Boracic Lint

by Martin Bryce

replacement for me

  That done, I changed back into civvies and set about organising the replies to Santa’s mail. I went to admin where I was allocated a rusty old typewriter on a table at the end of a long, dusty passage. For half an hour I furiously composed a ‘one size fits all’ type reply letter with the one finger that could type. Then I tried to find someone who could show me how to use the photocopier. There was no one. So I loaded the thing up with a ream of paper and decided to do the job myself. I placed the letter on the glass, closed the lid and pressed the start button. I realised after a while that the thing wasn’t switched on at the mains. Switched it on.

  The first copy to appear was too dark, jet black, in fact. The second copy was too light. The third copy was perfect apart from a number of unsightly black splodges which I discovered had been caused by breadcrumbs on the glass from someone’s sandwich. The fourth copy was fine and I set the machine for a run of five hundred before going to see Rowena.

  I explained to her what had happened that morning and she gave a sigh of relief. I also told her that I was thinking of taking on the part of Randy Broome myself if the Stonemason didn’t improve. She seemed delighted and then had to attend to a customer. I blew her a kiss from the lift as I made my way to the canteen for a cuppa and to my surprise, the customer blew me one back.

  I felt relaxed for the first time in days and wondered if permanent office work might suit me. The ladies in the canteen asked me all about my adventures and I described events for them in detail. I had obviously become something of a folk-hero, a sort of Robin Hood figure.

  I returned to the photocopier which was still running, but there were only a dozen or so copies of my letter in the tray. Lots of flashing lights though. I pressed the stop button, opened the front of the machine and was confronted by hundreds of mangled sheets of paper and a sticky black mess all over the works. I moved seamlessly from frustration and annoyance at my job, to unalloyed hatred. I hated the store, I hated Christmas.

  ‘Whoever invented it ought to be crucified,’ I said, to no one in particular.

  Enough was enough. I had some serious reappraising of my life to do. I collected the dozen copies of the letter, obtained a similar number of envelopes and stamps from admin and retired discretely to the canteen to put it all together before heading back to the House of Mirth. Fresh snow was falling as I stopped off at the corner shop for a small tin of Nescafe. Mr Patel, the proprietor, was still in shock following the raid earlier in the day which had stripped his shelves of cigarettes and liquor.

  ‘Is that you, love?’ H shouted from the kitchen where he was doing something to the whippet as I opened the front door. I closed it quietly behind me. ‘I’ve got some good new…’ he looked up and paled instantly as the dog slunk away into a corner. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘Weren’t expecting you back.’

  Taking my time, I raised the collar of my coat, thrust my hands deep into its pockets before sauntering casually down the hall towards him. Without taking my gaze off him I leaned against the doorway into the kitchen. On the counter was a new bottle of whisky, a lighter, in the shape of a hand gun, for the gas stove and a bread knife.

  ‘Now,’ he said with his eyes on the bread knife, ‘there’s no need to get nasty, I were only doing my duty.’ My appearance had thrown him completely and I was determined to pursue the advantage with my very best Bogart impression .

  ‘And what duty was that, Mr Higginbottom?’ My gaze didn’t waver.

  ‘They came around. Asking questions.’ There was a quaver in his voice.

  ‘Who did, Mr Higginbottom?’ I asked quietly and with a shadow of a smile.

  ‘Well, you know, the police. Showed me a photofit picture. Santa Claus.’

  I nodded my head in a show of being impressed.

  ‘A photofit picture of Santa Claus, eh! And what did it say on it, Mr Higginbottom? A Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from all at the Met?’ I took the last cigarette from the pack in my pocket. I threw the empty pack onto the kitchen table. ‘You can put that in the bin.’ He instantly went to grab it and carry out my command, but I held up my hand. ‘After you’ve got a couple of glasses,’ and I indicated the bottle of whisky. He paused, looked at the bottle and put on a show of bonhomie.

  ‘Oh. Aye. Of course, son.’ He scuttled to the cupboard, got the glasses and put them next to the bottle and looked at me expectantly. I looked at him expressionless for a moment, then, ever so slightly, raised a suggestive eyebrow. Instantly he unscrewed the top from the bottle and poured two large measures of the stuff, spilling a considerable amount into the bargain. Nervously he handed one to me. We chinked glasses and each took a swig. He retreated to the other end of the kitchen.

  I picked up the gas lighter and casually weighed it in my hand before raising it and aiming at his head with it. I pulled the trigger to produce the small, limpid blue flame with which I lit my cigarette. He laughed.

  ‘Aye, very good, son. Very good. I can see now you’re a good actor.’

  I squinted at him as I blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling and took another swig of whisky.

  ‘It were, well, you know, your talk of robberies, shinning up drainpipes, drugs…’

  ‘The drugs are for my feet, Mr Higginbottom,’ I said, carelessly studying the liquid in my glass.

  ‘Aye, of course, son. It’s just that you never said, like.’

  ‘You never asked, Mr Higginbottom.’

  From somewhere he regained a measure of composure. He started in nervously about how it was his house. I cut him short, determined not to be the browbeatee.

  ‘Seedy and grimy though it is,’ I began, ‘I have a room up there for which I pay you an extortionate amount in rent each week. In fact,’ I continued, ‘I was only thinking about the Rent Tribunal the other day.’

  ‘No,’ he said urgently, ‘don’t do that, lad. I’m sure we can come to some…’

  ‘Then of course.’ I paused for effect. He stood like a man in front of the firing squad. ‘There’s always the Inland Revenue.’ The effect on him was instant and electrifying. I took a long drag and nonchalantly held the smoke for a moment before letting it billow out as he squirmed. ‘That room is all I’ve got to call home and I’ll come and go as I please.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Whatever you say, son.’

  ‘And stop calling me ‘son’!’ I snapped. He flinched. ‘Do you understand, Mr Higginbottom? You mind your business and leave me to look after mine,’ I said finally. I threw the rest of the whisky down my throat and gently and deliberately placed the glass back on the table. I had pulled all the tricks out of the book.

  ‘Well, it’s good that we had this little chat, man-to-man, like,’ he gushed fawningly as he followed me down the hall. ‘I mean it’s good to clear the air every now and again. That’s what I always say to Mrs H, it’s good to clear…’

  I rounded on him. He was looking up my nostrils.

  ‘Glad we see eye to eye, Mr Higginbottom,’ I said slowly and softly with the cigarette dangling from the corner of my mouth. Ostentatiously rolling my shoulders I turned, picked up my carrier bags and climbed the stairs without giving him so much as a glance.

  ‘Would you like another drink, son? Sorry!’ He said urgently. ‘I mean…’

  I opened my door.

  ‘And you won’t be going to see the Rent Tri…’

  I slammed my door.

  SCENE 12

  The following morning a thaw had set in, one of those thaws that promises nothing but flu, sinusitis and rheumatism from Christmas until well into spring. I switched on the radio and listened to the shipping forecast while the kettle boiled. I sneezed violently several times and discovered I’d run out of Kleenex, so I went to the bathroom and took several sheets of the Hs’ coarse toilet paper from the holder.

  I had suffered a relapse and sunk into the mind-numbing bliss of a full-blown cold. Not bone-aching flu,
but a warm, all-encompassing cold. With the flu you’re never sure it isn’t something worse, with all those aches and pains, and it can linger for weeks often playing encores into the summer. With a cold you feel secure. It is almost a joyous thing and a rare thing in these days of indefinable viruses. It allows you to lie abed for three days reading your favourite books, interrupted only by Nanny’s regular deliveries of hot beef-tea and Ribena. It is a sublime thing, one of the best traditions of winter. Without it health just would not feel the same.

  Be that as it may, the thought of the soggy journey to work just did not appeal. There was no Nanny now and the rent had to be paid. I just couldn’t enjoy being ill any more.

  I said ‘good morning’ to Harry as I walked through the warehouse.

  ‘Oi!’ he shouted after me. ‘Floor needs sweepin’.’ He held out the broom without looking up from his paper, or taking his feet off the table.

  ‘Look,’ I said defiantly, ‘I really don’t remember anybody mentioning sweeping the warehouse floor as part of my duties.’

  ‘You want to argue it with Mr Flowers, then?’ he asked, dropping the broom and taking a sip of tea.

  ‘Who does it the rest of the year?’ I asked in return.

  ‘Wally,’ he replied.

  ‘Who’s Wally?’

  ‘Oh, there’s lots of Wallies,’ he answered with a low laugh. ‘’Ere, I seen you knockin’ about wiv that bird from cosmetics, ain’ I?’

  ‘Her name’s Rowena,’ I told him. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Didn’ fink your sort went in for skirt,’ he remarked.

  ‘What d’you mean, my sort?’

  ‘Ah, do me a favour, son. Hoots and jeers.’

  ‘Actors are human, too, you know,’ I told him, ‘and for your information, I have never been hooted at, or jeered off the stage in my life.’

  ‘Bit of alright, is she?’

  ‘Rowena is a delightful young lady and we are great friends. Why d’you ask?’

  ‘Fought I might give ‘er a bit of chat meself,’ he said, turning to page three of his paper. ‘You know, ask ‘er down the boozer Saturday night, get ‘er going a bit.’

  Suddenly I felt the way the boy with the Barbie doll must have felt when he thought I was interested in her.

  ‘She wouldn’t be interested,’ I told him coldly. ‘Rowena is a lady.’

  ‘Shouldn’ fink you’re doin’ ‘er much good,’ he remarked. ‘Birds like that need a bit of rough trade now and again. That’s me, rough trade.’ He gave another low laugh.

  ‘You leave her alone,’ I commanded. ‘She’s my girl.’

  ‘Who says so? You married, or somefink? He turned to the sports’ pages. ‘Not that that would make any difference to me,’ he added.

  ‘If you must know, she will be with me on Saturday,’ I said angrily. ‘We’re going to the theatre!’ I stormed off to see Rowena, warn her about the vile Harry and invite her to the theatre.

  ‘He sounds fascinating,’ Rowena said.

  ‘But you can’t mean… he’s just a storeman. A lout.’

  ‘Oh, come on, darling,’ she pouted. ‘Don’t be such a snob. I think it might be quite fun to visit his pub, don’t you?’

  ‘But do you know where he lives?’ I asked, astonished by her reaction.

  ‘No, but I know where you do,’ she responded dubiously.

  ‘Yes, but that’s only temporary.’

  ‘Look, Mandy and I often go slumming, it’s great fun. Why don’t you join us on Saturday and we’ll go and find this boozer of Harry’s and give him a surprise?’

  I realised I had been sounding a bit elitist. After all, I did have a genuine admiration for the working classes and Rowena had, rightly, reminded me that I might actually be considered one of them at present.

  Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour.

  ‘Well, I was rather thinking of inviting you to the theatre on