Fond Of You
Despite Andy’s feelings, Jenny was sure he wasn’t the one for her . . .
O Fcourse Jenny was looking forward to it. But not as much as Andy Roebuck, who hadn’t shut up about Eurovision since Brighton had got the chance to host.
“It’s thanks to little Luxembourg,” he said.
Andy was waiting at the staff entrance to the Dome when the front of house team finished for the day.
He often did that, chatting away but really there to see her.
All the theatre staff knew that he was mad about her.
“You know Luxembourg won in 1972 and last year?” Andy said. “But they didn’t want to host again.
“They said it’s too expensive. Killjoy, I call it.”
Andy should be a journalist rather than a photographer, Jenny thought, with all his facts.
But that was up to Andy – she wasn’t his girlfriend, though he asked her out constantly.
She liked Andy a lot, but she had Colin.
It was Thursday, 48 hours to go until the contest, and everyone was interested.
The theatre was quiet to give time for the major rig, so Jenny had most of the afternoon off that day, and she could tell that Andy was angling to spend it with her.
“I mean,” he was saying, “France’s not even coming!
“I reckon that gives the UK an edge.”
“Not coming?” Bernadette from the box office asked.
“Their President died on Tuesday,” Andy said, pleased to be the fount of knowledge.
He glanced at Jenny, wanting to know if she was impressed.
But the Dome team was now dispersing, with Jenny heading for her bus stop. Andy trotted after her. “Of course, your stop’s been moved,” he said. “Brighton’s in uproar with the roadworks and the contest at the same time.”
Jenny didn’t know about the temporary bus stop, and Andy offered to show her where she could pick up the number seven.
She gave in.
Andy was always a laugh, and he was attractive in his nervy, talkative way.
He had flyaway hair that got in his eyes, and long legs that worked in flairs.
Most of the girls in her secondary school class had opined that, although Andy wasn’t classically handsome, they all fancied him for his raw energy.
But Jenny wanted more than energy.
Colin was square of jaw, and also an entrepreneur.
They’d been going out for four months, and already he’d given her a charm bracelet.
He had a good job at a garage, with good pay.
She and Andy made their way towards the sea front, gulls screeching overhead.
“So you’re working Saturday?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said, “and there’ll be overtime. Eurovision is a long show.” “That’s good.”
“Are you going?” she asked, and he shook his head.
“I tried to get a ticket,” he said. “I’m planning on taking a million photos, though.”
Jenny thought he probably would.
She had never met anyone as tenacious as Andy Roebuck.
“Italy won’t be broadcasting it – did you know?” he asked.
“No, Andy. Unlike you, I am not the Bank of Eurovision Facts.”
He was crestfallen. “Sorry,” Jenny said. “Why won’t they?”
“They’ve got a referendum coming up, and their song is called ‘Si’, which as you know is Italian for ‘yes’.”
“I do know.” Jenny laughed. “So ‘yes’ would sound like propaganda?”
“Exactly!” Andy was delighted. “I shouldn’t say this, but I’ve got some secret information.
“My editor knows someone in the Eurovision camp.”
Andy was working for a new local paper which was working hard to get its readership up.
“Go on, then,” she said. She could see the temporary bus stop next to the pier.
“Well, there’ll be some pretty crazy outfits on Saturday,” he said. “Olivia Newton-john’s just wearing a frock, but Katie Boyle will be all big pink feathers,or something.
“There’s no sign of a number seven bus yet,” he added, obviously relieved. “Anyway, the Swedish entry is going to be pretty crazy, too, costumes-wise.
“In Sweden, clothes are tax deductible, as long as the Swedish person can prove they’re not for daily wear, like for a wedding –”
“Or the Eurovision song contest!” she exclaimed. His face lit up.
“Yes! So the weirder the costume, the more certain they are to get tax back!
“I wish I had a ticket, but I’m going to get photos however I can.”
He stayed at the bus stop with her, talking Eurovision.
“I’m going to do as good a job as I can on Saturday,” he said, staring out at the waves. “I’m going to get known.
“I have to start somewhere.”
Then he suggested they see a film together after the contest, and Jenny refused.
He knew she had a boyfriend already.
Five minutes later she climbed on to her bus, thinking of Colin, who had already “started somewhere”.
He was buying and selling jewellery that he got from a contact in the USA, and making money on the side.
Jenny wondered if the deals had a touch of “back of the lorry”, but Colin did everything with a twinkle and a hint of bravado.
Colin was more grown-up than any of the boyfriends her friends had.
He had a certain sophistication.
Andy, on the other hand, had doggedness – giving her all his enthusiasm, never giving up on this aim of taking her out.
It felt sometimes as though she was a castle and Andy was besieging her.
Saturday arrived and Brighton was buzzing with Eurovision.
Colin said he’d buy her a milkshake afterwards.
He said he had business to do that evening but would meet her at the staff entrance when it was over.
“I think I’ll have a story to tell, so it’s worth your while,” he told her.
“A story?” Jenny could see him looking up at the grand Victorian façade of the theatre.
“I fancied watching the show,” he said. “It’s going to be a big one.”
“Have you got a ticket? You didn’t get some kind of bootleg one?”
“That’s for you to find out,” he said with one of his smooth, handsome smiles.
It had been that smile that had hooked Jenny.
“You can’t get in without a ticket.”
“I’m Col,” he said. “You know me.”
Despite the extra work, Jenny loved Eurovision.
It was exciting to have so many cameras in the theatre and such a range of people.
In the gap before the voting began, she grabbed a five-minute break, but her boss, Verna, found her in the staff area.
“Could you come with me, Jennifer?” she said tersely.
Jenny followed Verna to the foyer, where a security guard stood next to Colin, an arm firmly interlocked with his.
Colin was scowling, and every few seconds he tugged pointlessly against the security guard’s grip.
“Do you know this man?” Verna asked.
Jenny nodded.
“He told the staff on the back entrance that you had asked him to come inside to deliver toilet rolls,” Verna said. “He gave your name.”
Verna’s face was expressionless, but Jenny sensed her disappointment.
They had a good relationship and Jenny hoped for a promotion before the summer season.
It was horrible of Colin to leverage her job at the theatre for his own ends.
“I didn’t say that,” Jenny said, keeping her voice steady. “But I do know him. “We’ve been out together.” The word “boyfriend” had been playing in her mind, but she couldn’t say it.
Colin had succeeded in getting inside, and had been apprehended selling bead bracelets.
The matter was sorted out with Colin ejected with only a warning.
Jenny went back to work, and when the Swedish entry won, and the band, called ABBA, sang their song again, she told her colleagues that she felt it was the right winner.
It was a great tune and the idea of it was clever – a woman reaching her “Waterloo” moment, being defeated by a man.
The conductor of the orchestra had even dressed up as Napoleon!
Jenny left a message at Colin’s mum’s in Hove to say he didn’t need to come and meet her on the beach the next morning, which was their regular Sunday arrangement.
Colin liked to wear his rib sweater and show off his muscles, something which didn’t seem so attractive to Jenny any more.
In the morning, Jenny went to the beach and walked along from the Palace Pier.
In the distance, overlooked by the new tower blocks and the King’s Hotel, she saw that an area of beach had been cleared.
There were a few police and some people in tabards, holding people back.
There, on a bench, were the Swedish winners.
Their costumes had been replaced by wide-lapelled suits, the girls in long skirts, and all four of them were grinning from ear to ear.
Several photographers were snapping away, and at the back, taller than the rest, was Andy.
Jenny watched him stand on tiptoes, raise the camera, and then sink down, elated and satisfied.
He stepped back, stumbling on the pebbles, and almost fell backwards as Jenny ran up to him.
“I think that was the one!” he exclaimed.
Irrepressible enthusiasm shone out of his face.
“Congratulations,” she said.
“ABBA,” he said. “I’ve only just found out that it’s –”
“Their initials,” Jenny interrupted. “I was there, remember?
“So you got your picture?” “I predict they’ll be famous after this,” he said, “and not just in Sweden.
“Yeah, I know my editor will like my image.”
The security people were moving the photographers on, and the band were being ushered off the beach.
Andy set off back to the city centre, and this time it was Jenny following behind.
He was singing the winning song, humming some of the words when he didn’t know them.
“Can we get a 45-rpm of it yet?” Jenny asked, stumbling along behind.
“It’ll be in the shops soon,” Andy replied. “A features guy at the paper told me.
“But every other person in Brighton is singing it, so you kind of pick it up.”
He began singing the chorus at the top of his voice now, and Jenny was in fits of laughter.
He was no Cliff Richard but was giving it his all.
Andy was gawky and awkward, but inside him were the things that people loved about him, the things she loved about him.
He had goals, and he was interested in the world and in everything beyond himself.
Suddenly, Colin and his skinny sweater seemed like an empty version of Andy.
“Knowing my fate is to be with you,” she sang quietly, her voice almost drowned by the gravelly footsteps and the rolling surf.
Andy turned round and the camera bumped against him.
“Sorry?” he said. “Finally facing my Waterloo,” she said firmly, recalling all the times he had asked her out.
“I don’t get it,” Andy said. Jenny caught up with him and slid her arm into his.
“Can I come to the dark room?” she asked.
He looked amazed, and then thrilled.
“Definitely.”
VISITORS to Lincoln are often fascinated by its rich history. There’s the cathedral, a Gothic marvel that was the tallest building in the world when it was built, and the imposing castle, which dates to the Norman period and became a Royal stronghold.
But marvellous though they are, the organisers of the Lincoln Free Walking Tour found that what really captivated customers was the remarkable tale of a little dog called Snips.
With his owner Henry Tyler, he raised the equivalent of at least £100,000 for charity in the 1950s and 1960s.
Now, thanks to tour founders Brant Clayton and Matthew Thomas, Snips is set to have his very own statue and see his legacy live on for generations.
“When we started the tours,” Brant says, “we were aware of Snips, who was associated with the Cornhill area of the city, which has recently been refurbished.
“As we looked further into his story and started telling it on the tour, we soon realised just how much it resonated.
“It’s one of my favourites, and we get such a nice reaction to it.”
Snips was a little Sealyham terrier puppy, and market trader Henry was initially given him to sell.
But he quickly decided he couldn’t part with him and took him to work, with Snips sitting happily on the stall. So many people wanted to give him a stroke that Henry hit on the idea of charging a penny a pat, with the money going to local charities.
Pensioners used to enjoy slap-up dinners, and those impacted by the Great Flood of 1953 were given aid thanks to Snips.
“People would come from all over to see him,” Brant adds, “and he raised tens of thousands of pounds, which would have been over £100,000 in today’s money.
“He was such a celebrity, the mayor awarded him a solid silver collar for his charity work, which can be seen at Lincoln’s Guildhall.
“When Snips died in the early 1960s, Henry had the coffin on display in Cornhill, as if he was lying in state.
“Newspaper archive pictures show Henry standing solemnly by the coffin, surrounded by people with their heads bowed in mourning.”
A Blue Plaque was erected in Snips’s memory a few years ago, but the information is sparse, and it was moved to new location, near ground level and easily missed.
Brant and Matthew decided Snips must be better remembered so launched a petition to get a statue, similar to that of Edinburgh’s Greyfriars Bobby, erected.
Their campaign gathered widespread support, including from City of Lincoln Council, and developers who offered to fund the statue.
A local artist who specialises in animal sculptures was appointed to craft the bronze statue of Snips for the newly refurbished Cornhill market.
“Considering Snips became famous for raising money through people patting him,” Brant continues, “it will be nice that they can now pat this new statue of him.”
It’s hoped that the statue will be unveiled during the inaugural Lincoln Festival of History, which takes place this year between May 4 and 6.
“The story of Snips is a beloved one, and we’re so pleased his memory will live on,” a council spokesperson said of the event.