with a bit of land, and on fine houses in the more desirable towns of the Border Counties.

The arrival of colour TV and the roving reporters of
Twenty Four Hours
and
Nationwide
had added a new dimension to the seeming delights of the countryside and its county towns. Fyfe Robertson canoed down the Severn extolling its delights. In
The Good Life
Tom and Barbara Goode quit the rat-race for the joys and hazards of self-sufficiency. In
One Man and His Dog,
Phil Drabble’s voice and style fed peoples’ nostalgia for what he called ‘the deep values of true country folk,’ and for those in a position to take their money and run from London and the Home Counties, where property inflation led the charge, there were dainty pickings to be found in the delights beyond the Severn, where Barlow was featuring increasingly in property magazines as a place where the living was easy.

The result was that it was not only the smallholders of Barton Hill and the countryside who were resentful of city dwellers moving in to buy up second homes, or retire from the south and push up local prices in doing so. The same was even more true in Barlow, where over the years not only did they arrive to buy, but also to settle and engage in local affairs in sufficient numbers to effect what was regarded by many locals as a sort of revolution in an accepted way of doing things that they and their fathers, and their fathers before them, had found more than satisfactory, and in so doing disturb the placid waters of Barlow society, unruffled for so many centuries: the us’ and ‘them’ syndrome had arrived in Barlow.

Jack had just turned forty-two when he made his move to Barlow: a time in his affairs when he was reluctantly forced to take a hard look at himself, and accept that as far as his private and professional life was concerned the tide was certainly past the flood. On the personal side he was saddened but phlegmatic at the break-up of his marriage, and uncertain whether or not he really wanted to commit himself again to any long-term relationship. His occupation was such that he’d never looked for fame or fortune, but he’d enjoyed an unexpected promotion, and was quite pleased to see how nicely the value of his Krugerrands was increasing. Now at least he could feel confident that whatever Head Office might think about the matter, Barlow would be his last posting. He could see the light at the end of his revenue tunnel, and if Head Office felt differently about it he’d tell them they could stuff the job, and freelance. He’d already been approached.

In total contrast to his chilly reception on the hill, his neighbours in Withy Lane and the little Victorian enclave by the river had been friendly and welcoming, and within a few months he had felt quite at home there. At first, despite knowing himself to be essentially non-clubbable, and not wishing to appear too distant or unforthcoming, he had accepted invitations to attend the meetings of some of the town’s societies: the Music Society, the History Society, the Art Society and the Barlow Players.

He put in enough appearances at the meetings of each of these to extend his circle, and sound out those individuals he felt he would like to know better, and then one by one he let his attendances fall away with the exception of the Barlow Players, where the attractions were twofold: his lifelong passion for the theatre, and an increasing interest in Josie, the society’s stage manager.

Born in nineteen sixty as the Barlow Amateur Dramatic Society, the name was changed even before the first production as soon as one of the more astute members pointed out the negative publicity value of the acronym. Born in nineteen forty as Josephine Imogen Adams, there was nothing about Josie that any but a fool would want to change, and even in her mature years most of the men who met Josie considered her to be just about as perfect a production as they come.

The Barlow Players was an active and adventurous society presenting three, sometimes even four, productions in a year under the guidance and direction of a triumvirate of the original founders, but at its heart were Brandy and Dorothy Woodvine, a couple of old pros from the days when professional repertory theatres were still just about managing to cling on to life in a few smaller towns around the country. The third of the originals was Josie, who for the first two years or so had played many of the female leads, before moving on to stage management.

Under the direction and control of Brandy and Dorothy the Players had become one of the few groups in the Midlands dedicating itself to plays from the classical repertoire, and surviving by building a loyal and enthusiastic audience for them. Jack had seen two or three of the Players’ productions with Kate, and been impressed with the quality of the work. He had in his early years been an enthusiastic acting member of the local Hampstead group, where a number of romantic juvenile leads had led to some intimate and enjoyable offstage moments with his opposite numbers, but in Hampstead it had been very much a light-hearted social activity with audiences of family and friends. In Barlow with Brandy as the guiding force, however, it was a much more serious affair.

For almost three years he’d been content simply to assist the Players backstage and with routine administration work wherever and whenever he was wanted, but he resisted all Brandy’s blandishments to return to the boards, even in a minor walk-on role.

‘Not good for the image, Brandy,’ he said. ‘But anything else that I can do and I’m your man.’

Eventually, with the departure of one of the old brigade, he was asked to take over as treasurer and financial director, which would be dull and unrewarding, and as assistant stage manager to Josie, which would be neither. In fact, despite the memory of his humiliating evening with Angela, he had for some time been thinking about Josie in ways that were anything other than semidetached. Curious and a little wary, however, of a woman so beautiful and physically attractive who had remained unmarried, he was hesitant in seeking to advance their relationship without knowing a little more about her.

The opportunity came when he ran into Brandy on the rebound from one of his regular arguments with Dorothy about the merits of the Stanislavski method, and lured him into The Pump for an evening on Prior’s Pride: 5.2% abv and Charlie Arscott’s strongest, guaranteed to loosen tongues much tighter than Brandy’s.

‘Bless you Jack,’ said Brandy, having taken a long pull at his first pint. ‘Dear God, my wife can be such an unbelievably infuriating woman at times. I wonder sometimes how we stayed together all these years. There I am trying to have a sensible discussion with her about a script, and all I get from her is motivation, motivation, motivation. Well eventually I said to her, “Look darling, it’s really quite simple. You open the bloody door, walk on to the bloody stage, and you bloody act. I’ve been doing it for years, and there’s absolutely nothing to it.” She threw the script at me and told me to bugger off, so I did. And you my love, picked me up, dusted me down and soothed my savage breast. Bless you.’

Jack invested another pint and half-an-hour or so indulgently prompting Brandy on his favourite theme: Brandy’s professional career and his theatrical philosophy, before turning the talk to the amateur stage, the history of the Barlow Players and then, subtly as he thought, to Josie.

‘There’s absolutely no need to be devious darling, just tell me what it is you would like to know about the lady, and as far as it is within my purview I will be only too happy to oblige.’

‘Oh my God Brandy. Have I really been that obvious?’

‘Well it’s not just this evening Jack. I’m not the only one who’s noticed how much time you spend looking at her at rehearsals. Despite your age it’s really quite love’s young dream, and Dot tells me that she suspects that our Josie has a reciprocal interest. That’s a purely female insight though: don’t want to dishearten you, but I can’t see it myself, to be honest’

‘Well I’m not exactly past it you know Brandy. The old Adam still stirs the loins from time to time, and Josie’s a stunningly beautiful woman. For her age there’s not another in town to touch her, and even the younger ones struggle. Surely you’re not surprised?’

‘Oh not at all dear boy. We’ve all been smitten by our Josie in our time, but you should have seen her in her twenties Jack. Have a look at some of the photos of productions in the first couple of years. She was absolutely ravishing, lovely voice and she moved like a gazelle, on stage and off. Really professional in many ways, and wonderful publicity value: filled a couple of extra rows in the house when she was playing I always reckoned, and I don’t mean just the men.’

‘So why did she finish with acting?’

‘Never really got to the bottom of that. Onstage playing a part she was totally uninhibited, a joy to watch, but off-stage she’s a bit of an enigma: keeps herself very much to herself. She was determined though: nothing I said could change her mind.’

‘And never married?’

‘Unmarried, but not unmanned Jack. Dot and I reckon there have been two, perhaps three, over the years, but nothing permanent, and she’s never said a word about them. Strictly business at rehearsals with Josie, and we don’t see much of her outside. On the personal side she’s tight as a clam. We bumped into her with one of her consorts a few years ago in the crush bar at the Royal Opera House. We stood and talked for three or four minutes. Would you believe it if I told you that she never once glanced at him or referred to him, and he just stood there sucking his glass the while. She’s a very close lady.’

‘And is she local?’

‘Absolutely. One of the Barlow aristocracy. Family part of the town for centuries: literally. Have a look at the monuments in All Saints’. Her father was joint partner in Adams and Oseland, the estate agents. She took over when he died. Both parents dead now, leaving Josie the house and pretty well breached I’d say. Have you seen where she lives on the High Street, and the way she dresses?’

Jack certainly had, and there would have been few heads, male or female, that didn’t turn when Josie walked by. Whether formally or casually dressed, the cloth, cut and line of her outfits bespoke the best of the fashion houses: Hardy Amies, Burberry, Jaeger, Edel-stein, Charles Jourdan, with shoes by Edward Rayne, and the air around her fragrant with the scent of L’Air du Temps.

‘Indeed I have Brandy, and it’s a joy to follow her through town just to watch the way she moves. I like to think of her as Barlow’s own immaculate conception.’

‘That’s very ungodly and naughty of you Jack, but I do see what you mean. Well you’re a big boy now, and should be able to look after yourself, so I wish you luck in the chase.’

Of Josie, Jack learned little more, but the beer was good and Brandy was never a bore. Full of theatrical and town gossip, and delighting in name-dropping from the two seasons when he’d landed a bit-part in a West End production, it needed only a little prompting to keep him happily chatting away till closing time when they each set off for home: Jack wistfully comparing his own drab and colourless professional career with the fascination of life in the theatre, and Brandy to make his peace with Dot, and wondering how it was they had achieved so little prefessionally, and ended up running a group of amateurs in a provincial backwater.

For a few meetings of the group after his evening with Brandy, Jack looked hopefully for any indication in Josie’s attitude of the reciprocal interest that Dot’s intuition had detected, but without success. He determined nevertheless to press forward, and as they were winding up at the end of the next meeting asked Josie whether she would care to join him for lunch some time. To his surprise she not only agreed, but seemed quite pleased to do so.

‘That would be lovely Jack. Look, I’m out on valuations over the next two lunchtimes, so shall we make it Friday at Bosewell’s. That where I usually lunch, and they always have an interesting menu. Shall we say one o’clock.’

‘One o’clock will be fine: looking forward to it’

In addition to the town’s more celebrated attractions, Bosewell’s was also one of its landmarks. A coffee house and restaurant for over a century, it had always been Kate’s choice in Barlow when Jack could be weaned away from his bitter. Although not as old as The Pump it displayed its age more overtly and enticingly, and was well patronised accordingly.

Approached beneath a pillared walkway supporting the floor and overhanging jetties of the black and white facade above, its doors opened into a deep but rather narrow room of ancient beams, half-panelled walls, curious alcoves, and immediately inside the entrance a broad, antique dresser with old plate and copper above and newspapers and country magazines below for the enjoyment of the customers. And should the weather be at all inclement there would always be a welcoming fire blazing just halfway inside, alongside a table that always seemed to be reserved for regulars whenever Jack and Kate called in. The building had an ancient staff to match the structure: grey-haired bustling old ladies, each in formal bib and tucker, who took and delivered the orders with an efficiency that belied their appearance.

Snug and comfortable it was, but not the most intimate of places for a romantic assignation, thought Jack. Farmers’ wives in for a day’s shopping, tourists ticking all the boxes, and those of the business fraternity who were not to be found in The Pump all combined to fill it at lunchtimes, especially on a Friday, when it could be quite a hubbub. At least he knew that Josie was reserving a table.

‘I’m with Miss Adams,’ said Jack, waylaid by one of Bosewell’s ancient retainers assigned to intercept anyone optimistic enough to think that any of the empty tables might in fact be available.

‘Oh yes sir. Would you come this way please?’

Jack eased his way past those diners already well into an early lunch, and found himself directed to a seat at the table by the fireplace: occupied by a floral display on this occasion as the weather was mild. As he sat waiting he was puzzled to find that he was apparently the object of a few curious glances from those at the tables nearby, until he saw Josie making her way from the entrance, heard how frequently she was greeted by those he took to be regulars, and realised that she was one of them and he was sitting at her table: Josie clearly had clout at Bosewell’s.