A Knight in September added to gallery
Crushed is the third novel by Denise Greenwood following the engaging and very satisfying Temptation and Star Keeper novels. Her exceptionally descriptive writing style leaves an enduring impression upon the mind.
I just had to copy this face from the clip I posted on my Facebook page this morning. Its captivating character cries out for me to paint it and paint it I will.
He was a familiar face in the village during my childhood. I’ve forgotten his name but not the aromatic scent of his pipe tobacco whenever I was in close proximity to him. I never saw him without his cap either. Now I’m never seen without mine. His habit must have rubbed off on my sub-consciousness.
Waves in the Desert laps and moistens the fertile shore of Mia’s idealistic aim of ridding the world of famine beginning with the African Continent. The vehicle for this noble aim is Sustainable Futures (SuFu) founded principally by Mia.
K. A. Beadle cleverly employs juxtaposition contrasting the fortunes and misfortune of Mia in her altruistic quest. A duality of preparation and survival; of idealism and reality; present and past. The book opens up in the present before going back to where it all started. It then takes on a now and then pattern that concludes very neatly at the end of the Epilogue.
The author writes with authority of her subject taking the reader through each stage of the organisation’s set-up both educationally and entertainingly.
Threading their way through the stage by stage construction of SuFu are the typical relationship conflicts and rites of passage young people experience, which makes this is a young people’s book. It is written very much in tune with contemporary trends in music, performers, language and attitudes and so on.
Characters are introduced seamlessly as the novel progresses. Veronica is Mia’s principal fellow traveler and confidante accompanied by the ever present and reliable camera-man Kevin and a host of other characters too numerous to mention each adding texture to the novel’s progression.
Juxtaposed alongside this progression is the account of Mia’s survival a few years hence. The author keeps the tension taut, which had me at times tempted to rush reading the few years earlier sections in order to return to her struggle for survival.
All in all Waves in the Desert was a fascinating, not rushed, authentic insight to the world of humanitarian work in African – Somalia and Ethiopia – from SuFu’s inception, the funding of such a large scale project (culminating in a Band Aid type Benefit Concert) and the mental, cultural and physical training Mia, Veronica and the volunteers had to commit themselves to.
Such was the authenticity with which the book was written I felt at times I was reading a memoir. Waves in the Desert is not just a good read but a testimony to the human spirit. An account of altruistic humanness gives birth to humanitarianism. It is also, I hasten to add, an account of where idealism comes face to face with reality. If there was such a category as ‘faction’ Waves in the Desert would be a natural candidate.
Sean and his daughter Marie had been overwhelmed by their long, leisurely drive through the scenic and mountainous regions of Torridon and Assynt. ‘I didn’t realise Durness was near the tip of the north-west,’ Sean said. ‘Yes, the opposite end of John O’Groats,’ Marie replied, her finger tracing the route in the atlas. ‘Well, being so near we just had to keep going, eh?’ Sean yawned, his eyes heavy with all the driving. They were returning to their Ullapool hotel after planning only to drive a circular route via Lochinver and Drumbeg. ‘What road do we take next,’ Sean asked. Marie checked the atlas. ‘The same road as we came keeping in mind we don’t go back through Drumbeg but keep going on this road till we come to the A 835 on the right, which takes us to Ullapool. According to where we are now we’re nearly at Scourie.’ ‘Good,’ Sean replied. They continued to chat about the breathtaking landscape on both sides of the road. ‘Breathtaking isn’t it? Ah, this looks like the road sign ahead,’ Sean announced. ‘Ullapool 18 miles. Not long now,’ he added as he slowed to turn. Tired as Marie looked Sean also noticed a look of curiosity. ‘What’s up?’ he asked. ‘According to the atlas we should’ve driven through Scourie then Unapool well before we come anywhere near the A 835. That road sign did not have a road number,’ she replied. ‘So what road’s this then?’ Sean asked. Marie studied the atlas closely. ‘Sorry dad but I can’t see any road to Ullapool before Scourie or Unapool on this page.’ Sean pulled to the side. ‘Let my try. We’re both tired. Maybe a fresh pair of tired eyes will spot it,’ he joked. After a few moments scanning the atlas he handed the atlas back. ‘Hmm, my eyes cannot spot it either.’ He looked ahead and at the surroundings. ‘The atlas might be out of date,’ he suggested. Marie checked ‘2004, not that out of date. The road looks more out of date compared to the other roads. There’s at least another sixty miles to Ullapool from here. I can’t see this narrow road lopping off nearly thirty miles before we’ve even passed through Scourie,’ she reasoned. . ‘Well, the sign’s clearly marked and we’re on the road so we’ll keep going,’ Sean decided. They set off and settled once again to chatting about the landscape. ‘That’s funny, the mountains we were in awe off before we turned have suddenly vanished,’ Sean observed. ‘I’ve noticed that as well,’ Marie replied. ‘We should actually be driving through them according to the map.’ They spotted another road sign ahead. ‘Hmm, Ullapool 18 miles.’ They were puzzled. ‘Maybe our tired eyes misread the first sign after all,’ Marie suggested. ‘Have they misread the sudden change in surroundings as well?’ Sean asked as they continued along the narrow road through what was fast becoming a barren, flat landscape with no horizon ahead. After a while another sign came into view. ‘Ullapool 18 miles,’ Sean stopped the car, stepped out and walked over to the grass verge and gazed around at the landscape. Marie joined him. It was flat and tree-less. There was no sign of any mountains or hills nearby or in the distance. Marie noticed something else. ‘Listen, the silence. And look, there’s no sign of wildlife; no birds in the sky nor sheep in the fields. Nothing.’ They both noticed too that the ground beneath their feet was soggy. ‘At least the grass is watered,’ Sean mused. They also realised that no vehicle had passed them nor had come towards them as they drove. Sean looked back along the road they’d traveled and was troubled to see the road trail off into a distance without texture or horizon behind them. They knew that between Scourie and Durness there was a vast valley that was not exactly without life and contours. Sean suppressed his anxiety for the sake of Marie. ‘Come on, back in, I’m going to put my foot down and get us back to Ullapool and to bed as fast as these heavy eyes will let me and before darkness falls.’ They set off at speed along the road that narrowed to one lane both trying to stay calm Sean noticing as he drove that there were no bends or dips in the road either. ‘Hmm, no passing places either. Ah, another road sign ahead. Maybe it will be the ri…ssssh…18 miles again.’ In quiet frustration he put the foot down. Marie closed her eyes, the atlas resting on her lap.
A mist slowly descended as they sped past successive signs until their car was totally enveloped. Darkness fell, completing the cover. Silence was the only sound that remained.
Early morning. The sun is up. A police car is parked by the side of the road. A policeman stands by the open door. He is on his radio speaking while looking at an object down in the dip.
‘PC Robertson to HQ, over.’
‘Go ahead PC Robertson, over.’
‘I’ve come across a black Fiat 500L with a white roof, registration number WUV14 NUK partly submerged in the bog just off the A894 at Lexford Bridge, over.’
‘Any casualties? Over.’
‘Yes, male aged between 55 – 60 and a female aged between 35 – 40. Both deceased, over.’
‘Any idea how long? Over.’
‘At a guess I’d say since sometime last night, over.’
‘Okay, do the necessary traffic control, Assistance is on the way, over.’
‘There’s just one thing, over.’
‘What’s that, PC Robertson? Over.’
‘It’s how the car has come off the road. I expected to see skid marks but judging by the position of the tyre treads on the grass verge it looks as if the driver deliberately turned off the road into the bog, over.’
‘Suspected suicide? Over.’
‘The tyre treads are in a curved position as they would be when turning on to another road, over.’
‘Yes, and there’s something else, over.’
‘What’s that? Over.’
‘It’s what’s on the female’s person that also makes it hard to conclude that it was suicide, over.’
‘Which is? Over.’
‘She has an open atlas on her knee.’
To paraphrase a George Harrison lyric that has been on my mind lately:
It’s all up to what you value, down to where you are
It’s all up to what you value, down to who you are
It all hangs on the pain you’ve traveled through
Which only goes so far
Before at last you realise
The value of who and where you are.
I recently read Denise Greenwood’s engaging novel Temptation. Besides its vividness the story’s dramatic opening was, figuratively speaking, akin to the opening strains of Mussorgsky’s Night on a Bare Mountain. The journey beyond this opening strain is well worth the read for the author’s evocatively descriptive writing alone. It was this that prompted me to find out more about her.
1. What kind of books did you read as a child and adolescent?
I read all usual school offerings but at aged 9 I was asked to choose a book from a table in class then write about it. I bypassed Enid Blyton (who I’d already read) and chose one that looked different. It was The Hobbit and although probably too old for me at that time, I consumed every word. After that I discovered Henry Treece and fell in love with Vikings for a while but I was given a set of 42 Bancroft Classics and in many ways they taught me more than any English class.
2. Did any of these books or authors help shape your approach to writing?
The more I read then the more I dreamed about being a writer one day but it was only a wishful thought and soon forgotten. I have since realised that what I read as a child also shaped my love of the extraordinary and given me a grasp of how to seek it out.
3. When did you realise you wanted to be a writer?
I remember it vividly. It was 2006 and I was sat on a church pew. An idea came to me and then it haunted me for a while. It was almost an epiphany and I was driven to write.
4. Would it be right to say that your uniquely descriptive style of writing came natural to you?
Yes but I hadn’t used it for most of my adult life. My career in business required a skill for cutting through words to find what needed to be said precisely. When I began writing fiction it felt like a floodgate had been opened.
5. Do you consciously project aspects of you and your life onto characters and situations?
Yes but I think it is more complicated than that. I project what has been, what is and what could be but once I’ve created a character I step away and allow the character to evolve.
6. Do you feel that writing is a compulsion that has to be assuaged even if you find yourself in a church pew or doctor’s waiting room?
Writing is a compulsion and I take a notebook with me wherever I go. I write every day but it is also important to put down a pen and listen to what people are saying and how they are saying it then read “between the lines.”
7. Why do you write?
At first it was a personal experiment to see if I could but once I began, it released a Kraken. I realised that the “extraordinary” (I previously said I loved) is to be found in every aspect of one’s life. I am constantly amazed by people who live ordinary lives and yet have strange perspectives. During recent years I have seen people create drama in their lives as a form of compensation for being so ordinary and as a writer it is manna from heaven.
8. What next?
My new novel CRUSHED is a crime mystery and will be published later this year. I’m also writing a story each month for The Local Link magazine as well as writing another novel. I now find that I enjoy exploring the darker side of humanity and my personal challenge is to delve deeper.
By David McAdam
Plot: Set in 1970s. Seemingly mundane conversations between a man and a woman on a ‘date’ interspaced by observations by two men at the bar.
Set: Bar, table and two chairs. Two men stand at the bar. Barman behind the bar devoid of emotion and interest in anything except the paper he reads.
Characters: Ray, Irene, First man/Second man, Alf (barman) Nathan, woman
Light upon the two men at the bar. They discretely look over at the couple engaged in conversation. The barman is nearby drying a glass. It is obvious that he is eavesdropping. An oldie is playing on the jukebox.
First man: I see she’s found another man.
Second man: So I’ve noticed.
First man: Usual odds?
Second man: Don’t see why not.
Light shifts to couple. They sit opposite each other.
Ray: So this is your local?
Ray: It’s a bit far away from where you live to call it local, is it not?
Irene (shrugs): What’s distance got to do with it?
Ray: If it was just up the road or down the street then fine, but this pub must about, mm, five, six miles away.
Irene: Same distance as the hospital
Irene: I had a local anaesthetic there to remove my cyst.
Ray: A local anaes…ah, I see, very clever.
Irene: I rest my case
Ray (in response to the music): Who’s that singing?
Irene: Only Britain’s answer to Bobby Darrin.
Ray: Who is?
Irene: You’re joking of course.
Ray: Do I have the face of a man who’s joking?
Irene: I prefer Britain’s answer
Ray: So who is this mysterious answer that you like?
Irene: I didn’t say like, I said prefer, which doesn’t mean I like him or Bobby Darrin.
Ray: Ah, you were making a comparison.
Irene: Wrong again…an equation.
Ray: Hmm, they both sound of their time. Simon and Garfunkel or Bowie, are what most folk listen to now
Irene: Muzak for the herd mentality.
Ray: Yeah, right. Are you going to tell me who this mysterious answer is?
Irene: The same man who had a hit with Maria.
Ray: Ah, he’s Britain’s answer? P J Proby. Yeah, I like that song.
Irene: That Means a Lot was a better song.
Ray: A song the Beatles gave away
Irene (dismissively): The Beatles were passe.
Ray: My goodness…the Beatles, passe?
Irene: They never moved about on stage.
Ray: They didn’t need to; their music did all the moving that was necessary.
Irene: I prefer solo singers anyway.
Ray (smiles): Ones that move about on stage, eh?
Irene: The ones that move the soul; the emotions; memories; the tears.
She sips her drink.
Light dims over table, brightens over the two men.
First man: That was a bad accident earlier this evening.
Second man: A double decker bus and a car, wasn’t it?
First man: Yeah, the car driver and the front passenger were badly injured.
Second man: That’s a dangerous spot; been a spate of accidents there recently.
First man: It’s about time the council did something about it.
Second man: Not easy on a bend with houses on either side. Maybe put lights up at the road coming out of the estate.
First man: Yeah. I wonder how our friend is doing over there.
Second man: Well, his lips are still moving and he’s still sitting. Are you ready for another drink?
First man (drains his glass): The usual.
Second man moves down the bar to face the barman who is standing reading the Sporting Chronicle.
Second man: That was a terrible accident earlier on, Alf, wasn’t it? Two people seriously injured. We were just saying how bad a spot it was for accidents and that the council should do something about it.
Alf (Indifferent, folds paper) Usual?
Second man (wearily): Yeah, Alf, usual.
Light fades over the bar.
Light on the table. Ray is leaning on the table, glass wrapped in his hands.
Ray: Well I prefer live recordings
Irene: The live sound of people in the audience coughing. No thanks. I like the more polished studio recordings.
Ray: We just have to agree to disagree on that one
Irene (holds rim of the glass to her lips): You can, I don’t have to
She takes a sip.
Irene: You said the Beatles loss was PJ’s gain
Ray: I said it was a song they gave away.
Irene: It was McCartney actually, and he never gave it away. He penned it specifically for the man.
Ray: Using the Beatles as a vehicle
Irene: What, in the same way that a farm-labourer ploughs a field using the farmer’s tractor…that make it the labourer’s field. Or that it’s the bricklayer’s palace because he built it with bricks bought by the king?
Irene: Or because it’s called St Paul’s Cathedral because he must’ve built it. I’m glad you didn’t turn out to be a school teacher.
Ray: Huh! Another drink?
Irene: Will that be your drink because you paid for it?
Ray is too stunned to answer.
Irene: I’ll have a vodka and Pepsi please.
Ray: You mean coke?
Irene: I mean Pepsi
Ray: Vodka with Pepsi
Irene: From a bottle not a can
Ray rises and goes to the bar to order the drinks.
Light over the bar. Alf is reading the paper.
Ray: A pint of bitter and a vodka and Pepsi but leave the Pepsi in the bottle please.
Without saying a word Alf slams the ice bucket upon the bar, tosses the paper aside then proceeds to prepare the drinks. Light over the two men
First man: That’s him up for the drinks now.
Second man: As per.
First man: Ah, there’s the Pepsi.
Second man: In a bottle too as per.
Ray glances at the two men.
Ray: Bad accident earlier on I hear, eh?
First man: Very bad; we were just saying.
Ray (to Alf): I expect you’ve seen quite a few accidents from where you’re standing.
Alf: Anything else?
Ray (opening his wallet): How much do I owe you?
Ray hands Alf a five pound note. He snatches it, places it in the till, removes change, turns and slams it on the bar then picks up his paper. Light shifts to table.
He unscrews the Pepsi and is about to pour.
Irene: Hold it – ice first.
Ray scoops a handful of ice
Irene: Too many.
Ray: Oh, sorry.
Irene: I never have more than two cubes
Supressing his frustration, Ray picks up the Pepsi and begins to pour:
Ray: Say when
Irene: Ca suffit
Ray: Oops, wasn’t expecting it in French
Irene: Je n’ai jamais indiquer en Anglais
Ray (mild hint of sarcasm): Really?
He sits down. There is an awkward pause.
Ray: Do you watch the soaps?
Ray: I didn’t think you would.
Irene: Not open – ended soaps, I don’t.
Ray: What about movies
Irene: You mean films.
Ray: The old ones are the best
Irene: You mean good ones are the best
Ray: A good thriller, drama or Western
Irene: I like romance
Ray: Wuthering Heights – can’t get any more romantic than that
Irene: The Yorkshire dialect took the romance out of the reading pleasure for me
Ray: I meant the movie, I mean film
Irene: Which version?
Ray: There’s only one version – the Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon version
Irene: I prefer the James Cossins and Anna Marshall version
Ray: You mean Timothy Dalton and Anna Marshall.
Irene: No, Cossins. To me Linton was the hero of that story
Ray: Dalton was no match for Olivier’s portrayal of Heathcliffe
Irene: Olivier plays Richard III in every part he plays
Irene: Even his laughter comes across as soliloquy
Ray: Hmm, what about Gone with the Wind? That film has not been remade
Irene: I’m not surprised…it was too long to squeeze another one in
Ray: Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh
Irene: Thomas Mitchell and Barbara O’Neil
Ray: ‘Quite frankly my dear I don’t give a damn.”
Irene: Suit yourself
Ray: No, that’s the famous line
Irene: It’s hardly in the ‘to be or not to be that is the question’ league, is it?
Ray: It’s Margaret Mitchell not William Shakespeare
Irene: Hmm, can’t you tell.
Ray: What about musicals? The Sound of Music?
Irene (looks up): That’s the jukebox
Ray shakes his head. Light over the bar
First man: There’s the shaking of the head. Won’t be long now.
Second man: On time too.
First man: Such a professional
Second man: Class.
Lights dim over the bar, brightens over the table.
Ray: So if The Planet of the Apes was a Linda Harrison B film what was the A film?
Irene: That Darn Cat
Ray: You – a French speaker – preferred a Disney farce to a Pierre Boulle classic?…
Ray playfully slams the table: ‘Damn you all to hell’
Irene: Je vous demande pardon?
She smiles and takes a sip of her drink
Ray: Out of curiosity, who’s your favourite film actor?
Irene: Woody Strode
Ray: Woody Strode?
Irene: A toss-up between him and William Bendix
Ray: Huh, I can’t imagine the posters on your bedroom wall as a teenager
Irene: I never had posters on my bedroom wall…didn’t want them although there was one time I nearly pinned up a poster of Lance Percival
Alf approaches the table.
Alf (brusquely): Finished?
He clears the table without waiting for a response
Ray: You know what I fancy right now?
Irene: Enlighten me.
Ray: A packet of crisps. Fancy a packet?
Irene: I never eat crisps; bad for the blood pressure. I eat olives though
Ray: Does he sell olives?
Ray heads for bar. Light dims over the table.
Light over bar.
Ray: Olives please, barman
Alf: None left
Ray sees bowl of green olives on the shelf behind
Ray: What are those behind you?
Ray: That’s what I asked for
Alf: Un-pitted olives
Alf: The lady only eats pi…er, anything else?
The two men by the bar hear this near slip and rear up.
The two men relax again.
Ray: Cheese and onion
Ray: Salt and vinegar?
Ray: Smokey bacon?
Ray: I’ll just have plain then
Alf: No plain
Ray: What flavours do you have?
Alf: None that you’ve asked for
Ray: What about cigarettes?
Ray: Benson and Hedges?
The light shifts to the two men. Ray eavesdrops on their conversation. Alf reads the paper
First man: If something is different that difference has to be identified as either better or worse, surely?
Second man: That depends on what we mean by better or worse
First man: Depends on this, depends on that. We must be the only two men who have talked about a subject without actually talking about it.
Second man (indifferently): Depends what we’re talking about
The lights dim. Ray shakes his head and turns to face Alf once more
Alf (without lifting his eyes from the paper): Was there something else?
Ray: How about No 6?
Agitated, Ray looks at Alf then at the two men then at Irene. She looks lost in thought as she cradles the glass. He sensed he wasn’t in that thought. He looks at Alf again. Alf peers over the top of the paper.
Alf: You still here?
Ray ignores him, repeats the cycle of looking, hesitates for a moment then leaves
Ray (mutters as he leaves): Woody Strode…
Unfazed, Alf picks up the paper and continues to read. The first man looks over his shoulder at Alf then he and his companion look at Irene
First man: Hmm, almost to the hour
Second man: No longer than the others.
First man: Poor guy; left in the same frustrated way as well
Second man: She’s playing a cruel game
First man: No wonder Alf’s the way he is
Second man: Can’t be easy for him
They look in Alf’s direction.
Alf comes round from behind the bar and approaches Irene’s table.
Alf: Enjoyed yourself this evening have you?
Irene: No more nor less than the other evenings
Alf: It won’t work, you know that don’t you?
Irene: It must annoy you that you don’t have adultery as an excuse.
Alf: Unreasonable behaviour would suffice
Irene: Unfortunately for you chatting to another one of my many friends in a pub is not unreasonable behaviour
Alf: You know it’s much more than that. You’ll pick the wrong man one day
Irene: Huh, I already did thirty years ago.
She leaves the table, goes behind the bar and pours herself a drink, picks up a packet of Getanes, removes a cigarettes, lights up then opens the staff door leading to the upstairs flat.
Irene: Good night, dear. Oh, and do deposit this ghastly racing paper where it belongs.
The two men also leave. Alf stands by the table. Light dims completely
Irene at the table with another man. His name is Nathan. They are well into their conversation. The two men are back at the bar. Alf trying to look discrete leaning his hand upon the bar while glancing at the table. Music on the jukebox.
First man: First time she’s ever ordered vodka and coke
Second man (looks at Alf): Alf doesn’t look too pleased…not that the situation demands that he should.
First man: She’s upping the stakes.
Second man: Are we keeping the stakes as they are.
First man: Hmm, for now.
Light over the table
Irene: So what you’re saying that being Irish, if you’d been around at the time of the civil war you’d have been a De Valera man?
Nathan: He being the astute politician of the two, yes.
Irene: Well, even though I’m not Irish I would’ve been a Collins woman…he being the honest man of the two.
Nathan: Politics is a dirty business; Colins wasn’t really equipped for that like De Valera was.
Irene: You mean for telling lies.
Nathan: Collins returned to the Dal with a huge compromise agreement and tried to pass it off to the people as the best deal he could get.
Irene: He never tried; he succeeded…the people voted to accept it
Nathan: Doesn’t mean to say they were right to do so.
Irene: Huh! Doesn’t mean to say they were right to do so…and who came away with that little gem then, eh? Your dirty politician…’the majority can’t be right all the time.’ Hmm, the arrogance of the man…bad loser…deadly too.
Nathan: A loser that became the country’s first president all the same.
Irene: State not country.
Nathan: Same thing
Irene: And the first thing he did was outlaw the very army that helped put him there.
Nathan: But by then it was hardly the army that Collins organised, was it?
A woman enters the bar and approaches Alf. Irene is distracted by her arrival.
Irene: Er, oh yeah, the, er, IRA…who’s that woman?
Nathan (following her gaze): Sorry?
Alf and the woman are involved in a brief exchange. Alf points towards the table. The woman looks over her shoulder, turns back to Alf, nods then heads to the table.
Woman (as she approaches them): So this is where you’re hiding.
Nathan (feigned surprise): Sandie, what a pleasant surprise
Irene: Introduce me to your pleasant surprise, Nathan.
Woman: Nathan? Hmm, at least he’s maintaining class names. It was Jason the last woman he was out with. And I suppose you’re going to tell me, ‘NATHAN’ that you’re sitting with this woman because…don’t tell me, let me guess…she reminds you of me.
Nathan: Well, I er…
Irene: Nathan, Jason or whatever your name is, will you tell me what’s going on here and who this woman is?
Woman: I’ll tell you what’s going on and who this woman is. I’m this sewer rat’s wife and I’ve just caught him with another woman…you…my reason for divorcing him. Congratulations missus, you’re the lucky winner of being the other woman on a divorce petition. Adultery, I believe it’s called…is that right, Stevie boy?
Irene is stunned. Alf approaches the table
Alf: Everything all right here, folks?
Irene: Alf, this woman’s just cited me as the other woman in a divorce
Alf (gathering the glasses): The other woman? Cited? Divorce? Let me get this right…this betrayed woman is naming you as the third party in an adultery case?
Irene: Come on Alf, stop playing games; this is serious. Help me out.
Alf: From where me and this woman are standing this looks very serious indeed.
Woman (to Alf): Are you willing to be a witness?
Irene: Don’t you dare, Alf!
Alf: Irene my dear, my loving wife, I can do no other under oath.
Alf cheerfully gathers the glasses and whistles as he returns to the bar. The two men observe the scene. They are aghast.
Alf: Haven’t you got homes to go to gentlemen?
He picks up the Getanes from behind the bar and triumphantly places them on top. He looks over at Irene.
Alf: Take these on your way out of the front door, will you. Oh, and takes these ‘PITTED’ olives as well.