Scrap CH THREE part 41

Scrap CH THREE part 41
‘Frank is late tonight,’ observes Dawn as she irons a clean shirt for her husband, ‘he’s normally here by now waiting to drag you away from your family for the evening.’ Jim is in no mood for an argument after a hectic week; he simply wants to get out and have a good evening relaxing with his friends after working upwards of 80 hours with hardly any rest. He takes the garment and finishes dressing, adds a final polish to his only good pair of shoes and laces them up. ‘You don’t begrudge me my one night off do you?’ He doesn’t care if she does because he’s earned it and she makes no reply, busying herself putting the ironing board away. ‘Speak of the devil,’ she adds, as Frank’s shadow looms at the door. Jim grabs his coat, pecks his missus on the cheek and makes his exit before she has time to say anything else.
They are not going to the Bay this evening; instead they are heading for the Working Men’s Club which is in easy walking distance, to pay their yearly subs. Anyway the beer is cheaper and after what happened last week they both feel a change is in order. Maurice seems to have completely forgotten that his drunken driving killed two people and put a third in a wheelchair for life and has continued as if nothing happened except for having to borrow a car while his is in the garage for repairs. This has not gone down well with his customers and he will find his tills somewhat lighter than usual this week.
Frank has started biting his fingernails as a distraction from his previous 60 a day smoking habit and has grown sick of sherbet lemons which ended up giving him constant heartburn. He has tried to stop it and he knows he is simply exchanging one addiction for another but he figures that this is the lesser of the two evils, anyway he has to find something to do with his hands and this isn’t hurting anyone. His pal has tried to cut down on his cigarettes, smoking only occasionally in his company but he has found himself making up for it later and has actually increased the amount he buys, a fact that has not gone unnoticed by his other half who has really given up in order to pay for her driving lessons, god help us.
The hall is already packed when they arrive and join the queue to pay their subscriptions. ‘Hello you two,’ greets Beanpole Brett, who is also here for the same reason, ‘giving the Bay a miss for tonight are we?’ Franks goes off to buy the drinks leaving Jim to keep their place in line. ‘You don’t usually drink here either,’ he replies, ‘but we still want to keep the membership going. It makes a nice change from the Bay and they’ve got cash bingo here tonight so we may get lucky.’ Brett smirks, indicates the table where his glamorous girlfriend is sitting pouting and taps the side of his nose. ‘I get lucky every night,’ he lies, as if anyone else cares what he gets up to in the privacy of his own home anyway.
The Master of Ceremonies steps up to the microphone on the raised platform which serves as a stage, taps the mike to see it is working and greets the assembly with his booming voice. ‘It’s good to see so many people here tonight,’ he begins, ‘now don’t forget anyone who hasn’t paid their subs yet this is the last opportunity so get in line and get your cash ready if you haven’t already done so. Now we have a few announcements to make before we start selling the bingo tickets so if you’ll bear with me I’ve got them written down here.’ He goes on to read out a list of people’s birthdays and wedding anniversaries, each of which is given a rousing cheer, and asks members to put their orders in early if they want to join the bus trip going to Blackpool for the illuminations.
Frank returns with two pints of bitter and half a dozen packets of crisps on a tin tray which he balances on his arm while he fishes out his membership card. By the time they get to the front of the line the glasses are empty and there is only one packet of crisps left. They pay up; get their new books stamped then Jim goes to the bar to get another round in while Frank finds a perch for them to sit on.
They are no sooner settled than the MC announces that the bingo tickets are now on sale and Jim stays behind to look after the drinks while Frank gets their lucky tickets. ‘You can’t sit there,’ a red-faced rotund woman in her fifties is telling Jim as Frank returns to the table, ‘I always sit there: it’s my lucky table, isn’t it Violet?’ Her equally large friend agrees, frowning down at the occasional visitor. ‘You would know that if you came here more often,’ she adds. ‘Where are we supposed to sit then?’ Asks Frank, ‘or do you expect us to stand?’ Brett calls over from his seat nearby, ‘come on mate, you can sit with us.’ Reluctantly the pals relocate, noting the flash of a scowl which creases the glamorous brow of lovely Lesley before she fixes her usual disdainful stare into space.
‘So how is the new business going?’ Brett is eager for any information he can store in his mucky brain for later use but the pals are giving little away, knowing him better than he thinks they do. ‘It’s early days but we’re working on it,’ is all that Jim will offer and he turns his back to chat to Frank about nothing important.
Brett and the Bride of Darkness sit in silence as the room slowly settles down in readiness for the main event and silence falls as the MC begins reading out the bingo numbers. There is great excitement from the ‘lucky’ table as the woman who moved Frank on shouts ‘House’. Her card is checked, and she returns to her seat with the £3 prize money followed by murmurs of disappointment from other members who reckon it’s not fair that she always wins. The fact that she has forked out for ten cards to check at once has escaped notice and she has only broken even on her investment.
Several more games are played, with wins of relatively small amounts being paid out, some even shared by more than one winner, and then the MC says there will be an interval of 15 minutes before the big game which will be played on the pink ticket. There is the usual mad dash, the women making for the toilets while the men head for the bar. Frank and Jim stretch their legs and wait their turn, buy two pints of bitter and two large measures of rum, some crisps and peanuts and return to the table where Brett and his lady friend are sitting with their lager and lime watching the world go by. ‘How’s life treating you then?’ Jim asks the Beanpole, inviting him to boast about his luxurious existence. Lesley sits fiddling with the cheap bracelet he bought for her the last time he was away on one of his ‘business trips’ while Brett says he is doing very well thank you. ‘You should have stayed with Olav Merck,’ he tells Jim, ‘you’d have been rolling in it by now. Look at how well I’m doing since I struck out on my own.’ Yes, thinks Jim and look at how many people are jealous of your success, with Merck top of the list of dealers who want you out of the way. ‘I’m doing fine as I am,’ he replies, ‘and it’s all legit.’
The MC is back at his post and waits while the stragglers rush back to their seats. He calls out the numbers for the big prizes of the evening: £10 for the first to call a line and £25 for the first to call a full house. Excitement mounts as each number is called, with muttering from here and there as players get close. ‘I only want one more,’ whispers Lesley. ‘Ssh,’ sounds from the woman sitting next to her, ‘over here,’ shouts Violet, ‘I mean House, house, I’ve got a line.’ She races up to have her card checked and walks back to her seat flushed with joy clutching two five pound notes. The MC waits for her to get her breath back then continues for the big one. The sound of heavy breathing whispers round the room as each number is called until a loud voice shouts out ‘House’ and Frank Ridley holds up his card.
He strolls casually up to the desk where his numbers are called out loud so that the whole congregation can see that he really has won, then the sound of groans, grumbles and tickets being torn up accompany him back to his seat, where he hands over a tenner to his pal and pockets the rest. ‘It’s true what they say,’ the big woman is complaining to her friend, ‘money goes to money. He doesn’t deserve to win the first time he comes in.’ Frank turns and raises his glass to the two sour-faced losers; ‘beginner’s luck,’ he laughs, ‘maybe I’ll see you next week.’ The two ladies get up in a huff and go to the bar for their second and final half of stout for the evening, their only consolation being that they have Tuesday to look forward to and the opening of the new Bingo hall where the Palace Cinema used to be.