The Old Devils

       They had hardly settled in their seats before one of the long-aproned waiters went round unfolding napkins and spreading them across their destined laps. They were unexceptionably large and laundered and of linen, but they were also pale pink. Alun ostentatiously held his arms up well clear during the spreading. When it was over he put on an eager, didactic expression and said, 'This is called a napkin. Its purpose is to protect your clothing from the substantial gobbets of food that your table manners will cause to fall from your mouth or from some point on the way to your mouth, and to provide something other than your hand or sleeve with which to wipe your mouth. Explaining this to one of your understanding would take a long time and even then might not avail, so fucking well sit still and shut up.'

       'Oh Christ,' said Peter immediately, his eyes on the menu. They had each been given one in the bar but none of them had looked at it. 'A bloody Welsh lunch and dinner. Well, roll on.' Looking round for someone to accuse he caught sight of Charlie. 'What's the idea?' he asked, apparently in sincere puzzlement.

       'You have to do it in a way,' said Charlie. 'People are getting to expect it. We only do it on Fridays anyway, Fridays and St David's Day. And it isn't compulsory even then. Which is decent of us because it's pretty nasty, unless you happen to have a taste for chicken in honey.'

       'You mean you actually get people eating that?' asked Alun.

       'Not much, no. That's not really the point. Seeing it on the menu is what they like. Same with the signposts.'

       'But you don't give an English translation here,' said Peter.

       'Well, you see, that would rather spoil things for them.

       They like to feel they understand it, or could if they paid it a bit of attention. And they probably do understand some of it, like _pys__ is peas and _tarws__ is taters.'

       'Christ,' said Peter again, with weary disgust this time. 'We're not going to war over this, I hope. It's all fairly harmless, isn't it?'

       'No it isn't. There you're wrong. It's one part, a small part but still a pan, of an immense Chinese wall of bullshit that's, I mean Offa's Dyke that's... '

       'Threatening to engulf us,' supplied Charlie. 'I know.

       But I'm afraid I don't think putting a couple of dozen Welsh words on a menu lets the side down very far. Find a pass that's really worth holding and I'll join you there.'

       'There never is one. That's the trouble.'

       'We need more drinks,' said Alun. 'And I'd advise you to switch, Peter. I don't think that slimline tonic agrees with you.'

       'Can I recommend the soup?' asked Charlie. 'I hope you've noticed it's called soup, not _cawl__. I might even have some myself. Potato and leek today, he does it quite well. Unless Peter thinks the leek is there for impure reasons.'

       'All right, Charlie; said Peter.

       Just as they had ordered, Victor approached the table, using a much less emphatic gait than when making his exit from the bar. 'Do forgive me, but one of your fans, Alun, requests the honour of a brief word.'

       'What kind of fan?'

       'Well, I don't know what you'd call her, but if it was left to me I'd say she was a young person. There, over in the corner, just turning round now.'

       From what Alun could see without his glasses, which was all he was going to see of her, the fan looked perhaps rather good as well as young. 'All right, but you will see she knows I'm having a little private lunch-party.'

       'I'll make sure she understands that, Alun - leave it to me.'

       'You more or less have to do it,' said Alun after a moment. He felt a little embarrassed.

       'Don't worry,' said Charlie.

       'I mean you can always get out of it if you don't mind looking like a shit but I'm afraid I'm a bit too cowardly to do that unless I have to.'

       'We understand.'

       Seen closer to, the fan looked quite seriously good, and late twenties. Alun found himself signalling to Victor, who with what could have been piss-taking alacrity sent a waiter scurrying forward with a fourth chair. The fan shook hands nicely with them all and accepted a-glass of wine.

       'And what can I do for you?' There was no point, Alun considered, in trying to hide his satisfaction at this turn of events.

       'I'd like you to talk to my group.'

       'Tell me about your group.'

       It turned out to be a literary circle, thirty strong on a good night, though naturally there would be more for someone like him, twenty minutes' drive, and not worth asking about a fee. Yes, a reading would do if he preferred it.

       'I'll consider it,' said Alun. 'Perhaps you'd like to drop me a line incorporating all that, care of the local BBC. Very kind of you to ask.'

       'Nice to have met you.' Her voice was good too.

       Charlie watched her go. 'Is that the lot?' he demanded.

       'The lot? I might talk to her group if I'm feeling gracious.

       What are you getting at?'

       'What? A bit off I call that quite frankly.'

       'I don't know what you mean.'

       'I mean, is that the worst you could do? You didn't even ask her for her bloody phone-number.' Charlie shook his head.

       'Oh, I read you now. What I should have done was grab at her bosom. Of course.'

       'Well that's how you're supposed to behave, isn't it?'

       'You do me too much honour, Charlie. Age comes to us all.'

       The fresh drinks arrived, whisky and gin to make up for the relative thinness of the wine. Soon afterwards the scallops arrived, and they were all right, eatable enough anyway for Alun to praise them extravagantly when Victor came to inquire. At this stage too Alun carried his point that he must be allowed to pay for the meal or would feel inhibited in his choice, and Victor gave in very gracefully and accepted a glass of the second bottle of Chablis _grand Cru__. For obvious reasons Alun made rather a thing of not knowing about wine, but any fool could have seen that this one looked and sounded good. At a suitable moment he revealed that he had done television that morning, hence, he said, his desire to get clean away afterwards and have a couple of drinks with a pal or two. He added that that was how ht: always felt after a do like that, even a little local one.

       'You must have done a lot of it in London,' said Charlie.

       'Yes I did, and why not? Some of the people up there, you know, bloody intellectuals, Hampstead types, they look down their noses at you if you go on the box more than once in a blue moon. Cheapening yourself. Well I'm not. I don't consider I'm cheapening myself by appearing on television. What else am I fit for? I'm just an old ham after all, so why shouldn't I perform where a few people can see me?'

       'Oh, come along now, Alun, really,' said Charlie at once, and Peter said, 'No, you're not being fair to yourself.'

       'You're very kind, both of you, but I've no illusions after all these years. Quite a successful ham, mind, but a ham none the less. An old fraud.' Here he paused for a space, as if wondering whether this time he had indeed been to some extent unfair to himself, then went buoyantly on, 'Anyway, forget it. Bugger it. Now who's for cheese? And it must follow as the night the day, a glass of port.'