I muttered, “Will that be lobster at Moby’s?”
“Alas, no. Belly pork at Sandytown Hall, I fear,” said Roote with a little shudder.
Afore I could ask what he meant, the door opened as the women approached it and a Yankee voice gushed, “Daphne, Clara, how nice. How are you, dear ladies?”
Toilet-tooth Festerwhanger.
Well, at least they really had sent Prince bloody Charming, not some snotty-nosed orderly to round me up. Always supposing that’s why he’d come. I could see Roote thought it was. He gave me one of them little looks. Quizzical, I think they call ’em. Like Pascoe sometimes. Mebbe him and Roote had more in common than I realized.
Stepping into the bar, Festerwhanger flashed the young lass a spotlight smile, then got folded into buffalo woman’s arms. It were like watching one of them Cumberland wrestlers tekking hold, except they don’t clamp their gobs onto their opponent’s face and give his tonsils a tongue massage. I saw now what Roote’s little insinuation were all about.
Eventually he broke loose, staggering a bit, like a diver who’d come up too quick. But to give him his due, he made a quick recovery, and soon him and Lady D were chatting away-him all Yankee charm and her sort of girlishly flirtatious, like an elephant dancing in that old Disney cartoon. I almost felt sorry for old Fester. Got the feeling she could chew him up and spit him out all over his consulting room couch. Finally she gave him a farewell kiss that made the first one seem like a rehearsal and set off again but stopped dead in her tracks as the door opened to admit another man.
Different this time, but. No gush and hugs. In fact, if I can read a face, there’s neither of them would have lost sleep if t’other had dropped dead on the spot!
The new guy had halted right in the doorway so she couldn’t get by.
“If you don’t mind,” she said, haughty as a duchess talking to a game-keeper she don’t fancy shagging.
He didn’t move. He looked about ninety and I’ve seen healthier-looking faces at an exhumation. His eyes were deep sunk, his few bits of hair clung to his pate like mold on an old plum, and he had a beard like a wildlife sanctuary. Despite the heat, he were wearing a mucky old donkey jacket, an old-fashioned striped shirt without a collar, and the kind of baggy pants farmworkers used to tie up with string, only no self-respecting rat would have cared to run up these.
Suddenly I didn’t feel so badly dressed.
Still he didn’t move or speak. Then the landlord said warningly, “Hen.”
Now he smiled. Bare gums mainly, and the few teeth you could see through the foliage were greeny yallery shading to black at the roots. I half-expected Festerwhanger to faint.
Then he stepped to one side and did a piss-taking bow and said, “So sorry, Your Ladyship. Didn’t see you there. So sorry. Would hate to get in Your Ladyship’s way.”
“You won’t,” she said. And went sweeping past him, young Clara in pursuit, looking a bit embarrassed.
The old boy kicked the door shut behind them. The landlord said, “Watch it, Hen. It’s me as is responsible for fixtures and fittings. Your usual, Dr. Feldenhammer?”
The Yank, who’d been watching the incident with interest, nodded. His usual was a short. Dark amber, enough ice to sink the Titanic. Jack Daniel’s mebbe. At least it weren’t purple. Festerwhanger sipped it, then turned and leaned against the bar. His face split into that toothy grin as he acted like he’d just noticed us.
“Well hello there, Franny,” he called. “And Mr. Dalziel too. Glad to see you’re getting around, sir. You’re looking well.”
Roote gave my thigh a told-you-so jab under the table. I’d have given him a let’s-wait-and-see kick back, only with him not having any feeling in his legs, it didn’t seem worth the effort.
“Aye, I’m not so bad,” I lied. Truth was, I felt distinctly woozy. The ancient geezer had got himself a pint without opening his mouth or handing over money, so far as I could see. Another time I’d have been interested to find out what had just gone off here, but at the moment, I didn’t give a toss.
“Good. And you, Franny, how are you? Coming to Tom’s meeting on Friday, I hope?”
“Of course. Exciting times, Lester. Won’t you join us?”
Franny and Lester. Like an old music hall act. Roote had really got his useless legs under the table round here. Sounded like his social calendar were pretty full too.
“Thanks but I can’t stay,” said the Yank. “Just came out to drop an express package in the post office. My niece’s birthday back home. Almost forgot, which would have been a capital offense. Felt I’d earned a quick one, but I need to be back up at the clinic pretty much right away.”
I weren’t so ill I didn’t notice there were too much bloody detail. Think a shrink would know summat like that. Plus, most country post offices I’d come across shut up at midday on a Saturday.
The door opened again. This were getting like a French farce. New arrival were a well-set-up young fellow, one of them craggy faces that has five o’clock shadow at half past one. Looked like he reckoned the world owed him a living and the women in it owed him a shagging.
He said, “Alan, any sign of my aunt?”
“Been and gone. Says she’ll see you in Moby’s.”
“Oh dear. Bit pissed off, is she? That will mean the lobster thermidor, I fear. But then, she was never going to choose the monkfish pâté, was she?”
He made a wry sort of face to show he was joking, only he wasn’t.
Now he let himself take in the others in the bar. Worzel Gummidge he ignored, me and Roote he shot a cocky grin at and said, “Ah, Franny, nursy taking you for a stroll?” then he did a double take, as if he’d just noticed Fester, and cried, “Is that you, Dr. Feldenhammer? Didn’t recognize you in a sitting position, sir. I hope I find you well. Mustn’t keep auntie waiting.”
Then he left, whistling raucously.
I saw Festerwhanger flush the color of old port. Either he were seriously narked or he was going to have a seizure.
He downed the rest of his drink like he needed it, ice cubes clanging against his snowy teeth hard enough to dislodge a polar bear, slid off his stool, gave the landlord a curt nod, and marched through the door.
I said to Roote, “Got that wrong, didn’t you, lad?”
He said, “I just think the game changed, but never fear, he’ll remember. That tune Teddy Denham was whistling, I’m trying to recall what it is. I’ve got it on the tip of my tongue.”
Meaning he hadn’t the faintest idea but would be glad to know what caused the Yank doctor to lose his cool. Didn’t miss much, our Franny.
“Sorry, no idea,” I said. Which was a lie. I’d recognized the notes of a little ditty I’ve heard belted out at the back of rugby coaches more times than I care to remember.
Don’t expect Roote spent much time in rugby coaches, and I didn’t see any reason why I should enlighten him.
Roote were giving me one of his looks that said he knew I were holding out on him. Then his expression turned to I-told-you-so! as the door opened again and Fester stuck his head back in.