WELL . . . ANYHOW

Miss Marjorison and Miss Wressel could not break away. Invisible chains bound them.

Miss Wressel, balancing her shopping bag on the table edge, moving from one foot to another.

Miss Marjorison taking little surreptitious pecks from her plate of stew.

At the bottom of both their minds, each was a little worried, one about her meal which was cooling rapidly and the other about her bus which she dared not miss.

Nevertheless the ritual must be observed.

"Well, have a happy time, dear, and I do hope the weather improves. I shall keep my fingers crossed for you." Miss Marjorison had swallowed a mouthful of stew and was therefore free to put all the required amount of concern into her words.

"Thank you Emily, dear," Miss Wressel replied simply and sincerely. Then both started speaking together --

"It makes such a difference, the weather . . ." they said, practically in chorus.

"Well it does and no mistake," Miss Marjorison hastened to add -- (another forkful of stew, this time a decent portion of potato speared as well. Mmmm. Landed!) Between the unobtrusive mastications she went on earnestly -- "But more important it’s the little change that counts."

Miss Wressel nodded passionately. Indeed no pearl of wisdom could have drawn forth a more ecstatic response from her. "It’s true, Emily. You’ve hit the nail on the head. It’s the little change that counts."

Now why, I wonder, do these apparently sane and sensible women go on in such an idiotic way? Why? WHY?

Both, one can guess, have said all that needs to be said. They have pondered benignly on the eccentricities of Miss Marjorison’s boss. They have deplored the latest acts of vandalism in their districts and shaken their heads gravely over the subject of Miss Wressel’s aged aunt who is ninety-eight and "a little difficult". And both, if they are honest, are tired of each other for a bit.

Miss Marjorison’s plate of stew should be properly attended to. She cannot sit forever. Other customers will want her table, and besides she must be back at her desk soon.

Miss Wressel must catch her bus, because there are many things to see to. Such as the cat to take over to Mrs Sutcliffe’s. The bird to be disposed of (disposed of -- oh dear, what a way to put it. Poor Chippy. Taken next door to be cared for, if you please). A note for the milk-man. The papers to be stopped . . . not to mention PACKING. Nothing must be left for the morning with her leaving so early.

So why not go? Why prolong the agony? They can’t help it, that’s why. Have you ever noticed the behaviour of two dogs who chance to meet when out for a walk? No matter how urgently their owners call -- "Paddy, come here . . ." "Buster, come at once."

If the dogs could reply they would tell you that certain formalities must be observed before they can decently go on their way. So they proceed thus -- a stiff-legged wary advance towards each other. Finally backward digging movement of hind legs accompanied by throaty growls and that’s that. Duty done and off they go with their owners. Interrupt this canine ritual and who knows what frustrations you set up, what seeds of future psychological
problems you are sowing, and the same could apply to Miss Marjorison and Miss Wressel. Deprive them of their compulsory circumlocutory routine of farewells and they would have felt shorn.

"How odd?" "How strange." "Have I said anything wrong?" etc., etc., both would have been thinking uneasily.

"Well . . ." Miss Wressel began now.

(Ah, final releasing little word. That surely meant the green light? For have you noticed that when a person says -- "Well . . ." or perhaps "Anyhow . . ." or even both, this is a sign that a long, maundering natter is about to draw to a close -- "Well, this won’t do . . ." or "Anyhow -- I must be off".) So, be brave, dear Miss Wressel. Go ahead and bound through this opening, don’t dally, you stupid, harassed old girl. Look, Miss Marjorison has already put down her knife and fork and is smiling hopefully up into Miss Wressel’s face.

"Well, Emily dear," Miss Wressel continued, "I must go. So many things to see to. Now do take care of that ankle. Rest it . . . rest, rest . . . ."

(They have had all this out before. Ankle been discussed and commiserated upon. Subject finished, you’d think. No sympathy with you, Miss Wressel. Hope your bus has gone.)

"Oh, I will rest it, dear. The weekend is before me. I won’t be silly, I promise. Well, bye-bye dear, yes, and mind you do send me a card."

Miss Wressel is on the move. She’s clear of the table and, bag on arm, is half-turned towards the cafe exit. The two women playfully flap their hands at each other, they smile warmly. Miss Marjorison happily takes up her knife and fork, then, believe it or not, she calls out, as though driven, poor soul -- "Be sure and remember me to Miss Stott, won’t you. Be sure and give her my regards."

Now have you ever heard of anything so stupid! Apart from holding things up again, what would Miss Stott want with Miss Marjorison’s regards? What good would they do her? Neither Miss Stott nor Miss Marjorison were even properly acquainted. Once and only once had they met, and that was years ago. for five minutes in Barnsley Bus Station, introduced by Miss Wressel, and that was all.

Halt again, Miss Wressel, and turn about -- "Thank you, Emily," she breathed, her face wreathed in smiles at her friend’s kind thoughts. "Thank you, I will indeed. She’ll
be so pleased." Of course that wasn’t true. Miss Stott couldn’t possibly be pleased or otherwise at Emily’s kind regards. Why should she? If Miss Wressel had brought her the news that her friend Miss Marjorison had gone clean daft and was waving her knickers about in the middle of the High Street, she couldn’t have cared less.

However, all things must come to an end, and the farewells of Miss Marjorison and Miss Wressel are no exception.

Like two little fizzing meteors they sizzled apart, all their lights winking off one by one. Smiles, nods, moues all gradually fading out.

Miss Marjorison’s face, bent over her plate, became blank, preoccupied and absorbed.

Miss Wressel’s expression settled into its habitual anxious, heavy mould.

Too late, alas, too late to purchase a new tube of toothpaste and the fresh box of tissues now, but, never mind, both women felt within them a weary sort of contentment, very much as the two dogs would have felt after their ritualistic pattern was concluded, or the votary after her prayer sessions.

A relief.

Something had been rounded off, not quite sure what, but . . . well . . . anyhow . . . there it was.