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‘As soon as I get five quid together.’
I watched him slouch off and wondered where he would get the rest of the money. It was not uncommon to observe people asking for cash or cigarettes from townspeople but I did not often see them rewarded.
Nigel was waiting for me on the corner in front of the betting shop. I had not seen him pass me and had no idea how he had got there. He pointed to an electronic signboard hanging in the window of the pawn shop next door. Running across the board in red diode lettering were the words: ‘We buy used gold! Divorcees trade in those wedding bands then double your cash on the nags.’
‘That does not seem very ethical,’ I said.
Nigel laughed. ‘The punterers will be cutting the ring fingers off their grannies.’
There was truth to what the boy said. Gambling is a compulsive activity and can prompt an addicted person to engage in desperate behaviour. Mr Chin had told me he would never employ a gambler. ‘Policy of office strict,’ he explained during my job interview. ‘Gambler forbidden and not permitted. Chin never trust such fool. Gambler worst kind of weak and stupid person. Never care for family. Only care for money and more money.’
I motioned for Nigel to follow and led him down the side street towards Ted’s Famously Fine Coffee and Teas. The café is a small place with colourful plastic tablecloths and solid wooden chairs. It serves an all-day breakfast of fried bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes and eggs on a pool of baked beans. The price of breakfast includes a large mug of tea or coffee. There is a sign above the counter that reads: ‘Our teas and coffees are made the old-fashioned way – by Ted’s very own fine hand’.
For a month now I have been going to Ted’s every Monday and Thursday after work to observe people and collate my notes. I would like to go every day but I do not want to overstay my welcome. This has happened to me before in other places and I have learned to pace myself. Most people are able to pace themselves without thinking but pacing does not come naturally to me. If I like a place, I want to go there all the time. I would spend many more hours in the office if Mr Chin were not so strict.
Twice a week seems about right for Ted because he always raises his eyebrows and greets me with a familiar, ‘You again’. It is not often that I am recognised and greeted as a regular customer. Ted lets me spend as much time as I like in his café but insists I use a small table and buy at least one drink per hour. ‘House policy,’ he says.
This time, however, Ted did not give me his usual greeting. He looked at the boy beside me.
‘I’ve got my eye on you,’ he said.
‘Aren’t I the lucky one,’ replied Nigel. He winked.
‘Don’t try any funny business.’
The boy snorted. ‘A funny thing happened on the way to a funeral.’
‘That’s not funny!’ Ted pushed his large stomach against the counter and tapped its surface with a stubby finger. ‘The recently bereaved come in here.’
‘Did you hear the one about the bishop and the button mushroom?’
‘Watch your mouth! I’ll not have Roman Catholics offended. Buy something or get out.’
‘Keep your hair on, Teddy boy.’ Nigel pointed to me. ‘She’s buying me one of your fine teas.’
‘What the hell are you doing with this delinquent?’ Ted turned to me, shaking his head. ‘I didn’t think your sort had friends, especially not his sort.’
‘He’s not a friend,’ I said. ‘I’ve hired him to help me.’
‘I doubt he helps anyone but himself.’ Ted’s eyes shifted to Nigel and then back to me. ‘So, what will Her Ladyship be having?’
‘I’ll have one of your famous milk coffees and my employee will have a Coke and fairy cake with his tea.’
‘Fairy cake?’ Ted’s thin lips parted in a smile. It was a tight smile that did not reveal any teeth. ‘That’s a turn-up for the books.’
I used one of Mr Chin’s twenty-pound notes to pay the four pounds forty for the order before leading Nigel over to a table for two near the window. As I sat down, I noticed a message had been scratched into the glass with something hard like a diamond ring or glasscutter. Each letter of ‘Chantelle Corby Luvs it’ was made up of multiple scratches. Nigel sniggered at the graffiti.
‘Bet that pisses off old Ted,’ he said.
‘He doesn’t seem to like you,’ I replied, sliding the tray over to the boy. I removed the notebook from my bag and began noting down the graffiti.
‘He’s a prick.’
‘He’s always very welcoming to me.’
‘You call that a welcome?’ The boy took a bite of the cake and screwed up his nose. ‘This must be fifty years old. Probably crawling with salmonellera.’
‘Ted makes all his cakes and beverages by hand.’
‘I don’t want to know that.’ He frowned but kept eating.
‘He says that his coffee is superior to machine-made espresso and cappuccino.’ I took a sip of my instant coffee. It was tepid and weak, just how I liked it. ‘Ted says the steam jets of modern machines destroy the flavour of the beans and can lead to cancer.’
Nigel stopped chewing and frowned at me. ‘Are you really a wally or is this an act?’
‘Wally?’ I glanced over at Ted who was wiping a tabletop with a grey washcloth. ‘I prefer the coffee here. It’s light and remarkably thirst-quenching. Even more thirst-quenching than a glass of tap water. It doesn’t prevent me from sleeping at night.’
‘I bet it doesn’t.’
Ted’s café is one of the few places in town still furnished with a payphone. It is an old pink ring-dial model with a slot for coins. Around its base is a strip of brown tape with the words ‘FOR PAYING CUSTOMERS ONLY’ written in red marker. The phone is often in use and not always by customers. There are not many phone booths left in the town and it is often difficult to find one in working order.
I walked over and brought back the Yellow Pages. The phonebook was dog-eared and its cover had been defaced with doodles and swear words. I opened it at P and ran my eye over the page before sliding it across the table to Nigel, who was unscrewing the lid of the sugar dispenser.
‘I’d like you to choose a psychological expert from this list.’
‘Why can’t you do it yourself?’
‘Decision-making is difficult for me. I have a problem with choices.’
‘That’s not normal.’
‘Correct.’
‘You’ll be wasting your money. All those psychologicalists are pricks.’
I nudged the phonebook closer to the boy. ‘I need to see a therapist as soon as possible. I have no time to lose.’
Nigel finished pouring the contents of the salt container into the sugar dispenser and then screwed the lid back on. He looked up, pleased with himself. ‘You’d better pay me.’
‘Of course I’ll pay you! I’ve been given money to get normal by Monday. This afternoon tea and your salary are my first investments.’
‘Whatever.’ The boy shrugged and ran a finger down the listings, stopping at the name Poulet. He sniggered. ‘Here’s one for you. Pooh-let.’
‘Could you call and make an appointment?’ I did not bother to explain the challenges of telephony without the prompts and responses of the Honey Trap.
‘Give me your mobile.’ He held out his hand.
‘I don’t have one. It’s a personal policy.’
The boy frowned.
‘I don’t want to expose my body to unnecessary radiofrequency radiation. Testicular cancer poses no danger to me but I prefer not to take any risks with my brain.’
The boy shook his head but did as I asked. He was feeding coins into the phone when someone tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘Excuse me.’ It was the large man from the table behind me. He was wearing overalls with ‘Paradise Plumbing’ embroidered on the pocket. In front of him was an all-day breakfast and a mug of tea. ‘Love, pass me the sugar,’ he said. I did as I was asked but my attention was on Nigel who was talking into the phone.
The boy came back to the table, smiling. ‘Tomorrow at three o’clock.’ He pointed to the name in the phonebook. ‘Bijou Poulet Psy Dram.’
I was about to thank him when a dog started barking loudly behind me. I twisted in my seat again and found the plumber coughing violently over his mug of tea.
‘Give me the five quid, quick!’ Nigel was standing next to me with his hand out. ‘I’ve got to go.’
I had barely removed the banknote from my purse when it was snatched out of my hand. Before I could say anything, the boy was gone. The next thing I knew Ted was thumping the plumber on the back. Once the coughing fit had subsided, he gave the man a fresh cup of tea and a curled-up ham sandwich on a plate. ‘Compliments of the house,’ he said as he put the plate down in front of him. The plumber looked over at me and shook his head. Ted approached my table.
‘Did that little bastard just nick your money?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I replied.
My response did not please Ted who exhaled noisily through his nose. The sharp whistling sound made me wonder about the presence of hair inside his nostrils. Abundant nostril hair is not uncommon in men of a certain age. Quality chemists stock nose-grooming tools but I did not think Ted would appreciate this information. I have found that people are not very receptive to grooming or healthcare advice. Ted’s nostrils made an even shriller sound as he exhaled again. His mouth was a tight line and he was looking at me in a disappointed way as if I had just dropped a bottle of sticky red cordial over his linoleum floor. I decided to change the subject.
‘I notice someone has scratched your window.’
‘Bloody vandalism!’
‘The original Vandals were a Germanic tribe that sacked Rome in 455.’
‘You think I don’t know what a vandal is?’ Ted pointed to a security camera peeking out from a small hole in the wall above the payphone. ‘Cost me a fortune to get that installed.’
‘Many people believe that CCTV surveillance is an invasion of privacy. It might interest you to know that there are at least one hundred and seventy-seven CCTV cameras in the centre of this town, which is a lot of surveillance when you think about it.’
‘Roger Bottle is going to double that number and, if you ask me, he’s got the right idea.’ A crimson flush had gathered around the grimy collar of Ted’s T-shirt, inflaming the shaving rash on his neck. ‘They come in here and rip holes in the tablecloths and write filth over the phonebook.’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think?’
I surveyed the patrons in the café. At the table next to the plumber were two grey-haired women. I could not imagine plumbers having the time or energy to rip up the tablecloths or scribble on the phonebook. That left the pensioners.
‘Pensioners?’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Two can play at that game, little lady.’ Ted filled his chest and lowered his voice. ‘What’s with the tartan trousers?’
‘I have an affinity for the tartans of Scotland. I’ve made a study of them.’
‘You know it all, don’t you.’
‘Not all, but I do know quite a lot. I have several books on the clan system and own a complete set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. I used to be an active member of the public library.’ I looked down at my trousers. ‘This tartan comes from Angus, an agricultural and maritime district near Perthshire. I’ve never visited either district but apparently they are both very scenic. I’ve just been reading about the jute, jam and journalism situation in Dundee. It’s fascinating.’
‘If you’re so bloody smart you can go drink your coffee in the bloody public library.’ Ted raised a hand from his hip and pointed to the door. ‘I don’t want to see you or the likes of that little bastard in here. Do you understand?’
‘No. Mayor Clench closed the library five months ago.’
‘Piss off. You understand that?’
I understood well enough to know that I was being asked to leave. Ted’s words would have been a blow if I did not have an appointment with a psychological expert. The idea of normality was like an orange lifesaver ring bobbing on the ocean. It gave me hope for my personality and my future with Mr Chin.
The lifesaver image made me smile, which seemed to surprise Ted. He glanced at my hands and moved out of my way as I pushed myself to my feet and left the café.
On another day, I might have crossed the square and visited the council photo display but earlier in the week I had encountered a particularly unfriendly council worker. I had arrived at the annexe during regular opening hours only to find the door closed. When I knocked, the woman had opened it a crack and shouted at me that the building was closed ahead of the election before slamming it in my face. This was not the first time I had experienced unpleasantness at the council. The workers are disgruntled and do not appreciate enquiries or suggestions from the public. This attitude is something I do not understand. Why have a suggestion box if no one is supposed to use it?
I stopped at the corner and glanced inside the betting shop, where several men were clustered in front of a large flat-screen television mounted on the wall. The town is not known for its tolerance but the group watching the horse race was a picture of racial harmony. One thin white man, two Chinese and someone from the Indian subcontinent were standing shoulder to shoulder, united by a common cause. This is called the Dunkirk Spirit and is very helpful in times of war when British soldiers are trapped on a coastline and require the assistance of fellow citizens in small vessels. Dunkirk was a tragic moment in the nation’s history but it did highlight the British capacity for rallying around a common cause.
As I headed towards the rose gardens, I thought of the man in the fuchsia trench coat. His comment about the fowl of time had made me curious and I wondered whether I would meet him again. He had not been unfriendly, which had to be a good thing.
5
Someone had been busy while I was in the café. As I passed back under the rail bridge, I discovered four damp campaign posters pasted along the brick wall of the underpass. The posters showed a man in his late forties with a robust red moustache the size and shape of a hamster. His shoulders were squared in a military manner and his expression was severe: ‘Roger Bottle – a Hard Man for Hard Times.’ Below the mayoral candidate’s photo in smaller print were the words: ‘When the Going Gets Rough, Rog Gets Tough.’
I jotted down the campaign messages in my notebook and as I left the underpass, I discovered that it was drizzling. By the time I reached the Babylon, the drizzle had turned into rain and I decided to step under the awning to wait it out. What I found there took me completely by surprise.
Tied to the double doors of the cinema was a large official-looking notice printed in bold type. My pulse rate increased as I read its contents. I immediately thought of Mr Chin and wondered whether he knew about this new turn of events.
A second surprise was waiting for me when I tried the door to the stairs. It was unlocked. Mr Chin had forgotten to follow me down to lock it after I had left. This was very unusual behaviour for my employer, whose policy was to ‘Lock ruffian and rascal out. Guarantee security and safety for kind boss and office.’
I entered the dark stairwell and quickly climbed the stairs to the landing where I paused to take the door handle in both hands. The heavy reinforced door had a habit of flying open on its German spring hinge and I did not want to give Mr Chin a fright. He does not appreciate surprises as I learned one day when I vacuumed the office and inadvertently shifted the position of his desk by two inches. The reprimand I received must have exceeded the safety guidelines for decibel levels because my ears were still thrumming when I put them on my pillow that evening.
I poked my head in the doorway and found Mr Chin reclined in his Komfort King, sleeping with his mouth open and making a ‘hukka-hukka-hukka’ sound with each exhalation. On his desk were a glass and a half-empty bottle of plum liquor.
I slipped inside and eased the door closed with a faint click before tiptoeing over to my desk. Taking care not to make any noise, I lowered myself on to my chair. It was probably the familiar comfort of the neoprene padding against my buttocks that made me forget myself because the next thing I knew I was rolling the file drawer open at high speed. The heavy cash box inside slid along the bottom of the drawer, hitting its metal interior with a loud clang.
‘Best quality!’ Mr Chin sat bolt upright in his executive chair, shaking his head in confusion. His eyes fell on me, darted to the clock above the door and then flicked back to me. They were watery and bloodshot, red like his cheeks. He blinked. ‘What?’
‘Good afternoon,’ I said.
‘Why you here?’ He rubbed his face in an irritated way and made a long ‘Ahhh’, which was both a yawn and a sigh. ‘Chin enjoy calm and peace, sleeping and so on. Now pop go weasel, here you again. Irritating and most annoying girl.’
‘I’m here within business hours.’ I pointed to the clock and wondered how best to tell him about the notice on the cinema doors.
‘I give you sudden holiday. I tell you vacate premise. Now what?’
‘I’ve followed your advice about my abnormality and have an appointment with a psychological expert. She has Psy and Dram after her name.’
‘Expert best idea. Chin never joke or say nonsense thing. Chin always right.’ He nodded and let out another yawning sigh. ‘What name?’
‘Bijou Poulet.’
