I mentioned before that the club is filled with more eccentrics per square foot than anywhere else except perhaps a circus or parliament.
Just to the right of my wingback chair sits a chap called Simon Simon, an unfortunate name, perhaps, but we do not pick our parents. Naturally he is nicknamed “Simple” but takes it well. Anyway Simon was a teacher of elocution at a drama school back east somewhere, and was shown the door because of cutbacks, although he was far from ready to retire.
His bitterness shows through his endless efforts to interest us in his free (his word) lessons on improving the speaking prowess of the mems of the club, so much so that he can be heard harassing an empty club meeting room every Monday afternoon at 3 bells.
No one goes to these things, and yet there he is pressing his lessons forward to a group of chairs and nothing else. His printed agenda wallows in Shakespeare, starting with “All the world’s a stage” as an exercise for pace, then “Let me not to the marriage of true minds/ Admit impediments” for vowels and consonants and finally “When in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes” for plosives and sibilants.
The class lasts for exactly one hour with no bathroom breaks allowed. How wonderful and yet damp with melancholy.
Another chap shouts out everything that he reads and then asks for thoughts on the articles. No one says a thing as we are staring furiously at our shoes in deep embarrassment. He then thanks us and starts again. Generally we can attract the notice of one of the club servants who takes him gently by the arm to other less inhabited parts of our club.
The distaff side of the club is another matter altogether, as one must be careful of what one says at all times. For instance Mrs. Hynde-Quarters is not above saying earnest things like,
“It says here that men are much stupider than women. It is a well-known fact. Ha.” All the men shift uncomfortably in response that can only be silent. Several women stamp their highly sensible shoes in agreement with their self-appointed leader.
Of course she came across the “well-known fact” in an article she was reading called “Bonnets Today.” The so-called truth was a reference to the not unexpected fact that men don’t know as much about bonnets as women. There you go, another irrefutable fact from the jaws of Mrs. Hynde-Quarters. There is a collective sigh from the still sane men left in the reading room. What else can we do?
Mrs. ffrangington-Davis is the worst, though, for disturbing the wonderful oasis of the senior reading room, as she snaps the pages of the many magazines she purloins from the large table in the middle of the room. She sits down with a lap-full and licks her large fingers before almost ripping the periodicals open to no story in particular and then makes a fireworks noise page after page until everyone is sitting on the edge of their seats in a high state of anxiety.
Did I say everyone? Not everyone. Women, for instance, are not bothered by this outrage. In fact many are simply waiting to do the same after f-D is finished. It is unspeakable that such an uncivilized noise is allowed to break the spell of quiet digestion of thought and deed. This loathsome racket goes on until all the journals have been looked at and discarded.
There is another woman, Betty Becket who in her youth was the most delicious and gracious of her generation, a beauty for the ages was the term they used for Betty back in her salad days. Still a striking lady, she unfortunately has lost the plot a bit in the last few years.
She visits the club occasionally and dines alone in solitary splendour having outlived all of her three husbands. During the meal she sits dreamily staring off into the mid horizon as if remembering past occasions with various men while downing an enormous volume of red wine. As she approaches her dessert the alcohol begins to take a grip on her mind and she loudly whispers: “You are a filthy young man, Gerald” or “Stop looking at me lewdly, Horace, or I will knee you hard again.”
Then there is a interlude of throaty laughter which unsettles her fellow diners, who push away their own glasses of wine.
On a night when my wife Kitty and I were attending a celebratory evening for a fellow mem’s 81st birthday, Betty was in full flight.
She had already given voice to a number of outrageous remarks, when eyeing me she announced, “Major, do not attempt to touch me there again or it will lead to dire consequences for you, my fine fellow. It was clearly a mistake to have let you take advantage of me that one time, but I shan’t allow you that privilege again. Be off with you.”
Now what is a chap to do in those circs? Even though my dear wife of some 50 hard-fought years knew Betty was a mad as the March Hare, this statement was still food for thought. She put me under a careful scrutiny as the club’s renowned raisin pie turned to suet in my mouth.
I returned my Kitty’s grimace with a well-thought out rebuttal. “Eh?” I said, and I put some mustard on it, I can tell you.
However the club remains a home for one and all. And we, the less mad, must make a space for the others. Once a mem, always a mem.
Copyright Major’s Corner 2015
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