Through a heavy fire door he carefully navigated the uppermost flight of concrete stairs. These took him down onto a landing. Hard right while running his hand along the hand polished steel banister he descended the next flight. At the ground floor another corridor would lead him to his intended destination. It ran parallel to the factory floor. To his left he passed the workers’ main entrance. Further along this seemingly endless corridor, more double doors to his right offered the way into various sections of the manufacturing floor. Clocking-in stations were situated at these. Rows of neatly stacked buff coloured postcard sized cards were laid out on either side of the clocking device. It caused him to stop, to study and stiffen. For, as he reminded himself, this was one of the disciplinary issues that Red-Fred had been found out on – having his card clocked for him while he was off site or, more frequently, late in. A shake of the head re-focused a determined Curtis.
Facing the appropriate door he breathed hard before pushing it open. A wave of manufacturing noise together with an industrial odour hit him. Glancing around he felt accosted by a notice board where company posters had been vandalised and in several cases completely torn down. He quickly noted that some had been replaced with hand written versions all of which maintained a common theme: ‘suits’ and occasionally ‘suites’ were and sometimes ‘aren’t’ not welcome. He brushed his lapels and pulled his jacket down at the rear. At the same time the contents of this paperwork had brought a smile to Curtis’s face. For a moment he had been tempted to correct the spelling and grammar on display.
A further intake of breath calmed the rhythm of his beating heart. He smoothed the arms of his jacket this time. Stepping forward, he nervously took in the shop floor vista. He surveyed to his left, then to his right. It was a chilling sensation. It was as if even the machinery had gone silent. A thousand eyes he felt, were on him. Then without warning the sporadic sound of hand-claps resonated; almost in an instant, it had exploded into a crescendo. Caught completely off guard he raised an embarrassed arm and high-tailed it to the sanctuary of the department manager’s unoccupied office.
After what seemed like an age the manager in question appeared. Curtis by then had surmised that he had probably done ‘a runner’ when Curtis had first stepped onto the floor, or maybe had gone for advice from one of the shop stewards on how to deal with the situation unfolding. Curtis could sense this man’s panic, but chose not to exploit the situation, much. After all, he was not his target. That however didn’t change his opinion of the gent squirming in front of him whom he had previously considered as a waste of space and this little episode had done nothing to change that opinion.
Curtis was already aware that his actual ‘target’ was hiding behind a wall of sick-notes but reckoned that this pathetic manager had aided in the scurrying of Red-Fred away or had at least advised him to lie low, so he was probably aware of his hiding place.
They traded small-talk. Both sets of eyes continued to scan the surroundings. It was strange thought Curtis, because for a person who would normally be strutting about the floor, as if he owned it, Red-Fred had become a conspicuous character, by his very absence.
Curtis had been in no mood to the foxed but he had accepted defeat on this occasion. His only aim had been to find and confront his aggressor, but he accepted that the villain, at least for today was ‘not available for interview’; but he would be tracked down! He will eventually crawl out of his hole, and when he does, I’ll be there...
Before departing the office, Curtis lent across the desk and said very quietly, ‘I will find him you know.’ Then with a sly smile, he continued, ‘Pass on my get-well-soon wishes and ask him if he has extracted his balls from his bladder yet?’ With the wink of an eye, that hurt him to do, but that he refused to acknowledge, Curtis excused himself. On leaving the office it had crossed his mind that he was likely in breach of the company rule book should the manager take offence at his threatening behaviour. He too could be receiving disciplinary warnings. Threatening? I haven’t even started yet. Anyway, I’ve had it with this shit-hole of a place. But unfortunately some things still needed doing.
As yet there was no Cardinali final plan of action in respect of the Red-Fred incident. Priority demanded that he mould himself back into the workplace and get his business head back into gear. After all, he had all the time in the world, unlike his ‘prey’ who had to surface sometime, if only to empty his infamous bladder.
Another week passed, and another. Curtis’s aches had for the most part dissipated and the memory of the mugging dulled; his facial kaleidoscope of bruises had dissipated and faded, but were still obvious enough. He had taken to wearing dark glasses. An earlier ‘dunt on the frame of his safety spectacles while shoving a pencil behind his ear had been a painful reminder that the damage to his smashed nose had not fully healed either. Worse; it had acted like an immediate prompt to enact revenge on its perpetrator. In that instant though, he had reminded himself that this was not normal Curtis Cardinali behaviour; he had to get a grip.
Mother had returned home. The growing relationship with Jacqueline had, because of his run of mood swings, taken a tumble. Alone again, he soon realised that he had made a big mistake but he had only himself to blame. He only had himself to take his frustrations out on. It had been after one particularly difficult work-day which had culminated in a couple of verbal bust ups that his frustration had finally got the better of him. The pub, any pub beckoned!
By chance that evening he discovered Red-Fred’s home address and his drinking den too. Nothing would do but Curtis had to follow up on the lead. This was counter to the pact that he had made with himself... to get a grip, and let revenge go.
His immediate world again become clouded in a red mist of anger. His front door slammed so hard it sounded as if it had been taken off its hinges. Head down, oblivious to the rain, the hunt for his mysteriously missing assailant recommenced. It had again become a ‘do-or-die’ scenario for the miss-firing Cardinali.
Whilst revenge remained, the cool air and the endorphins no doubt generated by his fast pace had mercifully re-injected a modicum of common sense back into him. By the time he had moved to within spitting distance of his targeted address, violence had moved back down the agenda. Furthermore, it was the inescapable fact that he had allowed the whole need for revenge to eat into his good nature and positive outlook. More importantly it was instrumental, he felt, in the killing off of his blossoming relationship with Jacqueline. Anger rose again. He needed to face Redpath, if only to look into his eyes...
Realising that he was nearing his destination he slowed to a strolling pace. At the end of a narrow sloping street and with terraces of two-up-two-down houses to one side, detached dwellings to the other, he stopped. He took a folded sheet of paper from the rear pocket of his jeans. He checked the address. Odd numbers for the terraced row, evens for the posh side.
He checked the road name sign. Sure enough it tallied, but it didn’t figure. Curtis walked on for a further few steps. Now illuminated under a street lamp he studied the address again; a fine detached period property. Number 10 was displayed on the pillar from which tall wrought iron gates hung. Again he queried the information. He asked himself, Redpath here? Na, couldn’t be. Too grand for that wee conniving pumped up, communist-minded socialist arsehole.
Deflated, he turned to walk away, but was confronted by a flotilla of pulsing blue police lights. Captivated, natural curiosity re-anchored him. He seemed to have been gifted a front row seat to whatever action was about to unfold.
Then just as quickly he realised that maybe a front row seat wouldn’t be that clever – he stepped back and away from the flood lighting of an overhead street lamp. Pushing himself into an overgrown box hedge, he waited. His hands were cupped over his mouth and nose, eyeballs on stalks. He pulled his cap down over his eyes.
Three men and a woman – all hand-cuffed – were being led from Number 10, by a cluster of uniforms. More liveried vehicles had arrived; vans among them
. Curtis straightened himself. He found himself saying aloud, as he guardedly took a step forward, ‘Holy shit! Na, it’s not…flip me it is. It’s him! What the hell is this all about?’
Simultaneously, Curtis received a tap on his shoulder. Almost jumping out of his skin, he turned. As he stared eye to eye, the pumping of his heart almost drowned out the constable’s words. ‘Mister Cardinali? Ah yes, I thought it was you. What on earth are doing round here?...Quite a show eh? I trust you’ve fully recovered from your assault; at the park? Maybe you don’t remember me? I took your statement that night, or maybe it was morning. Anyway, you haven’t said how you’ve come to be here, at this unearthly hour and...so far from your flat?’
‘Oh, you know Constable. Just out for a walk. Talk about lucky timing? Eh?’
The constable gave him a wry look before heading back across the road with a wave of his hand and a slightly unbelieving, ‘Good night, Mister Cardinali. Enjoy your walk.’
* * *
Arriving into work the following morning the whole place, especially on the shop floor where Red-Fred once roamed, was awash with rumour, innuendo and speculation. As was to be revealed in the coming days, the agitator’s nefarious activities had been exposed. They ranged far and wide. He had it seemed, been something of a crime lord, a racketeer specialising in money lending. He had also become a small-time drugs baron of late.
Among other activities, he had been a serious pilferer from the hand that fed him; the factory floor and store. Several of his work cronies it later transpired, became the subject of further and deeper enquiries...
Unwittingly, Curtis through his various ‘dealings’ with Redpath, had spooked the villain. His beating had little or nothing to do with the union hardliners, productivity issues or disciplinary notes. It had also come to his attention that the police had been covertly investigating Frederick Joseph Redpath’s activities for some time. Later, Curtis was informed by the detective who had handled, or rather not handled, his assault case, that not going after Redpath for that offence had all been part of a bigger picture. ‘I’m sure you understand Mr Cardinali,’ the detective had said. And Curtis finally did.
On a crisp weekday morning he was relishing the fact that the whole Red-Fred thing was finally done and he found himself in a care-free mood. But, in that same moment of liberation his relationship with Jacqueline, or ex-relationship, filled his thoughts.
Was there any chance of a reunion? Had he totally burnt his bridges? He could of course understand it, if she wanted nothing more to do with him. He resurrected and analysed every aspect of his potentially unforgivable behaviour.
Curtis didn’t sleep well that night. Mostly in a ghostly silence, he dozed between bed and his sofa. He was first into the office next morning. He looked rough. He had issues to attend to. He had a plan!
Chapter 17 : Jacqueline Raven
Jacqueline Raven was the youngest of five. Throughout her early years she was known to family and friends as the ‘wee late one’. Her mother, Sheila had married Archie Raven just after the Second World War. Previously he had spent a lifetime at sea; first, as a young Royal Navy engineer serving mostly on frigates in the eastern Mediterranean, out of Malta, then having acquired his demob papers he moved across to the merchant navy.
Jacqueline lost her mother to cancer when she was only nine years old. It had been a period of tumultuous change. Archie, who had been mostly cast as the absentee father, was forced ashore. He had spent long periods too many miles away from his family in a life spent buried within the bilges of various ships of the Elder Dempster Line tramping the liquid globe. A well paid first engineer he was tasked with finding a shore-side income. He had big decisions to make. For as well as the caring for his youngest, key lifestyle changes would hang heavy.
His cookery skills, his hobby, had previously tempted him to come ashore to open say, a café, a bakery or something similar. But in the greater scheme of things there was never the right time, or the right premises. However, now fully land-locked, reminiscing time was duly cancelled.
Archie made his move. Premises surveyed, finance arranged, the dormant Rose Bud Café had a new owner! But for Archie, regardless of the excitement generated by the venture, it was all about becoming a full time father to Jacqueline. His business venture would become their cash cow. At least that was the plan.
Although their grieving for Sheila was never too far away, father and daughter worked their way through it as they got the venture up and running. Jacqueline, or as she had re-titled herself, Jackie, loved it. It was a different bond to that she had had with her mother. Nevertheless it was loving, and two-way. Her siblings and her cousins were frequent visitors, but all had separate lives to care for too.
Jackie Raven sailed through school. She would spend much of her free time at the café. However, persuaded by her father and sisters she signed up for her first school trip, and then another the following year. Even her father noticed the changes in her. The ever changing hair styling a constant reminder; long, short, very long. Then there was the pigtails and platting for Archie to master, never mind the colours and a Goth period! There were times when Archie privately wondered if a hair & beauty salon would have been a better buy.
Jacqueline also had her ‘Tom-boy’ side. Very much in the footsteps of her father she acquired a curiosity for things mechanical. A joint project for example, saw father and daughter converting a tired old Mini into a specially prepared ‘auto test’ vehicle. She became a keen teenage competitor (yet to be road-worthy, legal) within the local competitive motor scene.
Delighted, Archie also had mounting concerns. Academia was beckoning, as was maturity and, ‘boys’! His daughter’s striking physical appearance was now turning many a head.
That day in Red Bud Café, Curtis had noticed her in passing and Jackie had more than noticed him, but she already had a boyfriend. Anyway, handsome as he was, Curtis was far too old for her.
In a flash of time, it was university preparations, leaving home and yet another re-titling for Miss Raven. Jacqueline was now to be known as, Jac.
Jac with the spiked hair.
It was a distraught Archie Raven, with his packed-to-the-gills, tired Toyota Land Cruiser, with over eighty thousand miles on the clock, who faced a run from Stranraer down into England towards Jac’s Halls of Residence. She drove.
Chapter 18 : Relationship
A missive? A note? In the end, he hand delivered a letter to her office but made sure he dropped it at reception and didn’t get seen by her. It landed on Jacqueline Raven’s desk just after nine. It read, ‘Hi Jac, and yes I know... I’ve been a bit of a dick these past weeks. Really sorry. Look, I was wondering if perhaps I could tempt you to a Baby Cham or a Guinness or something else. Also, I just happen to have a couple of tickets for a gig. It’s for a band from back home. Just wondering, just asking.’
Jacqueline, unknown to Curtis, decided that she was not going to be a pushover. It had gone 5pm and no reply had been received. Curtis’s mood was low. He was tempted to hit the pub but instead went straight home. As was his habit, after hanging up his duffle coat he hit the button on his telephone answering machine. One message was from Simon and the other was from Jacqueline. It was short, if not abrupt, nevertheless Curtis was ecstatic. Smiling, he replayed her reply, ‘Yeah, okay, time?’
Secretly, she was delirious. An unplanned ‘Woo hoo!’ had startled the neighbouring desk at her newly attained work-place when she’d first received his message. Until then she’d convinced herself that she had blown her chance to build a relationship with this very fanciable man.
She had regretted allowing herself to even participate in the stupid argument. She should have been mature enough to realise that he was still recuperating after the beating; closing her ears to his outpourings should have been enough. But no, she had to retort. She had told him to, ‘Go boil your head, you pompous, self-opinionated, patronizing pig,’ and other words to that effect.
Since that fateful episo
de she’d accepted that what was said could not be un-said. The days since had been long and lonely. Jacqueline had been getting on everyone’s nerves. Her sulking, sharpness and the not going out with her friends only a part of it. Unbeknown to her, it was a mirror image of Curtis’s state.
In anticipation of meeting up again she dressed, undressed, re-dressed several times. Her two house-sharing girlfriends found the whole episode hilarious. They also hadn’t held back with their jibes and taunts. Regardless, she tried to play down the occasion. Her continual glimpses through the venetian blinds belied that. Finally, the sounding of his car horn signalled the off, and an escape from what had become her personal torture chamber. As she dashed to the door, both girls complimented her on her final appearance and under more innuendo, wished her well.
From the look on his face, she figured she could have probably dressed in sack cloth. He looked massively relieved at her gifting him a second chance. He dashed from his car to meet her at the rickety front gate and rattled into an immediate apology for his previous behaviour. She touched his hand. In response he embraced her, whispering, ‘Sensational, you look fabulous. Wow! But, I must apologise. Say sorry, I must look like a tramp. I should hav—’
She spoke over him, ‘Oh, Curt, am I over the top? Should I go back and change, change into?...I mean you know where we’re going after all.’
‘Jac, do not even think about it. You’re beautiful, just beautiful. Come on let’s go before we both freeze.’ He opened the car door for her and once he got back behind the driver’s wheel, he leant across the centre consul and kissed her, lightly. Her hands found themselves touching his cheeks. She pulled him close; the date had begun.
A Letter to a Lucky Man Page 13