Under the influence of the finest wine, Arthur was soon chatting happily to anyone who would listen and couldn’t resist reminding the head waiter that it was his son who owned the restaurant.
‘Don’t be silly, Arthur,’ said his wife. ‘He already knows that.’
‘Nice couple, your parents,’ the head waiter confided to his boss after he had served them with their coffee and supplied Arthur with a cigar. ‘What did your old man do before he retired? Banker, lawyer, schoolmaster?’
‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ said Mark quietly. ‘He spent the whole of his working life putting wheels on cars.’
‘But why would he waste his time doing that?’ asked the waiter incredulously.
‘Because he wasn’t lucky enough to have a father like mine,’ Mark replied.
LUCKY DIP
Deborah Moggach
The point of raffles is that you never win. You don’t expect to, do you? It’s like The Pools; it happens to somebody else.
In fact, by the end of the evening I’d forgotten I had even bought a ticket. This happened last January, at a Firestone Tyres dinner. I had gone with, a mate of mine, also in the motor trade. His girlfriend had tonsillitis, so he had asked me. to go instead and I thought: why not? During cocktails I had bought a ticket, they practically forced you. It was on behalf of something worthy – Distressed Morgan-Owners, or the Old Alvis Sanctuary, I didn’t really hear. I had forgotten all about the ticket, in the pocket of my hired DJ. When they read the number out it sounded unfamiliar, like a bus route you don’t take, and then – thump – I suddenly realised it was mine. First Prize.
I had to walk up to the platform and meet an actress. You might have recognised her; she plays a vet’s assistant, on afternoon TV. People started clapping and she gave me my envelope. Just for a moment, the room echoed and the faces shrank. Fame at last. It was a holiday for two in Portugal.
Chance. A hand gropes in a hat, the fingers touch a scrap of paper. I run a garage, you see – Paradise Motors. It’s in Paradise Mews, Cricklewood, hence the name. Victims of chance are our stock-in-trade. A chance collision, metal against metal, the crunch of two innocent little errands and bang. Usually I’m too busy to realise the randomness of it all, but sometimes I straighten up, oily and awe-struck.
So an actress had groped in a hat and given me a week in the Algarve. Trouble was, the two.
Now, a romantic holiday in Portugal is just the ticket if you’ve got somebody to be romantic with. Since my divorce I’d had one or two girlfriends but the whole thing had been vaguely unsatisfactory, probably due to me. I had been humiliated and, like a car-crash, if you’ve had one you drive more carefully for a while. Just slipping into the front seat, you’re aware of the possibilities. This makes for a tentative expedition.
I couldn’t call them up again. ‘Remember me – Graham? How about a rekindling week at the Marichoro Apartments, courtesy of Sunspan Holidays?’ I didn’t even know their phone numbers unless I rang their parents, and I only knew one lot of those. The whole idea was pathetic. So was taking my sister, who was a chiropodist in Finchley and longing for a jaunt. Blokes were out, needless to say. I’d never live it down.
Two dates were offered for this holiday – March and November. For the first few months I refused to panic. There was plenty of time. It seemed so far away that I was actually looking forward to it. Didn’t I deserve a break? Something, someone, somehow, would turn up.
March came and went, blustery and cold. April, May, and then June, blustery and somehow colder. By August I was starting to get anxious.
I couldn’t confide in Norm. He’s the bloke I work with, and he’s been married for thirty-three years. Besides, his wife’s got a hip problem and he spends his lunch-breaks doing the shopping. He’s very nice, but not the responsive type; in fact he collects tropical fish. He thinks I’m an intellectual because I read Dick Francis.
Then there was Reg. He’s in the next premises and he does our panel-beating. Single-handed, he’s kept the property prices down in this locality; in fact, with a brisk west wind you can hear him in Swiss Cottage. Reg’s office is wallpapered with wet T-shirt calendars from sparking plug firms. He wasn’t the ideal person for a delicate conversation of this nature.
I couldn’t possibly go on holiday by myself; not when it was a prize. They would be expecting a loving couple; the manager would greet us with a wink and bowl of fruit. I had been away alone, of course, but only to lowly-sexed locations like the Lake District. Portugal was sun and sand and sangria. I have been to Spain, you see.
As the months dragged on I even considered, for a mad moment, giving it a miss altogether. There was a beauty club I had passed in the Tufnell Park Road, when I went to tow away a Toyota. It offered sun beds. I could take a week off and return to Paradise Motors mahogany and smug. I could play it mysterious and keep Reg on tenterhooks.
However, there was my own self-esteem to think of. I did have some left. By this time I had forgotten that the whole thing was supposed to be pleasant. By now it was just something to be got through, willy-nilly. To tell the truth, by now anyone would do.
Female customers were another possibility. The trouble with them was my invisibility. To most of them I was just some geezer in greasy overalls who presented them with a bill for about twice as much as they expected, because garage bills always are.
There were some I liked, of course. There was one girl with a temperamental Metro – a contradiction in terms, with a Metro, but you hadn’t seen her clutch-abuse. She actually knew my name, Graham, and we’d had some interesting conversations about Alfred Hitchcock because she was a film buff. Then there was a saucy type in a 2CV, the lentil-eater’s car. Unlike our other 2CV customers, however, she wore short skirts and had a terrific pair of legs. But how could I manage the jump from ‘It’s passed its MOT’ to ‘What about a holiday for two in Portugal?’
Anyway, they were mostly married. It was Postman Pat cassettes all over the floor and Mrs on their cheques. The only other possibility was a Ms Hodges, who drove an Escort XR3. But she had a carphone, which I somehow found deflating. I know most men wouldn’t, but there you go.
Still, attraction was no longer my first priority. Not even a consideration, really. Anybody reasonably able-bodied, female gender, under sixty, would do. By the end of August Reg was getting leery. ‘Go on. Give us a butchers, you sly bugger.’
And then, on August 21, Sharon came in with her Capri. It was a flash job – 2.8, alloy wheels, spoilers, two tone champagne/silver, the works. She had pranged its bonnet.
‘They shouldn’t have made it a one-way street’ she said irritably.
I thought it was a surprising car for her to drive, but you get some funny matches, with motors. Like marriage, really.
She dropped in the next day, on the off-chance it was ready (it wasn’t).
‘I only work up the road,’ she said. ‘At Hair Today. It’s no trouble.’
I was under the hood of a Cavalier, wrestling with a brake pad. I came out and wiped my hands.
‘Fancy a lager?’ I asked. Suddenly summer had started, and I was sweltering.
She nodded. It was lunchtime, and Norm had gone off to buy some pond weed. We sat down on a couple of oil drums. After we had opened the Heinekens, a silence fell. It always does just then, doesn’t it.
‘Been on your holidays yet?’ she asked, and then giggled. ‘Where I work, it’s what you get asked half the year. The other half it’s —’
‘What are you doing for Christmas?’
She laughed. Like most hairdressers her own hair was a real mess – bleached bits growing out. She was very pretty, and sort of frayed around the edges in a vaguely promising way. Her slingbacks were trodden down at the back and she had a little crucifix around her neck; I remembered from my younger days that this was a good sign.
Luckily I didn’t have to answer about the holidays because Reg came over to tell her how much it would cost to knock out the dents in her Capri, and sh
e rolled her eyes.
When she had gone he rolled his. Wouldn’t mind looking under her bonnet,’ he said.
In October she came back again. This time she had dented the back bumper of the car, and crunched the boot.
‘I was only putting on my brakes,’ she said. ‘The silly cow wasn’t looking.’
It was raining, so we sat in the office and had a cup of coffee. Today she had re-bleached her hair and it was tied up in a plastic comb. She looked young and ripe.
‘So what are you doing for Christmas?’ I asked.
She laughed. ‘Haven’t even had me hols yet. I was going to Yugoslavia with my friend Beverley, but she went off with a married man and I couldn’t go alone, could I?’
‘I know the feeling,’ I said. Then I took a breath. There was a silence, broken by a tattoo of hammer-blows from next door. ‘Ever fancied Portugal?’
So off we went, 5 am on a November morning. Gatwick to Faro, with Sharon sitting beside me in a new yellow T- shirt and slacks.
‘Is my lipstick straight?’ she asked. ‘It was so dark when we left.’
As the plane lifted I felt dizzy with the chanciness of it all. If Evelyn hadn’t got tonsillitis; if the actress had picked another raffle ticket; if that other car had arrived three seconds later and Sharon hadn’t bumped into it … My palms were clammy. What on earth were we going to do?
‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.
I jumped. ‘I was just wondering where old bank notes go when they get old. Do they just get dirtier and dirtier and fall to bits, and the last person’s the unlucky one?’
She burst out laughing. ‘I can see this is going to be a hoot.’
The Manichoro Apartments was a high-rise building surrounded by bulldozers. Skyscrapers were being built all around us; the air was filled with hammering and drilling. It was like a hundred Reg’s, out there. We went to our room.
‘For the happy couple!’ shouted the manager, giving us our starter pack. This had bread rolls in it, and little packets of instant coffee.
I edged towards the bedroom and peered in. Twin beds.
It was off-season and the place was deserted, except for five or six old dears who were sitting around the pool. They eyed us with interest when we joined them.
‘I’m from Melton Mowbray,’ said one of them, who had spread her tapestry over three sunloungers. ‘But we always come here for the winter, don’t we, Dot?’
Out in the street the drilling started. Dot shouted: ‘It’s nice to see some fresh young faces, isn’t it?’ She turned to us. ‘There’s bingo tonight, it’s all go, then it’s whist tomorrow, and your last night it’s Sangria’n’Disco.’
Sharon had stripped down to her bikini, and was anointing herself with Ambre Solaire. She had a lovely body, plumpish but compact.
Wonder what Vic’s going to say/ she murmured, lying back.
‘Vic?’
‘About the bills for the car. It’s his.’
‘Who’s Vic?’ I asked.
‘My boyfriend.’ She closed her eyes.
Three days passed. We sat beside the pool, and inspected the range of teabags in the supermarket. We played ping- pong in the deserted, concrete games room and had free drinks with timeshare touts. It was about three miles to the sea, through building sites, but at least it was an expedition. One of the places on the beach was open, and it served chips.
The whole business wasn’t quite as I had expected, but Sharon didn’t seem to mind. She had turned a shy pink, and freckles appeared on her nose. At night, after the evening’s entertainments downstairs, we modestly changed into our pyjamas, she in the bedroom and me in the bathroom, and climbed into our twin beds. Then we read our books; luckily I had brought enough for two. Outside in the corridor we heard the clunk-clunk of Ruby’s walking frame, as she made her way back from the bar.
On Wednesday night Sharon put down her John Le Carré; she had forgotten which spy was which.
‘Tell me about your wife,’ she said.
‘Ex,’ I corrected. ‘She worked in the perfumery department at Selfridges, squirting aftershave at strange men. I knew it was a mistake.’
‘What happened?’
‘One day she scored a direct hit. It turned out to be a sheik and she ran away with him, back to wherever it was, the Yemen, somewhere horrible. I’ve never known.’
There was a pause. Outside, the drilling had stopped. Sometimes it seemed to go on all night.
‘Tell me about Vic,’ I said.
‘Oh, he’s in prison.’
I paused. What for?’
‘GBH.’
What’s that?’
‘Grievous bodily harm.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Of course.’
‘Nighty-night.’ She switched off her light.
By the next day she was turning a delicious shade of honey. We lay beside the pool. I had graduated to rubbing her with suntan oil.
‘Mmm,’ she murmured into her towel. ‘A bit lower.’
‘Have you tried the supermarket opposite Spud’U’Like?’ shouted Ruby, above the noise. Their Daily Telegraph’s only a day late.’
I went on rubbing oil into Sharon’s firm, stocky thighs. My mouth was dry with desire. But if it happened, and it wasn’t a success, how were we going to get through the next three days? And did she want it, anyway? Above all, what about Vic? I pictured him attacking me, a Reg hammering at my helpless bodywork.
When’s he coming out,’ I asked. ‘From, you know?’
‘Vic? The week after we get back,’
Our last night was Sangria’n’Disco. The Sunspan rep, a jovial heterosexual called Malcolm, filled and refilled our glasses. Afterwards a combo played and we danced the hokey-cokey with Dot and Co. I gripped frail, bony arms and kicked my legs. Then we drank some more and sang that song: ‘With a little bit of this’ … We wiggled our fingers. ‘And a little bit of that.’
And a little bit of the other,’ leered Malcolm. ‘For the lucky ones.’
Finally there was a slow number. The ladies got out their knitting. To the accompaniment of clicking needles I drew Sharon close, and breathed in the chlorine scent of her hair.
‘I want to leave him,’ she murmured. ‘But you can’t, when they’re in prison. Anyway, he’s got my name tattooed somewhere special, and it’s ever so painful to get it removed. Especially there.’ We shuffled a few steps. ‘How could he get another girlfriend? The name would be wrong.’
That night, inflamed by alcohol, I kissed her, and finally we stumbled into my twin bed.
Afterwards she stroked my cheek. ‘Know something?’ she said. ‘Your wife was daft!’
That was a month ago. It’s Christmas now, the season of forgiveness, and for once something like that seems to have happened.
Vic came out of prison a changed man. Apparently they’d had a visiting creative writer, at the Scrubs, and Vic went to see him because it meant skiving laundry rota. He had ended up writing a poem, something about the bird of freedom beating its wings, and it won the Arthur Koestler prize (£200) for something arty done whilst behind bars.
When he came out he was a celebrity, and much in demand at writers’ circles where he charmed genteel ladies with his pugilistic good looks. One of the ladies was quite young. She was aiming for Mills and Boon and he must have seemed like a dream come true.
Sharon and I met him at a pub, for a festive drink. His new girlfriend was sitting beside him. She wore glasses and a sort of kaftan thing.
I thought of his tattoo.
‘Don’t tell me,’ I said. ‘Let me guess your name.’
She put down her shandy and said coyly: ‘Go on then.’
‘Sharon.’
She took off her specs, and stared. Then she nodded. Beside me, from my own Sharon, I heard a giggle.
A DOG IN THE DARK
Richard Adams
No one could possibly call me an imaginative bloke or given to flights of fancy. In fact, I suppose you could hunt all over the country
and not find a more completely ordinary bloke than I am. I’m twenty-six and unmarried. I got four O-levels at comprehensive school at Reading and I work as a traveller for Briggs and Murrayson. What do I travel in? Curtain and carpet patterns. They give me a Ford Fiesta hatchback and I cover a round of shops and warehouses across the south and midlands. Well, I mean, people have got to have patterns: it’s honest work, and there’s prospects of a sort. I’m not all that ambitious, anyway.
I’ve got nice digs – been there five years now — just outside Basingstoke. There’s only two other lodgers. Mrs Forster’s a decent old girl and she seems to like me. She sees to my washing and if I get in late she’ll nearly always make me a cup of tea and open a tin of pasta or baked beans and sausages. She’s a kind soul as long as you’re careful not to make a noise or bring mud into the house. And best of all, she positively liked Bruce and never made the least objection to me keeping him.
Bruce was my dog. He was a black-and-white Welsh border collie – you’ve seen hundreds. Only not like Bruce. He was the best-trained, most obedient, responsive dog you ever could see. I trained him myself: all I did was to buy a book and do what it said, and it worked like a charm: so it just shows how lazy and irresponsible most dog-owners are, doesn’t it? By the time he was two, Bruce would come when he was called, sit, lie down, keep completely still while another dog sniffed him over, stop dead in his tracks at a hundred yards and walk to heel. The book says walking to heel’s the equivalent of higher education for a dog and not to do too much of it too soon. It says the whole secret is building up a close personal relationship with the dog; and that’s what we had, me and Bruce. He used to sleep on my bed and Mrs Forster didn’t mind. She was very fond of Bruce. She admired his obedience.
Bruce used to be the big thing in my life. Mind you, I know a few girls, but nothing serious – not yet. Bruce was my creation, but in a funny sort of way I was his creation too. I never did anything without Bruce. Weekends, we used to get in some terrific walks on the Downs: and when I went out on the job in the Fiesta, Bruce always came too, every day. He used to sit in the back, on his own rug. He got to know all the places we went to, and when I stopped at a Little Chef I used to take a snack out to Bruce. Only a snack, though. The book says a dog should have one good meal a day, in the evening, and that’s what he got. Some of the clients got to know old Bruce very well. You could say he was good for business – broke the ice, you know.
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