BOSSYBOOTS
BY
George F Mason
Published by Shire Writing
Copyright George F Mason 2011
Published by Shire Writing at Smashwords
Copyright 2011George F Mason
Discover other titles by George F Mason at http://www.shirewriting.co.uk/
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For those who have suffered that midlife crisis
Chapter 1
Michael Riley stifled another yawn as he gazed out over the neon lit city, but dismissed the thought of going to bed because the day’s events were still on his mind. He’d been in the boardroom for several hours with the rest of the management team going through the end of year results. On the face of it, the figures were good for an industry being squeezed by cheap imports and after each manager had given an account of their own department, it was left to the man who owned, Copestake’s Pottery, to summarise the year as a whole.
Bill Copestake, was a grey-haired man with hound dog jowls, he thanked everybody for their efforts and said he was proud of his team. He spoke without the aid of computer graphics and remained seated throughout his speech. In times gone by he would’ve delivered the results whilst standing at the head of the table, but sixty years of eating like a hog had increased the size of his stomach, but not his legs. A round mass, on spindly sticks, his body was almost the same shape as Humpty Dumpty’s. Above his neck, was a red face that changed to purple as it went underneath his thinning hair. He suffered chronic hypertension and his head looked as if it could burst at any moment.
Michael had listened closely to what his boss had said, but despite the positive spin that was put on the results; he detected something in the tone of Bill Copestake’s voice that unnerved him.
The board meeting had run well into the evening and even now in the comfort of his own home he was still finding it hard to unwind. He’d enjoyed a bit of small talk with his quieter than usual wife, Judy, over dinner, but found Bill Copestake’s presentation was still going around in his mind. He’d analysed every word he could remember, but still couldn’t pinpoint what was making him uneasy. Finally, he gave up, it was time to give his brain a rest and grab some sleep. He’d just raised his glass to finish the last of his wine when he noticed the telly was off and Judy was perched uneasily on the edge of the sofa.
Looks like you’re in the doghouse, Mikey boy, you’ve been ignoring her all night. No I wasn’t, I was letting her watch the telly in peace, tell you what though, she doesn’t look happy does she?
Her hands were clasped together and her elbows were pressed against her ribs like a downhill skier. He studied her for a moment; the glow from the tiffany table lamp was catching the best of her raven coloured hair, accentuating her dark finely plucked brows. She had beautiful long eyelashes like those on a delicate china doll, but there was under her eloquent nose, just the hint of a tache.
Her fingers were now digging into the backs of her hands and he was just on the verge of asking if she was okay when she blurted it out, like a spurt of poison.
“Michael, I’ve got something to tell you.”
“What!” he replied, perhaps more sharply than he’d intended.
“I’m leaving you.”
“Leaving, what do you mean leaving, is this a joke?”
“No joke Mike, I’m serious. I’ve had enough, I need some space.”
“I don’t understand Judy, have I been so wrapped up in work that I haven’t noticed you’re being boned by somebody else?
“Trust you to bring it down to that level, Michael, but there’s nobody else, I can promise you that.”
“Well what’s up then? What’s brought this little tantrum on?”
“It’s not a tantrum, Michael; I’m just sick and tired of being treated as if I haven’t got a brain of my own. I need to think for myself and start living my own life again. It’s 1999 not 1899 and I’m finished with being treated like a Victorian scullery maid.”
Tears were now streaming down her face, so she dabbed at them with a tissue causing some of her eye make-up to smear across her cheeks.
“So where will you go and how long for? Are we talking divorce or what?”
“I’m going to my mum’s, I don’t know how long for, but I’ll tell you now, I might not be coming back?”
Might not be coming back? How dare she talk to me like that? Her hormones must be completely bolloxed up. I don’t need this nonsense; I’ve been the perfect husband, worked hard, never even sniffed at another woman and now she’s got the bare faced cheek to even think about leaving me. She needs putting straight, before this gets out of hand.
“Listen, Judy, if you walk out of that door we’re finished, there’ll be no coming back. I’m not being pissed about. I’ve got too much on my plate at the factory right now to be playing silly buggers. We can talk about whatever it is I’m doing that’s bugging you.” He held his arms out wide. “We can sort anything out if we try, just stop being silly, please.”
“It’s no good, Michael, I’m sorry, but I’ve been thinking about this for ages and it’s the only way.”
“That’s crap! How can you seriously think that leaving me is going to make your life better? The problem’s in your head sweetheart, it’s that time of life, you’re middle-aged and on the change.”
You’d think women would be glad when they passed the point of having any more kids; we’ve had two that’s enough. But no, they have to go off the rails start having illusions about life being better somewhere else. I’ve loved, cherished and provided endlessly for that woman for over twenty years. Nevertheless, I don’t think what you just said helped the situation, and if you don’t sort something out soon you can cancel any hopes of a leg over tonight.
Judy stood up and glared at Michael, her eyes were shining wet, and her mascara stained cheeks burned red with the blood that had pumped its way into her head.
“You just haven’t got a flaming clue have you, Mr Big Shot Manager from the poxy pottery factory. Well, you’re not managing me anymore, because I’m off. My taxi will be here at half-ten, I believe that’s your bedtime and it just so happens that it’ll also be the precise moment when I’ll be starting the rest of my life.
She strutted out of the room and returned lugging a case she’d prepared earlier.
“I’m warning you,” he said, “go now and you won’t be allowed back, this could be the biggest mistake of your life.”
Christ, she looks serious; I could be lonely in bed tonight. Perhaps I’d better try saying something clever or I’ll be making my own coffee in the morning.
But it was too late. The taxi’s horn honked outside.
“Goodbye, Michael, take care, I’ll be in touch.”
She isn’t going to change her mind now even if I go down on bended knees, she must have spam for brains.
“Go on then you stupid cow, walk out and see if I care. You’ll be back when you realise what a damn lucky bitch you’ve been to have me for a husband.”
He slammed the door then seethed his way through another glass of wine before storming off to bed for a night of unrelenting torment. And what a night he had, his mind had been going round and round like a tumble drier. He’d completely forgotten about the factory and was now desperately trying to put Judy’s actions into some sort of order.
It must be her hormones, what else? What will I tell people at work? Say nothing; lie if you have to, she’ll soon be back. What if she doesn’t come back? What if she meets somebody else? What if there always was somebody else and she was lying. They could be making love right now with her on top, her favourite position, wobbling her flabby tits in his face. Well if that’s what she’s up to I’m better off without her. It’s time I had a bit of fun myself. I married before I should’ve done, before I’d sown enough oats. Yes, finding somebody new won’t do me any harm. That little Josie with legs up to her pits who serves in the canteen at work is always giving me the come on; she’ll be up for it I bet.
And so it went on, he tossed and turned his way through the night. What about our girls, should I tell them? No, I’ll let Judy do it; she’s the only one who can explain why she’s left me. They’ll take her side of course; women always stick together in crisis. Perhaps if she begs to come back soon they won’t need to know.
His mind was picking up momentum now, spinning like a potter’s wheel. It’s no good thinking about letting her come back. What would be the point? Where could we go from here? If the wind was in the wrong direction, or if I farted in bed, she’d soon be off again. No, best to make it a clean break, no pussyfooting about, I’ll tell everybody that her mind’s gone. They’ll understand and laugh at her for throwing everything away, when all she had to do was go to the doctors and get some hormone patches, the stupid woman.
He woke up sweating and tangled up in his duvet. Eventually, he turned onto his back and threw the covers off and just lay there naked to the world. Then he reached over grabbed her pillow and pulled it down tightly over his face. He took a deep breath through his nose taking in her aroma, but he hadn’t bargained for what happened next. Michael Riley was as hard as they come in his job, but now he succumbed to his emotions and cried. This was a rare event. It wasn’t like the great millwheel turning cascades that women are apt to turn on at the breaking of a nail. This was a moment of uncontrollable grief and although his eyes filled with liquid only a single tear rolled down his cheek, this meandered a while, but eventually reached the corner of his mouth, it tasted of salt and was accompanied by a sob that was so deep it took his breath away.
His thoughts were jumbled up like tickets in a raffle, but suddenly his mind was crystal clear. Money, flaming money! She’s going to take me to the cleaners, take a chunk of everything, the house and our savings. No, this can’t be happening. I’ve worked like a donkey for years. I’ve taken courses, bettered myself. The boy from the council estate’s done good. I’ve got a degree, been to university, I’m not giving it up, just because her hormones have gone wonkey. I’ll have to get her back, yes, that’s my top priority now, get her back before I’m ruined. I’ll get her back even if I have to beg like a hungry dog.
This resolution to do something positive calmed his mind and with that he managed a couple of hours sleep. When he woke up he rolled over and instinctively reached for his wife, but she wasn’t there. He opened his eyes slowly and muttered under his breath.
“Oh, Judy, what have you done? You’ve ruined everything.”
I’ll show her, I just need to get my head around it, have a plan. Planning is the key to everything, without a plan I may as well be pissing in the wind. What day is it? Friday, that’s good, only one day of work before the weekend, I can then give this problem some serious thought. Meanwhile, I’ll say nothing and see what happens. After all, she may realise that she’s been a damn fool and come running back, begging for forgiveness. You never know, I might even be on for a back-ender. Yeah, say nothing, concentrate on work and trying to find out what’s chewing on Bill Copestake’s bollocks? My favourite dinner will probably be on the table when I get home; steak and chips followed by strawberry cheesecake. Yes that’ll be nice and the least she can do.
***
Michael was dreading his usual awful journey to work. The factory was on the opposite side of town from his home in Porthill. To get there he had to take what was known locally as the “C” road, a name often associated with the swear word that even Michael, never used. He rarely used the two worst swear words because he thought they lowered standards, and were only used by twats and arseholes who couldn’t think of anything better to say.
The “C” road’s problem is that it doesn’t quite make it as a ring road. The “C” road went almost around the city, a beautifully smooth dual carriageway with roundabouts, underpasses and flyovers. The mayor described it on opening day as a feat of astronomical engineering, an orbital route built to ease the suffering of every driver in the city. Well the mayor ought to look up the meaning of orbital. This lovely bit of highway is fantastic in the main, but the two ends don’t join up, half a mile of single-track road spoils the whole thing. Drivers get stuck in a mother of a traffic jam every morning and then have to suffer it again going home.
The pottery factory is smack bang in the middle of the single-track road, therefore, it doesn’t matter if he goes clockwise or anti-clockwise it’s always the same, half an hour of crawling bumper to bumper. Michael suffered this bit of road every morning and today it was winding him up something chronic. His nerves were tighter than Eric Clapton’s guitar strings and the fact that his wife had done a runner; was making matters much worse. His mind had a sudden attack of road rage.
Why the bloody hell can’t they sort this bloody mess out. Even a half-wit could do it. All they have to do is join the two ends up. But I suppose it’s all down to bloody money, some fat bastard and some shifty crook on the council have got their heads together and they’re holding the city to ransom. Well I hope they rot in hell.
Eventually, he arrived at the factory entrance and he swerved his Merc into one of the parking spaces that are reserved for the management team. Normally he would be straight out of his car, but today he sat for a while and reminded himself that he was a manager. He would ignore his domestic situation, act professionally and try to keep his stress levels down. Then he took a foil packet from his jacket pocket and pressed a little white pill into the palm of his hand. Michael, like many managers, depended on beta-blockers to control his blood pressure. He picked the tablet up carefully between his finger and thumb and placed it under his tongue to dissolve.
While walking the short distance to the factory doors, Michael was surprised to find that his eyes were being drawn towards members of the opposite sex with exaggerated focus. Being a red blooded male he’d always admired those with a cute bum or pert breasts, but today he seemed to be acutely aware of everybody of the opposite gender, he was eyeing them all up. It didn’t matter how old or what shape, he found himself judging their suitability for receiving a portion. He was obviously thinking of life without a wife. His sex ration had been turned off, a ration that needed to be replaced quickly. He’d been a regular three times a week sort of guy, so if he couldn’t get his wife back he’d have a problem. I can cook; the washing machine will do my clothes. Ironing will be a bit of therapy, a chance to relax and unwind. But there’s no doubt about it, being without sex would be a problem.
As he went through the doors he smiled and quietly nurtured the notion that his present difficulties would probably resolve themselves soon enough. She’s probably woken up this morning kicking her own fat arse for doing the dumbest thing in her life. Serves her right, she deserves it.
Chapter 2
While Michael was having his patience tested on his journey to work, Judy was enjoying a leisurely breakfast with her mother. She couldn’t believe that she was sitting in the kitchen where she’d grown up. It had hardly changed over the years. Fablon covered work surfaces still ruled the day, although to be fair to her mother, the pattern had changed and she now had Flotex on the floor instead of lino. The walls were covered with washable paper that made her smile because tropical fish seemed out of place swimming around in a kitchen. Relieved to be away from Michael; toast and marmalade had never tasted so good.
“I’m surprised Michael hasn’t rung, Judy, what time’s he picking you up?”
“He’s not picking me up at any time mother. I do wish you’d listen, I told you last night. I’ve left Michael for good.” I wonder what he’s thinking this morning; he’s probably blaming it all on the menopause. He thinks I’ll sneak back today while he’s at work and surprise him with his dinner on the table and a cold lager in the fridge.
“Oh, Judy girl, you do say some silly things, you can’t have left him after all these years, you’re pulling my leg.”
“Well, I’m here and he isn’t, so I must’ve done, and what’s more I’m not going back.”
She pushed another piece of toast into her mouth and chewed on it with satisfaction.
“I think you’re in danger of kicking a gift horse in the mouth, Judy, if you don’t mind me saying. Michael’s a good man; he doesn’t knock you about. Get back there today, he’ll forgive you, it’ll be like nothing’s ever happened.”
“Don’t be silly mother, I didn’t just leave on a whim, I’ve been thinking about it for ages, but I’ve only just plucked up the courage to do it.”
Her mother lifted the lid on the Wedgewood pot and gave the brew a little stir.
“I know he’s got faults and thinks he rules the roost, but he’s been a good provider; you’ve always been well fed and watered.”
“I’m not a bloody donkey, mother.”
“And he’s always been faithful, well as far as I know.” She paused for a moment her mind working right up to its limit, which wasn’t much. If her brain was used to power Blackpool’s illuminations, it would look as if it had been lit with a candle. “Is that what this is all about Judy, has he been seeding somebody else’s patch? Her mother was smiling now like a pig that had found a truffle. She sat back smugly with her arms folded over her sagging chest. “Yes, he’s found somebody else hasn’t he, no wonder you’ve left him. The dirty dog has got himself a fancy-woman hasn’t he?”
“No, he hasn’t got a fancy-woman, mother. He’s too wrapped up in his work and trying to run the rest of the bloody world to be having a bit on the side!”
“Well, before you do anything silly, Judy, remember that he who acts too quickly can be sad for long enough to repent at his own leisure.”
“Sorry mum, but you’re talking nonsense again. I can assure you that I’ve given this a lot of serious thought.”
“He’s been a good father to your girls as well, remember that.”
“Good to a point mother, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Michael wasn’t partly to blame for them moving so far away. He used to be very strict with them. He takes after his father when it comes to discipline, a right little Hitler he was.”
“Major Riley might have been a bit on the stern side Judy, but he did keep a tidy ship as I remember.
“He was in the army mother, not the Navy; he never had a bloody ship.”
“Oh I can’t remember the details, all I know is that he had high standards,” Judy’s mother said, as she slowly buttered another piece of toast, she put it on as thick as a slice of cheese. Judy looked at her with dismay, unable to believe that her mum only weighed seven stone.
“Look, Judy, I know Suzy is in Portsmouth, but that’s not far these days, where ever it is.”
“But she didn’t have to choose a university on the south coast, there are plenty around here with a similar syllabus.”
“She didn’t go on the bus Judy, it was a train.”
“Bloody hell mother are you practising to be a clown or what? A syllabus is a list of courses that the university does, not a type of transport. And what about, Sarah, she’s in Papua New Guinea, is that far enough away for me to make my point.”
“She’s on a space year you said, so I doubt she’s trying to get away from her father. Anyway, what with that new Internet thing everybody’s getting excited about, Papa New Giddy isn’t that far away.”
The last of Judy’s toast was starting to feel hard and brittle like her nerves.
“Look, mum, I know you mean well, but Michael thinks he can rule my life completely, he expects me to ask him before I do anything. He expects me get his permission before I buy something and to tell him before I go anywhere. He chooses where we go on holiday and always drives the car; that is unless he wants a drink and he always commandeers the remote control for the telly.”
“Well he does work hard dear, you can’t grumble at him wanting to watch a bit of telly. I wish my Arthur was still here with me now; he’d love to see what was going on in Coronation Street.”
“Okay, mother, I think it best if we leave it there.”
The following day, Judy’s legs trembled with anticipation as she stood staring at the ATM machine. This would be the first time she’d withdrawn funds without her husband’s permission, and she wouldn’t have to justify what she was going to spend it on. How much should I have? I don’t know, what’s my limit? Two hundred. Then two hundred will do me quite nicely. But what if Michael has cancelled the cards? No, he wouldn’t have thought to do that, not yet. But he’s a manager and you’ve kicked him where it hurts, do you think he’s just going to sit back and do nothing. He’ll have been plotting and planning all night, thinking of ways to get me back or take revenge. Cutting off my money supply could be the first thing on his list, and then I’ll be right up shit creek. Watch it girl, you’re starting to think how Michael talks.
As she put the card into the machine she had a wicked notion that she was stealing somebody else’s money. It can’t be stealing; it’s a joint account. My name’s on the book and it’s on my card. My wages from the petrol station go into it, just the same as his. Yeah, but he puts in three times as much.
She punched in her pin number and held her breath. Well, we’re married so it’s share and share alike, what’s his is his and what’s his is mine. Hang on a minute though; you walk out on him last night that mean that you’re not entitled to his money. You are stealing. Well perhaps I am and perhaps I’m not, but if this works I’m taking it while I can.
The machine accepted the number and asked her what sort of transaction she wanted and then how much? With trembling fingers she punched in £200 and held her breath; the screen flashed and the machine whirled, then nine, crisp, unused twenties and two tens came out of the slot with a satisfying beep. She slipped the money into her purse and headed for the taxi rank. Judy had no idea what she was going to spend the money on; she just wanted it in her purse and to know she could do something without, Mr Bossyboots.
Chapter 3
Despite his mind being in turmoil throughout Friday, Michael had slept well; but when he opened his eyes he had to shake his head to get a fix on what day it was. Saturday, thank Christ for that. I haven’t got to go into the factory today and talk to Humpty, bloody Dumpty.
He looked at the forlorn pillow and the space next to him where his wife should be, and let out a sigh. What the hell am I going to do about that? Well she can go to hell; I’ll enjoy a nice bit of freedom. But there again, it would be nice if she came back, we understand each other, we fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. I’m a bit too old to be having a new woman in my life and having to learn how to deal with all their silly little ways. Perhaps I should ring her, she probably only needs a few kind words and a half-hearted apology. I know I haven’t done anything wrong, but women blame men for everything even when their own hormones are giving them jip. I’ll ring her after my shower.
While Michael took his shower his mind drifted onto his worries about what was going on at the factory. He was sure Bill Copestake was up to no good, but he couldn’t sort it out. There was so much going on at the moment, his head was buzzing like a wasp’s nest that had been beaten with a cricket bat.
He put off the phone call to Judy, in favour of making a list of objectives that would see him through the day.
1) Make the bed and tidy up.
2) Go down the shop and get shopping as per list. (She can do the big shop when she comes to her senses.)
3) Get some petrol.
4) Think about what to say to Judy.
5) Ring her, apologise and get her back.
6) Go out to celebrate, have a slap up meal and a bottle of wine.
7) Give her a good seeing to, she deserves it.
Michael liked to have a to-do list, he reckoned it freed up some of his brain and allowed him to concentrate on other things. He also made short work of the shopping list. It was mostly the perishables that he needed, bread, milk and some bacon. Well I may as well have a fry up tomorrow for breakfast. If she’s back she’ll have to put up with it, if she isn’t, at least I won’t have her rattling on about my cholesterol levels. While we’re at it a sausage or two would go down nicely, a few mushrooms and a couple of waffles. Yes, and let’s push the boat out with some black-pudding, I don’t know what women have got against black-pudding, it’s only a bit of pig’s blood wrapped up in another pig’s intestines.
Michael found his trip around the super market quite pleasant. Members of the opposite sex were in abundance and to see them reaching up or bending into the freezers was interesting and he considered his current position. Tell you what, Mikey boy, today has whetted my appetite in more ways than one. If she comes home fair enough, but if she doesn’t, it’s her loss, not mine.
With the shopping done, the next task on his list was petrol and this gave him a new dilemma. Should I go to the petrol station where Judy works or go somewhere else? She doesn’t usually work on Saturdays, but today she just might be doing a shift. Perhaps it will be all for the best, a bit of an icebreaker and it will save me a phone call. I might even offer to pick her up and save her getting the bus home. If she’s very good, I might even consider taking her out for the meal with me. No, forget it! I can’t face her now; I’ve got things to do. I’ll ring this evening as planned; I’ve got a quarter of a tank that’ll keep me going for a bit.
After his lunch he got out a note pad and made a list of points that he would try and get across to Judy when he rang her later. I have to remember that in this situation, what I want to say is totally irrelevant. I need to concentrate on saying only what she wants to hear. Words like; I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m sorry, I don’t regulate the chemicals in her blood, but I’ll still have to say I’m sorry.
I’ll tell her I understand. Understand what? That she’s a fool and almost lost the most precious thing she’s ever had. Yeah I’ll have to lie; I’ll say I understand. I’ll also have to tell her that I love her, tell her I need her. Well I do for sex and answering the phone. But there again, there’s a lot of sex out there going begging, especially for somebody organised like me Remember those tight arsed little beauties bending over the freezers this morning. And, I guess I could get an answering machine for the phone. Hang on a minute, Mikey boy, it’s all about the money, not sex, it makes financial sense to have the dozy woman back. You need to be cool, stay calm, show her how reasonable you can be and tonight you could find something alive and kicking between your bones and the mattress.
***
Judy woke up on Saturday, looking forward to a day of relaxation. She would go out and buy a couple of magazines secure in the knowledge that Michael wouldn’t be offering any comments like, “What are you wasting money on that rubbish for? It’s only written to amuse mindless morons.” With £200 in her purse she could buy as many magazines as she wanted, without being accountable to him. But, during the morning her mind was peppered with negative thoughts. Am I doing the right thing? Will the novelty wear off? Is my life as bad with Michael, as I think it is? Perhaps he’s right, it is my hormones? Should I see a doctor? Look, it was never going to be easy, just remember what Maggie said, ‘this lady’s not for turning,’ well neither am I.
She took a stroll around the park during the afternoon and when she returned she offered to help her mum prepare the evening meal. She wasn’t particularly hungry, but she wanted to give her stomach something to work on.
“What are we having tonight then mum?” she asked.
“Good old-fashioned fish and chips; if that’s all right?”
“Okay mother,” Judy said, switching on the oven, “you lay the table and I’ll do the fish and chips.” She offered to help because her mother was a poor cook; in fact her mother hadn’t got the knack with food at all. Judy remembered that when she and Michael married she warned him about her mother’s lack of skills in the kitchen, but he didn’t believe her. Tales of lumpy gravy and grey sprouts were put down to female rivalry.
“It’s only natural for every woman to think that she’s a better cook than her mum,” he’d said, but he soon changed his mind after accepting an invitation to Christmas dinner. His bottom jaw had dropped like a drawbridge when his meal was plonked in front of him. Lying across the middle of his plate, dividing his mash from his turkey was a whole, roasted parsnip and lying alongside it was its partner in culinary crime, a whole roasted carrot. He looked across at Judy with a cracker in one hand and his head in the other. Judy remembered it all so well because it was the only time she’d ever heard him say those three little words, “You were right.”
Judy was snapped out of her musings by her mother’s reply.
“Ta very much Judy, it’ll be nice to have somebody cook for me for a change,” she said, and went about her task while Judy had a rummage about in the freezer.
“Bad news mother, I can’t find any chips. If you’d mentioned it earlier I could’ve bought some this afternoon when I was out.”
“What do you mean bought some; I don’t use those horrible frozen things. The potatoes are in a box in the bottom of the pantry and the peeler’s in the cutlery draw, that’s if you know how to use one.”
“Of course I do. I just didn’t think that anybody did DIY chips anymore, oven chips are so simple.
“They probably are, but they wouldn’t half knock my leccy bill up. You’ll find the fryer in the cupboard under the sink, you’d best be putting that on to warm up, and you can switch the oven off you won’t need that.”
“What about the fish, is that in the fridge?”
“No, you’ll find some fish fingers in the freezer. There should be four left, two each is enough, isn’t it?”
“I suppose you want them fried instead of grilled.”
“Yeah, bung them in with the chips as soon as they start bubbling.”
They were soon sitting down to a meal fit only for the bin. The chips were lank and soggy and the fish fingers had disintegrated to a pulp.
“You’ve done a lovely meal here Judy, if I taught you anything it was how to cook.” She could see that her daughter wasn’t exactly tucking in. “Are you still thinking about Michael? I’m not surprised you’re off your food; you ought to feel guilty, leaving him to fend for himself. And I still can’t understand why he hasn’t rung.”
“I’m not bothered about him mum, and I’m not a tiny bit surprised that he hasn’t called and I hope he doesn’t.” Trouble is I know he will ring, it’s the weekend and because he can’t boss anybody about at work he’ll be missing me like crazy.
Despite her bravado she still had doubts. Perhaps I’ve made a mountain out of a molehill and he’s only a control freak because I let him. I could change, be more assertive. No, it wouldn’t work; it’s time to move on and find a man who adores me, somebody who worships the ground I walk on. Oh yeah, so where is this, Mr Wonderful? Anybody that great would’ve been snapped up like red roses on Valentine’s Day. He wouldn’t be hanging around waiting for some old tart on the rebound. Michael does have some good points when compared with other men I see about the place, if only he wasn’t so damn bossy. So what if he rings, will I go back to him or what? Depends, if he agrees to let me make more decisions I might give it another shot, but strictly on a trial basis. I can’t see him being put on probation, well if he can’t agree to my terms we may as well forget it.
Judy was startled when her mother spoke.
“You’ll be getting like that Annie Rexic if you don’t get your grub down you Judy. You know what happened to her, slimmed herself to death. They reckon when she died her legs were so thin they could’ve used them for knitting needles.”
“It’s only temporary mother, I can’t work up an appetite for fish and chips.”
“How about a bit of pudding then, I’ve got a lovely raspberry palaver in the freezer, I’ll defrost it in the micro.”
“Okay mum, I’ll look forward to that,” she said, then settled down to wait for the phone call.
Yes, he’ll ring tonight, he’ll be thinking about sex and how much he’s missing it, so he’ll be begging me to go back.
Michael awoke from his short nap on the sofa feeling rather refreshed. Now it was time to call, Judy, and put her out of her misery. I’ll tell her she can come back as long as she realises what a complete arse she’s been and that she’ll have to make it up to me. But you know it isn’t going to be that simple because her hormones are bolloxed up. You need to be cunning, let her think she’s won, just get her back and restore the status quo. If nothing else, just think about the money.
“Hello, who is it?” Judy’s mother asked as she answered the phone.
“Michael.”
“About time too, hang on I’ll get her,” the old lady spoke to him quite sharply.
What’s up with her, she’s got a bloody cheek using that tone with me. Calm down, you mustn’t have even the smallest hint of aggravation in your voice. Tonight you must speak softly and clearly, be as sweet as an angel’s kiss.
He heard the phone change hands and an exchange of muffled words.
“Hello, what do you want?” Judy asked.
“I thought I’d better give you a call.”
“Why?”
“Because, I wanted to see how you were getting on.”
“Why?”
Come on, soften up a bit try and get her talking.
“Because you’re my wife.”
“Yes I know that Michael, but what do you want?”
“Well, how are you, and have you thought about what you’re doing?” Bloody hell, this is going to be harder than I thought.
“Doing, what do you mean doing?”
“Alright, let me lay it on the line for you sweetheart, I’ll take it nice and slow. On Thursday night, you left me to find some space to think things through. Now I’ll admit that the thought of losing you did upset me, so I may have said a few words that I shouldn’t have. But, having been married for so long and having been given a huge shock, I think under the circumstances, most of it was justified. Anyway, I didn’t phone you on Friday to make sure you had some time to think and I haven’t bothered you all day today.”
“Well that’s very kind of you Michael, but it doesn’t explain why you’ve called now.”
There was a pause while Michael gathered his thoughts. All you’ve got to do is say sorry; tell her you’ll change.
“Well are you coming back or what? I miss you Babe.” She’ll cave in now; she can’t resist it when I call her Babe.
“I haven’t made my mind up yet,” Judy replied.
“Well how much longer can you need? I hate to say this, but I’m running out of patience.” Whoops, that wasn’t part of the plan Mickey boy.
“So what are you saying, Michael, is this some sort of ultimatum.”
“All I’m saying is that I miss you, and if you come back now we can sort this mess out.”
“Obviously nothing’s changed, so what is there to sort out, you’re just as pig headed as ever.”
“Look, Judy, I rang you up in a civilised fashion, after being married for so long, I thought we should give our marriage another shot. So come on, Babe, meet me halfway before those hormones ruin your life forever.”
“So we’re back to the bloody hormones are we? It wouldn’t even enter your head for a moment that the real problem is you.”
“I’m not your problem, if you can’t see that, you can go and rot. I’ve better things to do than chase around after a half-wit who hasn’t got the good sense to go to the doctors and get some patches.”
“Get stuffed, Michael.”
“Alright, if that’s the way you want it, fair enough, but I haven’t got time to be pissed about. I’ve given you a chance and just to prove that I’m not as pig-headed as you make out, I’ll give you one last chance. Take five minutes to think about where we’ve been and how you could possibly survive without me, and if you could what a sad existence that would be. Then pack your bags, put your fat arse into first gear and get yourself back here. You’ve got until Sunday lunchtime. If you haven’t appeared by twelve o’clock, it’s all over. Don’t coming crying to me in a couple of weeks because we’ll be finished.”
“Michael, like I said, get stuffed.”
He slowly put the handset back on the receiver. What the hell happened to playing it cool? You didn’t follow your own plan. Guess you need to resign yourself to the fact that she won’t be coming back after that little outburst. Ah well, I’ll give her until tomorrow lunch, there’s nothing so fickle in this world as a woman’s brain.
Chapter 4
Sunday morning soon came around and Michael filled it in the usual way. He cleaned his car and cut his lawn, it was good honest work when compared with the backbiting and pressures of the factory. It also gave him a chance to reflect on the last few days. Am I really that bad that she should walk out on me after all these years? My plan to get her back miss fired and I was even stupid enough to give her a deadline. She isn’t going to turn up this morning and cook you a Sunday lunch so you need to prepare yourself, it looks like it’s time to move on. There again she’s got a lot to lose, how’s she going to manage without me to look out for her? If she could just get her little brain to chug along for five whole minutes without stopping, she might realise that the fields aren’t greener on the other side of the hill.
Michael finished the lawn and strolled to the local shop to get the Sunday paper hoping it would hasten the countdown to twelve o’clock. On his way back home he found himself singing the theme to the old western film, High Noon.
“Do not forsake me oh my darling,
On this our wedding day.
Do not forsake me oh my darling.”
He couldn’t remember any more of the words so had to sing these three lines over and over. What the hell am I singing that load of rubbish for, if she has the dumb ass inclination to forsake me, I’m making a promise to myself here and now that I’m going to have the time of my bloody life and fill my boots.
His blood was now pumping through his veins, so he rolled up his newspaper, jumped in the air and knocked a shower of blossom off a cherry tree.
At two minutes to go till twelve, Michael was in his dining room watching the second hand go around on the clock. His cavalier attitude had deserted him, but as the hand reached the six, he heard a car pull up outside. Bloody hell she cut it close, another ninety seconds and she could’ve been spending the rest of her life in misery and ended up like an old prune.
He dashed to the lounge window to watch her get out of the taxi, but his hopes were dashed. It wasn’t a taxi, it was a plumber’s van and the plumber was walking up next door’s drive. “I hope all your pipes have burst and you all drown in your own living room you lousy bastards,” he shouted, then returned to the dining room and checked the time again. It was just coming up to twelve noon and just to rub the point in; the clock’s jolly chimes rang out to declare the end of his marriage.
He drummed his fingers on the table and entertained the thought that she might have had trouble getting a cab. You know what they’re like, they’re always running late. I’ll give her until five past and then that’s it, all over, finished.
By half-past twelve he had run out of reasons to grant her any more chances. Well that’s it; her hormones have won. If only the sad little woman had gone to the doctors she could’ve saved herself. Now the rest of her life will bring her nothing but heartache. Okay, if that’s the way she wants it. He pushed his chest out and stood tall. Watch out world cause Michael Riley is coming to play and he’s going to play hard.
***
Michael woke on Sunday evening with a terrible hangover. He’d consumed a whole bottle of red wine in the half-hour following his last deadline. But this wasn’t about drowning his sorrows; he’d actually been drinking to celebrate the start of the rest of his life. Now as he looked at the phone he wished his head didn’t hurt so much, but most of all he wished his wife would come back home. Perhaps I should give her a call; it would save a lot of hassle. Get a grip Michael; she’s made herself clear, don’t throw away this opportunity. You’re a good guy, you know you’ll forgive her, so there’s no time for shilly-shallying, fill you boots now lad while the going’s good.
It didn’t take him long; he knew instinctively what to do next. What I need to do now is to draw up a plan, decide what I want, and how I’m going to get it. The objective is to have a good time finding a new partner who must have the right attributes. She must be attractive, financially secure and enjoy sex. Achieving this objective should be easy. It’s all about meeting the right people and staying away from kennel dwellers. But where will I meet them? Dating agencies; no, a bit seedy and old-fashioned and they attract weird folk. Nightclubs, no they’re for younger people and better suited to mates going out on the pull. Pubs, no chance I’m looking for sex not a dominoes partner.
That leaves me with only one option; I’ll put an entry in the lonely-heart’s column of the local paper. Yes, that’ll do me nicely. They can reply and I can analyse the letters at my convenience. I’ll pick the ones that look as if they’ll go for the sausage with a bit of gusto.
Now that he had a plan he could see the way forward and the future looked pretty rosy. I think I’ll strike while the iron is hot. The local paper doesn’t come out until Friday, so if I pop down tomorrow during my lunch break I can get an entry in this week’s edition.
He grabbed a piece of paper and wrote it out.
Professional gentleman, early forties, good sense of humour, seeks female for friendship plus.
The following morning, Michael was whistling a merry little tune as he walked down the corridor to his office. This meant passing Bill Copestake’s secretary, or as she would insist on being called, his personnel assistant. As Dorothy came into view, Michael, looked her up and down and asked himself a silly question, one that perhaps summed up the current state of his mind. Could I? No, not even if my plums were full to bursting, I’d sooner have my tackle clubbed to death with a lump hammer.
Dorothy, or Dot has she was known to the management team, had a problem with lank hair, it hung down each side of her round face like big ears that made her look like Deputy Dawg. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she had the complexion of a corpse. Even at the height of summer, when everybody else was like a chestnut, she’d look as if she’d been dead for a week.
“Good morning, Michael,” she greeted him with her trained cheery voice.
“How’s your lovely wife, Judy? She’s keeping well I hope.”
“Morning, Dot, she’s doing fine. She’s gone to visit her mother actually.”
Nosey old bat, I don’t ask her about her private life or why she’s got a face like lard?
“That’s nice, but I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. Bill wants you to pop in and see him as soon as you arrive.”
“Okay, thanks Dot,” he replied and carried on to his office where he dropped his briefcase on his desk and booted up his computer so it would be ready for when he returned from seeing his boss. I wonder what the old bastard wants. He doesn’t usually bother first think in the morning.
Bill Copestake was out of touch with modern management techniques and Michael hated it when his boss interfered with the way he ran the production.
He knocked and entered Bill Copestake’s office with the confidence that comes with being an established production manager. Michael was responsible for over one hundred direct operatives. These are the people who get their hands dirty, sweated and produced the pottery. They were also what Bill Copestake often referred to as ‘the rabble.’ He thought of those who did the work, as an unpleasant ingredient in the process of making money, much in the same way that you used shit to grow turnips.
As well as the direct workers, Michael had a team of twenty other personnel, who kept their hands clean, engineers, supervisors, and some administration staff. His boss thought even less of these people, they contributed nothing to the profits and behind closed doors he called them ‘leaches.’
When Michael entered, he found his boss firmly engrossed in a copy of the local paper that was spread across his desk. Even though he was looking at it upside down Michael could read the headlines. “Council Fails to Cure “C” Road Chaos.”
Chaos, that’s putting it mildly, somebody should be shot and then dragged around the bloody “C” road until their giblets have coated the tarmac from one end to the other.
“Morning, Mr Copestake,” he said, loud enough to make him look up from whatever he found so interesting in the paper.
“Morning, Riley. I won’t keep you long I know you’re raring to make sure that rabble of yours are going about their business, or I should really say my business, in a productive fashion.”
“Yes, I like to do my rounds early and make sure the ships sailing in the right direction.” He knew his boss liked these metaphors.
“I’ll come straight to the point, Riley. You saw the end of year figures I presented last week. They weren’t bad, but we can do much better, much better.”
“I’m sure we can, it’s all a matter of getting enough orders at the right price so that we can make a good profit.”
“Don’t tell me how to make profit,” Bill Copestake snarled, “I was making money in the pottery game when you were still pissing in the pots that I made.”
I doubt that very much, from what I heard you never actually made anything except a lot of dirty deals.
“You must agree that plenty of orders at the right price are two of the main constituents of a healthy profit Mr Copestake.” Michael liked to stand his corner; he’d been to college so he knew about profit.”
“Yes they are, but what’s the other vital ingredient? Mr Smarty Pants.”
“Productivity is also part of the equation.”
“Yes, productivity, give the boy a sherbet dip. And, who is responsible for productivity?”
“I am, Mr Copestake.”
“Right again, you’re having a good morning so far, Riley.”
“Guess I am, but what are you getting at?”
“The rabble out there can work harder, I’ve been looking over the manpower figures and we used to make just as much with fewer people. We didn’t have any sophisticated machinery either, but we still produced more.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you did, but they’ve done away with slavery. There’s legislation now; people are allowed to stop working while they have their lunch and to have a tea break once in a while.”
“From what I’ve seen of your rabble Riley, they’re always in the tea room and only work once in a while.”
“There are always those who try to break the rules, Mr Copestake, but my supervisors are under strict instructions to discipline anybody who take more breaks than they should.
“Okay, Riley, enough of this chatter, I think I’ve made my point, now sit down while I tell you what I want.
As Michael sat down his anxiety increased, especially when his boss picked up the phone and asked Dot to bring them two cups of coffee and some custard creams.
“Now, Riley, as you know, we’ve got a pretty good order book. It stretches out for the next five months and other companies in this industry would give anything for that number of orders.”
“So what’s the point?”
“The point is, I’ve been talking to Charles Robinson. He’s been out busting his arse all over the world looking for more orders, but everywhere he goes it’s the same story. Nobody will commit to buying further than 3 months ahead. So, we either fight like hell to stand still or we do something different.”
Michael recognised the scenario. “You mean, a step change, Mr Copestake.”
Bill Copestake was dunking his biscuit at the time. “A what?” he said, and looked down just in time to see the dunked part of his custard cream disappear into his coffee.
Michael smiled, but covered his amusement by going on with an explanation. “What you’re talking about is a step change, competing businesses usually run alongside each other, with each one changing the ways they do things slightly to try and get a bit of an edge. One offers a small discount and takes the lead then the other will offer better payment terms and win the lead back. That’s the way most companies operate, they keep making small changes to win a competitive advantage. However, a step change is when a business does something big and really blows the opposition out of the water. This seems to be what you are talking about here.”
“Hang on Riley, take your mouth out of overdrive,” he said, while picking up the phone. “Dot, can you let me have another cup of coffee please.” He dropped the phone on the receiver and it landed with a nasty clack.
“Look, Riley, I don’t give a fiddler’s tit about step changes or whatever you college boys want to call them, I’ll tell you what I want you to do, and you do it,” he said, pointing at Michael with a stumpy fat finger.
“Are we both pissing in the same pot, Riley, or what?”
The door opened and in walked Dot with the coffee. Bill looked embarrassed that she might have caught the end of the conversation and thought him a little crude. She put the coffee on the desk gave a smile and left without saying a word.
“Dot’s a lovely woman Riley, don’t you think? If I wasn’t a married man…”
“Yes she’s alright.” Who the hell does he think he’s kidding? Everybody knows he’s Dotting our Dot. The randy old bastard keeps her on a string and gives it a pull whenever he wants a shag.
“Right Riley this is what I want you to do. I want you to clear two months out of the order book. Up production by any method you like I don’t care what it is, I will even sanction some overtime and even a little temporary recruitment, but I want production increased by thirty three per cent either immediately or sooner.”
“Thirty three per cent, that’s a big ask.”
“It isn’t when I do it, it’s not a big ask at all, it’s a big tell. Now get out and get on with it.”
“Okay, I’ll give it a shot.”
“Shot nothing, you just make it happen. And just to show you that I’m serious and that I can appreciate the management style of you college taught boys. I’ll give you five days to have your proposals on my desk. I’ve heard you’re a stickler for plans, Riley, well now’s the time to start making one; I’ll see you here with it on Thursday at ten, and it had better be good.”
“Okay, Mr Copestake, but can I just ask why you want to bring orders forward?
“No problem, do you remember Hughie Green?”
“Hughie Green?” Michael repeated, with a blank look.
“Opportunity knocks,” said Bill.
I’ll wind the old fart up, make out I can’t remember Hughie Green, and I mean that most sincerely my friends.
“Opportunity knocks, Hughie who? Sorry, Mr Copestake, you’re not making any sense.”
“Alright, forget Hughie Green, most of us have anyway. I want to take on opportunity business by offer our customers quicker delivery times. I can’t do that with us having an order book that stretches out to the limits of the business horizon.”
Michael could now understand the strategy and left Bill’s office. I’ll have to do some serious thinking about this. I’ll buy a few cans, and knock up a few spread sheets on the computer.
There was nothing Michael loved better than making a plan. His lecturer had explained the theory of good planning during one of the many college courses he’d been on. A whole night was devoted to the subject which was aptly called the five Ps or as his lecturer said. “Poor Planning equals Piss Poor Performance.”
The moral of the story was this: if you needed to achieve something special a plan was essential. If you are in trouble and want to get out of the shit, again a plan is essential; relying on luck to get you out of a mess is what fools do.
Michael was glad when lunchtime arrived and he popped out to place his add. The girl behind the desk smiled courteously at him as he read out what he‘d written. She then explained how he could either use his own telephone number for replies, or take out a box number. He decided on the latter; he’d read enough lonely hearts adverts to know that some weird people frequented these columns. They were best kept at arm’s length, at least in the first instance.