Next Friday was a revelation. I knew just three people when I arrived; the tall thin lady, our hostess, Annabelle and to my utter horror my boss, Mr. Briggs himself. "Ah, young Morris if I recall correctly," he boomed. "Meet t' missus, Mrs. Briggs," he laughed loudly at his own worn out joke. "Dorothy meet m' head of computing, Keith Morris. Keith this is Dorothy, t' wife. So thou's climbin' greasy pole without patronage from me. Good on'ee lad," and he actually thumped me playfully on the shoulder. I hoped he didn't pinch ladies bottoms because they'd sustain bruising.
How the hell did he remember my name was what I wondered, but "charmed Dorothy," was what I replied.
"The pleasure is all mine," she twinkled.
I felt like I ought to kiss her hand but the boss's misses? Probably best not.
"Keith here is t' work's bore but he's proper clever in an educated sort of fashion, if you've t' brains f'r that sort o' thing."
"Trevor Briggs! Keith is not a bore. He's better read and more cultured than you'll ever be, you clodhopping, gargantuan ignoramus," Annabelle had appeared at my side and had sprung to my defence.
"Yes Trevor, just you behave yourself or you'll compel me to flirt with this dear boy for the entire evening just to compensate for your lack of social graces," Dorothy slipping in her tuppenny worth. "Alice be a dear and do make sure I'm sat between Keith and my husband here so that I can keep this dreadful boor under control!" So our tall thin hostess was named Alice; the boor was my boss!
I was relieved, I had expected Mr. Briggs to be angry but he was far from it. He was feigning contrition, apologising loudly to left and to right. But he was still grinning, obviously well used to and well satisfied with the lively banter he could generate.
The 'select' gathering was actually rather larger than the one held by Maureen and her husband. No cocktails here, dry champagne - with or without crème de cassis - to get everyone in a celebratory mood. Lobster for starters, followed by perfectly cooked sea bass. The latter was seared but otherwise largely left to speak for itself, the only garnish, a small pile of browned shallots scattered down one side. Saddle of venison for the main course, dished up with what I later discovered were called potato rosti together with red cabbage cooked in wine, rotkraut: all somewhat Germanic. Profiteroles and cream for dessert, now common place but then the epitome of luxury, followed by soft French cheeses, again at the time, their multiplicity a pinnacle of sophistication.
After dinner, and after much heated discussion, we all played charades, no men only cigars and brandy that evening, thank the Lord. I discovered that for all his bluff and bluster my boss was really very smart indeed. As it turned out this was, for me, the first of many such parties as spare men really were hard to find. Moreover, when necessary, I was even young enough to be paired, though not necessarily trusted, with daughters. More often than not I was paired off with Annabelle who, it turned out, was a close friend of the Briggs. Mr. Briggs could not resist the occasional toy-boy joke but never repeated these at work; there he maintained his distance, fastidiously.
Autumn arrived, the leaves began to disappear and Christine Jones was invited into our circle. She was the niece of one of the regular couples: pretty, long blond hair, generous boobs, long slender legs, a gorgeous body, interesting mole on her left breast as well as being quick-witted, intelligent and feisty. Yes it would have been more politically correct to have at least reversed the order of her attributes but: one, I am a man. Two, I think her ordering of priorities was pretty similar to mine, except that my prominent mole is more intimate.
We hit it off immediately and in no time at all we were at it like rabbits, she soon discovered my mole. Their was one problem: sadly it was not long until she had to return to her native Australia, a departure which terminated our brief romance. We knew it had to come but when it did it still hurt. Christine was special, at least to me. I hoped that I had been special to her too. When it was over kindly Annabelle invited me to a series of meals, tête-à-tête, and I must have bored her silly explaining how wonderful Christine had been. She smiled sympathetically, asked lots of pertinent questions yet gently diverted me from the topic and eventually weaned me off of the subject.
I would have to buy Annabelle a Christmas present. I knew that was the thing to do, but what? She lived in a large expensively furnished house with original pictures on the walls, not valuable but all the same all original drawings and photographs she'd picked up here and there. Neither too many nor too few. Her clothes were exquisite, she actually made many of them and I could not afford to match either their style nor their quality. Jewellery, she had heaps, lots of gold, lots of diamonds and the odd swathe of pearls.
In desperation I sought the advice of Mrs. Briggs. I was mortified when she passed the question on to her husband. He guffawed loudly turning the heads of those around him including, to my horror, Annabelle's.
"What was that Trevor?" she asked of him.
"Keith just told us a mucky joke, it's definitely not fit for t' delicate ears of a lady so it's just as well that only t' wife overheard it." He guffawed once more.
She slapped him playfully, "don't be so rude you great big bully."
He mopped his brow with a huge floral handkerchief and tears streamed down his face. "Now I do wonder. What ever could young Keith her give middle aged Annabelle for Christmas?" He was almost choking with laughter, "I ask you? What a ruddy daft question! Well if you need buy summat you could get her a bottle of fine single malt whiskey, try Talisker, th' older t' better. It'll cost you an arm and a leg but you're well paid, I knows that, and you owe her one, mebbe more," and he bestowed upon me the lewdest wink that I had ever received. It fell upon innocently deaf eyes.
The dinner's fell into two sorts: those that ended when a cabal departed for an evening of wife swapping and drunken debauchery and those which ended with, more or less, serene social games. My boss and his wife, the Briggs, only ever attended the latter type but I was invited to both. At the latter, whenever wife swapping was on the menu, Annabelle was always my partner and, as I did not drive, we were precluded from any such activities.
As Christmas approached I discovered that the, hitherto gentle and modest social games could take on a distinctly more intimate aspect. It was the turn of my boss to host the evening. I had been co-opted to help plan the menu. He dictated that it was to be "a rite grand but essentially local do".
"Proper gradely essentially but local do," I had corrected him, cheekily.
To start we were to have potted shrimp on toast, shrimp potted in Morecambe Bay naturally: well it was that or tripe. Have you ever tried tripe and onions, even ladies tripe and onions? Mindful of my brief, Whitby sprats followed. Small fish dusted in paprika and oregano and then deep fried, delicious. Lancashire hot-pot just had to be the main course but made with best-end of neck and accompanied by pickled red-cabbage, pickled beetroot as well as buttered suede. For dessert, pear cobbler with egg custard, none of that cornflower based packet rubbish. Finally, a choice of Lancashire mild, Lancashire creamy, Lancashire tasty, Ribblesdale and Wenselydale cheeses all with distinctly southern, but tasty, Bath Oliver's, served with celery sticks, apple wedges and sweet seedless grapes.
After dinner, as Christmas was coming, they avoided charades, trivial pursuit and the usual panoply of activities. Instead they settled upon playing the jar game. Annabelle and I were the only none (married) couple so we were gently but firmly coerced into joining in together. The jar game is simple and discretely lewd. You all sit in a circle, men with their partner upon their right. Everyone thinks of three rude, but not wholly indecent, forfeits that you and your partner can undertake, writes them down and places their ideas in the jar. Alternatively you can direct a very mild forfeit to be undertaken with the person sitting next to you who isn't your partner. In addition two general forfeits were added to the pot and finally a general two-part forfeit, the two-parter. At first the pot is passed round and the men take their pick; subsequently the ladies take their turn.
I was very nervous when I had to choose for the very first time. My hand was trembling. It was a weird one, "sniff the gusset of your partners panties." I passed it wordlessly to Annabelle. She laughed out loud and parted her knees for me. I ducked my head under her skirt quickly, hoping that no had noticed how much I was blushing. I duly sniffed loudly and resumed my seat. In doing so I learnt that Annabelle was wearing black stockings held up by some sexy blue suspenders. I liked Annabelle, she was really good company and by now a true friend but, for the very first time, I began to contemplate her with a considerably more predatory eye.
