Screwtop Thompson

by Magnus Mills

  The hapless group eventually succeeded in escaping Dwight’s clutches by issuing a declaration in which they publicly eschewed all drugs. Dwight, of course, sacked them immediately without so much as a second thought. (The statement finished their careers anyway: album sales nose-dived overnight, never to recover.)

  The Katkins, meanwhile, had long-since faded into oblivion. All that remained were their records (and a few clips of black-and-white film).

  I had a vintage copy of ‘BABY, COME RUNNING BACK TO ME’ on the original label. Occasionally, I removed it from its paper jacket and gave it a spin.

  Listening to it after all those years made it sound very distant and remote: I simply could not imagine that one of those faraway voices belonged to our Auntie Pat. Furthermore, I noticed that there was more to the composition than first it seemed. If you listened to it properly you came to realise that the song was full of sadness; and also a yearning for something better. Yet in reality nobody did listen properly: when the record came out, the people who bought it just wanted to dance.

  This did not matter to Auntie Pat. Luckily, she was able to pursue her natural vocation as a very gifted singer for many years. Every popular group, or ‘band’, as they now called themselves, demanded her presence at their recording sessions. She appeared on dozens of albums, mainly as a backing singer, but also when the drink-sodden lead singer was unable to reach the required high notes, especially if ‘rising fifths’ were involved.

  Gradually the liberated decade gave way to the progressive one; then came the more sensitive decades.

  At the turn of the century a young and up-coming band put together a very sympathetic cover of ‘THIS AIN’T HOW IT SEEMS’. The sleeve notes included a dedication to Auntie Pat, and their delicate approach appeared to assuage some of the pain she’d previously associated with the song. When they requested her to perform it with them at a festival, however, she gracefully declined the offer.

  Auntie Pat was increasingly seeking the quiet life. She had made enough money from the session work to live on (carefully) for the rest of her days, and she no longer felt the need to sing her heart out. I couldn’t help thinking, though, that she retained a vast reserve of talent as yet untapped.

  Clearly others thought so too. One day the phone rang. “Oh, hello,” said a man’s voice. “I’m trying to get in touch with a Mrs Patricia Gardner, or you may actually know her as Patricia Stephens…Oh, yes, that’s right, Peeps. Yes, well, I wonder if you could tell her Michael rang?”

  ∨ Screwtop Thompson ∧

  10

  Vacant Possession

  The room we chose was at the corner of the house on the first floor. We arrived mid-afternoon and found it empty: no furniture, no carpet, nothing. It was just an empty room in an empty house, but it would do for our purposes. After all, we only needed a place to sleep.

  “This’ll do,” said Noz, as we lugged our gear along the landing. We went inside and were soon setting up camp beds and unpacking bags.

  “Nice and sunny,” I remarked. The afternoon light was streaming through the windows, giving the room a very bright and airy feel. Yes, we agreed, we should be quite at home here.

  We didn’t usually stay in large country houses, of course. Generally we had to find accommodation in a local bed and breakfast or commercial hotel. On this occasion, however, the owner had said that it would be alright for the ‘workmen’ to stay on the premises for the duration of the job. The kind offer had been passed via the land agent to the contractor, who in turn had informed us. Noz and I were sub-contractors. We were here to install a cattle grid at the front entrance to the property. The work was estimated to take about three days, so we made ourselves as comfortable as we could.

  Further along the landing we found a small flight of steps leading up to the bathroom. A little further still were the backstairs going down to the kitchen. This was all we needed to know about the house. Other doors led to other rooms but we didn’t even bother to look inside. We had no idea who the owner was or where he lived, nor did we care. There was a job to do and then we could go home. That was that.

  After we’d settled in we had a stroll down to the front gate and did a bit of work just to say we’d got started. To tell the truth we hardly did anything more than take a few measurements and check that all the required materials had been delivered. Nonetheless, we felt better for doing it, and wandered back at dusk feeling fairly content with the world. We enjoyed our job, Noz and me, and together we made quite a good team.

  “Big place, isn’t it?” he said, as we approached the house.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Must be dozens of rooms.”

  “Which is ours then?”

  “That one on the corner, I think. Can’t really tell from here.”

  “We should have left the light on.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Suppose we should.”

  Darkness had descended by the time we entered through the back door. I fumbled round for a switch and a moment later the kitchen was lit up like a Christmas tree. Then I filled the kettle and put it on the gas. Meanwhile Noz went up to the room for a ‘stretch out’, which was his name for a short sleep. Noz always liked a bit of a snooze around about teatime, even if only for a few minutes. It was something he’d done ever since I’d known him. He said it made him feel better.

  I was a little surprised, then, when he returned almost immediately. I heard his feet coming back along the landing and downstairs, clomping over the bare floorboards and into the kitchen.

  “That kettle not boiled yet?” he asked, raising the lid and looking inside.

  “Give it a chance,” I answered. “I’ve only just put it on.”

  “We’ve got milk and sugar, have we?”

  “Yes, of course we have! Look, I’ll do the tea. You go and stretch out for a bit. I’ll be up in a minute.”

  “No, it’s alright,” he said with a yawn. “Don’t think I’ll bother.”

  Noz leant against the sink puffing his cheeks until the water boiled. Then he watched with interest as I brewed up. Finally we made our way upstairs, carrying a mug of tea apiece, and went back to our room. There were no curtains, and when I turned the light on our reflections appeared in the window, moving around on a black starless background.

  Noz sat on his camp bed, I sat on mine, and we enjoyed our first proper rest all day. We’d had to drive fifty-odd miles to do this job. Any less than that and we’d probably have gone home each night, but as I said before, we were staying here for free so we made the most of it.

  In the top of my bag I had the paper from that morning. We’d heard the latest news repeated all afternoon on the van radio during the journey down, but I thought I’d have a browse anyway so I opened up and read the editorial. Two minutes later a familiar grunt told me that Noz had succumbed to his sleepiness and now lay dozing with his tea undrunk beside him. I knew he’d wake up just before it was completely cold and slurp it down without complaining, but personally I preferred my tea hot so I went down to the kitchen for a refill.

  On the way I noticed that one of the landing floorboards was loose. It made a sort of rocking noise as I passed over it, and did the same when I returned with my fresh tea. Purely out of curiosity I stopped to examine the fault, prodding at the board with my toe and watching it move slowly up and down. The nails had come adrift at one end, and as I stood there I vaguely considered doing the owner a favour and re-fixing them. All I had to do was get a hammer from my bag and it would be done in no time. A moment later, however, I dismissed the thought. For some reason I’d begun to feel rather unwelcome on that landing, as though anything I did would be regarded as interfering. It was almost as if I was being watched, and for an instant I was tempted to look over my shoulder to make sure no one was there.

  How stupid, I thought, how childish and superstitious. Of course there was no one there! To confirm this I glanced quickly behind me, and then headed back to the room to drink my tea before it went cold.

 
; Noz came awake as I entered. “Alright?” he asked.

  “Of course I’m alright,” I said with some irritation. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  ♦

  Next morning, after we’d done a couple of hours’ work, we were sitting quietly eating our sandwiches when all of a sudden Noz said, “Funny house that, isn’t it?”

  “Funny?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “What sort of funny?”

  “Well, you know, all higgledy-piggledy.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Suppose it is, now you come to mention it.”

  “I mean, why put the bathroom up those little stairs, and the kitchen right at the back, miles away from anywhere?”

  “Well,” I replied. “It’s just the way they built places in those days. They sort of added bits on as they went along. You know, when they had the money.”

  “All the same,” said Noz. “Seems a bit funny putting the bathroom at the top of those little stairs. Stuck on its own, like.”

  A long moment passed, and then I said, “Is that why you didn’t go up there last night?”

  “Course not!” he exclaimed.

  “Well, why didn’t you then?”

  “Just didn’t need to, that’s all.” Noz closed his sandwich box and stood up. “Right,” he said. “I suppose we’d better get on.”

  I remained seated. “Wait a sec, I’ve only had one sandwich.”

  He tutted. “How long are you going to be exactly?”

  “Not long,” I said.

  “Alright, well hurry up, can’t you?”

  This time it was Noz who sounded irritated. He was obviously a bit rattled about something, and I had a feeling I knew what it was. We resumed work shortly afterwards and there was no mention of the house, or its unusual layout, for the rest of the day. At dusk, however, when we packed in, I decided to clear the air a little. Both of us had been fairly snappy with each other all afternoon, pointing out one another’s mistakes and generally not getting along together. In the end I decided to say something.

  “Look, Noz,” I began. “I think you’re right about that house.”

  He gave me a sharp glance. “How do you mean?”

  “Well,” I said. “I think it’s fairly creepy actually.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah. Stupid, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” he said, grinning. He looked quite relieved. “It’s because it’s all empty, I suppose. Oh well, I’m glad you’ve mentioned it. I thought it was just me.”

  “No, I’m the same.”

  “That’s alright then.”

  “Yeah.”

  While we talked we’d been walking slowly back towards the house, now once again engulfed in darkness.

  “All those windows don’t help,” remarked Noz. “They’re like eyes watching you.”

  “What we’ll have to do,” I said, “is sort of ride it out. Make a joke about it being haunted sort of thing.”

  “Alright.” Noz approached the kitchen door, opened it and switched the light on. At the same instant his eyes dilated and he let out an unearthly scream.

  “I knew you’d do that,” I said, shoving him through the door.

  Next thing, we had the kettle lit and I was busy washing up the mugs so we could have some tea. For all his bravado Noz nonetheless declined to go ahead for a ‘stretch out’ until I was ready, but eventually we both headed up to the room, talking loudly as we went.

  Crossing the landing I again stepped on the loose floorboard, so that it made its usual rocking noise.

  “Right,” I said, with resolution. “Let’s get this fixed for a start.”

  I got a hammer and some nails from my tool bag and immediately began the repair. Meanwhile Noz scanned some of the other boards.

  “This one could do with a couple of nails too,” he said. “And here.”

  We ended up spending about twenty minutes going over the whole landing, making a lot of noise with our hammers and tramping around as if we owned the place. Like most jobs we did it took longer than expected, but when we’d finished we stood looking at each other with big grins on our faces.

  “That’s better,” I said. “I feel much more at home here now.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Noz. “Don’t know what we were worried about really.”

  We went into the room and sat down to enjoy our teas which, we soon discovered, had gone cold.

  “I’ll go and make some more,” announced Noz.

  “Oh right,” I said. “Shall I come with you?”

  “Nah,” he said. “Doesn’t matter.”

  He took the mugs and set off along the landing, whistling a shrill tune.

  “Don’t forget, no sugar for me!” I called as he went.

  “Righto!” he replied.

  I propped the door open. The whistling continued but became more distant as he descended the backstairs. Then I listened while he clanked about in the kitchen. I heard water surging through the pipes as he filled the kettle and rinsed out the mugs. A few seconds passed. The water stopped running and the whistling ceased. Noz had fallen silent as he waited for the kettle to boil, apparently quite content to be all alone at the bottom of the stairs.

  ♦

  And as I sat in that room, watching the door and listening, it never occurred to me to look over my shoulder.

  ∨ Screwtop Thompson ∧

  11

  A Public Performance

  By the autumn of 1970 I was coming under intense pressure to buy a coat. A military greatcoat to be precise. Everyone I knew had one (everyone in the sixth form, that is) although they were officially banned from school. To avoid being left behind I had to get one as well. There were lots to choose from. Barry, for example, had an ex-Army coat of olive green, while Mike’s was blue-grey (RAF). Robert, meanwhile, favoured a huge brown overcoat that had been passed down through the Italian side of his family. It had a collar which could be turned up against the wind, and gave him the look of Giacomo Puccini in the famous photograph from 1910. The exception to the group was Phil, who always wore a US Army combat jacket. This was the other option open to me: I could either get a combat jacket or a greatcoat. The weather was turning chilly, so I decided on a coat. In that way I could both look cool and feel warm at the same time.

  One quiet afternoon during half-term I caught a bus into Bristol and headed for a shop I’d noticed at the foot of Colston Hill. Looking back I suppose the army surplus store in Gloucester Road would have been a more suitable destination. They had recently extended their range of stock to cater for the increasing demand, and no doubt could have readily supplied a garment to fit my requirements. The trouble was, I knew that everybody else had bought their coats there. I didn’t want to wear the same ‘uniform’ as the rest of them, so I made my way to Colston Hill.

  The shop I had in mind was called Visual History. It specialised in military artefacts, and its window was crammed with all sorts of muskets, blunderbusses and swords. Also, displayed on a mannequin, a very impressive coat. It was tailored from a fine grey cloth, and had two rows of gold buttons up the front. There were epaulettes of burnished gold on the shoulders, and gold flashes on the cuffs. I knew the moment I saw it that this was the coat for me. It clearly originated with the Russian Imperial Army, and I guessed it had once belonged to a Cossack. This was evident because the lower part of the coat was widely flared, an obvious prerequisite for riding a horse. Without a second thought I entered the shop.

  There were no other customers, but the shopkeeper ignored me when I came in, and continued reading the newspaper that was spread out across his counter.

  “Afternoon,” I said.

  He peered up over the rim of his glasses.

  “Could I have a look at that coat in the window, please?”

  An expression of curiosity now crossed the shopkeeper’s face. He glanced at me, then at the coat. Then back at me again.

  “You’re not wasting my time, are you?” he asked.

  “No, no,” I replie
d. “I’m thinking of buying it.”

  The curious expression disappeared and was replaced with a sort of surprised half-smile, as if the shopkeeper was remembering some good news he’d heard earlier in the day. I watched as he climbed over a panel into the window display, returning a moment later with the coat. He quickly folded away his newspaper and laid the coat before me. It was very large and heavy.

  “Pre-Revolutionary Russian,” I announced, examining the epaulettes in a knowing manner.

  “Oh,” said the shopkeeper. “Is it?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  After a long pause he nodded gravely. “You know, I think you’re probably right.”

  “Can I try it on?”

  “Of course you can. There’s a changing cubicle over there.”

  I entered a narrow booth and took off the raincoat I’d been going round in for the past two years. It was off-white in colour, and closely resembled the one worn by Steve McQueen in Bullitt. But I’d had enough of it. I hung it from the hook and proceeded to put on my greatcoat for the first time.

  “Odd,” I said, talking through the walls of the cubicle. “There don’t appear to be any buttonholes.”

  “No, there aren’t,” came the shopkeeper’s muffled voice. “The buttons are only for show.”

  “How do I fasten it up then?”

  “There should be some little hooks inside the front of the coat,” he said. “And some little eyes. You have to match them up.”

  With some difficulty I did up the hooks. Then, to my delight, in one of the pockets I discovered a broad belt with a big silver buckle. This left no doubt that the coat must once have belonged to a Cossack. Moreover, it seemed to fit me perfectly. I adjusted the collar and emerged from the cubicle. The shopkeeper took one look at me and laughed out loud.