Palaver at the Pony

By Lainie Montaigne

This light-hearted novel is concerned with the preservation of witty and meaningful conversation. As OHenry wrote, One should inject a few raisins of conversation into the tasteless dough of existence. The three middle-aged main characters are of widely different backgrounds: Two Welshmen, TEDDY VAUGHAN-JONES, the sophisticate; WILL, the consummate roue; and ELIZABETH, an American of scholarly bent, meet regularly at a pub, THE WELSH PONY. They are dedicated to maintaining the Art of Conversation which seems to be fading in this fast-moving world of high-tech communication.

The happy times at the pub are in jeopardy when the Department of Immigration limits Elizabeths stay in Britain. Can either of the confirmed bachelors, Teddy or Will, make the supreme sacrifice to marry Elizabeth to keep her in Wales?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 21, 2004
• ISBN: 9781456725365

Lainie Montaigne

As an active scientist, Lainie Montaigne, Ph.D. and Professor of Biochemistry, published over fifty papers in leading scientific journals under her former name, J.L.Wiebers, Ph.D. After taking up literary efforts, she received a Leibovitz Award (monetary) in the Second National Legacies Writing Contest for short stories. She has also published stories and poetry in Daytona Lifestyle Magazine and in the anthology Inkslingers From The World’s Most Famous Beach. Dr. Montaigne was fortunate to be invited by the Imperial Cancer Research Fund, London, for a two-year research sabbatical at the University of Wales. This opportunity provided memories that now appear in her writing — particularly in her literary novel, PALAVER AT THE PONY, set in Wales, U.K.

Book preview

I CHANGES

Judge not the play before the play is done: Her plot hath many changes; every day Speaks a new scene; the last act crowns the play. Epigram. Respice Finem Francis Quarles 1592-1644

This quote from Quarles flashed into her mind as she settled herself into a First Class compartment of the railway carriage at Paddington Station. As an American, she had visited London several times and had learned that when taking the rail, it was wise to be early in arriving at the station and in getting one’s body and belongings safely ensconced into the train.

Changes, she thought; yes, I am most certainly starting a new scene. Her name was Elizabeth Winfield, Ph.D., professor, and medical researcher for over twenty years. For the first time in her academic career, she had accepted the offer of a one-year sabbatical leave from her university in the United States to go to the British Isles. She had recently met a physicist from Britain at a scientific conference who had presented a novel analytical method for determining the chemical structures of complex compounds. A lively discussion had ensued about how his technique could be applied to the structural study of macromolecules such as DNA and RNA (subjects of Elizabeth’s current research). They had agreed that it would be advantageous for them to collaborate. The invitation to join his laboratory for a year had arrived shortly thereafter. Consequently, she was now about to embark on the last leg of the journey to his university in Wales.

As she gazed out the window at the railway platform, she said to herself, What am I doing here? Why did I come? How will my graduate students in the U.S. manage without me? Have I made a dreadful mistake? Change — what a disturbing malady it is!

The conductor who had helped her to board the train and to find her compartment had thought her to be a rather unusual lady. Probably about fifty years old (he surmised) but still young in face and manner. He could always recognize academic types. Their clothes were often rumpled and mismatched, their demeanor lost and uncertain in strange circumstances, and, the look in their eyes was often otherworldly. Still, she had been very kind and had given him a generous tip along with a dazzling smile.

The compartment door opened. A quite elderly, ruddy-faced, white bearded gentleman propped his cane in a corner and then took the seat across from Elizabeth. Acknowledging his presence with a cool nod, she immediately raised The Times to cover her face and began to read to avoid conversation. Later, peeping over the top of the newspaper, she observed that he, also, was engrossed in reading. She well knew that the British (unlike the Americans) do not let down their reserve and immediately begin chatting to anyone present.

After a lengthy period of time as the train approached Reading Station, her fellow traveler folded his paper and surprisingly spoke up. May I enquire if you are an American?

How did you guess without hearing me speak?

Oh, I don’t know. I suppose that I have noticed through the years that American women have a certain flair about them.

Really? How kind of you to say that.

He brought forth a silver flask from one pocket and two metal tumblers from the other. Would you care for a drink?

They lifted their tumblers in salute to one another.

Well, I must say that you are very clever in sorting out my nationality, but I haven’t a clue as to yours. Are you English, Irish, Scottish, or Welsh?

Welsh to the core, he affirmed proudly. ‘I’m bound for Cardiff and will be very glad to get back to my bailiwick."

Amazing. I’m off to Swansea which, I think, is not too far from Cardiff.

Right you are, my dear lady. So what brings you to our magic land?

I am a professor in a university in the States. I’m on my first sabbatical to do research at the University of Wales at Swansea. All I know of Wales is from the book (and movie), How Green Was My Valley.

"My new American friend, you will find the Wales of today a far more up-and-coming place than the descriptions in that novel.

Nevertheless, Wales is still an enchanted domain. It’s part of the British Isles, of course, but is also a unique spellbinding realm. You will find dual English-Welsh language on signs everywhere, which illustrates the fighting spirit that is ongoing to keep the Welsh language alive. You will hear legends of the past that you will find fascinating. You will see King Arthur’s Stone. Was there a real King

Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table? You will become convinced that there was. You will come to believe in dragons. You will fall in love with the Puffin seabirds on Lundy Island. You will form friendships with persons you meet in Wales that will last throughout your lifetime. And, may I be so bold as to offer you a few words of wisdom?"

Please do.

He paused planning how to phrase his thoughts. I strongly recommend that you find a Welsh lover. He will enrich your life. In spite of how the bloody French brag that they excel in the Romance Department, believe me, Welsh men are the best lovers in the world. Do not fail to experience this.

He drew out the flask again and refilled their vessels.

Elizabeth, somewhat taken aback by this stranger’s forthright admonition, raised her drink and declared stoutly, I shall remember your words, sir!

And, she did. This is the story of how his advice changed her life.

II THE PACT

Sitting at high table at King’s College is a most extraordinary experience, Elizabeth commented, her eyes widening as the word extraordinary was emphasized. But then, Teddy, I suppose you were at high table at your college when you were at Oxford and you know how it is.

Indeed not, my dear. In all the happy years I spent at Christ Church College, I was never, ever, invited to sit among the Archangels — not even after I took my degree there.

It was Friday night at the Rugby Club, and Vaughan-Jones and Elizabeth were tucked away in a corner seat. Elizabeth smoothed her long cotton skirt, adjusted her headband bound around her dusky, blond hair, and fingered her multi-strand Indian beads. In defiance of her middle age, she often reverted to her dress of the Hippie Generation. Perhaps the other members of the Rugby Club smiled at her appearance, but her animated interest in Wales and everything about that magic land, endeared her to most of them. Her American openness and friendliness quite captivated them. Vaughan-Jones, who rarely visited the Rugby Club, was rather proud to be sitting alongside her this evening.

Just then, Will breezed in — his huge frame sporting a rugby jumper and club tie, his face wind-burned, his white shock of hair uncharacteristically combed down. In a trice, bearing a round of drinks, he joined the couple in the corner.

Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled, and Vaughan-Jones appeared pleased to see Will. He also managed to restrain a small sigh of frustration at the interruption of his tête-à-tête with Elizabeth.

Bless me, boomed Will, if it ain’t two of the finest rugby supporters this side of the Brecon Beacons.

Elizabeth, informed Vaughan-Jones, has just been up to Cambridge University this past week. She presented one of her scientific lectures and, if you can believe it, was invited to sit at high table. She was just about to describe this wondrous experience.

Well, never having been at university, I can’t imagine what it might be like, responded Will. But bully for you, Yankee friend.

She leaned forward eagerly. "I should never have been asked except for the fact that I was invited to give a lecture by my old friend and associate, Professor Dan Brownley. Surprisingly, he had just been named Acting Master of King’s College. One function of that office is to preside at high table.

"Imagine, if you can, the dining hall at King’s. I really cannot describe it, or convey to you the awe one feels sitting there where so many illustrious and notable persons through the many years also sat and talked. At one end of the hall, Will, there is an elevated platform on which rests one long table. It is termed high table and is reserved for Fellows of the College, who can look down upon the tables of the students.

"Prior to dinner, those who were to sit at high table congregated in a small ante-room for sherry. Such a gathering of eccentrics you cannot imagine. I probably appeared the most bizarre of all being the only individual in the room not wearing an academic gown. A lively chattering was in progress as Dan introduced me around. He left me sipping sherry with two ancient professorial types, who after acknowledging my presence, continued their conversation.

‘Odd thing, I met Hartley Stoner quite unexpectedly in the market the other day.’

‘Oh, I think not, my dear fellow. Hartley vacated this planet some seven or eight years ago. Pity.’

‘Surely not. He had an article the other day…or month…or year…in Nature.’

‘Impossible! I’m quite sure that I attended his memorial service.’

‘Can’t be deceased. He greeted me quite warmly and complimented me on my recent letter to The Times on elm blight.’

‘I repeat, old trout, he’s dead.’

‘Rubbish!’

‘He is!’

‘He isn’t!’

"To my relief, Dan rescued me from this loopy bit of interchange between intellectuals, and we all filed into the dining hall. Everyone was in place awaiting our entry.

‘Good Lord,’ Dan murmured, ‘I forgot. It’s the Master’s duty to say grace.’ We all stood behind our chairs as Dan mumbled a series of Latin phrases. At the close, while we were being seated, Dan spoke sotto voce, ‘What a shambles, Liz, I don’t know if I gave the benedictio or the obsecratio. Do you think anyone noticed?’ No one noticed. They were all looking expectantly at the doors for the waiters to appear bringing sustenance.

"I was seated between Dan and a gentleman introduced as the Head of the Philosophy Department.

‘Jolly nice,’ he remarked, ‘very pleasant to make your acquaintance. Sometimes I end up seated next to the most crashing bores.’

‘You must forgive me,’ I replied, ‘but, as a scientist, I’ve not had much exposure to philosophy in the classical sense. But, I should be very pleased if you would tell me about your work.’

‘Not necessary,’ he asserted, ‘since there is something far more serious to put our attention to tonight.’

‘And that is?’

‘The question of dessert. As you may know, there are usually sixteen regulars at high table. The cooks plan our meals around that number. Sometimes there are sixteen rice puddings with mandarin oranges; sometimes fifteen, and, very occasionally, seventeen. Usually, it is fifteen because the chefs expect that some of our usual number will be dining at home or elsewhere. Tonight all of our normal company are present. Furthermore, I’ve just been told at the pre-dinner sherry that there is an American bloke as a guest tonight. Hails originally from some obscure Big Ten university. The come-uppance is that there will not be enough rice puddings to go around tonight!’

Being the unwelcome American bloke in question, I could think of no suitable rejoinder. Thankfully, across from me, a no-nonsense young woman of severe countenance, leaned across the table towards me and, in an unnaturally high and loud voice enquired, ‘And so, Dr Winfield, what is your opinion of the demise of the Great American Western novel?’

Elizabeth paused in her narrative. Vaughan-Jones and Will were listening intently. She looked at them imploringly.

"What could I do? What could I say? All conversation ceased at the table and every eye was upon me. You must realize that my years of scientific investigation have narrowed my thinking to specifics such as the molecular structure of a peptide or an oligonucleotide. If she had asked me if I understood the Watson-Crick explanation of the structure of DNA, I could have conversed at length — but no, the fate of the American Western novel!

"The silence continued; the cutlery in hand, or the raised glass, was suspended in air as all turned expectant faces towards me. In desperation, I assumed a judicious tone of voice, ‘Well, it is my considered opinion that Zane Grey is here to stay (no rhyme intended), and, that Riders of the Purple Sage will stand the literary test of time.’

"Dan Brownley kicked my ankle under the table. ‘Well done,’ he whispered as a general buzz of conversation commenced concerning American literature. The Western novel, in particular, was discussed for the remainder of the meal.

"When the rice puddings