On the Verge

All action takes place in a residential suburb of an English town during the 1960s.

* * *

Introduction, in which we meet our characters and settings.

Local estate agents were unanimous in their assessment of Whitefriars Avenue as being "in a desirable residential area." It was a true avenue; on each side of the road a single line of trees was set in a grass verge separating the carriageway from the pedestrian pavement. The houses, or "modern semi-detached villas," as the aforesaid agents were wont to describe them, had been built in the 1930s to a solid Edwardian plan, updated by such modernities as bays that were curved rather than angular, frontages that were stuccoed rather than exposed brickwork, and interior doors that were flush rather than panelled. The original buyers had thus been enabled to pride themselves on daringly embracing modernism without sacrificing the convenience of tradition. Later owners, bereft of the availability of cheap domestic servants which the previous generation had enjoyed, had found it advisable to build kitchen extensions and the like, but the street still retained much of its inter-bellum charm, of which its inhabitants were jealously proud.

It was this neighbourhood pride which motivated Mr Charles Wilson to keep the grass verge in front of his house, number 34, more closely mown than the borough council's infrequent attentions would have achieved unsupplemented. Every Wednesday morning during Spring and Autumn, and every Friday morning too during Summer, he would propel his classic lawnmower with meticulous precision up and down the strip of verge outside his house to produce the striped appearance of a professionally cropped lawn. He had no difficulty finding the time to do this, being the principal partner in a firm of solicitors and able to choose his own working hours. His holding in the firm had been inherited. He was still in his forties, and a widower. The only other resident of No. 34 was his son Robin.

After leaving school, Robin had served his term of National Service, which had taught him how to pour boiling water through the barrel of a Lee-Enfield rifle without scalding himself, how to tuck a blanket at the foot of a bed into a geometrically square corner, and how to convert the dull pimply toecap of a newly issued army boot into the mirror finish of patent leather. It had not, however, despite claims put forward in its behalf, made a man of him. A few years at University College Exeter had earned him an undistinguished geography degree and a teaching certificate. He was now, at the age of 24, waiting for the start of the academic year to take up his first appointment as an assistant master at the local secondary modern school. His father loved him, but would have preferred to have been proud of him. Robin was engaged to be married. It was typical of his diffidence and lack of enterprise that his fiancée was the girl next door.

Olivia Johnson lived with her parents at number 32. She was of pleasant appearance without being good looking, and possessed aspirations rather than ambitions. She regretted not having been born in an earlier age, when Europe abounded with chivalrous nobility, and a girl travelling further afield might, with any luck, be abducted by a ruthless, yet tender hearted, sheikh. Democracy and civilisation had, in her view, severely cramped a girl's chances of finding romance. She had no illusions about Robin's shortcomings, but was confidant of her ability to mould him into something better.

Olivia's parents, William and Vera, their silver wedding anniversary behind them, had settled into an equable routine which owed much to William's self-assumed subservience to the wishes of his wife and daughter. He was the manager of the local branch of David Greig's grocery store, and thus could exercise at work the dominance which he voluntarily ceded at home. Vera and Olivia, conscious of their good fortune in this respect, were careful not to risk losing it by being too demanding. William was not fond of gardening, so Vera willingly undertook the horticultural chores, including mowing the verge in front of the house. It was a matter of friendly contention between her and her neighbour as to which mower produced the better finish, her Qualcast Panther or his Ransomes Atlas.

The two households were on intimate terms with each other, almost as if they were already a single family, so it was perhaps not surprising that Robin had confided to his future father-in-law certain qualms he entertained concerning his impending wedding. There was to be a wedding breakfast to which more than 30 guests had been invited, and Robin had learned that once the refreshments had been consumed, the toasts drunk, and the cake cut, he was expected to lead his bride out and waltz at least one circuit as the only couple on the floor. He viewed this prospect with acute trepidation, all too aware of his ineptitude as a dancer.

Mr Johnson had listened to Robin's concern with much sympathy. He himself was a clumsy performer on the dance floor. In the interests of good staff relations his employers held a regional annual dinner and dance for staff and their families, so that once a year Mr Johnson was subjected to the chagrin of seeing his wife and daughter, both graceful dancers, clearly preferring to be partnered by almost anyone other than himself. Upon learning that Robin was similarly disadvantaged he was inspired to find a solution.

In the parade of shops in which Mr Johnson's store was located, the various retail outlets occupied the ground floors only, the upper rooms being let out to sundry other users: fortune tellers, money lenders, unchartered accountants, chiropodists, and the like. At pavement level a nondescript door sandwiched between the shop fronts of the chemist and the off-licence afforded access to two such concerns. The door opened onto a narrow staircase at the top of which was a small landing with two doors. That to the left was labelled Steve's Gymnasium and Athletics Club, while to the right was La Paloma Dance Studio. Mr Johnson conceived the scheme that he and Robin should attend the latter for private dance lessons every week, whilst pretending to be taking exercise at the former. In this way, when next called upon to take to the dance floor in public, they could surprise their respective partners with their newly found proficiency without the embarrassment of admitting that their skill was painfully acquired, not an inborn talent. He chose Wednesday for this secret training. That being half-day closing for David Greig's, it was easy for him to stretch a point and take the morning off too.

The dance instructors of La Paloma Dance Studio, who were also its proprietors and entire staff, were Mademoiselle Yvette Dupont and Claude D'Arcy, siblings better known to their parents as Doris and Sidney Ottershaw. Yvette was tall, angular, and approaching the age of 40 more closely than she wished. Her short hair was combed close to her head, with a single kiss curl plastered to her forehead. Its black colour was natural, but her Mediterranean complexion came from a bottle. Claude, a few years her senior, was similarly tall, dark, and slim. His hair glistened with Brylcreem, and long sideburns widened at the bottom as if trying to reach the ends of his pencil-thin moustache. In the summer months La Paloma Dance Studio was sometimes closed, Yvette and Claude preferring to find employment as resident dance instructors and exhibition dancers on a cruise ship or, at a pinch, in a holiday camp.

Our story begins in front of numbers 32 and 34,Whitefriars Avenue

One Wednesday morning, Charles Wilson was mowing the verge in front of his house as Mr Johnson and Robin left for one of their weekly sessions. Mr Johnson informed him in passing that Vera had slightly strained her back and would not be mowing their patch that day. When the conspirators had departed, Charles decided that he would just have time to mow Vera's verge for her before leaving for his weekly assignation with Gladys Roberts, a widow living a block or two away with whom he was on terms of intimacy. He was part way through this neighbourly task when old Mr Knight came striding past.

Ted Knight was in his seventies. His sole source of income was his old age pension, and he lived with his unmarried daughter in a council house. Whenever the weather permitted, he would take what he termed his 'constitutional,' walking briskly around the streets in the pleasanter parts of town, obedient to his daughter's explicit wish for him to get out from under her feet. He thus became a familiar sight in those areas which he favoured, and he in turn came to recognise residents he encountered regularly, and would exchange friendly nods in passing. He had often seen Vera mowing her patch of verge, so when he saw Charles doing it he was moved to say, "Good morning. Doesn't your wife usually do that?"

Charles, at that point moving in the opposite direction to Mr Knight, had no wish to stop or even slow down. He did not intend to give Vera Johnson any cause to criticise his handiwork. To achieve the perfect striped effect each pass had to be absolutely straight, with no gap or overlap between adjacent stripes. His technique for achieving this involved visually lining up a certain mark on the grass box of the mower with the edge of the previous stripe, keeping his eye in a constant position relative to the machine, and maintaining the same speed with equal pressure on both handles. Without slowing his progress or lifting his head, therefore, he replied tersely, "Vera's hurt her back." Mr Knight, correctly assuming that no further intercourse would ensue, continued his constitutional.

Following Ted, we shift briefly to Tenby Close . . .

Half an hour later Charles was ringing the bell at the house in Tenby Close owned by the widow Roberts. Gladys occupied the ground floor herself and rented out the upper floor. An estate agents' sign in the front garden disclosed that the flat was currently vacant and available to let. As Charles stood on the doorstep, Mr Knight came walking by. He raised his hat to Charles, cocked his head on one side, waggishly exclaimed "Aha! We meet again!" and strode briskly on.

. . . and return to Whitefriars Avenue.

A few streets and turnings later found Mr Knight once more traversing Whitefriars Avenue, this time in the opposite direction. Vera was outside her house, making a critical appraisal of Charles' ministrations to her grass verge. Ted Knight paused and said "Hello! Is your back better? I'm sorry to see that you're thinking of moving away. You keep this bit looking so nice. We shall miss your efforts."

Taken somewhat aback, Vera replied "We're not thinking of moving. Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Oh, it's just that I saw your husband going into that house that's up for sale in Tenby Close. I assumed he had gone to examine the property with a view to buying."

"You must be mistaken. That wouldn't have been my husband."

"Oh, I'm sure it was. I even spoke to him."

"Really? When did this happen?"

"About fifteen minutes ago I should think, give or take five minutes."

"I see."

"Well, I must get moving," said Ted Knight. "Best to keep going while I'm still warm. Nice to have these little chats, though. Cheerio!" He strode cheerfully off, not noticing the crease which had appeared on Vera's brow.

William and Vera have a conversation.

By the time that William returned home from his dance lesson, the crease had gone, replaced by a look of calm determination. William was usually sensitive to his wife's moods, but on this occasion he failed to notice that her attitude was polite rather than welcoming. "Hello, dear. I'm home," he announced.

"So I see. Did you enjoy your morning then?"

"Yes, it was all right."

"Where is it you go, exactly?"

"You know, Steve's gym. Well, not much of a gym really, just a vaulting horse, and some punch balls and skipping ropes. Still . . ."

"Liar!"

"No, honestly, that's about all there is. Well, there are a few mats and dumbbells and stuff like that."

"I don't care what there is or is not in Steve's so-called gym. I'm talking about where you went!"

"Oh."

"Yes, oh. I know where you really went! You were seen!"

"Oh well, the dread secret is out then. So now you know."

"Yes, now I know. You've been deceiving me all this time, and all you can do is stand there smiling and saying 'So now you know.' How could you?"

"I wanted to surprise you. I thought you'd be pleased."

"Pleased? Why would I be pleased?"

"I know you thought I wasn't much good at it, so I thought you'd like it if I got a bit of practice in."

"I never said you weren't any good at it!"

"Perhaps not in so many words, you didn't, but I could tell you didn't enjoy it by the way you moved."

"The way I moved? What was wrong with the way I moved?"

"Well, you were sort of formal, like you were just going through the motions, not letting yourself go. Anyway, next time I think you'll be pleased how much better I am."

"Next time? What makes you think there'll be a next time, you monster?"

"I don't understand why you are making such a fuss. It's no big deal."

"No big deal? How would you feel if the boot was on the other foot, and it was me 'practising' with someone else?"

"That's not a bad idea! Claude could take you on."

"Claude? Who the hell is Claude?"

"He's Yvette's partner. You could have a go with him while I'm with her, and then we could try it with each other. We'd probably even get a discounted rate."

"A discounted rate? You mean you pay her?"

"Of course I pay her. What do you expect? She's a professional."

"I don't think I can take any more of this. It just keeps getting worse."

"Look, why don't you come too next week? Just give it a go. I'm sure you'll get to like it. Ask Robin. He was reluctant at first, but now he quite enjoys it."

"Robin? You mean you take him with you?"

"Yes, the poor lad was anxious about what was expected of him after the wedding, never having done it before, but already he is confident of giving a good performance that won't disgrace him."

"Oh! Oh! Oh! You . . . You . . . You fiend! Not content with deceiving me, you debauch your own future son-in-law! Get out! Get out! Get out! I never want to see you again!" Vera sank distraught onto the sofa.

As William, non-plussed, was leaving the room, Olivia entered, drawn by the sound of the noisy altercation. The look of alarmed enquiry that she gave him as they passed he answered with raised eyebrows and a despairing shrug, hands shoulder high.

Olivia approached Vera's reclining figure. "Mother! What on earth is the matter?"

Upon hearing her daughter's voice, Vera sprang to her feet and clasped Olivia to her bosom. "Oh, you poor darling! That man who calls himself your father . . . I hardly know how to tell you, you poor, poor thing!"

"What, Mother? What has happened to father?"

"I can't think what has happened to him, to do what he has done!"

"What? What? What has Father done?"

"Only ruined both our lives, that's all!"

"Mother! Stop being so mysterious and tell me what is going on."

"Come and sit next to me, dear, and I'll try, but I don't know if I can find words to describe the infamy of it."

But seated side by side with her daughter, find words she did.

At La Paloma Dance Studio.

Yvette and Claude were resting between sessions. Yvette had removed her shoes and was rubbing her feet. "It's been a long winter, Sid. I hope we can find a decent gig for the summer."

"Me too, Dor. I've got feelers out for some cruise ships. That's favourite I think."

"Oo, yes, not half. That last trip was quite good, wasn't it?"

"Not bad, I suppose."

"Oh, you're still feeling miffed because that silly little girl kept cramping your style with her Mama."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Come off it! The sweet young thing who kept throwing herself at you when you were trying to make time with Mater. What were their names?"

"I don't remember."

"I bet you do really. Anyway, they'll be in your little black book along with all the others, I suppose."

"I'll thank you to keep your nose out of my private diary."

Yvette laughed. "Oh, all right, I won't tease you any more. But do try to get us a decent booking."

Charles is consulted by William and Robin.

After being given his congé by Vera, William packed an overnight bag, and went next door to Charles in search of sympathy and temporary accommodation. "She just threw me out, Charles. I think she's flipped. Totally irrational. Honestly, the way she carried on you'd have thought I was a cross between Bluebeard, Jack the Ripper, and Attila the Hun."

"Your trouble, Bill, is that you don't know how to handle a woman. You must let them know who's boss. Follow my lead. I never have any problem. Here, have a beer."

He took two bottles from the refrigerator, opened them, and passed one to William.

They were on their second swig when Robin entered with a woe-begone look on his face. "I can't believe what's just happened. I went round to see Olivia, and before I had as much as said hello, she called me a cad and a libertine, a swine and a rotter, and I don't know how many other names, each worse than the last, then she threw her engagement ring at me and said she never wanted to see me or hear my name again."

"Oh dear, oh dear," said Charles, not without a certain sense of schadenfreude, "another one in thrall to his woman. I really must take you two in hand and give you a few tips from my successful experience. Sit yourself down, lad, and have a beer."

The phone rang, and Charles picked up the receiver.

In the meantime, at Gladys' place . . .

Olivia having retired tearfully to her room, Vera decided to confront the Jezebel who had stolen her husband. She repaired her makeup and walked round to Tenby Close. There was only one house with an estate agents' sign, and she rang its doorbell.

Gladys answered the door, and enquired, "Yes? Can I help you?"

"Certainly you can help me," retorted Vera. "For starters, you can keep your hands off my husband!"

"I beg your pardon? There must be some mistake. I am not acquainted with your husband."

"No? Then what was he doing here this morning? He was seen entering this property."

"I don't think so. I've had only one visitor this morning. It's none of your business, but a gentleman I know came round earlier. No-one else has been here."

"That 'gentleman,' as you call him, was my husband!"

"Your husband?"

"That's right. Someone who knows my husband by sight saw him entering your house."

"But . . . But . . . Are you sure?"

"Absolutely sure, and what's more he admitted it as soon as I faced him with it."

"Oh, my God! I had no idea he was married. He's your husband? He told me he was a widower. Please believe me. I would never have had anything to do with him if I'd known he was married."

"So you're not on the game? He told me that he was a client of yours. He said that you also, er, serviced our neighbour's young son."

Gladys' mouth open and closed soundlessly. The blood left her face and she clasped at the doorpost for support. Vera swiftly stepped forward to support her. "You need to sit down. Here, let me help you." She guided Gladys into the kitchen and sat her in a chair. Now convinced that Gladys' disclaimer was sincere, she became concerned that her abrupt disclosure might have caused Gladys to suffer a heart attack or a stroke. "What you need is a nice cup of sweet tea. Just sit there and get your breath back while I make you one. Don't get up. I can see where the tea things are. My name's Vera, by the way."