A Letter to a Lucky Man

by Thomas Jobling

  ‘But, hey ladies, come back now, sit with us.’ Control had changed, the pendulum had indeed swung. However, instead of sitting as requested, Phyllis turned and passed a note to Alice who was desperately trying to conceal her smiles, saying, ‘That’s my number pet. Just give me a call when your men-folk are ready. OK?’ She turned to face the huddle of three by the window. ‘Oh, of course if you gents do decide to come back, make sure that all that shite on debts and especially confidentially agreements have been redacted, erased. Good afternoon.’

  The drive back to base was one of mixed feelings. On the one hand they were disappointed that Cardinali Transport had still not been sold. It really had become their personal millstone. On the other hand though, they were buoyed by the excitement of totally winning the business bout.

  Being able to soak up the opening punches of the cartel’s personal attacks then come back and wipe the floor with them – especially the culling of their big fat pompous principal.

  Overall and regardless of whether or not they came back with an acceptable offer, it had been a positive, uplifting, confidence building experience, especially for Phyllis. Margaret turned to her sister. ‘Good grief, where did all that business stuff come from? You were amazing in there.’ Then she went quiet, before a mischievous grin broke across her face. Quietly, almost embarrassingly, she spoke again. ‘Before I forget, Dunleavy; Y-fronts or boxers?’

  Phyllis, smiled, tapped her nose and in a quick-fire reply, said, ‘For me, and myself alone, little sister. But seriously though, I read a lot; I also watch the antics of Curtis. So, in the end, they’re all big children. And finally to you, my loving sister it’s a thanks but no thanks on further groin gazing, understood? Oh, and while we’re on the subject, what was going on between you and that Haverstock guy?’

  It was no more than a fortnight later when Phyllis answered her hall phone. It was Alice Underwood. She had, she explained to Phyllis, somewhat nervously, been tasked with passing on an improved offer from the collective.

  Phyllis listened intently while writing down the basic detail of the offer. But, although surprised at the changes she bit her lip, forcing herself to remain dead-pan, to not convey any positive emotion. Internally, she wanted to cheer, externally; erect a banner in celebration. Instead, she apologised. She told Alice that she would have to run it all past her sister. ‘She,’ Phyllis explained further, ‘is the financial brain. May we have the hard copy of the proposal posted out? To Margaret Curtis, at the Cardinali Transport’s address?’

  Alice agreed readily and before she hung up, tentatively she said to Phyllis. ‘Mrs Cardinali, Phyllis, could I just say, in strict confidence like, how mind-blowingly impressive you were, like, in that lion’s den, you know, at that meeting. You really socked it to those old fuckers. Oops sorry. Yeah, really impressed.’

  ‘Oh Alice pet, thanks for that. We, Margaret and me, look forward to receiving your correspondence and it was nice to hear from you again. Keep in touch pet.’ Nice wee girl that one...smart too. She’ll go places, Phyllis thought as she hung up the phone.

  Following the arrival of the said proposal, and after the accountants had clawed over it, it was no more than a handful of weeks later when Alice Underwood answered her desk phone... Thereafter, Dunleavy would get his chance to formally present his fountain pen to the sisters. At the conclusion of the formalities Margaret whispered to her sister as they inhaled on the fresh air outside their accountant’s offices.

  ‘Bet that pompous foul-mouthed pig of a man wished he could have used Champagne instead of black ink to gain our signatures.’

  Phyllis, puzzled, asked of her sister, ‘What on earth are you talking about? Has this all finally got the better of you?’

  Margaret smiled, answering almost under her breath, ‘Champers, sis, if you get my drift, would have cost them a lot less than the ink used in the writing this wee cheque.’

  Phyllis held a curious frown.

  Margaret explained further, ‘You know; I had been tempted to accept their first revision. But it was something that you had said about Ricky’s stubborn streak. Remember; you quoted one of his throw-away-lines, ‘if you don’t ask.’’

  Margaret kept coming back to their infamous first meeting. Dunleavy’s stance, his hostility. ‘If you remember sis, it was him who forced us to dig our heels in. So that’s what I mean by a Champagne offer. If he’d played fair, as I’ve already said, it would have cost them an awful lot less.’ She chuckled. ‘Nice to be on a winning side and nice to take something back from that putrid world of the small-town-big timers.’

  ‘Parasites sister. Parasites. Now, finally I can properly get mine and Curtis’s life back into focus. Oh, and I’m still waiting for an answer to my earlier William Haverstock question.’

  With that final comment, Phyllis finding herself between a tear and joy, wiped her eyes, turned and hugged her sister, as only a sister can.

  Chapter 8 : My Girl, Me and the Reverend

  For the young Curtis Cardinali and his mates, chasing girls had always topped their agenda. Getting dates never seemed to be an issue for the tall athletic good-looking lad. Holding on to them was a different matter. That was until Philippa Furey stepped into Curtis’s world; to be accurate – until he got led blindly into her world.

  She was a final year grammar school pupil. He was an apprentice at the town’s huge engineering factory. She could have been a model! For him, it had been like winning a first prize when she agreed to go out with him. It happened at a school disco in the town.

  Egged on by mates, Luke, Maurice and Simon, Curtis had plucked up enough courage that night to venture out from the safety of the crowd. It was a big space. It was the school’s assembly hall. Decorated to a Halloween theme it had been transformed into a dark ‘witch & wizard’ cauldron of a dance hall. Dark enough to escape the chaperoning eyes of the attendant teaching staff, bright enough to highlight one’s prey whether chasing or being chased.

  As cool as he could manage he sauntered around the edge of the dance floor coming in on a flank towards her. Curtis was fairly sure that she had smiled at him earlier. On stealth mode he continued to close on her, but suddenly he aborted.

  Dithering had got the better of him. He wondered if she had noticed his manoeuvring. It had been a well-practiced course of action. Basically, if he had received a refusal he could melt back into the revelling crowd, or ask the same question of the next girl; a sort of process of elimination. Anything he figured would be better than having to endure that ‘walk of shame’ back from whence he came, and in the full knowledge that all eyes would be on him.

  Having re-built his confidence, and as the opening notes of Manfred Mann’s Pretty Flamingo sounded across the dance floor, he made his move. She accepted! He followed her onto the open space. The third dance of the set was the current number one single, Distant Drums, by Jim Reeves. A slow dance. His immediate awkwardness showed through. She however, with a silky smoothness, took his hand while placing hers on his shoulder. Off they went. Curtis quickly bought into the rhythm with only an occasional falter. Too soon the dance set had concluded.

  Delivering her back into the arms of her gossip-ready girl group his palm gently pressing the mid of her backbone. His forefinger touched the thin strap of her brassiere. It was if a static shock had stabbed him. Thereafter he and his mates danced the night away. But regardless of his dance partner, Curtis’s thoughts continually drifted back to that girl and if he had a chance.

  Without warning, the last set of the night had been announced. The floor was filling fast. Then, out of the corner of his eye he spied her again. Taking a deep breath he said to himself, Curtis, this is it, do, or die. His final move made. She said yes – again!

  The content of that final set was a blur other than the playing of the National Anthem. Thereafter, it seemed to take an age for her collect her coat... No doubt, he figured, he hoped, that she was appraising her clique about her catch of the night.

  As he walked her
home he sensed that something special had just happened to him. As if hypnotized he had even plucked up the courage to take her hand. She squeezed his. Normally conversation was something that Curtis Cardinali excelled at, but on this night he found himself tongue-tied. Finally he said, ‘Hi, I’m Curtis. So, who are you?’

  ‘Well, Philippa is my name, Philippa Furey. Most people call me Philly. What do you do other than dance?’ She continued, in fact she drove the conversation... Time had meant nothing to Curtis that night. A further date had been arranged.

  Their relationship had flown into its ninth month, longer. Going steady he had realised, suited him. She was beautiful, tall and trim. Not only fancied by her snobby scholarship boys but, he was sure, by his mates as well. Sitting with her in the town’s Rose Bud café, Curtis felt like a celebrity. When they were out together he had eyes for no one else. He was besotted! But it had not been all smooth going for their relationship...

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  It had only been a few weeks into their courtship when Philippa introduced her new boy to her nervy mother and a somewhat distant father. Curtis had been shown into their front reception room. Heavily faded curtains and dark wood furniture soaked up the limited light sources. Chairs which had seen better days littered the room. Nothing it seemed, matched.

  Her father, a Presbyterian Minister was a tall lean man with dark sunken eyes and a prominent hawk nose, had appeared from an interconnecting door as her mother excused herself. A well-worn bible was clutched under his arm. With a skiff of mischief Curtis wondered privately if in fact she had brought him here to be interviewed for a part in a Dracula film. A shiver dragged him back to the present.

  For a first meeting it had opened as well as it could; an economy of dialogue, nervous glances as each weighed up the other. It was her father’s intimidating stare and those half-moon spectacles. Curtis knew exactly what the Reverend was thinking. Privately he conceded that he was probably spot-on; another spotty youth with no other thoughts in his loutish head than the taking of his daughter’s virginity. Philippa however, was different; for sure he was not going to risk a sexual confrontation, well not this early. He feared ‘blowing it’ with what he considered to be, a very special girl.

  The atmosphere remained as chilled as the room itself. The Reverend moved with stealth to take up position at the domineering empty fireplace. He leant against the black marble shelf, one foot on the hearth. Curtis wondered if a sermon was about to be read. Finally, he spoke. Whilst it was in a soft tone, each word seemed to hold a menacing ring. Curtis, glancing at his girl kept thinking that he – they – must get out of there, soonest.

  ‘Right young man, I’ll be keeping a close eye on you.’ Then he simply turned away. He moved, floated, as if to exit the room. Curtis continued to look towards Philippa hoping for some words of wisdom. But now framed within the doorway, her father had stopped, he turned and proceeded to rattle off a sequence of pointed questions; questions that Curtis would not forget.

  ‘So – tell me son. Oh I’m sorry, what’s your name again?’ Philippa answered for her young man, ‘It’s Curtis, father.’

  Curtis quickly finished his girl’s introduction. ‘Curtis sir, Curtis Cardinali.’

  ‘Cardinali? Oh, really? You’re Italian are you? Umm, family over here long, son? Do you work locally?... A spot of labouring perhaps?... Ice cream?... Bins or some other suitable tasks, no?’ As his disingenuous line of questioning continued Curtis asked himself; why the belittling? A Spanish Inquisition? He knew that he needed to be out of there, with or without his girl. Jeez, it wasn’t as if we were getting married, she’s preggers or anything. What the heck have I got myself into?

  Philippa, a mortified hand cupped over her mouth had moved to stand beside Curtis. She gripped his sweat-oozing hand. He had been expecting his girl to have intervened for nothing else perhaps than to bring some humour, or at least a softening to the conversation. Curtis was somewhere between speaking out, and running out. If that meant bailing out from his embryo of a relationship, so be it. ‘No sir,’ he finally said in as an assertive manner as he could muster, ‘I’m a final year mechanical engineering apprentice.’ She squeezed her boy’s hand tighter. Her father had taken up station across the room, in front of an imposing bookcase. Philippa started to pull Curtis away. The Reverend stood tall. His hands clasped behind him, around his bible. His head had tilted back. Philippa continued to nudge her boy out into the hall. She was shaking. Curtis too was having issues; internal issues.

  ‘Oh really,’ Philippa’s father continued.. Frowning a dismissive look, he paused, drew in a breath and said, ‘So, young man. Come back here please.’

  Curtis obliged, but only by a few feet. Philippa behind, still held his hand.

  The Reverend spoke on, ‘More importantly, I haven’t noticed you among my flock on Sundays. Under God’s roof so to speak. Perhaps, you are with one of the other gatherings in this awful town. Methodist perhaps? Do you attend at all boy, do you?’

  Without a second thought, the young man, or rather the boy within, replied, ‘No, no of course I attend, well on most Sundays I do. Mother has always been very strict. Yes, ten o’clock Mass has always been a tradition with the Cardinali’s.’

  It was too late! It was the sudden change in Reverend Furey’s face, the wide angry eyes, black as jet, and the sudden absence of facial colour. Curtis instantly realised where all those questions had been leading and that his quip hadn’t been seen as funny. All he heard from behind him was Philippa whispering. ‘Oh Holy shit!’

  Then, in a flash she was standing semi in front of Curtis, shielding him as if to protect her boy from what she knew was about to explode. In a vain attempt to defuse the fast developing scenario, she said, ‘Okay then Dad, that’s us, we’re off.’ She turned and yanked her boy’s hand so hard that he tripped on the door saddle, landing him hard against the creaking banister. As she pulled him towards the porch all hell broke loose.

  In a few strides her father was right up behind the fleeing couple. A hand clasped the boy’s collar pushing him aside. As he caught his daughter’s arm, he shouted,

  ‘WHAT? A PAPIST?’ He glared at his daughter. ‘YOU, YOU’RE STEPPING OUT WITH A PAPIST? NO, NO, NO! OVER MY DEAD BODY, DAUGHTER.’

  He attempted to wrest her away from Curtis. His eyes were on fire, saliva was foaming from the sides of his narrow tight lipped mouth, his nose dripping. With a wagging forefinger into Curtis’s face he guldered, ‘GET OUT OF THIS HOUSE. THIS IS GOD’S HOUSE. NO PLACE FOR THE LIKES OF YOU. YOU... YOU FENIAN! YOU GET AWAY FROM MY DAUGHTER! GET AWAY, I COMMAND YOU.’

  At the same moment father had grabbed daughter again. He hurled her down the hall. She landed in a heap beside her mother who had just extracted herself from the kitchen. In that same moment Curtis went for him. But he was beaten back by an exceptionally tough torso. Curtis found himself pinned against the porch’s inner door, hands gripping at his throat. Survival instincts kicked in. With one ferocious upward movement of his arms those choking hands were thrown free of Curtis’s neck. He pushed this ‘Holy Man’ so hard that he landed at the foot of the stairs, beside Philippa and her mother.

  With him winded, Philippa was quickly helped onto her feet. As her mother tried to restrain her husband, they moved with haste towards the porch. Mascara stained tears streamed her face. Curtis knew, or should have known from experience, he had been no angel on the streets, not to turn his back on an aggressor. But he was protecting a daughter from what he now believed to be a bigoted, hate-filled, deranged and dangerous individual; it mattered not that the man was her father.

  They had made it into the porch. She, with trembling fingers finally unlocked and opened the aged front door. But, neither of them had expected her father to shoulder charge Curtis. Launched, he landed outside on the gravel. Within that same movement he had grabbed his daughter back again while striking at and pushing his wife onto the stairs. He finished off his tirade by slamming the door shut. Curtis found himself on o
ne side of it, Philippa inside, on the other.

  As she screamed her protestations Curtis, having recovered from his eviction, banged on the solid black door. But to no avail. He felt both beaten, and out-manoeuvred. His head hung heavy in defeat. He started to slouch away. Suddenly the door was jerked open again as Philippa attempted another escape. He turned, but as the first stride of his sprint bit into the gravel, a retrieving arm grasped a handful of long auburn hair. Father was dragging daughter back indoors. Curtis had to finally accept defeat and with it, the end of an aspiring romance before it had even started. Christianity, wonderful, he thought. The Holy of Holy’s. God help me. Racing thoughts within his homeward trek centred on Philippa’s state of health, never mind her safety and, obvious embarrassment. He also wondered just how badly her mother was hurt. He wondered if indeed they, either of them would need hospitalised. Then he asked himself if he should talk to the police; Aye right, that would be really sensible. Then after a time he wondered deeper, saying out loud, ‘Maybe they’ve killed the wicked old fucker?’

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  The wicked old fucker was the Reverend Furey and he had twin daughters, Philippa and her sister, Felicity. He presided over the town’s extensive Presbyterian community. He had taken over the parish a few years earlier. The Furey family had been moved as a unit in somewhat of a rush, and not for the first time. This time it was to fill a vacancy following the death of a long-serving minister.

  The decor of their new abode, the old manse, was as would be expected of a single gentleman in his retiring years. Nevertheless, as it stood it offered instant warmth regardless of its fustiness. It was conveniently located within a cul-de-sac, not far from the church complex and no more than a stroll into the lively town with shops aplenty.

  Mother and daughters had been overjoyed. They were again back within a metropolis albeit a smallish one. They hoped that it would finally be a long stay appointment. It would be a big change from the previous ministry. That had been rural, rural in the extreme. It too had been an unexpected move for the controversial Reverend Furey.