Circles - Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 

 

 

Robert swallowed the rest of his pint and placed the empty glass on the bar.  He had waited long enough for Ken.  The clock in the pub read 1:20.  The first race was due off in ten minutes and he wanted to make sure he got his bet on.

        Armed with his Sporting Life, Robert strolled across the road into the betting office.  Ken was nowhere to be seen.  Dismissing him from his thoughts, Robert picked up a betting slip and wrote out the name of the horse.

        He waited patiently until a voice crackled over the Extel tannoy, giving the first show.  As soon as he’d heard the announcement, Robert quickly completed the slip and made his way to the counter.

         “2/1 Vesuvius please Margaret,” he said cheerfully, pushing the slip to the cashier.  The young girl checked the bet, circled the odds and then looked up.

         “I’ll have to get this confirmed Robert,” she informed, taking the betting slip to the manager who sat in a quiet corner of the office.

        Robert nodded.  He pulled out his wallet and began to count out the notes.  The cashier returned and smiled at him.

         “£330 please.”

        He took the pile of ten pound notes and pushed it under the counter.  She checked the cash, then handed him the receipt.

        Robert turned and took a seat by the door.  As he sat down, the commentator updated the prices.  His horse had drifted slightly and was now 9/4 joint favourite.  He cursed silently under his breath; he should have waited a little longer.

        The horses came under orders and the race was off.  For the first circuit, the jockey held his horse in the middle of the field.  As the race began in earnest on the second lap, Robert nodded as he gradually brought him up to join the leaders.  Approaching the third hurdle from home, only four horses were in serious contention, and Vesuvius was going nicely in third place.  Two brilliant leaps swept him past the leader, and as he met the last, only a fall could rob him of victory.  Vesuvius jumped the obstacle perfectly and galloped on to a six-length win.

        Robert stubbed out the cigarette and allowed himself a smile.  Things were really going his way.  His luck was in, and this winning streak looked like continuing for a while.  He waited until the weighed in signal was given, then collected his £900.

        The next two races were scrappy affairs, so Robert opted to chance a £10 forecast on each.  He managed to pick the winner in the third race, but an outsider robbed him of the forecast.  Still it was only a small bet and he hadn’t lost much, he consoled himself.

        Ken finally appeared just before the fourth race.  The shop by now was crowded, and the fan worked hard to clear the thick cloud of smoke.  Robert was buried in his paper and failed to notice his arrival.

         “Fancy anything in the next?” Ken asked.

        Robert looked up from his paper and smiled.  “You’ve missed the nap of the day!  I thought you said one o’clock?”

         “I couldn’t get away!  Lorraine did her nut because I was out all night!” Ken replied casually.

        Robert chuckled.  Knowing Lorraine, Ken was lucky not to be sporting a black eye.  The woman had a ferocious temper, and was not loathe swapping blows with the 5’ 7” Ken.  On several occasions she had marked and bruised his face; on others she had ended up in hospital for her troubles.

        “I don’t think Windrush will lose this,” Robert stated, folding his paper and reaching for a slip.

        Ken turned to study the paper displayed on the wall.

         “What about Hunting Party?  He’s won his last two races,” he contested.

        Robert shook his head.  It was always the same; Ken would never listen to advice.  It was pointless arguing.

        Robert shrugged his shoulders and wrote out his bet.  “Well I think you should back Windrush.  But it’s, your money.”

        “You’re not sticking £200 on him are you?” Ken asked incredulously as he peered over Robert’s shoulder.  “He’s not even favourite in the papers.”

         “If it loses, then I was wrong.  Win some lose some. That’s the name of the game.”

        Turning quickly, he approached the counter and placed his bet. Ken followed bet in hand and passed over his £20.

         “Can I take the price please?” he asked the cashier.

         “4 to 1,” she confirmed on the large monitor.

        Ken looked at Robert and smiled.  He had backed Hunting Party.

        Sure enough, Windrush won the race by a length in a close fought finish. Hunting Party had made nearly all the running, but as challengers ranged alongside, he had tamely dropped away.

        Ken shook his head in disgust as he tore up his ticket.  “The jockey wants shooting!  He set off far too quickly!”

        Robert would have explained that the horse was outclassed.  After his last two wins, he was now taking on much better opposition.  In time the horse would be a good prospect; but for the moment the handicapper had got the better of him.  He knew that Ken would never listen to reason, and would always feel robbed.

        As he collected his winnings, Robert gave the cashier a £50 note.  “Split that among the staff Margaret.”

        The girl smiled her thanks.  She liked Robert.  He never grumbled when he lost and if he had a good win always gave them a tip.  Since starting this job, she had faced abuse, insults and threats from aggrieved losers.  Robert never took his frustrations out on them.  He was one of the most (if not the most) popular punters, among the staff.

        Robert buttoned the smart Pierre Cardin coat and made his way out.  As he neared the door, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

         “Cccould you lend us £20?” Ken stammered, “That was the money for the shopping,” he added guiltily.  Robert shook his head, dug into his pocket, fished out two tenners and held them out to Ken who greedily palmed them.

         “What are you doing tonight?” he asked chirpily now the money was safely in his pocket.

         “Nothing I’m staying in,” Robert replied and walked out the door.

 

 

After he had gone a few paces, Robert stopped.  He searched his pockets and found the piece of paper.  Crossing the road, he entered the phone box and dialled the number.  A female voice answered.  He wasn’t sure if it was her.

         “Can I speak to Miss Stella Bridewell please?”

        He leant back and drummed nervously on the pane of glass whilst the receptionist made the connection.  After a short wait, he heard her voice.

         “Stella Bridewell.  May I help you?”

         “Hello this is Robert.  We met last night,” he paused, allowing her time to refresh her memory.  “I wondered if you were doing anything tonight?  If you’re free, maybe we could go for a drink together?”

         “I’m sorry.  I can’t make it tonight, I’ve arranged to meet my sister.”

        Robert tried to hide his disappointment.  “Well how about lunch tomorrow then?” he asked hopefully.

         “Sure. I finish at twelve.  I’ll meet you outside Selfridge’s,” she said.

         “Great.   See you tomorrow then,” Robert said, his voice barely containing his elation.

        He replaced the receiver and left the booth.  All of a sudden things were going his way.  He knew this was going to be the start of a special relationship.  It had been so long since he had felt this strongly about a woman.  Perhaps now he could let out feelings he had kept hidden for so long.

 

 

Stella smiled as she replaced the phone.  She had expected him to call.  From the moment she had seen Robert she knew he fancied her.  He had ogled her all night at the party.

        She had been a little surprised that he hadn’t tried to chat her up.  God she had given him enough hints, yet he hadn’t taken the bait.  Either he was going out with someone else and was afraid of being caught out, or he was too shy to try.

        That had got to her.  She had enjoyed his attention and had hoped for a little fun with him.  Stella had never been with a black man, although she’d often fantasized about it.  Maybe this would be her chance.

        In the end, she had had to make the approach.  It had worked beautifully.  Once they had started talking, Robert had quickly made it clear he was single and wanted her.

        To tell the truth; the other black guy Robert had been with looked a bit more dangerous.  But he had spent all night with the two Sloanies.  Yet she had noticed the way he’d eyed her up as she talked to Robert.  She was certain that he had heard her say where she worked.  Stella had the feeling she would be seeing him again.  Robert was as good as her’s.  Maybe she’d go out with the other one first (if he eventually contacted her) and if that didn’t work out, she could easily get Robert.  He was hooked already; of that she was sure.

        The day passed without further incident.  At 5.30 Stella left the office and made her way out of the building.

        As she turned down Queens Street, she saw Robert’s friend waiting on the opposite side of the road.  She quickly averted her eyes and began walking away.

        Ken darted across the street, “Stella, wait!” he called.

        Stella slowed and turned to face him. She feigned ignorance and began to turn away.

         “Hold on.  I met you at Bojangle’s last night,” he said as he caught up with her.

        Stella stared at him. “Oh yes. You’re Robert’s friend.”

         “Yes that’s right. I wanted to talk to you, but I was with some friends.”

        A likely story Stella thought. She felt excited. She knew he was about to ask her out.

        “Do you fancy coming for a drink tonight?”

         “I’m sorry, but I’m busy,” she replied, a little too quickly.

         “Please. I’d really like to talk to you,” he begged.

        Stella deliberately waited.  She looked straight at him.  “Is Robert coming?” she asked.  Now let’s see if he was really interested in only a friendly chat she thought.

         “He’s working tonight,” Ken lied.  He wanted to be alone with this woman.  If Robert knew what he was doing, he’d kill him.  He hoped the look she’d given him at the party had not been misread: God help him if she told Robert.

         “I’m not sure,” Stella said slowly, offering him a little hope.

         “Look, if you don’t enjoy yourself, I’ll get you a cab home. Whenever you say,” Ken answered quickly.

         “Okay then,” she surrendered.

Ken beamed. “I’ll meet you in the King’s Head at eight then.”  There was no way that Robert would be there; it was a pub he detested.

         “Okay,” Stella agreed. The mini-bus for Jericho arrived, and she hopped on without looking back at him.  She knew he was watching her.  First Robert now Ken, she had them both panting for her, and loved it!

Clive Bridewell raised the garage door and strode inside.  Inserting the key into the lock, he opened the car door and tossed the leather attaché case onto the passenger seat.  He started the engine and carefully eased the long black Mercedes out onto the long drive.

        Driving patiently, he joined the long line of commuters making their way into London.  Soon the idyllic, expensive suburbs were behind him as he entered the motorway. Traffic on the M4 moved slowly.  It was only some forty miles from ‘Beechcroft’, but he knew the drive would take him over an hour to complete.

        Clive switched the radio off after the news and latest city report.  Without distracting his gaze from the road, he inserted the tape into the cassette, and tapped his finger on the steering wheel, as the sound of Humphrey Littleton cascaded from the speakers.

        As he drove through the busy streets of London, Clive scowled at the changes that had taken place in recent years.  Graffiti and ‘subway art’ covered the run down and derelict buildings.  The Pakis had virtually taken over all the Post Offices and corner shops.  Even at this time of the day, groups of black and Asian youths roamed the street.

        The brand new office blocks and luxury homes that were rising in every corner seemed strangely out of place.  Automatically he thought of New York, where the opulent headquarters of multi-national corporations were situated a few miles from Harlem and the ghettoes.  That was the way things were headed in London.

        Clive snorted disdainfully.  He reached for a cigar, lit up, and blew the smoke angrily out of the window.  He knew that the London he had known as a young man was just another memory of happier days.

 

 

 

Clive took one last sentimental look behind. After four years he vas finally leaving.  He thought back to the day he had received his call up papers. Most young teenagers knew the stories of the brutal treatment suffered by conscripts.  The thought of joining up had worried him so much then.  He had not been afraid, just apprehensive.  He would have gladly avoided the draft if possible, but had decided that the RAF was the lesser of three evils.

        Surprisingly, he had soon settled into the service life.  He had enjoyed the camaraderie and feeling of belonging.  It was like being a member bf some exclusive club.  The discipline and routines were not that strict and Clive was keen to move up the ranks.

        When he was promoted to Corporal, the responsibilities placed on him were greater.  However, he had found himself equal to the tasks.  As he began to take on more duties, so Clive had begun to realize his potential.  Although he believed he could rise to the top of the enlisted ranks, Clive knew he was hardly likely to make it as an officer.  He had not attended the right schools, gone to University or had the family background to merit consideration for that elite upper echelon.

        It was this realisation that had convinced him his future lay outside the RAF.  Now that he was saying goodbye, he felt tinged with sadness.

        The coach for Doncaster pulled up, and he boarded along with the other dischargees.  The short journey to the station was completed in silence.  He exchanged the warrant for a one-way ticket to King’s Cross and boarded the train.

        Clive sat in the carriage and lit up a cigarette.  He was now a civilian.  The RAF had shown him the path ahead, now it was time for him to take the future into his own hands.  The job he had accepted as an accounts clerk would prove a useful start.  It would pay for his evening classes and give him practical experience at the same time.  More important were the evening classes he had enrolled.  His goal was to complete his articles.  Once he was a fully qualified accountant and had those letters - F.C.A - behind his name; then he could seriously embark on his climb to the top.

        The slowing of the train interrupted Clive’s thoughts.  He looked out of the window; he was back in London; back home.

        He walked briskly through the streets.  The amount of blacks that had moved into the neighbourhood disturbed him.  It was as though a whole swarm of locusts had descended.  The entire area was slowly changing for the worse.  It was about time politicians stopped any more coming.

        Before he had joined the RAF, Clive had never actually met one.  He recalled the loud, arrogant black man Williams that had been in his squadron.  His huge gorilla-like body, the dark ebony face set upon a thick neck, and those thick black lips.

        Physically Williams had been intimidating, but the lads in the squadron had soon put him in his place.  After a few months, he had requested a transfer and eventually had left the RAF.

        Clive broke into a grin at the pleasant memory.  Perhaps people would see the danger, and boot them out before it was too late.  He entered the pub.  Another black face there too.  Pretty soon they’d be taking over the place!  His smile faded at the thought.

        He saw his friends beckoning him to join them in the corner of the saloon bar.  He walked past the negro and joined his mates.

         “Mick, Steve, Pete,” he said.

         “Pint for our Brylcream boy!” Peter shouted to the barman as he slapped his mate on the back.

        Clive pointed towards the black man. “Can’t seem to get away from them can you?”

         “Don’t remind me!  Two have moved next door.  Bloody noisy b******s!  And you should smell the stuff they cook!  Stinks like mad!  Our old girl’s complained to the council.  She’s screaming mad.  She says she ain’t gonna stop till they’re out,” moaned Steve.

        Clive shook his head sadly and took a sip of the beer that had been placed in front of him.  It was good to be back amongst old friends.  They had been great pals at school, but hadn’t been so close since he’d joined up.  Now they could re-form their fellowship.

        He noticed the young girl sitting beside Mick.  She had been quiet throughout the heated conversation.  His gaze fixed on her, and he soon lost track of all the chat taking place around him.

         She looked up at him and smiled. “Hello Clive.  Good to see you again,” she said softly.

        When she spoke, he suddenly realized that she was Joan, Mick’s little sister!  Surely not?  The last time he had seen her, she had been just a skinny little teenager constantly trying to gain their attentions.  Now he found himself looking at a beautiful young woman.

         “Hello Joan.  Well I see some things have changed for the better.  You’ve certainly grown up!”

        She flushed, picked up her glass and took a sip of her drink in an attempt to hide her face.  Clive took in her long blonde hair, which cascaded as she leant forward.  Her body had ripened, blessing her with a full breasted, slim figure.  Her dark green eyes looked up, traces of her drink glistened the thin red lips.  She smiled, revealing large white teeth.

         “You have been gone a while!  I’m eighteen now you know,” she said.  Before Clive had a chance to answer, Peter was nudging him.

         “Are you coming to watch the Hammers on Saturday?” he asked.

         “‘Fraid I can’t. I’m busy Saturday,” he glanced back across to Joan. “What are you doing on Saturday then Joan?”

         “I work in the mornings, but I get the afternoons off.”

         Clive decided he’d make sure that he’d finish his work in the morning so that he could take her to the pictures.

        The bell sounded for time and everybody slowly made their way outside.  Clive waited until the lads were walking away, and then approached Joan.

         “I wonder if you’d fancy going to the flicks on Saturday?” he asked.

        Joan smiled, “I’d love to. Meet me outside Lyon’s cafe at 1,” she whispered and scurried off.

 

Author's Note

Truth helps and I am not afraid to hear it, better honesty than nothing.

Reviews

[A LaDy NaMeD D]

To me this wasn't as great as the first chapter, but it was still interesting and well written. I'm interested in find out how Clive fits into the whole story. Can't wait to read more.