Jumble

Jumble

"Desmond! Desmond, where are you?" The imperious tone of Mrs.
Leckhampton's voice pierced to the heart of the shady boxwood maze
where her husband was hiding. He folded his copy of The Sporting Life
and sighed. It was cleaning day - or as he referred to it, "Apocalypse
Now." During the weekly six-ways-to-hell-and-back house bashing, he
earnestly endeavoured to be as far away as possible from Julia's
all-purifying whirlwind.

Unfortunately, since his last heart attack, he'd been banned from
driving, so 'as far away as possible' was never really far enough.
Sooner or later, she always found him.

"Ah, there you are. How annoying you can be. Really! Didn't you hear me
calling?"

"Belling like a ruddy hound, more like," Mr. Leckhampton muttered, as
he creaked upward from the comfortable deck chair.

"What say?"

"Nothing, Julia. Just 'now that you've found me, what would you like?'
"

"Hmm! As if you didn't know." Julia Leckhampton brushed an imaginary
piece of fluff from the ample frontage of her Liberty print frock and
twiddled with the volume knob of her hearing aid. "Perhaps you should
have one of these contraptions."

While the inevitable tirade washed over him, Desmond scrabbled in his
pockets for a match and felt sorry for himself. Cornered like a cub.
Run to ground. No more bolt holes. Silly damned thing he'd done,
leaving himself no escape route. He wouldn't do that again.

"...and although we'll be in Malta on the day, I promised Veda St.
James that we'd sort out some interesting items for her jumble sale.
Perhaps your old hunting togs, dear? Or fishing rods? She'll be here in
a tick. So would you please...Desmond!"

"Mmm? Yes, petal?"

"I don't believe you've heard a single word I've said. And must you
smoke that wretched thing?"

"Not a wretched thing. My best briar. And since I'm not allowed to
smoke it in the house, I'd like to know where..."

"Oh, very well! At least stand downwind of me, then." And grappling his
frail shoulders in her large, capable hands, Mrs. Leckhampton shifted
her husband to her lee side as easily as she might a potted
shrub.

" I was speaking, Desmond, of jumble. Jumble as in jumble sale. For the
benefit of the church, dear. Jumble also as in the state of your study
and your dressing room. I do not know how you manage to find anything.
And as you won't allow me or Mrs. Stemp to come in and tidy..."

"There's no need. I keep telling you. I do the dusting. And it is tidy,
more or less. I know where everything is. I have a system of my own.
Man can't have one single, solitary room of his own in a damned great
house. What's the point, I'd like to know?" He kicked pettishly at a
pile of worm cast on the lawn. "Anyway, I don't want to go to Malta.
Too ruddy hot. Boring people. Nothing to do."

Mrs. Leckhampton was nothing if not astute. After 42 years of marriage,
she recognised when her husband was sliding into one of his 'poor
little me' sulks. Drawing close to him, she slipped an arm through his
tweedy elbow and let the honey ooze along her vocal chords.

"Now, now, Dezzy. Dearest. You know very well that we always go to
Malta. We have done for - well, it must be 17 years now."

"Exactly! Sick of the place."

Julia Leckhampton closed her eyes for a moment. She thought she could
feel the beginnings of a headache, but she persisted. "But all our
friends will be there."

"All your friends, you mean."

"Nonsense!" she lied. They'd miss you, darling, just as much as me. In
any case, what on earth would you find to do if you stayed here. You'd
be dreadfully dull, wouldn't you?" she cooed in her best nursery
timbre.
At this, Desmond perked up noticeably. "I wouldn't! Not a bit. Old
Biffy's invited me down to his summer place on the Dart for a spot of
fly fishing. Wonderful place, he says. He caught a four pound trout
there only last week. Imagine!"

So that was it. Well he needn't think he was going to get away with it.
That awful man Biffen; "Biffy", indeed. Fishing, smoking, drinking -
heaven knew what, Mrs. Leckhampton reflected. It was time to scotch
that little plan.

"Now see here, Desmond. Everything's been arranged. We are flying to
Valetta in three days. The air tickets have been purchased and cannot
possibly be changed." She paused to draw breath and measure the effect
of her words. He husband had wilted visibly, like a small, uprooted
weed. "You did remember to collect the tickets from the travel agents,
as I asked?"

Meekly he nodded. "Yes, dear."

"Good. Excellent. Now. To the next order of business. The jumble sale.
I would like to donate your old hunting clothes - including your boots
and that dreadful old jacket and anything else you can manage to
assemble. I'll expect them on the hall table in no more than..."
sternly she consulted her Tissot, "no more than ten minutes."

She was already a dozen determined paces away when Desmond plucked up
the courage to call, "Hold on, Julia!" Wheeling, she fixed him with a
terrifying glare. "Well?!" Suddenly he knew how a minnow must feel
looking into a pike's mouth.

"I...I don't mind about what you take. You can have my old boots and
stock and hat and so on. But...but I'd really rather you didn't have my
old hacking jacket. I need that."

"Need it!? Rubbish. You know what the doctor said. You're not to ride.
It's far too strenuous for you."

"Please, Julia!" But she was already out of patience and out of the
range of her hearing aid.

Ten minutes later, with a heavy heart, Desmond arranged a pile of 'old
friends' on the hall table. Each one recalled some adventure or some
era in his life now reduced to memory. His hacking jacket, however, he
had reprieved. It lay, safe from the depredations of Veda St. James and
her honking do-gooders, inside the dark, Jacobean dower chest,
concealed by the camouflage of his winter coat.

He stuck his head around the door to the conservatory, where his wife
was laying out the tea things. "Julia, dear. I'm - ah - going for a
walk. Back in an hour or two. The, um, the bits and bobs for Veda are
there on the table, as you asked."

"Very well, dear," Mrs. Leckhampton beamed, even though she knew that
his 'walk' would lead to the Fig and Ferret. Enjoy yourself." She could
afford to be magnanimous in victory.

Desmond's heel had scarcely cleared the front door when Julia sprang up
and made a quick assessment of his jumble. "I knew it! That blasted
jacket. Well, if I must, I must." In the time that it takes to infuse a
pot of Rose Puchong, she had invaded his dressing room, plundered it,
and returned triumphantly to the hall, adding his ragged hacking jacket
to the huddle of exiles.

Shortly before dinnertime, Desmond returned and went straight to his
room. It took but a moment to lift the great, oaken lid and see that
his beloved jacket was gone. "So," he sighed. "That's the way it is.
Very well. I shall say nothing. On her head be it."

Three days later, with Julia at the wheel of the Volvo, the
Leckhamptons were bowling along the M4 toward Heathrow airport. "I
cannot tell you, my dear, how delighted I am that our departure
coincides with the day of the jumble sale. It's too dreary, standing
there, trying to be pleasant all day to all those...well, people with
whom one would normally have nothing to do. I realise it's all in a
Good Cause. Still. We've given generously. I feel we've done our
Christian duty." Desmond smiled gently, but said nothing.

Though they were early, by the time they had worked their way to the
front of the long check-in queue, there were only minutes left before
the flight. "May I see your tickets and passports, please," said the
girl at the desk. Desmond didn't move.

"Desmond!" brayed Mrs. Leckhampton, nudging him sharply. "Pay
attention, dear. The tickets."

"I don't have them," he replied in a small but calm voice.

"What!? You don't... well, where in heaven's name are they? Did you
pack them?"

"No. They're in my inside jacket pocket."

"Well, come along - we're holding up the queue! Which jacket? Where is
it?"

"They're in my hacking jacket. But, do you know, it's the strangest
thing. I looked everywhere for it this morning, and it's simply
disappeared into thin air."

Two paramedics kindly carried Mrs. Leckhampton to the first aid centre,
where she was given a nice, calming cup of tea by a sympathetic young
nurse. Desmond, meanwhile, was phoning the Fig and Ferret.

"Mr. Biffen, please. Yes, I'll wait. Hullo, Biffy, old man - that you?
I'm still at the airport. Wonderful. Went like clockwork. She fainted
dead away. Wish you could have seen. Like a pole-axed steer. Oh yes,
yes. Bags broke her fall. We should be back by, say, sixish. Meet you
in the bar around seven, all right? Grand.

"Oh - about the other thing. Did you manage to get it? You're sure it's
the right one? Ha, ha! Yes, well, you're right there. I don't suppose
there could be two jackets with air tickets to Malta in the pocket.
Thanks, old chap. See you anon."

It was a tense and entirely silent drive home, but Desmond didn't mind.
Leaning back in the passenger seat, he closed his eyes and smiled. He
was thinking about the cool, eddying waters of the Dart, and how to
outsmart a fat old trout.

-end-