Confessions from the Shop Floor. Timothy Lea

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ