RACING GREEN JAGS - Chapters 6-8

 6

After Marge had cooked us dinner I managed to get Monkie to drag himself away from a very entertaining conversation with her so we could go and pick up the girls. The girl from the shop, Wendy, turned out to be one of those who wouldn’t stop yacking. By contrast her friend, Joan, seemed a bit… well, I don’t really know how she seemed, she was just so quiet. Her look made me think of eating beef stew with dumplings. Anyway, thinking we might have made a mistake with the chalk and cheese we stuck the two of them in the back and headed off. The thing was my heart wasn’t in it. I think I’d only agreed to call them because of Monkie’s insistence. The truth was I had something really meaningful on my mind that was making me nervous. Something only a trip to the doctor would resolve. 

As we were en route to Windsor I suggested we swing into the pub down by the river in Sunbury. Monkie did question the reasoning so I told him it was like going to the bank to withdraw a few pounds of evening spending money.

“Interesting,” he said, “I assume you know the staff.”

“Sure, a nice guy I was at school with, Benny. He’s a financial genius when it comes to balancing tills in what is a busy cash only environment where pints pulled simply come out of a barrel with no easily definable rate of usage until the barrel is empty. Benny had noticed that in this particular pub the exact take was not equated to pints pulled, there being so many other items to influence turnover and most importantly he spotted the unusual amount of sloppage.”

“Sloppage?”

“Yup, that mysterious amount of beer that ends up in the slop tray. This pub makes an extraordinary allowance for sloppage to explain the loss of up to ten percent of a barrel’s contents. Eliminate that and…”

“Free pints.”

“Well, maybe, but more of an undetected financial gain that adds up to the value of just shy of ten percent of a barrel.”

“Nice, and the till…”

“Is reconciled by Benny at the end of the day with the slop money rolled over. The till roll is just short of the few pints that would normally have been lost in the sloppage calculation. The sum he makes depends entirely on pints sold which, given the lack of monitoring, he keeps safely locked up in the old grey matter. Eighty-eight pints to a keg equals a ten percent total of around eight pints. A rounded down calculation to eliminate the chance of error. A simple task for a genius. By the way, like the clothes, Benny doesn’t consider it theft but simply the recycling of a waste product particularly as the elimination of slop had increased the pub’s profits. Then there are the pickled eggs, of course.”

“Of course… disgusting things, for sure.”

“Exactly, but not in Sunbury apparently. The landlord’s wife makes them using eggs from her chickens in the rear yard. Packet of plain and a pickled egg being the favourite here. And there’s no price stamped on the huge jar sitting behind the bar next to the optics…”

“Open to abuse, I assume.”

“Quite so. Particularly as there is no input cost… Shall I mention the optics?”

“No need, I get the picture. The place is suitably lax to offer significant opportunities that when added together…”

“Allows for change for a fiver instead of the one pound note offered and a free pint when I happen to drift in most Saturday nights.”

“But where’s Benny’s benefit if he’s handing you his spoils?”

“Free petrol, of course, until his credit runs out meaning I get more per gallon than if I just sold it and he gains by transferring his motoring expenses onto beer and pickled eggs. A neat way to avoid the risk of actually having to extract cash from the till and an excellent outlet for my opportunist bunce.”

“I see and, as you said, you’ll be showing me how the petrol thing works tomorrow.”

“Sure, and like the sloppage there’s no actual theft involved.” 

“Well, after that lengthy explanation into how a pub actually works I suppose we best give it a try,” said Monkie who glanced over his shoulder and noticed the two girls smiling and, like me, was probably subconsciously already regretting the impending effect on finances.  

After about twenty minutes we chugged into the pub car park and pushed the door to enter a bustling establishment. The place was old. Probably older than old King Henry hanging on the end wall of The Crown. The landlord a short plump fella with a big round red face and happy smile who looked at least as old as the pub. Sitting on the end bar stool, pint in hand, chatting to what were probably his local cronies. Seeing him, Monkie immediately understood what had attracted Benny's desire to choose this pub for employment. 

Benny, dark curly hair bobbing as he served, grinned our way as we walked in. The sole barkeep and obviously with the ability to multitask. We stood at the bar waiting for Benny to finish serving not realising that this particular Saturday night was destined to be one of continual bad decisions. Our transaction with Benny was not a problem though. We received funding and a pint and I arranged to meet him at the garage about five tomorrow afternoon, by which time I would have accumulated sufficient petrol to make good our business commitment. By ten I would have restocked enough to fill up Monkie’s excuse for a car.

The girls, though, were a different matter. They were about to become a problem and we were shortly to discover the meaning of Wendy's cash comment. They both demanded double brandies with a splash of lemonade and a pickled egg which we had to pay for and understandably made Benny grin. Within what seemed a few seconds we were staring at Oliver Twist type of looks and wondering how many rounds the girls could handle before they fell over. I shot a look of dismay at Monkie who swung his eyes to the ceiling. I was already feeling the weight of coins in my pocket reducing by the second.  

I glanced to the corner and saw two guys staring our way. One said something and I said to Monkie, “Those two… over there… they know the girls. The one with the frown said something about cost.”

“Another one of your talents I suppose… lip reading,” replied Monkie.

“Yeah, and we could be in luck.” I said, nodding at Joan who was looking towards the two guys hopefully seeing two fellas she fancied way more than us. Well Monkie, anyway, because Wendy was hooked on me for sure.

Sure enough, Joan nudged Wendy who looked at me and I saw reluctance staring back at me. I deliberately looked away, turned my back and started talking to Benny. Not being stupid it was enough for Wendy to get the message. The two of them trotted over giving us ample time to escape and successfully plug a potentially unlimited drain on resources. Those two fellas, I was sure, had already had experience of the high price tag that was heading their way and, with no reasonable escape, were probably already not looking forward to being landed with the worry of potential bankruptcy.

We left and sharpish before they noticed. Bashed the starter motor and meandered along the bendy roads back to The Crown having decided not to risk the Ricky Tik given the state of our luck so far this evening. We pulled into the car park at around ten and there he was, Dodgy Donald hauling his lightweight, five foot and not a lot more frame out of my father’s car. His thin, creepy face looked goulish in the darkness. Narrow sly eyes slowly scanned the parked cars. Yeah, I know the name sounds corny but it must be remembered I was only nine when I named him. 

One thing I haven’t mentioned yet was that I like to write stories mostly about dubious characters. I immediately know what you will be thinking and maybe it's true. I do portray the impression of having a slightly suspect nature but I feel that has simply developed out of the necessity of connecting those stubbornly reluctant ends under the extremely difficult financial circumstances that had been forced upon me. Is that an excuse? I agree, not really is the answer, but, there again…  anyway, that’s what I do. Write stories about dodgy characters. A passion that comes from all the books I read.

Like I said I was only nine and in the middle of writing a tale about this fella Dodgy Donald. A guy who had the ability to slither through windows in the dead of night. Incidentally I’ve a theory why it’s called the dead of night. Between three and four in the morning sleepers are at their lowest point and if you’re going to expire when asleep it’ll likely be then. Just my theory though.

So, how did Will Cripps come to be labelled Dodgy Don? Because unknown to my father I knew what they were up to. I’ve already explained about my Sherlock Holmes-like observational skills so it’s easy to understand how I knew and I think I’ve already mentioned my father was a salesman. What I did not tell you was what line of business he worked in. Electronics. He was a wizard as far as anything electrical was concerned. 

Between him and Don they had a scam on the go. My father’s clients had expensive stocks of the latest gadetry and he could point Don in the right direction. Then, having all the necessary knowledge, he could silence any security system in a flash if the premises were alarmed. That meant, on occasion, my father would tag along with Don to do the necessary and that’s when I found out. Late one night the two of them came in but I was already awake due to thinking about how to expand the exploits of Dodgy Don. I saw, I heard and I understood. That’s all that needs to be known. Knowledge firmly filed into the might be useful one day box and not to be mentioned until the certainty of a permanent result. And now here was Dodgy Don out at just after ten and in my father’s car. Something was up there was no doubt about that. 

Fortunately the last thing Don would expect would be to see me mostly because he had no idea I would be huddled down in the passenger seat of one of the most inconspicuous cars on the planet. Rough it might be but a stick out motor it was not, there being a fair supply of equally rotten cars to hide amongst.

The thing with curiosity was exactly as the word implies. It makes people curious. So curious virtually everyone will succumb to the overwhelming desire to find out and that includes me although in this instance not Monkie so much. He was more inclined towards the have a few beers option with the hope that some lonely ladies would be inside. Although I’d only just met him it was plain that Monkie was one of those relaxed people who always had a preference but at the same time was perfectly happy to go with the flow. So, we parked in the corner of the car park, in the darkest spot, and waited. 

Eleven it was when Don came out with my father who must have already been inside. Both dressed in black confirmed my thought that robbery was about to occur. My dad drove as they headed out of town. Not so far. Perhaps twenty miles south, certainly not far enough to cause us petrol anxiety. An industrial estate just by Woking was the destination and a warehouse tucked conveniently down the end of a short, dead end street. We pulled up at the start of the road. Getting out I walked to the corner where I had a good view. It was too dark to make out the name on the front of the building but the double doors had a big red electricity bolt logo pinned in the centre.

Don was not dumb that was obvious. Saturday was a great time to hit a location. Everyone concerned with the place was sure to be weekend relaxing somewhere or another. Reaching the end they swung around and parked on the road maybe fifty feet from the gate facing up the street between two other cars. Cut the lights. Turned off the engine but didn’t get out. What were they waiting for? An accomplice? Unlikely, I thought. The two of them were tight and, any intelligent villain will tell you, for every additional body more risk arises and inconvenient loose ends start to materialise. 

Hanging back beside a hedge I glanced back at Monkie. He’d turned off the engine but stayed inside the car in case we needed a quick getaway which was certain to be a tough ask. Anyway, headlights were heading my way so I ducked into the bushes before the security van appeared. Watched it drive down the dead end and swing by the warehouse. Now I understood why Don was waiting. Regular security patrols, loads of places used them. Nip by what, every hour or so through the night. Check the doors. Swing a torch then off. What a waste of time. No villain was so dumb that they could not figure out they had a whole hour in-between visits all to themselves. More than ample to sift through the stock especially if one of the partners knew the valuable stuff and could kill the alarm.

As soon as the van had left they rose up from beneath the dashboard and were out. Don heading down the side no doubt to do the slithering. My old man by the front entrance, tool kit already in hand together with a small set of steps. A minute or so and the door opened. My father in like a shot. The door closed behind him then nothing. Thirty minutes later they reappeared hauling a trolley. My father ran to the car, swung it around and pulled up by the door. In with the swag and… an engine started. Not Monkie’s but somewhere close. And… you guessed it. A sudden glance and Don saw me.

I swung a look at our car. Frantically waved at Monkie who moved. Swept out of the car, hammer in hand, flicked the bonnet catch and bashed the starter motor. Turning to stare towards the warehouse there was Don sprinting and getting closer. Looking towards Monkie, who was back in the car, I heard the engine struggle with just the odd lurching heave. Don maybe fifty yards away now and puffing hard. My father had started his car and was swinging into the street. Only a few more seconds and… I ran to the car, dragged the door and leapt in. Monkie gave the key a second turn then a third resulted in four slightly less tired successive chugs and the engine caught.

Of course, you would have already guessed, the one downside of this motor was that, even though it had the best intentions, a quick anything was not in its repertoire. Fortunately the hesitant starting procedure proved quick enough to allow us to slowly pull away just at the same moment Don arrived on the corner blowing hard. The trail of blue smoke I knew would obscure the number plate. I looked at Monkie who was looking at me. Neither of us smiled. We had the same thought. There was only one question: Had Dodgy Don or my father recognised me?

7

Even after we had written off the rest of the night it was still way past midnight when Monkie dropped me home. As I turned the lock I thought about it. How now and again an evening is quite often doomed by reasons outside of your control but in this instance it was mostly of our making. Two duff girls and a curiosity both of which we didn’t have to get involved with. The thing with my father was impossible to ignore though. The way I felt about him… well, you know how it is, if there was anything worth knowing I just had to find out. Now I had seen him in action so maybe I had just the beginnings of a bit of leverage. 

Pushing the door until it clicked I crept upstairs, tiptoed past Marge’s door and into my room. Call the cops I thought as I undressed but decided not yet, I’d give it time. Besides, as I said, Don was not stupid and the proceeds were sure to be shifted tout de suite. In fact evidence might already be non-existent and if any police interest did not stick I was sure Don would eventually discover the source of the cop’s knowledge then I would feel the pain. It had to be something way more concrete. One more thing, I already had the feeling that If I had been recognised a visit would not be too far away and Don had some very useful mates. Anyway, it was not my way to get ruffled. This was something that would sit nicely on the back burner but no way would it be ignored. Vigilance was the name of the game just in case Don and his crew came knocking.

Sunday, normally a leisurely get up and a cooked breakfast. A bit later than normal, a sort of brunch, and extra large to take account of me going to the garage and missing dinner. Today, though, I was up by eight and put a note on the kitchen table telling Marge I was popping out for about thirty minutes. Then strode to the station to the Doris with the small stall on the corner. A chirpy lady for sure. I’d seen her around town on the odd occasion so I knew she had teenage kids. She looked really good for what I assumed was a forty something florist.

The vases were laid out in neat rows on a three shelf rack. I’d seen her there a few times. In fact, every time I’ve caught a train she was usually there. I don’t know how long she stayed because I was always on the go. A busy, busy life was the life of a budding entrepreneur. Maybe she stayed until all the flowers were gone, who knows. One thing, though, they always looked fresh. I chose two plump bunches of white roses after the Doris said they were the first of the season. Early flowering I think was the way she put it.

Headed back to be greeted by the alluring smell of grilled bacon and frying bangers. As I crept through the kitchen door, with my arm up my back, the toaster popped and Marge jumped. Not because of the toaster though but because of me sneaking up on her. She held her hand to her chest as she turned and saw the sheepish grin on my face.

“What’re you looking so smug about and why are you creeping up on me. That's not like you at all.” Marge frowned when she had recovered enough to speak.

I didn’t say anything, just pulled my arm around and held up the big bunches of white blooms.

“What’re those for,” Marge asked with the makings of a smile appearing.

“For you… it’s our anniversary. Well, not so much anniversary, our sixmonthersary.”

Marge stared at the roses and wiped her eyes, “Sometimes you are so silly, Aubrey… these are really lovely… what a nice thought,” she said. That was one thing about Marge, she refused to call me Rich. She said something about that being between me and my mates. Standing on her toes she placed her hands lightly on my shoulders, pulled me down towards her, and kissed my cheek. “Sit yourself down,” she said and turned away back to the sausages and cracked an egg. She did take a swift glance over her shoulder and smiled.

I didn’t say anything else. No need. There was no sign of the slump of her shoulders she sometimes had and she had started to hum and sing under her breath.

“You came in late last night,” Marge said as she filled my plate and put toast in the rack. She had this way of talking to me. I’d say kind of motherly almost with a hint of concern in her voice. Maybe it came from not having kids of her own and a forlorn sixteen-year-old turning up on her doorstep.

“I’m sorry if I woke you. I did try to be quiet.”

“I know,” she replied, “but I hear everything at night. These days I’m a light sleeper.”

I knew that for a fact but what I would say is this was the first time I have come home when she has said anything. A subtle reprimand? I don’t think so. Maybe she just stayed awake until she knew I was home safely. There again though, perhaps that was just being a bit presumptuous, I’m not sure. But one thing was sure, I was careful when I got home and, after the experience with my father, I did try to limit my alcohol intake. That said, Friday night had been party night and I did consume more than enough but not quite enough to turn my head to complete mush and, after I had taken Bowler to A & E, I did manage to creep in undetected. At least that was what I had assumed but hearing Marge talk now, obviously not.

One thing I did have was a lot of friends. Some not much more than the acquaintances I’ve met through the variety of work I did but most were really good mates, guys and girls, from school and other places. One, this fella, Keith Bowler or just Bowler as he was known who coincidentally was the school opening bone breaker when it came to inter-school cricket. A tall, rangy guy with a big grin and a crewcut. Between us we had this idea for a money spinning scheme: The Penny Flip, a kind of gambling. Something that would be popular, cheap for the participants but at the same time, due to scale, lucrative. We had first thought of it in year two but waited until the third year before we got it up and running. Why wait? Because by then we were both tall enough, strong enough and, how can I put it, competent enough to be able to deter the takeover guys. Those who thought it might be fun to have a pop at the captain of the boxing squad and a fast bowler called Bowler.

So, the penny flip. Lunchtime break in the playground. There were two parts. First the penny throw. Ten players, entry one penny. Line them up facing the gym wall behind a dead straight chalk line ten feet away from the longest part of the wall where the playground tarmac was nice and flat all the way up to the brickwork. In turn, from the right, the players tossed a penny at the wall. The penny landing closest won. Winner takes all. In the case of a draw those tied threw again. To avoid controversy regarding possible differences in the tarmac surface after the first throw the players moved one space to the left with the person on the far left coming to the first spot on the right. Ten throws each then a new game started. The existing players could play again with another entry fee or new guys took their place. 

The second part, which I must admit was pure gambling but allowed those who were gifted with a consistently duff throw to have a chance to make a few bob. Bets were taken on who, after completion of the ten throws, would come out on top. Odds were set based on form. One penny was the only bet allowed. Payment made on completion of all ten throws.

The proceeds we laundered through the confectioners opposite the school. A really grateful old-time Doris called Mary who, being on her own, had a real security problem at busy times. Once a week she changed the large bag of coins, with their rough edges, for one pound notes and silver. Her benefit was a guaranteed reduction in pilfering offered by Bowler and myself with us suggesting that anyone caught shoplifting would be invited to have a conversation behind the bike sheds. Just like magic her stock loss suddenly dropped to near on zero.

Anyway, Friday was Bowler’s birthday. The venue: the back room of a pub out towards Morden. A short bus ride away from Marge’s place and a long walk home especially from the hospital. Now, some might question how sixteen and seventeen year olds could hire a room in a pub when the legal drinking age was eighteen. There’s two answers to that question. The first not so many pubs questioned age so long as you looked the part hence the reason Benny, who was seventeen now, could hold down a job pulling pints. Secondly Bowler’s brother. A fella older by two years so well able to do the necessary and with the advantage of inside knowledge being almost shacked up with Babs, the Doris who worked the bar. Being five years older than him and, by all accounts, thought she was heading for old maid status, so was madly in love and ready for life with the kitchen sink which in those days was a fairly common occurrence.

Chuck out time was eleven which was extended until midnight with a lock-in organised by Babs. As you would expect, free flowing drink led to boisterous behaviour and Bowler’s broken head at exactly midnight when time had been called with demands to leave sharpish and quietly. 

I should explain that birthdays at school for the fellas were celebrated when the biology boff went out for a puff normally around ten. The routine involved being hung out of the biology lab window on the first floor by your feet and dangled for a full minute over the headmaster’s prize rose bed. The practice continued until one time the boff returned prematurely and the class snitch, Alfie, failed to give the necessary warning. The sudden surprise of the door opening resulted in four turned heads and a loosened grip. When hung by the ankles it had been calculated by Benny, the class maths genius, that the drop was not far enough to cause serious bodily damage. Birthday boy quietly descended to bounce quite successfully with no harm except for a profusion of thorn stab wounds. Three of the headmaster’s rose bushes helped to break his fall. Three things occurred that saved us from the headmaster’s wrath. First, the biology boff, who was actually a bit dim, didn’t notice birthday boy’s disappearance. Second, neither the guys in the classroom below nor the art boff noticed birthday boy sail past their window probably due to his silent passage for which the entire class was more than grateful. Third, birthday boy was able to sneak away, out of the rear entrance and head home where he could repair the thorn damage and prepare a parental explanation for the multitude of small red dots. That left the headmaster to stare at the sky when he arrived to give the roses their lunchtime deadhead and wonder. To be safe from retribution it was decided to revert to the original practice of the bumps until such time that either the headmaster left or the roses died. And that was how Bowler received twelve stitches to his forehead just above the hairline.

The pub back room had been extended and a beam inserted to support the old rear wall over the knock through. As soon as time was called, in line with that school tradition, Bowler was grabbed and the resulting bumps included one extra high final fling unfortunately immediately under the low beam. The trip to hospital by taxi was paid for after a whip round on compassionate grounds raised sufficient for a one way trip. Bowler, being kept in for observation, left me to stroll home. Despite the collected funds not providing enough for a taxi home I did have a benefit from being the casualty’s escort. The walk was just shy of an hour, giving me ample time to sober up sufficiently to not embarrass myself in front of Marge if she happened to be awake.

So, Sunday morning was a slack time for sure, a time to take it easy while waiting to go to the garage. Normally a recoup of the brain after a Saturday night bonanza. Today, though, after our aborted adventure and uncustomary lack of alcohol, I was feeling good. The great thing about living here was I pretty much had the run of the house. The front room was really cosy. The furniture a bit old school but I wouldn’t expect anything else. It was comfy though. A floral three piece and chunky. You must know the sort, high rolling arms and sink into cushions. A sofa with two matching chairs. 

The house was one of those thirties ones. The product of a housing boom based on low interest rates and high affordability.  One of the many thousands that sprung up around London. A semi with a big round bay window that gave a great view of the street and an even better view of the white Ford. That’s what caught my eye as I stood gazing down the street. Brilliant white sticking out amongst the mostly black paint. The Consul Capri. I loved the styling of the sixty-two model. I thought it had that kind of space age feel that had started to dominate design with its reverse-raked rear window and flattened rear fins. This one a glistening white with really slick white wall tyres and highly polished chrome. It looked smart all right but totally wrong for the road. I immediately had suspicions.

A subtle movement inside and I stared really hard. There was someone there. The driver’s side was the furthest away so I couldn’t clearly see the person behind the wheel but I had no doubt who it was. I could just make out his hair. That slicked back jet black look stuck out worse than any injured thumb. Take Six man stared my way. Now, I considered myself smart when it came to spotting trouble. Seeing this guy yesterday had rung a bell. Not so loud but a good ding dong for sure. Now though, twice in consecutive days and I was near on deaf. 

I stepped back from the window and waited a moment. Take Six didn’t move. Just sat still. I assumed he was staring my way. I saw fingers tapping the steering wheel and imagined the Small Faces or something equally catchy quietly drifting from the built in radio. Then he moved his head forward a touch and I could clearly see his face, his eyes looked straight at me through the windscreen and he grinned.

8

What this fella wanted was anyone’s guess but one thing was sure it was obvious serious stuff was occurring. My main concern: when one person watched others might be lurking somewhere in the background. Others who were sure to be of a not so nice disposition. But Take Six man stayed put, probably waiting for me to emerge from the front door. What the hell did he want? One thing was certain, I had no idea. 

A thought struck me. He had watched Monkie scamming the green Jag driver. Had even stepped out of the Burger Bar onto the pavement chewing away on that cheese burger. To get a good view I assume. It must have been the show that had attracted him. Maybe he was one of Monkie’s victims but if that was the case why did he not just cross the road for a confrontation. The impression I had was he was likely more than capable of putting his point of view across rather persuasively. He could even have had a word with green Jag man. Something was up and I had one of those feelings. The nasty ones that said grief was about to unfold. I glanced at my watch. Coming up to ten. I needed to get away and catch up with Monkie but not via the front door that was a certainty.

Marge had finished in the kitchen and I could hear her upstairs in her bedroom. Her door must have been open because the sound of her chirping was very clear. I shouted up the stairs that I was going out to head to the garage early. I know she heard me. The singing stopped and I heard a cheerful okay. She already knew I worked until ten on a Sunday so there was no need to tell her I wouldn't be in for dinner.

Like most 1930’s estates the houses were back to back. Grabbing my bomber jacket, I pulled it over my white T-shirt, slipped out of the back door and briskly down the garden path to the rear feather edge boarded fence. Not so high, four feet or so. Marge liked a natter and the lady at the back was one of her friends. Hopping over in the corner where the fence was strongest I moved quickly over the lawn, down the side passage. Stopped at the front corner of the house. Scanned the street making sure the back exit was not being watched then out onto the next street. Turned right and headed to the station but took the back way down the alley past the school. It was longer but avoided the main road. Kept a sharp eye out for that white Capri as I approached the end of the alley. One street to go and I almost sprinted to the station entrance. The flower Doris was still there with new stock. Maybe Sunday was a good day for her with people out and about visiting. Perhaps going somewhere for Sunday dinner.

I used trains a lot. After all, it was the best way to get into town so I was on slightly more than nodding terms with the Derek in the ticket office, the one with the grumpy disposition. The thing with ticket clerks was they dealt with so many people they became kind of hypnotised, getting stuck in a mundane, repetitive process. This particular Derek was no exception. His look of feigned amusement was no less or more than usual. The half smile of recognition slumped when he spoke, turned into a scowl as he fiddled with the cash, but was restored as he handed me my ticket. A single as I hoped to cadge a lift home from Monkie. He then stared over my shoulder at the next customer, a lady with a frown that creased her brow.

As I moved towards the platform I heard the lady say, “Oh, I thought it would be less than that.”

I stopped and listened to the Derek’s testy voice, “That’s the correct fare to London, darling,” he said.

“But,” she continued, “my mother’s ill. I need to get there today.”

I heard a long sigh, “I’m really sorry, but that’s the fare.”

She stood a moment until the Derek ignored her and shouted, “Next.”

I could see tears in her eyes as she turned to leave, “How much short are you?” I said.

“Three shillings.” She was nearly crying now.

I fished out a ten bob note and said, “Here, take this and buy a cuppa while you wait.”

“But, how will I pay you back?” She sniffled.

“I’m always getting the train from here. If you see me and you’ve the cash, you know…” Then I just smiled and walked onto the platform. Glanced back and watched her rejoin the queue. Saw the Derek glance my way and actually throw me a proper smile. I sensed he felt bad but could not have done anything about it. Her frown had disappeared. Grinning, I thought about how little incidents make the world go around.

Why so many people should be about on a Sunday morning was anyone’s guess. The platform was rammed. With so much going on I needed to remain as inconspicuous as possible so hung back against the wall to the left side of the entrance where I had a good view and could check people coming in. Stations could be a bad place to be if there was a person wanting a sharp word with you. I was thinking of Don. Escape routes were limited but the trains could be even worse. In those days some carriages were made up of compartments with no corridors. Each was only accessible through the in-out doors. Get into one with those with an undesirable companion and there was definitely no escape. That thought made me slink back deeper into the shadows.

The wait was only a few minutes. The train rocked to a halt but I waited. Watched the platform empty. Listened to the doors slam. I noticed the two compartmented carriages so shifted down the platform towards the front of the train where I'd seen four open ones. Glanced back up the platform. Nobody suspicious lurked. Saw the guard right down the end begin to lift his flag and hopped on. Found a seat next to a fella reading the Sunday paper and smoking a tipless. I glanced at the long no smoking sign stuck on the window but said nothing. The carriage was full of smoke anyway. 

After fifteen minutes I was out of the station and walking towards town hoping it wasn’t going to rain. Down the High Street, through the market to the phone box by the river on the road that headed out towards Ditton. Fished out four pence and dialled.

Pressed the button and said to the girl who answered, “Is Tommy there?”

Heard a long yell and a muffled, “Don’t know, I didn’t ask.” 

Waited a moment, heard the phone clatter, then Monkie said, “Yeah.”

“It’s Rich… Was that your sister?”

“Yeah… what’s that knocking?”

“There’s a lady with a pickled face tapping on the phone box door.”

“You’re in a phone box?”

“That’s why she’s tapping on the door.”

“The impatient type?”

“Definitely. That’s why she has a pickled face.” 

“Where are you?”

“By the river just past the Crown… Fancy a coffee?”

“Is that a come and pick me up?”

“Not so much… I normally get the bus to the garage. Just now though it’s too early for work… So how about coffee? I’m paying.”

“Sure. Fifteen minutes. I’ll meet you in the Crown car park.” 

It was then that I discovered another advantage of a clapped out engine. The smoke stream was visible drifting above the trees way down the road before the car appeared. After a minute or so Monkie swung into the car park and hopped out. Kicked the door shut.

“It’s starting to be difficult,” he grinned. Loosening his belt he tucked in his white T-shirt and smoothed it down. “Where to?”

I looked at my watch. Coming up to twelve so I said, “The Burger Bar.”

With a look of hope Monkie nodded towards the pub, “It’s opening time,” he said.

“Correct,” I replied, “but garage rules, no alcohol before a shift.”

“That sounds a bit draconian… why?”

“The combustibility of petrol, that’s why and the need to keep a clear head. The customers can be tetchy and the robbers need careful consideration.”

“You’ve been robbed?”

“Sure, we live in a wicked world. Three times as it happens.”

“Any violence involved?”

“The threat of. One time a ball peen hammer and another a stream of vicious words fired in rapid succession that missed but still hoped I would submit.”

“That’s interesting and did you submit?”

“Nope. I called his bluff with the help of the baseball bat I keep behind the counter.”

“You hit him?”

“No need he legged it.”

“Okay, that’s two and the third?”

“The threat of a whack on the nose made in haste through a drunken haze just before the fella fell over of his own accord. I think he’d just run out of drinking money. And that’s why the robbers need consideration. I vet them. If a big black car containing two proper villains screeched to a halt on the forecourt that would be a different matter. I’d even help them fill up their sack.”

“What about the hammer though. That sounds dangerous.”

“Sure, but the guy was an opportunist and not so fit. He seemed to have trouble lifting the weapon above the horizontal. When I refused to hand over the cash he stamped his foot, hit the counter a couple of times and as he left grabbed all the maps from the rack next to the door.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said yesterday. The map story.”

“That’s it. He was so dumb he nicked about thirty maps that were free anyway. You know, buy ten gallons of petrol and get a free map… Before you ask, I didn't call the cops. I don’t want to get mixed up with those guys unless it’s absolutely essential… Anyway, we can’t stand in the pub car park chatting all day.”

“Definitely not. It’s torture if we’re not going in… Okay then, no problem,  the burger place it is.”

So, across the square, down the alley and over the High Street. Not so many people on a Sunday. The shops were all shut except, of course, the Doris in the newsagent who benefited from a swift grin as we passed. I stopped outside the Burger Bar and peered through the window before we went in.

“Something wrong?” asked Monkie.

“I’ll explain inside,” I replied as I pushed the door we wandered in and found a table towards the back.

After we had ordered Monkie said, “So, a good look around the place before we came in and a seat down the back when there’s a window table free. Something’s up for sure. Are you worried about your dad and his mate?”

“Not really although that’s a concern. So far, though, nothing from them. I’m starting to think we weren't seen.”

“Well don't think too much. Maybe they’ve just not caught up with you yet… Okay if not that…”

“It’s the fella in the white Consul Capri.”

“You’re being cryptic… what fella’s that?”

“Sorry, the one outside my place this morning. The same guy who was being over particular yesterday when you were going through your act. He stood outside this place watching as...”

“Hence the reluctance to come in.”

“Yeah, he was watching us. When I noticed him he grinned and walked off.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t think too much of it…”

“Until he appeared again today.”

“Right. The thing is he must want something for sure, otherwise why waste the time.”

“Did you recognise him?”

“Nope, he’s a new face and has the look.”

“Mean?”

“Not particularly, although I’ve a feeling he could be a handful. No, but I suspect he’s a smart one. An upmarket look but the feel of…”

“A villain?”

“Maybe, but he’s sure got the look.” 

“We keep an eye out then?”

“I think we should. He’s sure to be back… So, how about a lift to the garage when we’re done here?”

“Sure…It was ten you said you finished, wasn’t it… Is that too late for a beer?”

“Not necessarily. If we head to Benny’s pub there’ll be a lockin there for sure… Tell you what, I’ll call him later and check.”

“In that case I’ll swing into the garage just before ten,” replied Monkie who then got sidetracked as the door opened.

I glanced that way, absorbed the view and said, “Not for us… Trendies, and we’ve already had a run in with the sort of girls who have an inclination towards pickpocketing.”