Foskett's Day (April 04)
Thursday, 3.45pm'You are an ABSOLUTE SHOWER!' was how Terry-Thomas, in best company commander mode, described a mismatched gaggle of National Service recruits in a 1950s film. More than once lately I've been reminded of that scene as this spring has delivered its usual quota of March wind-ups and April absolute showers. Last week, for example, out of a clear blue sky, I got caught by one of the latter. Jeremy Carslake Bing by name, Bingo to his friends; if that suggests to you a nice-but-dim character out of PG Wodehouse, think again. My preferred handle for him is JCB, and a devious old mischief-maker he is too. When I first encountered him he said he'd been 'something in the City'; something maybe, but not a lot, I'd guess. Now into his seventies, he is increasingly overweight and without the least scruple when it comes to making life miserable for fellow inhabitants of Malplaquet Court, owner-occupiers and tenants alike.
So my heart sank that morning when Gracie put through to me Miss Batchelor, the long-suffering secretary of the Malplaquet Residents' Association. And, case-hardened as I am by long years' dealing with lousy landlords and terrible tenants, the tale I was told this time gave me quite a nasty shock. JCB has apparently been conducting an energetic amorous affair on the hallowed premises, and none too discreetly, at that. 'The flats are very poorly insulated,' said the poor woman, 'so the goings-on can be heard by us all, and we're very upset. Not so much by the billing and cooing on the stairs and landing, but you wouldn't credit the noises from inside his flat, morning, noon and night!' 'Has anyone there spoken to him about it?' I asked, anticipating the answer I duly received. 'No,' she said, 'we agreed it would come better from you.' Typical! But I couldn't help a frisson of pleasurable anticipation that, possibly, at last, I might be able to shake old JCB out of my hair. In the recesses of my memory, among other Grounds for Termination of a Tenancy, wasn't there one labelled 'annoyance to adjoining occupiers and/or immoral use'? Gracie, bless her cotton socks, succeeded where I had failed to find the authoritative source for my recollection, and there it was; sadly not among the mandatory grounds, but you can't expect miracles.
So, a couple of hours' later, after a mildly celebratory lunch at the Flute and Flyswat, I rolled up at Malplaquet Court, to confront the old ram and I was ready for anything; anything, that is, but what met me when the door opened. A slimmed-down Bingo, more garden rotavator than JCB, in Lycra leotard, in an eye-catching shade of electric blue! 'Oh, blast' was all the welcome I received. 'I was expecting dear Gladys. What can I do for you, Foskett? Hope it's not going to take long as we've got a very tight schedule this afternoon, Gladys and I.'
Now, I am acquainted with only one Gladys, and that's plenty for me. Gladys Battersby is another of my tenants, and for years she's run neck and neck with Bingo in the bête noire stakes. Could she really be the old party of the second part? Were Bingo and Gladys really following in the footseps of Romeo and Juliet, Heathcliff and Cathy, Harry and Sally even? Not a pretty thought! But an accurate one, to judge from the sound, not unlike my idea of the mating call of an elk, even now echoing up the uncarpeted stairs. And due confirmation arrived shortly thereafter, in the equally reduced form of Mrs Battersby.
'Why, Mr Foskett,' she panted, 'have you come to join our fitness club? You could certainly do with losing a stone or two!' The cheek of the bloody woman took my breath away, but I followed them into the flat and there, in what had been the sitting room, was an adequately equipped gym. At its centre, a bizarre contraption with a huge flywheel, giant-size foot rests and two curiously distorted uprights with handgrips at the top. 'Away we go' hallooed Mrs Battersby, mounting this device and, with a pull on what might be called the handlebars, launched herself into quivering motion, reminiscent of the first men walking on the moon!
As I later explained to Gracie, you can't expect a judge to evict Bingo just for trying to get himself, and his new chum, into better shape; fitness is the flavour of the month, after all, though personally I fail to see the attraction! At best he'd give them a lecture on good neighbourliness in the noises-off department, and I delivered a stern one of those on the spot, though I can't say I was full of confidence that my gipsy's warning would do the trick...
Later
Oh ye of little faith! I've just put down the phone from a joyful Miss Batchelor. Peace reigns at Malplaquet Court once more.
Matters seem to have come to a head this morning when the founder
members of the self-styled fitness club fell out; or fell off, rather. As reported by Mrs Battersby from the stretcher that carried her down
to the ambulance, 'I told him he hadn't assembled that blasted cross
country thingummy correctly. So what happens? I'm halfway through my
fifteen minutes on the rowing machine and he comes crashing on top of
me, with nuts, bolts and pedals raining down after him. The man's a
menace; he's seen the last of me!' These sentiments were
apparently echoed when the second stretcher emerged. 'No more home
gymnastics for me. I could've broken every bone in my body.'Of course, I can't exactly claim my reading of the riot act resolved the crisis. But, in this game, you have to celebrate every little triumph that comes your way; they're rare enough in all conscience.