Cyril Spriggs (3 of 4 chapters)

Continuation Chapter 3. Set in the North Star Public House somewhere in North London.

Act 3.   

 

Ben AdrianTaylor, Judith Pamela Jenkins, Brenda Welsh and Cyril Spriggs clustered in delighted trauma at the North Star public house.  Their nemesis Helen Shapiro had been ejected from the company.  Mr Bligh seemed like a man renewed.  Their futures were secure. The large Shapiro salary would be been divided between them.  When Shapiro's old  post was advertised not one of the team would challenge 'Cy' for it.  Not from mere   gratitude but in deference to a better equipped candidate.  Beer had increased their pleasurable reverie.

 

The new barman at the North Star puzzled them.  Well he did not puzzle Cyril.  The elderly barman sported a vast bandage that covered the right side of his head.  He smelt strangely of smoke and at times one could swear that his eyes looked red if the light struck them a certain way.  Cyril knew exactly who the new barman was.  He knew also that it was his computer,hurled by Helen Shapiro, that  had caused the crimson wound on the side of his head.  Indeed it was the same man who had tried to sell him a newspaper.  The same man who early that morning had stood at the end of his bed. 

 

Cyril's eyes drifted to the barman who peered at him from the washing machine.  Behind him stood 'Effy'.  Darling, darling Effy.   She had arrived before her friends and was waiting for the odd looking barman to serve her.  Cyril found himself walking towards her; a vast smiled streamed across his face.  Then his  mouth seemed to fill with sawdust when he stood next to her.  His lips parted, waiting for words to impress her.  None came!  The strange barman moved close, very close, ears cocked like carbines.

 

It was Effy who ended the weird silence.  "Hello Cy."  She said.  She could have continued "Please no silly chat up lines I just cannot stand them."

 

In Cyril's mind the roaring tracks of a Nazi panzer tank heaved above him.  Two red eyes gleamed from the tank's gunners eye slit.

 

"Actually Effy my name is Cyril,"

 

Effy turned around to face him,  with  clear attention.  "Hello Cyril.  Actually."  She hesitated "My name is really Freda!" her face revealing shock at the confession she had not planned or expected.

 

"Freda!"  Cyril stumbled.  "The old Teutonic word for 'peaceful.'   Often used as in the Goddess of peace."

 

"I just called myself Effy for short." Freda responded embarrassed at her coyness. "In truth I was rather ashamed of my old fashioned Christian name.  My surname is Fyffe and with all those alliterating 'F's' Effy just seemed to fit!" she admtted.

 

Cyril looked at her.  How different to the modern women she was.  Her fresh face unspoilt by layers of make up.  Her thick black hair swept back naturally.  This lass was so clever, modest and so desirable.  In the past he had listened to her chatting to her friends.  She discussed history, the Romans, art and music in a depth that heightened his feelings of unworthiness in comparison with her.   Yet ,once or twice, he could have sworn he saw Effy glancing involuntarily, towards him. 

 

"Any more surprises to tell me about?" said Freda who peered at Cyril with an intensity that she had never displayed during their earlier encounters.

 

With his brain firmly stuck in honest gear and Freda's faint, delicious, perfume removing any verbal defensiveness, Cyril revealed all.  "Well, it is true that I have never been intimate with a girl before.  The first time I saw you and in an instant, I became besotted with you.  Initially my intention was to instigate casual conversation, get you drunk, take you home or to the nearest quiet bus shelter and have sex with you.  I couldn't even start the conversation.  I was dumb struck and only able to mumble pathetic chat up lines.  The looks you gave me  resulting from these made me feel  a feeble-minded slob. 

 

 Oh!  I don't know if its just your natural prettiness or your deep intelligence, your lovely conversation or what?  I don't know, it may be, that you do not have the accepted, made-up, look that other girls seem to find vital nowadays. All your natural imperfections I find exquisitely beautiful.  Your face radiates pure, thrilling, life.  So my lust  mutated to an inexpressable need.  A need  to get to know you, yearning to be with you.  For us to do things together.  I don't just want to get you drunk anymore.  That moment came when I just knew that  you were the girl for me.  Since then every day, you are in my mind."

 

When Cyril's mouth stopped talking he suspected, and dreaded, that this time he had completely shattered any chances he had to woo this fabulous girl with his hideously frank outburst.

 

"I thought that perhaps one of those girls you were sitting with may have been your girlfriend!"

 

"Oh no!" Cyril responded. "They are my team at work.  We drank here to drown our sorrows.  After today I don't think we will have many more sorrows to drown!"  They turned and all three of Cyril's friends gave Freda a wave.  They stared entranced at this unexpectedly lengthy union between Cy and Effy.  They strained their ears greedy to absorb their conversation.

 

"Tell you what Cyril. Let's go somewhere by ourselves. Oh and by the way you will have to get used to these!"  Freda put on a sweet pair of chrome spectacles and blushed!  Cyril slipped her hand in his and waved goodbye to his team, who looked on; with eyes like basins.  Cyril trembled  with bliss as Freda squeezed his hand.

 

Behind the bar the satanic, bandaged barman  groaned with woe.  He shook as if he were sobbing.  Brimstone-yellow, mist began to cloud the lounge bar.  The evil one stepped backwards as the happy couple walked into the night.  He failed to notice that the cellar flap set in the floor had been opened.  Barrels had to be changed.  With a crash, then a croak, the demon disappeared from view.