FIFTY SHADES OF RED

FIFTY SHADES OF RED

By Richard Banks                                                                               

If Jenny is not the most jealous woman in the world I do not wish to meet the one that is; she would doubtless be green and glow in the dark. That’s not to say that I don’t love Jenny. Of course, I do; after ten years of blissful wedlock, I am the most fortunate of men. Fortunate in all things except the blight she has cast over my dealings with that half of the human race manifesting itself to be female. With them, I must maintain an aloof indifference bordering on disdain. At the beginning and end of social engagements, there must be no pecking of cheeks, the only physical contact to be entered into is a limp handshake, a fleeting engagement of fingers, that avoids the interlocking of fleshy palms. However, low the neckline of a woman I must never allow my gaze to stray below her chin. Eye contact of any kind, especially that too lingering and capable of misinterpretation is, also to be avoided.

         Usually, I observe their noses and for that reason am more likely to recognise a woman of my acquaintance by her nostrils than any other aspect of her being. Indeed, it is my contention that no one, at least no woman, has a nose of the same shape and dimensions. When I retire from the Civil Service I will write a book about it. As a means of identifying those of a criminal disposition it can, I am sure, be every bit as effective as fingerprinting and DNA.

         However, I digress, the subject under discussion is jealousy, not noses. To be deflected from the former would be to defeat my objective which is to explain the unfortunate circumstances of the Ionian Club dance. By using the word unfortunate in connection with the dance I have no wish to cast aspersions on an occasion which, I am sure, was much enjoyed by everyone but myself. I too would have enjoyed it had it not coincided, and borne witness to the most embarrassing predicament of my life. The account of that evening I am about to give is intended not just to explain but to warn. Let no man do as I did or the firm foundation of his being will surely crumble.

         That such a thing should happen in the august surroundings of the Belvedere Assembly Rooms and in the presence of the Lord Mayor and other distinguished guests shows that no person or place is immune from the ravages of fate. But one must always be vigilant and sadly I was not, but then it should not have been an occasion requiring vigilance, none had been needed at previous dances.

         In truth, the club dance was a predictable affair. One turned up, chit-chatted to anyone Jenny considered to be useful or important, ate from the buffet and did the dances one could do. Occasionally I would be dispatched to the bar to buy one of the useful men a drink, leaving Jenny free to toady up to his wife who was usually on the committee of a club she wanted to join. On such occasions I would buy him a G&T and a mineral water for myself. This last detail is important. My actions that evening were in no way influenced by alcohol. I was not drunk, I am not allowed to be drunk. To incur the odium of drunkenness would be to violate a sacred trust, the unspoken wedding vows of which Jenny is both custodian and umpire. I must play a straight bat, no chances taken, no catching out. Ten years the batsman I, at last, fell to the googly that was the Ionian Club raffle.

         I have never won a raffle and this one was no exception – 24 numbers adrift and the wrong colour ticket. As usual, I affected an expression of amused indifference and tried not to think unkindly of the winner who for the third year running was the wife, or significant other, of a local counsellor. Mrs Hamilton- Forbes stepped forward to receive the large Samsung television that was her prize and as the band reassembled for the remaining dances the television was wheeled away on a tea trolley borrowed from the kitchen. As to where it was being taken I knew not and cared even less. Jenny had also been taken away by Freddie Dewhurst for the purpose of dancing the foxtrot, and as Freddie had brought no significant other of his own to the dance I was relegated to the status of looker on. I consoled myself with a sausage roll from the depleted largess of the buffet and retreated to our table at the back of the hall.

         I had no sooner sat down when I became aware of a woman walking purposely towards me. I stood up to receive her and, with my usual discretion, looked her fully on the nose. Her voice, when she spoke, suggested that she was of the labouring class and this she herself confirmed by saying that she was Mrs Hamilton-Forbes’ maid. Her mistress, she said, had given instructions that the television was to be placed in a vehicle belonging to her husband. As she was unable to do this by herself she required the assistance of, “a strong man,” and thought I would do. Of course, I should have been suspicious. Why pick me when the captain of the rugby team was only two tables away? Sadly flattery and vanity are a seductive combination and in their company, the sweet voice of reason is seldom heard. Having used my peripheral vision to ensure that Jenny was still occupied by the intricacies of the foxtrot and unlikely to notice my departure with said maid I quickly followed her to the cloakroom where the television had been left.

         I readily confess that it was somewhat heavier than I anticipated and after only a dozen steps I was already regretting my unstated, but implicit, assertion of bodily strength. Only the realisation that the dropping of the television would be deeply damaging not only to its functioning but also to Jenny’s social aspirations sustained my increasingly painful progress to the exit. The automatic doors opened before me and the maid ushered me towards a van and on her opening its back doors I set down my burden in its surprisingly shabby interior. Having shut said doors she bid me a cheery goodbye and before I could splutter a reply clambered into the van beside the unseen person of the driver.

         Resisting the urge to sink like a stone in water I maintained an upright posture while observing their departure from the car park. As the pain in my arms subsided I about turned and on legs, both trembling and unresponsive to my navigational promptings passed slowly back into the foyer. Returning to the dance I found Jenny in deep conversation with Mrs Fitzroy on the periphery of the dance floor. By the time she rejoined me, I was back to my normal self and after the formality of the last waltz, we departed for home.

         And that was that, or so I thought, but the next day the shrill and urgent ringing of our telephone heralded the news that the television won by Mrs Hamilton-Forbes had been stolen. At first, I assumed that it had been taken from the van where I had placed it, but when it became apparent that this was not the case I gradually concluded that I had been an unwitting accomplice in its abduction. Hoping that everything could be smoothed over without Jenny knowing I removed myself, after lunch, to the police station and gave them a full account of what had happened. It was, I said, a mistake that anyone could have made, but the young constable taking my statement seemed not to agree.

         “Did I know the woman claiming to be the maid?”

         “No, of course not,” I replied.

         “Then how did you know that she was what she said she was? Was she wearing a uniform?”

         I confessed that I did not know. The Constable raised his eyebrows in questioning fashion and I responded, as best I could, by saying that the woman in question had assured me that she was a maid and that in the hallowed company of fellow Ioanians that was good enough for me. The Constable asked for a description of said maid and when I described her as fleshy, bulbous and of a large protruding shape he volunteered his opinion that this was the oddest description of a suspect he had ever heard. He was even less impressed when I told him I was describing her nose. Having completed my statement the Constable left me to consult with his Sergeant who judging by his raucous laughter was a very jolly fellow who I felt sure would be favourably disposed to myself and other noble Ioanians. The Constable returned to say that I was free to leave adding the proviso that I should remain in the neighbourhood in case my further assistance was needed.

         I was, therefore, not surprised when two days later the Constable phoned to request the pleasure of my company at a further interview. On this occasion, he was accompanied by his Sergeant whose severe expression suggested that his previous jollity was, at best, a distant memory. They came quickly to the point. CCTV coverage of the car park had identified both van and maid resulting in the arrest of a George and Tracy Hudson who having confessed their guilt were unable to account for the present whereabouts of the television.

         The camera footage of myself showed me to be unsteady on my feet. Had I been drinking? asked the Constable. Did I know that alcohol was a factor in 61% of recorded crime? At this point the Sergeant leaned forward across the table that separated us, and with unfriendly expression, stared into my eyes as though searching for a deep, unpleasant truth. This I sensed was not going well and as my eyes sparred with those of the Sergeant my ears listened incredulously to the words of the Constable. The Hudsons, he said, had made a statement significantly different from my own. 

      

         According to them the plan to abduct the television had been conceived by myself and that they, down on their luck and desperate for the £20 I paid them, were reluctant recruits to my criminal enterprise. Unaware of the recent installation of CCTV they had driven from the Assembly Rooms to a lay-by on a country road where they handed the television to a criminal associate of myself. They were, so they said, deeply ashamed of their actions which were completely out of character with their previously blameless lives. They now realised that they were the hapless dupes in a conspiracy conceived by myself to steal the television and put the blame on themselves. Had they not encountered my malign and corrupting influence they would never have even considered the criminal act which would forevermore be a stain on their character.

         Three months later I heard the same story movingly related by the female Hudson at my trial in the Crown Court. I have to admit she was extremely convincing and had she been speaking of any other man but myself I would have believed her every word.

         I await the verdict of the jury in a police cell. Faced with the prospect of a custodial sentence my only consolation is that I may now have time to write my treatise on noses. Jenny’s thin and pointed protuberance will, of course, be featured. I will colour it green. My own is red with shame and embarrassment. It may never be pink again.

Copyright Richard Banks