CHAPTER - 7

7 

 

 

Even after we had written off the rest of the night it was still way past midnight when Monkie dropped me home. As I turned the lock I thought about it. How now and again an evening is quite often doomed by reasons outside of your control but in this instance it was mostly of our making. Two duff girls and a curiosity both of which we didn’t have to get involved with. The thing with my father was impossible to ignore though. The way I felt about him… well, you know how it is, if there was anything worth knowing I just had to find out. Now I had seen him in action so maybe I had just the beginnings of a bit of leverage.  

Pushing the door until it clicked I crept upstairs, tiptoed past Marge’s door and into my room. Call the cops I thought as I undressed but decided not yet, I’d give it time. Besides, as I said, Don was not stupid and the proceeds were sure to be shifted tout de suite. In fact evidence might already be non-existent and if any police interest did not stick I was sure Don would eventually discover the source of the cop’s knowledge then I would feel the pain. It had to be something way more concrete. One more thing, I already had the feeling that If I had been recognised a visit would not be too far away and Don had some very useful mates. Anyway, it was not my way to get ruffled. This was something that would sit nicely on the back burner but no way would it be ignored. Vigilance was the name of the game just in case Don and his crew came knocking. 

 

Sunday, normally a leisurely get up and a cooked breakfast. A bit later than normal, a sort of brunch, and extra large to take account of me going to the garage and missing dinner. Today, though, I was up by eight and put a note on the kitchen table telling Marge I was popping out for about thirty minutes. Then strode to the station to the Doris with the small stall on the corner. A chirpy lady for sure. I’d seen her around town on the odd occasion so I knew she had teenage kids. She looked really good for what I assumed was a forty something florist. 

The vases were laid out in neat rows on a three shelf rack. I’d seen her there a few times. In fact, every time I’ve caught a train she was usually there. I don’t know how long she stayed because I was always on the go. A busy, busy life was the life of a budding entrepreneur. Maybe she stayed until all the flowers were gone, who knows. One thing, though, they always looked fresh. I chose two plump bunches of white roses after the Doris said they were the first of the season. Early flowering I think was the way she put it. 

Headed back to be greeted by the alluring smell of grilled bacon and frying bangers. As I crept through the kitchen door, with my arm up my back, the toaster popped and Marge jumped. Not because of the toaster though but because of me sneaking up on her. She held her hand to her chest as she turned and saw the sheepish grin on my face. 

“What’re you looking so smug about and why are you creeping up on me. That's not like you at all.” Marge frowned when she had recovered enough to speak. 

I didn’t say anything, just pulled my arm around and held up the big bunches of white blooms. 

“What’re those for,” Marge asked with the makings of a smile appearing. 

“For you… it’s our anniversary. Well, not so much anniversary, our half anniversary.” 

Marge stared at the roses and wiped her eyes, “Sometimes you are so silly, Aubrey… these are really lovely… what a nice thought,” she said. That was one thing about Marge, she refused to call me Rich. She said something about that being between me and my mates. Standing on her toes she placed her hands lightly on my shoulders, pulled me down towards her, and kissed my cheek. “Sit yourself down,” she said and turned away back to the sausages and cracked an egg. She did take a swift glance over her shoulder and smiled. 

I didn’t say anything else. No need. There was no sign of the slump of her shoulders she sometimes had and she had started to hum and sing under her breath. 

“You came in late last night,” Marge said as she filled my plate and put toast in the rack. She had this way of talking to me. I’d say kind of motherly almost with a hint of concern in her voice. Maybe it came from not having kids of her own and a forlorn sixteen-year-old turning up on her doorstep. 

“I’m sorry if I woke you. I did try to be quiet.” 

“I know,” she replied, “but I hear everything at night. These days I’m a light sleeper.” 

I knew that for a fact but what I would say is this was the first time I have come home when she has said anything. A subtle reprimand? I don’t think so. Maybe she just stayed awake until she knew I was home safely. There again though, perhaps that was just being a bit presumptuous, I’m not sure. But one thing was sure, I was careful when I got home and, after the experience with my father, I did try to limit my alcohol intake. That said, Friday night had been party night and I did consume more than enough but not quite enough to turn my head to complete mush and, after I had taken Bowler to A & E, I did manage to creep in undetected. At least that was what I had assumed but hearing Marge talk now, obviously not. 

One thing I did have was a lot of friends. Some not much more than the acquaintances I’ve met through the variety of work I did but most were really good mates, guys and girls, from school and other places. One, this fella, Keith Bowler or just Bowler as he was known who coincidentally was the school opening bone breaker when it came to inter-school cricket. A tall, rangy guy with a big grin and a crewcut. Between us we had this idea for a money spinning scheme: The Penny Flip, a kind of gambling. Something that would be popular, cheap for the participants but at the same time, due to scale, lucrative. We had first thought of it in year two but waited until the third year before we got it up and running. Why wait? Because by then we were both tall enough, strong enough and, how can I put it, competent enough to be able to deter the takeover guys. Those who thought it might be fun to have a pop at the captain of the boxing squad and a fast bowler called Bowler. 

So, the penny flip. Lunchtime break in the playground. There were two parts. First the penny throw. Ten players, entry one penny. Line them up facing the gym wall behind a dead straight chalk line ten feet away from the longest part of the wall where the playground tarmac was nice and flat all the way up to the brickwork. In turn, from the right, the players tossed a penny at the wall. The penny landing closest won. Winner takes all. In the case of a draw those tied threw again. To avoid controversy regarding possible differences in the tarmac surface after the first throw the players moved one space to the left with the person on the far left coming to the first spot on the right. Ten throws each then a new game started. The existing players could play again with another entry fee or new guys took their place.  

The second part, which I must admit was pure gambling but allowed those who were gifted with a consistently duff throw to have a chance to make a few bob. Bets were taken on who, after completion of the ten throws, would come out on top. Odds were set based on form. One penny was the only bet allowed. Payment made on completion of all ten throws. 

The proceeds we laundered through the confectioners opposite the school. A really grateful old-time Doris called Mary who, being on her own, had a real security problem at busy times. Once a week she changed the large bag of coins, with their rough edges, for one pound notes and silver. Her benefit was a guaranteed reduction in pilfering offered by Bowler and myself with us suggesting that anyone caught shoplifting would be invited to have a conversation behind the bike sheds. Just like magic her stock loss suddenly dropped to near on zero. 

Anyway, Friday was Bowler’s birthday. The venue: the back room of a pub out towards Morden. A short bus ride away from Marge’s place and a long walk home especially from the hospital. Now, some might question how sixteen and seventeen year olds could hire a room in a pub when the legal drinking age was eighteen. There’s two answers to that question. The first not so many pubs questioned age so long as you looked the part hence the reason Benny, who was seventeen now, could hold down a job pulling pints. Secondly Bowler’s brother. A fella older by two years so well able to do the necessary and with the advantage of inside knowledge being almost shacked up with Babs, the Doris who worked the bar. Being five years older than him and, by all accounts, thought she was heading for old maid status, so was madly in love and ready for life with the kitchen sink which in those days was a fairly common occurrence. 

Chuck out time was eleven which was extended until midnight with a lock-in organised by Babs. As you would expect, free flowing drink led to boisterous behaviour and Bowler’s broken head at exactly midnight when time had been called with demands to leave sharpish and quietly.  

I should explain that birthdays at school for the fellas were celebrated when the biology boff went out for a puff normally around ten. The routine involved being hung out of the biology lab window on the first floor by your feet and dangled for a full minute over the headmaster’s prize rose bed. The practice continued until one time the boff returned prematurely and the class snitch, Alfie, failed to give the necessary warning. The sudden surprise of the door opening resulted in four turned heads and a loosened grip. When hung by the ankles it had been calculated by Benny, the class maths genius, that the drop was not far enough to cause serious bodily damage. Birthday boy quietly descended to bounce quite successfully with no harm except for a profusion of thorn stab wounds. Three of the headmaster’s rose bushes helped to break his fall. Three things occurred that saved us from the headmaster’s wrath. First, the biology boff, who was actually a bit dim, didn’t notice birthday boy’s disappearance. Second, neither the guys in the classroom below nor the art boff noticed birthday boy sail past their window probably due to his silent passage for which the entire class was more than grateful. Third, birthday boy was able to sneak away, out of the rear entrance and head home where he could repair the thorn damage and prepare a parental explanation for the multitude of small red dots. That left the headmaster to stare at the sky when he arrived to give the roses their lunchtime deadhead and wonder. To be safe from retribution it was decided to revert to the original practice of the bumps until such time that either the headmaster left or the roses died. And that was how Bowler received twelve stitches to his forehead just above the hairline. 

The pub back room had been extended and a beam inserted to support the old rear wall over the knock through. As soon as time was called, in line with that school tradition, Bowler was grabbed and the resulting bumps included one extra high final fling unfortunately immediately under the low beam. The trip to hospital by taxi was paid for after a whip round on compassionate grounds raised sufficient for a one way trip. Bowler, being kept in for observation, left me to stroll home. Despite the collected funds not providing enough for a taxi home I did have a benefit from being the casualty’s escort. The walk was just shy of an hour, giving me ample time to sober up sufficiently to not embarrass myself in front of Marge if she happened to be awake. 

 

So, Sunday morning was a slack time for sure, a time to take it easy while waiting to go to the garage. Normally a recoup of the brain after a Saturday night bonanza. Today, though, after our aborted adventure and uncustomary lack of alcohol, I was feeling good. The great thing about living here was I pretty much had the run of the house. The front room was really cosy. The furniture a bit old school but I wouldn’t expect anything else. It was comfy though. A floral three piece and chunky. You must know the sort, high rolling arms and sink into cushions. A sofa with two matching chairs.  

The house was one of those thirties ones. The product of a housing boom based on low interest rates and high affordability.  One of the many thousands that sprung up around London. A semi with a big round bay window that gave a great view of the street and an even better view of the white Ford. That’s what caught my eye as I stood gazing down the street. Brilliant white sticking out amongst the mostly black paint. The Consul Capri. I loved the styling of the sixty-two model. I thought it had that kind of space age feel that had started to dominate design with its reverse-raked rear window and flattened rear fins. This one a glistening white with really slick white wall tyres and highly polished chrome. It looked smart all right but totally wrong for the road. I immediately had suspicions. 

A subtle movement inside and I stared really hard. There was someone there. The driver’s side was the furthest away so I couldn’t clearly see the person behind the wheel but I had no doubt who it was. I could just make out his hair. That slicked back jet black look stuck out worse than any injured thumb. Take Six man stared my way. Now, I considered myself smart when it came to spotting trouble. Seeing this guy yesterday had rung a bell. Not so loud but a good ding dong for sure. Now though, twice in consecutive days and I was near on deaf.  

I stepped back from the window and waited a moment. Take Six didn’t move. Just sat still. I assumed he was staring my way. I saw fingers tapping the steering wheel and imagined the Small Faces or something equally catchy quietly drifting from the built in radio. Then he moved his head forward a touch and I could clearly see his face, his eyes looked straight at me through the windscreen and he grinned.