The Code

by Nick Thripp

  ‘I’m sure he’d appreciate that. He was a bit upset. I’m–’

  The door opened and John padded in wearing a charcoal grey three-piece suit and a tie with a crest on it that looked as though it could have been from some army regiment. His black shoes shone brilliantly. I looked down at my battered M&S suit and scuffed shoes. John touched Samantha’s shoulder and she swayed almost imperceptibly towards him, bathing him in the full crooked smile. A faint trail of perfume, I think it was Rive Gauche, wafted in my direction as, without looking at me again, she left the room and closed the door softly behind her. I realised with a jolt that Samantha was going out with John now.

  ‘Well?’ He draped himself over one of the two chairs in the room. ‘What did you make of the business?’

  ‘A turkey.’ I sat on the other chair. ‘Wouldn’t touch it if I were you.’

  I laid my report on the table and went through it page by page. He nodded occasionally, though he didn’t ask me a single question. When I looked at his face I couldn’t gauge his reaction.

  ‘So, I suppose you’ll move on to something else?’ I was pleased I’d been able to demolish his plan so easily with my professional expertise. Somehow it seemed to restore the balance between us, diminishing him and enhancing me.

  He stretched in a lazy, feline way, and yawned, exposing sparkling teeth. I felt a flicker of curiosity mixed with envy. How could he have such perfect teeth? My own mouth was filled with gunmetal-grey, evidence of a childhood spent indulging in sweets.

  ‘On the contrary; I’m going to buy it and your report will help me get the price down.’

  ‘You’re going ahead after all I’ve told you? You must be mad.’

  His predatory eyes fixed on me and I froze.

  ‘Buying this business is going to make me rich. Don’t assume that because you can’t see something, no one else can.’

  Seconds passed and no riposte came to mind.

  He yawned, stretched again, and his tone mellowed.

  ‘Thanks for your hard work. I’m going to ask Samantha to type it up, and then I need you to sign it and add your qualifications. Can you drop in tomorrow?’

  Without waiting for my assent, he stood up and shook hands with me.

  ‘Been good working with you. Samantha will see you out.’

  I shuffled out, head bowed and brain buzzing. My assessment had been thorough. There was no reason for him to ignore it. In any case, how was he, without any relevant experience, going to turn around a business like that?

  Samantha arrived to escort me to the lift. I felt no frisson of attraction when, guiding me round a particularly sharp corner in the corridor, she touched my arm. We reached the lift and she leant towards me, as though to kiss me on the cheek again. I took a step back and nodded curtly. I knew she was Beart’s now, and that put me off her completely.

  Chapter 9

  Freewheeling, 1976

  With the proceeds from my moonlighting fees, I bought myself a second-hand MGB in British racing green with beige leather upholstery. Though it was old, it only had 70,000 miles on the clock and I thought it would make me look cool.

  I also talked Richard into going with me on a week’s package holiday to Jesolo. We soon discovered all the Italian girls there already had Italian boyfriends, meaning we had to compete with the unattached locals, sun-tanned and laden with gold jewellery, for the favours of the usually lobster-red British girls. It was an unequal struggle. The UK’s female contingent was clearly looking for a change in its sexual diet and preferred the charms of our slicker, more sharply-dressed Italian rivals.

  Eventually, Richard and I found a quiet bar with a small garden at the back and spent our evenings there drinking grappa and playing cards. Pleasant enough, but I was relieved to get home.

  *

  The weather was warm and sunny on the afternoon of our return, so I rolled the MGB’s hood down, and Richard and I set off for an old country pub. Our early holiday sunburn was maturing into a deep tan and our mosquito bites were fading, so when we saw some attractive girls through the window, we strode into the saloon bar to strike up a conversation, and discovered they were university students from Texas on an exchange at a local college.

  Turning to Richard, I winked. ‘Our lucky night.’

  ‘Shooting fish in a barrel,’ Richard whispered. ‘If we don’t score tonight, we should take a vow of lifetime chastity.’

  Richard and I, much influenced by a recent nature programme on TV, decided to follow the same tactics as a pack of wolves in pursuit of a herd of musk oxen. First create some confusion, then separate one or two from the others, and then wear them down till their resistance weakened. The girls in question had been talking to some American guys wearing tee shirts and shorts emblazoned with surfing logos. We somehow managed to insinuate ourselves, extolling the virtues of Venice, or at least as many as we could remember from our couple of outings there. We were on safe ground. This was our new companions’ first time abroad and we could have said anything. The girls seemed to soak it up, and the Beach Boy lookalikes faded into the background, muttering and casting occasional poisonous glances at us. Now I knew how those young Italian men felt when they’d routed Richard and me.

  The difference between us and wolves was that we couldn’t get the number we’d separated down below three. Then one of them, a small blonde with bright red lipstick said, ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Chester, I hear it’s so beautiful’, and the other two joined in, screeching, clapping their hands and bobbing up and down. I’d never been to Chester, although in my mind’s eye the name conjured up a scene of elegant timbered Elizabethan buildings a very long way up the motorway. One of the girls, Mary Jane, was leaning against me, her body warm and alluring. She looked round and smiled. Her perfect teeth were framed by soft and delicate pink lips, though, in the low light of the pub, I couldn’t discern whether this was their natural colour or a subtle lipstick. Her green eyes sparkled with merriment.

  ‘How about it, boys?’ she said, and I’m sure she pressed a little harder against me. ‘It would be such a blast.’

  ‘We could take you to Chester one day,’ I volunteered, hoarsely, ‘although it’s a sports car, so I could only fit a couple of you in.’

  I’d already decided we’d leave Sara, the noisy and restless blonde, behind.

  ‘Gee, I’m sure we could all squeeze in,’ Mary Jane replied. ‘We’re only little, and it would be cosy.’

  ‘Let’s go now,’ Sara said. ‘It would be so cool to drive up there at night.’

  ‘Yeah, amazing,’ the other one, whose name I hadn’t caught, added.

  ‘Yeah, absolutely amazing,’ they all seemed to be saying now.

  ‘I’m not sure…’ I rubbed my chin and viewed the three expectant faces looking up at me.

  I sensed the Beach Boys closing in again and looked at Richard. He nodded. Why not? I hadn’t really given the car a good spin, the next day was Sunday, and we’d nothing planned.

  ‘All right. Let’s go.’ We drained our glasses and I led the group to my MG.

  ‘What a darling little car. It would fit in the trunk of my dad’s car,’ Sara said.

  ‘That’s why I think I can only take a couple of you.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Mary Jane said. ‘Get in Richard.’ As soon as he complied, she and the other girl plonked themselves on his lap, while Sara, with a nimble vault, squeezed into the space behind us.

  The car’s engine made a whining sound when I turned the key in the ignition. At the third attempt, it sprang into life, and we left a cloud of blue smoke behind us as I released the handbrake and we raced out of the car park.

  We threaded our way through the country lanes, onto some arterial roads and finally onto the M1. I opened the throttle and the car gave a throaty roar. The girls whooped and I punched the air. All that slogging over Beart’s report had been worth it.
A night of unalloyed pleasure beckoned. This is what life should always be like. We drove at speed for about fifty miles, the roof down, the girls’ long hair flying in the breeze, and the car rattling loudly. Conversation was difficult, although I could sense Richard squirming under the weight of the two women. He told me later he’d gone from lust to numbness to cramp within five minutes.

  ‘Shall we stop for a break?’ I shouted above the roar of the wind.

  Richard and Mary Jane nodded. I didn’t think the other two heard. In any case, we had a majority in favour. I pulled in to the next motorway services and parked. We tumbled out, the girls heading off in front and Richard walking with a pronounced limp behind.

  ‘You can’t still have a hard-on, mate.’ I put my arm around his shoulder.

  ‘I shall probably never have a hard-on again,’ he replied. ‘The blood supply there has been cut off for at least an hour. It’ll probably drop off any minute now.’

  We met up with the girls in the cafeteria and they made room for us on the bench seat around their small table.

  ‘How do you guys drink this stuff?’ Mary Jane spat a mouthful of coffee back into her cup.

  ‘I usually drink tea.’ I replied. She lifted the cup out of my hand and took a small sip.

  ‘Ugh! It’s as disgusting as the other stuff, only it’s a different shade of brown.’ The other two girls pushed their almost full cups away from them, as though to avoid further contamination.

  I gulped the last of my tea.

  ‘Shall we be on our way?’

  ‘You guys are really sweet, driving us all this way,’ Mary Jane said, leaning against me.

  Richard put on his best Jeeves voice. ‘Entirely our pleasure.’

  ‘Gee, I just love your accent,’ Sara said, resting her hand on his arm. ‘I could listen to it all night.’

  Richard and my eyes met, and we struggled to suppress a smirk. This was going to be even easier than we thought.

  The five of us, dancing arm in arm, returned to the car singing I Get Around. We climbed aboard. Mary Jane had just launched into Good Vibrations when I tried to start the engine. It emitted a sad whirring sound and died completely. Neither Richard nor I knew anything about cars. I opened the bonnet and peered inside. The lighting was dim and the engine was just a big, shadowy shape. It was Richard who noticed the black pool of liquid glistening under the car.

  ‘We need more oil.’ He pointed at the brightly illuminated service station in the distance, pushing me gently in its direction.

  By now the three girls, in their light summer dresses, were shivering and huddling together.

  I jogged off, returning with two large cans which I poured into the engine. I tried the ignition again. Nothing; it was dead. I found a telephone kiosk and phoned the AA. They’d be there in two hours.

  ‘Gee, that’s bad luck,’ Mary Jane said. ‘Such a cute little car.’ The other girls nodded.

  ‘Don’t worry, ladies, we’ll get you home somehow,’ Richard said.

  ‘Don’t worry, guys,’ Sara replied. ‘We’ll take care of ourselves. See you all around sometime.’

  In turn, they pecked Richard and me on the cheek, before making off towards the lorry park where, only minutes later, I saw them clambering into an articulated behemoth. They gave us a cheery wave.

  We stood staring as they pulled away. The driver’s arm appeared through his open window and gave us a thumbs up.

  ‘Bugger,’ I said, and kicked the car. A chunk of paint and filler dislodged itself from the wheel arch, revealing a large patch of rust underneath. ‘What was that about a vow of chastity?’

  ‘Who needs to make a vow?’ Richard replied.

  When the AA man arrived, his examination was cursory and his diagnosis brief.

  ‘Seized up. Must have had an oil leak for some time.’

  ‘What can I do?’ I asked.

  ‘Call a garage and get it towed away; you’ll need a new engine mate.’

  ‘How much will that cost?’

  ‘Blommin’ fortune,’ he replied, with a hollow laugh, and he mentioned a figure only slightly less than the car had cost.

  He left us surveying the ruined remnants of my life in the fast lane. We wandered over to the lorry park and hitched a lift with an affable Yorkshireman delivering furniture to Surrey.

  He dropped us off at Staples Corner just as a grey dawn was breaking. A fine drizzle drenched us as we plodded, shivering, to Hendon Central to await the first tube of the day.

  Chapter 10

  Promotion, 1979

  ‘Have they told you they want to promote you?’ Richard asked, his mouth still crammed with his cheese and pickle sandwich.

  I flicked the debris he had sprayed off my jacket. ‘You too?’

  ‘Yep. Think you’ll accept?’

  I reflected on the question. ‘Means more money.’

  ‘And a lot more work,’ he replied, brushing crumbs from his lap.

  ‘They’ve told Digby and Rowlands they’re going to promote them too.’ Old Harrovians, they were both ex-public school snobs. ‘If we don’t accept we could end up working for them.’

  ‘That settles it,’ Richard said. ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to work things so we don’t have to do too much.

  We both accepted, and our promotions to Supervisor were announced. I decided to make the most of it with my parents.

  ‘At last you seem to be getting somewhere,’ my father said.

  ‘Well done, dear,’ my mother said. ‘My sister was a supervisor in M&S before phlebitis made her give it up.’

  Richard and I agreed to revamp our images. I invested in a new charcoal grey suit with a thin white stripe while Richard splashed out on a pair of gold cufflinks. We each bought a bright tie.

  The buoyancy I felt on my first morning in the role had evaporated by lunchtime, and by the evening I was wishing I hadn’t accepted.

  ‘How are you finding it?’ Richard said after a couple of weeks.

  ‘Bloody awful. Work, work and then more bloody work. How is it for you?

  ‘The same. The qualifieds need constant supervision and all those new graduates never know what to do. It’s knackering.’

  ‘And as for Houdini Walsh.’ I spat his name. ‘He’s never there when needed and I always end up briefing the partner and the client.’

  ‘Wish I could learn that trick,’ Richard said. ‘Still, we’ll be managers one day. Then we can bugger off to play golf and leave everybody in the shit.’

  ‘It’s completely stuffed up my social life.’

  ‘Sandra’s none too happy either.’

  One of the new graduates, a boy with fair hair and a round face, walked by. He didn’t look old enough to shave.

  ‘Is it me or are they getting younger?’

  ‘You’re turning into an old git, that’s all. It’s happening to us all,’ Richard said.

  ‘Fancy a beer after work?’

  ‘Sorry mate. Can’t tonight. I’m seeing Sandra.’ Richard stared at the floor.

  ‘Are you a man or a poodle?’ I said, pushing his shoulder.

  ‘Wuff,’ he replied, sloping off.

  Some days later I was auditing a distribution firm in the same field as John’s. ‘Has Beart’s business turned around?’ I asked the Finance Director.

  ‘Only in the way an iceberg turned the Titanic round,’ came the reply. ‘Closed down last month with no warning. Everyone made redundant, and even people there for thirty years got diddly-squat. Brutal it was, absolutely brutal.’

  Although I made sympathetic noises, I was intrigued. Asset stripping was all the rage, but what had he seen that I’d missed? The depots were all located in out of the way places, and the head office was a dilapidated building which probably qualified as a slum. I couldn’t work it out.

  *

 
After work, I used to go to the pub, and sometimes on to Jemima’s, usually on my own as Sandra wouldn’t let Richard accompany me now.

  Sandra had virtually moved into our small flat, which was now festooned with articles of women’s clothing hanging up to dry. While Sandra’s obsession with cleaning everything including the inside of the kettle irritated me, I did like the way the place smelled now. She cooked meals almost every evening, the aroma of roasting meat and fresh air supplanting that of take-away curries, pizzas and old socks. Richard’s figure was already filling out, and he was slowing down in every way. He would spend his weekends doing the many trivial repair jobs we’d always ignored, or trailing round the shops, the domestic chains attached to his ankles clanking, to peer gormlessly and nod acquiescently at the things Sandra picked out. After years of rootless dissolution, he seemed as resigned to his fate as a terminally injured musk ox confronted by a determined wolf.

  ‘Is this really what you want, mate?’ I asked him one day over a pint in our local. ‘Always making love to the same woman, always waking up with the same face in bed beside you, all that shopping instead of going to the footie, only ever going out to see romantic mush at the Odeon? Sounds like a life sentence with no remission.’

  Taking a deep draught, he looked at me morosely.

  ‘I sometimes ask myself the same questions.’

  ‘So, what’s your answer?’

  ‘It’s better than the alternative.’

  ‘How can it be better than going out and enjoying yourself?’

  He emitted a deep sigh.

  ‘I don’t want to grow into a sad old bachelor with breakfast stains all down my front.’

  ‘Bet she wants kids. You’ll be wiping bottoms and getting up at all hours to feed the little blighters in no time.’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact, we have discussed starting a family. I quite like the idea. After all, you can’t go on living just for yourself forever.’

  As I cleared my throat to debate the point, he looked up at the clock and gulped the rest of his beer.

  ‘Better be getting back, mate. Sandra’s cookery evening class finishes at nine. I said I’d give her a lift.’