RACING GREEN JAGS - Chapters 3 to 5

 3

 

My head was right back into shape as I walked into the shop to stare at a frown that made Julie’s good looks unnaturally severe. Even ten minutes late needed an explanation. She didn’t say a word but her fingernails clicking the counter top demanded an answer. So I told her I had helped a dying man at the scene of a car crash. 

   Now, I know I shouldn't have and people will disapprove but a slight exaggeration does wonders for opening up opportunities within a large busy clothes store and in this particular store they were numerous. Things were that lax. Julie did look at me hard with her forty something year old eyes and adjusted the sleeves of her neat blue blouse. The one with the puffy sleeves she wore that I liked. From the young girl range brought in for the summer. A trim size ten. 

   I could tell, you know, just by looking at girls what size they were. That was the beauty of working in a fashion store that catered for both sexes. The place just crawled with girls. All shapes and sizes. The girl’s area way bigger than the guys and, obviously, needing more staff. But good sales girls, and guys for that matter, were a tough get. Saturday ones being the most difficult. The girls were not so interested in work, spending much of the day staring at nails and chatting. The boys, one word, football and you need say no more. The girls did plant the odd nudge and comment on the few fellas who wandered in but, outside of that, really… Saturday staff seemed a complete waste of time. 

   Me, I didn’t count. Sure I was Saturday only, had been for nearly a year, but I had an agenda as far as financial matters were concerned. All for one and that was me was the appropriate saying. Up until now, of course, when I had a down the middle partner to consider. So, a high turnover of Saturday staff was to my benefit and mostly girls simply because the shop employed more of them. The Saturdays they were short of girls I got to work the girls side alongside the lovely Val, the full-time lady. And today that went a long way to explaining Julie’s pissed off expression. Two girls short and I was late. 

   So, there I was standing behind the girl’s side counter chatting to Val. A nice lady. She had one of those smiles that melted ice cream. You know the sort, warm and welcoming. That was why the job suited her. Last month she won the top sales award which made it three months in a row. Top girl in a top shop selling top end fashion. Just my kind of place. 

    I had this thing about work: there were always opportunities. All those little oddities that added bucks that made it all worthwhile especially when pay for fellas of my age was so low which in my present situation meant ends could be very difficult to meet. The opportunities, though, they just needed spotting and a little bit of creativity never went amiss. The ability to spot the angle and that's what I liked about Monkie. His obvious ingenuity. Combine that with mine and hopefully there was a winning formula. 

   For instance, my first ever job at eleven was a great example. Well, to be more accurate I was eleven but shortly to be twelve not that it made much difference other than with perception. It made it just a touch easier to persuade Charlie I was not too young. I’d found out that from his perspective eleven was the age of a minor but twelve, for some obscure reason, he considered grown up. 

   So, my first job. I’d spent half the summer holidays sitting on a wall watching Charlie the milk clatter along at slightly more than snail's pace in the three wheeled electric milk float with a permanent roll up smouldering on his bottom lip and a cough that worked well to indicate his presence on dark mornings. Saturdays were payment days when he panted and wheezed up and down the various paths carrying a crate of up to six bottles. Maybe even a loaf of sliced white or a bottle or two of orange juice. A leather pouch on a strap across his chest contained quite a few pounds of loose change that he couldn’t leave on the milkfloat. Saturdays he collected the week’s payments and as the day wore on the weight just got heavier until he started to fade. 

   I knew from Alfie, the same source that provided the perspective information, that Charlie was liable for any shortfall in takings hence the need to hang onto the money bag at all times, the world being so full of light-fingered blighters. Alfie, being a school mate, well, not so much a mate, more the school snitch with a liking for a bag of boiled sweets whose mum happened to be the Doris in that little square wooden cubicle at the front of the food store. The one next to the way out door. She collected the cash from people’s purchases. Chatted, the way friendly ladies do, as she double checked Charlie’s weekly take. Incidentally this was the same financial liability put upon me when I worked at the petrol station that required careful consideration to stay ahead of the game. 

   Responsibility for cash required constant haulage and maybe three miles of rapid walking carrying the weight of up to six full bottles with a return trip of up to six empties - the fella, quite seriously, needed a fit, young pair of legs to relieve the Saturday strain. So, one Saturday at six, having slipped out of my bedroom window… yeah, I know, but we lived in a semi-detached bungalow, I stood outside the rear gates to the food store right in the middle of the entrance. 

   The whirr of the milk float and there was Charlie shouting at me about getting out of the way. Stepping aside, as he crawled past, I hopped onto the passenger seat. The conversation was short. First he told me to get out but not quite that politely. Snapping out a phrase of just two short words the way he did would make any prim and proper lady blush. But, to his credit, he did listen when I said he should hang on and listen. Coughing and breathing stale beer fumes he nearly spat out the fag but did pay attention as I reeled off a stream of untapped benefits that were, fortunately, sitting right there next to him in the cab. 

   Two and six was all he said he’d pay but only if I was old enough. A derisory amount, no mistake about that. But I’d already seen the way to improve the financial arrangements so I took the offer without negotiation. The trick, I’d decided, was to lay on the young lad charm so up the path to the first house with the instructions of two gold top and one orange juice for Mrs Jones, number twenty-two and collect three shillings and four pence. Told Mrs Jones three and five, grabbed the cash, four empties, back into the cab, handed over three and four leaving one penny in my pocket. The bonus of one penny tip I kept as well. The tip being the result of a chirpy nearly twelve-year-old brightening up Mrs Jones's doorstep after several years of a Saturday grump with dog breath. Easy. Hardly anyone questioned my cheeky smile and were quick to accept the sorry, my fault, if they did. 

   A year our relationship lasted during which Charlie kept warm and dry in his cab, coughing and catching up reading the top shelf mags while I squirrelled away the pennies people did not miss. All added to the wealth hidden in an old tobacco tin under the shed. Then I moved on to work at the butchers for two years.     Now, there was a place. Out back full of blood, sawdust and bleach for the block. Sharp knives that I soon got the hang of. Made up the orders then off on the bike. One of those with the small front wheel to allow for a huge basket. Quite easily I appropriated sirloin which I knew my father was particularly partial to. Maybe it was that that slowed down the nocturnal visits but I suspect it was actually due to a slight fear starting to creep in. By thirteen I was already tall and strong. Strong partly through a year’s haulage of heavy bottles but also due to the fifty pound sawdust filled punch bag in the school gym and me being selected for the school boxing team. Even if I say so myself I did have a handy pair of fists. 

   So, here I was standing next to Val watching the guy’s changing rooms which were almost opposite the girl’s counter. Full of flaws was the way I’d describe the trying on clothes procedure. Super slim guys would grab a couple of pairs of trousers, shirts, maybe a jacket if they were wearing a jacket and wander into the cubicles then return looking like they’d just had a good feed, say something about the trousers being too big and saunter out sporting a sly grin. No one seemed to bother about collecting the not-there clothes and, even more curious, no one noticed the abundance of chubby guys who left. Clearly the place had a reputation amongst the local, young male population. 

   A while back I mentioned this to Julie who, being a top manager, immediately identified the reason for consistent stock shortfalls way above what might be expected from shoplifting. Why mention it, you might ask. Surely the opportunity was there to appropriate uncollected stock left in the changing rooms by honest customers and I’d have to agree with that. But… think a bit further. First, I didn’t get to choose the items I wanted. Second, it was to my benefit to keep the loophole open and that would not happen if the stock loss went up due to my pilfering the changing room. Clearly the trick was to keep it open by nabbing offenders so that the monthly stock shortfall decreased. I became a hero which added to my reputation as a diligent worker, like today with helping a dying man. Julie received a pat on the back from higher management for increased profits meaning the need to change procedure disintegrated. 

   But where was my angle? Think about it. People worked. Teenagers were at school. It stood to reason that a good percentage of the shop’s turnover was from Saturday sales. The number of Saturday only workers confirmed this. So, logically, a high percentage of stock loss happened then. As most of you are probably aware every shop expects a certain amount of shoplifting and budgets for it. I’d discovered this particular store allowed five percent from the men’s department. Reduce that by careful vigilance and there was a balance to be snaffled and, from the lady’s counter, it was easy to watch and nab offenders. 

   A few pairs of Levis, all the most common sizes, two slim cut medium jackets and, of course, Ben Sherman's, the check patterns sold best and all neatly stacked in the yard out back during the course of the day behind the waste skip next to the hole previously knocked in the fence. Theft? Not as far as I was concerned so long as the stock loss stayed below the five percent. After all, I’d done the store a favour. I’d reduced stock loss, improved profits and made a manager very happy. All I was doing was taking a cut of the savings which some would agree was only fair. It might be asked why the try on procedure was not changed. The answer to that was simply, who knows. I expected it to at any moment, it certainly should’ve been but, of course, that would have been the signal to change my Saturday employment in which case I’d plump for an extra shift at the garage as that was a way more profitable place to work. 

   There were other benefits of working with Val. Girls bought more clothes than guys so commission was higher especially for a fella who had not only succumbed to his uncle’s word addiction but had inherited a good quota of his father’s natural charm which was definitely the only thing I could ever thank him for. 

   And of course there were the girls. A steady stream of the lovely creatures poured through the door. One thing I had made a point of learning early on in anticipation of opportunity was how to determine a bra size. It was easy and I expect every girl knows the tried and tested method with the three inches and all that stuff and the cup size calculations. So, in comes a girl and she wants a new bra. I say stuff to her about getting Val. Most say thank you but some… some find it a giggle having a guy with a tape measure stand behind them, whisper in their ear and measure twice. Once under and once… yeah, once right over the sticking out parts. 

   Today it’s Wendy. Tall, blonde with a face full of mischief. Trim but quite well structured on the front if you know what I mean. Not so far off a D I’d say. It's what she said that attracted me. Came straight out with it, 

   “Hi Rich, I’m Wendy and I hear you fit bras.” 

   Of course I wasn't aware I had a reputation but as time goes on and all that. So I said, “Sure,” picked up the tape measure and walked around the counter. 

  Wendy held up her arms high above her head and turned to face the mirror. “Come on then,” she said. Tilted her head a bit with wide eyes as she looked into the mirror. The corner of her mouth turned up wickedly. 

  “Drop your arms, can you,” I said as I stood behind her. “That’s better. Loose at your side. Up high like that and you stretch your bumps.” 

  She wiggled as I fed the tape around just under her bust all the time looking at my face in the mirror.  “You’re nice… Want my number?” Wiggled some more backing up a bit and grinned into the mirror. 

  “Maybe,” I replied but I wasn’t enthused and moved the tape to the widest part. She twisted side to side, “Keep still,” I ordered and looked her in the eyes. She tilted her head again. Seemed to be laughing. I kind  of sighed, “Okay, give me your number and maybe I’ll give you a call.” Actually, though, I don’t really know why I said that, habit maybe. I now had different views so I really wasn’t all that bothered. 

  “You don’t get embarrassed then?” 

  “Nope, why would I, I’m just doing my job.” 

  “Yeah, right… you love it, don’t you. All the girls. You know the words out. Your…” 

  “I’m what?” 

  “Your… recommended if you know what I mean… Here’s my number. Phone me later. I'm off now.”

  "What about the bra?”          

  "Oh, that. I only came in to check you out.” 

  “And.” 

  “You’ve got my number so work it out… and bring all your cash.” 

  I watched her slip out of the shop and disappear into the market crowds thinking the comment about cash needed careful consideration. I’ve already mentioned the problem with sponges and the one thing I didn’t want was a high maintenance evening with someone I didn’t care so much about. 

  The day ended on a high note with me reflecting on the reasons for my clothes shop employment: lax security and girls. The thing was though, as far as girls were concerned, my thoughts were firmly elsewhere and that was something I had been struggling with for a couple of months now. 

  Anyway, my pay in hand I headed for the pub. One slight problem: it was not exactly divisible by two. That left a halfpenny but I’d get over that by rounding it up in favour of Monkie. I grinned, just to underline my sense of fairness you understand. 

 4 

At six I pushed the door and walked into what was, for a pub, a bright space. The big side windows faced west and on such a fine evening light streamed in. A quick glance around. No signs of trouble. That was the thing with going into a pub on your own especially with my pedigree. Sometimes trouble lurked. Fellas out for the night wanting a bit of spending money or, and this was even more relevant, some past acquaintance finally catching up and wanting to make things right was the commonly used expression. At the moment I was thinking of a fella in a light blue Take Six suit but he wasn’t in there. Besides, I’ve a memory for faces and names and could not place him anywhere or put a name to what had been quite a distinctive face. 

  No Monkie, but the place was filling up with the on the way home workers who would eventually be replaced by the going out crew. Feeling safe I wandered up to the bar and had a word with Glynis. Nice girl. Mid length auburn hair and a bit wavy. Styled well to suit her face. Blue eyes that always smiled. Got a pint of best and a bag of nuts and chatted until she had to serve then found a seat in the corner out of the way. 

  Sat and watched. Mostly the door. Kept an eye on the punters coming in just in case but that was only a habit. Trouble had a way of standing out in a crowd and I had long ago learnt to spot the signs. Took a sip. Threw in a handful and chewed. Stared at the painting on the end wall. A posh looking fella from years ago sitting on a big chair with a gold crown on his head. King someone or another but I’d never spent the time to find out. He was a bit portly so maybe old Henry, the guy with all the wives. But I wasn’t sure. He had these eyes that seemed to follow you around the room. Real creepy. Before I was forced to wander over and check his regal title the door swung and there was Monkie closely followed by a group of noisy Mods. Parkas swished as they swaggered in. A couple wore a pork pie hat. 

  Monkie waited in the doorway and let the Mods struggle by. He didn’t move, just let them barge past. I could see him giving the place the once over. Lingered a moment on two fellas on bar stools but moved on when they glanced his way. I liked that, the care he was taking. Saw him settle on Glynis then his gaze flicked my way and he grinned. I had sensed he’d seen me the moment he walked through the door but the best thing, he hadn’t let it show. 

   Swinging around a couple of tables he wandered over. He had changed. Gone were the bomber jacket and ripped jeans. His working clobber as he called them. On was a slick grey jacket with straight lapels, no flap pockets and near new Levis. White T-shirt. The same red bumper boots. Hair slicked back. Quite long but nicely styled. 

   “Glad you could make it, “I said. “The hair looks smart.” 

   “My sister’s a hairstylist. She can sort yours out if you want.”

   “Not sure I want to look so slick but, thanks, I’ll give it some thought.” 

  The Mods had congregated under the portrait and were making a row. “Do you know them?” I asked Monkie. 

   “Nope. You?” 

  “No. Tribal stuff I don’t do. They’re like the trendy girls. All identical and full of crap.” I stared at the parkas with their fur collars and imagined a few dressed up hair dryers outside. 

   “They’ll upset old Henry the eighth,” said Monkie, “You know something? We’ve got the same boots and jeans.” 

  “Not the same thing, is it? Everyone pretty much wears jeans and the boots, so what, they’re just boots without a meaning. All those guys' stuff has meaning. Everything is worn for a purpose. It identifies them as part of the wider tribe.” 

  “You know what, I do like you. You’re a useful fella to know. You're a banker, a lawyer and now a psychologist… anyway, how was the day?” 

   “First I’ll get you a pint… hang on.” 

   Over to the bar and I had to wait for the Mods to get a refill. The one ordering giving Glynis a hard time. She held her own until the guy grabbed her arm and tried to pull her close. Glanced at his mates, grinning. Confidence in numbers, I thought. So I wandered over. 

   “Hey Glynis,” I said, “Are you serving or shall I give you a while to chat to this guy?” I looked at the fella and gave him a quick flash of the teeth. 

    Glynis replied, “Sure, Rich, just give me a second.” She turned to the guy and said, “Anything else?” 

   He stared at me, seeming to be contemplating making a move. Unblinking, I stared back. Didn’t shift my gaze and said nothing. That made him glance at his mates but they were all chatting. He glanced at me and I saw he was lost. Without his support he let go of Glynis and left carrying a tray. I watched him say something and a couple of his lot turned my way. Looked like they might wander over but there was hesitation. I flashed some more teeth. They looked at each other then carried on talking. 

   I swung back to Glynis. She was rubbing her arm and I noticed the look on her face, “Pint of best, please, Glynis” I said adding a cheerful, “You okay.” 

  “Sure,” she said, forcing a smile, “and thanks, Rich.” 

  “You’re nice,” I said. 

  “So are you,” she replied and walked off to the other end of the bar and picked up the phone. 

   As I watched a huge guy wearing a black suit and white shirt came through the door at the back of the bar, gazed at the end of the room towards old Henry and smiled at Glynis. She glanced my way but didn’t do anything, just looked, but I knew what she was saying. Telling me the evening heavy crew were coming on-line. 

   “Trouble,” asked Monkie as I returned to our table. 

  “Not really,” I said. “See the big guy who’s just appeared? Together with his mate, who’s probably out back finishing off polishing his knuckles, they’re the peacekeepers of this establishment. The girl’s name is Glynis in case you want to buy a round. She’s real nice.” 

   “Odd name… Is that a hint?”

  “My glass is nearly empty… her name’s actually Mary Johns but we call her Glynis. You know, after Glynis…” 

   “Johns, the Mary Poppins Glynis Johns?” 

   “That’s it. She’s nice as well.” 

   “Interesting. So, while we’re on names, how about an explanation?” 

   “The name’s Aubrey Richards. My mum reads a lot and one of her favourites is Lord of the Rings.” 

   “The one with dwarfs and elves and crap.” 

   “Yeah, so she’s nuts about elf lords. Thinks they’re just about the most romantic beings.” 

   “Okay, I get that but…” “Why Aubrey… apparently it means elf ruler or some such thing. German origin I think she said. Anyway, at the moment I’m not sure it fits my profile too well so I stick with Rich.” 

   “That sounds fair enough. So, as I was saying, how was the day?” 

   “Excellent.” I handed Monkie a few notes and change. “There’s three pounds three and six there.” Then to make sure he was aware, I said, “It’s rounded up to take care of a half penny split.” 

   “That’s very generous, a whole halfpence.” 

   “A sign of solid commitment,” I said and Monkie just grinned. I think he found that a bit funny. “There’s more that we pick up when we leave.” 

   “Much more?” 

   “You know the rule about jobs?” 

   “Sure, they need an angle.” 

   “Correct, and the rest we’re picking up is the angle paying off.” I told him all about the shop setup and why I worked there. 

   “I take back what I said about boring shop work… Did you get us a date?” 

   “Got a number so we can give it a go later if you want… What about you? You mentioned cats.” 

   “Sure, there’s four empty cages in the car… here’s your cut. There’s five pounds ten shillings.” 

   “You’ve a car?” I asked, hoping my ongoing transportation problems might be about to be resolved. 

   “Well, yes and no. My dad sells the things. Monk’s Motors he likes to call his operation. 

   “That has a neat ring to it. Kind of a backstreet under the arches sort of ring though.” 

   “Yeah, and he does sell mostly second hand junk. He’s got a showroom, well, that’s what he calls it. More of an old warehouse with a workshop tacked on the back. I’m not entirely sure how… how should I put it?"

    "Are you looking for a word like professional?”      

   “That’ll do nicely. I don’t know how professional his operation is. He sticks firmly to the bottom end of the market where there’s a buy it, dump it attitude. Ride ‘till it dies is his company motto. No comebacks that way so maybe, like you say, a bit on the backstreet side.” 

   “That’s not the important thing, is it though. The question is, is there a market?” 

   “Massive… at the moment, that is, but I think that’s about to change. For now, though, there are plenty out there who want something real cheap with no maintenance cost. Long term though things need to change but he’s stuck with the same old story, he needs capital to move up the few notches it’ll take to keep up with the market. Anyway, I get to use the stock in exchange for helping him out.” 

   “So, you know a bit about cars?” 

   “Pretty much everything there is and I can sell the things.” 

   “Well, this is unexpected news,” I grinned. “A partner with wheels and the knowledge to boot… anyway, back to the cats.” 

   Monkie’s smile had a mischievous look about it, “Yeah, the cats,” he said, “I find lost cats.” That made me wonder. 

   So I said, “I bet that’s hard work. It’s not gone unnoticed that they can be difficult to locate even when they’re not lost.” 

    “On the contrary, it’s not at all difficult and there’s a reward.” 

    “So, a bounty hunter. Nice job… is it dangerous?” 

    “Not so much. Not if you know where they are and they’re small and lack fangs.” 

    “I see but if that’s the case please explain why they’re lost?” 

    “They’re lost as far as the owners are concerned and they put up a reward. You must’ve seen the notices in the shop windows, Cat lost, five pound reward from a grateful owner. Something like that although the sum does vary quite considerably.” 

   “So, where do you normally find these disorientated feline creatures?” 

   Monkie shrugged, “In the back of my dad’s garden shed, of course.” 

   “Of course, I should’ve realised there was a convenient explanation. Let me guess how they got there… I know, you’re a catnapper.” 

   “Sure, but not in the true sense… I don’t demand a ransom. I simply wait for a reward to be posted.”    

   “Okay, but that still has a big catnapping element. How…” 

   “Do I appropriate them? From front gardens mostly. Tin of sardines, scruff of the neck, into the basket and a  holiday in a very luxurious location with the best tinned food money can buy. Mostly sardines or tuna or luncheon meat from my mum’s larder. Strangely they also do like corned beef. In fact anything that’s just lurking. Although I’ve found they’re not so bothered about pickled onions.” 

   “I’m not surprised… but surely cats can be noisy critters? Do your folks not notice?” 

  “Not so far. They’re not gardeners. The garden’s long. The bottom’s overgrown and they’ve probably forgotten they even own a shed. The best they manage is to cut the grass near the house and the mower lives in the garage. Then there’s the noise Bengie makes. It sort of detracts from any meowing that might make it all the way to the house.” 

    “Your dog?” 

    “Parrot. My mum wanted a dog, hence the name, but my dad decided to surprise her.” 

    “And I bet that worked.” 

   “It sure did, especially considering Bengie’s disposition. I asked him why a parrot and he said something about a pet’s a pet and they don’t need as much walking. But, probably the main thing, Bengie was extremely cheap.” 

   I took a moment to ponder and without any firm conclusion I said, “You know, I’ve always thought parrots were exotic and were found at the higher end of the cost scale. There must’ve been a reason why the creature was so affordable.” 

    “Of course and that has caused some problems… You’ll have to come and meet him, the parrot, then it’ll be obvious. He’s got an interesting turn of phrase but I’ll explain that when you’re there preferably when my mum’s out. She gets upset because she won’t let the vicar in the house anymore. Anyway, they're not there long, the cats. Cat owners tend to miss them quickly.” 

    “So, four baskets.” “Yup, four cats. One five pound reward, one three pounds and two, two pounds. For the company records that’s a total of twelve less the cost of food to supplement my mum’s larder makes eleven hence the five pounds ten I’ve just handed you.” 

    “Very good and a good enterprise for sure and an even better explanation.” 

    “So, drink?” Monkie finally asked and wandered over to have a word with Glynis. Came back and said, “She is nice, isn’t she.” Then immediately changed tack, “What about the girls?” 

    “I’ll call and make the necessary arrangements. Where shall we go?” 

   “How about the Ricky Tik, Windsor. Saturday night is Geno night.” 

  “Your car?” “Sure… Petrol?” 

  “If you’ve enough for tonight I’ll fill it up with what I collect tomorrow if you come to the petrol station at ten when I’m closing.” 

  “You work in a petrol station?” 

  “Sure, the Sunday afternoon and evening shift. Two ‘till ten.” 

  “On your own?” 

  “Sure.” “And the angle is?” 

  “What else, free petrol and oil. I’ll explain how that works tomorrow when you arrive. Free maps if you want them but they’re free anyway. There’s a story there I can tell you. All about a robber who might've been lost.” 

   “Okay… how about the clobber we’re going to collect? The stuff from the shop.” 

   “Oh, that’s no problem. It goes on my market stall. It’ll be sold by Thursday evening.” 

   “You’ve a market stall.” 

   “Sure and before you ask the angle is it’s an outlet for freely obtained stock. I should add mine and others who pay a commission for items sold. Before you ask some more, I do vet them. They’re all like-minded pilferers rather than full blown violent criminals… So, how about we finish the beers, collect the stock, I call the girls and we head for Windsor but first a trip to my place. Marge’ll like you. She loves cats so you can have a natter while I change.” 

    “Who’s Marge?” 

    “My landlady.” 

    “You’ve a landlady?” 

   “Sure. They’re a necessary requirement if you happen to live in digs. I'll tell you all about her while you drive us there. It’s not far. Two train stops.” 

   “How far apart are the stations?” 

   “Not so far. I’m sure your motor will get us there.” 

   Monkie had a dubious look, “You know I told you the garage moto? Well…” 

   “No matter, if it croaks we'll get the bus.” 

  “And the girls?” 

  “Oh, I’m sure they’ll not mind a walk. It’ll be a nice warm evening. Think of the romance. The spring air, breeze through their hair, a stroll hand in hand en route back from Windsor… It’s only twenty miles.” 

5 

 I’m sure it was not difficult to miss any of Monkie’s cars. This particular one was parked right in the middle of the crowded car park near five scooters with all the accessories. A rusted pile of metal with an Austin badge on the front and paintwork that was more or less blue. 

    I mentioned the condition to Monkie, “I know you said your dad’s stock was low-end but isn’t this a bit… well, I’d say below the waterline.” 

   “Maybe,” replied Monkie, “but he only lets me drive the ones that haven’t been through the workshop. New stock…” 

   “From the scrapyard, I assume.” “Some for sure but this was a trade-in bought…” 

   “You mean he paid money for it?” 

   “A nominal sum to remove it from the gleaming showroom of one of his mates… Anyway, his reasoning is that in this condition there’s not much I can do to wreck them.” 

    “A very good conclusion for sure,” I replied and gave the car the Rich quick walk around then announced that Monkie’s old man was certainly a very shrewd man when it came to balancing the pressure of giving Monkie mobility and the conservation of his bank balance. 

    It did seem to go quite well though. That is, after the stuck starter motor had received a sharp bash with a hammer and the stuttering wind up from an almost defunct battery. One good thing: it had the advantage of a huge pile of blue smoke drifting in its wake that would serve quite nicely if an unseen getaway was ever required. Although I’m not so sure such a car had the capacity to qualify as a saviour of liberty but, if need arose, I was sure it would probably do its best. 

    It turned out Monkie was as far into seventeen as I was coming up to seventeen so we were actually only two months apart. With a ready supply of cars he’d been driving for a while mostly around his dad's yard but on the odd occasion, when his old man was out, a swift sprint down the A3 and back provided excellent experience particularly on how to dodge the always lurking traffic cop in the black MG. Having practised all the necessary manoeuvres and with suitably gained expertise he had taken and passed his driving test by ten on the morning of his seventeenth birthday. 

   Once we finally got underway and, even including the stop at the phone box, it was not long until we arrived at my digs. Before I introduced Monkie to Marge I did mention Wendy’s suggestion about how much cash we should have with us when we picked them up but we agreed to see how things went before passing judgement. 

You know, I really love Marge and thinking about it a bit more I actually did love her more than my mum. Sixty something and lonely when I first met her. The curled grey hair and a look of permanent grief on her face. Dark clothes and a smile that lacked any sign of life. Her whole purpose probably had slipped a bit after Bernie passed away. We did seem to hit it off straight away although the first few weeks were a bit on the tentative side until the daffodil bulbs gave a hand. But I’m sure I brightened up her world and she definitely changed my life. Now I’d do anything for her. One day I thought I’d take her to meet aunt Viv. They’d get on like a pair of canaries for sure. 

    You know, I actually considered myself fortunate but, of course, that was not so difficult. I had this natural resilience. Add an overbearing confidence and you’d understand why I had a way of making the most of opportunities while learning a few neat tricks along the way. I had this thing about wanting to know. If I saw something that grabbed my attention I had this urge to learn how to do it. Things like lip reading and picking locks. Things that had enabled me to survive. Now, I know that sounds dramatic, like I prevailed through a real disaster. To some that might be the case but for me it was simply an inconvenience or, at least, that’s what I thought. Just a stutter in time that was fairly quickly resolved by meeting Marge. 

   I’ve already explained home life was a trauma. I was way ahead of my time and that meant constant clashes with authority which in our household was my old man. A guy with the biggest rod of iron you'll ever see and no fear of wielding it in the form of the leather belt I’ve already mentioned. Add to that a quick draw temper and there was always going to be trouble. That was until I started to really grow. By sixteen he would think twice before having a go. He knew there was a danger I’d do him real harm and, thinking of my mum, I’d definitely have loved every minute of it. But he still had the temper and when that took a hold the outcome would always be in doubt. 

    It didn’t take a genius to realise he was a right bastard. When he didn’t get his way, that was when… well, he snapped was the best way to tell it. Anyway, all he wanted was a few beers, a few mega scotch chasers and a quiet life stretched out on the sofa. A rebellious son was something he definitely had not signed up for. The result: one chance too many and I was out the door. Quick as with no argument. All that was lacking was his size nine boot up my backside. But… I must admit this time I might have asked for it… no, I’ll have to rephrase that, I definitely did ask for it. 

  The evening had been long and I’d forgotten my key. All was quiet when I got home and… you can maybe guess, wake the old man at your peril. The way in: through the kitchen window. Wiggle the fanlight open. Reach in, open the big window and, using the waste pipe bend as a step, slide in over the sink. Easy. Done it so many times. But, and here’s the thing, not when more than enough had been consumed and not at four in the morning. In short, the sound of me throwing up in the kitchen sink woke the household. 

   In a way, though, it was also my dad’s fault. He should have known better. One thing you should never do is pull someone’s head out of the sink, by their hair, to yell in their face when they’re in mid-heave. Not if you want to keep your pyjamas vomit free that is. Anyway, he was soaked and stinking and furious and yelling so much the man in the moon could hear and that was it. Things flew and doors slammed and the overdue end finally arrived. My mum cried on the doorstep in the dark as she watched me stagger down the road. Turfed out into the cold at sixteen with nowhere to go. 

   A disaster you might think. Not so, just a regroup was all that was required and that’s what I thought I’d do. No matter how tough it seemed I could handle it. First stagger to the park and a bench by the pond. Did I get some sleep? Some, I suppose, but only because I’d had so much to drink. Then I woke up shivering with the air so fresh and everything damp. I sat up, pulled my jacket tight and hoped the sun would strengthen before I died of frostbite. All I did was sit and stare in a dream and watch as people started to appear to give me a look they reserved for the down and outs. 

   Anyway, the park warden exerted all of his peak cap authority and kicked me out as soon as he arrived at eight and I wandered into town. Trawled through the small ads and picked out three likelies. For Marge it was not so early but being on her own she still had the curlers in when I knocked. You can imagine how I looked. Park bench worn with a mega hangover. Ruffled hair. In fact the whole trampesque look. That visage of distress worked though and Marge virtually dragged me inside. Sat me down and there was a cup of tea, three sugars and a silver spoon. Then a bacon sandwich with proper ketchup when I offered to pay three months in advance. Breakfast and dinner included. I had one month in my pocket and I promised the other two when I returned with my stuff. The funds being readily available in what had become my safety deposit box under the shed. I knew exactly how much I had. The carefully concealed proceeds of three years of opportunities and enough for six month’s rent and a good supply of spending cash. If my father thought I’d try and come sneaking back through lack of funds he was mistaken. Besides, I knew something about my old man. A secret that one day might just give me an opportunity. 

   With the old man having gone to work the coast was clear to go and collect my stuff. I picked up a cab from the station and, with a flood of tears, my mum helped me pack. It did not take so long. All I wanted was my best kit. I had some good stuff from working in the clothes shop. Ben Shermans, two pairs of Levis and a couple of smart suits. Oh, then there were the shoes, brown Cubans with the chisel toe and the spare bumpers and all the other stuff. You know, undies and the like. Four big shopping bags and a real struggle. But I wore the full length tan leather coat so that saved another bag. A cardboard box with all my books topped up the taxi’s boot. 

    Mum gave me a tenner that I said I didn’t want but she insisted. As you would expect she was worried but I told her I’d found a nice place and she should come and visit and meet Marge. Then she would see there was nothing to worry about. One thing she did understand. She knew I couldn’t stay at home. If I did there would be blood spilled for sure. 

    School? I was sixteen so no need to bother with that anymore. Plans went on hold and after I settled down with Marge I set about extending a network of opportunities. I was already working at the clothes store on Saturdays and that gave me a bit of a start. Now, with my extended interests, I had enough in place to ensure a reasonable return but there was a lack of consistency now and again. What about the thing with Monkie? Progress was what it was and a way to try to really firm up my financial stability. 

   Marge’s place had a nice feel. I would suggest homely but it was much more than that. As soon as you walked in there it was, this expectation. It kind of hung in the air, the feeling this was a really great place to live. Warmth might do it but, as you can tell, I’m really struggling to put a finger on it. For me though, I suppose I’d say it was like blackcurrant jam. That’s my favourite by a long way and even while I’m spreading it on warm toast, with the butter already soaking in, I’m starting to feel the glow forming inside.  

   Maybe I felt like I did about Marge because my life had been such a pile of crap. Perhaps her place was just so different being free from all of that. Suddenly I had stability, something home had lacked. Sure my mother had tried but at times it was that tough… how shall I put it, she struggled is probably the simplest way. She struggled to find the time to deal with everything. No doubt about that. Do I have a problem with that? Absolutely not, I’ve already described the circumstances, haven't I. It must have been so difficult for her. Then, of course, just six months before I’d moved in Bernie had passed and Marge, I can tell you, she really did struggle. At the time I had no idea how much that would have an effect on me. 

   You know what, now I think about it, I actually found the change traumatic. In some way I think I struggled, probably as much as Marge did, until this one time I came home. It was about four in the afternoon and Marge was on her knees in the back garden with a big bucket of daffodil bulbs and dibber in hand. But she was stuck. Winter it was and the light was already fading. I asked her if I could help but she just looked at me through a pile of tears. She said Bernie and she had always planted the daffodil bulbs together. Every winter they added a few more although maybe a few weeks earlier. This year she hadn’t been able to bring herself to make a start. He’d stand next to her and she would ask him where to put them. This was the first winter he’d not be there and she said she couldn’t do it without him. She just didn’t know where they should go because he’d always told her. So, I pointed at a spot in-between two trees. She looked at me and smiled and said what a good idea. Then after I made a few more suggestions and the bulbs were gone we went inside and for a cuppa. 

    You know it’s crazy how these things happen. One moment I’m kind of tip-toeing around Marge, fearful I’d screw up somehow and the next everything had changed. Almost in a blink things were a lot more comfortable and all because of a bucket of bulbs. I like to think it was the coming together of two lost souls both not really realising how much help they needed. Both with the ability to… I’ll put it simply… to care. Now look at her. Bright clothes, neat smile, no frown. Me, I’m settled and secure and share her sense of happiness. And, what’s more, there have not been any more bulb moments. A couple of blips, maybe, but nothing major. 

    I had thought I was invulnerable. Thought I could just brush all the crap away. But this incident, seeing her like that, on her knees, with the bulbs, it made me realise how long I’d shut stuff up inside. Buried it deep. All the stuff with my dad but most of all my brother. When I first knocked on her door I had no idea how really screwed up I was so deep inside. Screwed up mostly because of what happened to my brother. That was until that winter day when Marge and I planted some bulbs and we both started to genuinely smile again.