Книга - Confessions from the Shop Floor

Confessions from the Shop Floor
Timothy Lea


You get a bit more bounce than you bargained for in this bed shop!Another exclusive ebook reissue of the bestselling 70s sex comedy series.Timmy and Sid can’t go wrong at the bed shop, surely? It seems a nice, soft option!But that is before they factor in the Rightberk brothers who run the firm, Professor Nuttibarm, who designs the beds, and all of the ladies – Jean from the bed-testing center, the Russian Bed Union Comrade Nitya Pullova, and all those ladies desperate for a new bed to help with their sleepless nights…Also Available in the Confessions… series:CONFESSIONS OF A WINDOW CLEANERCONFESSIONS OF A LONG DISTANCE LORRY DRIVERCONFESSIONS OF A TRAVELLING SALESMAN









Confessions from the Shop Floor

BY TIMOTHY LEA










Contents


Title Page (#u5ee64380-3fdc-527f-8b24-059a7064188b)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Also available in the CONFESSIONS series

About the Author

Also by Timothy Lea & Rosie Dixon

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher




CHAPTER ONE (#uf1ceed91-d0a7-55ba-9491-f81db0afad5e)


‘I’ve answered this advertisement in TheTimes,” says Sid.

‘TheTimes?’ A note of surprise enters my voice. My brother-in-law is not exactly what you might call a typical Times reader. He tends to find ExchangeandMart a bit highbrow.

‘Oh yes, Timmo. It’s a very good paper. Excellent foreign section, very sound on the arts — and it takes 10p worth of chips, no trouble.’

I might have guessed. Sid does all his reading off the magazines Mum cuts up to put in the toilet, or what he finds down at the doctor’s when he is trying to get a medical certificate.

‘So what was it about, Sid?’

‘Some geezer wanting capital to extend a profitable business venture.’ Sid takes a reflective sip at his pint and my blood runs cold. Sid’s business brain works with the remorseless speed of a blue glacier and his eye for a good thing is matched only by a rabbit trying to have it away with a bacon slicer. He reads my expression. ‘It can’t do any harm to have a look, can it? I mean, if it’s in TheTimes it must be all right.’

‘It doesn’t mean it’s all right,’ I say. ‘It just means it doesn’t read dirty. They don’t check everything.’

Frankly, I am amazed that Sid still has any money left. I believe he did all right out of the insurance when Beauty Manor burned down — you read all about that in ConfessionsfromaHealthFarm, didn’t you? — but he doesn’t talk about it a lot. Frankly, I am not surprised. Sid’s relationship with Sir Henry Baulkit and Wanda Zonker was confusing and probably very unhealthy and I think that when Wanda disappeared Sir Henry was only too glad to lash out a hefty slice of the insurance money to keep Sid’s mouth shut.

‘What does this bloke do?’ I say.

‘He makes beds,’ says Sid.

‘Domestic help?’ I say. ‘You don’t want to get mixed up in that, Sid. You’ll end up with water on the knee. That’s women’s work.’

‘Manufacturing beds, you berk!’ rasps Sid. ‘Not farting about with hospital corners. Gordon Bennett! Can you see me as a housemaid?’

‘Roll your trousers up and I’ll tell you.’

‘Get stuffed!’ Sid knocks back his drink and shoves the glass towards me agressively. ‘It’s your turn to get them in. I’m not made of money, you know.’

‘Everybody knows that,’ I tell him. ‘They call you Mr Abstinence because you never go for a p.’

‘Piss off!’ Sid always descends to coarseness in the face of superior word power and I take our glasses to the bar and wonder what harebrained scheme he can be considering. The more half-witted it is, the more likelihood there is of Sid parting with some mazuma. I remember Hulapog — the game where you hurled surplus pogo sticks through unwanted hula hoops. He sold four sets. Still, beds doesn’t sound too outlandish. Lots of my best friends have beds. I have passed many a happy hour on them myself. Many people actually sleep on them. Could it be that Sid has actually found a product with a future? I am not sorry to be getting the beers in because — apart from the fact that I am one of nature’s givers — they have a new bird behind the bar who is quite an eyeful. She is of the tinted variety and though not as dark hued as Matilda Ngobla — whose dusky loins I once decorated — she is considerably browner than most brands of toothpaste. She has a lovely pair of top bollocks — slung like cannon balls waiting to be bunged into the breach — and a dark red mouth that makes me think of the texture of rose petals — you can tell I haven’t had my end away for a couple of weeks, can’t you?

‘What is your pleasure?’ she says.

This is the kind of question that can get a few funny answers even though the Highwayman does cater for a nicer class of person these days. Because I think I might get a bit further with a sophisticated approach I resist the easy descent into roguish raillerie and suggest that the consumption of another couple of pints from the wood might go some way towards satisfying my desires.

‘Not many people about,’ I say, gazing down the front of her dress as if I expect to find a pair of feet sticking out from between her knockers.

‘It’s always quiet on a Monday.’

‘I haven’t seen you in here before, have I?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not your eyes.’ While I think about that, she pushes the pints towards me with short jabs of her fingers and gazes into my minces. ‘I help out sometimes when Gladys wants a night off. We probably haven’t overlapped.’ She smiles when she says it like the word ‘overlapped’ means to her what it means to me. ‘32p, please.’

‘And a packet of crisps,’ I say, applying slight pressure to the palm of her mitt as I slide the ackers across. Talk about gentle love play. This is more like the Calmer Sutra than the Kama Sutra.

‘What flavour appeals to you?’

‘Just stick your hand in the tin and see what you come up with.’ She smiles at me and bends over to plunder the cartons of goodies. She has a beautiful bum and a classical case of V.P.L. (Visible Pant Line) showing through her jeans. I go a bundle on that. Any glimpse of underwear always gets percy trying to prize the lid off the counter.

‘Cheese and onion all right?’

‘Favourite. Ta, luv.’

‘That’ll be another 4p, please.’

‘Do you fancy anything yourself?’

She flashes her lashes at me. ‘Not just now, thanks.’

‘See you later, then.’

I return to Sid and slop a gobful of pigs over the table in front of him. ‘Blimey, you’re a clumsy sod, aren’t you?’ he says pleasantly. ‘I never met anyone so bleeding useless when it comes to carrying things.’

It occurs to me to comment that I have been carrying my brother-in-law for years but I restrain myself. Sid’s idea of a heated discussion is trying to shove his fist inside your earhole.

‘Sorry, Sid. I’ll get a cloth,’ I say.

‘Don’t bother. Your handkerchief will do.’ He snatches it out of my pocket and starts mopping up the beer. ‘It’s in a disgusting condition,’ he says. ‘Did you use it for doing an oil change?’

‘My handkerchief? No, I dusted your chair with it.’

Sid leaps to his feet and rubs his german over his here and there like he is trying to touch it up. He is wearing his posh new trousers and is very sensitive.

‘Taking the piss, as usual,’ he says sitting down again and chucking my snitch rag in my lap. ‘You’re a right little bundle of fun, aren’t you?’

I don’t answer because there is no point and the bird behind the bar is giving me the glad eye. Why should one man have so much? It doesn’t seem fair really.

‘Nice bit of stuff, that,’ says Sid.

‘Who? What?’ I say.

‘Don’t play dumb with me! The brown tart. Gordon Bennett! I thought you were going to announce your engagement when you were getting the beers in.’

‘Dad would like that,’ I say.

‘What, the bird or the engagement?’

‘Both. You know what he’s like with those Ngoblas. It’s horrible what goes on in that mind. All that prejudice wrapped up in steaming lust.’

‘Terrible,’ agrees Sid. ‘Your Mum’s the same, isn’t she? She was always terrified that the Ngoblas would start spreading. Do you remember when she thought she heard something in the attic? She thought they were coming through from next door and living there.’

‘Eventually taking over every attic in the street. Yeah, I remember. The chair fell over and she was left hanging, wasn’t she? It gave her lovely long arms, though.’

‘Fred Nadger has had her,’ says Sid.

‘Not Mum!’ I am horrified. I know we live in permissive times and Fred certainly puts it round a bit but —

‘Not your mother! The tart behind the bar. Gawd help us! Can you imagine anyone having a go at your mum?’

When I think about it — which I don’t like doing — I can’t. Not even Dad. Not for years, anyway. The red blood flowing through his veins dried up to a trickle before I could tell the difference between him and Mum.

‘Don’t be coarse, Sid,’ I say. I greet the news about Fred Nadger with mixed feelings. I am glad to hear that the bird does a turn but I am not over enthusiastic about following in Fred’s footsteps — or whatever. I never like to think of other blokes spoiling something beautiful that should be reserved entirely for Timothy.

‘He said she was a right little raver,’ says Sid. ‘She comes from Trinidad. You know, in the West Indies. I reckon they’re all a bit on the jungle bunny side out there. Start rattling your tom toms and the old breasts are thundering up and down against the chests so that you could hammer rivets with them.’

‘Delightful,’ I say. ‘Is Fred all right? Not walking about like an upright concertina?’

‘He looked all right when I saw him,’ says Sid. ‘In the pink, or you might say, in —’

‘Yes,’ I say, heading off Sid’s salty wit before it gets to the pass. ‘I know what you mean.’

Sic takes a long swig from his glass and wipes the back of his hand with his mouth. ‘You know, I like the idea of making things.’ I look at Miss Trinidad polishing a glass and nod. ‘I’d like to play my part in putting this old country of ours back on its feet.’

‘Back on its back, don’t you mean?’ I say. ‘I mean, beds and all that.’

‘Don’t make feeble jokes. I’m serious. Money isn’t everything, you know.’

‘Are you all right, Sid?’ I sniff my pint suspiciously. There must be something in it — there is plenty of room because it isn’t overloaded with hops.

‘It’s this money-grabbing philosophy which is at the root of most of our national ills. Everybody out for number one and devil take the hindmost.’ I can hardly believe my bottles. If Sid helped an old lady across the road she would probably find that she had lost her handbag before they were half way over. Sid must see the expression of incredulity on my mug. ‘Of course, I know that I’ve erred in the past. I’ve been as guilty as anybody when it came to looking after number one. I’ve been overbearing, dictatorial —’

‘Oh no, Sid,’ I interrupt. ‘You haven’t. You’ve been —’

‘Shut up when I’m talking!!’ snaps Sid. ‘What was I saying? Oh yes. I made the mistake of thinking that money was the only thing that mattered. I forgot about the importance of job satisfaction. What’s the point of having a lot of bread if you’re miserable?’

‘What’s the point of being miserable if you’ve got a lot of bread?’ I say.

Sid thinks for a minute. ‘Yeah, well, that’s one way of looking at it, too. But believe me, Timmo. It doesn’t work like that in practice.’

‘I’ve never had the chance to find out,’ I say.

Sid clears his throat. ‘That’s where you’ve been lucky. I’m glad I’ve been able to spare you that. It can be very disillusioning.’

‘Thanks, Sid.’ I now realise why Sid took all the cash from our previous exploits and never paid me anything. He was protecting me from disappointment. What consideration, what humanity, what a load of bleeding rubbish!!

‘I want to put what I’ve learned to some use,’ says Sid plaintively.

The bird behind the bar is standing on a stool to reach down a carton and I nod enthusiastically. ‘Very creditable,’ I say.

‘We’ve worked on both sides of the fence in our time,’ drones Sid. ‘We know the problems. If we can harness management and labour to a common purpose — a purpose not just connected to financial reward — then we can start moving forward again. We can give the whole country a lead. Noggett Beds will set an example to British Industry.’

‘You’re leaping ahead a bit, aren’t you?’ I say. ‘You haven’t even talked to the bloke yet.’

‘That’s my mandate,’ says Sid. ‘You don’t get anywhere these days unless you’ve got a mandate.’

‘I thought a mandate was something you gave to someone else,’ I say.

‘You can give yourself one if you want to,’ says Sid. ‘It’s still a free country — more or less.’

I am pretty certain that neither of us knows what a mandate is so I don’t press the point. The point I would like to press is the blunt job between my legs. Where I would like to press it depends on the trowel behind the bar although I can see one or two likely spots without having to consult Gray’s Anatomy.’ (‘Trowel’ equals a small spade.)

‘Don’t rush into anything. That’s all I ask you,’ I say. ‘If that bloke has to advertise to raise cash there must be something wrong with him. Why won’t the banks lend him the money?’

‘He probably doesn’t want to pay all that interest. I expect he’s offering a better deal. A stake in the company.’ I doubt if Sid would get a stake in the company if they were manufacturing palings but I don’t say anything.

‘Well, watch it. There’s a lot of mean people about.’

‘I’ve met some of them,’ says Sid. ‘The kind of blokes who wouldn’t crash the crisps if they were having tea at Buckingham Palace. Mean, self-seeking people —’

‘All right, all right!’ I say, dropping the packet in his lap. ‘You have these. I’ll get some more.’

I skip to the bar and Miss Trinidad lilts across, shaking her bum like a sulky moggy. ‘What do you want, man?’ she says.

‘Another packet of crisps, please.’

‘Any flavour you have in mind?’

‘The ones you have to bend furthest for.’ I wink at her just to show that I’m joking and it is all good clean fun — well, fun, anyway.

‘Saucy.’ She bends down kicking one leg up behind her and fishes out a packet of crisps between finger and thumb. ‘Plain,’ she says, glancing at the packet.

‘They don’t remind me of you.’

‘Flattery will get you anywhere,’ she says. She is right of course. Be it ever so horrible there is no substitute to laying it on with a shovel. Women do respect sincerity and if you say they look beautiful then they automatically think that you must be sincere.

‘You pack up at closing time, do you?’ I ask, lowering my voice. I can see the guvnor looking at me suspiciously and I don’t want any trouble. I have been told not to come back more times than our next door neighbour’s tom.

‘When we’ve tidied up,’ she says.

‘We might go on somewhere?’ My voice becomes husky and enticing — at least, it tries to.

‘Like where?’ I was afraid she would ask that question. The smarter birds usually do. I was thinking of behind the changing rooms where they store the goal posts but I wanted it to be a surprise — it was certainly a surprise the last time I was there. I had just got this bird pressed up against something solid when all the crossbars fell down and buried her knickers. Very lucky she wasn’t wearing them at the time. It put the kibosh on our romance though. I stepped back a bit sharpish and sat in one of the washing troughs — my trousers were round my ankles, you see. It wouldn’t have mattered but some sloppy bastard hadn’t bothered to take the plug out. Talk about a passion killer. It wasn’t all that warm to start off with.

‘I could take you home,’ I say.

‘What, to your place?’ This had not been my intention but the hint of interest in her voice makes me think again. Mum and Dad usually go out less often than the tide in the Mediterranean but some mate of Dad’s at the lost property office — where Dad works and furnishes our home — has got him involved in a rotarian’s ladies’ night. Of course, Dad didn’t want to go but Mum nagged him rigid. She said the last time Dad took her out was to see ‘Brief Encounter’ — they didn’t get in because there was a queue — and thirty years later she feels like hitting the high spots again. Dad groans and moans about the cost of the tickets — especially when he finds that the cost of what he thought was a double is for a single and that wine is not included — but Mum gets her way in the end. ‘Don’t worry about the wine,’ she says wittily. ‘I’ve had enough whining from you to last me a lifetime.’

I seem to recall that the tickets said ‘Carriages 2 am’ — Dad thought it meant real carriages, stupid old git — so my esteemed parents should be out of the way long enough for me to cement a meaningful relationship and be snug in my cot by the time they lumber through the front door.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Come back for a drink.’

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘That will make a change.’ I think she is trying to be sarcastic but I don’t take her up on it.

‘I can run you home afterwards,’ I say. That is literally correct. Provided I am still capable of running I will be quite willing to lope beside the young lady as she leaves the purlieus of Scraggs Lane, from time immemorial and immortal the home of the Leas. If she is expecting a car she will be disappointed.

‘All right,’ she says. ‘But I won’t be able to stay long.’ I have to suppress a smile. They all say that. It is like turkeys making plans to visit the in-laws on Boxing Day.

‘How did you get on?’ says Sid when I sit down again.

‘Salt and vinegar,’ I say. ‘Do you fancy one?’

‘Don’t treat me like I’m soft in the head,’ says Sid. ‘You were trying to get that bird to go out with you, weren’t you?’

‘I was just being pleasant,’ I say. It never pays to tell too much to Sid. Although he is married to my vivacious sister, Rosie, he is not above thrusting his pelvic area and appurtenances into close contact with any lady’s mole-catcher. He has seen more crumpet than your friendly local baker — in fact it was Sid who gave the trade the idea of putting holes in the middle of doughnuts — and he does not mind playing with his friends’ toys.

‘Going to take her home, are you?’

‘I was thinking about it,’ I say. ‘But there are nine of them in the flat. You know what it’s like? Her mum’s just come back from Nightingale Lane with another one.’

‘You find a lot of them down there,’ says Sid. ‘Ah well, sup up. No sense in being downcast about it. Women aren’t everything, are they?’

‘You’re right, Sid,’ I say, trying to sound as if I am putting a brave face on it. ‘There’s comradeship, isn’t there?’

‘A few pints of ale between friends. What could be better. Drink up, Tim lad. You don’t fancy a short, do you?’

I have never known Sid so full of the milk of human kindness. It is practically curdling in the face of the unexpected warmth. As I stand in the gents’ wondering why anyone should want to write ‘I had my sister in a pair of Wellington boots’ on the pebble dash wall — I mean, it is so difficult apart from anything else — I also chew over whether Sid is preparing himself for the key role he intends to play in the bedding business — I must say it does seem the right business for Sid.

I later learn that my naive faith in Sid’s good nature was misplaced. I have just helped Pearl — yes, that’s her name — remove something rather unpleasant from her shoe — those platform jobs don’t half spread it around — and the lights at the edge of the common are in sight when she starts moaning. ‘I’d have taken your friend’s offer if I’d known,’ she says. ‘Do you want your handkerchief back?’

‘You must be joking,’ I say. ‘What offer?’

‘He said he’d take me up west for a meal.’ Sid only meant West Clapham but it is still a better offer than I came up with. The crafty sod! No wonder he was keen to get up to the bar.

You can’t trust anyone can you?

‘He’s got a Rover 2000, hasn’t he?’

I decide to ignore this remark. ‘Lovely night, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘I do like a stroll.’

I don’t mind a stroll. It’s hiking I object to. You told me it was just round the corner.’

‘Once we get off the common it’s just round the corner.’ She is not exactly overdoing the pre-foreplay, this one. I hope I am not dooming myself to disappointment. It is distressing how white hot favourites can sometimes turn colder than last year’s Christmas pudding. There is no accounting for women.

‘Cut across here,’ I say. ‘Sorry mate.’ I am addressing the uppermost of the two people I have just tripped over. It is so dark once you get off the path. The bloke makes a strange grunting noise but I don’t think he is talking to me.

‘Disgusting!’ says Pearl. ‘Why did you have to bring me this way?’

‘It’s a short cut,’ I say, trying to steer her away from the bloke who is throwing up in the waste paper basket. ‘If we go — no.’ I don’t think that couple against the tree are studying lichen. Knickers! It is not exactly the best introduction to a night of wild passionate ecstasy. Most of these people seem to know each other rather better than we do.

By the time we get to 17 Scraggs Lane I am humming to keep my spirits up.

‘Is this it?’ says Pearl. She sounds as excited as some bird being fixed up with Frankenstein’s monster on a blind date. I know they don’t live in rude mud huts in Trinidad — polite mud huts at the worst of times — but I was not expecting to be taken to task for the family home.

‘These houses are very sought after in Putney,’ I say, quoting something that Mum is always saying.

‘It must have heard,’ says Pearl. ‘It’s leaning towards Putney.’

‘Very funny,’ I say, opening the front door and sticking my tongue out at Mrs Tanner, our new neighbour. She is always peering through her lace curtains and it drives me round the twist. Once I took Dad’s moose head round and tapped it against her front window and she had a police car on the door step in two and a half minutes flat. I had only just closed the back door behind me when I heard it screaming down the street. I wish I could have caught an earful of what she told them. They didn’t hang about for long. ‘Now, tell me, madam. Was there anything particularly distinctive about this moose? Anything you would remember if you saw him again?’

‘No officer. I’m afraid he was just like any other common or garden moose.’

‘It makes it very difficult for us, madam. Are you absolutely certain he had no distinctive features? Listen. I’m going to read you a list of things he might have been wearing in order to jog your memory: surgical truss, bowler hat, long pants — over the trousers. MCC blazer.’

‘Why are all these gas masks hanging in the hall?’ says Pearl. She sounds slightly frightened and very unimpressed.

‘My father collects things like that,’ I say. ‘He’s fascinated by anything to do with war.’

Pearl shudders. ‘Sounds unhealthy to me. What about the wooden legs?’

‘They came from North Staffordshire. We use them as firewood.’ That doesn’t sound very nice, does it? I wish Dad would nick a more superior class of article from the lost property office. It is difficult to explain the situation to visitors. They would never believe some of the things people leave on trains. Dad is like one of those Scavenger Beetles that goes around disposing of lumps of shit. He gets rid of the stuff that nobody claims. Society owes him a debt really.

‘Does the barometer wo —’

‘Don’t —’ Too late. The glass has fallen off again. People will keep tapping it. ‘It’s waiting to be mended. You didn’t see which way the hand went did you?’

It is difficult to see anything in the hall because after the cost of electricity went up again our wattage came down to a level which would cause complaints at a teenagers’ snogging party. You can hardly see your hand in front of somebody else’s tit. It does create rather a gloomy atmosphere and I can see that Pearl is having no difficulty in resisting the temptation to shout ‘Fiesta!’ and run round the front room with one of the plastic roses between her teeth.

‘Come into the drawing room,’ I say. I call it the drawing room because of some of the things my nephew Jason Noggett drew on the wall with his felt pencil — I don’t know where a child that age hears the words, really I don’t. Unfortunately they didn’t come off without smudging and this meant that the settee had to be moved against the wall to hide them. This liberated a large stain in the middle of the carpet and a pink latex brassiere which nobody claimed, neither of them. Sid said that Dad must have brought the bra home from the L.P.O. which didn’t go down very well. In order to cover the stain. Mum moved the fireside rug but this revealed all the scorch marks and holes where I had tried to pick out the pattern of the carpet with a red hot poker — of course, I was just a child at the time and I didn’t really know what I was doing — until the fire brigade arrived, that is. In the end, Dad solved the problem by bringing back a screen which we were able to put against the wall where Jason had done his stuff — I mean, the writing. At first, I thought the screen came from the L.P.O. but when I read that a bloke had fallen down a manhole on to some geezers who were repairing a power cable, I had another think. The initials L.E.B. were a bit of a give away, too.

‘There we are,’ I say proudly. ‘Do you want to watch telly while I get us a cup of tea?’

‘Have you got a colour set?’ she asks.

‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘What colour would you like?’

‘What do you mean?’ She sounds startled. Maybe I should have explained. It isn’t exactly a colour set. It’s a black and white set and Dad got hold of these strips of tinted perspex. You prop them in front of the screen to get a colour effect. It is not very realistic and the perspex is so thick it is difficult to see the picture. Still, it is quite ingenious, isn’t it? Unfortunately, Pearl does not seem to agree with me when I explain it to her and starts poking around the room — not a bad idea when you come to think of it. ‘What are the dentures doing at the bottom of the fish tank?’ she says.

The correct answer must be ‘growing a kind of green mould’, but I do not give it. ‘They must be Dad’s,’ I say. ‘Jason — he’s my little nephew — was messing about with them. Dad will be pleased.’ At least, he will be pleased that they have been found. It is not surprising that nobody has noticed them up to now. The tank is pretty dirty and the dentures look not unlike an ornament as they sit grinning amongst the coloured gravel.

‘Don’t get them out now,’ says Pearl with a shudder as I start rolling up my sleeve.

‘All right,’ I say. I can see what she means. The sight of Dad’s best gnashers covered in green slime doesn’t exactly make you come out in a romantic flush. ‘Tea or coffee?’

‘What kind of coffee is it?’

‘Nescafe.’

‘Do you have any real coffee?’

‘It is real coffee. Out of a jar.’ I suppose coming from Trinidad she doesn’t know about things like that.

‘I’ll have tea, thank you.’

I don’t argue with her but flash into the kitchen. It is now getting on for midnight and I don’t have a lot of time to waste. Dad should soon be taking Mum in his arms for the last mazurka. I clean the dribbles off the teapot spout with a rag I find in the sink and start bunging things on a tray. Some uncouth bugger has helped himself to the sugar with a wet teaspoon so there are unattractive brown lumps and streaks all through the basin. I get cracking with rag and fingers and try and clean things up. In the end I find it easier to bury everything under a fresh avalanche of sugar. The kettle is taking a long time to boil which I find is because I have switched on the wrong ring. Dear oh dear. I hope it isn’t going to be one of those nights. I try and put a gloss on everything by digging out some cakes I find at the back of the cupboard but it occurs to me that the little chocolate flakes may be mouse droppings so I abandon the idea. The yellow icing was going a nasty transparent colour anyway, as I find out when I try and scrape away the mould. Blimey, this bird had better turn up trumps after all the effort I am putting in. In the end, I settle for some soggy biscuits and lug the whole lot back on a tray.

‘I’m afraid we’re out of milk,’ I say.

She looks at me in a funny sort of way. ‘You needn’t have bothered,’ she says. ‘I can’t drink it without milk. Is this what you brought me all the way here for, a cup of black tea?’

I put the tray on top of the telly and sit down beside her on the settee. A straight question deserves a straight answer. ‘No,’ I say. I gaze into her minces and suck in my breath sharply as if her wild animal beauty defies description.

‘What is it?’ she says. ‘Has one of my lashes smudged?’

‘They’re perfect,’ I say. ‘Like — like —’ once again she can feel me struggling for words ‘— like you. You’re just too much.’

‘Do you feel all right?’ she says.

‘I know it sounds ridiculous me talking like this,’ I say. ‘But I can’t help it. It’s the effect you have on me. You draw the words out of me — words I never thought I could utter. It’s some strange kind of magic.’

‘Do you have a proper drink?’ she says. ‘Something alcoholic. The way you go on I should think you must have.’

I cannot help feeling that I am not getting through to her. The old verbal magnetism is dropping a bit short of target.

‘I’ll have a look,’ I say. ‘I know we were running low.’ Understatement of the year. Last Christmas we must have been the only family in the land toasting the Queen in Stone’s Ginger Wine. Ever since I was a kiddy I have looked at a bottle of scotch like it was inside a glass case. I open the lower door of the sideboard and glance inside. There are a number of cork table mats which have been attacked by mice, a paper streamer and a pile of yellowing Christmas cards going back to the early fifties. Mum says she keeps the cards because she likes the pictures but it is really because it is the only way we can get a mantlepiecefull. When we get a Christmas card it is like another family getting a present. Everybody gathers round and it is passed from hand to hand and turned over to see how much it cost and if it came from the 2p section at Woolworths. The best card we had last year was addressed to somebody else and came to us by mistake. First of all we opened it to look at it and then we kept it. It showed a lot of geezers in top hats blowing trumpets from the back of a coach drawn by six black horses which are approaching an inn called ‘Ye Swanne’ practically buried in a snow drift. Inside, it said ‘May all your Christmases be white, and future prospects mighty bright. Thinking of you this happy Yuletide, Harry, Doris and family — not forgetting Cuddles’. We thought about them a lot, especially Cuddles. I wonder what he was — or she, maybe. It was funny how the infrequent visitors to the house all picked up the card and nodded like they had known Harry and Doris all their lives. I hope we get something from them next year.

‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘That’s amazing. You have to come at the one time when we’re out of everything. Isn’t there something else I can get you? We’ve got some cocoa.’

‘I like cocoa without milk even less than tea without milk,’ says my dusky dreamboat sulkily.

‘Anything good on the telly?’ I say. ‘I see you’ve got it going.’

‘Just an old movie,’ she says. ‘I don’t know where they dig them up from.’

‘It’s probably black and white anyway,’ I say, trying to cheer her up.

‘Ronald Coleman,’ she says. ‘I can’t see what anyone ever saw in him. That moustache.’

‘The bird’s all right,’ I say, sliding on to the settee again. ‘Her clothes look quite modern, don’t they?’ I advance my hand along the back of the settee and let my fingers brush against her shoulders. Neither of us is getting any younger and my brooding, passionate nature demands an outlet.

‘Uum.’ She doesn’t tell me to piss off so I move my sensuous lips to her shell-like lobes and blow gently. She flicks her head like a disturbed cat. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘How long have you been over here?’ I ask.

‘Eighteen years.’

‘Eighteen years!’ The scent of bougainvillea blossom is obviously long dead in this bird’s nostrils.

‘I came over when I was a baby.’ She stifles a yawn. ‘Have you got a record player or anything?’

‘It’s at the menders,’ I say. In fact we do have a gramophone but it looks like the picture on an old HMV sleeve and was ‘rescued’ by Dad. I can’t see Pearl’s sophisticated tastes responding to it. Especially the selection of old Maurice Chevalier records that came with it. ‘Lets make love,’ I say. I suppose I could have built up to it a bit more but there is not a lot of time to waste and I need to know where I stand. It is also a fact that birds can sometimes respond well to the frank, straightforward approach. After all, they all know what it’s about and they must get bored waiting for you to wring out the words.

‘You don’t waste a lot of time, do you?’ she says.

‘When you feel the way I do, there’s not a lot of point.’ I say. It doesn’t mean anything but I put a lot of sincerity into it.

‘Nobody could accuse you of trying to buy me, could they?’ she says.

‘I couldn’t do it,’ I say. ‘I’m no saint but I do have a few scruples.’

This is another effective ploy. Just as birds are always prepared to believe you when you say something nice about them, they are also prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt when you say something nasty about number one. This way, you come out as being honest, in need of help, and slightly exciting. You can appeal to a number of their cravings with one simple approach. Frank Sinatra was a master of this gambit as a study of some of his old movies on the telly will reveal: ‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from me, kid. I’m poison to dames. I just foul them up, see? Stick with me and you’ll earn yourself a groin-full of groans.’ Of course, once he’d said that, knocked back a couple of fingers of Jack Daniels and flipped his snap-brimmed hat on to the back of his head they had to plane the birds off him in layers.

‘It’s not very romantic down here.’

Note the use of words carefully. She does not say ‘in’ here but ‘down’ here. This clearly indicates that the possibility of being ‘up’ somewhere has clearly entered her mind — as indeed it has entered mine. In her case I think she is thinking about ‘upstairs’.

‘Let me show you round,’ I say, very casual. ‘There’ll be a collection for the National Trust at the end of the tour. Please give generously.’ I run my fingers up her body as I get to the last bit and turn the telly off with a flourish. When she has helped me pick up the tea things we go out into the hall. I wish I was not so clumsy. Still, maybe she will put it down to my impetuosity.

‘Where’s the bathroom?’ she says.

‘Top of the stairs. Follow your nose.’ She looks at me a bit old fashioned. ‘I mean straight on.’ I suppose I could have chosen my words better.

I take the tray into the kitchen and then I think of something. ‘Watch out for the —’ There is a shrill scream from the bathroom — ‘gorilla in the bathroom,’ I finish lamely.

Dad keeps his gorilla skin in the bathroom because of the steam and it can give you a nasty turn if you’re not expecting it — which, let’s face it, very few people are.

‘Oh my God!’ says Pearl when I get to her side. ‘I saw it in the mirror. I thought it was coming to get me.’ The skin is hanging on the door and I can see what she means. Grab a gander at your mug and there it is leering over your shoulder.

‘It’s all right. I’m here,’ I say, taking her in my arms and pressing my cakehole against her barnet. Well done, Dad’s gorilla! This is just the little ice-breaker I needed. As I have said on many occasions it is vital to establish unforced bodily contact at the first opportunity.

‘It’s horrible!’ she shudders. I think she is referring to the gorilla but it may be the pressure of my giggle stick against her dilly pot that is causing anxiety. Percy is coming on strong as they say. Nothing feeds his base appetites more than the sight of a damsel in distress.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ I say. I don’t wait for her to consult her horoscope but lead her towards my room. A glance through the door makes me change my mind. I had forgotten that I had been stripping down the gear change on my bike. There are bits and pieces all over the bed. I don’t want to sweep her on to it impulsively and find that I have wedged an axle nut up her khyber.

‘In here.’ I don’t like using Mum and Dad’s bedroom but passion makes you reckless, doesn’t it? My high-thigh equipment is itching for action and in situations like this it is inclined to programme my thought box.

‘It’s all right in here, is it?’ I see Pearl’s eyes nervously scanning the walls for signs of gorillas or worse.

‘You bet.’ I take her cheeks between my hands and home on to her mouth like a bird settling on its nest. My tongue starts painting a mural on the roof of her mouth and I rub my chest backwards and forwards across her bristols. She is wearing one of those stretch silk blouses with puff sleeves and I flick my digits across the strawberries that show through. ‘You’ve got a mole down there, haven’t you?’ I murmer. I am talking about her cleavage but she looks down at the floor as if imagining that the gorilla might have a friend. ‘Here,’ I say, sticking a finger down the front of her blouse.

‘Yes. I never had it when I was a kid.’ I don’t make any comment but push her back on to the bed and start moulding the front of her jeans. I do wish birds would give up wearing trousers. I feel unhealthy touching up somebody turned out like a bloke. Mum’s bed has an eiderdown on it and Pearl sinks into it so deep that you wouldn’t be able to see her from the other side of the room. Not that I am going to look, mind you. I like it too much where I am.

I unpop the front of her jeans and then carry on popping up to the top of her blouse. She must have shapely knockers because they don’t disappear when she is lying on her back. You know what some birds are like when in the Egyptian PT position — only their nipples mark the spots. I start fiddling for the catch on her bra but she shakes her head.

‘It doesn’t have one.’ Funny how birds clobber changes, isn’t it? I can remember when bra cups were like plastic beakers. Now they are as flimsy as Ted Heath’s re-election prospects. I expose a couple of gnawable nipples and set to with a will — and a willy as I am reminded by the eager force battering the front of my brushed denim. You might well think that the back of my zip was a xylophone and that my love portion was practising its scales. My lips spill a confetti of kisses down to Pearl’s tummy button and from this position I direct the assault on her jeans. Not that it is much of an assault. Pearl obligingly raises her shapely haunches and together we push the encumbering threads down to ankle level. She is wearing a pair of flowery panties and the white background sets off her light brown skin a treat.

‘What about you?’ Yes, what about me, indeed. With Pearl’s unneeded help I rip open my shirt and wriggle out of my jeans like there is a prize for doing it fast. Percy bounds forward eagerly and only the frail fragment of my navy blue, silk-effect athlete’s briefs keeps him in half-hearted check. Gently at first, as if tip-toeing across a minefield, Pearl brushes her fingers over my truncheon meat. ‘He’s keen, isn’t he?’ she says.

‘Keen?’ I say. ‘He’s a raving maniac!’

As I say this, her fingers take a steely grip on my hampton and she kisses me like she is trying to organise a tongue transplant. She may have been eighteen years out of the country but a lot of the old jungle magic still remains.

‘Put him to work.’ She arches her back and shows me her teeth — by opening her mouth, I hasten to add. She doesn’t fish them out of her back pocket.

I am not the man to deny a lady such a request and I swiftly scramble to my knees and tug down her nicks. Her own fingers are not idle. She flicks down the rim of my pants so that Percy peeps over the top like we are having a Punch and Judy show.

‘Peek a-boo!’ she says.

Percy does not say anything. With him, actions speak louder than words as I hope to show the Caribbean curve carnival. Keeping my fingers in reggae rhythm, I check that all parts are in good working order and enthusiastic about the imminent arrival of Mad Mick. As she looks up at me expectantly I discard my pants and position myself on the starting grid.

‘Go on.’ That counts as the chequered flag as far as I am concerned. With a screech of balls I roar up the straight and head for the first bend. The Grand Prick of Clapham is under way. I could give you all the sordid details but I know that you are a sensitive bunch and would probably skip to the end of the chapter. Suffice to say that this chick performs like a mechanical sludge sifter gone berserk. I have never known such a mover. The bedhead bashes against the wall and the light in the middle of the room starts swinging. What a pity that one of us has to catch a toe in the eiderdown. That’s right. Suddenly, the room is full of feathers. You have never seen anything like it. Talk about plucking a chicken. I feel more as if I am — what was that? I stop moving and my blood freezes. It sounded like the front door.

‘I’d never have bleeding gone if I’d known he wasn’t going to give us a lift back.’

‘Oh, stop your moaning!’

Mum and Dad are back! Eek! Immediately, panic replaces passion, and my nunga wilts like a blob of fat at the bottom of a hot frying pan. My feet hit the floor and I start pulling on my jeans. Bugger! They are not my jeans. Bleeding unisex! Bleeding sex!!

‘Get your clothes on!’ I hiss. ‘They’re coming!’

‘I should be so lucky,’ says the bird sulkily.

‘I don’t care about you. I’m going to bed.’ That is Mum coming up the stairs. Oh my gawd! Why did I ever get myself in this situation? I must stop her coming in to the bedroom.

I brush some of the feathers off my shirt and hobble to the door trying to wriggle my feet into my slip-ons. I fling the door open just as Mum’s hand is stretching out for the knob.

‘Timmy! What on —’ I close the door behind me and stand in front of it.

‘Did you have a nice time?’ I say. A feather that has become attached to my lips soars into the air as I speak.

Mum stares at it suspiciously for a second before ignoring my considerate question. ‘What were you doing in there?’ she says. ‘Why are you covered in feathers?’

She tries to go into the room but I continue to bar the way. Dad appears at the top of the stairs. He takes one look at me and stops dead. ‘Blimey!’

They both stare at me and panic lights flash before my eyes. What can I say?

‘Have you got someone in there?’ says Mum. Dad grits his teeth and takes a menacing step towards me.

‘You mustn’t go in!’ I squeak.

‘And why not, pray?’ snarls Dad.

‘She’s getting herself ready to meet you,’ I gulp.

‘Who is?’ Mum’s voice rises sharply and she steps forward beside Dad.

‘My fiancée,’ I say.

‘What!!?’ They say the word together and take a step backwards like I have produced a gun. It is a masterstroke. Now they look bewildered. Seconds before they looked like a lynching party.

‘Hi dere!’ Pearl comes out of the bedroom smoothing the ruckles out of the front of her blouse at skirt level.

Dad catches Mum just before she hits the floor.




CHAPTER TWO (#uf1ceed91-d0a7-55ba-9491-f81db0afad5e)


One of the strangest things about my “engagement” to Pearl is that Mum never mentions it — apart from saying that she will drop dead if we ever walk up the aisle together. She doesn’t even say anything about the eiderdown. As a gambit — which is what I believe they call them in some circles — it is well worth remembering. The next time your mum or dad catch you on the job with someone, say that you’re going to marry them. They’ll be so horrified they won’t bother to castigate you — it’s OK, it doesn’t mean what it sounds like. Sometimes I think that parents experience the reverse of what I feel when I imagine them on the job. It turns them right off to think of their little boy or girl indulging in all those nasty goings-on.

Of course, the fact that Pearl has joined the brownies without having to buy a uniform slips down less than a treat but it isn’t the whole story. Sid hears about it from Rosie when she drops in to see Mum and he is full of interest as we drive to see Slumbernog — that is the daft name he has come up with for the company we haven’t even seen yet. He was going to call it Slumnog until I spelt it out to him.

‘You jammy old bastard,’ he says. ‘What was it like then? I hear they’re a bit special.’

‘Sidney, please!’ I reproach him. ‘Do you think I’m the kind who scatters the secrets of the nuptial couch?’

‘But you aren’t going to nupt her, are you?’ asks Sid. ‘I believe the ceremony is very embarrassing. You have to give her one while you’re signing the register.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ I say.

‘All your relations standing about watching you,’ muses Sid. ‘I wouldn’t fancy it.’

‘Well, don’t disturb yourself,’ I tell him. ‘It’s not going to happen.’

In fact, nobody need get their knickers in a twist because I haven’t seen Pearl since the night in question. I think she was a bit upset by some of the remarks Dad made. When he saw all the feathers in the bedroom he thought we had killed a chicken.

‘Coming round here with your voodoo love rites!’ he kept shouting. ‘We don’t want no jungle loving in this house!’ It was all very embarrassing.

‘How much further have we got to go?’ I say, deciding that the time has come to steer the conversation into less controversial waters.

‘Just along here by the river. Nice, isn’t it?’

I don’t answer immediately because I am not certain whether he is joking. It depends whether you call boarded up buildings and collapsing warehouses nice.

‘It seems to be coming down faster than a snail’s knickers,’ I say warily.

‘That’s good isn’t it?’ says my idiot brother in law cheerfully. ‘Rents will be low and we’ll be able to keep the overheads down.’ He starts whistling “Old Father Thames” and rubbing his hands together.

‘I should think the overheads will all be at floor level anyway,’ I say. Sid slams on the brakes and pulls into the kerb.

‘Are you feeling all right?’ I say.

Sid turns off the engine and bashes his nut on the windscreen because he hasn’t taken it out of gear first. He curses softly and faces me. ‘You’ve got to change your attitude. All this fas-fash-vas —’

‘Vasectomy?’ I prompt.

‘Facetiousness has got to stop. If you’re going out on the shop floor you’ve got to do so in the right attitude. Serious, alert, responsible —’

Hang on a minute,’ I say. ‘Shop floor? I thought you were taking over this place?’

‘And you thought you were going to end up with some cushy number sitting behind a big desk?’ Sid shakes his head. ‘Oh no, Timmo. It’s not going to be like that. That’s the besetting sun of British industry, that is. Management up there, workers down there. With me at the helm, it’s going to be different.’

‘You mean it’s going to be Sid up there, Timothy down there?’

Sid bashes his mitt on the dashboard. ‘There you go again. You can’t be serious, can you? What I’m saying is that we’ve got to integrate ourselves with the labour force. We’re all working to the same end. We’ve got to understand their problems, feel their grievances. And you can only do that by working alongside them.’

It has not escaped my attention that the “we” has changed to “you” at a very crucial moment. ‘Are you going to work on the shop floor, too, Sid?’

‘Up here,’ says Sid. ‘Up here.’ A fanciable bird is passing the car and for a moment I think he is saying “Up her!” Then I see that he is tapping his nut. ‘In my mind I will always be shoulder to shoulder with the workers. Their struggle will be my struggle, their sweat will be my sweat —’

‘Their money will be your money. Come off it, Sid. Who do you think you’re kidding? Why don’t you go on the shop floor and I’ll do what you’re going to do?’

‘Experience, Timmo. That’s all it is. I’ve been forced into a role. You remember the position I held at Funfrall Enterprises?’

‘It was on page forty-three of the Perfumed Garden, wasn’t it?’

‘Management, Timmo. That’s my forte. We’ve all got to do what we’re best suited for. I’m not condemning you to the shop floor. I just feel that you should have the opportunity to come to grips with industry at all its levels, to work your way up through the organisational structure. Think of the effect it would have if the two of us came into the company and went straight to the top? You would understand dissatisfaction running rife, wouldn’t you? This way, with you going in right at the bottom, there can be no complaints, can there? It’s democracy in action.’

‘Uum.’ I don’t say anything because I can’t really think of anything to say. I could dive out of the window but Sid has started the car again.

‘Just think of it,’ he raves. ‘The Queen’s Award to Industry.’ Sid is wearing his light blue, collarless, two piece, slim fit and I think that he has got a better chance of receiving ‘The Industry’s Award to Queens’. Still, I don’t say anything. Sid is always at his most sensitive when on the brink of a great enterprise — or cock-up as we in the business call them. I try to comfort myself with the thought that nothing is settled yet and that he may not go through with the deal but when I look in his gleaming eyes I have a nasty feeling that he is already choosing his office furniture.

‘Here we are. Universal International Bedding Company. Henceforth to be known as Slumnog.’

‘Slumbernog,’ I remind him. ‘Slums are broken down, disgusting places where no decent person would —’ My voice trails away as I look through the padlocked gates into the squalid courtyard littered with rubbish and beyond to the crumbling buildings. ‘I don’t know, Sid. Maybe it is quite a good name.’

‘It slips off the tongue a sight quicker than Slumbernog,’ says Sid. ‘Now, I wonder how we get in?’

‘There’s a sign on the gates,’ I say. ‘It says “For admittance call opposite”.’

We bend our eyes across the street and there is a broken down boozer called the Workers United.

‘Looks more like Manchester United,’ I say. ‘Blimey. They can’t mean that, can they?’

‘Better have a look,’ says Sid.

We park the car, decline the offer made by a couple of kids who want 50p to stop anybody removing the hub caps, fail to do business on the basis of them paying us 50p to avoid a clip round the earhole, and go into the pub. It looks like nobody has bothered to clean up since the Waco kid last hit town and has had no difficulty in resisting the temptation to tart itself up into the muzac and moquette bracket.

‘Can you tell us how to get into U.I.B. mate?’ says Sid to the ferret-faced geezer behind the bar.

‘You looking for work?’ says the bloke suspiciously.

At the word ‘work’, one of the old men who is playing dominoes in the far corner makes a high pitched squawking noise, clutches his throat and collapses across the table.

His partner stands up aghast. ‘It’s his heart,’ he cries. ‘Quick! Brandy.’ With remarkable speed for a man of advanced age he rushes across the room and snatches the bottle proferred by the alarmed barman. Tearing out the cork he proceeds to drink greedily.

What about him?’ says Sid, indicating the gulper’s stricken friend.

‘Give him half a chance and he’ll drink the lot,’ says the man. ‘Worst thing for him.’

‘Give us a glass,’ says Sid. He fills half a tumbler from the man’s bottle and then proceeds to knock it back. ‘That’s better. I can’t stand seeing people suffering. It makes me feel quite ill.’

‘He should never have mentioned that word,’ says the man nodding at the barman.

‘You mean work?’ says Sid.

‘Aaargh!’ Immediately, the old man’s head falls back amongst the dominoes and he slowly slides under the table.

‘Now look what you’ve done!’ The old man’s friend springs to his comrade’s side and proceeds to go through his pockets.

‘Has he got some pills?’ says Sid.

‘Of course he has. Though he doesn’t have much cause to use them, these days. What a damn stupid question. Ah, here we are.’ The man removes a bulging wallet and places it in the inside pocket of his jacket.’ That should relieve the pressure a bit.’ He takes another gulp of brandy and then, almost as an afterthought applies the bottle to his friend’s lips.

‘Are either of you anything to do with the factory?’ asks Sid.

‘I’m the gatekeeper and he’s my mate.’

‘What are you doing in here, then?’ I ask.

‘Keeping an eye on the gate, of course. Lovely view from here.’ We follow his eyes through the pub window and it has to be agreed that by looking over the frosted glass it is possible to see the gate.

‘You’re a bit old to still be on the books, aren’t you?’ says Sid.

‘Semi-retired, Fred and me,’ says the man. ‘But we like to do our bit for the old firm. I’ve been here man and idiot for nearly sixty years now.’

‘And it don’t seem a drop too much,’ croons his friend who has made such a determined assault on the brandy that there is now only a couple of inches left at the bottom of the bottle.

‘Can you let us in please,’ says Sid. ‘We have an appointment with Mr Rightberk at twelve.’

‘I can’t leave Fred,’ says the man. ‘Look, he’s finished that brandy and he still isn’t moving.’

‘Well, give us the key and we’ll let ourselves in.’

‘I couldn’t do that.’ The man sucks in his breath sharply. ‘Oh no. I couldn’t do that. Mr Umbrage wouldn’t be holding with that, oh dear me no.’

‘Who is Mr Umbrage?’ asks Sid patiently.

‘He’s our shop steward. He’s very hot on demarcation is Mr Umbrage. You so much as lay a hand on that key and the whole factory will be out.’

‘All right, all right,’ says Sid. ‘We’ll stay with your mate and you can go and open the gate.’

Fred’s mate shakes his head. ‘Can’t do that. It’s a two-man job. One opening, one looking. If I open it and somebody belts out and does themselves an injury then I’m up the spout aren’t I?’

‘One of us can look.’

‘You’re not even on the pay roll!’ The man’s voice rises sharply. ‘Are you an agent provocative, or something?’

‘I’m just trying to get into the factory,’ says Sid. ‘I don’t want to cause any trouble.’

‘In that case, you’d better sit down and bide your time. Nobody is going in and out of that gate until my mate and I are in a position to supervise their passage. If you don’t like it you should have been more careful before you came in here bandying four letter words about.’ He nods as if nutting the final nail into our coffins and returns to his mate. ‘Hang on Fred. Only another half hour to dinner.’

In the end we don’t get through the gates until ten past two. Fred does not feel well enough to open the gate until 1231 hours and by that time it is his dinner time. This means that nothing can be done until 1330 hours without offending the rules of the Sedan Chairs And Bedmakers Union — S.C.A.B.s for short — one of the oldest craft unions in the country.

‘And very crafty to boot,’ says Sid flexing his toe thoughtfully.

At 1331 Fred has a relapse and it takes him another half bottle of brandy to summon up the strength to cross the road. Sid and I aren’t allowed to help him because this would obviously interfere with the demarcation agreements. By five past two he and Arthur — that is his thirsty mate — have got the gate unpadlocked, and at ten past, it swings open and knocks an old lady off her bike. This upsets Fred and Arthur so much that they immediately retire to the Workers United to calm their nerves. Sid and I help the old lady on to her bike and drive into the yard. It is noticeable that the car is now without hub caps and has lost its wireless aerial.

‘I don’t know why you still want to go through with this,’ I say. ‘I’m amazed this place could afford the advertisement in TheTimes.’

‘Shut up, faint-heart!’ snaps Sid. ‘Can’t you see that this is just the kind of challenge I’m itching to grapple with? If I can get this place moving then it will serve as a Belisha beacon to the whole of British industry.’

With these proud words he pulls up beside a sign saying ‘Parking Reserved For Executive Personnel’ under which has been scrawled ‘Get stuffed!’. I don’t say anything because I am a bit choked about missing dinner. We had a scotch egg in the boozer but it didn’t amount to much. I saw a fly walk across it and start cleaning its feet immediately afterwards.

I wonder where Rightberk is?’ says Sid. ‘Ah, this sturdy son of toil will no doubt be able to tell us.’ I look around the yard but the only person he can be talking about looks as energetic as an attack of sleeping sickness. He glances contemptuously from Sid to the car and then back again as if he cares for neither of them.

‘Excuse me,’ says Sid, preserving the unnaturally polite manner that has so far been a feature of his visit to U.I.B. ‘Can you direct me to Mr Rightberk?’

‘You must be desperate for company if you want to see that twat,’ says the man in a voice that does not suggest a promising future playing Father Christmas to highly strung children. ‘Past the workshops and at the top of the office block. That’s where he hangs out when he’s not playing golf.’

He slouches on his way and Sid shakes his head. ‘Classic example of a breakdown of confidence,’ he says. ‘We’ve got to restore this firm’s belief in itself.’

It is strange, but though we follow the direction in which the man was pointing a couple of fingers, we do not seem to be passing any workshops. There is a room in which a lot of men are stretched out on beds and another in which groups of men are sitting around playing cards and reading papers. There are some work benches and baulks of timber in the second room but nobody is touching them.

‘Must be their dinner break,’ says Sid.

‘A quarter past two is a bit late to be having dinner, isn’t it?’ I say.

‘It is strange,’ agrees Sid. ‘Maybe they work staggered shifts.’

‘That would figure,’ I say. ‘Some of them were staggering and they all looked a bit shifty.’

Sid pays little attention to my amusing joke but strides purposefully through the door of the office building and begins to ascend the stairs two at a time. There is a door at the top with a cracked glass panel bearing the name Rightberk followed by a crudely drawn exclamation mark. Beyond the door is an outer office with a desk, typewriter and a wall full of post cards from exotic places such as Sitges, Rimini and my old stamping ground, Cromingham. As we enter, a man backs out of the inner office carrying a set of golf clubs. He is unaware of our presence and addresses someone at floor level.

‘Better get your knickers on, Carole. There’s just a chance that the mugs might still show up. If it’s nice tomorrow I probably won’t come in.’

Sid coughs discreetly and the bloke whips round and bashes his nut on the door in a manner that would have drawn a warm glow of approval from Oliver Hardy. He has a clothes-brush moustache that goes through half a dozen shades between dirty brown and off white, a ruddy complexion and a boozer’s conk. His eyes are bloodshot and his teeth as yellow as the Chinese football team. All in all, he is quite a riot of colour.





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