Neighbour introducing new movee Mr. Handslip into neighbourhood:

“On your other side is Mrs. Egremont, a widow. A very nice lady, Philippa is marvellous, the children are OK, most of them.” with a quickening.
“How many got ?” startled.
“Four. Paul’s the oldest, he’s going in the Army when older. Not the sort of life I’d choose, but it’s a good thing we’re not all alike, isn’t it ? two girls, Ysobelle and Nancy, and… the youngest, James.” A stilted note modulated his enthusiasm, unnoted by the questioner.
“Any of them noisy ?”
“They won’t be any trouble at all.” Eagerly, “The girls are very pretty, and although they could be boisterous and cause difficulties, they don’t. The oldest lad is square strong affable, very decent young man.”
“And the younger ?”

“As I said Paul’s going into the Army, which I think such a waste.” Mr. Pigg was by way of being a pacifist, which the two boys had always respected with the great tolerance of which they were both very proud. “He really could do anything, very brilliant mind indeed.” respectfully, “And unassuming with it. You always feel he’s working out formulæ with a part of his mind while talking easily to one…”
“And the other ?” Handslip enquired bluntly. Mr. Pigg nearly cringed.
“Um, Jamie. Well, he’s different.”
“You mean, er, mentally disturbed ?” with a faint shyness intruding into the brusqueness of the bald enquiry.
“Good God no ! And you’d better not ever hint of such a thing. I doubt if he’d care a rush,” bitterly, “but any of the others, let alone his dear mama, would be very offended if anyone considered such a thing. No, he’s normal enough, and bright enough, even if he doesn’t shine at school from all I hear.”
He sighed, Philippa had confided at length enough times to weary him with the subject; but having done badly himself when young he was sufficently sceptical to wonder if schooling was as important as it was cracked up to be. Conversely he respected brilliance, and was anxious to get back to Paul’s mental prowess. In fact he had long decided never to initiate comment upon, or prolong discussion upon, James Egremont.

“Well, what’s wrong with him ?” bluntly
Pigg looked around.
“Jamie,” picking his words, “is not someone to annoy; or complain about; or piss off. Do not criticise any of the family where he can hear you. He has a strong family feeling. I said the others are no trouble: one reason is that they… continue, upon the lines he lays down. If any person confronts his feelings, or does something he construes as unpleasant, things sometimes happen.” Delicately.
“You mean he’s one of these violent youths ? Some kind of yob ?” wondering what sort of brute was going to appear.
Pigg was shocked and amused. “He’s only 11 or 12 ! I forget which; and weak with it. He’s as pretty as the girls in fact. I guess he’s bullied at school: but that’s there: in his patch, it’s different. As say, an old-fashioned squire visiting London might be vulnerable in the great world, but master of his own domain; which was one reason they usually preferred to cultivate their own gardens. With experience he may be able to grow and handle parts of the great world. I hope not. Very courteous. They all are: but him the most. He’s the hidden patriarch of a patriarchal clan. They do what he directs with only half knowing the fact.”

“You know we have an excellent Guy Fawkes Night and they all used to come. At least when it was the parents and the two older kids. Then the year before Mr. Egremont died that kid, he was very small, took against it — wasn’t scared by the bangs; some bloody nonsense about not liking the Guy being burnt: he knew it was just a, a lay-figure, not real: but he still hated the idea. Now you or I would have left him at home with a baby-sitter, but they’ve never come since.

I can’t imagine how anyone would listen to a bloody toddler, Philippa, well sometimes I reckoned she was weak-minded or something: I mean, yes well now, if he was my child, I’d probably do precisely what he said; life would be simpler that way, and he’s the sort of kid who would be right most of the time: but back then… he was so small. We thought well, she’s just lost a husband, that’s why not: but the next year they wouldn’t come. Asked her why not: ‘Jamie says it’s wrong to pretend to burn people, and you know, I think he’s right.’ Look, he… he wasn’t dominant back then, even in that weird family; he is now: back then he’d just argued at them. I’d have told him to take a running jump; some fucking small kid talking back at me. Pity that because Christian and Philippa were always generous about joining in village stuff.”

“So does one have to show him one’s friendly ?” uneasily.
“What’s to prove ? Just be nice to him and don’t say anything to make his mother unhappy.”
“About him ?”
“No.” He laughed at the mistake. “Not about him: about anything. What I meant was try never to do aught that doesn’t conduce to Philippa’s happiness in life. Mrs. Hutchinson, who is separated from her own husband, had a nervous breakdown and moved away a year ago. She’d been sniping at Philippa in the Mother’s Union. Apparently someone posted her phone number as emergency counsellor for marital breakdowns; a 24 Hour Plumbing consultant; and Police Liaison Officer for the local Police Authority, specialising in all reports from concerned victims for Follow-Up Action. I remember that,” he continued reflectively, “since it never stopped after she denied the post in the local rag, and the police, confused themselves since half the time they’ve no idea what further idiocy the Home Office has shoved at them, not only didn’t deny anything, they even referred a few people to her. That was actually the least annoying thing that happened to her. Both boys have an unpleasant sense of humour. Unlike Paul he acts on it.”

More below

“As I said they’re all polite; each will hold a conversation nicely if you stop them and talk. The boys chat about guns a bit too much — the mechanics,” hastily, “no fascination with actually using them at all — but then most lads think about that sort of thing. I did, expect you did. Paul will grow out of it and join the army. James won’t grow out of it, but I daresay he won’t ever bother to shoot a gun.
“Neither ever cracked even the hint of a smile at my name or modulated their intonation in any way; and believe me, when your name is Pigg, you certainly get even a hint if people do. You look out for it.”
“Paul’s reckless: he’ll always add the exact amount of yeast. The other, well, he’s cautious: he’d put in a bit too much. Jamie’s idea of a hint is a car-bomb. Paul has pointed out he has no idea of minimum force. In attack too much rather than just right. Double or treble strength in building work. Won’t fall down in five hundred years, but wasteful. He told me there were no definite maxims in war, a fluid business.”

“OK, the boy’s a terror, but how come people stand that sort of thing ?”
Mr. Pigg looked at him pityingly. Most of the time no proof, plus he is winning enough when you do things right. ‘Right‘ being how he assesses you should behave.
“How do you know it’s him then ?” naturally wondering if it was just rumour, possibly started by the boy himself to gain a reputation. He expressed this diffidently
Pigg breathed deeply: “You don’t want that sort of reputation. Not a roisterous cavalier but the quiet kind of kingsman who would suddenly hang half a dozen villagers then torch their homesteads because their favorite mare was stolen probably drinking up deep quietly the while. Anyway you wouldn’t consider it rumour if you found eight dead rats hidden about your home.”
Handslip looked surprised and confessed this had never entered his household oeconomy.

Pigg explained: “Gutherington, someone who was quite a friend of the family. Discovered a small but vibrant colony of rats were camping out in the back alley, on a piece of land which, to be truthful, is not claimed by anyone, just a few yards square, anyway it’s a tip. So he got an airgun and a couple of friends with airguns, and spent a few hours acting out a massacre of red injuns. The little blighter didn’t react in any way when they were told, Nancy most upset and screaming, but he seemed uninterested. Not even mentioning that he had been feeding the fucking pests and adopted them as friends. Three weeks later, after some extremely interesting smells had manifested in the Gutherington domain, they began the painful discovery of a deceased rat; and then another; and the smell not diminishing each day, another, until finally after paying sanitation people to inspect the house, the grand total of eight had been found: all tucked away in the most unlikely places. It being another week before the last came to light, I understand that one was really not at all nice. It was quite a warm May.”
“If he’d kept the existence of the rat family secret for their own safety, he’s quite prepared to lie about his system of revenge, so it’s no use tackling him at all. But simple logic eliminates most neighbours; and the other youth around here would not go into someone’s house to revenge rodents.”

Handslip had sniggered a bit
“Not that amusing,” coldly, “yes the boy is a holy terror, but also never forget he’s also nuts.”
“How so ?” composing himself.
“Well… he’s not hot on respect for elders: I don’t mean he’s not very polite, but he doesn’t revere us anymore than others: he tries,” — an aggrieved note at the condescension murmured through — “quite obviously at times” moodily “to be extremely polite to everyone. I tackled him once about this and explained that the older an adult was the more one should respect them.”
The little bugger looked at me like a great-grandfather and — politely — explained that respect was not due to anyone as an individual, even if earned, but had to be paid to all things as created beings. It was something given not to be demanded. Then he got weird and explained that age although a reality was an illusion — how he combined the two, I mean this wasn’t religious or philosophical, he really is not clever, I don’t know, just silliness really — but the totality of a person was that they existed in all their ages at once, since the person at 80 was an extension of the same person at 8 and vice versa. And in Eternity.

“Well, don’t people complain to his mother ? Or does that count as ‘bothering her’ ?” asked the sceptical Handslip.
Pigg looked thoughtful: “A moot point; but I reckon it’s not that because he’s a fair little sod. He’d be quite willing to argue the matter out with her. OK, she doesn’t spoil him at all, though she adores him: pity she doesn’t, he might be a lot more bearable. If she’d stop pushing him so hard about school particularly, he can’t help not being able: puts all his energies in establishing his presence. No, the main reason is that he doesn’t leave evidence behind. Those sort are cunning if not clever. When he plans things — I’m not saying he puts a lot of thinking into that, just roughs out a plan, tests it then expects to deal with matters on the fly only if something really unforeseen occurs — he makes sure he’s covered the bases.”
Handslip: “Boys’ cleverness is the most devious and annoying ingenuity in the world. Explains why they’re best at creative art when older;” he put up a hand, “yes, I know this chap’s not of a high mental standard: but I mean in that cleverness wherein they direct their energies.”
“He does that all right.” moodily. Somehow he felt better at having spoken so freely about the bête noire, so contrary to his usual practice

“Doubbel, the retired butcher. There was an old abandoned mannequin — male, half falling down, left on a skip at the dress-shop last May. Heaven knows why they had a male one left over; discussing it with the non-committal Paul later, he told me his dear brother had suggested the old bird who ran the shop had brought it in to make the female models feel wanted. That’s what I mean, a deeply unkind mind. Mind you,” reluctantly, “thinking about Mrs. Toye, now I can well imagine it might have been true: she was a dizzy old bird. Anyway, it disappeared. No-one thought anything about it, nor would have, until Doubbel came down for breakfast one morning and found the fucking thing seated in the lounge on his own chair. In a cloak. With horns added and the usual appurtenances of the Devil.”
“Beard made from wool and a couple of rams’ horns found somewhere. What sort of bloody mind is that ? Nearly gave him a seizure. Swapped homes half a year later. Explained he could never feel the same way about the house after that. More importantly: how do you prove something like that ? We know who we suspect, but there wasn’t even a particle of evidence, and whoever it was came in through the window. Not that locks bother him. Family firm all connected with damned locks. Probably unlatched the door to bring it in, then locked up from the inside and went out back the window. Little bastard.”
“Breaking and entering ? That’s illegal.”
“He never breaks and enters. Read up law. He might trespass for five minutes, but that’s about all you could complain of. And no-one has ever gone to the police. They’re bloody useless half the time. I reckon half of them around here are students building up a bit of good pay in temporary work: no dedication. Anyway he’s not a thief, nothing has ever gone missing. Just mischief.”

“Well, there was once someone went to the police, but that was for insurance: the Whittakers at 34. Had run over The Runyons’ dog, poodle. OK, freezing weather and probably skidded, but weren’t concerned. Week later somebody had emerged in the wee small hours, connected to the outside tap, and hosed the outside walls patiently for quite a while. Who’s going to see that at three in the morning ? Wore rags around the boots, no pattern in the snow; no trail leading down the lane. They found it was like staring through three of those old-fashioned circled sweet-shop windows at once the ice was so thick. And because it seemed a little chilly inside they put up the heating full blast. Cracked half the windows. A not unintended bonus for the perpetrator no doubt.”
“They didn’t suspect James. He’d never spoken to them or they to he. We didn’t suggest it,” Seeing Handslip’s surprise, he shrugged, “Well, they weren’t that nice as people anyway. But we guessed.”
“D’don’t, you think… you might be ascribing to him all the things others do, sometimes ?”
“The day before I heard him playing Tosca very loudly. That was a good enough clue for me.”

“Making a game..” Jamie murmured in soft distraction; then shaking his platinum head explained: “One creates ten titles with synopsis-blurbs for well typical modern books — fiction’s gonna be the easiest ‘The crap we read now‘ to be Trollopian…” not that Jamie had hardly read Trollope in his young life… “then lists ten adjectives commonly used in such heated minds as write blurbs to describe the protagonist; and ten adjectives used to encapsulate such rot. The others than have to match up the correct two adjectives to each book to win. Remember: All fiction is wish-fulfilment. The skill of the author lies mostly in how they can disguise this truth. Modern authors can barely even try; which is why their heroes and heroines are all brilliant, multi-skilled, sexy geniuses.”

After a while he handed Paul his first list, “Knock yourself out.” he said cheerfully.

 
I. Miss Jazzy Queening it Down The Gap. — The adventures of a mixed race Black/Puerto Rican drag-artiste hustling in Times Square to fund his sex-change operation.

II. The Potting-Shed in Autumn. — In the garden of a country-house in 1935 an ageing gardener, once an Oxford graduate, recalls how he came to the ruin of his dreams and his present status, and considers the tapestry of life represented by the denizens of Maddingleigh Hall from the servants’ quarter to the Osterley-Browns, the wealthy but corrupt family who now own the land.

III. The Gash of Time. — A Scotswoman’s vigorous fight for self-improvement against the opposition of family, friends, children and all the menfolk she ever meets. Until at last she gains a doctorate in Council Studies, makes the largest fortune in Scottish history as a successful businesswoman, and finally becomes the first woman first minister of Scotland’s Parliament.

IV. The Seabirds of Yalta. — Charlie Werner, troubled maverick of the SIS, has five days to stop Walter Schellenburg’s most daring plot of all: to assassinate the Big Three at their meeting in 1945. Facing the sinister ex-lawyer Ulrich von Kartoffeltopf, now SS Brigadeführer and confidante of Himmler, he has only the beautiful Larissa, once secretary to Yagoda, only allowed to buy her life by fulfilling the most dangerous of all missions, and Una, ‘The Lovely Valkyrie’, a Prussian aristocrat playing a double game, and ‘Dutch’ O’Murphy, a tough wise-cracking US Master-Sergeant, eager and willing to pay off old scores. These four are pitted against Otto Skorzeny and an elite band of assassins formed from a company of the surviving parachutists of Crete sworn to dark and mystical oaths which have to do with revenge on traitors responsible for the near débâcle and the random recovery of ancient objects of great occult power. Can they protect the leaders of the Free World, or is there a traitor in their own ranks ? How will they pair off into bed ? And in what order ?

V. The Bread-and-Butter Pudding Club. — Polly, Gail, Rosie and Miriam all want their men to settle down and take things seriously: they form a pact with the rest of the girls in the firm and it’s a side-splitting race to see who becomes pregnant first.

VI. The End of the Pier. — July 1914: The Twelve Joeys, a struggling party of Pierrots and Pierrets work the South Coast during the splendid Summer. What will Autumn bring ?

VII. Riding A Rainbow. — Dainty vowed never to be dependent on anyone after her parents split up; now a brilliant success as the best marketing executive in the tough world of publishing ever, she wants a child. But at 26 she has to act fast. Who shall she choose as the father ? Josh, her live-in lover of three years, genius research scientist, but irresponsible and feckless; Rudy, the sweet gentle impoverished motorcycle courier, only 19 but living in a communal squat in Brixton; or Simon, suave multi-millionaire business entrepreneur who will give her a life of perfection, but demand marriage as the price ? Dainty has to make the most difficult decision of her life.

VIII. Dead of Day. — A serial killer is murdering women, all of whom are young, clever and excessively attractive: can the J9 team, a crack police squad formed to foil these crimes — oldish gaffer, young female second-in-command, black male, computer genius, black female, several gays of either sex, ordinary plods with combat skills — work out why he uses these criteria in time before he slays another six victims ?

IX. The Holy Ball. — Latvia in the early fourteenth century is a grim and dangerous place, ruled by the cruel Sword-Brethren. Some men fight in rebellion, others knuckle under: but all, ultimately are depressed. A group of their wives however refuse to yield, and defy the imperialistic oppressors and their hypocritical Church by inventing football. The infuriated rulers must strike back and destroy the game and all memory of it, or it will spell the end of all their anti-democratic power. Inspiringly, after the massacre one girl escapes and, abjuring all else, spends every moment of an immensely long and minutely detailed mediæval life travelling to every country in Europe, Africa, and Asia to secretly spread the knowledge of this inspiring game, with it’s promise of ultimate liberation, amongst all disaffected peasants.

X. Fresh Meat — Horror: an especial group of Sûreté investigators put together an alarming collection of facts. All over the globe, butchers return home to find their families gone: there are no clues, except the abductors left several hundred kilos of sausages sitting in each living room. Marvel as the authorities take several weeks before something clicks and they call in what sausages remain for forensic examination.

 
 
1. Feisty
2. Strong
3. Fiercely-independent
4. Fiercely-intelligent
5. Loveable
6. Tragic
7. Adorable
8. Enduring
9. Bright
10. Tough-minded

a) life-enhancing
b) wise
c) gentle-fable
d) brilliant
e) hilarious
f) astounding
g) amazing
h) witty
i) assured
j) mythic

 
Paul read this in silence. “Some of your sodding preoccupations are present;”
Jamie smirked.
“I wouldn’t talk about ‘Lovely Valkyries’ much if I were you.” he continued sourly.
Jamie bit him. At least he tried to. Certain subjects were taboo.

Thoughts Too Deep For Words Dept.:

A comment recently dropped on a computing blog:

I think christina aggulara is like more of the new version of veronica lake.She is realy insanely beautiful and i myself are doing a biography of Veronica lake.

 
Let Them Eat Cake:

Wedding Cake of the Gothic Crows

 
Eng Lit:

A blog with an amusing satire, Hometown

 
Music:

From the wiki on Turbo-Folk, that relentless mystical musical experience which expresses the yearning for the ideal life as perceived by the ordinary man:

However, turbo-folk was equally popular amongst the South Slavic nations during the brutal wars of the 1990s, reflecting perhaps the common cultural sentiments of the warring sides. When a Muslim market seller in Sarajevo was asked why in the midst of a Serb shelling of the city he illegally sold CDs by turbo-folk superstar Ceca, a wife of the notorious Serbian warlord Arkan, he offered a laconic retort: “Art knows no borders!”

Two by Atomik Harmonik — for frailer spirits, less is more is something particularly applicable to hearty polkas, but they go nuts on this in the Balkans.

[See post to watch Flash video]

[See post to watch Flash video]

 
Finally, to combat near delirium, amongst other discoveries of things unknown, I read up on Neodymium Magnets: which are very powerful for their size, and can disrupt floppy disks ( who the hell still uses floppy disks ? ), computer monitors, fingers, credit cards, and heart pacemakers. Jamie is conducting experiments with just one of these listed in unwitting conjunction with an elderly grouch of a neighbour.

[See post to watch Flash video]

 
To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him
Just to see him smile, makes my life worthwhile
To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him
And I do

I’ll be good to him, I’ll bring love to him
Everyone says there’ll come a day when I’ll walk alongside of him
Yes, just to know him is to love, love, love him
And I do

Why can’t he see, how blind can he be
Someday he’ll see that he was meant for me

To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him
Just to see him smile, makes my life worthwhile
To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him
And I do

Why can’t he see, how blind can he be
Someday he’ll see that he was meant for me

To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him
Just to see him smile, makes my life worthwhile
To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him
And I do

To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him
Just to see him smile, makes my life worthwhile
To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him
And I do

This largemindedness was occasionally irksome for his family since this cheerful lack of reticence could fail to emphasize their absolute normality; as when during a garden party Jamie chatted amiably on not only two great-uncles who had fond memories of Poland, one of their cousins who died in Crete, and someone who deserted in Greece to start a large family, but started recalling that a more distant relative drowned as a frogman in Italy.

‘Shut up’ screamed his mother, who didn’t want people to think her entire blood relatives formed the bulk of the German Armed Forces during the last unpleasantness.

To be fair though, those who had, were generous in their reminiscence to their kleiner englischer Teufel whenever he was visiting in the Fatherland. He never judged; and was politer than their own younger generation. Who judged a great deal.

 
Mrs. Beeston listened disfavouringly to the teacher’s embittered commentary in the common-room: “Personally, I always thought that little… that his blood would poison a rattle-snake.” was her comment. Literally true, but this was the nearest she ever came to making a joke, one not so anodyne as to be acceptable at a party conference, and they gazed approving of her levity.

***

***

Anyway… I can’t conceive of allowing even a blood transfusion, let alone having the more repulsive internal parts of some random stranger inserted. Chacun a son goût, of course, but it seems to be more fitted for those without a high sense of personal daintiness and those who prefer dishonour over death. A recent post in the splendidly named blog mediocracy — “‘mediocracy’ is a condition in which culture is subordinated to pseudo-egalitarian ideology” — points out one aspect of this vampiracy too little spoken about:

Do think about the fine print when you consider whether to sign up/out/whatever to organ donation.

How dead are organ donors?

Organs for transplant have to be taken from still-living bodies, bodies still perfused by their naturally beating hearts, warm and so reactive that muscle-paralysing drugs may have to be given to facilitate the surgery.

Their owners will have been certified “dead” on the controversial basis of bedside brain-stem testing, a procedure not sufficiently stringent to exclude some persisting brain-stem function and which includes no test for what may be abundant life elsewhere in the brain.

Read the rest of the post here

But it was around 11:20 when Russell drifted substantially over to Juli’s desk and coughed lightly to attract her attention as she slowly keyed in data to an Excel worksheet, and tried to remember which action to perform each time she wanted a result. He stood there plump and uneasy in a tannish brown tweed-effect suit, and canary-yellow waistcoat. Then once her attention was eased away from the spreadsheet, he chatted about this and that, polishing his round glasses. Lucy looked up alertly, ever willing to be of assistance.
Russell seemed upset about something, Lucy made him a mug of coffee, as he chatted with Juli about this. She refrained from offering Juli one, having received some haughty regardings of incredulity that made her blood run cold until she realised that Juli held the quite reasonable view that instant drinks were designed for pesticide; she had since given them up herself. Juli brought her own nicer stuff along and made it separately from other people. Just another small thing which endeared her to all.
“Yolanda ?” Juli enquired without much real interest, since other people’s love-lives held no fascination.
“Oh no, Juli: Yolanda’s been fine recently. It’s Happy Valley. One of the houses caught fire last night.”
Juli shuddered. “Wow. Was anybody… ?”
“Ooh no ! But the Tolands were cleared out of everything. And,” his voice broke with a greater self-pity, “they got the police to wake me up at 3:45. I dunno what they thought I could do. Anyway they put them in an hotel for the night, and now I’ve got to find an empty property.”
“Plenty of them about.” Juli answered, purposely obtuse, “Sometimes I reckon what with renovations and court orders, we sometimes have more vacant than occupied.”
“Thank you.” acidly, “No, well, I know what you mean; but that’s not the problem: I mean it’s the Tolandses.”
“I don’t want them as neighbours, so you can understand people’s feelings.” Juli said reasonably.
“I know, if they moved in next to me, I’d move to Turkestan; but that doesn’t help here. I’ve got to shove them as far away from their previous place as possible, and next to people who’ve not heard of them, or are too weak to protest much.”
“Who…” started Lucy.
“A/ They are not going to leave that estate, they’ve got about 80 relations there; and anyway they would rather be there than in a Cathedral Close. B/ Everyone on the estate does know them. C/ They’re not going to lose face from the Collingwoods and Hartleys.”
He groaned. Juli was correct.
“Who… ?” Lucy began again, and was unheard in their ruminations. She had heard of none of these, and only knew a tiny bit of the background: she had early asked — the day she started work — where Happy Valley was.
Juli sniggered: “My name for the Robert Owen Housing Estate. It’s ex-Council, and has got a lot worse since it was privatised. Bloody wasteland of falling panels, pram-pushers in clam-diggers, a cheap supermarket whose manager wants armed mercenaries, and gangs of youths at night.”
“H’how nasty.”
“Oh the drugs help.” she contended optimistically. “Some­­thing’s gotta.”
“Anyway, don’t go there, not unless you’re with a camera-crew in a jeep.”
Instruction seemed a trifle authoritative, especially at so early in a relationship, but Lucy minded no more than she who directed, who basically ever unconsciously chose to command without the slimmest doubt as to her own authority.
She realised the name Juli had coined seemed to have gained universal currency, at least in the office. Especially if Russell, who doubled as Housing Manager for Robert Owen, used it.
Now Juli was proceeding. “Three in the morning. Then it wasn’t a chip-pan. The Hartleys ?”
“Andra, I think: they owe him for the coke franchise, according to the cops. And Evan, young Evan, got in a fist-fight with his nephew Damien, and said he could whistle for his money until they made two grand.”
“Smart lad.”
“Oh I think it was the drink talking,” Russell said tole­rantly, “His dad hit him with a spanner, and broke his little finger; spent ages on his mobile trying to apologise to Andra, the neighbours said, but he wouldn’t take his calls.”
“Andra’s a weird little cunt; but then it’s face again.” grossly misleading Lucy as to the fabulous Mr. Neill’s height. Unlike the popular conception of crime bosses, he was not 5 foot nothing in a hideous and hideously expensive suit, but 6’ 2”, and had allegedly been a paratrooper, and wore sports wear.
Russell looked slightly shocked, possibly at Juli’s lang­uage, but more likely at her plain speaking, because Andra was not a nice person, and for that reason people did not remind others, and least of all himself, of this fact.
“Still, I reckon he won’t want them out of the estate. This was a warning then.”
He looked sceptical: “Well, it was a very small blaze, considering; the Firemen arrived within a few minutes, but that might just have been providence. It won’t be structurally safe though for a bit, so we can’t put them back there. You don’t think he’ll do them over again ?”
“Nope, there’s still the franchise to work: and he won’t give it back to the Hartleys. Too much trouble.”
“Um, you’ve got a point.” reflectively, “Old Hartley’s clinically insane.”
“So was Margaret Thatcher, didn’t stop her. No, I was thinking of the fact none of them can get in a car without gunning it to 60, and that’s in built-up areas. Makes the police work easier. Tell you what: I’ll make a couple of calls to the estate, I may find out where they can go.”
He brightened. “Oh please, Juli. That’d be great.. Uum, to… ?”
“No doubt. On the other hand, I’d better be clear about this. It’ll be our lot picking up the insurance, right ?”

“Unless the Tolandses pay premiums more regularly than they pay him, which I doubt. Mind you, they’ll be in breach if they didn’t, and so we could wash our hands of them. Theoretically.”
“I can see it now in the News of the World: ‘Housing Association refuses to rehome Brave Family burnt out by Vicious Thugs’.”
He shuddered violently.
“So the point is I can’t proceed unless we are definitely not going to go to court willingly against anyone. If the Tolands go the estate will fall into the hands of the Hartleys. Which is pretty ghastly in itself; but then they’d come to go head-first against Neill sooner rather than later, especially since they don’t like him that much. I’d put money on Andra winning, but it would mean whatever the outcome the estate degeneration would accelerate massively.”
“Oh sod. I know, I know.” he acceded.
“Even if they didn’t run to some idiot young New Labour councillor, that crew would still enquire enough to possibly queer our pitch in buying that old motor track down at Sunwick from them, and they are delaying that long enough at any rate for us to up the price. If we can’t afford it that’s a hideous new set of 2 & 3-bedroomed undesirable residencies we won’t be able to spoil the view with.”
He started to stiffen, possibly at the split infinitive, and possibly at her unique and unkind beliefs on architecture, which he like most was never quite able to come to terms with; but then he just sighed.
“It’s up to you and Jimmie, and Jimmie’ll go along with what’s best, won’t he ?”
“All right, all right. I won’t contact the police with any suspicions: I wasn’t going to against Andra anyway; and I’ll back them up in whatever wild tale they can invent consistent with the Fire Service report. Andra’s men wouldn’t have used petrol anyway, and the cops were very snippy about the fact most of them were fully dressed. Some of them claimed they’d been to clubs, or staying with friends. I suppose they’ll have a story pretty soon. Even the women were dead schtumm just then, but that could be from shock I guess. Not a chip-pan confession: though they eat nothing else. But they’ll probably claim a cigarette was left burning somewhere.”
“If you see old Ian Toland, you might mention that one of his foul brats could have pulled some wires from the walls, if they inherit the full feeblemindedness of their maniac forebears.” Juli said meditatively. “Not in so many words of course.”
“Right.”
“The cops will be just as glad if you keep quiet… ”
“W’who-are-the-Tolandses,-an’-who-are-the-Hartleys,-an’-who-is-Andra ?” Lucy got out in a rush.
They glanced at each other.
“Lucy, remember I told you not to speak on any call from that place ? Just to hand it over to anybody who already knows it ?”
She nodded.
“One of the reasons is that some nasty people live there, and you may get a load of abuse. Really bad abuse.” Russell blew out his cheeks, wholly agreeing. “These people are not as bad as some,” — “Andra is.” he interposed — “Um, yeah, he is, but the Tolands and the Hartley are just two clans who have a hereditary hatred dating back as far, according to legend, as the 1950’s. Which is when the estate was created, I think. Andra is that Mr. Neill, I mentioned, and he runs a few of the rackets, mainly drugs, but a bit of fencing, around this area. He has friends everywhere, including the police, the local legal crew, local Councillors, and, according to some, providence, since no one can get anything on him. You will never meet him. I met him twice, both times with Russell here, and as Russell will tell you, while he wouldn’t do you harm, or anyone harm outside his rackets, he is a very annoying character.”
“B’but why don’t the police arrest all these people ?”
Russell laughed gurglingly.
“Three things: evidence, expedience, and they’ll be let out anyway.” stated Juli soothingly. “One day Andra will bop a policeman or something, or not pay someone, and then the police will bang him up for a few years, and he’ll come back and start as usual, or go mad, or someone else will take over.”
Lucy considered “But you jus’ said he took revenge ‘cos he was owed: he’d pay his own debts, woun’t he, to protect himself. If he owed another criminal.”
It was Juli’s turn to look shocked, just before she and Russell again exchanged certain looks. “Lucy, kid, never call anyone a criminal unless they’ve been convicted. And even then, after all it might have been wrongful or unsafe.”
“But,” indignantly, “You called him a, a… “
“He is that, but that’s my opinion. The other is libellous, and, don’t you think, a little hurtful ?”
Lucy got faintly pink, but before she could recover from this rebuke, Juli went on. “Anyway, firstly I don’t think Andra considers debts he owes have the same priority as stuff owed to him. Most of us feel this way; him more than most. Secondly, I wasn’t saying he wouldn’t pay a real debt in the underworld. That would be too important, I guess.”
“Who else then ?”
“I was thinkin’ about when he’s at the golf club.” demurely.
Russell got up, “Thanks for the coffee, Lucy. And Juli, I would be very grateful if you’d make those calls. It would be a god-send.”
He moved away more happily to off-load the insurance worry on a colleague. And to make a phone-call of his own to the Jaggers Posthouse, where already the travelling salesmen and adulterous couples had made clear their disgust and horror at the incursion of Tolandses, particularly the youth, the quieter element of which were playing footie in the corridors.
Since no-one had actually been hurt, Juli was more amused at another instance of human folly than saddened as she should have been. A drawback occurred for one who wanted to get through about 50 form letters, mainly boiler-plating, so that she could resume a glance at her book on Danton. Undoubtedly he was unspeakable, but she couldn’t really say he was the worst of the revolutionaries, he wasn’t a Girondin after all. If it had been a useful introduction to the perils of the urban proletariat for her young friend, it would have been something better digested in silence rather than a topic for squeaking.
Lucy asked lots of questions. Juli patiently explained that people are as they are. Further she refused to condemn. To her mind there was nothing wrong in clan warfare if you like that sort of thing. She also never condemned where there was no possibility of sending thunder-bolts oneself: since this was useless. Most situations are of this nature. She thought it would be quite nice if Mr. Neill would be shot or stabbed by some aggrieved citizen who believed in the individual’s right to choose, but didn’t feel strongly enough about him or his ilk to care either way. If all the world’s oppressors, public and private, were slain in a twinkling, their places would be filled in a few hours.
“If he’s boss, does he sort-of roam about with hench­men ?” enquired the romantic Lucy.
“Andra doesn’t live on the estate,” Juli said horrified, “got a neat little bungalow complex — well, bloody awful place actually — two miles out, you can see it from the bus, on the way to Crewe. Patio and swimming pool, though I doubt if he swims much. Must have cost about 400 K, probably double after the improvements.”
“Improvements ?”
Juli paused. “People like that have a lot of incidental expenses.”
“Oh.”
“On the other hand, I’m quite sure they allow enough to cover every little thing.” she added briskly. “And he’s certainly got cronies, but they roam about by themselves doing little errands. He sits back and awaits their return. Probably doing endless accounts. Which reminds me, buzz off and let me finish this rotten spread-sheet.” Regarding the screen with marked disfavour.
“So has he got a gang or not then ?”
Juli sighed. “More a collection of like-minded indivi­duals. They don’t go out on jobs all together. The jobs just happen to benefit him most of all. He doesn’t deal mano-a-mano with the thugs of Medellin; I daresay he’d describe himself as an entrepreneur. He’s got a gang when they go to a pub, if that’s enough: and chaps don’t throw up near him or nick his wallet. Mind you, I think he’s got a consigliare, Quent Bartholemew, as well, but he’s basically a dull little accountant rather than an Organiser of Victories. Talking of which… “
“OK, OK, I’m goin’.” But it was evident Lucy was in a slight quandary: “Can I pinch one of your tea-bags ? Run out self.”
“Sure. Oh, if I’m doing these calls, I can’t come out at the lunch break, Lucy. You go off and enjoy yourself.”
“OK, can I get you anythin’ ?”
“Na.”
The wait till lunchtime seemed to go slowly for Lucy, not that it was any of her business. Still, she was wondering what sort of mysterious calls Juli would make that Russell seemed loath to embark on himself. Since Juli did not possess any especial influence with anyone, it just appeared to be recognised that she had a knack for finding stuff out, and utilising it: apart from being persuasive with morons. Or that portion of the human race she decided were such. Definitely more than half, unfortunately.
The girl herself put the matter outside her mind until 12:30, when those around began their exodus, her staring at the slowcoaches. One or two noticed she was waiting, not noticibly patiently, and asked what was up.
She explained she had to make a few calls for the Association’s good. And why in the lunch-hour ? One’s a local businessman. Really ? scepti­­cally. When she mentioned Mr. Neill’s name they vanished. She glanced around, alone at last. She hadn’t even had to shoo Lucy away, disappointed as she was that Juli wouldn’t be coming along. Actually, Lucy had hung about until the others left, then disappeared herself.

Juli called. One to Andra. Both very courteous.
“Mr. Neill ? This is Miss Sanders from Killegway Housing Association.”
“Ah ken you fine. Doin’ well ?”
“Fine, better than the Tolands indeed. I daresay you may not know their house went up this morning.”
“Oh, Ah heard. Turrible business. But no-one hurt thank goad.”
“Aye.” Juli found as others that it was easy and tempting to slip into the idioms of those spoken to, without intending parody. “I hope their pets were OK, though.”
“I doubt if that bunch ever had a goldfish since the awld granda’s dawg passed away. But no, I think they had enough notice to get the important things oot.”
“Blessings be.”
“Eh ?”
“They will have to be rehoused as innocent victims of fortune. I’m wondering, would it be suitable anywhere on Robert Owen ? I don’t think they want to make a great trek anywhere.”
Silence. Then: “Sure, I guess so. I wasn’t thinkin’ masel’ they’d be goin’ far.”
“I expect they’ll regard it as one of life’s little learning lessons; and be as right as rain in a few months.”
“Mebbe.” he agreed understandingly.
“I want to be sure they won’t be as careless again.”
“Aye well, Ah’m quite sure o’ that. I promise.”
“I expect the police will be looking into the matter; but as far as we’re concerned, we’ll just be pursuing their insurance company if I can find the right documents, and they make no… untoward statements.”
He breathed very deeply.
“Ah’m a grateful man, ah care about the people on the estate.” Slightly uncertainly.
“Yes well, all I want is your advice, ken ? And they’d better be more careful.”
“Umm.”
“And that they’ll be polite to Mr. Pumpkiss when he comes to sort them out. And no more breaking into other tenant’s houses.”
“That seems fair. You know,” deploying the age-old get-out “I never like that sort of thing masel’”
“Yeah.” Politely accepting this exculpation, while not denying it’s validity, scarcely considering it a valid excuse for other modes of behaviour. “Anyway, I’m sure they’ll take your concern more seriously than they would mine or Mr. Pumpkiss’s. Let alone the cops.”
“Oh, the polis do a wonderful job considering.” A near rebuke, since Andra was a devout conservative, certainly as regarding his own property values.
“Considering they’re not B-Specials ?” meanly, as Andra was rumoured to have Orange connections.
There was a distinct silence; but undoubtedly fortunately Neill either decided high spirits were in order, or prudently felt it was not worth taking offence.
“Whatever. But I shall use my best endeavours to quieten things down on the estate, most certainly.”
“Well, thank you very much. I hope you and Mrs. Neill are both keeping well; I shall call you to mention where the Tolands will be offered a new house.”
“We are both well, thank you. Ah’ll take that as a kindness. I should reckon they’ll be needin’ a bigger hoose, ah was told a couple of the wimmin appeared to be expectin’” which was a genuine gift of generosity to those he so readily had injured.
Juli made a note: ‘Tolands in pod.’ “Goodness, I’ll remember that. Perhaps we should send one of those mobile Family Planning Units around the estate.”
“They’d probably eat anythin’ they gave out.”
“And the Family Planning Ladies too.” agreed Juli resignedly. There was a slight bleep on the line, and she wondered if he somehow had made or purchased a system for recording his mobile phone calls, not that she cared. “Well, goodbye. and be careful with the chip-pan won’t you ? Very easy things to forget, chips. I’ve had accidents myself.”
“I doubt that lassie.” and he chuckled not unkindly. “Goodbye, yoursel’.”

She smiled nicely to herself, a trifle unkindly. Then she picked up the phone again.
“Mrs. Fos ?”
“Yes.” with a timidity.
“This is Juli Sanders from the Association, I’ve had tea at your house a couple of times.”
“Oo’er ?”
It was evident that Mrs. Fos was quite hard of hearing, Juli had to speak up very intensely, which was another reason she had waited until the lunch-hour, Lucy didn’t have to be on an extension to hear at least one of the parties.
“Oh yes, dear, how are you ?”
“Very well, thanks. I’m calling about the Tolands, you’ll have heard… “
“Oh yes dear. Awful, but no creature hurt, I think. What awful things go on.”
“Awful things happen, particularly if Andra Neill’s anywhere about.”
“What, dear ?”
“Nuthin, tell me something, I’ve got to find another place to put them,”
“Back here ?” with horror.
“‘Fraid so. Personally I’d put them in Alaska, but there’s no real choice. They’ve always been there.”
“That’s not quite true, dear.” with the lust for instruction that overcomes everybody, “Me and my husband were among the first in 1953, when the estate was built; oh, it was such a nice place then,” she lamented, ‘I bet.’ thought Juli as sceptical as ever, “there weren’t none of these drugs about, and you could walk about on a summer night, and everyone was working. You should have seen it: when we moved in, it was like a dream come true after our old house, we didn’t have that nasty old landlord, he used to live right above us, such a tiny place it was, and so difficult to keep clean, he used to keep banging on the ceiling if the baby cried, that was Jackie, she was such a little love, very fat and bonny, but she would keep screaming, well, children will won’t they ?”
“Er… ”
“And George was so glad to have a garden, and when he came back from Korea, he was in the Air-Force, you know, I think I showed you his medals, he got a job immediately making machine-parts for lawn-mowers, that was before he went on and became foreman at Lewises, of course… ”
If she was unwittingly determined to make her auditor suffer just a little bit for bringing bad news, she succeeded. Juli never minded listening amiably, having found out early in life that it was one of the most important aspects of the absolute. And it happens even if you don’t like it. And also she had a fair interest in finding out. But one thing she could never get used to was rambling. That, and repetition, got on her nerves terribly. Hearing this over tea, sipped slowly if awful, on a friendly visit was one thing. She was always determined on the phone to get to the point as expeditiously as possible. After another four minutes she succeeded.
“Oh, the Tolandses, dear, well they came in 1957. Old Thom Toland wasn’t too bad, really. Very respectable old gentleman, worked on the railway all his life, and always wore a watch-chain in his waistcoat, don’t suppose you’ve ever seen one, have you, dear ? I can see him now, one of those frockcoats, which people didn’t wear much, even then, used to stroke his white moustache when he was talking to people, and he became a church-warden at St. Dominic’s. It was his son Ian who was a bad lot… ”
“Listen.” ruthlessly, “I’ve got to place them somewhere. I hope you can tell me all about them when I come over; but just now I want to ask you about which part of the estate will be most suitable.”
Mrs. Fos shut up immediately. Then she and Juli spoke more quietly and urgently Regarding the least desirable persons on the estate, with particular reference to dislike of animals, wife-beating, and dementia. Drug-taking, being commonplace, if one included draw; political vagaries; and car-theft, were not included in their consideration.
Every now and then massive waves of pale golden hair drifted down to tickle the desktop as Juli wrote a note down on her pad. Being of a neatly cast mind; and even if the information could not be utilised in this instance, it would be urgent material for persecution at some later date.
There were about 15 possibilities after a while, and as Mrs. Fos spoke Juli scanned an open map to get a feel for the ground.
“Geoff Makepiece, who turned his hose on the cat, was it a one-off, d’you think ?” she interrupted, with scrupulous fairness.
“Ooh no, dear. He’s often told Mrs. Tibbens that if she didn’t keep her Shelley out of his garden, he would strangle her.”
“Errm. Trouble is, don’t the people opposite have an autistic son ?”
“That’s right. Simon. I think perhaps not then, dear.”
“Karyn Potter chucked the hedgehog back, or her boyfriend ?”
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t make any difference, you said. Poor little thing.”
“Oh I know, but it’s nice to get it straight. If he’s living with her, I can set our legal lot on her for suspicion of taking rent.”
They cursorily glanced at each person once more, then Juli rang off, not before Mrs. Fos had exacted a promise to keep her word regarding coming over for tea again, within a week or so. It is probable that being consulted had improved her day, as since her husband died, time hung rather heavy.

Juli then made another, slightly more secretive phone-call to a sort of friend of her own age, a Jimmy Stanhope, who lived on the estate. Of studious habit, since he was on the dole, and had been since leaving school, he would have gladly prolonged the call, but the time was nearly up and the others would soon return, so she rang off apologetically. Then she began matching her jottings with a map of the estate, and a list of vacant properties, until she found a juncture that suited all things well. Tearing off a new sheet recklessly, pleased at having worked out a neat solution, she wrote down her conclusion and was gazing at it admiringly when the phone rang back. By two minutes, Andra had forestalled her.
“I was wondering lassie, how you got ma mobile number ? Ah’m no complainin’ mind, but it is meant to be off fra’ the listings.”
“Mr. Neill, just about to call you back myself.” Pleasedly. “Oh the mobile.” she thought a moment considering whom to nominate, “Well, I can’t be sure, and you won’t be saying I told you this ? Just between us ?”
“Aye. Don’ fash.”
“I think it was Ritchie Hartley who was kind enough to let me have it. The 19-yr-old, you know ? I happened to say I wanted to contact you over some rent arrears of your cousin, and he gave it out very generously; but that was ages ago, and the Association’s got your home-phone anyway. Well they would have.”
“Aye, they would.”
“Well.” she babbled on, “But he wasn’t doing anything wrong. I mean he let everyone have it. He’s very proud of being associated with… well you know what I mean.”
“Yes.” a bleak sough came rifting down the ether.
“Still, you won’t say I told you will you ? I don’t want to worry him.”
“No. But he shouldn’t have done it. Anyway Ah’m no blamin you. Anyway ye were sayin’ ?”
“Oh yes, Holland Road: there’s a vacant house. On one side a Mr. Open who joins in badger baiting with the Hartleys, of course the Tolands not being a major part of the Hartley fan-club, he may get some stick from them, but we needn’t worry about that.”
“Badger-baiting.” Even Neill had some ethics.
“Ouum, and on the other side there’s quite a respectable little family the Pakenhams, I would take it as a favour if you could indicate to the Tolands,” and getting a bit reckless, “before you next you give them a house-warming,” long pause “gift, that they might lay off the poor Pakenhams and not keep them awake at night. Their other new neighbour can take his chances.”
He broke out laughing, almost uncontrolled. “Ach aye. Ye’re a card, yung leddie. I’ll guarantee that. But this fella Open, badgers ye say ?”
“Um. Horribly cruel. But let’s hope he turns over a new leaf.”
“Aah well lassie, ah can tell you he may do an’ he may not. But one day he’ll regret sich cruelty. Ye see, ah always say whatever goes around comes around, Kharma you see.”
“Is that what you call it ?”
“Aye.” complacently as any Buddhist.
“Anyway there’s a lot of bad stuff on the estate if you like animals. I’ve just made a list of some offences, Open’s pretty nasty, but there are others.”
“Oh aye. Ah’m no an animal lover like you, but that stuff’s always unpleasant.” A pause. “I wouldn’t min’ seeing the list if you like.”
“Why certainly. I’ll send it along.”
“Ye can fax it now, sweetheart.” He read out the number “Since ye ha’ ma mobile.” dryly.
“OK, well see you about then.”
“Goodbye y’sel.” agreeably. And the matter had been concluded to mutual satisfaction; excepting Juli’s edited report for Jimmie and what records would be kept. Jimmie would certainly agree to any recommendation, even more because it swiftly disposed of an upsetting occurrence. What was good was that nothing had to be sold, since selling, as distinct from logical persuasion, wasn’t one of her skills.
Lucy considered Juli dangerously indiscreet regarding the mobile number. Even she, and she felt a little faint at talking to nasty people like these, would have had more sense than that. Couldn’t she have just said it happened to be in the address book ? Still, dismissing it from her mind, she was mainly concerned with how she could tag along to the next putative cup of tea at Mrs. Fos’s.

***

Later…

Just now her small friend had been divulging some of her family history and had proudly revealed Percy’s grandfather seemed to have been a Captain in the merchant marine; dad having said he ran a single ship from Cardiff, but not seeming to want to talk about it much. Juli had spluttered a little and said her coffee had gone the wrong way: brushing her soft pink skirt reflectively she had instantly vowed never to reveal that the venerable old sod would have been a bucket-shop promoter; Lucy seemed so romantic in her briny illusion, now staring out of the window thoughtfully. Later she thought it would probably be best, truth being the sweetest thing, and it not being that much worse than a regular job in the City. Juli’s musings on her putative gift were interrupted by Lucy enquiring how that clan-warfare thing worked out, were the Tolands homed now ?
“Like happy little felons in prison.” declared Juli, glad of the outcome. But Lucy spoilt it by casually asking if the person who flung a hedgehog on to a bonfire ( in this case rescued by another, who had kicked the thrower in the hip fortunately ) was still about the estate. Juli couldn’t recall mentioning any such thing to Lucy and a little fuzzy about what her new pal knew, cautiously told her that direct use of housing to punish was wicked as an abuse of power. Although it could be argued looking for a loop-hole to persecute someone for ill-treating either children or hedgehogs could be an infringement of that doctrine. No doubt what she meant was that depriving the wretch of their home, because one could, would be a step too far: making their lives more thoughtful was acceptable. Had the Tolands done in this instance, in her perview, something unforgivable, they might not have been so quickly rehoused. As it was, it was true, they were displaying their usual unquenchable thirst for living.
As to the Pakenhams, if they didn’t like their new neighbours, they gave no indication there was any cause for complaint, apart from noise, for which abatement the Council was responsible and sent around several vans for the monitoring thereof. The sound-levels created by the youngest offspring on seeing these kill-joys was enough in itself to warrant action. Unfortunately, as one of the Tolands remarked, music-centres may easily be confiscated: kids, although not replaceable within the hour, or any time less than ten months, cannot be. For the unfortunate Mr. Open, the few weeks before he was hit by a souped-up Ford were a living hell, and he was a frequent, and increasingly frantic, visitor to Hoggward House, where Juli always appeared to be the person who regretfully could not help. Which took the strain off her colleagues, as well as amusing her in her Teutonic-fun-sense; when he didn’t turn up for a few days running, they, very nearly most of them, felt almost concerned, as well as relieved: but he had something else to think about. Although, as Juli remarked to them all, not to any apparent disagreement, it was almost worth being in a hospital bed with a broken spleen and 3/4 limbs amending, if a Toland wasn’t in the next couch.

Juli posted a card with a drawing of a Badger sweeping her set, over-dressed in a pinnie and pearl necklace, to Mr. Open for when he regained consciousness. As she said, despite the fact she neither appended her nor the Association’s identity, beforehand kindly showing it to Jimmie, who did not, since she confided things on a need to know basis, get the joke, how would a Badger afford pearls ? And later on she determined a paperback copy of ‘The Cold Moons’ might cheer him up when able to sit up and realise the Hospital reading stock in Britain is never up to much. Following the truest of all injunctions, this charity too would claim no credit at all.

Juliette played through the day Wagner, Elgar, Kalman, Lehar, Millöcher; and often Haydn. This was when engaged upon work which need not be disturbed; and was produced from an mp3 player: if alone loud with a speaker; if in company with an ear-phone soft enough that none could guess, unless one indicated that they either wanted to hear or would not mind. She never assumed this though and such request had to be made afresh each time: she was literally terrified of giving people an excuse to play music of their own choosing without reference to her or others: nothing, certainly not her possibly non-existent conscience, tortured her more than the babbling of the open radio or endless pop, which in the factory where she also worked, her original number of hours, whatever Jimmie’s belief as to her being invaluable, having been cut down meaning she had to get more work, squalid as it was, particularly as she was ineligible for various benefits, was mandatory. Some others did as she did, and whatever they forsakenly heard was equally kept to themselves and thus harmony prevailed. When utterly alone she sometimes played black metal, loud enough to arouse other tenants of Hoggward House while left to hold the fort during the lunchhour. Possibly because the break was the same for all firms no complaints came along.

However, Lucy’s arrival meant she was less and less alone on any such occasion. Their hours roughly coincided, with the same days off, and since their tastes in music did as well, once Lucy had been introduced to such lighter stuff — her upbringing having been limited to the stricter classics, apart from Sullivan, and some pop, her mother preferring only Chopin, Mozart and Beethoven with an occasional excursion into Tchaikovsky country; dad liking Welsh folk, G&S and Jim Reeves along with various guys called Chet or Hank as well — they had it together. Some time later they were alone on such a lunchtime and Juli had put on a cassette of German sea shanties, and was meditating giving Lucy a tiny square of gilt embroidery, blocked on wood or something, which she had picked up because it was interesting, and for all she could guess 17th century, although it had cost a couple of pounds she could scarcely spare: having shown it desultorily to Lucy she went a trifle deranged. Although it was only a slight sacrifice, Juli liked to make her tiny friend happy, but apart from her own feelings of loss, feared her tender sanity might jump over the edge. No doubt there was some reason for people enjoying sewing, but whatever it was it escaped Juli: Lucy had broken off abruptly seeing how Juli’s eyes glazed over as she explained the difference in berry and cobnut stitch. Anyone who could take things that seriously had to be a little loopy, even if this too was delightful.

The next thing after settling in and adjusting, not as easily as her mother, to life alone ( she was after all excessively chatty and found no scope among her neighbours, either shy, of an emphasised different age-group, or unsympathetic in a number of ways — although none hostile, other than the lawyers and a couple from an apartment on the floor below, and a few transients, a number of whom had devoted the artistic side of their natures to the pursuit of an early death from combining drink and drugs: everyone has a masterpiece within them ) she began to search for work. The local newspapers had plenty within their supplements and linages. Virtually none suitable, desirable, or possible.

Although at the optimum age for her next decade to obtain employment, after which it would be downhill unless severely specialised or possessed of rigorous on-going training, it appeared there were jobs where she was too young. There were jobs that advertised themselves as meeting the minimum wage as if that was a sparkling virtue: she couldn’t manage alone on that rate. There were expensive training-courses implying they were positions. There were Agencies with toilsome ill-paid jobs written with demented surprise at the fun and loot promised. There were jobs which demanded experience or qualifications: the possession of which would exclude most of the other jobs. Being just 17 and having some A-levels, she couldn’t be expected to have much more: on the other hand, she knew being pretty and personable was worth a vast deal more: so she was not despondent and kept her hopes up.

Lucy’s job-search began with registering for employment at the job-centre, although she was not yet old enough to obtain jobseeker’s allowance. If polite, there was a long wait to get details enquired for every time. The Agencies with whom she registered were equally polite, promising much, but perfunctory in performance. They found it impossible to describe any particular employment, or list the opportunities they presumably had: instead of even producing a list, since they wanted to fit the person to a said slot, they would only discuss the vacancy enquired about, alleged vacancy often enough, since dummy-jobs were often placarded to lure people in to register. They, although this is a general truth rather than something for they alone to be faulted, promised to ring and never called back. When they had something, or she by dint of badgering with continued use of the phone herself, got something from them, they sent her to the ugliest packing — electrical goods, illustrated cards, mail-order catalogues; assembly — furniture, circuit boards ( taken off after the second day, since despite her nimble deftness, it was applied almost brilliantly to misaligning the points to be joined ), some cute china teddiebears with — due to a design flaw — detachable limbs which she rather liked, CDs to magazine covers, Pewter figurines: jobs available. They paid appallingly, especially because of her age; were tedious and mind-numbing; and she was surrounded by worn-out mothers, students and grim boring men. She liked them as much as possible, and they liked her when the routine allowed them to notice her let alone chat: but she, if wishing them awfully well, wished herself away still more. But as the Agencies explained, since she had no clerical experience, they could not risk her on the sort of job she wanted.

There was a period of supermarket-stacking which was slightly better paid, night-work did not particularly suit her, but if heavy work, it wasn’t quite so rigorously supervised and she was allowed to go at her own pace. All the time she applied for better jobs, filling in endless forms with all the details they asked and the fatuous bits ( ‘Tell us about yourself’; ‘What Qualities do you think you can bring to this Position’; ‘Here are ten areas in which we want you to recall a similar situation and tell us how you resolved this.’: etc. etc. Including Juli’s favourite: ‘Why do you want this job ?’ ) until her hand nearly dropped off, and the endless reiteration made her mind swim with boredom even when she saw another application-pack had arrived in the post. Even the details were pruriently detailed, some wanting to know where each parent was born or what her religious beliefs were: and some forms could run over 8 pages. Her main blessing here for which she was thankful ( and glad anyway since she liked it ) was that she was female, since apart from all the other incentives that made women easier for firms to employ, current thought made it virtually impossible to witch-hunt sexism or prejudice in her answers or behaviour.

She got a number of interviews, about 1 in 10 for application, thanks to her youthful promise, but perhaps because she didn’t shine through shyness at formal events, and as they too regretfully pointed out she had no office experience, and her only references were from her teachers ( Not all the Agencies she had worked for were impressed with her, though they gave full marks for willing: and others didn’t give references on principle: perhaps because that meant the worker would no longer be available to their employments ) others got it each time. She grew discouraged and developed a mild loathing of personnel interviewers.

Coming home after work, when she did work, she would flop out and listen to music, too tired to read a book. She flicked on the TV for Jacinthe and Oscar to watch more than herself, since it was so bad most of the time. She never wanted to go out and had no friends yet. She was getting unhappier, but never dreamt of returning home; she was brave as well as sweet. On a day hot in the morning, but cool in the afternoon when she woke after a depressing night stacking cans, she picked up yesterday’s paper, and dutifully if unenthusiastically began circling possible jobs. Then re-read them: one caught her eye because although a small block, it did not list any qualifications or desirable traits: merely stating quietly:

‘OFFICE EMPLOYMENT’
Junior Admin
Hours: 24 Flexitime.
No experience needed.
Pay: £4.46 per hour.
Some benefits.

She looked more carefully. It was for some Housing Assoc­iation. Something about it’s promising starkness attracted her: it was worth trying. She picked up the paper and went over to the phone ( essential for any employment ). She rang the number given. A cool voice answered: “Good Afternoon, Killegway Housing.”
“About the job, advertised, Admin. Could you send me an application pack please ?”
“No.” was the unexpected reply.
Then after a slight pause the cool voice elucidated: “But if you’re interested I can make an appointment. Are you interest­ed ?”
“Yes please.” Lucy was fluttered at this decision, “What day shall I come ?”
“Suit yourself: when is convenient for you ?”
“Um, tomorrow ?”
“Fine. What time ? In office hours.” The voice cautiously added, which offended Lucy slightly.
“11 O’Clock ?”
“One second; yeah, that’s fine. Bring a CV, if you’ve got one, and your N. I. Number.”
“Thank you.” gasped Lucy.
“Sure. Oh, and don’t dress up too much: it’s relaxed dress code here. Bye.”
“Bye.” replied she faintly.

This was quite exciting, to get an appointment so readily, but worrying too: and fearfully worrying as an appointment in itself anyway: she went and made some tea. Of course she wasn’t going to get the job, but dad had told her that the more interviews she had the better as that would build confidence and make her shine at the ones where she would be successful. On the other hand it would be in an office, and not the usual crap. She cancelled her appointment at the supermarket that night, as she wanted to get some sleep in and bathe before going. If only it was possible… still she couldn’t get optimistic, or more than her usual sunny disposition impelled, ‘cos she knew it wouldn’t happen.

In the morning, after her bath, she compromised on clothes, since it might be some cunning trap whereby they rejected people who turned up in jeans, and put on a light mauve cashmere-type jersey, and a knee-length powder-blue skirt with grey stockings: and her white-grey tiny jacket. And a green scarf around her neck to seem elegant. She had been nerving herself all morning for one of those appalling interviews, which strain actually made her feel nauseous before, during and after by the time she reached the oat-brick building set back beyond it’s own lawn, she was trembling. She pulled in her breath and entered the reception area. Hoggward House maintained a large variety of concerns, some nearly or completely defunct, and plenty of empty officespace had she wished to start a business herself. Asked for Killegway HA. A bored young man pointed laconically, then took a long second glance before returning to his racing paper. She went down a wide corridor, linen coloured, and found a large glass door with Killegway Housing Association written in gilt on the pane. She was 13 minutes early.

She knocked with a small firmness on the open door, and looked in.

At the end of the room under a large window festooned with pot-plants there was a handsome girl, having a brisk conversation on the phone with either a supplier or another housing organisation. For a few seconds as she moved forward her features were obscured by both the sudden sun and it’s light aureoling masses of silver-gilt hair.
“Where exactly do you get your staff ? ‘Retards ‘R Us ?’” unpleasantly. There was some agitated burbling from the ear-piece. “Well, send it as soon as you can, or I’ll have to mention it to the district manager on Thursday. OK, bye.” She grabbed a pen and scribbled a note on a day-jotter.
Lucy was instantly reminded of a picture in a children’s book illustrated by Frank C. Papé: she hadn’t seen it for a long while, but she remembered the frontispiece of cheerfully ruthless Queen Mab.
She advanced slowly and stood before and stared at the computer paraphernalia heavy about the office. There seemed to be an awful lot of wires: she didn’t say anything, probably thinking her presence would be obvious by some form of telepathic osmosis.
If the gentle maiden knew of her visitor she gave no sign and continued writing quickly to make sure it was all put down so, occasionally flicking back her flaxen hair abstractedly. Then she looked up.
Zowie ! For Lucy it was doomsday and her sixth birthday ( the really good one ) and everything she ever wanted or would want, all at once. It was a dry day with the sun burning the plants up, but she instantaneously felt as if she’d stepped under a water-fall.
The girl smiled. It was with a genuine joy.
‘Oh dear god don’t let it be with a woman not the first and only time. A love forever, I can’t want a girls body physically and never would. Oh God.’
Well over 18 months later this would still torment her.
‘?’ The young lady was used to all sorts of odd types coming into the office for a hundred different reasons; but usually they were only too anxious to explain, in what she considered excessive detail, their reasons for so doing.
“Hi, what can I do for you ?”
Lucy explained: “I’ve got an interview for the junior admin job.”
The divine girl looked thoughtful like an angel listening to The Pilgrim’s Chorus.
“Oh, then that would be me: I mean I’m going to conduct the interview. Tell me when you feel right and I’ll begin.”
Lucy nodded mute.
“Want a drink ? Coffee or tea, or” she shuddered slightly, “some coke ?”
“No, thank you.” squeaked Lucy.
“There’s a rotten machine in the corridor.” explained the girl. “OK. Siddown won’t you ?”
Lucy was still standing despite the fascist wave of a hand indicating a choice of chairs earlier. She sat, unfortunately open-mouthed. Thoughout the interview, which has some claim to being the shortest on record, her lips were generally slightly parted.
“OK, what’s your name, please ?”
“Got a CV.”
“Right.” The interviewer read it in under half a minute.
“‘Fraid not much experience.” timidly.
“Well, you’re only a kid.” Which could have been annoying even without the kind beautiful smile; as intended though it reassured her, since the experience thing is the worst Catch 22 in the world.
“Well look, my name’s J, eh, Sanders; Juli Sanders: Juli with an i, no e.” with an exactitude which was not only characteristic, but already conveyed a hint that there was hope for Lucy’s chances.
“I’m a senior administrator. The job is general office duties. You don’t have to know all this stuff too much,” looking at the applications Lucy had optimistically overstated on the CV, “I mean, there’ll be a sort of training period for you to get up to speed on the systems here. Anyway I reckon there are a thousand different filing systems in use in Britain: so you’ll have to start on this one, which is a beauty; particularly as you’ve never filed before. You don’t mind starting on filing ? All the computer stuff is easy so long as you can type just a bit.” ( this was not strictly true when proven, Lucy was, though just nearly competent on a keyboard, not technologically minded ) “You know what a Housing Association does ?”
Lucy knew she should be concentrating it was so important, but couldn’t. Something like “‘ess.” came out.
“Yeah, well: the pay’s £4.46 an hour; and the hours, which can be flexible in your case, are 24. It’s also fairly boring, but so’s all work, I guess. Are you sure you want the job ?”
“Yes, please.”
Miss Sanders looked surprised, but more at this odd expressing rather than the affirmation itself.
“OK, just wait a moment.”
No questions about herself, or why she wanted the job.
“Do I get to fill in a form ?”
“Um, lots I expect. What sort d’you mean ?”
“A job application form ? When I rang up I was just asked to come in.”
“Um no; that was my idea. Since the Personnel Officer left, they’re hiring another bloke and gonna call it ‘Human Resources’, — prats,” she added, sotto voce, not from any fear if overheard, Lucy could tell: more of a necessary antiphon — “I’ve been doing this sort of thing, since it’s a fairly small office; and I think sodding forms are a waste of all people’s time. If people are gonna be hired then you tell that at the interview, if not it’s silly for them to have to fill in some lunatic form that’s going to be thrown away.”
She got up, her hand suddenly snaking out for some wad of papers placed on a shelf behind, and Lucy rose instinctively. “Na, sit back. Read our fascinating mission statement or something, I’ll only be a short while.”
Dazed a heavy warmth suffused her person, as she pushed herself into the comforting chair and she stared dreamily as the glorious girl sent her a smile, both confident and shy as she swiftly went through the door.
She wondered if she did have a chance with this one, the girl, Juli, seemed almost certain she might. An’ awfully friendly. Not jus’ the friendliness of a professional interviewer which could disguise even a deep loathing. Really nice. She needed it, an’ more, she wanted to be near this girl. By now she was sure it was just friendly attraction between two of the same sex, until Juli returned and it started up again.
At first Lucy could hear nothing of how her fate was going to be handled, and as suggested appeared to be reading the garbage of good intent indicated. Her ferment was not exactly cooled by hearing through the over-thin door an incisive drawl, and muttered riposte which although straining failed to distinguish, appeared of a worrying nature.
“I said this kid.”
Mutter mutter.
“She’ll be fine.”
Warble.
“Jimmie: this is best. She’ll get experience; and I’m the one out there, not you.”
Something like “Jinky-jinky-jinky.”
The insistance was firm. Despite what reservations there may have been, the other was weakening.
“Wah-wah-wah.”
“Absolutely.”
“Ah-ah.”
“Sure: I’ll vouch anyway. You said I was acting personnel, remember ?”
The manager waffled a few minutes, since it was probable that he would have liked even the pretence of an imprimitur.
“Sure, come out in a moment. Anyway, there’s something else, you should look at this: the contract for the plumbing on the repairs at Happy Valley has gone over twenty per cent.”
Anguish, and evidently a wrenching of the papers from the proffered hand.
It seemed to engross the manager completely, and Lucy waited in suspense.
“I’ll go and tell her then ?” softly. And he must have said something in the nature of an abstracted rear-ditch attempt to assert decisiveness. Then it just went quiet and no more than two minutes later she came out and told Lucy she had the job.
Lucy gurgled.
Lucy’s natural effervescence returning began to make her light-headed. Juli found a standard contract and Lucy stared mouth parted whilst the other checked it over: the rippling hair was just a fraction lighter than the wind-tossed barley just when iced by it’s dainty awn in the peak of ripeness she decided.

They adjusted the hours Lucy wanted to work, and Juli suggested that Lucy might care to accept her fares as this was company policy. The office manager, Mr. Pumpkiss, evidently felt he should inspect their new acquisition, and wandered out to beam vaguely as Juli made the proper introductions. He seemed nice enough, a strange diffident glancing at Juli rather dazed as to what had just happened but unquestionably accepting of the outcome even before he saw Lucy properly and realised just how well it had resolved: a tall rangy chap with half-moon glasses and thick silky grey hair dressed in a grey tweed jacket, beige open-necked shirt and greenish corduroys, any Tory told he was a teacher would be fast to denounce him as a type of the forces for ill in that naughty profession. If not totally on the ball — Juli would disdain the cheapness of warning Lucy that he could be a terror in the fashion of merry owners of a affectionate and mild Airedale — he was quite competent at the overall strategy of his remit, but prone to agonise at the frequent lapses of minutæ he was subject to. He also had a considering trepidation of his light-hearted and ingenious young senior administrator: he shuddered at the thought that she would sometime leave: more and more as time fast moved, she was invaluable; but whilst he was easily assured that his job was safe, since she frankly had no ambition and no undermining qualities, and that in fact she helped preserve him in that place, that simple ability so easily demonstrated, and sardonicism — so often unrelieved by even a decent pretense of sensitivity — had it’s unrelaxing side. On the other hand, he was percipient enough to realise the pure gaieté of her spirit was not matched with any particular chirpiness, and indicated an ice-filled good-nature rather than an obnoxious generosity of soul; and this pitilessness had it’s own attraction. His real worry was waking up to discover in the morning paper that the Housing Association had decided to invade Poland.

A French cultural exchange visit to Jamie’s school:

After the necessary delay during which the visitors could indulge in the obligation of sniggering at all persons debarred by nature from being French, the festivities began. The main guest was nobly concealing his bitterness at having to attend in the — entirely spurious in his opinion — interests of Franco-English Friendship. Le consul M. Macquart attended impeccably turned out in a light-grey suit; in his middle sixties with excellent thick brushed grey hair over Roman features of the austerer type, he had risen from a family of stone-masons by reason of his father having been, by reason of an unbelievably incisive mind, a fortunate marriage and some blackmail, the only real prole in the Quai d’Orsay sometime during the Thirties. His father had then risen through the civil government to assist the Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and then on to quite high office before compulsory retirement due to a belated investigation into the unfortunate deaths ( scattered over a wide area it has to be said ) of a few communists back in the Fifties and, just, early Sixties. Not a shadow of personal blame attached to his honoured name, it was merely thought he may have been a little indiscreet in discussing their habits, and addresses, and work-routes, with rogue Colons, despite having eventually plumped for being a devout Gaullist. If the present Monsieur Macquart had never attempted to emulate his papa’s meteoric career, being satisfied with the considerable gains of that office and a really good marriage of his own, and a social circle rather higher than the remnants of the Bonapartist aristocracy when back in Paris, he still felt he deserved better than surveying English schoolkids. As, along with most of his countrymen, the various varieties of sex were of less importance than the prurient British generally imagined, certainly less than personal power and a good dowry, quite apart from the deep vein of latin puritanism which makes parts of La France Profonde very depressing indeed, even the massed ranks of girls had no effect whatsoever. Apart from a glimpse of Yssy and two of her nearly as stunning friends. But that was not due to youth, which M. Macquart thought over-rated, as to her exceptional beauty, smashing into the senses at any time or place.

He noticed a younger lad talking to her, of the same delicacy; and realised that must be her brother. The boy smiled friendily as he went past, and for a second M. Macquart went back to his own youth. He had seen eyes like that before. Un type feral ?

One of the steering party composed of pupils with the remit to input suggestions and tributes, Jamie had reworked the schedule slightly. If he did not dislike the French, as did some of his dimmer colleagues, and certainly had no animus against the consul, even had he known of his background, and that venerable — and still consulted until 1999 at six years short of his century — father, he would have merely shrugged and pointed out that our own security services had an understanding with various blokes of a Cromwellian persuasion in Ulster at times: there was still a necessity to get back at them, as there was a necessity to get back at everyone who crossed his creeds. He had been elected since one pupil from each class had been needed for for the committee and his hand not only shot up faster than anyone else’s, nearly giving the French teacher a cardiac arrest sooner than was reasonable for a fairly new teacher since James Egremont never volunteered for anything, but his continental connections seemed suitable. His broodings on the frequent invasions of his beloved Germany by the French had, as usual, been kept entirely to himself.

It was agreed for a French note: infants singing Sur Le Pont D’Avignon. This was not an unalloyed pleasure. For an English note: the youngest infants singing All Things Bright And Beautiful. This would hit them like hail the size of curling-stones. Then Alison, a proud young lady of 15, the best French scholar who could actually sing, coached by Jamie, with whom she got on well enough: in a pure and decent young soprano sung ‘Maréchal, Nous Voila’ which Jamie’s detailed annotation implied was regarding Jehanne D’Arc. Then a reprise of Sur Le Pont D’Avignon, and ending with La Marseilleise. Jamie actually liked this bit; his own hero Wilhelm may have been dismayed at decent Tsarists listening to the revolution in song merely in order to suck up to the Bourse for more and more hard cash, but by now Jamie felt the song, like the French themselves, had as much revolutionary spirit as an old shoe. And he liked the tune. As did the froggies present eventually, whose mouths had remained open throughout the vigorous tribute to the Saviour of Verdun.

By the buffet in the common-room afterwards the Consul spoke restrainedly to the head-mistress. After thanks which were not perfunctory enough to convey his very real insincerity, but conversely definitely not over-laboured, he formed his finely-chiseled mouth into reserved smiling mode and enquired.
“That song… ? rather rare is it not ?”
“Sir Lee Pont ?” surprised, “It is well known here, I thought all your people sang it.”
“Noh,” ‘biche’, “the… other.” ‘And no doubt you also think we all wear bérets and wave baguettes about in the Chamber of Deputies.’ But he still smiled with that sickening French savoir-faire.
“Oh yes, very nice. It’s a tribute to our friendship with the French people that we can sing it.” burbled Madame Beeston. As a strong patriot she had had a minor reservation about celebrating the notoriously non-English loving Joan; but the fact that the maid had actually fought, as a female fighter, a soldier, beating men hands down at their own game, had swayed her completely. She made this clear, although, due to her ever-present assumption that people were able to read her mind, she did not specify that young lady: “And what a leader !”
The Frenchman’s jaw dropped slightly, but he merely replied that it was some time since he had last heard it, and changed the subject onto a more congenial note. In his latter briefing to DGSE, as from all duties, he decided, from prudence for family connections not to include that element. After all, it had not been as annoying for himself as for other countrymen, since it had swept him back to his heady youth when dear papa had been projected for a much larger sphere of power than in the unfortunate eventuality: still, his sainted mother had been quite correct to persuade papa to put down the Mas 38 ( far more elegant than the MP40, François felt, if not quite as powerful: if only it had been chambered for 9mm ) when the Amis foutus came rolling in the Square of that poky town to which they had prudently withdrawn. A dull place, all he could remember apart from that event, and the children who fast switching masters threw a few stones at him, was the heavy scent of lemons. Ah, childhood… A much overrated experience in his judgement. If he mentioned Madame Biest-tonne was of an authoritarian nature for their files, it was merely of his own opinion. Something that would have been confirmed from other judgements had they scrutinised her dossier at Langley. Something unlikely, since for agencies: sharing is the hardest thing to do.

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André Dassary – Maréchal Nous Voilà