Saving Romford
By John Mycroft
Acknowledgements
Without wishing to imitate an Oscars speech, I would like to thank a few people and companies. First of all Corel Corporation for their wonderful WordPerfect software without which I would never have been able to write this. Also to the airlines of America – had I not spent so long stuck at airports, I would never have had time to turn my notes into typed text.
I must also thank the people of the beautiful town of Braintree where I lived for a year before getting fired. I apologise for the liberties I have taken with the geography of your part of the world.And my long-suffering wife, Susan, who had to put up with me trying bits out on her. And most of all to my aunt’s friend, Myfanwy Johns, who gave me the final prod to get this published.
To all those people who have ever said “You should write a book”, I now have. Your job is to buy it.
Any similarity between characters in this book and any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Written by John Mycroft
Copyright © John Mycroft, 2009
The moral rights of the author have been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the Publisher.
Published by Smashwords
ISBN 978-0-557-05359-9
Chapter 1 - The Long Tuesday
“Stone me, it’s frigging cold,” he muttered to himself as he flopped sullenly into the driver’s seat of his car. Mike Fendalton had only himself to blame for the lack of warmth as suede boat shoes without socks, jeans, a t-shirt proclaiming a famous cartoon rodent as pope and his ubiquitous red and black rally jacket with the MG badge are hardly a match for the vicious north Essex January weather.
Nothing’s more beautiful than the full moon on a frost-covered field. It shone now on the frosty field on the north side of Coggeshall Road much as it would in a mushy romantic novel. All that was missing was a coach and four clattering up the frozen rutted lane to the Elizabethan coaching inn behind the gnarled oak tree. It was all wasted on Mike who would far rather have been where he was ten minutes earlier – asleep in bed.
Mike looked younger than his 28 years which he credited solely to having never married, being a non-smoker and drinking only naturally brewed beer, on occasions in large quantities. His slightly chubby cheeks showed the merest hint of stubble even though it was nearly 24 hours since he had last shaved. He now succeeded in looking the perfect picture of a pissed-off teenager.
The moon highlighted the deep green gloss of Mike’s 1975 MGB sitting in the carport. The car was Mike’s proudest possession, having rolled off the assembly line the same day as he did. He’d bought it for himself as a Christmas present two years ago. He turned the key and it came as no surprise when the car started first time: Taffy at Monmouth Motors may not have been the cheapest mechanic in town but he did know how to treat an MG. Mike didn’t slam the door or gun the engine; he knew that the neighbours were asleep and he didn’t want to disturb them. Not yet.
The previous evening had been fairly normal for a Tuesday - indeed, had it been Thursday, it would have been fairly normal for a Thursday, too. Mike had left work as close to five as he could manage without being accused of watching the clock, which he had been doing for the last fifty minutes. As work days go, it was less than stellar. He was a computer programmer at the Henckler Re-Insurance Company in Colchester, fifteen miles east of his house in Braintree.
He was a very special programmer, too. It’s a well-documented fact that one programmer in ten is incompetent. No matter how hard they try, they cannot write a program that does what it is supposed to do. Sometimes the faults are minor and sometimes they make the front page of the national papers. Mike had reached that second pinnacle twice. On the first occasion, his program printed a hundred thousand threatening letters demanding that a credit card company's customers pay zero within seven days or be faced with legal action. The second time he caused all a bank’s money machines to display “Stupid bastard” if a customer entered the wrong PIN.
It is less well-documented that one programmer in ten is just plain unlucky. They get their files wiped accidentally, their programs used by people who can’t find the “Any” key and constantly suffer from others’ ineptitude. Mike was one of those, too. What made him so especially special, though, was that instead of the expected one programmer in a hundred being both incompetent and unlucky, that fate fell to only one in a million. Mike was that unfortunate soul.
He had spent the day searching for a bug in one of his programs that was making it skip every 50th page in the report it printed. It was only by chance that he had heard a voice in the next cubicle muttering, “Oh, shit,” to himself at 4 o’clock.
“What’s up, Alan?”
“This stupid bloody program of mine - the damn thing’s deleting every fiftieth record from the report file. Pity the poor sod who’s trying to print the report from that one!”
Mike smiled. Not a smile of pleasure, more the smile of someone who realises that the person who has just been hit by a falling rock isn’t him.
Mike was now wondering if he could pin the current problem on Alan. Or on Ralph. Or June. Or anyone but himself. But this was getting him nowhere and he already had a vague idea where the trouble lay. His mind wandered back to the evening before.
The drive home had been the usual ten minute grind through the back streets of Colchester and then onto the country lanes through the villages of High Colne, Lower Colne and Bardleigh. It was far from the shortest or fastest route but it took Mike past some favourite pubs and he would often stop for a quick pint or two on the way home. Tonight was darts night at the Black Lion and so, while he was in no hurry, he couldn’t risk getting stuck into a drinking session at one of the country pubs. It was nice to look at their welcoming lights, even so - like the feeling a deep sea fisherman must get as he passes familiar lighthouses on his way back to port.
Mike was an adequate cook for a single man but didn’t always choose to exercise his skills. Tuesday’s dinner of frozen sausage rolls with a can of beans and nearly half a bottle of HP sauce gave him just the boost he needed for a heavy evening of throwing darts and drinking Greene King best bitter. It is the fate of the office worker to spend his working time sitting down and his relaxation time standing up.
The Black Lion was within walking distance of Mike’s house, if you like walking. He’d driven there tonight to arrive in time for a practice game and a practice pint. The usual darts crowd was already there. Mike’s brother, Dave, greeted Mike as he walked in.
“Your round, little brother - what you having?”
Mike didn’t need to answer and didn’t bother, either - Terry the barman had seen Mike’s car pull into the car park and the pint was halfway pulled by the time Mike got to the bar.
“Stone me, it’s frigging cold,” said Mike, displaying a certain lack of originality in his ability to describe the weather, even though, chronologically speaking, he hadn’t already said this yet.
“Going to snow tonight,” added Old Trev from his usual seat in the corner. Nobody ever saw Old Trev arrive or leave the Black Lion and rumour had it that the pint in front of him had been poured in 1953 to celebrate the Coronation.
Mike looked over his shoulder in Old Trev’s general direction.
“What makes you say that then, Trev?”
“Cause it’s frigging cold. Don’t you young uns never listen to nothing what people say?”
“My dad says it’s too cold for snow,” added another Dave. (Fortunately, we’re not going to hear much from this Dave as having two people called Dave can really confuse the story.)
“Shows what a stupid prick your dad is then, doesn’t it.” Terry, like most British barmen, had more than a little to learn about customer relations.
“Watch it or I’ll take my valuable custom elsewhere,” retorted Dave II, retreating into his pint.
“Yeah but you’ll have to wait til you’re eighteen to get served.”
Dave II blushed - he was barely 17 and everybody knew it. Due to a certain lack of personal hygiene and the dark facial hair he had inherited from his father, Dave II looked 25 and had been known to pin a fly to the dartboard with a well-aimed shot.
It was hard to tell who was the home team (Dave, Dave II and a sulky heap of a man called Spencer) and who were the visitors (Mike, Willie and Jerry) as they chatted to each other and bought each other pints - some out of friendship and some with the forlorn hope of spoiling an opponent’s aim. Henry V had discovered the effect of beer on English arrow-aimers before the battle of Agincourt and had ordered that each bowman drink three pints before the battle. The French didn’t know what hit them.
It was a little after ten when the match finished - a victory to the Black Lion though nobody really cared all that much except for Spencer who had scored 180 with three darts in his game with Jerry and had spent the next 20 minutes punching people in the arm and grinning “A ‘undred and eighty, eh?” at them. It finally fell to Terry to inform Spencer, as diplomatically as possible, that, admirable though the achievement may be, everybody had heard enough about it.
“Spencer - shut your frigging gob about that bleeding 180, will ya?”
“Yeah but I mean, a ‘undred and eighty, eh?” said Spencer, crestfallen, before slipping out to the gents.
“Do you think Spencer’s OK?” asked Dave after a while. Everybody looked at him in a way that said, “If you want to know, you go and find out.”
Dave had one of those cheap post-war small capacity bladders and needed to relieve himself anyway. So he headed for the gents and found Spencer carving “Spencer - 180. Tuesday, January 11th” on the door with his pocket knife. As Spencer was the local butcher, his pocket-knife was not your everyday Swiss Army job and, after giving him a nervous smile of approval, Dave made use of the facilities. It’s not easy to concentrate on taking a leak when there is a slightly agitated person attacking a wooden door with an eight inch boning knife not six feet away from your most treasured body part.
“Nice work, Spence,” said Dave and, hands in pockets, sauntered back to the bar.
“Everything OK, Dave?” asked Terry.
It was Dave’s turn to give a look that meant, “If you want to know, you go and find out.” Terry, not being much of a look-reader, took it to mean “Piss off, you ugly bastard,” which, when you think about it, is pretty much the same sentiment expressed more succinctly.
Mike had an awful evening at the dartboard, losing every game except his doubles game with Jerry as his partner. He even got whitewashed in his game against Spencer, failing to get a double to start while Spencer cruelly finished the game with just eight throws.
The losers bought a round for the winners and then, to show there were no hard feelings and that it was only a game anyway, the winners bought a round for the losers.
“Time to go, Mike - work tomorrow,” said Dave. Dave had learnt some years ago that turning up to teach forty pubescent teenagers about the beauty of the language in Romeo and Juliet with a hangover (the teacher, not Romeo and Juliet) was a good approximation to hell.
“Want a lift, Dave?”
“Sounds a good idea.” Another one of those ritual conversations - Mike always offered a lift and Dave always accepted.
Amid a chorus of “Night, all!” and “Thanks for the game!” and “See you next week!” the players, spectators and casual drinkers spilled out into the freezing night. Some felt the fresh air wake them up while others felt the fresh air hit them like a bottle of scotch behind the ear. Nobody saw old Trev leave but he was no longer in the chair in the corner.
In the distance, an unmuffled motorbike roared towards Cressing and the inevitable dog barked. And, from the back of the Black Lion came an anguished cry. “What bloody bastard done that to the bog door?”
“Not your best night with the darts, Mike,” ventured Dave. “Something on your mind?” Mike, as always, had been contemplating how long it had been since he had any form of energetic physical contact with a woman but that was nothing unusual.
“I think I’ve got RSI. Or arthritis. In my elbow.”
Dave laughed in the vicious way only a brother can. “Try changing hands occasionally.”
“I knew I could rely on you for sympathy. No, it clicks when I throw. But not when I keep it bent.”
“Like when you’re drinking?”
“Exactly.”
“Bugger.”
“Oh, thanks. Really helpful. I’ll take your advice.”
Mike swung the car into Appletree Close. Dave looked anxiously through the windscreen as they pulled up outside his house. He knew that, if the lights were on, Jenny had stayed up to complain about something he had done or hadn’t done or that other women’s husbands would do without having to be asked. On these occasions he would invite Mike in for a cup of tea as Jenny was slightly milder in Mike’s presence and would state her case rather than yell it. Tonight the lights were off which meant that Jenny was already in bed and would be pretending to be asleep while she lay in the dark building up to the assault on Dave over breakfast the following morning. Such nights were rare but were definitely Dave’s unfavourites. They meant that he would lie and fret about what evil sin he had committed and then he would have to go to school in a foul mood which fourteen year olds can detect with their eyes closed. They would attribute the foul mood to a lack of sex (always a contributing factor - Dave and Jenny hadn’t made love, screwed or shagged on a Tuesday for years) - and whisper and titter about it.
Dave and Jenny had made a deep impression on Mike when they were courting. Mike was 13 when Dave brought Jenny home for the first time. She was the most beautiful woman Mike had ever seen and she stirred some weird but pleasant feelings in him. She’d shaken his hand and said she was pleased to meet him. Mike felt he was going to drown in her perfume and the spontaneous erection was one he would remember for the rest of his life. Jenny became a regular visitor to the Fendalton house over the next couple of years and Mike would probably have done better at school had he spent less time plotting how his brother could meet with a nasty accident so that he, Mike, could comfort Jenny. Even after Mike had been on a few dates, including a rather embarrassing one with Jenny’s younger sister, Jenny was still the centre of his fantasies.
Mike’s life changed forever the day that Dave told him that Jenny was going to give him a blow job for his birthday.
“What’s a blow job?”
Dave explained in lurid detail, relishing the very thought of what, or who, was about to come. Mike thought it sounded disgusting.. It didn’t stop Mike fancying Jenny but the picture of her doing that to Dave totally destroyed the virgin goddess myth Mike had built up around her. Dave never did tell him that, while Jenny kept her promise, she never repeated it.
“Oh, bugger - she’s gone to bed. All hell hath no fury like that woman on such occasions. I’ll see you over the weekend, maybe, Mike.”
“OK, Dave, sleep well.” Mike smiled a brotherly smile but couldn’t get out of there fast enough in case Jenny rose through the roof, spraying splintered rafters and tiles in all directions and destroying his beloved MG with a blast from her fiery maw. Not surprisingly, she had never done it yet but Mike was firmly convinced that it was but a matter of time.
Married life had been good to Jenny - their three kids were markedly less obnoxious than those of Mike’s other friends and Dave’s steady job as an English teacher meant he was around more than many other husbands. Their three bedroom semi-detached house was nicely located within walking distance of the town centre if you weren’t carrying too much and Dave enjoyed decorating although he was useless at woodwork. But every other woman in the Close had something better than she did.
Mary’s husband was captain of the tennis club, tanned and muscular.
Jane’s house had four bedrooms and a sunroom.
Shirley had just had her second new kitchen fitted and she’d been in the house less than ten years.
Trish’s son had just got a scholarship to Oxford.
And the Johnsons had two cars. The list went on.
What Jenny conveniently overlooked was that Tennis Ted was never at home at the weekend, Jane and Brian had a mortgage that meant they both had two jobs and never got to see the sunroom. The Oxford scholar would get a degree in classics and spend the rest of his life teaching Latin to kids who didn’t want to learn it. Shirley couldn’t cook to save her life. And Bill Johnson was shagging his secretary in the back of the Jag that he would be driving into a power pole in a couple of weeks time.
And Jenny has a nicer bum than all of them, thought Mike.
Mike backed the car into the car port and let himself in through the front door. “Next house, integral garage with remote door-opener,” he promised himself as the beer, his bladder and the cold conspired to make it as difficult as possible to get in. He picked up the post from the doormat and flung it on the hallstand before dashing upstairs to the bathroom. “Next house, downstairs karzy,” read the mental sticky note he stuck on his forehead.
Back downstairs, more composed and making another mental note to throw away all his underpants with a maze that you had to fish your dick through to pee, Mike headed for the kitchen for a late night cup of tea. While the kettle boiled, he made short work of the half-eaten sausage roll he had left by the sink. And so, as Samuel Pepys would say, to bed.
Chapter 2 - We’re not in Tuesday any more
Mike’s phone rang at a little after three o’clock on Wednesday morning. That’s the Wednesday morning following the Tuesday evening aforementioned. It wasn’t the first time Mike had been phoned in the middle of the night and he knew instinctively that it was work. After knocking his car keys, some loose change and the photo of his mum on the floor, he finally picked up the phone.
“What?” he said although it didn’t actually sound that long – more like “Wo?” It conveyed a world of meaning, however. It was if he had said, “Good morning, this is Mike and I strongly suspect that there is a problem at work for which I am being blamed. I would be much happier if it could wait until morning but, as you are calling me, then it probably can’t. On the other hand, if this is a wrong number, piss off.”
Mike listened for a few seconds and then said “Wo?” again, this time meaning “No, I don’t know what has happened – could you please elucidate?”
A few more seconds, a further “Wo?” followed by a “Shit”, an “OK” and, after putting the phone down, “Bollocks,” saw Mike reluctantly haul himself out of bed. Of those four utterings, the “shit” and the “bollocks” need no further explanation. The “Wo?” meant “I don’t want to hear any more as it is clear that the troubles you are relating are of my making,” while the “OK” meant something very long, starting with “Bugger off,” and going rapidly downhill from there..
In a little over a minute he had learnt that the program he had finished some simple maintenance on just last week had had its first production run about an hour ago. In a 1950s B-movie, it would have resulted in punched cards being sprayed all over the computer room and sparks leaping out of the tape drives but tonight it merely resulted in a message saying “Job failed – further processing terminated.” Not strictly accurate as further processing hadn’t started but it made its point. It is at times like these that people often consider what drives the universe, whether there really is a God, what difference their own existence makes to the well-being of mankind. Mike wondered why it was that, the moment you answer the phone in the middle of the night, you’re busting for a piss. “Next weekend, cordless phone.”
After the blissful relief of the piss and rejoicing in how splendid a bitter-driven fart can sound in an enclosed space, Mike wandered back to his bedroom ready to collapse back into bed when he recalled why he had woken up in the first place. He gazed longingly at the pile of tangled blankets and set about getting dressed. He grabbed some clothes but not totally at random. If he was going to work at 3 a.m. it was quite likely that he would still be there as everybody else started arriving for their normal work day. He wanted it to be perfectly clear that he had “gone the extra mile” for the company by being there unexpectedly in the middle of the night. He grimaced at the thought of “going the extra mile,” as Andy Holmes, universally know as “Ideal”, would undoubtedly suggest. It was one of his boss’s favourite clichés this month and he was sick of being told how everyone was doing it, should try doing it or should not expect others to do it if they weren’t prepared to do it themselves. “Wouldn’t mind going the extra eight inches for that Janet in accounts, though,” he smiled to himself. It had been a long time since he’d had his favourite form of exercise and it was only natural that his mind should turn to it at the smallest provocation.
The cold evening had turned into a bitterly cold night, at least by Braintree standards, by the time that Mike got into the car. It purred gently as he eased it almost silently down the short drive and edged its front wheels into the road. Now was the time to disturb the neighbours. Or Jim Palmer, the next door neighbour, to be precise. Mike planted his foot heavily on the accelerator, spinning the back wheels just enough to send gravel flying across the drive to hit the timber fence that ran along the side of the garden. “Morning, Jim,” muttered Mike with virtually no detectable affection.
“That bloody bastard bloody car noise bloody,” groaned Jim Palmer to his wife, Betty. Jim was not famous for being coherent when woken from a sound sleep though he did feel he had made himself reasonably clear.
“Yes, dear.”
“Bloody does it bloody on bloody purpose. Little bastard.”
“Language, Jim.”
“Where the hell…”
“Language.”
“Where on earth is the little – beast – going at this bloody hour of the bloody night, anyway?”
“Go back to sleep, Jim.”
“Nah, got to have a piss now.” He heaved himself out of bed, not bothering with the bedroom slippers he had carefully placed for exactly this occasion.
“Language.”
Jim was already on his way to the bathroom.
“Bugger off, you silly cow.”
“I heard that.” Fortunately, she hadn’t.
Mike didn’t have a clue why Jim disliked him so much. He had felt it the day he moved into the house. It was as if Jim resented his very being. Betty, on the other hand, tried hard to be nice to Mike whenever she thought that Jim wasn’t looking – odd plates of homemade cakes, volunteering to take in Mike’s mail while he was on holiday and little things like that. She even sent him a Christmas card which she signed as being from both her and Jim though Jim took no part in it.
Mike’s house and the one it was attached to were built on what used to be Jim Palmer’s rose garden. Shortly after being made redundant by the railway company, Jim read somewhere that residential land was at a premium. The article went on to say that a good retirement fund could be built by anyone with a large plot in a desirable location. So Jim had called his lawyer and set the wheels in motion to sell off the chunk of land on the town side of the Palmers’ house. It fetched a tidy sum although the lawyer’s bill and the hearings by sundry council committees ate away more than their fair share.
Jim was a canny soul and wasn’t going to stick the money in any feeble deposit account where the interest didn’t keep up with inflation. So, against his bank manager’s advice, he asked the lawyer to invest it, along with his redundancy payout. And so it was that, in the last five years, Jim had seen what had been enough money to live on reasonably well for thirty years grow to where it would buy him and Betty a couple of weeks in a cheap hotel in Spain. How he made the connection to blame this on Mike was something he had never pondered and of which Mike was totally unaware.
By now, Mike was half a mile up the road and concentrating on making the drive to work as comfortable as possible. He had already turned the heater on full blast. Then he realized, too late, that all he would get from the heater of a car that had been standing in a frosty car port for four hours was a blast of arctic air up the trouser leg. He stabbed irately at the first button on the radio.
The title track of “Sergeant Pepper” was about halfway through.
“Sodding pretentious drivel,” muttered Mike. Then, to make himself feel better, he yelled it. Then he sang along with the song, replacing all the words with “Sodding pretentious drivel” although it really didn’t fit the tune at all well. Sergeant Pepper was the anthem, the Ark of the sodding Covenant of his parents’ generation. It was the only LP he recalled them owning and they would play it, enraptured, repeatedly in the long summer evenings at home. They wouldn’t even let the bloody thing go “kertonk kertonk” at the end of side one (or say “Paul is dead” backwards or whatever it was supposed to do). One of them would leap up and turn the bloody thing over. Or play that thing about the holes in bleeding Lancashire again and again and gawp at each other stupidly. He had hoped that they would retire it when it got a scratch on that track and, even now, he always expects to hear “holes in Blackburn, Lancashire – cashire – cashire” whenever it’s played.
Mike’s faith in God was restored the day in 1992 that his mum left it in the sun while she emptied the washing machine, turning it into a Daliesque object hanging over the edge of the sideboard. He became a confirmed atheist the next day when Dad triumphantly stormed into the house with the bloody thing on CD and with a CD player on which to play it. They spent the rest of the day (of which there seemed to be seventy hours left) playing it and singing along, looking meaningful when the words reached the truly meaningless bits.
It even got him in trouble at school. Mike was good at school, meaning he behaved acceptably and passed all the exams he took, some of them with “A” grades. Mr. Shiner, his English teacher, had to introduce Mike’s class to the art of writing poetry criticism and, to break them in easily, he set “A Day in the Life” as the work in question. Mike’s essay was considerably shorter than the expected three pages and displayed a luridness of vocabulary that is usually not to be found in the Times Literary Supplement. Mr. Shiner was a forgiving soul and understood that Mike’s comments probably stemmed from a more intimate knowledge of the subject than they initially revealed. He summoned Mike, or Fendalton, as he was then known, to the staff room.
“Fendalton. I am concerned about this latest piece of work you have handed in.”
Mike deeply regretted that this interview was about to take place. Even with the benefit of hindsight he couldn’t bring himself to regret having written what he had written. Nor could he bring himself to regret having handed it in rather than making up a possibly plausible story about his homework book having been devoured by rats. But Mr. Shiner was one of his favourite teachers and it was unfortunate that Mike should have vented his spleen on him. But then, as so many schoolyard fights get explained away, he (Mr. Shiner) started it.
“You asked for my opinion and I gave it, sir.”
“But your language was hardly appropriate to a work of literary criticism.”
“Good enough for D H Lawrence, good enough for me.”
“While Lawrence may have used those words, he would not have used them in the same combination and with the same lack of grammar as you.”
“What’s your favourite ice cream flavour, sir?”
“I don’t see the relevance but it’s chocolate chip.”
“Supposing that, every fifteen seconds of your life, since the day you were born, somebody had said ‘chocolate chip’ to you. How would you feel about chocolate chip ice cream?”
“I suspect I would feel less enthusiastic about it. Are you trying to tell me that somebody near to you has played this record a little too much for your taste?”
“It’s the only fu… - only record they ever play, sir. Repeatedly. Over and over. And over. All the time. Without stopping. Repeatedly.” He was fighting back tears of rage and clenching his fists.
“I get your point. We’ll say nothing about it this time but you must realize in future that you will be asked to criticize works you do not like. In such cases it is your job to convey a reasoned argument to your reader without using the words of Mr. Lawrence.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
“Good – now run along.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Fendalton.”
“Yes, sir?”
“If you must refer to John Lennon as an arsehole, please spell it the proper English way.”
Button two was the classical station – something noisy would be nice: Carmina Burana or the 1812, maybe. Nothing highbrow, modern or experimental. But at 3 a.m. all the classical station delivered was static. “Ah, of course,” he thought, “Anyone who listens to classical music is supposed to be tucked up in their beddy-byes by 10:30 with a cup of cocoa and a boring novel. Or the Financial Times. And no shagging is allowed to the accompaniment of Beethoven.”
Button three – rap – better reprogram that one.
Button four – “Hi there, night owls and early birds!”
“What about ‘Hello all you poor bastards who would rather be anywhere but in your freezing bleeding car going to bloody work in the middle of the sodding night’, eh? How about, ‘Hey, Mike, do you know you’re the only bleeding person awake in the whole of north Essex? And you’ve got nothing better to do than listen to me trying to be enthusiastic?’”
Bugger it – time for a CD. Never mind what it is – at least it’s something I selected.
One good thing about going to work at 3 a.m. is that you get the road pretty much to yourself. Sod the speed limit – into third gear and up the hill at fifty. Better slow it down a bit going through Coggeshall but that’s five minutes away yet – let’s open her up.
Constable Jim Cant was nearly as happy about being up at this hour as Mike. If there was one job he regarded as totally pointless it was sitting in his car by the side of Coggeshall Road waiting for some moron to come flying by at twice the speed limit so that he could give him a ticket. Mike was doing well over twice the limit when Jim saw his headlights a mile down the road. All he had to do now was to clock Mike’s speed as he passed and then chase him for a mile or two, explain to him that it was for his own good and give him a piece of paper that would write off half a week’s wages. Then, if he gave enough tickets in one night, his super would be so impressed that he would have him sitting in his car in the same place the following night. Or the next week. Or month. Or forever.
“Screw that,” said the officer in a most unofficerly manner. He flicked on his flashing lights for just a couple of seconds and Mike, in response, stepped gently on the brakes. He brought the MG down to a speed tolerably close to the speed limit but most certainly not below it as that would only arouse unfounded suspicion. Mike and Jim smiled, unseen but appreciatively, at each other as Mike drove past at a speed rarely done in these parts by anything other than tractors and bicycles. Constable Cant wrote an entry in his log – 03:17 a.m. - one green MGB doing 33 mph.
Chapter 3 - Early to work
The door of the Henckler garage groaned up with a noise designed to waken and deafen the dead. “Miami Vice time.” He drove in slowly and, at the first corner, flung the wheel to the right. Although he was doing barely 10 miles per hour, his tyres screeched on the smooth concrete floor like a mad axe murderer making his escape in a cops and robbers program. “Do they still call them that?” Mike wondered out loud. “Nah, not poncy enough - “law enforcement scenario drama” is more like it.”
Briefly considering parking sideways in the managing director and financial controllers’ reserved spaces, he thought better of it and drove down to his allotted space on the next floor. He opened the car door just in time to hear the garage door finish closing. “Beat you, you bastard,” he smiled. Small pleasures are precious at half past three in the morning.
In the computer room there was no sign that things had gone wrong. Mike’s part of the overnight work was a minor one and the machines were steadily chomping their way through the other things they had to do. The four operators barely acknowledged Mike’s presence. Their main interest in the whole thing was that two of them were allowed to go home as soon as all the work, including Mike’s, was finished. Otherwise they would have to hang around until the day shift arrived at seven. So they didn’t greet the prospect of hanging around waiting for that prat to fix his useless program with completely unbounded enthusiasm.
“Wanker.” Mike heard it distinctly but couldn’t make out whose voice it was.
“Piss off,” he mumbled in the time-honoured reply.
“Ah, hello, Mike. You break the sound barrier getting here?”
“Hi, Neil. No chance this morning - Coggeshall Road is dripping with bloody cops. Had to stick to the speed limit most of the way. Now, what’s the problem?”
Mike was lucky that Neil was shift leader tonight. Mike had been helping Neil to learn how to program in COBOL so he could usually rely on Neil’s help in times of trouble.
“Pretty boring, really - your job started, ran for about half a minute and then crapped out with that “Job failed” message.”
“Hmmm - that shouldn’t happen.”
There was an unsuppressed guffaw from behind Mike. The bastards were playing cliché cricket at his expense and he’d just uttered one of the most stupid in the book.
“Did you..” began Mike.
“Try re-running it?” Neil nodded.
“And..”
“Restore the files from the back-up and try again?” Another nod.
“What about..”
“Check that it was running from the production libraries? Yes - no luck.”
Mike hadn’t thought of that one.
“OK, Neil, what have we got to work with?”
Neil pointed at the message on the console log and Mike resigned himself to a long night of trying to work out what his program had done.
It was getting on for eight o’clock when Mike’s first fellow programmer, Ralph, arrived. Dressed in his habitual suit, of which he had many which he rotated regularly via the dry cleaner. As with all his other suits, the one he was wearing looked as if he had worn it in the rain and let it dry, which he hadn’t, rather than spending a week’s salary on it, which he had. The silver buckled belt was unnecessary as, despite his spreading waistline, Ralph’s trouser waistband never turned over at the top. The red silk tie did not quite go with the immaculately pressed blue cotton shirt and the charcoal pinstripe, either. Stan referred to it as Ralph’s Iraq look - an expensive disaster. Ralph looked pityingly at Mike and wished him a good morning.
“Morning, Ralph. Ever thought what a bloody silly job this is?”
“No,” replied Ralph. He wasn’t being rude or terse - he rarely uttered more than three words in a row. Mike wasn’t sure if he envied Ralph or not. Ralph was the slowest programmer in the world - while everyone else was frantically running test after test to debug their programs, Ralph would be sitting. Not writing, not drawing diagrams, not hacking away at his terminal - just sitting. Quietly. Thinking. Finally he would log on to his terminal and type in his program. Line after line of it. Not making any alterations or corrections. Just typing. And it would work. Mike briefly contemplated hating Ralph before returning to the job at hand.
“You’re up bright and early, Mr. F!” Stan threw his overcoat on Mike’s desk in case Mike had missed his arrival. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Oh har bloody har. This bloody program crapped out last night. I didn’t even write it - it was bloody Todger and he left fifty bloody years ago and now his program decides to crap out. And the clever prat put a crap-out trap in it so that instead of just crapping out like any normal program, it cleans up after itself and then issues a really useful message saying it has crapped out.” Mike was impressed with how succinctly he had described the problem.
“Give it to Bill when he gets in - he’ll sort it out for you.”
“Stuff Bill - he won’t be here much before ten.”
Bill Frost was the resident debugging expert. He took advantage of being an invaluable member of the team and was rarely to be seen much before the first round of coffee mugs were being rattled. He was also famously smug and annoyed everyone by scribbling on their work with a red pen, sniggering and saying “Trivial!” repeatedly.
“Well get a cup of coffee then - it’ll do you more good than staring at that thing.”
Mike sighed and heaved himself upright. Getting coffee would involve walking past Ideal’s office and the t-shirt didn’t seem such a good idea any more. He mooched off trying to look as small and tidily dressed as possible.
As he walked past Ideal’s office, there was a quiet, “Morning, Mike,” and he waved half-heartedly in reply. He helped himself to the last of the previous night’s coffee and set up another pot less strong than the night shift always made it but still strong enough to slice with a sharp knife. He knew that, when that pot was gone, nobody would bother to refill it and they would be back to machine coffee for the rest of the day. The first sip convinced him that dying was debatably preferable to the alternative and he poured the whole mug down the sink and sat on the bench while he waited for the new pot to brew. He thought over last night’s problem but had got no further than “It crapped out” before the new pot was near enough ready to risk pouring some. He sprinkled some white powder into it and wondered how a company based in a dairy farming area could fail to provide proper milk.
Stan was gazing at Mike’s terminal when he got back to his desk.
“It crapped out while it was closing the overdue payment file, Mike.”
“Thanks, Stan but that was as far as I got. The question is ‘Why?’”
“Dunno, mate. Especially as it worked yesterday.”
“Can’t have done - this is a monthly job. It wouldn’t have run yesterday.”
“Yes it did - part of the new accounting system or something. There are now 13 months in the year and yesterday was the end of month twelve. Today is the end of month thirteen.”
“What a load of bollocks - there aren’t thirteen months in a year. And anyway, why would that make this bloody program crap out?”
“Dunno, mate. That’s your problem.”
Mike debated inwardly whether Stan had been helpful or not and came to the conclusion that he was a useless prat.
As Bill walked into the office, he immediately noticed Mike’s night attire and deduced correctly from the small group in Mike’s cubicle that all was not well. He sauntered to the tea room and poured himself a mug of black coffee and returned to his cubicle saying nothing other than good mornings all round. He waited. He had counted to forty eight before Mike cracked.
“Bill - can you take a quick look at this, please?”
Bill sighed, heaved himself upright, picked up his red pen and his coffee and headed to Mike’s desk.
“Useful message,” he volunteered almost immediately. He looked at Mike’s terminal and then looked at Mike with a snigger. “Trivial. You’ve crapped out while you’re closing the overdue file. Trivial.”
“We’d all worked that out. The question is ‘Why?’”
Bill wasn’t even trivially deflated. He flipped up the cover of the binder with the program listing in and rummaged through the pages. He drew a red circle around the word “CLOSE” in the listing. Then he flipped the pages over backwards until he came to the word “OPEN”.
“Trivial.” Snigger. “You’ve never opened the file but now you’re trying to close it. You’re not allowed to do that - means you’re trying to release storage you’ve never acquired.”
Mike gaped with a mixture of awe and dislike verging on hate to be shared equally between Todger and Bill.
“Well, how come it’s never crapped out before then?”
“That’s your problem, mate, but my guess is that it is something trivial like you’ve never run it with no overdue accounts to process. You don’t open the overdue payment file until you find you’ve got to process one but you close it anyway. Trivial. And not a good programming technique.” He sniggered and slurped his coffee noisily.
Mike looked at the red circle around the word “OPEN” and had to agree that what Bill said made sense. All that was needed to fix the problem was to move that line to the beginning of the program and all would be fixed. Worst of all, as it was barely ten o’clock, he could hardly claim to have done a fair day’s work and slope off home. He was here for the day.
“Thanks, Bill. I’ll give it a crack.”
Within thirty minutes, Mike had made the change and re-run last night’s job successfully from the test libraries. All that was left to do now was to fill in the endless paperwork - incident report, change request forms, system audit request and the rest - and make everyone aware that it was all really Todger’s fault. Not that they would believe him even though it was.
Ideal took mercy on him at 2 o’clock and sent him home ostensibly to get some sleep. The real reason was that some of the senior managers were due in Ideal’s office for a meeting at three and Ideal didn’t want them to see the kind of scruffy dregs of humanity responsible for keeping track of the company’s billions.
Chapter 4 - Roasted alive
After the interrupted night on Tuesday, the rest of Mike’s week was relatively uneventful, consisting mostly of pints here and there, a diet which he thought he should really make healthier and doing as little work as possible. The one event that brightened an otherwise humdrum week was when he was called before Dawn Meeksham in the Human Resources department to explain the expense report from the course he had been on last month. Miss Meeksham was famous for treating every penny on expense reports as if it was her own personal property and she had been instrumental in introducing some of the more petty regulations governing them. She was unique at Henckler in that hers was the only office that had no windows, in the central part of the fourth floor. She believed her position in the company entitled her to her own office, which it undoubtedly did, but that she did not come to work to spend all day gazing out of the window.
Mike introduced himself to the pretty young lady who was acting as Miss Meeksham’s receptionist.
“Hello - I’m Mike Fendalton. I’ve got an appointment with Miss Meeksham.”
“Yes - I’ve got your file here. Oo - you live in Braintree. My granddad’s in a rest home up there.”
“You should give me a call next time you’re in town then.”
“Right.”
He shuffled his feet and put his hands in his pockets. What a prat. “Give me a call.” That was likely. He shot her a quick glance. The blonde hair looked real and the white turtle neck over large breasts was an effect he always appreciated. He briefly pictured what they would look like if she went outside where the temperature was barely above freezing. He turned to her to say something.
“Mr. Fendalton?” The voice like a rat chewing broken glass belonged to Miss Meeksham who was holding her office door open for him. Flicking a momentary smile at the blonde, he walked in. “Dead man walking,” he muttered.
The office contained a filing cabinet with a potted fern on it, a brown plastic topped desk, a green swivel chair and a plastic cafeteria chair of the kind designed to make sure you don’t spend too long in the cafeteria. And, of course, the dumpy becardiganed figure of Miss Meeksham. She indicated the chair to Mike as uncordially as she could manage. She reminded him of the old TV ad that started, “A face without a trace of makeup.” In her case, it could well have finished “is damn ugly.”
“Take a seat, Mr. Fendalton.” Before his backside had a chance to splay out, she continued. “Mr. Fendalton, as you are no doubt aware, I have called you here to go over your expense claim for your recent course in London.” It had actually been in Ealing which isn’t exactly London but Mike let that pass. “As you are also undoubtedly aware, it is not the duty of the Company to finance riotous living.” He hastily replayed his three days in Ealing and could dredge up nothing even remotely riotous about it. It had rained the whole time so that, other than a trip on the Tube to Charing Cross Road, which he had paid for himself, he was at a loss to understand what she was on about. She laid the hotel bill out in front of him along with a receipt for a brilliant curry in Berwick Street and a miserable chicken casserole in the hotel restaurant. Mike tended to avoid eating in any hotel he stayed in but the rain on Wednesday evening had persuaded him it was occasionally a good idea.
“Berwick Street, Mr. Fendalton, is, I am given to understand, in a rather insalubrious area of the capital.”
“Positively Dickensian but the Taste of Spice does the best beef vindaloo this side of Baker Street.”
“Be that as it may, the Company neither condones nor finances excessive meals of this nature.”
Mike peered at the bill - he had submitted both the Visa slip and the hand-scrawled and slightly bespattered waiter’s order. One kebab, a beef vindaloo and some pilau rice. Miss Meeksham’s bony finger was pointing at the last item and shaking.
“The Kingfishers?”
“Company rules prohibit reimbursement for alcohol except under exceptional circumstances.”
“Their beef vindaloo is exceptional circumstances.”
A steely gaze from under one eyebrow told Mike that the circumstances were not exceptional enough. He grudgingly reached in his pocket for his wallet.
“And then there is your hotel bill.”
“The company put me there so you can hardly complain about that.”
“Well now. Let’s see. We have a bar bill for five pounds, items from the refrigerator in your room and,” she steeled herself to mention such an abomination, “an in-room film.”
“Gordon Bennett - it was pissing with rain. There’s not a lot else to do in Ealing when you can’t get out of the door without getting soaked. So I took myself to bed with a Mars bar and diet Coke from the fridge and.” He paused and pointed at the film title on the bill. Great - it was one of those hotels where they don’t print the film title so everybody thinks you’ve watched Debbie Does Dagenham. He remembered that it was an old film but which one? “The African Queen.” He hoped she’d heard of it or she would definitely leap to the wrong conclusion.
“Public television was not working that week, Mr. Fendalton?” He sighed.
“Look, if I give you twenty quid, can I go and do some work?”
“We cannot afford such laxity in our accounting practices, Mr. Fendalton.” She reached for the calculator and her fingers darted over the keyboard like an aardvark’s tongue picking up ants.
“Eighteen pounds and fifty five pence, if you please.”
Mike plonked a twenty on her desk.
“Kindly spend the change on riotous living.” Without waiting for an answer or to sign the form she would undoubtedly have him fill in, he got up and left, ignoring her protest. It left him no time for anything beyond a quick “Bye” to the girl outside the door and he strode off back to work. Had she told him her name? He couldn’t remember. Probably.
Ideal was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.
“Mike - I understand you have just been unspeakably rude to Miss Meeksham.” Mike stuck out his chin and nodded.
“Good. You must tell us all about it some day.” Ideal placed a hand on Mike’s shoulder and, with a smile, steered him back into the rabbit warren of cubicles.
Mike went back to his desk contemplating those gorgeous tits and wondering if anyone would notice if he pissed in Miss Meeksham’s petrol tank.
Chapter 5 - The weekend starts here
Friday couldn’t come soon enough as it was the start of his favourite kind of weekend – the kind that married men dream about. It held no social engagements and featured a rugby international on the goggle box on Saturday afternoon. Plans for Sunday didn’t go beyond the demolition of the obscenely large packet of pork chops in the fridge. There was nothing scheduled at Henckler that involved any of Mike’s more recent work so that he didn’t expect any unexpected calls. He would do some man-style housework over the weekend, starting by making heaps of stuff and gradually dealing with them, while a pile of bacon fried during half-time in the rugby and at other odd times when the mood moved him. By Monday the house would look better than it had for weeks and no time would appear to have been wasted making it that way.
Best of all, it started a little early with a 4 o’clock dental check-up. While this isn’t something you usually look forward to, getting away from your desk at 3:45 with the boss’s blessing and everyone’s sympathy is one of life’s small pleasures. Mike’s dentist, Nigel Green, was also a rugby fan and with the England – France game coming up tomorrow, Mike was guaranteed a rare conversation about his favourite sport. Dr Green’s office was a short walk from the Henckler building but Mike took his car anyway. If he walked to the appointment and back to the office afterwards, he couldn’t then drive off at 4:30. The fifty pence in the parking meter was worth every penny. The only thing that could make the afternoon perfect would be if Tracy was the nurse on duty.
Tracy was well past the first flush of youth, unlike the really pretty blonde one whose name Mike could never remember. But she was shorter. Which meant that, to get at the far side of his mouth with that tube that slurps so disgustingly, she had to lean across the chair. And she leant really close. Mike was convinced that she was desperate for a good rogering but could never think of a way of asking her about it. Or even asking her for a date. The crisp white uniform did nothing to reduce the pleasure of the whole experience, either.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Fendalton.” The blonde one was working the reception desk this afternoon.
“Afternoon, Wendy.” Thanks for the badge with your name on it. Don’t stare, Mike. You’ve read that it says “Wendy” so further examination is ungentlemanly.
“Take a seat – Dr Green will be with you in a minute.”
Mike looked at the pile of aged magazines. Whatever happened to “Punch”? There was always a heap of Punch magazines at Dr Wade’s place when he was a kid, presumably to make you feel happier about having your face ripped apart. Now it was all “Home and Garden” and “Woman’s Day / Week / Month”. Perhaps men aren’t meant to go to the dentist.
“Would you like the paper?” The blonde one – Wendy – was proffering today’s Telegraph.
“Yeah, great. Thanks.” Let’s see what that stupid twerp in there says about tomorrow’s game.
Barely two paragraphs into the article, Tracy came bounding out. Hair in a pony tail. Smock unzipped just a couple of inches and maybe an inch or two too tight.
“Dr Green will see you now, Mr. Fendalton.”
“Thanks, Tracy.” First name terms - too intimate? Get a grip – it’s not like you said “Get your gear off.” Maybe you should have.
"Afternoon, Mike - take a seat. And make sure your left hand is where you can give Tracy a good grope." Why is everybody not saying things they should? Mike stretched out on the leather chair-cum-couch and took a firm grip on the arms in the time-honoured dentist's chair manner.
"Just a check up, is it? I see you're due for some x-rays, too." Nigel must be saving up for another trip to Bermuda at Mike's expense. Meanwhile, Tracy was leaning across Mike, fastening the little plastic bib. Hard to look suave with one of those things on.
"Now, then," Mike opened wide without being asked like he was begging for a bone. Instead he got a large hunk of cotton wadding under the tongue and another in each cheek. "I wonder when he puts the tennis ball in," Mike wondered. Oh goodie - here comes the slurpy tube. Just hang it over the bottom lip and rub your crotch over my knuckles - thank you very much.
"So, what do you think about the game tomorrow?" Nigel grabbed a miniature boathook with which to poke around in Mike's gums.
"England by twenty points," said Mike though it came through the wadding more like "ingerbar enny poy."
"England by twenty points, eh? You think the new chap at fullback will be able to keep the frogs out?"
How the hell did he understand what I just said? Can he carry on a conversation with someone who doesn't have half a sanitary towel in his face? And now Tracy is getting really close - almost personal - no, way past personal which is making him dribble more which means she has to get closer.
"What? Fullback? Mmmm." The boathook hit one of those bits in your mouth that make you realise what intense pain is. Mike didn't flinch.
"Bit sore there, eh?"
He shrugged, sure that there wasn’t really a tear running down his left cheek. Tracy delicately wiped it away. Mike’s smile of gratitude was possibly the most hideous facial expression that had been sent Tracy’s way all day but she appreciated the sentiment.
“Nothing to worry about - get yourself a softer brush and don’t be so vigorous. Have you thought of an electric one? We have some in reception.”
“You want me to finance another trip to Bermuda, do you?” he thought but managed to express it as “Yes, I probably should take one.”
“OK, Mike - rinse out and we’ll see you again in six months. I think the frogs might just do it tomorrow but we’ll see.”
Mike spat the warm pink mouthwash in as macho a way as he could manage and took one last crack at thinking of how to ask Tracy out. By which time she had left the room.
“Bit better looking than the average female programmer,” remarked Mike to Tracy’s receding backside.
“Yes, and desperate for it, too, I’d say,” replied Nigel, absent-mindedly fiddling with Mike’s records.
“Bollocks,” thought Mike in the manner so familiar to those who have let a chance go by.
When he reached the reception desk there was no sign of Tracy and Wendy had neatly wrapped an electric tooth brush for him.
“Well, the weekend can only get cheaper from here,” thought Mike.
Strolling into the cool Colchester afternoon air, Mike sucked in a breath in the way Humphrey Bogart did after taking a swig of whisky. He relished the cold feeling of the air rushing past the newly-exposed bits of his teeth and gums that Nigel had recently ploughed.
“Pint,” he nodded to himself, proving that he could speak decisively when necessary.
It still being ten minutes before official work-quitting time, he had to head away from home to avoid going past the office and that could mean only one thing - a pint at the Dog and Partridge in Little Patchett.