MISINTERPRETED IN GESTURE, WORD AND DEED

I make a point of getting on well with the people I meet. The only problem is the people I meet make a point of getting on badly with me.

Two years ago I went out with a girl. Quite a record, believe you me.

One evening I am summoned to her father’s study.

“You drove home dangerously the other night,” I am informed. I nod. “Under the influence of alcohol and extreme annoyance.” I nod. “Judy never wants to see you again. Go now.”

I walk out of the study and leave the house by the front door. Strange as it may seem, a few days later I bump into Judy and she is very pleasant. However, her father and her eldest brother do not follow in her foot-steps. Her father’s name is Clarence (you’ll need to keep this in mind) and her eldest brother’s name is Charles.

Let me tell you about Charles and the barman-in-chief story but before doing so, let me sketch in some background stuff, as we writers are wont to do.

At a club in a pub this Charles comes up to me (I haven’t seen Judy for a year) and he tells me he knows all about me, that I am to watch my step, that the nick is looking for people like me, that I am a disgrace to humanity, and that Judy despises me. To add the finishing touches, he waves his fist in front of my nose and tells me not to say a word in my defence. I don’t.

A few days later Judy’s new boyfriend lurches up to me, introduces himself as “Judy’s new boyfriend”, and tells me I’m a worm and likely to get squashed for my sins.

All these threats are very demoralising so I keep a low profile for a half a dozen months. While I’m skulking around, trying to behave myself, and settling the matter by living in complete isolation in one room, a lovely new theatre gets built just half a dozen yards down the road from me. A beautiful film actress opens the theatre and thereafter the usual modern plays get performed nightly to the claps, cheers and grunts of those attending.

<a data-snax-placeholder="Source" class="snax-figure-source" href="https://pixabay.com/en/railway-station-wuppertal-barmen-1140982/" target="_blank" rel="nofollow noopener">https://pixabay.com/en/railway-station-wuppertal-barmen-1140982/</a>

Having kept a low profile for many a month, I leave my room and decide to have a drink in the theatre-bar. I enter, only to find that Charles is head-barman. His face looks like a hard, unripe fruit. He is wearing an evening jacket under which is a white shirt fresh from an ironing, a frilly tie, colour blood-red, tight black trousers, and a digital wrist-watch. He is lighting a cigarette with considerable aggression. He recognises me and his face darkens like a thundercloud but he does not come over. Instead, he remains in his corner, surrounded by formidable intellects all talking about the director’s latest affair, how the D’s wife is looking miserable, and how life is just one big haw-haw. All these youngsters (I’m a youngster myself) are dressed in tatty jeans (which I think is a good idea because you can see if they wash their bottoms regularly).

I stand by the bar, wondering whether to order a drink or crawl out quietly. I decide to be courageous.

“Half of bitter,” I say to an attractive barmaid. She smiles so I ask her why she isn’t dressed like the other barmaids.

“I am, I am,” she replies, rather too eagerly I think.

“You’re not really,” I say. “They’ve all got white blouses and green skirts on but you’ve got a black skirt on and it’s beyond my ability to guess what that thing is round your top.”

“Oh,” she laughs, “that’s a pullover.”

I pay her, give my half pint a sip, and when she gives me the change, I continue to talk to her because she stands near-by.

“Do you know the head-barman?” I ask.

“Yes,” she replies. That’s bad, I think.

“Do you like him?” I ask.

“Yes,” she replies. These tasteless women, I think.

“Are you full time here?” I ask. “Sorry about all these questions but they tell me questions get conversations going.”

“That’s all right,” she says, accepting my apology. “No, I’m a student at Exeter.”

“When are you going back then?” I ask. She is smiling all the time. It is really quite lovely.

“Soon.”

“Do you ever go out for drinks with wretches like me?” I ask but as soon as I’ve said it I realise I shouldn’t have. She has begun to move away. I beckon her back with large waves of my hand but she’ll have none of it.

<a data-snax-placeholder="Source" class="snax-figure-source" href="https://pixabay.com/en/beer-beer-glass-deformed-bent-2351051/" target="_blank" rel="nofollow noopener">https://pixabay.com/en/beer-beer-glass-deformed-bent-2351051/</a>

Charles is straightening his jacket, which is perfectly straight anyway, and his eyes remind me of those you often see in large, ugly potatoes.

By now, the barmaid seems hysterical. She is neurotically filling up glasses with money and putting whisky into the till, generally exhibiting confusion and worse. She reminds me of a mother hen, looking for her lost chicks.

I’ll give it a last bash. I beckon her over. She approaches with extreme caution, giving me the eye. “What’s the matter?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she replies, looking at me as if I be some sort of wizard. (I wanted to get the subjunctive in somehow.) Is she really this neurotic, I wonder, or has Charles already filled her in? I look at her. She is still smiling, pulling away at her skirt as if I had intentions of lifting it which I haven’t. She is perfectly safe anyway because there is a bar-counter between us, and Charles near-by for good measure. She goes away and won’t speak to me again even though we are within talking distance but…..

Charles comes up.

<a data-snax-placeholder="Source" class="snax-figure-source" href="https://pixabay.com/en/photographer-frog-photo-shoot-funny-1080016/" target="_blank" rel="nofollow noopener">https://pixabay.com/en/photographer-frog-photo-shoot-funny-1080016/</a>

“Hello, you bastard,” he says. “I thought I recognised you.” We shake hands.

“I met your two sisters the other day,” I say.

“Not Judy,” Charles replies. “She’s in Germany. She’s left us. Sad affair, isn’t it?”

I want to say, “Not really.” I want to say, “I think it’s a very good affair because your dad is a bully,” but I don’t manage to. Instead, I say, “No, it wasn’t Judy, it was….” but he interrupts me.

“You’re the same as ever,” he drawls. “Why didn’t you come over? Was it because you tried to knock me down in Piefeather Lane?”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Of course you don’t,” he answers jocosely.

“Well, the psychologists say we always forget unpleasant memories or try to,” I qualify.

He is walking away. “Bullshit,” he says over his shoulder. He returns to his groupies. I have finished my half pint. The barmaid won’t look at me now, so I leave by the back door.

<a data-snax-placeholder="Source" class="snax-figure-source" href="https://pixabay.com/en/wall-shadow-man-silhouette-stones-483011/" target="_blank" rel="nofollow noopener">https://pixabay.com/en/wall-shadow-man-silhouette-stones-483011/</a>

Some time later I receive a piece of news which makes a nice conclusion even though I write so myself. One of Judy’s ex’s, more riled than me, also chucked like me (father’s study, riot act read), begins talking to me again, seemingly for the sole purpose of telling me Clarence went to prison for embezzlement. “How long did he get?” I enquire.

“Long,” says the guy.

(It would appear now is the time to call Judy back from Germany but I just don’t have the inclination.)