A Letter to a Lucky Man

by Thomas Jobling

  This however, turned out to be a minority view. It bucked the trend growing across the shocked and anger-filled community. So, when talking the options over at home, it came as something of a surprise to his mother when Curtis spilled out his dilemma. Although she was initially taken aback, Phyllis was quick to reply.

  Stopping her son in his tracks she said, ‘Son, let me tell you,’ she said, straightening her posture and planting both palms flat on the gingham patterned PVC table cloth. Her face was firm. Steely eyes burrowed into her son. ‘You see what these madmen our doing to our country son? These troubles are getting worse. There’s no future for you in this one-horse-town. You’re young, smart, tall and handsome,’ she gifted herself a quick smile. ‘You’re highly qualified now, and dare I say with a raft of exciting prospects laid out for you. Do not underestimate your potential. And another thing, do not underestimate the value of that accommodation package either. That’s some head-start, well...for anyone. So please tell me Curtis, why on earth would you not go for it? At least son, for me, give it a try.’

  With emotions building within, and another appetite quashed, he sought quiet reflection. Finally, and with a quiver on his lips he ruffled the fingers of both hands through his styled hair as he prepared to answer his mother’s plea. ‘Mum seriously, how on earth could I just up and leave you here? On your own. I mean, how would you manage? And also, none of my mates are up for it. The union guy says it’s all a con. They’ll suddenly find new orders and it’ll be ‘back to buts’ or worst case, the Government will find a new outfit and grant-aid them millions to take over the complex. He said that they’ve been down this path before. So, Mum if I took up their offer sure it would be me, me on my own and you, you on your own.

  “I’d be over there and my mates would be over here. And...what about my car? Na,’ he paused, bowed his head and with a shrug of the shoulder concluded his assessment by saying, ‘Think I’ll stick.’

  Phyllis, couldn’t contain herself. Her face could not hide her disappointment. Looking away from her son she incongruously burst out laughing. Curtis stood up, stunned and with eyebrows scrunched up, he stared at her. In a serious, hurt, almost angry tone, he demanded to know what was so funny.

  ‘Oh Curtis my son, I love you to pieces, but sometimes I can see your father staring back at me. You wouldn’t remember; you were too young. But whenever he was made redundant he was quite content to hang around until something, anything, turned up. Needless to say, nothing turned up. It was only after your aunt and I put our heads together that he found himself re-employed, albeit self-employed.’ With a raised hand, she stopped Curtis who was priming himself to interject with another predictably negative comment.

  ‘Don’t misunderstand what I’m saying Curtis. Your father was a Trojan, just a bit of a slow starter. And yes, as we all now know he was a man without a great business head on his wide shoulders. Great in the goals though.’ Quickly, she moved on, to avoid any further flippancy. ‘So, my big handsome lad, do not be concerned about me. Of course I’ll miss you. No doubt this old house will transform itself into a bit of a mausoleum. No more booming bass lines and no more thumps and bangs from your size tens up and down those stairs.’

  She stopped, smiled wider and gently grabbed her son’s shoulder before continuing, ‘Look son, I’ve got my wee cauldron of friends and as you are well aware, a gentleman with whom I enjoy the theatre and stuff like that. Yes, yes, I know that you’re not that impressed with Felix.’

  Curtis had rolled his eyes. It was just the mention of that man’s name. What was worse was that he had been one of his teachers all those years ago. What made it worse was he knew Felix’s professional opinion should really be sought. The idea of allowing this man the opportunity to move closer – displacing, nay defacing the image of his late father – continued to sit uneasy. However, as he thought about her words, he realised that his mother was correct. More so, she of course deserved a life of her own, regardless of who she partnered with. At that moment he resolved that he would be pleasant to Felix; it didn’t mean he had to like him.

  Phyllis pressed on. ‘Now son, this conversation has always been about you, your future. Believe me, and from where I’m sitting it is a no-brainer. But, at the end of the day, and regardless of how it all plays out, I’ll be here for you, as will Felix. And I can hope you’ll grow to like, and trust him. And as far as your car goes, I’ve already bought myself a matching head scarf. Of course, when you pop back, you can also have a drive... in your mother’s TR3 Yep, I think it will suit me very nicely thank you. Oh, your aunt will be so envious.’

  Phyllis lent back into her chair and smiled. ‘So, there you are, another little worry bead discarded. Now, wipe those eyes, because you’ve got your aunt and Felix approaching on the starboard tack.’

  Curtis laughed at his mother’s use of the parlance she had picked up around him and his sea cadet friends.

  She continued on, ‘But, before they get here, I want to tell you something else.’ She reached across and held her son’s hand. ‘It’s, a wee conversation that your dad and I had immediately after you entered this world.’

  Curtis found himself anchored, waiting...

  ‘Ricky, your dad, had big ideas for you. Playing for Spurs of course.’

  Curtis nodded, and smiled again.

  ‘He also reckoned you’ll he heading up some conglomerate someday. I countered that by suggesting other careers were available, driving a lorry for example, but your father insisted you were destined for great things. Well, look son, apart from the Spurs prediction, everything else is doable. I just know it is.’

  Curtis nodded again, but didn’t speak. In his head though, he was already making plans. I’m with you Dad. I’ll be that leader of industry. I will Dad, I will!

  ⁎ ⁎ ⁎

  Predictably it was a tear-jerking departure as Curtis, and as it turned out, Simon too, headed towards the departure gates. A big city and whole new world of cultural diversity was waiting for them to unpick. This would be, they finally agreed, an adventure; daunting, but nonetheless exciting.

  To reinforce their new found adventurous spirit, as their flight commenced its descent for landing, they clinked their plastic glasses and said in unison, ‘Bring it on!’

  Chapter 13 : Meeting Red-Fred

  Overall, Curtis and Simon’s relocation to England’s Black Country, had been testing. Week one had been spent mostly within the firm’s personnel department. Day one had been chaotic; a manager-less department unaware of their coming! They were shuffled between rooms and from desk to desk. As well as feeling swamped by the sheer size of the complex into which they had been drafted, they both felt isolated.

  A frustrated Simon referred to it as human paper shuffling; same questions, different question-masters. While both of them had adopted a manly facade, inside they worried what calamity could befall them next. Would they actually have a bed for the night?

  By the late afternoon of day one, and given they’d been travelling since before five that morning, their nerves were getting tested further because no record of their lodgings could be found. Despite them being told their accommodation had been sorted weeks previously. They clutched their letters of confirmation tight in the hope that it might change the reality.

  For Simon it was the final straw. He forcefully demanded that someone within the department contact their opposite number at the factory back home, or the said lodgings owner. At the eleventh hour and with the return of the department manager, their horrendous, nay calamitous introduction to their new work place had been quickly sorted, or most of it had.

  Their lodging’s address was clear enough on their confirmation, but there was no contact telephone number. Given the rest of the day’s mishaps, Curtis nor Simon had the confidence to simply proceed to the address until their lodgings had indeed been confirmed by the B&B’s owner.

  As Simon had said, ‘What? We turn up to find they don’t know we’re coming either? Then what? We sleep in t
he street. Nah, I don’t think so!’

  With the office clock ticking dangerously close to 5 p.m. a reluctant search of the local telephone directory had commenced. The snooty department secretary even more reluctantly made the telephone call. Finally, and with the office lights switched off and overcoats pulled on, it was confirmed that indeed they did have beds.

  Taxied by an apologetic personnel manager they were duly fed, watered and delivered to what would be their home for however long. How they would get to and from their new work-place was entirely another matter.

  Their adventure had not started as they expected it should have and the next challenge for the doubting duo had been the allocation of the narrow twin beds. A toss of a coin soon settled that. Seeking out a pay phone installed in the entrance hall, Curtis and Simon agreed that it would be unwise to apprise their parents fully of the nature of their entry into their new opportunistic world. Discretion would be the key. Both slept soundly that first night – it had been a long, long day.

  Next on their induction journey would be an intensive spell at the training unit. No chaos there, but instead another reception which verged on the frosty. Quickly though, that department manager realised that he had been delivered not another couple of spotty, time-wasting youths, but two highly qualified engineers. It was as if the sun had finally burst through heavy cloud cover thus burning off a moral sapping fog. Eventually they were ‘let loose’. Finally, they felt employed.

  Their lodgings – mother Cardinali’s key selling point – whilst comfortable and, on first impressions homely, also turned out not to be as they had envisioned; a top floor glitzy apartment, it was not.

  Eight lodgers of differing nationalities shared the house. The landlady contained herself within a ground floor apartment. Once a grand multi-bedroom Victorian corner property, it sat detached in its own grounds. In its day the setting would have been striking but after years of ‘mend and make do’ it could, in the wrong light, be viewed as facing the onset of early dereliction.

  Back at the factory complex their work ethic impressed. However, it also grated with the heavily unionised work force. If they had considered their previous employment unionised they soon discovered this was on a higher plane altogether. It had differing effects on the two boys. For example; Simon, while objecting to being called, ‘Paddy’ cooperated with the pace of the production unit to which he had been assigned. His thoughts and expectations were far from what he had imagined, or had been sold.

  Curtis had fared better; elevating himself to a level above the name-calling. However he made it crystal clear that he was not going to be bossed around by some jumped-up union bloke. He made it clear too, that he would be working under the instructions of his boss. Big mistake!

  On occasions he found himself forced to follow the dictates of the shop stewards by downing tools. His personal and opposing views remained writ in capital letters for all to see. He would frequently rebuff his shop steward. Various vocal skirmishes educated the young Curtis in the rules of the shop floor and how to survive down there.

  He was ambitious. He was smart and he quickly became remarkably street wise. He was being noticed by management. Promotion quickly followed.

  He had of course made enemies – with one shop steward in particular. Frederick Joseph Redpath was universally known as ‘Red-Fred’. Barely five foot three tall, he tramped his ‘territory’ as would the king-of-the-castle. It seemed to Curtis that Fred’s only aim in life was to sabotage output and spend every available hour arguing, blustering and striking.

  The frequency of their bust-ups increased. As much as Curtis was defiant, Fred was cunning; underhand. In fact Curtis had found himself hauled up before his manager on several occasions. All the charges proved spurious. Thereafter he was advised by a couple of other senior managers to be wary; upsetting apple carts would not win him friends.

  ‘Ides of March, young man, beware.’ This piece of advice had been offered by an elderly shop steward from a different department. He continued as if delivering a doomsday note. ‘Aye, you just watch your back son. You’re a good lad; we need more like you. But remember, it’s just a job, a job at the end of the day. He’s a bad ‘un that Freddy boy.’

  With supervisor status placed upon his eager shoulders, and after some bedding-in time, Curtis in his naivety, made his move. It was after weeks of note-taking that he had pulled Red-Fred aside. As well as his general time keeping, which was woeful, there were questions surrounding the use of his clock card. More so, it had been the time he spent away from the production line. In Curtis’s opinion it was far more than that time allotted to union business.

  The morning that Curtis filed his report, it was as if a cloak of silence had descended over the entire shop floor. Rumour, tension and expectation spread like a plague. The manager urged his young supervisor to back away from this confrontation. That wasn’t in Curtis’s make-up! He already suspected that his boss was in the pocket of the union anyway.

  Realising that his young supervisor had no intention of backing away the manager quickly diverted Curtis’s report towards the personnel department. At that department’s behest, and in an attempt to break the impasse, all sides, Curtis, Red-Fred, his senior shop steward and Curtis’s manager were invited in for a chat, in the hope that with a gentle rap on the knuckles, all sides could get back to work.

  The meeting lasted all of several minutes! Heels had been dug in. Curtis especially, was resolute. He knew the rules, he had the evidence, and he was not for backing off.

  For senior management, it had been telegraphed upstairs as an unexpected opportunity – a junior member of staff taking on the might of the union. From a management perspective, if the case was lost, it would be little more than another ripple against the tide of their ongoing attempts to introduce new working practices. The junior supervisor thereafter would simply get moved to another less antagonistic department, or site. However, a victory would provide them with a bulkhead from which to proceed with their aforementioned strategies.

  Privately, Curtis Cardinali was a wreck. Stressed out, his normal assuredness questioned, the realism of what he had started bore down hard. Many hours had been spent ensuring that he had his facts correct. Time spent with Simon had become sparse. Many times he had berated himself; why can’t I just leave things be? WHY, why, why? With similar prostrations, Simon urged him to ‘wise up’ and let things be. But to no avail.

  Curtis, it was clear to Simon was on a collision course with militancy. The outcome of which, he frequently told him would not be pretty. His attempts to talk him down from his battle throne frequently ended in acrimony. Something had to give and after yet another so-called counselling session, Simon finally let his news slip.

  Unfortunately, with his mate lost within his own world of issues there had never been an ideal time to tell him. Simon had found himself a senior position at a private engineering company back in County Armagh. He had given the required two weeks’ notice. Curtis took the news hard.

  Whether he had been actually paying attention to his mate’s continual warnings or had been too tired to argue, Curtis had eventually mellowed. After a curry it was onto what had been singled out as their local pub. Drink was consumed – a lot of drink. With it, all the opposing issues got lubricated and ironed out; all that was, except the coming head-to-head with the militant movement (as Simon referred to the unions). Curtis, it was clear now to Simon, was not for backing away. He advised him again to be wary of Red-Fred and despite disagreeing still with Curtis’s approach to the matter, wished him good luck.

  Later that week Curtis announced that he too had booked a weekend home. If for nothing else he explained, but to seek guidance from the two people, other than his mate, whose opinion he trusted most. It really had been a last minute ticket and the last available seat but it also felt good to be flying back home with Simon. Albeit for likely the last time.

  As they waited for their flight to be called Curtis suddenly recalled how a pre
vious planned surprise for the infamous Philippa had blown up in his face. Immediately, he upped and rushed off to find a public telephone. It would be a quick call to advise mother of his homecoming. Sure enough, just as the telephone ‘pips’ went his flight was called. Quickly he dropped in the necessary coinage. ‘Hello, hello?’ Nothing but silence? Whatever had happened, his connection had been terminated?

  He was about to try again, but Simon was far from amused. With a noticeable spike in his tone, he hollered across the emptying lounge. ‘Oh for Pete’s sake, Curtis hurry up, or we’re going to miss this flight. Frigs sake man, what are you not like?’

  Curtis and Simon were the last two to board. They got a look from the stewardess and from several of the passengers; Curtis more so, as he was seated at the very rear of the aircraft.

  During the flight he thought about many things. Would there be anyone at home? Would he have a job if the whole disciplinary thing blew up in his face? Would he and Simon remain friends? But thinking positively, at least his aisle seat offered him leg room. It wasn’t long before he found himself drifting back into the depressive arena of this whole disciplinary action. Probably for the first time he wished that he was in Simon’s shoes, up and away from all that factory crap. Deeper thoughts however had entered his dozing head. Instead of working for someone back home, working for myself, no one to cow-down to. Now wouldn’t that be the thing? Curtis, the businessman, just like Dad. He awoke with jerk.

  At that precise moment, on a short hop flight from Birmingham to Belfast, Curtis Cardinali realised what he wanted to do with his life. Without conscious thought, he spoke out loud. ‘‘Yes, that’ll be me, a big time operator.’

  Simultaneously the passengers either side of him, turned and looked at him. The man across the aisle leaned over and asked, ‘What was that, young fella?’