I estimate that the combined age of the four of us on the committee is at least two hundred and fifty years but the others have not got any wiser as they’ve aged. The meeting has dragged on much longer than necessary due to Stanley’s pedantic chairmanship but thankfully we’ve reached the last item. The heat in the room is becoming insufferable.
‘You’ve all seen, I assume, the recent editorial in the 'Gazette'.” Stanley opens up a copy of the paper. ‘As you know, this made some disparaging comments about us.’ He wrinkles his nose and reads from the offending publication. ‘Specifically, it commented how odd it was that Tatsby Social Club has never been known to have any members from the nearby village of Haston. Do they have a ban in place, we wonder?’
‘That new editor is trying to make a name for himself,’ mutters Harold before striking a match to light his pipe.
‘He's got a bloody cheek,’ snarls Ken. ‘Probably been got at by some sod in Haston, who’s envious we can buy a pint for fifteen pence while they have to pay a few pence more in their local.’ His shock of unkempt, white hair is more unruly than usual tonight.
‘Indeed. He’s clearly an over-promoted scribbler who's trying to stir up trouble.’ Beads of sweat are now appearing on Stanley’s bald head. ‘There has been a shocking decline in newspaper ethics in recent times.’
‘We have been advised in the past that there is nothing in our articles of association which prevent a resident of Haston from joining our club.’ I have to remind the others of this fact.
Stanley leans forward and studies me through his horn-rimmed glasses.
‘That maybe so, Les, but we don't want to broadcast that, do we?’
I hate the condescending way he talks to me.
‘No one has applied from there in the forty odd years I've been coming here.” Ken’s back is so straight it doesn’t touch the back of the chair. “If one of them rang up enquiring about membership, they were told that someone would get back to them. That never happened, of course, and they soon got the message.’
‘Having new members would bring in an extra few bob in takings. We're barely covering our costs these days.’ This is the umpteenth time I’ve reminded them we’re barely solvent. It’s hard being the treasurer in this place.
‘We don't want their bloody money,’ snaps Harold through clouds of smoke.
‘But the two communities share a lot of history. It would be good to intermingle.’ When I was a child, I loved it when we used to visit my uncle there.
‘Get away with you.’ Ken jabs a finger at me. ‘The place is full of inbreds and they like a bit of fisticuffs after they've had a few pints. This place would go to rack and ruin if they were admitted.’
‘My late mother-in-law was born inl Haston,’ says Harold, lowering the corners of his mouth.
‘Enough said,’ murmurs Ken.
Stanley leans towards me.
“I think you have a rosy-eyed view of the place, Les. I remember when we held the joint jamboree to celebrate the Coronation, the Haston lot gobbled up the meat sandwiches before we could get a look in and then helped themselves to the biggest cream cakes.’
‘And they didn’t pay their share of the marquee rental either,’ adds Harold, raising his bushy, grey eyebrows.
Stanley clears his throat.
‘I think it is agreed that this scurrilous article should be ignored.’ He looks me in the eye as he speaks. ‘This week's Gazette will be fish and chip paper in a few days’ time and their pompous editor will no doubt have moved on to some other spurious campaign.’
I bite my tongue.
‘I call the meeting to an end. We can now adjourn to the bar for a pint or two of mild. 'A Question of Sport' will be starting soon on BBC1 and young Bobby Moore is on the panel this week.’
There must have been a function in here earlier as the room stinks of ciggies and stale beer. I notice the picture of Her Majesty on the wall is hanging askew.
The door opens and Stanley waddles in looking flustered.
‘Apologies gentlemen for being late. My moped wouldn’t start and I had to walk here.’
He hangs up his coat, sits down and pulls some papers out of his briefcase.
‘Thank you for attending this extraordinary meeting of the committee. I've received two vexatious letters which we need to consider. The first is from a man called Collins from Haston applying to join our club, together with a postal order for fifty pence to cover the membership fee.’
‘No doubt he was put up to it by that bloody paper,’ Ken snarls.
‘It was certainly most improper of him to have applied without talking to me first,’ says Stanley.
‘Typical Haston behaviour,’ mumbles Harold. The white shirt which he is wearing is too tight for him and his double chin hangs over the collar
‘Can't you just pretend you never received it?’ asks Ken.
‘Not really. It was hand delivered,’ responds Stanley with a frown.
‘Just tell him we're full up,’ says Harold.
‘The place is empty during the week,’ I pipe up. ‘Anybody passing could tell that by looking through the window. The takings on those nights don’t cover the heating and lighting costs and….’
Stanley jumps in.
‘But if he came on a Friday
or Saturday night, the queue for the bar would be that much longer. We're
already getting lots of complaints already about the slowness of service.’ He shakes his head.
‘If we let one in, the floodgates would open,’ says Harold.
‘A point well made,’
comments Stanley. ‘I suggest we now turn to the second letter which arrived by
post this morning from a solicitor called Alan Jones claiming to represent
Collins.’ Stanley lays the letter out in front of him. ‘It says that if we
refuse his client's application without good reason, he will take legal
proceedings against us. He claims the courts have ruled against a number of
clubs who refused to accept applications for membership from certain groups in
society.’
‘What’s the world coming to if men can’t decide who they drink with?’ Harold rolls his eyes.
‘He's a flaming Quisling that Jones.’ Ken bangs the table with a fist. ‘He was born and bred in Tatsby but developed hoity-toity ways after going to university and opening his own practice in the city.’ Judging by the smell of his breath, he’s already had a few.
‘He's bluffing,’ says Harold. ‘Collins won't have the brass to pay the legal fees.’
I have to correct him. ‘I wouldn't be so sure about that. He's a coal merchant and owns several lorries.’
Harold looks daggers at me but I plough on.
‘We would have to pay a lawyer to defend any action against us and we’ve not got the money to do that.’
The room falls silent for a few seconds before Ken erupts.
‘Which side are you on, Les?’ he shouts. ‘Always worried about the pennies but not about doing what’s right.’ His spittle goes flying over the table.
‘Calm down, man,’ says Stanley sharply.
Ken grunts and falls back in his chair.
‘I’m sure any judge with a shred of common sense would refuse to hear the case as it would be a waste of the court's time." Stanley pulls a pocket watch out of his waistcoat and glances at it. "Some of us now have a darts match to take part in. I don’t think we should be rushed into deciding how to respond to these letters so I propose we reconvene in a week's time to determine what to do.’
My resignation letter is sitting on the sideboard. It was hard to write as I've been a member for decades, following in the steps of my father and grandfather. But I've had enough of the place. I can no longer remain on a committee of dinosaurs who can’t see they’re heading for extinction. Furthermore, the last two nights I've popped in the bar nobody spoke to me, no doubt because someone (probably Ken) had been blabbing about my comments on admitting members from Haston. I'll pop down to the Post Office after lunch and get a stamp for the letter.
The telephone starts ringing and I get up from my armchair to answer it.
‘Tatsby 1586,’ I say.
‘Good morning, Les. It's Tracey from the ‘Gazette’. Remember we spoke a few days ago?’
‘"I do.’ She was trying to get me to comment on their editorial but I kept schtum.
‘I understand you were unable to attend last night's meeting of the Tatsby Social Club management committee.’ I could hear the relief in Stanley’s voice when I rang him to tender my apologies. ‘They've just faxed us a statement which I'd welcome your comments on.’
‘
"What does it say?’
‘’The committee have decided
that, with immediate effect, existing members will be able to bring wives and
girlfriends with them to the club and, to that end, the bar will start to stock
Babycham and Dubonnet; and in anticipation of increased numbers being present
on the premises, new applications for membership cannot be considered for the
foreseeable future to comply with fire regulations.’
The cunning beggars.
‘It’s great they’re moving with the times. Don’t you agree?’
I take a deep breath.
‘
‘I’ve got nothing to say on the matter. As a widower, the change will not benefit me. Thanks for calling.’
I put the telephone back down on the receiver. If I'd ever suggested letting lasses in, they would have shouted me down. They’ll be moaning before you know it about giggling young women spoiling the atmosphere and their wives talking too much. Still, they’ve made their bed and they’ll have to lie on it.
I’ll go down to the British Legion tonight. My brother will be there and I’m sure he’ll be happy to sponsor me if I apply for membership. They’ve got a better range of ales on offer there.
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