Now I Give My Imitation of a Whale

 They argued in the taxi on the way over to the Mitfords. Alison knew Fred was already planning to do it, but when she asked him, please not to put her through it again, he snapped and said he intended to perform a card trick he’d picked up from a television show. When pressed Fred would not divulge any details about this card trick. “A magician does not reveal his secrets,” he said. Alison had been married to him for long enough to recognise this as a bluff. “There is no card trick, is there Fred?” she asked. At this point the argument escalated. There were raised voices. There were cruel things said. There were tears, if only on Alison’s part. And in the end, as always, she was forced to acquiesce. “Ok Darling, I believe you, you’re going to do your new card trick.”

Alison would also perform this evening, though she would’ve been happy to sit this one out, watching on from the side lines, as everyone else made a fool of themselves. But the invite from the Mitfords had specifically said, “come with a talent ready to perform.” What a bloody nuisance these talent shows were. In the past a dinner party had simply meant dinner, a couple of cocktails before and after, some good conversation if the mood was right. Recently their friends had gone crazy for talent shows. You were expected to sing for your supper, or dance around the rug or, in Alison’s case, perform a short musical recital. Thankfully Alison played the flute, which was discrete and not too showy and could be carried around quite easily, contained inside its small red case with little or no negative impact upon her carefully accessorised evening dress.

Alison had a repertoire of three short pieces which she liked to rotate. This evening she intended to perform a composition of her own invention which was intended to evoke the essence of a summer evening, punting along an Oxford canal. Jimmy would do a couple of music hall numbers. Evelyn as always would recite Yeats. Cyril would tap dance. Miles would juggle. And Fred? Well, hopefully Fred would do his new card trick. If not, they’d all have to suffer through the damn whale again.

The whale was Fred’s idea of a comic turn though Alison suspected his fondness for it was deeply rooted in his own anxiety. Fred was no longer the slender creature she’d fallen in love with in her final year. Fred was now a little bit lardy and balding and hefty around the thighs. Alison understood the reasoning behind the whale. She knew exactly how her husband’s mind worked. Fred was thinking, if I mock myself before the others get in there, there won’t be anything left for them to deride. So, when they all retired to the drawing room for port or brandy, and the talent show, Fred would wait his turn, then slowly remove his shirt and trousers. And finally wearing nothing but his underwear, lie down heavily upon the hearth rug, flabby belly pressed tight against the floor as he flopped around grotesquely, bellowing as he imagined a beached whale might bellow. The noise he emitted was actually more like a labouring cow. Alison always intended to point this out in the taxi on the way home from dinner and invariably, always forgot. Mortification descended the second Fred removed his shirt, leaving her blank and woozy on the details of what she’d just been subjected to.

As the taxi pulled up outside the Mitfords, Alison blew her nose and dried her eyes. She resolved to believe her husband. Tonight, Fred would do a card trick in lieu of his usual whale imitation. Their hosts would not have stand by the mantelpiece trying to keep their hysteria in check. The women would not look at her with abstract pity. No one would gossip about poor Fred on their way home from the soiree. All would be calm, and all would be well. “You’ve got your playing cards with you?” she said; half statement, half question, half-hearted attempt to grab a life ring. “Umm, no,” said Fred, patting his pockets as if to prove the absence of playing cards. He recovered quickly, “but I’m sure the Mitfords will let me borrow a pack.” Alison knew then, the night was doomed. She’d have to endure the whale once again. Dear God, she thought, as she clambered daintily out of the taxi, do let him be wearing clean underwear.

Inspired by a line from Agatha Christie’s 1964 novel, A Caribbean Mystery