BY STEPHEN PAX LEONARD
READ BY STEPHEN:
“Mrs Daddywood, are you there?”, shouted Reggie from the comfort of the giltwood and red silk damask Tatham, Bailey & Sanders chaise longue.
“Just a minute, luv”, said Mrs Daddywood as she came charging down the corridor.
“Oh, there you are. How splendid. Now, Mrs Daddywood, why don’t you take a seat? By golly, Mrs Daddywood…”. He paused to rearrange the plentiful Roberto Cavalli cushions spilling out onto the Isfahan Persian rug. “You won’t believe it, but I got into bit of a nasty scrape again last night. The thing is you see, I was at the Ath. with my old chum, Auberon. You remember him, don’t you, Mrs Daddywood? Bit of a Walter Mitty, I dare say. You know, that old Grenadier boy, now a civvy at RUSI (the Services Institute thingy) who is always going on about those One Pip Wonder sprogs of his. Yes, well, the thing is, we were enjoying a perfectly nice post-prandial in the Morning Room. Rachmaninoff’s Prelude Op. 32 was tinkering away in the background. We had sunk into the club chairs and exchanged a few port-fuelled sighs, when old Obie started spinning a dit about one of his recces with the secret squirrels in Yemen. I can’t remember the details. I have heard those stories so many dash times. He was going on and on….You know how he does, Mrs Daddywood”.
Indeed, Reggie had sort of lost track of Obie’s account, his focus shifting to the Rach Prelude which had now become a Schubert sonata when old Obie apparently reaching the climax of his story, jumped up, made his way to the bar to top up the Grahams ’66 and blurted out “but in fact she was a guerrilla”. The portly, hirsute waitress looked unimpressed and swiftly removed the Grahams from the bar.
“You what, dear fellow. Who was a guerrilla?”, asked Reggie, suddenly refocused and bright.
“Did you nod off, dear boy? 2004, I was telling you about how the Houthis were trying to defend their cave complexes. I was on an undercover op. with this daisy-chaining, staff wallah who had befriended this very attractive Houthi woman. He was convinced she was a journalist, but it turned out she was a rebel in the Zainabiyyat militia!
“Oh, right oh. Yes, indeed”, nodded Reggie and so Obie marched on with his yarn, untroubled by Reggie’s lack of attention. The Morning Room soon filled up. Lady guests smoothed their frocks and admired the Holman Hunt self-portrait. A spirit of congeniality hung in the air. Smiles deepened and merry folk raised their glasses in light frivolity.
The telephone went. The disgruntled waitress who had been giving Obie the evil eye picked up the receiver and whispered something. The footman soon joined her in the Morning Room. They spoke in soft syllables and occasionally cast a glance at Obie who was waving his arms around and spewing out Army acronyms, confident that the other guests who had now raised their voices to drown out his anecdote, were all au fait with the vernacular.
Some minutes later, there appeared to be something of a kerfuffle at the Decimus Burton designed, columned doorway. Reggie craned his neck to see what the fuss was whilst Obie, oblivious to the commotion, leaned into Reggie and started to speak even more passionately about his exploits with the Houthi rebels.
Then, quite unexpectedly, a testudo of Scotland Yard moved steadily into the Morning Room and made a bee-line for Obie.
“Excuse me, Sir, might you be Auberon MAIN-WARING?”, the most corpulent of the officers asked.
Visibly shocked, Obie took one look at Reggie and then another at the gentlemen who had now encircled the club leather chairs. “Certainly not, I am Auberon MANN-ERING! And who might you be?”
“We are from Scotland Yard, Sir. We are arresting you, Mr Auberon. You have contravened Clause 18 of the Employment Rights Bill. That young lady over there took offence when you called her a gorilla this evening”.
“Well, Whisky Tango, Foxtrot”, offered Obie under his breath. How extraordinary! As it turns out, I was telling my good friend here, Reggie, about my service in Yemen. I didn’t call anyone a gorilla. I was talking about the Houthi rebel guerrillas, you buffoon!”
“Enough of that talk, Sir. Right, now you can keep your fancy explanations to yourself and accompany us to the police station”.
“You what? I haven’t the slightest intention of doing anything of the kind”, said Obie as he sunk his palms into the arms of the leather club chair. And so old Obie was dragged away from the exquisitely genteel surroundings of the Morning Room and placed into the Jam Sandwich.
“So, there you have it, Mrs Daddywood”.
“Oh, crumbs! Mr Auberon ought to be more careful, Mr Reggie. Everyone takes offense nowadays, ain’t it luv?”
“They call it the Banter Bill, you know, Mrs Daddywood. Landlords and I dare say, Club Footmen will become the new Thought Police. If someone takes offence, then the employer is liable. What absolute poppycock! From now on, banter belongs in the private living room only, Mrs Daddywood. Pubs and clubs will be policed, ideological echo-chambers. What a miserable, Orwellian state of affairs. Oversensitised liberals will turn this country into a factioned group of mindless robots living in a culturally impoverished world where irony and banter have been completely privatised”, huffed Reggie.
“Oh, goodness, Mr Reggie. Well, u’ll have to have more dinner parties ‘ere won’t you, luv. Then, you’re free, ain’t you pet? Mind, Mr Obie, that was a bit harsh, worn’t it, callin’ that gurl a gorilla!
Reggie raised his hands in an innocent plea. “Oh, stone the crows, don’t you start Mrs Daddywood. At this rate, it is just a question of time before we ban homophones from the English language!”
Stephen Pax Leonard is a writer, linguist, traveller. His book Noble Sentiments for an Exile and Other Writings has been published and is now available here.