Tonight was the night of the Poetry Club dinner and Maureen was dreading it. As she and her husband got ready, she steeled herself to broach the subject that was making her sick with anxiety. Finding it impossible to envisage the ideal moment for this, she proceeded on a kind of random basis by speaking with her head buried amongst the clothes hanging in her walk-in wardrobe. This way she avoided having to take into account what John was doing at the crucial time. She could not therefore know that he was at that second slipping off his underpants prior to stepping into the en-suite shower room. Having started to speak, she backed out of the closet and turned towards him only to see his bare back in the doorway. With a neat sashay of his bottom he pushed the door firmly shut and her words bounced off its white glossy surface. When she heard the clatter of water in the shower, she gave up and sat down to apply make-up to her miserable face.

When John came out of the bathroom she saw in the mirror that he was glancing across at her, while ostensibly choosing a shirt. She suspected that he was checking whether she was upset, and reckoned he’d think not, as by now she looked pretty presentable. The moment for confrontation had passed, although she hoped that he might have heard enough to get the message. For now, she stood up and faced him with a smile. “You look very smart!” He nodded in agreement and held out his arms. Reading his thoughts correctly, she stepped over and put his cufflinks in for him.

Picking up his car keys, he jangled them in her face. “Five minutes!” Then he swept his jacket off the bed and ran down the stairs.

————-

Now she was in the Wheelwright’s Buttery, sitting between the President and the Secretary, who were trading gardening tips over her head. Opposite her was a sweaty-looking fellow whose name she had already forgotten, though she had gathered that he was the husband or at least the escort of the guest of honour, a lady poet, Maureen supposed. If so, she was one of a decidedly rural character, dressed as if for searching for hens’ eggs on a winter morning. As the President was not paying her any attention, she was studying the inside of a pint glass of beer, in between taking frequent swigs from it.

Maureen attempted to engage the greasy man in conversation. “All this talk of carrots and onions is making me quite hungry”, she said – they had been waiting some time for their starters to be served.

He looked at her in mock amazement. “Thus spake Zarathustra!”

“Did he?”

“Oh yes, assuredly. Isn’t that so, Nora?” He turned to the supposed poetess, whose reply inadvertently turned into a burp.

“There you have it,” he said. ‘The heavens disturbed Express’t their anger dire.’ Dear old John.”

“Milton?” said Maureen.

“Goodness no! Cleese!” He nudged Nora in her well-padded ribs.

“Take no notice dear,” said Nora in a surprisingly Welsh accent. “He’s incapable of polite conversation”.

“Aha! The Kraken wakes! So sayeth Alfred.”

“Hitchcock?”

“Touché! A hit, a palpable hit! Nora, we have a new pal. Bright of eye and sharp of claw. And name of Maureen, am I right?”

“That is right,” said Maureen, flattered that he had remembered. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I got yours..?”

“He’s Roly”, said Nora. Don’t believe him if he says it’s anything else.”

Before Roly could attempt to contradict, everyone’s attention was captured by a sharp rapping. Deirdre, who had organised the dinner, this year as every year for as long as anyone could remember, had risen, waving a sheaf of papers. “This year we have two quizzes. A hard one on this sheet and an easy one on this. Peter will hand them out in a moment. If anyone needs a pen I have some here.”

Peter came along the table distributing the quizzes. When he got to John, who was sitting on the far side of Nora, John took a set and said “Maureen and I will share these.” He immediately started reading and scribbling.

Nora seemed to be unsure which way up the quiz sheets went, but Roly, like John, got quickly down to business. “I’ll leave the easy one,” he announced. “I can never do easy ones. Now – the hard one. Number one. Mm. That will be Keats, Grecian Urn. I can’t see the point of Keats. Next? Oh, of course. East Coker. Eliot. Per qua significa il mio pettro. Marvellous. Number three…”

Maureen reached out and pulled his quiz sheet down a little. “Mr Roly, you seem not to understand the concept of a quiz. You are giving all the answers away.”

“Ah, but am I? Perhaps I am trying to mislead you.”

Without her own sheet to refer to, Maureen was not sure about this. She tried to look at the President’s, but he had built a defensive wall of tableware around his. She peered over a cruet set. He responded by laying his arm over the quiz and she was struck by the hairiness of the sleeve of his brown tweed jacket.

At last, waiters arrived carrying trays of plates. “Who is having the goat’s cheese tart, please?” A number put up their hands and were served. “There is one left. Who else ordered goat’s cheese?”

The Secretary spoke. “I have no idea what I ordered. None at all.” He beamed at everyone, clearly expecting their approval for his negligence of such mundane matters. “Could have been goat’s cheese. Or not.”

Roly shuddered. “Imagine eating the cheese of a goat! I think not. Why not let the poor thing keep it. Although I suppose a goat doesn’t have much use for cheese.”

Mrs Judd led a protest from the far end of the table, supported by hear-hears from all her devotees seated around her. “If you haven’t yet acquired a taste for goat’s cheese, I strongly advise you to do so. There is no finer cheese, and imbued with the flavour of antiquity. The heroes of Homer enjoyed it on a daily basis and, as we are told, it strengthened their thews.”

“They may have eaten it,” rejoined Roly, “but I doubt that they enjoyed it. Where does Homer say so? Anyway, my thews are strong enough already, aren’t they, Nora?”

Mrs Judd’s fierce frown impressed everyone but Roly. “When Dennis and I belonged to the Neal’s Yard Cheese Club, we experienced many superb cheeses, but the best of all was Glatt. We won a luxury hamper for our prize-winning review of Glatt. It’s from the Arctic Circle, you know, where the goats feed on tundra. The review was published in House and Garden.”

“And in Private Eye, wasn’t it? I remember reading it there,” said Maureen. But Mrs Judd was not happy to acknowledge this. She turned her attention pointedly to her starter and her acolytes followed suit.

By now everyone had been served, whether with the correct dish or not. The Secretary was tucking greedily into moules marinière, while opposite him a tiny apologetic woman with long sandy hair was looking enviously at them, toying listlessly with her goat’s cheese tart. She was sure that there had been a mistake. After all, hadn’t she ordered the cheese board to finish? But the waiter, searching for the rightful owner of the tart, had caught her eye and she’d felt obliged to take it.

Maureen was sensitive to her neighbour’s discomfort and hoped to take her mind off it. “Are you looking for the butter? Let me pass you some.”

“No thank you, dear. There’s nothing I need. I was just admiring Geoffrey’s moules.”

Roly pounced. “Indeed he has creditable mussels for a man of his age and habits. You might say, the mussels of a younger woman.”

The little lady flushed the very colour of her rhubarb reduction, but was spared further embarrassment by another call to attention. The President was tapping a water jug with a knife. “If anyone has brought any work along, they should let me know. John has got a new piece that he’d like to read when he’s finished his paté.”

Maureen had been so engaged by the characters around her that she had for a while forgotten her worries. Suddenly she was jolted back into a state of panic. John was about to humiliate her for the others’ entertainment. It was not the quality of his writing which upset her, but the subject matter. He had found repeated inspiration in their intimate moments and in particular in an anatomical peculiarity which she would much prefer that they kept to themselves. How many times had he come home excitedly from the Poetry Club meetings and insisted on not only repeating to her the reading but also giving a resumé of the often protracted critical discussion of it by the audience?

So he had not heard her pleading to be spared, or if he had, he was prepared to run rough-shod over her sensibility.

Maureen also had the paté. John had thoughtfully made her choices for her, because, as he said, she had no idea about food. She still had half of her portion on her plate. She thrust it across the table to John. “Please help me, dear. It’s delicious but I can’t manage so much.”

John had just put the last morsel of his in his mouth, and, while deploring his wife’s inability to eat a square meal, he was delighted to have the benefit of some more. His recitation would have to be slightly delayed.

“Too much for me too,” said Roly. “How about you, Nora?” Knowing glances passed between each of them and Maureen. Then remainders of paté passed from each of them to John.

The President unfolded a paper. “As it appears that John is not going to be ready for a while yet, I will if I may read you my contribution.” Maureen hoped it would be as long as she understood the President’s usually were, and she was not disappointed. By the time he’d finished, the starters had been removed and the diners were attacking their main courses, most with only half an ear attending to the poem. It was a ballad of the kind that you keep thinking has finished, when another heart-sinking verse begins.

At last the end came. The President sat to light applause. Maureen soon found she was clapping alone, and reluctant as she was to stop, her nerve failed. She was saved again by Roly saying “I have something that I wrote especially for tonight. Actually, if it were not for this, I would not be here.” He stood and read from a small scrap of paper. ‘M31 Junction 7. 3^rd exit signposted Tworton. 3 miles, left to Minbourne. After 200 yards on the right, Wheelwright’s Buttery.’” He bowed in response to the laughter and cheers.

“If only it had been more difficult to find”, thought Maureen gloomily, “he might not have finished yet”.

But puddings were now being handed round and Deirdre rose. “We will have the quiz answers in five minutes, so be ready.” John, who had long ago completed his (and Maureen’s) sheets, folded his arms to indicate this. Most of the other diners resorted to their quizzes and a deal of chatter arose, much of which involved people swapping answers. “What’ve you got for 10? Oh, of course. I knew that. 13? We up this end think it’s Betjeman.” et cetera. John knew that he (and Maureen) would have the satisfaction of having done it unaided, but it would be a bitter shame if the prize went to one of the cheats.

Nora had borrowed one of Deirdre’s pens. “Do you see where these are from?” She showed it around. “Barclays Bank! She must have pinched a dozen of them at once!”

“A little different from mine.” The President held his pen up for inspection. It was a gold plastic ball-point inscribed RHC in fanciful calligraphic sworls. “Royal Hellenic Cruises, you know. Margot and I had an unforgettable literary pilgrimage in the summer.”

Then came the giving of the answers, with many an erudite or witty comment thrown in by the participants, and the presentation of the prize, regrettably to one of the cheats. John excused himself to go to the gents rather than join in the applause.

The little sandy-haired lady was contemplating her assortment of cheeses unenthusiastically. “Why is it that you never get celery these days? They give you grapes. Always grapes, these days. But I like celery with cheese. I like to put bits of cheese down the centre of the celery. It’s very nice like that.” She appealed to Mrs Judd as the expert on cheese. “Don’t you agree, Mrs Judd?”

“Linda! Dennis and I would sooner eat our cheese with Ritz Crackers. No, the only accompaniment to reputable cheeses is a glass of mineral water.” “Or a decent Sauternes,” muttered Dennis.

The President stood and silenced the party by raising his arms. Maureen thought for a moment that he was holding up a pair of Border terriers, until she recognised his tweed jacket.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have had a superb meal, thank you Deirdre, and quizzes two, thank you again Deirdre.” He led the applause. “And we have had some new writing to get our teeth into. Of mine I can say nothing, modesty prevents. Roly’s was a little challenging! Unfortunately there will not now be time for John’s piece, a pity as we are all agog for another episode of – well, you know! But it will ensure that everyone comes to the next meeting. Finally tonight, our very distinguished guest Mrs Nora Bassinet will address us on the subject in which she is the acknowledged expert – poultry in literature.”

Maureen sat back in her chair and stretched in pleasure and relief. “Serenely full, the epicure may say, Fate cannot harm me, I have dined today,” she quoted, to no-one in particular, and ignored John’s agitated signalling that they should leave. As Nora stood to deliver her speech he realised he was trapped for the duration. In frustration he picked up a pen and snapped it in two. Unfortunately it was not one of the Barclays freebies, but the precious memento of the President’s recent cruise.