“I’ll say.” he finished, and we were back on to the subject of his thespian tendencies.
Eventually we were done however, and after coughing up a relatively reasonable couple of quid for the haircut I joined the professor who was standing outside patiently waiting for me.
“Where now?” I asked, and the professor pointed across the green to the furthermost of the small shops that were arranged around the grassed area in a horseshoe shape.
“Guided tour.” he said. And off he went. I followed.
“This is the nearest village by far from the office.” He said as we walked across the green. He stopped and pointed out the shops in turn. “Handy to know who does what. There is the barbers of course, as you have seen. Then over there the local butchers. He does a nice jellied pork pie.” He smacked his lips. “Very tasty. Mr Loin runs that.”
“Loin?” I asked, smiling. The professor didn’t seem to be phased at all. “Yes. His predecessor, Mr Joint was a nice man too.” I felt my eyebrows slowly rising. “Then there is the coffee shop over there.” He pointed in the general direction of a small colourfully painted shop outside which sat several small tables. Tully’s was the name on the sign above the door, and apparently according to Wingnut their sandwiches were extremely good. Appropriately this was stated on a large chalk covered sandwich board outside the shop. The soup today was tomato. “Mabel is the lady who is the proprietor there.” he continued. “Very good with mayonnaise. Then there is the general store over there which is run by Mr Hinnerty. Sells everything, Luke.”
“Everything?” I laughed.
“Indeed. Try him. You’ll see.” he tapped his nose conspiratorially. “Always good for a spot of Helium three in a pinch. Saved many an experiment.” I smiled broadly, not entirely sure whether he was joking or not, whilst at the same time being completely baffled as to what helium 3 actually was. Maybe it was the stuff they put in balloons to make them float.
“I will indeed try him out.” I said, intrigued. We came to the end of the green and now found ourselves outside the local pub. It looked just as traditional as you could imagine it to be. Thatched roof, broad wooden door, which was of course firmly closed at the moment. Small sweet shop like windows obscured the interior but I thought that I may possibly pop in for a pint over the weekend. A large traditionally painted pub sign hung high over the entrance, and although it was painted in a traditional manner, the pub was rather oddly named, “The Gym and Splint”.
“Odd name for a pub.” I said aloud, and the professor grimaced at the pub sign above our heads. “Looks nice and traditional.” I mused, and the professor continued to sneer at the sign. Dragging his attention away he strode forward, heading towards the cafe, and then abruptly stopped, pointing at the pub sign.
“Nice beer garden.” he considered, “Though the pub sign itself could do with a little work.”
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked. True, it did picture what seemed to be a plastered leg and a set of dumbbells, but apart from that it seemed to be okay.
“The spacing on the sign is all wrong.” he said. I glanced at the sign. It looked okay from a distance - I certainly hadn’t noticed a flaw with it but up close it looked like the words, “Gym and Splint” were very unevenly spaced. The word “and” seemed afloat in the middle of the two other words. The professor sniffed loudly and we moved on.
“Tea!” shouted the professor and we made in the direction of Tully’s. When we entered a bell sounded above the door and a long strip curtain parted at the back of the cafe by the counter, around which I saw a large portly woman peering at us through the curtain. “Morning professor!” called the woman who was presumably Mabel, and the professor raised his hand in greeting, taking a seat just inside the door. Trade was obviously quiet as we were the only customers in there. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” she finished, and the curtain drew closed again.
“Very good teas here.” said the professor as I took a seat facing him. The table was covered in what appeared to be a plastic red chequered cloth. Salt and pepper pots sat in the centre of the table, between which was sandwiched a small hand written menu. I took it up and had a look at it. It seemed to be the usual kind of stuff: beans and bread were available in various different permutations. “Just tea for me.” said the professor as Mabel appeared beside the table.
“Me too.” I agreed. It hadn’t been that long since yet another grease laden breakfast in the work canteen, and I wasn’t hungry at all. Mabel nodded and made her way back to the counter.
“Well that is the tour over.” said the professor, rubbing his hands together. “All amenities covered. It’s a bit of a walk from here to the base though. Just ask Bridges if you require a pool car. Plenty available.” I nodded enthusiastically, hardly believing my own ears. This was getting better by the day! Free petrol now!
“Thanks.” I mumbled as the tea arrived and the professor leaned back as Mabel placed the steaming cuppa in front of him.
“Excellent!” he exclaimed. “Thank you, Mabel.” Mabel assured us it was no problem and then returned back to the counter. The professor turned his attention back to me. “So what do you think so far, Luke? Learnt Much?” I spluttered on my tea.
“Well I know where the canteen is.” I laughed, and the professor smiled. “And the Green Light room was as well.”
“Ah yes.” smiled the professor, wriggling slightly in his chair. A new customer came in and took a seat on the other side of the room, glancing at the menu as he sat down
“But apart from that, not much at all. Nobody seems to be particularly keen to actually advise me of a few things, really.” I said with a deliberate air of disappointment. The professor looked puzzled.
“And what may they be?” he pulled a pencil from his top pocket and began to tap it against the pepper pot.
“Well two things mainly. The first is what my job actually is, and secondly what it is that we do at the office. Nobody seems to want to tell me.”
“Ah.” The tapping stopped, but the pencil remained in mid-air, pre-tap. “Well the answer to the first is obvious. The sales department have shall we say a certain predilection to buggering up their work stations in all kinds of interesting and vaguely unnerving ways. You are here to convince them to desist to do so. It is why our technical support department is so small. Most things are relatively easy to fix.”
I nodded at this. Seemed pretty standard stuff.
“You are also here of course to help me.” I looked puzzled. “Make sure I keep up to date with all correspondence, be where I am actually meant to be.” He paused slightly as if considering if he had missed anything out. “Make sure I don’t fall down any mine shafts.” he concluded with a laugh.
“Have you ever fallen down a mine shaft then?” I smiled, and to my surprise the professor stopped to think. He looked at the ceiling, almost as if racking his memories for anything that involved a mine shaft.
“No, I don’t think so.” he finally said. “Still, you can never be too careful, I should imagine. Nasty things, mine shafts you know.”
I nodded slowly. “Indeed. So how about what the office actually does?” I continued.
“Well that is a little more difficult.” The pencil remained in mid-air, but his other hand now rubbed his chin. The tea seemed to be forgotten. I leaned forward a little in anticipation. The professor seemed to be having difficulty in summarising exactly what it was he was apparently in sole charge of. He began to tap the pepper pot again, and then seemed to reach a conclusion. “We are here to ensure that nothing happens.” he said, and picking up his cup, took a large sip of tea.
“Nothing happens?” I asked incredulously. He nodded.
“Preferably.” he smiled. I felt myself getting angry.
“Is anything in danger of erm… happening?” I asked. I noticed my voice sounded a lot testier than it had done before.
“Oh yes. Indeed. All the time, in fact.” the professor concluded emphatically. “Quite so.” He noted just
how confused I looked. “Let me put it another way.” he said, pausing to consider a different approach. “We deal with events.” he said, and sat back seemingly pleased with himself at reaching this conclusion.
“Events?” I sighed, and he nodded enthusiastically. “Professor, that’s just like saying that we deal with “stuff”. It doesn’t actually mean anything. It certainly doesn’t get me any nearer to understanding what you do here. Can you be more specific? These things that are in danger of happening, is there anything in particular?” I asked. The professor looked as if he was struggling to think of anything at all. Then again, I was beginning to get the impression that this was usually the case.
“It is quite difficult to explain without compromising your induction you see, Luke. We are working very much on the basis that we are warming you to the job, as it were.” I had absolutely no idea what he meant by this and told him so.
“Give me a break, professor. Or failing that, give me an example.” Wingnut leaned back in his chair and threw his head back, staring at the ceiling. He began to tap on the pepper pot again. A minute passed. Two. Mabel had by now served the other customer, and was glancing suspiciously at our by now empty cups from behind the counter.
“For example,” I said finally in exasperation. The professor didn’t look as if he was going to reach any conclusion any time soon. “Is Hank really an android?”
The professor looked distracted by this, as if I was derailing his presumed train of thought. “Why don’t you ask him?” he said, and went back to whatever he was trying to remember. He suddenly sat back upright. “Just don’t mention the ginger snaps. He seems a little sensitive about that.” I nodded my head dumbly.
“Okay I mumbled.” just as the professor sat bolt upright once again.
1965.” he said as if struggling to remember all the facts. I found myself drawing my chair closer to the table in anticipation. “Picture the scene, Luke. The whole country was still suffering from the economic effects of the Second World War. The land fit for heroes had yet to materialise. Positively overdue in fact. There were still food shortages. Technology was at best rudimentary. Everything was dull, dark and grey. Even The Beatles had stopped touring.” I nodded as I pictured it. I had been a kid at the time, but as Jon had said, perhaps the past was in black and white.
The government had concerns that the general doom and gloom was affecting morale and therefore productivity throughout the country. So they called us in.”
I waited for the next bit but nothing seemed to be forthcoming, so I pressed on. “So what did you do to solve the situation?” I asked, and he smiled almost as if in triumph.
“We invented call centres.” He said proudly, and smiled broadly.
“But call centres are awful.” I stammered. “Nobody wants to work in one. Certainly nobody wants to phone one. Every single employee, employer and customer despises them and all that they stand for.” I had expected him to be annoyed at this of course, but he simply smiled.
“They are.” He said decisively. “Which was exactly our plan. Call centres are of course sinkholes of despair and gloom. By creating them we concentrated the depression actually in the call centres themselves so that the rest of the country could get on with the business of being happy.”
I was astounded. I’d never heard so much nonsense in all my life. “Did it work?” I half laughed.
“Absolutely.” He smiled. “Productivity rose by 22 and a half percent I seem to recollect. Morale was restored.” he paused as if weighing up his options. “Sadly the Beatles never toured again. Still, you can’t have everything, I suppose.”
“So from the office we run call centres?” I asked. I was vaguely disappointed at this news, but at least I had an answer. Or I thought I did. The professor chuckled across the table.
“No, no!” he exclaimed. “Not at all! It was just an example Luke, just an example.” He probably saw by the expression on my face that I was beginning to consider that I was back to where I started. He leaned across the desk and held me by the elbow then patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Luke. At the centre of our modern business we sell cloud based solutions to governments and companies around the world, but all will be revealed in time. Come on, break is over!” and with that he was at the counter paying for the tea, for which Mabel looked eternally grateful. I however was simply in a greater state of confusion than I was before. I have an inherent distrust of any company that has the word, “solutions” in front of it, unless the two words preceding it are “contact and lenses”. It just seems a bullshit wankery way of saying absolutely nothing at all; like white noise. I didn’t say this to the professor of course.
We made our way back to the car and headed back to the base. I was now in a state of even more confusion as to what to actually call the place where I now lived and worked. Was it a call centre? The professor must have noted my confusion because as we made our way through the static charged entrance again he looked at me almost in sympathy.
“This must have been a long week, Luke.” he said, “I have nothing planned for you this afternoon so you may as well take the rest of the day off.” I must admit I felt a little deflated as I was looking forward to maybe learning a little more about what the professor actually did. But an afternoon off is an afternoon off, and so as we drove up to the car park the professor made a small detour and let me out at the entrance to the building. Thanking him profusely I exited the car and as I made my way behind it I saw him wind down the window on his side and poke his head through it.
“The pub sign, Luke!” he almost yelled. “Five “ands” and all grammatically correct, you see!” I shook my head. I had no idea whatsoever what he was on about.
“Sorry?” I managed and he smiled.
“The problem with the spacing on the Gym and Splint is that the word “and” is irregularly spaced.” I nodded. Up close it certainly looked that way.
“Well then.” he said triumphantly, “The space between the words Gym and and and and and Splint are far too wide.” He gave a very wide wink, popped his head back inside the window and roared off in the direction of the car park. I just stood there on the drive, my head reeling as the sound of three car horn beeps faded into the distance.
“And and and and and…” I think I muttered.
I decided to spend the afternoon in bed.
Chapter Four
“It's All Make Believe....Isn't It?”
(Marilyn Monroe)
Les looked out of the barbershop window as the old white haired guy and the other man walked across the green in the direction of the cafe. Sally was just putting the finishing touches to the customer in her chair, and there was only one man waiting.
“That mad old bugger has been in for a haircut every day this week I’m sure.” he whispered to Sally in a theatrical fashion: loud enough for everyone else in the shop to hear, but not loud enough for anyone to comment on the fact that they had heard.
(There is an art of doing his of course, though usually it requires a fence to be between person A and person B.)
Sally stepped away from the customer she was just finishing and looked through the window as the two men strode across the green.
“I did the old guys hair on Monday.” she said, and returned to putting the finishing touches to her customer. “Never seen the other guy though.”
“Quite dishy.” said Les dreamily, twirling his comb in his hand as he spoke like some kind of hirsute baton. “That mad old guy is a bit weird though. Hardly has any hair cut at all. “He continued to peer after the two men. “Just as well, I suppose. He’d be bald by tomorrow at this rate.” Turning his back on the two rapidly disappearing figures he dismissed them from his mind and returned his attention to the shop. Les had done his preparation for the day, of course. Every morning before starting he looked at the weather report for the day. He did this for the UK, Portugal and Spain. Les found Portugal to be the most popular holiday destination of the three these days and therefore worth k
nowing. Not everyone holidayed there of course, but it was a good starting point. Beyond that he would improvise, as usual.
“Next!” shouted Les at the one-man queue and the man approached the chair. Les assumed his usual posture when calling for his next customer: almost if he were assessing the scale of the job, and the cut to come. Les reckoned this one to be mid-forties. Looked more like a reconstruction than a haircut to him. The man sat in the chair and Les caught his eye in the mirror as he covered him up with a gown. “What’s it to be?” Les received several vague instructions that most men above a certain age (usually once the ages between 27 to 30 were safely just a memory) gave to the person cutting their hair and nodded in acknowledgement. There was a pause as Les tried to catch the man's eye in the mirror, and as he managed to achieve this he waved the comb extravagantly and leaned forward slightly. In a loud voice that carried across the entire empty shop he pronounced brightly, “Twenty-five years in show business.” Slight pause. “Who would have thought it?” The man in the chair wriggled uneasily and smiled. Obviously he was a regular, and had very possibly heard this before. Les settled down to cutting hair whilst at the same time describing his questionably illustrious acting career in microscopic detail.
Les considered it a way to pass the time. He had the usual hairdressing triple whammies of where are you going on your holidays, is it your day off, and isn’t the weather awful under his belt of course, but this was something beyond this. He was fairly certain that not many hairdressers (he refused to consider himself a “barber”) could entertain and regale their customers with stories from their acting career. It was a unique string to his bow, and he intended to play it as much as he possibly could.
In addition, of course he found it interesting. He paused, scissors in mid snip, remembering when he first caught the acting bug. “Les Sanderson! Come out of that clothes cupboard right now!” his mum had called as he had emerged at the age of five dressed in some old jumper and scarf that he couldn't walk in without tripping over. His mum saw a child in a long jumper. To him he was a pirate, or a secret agent or a king. He really had got the acting bug that early. In fact, (and his scissors paused over his customer’s head mid-snip as he thought of this) he had known he was and always would be an actor even before he had realised he was gay.
The Complete Adventures of Victoria Neaves & Romney Page 43
