by Nick Thripp
‘What, I mean who…?’
Mrs Beart gazed at me, mesmerising me with her deep violet eyes so that the words tangled in my brain and I couldn’t finish the question. She placed her hand on my arm.
‘Nothing to concern yourself about, my dear. Would you like a cup of tea?’
*
Meanwhile, despite all expectations to the contrary, my academic career at Dean Court had taken off, at least relative to the other students. I was one of the few to pass as many as five O-levels and when I finally scraped two A-levels, my achievements were cause for celebration among the incredulous staff. The headmaster exhorted me to apply to university.
I pleaded with my parents to let me study horticulture. My father was adamant no son of his was going to end up as a ‘labourer,’ and my mother added, ‘Working outside can’t be very nice in the winter and, besides, if you get a good job, you can always buy a house with a lovely garden of your own.’
‘I want to be the next Capability Brown,’ I said.
My father snorted so vigorously that flecks of his catarrh speckled my sleeve.
‘It’s accountancy for you, and as you’re so bloody clueless, I’m going to arrange it.’
I would have persevered had my mother not whispered, ‘Please don’t upset him or he’ll get in a mood.’
Two days later my father announced he’d got me an interview in a local firm whose principal he knew through Rotary; all I had to do was avoid saying something stupid and the job would be mine.
After helping my mother with the washing up that evening, I was about to enjoy my new Cream album, Wheels of Fire, when my father thrust four days’ copies of The Financial Times into my hands.
‘You’re virtually business illiterate. Read these.’
‘But Dad—’
‘Haven’t got time to argue. Just do it.’ He hurried towards the front door.
‘I’ll get onto it right away, Dad.’ I marched upstairs, stuffed the newspapers into my wastepaper bin, opened my window and put my favourite single, I Feel Free, on at full volume instead. Then I peered out. My father, a stickler for punctuality, was dithering on the front path, torn between turning back and being on time for his Rotary meeting. I was relishing the sight until memories of Philip’s fights with my father strong-armed their way into my mind. In the last of them, my brother had ended up in hospital with a broken jaw and had left home shortly afterwards. I took the single off the turntable and retrieved the newspapers. Seconds later, I heard my father slam the gate shut behind him so I put the LP on – at much lower volume – and stretched out on my bed, immersing myself in Clapton, Bruce and Baker’s virtuosity while I half-heartedly scanned the papers for something to comment on if asked.
I sent Mrs Beart a resignation note and started work with Kitson and Co. To my delight, I received a reply saying she expected to be around more at weekends and inviting me to drop in any Saturday morning.
Though I took her up on her offer more often than she might have expected, the welcome I received was always warm, if disappointingly maternal. She fed me tea and digestive biscuits, quizzing me about my plans and inflicting news of John’s achievements on me, while I sat entranced by her grace and suppleness and intoxicated by her alluring fragrance. I yearned to know all about her; she evaded every question.
Chapter 6
Kitson & Co, 1970-1975
Time passed and I progressed slowly through the Institute’s exams, suffering the ignominy of several retakes, until all my faith in their integrity was shattered when I passed the final one and qualified. I was now an accountant.
‘I didn’t think you’d do it.’ My father took the Institute’s letter from my hand. ‘Wonders will never cease.’
But instead of congratulating me he buried himself in his newspaper, grunting every time he took exception to something in the leader column.
‘Well done, dear.’ My mother pointed the teapot at my empty cup. ‘Have another cupper to celebrate.’
Celebrate! The word reverberated in my brain. I should be going out with my friends and getting drunk, except I didn’t have any real friends now. Neil was away at university and I didn’t particularly like anyone at work, except Ruth, who was always good for a laugh.
*
I’d probably still be at Kitson & Co now, if it hadn’t been for Ruth.
I knew it was a mistake to become involved with the senior partner’s secretary. A plump woman with full, creamy thighs and pendulous breasts, she had a penchant for wearing crimson lipstick and deep violet eye-shadow. She wasn’t my type at all, but when unprompted, after a drink-sodden Christmas dinner, she stripped off and spread herself naked across her boss’s large mahogany desk, inviting me to have her there and then, the prospect of sex and the irreverence of the location proved an irresistible combination.
It was Ruth who had suggested, with a broad wink, I walk back to the office with her to pick up some things she’d left behind. The building had been in darkness so it was quite a surprise, as I buried myself in Ruth’s ample body, to hear Millicent’s voice behind me. Millicent, a hard-bitten workaholic famed for her lack of humour and her unforgiving nature, was the firm’s number two.
‘What the dickens do you think you’re doing?’
Even to my drink-befuddled mind, the language seemed archaic and the question fatuous. The two of us froze. I craned my neck to look at Millicent. Seconds passed as I struggled to formulate an answer. Ruth started to giggle, like a spoilt child caught raiding the larder for chocolate biscuits. I shrugged my shoulders and turned my face back towards Ruth who was now jiggling around mountainously under me, convulsing with laughter. Thinking I might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, I resumed where I’d left off. Ruth’s laughter became uproarious.
Millicent stormed out of the room slamming the door, and I knew my career at Kitson’s had come to an end.
‘She’s bound to tell old Kitters,’ I said as Ruth wriggled into her dress and I rearranged my dishevelled clothing. ‘I hope you don’t get into trouble.’
‘Don’t worry about me honey. If this desk could talk! I’ve got the goods on him and she knows it. I’m fire-proof.’
The next morning, I was summoned to Millicent’s wood-panelled office with its odour of stale cigarette smoke. As I knocked and entered, my life became dream-like. Strangely disembodied, I watched the scene from the corner of the room.
From a near-empty silver cigarette box she took out and lit a Black Sobranie.
‘Well,’ she inhaled deeply, ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’
The person wearing my suit apparently didn’t have anything to say.
‘Disgraceful behaviour, absolutely disgusting. It makes me sick to think about it.’
Silence, except for the heavy tick of the grandfather clock.
‘Well?’
The office seemed to be coming to life slowly; far-off voices somewhere else in the building, a telephone ringing, a door slamming, a faint smell of coffee, the distant hum of the photocopier. Ruth must be carrying on with her work as usual. I wondered whether she had a hangover too.
‘Have you nothing to say for yourself?’
No response. A shuffling sound in the corridor outside was followed by a knock on the door.
‘Go away, I’m busy,’ she shouted. The sound of footsteps retreated.
She drew heavily on her cigarette and looked down at some papers in front of her, as though they were relevant to the proceedings.
‘I’ve decided against reporting this outrageous incident to Mr Kitson.’ She exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘Let me have your resignation letter by lunch-time.’
‘Will you give me a reference?’
Millicent stubbed the cigarette out in her overflowing ashtray. ‘You’ll get the reference you deserve.’
‘You’ll mention how well I got on with
fellow workers then?’
‘Get out!’ she bellowed.
When it came to it, it was Mr Kitson who wrote the reference. I presumed Millicent hadn’t been able to bring herself to describe what she’d witnessed and, ignorant of the recreational uses to which his office furniture had been put, Mr Kitson had no reason to qualify his comments.
*
My father was outraged. He couldn’t believe I’d resigned without having another job lined up. I tried to bluff my way through by saying the firm lacked ambition.
He stared in disbelief.
‘The only person who lacks ambition is you, you dunderhead. Don’t expect me to support you while you loaf around.’
I looked to my mother, hoping for sympathy.
‘It was such a nice job. You came home for lunch every day, just like your father. Now you’ll probably end up working miles away, eating sandwiches and getting ulcers. Couldn’t you say you’ve changed your mind?’
*
The months passed slowly as I made a succession of unsuccessful job applications. I spent most of my days working in the garden, receiving no thanks from my father and only simmering resentment from his gardener, who couldn’t tell a hollyhock from a foxglove, and who had dug up my mother’s freshly planted herbs under the impression they were weeds. In the evenings, with no money in my pocket I was reduced to sitting in one of the sea front shelters or, as summer replaced spring, wandering around the Civic Gardens, glumly inspecting the neat rows of begonias and busy lizzies and thinking how unimaginatively they’d been laid out. I’d stay out until past my parents’ bed time when I knew it would be safe to return home.
Before turning off the light, I would flick through gardening magazines, often staying awake until the early hours, imagining the luxuriant gardens I could create. One night, around midnight, my father burst into my bedroom.
‘What filth have you got there?’ He wrenched Amateur Gardening from my grasp, then, with a look combining surprise and disappointment, let it drop to the floor.
‘Don’t make me spill my seeds, Dad,’ I said, pointing to a free sample packet attached to the front cover. ‘It did Onan no good at all.’
He glared at me and left without a further word.
*
I would slope off to Mrs Beart’s flat most Saturday mornings – whenever I knew John wouldn’t be there – and we would sit and drink tea and eat biscuits in her lounge, gossiping about the neighbours. Occasionally she would regale me with John’s increasing academic and sporting successes.
‘John’s always been fond of animals,’ she said one day. ‘Only last week he saved a cat from drowning in the school swimming pool.’
It was all I could do to refrain from saying he’d probably thrown it in first.
‘How’s the job hunting going?’ she would invariably ask, and I would shake my head until the day when, with a flourish and a bow, I announced a job offer from a City accountancy firm.
‘Are you sure it’s what you want?’ Her voice was laden with concern. ‘I’ve never seen you as an accountant. And after your last experience…’
I had told no one the reasons for my leaving Kitson’s, and searched her face for a knowing look. It remained expressionless.
‘Got to make a living somehow,’ I sighed.
‘Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be true to yourself. Do you enjoy accountancy?’
All I could manage was a wry expression.
‘Just make sure you don’t spend your life doing something you hate.’
I wondered whether she was speaking from personal experience.
My father’s reaction was rather different.
‘At last! I thought you were never going to work again’. He stared me in the eye. ‘Don’t make a mess of it this time. Bone up on the finance sector and make sure you’re fully prepared. I don’t want you getting sacked again.’
‘I told you Dad, I wasn’t—’
‘Pish!’ he interjected. ‘You didn’t fool me.’
‘Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll be well prepared.’ And I meant it, though, in fact, I did nothing.
*
‘Changed your mind about the new job yet?’
Mrs Beart, encased in a blue cashmere dress which accentuated the swell of her breasts, was standing outside the newsagent’s holding a copy of The Financial Times.
‘I’m a tad apprehensive.’ I struggled to raise my eyes and focus on her face. ‘And the commuting will be hell.’
‘If you’re absolutely determined, there are some consolations. At least you’ll get away from this place.’ She looked up the near-deserted street, wreathed in a sea mist. ‘You might even get to like life in London. It can be quite exciting.’
I glanced down at the newspaper under her bare arm.
‘About to invest in something?’
She shook her head. ‘John’s here this weekend. He’s set on becoming financially savvy. Says it’s a must in business. Reckons he’s done pretty well out of it already.’
I could imagine the precocious John pontificating on share prices and boasting about investments; he’d be unbearable.
‘I’m sure he’d like to see you, if you have time to drop in.’
I very much doubted it. The last time I’d seen Beart, Neil and I had been responsible for getting him caned. In our role as prefects we had uncovered his insurance scam, in which he would collect thruppence a week as a premium from every boy in his class and pay out a shilling for a detention and half a crown for a beating. I still remember his swearing he would get even with us, whatever it took, as he slunk into the headmaster’s office.
‘Bit busy,’ I replied, dragging my gaze away from her entrancing violet eyes and directing it at the rack of periodicals by the shop’s door. Colin Bell, wearing an England shirt, stared down at me from the front page of Football Monthly.
‘Another time perhaps. Good luck then.’ She stood on tiptoes to kiss my cheek and a shiver ran down my spine.
Chapter 7
London, 1976
I wasn’t short of agreeable company at Andrews Postlethwaite or AP, as it was known. At lunch-time, we’d go out and spend our fifteen pence luncheon vouchers on a desiccated sandwich from the small, unhygienic café run by a former Italian prisoner of war on the corner of the street. Sitting on wooden benches worn smooth by be-suited city bottoms, and breathing in the lingering smells of cooked meats and cigar smoke, we’d make fun of our managers, our clients and each other, and plan the evening’s entertainment.
As my work-based social life took off, I frequently missed the last train home and found myself sleeping on the floor of an Earl’s Court flat rented by Richard, another AP new hire. One morning, he drawled across the kitchen table, ‘You spend so much time here, you ought to be paying rent. Ian’s moving out next month. Want to move in?’
I accepted immediately.
*
‘There is a God,’ my father said.
‘Will you be all right on your own, dear?’ my mother asked. ‘Who’ll do your washing and ironing, and sew on your buttons?'
‘You will, Mum. I’m going to bring everything home for you every fortnight.’ Her face fell at my joke.
Richard and I had a lot in common, both regarding the office as a place of rest between hectic late nights at parties, wine bars or Jemima’s, a club in Kensington where the disc jockey sat in a Jaguar XK140 suspended from the ceiling. Fortunately, work was never too demanding. Our supervisors were only slightly older and as bent on enjoying themselves, and the managers so old they had no clue.
We’d normally go to Jemima’s after midnight when it started buzzing. One evening when I was there much earlier, I saw Neil accompanied by a tall slender girl with long dark brown hair. I knew he’d gone to Leeds University, although I didn’t know what he’d done since. I walked over to them and Neil introduced me pro
udly to his girlfriend Samantha. Talk about coals to Newcastle. No one takes a girlfriend to Jemima’s, the whole point being to pick a girl up and get her out before someone richer or better looking relieved you of her. Neil must be a real innocent. Samantha, on the other hand, with her lustrously piercing brown eyes, uneven smile and slightly chipped front tooth had a wickedly knowing look. Within minutes she’d placed her hand softly on my arm, leaning very close to me to speak, above the thrumming of the music, into my ear. I could feel her hazelnut-scented breath forming goose bumps on my neck, and had she not been with Neil, I could easily have fallen for her. However, I knew that once the cool operators came in, they’d flash their Rolexes and prise her away from him with talk of their Lotuses and Ferraris and that would be that. For old-times’ sake, I wanted to look after him.
‘Why don’t we go somewhere quiet for a drink and a chat, and maybe come back later when it’s livelier?’ I mouthed my words deliberately at Neil. ‘They allow re-entry if they stamp your hand.’
Neil gave a thumbs up. The effort of trying to make himself heard above the music was so great it was a relief to have an excuse to leave.
We went to a nearby wine bar. A small man with a tufty beard was singing Dylan songs in a thin, reedy voice and accompanying himself on the guitar.
Samantha looked even more desirable and I ached to reach out and place my hand on her smooth, golden brown arm. I restrained myself; she was Neil’s girlfriend. That was part of the code by which I lived now. Different from the schoolboy code, but just as pervasive.
‘How did you two meet?’ Although I addressed the question to them both, I looked only at Samantha.
‘I’m Neil’s assistant.’ Samantha smiled in a coquettish way. Blimey, I thought, he’s podging his secretary.
‘Who do you work for?’
