Chapter 25 — The Date with Irene

The next day was one filled with utmost trepidation. We had a phone at 255, but it could only receive incoming calls, as we hadn't paid the bill, and I would have to go to the phone box at the end of the street to phone Irene. My dad, Alf, was living with us, and with it being Saturday the horse racing was on, and he'd put on his usual bets and his angry voice shouted out from the front room window, 'Bastard! Fucking wanker! That jockey couldn't even ride my grandmother,' and other such coarse words. Within ten minutes, though, the mood and language altered significantly.

'Arrrggghhh!!! Ohhh!! I love you!! Karl, I've won!!'

He had indeed, and from his pennies, he managed to slam together an accumulator, and win just over £400.

'Here, go phone that posh bird you told me about, and there's £50 for you to take her out,' he shouted.

My dad had great big brown eyes, and I can remember them glistening with charm and character when he gave me that money.

I went round to the phone box, thinking it didn't matter if the date with the posh secretary didn't work out, as a Saturday night on the town was guaranteed. I phoned the number, and after no more than two rings, she answered. 'Is that you, Karl? I thought you wouldn't ring. Where are we meeting and at what time?'

There was definitely a heaven that day, and I fairly ran back home to 255. The house was packed, as everyone had heard of Dad's winnings, and he'd already been in the Grey Goose to celebrate his win.

'Right, we all go down to the bus club,' my dad said. The 'bus club' was in Swinegate, just off the edge of town. It sold discounted beer to bus drivers and the like, but Stuart's uncle, who worked there, used to get us all in.

At seven that night, the Doctor was the last one to arrive. There were seven or eight of us. 'You go along to the Victoria, Karl,' Dad ordered, ‘and if the posh woman doesn't turn up, we'll all come up there an hour after. That will give you time to get away from there before this freak show turns up.'

I didn't mind the 'freak show' as I knew they were mostly quiet and didn't entertain shame, but Dad and the Doctor, they did. I was allayed of fear, however, as I could meet with the secretary, still have a drink, and get the hell out of there too, if she turned up, that is.

I left Dad, his winnings, and the Doctor, and headed for the Victoria, certain the posh woman wasn't going to show up. After a ten-minute walk, I entered the pub, and, considering it was a Saturday night, it seemed light of people. I cast a deep look around the pub looking for the blonde in Irene's hair, and seeing nothing, I ordered a drink and thought the thought of every pessimist.

Whilst waiting for the barman to pour the drink, I noticed a woman at the far end of the bar: magnificent figure, striking legs, and auburn hair, like famous women in classic films used to style in classics. She was stunning, and I thought once more about the blonde-haired Irene I was to meet, but wasn't there.

The woman made her way towards me. 'You've ordered yourself a pint, Karl, and you haven't asked me what I drink. That's unforgivable, considering I've turned up to date you,' the posh woman with auburn hair purred as she moved along the bar.

There are not many occasions when I'm lost for words, but this was one of them. I began to stutter, but Irene took over, 'I had blonde hair last night, but decided to have a different colour for our date. Do you like it, Karl?'

'Stunning,’ I stuttered. ‘What more can I say?'

'Get me a whisky, and let's sit down over there, and you can say more.' She walked over to a table near the window, and the stockings and full show of her figure complemented her character with beauty and showed her figure to full advantage.

A whisky was ordered with such impatience that the barman shouted, 'Whoa. Hang on a minute.' And another pint was ordered, as the last one had vanished watching Irene walk to the table by the window.

I was twenty-nine, and Irene must have been no more than thirty-three or thirty-four, but a woman in her thirties is the most beautiful she could ever be, and is ever likely to be with the forties looking towards her from the distance. We sat down by the window and fell to talking, exchanging stories and tales of our past. Time moved on without me ever being conscious of it.

'Karl!' Dad shouted across the pub. No doubt he didn't see Irene as his next comment was delivered straight after. 'That posh woman didn't turn up then?'

The horror and the shame, not because of social differences, but I knew they were mostly all pissed, and when you're sober, there's nothing more excruciating.

'Who is that?' Irene questioned.

'It's my dad.'

'He's had a few, hasn't he?'

Before I'd had time to reply, all the pack of drunken chess players had gathered around the table and were gawping without the least degree of shame. Dad grabbed the seat next to Irene and I thought, 'That's it.' However, within a couple of minutes, Irene was laughing, and the more she laughed at Dad's comments, the more comments he conjured.

'He's lovely, your dad, Karl. He makes me laugh.'

The rest of the night in the Victoria was excellent, and gradually, one by one, people began to leave. The Doctor and my dad said their goodbyes and off they went to Daggi’s, a veritable dive of Leeds’ worst.

'What do you intend on doing, Karl? You can walk me home if you like. I only live in Woodhouse.'

I was already marching the 'posh woman' towards that suburban district of Leeds.

Irene lived in a quaint flat, very old, and still possessing the original cornices in the living room. And here was I, sat on the big black sofa in the middle of the living room with a beautiful woman standing near the window, sifting through some records. I really couldn't believe my luck.

'Do you like Marlene Dietrich, Karl?'

'I've heard of her, but I haven't listened to any of her music.’

'Then I think you'll like this one.’

She put on Küsse süßer als Wein or Kisses Sweeter Than Wine, and as she did she began to dance. As I said earlier, there are moments which stay with you throughout the whole duration of your life, and that moment with Irene was one of them, especially after what happened next.

The record reached its ending and the big crescendo; I lying on the sofa and she dancing before it, when the music hit its last beat, and Irene flung off her full head of auburn hair.

'What the f...?' As you can imagine, during those couple of seconds every conceivable and inconceivable scenario passed before my mind's eye. It's as though every emotion in your body shuts down, and only the mechanics of mind are charged with what to make of the scene. It didn't last long, though.

'I thought you knew I had alopecia? Why do you think I wore two different wigs? Have you never been out with a woman with alopecia before?'

The utterance of the word 'woman' instantly dismissed some of the other gender/transsexual horrors which had been galloping in mind along with being brutally shagged and then murdered.

'I didn't, Irene.'

'Does that mean you're bothered or not?'

'I'm certainly not bothered, Irene, but simply didn't know you had a wig on, that was all. Look,' as she pointed to an old fashioned hat stand, 'there's the blonde wig from yesterday.' And there, indeed, was the blonde wig of yesterday, hanging there with some sort of furry thing.

'If you're not bothered then, I'll put on another song, and you can tell me which wig you like me best in.' Back to heaven.

I met irregularly with Irene for a year or so, but we never quite managed to move it on to a relationship. The last time I saw her was in the Eagle on North Street, listening to a heavy rock band, which I couldn't stand, and left the company. She was a sweet woman, and I wonder what the lady with blonde or auburn hair is doing today.