If Only They Could Talk

by Ian Walker

  When we’d finished, we all went back to the bar we’d been in before.

  “So, how was it?” asked Sprout.

  “It was disappointing,” said Frank. “She only gave me a hand shandy. I could have done that myself and spent the Fifty Marks on beer.”

  That caused Sprout to choke on his stein of Moravia Pils.

  Richard admitted that the same thing had happened to him, although his large lady had allowed him to play with her breasts by way of a bonus. I confirmed that it had been the same for me.

  “Didn’t you ask them about their price list?” asked Sprout.

  “What price list?” I replied.

  “I only paid for the basic service,” said Sprout. “If you wanted anything more you should have asked them for their price list.”

  “Bloody hell, Sprout,” I replied. “You make them sound like hairdressers rather than prostitutes.”

  “But they are just like hairdressers,” replied Sprout. “Hairdressers charge one price for a basic cut, but it’s extra if you want a blow-dry. It’s the same with the prossies. One price for a basic wank, but you have to pay extra if you want a blow job.”

  “But I did ask her,” Richard protested. “When she took me up to her room I asked her what would she say to a little fuck?”

  “And what did she reply to that?” asked Sprout.

  “Hello, little fuck,” Richard replied, which caused every­one to fall about in fits of laughter.

  We didn’t visit the Eros Centre again and a couple of months later we were back in the UK, our National Service over.

  We had to hand our uniforms back, but the RAF let us keep them for a couple of weeks so that Sprout could get married in his.

  I was his best man and the two of us looked really smart as we stood side by side waiting for Carrot and her father.

  The reception at the Station Hotel was a modest affair as rationing was still at its height. My speech went down well and I got a few laughs when I suggested that, in a few years’ time, Sprout and Carrot would have children called Leek and Cauliflower.

  Then the couple set off on their honeymoon, five nights in Ilfracombe, before returning to Chesterfield where Sprout was going to manage his father’s new shop in Sheffield Road. The shop had a flat above, so Sprout and Carrot had somewhere to live as well. It was also convenient for Carrot’s job as a chartered accountant, although she gave this up soon afterwards as Sprout’s father now had four shops and wanted her to work for him as his bookkeeper.

  Shortly after the wedding, I gave my uniform back. National Service hadn’t been the best eighteen months of my life and I had no desire to be reminded of it. In fact the only thing I kept was my cap badge, which I retained as my one souvenir from those days.

  Chapter 10

  Nigel’s phone started to ring. It was Emma wanting to know how the house clearance was coming along.

  “It’s a slow job, far more difficult than I imagined,” admitted Nigel.

  Emma explained that she and Ralph were thinking about coming up for the weekend in order to give the two of them a hand with the house clearance. Nigel said they didn’t have to, explaining that he and Molly should be finished by then anyway.

  “But on second thoughts, it’s not a bad idea after all,” Nigel continued. “Molly and I are sorting out a load of stuff to sell at auction. However, if there is something you want for yourself, you’d need to choose it before we send any­thing to the auction house. Molly and I have decided to take one item to remind us of Uncle Miles, but we haven’t decided what it’s going to be yet.”

  “Fair enough,” replied Emma. “I’d also like something to remind me of the old bugger, and I would like to see the house one last time.”

  After their mother passed away in 2006, Emma and Nigel had cleared out and sold the house on Chatsworth Road where they grew up. A lifetime of memories were swept away in a matter of days so that they could sell the property with vacant possession. Visiting her uncle’s house would be nowhere near as painful for Emma as that had been. After all, she wasn’t particularly close to either her uncle or his house.

  So after saying that she and Ralph would arrive at approximately seven o’clock on Friday evening, Emma said goodbye. It was then that Nigel and Molly returned to their mammoth task of emptying the house.

  The two of them had soon cleared out the two chests of drawers, which only left the wardrobe to go. They had hoped that this would be an easier task, but were disap­pointed to discover three suitcases inside. All three of them were full to the brim with items that needed sorting.

  The first contained various papers including their uncle’s birth certificate and his school reports. It also contained his degree certificate, which was still in its frame from the days when it used to hang on his office wall.

  “I hate the thought of throwing these away,” said Nigel. “But I guess they’re no use to anyone anymore.”

  *******

  It was spring 1948 and I was back working at the brew­ery. The war had completely messed up my plan for life. By now I should have been in my second year at university and Rupert should have taken up his role as Tied Trade Director. But Rupert was dead and I’d just completed my eighteen months’ National Service.

  I’d been accepted at Oxford, but I knew that the family business needed me. So I went to see my father and told him that I wasn’t going to take up my place at St John’s College.

  I’d expected him to be pleased, but for my father it was like telling him that the family was going downhill fast. He told me that his grandfather Benjamin Goodyear, who’d founded the brewery, had only been semi-literate. I knew that he’d been a carpenter, but I didn’t know that he’d never had a proper education. Because of this, Benjamin had been determined that his son would get a better education than he’d had, and therefore paid for him to go to the Grammar School. However, money was tight, so Grandfather left when he was sixteen in order to join the family firm.

  The family were far wealthier by the time my father was born. As a result he was able to complete his education and at the age of eighteen went to St John’s College, Oxford. Father was adamant that if I didn’t follow in his footsteps, it would be like admitting that our fortunes were on the wane.

  Consequently, I was going to St John’s College whether I liked it or not and that was the end of the matter. Until then, I was to continue to learn the ropes in the brewery, this time as a drayman.

  Working on the drays had its advantages and disadvan­tages. On the plus side, it got me out of the brewery and into the Derbyshire countryside. The brewery had 35 tied pubs and ten off-licences. There were also about fifty free trade customers, which were mainly small sports clubs and a few working men’s clubs, where we supplied one of the beers on their bar. This was usually alongside those of our competitors.

  The brewery had two drays and between them they delivered about 500 barrels a week to our 95 customers. That equated to fifty barrels per day per lorry, which was an awful lot of beer.

  One of the commonest mistakes that people from outside of the brewing industry make is to think that a barrel is a wooden container made by a cooper. It is, but only if it con­tains 36 gallons, because a barrel is actually an Imperial unit of volume. Four nine-gallon firkins equate to one barrel, as do 48 dozen half-pint bottles. In fact, the largest container that the brewery supplied was a hogshead, which contained a barrel and a half or 54 gallons.

  Whatever the container size though, the job was phys­ical and tiring, but that was not why I say it had its dis­advantages. No, the main disadvantage was down to the sheer volume of beer we had to consume whilst making our deliveries.

  We used to deliver to about ten outlets every weekday. We would start at 7.30 in the morning and load the lorry with beer for our first run. Depending on how far we had to drive we would usually arrive at our first drop at about 8.30. After delivering the beer, it was customary for the landlord to give the driver and his helper a pint of bitter. If we were lu
cky he would also give us breakfast.

  This was only the start of it though, as we would continue drinking in every outlet we visited. When our first run was complete, we would return to the brewery to pick up the beer for our second trip and the whole process would start again.

  By the end of the day, we would have consumed at least ten pints. Well that’s what Sid the driver would have con­sumed. I physically could not drink that volume of beer and as a result I usually only drank halves.

  Of course it was extremely dangerous to drink so much alcohol whilst at work. In fact, the only reason I was doing the job was because Sid’s former mate had forgotten to close the cellar flaps after making a delivery to a pub in Bolsover. It was the last drop of the day and it was dark by the time they went back to the lorry after finishing their beers. Unfortunately, Sid’s mate didn’t notice his mistake and fell into the cellar, fracturing his arm in the process.

  It wasn’t just the volume of beer I was expected to consume that concerned me. All this drinking added hours onto our working day. Quite often, we would not get back until seven o’clock in the evening and then Sid would head straight for the brewery cellars, where he’d have a few more pints. As if that wasn’t enough, he’d always go for a final pint in the Spa Vaults across the road before eventually going home.

  Much to Sid’s annoyance I wouldn’t accompany him to the brewery cellars or to the Spa Vaults. It was bad enough getting back as late as we did. It was playing havoc with my love life.

  That said things were going pretty well between Sarah and I. Okay, she still wouldn’t let me have sex with her, but at least the uncertainty caused by my time in the RAF was now at an end.

  She’d been true to her word. She had waited for me and if being apart had tested our relationship, then we had both passed that particular test with flying colours. Of course, I was due to go away again in October. But at least with university, I would only be in Oxford for thirty weeks of the year. The other 22 I’d be back in Chesterfield with her, unless of course, I was in hospital with liver failure.

  By now she’d started teaching at a local junior school, although she wasn’t really enjoying her new job.

  Fortunately, we no longer had to rely on the hop store for our courting, which was just as well as the last time we’d been there we were shocked to discover Mr Jones. He was fast asleep and snoring after consuming his own body weight in Goodyear’s Pride.

  Father had bought me a second-hand Austin 10 soon after I’d returned from National Service. It had been his idea as he still didn’t like the thought of letting me loose with his beloved Alvis. Having a car of my own opened up a whole new world of things for Sarah and I to do. We would go for walks on the Chatsworth Estate, have afternoon tea at the Rutland Arms in Bakewell, visit well dressings and village fêtes. We even went down Peak Cavern in Castleton and I bought her a Blue John broach afterwards.

  But the best thing about having a car was that Sarah and I could do our courting in it. The Austin was already ten years old when Father bought it for me and it wasn’t the most reliable starter in the world. Consequently, I always parked the car on a hill, so that if the worst came to the worst I could bump-start it after we had finished. This I achieved by putting the car into second gear, depressing the clutch, then releasing the handbrake and letting the car build up speed before gently lifting my left foot. Fortunately, it always worked as the last thing I wanted was for the two of us to get stuck after dark in the middle of nowhere.

  My favourite spot was in a layby near Striding Hall. It was just outside Chesterfield on a road that hardly anybody used after dark. We’d park up and get in the back. It wasn’t as comfortable as the hop store but at least we didn’t have to put up with pissed up head brewers.

  Eventually however, the time came for me to start at uni­versity. I’d decided to study Latin and it was a four-year Master’s Degree course. Latin was never going to help me in my career after university, but that wasn’t the point. Hugh Janus had been a great teacher and I had really enjoyed the subject. It was also the one subject in which I was quite proficient and consequently, I decided that it was my best chance of getting a good final grade.

  College life was a doddle compared with life in the RAF. It was even good when compared to life at home. I was 21 when I started, an adult with the vote and the key to the door. My parents had thrown a large party to mark my coming of age before I left. I loved them both dearly, but I was growing restless and wanted to fly the nest. In that respect, university answered most of my prayers. I had my own room in college and a cleaner. So I could be as untidy as I liked and then, as if by magic, it was as neat as a pin again by the time I got back from lectures.

  Of course there were some disadvantages to living in col­lege. Firstly there were no girls as St John’s was an all-male college. Secondly we had to be back in our rooms by ten o’clock at night, as that was the time the porter locked the front gate. If you got back after that time it was tough luck. You’d be left with the choice of trying to find a bed for the night or dossing down with the crusties on a park bench.

  Of course it was fine if you were the son of a duke, just out of Eton or Harrow as they could afford a room at the Randolph Hotel. In fact, Bertie Applethwaite, the son of the Duke of Cumberland, had missed the curfew on so many occasions that the rumour in college was that the hotel kept a room free just for him.

  My family weren’t poor, but they definitely didn’t have money to waste on things like that. Consequently, I made sure I never missed the ten o’clock curfew. Well, that was until I made friends with Howard Morcom who had a room down the corridor from me.

  Howard was two years my senior and had previously held a commission in the Royal Tank Regiment before coming to Oxford. Prior to that he’d been at a minor public school in Lincolnshire. Howard was different to most of the others in my corridor, as he didn’t want to spend all his time study­ing. He wanted to get out and enjoy life and as a result the two of us became firm friends.

  One day, the two of us were enjoying our sixth pint of the night whilst sitting in the Eagle and Child across the road from the college. The conversation was flowing and I had lost all track of time when I happened to look up at the clock and noticed that it was five to ten.

  Howard had only just returned from the bar where he had bought another round.

  “We’ll have to down these in one,” I said to him pointing to the clock above the bar.

  He told me not to worry about it as he had a backdoor key to the college.

  “How the hell did you get that?” I asked him. But all he did was to tap his nose.

  An hour later, we let ourselves in through the rear gate usually reserved for deliveries to the college’s kitchen. We both crept back to our rooms trying not to disturb any of our fellow students. However, we failed in that respect when I collided with one of the fire extinguishers and knocked it off the wall. All the time I was wondering how on earth Howard had managed to obtain a key.

  A few days later I discovered the answer when I was woken up by the sound of a woman screaming in a room nearby. It was unusual because it was half past eleven at night and women weren’t allowed in college after the curfew. It was then that I realised they weren’t screams of pain I could hear. They were screams of pleasure and they were coming from Howard’s room. When I challenged him about the noise the following morning he admitted that it was one of the college cooks. It also solved the mystery of who had appropriated the backdoor key for him.

  Despite her nickname, Gorgeous Gail was not a partic­ularly attractive woman. In fact, she had a flat face, which made her look as if her head had been run over by a steam­roller. But she had other attributes, two of them to be pre­cise, which Howard used to refer to as the Hindenburg twins. She was eight years older than Howard and a widow. Her husband had been killed when a German torpedo had hit the merchant ship he was serving on.

  Howard told me that she might not be the most attrac­tive woman in the world
but that she was fantastic in bed. She was a real screamer. Given the choice between her and his right hand he would choose her any day of the week and indeed he did choose her on most days. Also, being part of the college catering team, meant that she had access to the keys that unlocked the back door and this was how she’d been able to get a duplicate cut for Howard.

  This was a real bonus and I wondered if Howard had started their affair purely to get hold of that key. However, this particular question was answered after we graduated, as Howard never missed a college summer reunion for the next twenty years. He didn’t give a toss about the college of course; it was Gorgeous Gail that he wanted to be reunited with. She may have had a face that looked like a shovel, but Howard was obviously telling the truth when he said that she was a devil between the sheets.

  Plain she may have been, but by the end of four years she had become the most beautiful woman in the world and as a result I was extremely jealous of Howard. It was not that she’d got any prettier. It was just that she was the only woman I saw on a regular basis. That was as long as you discounted Mrs Gibb, my cleaning lady who was 55. Mind you after four years even she was starting to look desirable as she bent over to empty my wastepaper basket.

  Once the holidays arrived it was back to a bit of tonsil hockey, breast fondling and being tossed off in the back of the Austin by Sarah. But as soon as the holidays were over, it was back to my life of celibacy again.

  Sarah never came to visit me whilst I was in Oxford. There wouldn’t have been much point. However, just before I graduated, she finally came down for the May Ball and stayed in a local guesthouse.

  A week later, my time at university was over and I returned home to Chesterfield. I’d had a great time in Oxford. Howard and I had enjoyed many adventures together, like the time we broke into Somerville Hall, one of the girls’ colleges, and placed a huge boulder in the fountain in the centre of the quadrangle. It was a miracle how we ever man­aged to pick it up, let alone how we got away with it.