Two Meat balls and Sauce

 

How it Began

 

Henry Toweather lived at 83 Cricklewood Lane, and his erstwhile friend, Charley Craven, lived at 24 Strand Close that ran off Cricklewood Lane, which were connected by a path that ran alongside the allotments. Over the years they had shared the joys of allotments together, and the failures, but in their shed they were at their most contented.

 

Henry had been in the Army, and his best tales were from the time he had been recalled to go to Egypt when Nasser took the canal. Charley was a different breed. He had spent his time in the Met. and professed to know all the hard men and the tricks they got up to. He was a ballroom dancer, and could still cut a rug on the floor. Lately his arthritic knee had slowed things up.

 

They belonged to the same bowls club, The Stanford Bowls, which had a bar and a room for entertainment. Henry favoured Mild Ale, and Charley favoured Brown Ale. These are old fashioned drinks by today’s standards, but they were still available at the The Stanford. There was a rumour that these were to be discontinued due to a poor uptake of them, indeed the bar staff nicknamed them Hen&Cha, since these were the only two that drank this stuff!

 

This was a matter of continuous chuntering between them. However events were to make these matters ‘small beer’. They were both widowers. The loss of a wife leaves a strange fix of temperament. On some a sadness falls, and they wear strange cardigans with brown diagonal patterns, and elasticated trousers (with flock linings for warmth), purchased from Chums. These were of course recommended, neigh dictated, by their late wives.

 

Others see it as chance to escape and live the high life. This was not the case with both Henry or Charlie – they were both cardigan men! For the time being, that is. They played indoor bowls throughout the year. There were the Roll Ups on a Tuesday afternoon, and Saturdays mornings. These were attended by a motley crew of old men and some wilful ladies.

 

The styles of bowling varied considerably, gone were the smooth delivery of yesteryear, arthritic knees, and back pain now contributed to the delivery, mainly a throw of sorts, but be not fooled, they were pretty accurate getting on the jack. They were members of a declining legion of players whose glory days were behind them.

 

It is not a young man’s game since it lacks a certain joie de vivre. Although among the cognoscenti there is apparent excitement, as shouts are delivered down the rink giving directions as the delivery to the head, as it is called. But this is mainly due to a certain lack of hearing of the incumbents. They both played together in the over sixties league. This was basically the last chance saloon for those wishing to retain a respectability of life through the partaking of a social sport.

 

The final score no longer mattered, but surprising competitiveness still remained amongst the teams. But when the final curtain was called would it matter, and who would remember? This seemed to be the route for both Henry and Charley until that fateful day – a new lady appeared at the club and showed some interest in bowling.

 

Saturday mornings was Roll up time, (members play one another at random selection), also it was the morning for coaching. Sam Mounsteven, a credited coach, ran the session. He had adopted a systematic approach, which while correct, did not get to the instinctive feel of the delivery. The new lady had been persuaded to have a go, and she was now under the tutelage of Sam.

 

She had a shock of red hair, and her body had developed that certain roundness that speaks of allure, as her curves were caressed by her clothes. Those who watched her as they waited for their turn to bowl, whilst she was being coached, felt a certain desire to do the caressing. Henry felt an old pang as he watched her; there was something about that head of hair that seemed familiar.

 

Sam, the coach, who had a carefully styled quiff of hair over his forehead, seemed to make unnecessary physical contact to ensure she was facing in the right direction, and the way the arm, (her arm), should move in a smooth pendulum swing along the line of her leg as she stepped forward into the delivery position. Morag, for that was her name, seemed to appreciate this attention, and asked to be guided along the line of bowl more than seemed appropriate.

 

She turned and smiled appreciatively, seeming to give it as a reward for the close attention, her grey green eyes flashing, and her body radiating allure. And yet on occasion there was the stamp of a pretty foot, and a turn of the head that resembled an eagle swooping for the kill! Male members of the team saw one thing, the lady members, aware of the temptress in the female psyche, saw something else. Trouble was brewing at the club!

 

The first warning was in the shed on the allotment. Sunday morning was, by tradition, the time for repose, when there was an idle exchange views as to what was going on. In the past it was simply an excuse not to accompany their wives to church. There was more urgent matters to attend to on the allotment, green fly had been noted, there were seeds to set ready for the coming year, not mention the prize onions for the next show.

 

Wives of long standing are not fooled by this, but saw the wisdom to let them have their little ways. ‘Kept them out of mischief you know,’ and, ‘I don’t want them in the kitchen when I’ getting dinner.’

 

Henry noticed a change in Charley’s demeanour, for a start he had his false teeth in. These were usually absent on the basis that they did not fit, and he was damn sure he was no going to pay for some new ones! And, had he had a haircut, it was certainly combed with more style!

 

And, sacre blue, the cardigan looked smarter, had it been washed, and, ironed! Also he did not slump down into the old armchair, his usual repose, but he sat more upright, and seemed attentive. But to what?

 

‘Brown ale?’ offered Henry, retrieving a bottle from under the bench. Charley waved it away, and from the bag that he had been carrying pulled out a can of Larger. He turned his head as if to reveal some confidence.

 

‘You know,’ he hesitated as if to increase the moment, ‘Alf (the barman) told me, in confidence, that the last order for Brown was the last!’

He emphasised the last part as if to be incredulous.

Then, rather more weakly, ’I thought it was time to try something different.’

 

There was silence in the hut.

Henry looked at him in astonishment.

‘But, but.’

He stopped as if another thought had entered his head.

’I thought that we had agreed we would fight this?’

He looked at Charley askance, what had changed he thought?

‘I know, I know, but you have to change with the times,’

Charley offered, his voice trailing off as if he was guilty of something.

Henry replied with some spirit. ‘Since when?’

 

He had noticed the inclusive you, as if referring to the world at large.

He added ‘Who are you talking about. There’s just me and you.’

As if he had noticed the weakness in the ‘me and you’, he attempted a bit of bravado.

‘We are like the three musketeers.’ 

He was going to say, all for one, one for all, when he realised how ridiculous that was.

 

Charley laughed, and without thinking called out,

‘We stand together,’ waving his can of Larger in the air.

The motion shot the gassed Larger all over the hut, some landing on Henry. This created an unusual outburst from him.

‘Jesus, Charley, look what you’ve done.’

 

The look on his face implied that it was more than just the Larger that was at fault. Charley’s laugh died away, and something of the Met Policeman came in to play.

‘And what is that exactly?’ he said in that flat tone used by policemen the world over.

 

Henry replied, in a more meeker tone,

‘Look what you have done to my cardy. Who’s going to clean it.’

Charley stood up, in a full police tone said.

‘Clean it, clean it, don’t be stupid. You could just chuck that old thing away. You’ve worn ever since ever.’ 

 

With that he stuffed his empty can of Larger in his bag and marched out of the hut with as much dignity as he could muster as his dodgy knee would allow.

 

Henry was left to reflect on this abysmal turn of events. It was never the same in the hut again.

 

Dressing for bowls 

 

 Men: Shall wear white above the waist, and Bowls grey trousers.

Note, Bowls grey trousers!

Ladies: Shall wear grey skirts, and white above the waist. The ladies then got a slight concession, they can wear grey trousers

 

This rather formal mode of dress was established in the 18 hundreds, and to this day is strictly enforced. Complaints can soon surface if someone does not meet these standards.

 

Ladies wore white shirts until some brave soul turned up in blouse, or a ‘see through’ (nearly) top. This went to the highest level EIBA and was sternly apposed on lascivious grounds – in other words sex. Morag embodied this!

 

Dress Code Dust Up

 

The Saturday role-ups became busier than ever before. Saggy, long worn trousers were replaced by smart, freshly pressed, or even, new, trousers! Shirts were crystal white. Even the Chairman appeared in clothes more appropriate to his position than his normal indistinguishable brown ensemble. Indeed he was heard to express polite comments to all and sundry. Save the day! And was that after-shave lotion that could be smelt in the men’s dressing room?

 

The reason for this was not hard to discern, Morag was being coached. And contrary to the dress code, she wore a dress! Who would dare to tell her otherwise? As she knelt forward to deliver the ball in the manner advised by her coach, Stan, who it was noted, had the gallant knight about him.

 

Play at the other end was held up whilst the men studied the décolletage of her dress. The ladies were not amused! They took refuge at first in the usual attitude, ‘silly old men, led by the nose by a piece of skirt.’ Matters came to head when the random selection of players and the rinks they were on always came out that Charley and Henry were on the next rink!

 

At first this seemed just pot luck, after several weeks they ladies suspected some under hand conniving was at work. Charley always had an encouraging comment on Morag’s progression in the art of bowling. And then an unfortunate remark by Charley stirred the pot and brought revolt.

 

‘Morag will soon be as good as these other old gels,’ was not taken kindly by the ‘old gels’. 

One elderly lady, wiry of form, and as it turned out, a fierce Scottish temper was not having this. She stood in front of Charley.

‘What do you mean by that?’ she demanded, a fierce look on her face.

Charley looked up in puzzlement.

‘What?’ he asked in wavering voice.

‘Us old gels ain’t as good as that tart!’

‘But, but,’ started Charley

‘Don’t you but me. You got a dam cheek saying that.’

She leaned closer to him.

‘I’ll report you to the Chairman.’

Charley got on his high horse.

‘Madam I have no idea what you are talking about,’ he said haughtily, standing up to gain some advantage.

‘I seen you looking down that dress. And why is she allowed to wear a dress I like to know?’

 

She was now addressing the assembled company. Charley looked round for support.

‘Can anybody tell me what she is talking about?’

‘Well I can tell you.’

A well-built lady with a bobbed hair style angrily added.

 

All eyes turned to her, watching expectantly. Where this was going to go? She marched over to Charley in no uncertain terms told him what she thought.

 

‘I’ve been watching you. I’ve seen the little tricks you get up to. Always fiddling the cards (these were used to decide the players and playing rink) so you can get near to your fancy woman. I know you think the sun shines out of her backside, but she’s only been here a couple of weeks and she thinks she owns the place. I’ve been here twenty years……you should be ashamed of yourself,’ she added lamely.

 

The Secretary hearing all the shouting looked out of his office. He saw a group women arguing the toss with one of the men. He recognised one of the women who was always expressing her opinion on just about anything he suggested, and he had her marked down as a trouble maker.

 

He closed the door and made a swift exit through the emergency door into the car park. He circle round to the entrance and positioned himself near the bar in the hope of seeing the Chairman, just the man to sort this out, or add flames to the fire, he thought, knowing the Chairman’s bluff manner.

 

The barman said, in that indifferent way they adopt.

‘Rare old shindig going on there. What’s about?’

‘I really have no idea, I’ve only just got here,’ replied the Hon. Sec.

‘Well somebody ought to do something.’

He went on. ‘It’s that Morag I’ll be bound.’

‘Really?’ said a Welsh voice.

 

Both men turned and there at the end of the bar was Morag flinging her fingers as if to get of water off them. She had been to the toilet and was unaware of the trouble brewing.

‘Who’s taking my name in vain.’

 

At this moment Henry was exiting the bowls area, with his head bowed low as if he was under fire. He had left Charley in the firing line, so to speak.

He saw Morag. ‘I shouldn’t go in there, if I was you.’

 

Morag stopped waving her hands about.

‘Henry, what’s the problem.’

This came as endearing statement.

‘Is it that Charley?’

She smiled, wiping her hands down her the side of her ample figure.

‘Come on we’ll sort this out.’

She took his arm and strolled into the bowls area. Ire versus Charm.

 

The bowling area looked as if it was in riot mode. Arms were being flung in the air, harsh words rent the air, old grievances came to the surface. The calm subdued air of bowls, so traditional in the application of the game, had now become a howling cacophony. If hand bags had been to hand they undoughtedly would have been used as physical point makers.

 

Amongst all this was the erstwhile Chairman trying to moderate things. This was without avail, things had reached the point where the original slight had been forgotten. Old soldiers stood in the side-lines and took great delight, this brought back memories of past actions, and they relived their thrill.

 

It was then brought to an abrupt halt as the innocent instigator of all this passion came through the entrance on the arm of Henry. Henry had a beam on his face as if he had swallowed the cream. Morag laid on the red carpet air as if she was a film star, her hip swinging close to Henry’s.

 

A smile lit her face, as she gracefully acknowledged the silent assembly.

 

‘I would like to play a game with some of you charming ladies, Henry, an old friend, assures me I will gain a lot more playing with you experienced players, didn’t you Henry?’

She said, looking down at Henry as if he was her life saver.

 

Henry should have recognised guile, but that he should be included in this heart-warming display disarmed him completely.

 

Things were icey in the hut the morning afterwards. Charley looked out of sorts, his new gear looked somewhat out of place for an allotment He did not carry his previous devilish air.

Harry had sly look on his face. ‘Well that went well,’ he offered, not making it clear as to what he was referring to.

 

Charley looked at Henry as if for the first time as he considered his rejoinder. ‘Well, there certainly was a bit of a to-do, but how it started, I don’t know.’ Henry smiled, the smile of a man with an inner – I know what you don’t know, ‘I don’t know either, but something upset the old lady.’

He let that hang in the air, and then added.

‘I thought she was going to hit you.’

‘Likely.’ Said Charley, with a slight twist of his lips.

 

‘Well I’m glad I was there to help you.’ Henry said, as if trying to stir the pot. ‘Oh, yer.’ Charley responded, loading it as a denial and question at the same time.

‘I saw the Chairman trying to sort things out.’ Henry said this with vehemence, since he had had some discord with him.

 

Charley latched on to this to deflect what, he suspected, the way things were going.

‘Yes, the old fart, lot of good he did. If he’d left it to me I could’ve sorted it out.’ Henry saw an opening, he said, reflectively.

‘Yes, I’m sure you could.’

He smiled. ‘You have a way with older ladies, I can see that.’

 

This shaft hit home, and Charley exploded. ‘You weren’t…….’

He stopped. He was going to say, ‘any help, you little shit.’ But he choked back the words, but the look on his face said it all, was there a tinge of the green eyed monster?

 

Henry played the patrician.

‘Well it takes a brave man to take on the ladies section of the Bowls Club.’ Then he rubbed it in.

‘I certainly admire that in you.’

 

Charlies face was red with indignation, and it poured out.

‘Oh yes your highness. You always been high and mighty, you think you are better than me. You served in Suez, that’s what you thought that was a war. Well I remember Shirl didn’t think that, I can tell you.’

 

Henry sat up at that, it sort of confirmed an old suspicion of his.

‘What was you doing with Shirl?’

This came with metaphorical spittle.

Not a question so much suspicion.

 

Charley, ire was unstoppable, and battle lines were drawn.

‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’

Henry’s trembling hand reached for a bottle of brown al. And with, ‘you bastard,’ brought it down on Charley’s head. A Sad Ending to a Beautiful Friendship?

 

There were no more meetings in the hut. The Bowls role-up did not have the same attraction. Charley no longer went. He was discharged from hospital with no lasting physical injury, but he was not as steady on his feet as he used to be, and so his dreams of Stricktly were dashed!

 

Henry and Morag went on to win the mixed double in the Bowls Tournament, and their future seemed set. Henry enjoyed the bliss of unmarried sex, and the uplifting self adoration that went with it, until one day, in the bar, he heard the unabashed truth.

 

Morag was on leaning on the bar talking to the barman, whose eyes were popping out of his head.

‘He’s alright a bowls, but in bed,’ she shook her head.

‘ And that cardy he wears, he looks like my grandad; another gin and tonic while you at it love.’

Henry bowed his head in shame and crept away.

 

Suddenly two old guys, in cardy’s, in a hut, chewing the fat, seemed eminently more desirable.