by David Carter
‘No worries. You are here now.’ He glanced down at the soppy daffies, ‘These are for you.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, and promptly gave them to an ancient woman who was shuffling by. She took one disdainful look at them and dumped them in the nearest bin.
Jago actually looked disappointed, then said, ‘Shall we go in?’
‘If you want to.’
‘Oh yeah, so long as you do.’
‘I’m hungry,’ she said.
‘Come on then,’ he said, as he strode toward the door and held it open.
Once seated at the corner table in the Hunting Rooms restaurant they sat and studied the vast menu.
‘It’s very expensive,’ muttered Jago.
‘Not too much for you?’
‘No, No! Not at all.’
He just wanted to make sure that she had noticed, that she appreciated how much of his hard earned cash he was about to lavish on her, not to put too fine a point on it, was she worth it? She’d better be.
Sam chose her meal, not the most expensive items on offer, but not far off, and then she said, ‘I always like champagne at lunchtimes, don’t you?’
Jago hid the grimace well and said, ‘Yeah, course, anything you say.’
They talked about this and that, and something and nothing, and then quite surprisingly, the plates were empty, the glasses were empty, the bottles were empty and the meal was over.
She had never once removed her gloves.
He teased her by referring to her as the glovely lady, giggled at his own witticism, a joke that Sam, or was it Lena, forced herself to share.
The foreign waiter presented the bill. Jago squinted at it and tried to banish the figure from his mind. He hoped that Lena might make a contribution, but none was forthcoming. He took out his credit card, manufactured by his employers, and realised that with this meal he’d be maxed out.
He forced a smile across the table. Lena smiled back. She had gorgeous teeth, far better than his. He’d like those teeth down his pants. He paid the bill with that thought in mind, and could contain himself no longer.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘Do you want to go out again?’
‘Maybe,’ she said, fiddling with her glove.
‘Tomorrow night?’
She pulled a face. ‘I might be able to do that.’
She was playing hard to get. He didn’t care. He wanted to date her again, he wanted her back at his place, he wanted...
‘What time did you have in mind?’ she said.
‘Eight o’clock OK with you?’
She nodded her head. ‘I might be able to do that.’
‘We could go for a meal, in some country pub.’
Lena nodded, didn’t say anything.
‘Where do you want to meet?’
‘Outside the swimming baths.’
‘OK,’ he said, ‘I can do that, you’re on.’
Lena nodded and stood up and made to go and then paused and said, ‘Thanks for the meal, Jago,’ and she walked off and left him sitting at the table.
Surprisingly he made no effort to follow, and that was cool.
Chapter Eighteen
Armitage looked forward to his visits to the garage, but only because he could slip away and run around the corner to the shop where the bell at the top of the door announced his arrival. Mrs Greenaway treated him like the son she never had. She’d raised three daughters, all now married and away. Army soon developed a deep interest in flowers. His imagination would fire as he matched the red tulips, roses and geraniums.
Within a month he was filling the shop window with his selections, within a year he was creating displays far beyond anything Mrs Greenaway could hope to match, and within two years people were coming from far and wide to have their arrangement made up by the handsome boy with the artistic touch.
He had a following.
He had an artistry.
At school, his interests were clearly defined between the things he loved and the things he couldn’t abide. He adored art and drawing, anything creative, English composition, and stories. He detested science of all kinds, physical education, and all sports. That went without saying. Sport was for the smellies.
His father was a keen rugby and football fan. He tried in vain to fire an interest in his young son in all sports, as he rolled and kicked a wide selection of balls toward him in the back garden. Armitage would cry and run away. He wanted Mrs Greenaway, he wanted Porridge, he wanted the flowers, and his painting books, and most of all he wanted his mother.
Right there, in that garden, he didn’t want his father at all.
After two years of trying, his father gave up. He even reconsidered the idea of changing the name of the business to Shelbourne and Son, so disappointed was he in his only offspring.
The following year Army discovered another interest. Classical music, and singing. Mrs Greenaway would often have the radio on in the shop and it was always tuned to the station that only ever broadcast classical music. It was never on loud, though occasionally if a piece that Army knew came on, or when the shop was quiet, Army would ask for the volume to be increased, ‘Louder Mrs Greeny,’ he would shout, ‘Louder!’
She would glance at his little face and couldn’t refuse.
At school too he had been introduced to classical music where the children would be encouraged to dance.
‘Dance to the music children, dance!’ the elderly lady would trill, usually to something like The Dance of The Sugar Plum Fairy.
Many of the girls held dreams of becoming ballerinas and would dance like courting swans. They were old hands at seven. They knew the ropes, and how to impress. Armitage had never heard of ballet, and had no idea what the girls were doing, or of what they desired to be, but that didn’t stop him. He threw himself into it, holding the centre of the floor, dancing moves that bemused everyone. They just seemed to seep out of his soul. The girls were fascinated and flocked to him, all desperate to dance with the crazy boy with the imagination of a rattlesnake.
The boys thought him a Nancy and shunned him still further. The girls weren’t sure, but they were curious. He was certainly different.
The biggest love of his life was singing.
He had a voice that could induce tingles to the spine, though no one outside of the school knew that, until one day in the flower shop a piece of music came on the radio they had been learning at school.
The shop was busy, it was coming up to Saint Valentines and there was standing room only between the remaining blooms. Without a thought Armitage burst into song. He was working in one corner, facing away from the others, building a bouquet of incredibly fragrant lilies. In the next second the shop was filled with his treble voice, pure as crystal snow.
Initially Mrs Greenaway imagined the angelic voice was coming through her tinny speaker, but no, it was Armitage. The seven or eight customers present fell silent and stared. Mrs Greenaway’s mouth fell open. There wasn’t a sound in the shop but for the radio, and Armitage’s soaring voice, as the old single decker bus came rumbling up the high street.
At the end of the song the adults burst into applause. Army was aghast, caught out, as if he had been doing something incredibly naughty. He turned and smiled at them all, flushed beetroot red, felt even more uncomfortable at that, ran outside and skipped back to the garage.
The following week Mrs Greenaway said, ‘You’re a very good singer, Army.’
‘Thank you Mrs Greenaway.’
‘Where did you learn to sing like that?’
‘At school.’
‘Would you like to sing in a choir?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Would you like me to take you to the choir?’
‘Dad wouldn’t like it.’
‘Would you come if I asked your dad?’
Army nodded, and thought nothing more of it.
That night after Army had gone to bed, Mrs Greenaway called at the Shelbourne’s mock Tudor detached house. She wasn’t initially welcomed
because Don and Donna had been canoodling on the settee. Donna was still adjusting her dress when Don brought Mrs G into the sitting room.
‘What can I do for you Mrs G? What has my son been up to now?’
‘Your son is a very well mannered boy.’
‘If you say so.’
Mrs G explained that she was in the choir at Saint Andrews church, and that Armitage was a fabulous singer. She wanted him to go to the church for a trial with a view to joining the choir, and Army had expressed his wish to be given the opportunity.
‘Has he now?’ said Donald, a little miffed that this woman knew more about his son’s interests than he did.
Donna said, ‘Are you sure you’re not mixing him up with someone else?’
Mrs G gave her a look that said everything.
‘Let me sleep on it,’ said Donald, and he did, and give him his due, the next day he popped into the florists and told Mrs G that Army could take the trial, if he really wanted to.
Mrs G said, ‘You won’t regret it,’ and promptly rang the choirmaster and fixed an audition.
The choirmaster’s name was Mr Davis and he had a spiky reputation for strict discipline. If the boys couldn’t turn up on time and behave themselves they needn’t bother coming. If the boys couldn’t attend every single practice session they needn’t bother coming either. Most of the boys were keen enough, because they would receive a small payment when they attended special services like weddings and christenings, while the lead singer would always receive a handsome fee all of his own. The competition to be top dog was hot.
The vicar was there that evening too, pottering about, mulling over in his mind the coming Sunday’s sermon. Mr Davis was well used to pushy parents who believed that their little Johnny was something special, if not the best thing since Aled Jones, better even. He would not suffer fools and regularly dismissed triallists by asking one of the better singers to immediately sing after they had finished, thus demonstrating how things could and should be done, and how woefully poor little Johnny really was. He was already in that frame of mind when he called Armitage forward. Army stepped up, his throat dry.
The entire choir were there, hundreds of them, it seemed to him. He could never remember being so nervous. He glanced around as if for comfort and saw Mrs Greeny on the back row of the ladies’ section. She smiled and nodded him on.
‘Well?’ Davies said, far too abruptly for a young child, thought many of the ladies gathered there. ‘Don’t waste my time, boy. Sing if you are going to.’
Armitage took one last look round, grabbed a big breath, and launched into Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring.
His voice filled the church. Soaring into the void of the steeple. Filling people’s heads. Mr Davis closed his eyes. He had never heard a triallist sing like it, and one so young. It beggared belief.
As Army finished the ladies’ choir burst into spontaneous applause. Even the vicar had crept closer for a better look to see who it was who had captivated everyone. The boys’ choir applauded too, though not as enthusiastically. Perhaps one or two of the soloists had already realised that their one off fees might be in danger.
Armitage Shelbourne had truly arrived.
Donald and Donna had been invited too. They hadn’t intended to go, it wasn’t really their thing, but something deep inside Donald brought him there, and he dragged along Donna for company. Perhaps it was because he knew that Kay would have wanted him to attend. Donna bitched about it all the way there, the whole business of going. She hadn’t been inside a church for fifteen years at least, and wasn’t looking forward to it at all. Eastenders was on the television, for gawd’s sake.
Like everyone else, Donald and Donna were captivated.
How could it be that from one so young, and so slight, a voice could emanate that filled that vast church, and moved people to tears?
‘Who taught the little bugga to do that?’ she whispered.
‘I have no idea,’ said Donald, suddenly feeling dreadfully guilty that it had taken others to demonstrate to him what a talented son he possessed.
He would never underestimate Armitage again.
Chapter Nineteen
Samantha was standing upstairs in the swimming baths, staring from the huge windows that afforded a good view of the car park and the forecourt below. Jago was down there, biting his nails, sitting in his ten year old family sized hatchback. At least he’d washed it and polished the silver wheels. Sam had been in cars far worse. He’d been waiting there for ten minutes. She would make him wait a little longer yet.
Jago saw Lena come out of the main entrance to the pool. He hadn’t expected her to come that way, but that didn’t matter, the only thing that mattered was that she was here. He reached over and flipped open the door.
‘Hi,’ she said, as she jumped in.
‘Hi,’ he responded, almost in Red Indian speak, as she settled into the seat beside him.
He started the car and pulled out on to the inner ring road.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘A country pub I know,’ he said. ‘On the Frodsham road.’
He had chosen it with great care. They served a decent carvery for next to nothing, for he had next to no money. Tonight, if she asked for champagne she would be disappointed. She was wearing a black two-piece suit, skirt and jacket and those slinky leather gloves, and as he drove, he stole glances at her, at her pert knees and breasts and neat but not overpowering makeup. She was as he remembered, sweet, sexy, and desirable, and later on, after he’d slipped her a tab or two, she would be his.
The pub was OK, and the meal was acceptable. Jago bought them each a glass of wine, saying that he had two expensive bottles in his fridge at home, and as he was driving he didn’t want to drink too much while they were out. ‘That was cool,’ she said, and it was cool too for she didn’t fancy riding with Jago if he was drunk.
During a break in conversation she asked him if he ever experimented with drugs. She’d asked it as bold as that, not even bothering to lower her voice, as if she didn’t care who heard.
‘Didn’t you read my biog?’ he said, grinning like an ape.
‘I did, but I thought you might be exaggerating.’
‘Nope!’ he said. ‘No way! I’m up for anything, me, you only live once. Bring it on, sister.’
Lena smiled wickedly and said, ‘That’s great Jago because I’m really into all that kind of thing. Tell you the truth it’s the only thing I really like, you know, the only thing that truly excites me.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, sure. Have you got any gear back at the flat?’
He was about to say, sure thing, when a weird thought crossed his mind. He didn’t really know this babe from Adam. She could be a copper for all he knew, a drugs’ undercover officer. He’d read about such things in the National Inquirer, police stings on unsuspecting punters.
‘You’re not a cop are you?’
As if she would tell him if she was.
‘Me? Course not. Don’t be stupid. I told you I work in the booking office at the racetrack,’ and as if to prove the point she brought out the new Chester racetrack diary, the expensive green leather bound edition with the gold logo on the front cover, and the slogan: England’s Oldest Racecourse. ‘You can have it if you want,’ she said, ‘I can get hundreds of them.’
‘Yeah, ta, I will,’ and he took it from her be-gloved hand and slipped it into his inside pocket. It seemed to do the trick for there were no more questions as to whether she was a copper or not. What a ridiculous suggestion.
Then he said, and he did lower his voice, ‘If you must know, I’ve just taken delivery of some wicked skunk, and I keep a selection of tabs in, you know, for the weekend like, or any other day come to that,’ and he laughed nervously. He saw Lena smiling her approval across the table and then he said, ‘The two go really well together, talk about a trip...’
She smiled crazily and said, ‘I like you Jago, you’re cool, I can’t wait to get bac
k to your place and give it a whirl. Have you finished here? Shall we go, come on... the tabs are calling,’ and she stood up and headed for the door.
What a crazy bitch, he thought, am I lucky or what? This could be a night to remember, maybe above all others, and he jumped up and followed her outside.
She was standing by the car, coquettish look on her face, waiting for him to open up. He pointed the key and fired, but nothing happened, key battery dead. Jago cursed and slipped the key in the lock and opened up.
She fixed her seatbelt, but he did not. Stared at her instead, waiting for her to turn and look at him for he knew this was the point where he could occasionally land a kiss.
She knew what he was he after, and saw him coming, swaying across the cabin toward her, eyes closed, lips puckered, glasses steaming. Yuck! Yuck! Yuck! At the last moment she turned her head and allowed him to kiss her on the cheek.
‘Later, Jago, later,’ she whispered in as come on a voice as she could muster. ‘Let’s get back to your place.’
‘Sure babe,’ he said, struggling to keep the disappointment from his voice, as he started the car.
––––––––
Jago Cripps lived in a modern second floor flat on the northern side of the city, adjacent to a huge new health and fitness club that many of the block residents regularly used. When he’d moved in he’d checked out the place, saw the huge annual membership fee, and politely declined. Jago had never been much of a health and fitness fiend, so what was the point in starting now?
The flat boasted a fair sized living room, a sweet smell throughout, noted Sam, a modern kitchen and bathroom, and two bedrooms, one boasting a king-size bed where Jago did his thing. In the other bedroom he threw his junk and closed the door and hoped it would all disappear. The apartment was exactly the same as ten million others that had sprouted up throughout the kingdom. In the sitting room was a huge flatscreen telly, bought on the credit card, and a soft white sofa, also paid for by Jago’s employers. It was only eighteen months old and already growing grubby.