Inkerman Writers - Mary Osborn

A small respectable street on the South Coast; but love can bloom on the blandest of pavements.

Henry Turns the Corner

Henry Barley had never been one of life's fighters, so he was rarely quite a winner or a loser. Mind you some people in Pie Street had dubbed him a loser while his wife was alive and one wag at the Wednesday bridge club in the back room of The Boatman maintained that, marrying a woman with a name like Mona, Henry had marked his own card. "Nonsense" said someone "look at Mona Washbourne; wonderful woman !" "Are we here to play bridge ?" came a cry and Henry's affairs were shelved.

Then Mona's long illness began and as one of the wives remarked, picking a bay leaf at the front door, "Now we can't be rude about her any more". When she died people said things like "Give him a few months..." . But Henry did not fit into their kindly timetable. Being tied to the stake might be uncomfortable but coming untied after forty years takes getting used to.

So Henry mourned his hard irascible wife for many months and people continued to be kind. Casseroles and dinner invitations arrived at his door and Henry accepted the food and politely fended off the invitations. In fact he was perfectly capable of producing his own meals, even poring over the seductive pages of Delia - a woman he rather admired with that hint of raciness beneath her smooth brown hair.

Usually it was auburn waves that caught his eye. Poor angry Mona's hair had remained resolutely black until she finally became too tired to keep it so. That had wrung Henry's heart like nothing else.

She had been a foolish and possessive wife: suspicious of her husband yet unwilling or unable to show affection. Indeed she had seemed to actively dislike Henry, treating him as one might a hideous but valuable heirloom - unwanted yet jealously guarded. And her jealousy had been uncalled for: Henry had been a faithful husband.

In the spring that followed Mona's death Henry's cheerful nature was beginning to reassert itself and he started to accept the occasional invitation. As the evenings lengthened it was pleasant to put on his smarter jacket, exchange his tie for a cravat and stroll along the street for a spot of hospitality. He was a modest man and it did not occur to him that by the end of his first year alone he was well on the way to becoming the invaluable single man in the neighbourhood.

He liked glass-of-sherry invitations best; a nice bit of socialising and home to eat his dinner in peace. He avoided scrabble like the plague.

It was some while before it dawned on him that on most occasions there would be at least one lady of whom his hostess would speak in confidential and approving terms. Some of the husbands too began to take a hand in his future. Giles Jameson would drag him to the golf club and always, it seemed, when there were lots of ladies about. But Henry proved an absolute rabbit at golf and so escaped the Pringle set.

Charlie Wilberforce, a bit of a nudge-and-wink man and a trial to all but his brassy wife Bella, believed in 'coming out with it' and roared a cross the room one evening "Henry old chap, high time you got yerself fixed up.

The Sunday tea-dance, that's the place. Nice women fallin' over themselves for someone to trip the light fantastic with 'em. We'll come along and show you the ropes." Henry suppressed a shudder att the idea of being shown the ropes at a tea-dance by Charlie and Bella, took his nose out of his wine glass to smile and shake his head, "Not really my style old chap. But thanks all the same." Which was a shame really as Henry loved to dance.

Summer ripened and Henry continued carrying his tissue-papered bottles into neighbouring houses. The unattached ladies began inviting him when they entertained, glad to have a helping hand on the corkscrew. Occasionally he scented danger. Soft fingers wrapped around his wrist just below the cuff, a waft of heavy scent up his nose and a breathy "You know where the cheese knives are Henry" was enough. Millie Alcott would nudge Hugh on the way home and say "Mark my words, Henry won't go there again in a hurry" and she would be right.

For Henry had his own ideas. As he went in and out of houses so too, appearing and disappearing in the social round, was someone who began to invade his thoughts. Miss Willmott at number five was almost too reserved. She had arrived in Pie Street only three years before. Sometimes she would be away for a while and it was not until Millie read her name on a talking book that the mystery was solved. She was an actress. After this it was widely assumed that she must have had several husbands. But no, she really was Miss Lilian Willmott.

Occasionally in her slip of a house she entertined a few theatrical friends and the sound of a piano, the clink of glasses and sometimes a burst of song intrigued the residents of Pie Street. At first they rather hoped for a bit of dubious behaviour: the smashing of gin glasses in the early hours perhaps. But disappointingly her guests would be gone by half-past ten with nothing more dramatic than a few well-projected 'Dahlings' on the night air.

And now, as Lilian went serenely about her affairs, Henry began to look out for her. She was different from the other women. Nothing you could put your finger on but a general impression of movement and of colour. When the stiff sea breezes snatched her vivid clothes would float and flutter and always, so it seemed to Henry, disappearing around the next corner.

Despite the Brighton gusts she persevered with umbrellas. "Here comes Lilian again" Hugh Alcott reported at the window "brolly inside out as usual." Millie joined him clutching an egg whisk. She flung open the the casement, holding it against the wind "Come in Lilian. Have a glass of something." But Lilian smiled, waved the ruined umbrella and shook her head "See you Thursday." Henry was closing an upstairs window against the downpour. Damn ! He had said 'No thank you' to Thursday at the Lorrimers'.

Next morning round the corner in Hamilton Place he put a note through their door. And when Thursday came he dressed with extra care. He discarded this tie and that cravat until he looked at the tangle on the bed and muttered "Come on you old fool !" He snatched up a pink tie derided by Mona through thin pale lips as "ridiculous on a little man of your age" so never worn. Now he knotted it carefully and stood back to study his reflection. He might not be tall but at least he hadn't run to fat. He brushed his thinning hair, smoothed his moustache and picking up his Tio Pepe let himself out of the front door.

People made the most of sherry parties. There was not much time in which to down a couple of glasses and have a good mingle before the smell of cooking would drift through to speed them on their way. Sensible hosts cooked an especially pungent dinner on sherry nights.

This evening Henry, stepping briskly into Hamilton Place, was met by a penetrating "Yoo hoo!" from Bella Wilberforce, bracelets clashing as she beckoned extravagently from the Lorrimers' doorstep. Henry's hopes of inserting himself quietly into the party were dashed. Instead he was propelled forward by Bella's ample bosom on a great gust of Obsession. Another friendly shove in the shoulderblades shot him into the middle of the room and face to face with Daphne Minton, keenest of the corkscrew brigade. "Look what we've brought for you Daphne!" shouted Charlie bringing up the rear as Bella flung one plump arm round Daphne's narrow shoulders, anchored the other on Henry's neck and pressed them nose to nose. Daphne snorted happily. Henry stiffened and clutched his Tio Pepe defensively against the pink tie.

He was thus ridiculously positioned when he saw Lilian step through the door. Her glance fell on the tableau and he could sweat tht her lips twitched before she moved off to find her hostess. Henry wriggled himself free and forged his way towards Arthur Lorrimer, dispensing three kinds of sherry in the french windows. Holding a cool glass he meandered purposefully through the crush, his smile vague but his eyes alert. "You look lorst Henry." Daphne was not one to waste an opportunity. "I er - 'scuse me, gotta check something." He snatched a pamphlet from a nearby shelf, opened it at random and feigned absorption. "Good God Henry ! Don't see you Knitting for Tiny Tots. Come and talk to the girls." Henry thrust the book away and resignedly followed Hugh Alcott. "I've rescued him." Henry Looked around at the combined smiles of Hugh, Millie and Lilian Willmott. He sighed contentedly and took a large swig from his glass.

All too soon they were back in Pie Street. "Take pot luck with us" invited the kindly Alcotts and Henry artfully waited but Lilian shook her head "My dinner's cooking". So he too declined and calling their goodnights they disappeared behind their several front doors. Twenty minutes later nipping home for the second time clutching a vinegary parcel from The Happy Plaice Henry met Lilian with her dog. He fell into step beside her and emboldened by his two glasses of sherry seized the moment. "I wonder, would you perhaps have dinner with me one evening ?" A silence. He waited. "Or - tea perhaps ?" "Tea might be nice." "Any day" he offered recklessly "any day at all. Next week perhaps ?" "Well, Wednesday then." "Wednesday it is. Shall we say half-past three at The Orange Tree." "Yes, thank you. Goodnight now" and she and her dog were gone into numberfive.

In the days that followed they ran into one another at every turn but by a supreme effort of will Henry did not mention the appointment. On Wednesday at 3.20 with every hair in place and every crease a knife-edge henry sat at the best table The Orange Tree could offer. The place was seedier than he remembered. Half-past three came and went. He waited for fifty minutes before he paid his bill. "Let you down did she" the owner was horribly chirpy as he took the money. Henry forced a bright smile. "Ah these ladies; they say "The Orange Tree at 3.30' and ..." "We're not The Orange Tree chum, we're The Singing Kettle." "My God!" Henry smote his forehead extravagently. He hadn't been a member of the bank's drama group for nothing. "The poor little woman !"

Once outside he gave up all pretence and ran for it. Panting he rang the bell of number five but there was no reply. He pounded back down the road and rounded the corner. She was coming towards him carrying some shopping. Henry skidded to a halt and stood gasping for breath. Lilian waited. "Wrong cafe - me!" he croaked "What must you think." "I think you'll expire if you're not careful" she said calmly "You'd better come and sit down" and opening the door she led the way into number five.

Yes, well even the best of us can't be perfect all the time.

The Yellow Peril

There was no denying that Arthur Lorrimer was a bit of an old stick. He disapproved of practically everything and his younger neighbours in Hamilton Place found him a trial. If it wasn't the bin men or someone's whiskery hedge it was the skateboarders who whizzed along the seafront as they read their Sunday papers.

It was an autumn evening when his nephew set off to Milan en route for youthful freedom and Uncle Arthur, keen to instil an earful of last minute caution, went with him to the airport. The flight was delayed, Arthur remained to jaw and it was 1 am before young Marcus wrung his uncle's hand in sheer relief and escaped through the departure gate.

In the November darkness Arthur came off the train and, wary of the quiet side streets, walked along the seafront. Head up, conscious of a job welldone, he strode homeward. Suddenly his foot flew from under him. The other foot came up and weirdly he was not falling but gliding. Gliding? He wobbled, tilted and fell. He scrambled up. A few feet ahead in the darkness a yellow skateboard rocked gently. He approached and kicked it furiously. It rolled on again, bucking lightly on the wide smooth promenade.

Arthur followed it, paused then gingerly placed a foot squarely in its centre. It shot away and down he thumped. Breathing noisily through his nose he scrambled up, captured the board and carried it over to the railings. He set it down, clutched the rail and mounted. Hand over cautious hand he hauled himself along then half let go and, scooting crablike, trundled faster.

At 5 am as Police Constable Vickery sturdily patrolled the seafront he heard above the perpetual surf a kind of bumpy rumble. Out of the greyness shot a figure with wild grizzled hair and could that be a military moustache? PC Vickery held up a blue serge arm. "Stop !" he bellowed. Arthur whizzed past him "Morning officer!"

"STOP AT ONCE!" roared Vickery.

The figure made a wide unsteady curve and returned in a series of lurchingswoops. PC Vickery relaxed and waited. Arthur sped past, arms out like wings, raincoat flapping.

"What do you think you're doing ?" shouted the Law.

"Mind your own beeswax!" yelled the intoxicated Arthur. That did it. PC Vickery yelped into his back-phone and within minutes reinforcements had arrived.

But Arthur had gone. Trousers filthy, raincoat torn and a shoe in either hand he padded home through the dark streets, the yellow board under his arm. He thrust it to the back of the hall cupboard and limped upstairs to bed. His dilapidations he explained to his wife quite simply: "Some bloody hooligan on a skateboard."

From time to time in the weeks that followed Police Constable Vickery would see a neat elderly man stepping out for his morning paper. One day the man raised his copy of The Times in salute. PC Vickery stared after him and shook his head. Surely not?