Confessions from the Shop Floor. Timothy Lea
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the piss, as usual,’ he says sitting down again and chucking my snitch rag in my lap. ‘You’re a right little bundle of fun, aren’t you?’
I don’t answer because there is no point and the bird behind the bar is giving me the glad eye. Why should one man have so much? It doesn’t seem fair really.
‘Nice bit of stuff, that,’ says Sid.
‘Who? What?’ I say.
‘Don’t play dumb with me! The brown tart. Gordon Bennett! I thought you were going to announce your engagement when you were getting the beers in.’
‘Dad would like that,’ I say.
‘What, the bird or the engagement?’
‘Both. You know what he’s like with those Ngoblas. It’s horrible what goes on in that mind. All that prejudice wrapped up in steaming lust.’
‘Terrible,’ agrees Sid. ‘Your Mum’s the same, isn’t she? She was always terrified that the Ngoblas would start spreading. Do you remember when she thought she heard something in the attic? She thought they were coming through from next door and living there.’
‘Eventually taking over every attic in the street. Yeah, I remember. The chair fell over and she was left hanging, wasn’t she? It gave her lovely long arms, though.’
‘Fred Nadger has had her,’ says Sid.
‘Not Mum!’ I am horrified. I know we live in permissive times and Fred certainly puts it round a bit but —
‘Not your mother! The tart behind the bar. Gawd help us! Can you imagine anyone having a go at your mum?’
When I think about it — which I don’t like doing — I can’t. Not even Dad. Not for years, anyway. The red blood flowing through his veins dried up to a trickle before I could tell the difference between him and Mum.
‘Don’t be coarse, Sid,’ I say. I greet the news about Fred Nadger with mixed feelings. I am glad to hear that the bird does a turn but I am not over enthusiastic about following in Fred’s footsteps — or whatever. I never like to think of other blokes spoiling something beautiful that should be reserved entirely for Timothy.
‘He said she was a right little raver,’ says Sid. ‘She comes from Trinidad. You know, in the West Indies. I reckon they’re all a bit on the jungle bunny side out there. Start rattling your tom toms and the old breasts are thundering up and down against the chests so that you could hammer rivets with them.’
‘Delightful,’ I say. ‘Is Fred all right? Not walking about like an upright concertina?’
‘He looked all right when I saw him,’ says Sid. ‘In the pink, or you might say, in —’
‘Yes,’ I say, heading off Sid’s salty wit before it gets to the pass. ‘I know what you mean.’
Sic takes a long swig from his glass and wipes the back of his hand with his mouth. ‘You know, I like the idea of making things.’ I look at Miss Trinidad polishing a glass and nod. ‘I’d like to play my part in putting this old country of ours back on its feet.’
‘Back on its back, don’t you mean?’ I say. ‘I mean, beds and all that.’
‘Don’t make feeble jokes. I’m serious. Money isn’t everything, you know.’
‘Are you all right, Sid?’ I sniff my pint suspiciously. There must be something in it — there is plenty of room because it isn’t overloaded with hops.
‘It’s this money-grabbing philosophy which is at the root of most of our national ills. Everybody out for number one and devil take the hindmost.’ I can hardly believe my bottles. If Sid helped an old lady across the road she would probably find that she had lost her handbag before they were half way over. Sid must see the expression of incredulity on my mug. ‘Of course, I know that I’ve erred in the past. I’ve been as guilty as anybody when it came to looking after number one. I’ve been overbearing, dictatorial —’
‘Oh no, Sid,’ I interrupt. ‘You haven’t. You’ve been —’
‘Shut up when I’m talking!!’ snaps Sid. ‘What was I saying? Oh yes. I made the mistake of thinking that money was the only thing that mattered. I forgot about the importance of job satisfaction. What’s the point of having a lot of bread if you’re miserable?’
‘What’s the point of being miserable if you’ve got a lot of bread?’ I say.
Sid thinks for a minute. ‘Yeah, well, that’s one way of looking at it, too. But believe me, Timmo. It doesn’t work like that in practice.’
‘I’ve never had the chance to find out,’ I say.
Sid clears his throat. ‘That’s where you’ve been lucky. I’m glad I’ve been able to spare you that. It can be very disillusioning.’
‘Thanks, Sid.’ I now realise why Sid took all the cash from our previous exploits and never paid me anything. He was protecting me from disappointment. What consideration, what humanity, what a load of bleeding rubbish!!
‘I want to put what I’ve learned to some use,’ says Sid plaintively.
The bird behind the bar is standing on a stool to reach down a carton and I nod enthusiastically. ‘Very creditable,’ I say.
‘We’ve worked on both sides of the fence in our time,’ drones Sid. ‘We know the problems. If we can harness management and labour to a common purpose — a purpose not just connected to financial reward — then we can start moving forward again. We can give the whole country a lead. Noggett Beds will set an example to British Industry.’
‘You’re leaping ahead a bit, aren’t you?’ I say. ‘You haven’t even talked to the bloke yet.’
‘That’s my mandate,’ says Sid. ‘You don’t get anywhere these days unless you’ve got a mandate.’
‘I thought a mandate was something you gave to someone else,’ I say.
‘You can give yourself one if you want to,’ says Sid. ‘It’s still a free country — more or less.’
I am pretty certain that neither of us knows what a mandate is so I don’t press the point. The point I would like to press is the blunt job between my legs. Where I would like to press it depends on the trowel behind the bar although I can see one or two likely spots without having to consult Gray’s Anatomy.’ (‘Trowel’ equals a small spade.)
‘Don’t rush into anything. That’s all I ask you,’ I say. ‘If that bloke has to advertise to raise cash there must be something wrong with him. Why won’t the banks lend him the money?’
‘He probably doesn’t want to pay all that interest. I expect he’s offering a better deal. A stake in the company.’ I doubt if Sid would get a stake in the company if they were manufacturing palings but I don’t say anything.
‘Well, watch it. There’s a lot of mean people about.’
‘I’ve met some of them,’ says Sid. ‘The kind of blokes who wouldn’t crash the crisps if they were having tea at Buckingham Palace. Mean, self-seeking people —’
‘All right, all right!’ I say, dropping the packet in his lap. ‘You have these. I’ll get some more.’
I skip to the bar and Miss Trinidad lilts across, shaking her bum like a sulky moggy. ‘What do you want, man?’ she says.
‘Another packet of crisps, please.’
‘Any flavour you have in mind?’
‘The ones you have to bend furthest for.’ I wink at her just to show that I’m joking and it is all good clean fun — well, fun, anyway.
‘Saucy.’ She bends down kicking one leg up behind her and fishes out a packet of crisps between finger and thumb. ‘Plain,’