VALUE (Nature 01)

 VALUE 

By Richard Banks 

It was seventeen years ago that I first came to Wyburns Avenue. I arrived on foot, an estate agent’s leaflet in my pocket, to view a house on the edge of town, backing onto an industrial estate. Neither of these factors encouraged me to think that this was the place for me, but, at least, it was worth a look. Indeed, having viewed nearly twenty properties, and found them all for different reasons unsuitable, I was beginning to despair of finding one that was.

         It had to be the right house in the right street; not one or the other - both. While I was not hopeful that my quest was about to end I at least had the consolation of a sunny morning in April that had finally shrugged off winter and was slowly, but surely, warming the air about me.  

         The corner into Wyburns Avenue unfolded slowly, no sudden turn, rather a slow unwinding, with a grass verge on one side of the tarmac pavement and a high privet, interspersed with laurel, to my right. With the view ahead restricted by the hedge my first sight of Wyburns was of a concrete road pleasantly aglow in the sunlight and, beyond it, a corner bungalow next door to two post-war semi’s. OK so far, but could it be a yes?

         What came next, as I finally turned the corner, was probably going to make-up my mind as to whether this street was a contender or a definite no. What I saw next was a cherry tree, pink sprays of blossom against a blue sky, a light breeze silently trembling it’s wide spread branches. There were two more to come and further along, on the other side of the road, two stately sycamores on a grassy corner that none-the-less had room for a road that I later discovered looped around to join up with itself.

         My tree count extended to an oak as high as the sycamores and, like them, beginning to clothe its winter skeleton with a first scattering of leaves. There were other much smaller trees in some of the front gardens, along with bushes, large and small, some in bud but for now preceded and upstaged by daffodils, yellow trumpets silently exulting in the miracle of Spring.

         Some of the gardens contained people, tending flower beds and lawns while others were washing cars on paved driveways; one of them, having ventured beyond his garden gate, was mowing the grass verge outside his house.

         This was a road that people liked living in, took pride in. A black and white cat was crossing the carriageway at a leisurely pace, knowing that there was little or no traffic and that the chaffinch it was stalking was only too aware of its approach not to flap its sheeny green wings in ample time to escape. A nest in one of the sycamores testified to the existence of other, larger birds, presently unseen. There would, I felt sure, be squirrels, no doubt a fox or two.

         I was hooked, and as I drew level with the house in the leaflet I was fervently hoping that this was not going to be the wrong house in the right place. That would have been cruel, but then how could a neat, well maintained house called Holly Lodge with stained glass windows in the front door be cruel? No, that could never be.

Copyright Richard Banks

Think On

 Think On

Anon 

Sometime when you’re feeling important,

sometime when your ego’s in bloom,

sometime when you take it for granted,

your the best qualified man in the room.

Sometime when you feel that you're going,

would leave an unfillable hole,

just follow this simple instruction,

and see how it humbles your soul.

Take a bucket and fill it with water,

put your hands in up to your wrists.

pull them out - and the hole that remains

is a measure of how much you’ll be missed.

You may splash all you please when you enter

you may stir up the water galore

but stop, and you’ll find in a minute

That it looks just the same as before.

The moral of this is quite simple,

Just do the best that you can.

Be proud of yourself but remember-

there is no indispensable man.!!

I told My boss, on his retirement, that he would really be missed.  He smiled and handed me the above poem.  We never found out who penned it, but it is a truism…

 

 WHEN AT FIRST YOU DON’T SUCEED…

By Bob French

NB; For effect, words in italics are spoken in an East London accent.

Monica hurried across the thick pile carpet of the Clove Club in Shoreditch, and eased herself into the plush chair that was being held for her by a young waiter, then begged the forgiveness of Shiela for being late.

            “Anthony was using the Jaguar and it took Jim, his chauffeur ages to get back through the tunnel. So sorry darling.”

            Sheila nodded at the young waiter who quietly poured Monica a half glass of 1984, Domaine Pontifical Chateauneuf du Pape.  The most expensive wine on the list.

Monica Hollingsworth and Sheila Thornton had known each other ever since they sat together at the London Fields Primary School in Hackney, aged seven. They had become life-long friends;’ true Eastenders to the end,’ was their chant whenever they got drunk together, which was often.  The minute the young waiter left, they dropped their posh Knightsbridge accent and reverted to their Eastend dialect.

“Aint seen you for ages luv.  How’s your Harry doing?”

Sheila laughed, “They don’t call him fat Harry for nothin’. He’s putting on a lot of weight poor bugger.  He tried one of those diets but chucked it in after a week.  Said it made him feel hungry would you believe.  And your Tony?”

Monica smiled.  “Workin’ all the hours God sent, but he’s good.”

Sheila smiled. “So, what ya gonna get for ya birthday then?  Given it any thought luv?”

“Well as it ‘appens, I was down Oxford Street a coupla weeks ago and had a good look around Tiffany’s, but nuffin grabbed me, so I ‘ad a look-see in some of the other top-end jewelers, but not even a twinkle caught me eye.”

“You aint got long luv, better shift yer self.”

“Well as it happens, I wondered dan Bon Street and after avin a look around some of the usual jewelry shops I came across Frampton and Frampton, an who do you think I bumped into?”

Sheila searched Monica’s face for a clue, then gave up. “Dunno, who’d ya bump into?”

Do you remember Bob Hillsworvy?  You know, we both ad a crush on him during our first year at Hackney Secondary Modern when he was in his last term.” 

Monica studied Sheila’s face to see if she remembered. “You know, ‘e had lovely blue eyes and went out wiv that blond kid, Jill Samson.”

“Sheila gave a short scream, “Yeah, I remember him.  Didn’t ‘e get her pregnant or sumit?”

“Yep.  So getting’ back to the story.  I fancied the really nice necklace that was on display in the window so decided to wander in and have a shuftty.   I was a little shocked when I stepped into this Frampton un Frampton.  They had heavy security doors and a big bloke just inside the shop. Asked me what I was doing ‘ere?  So I told him that I was interested in the necklace in the window.”

“Wait ere miss, is all ‘e said, and went to get the manager I suppose.”

“Well I nearly wet me knickers, when who should enter the room but Bob Hillsworvy.  Well, ‘e introduced himself in a real posh accent as ‘Robert Hillsorthy, the manager,’ and enquired as what madam was interested in.”

“Did e remember you then?

“Na, don’t fink so. I described the necklace and the turned and instructed one of his staff to go get it from the window. Very impressive.   Sheila luv, it were gorgeous.   Ah remembers that if ya haveta ask the price, ya shouldn’t be in the shop, so we danced about its make-up, you know, its history, how many diamonds and who owened it before until he real discretely like, shows me the price tag.”

With excitement in her voice, Sheila whispers,“’ow much then?”

“Ten big ones.”  Before Sheila could scream out, Monica interrupted her.  “I had to ‘ave it luv.”

“So, what happened?”

“I tried to knock ‘im down, but he emphasized in his posh accent that ‘Frampton and Frampton were not in the business of bartering.  ‘The price was as stated Madam.’ So I thanked him and said that I may return, and left.”

“Well, looks like you’re stuffed.  Tony aint gonna pay out ten grand is he? so what ya gonna do?”

After they had finished their lunch, Monica suggested that they meet up in a month’s time, to celebrate her fortieth birthday.  They left the most exclusive restaurant in the East end, and after kissing each other’s checks, Sheila climbed into a waiting taxi, whilst Jim held open the rear door of her husband’s Jaguar.

“Where to Mama?”

“Do you know where my husband is at present Jim?”

“Yes Mama.  He’s at a meeting with the directors of the London Stock Exchange.  It will finish at six o’clock.  Do you want to wait for him, or do you wish me to take you home?”

“Home please.”

Once she got home, she showered, carefully applied her make-up then put on the sexy underwear and transparent night gown he had presented her for last Christmas and after chilling a Bordeaux 78, turned down the lights and relaxed to wait for him.

Tony had had a demanding meeting at Paternoster Square, the headquarters of the Exchange and felt mentally and physically tired.  A drink, a light meal, then early to bed was uppermost in his mind as Jim opened the rear door of the Jaguar.

No sooner had Tony stepped inside the front door, when Monica pounced upon him.

Tony was a little shocked at the sudden attention his wife was showering him with and as he struggled to remain upright whilst she roughly removed his clothes, immediately understood what was going on.  After what appeared to be nearly an hour on the plush rug in front of a raging log fireplace, and several glasses of wine later, he sat up and took a deep breath and stared down at her.

“Alright darling, You’ve found what you want for your birthday, is that it?”

“Oh, darling, you can read me like a book.”

“Can we leave it until Friday, then I promise you we can go and have a look at it.  Is that alright?”

Monica smiled as she took his hand and started to drag him upstairs.  “First my darling I want to thank you for being… just you, then we can have something to eat and maybe watch a movie.”

Tony was not only late for his meeting the following day, but was starving as he had missed the evening meal and breakfast.  Jim was a little surprised when asked to stop at the McDonalds on the way up to the city and grab a sausage and egg McMuffin.

Friday came and Jim dropped them off just outside Frampton and Frampton.  The heavy doors opened and the guard, who recognized Monica, buzzed for the manager.

Robert Hillsworthy appeared from the office and smiled.

“Good morning, Madam.  It is good to see you again.  Would you like to view the piece you were looking at the last time you visited us?”

“Yes please.”  Before he turned to instruct one of his staff to retrieve the necklace, Monica introduced her husband. “This is my husband, Sir Anthony Riddlesworth.”

Tony nodded to the manager and waited to view the trinket his wife fancied for her birthday.

“Good to see you Sir Riddlesworth. I must applaud your wife on her choice of jewelry.”

Robert carefully laid out the necklace then stood back.

Tony picked it up and studied it very carefully.

“How much?”

“Ten thousand pounds Sir.”

“I shall give you five.  That’s my final offer.”

“I am sorry Sir, but the policy at Frampton and Frampton is after careful inspection and consideration, the price awarded to any item is the final price.  There is no further negotiation of the price.  Ten thousand pounds is the price Sir.”

After ten minutes of discussion Tony, started too loose patience. “Look I shall make out a cheque for you right now for five thousand pounds and leave it with you.  Take it or leave it.  I shall date my cheque for next Friday.  That should give you enough time to think about it, then cash the cheque.”  With that, they left.

On the following Monday, Monica was having lunch with Enrico, the Charges d’affaires of the Spanish Embassy, an old and close friend.

“So my dear Monica. I see that your birthday is only a few weeks away.  Have you decided what you would like?”

Monica flashed her eyes at him. “Enrico, you are such a dear. I have actually.  After lunch if you like I can show you.”

Enrico smiles and raised his glass to her. “My dear, it will be an honour.

That afternoon, Enrico and Monica were greeted at the heavy door of Frampton and Frampton; shown into the viewing room where Robert showed him the necklace.  Enrico studied it for a few minutes, then turned to Robert.

“It is a beautiful piece, but not worth ten thousand pounds my friend.  I shall give you five thousand pounds for it.”

Robert went through the same arguments that Tony had, but Robert would not move.

“I shall write a cheque this moment for you for five thousand pounds.  Take it, or you may leave it.  The decision is yours. 

Robert asked Enrico to wait whilst he said he was going to speak to head office.  Five minutes later, he returned and nodded.

“Sir I have been advised by my head office that I should accept your cheque of five thousand pounds.”

As Enrico was ushered into the inner office to complete the transaction and provide his cheque, Robert quietly moved over to the counter and started to wrap the necklace in front of Monica.

When he had finished, he slid the package across the counter.  At that moment their eyes met.

“Well Monica Holingsworth, I congratulate you on acquiring such a beautiful neckless for ten thousand pounds.  I do hope you’ll enjoy wearing it.”  He paused for a second, smiled and quietly said, “Well done Luv.”

Copyright Bob French

Riddles 08

 Riddles 08

 

By the Riddler

 

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today:

 

No 1. This can make you younger!  

 

No 2. Two men come to a river bank.  Both want to cross but there is only one boat and it can only carry one person.  Neither can swim and there are no ropes or bridges, so how can they both cross?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

 

WORST HOLIDAY EVER (Part 4 & Last) 

 By Richard Banks

Some things are too good to miss and, why should I? Fidelia’s getting a sound grounding on the women’s game and in the company of the two gals is safe from unwanted male company. I leave in a hurry pleading a family bereavement and promising to be back by five, which is never going to happen, so it’s not until six that I return to find the beach almost deserted. They are still sunbathing, and to my surprise Fidelia is wearing rather less than she had on before. They’re getting on like a house on fire, and I’m wondering why Fidelia can’t do the same with Honora.    Needless to say, I’m not the most popular guy in Montura, but all is forgiven when I pay for a pony trap ride back to the hotel and Bacardi breezers at the bar. At 7.30 Fidelia and me are back in the conference room for a session on the Premier League, its star players, managers and owners. At ten we’re doing so well I move on to the intercity rivalry between Villa and Birmingham City, and how the only good City fan is one you’ve kneed in the groin. As for the team I tell her they’re rubbish and play their matches in the next division down. They wear blue shirts and this is the colour we despise above all others. I teach her our, ‘We Hate City’ song and we are singing it at the top of our voices when Asad arrives and takes her back to their hotel.

         It’s been a long day so I return to the bar for a nightcap to find, to my surprise, Irina there looking through her messages. “Thought I'd see you here,” she says. “How’s you’re little protégé shaping up?” This is not something I mentioned to her earlier in the day so I’m wondering how she’s found out, but found out she has.

         “There’s something you should know if you haven’t already sussed it.”

         “What’s that?” I ask.

         “Come upstairs, there’s something I need to tell you, and if you’re not too tired from your day’s work I might stay all night.”

         “Is this like a proper date?”

         “No, but it will be a very expensive one so just be glad you’re not picking-up the bill.” She laughs and gives my knee a playful tweak.  

         “OK, but let’s get the talking done now. What is it you want to tell me?”

         She pretends not to remember and then decides she does. She leans towards me and lowers her voice to a confidential whisper. “I hear that wifely rivalry may not be Fidelia’s only problem. It is rumoured that not everything has been going well in the bedroom. Indeed, it has been observed that Fidelia is more at ease in the company of women, especially those as young and attractive as herself.”

         “You mean she’s a ..”

         “I mean that whilst she will never master the violin, she can still be taught to play a lively tune on the fiddle.”

         “And you’re prepared to give her a few pointers?”

         “Of course, a sisterly tete-a-tete. After all, it would be a shame if all your hard work was in vain. Who knows, between us we might produce the perfect wife.”

         This is too good an offer to refuse and I’m thinking that in addition to what Asad’s paying me, there may be more to come from a grateful Faisal.

         In the morning Irina departs, and after breakfast at eight I take charge of Fidelia. We begin with a revision session, in which Fidelia gets nine out of ten, and move on to the laws of football, tactical formations and the black arts of the game including ‘over the top’ tackles and simulation. In the afternoon I knock-up a side, including ourselves, Rita, Gemma and some of the waiters, and we take on a team from the hotel next door. All goes well. Fidelia rushes around like a good un and as well as scoring a goal stamps on the foot of their centre forward causing him to limp off the pitch. She’s taking to football like a duck to water and joins in all the goal celebrations, particularly those involving Rita and Gemma. We win 6-3 and do a lap of honour in front of the dozen or so people cheering us on. Then it’s back to the Presidente where I bring my masterclass to an end with some DVDs of Villa matches. We have dinner, and at eight Irina arrives and I let them into my room where Irina can impart her womanly advice without fear of being overheard. I go down to the bar and after a couple of hours they meet me there and we wile away the time until Asad arrives. Irina departs to who knows where and I opt for an early night.

 

         When I awake it’s with the sense of a job well done and the expectation of rewards to come that will set me up for life. The day is mine to do as I please and with Faisal and Honora not long off the plane, I’m guessing that feedback on my stirring efforts is not likely to surface until the following day. So, after a leisurely breakfast I’m down to the beach again and after the usual lazing try my hand at waterskiing and paragliding. I do well and the guys running the rides tell me I’m a natural. Is there anything I can’t do?

         It’s not until the afternoon that I get a text from Faisal saying they’re going to the casino and that I’m invited. See you at nine, he says, and, at five minutes to, I’m walking through the front door in my best suit and lucky tie. It’s the same old faces, and those belonging to Asad and Fidelia seem very happy with life. Things are looking good and it’s not long before Faisal singles me out and takes me over to the roulette table where he scatters chips in all directions while expressing his delight that Fidelia is now a fanatical supporter, of the team that will always be his first love. His eyes mist over and he looks almost overcome with emotion. As he loses yet another spin, he pulls himself together and hugs me about the shoulders.

         “Thank you, my friend. I know it was Asad’s idea, and I will forever be in his debt, but how could he have done it without you, my friend, thank you, thank you a thousand times! I am now the most favoured of men, with one wife for the night and another to speak football to throughout the day. Could any man ask for more?”

         It seems that Irina’s extra tuition was not needed after all, but if Fidelia ups her game in the bedroom a good result can only get better. After three straight wins on the red I’m definitely on a winning streak, but not so Faisal who’s the worst gambler I have ever seen. By the end of the evening, he has lost 100K. But no matter, says he, tomorrow he will buy the casino. It’s been a great evening, everyone’s happy and for the first time, Asad acknowledges the success of my efforts with a discreet thumbs up.

         So, it’s all worked out well, and the next morning the manager of the hotel confirmed that my stay there had been extended by another week. Irina’s due back in the evening and with my new job in London, I’m thinking I might just persuade her to settle down with me in the Knightsbridge apartment that apparently goes with my new job.                                                                  

        

                                                      ***

 

         I’m on the beach, happily contemplating my future prosperity, when my phone rings and instead of it being Faisal or Irina, like I’m expecting, it’s Asad and he’s shouting abuse at me so loud I’m having to turn down the volume. “Treachery!” he screams. “Betrayal! Defiler of womanhood!”

         “Calm down,” I say. “What’s the problem?” But he’s too worked up to calm down. Instead, he’s now on to his revenge, how he’s going to have me dismembered and thrown into a cesspit. He’s so angry now I can hardly make out what he’s saying. There’s a loud thud followed by a blast of static that sounds like he’s trashing his phone; then silence - call over.

         None of this is making sense, and if there’s any chance of sorting things out there’s only one person who makes it happen. I phoned Faisal. His voice is composed, but his effusive good humour has given way to an icy formality that tells me I am no longer his friend.

         “What’s going on?” I ask. “Asad’s just phoned, wants to kill me. What the heck have I done?”                                                                                                                   

         Faisal takes an audible intake of breath. “Have you no honour, Englishman? You take the gold of one man and betray him for the gold of his enemy. Did you think we would not find out? You really are a very stupid man. The photographs were taken in your hotel room, your jacket over the back of a chair, the bedside clock showing 9pm when Fidelia was in your charge. Don’t pretend it was not so, my wife cavorting with that whore on top of the bed, not even a sheet to hide them. Did you not think of me, who gave you my friendship and trust, and of her who must now be cruelly punished. Truly, Englishman the world will be a better place without you.”  

    

         I start to tell him that I know nothing about any photographs but he ends the call, and when I ring back I get no further than a recorded message saying he’s no longer taking my calls. My head’s in a spin. Only Irina can help me now, but, when I call her, the message on my phone says, ‘Number not recognised’. I try again, hoping against hope that I have misdialled, but the same words reappear.

         She’s gone, disappeared, and I’ve been left to take the blame, double-crossed and played for a fool. No one could have cared for me less. By now she will be in some far off place, lying low, waiting for the heat to die down, before resuming business under another name and possibly from behind another face. She will certainly be able to afford one; whoever paid for those photographs paid well, extremely well. Who they are I have no idea, maybe someone connected to Honora or one of her backers, maybe someone else, someone with a grudge, who knows.  For the moment it matters not. There are two guys on the prom in dark suits who look like off-duty bouncers, but when one of them starts scanning the beach through binoculars it’s more than obvious who they’re looking for. They won’t be the only ones after me. Can I trust the police? Not if Assad’s paying out backhanders. I need to get back to the hotel. Without my passport and some serious dosh, there’s no way I’m getting out of here alive.

         I retreat into the shadow of my umbrella and watch my pursuers pass, then I’m up, shirt and shoes on, and walking back along the beach towards a flight of steps that surface on the prom opposite the Presidente. My plan, such as it is, is to slip in unnoticed through the staff door at the side but there’s no chance of that; the pavement outside the hotel is heaving with people. I push through to the front to find three policemen manning a Don’t Cross line. Beyond them, I see what everyone else has come to see, the lifeless body of Miguel, the hotel porter who carried my bags on that first day. It lies on the hotel patio in a pool of blood, amidst the wreckage of a table and umbrella.

         “He fell from a balcony,” someone says. “Feet first,” says another. “He was screaming, even before he fell he was screaming.”

 

         Was it him who took the photographs? Someone did. I’m cold with fear, but as another police car arrives I realise that for now the hotel is probably the safest place in town. There’s a service road at the back where deliveries are made. It won’t be long, I’m thinking, before that too is taped off but when I find a way round to it, there’s no one to be seen. The gate in the back wall is locked but I’m over it and up a fire escape that gets me into a corridor on the first floor. From there I take the stairs to the sixth floor before gently easing open the swing door that’s only a few yards from my room. I stop and listen, but hear only the commotion from outside. Is it safe? There’s only one way to find out. I push through and along to my room, key card at the ready, but there’s no need, the door’s wide open. Something within moves. I recoil, nearly take flight, but it’s only the balcony curtain swaying in the breeze. I’m on my own, but someone’s not long been here, that’s for sure. The room’s a wreck, like the aftermath of a burglary, but the blood stains on the wall and floor tell a different story. Miguel took one hell of a beating before he was thrown to his death. 

 

         I change into my travelling clothes, open the safe and take out my passport, cards and all the cash inside. Everything else I abandon. I leave the same way I came in, but instead of turning back to the prom keep walking along the service road until I come to a main road and wave down the first cab I see. “Take me to the airport,” I say and then think better of it. Almost certainly Asad’s men will be there waiting for me. I have to find another way out of the country, and then I remember the railway station I saw in the countryside whilst hunting pigs. The driver speaks little or no English but eventually gets my drift, and sensing that I’m a man in a hurry wastes no time in getting me there. It doesn’t matter that it’s not the station I saw, it’s still a station, and from there I chop and change trains until I cross the border into France. The next day I’m in Boulogne, and then onto a ferry bound for Folkestone.

         Will I be safe back home? Not if they find out where I live, but maybe they won’t. To Asad and Faisal I’m Ollie from Birmingham, but there’s over one million people in Brum and Drislow’s five miles to the west. Without my name and address it will be like finding a pin in a haystack. Maybe I’ll grow a beard and shave my head. At the end of the day my house, job, everything I own is in Drislow; how can I not go back. So, it’s two more trains to Hislop and finally a bus into town.

 

         Do I shut my eyes as we pass the derelict mills? There seems little point; what’s to come is almost as bad. I get off the bus in the High Street outside the bank which, as Ross foretold, is now closed; one of its windows broken, another scratched. A few doors along, on the boarded-up window of what was a grocer’s shop, some freshly sprayed graffiti proclaims that ‘Bassa is a wanker’. Me too, I’m thinking and everyone else who chooses to live in this God-forsaken place. Only a few days ago I was having the best holiday ever in an upmarket resort, rubbing elbows with a Prince and his entourage, head over heels in love. I should still be there and looking forward to a life of luxury in London. But, here I am, back in town, and everything that was bad before seems ten times worse today. No angel fallen from heaven into hell could be more wretched, be more drained of hope than me. And that’s why the best few days of my life are now my worst holiday ever.

         Can things get worse? Indeed they can. I turn the corner into my street to find an unfamiliar car parked a few doors away from my bedsit. It may not be a Mercedes, but it’s too new and shiny to belong to anyone around here. I should be legging it back the way I’ve come, but I’m still walking and too down and out to stop.

         The driver’s door opens and a guy I saw at Roscoe's steps out and saunters towards me as a second man exits from the other side. If they have guns they could be shooting me now, but maybe they want to talk first, find out what I know about Irina. Maybe that’s how it started with Miguel, threats followed by a beating, and when he couldn’t tell them what he didn’t know bloody execution. What can I say that will convince them that it wasn’t me, that I’ve been duped, set up - that it’s Irina they should be looking for. Only she can save me now, and she’s not here.

 

         It’s done, all but over. Bring it on! 

 

The End

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 

 

Haibun from Rob

 Haibun from Rob

 

Gone fishing 

 

By Robert Kingston

 

I could swear that pockets of dust exist in our minds. How else can it be explained when something that’s been missing for so long reappears. Of course, I’m aware of the term lockers and keys, and that generally it will be someone else or something that will illuminate the way in.

 

art club

I fill the missing gaps

in my still life

 

 

 

 

Worst Holiday Ever (Part 3 of 4)

Richard Banks

 

I hire the conference room in the hotel and, on our first morning, give her a potted history of the club: how it was formed in 1874 by cricketers from a Methodist church; how they were founder members of the football league; and all their major honours since then, concluding with their recent friendly win over AC Milan. Then there’s past and present players and a review of English football, from the mixed fortunes of the national team to the recent and much-lamented introduction of VAR. At 12.00 we take a working lunch, and then we’re off to a little used beach at the far end of the bay where, with the help of a beach ball and several small boys, I teach her the off-side rule and the tactical formations likely to be used in the forthcoming season by Villa and their main rivals for the league.

         We are on to Villa songs and chants when who should I spot but our honeymooners, Rita and Gemma, emerging from the sea and running back to their beach towels which are drawn up close together beneath a large umbrella. They’re not, I’m thinking, be wanting to be bothered with us but being in clear sight and singing ‘Villa Through and Through’ we’re too conspicuous to ignore. They’re wearing nothing but their briefs and I’m fearing that Fidelia will be shocked out of remembering everything I have taught her but, to my surprise, she’s all smiles and taking it all in her stride. We sit down beside them, intending only to stay a few minutes, when Gemma lets on that she’s a keen supporter of the Lionesses. This is like manna from heaven, and not only is she a font of knowledge on the subject but Fidelia is clearly taking in every word. The conversation has moved on to the 2023 World Cup when my mobile rings and I have a text from Irina saying that she can’t make it this evening but will, if I’m free, drop by my hotel at 3.30.

 

.-…-.

 

Some things are too good to miss and, why should I? Fidelia’s getting a sound grounding on the women’s game and in the company of the two gals is safe from unwanted male company. I leave in a hurry pleading a family bereavement and promising to be back by five, which is never going to happen, so it’s not until six that I return to find the beach almost deserted. They are still sunbathing, and to my surprise, Fidelia is wearing rather less than she had on before. They’re getting on like a house on fire, and I’m wondering why Fidelia can’t do the same with Honora.

         Needless to say I’m not the most popular guy in Montura, but all is forgiven when I pay for a pony trap ride back to the hotel and Bacardi breezers at the bar. At 7.30 Fidelia and me are back in the conference room for a session on the Premier League, its star players, managers and owners. At ten we’re doing so well I move on to the intercity rivalry between Villa and Birmingham City, and how the only good City fan is one you’re kneed in the groin. As for the team I tell her they’re rubbish and play their matches in the next division down. They wear blue shirts and this is the colour we despise above all others. I teach her our, ‘We Hate City’ song and we are singing it at the top of our voices when Asad arrives and takes her back to their hotel.

         It’s been a long day so I return to the bar for a nightcap to find, to my surprise, Irina there looking through her messages. “Thought I see you here,” she says. “How’s you’re little protege shaping up?” This is not something I mentioned to her earlier in the day so I’m wondering how she’s found out, but found out she has.

         “There’s something you should know if you haven’t already sussed it.”

         “What’s that?” I ask.

         “Come upstairs, there’s something I need to tell you, and if you’re not too tired from your day’s work I might stay all night.”

         “Is this like a proper date?”

         “No, but it will be a very expensive one so just be glad you’re not picking-up the bill.” She laughs and gives my knee a playful tweak.  

         “OK, but let’s get the talking done now. What is it you want to tell me?”

         She pretends not to remember and then decides she does. She leans towards me and lowers her voice to a confidential whisper. “I hear that wifely rivalry may not be Fidelia’s only problem. It is rumoured that not everything has been going well in the bedroom. Indeed, it has been observed that Fidelia is more at ease in the company of women, especially those as young and attractive as herself.”

         “You mean she’s a ..”

         “I mean that whilst she will never master the violin, she can still be taught to play a lively tune on the fiddle.”

         “And you’re prepared to give her a few pointers?”

         “Of course, a sisterly tete-a-tete. After all it would be a shame if all your hard work was in vain. Who knows, between us we might produce the perfect wife.”

         This is too good an offer to refuse and I’m thinking that in addition to what Asad’s paying me there may be more to come from a grateful Faisal.

         In the morning Irina departs, and after breakfast at eight I take charge of Fidelia. We begin with a revision session, in which Fidelia gets nine out of ten, and move on to the laws of football, tactical formations and the black arts of the game including ‘over the top’ tackles and simulation. In the afternoon I knock-up a side, including ourselves, Rita, Gemma and some of the waiters, and we take on a team from the hotel next door. All goes well. Fidelia rushes around like a good un and as well as scoring a goal stamps on the foot of their centre forward causing him to limp off the pitch. She’s taking to football like a duck to water and joins in all the goal celebrations, particularly those involving Rita and Gemma. We win 6-3 and do a lap of honour in front of the dozen or so people cheering us on. Then it’s back to the Presidente where I bring my masterclass to an end with some DVDs of Villa matches. We have dinner, and at eight Irina arrives and I let them into my room where Irina can impart her womanly advice without fear of being overheard. I go down to the bar and after a couple of hours they meet me there and we wile away the time until Asad arrives. Irina departs to who knows where and I opt for an early night.

         When I awake it’s with the sense of a job well done and the expectation of rewards to come that will set me up for life. The day is mine to do as I please and with Faisal and Honora not long  off the plane I’m guessing that feedback on my stirring efforts is not likely to surface until the following day. So, after a leisurely breakfast I’m down to the beach again and after the usual lazing try my hand at waterskiing and paragliding. I do well and the guys running the rides tell me I’m a natural. Is there anything I can’t do?

         It’s not until the afternoon that I get a text from Faisal saying they’re going to the casino and that I’m invited. See you at nine, he says, and, at five minutes to, I’m walking through the front door in my best suit and lucky tie. It’s the same old faces, and those belonging to Asad and Fidelia seem very happy with life. Things are looking good and it’s not long before Faisal singles me out and takes me over to the roulette table where he scatters chips in all directions while expressing his delight that Fidelia is now a fanatical supporter, of the team that will always be his first love. His eyes mist over and he looks almost overcome with emotion. As he loses yet another spin, he pulls himself together and hugs me about the shoulders.

         “Thank you, my friend. I know it was Asad’s idea, and I will forever be in his debt, but how could he have done it without you, my friend, thank you, thank you a thousand times! I am now the most favoured of men, with one wife for the night and another to speak football to throughout the day. Could any man ask for more?”

         It seems that Irina’s extra tuition was not needed after all, but if Fidelia ups her game in the bedroom a good result can only get better. After three straight wins on the red, I’m definitely on a winning streak, but not so Faisal was the worst gambler I have ever seen. By the end of the evening he has lost 100K. But no matter, says he, tomorrow he will buy the casino. It’s been a great evening, everyone’s happy and for the first time, Asad acknowledges the success of my efforts with a discreet thumbs up.

         So, it all worked out well, and the next morning the manager of the hotel confirmed that my stay there had been extended by another week. Irina’s due back in the evening and with my new job in London, I’m thinking I might just persuade her to settle down with me in the Knightsbridge apartment that apparently goes with my new job.                                                                     

 

(To be Continued)

 

Copyright Richard Banks