SYNOPSIS FOR
“ANGELS IN THE ATTIC”
By Kate Fagalde
Alfred Ascot is an ordinary young man who works in the Tax Office in London, but who meets an extraordinary young girl named Angelica Ashton.
There is an immediate attraction between the pair, but somewhere in the background is the shadowy figure of Mrs Isobel Mason, an elderly lady who lives in the countryside in Oxfordshire and who comes to Alfred’s attention when he has to deal with her Income Tax Form at work.
The young couple decide to go and visit Mrs Mason and en route to the little village of Abbotsford, they stop at a village church and see a beautifully engraved window in memory of a wartime airman who died in France in 1944.
Mrs Mason has a photograph of the same church window and also of a handsome young officer in a photograph on her table at home, but apparently he was not her husband, and she is reluctant to discuss the matter.
Alfred discovers a beautiful old dress in the attic of his father’s house that has a strange effect on Mrs Mason when she sees Angelica wearing it, but a mystery surrounds the unusual medal and the photographs that he also finds in the old tin trunk.
The story takes the reader back to 1944 in the Basque region of France and a time of great courage and fear when members of the British Special Operations Executive were combining with the local Resistance movement to create havoc and disruption for the German army. Régine who is an SOE agent befriends Angelu who is trying to avoid the attentions of a local man Marcel. Régine has a connection with the Canadian pilot who is trapped in the region while Angelu has fallen deeply in love with Aitor, the young resistance fighter. Marcel has become aware of their mission and Angelu has to make a terrible sacrifice in order to save the man she loves.
Returning to the present day, Alfred, Angelica and Isobel become friends and undertake a trip to Isobel’s house in the Basque region. Alfred and Angelica meet someone who throws light on the memories that haunt Isobel and she has to confront the truth of what happened all those years before.
“An Angel in the Attic” takes the reader from modern day London, to the beauty of the Oxfordshire countryside and then back in time to the wilds of the French Pyrenees. It is a story of modern times, of years long gone, of memories that linger and mysteries that must be solved. Above all it is a story of a love that spans the years and touches the hearts of all.
www.fagalde.co.uk
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
"Angels In The Attic" - Chapters One,Two and Three
"ANGELS IN THE ATTIC"
By Kate Fagalde
Chapter 1
Alfred Ascot took a deep breath and plunged back into the dark waters of the lake. All he had to do was grasp her hand and she would be his forever. As the muddy water closed over his head, he tried desperately to make one last valiant attempt before this beautiful girl was lost to him forever. Her golden hair swirled about but she was drifting away and as her face faded he could feel the long fronds of water grass wrapping themselves around his neck. Clawing his way upwards through the murk, he flung his head back to gasp in the desperately needed air, and wacked it hard against the headboard.
‘Ow’ he yelled, grabbing at the sheet that was now snarled around his neck and twisted about his sweat soaked body.
‘Damn nightmare’ he muttered as the radio clock next to the bed flipped over to 7.00am and the familiar voice of the news broadcaster filled the bedroom.
‘Good Morning, this is the BBC. It is seven o clock on Wednesday the fifteenth of April and here are the news headlines read by Jennifer Davis. A bomb threat in London has led to the cancellation of all police leave. The War in Iraq has claimed the lives of a further ten military personnel. The Prime Minister has made sweeping changes to his cabinet’.
The words slid out of the radio and floated about the bedroom and despite his nightmare, they served only to stir him into wakefulness, but made no impact on him whatsoever. Sitting up in bed, he rubbed the remnants of sleep from his eyes and looked around his domain; only a rented domain consisting of a bedroom, bathroom, a small lounge and a galley kitchen, but at least his for the time being. Alfred was content to live alone; there was no-one to complain about the clutter of unread magazines, suspicious looking laundry and scattered CD's. No flat-mate to demand that coffee mugs be washed up from the night before, or some busy girlfriend clearing away the cardboard cartons that had contained his most recent take-away.
It had taken him twenty five years to loosen the strings that bound him to his parents, and they had been very good about understanding that from now on, visits were a one way undertaking; he to them and not the other way round. If he chose to live in less than salubrious surroundings, then it was up to him, and quite honestly, he seldom let the standards slip too low.
Alfred Ascot took a deep breath and plunged back into the dark waters of the lake. All he had to do was grasp her hand and she would be his forever. As the muddy water closed over his head, he tried desperately to make one last valiant attempt before this beautiful girl was lost to him forever. Her golden hair swirled about but she was drifting away and as her face faded he could feel the long fronds of water grass wrapping themselves around his neck. Clawing his way upwards through the murk, he flung his head back to gasp in the desperately needed air, and wacked it hard against the headboard.
‘Ow’ he yelled, grabbing at the sheet that was now snarled around his neck and twisted about his sweat soaked body.
‘Damn nightmare’ he muttered as the radio clock next to the bed flipped over to 7.00am and the familiar voice of the news broadcaster filled the bedroom.
‘Good Morning, this is the BBC. It is seven o clock on Wednesday the fifteenth of April and here are the news headlines read by Jennifer Davis. A bomb threat in London has led to the cancellation of all police leave. The War in Iraq has claimed the lives of a further ten military personnel. The Prime Minister has made sweeping changes to his cabinet’.
The words slid out of the radio and floated about the bedroom and despite his nightmare, they served only to stir him into wakefulness, but made no impact on him whatsoever. Sitting up in bed, he rubbed the remnants of sleep from his eyes and looked around his domain; only a rented domain consisting of a bedroom, bathroom, a small lounge and a galley kitchen, but at least his for the time being. Alfred was content to live alone; there was no-one to complain about the clutter of unread magazines, suspicious looking laundry and scattered CD's. No flat-mate to demand that coffee mugs be washed up from the night before, or some busy girlfriend clearing away the cardboard cartons that had contained his most recent take-away.
It had taken him twenty five years to loosen the strings that bound him to his parents, and they had been very good about understanding that from now on, visits were a one way undertaking; he to them and not the other way round. If he chose to live in less than salubrious surroundings, then it was up to him, and quite honestly, he seldom let the standards slip too low.
Controlled clutter was his format. As long as he could crawl out of bed and lay his hands on at least one clean shirt and a fresh set of underwear, he could handle the mounting piles of unpleasantness for a while until, in a moment of enthusiasm, he would get to grips with it and banish everything that was not wanted into the depths of a large black rubbish bag.
Alfred was one of those people for whom life held very few surprises. His day was always the same and the pace seldom changed. Even the frustrations of log-jammed traffic and crowded tube trains ruffled his temperament much. Jarred into reality each morning by the chattering of his radio alarm clock, he would lie there for a while, pretending to absorb the doings of the world at large, while in fact seldom even aware of the predictions from the weather office. Grudgingly he would clamber out of bed and having shaved, showered, cleaned his teeth and devoured a bowl of cereal, he would dress in his usual dull coloured clothing, collect his brief case from the table by the front door and leave his flat in Blackheath, prepared to do battle with yet another uneventful day.
Sometimes he wondered whether it might have made a difference if his parents had thought to name him something other than Alfred. He presumed there was some grizzled ancient relation in their past who had exerted pressure on them to stick him with a name that seemed to him to have come from a previous century. Surely a name like Mike or Dave might help his day to go with a bit more of a zing. He was only twenty five, but there seemed to be precious little ‘zing’ about anything that he did, and he had the sneaky feeling that whether he had been called Alfred, Ethelred, Tony or Sam, there was little chance of his life being other than what it was, and that was just plain dull.
Looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, he couldn't help feeling that his appearance didn't do much to get him out of the rut he seemed to be in. He wasn't what you'd call ugly and he had fairly good skin, but he just seemed to be ‘there’ and not much else. Something was missing, but he was blessed if he knew what it was, or how to go about attaining it. He didn't have many interests; work seemed to take up most of his waking hours, and by the time he had slogged back and forth every day, he had little energy left to do anything other than collapse in front of the telly or go down to the Indian takeaway on the corner and purchase a tandoori.
Alfred was one of those people for whom life held very few surprises. His day was always the same and the pace seldom changed. Even the frustrations of log-jammed traffic and crowded tube trains ruffled his temperament much. Jarred into reality each morning by the chattering of his radio alarm clock, he would lie there for a while, pretending to absorb the doings of the world at large, while in fact seldom even aware of the predictions from the weather office. Grudgingly he would clamber out of bed and having shaved, showered, cleaned his teeth and devoured a bowl of cereal, he would dress in his usual dull coloured clothing, collect his brief case from the table by the front door and leave his flat in Blackheath, prepared to do battle with yet another uneventful day.
Sometimes he wondered whether it might have made a difference if his parents had thought to name him something other than Alfred. He presumed there was some grizzled ancient relation in their past who had exerted pressure on them to stick him with a name that seemed to him to have come from a previous century. Surely a name like Mike or Dave might help his day to go with a bit more of a zing. He was only twenty five, but there seemed to be precious little ‘zing’ about anything that he did, and he had the sneaky feeling that whether he had been called Alfred, Ethelred, Tony or Sam, there was little chance of his life being other than what it was, and that was just plain dull.
Looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, he couldn't help feeling that his appearance didn't do much to get him out of the rut he seemed to be in. He wasn't what you'd call ugly and he had fairly good skin, but he just seemed to be ‘there’ and not much else. Something was missing, but he was blessed if he knew what it was, or how to go about attaining it. He didn't have many interests; work seemed to take up most of his waking hours, and by the time he had slogged back and forth every day, he had little energy left to do anything other than collapse in front of the telly or go down to the Indian takeaway on the corner and purchase a tandoori.
Occasionally he picked up a book, but nothing much captured his attention. Weekends were usually spent going over to see his Mum and Dad who lived about five miles away, and whenever she could, his Mum would talk him into staying on for Sunday lunch, and while he was never averse to roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, he felt that there should be a bit more to life. He always had great intentions of joining some sort of club, but he had no desire to cycle for miles, watch small birds twittering about in the undergrowth, or crawl about taking photos of them either. His old school mates had grown away from him and he had yet to come into contact with guys his own age in this area.
Occasionally he’d go down to the pub at Blackheath, but the thick smoke, the noise and the jostling really bored him and he couldn't be bothered to make the effort to become better acquainted with the groups that were already formed. On the occasional holidays that he had taken, he did try and get out into the country. He possessed a good strong pair of walking boots and had every intention of undertaking some serious hikes in them, but as yet, the strong laces and stout soles had seen little more than the inside of the box they were bought in. The one thing that he really wanted to do was travel and he always looked longingly at the posters for exotic places that plastered the walls of the underground station and the buses. It just seemed a bit senseless planning to go off by himself, but short of joining forces with one of his fellow workers at the office, he didn't seem to come into contact with anyone that he remotely felt like spending time with.
Each day was like the previous one and would doubtless be like the next. His mundane job at the Inland Revenue Office off Marylebone Road brought with it the usual pile of dog eared forms that represented the agony, lies and pleadings of the nation as they fought to hang on to as much of their hard earned cash as was possible before the long arm of the tax man reached out and relieved them of it. These pieces of paper seldom conjured up images of the writers desperately hoping to avoid doing business with him, and he was never really aware that human beings like himself had wrestled with them at countless kitchen tables across the land.
That Wednesday was like any other day. Once again he had failed to secure a seat on the train and had only managed to wrap his newspaper into a cone and read the smallest items of worthless information while standing shoulder to shoulder with his fellow workers. At the tube station, the escalator was out of order yet again and the dogged trudge of a thousand feet up the long staircase was only offset by the somewhat inappropriately cheerful guitar playing emanating from the long haired youngster who urged them to the top. There was precious little to be seen in his guitar case by way of reward for this service, but he strummed away merrily, a troubadour unsung and largely unpaid in his own land.
Emerging from the Tube Station, Alfred went to join the straggling queues that awaited the arrival of yet another lumbering bus that would bear him along the grey streets of London to his office block. Alfred never bothered to look at the decorated windows that slid by, and he never paid any attention to the gathering crowds of handbag-clutching anxious shoppers who daily filled the pavements of the capital in their endless search for that one item that would make it all worthwhile.
The only slight change in his day was that for once he had secured a window seat on the bus and sank into it, hoping to at least edge his newspaper open a few more inches in order to see who had scored the winning goal in the First Division Game last night. He didn't really care much who had won, but that annoying old Fred Biggin at the office would be rattling on about it, and if he didn't know who the winner was, he would be loudly chastised for ‘having no interest lad’.
Working his way through the paragraph outlining the more exciting parts of the game, Alfred was unaware that someone had plumped down into the seat beside him, and apart from edging his newspaper nearer to the grimy window, he paid little attention.
‘I knew that Sheffield could pull it off’ came a voice from somewhere close to his ear.
‘I beg your pardon’ Alfred said, turning to the girl who sat beside him.
‘I said I knew that they could win. My Dad said that Manchester were going to thrash them, but I bet him five quid that Sheffield would do it’.
For some odd reason, Alfred thought that he should maybe take notice of the girl who seemed to understand a lot more about the game than he did. Perhaps a little first hand knowledge to take into the office might keep the dreaded Fred Biggin off his back for a while, and he might even gain the attention of some of the hierarchy who seemed to be permanently more knowledgeable about such things.
‘You follow the football then?’ he asked, looking at her more directly now.
‘Oh yes, with two brothers and my Dad always going on about it, I've got no choice’
‘Do you go and watch the games?’ he asked, wondering why such an attractive young girl should be taking the time to discuss anything with him, let alone the intricacies of football.
‘Now and again, but mostly we watch it on the telly’.
Taking a quantum leap out of his usual day, Alfred plucked up courage from some unseen source and asked
‘Do you work round here then?’
‘Yes, I'm at Baxter House just off Marylebone’ she replied cheerfully.
‘Good heavens, so am I’
‘What in the old Tax Office? I don't believe it’
‘Yes, I'm on the fifth floor. I'm in Registration. Where are you?’
‘On the second floor in Customer Services’.
Alfred thought about this for a moment and then queried,
‘I've never seen you before, and I see a lot of people up and down in the lift’.
‘Oh I usually work a later shift than this. My Dad's been sick and I've had to stay home and get him sorted out before I come to work, but now he's getting back on his feet, I've decided to go on to the nine o clock shift like everyone else’.
Alfred could hardly believe his luck. Here he was on this grubby old bus with his boring newspaper, and rotten rain smearing the dirty windows, and suddenly next to him was this blond bubbly girl who laughed in his face and talked to him as though he was from the same planet.
‘Whereabouts do you live then?’ he asked, deciding to trust in fate and throw caution to the winds.
‘I'm out at Hither Green, and a lousy long journey it is every day, but the money's quite good and the people aren't too bad’.
‘I'm not far from there, I'm down at Blackheath. I've got a flat just behind the station’.
‘Gee, nice pubs down there’ she smiled at him , and putting a hand on his arm she said
‘Why don't we get together for a drink some time and we can discuss the football and the tax office?’.
‘I can think of lots better things to discuss’ said Alfred, desperately scratching his sub-conscious to come up with a single topic that could possibly interest this fabulous girl.
‘Tell you what’, she said, ‘How about you meet me at lunch time and we can grab a sandwich and make a plan to get together this Friday’.
Things were spinning out of control and Alfred grasped at what was left of his tattered dignity.
‘All right, one o clock by the front door. Here's our stop’.
Hoisting themselves up from their seats they pushed and struggled to the doorway, climbing over the feet and parcels of irate commuters and shoppers who enviously eyed their momentarily empty seats, before they were grabbed by the nearest standing passenger.
Tumbling out onto the wet pavement, Alfred unthinkingly took her arm as they stepped out behind the retreating bus, and dodging the spray thrown up by a passing cab, they headed between the traffic to reach their workplace.
Bidding her goodbye at the lifts, Alfred turned and went into the ground floor office where he had papers to collect, and shaking his head slightly as if he couldn’t believe his own luck, he stopped and looked in the mirror that reflected the passing parade of people.
At first, he saw his usual reflection, and then paused and looked again. He tried to see himself through her eyes and looked hard at the dark straight floppy hair that fell in a damp fringe across his forehead. His heavy framed glasses did little to enhance his brown eyes, and his tie was about as exciting as the weather outside. Although not an ugly face, it hardly struck him as a good looking one when compared with the bright boys of the seventh floor who seemed to be forever whizzing up and down in the lifts, brandishing shining brief cases, and emanating whiffs of expensive after-shave.
He jerked his collar more neatly about his neck and pulling his boring old tweed jacket down over his somewhat shiny trousers he rubbed the toe of his shoe behind the leg of his pants. Maybe he could nip out during tea break and find a more exciting tie. In fact, there was that men's shop just down the road and they might even have a better shirt and a jacket for him. He never seemed to spend any money on himself and what better time to do it than now.
Having cheered himself up with these thoughts, Alfred headed towards the bank of lifts and on entering the first one, found that he was humming softly under his breath. He cast a smile on elderly wrinkled and exceptionally bad tempered Miss Smythe from Records who had entered the lift with him, which action threw her completely off guard and she came dangerously close to smiling back at him before she remembered where she was and snapped her thin lips tightly shut and glared at the flashing numbers above the door..
‘Good Morning Sir’ he said firmly, as old Mr. Bennis from Tax Evasion Procedures climbed aboard, and the somewhat deaf old chap tilted his head and grunted ‘What's that?’ in a gruff voice, completely confused by the possibility that anyone in a lift in the Tax Office at 9am on a wet Wednesday morning might be civil to anyone else.
‘A nice morning’ Alfred insisted, and earned a very stony stare from both Mr. Bennis and Miss Smythe, but this failed to remove the grin from his face or delete the image of that blond bubble of curls that he had watched disappearing into the lifts some five minutes earlier.
Reaching the fifth floor, Alfred stepped out and took a smart right turn and headed for the general office. The jabbering babble of voices spilled out across the serried ranks of desks that were interspersed with the squat heads of an army of computers, some topped with an assortment of potted plants and small furry animals. Just for once, instead of heading straight for his desk, Alfred paused for a moment and took in the scene before him. He tried to separate the noises that he heard and to soak in the atmosphere. The majority of voices were taking part in a one-sided conversation, the other half of which was taking place at the end of the telephone. The voices at this end were already sounding tired and exasperated, as they constantly repeated the same old refrain.
‘I'm sorry Mr. Brown, there is nothing that we can do about it. If you have not completed your form by the end of this week, you will be liable. No Mr. Brown, you cannot claim on your vet bills for treatment for your racing pigeons. Yes Mr. Brown, you are liable for tax on your winnings at the pigeon races’.
The conversations were interrupted by the staccato rattle of the computer printer churning out yet another demand for money to fill the great maw of the Government coffers. It occurred to him that with every one of these demands that the office posted out, someone was going without that much hoped for holiday, that present for a long suffering wife or a night out with the lads.
He found himself wondering if the blond girl downstairs paid taxes and what she had to go without to do so. She looked well fed and well dressed and seemed very cheerful so he doubted that she went without much, and with a Dad and two brothers looking out for her, she shouldn't have too much to worry about. It also struck him that considering her plans for their meeting, it seemed doubtful that there was some ardent admirer lurking in the background which meant that hopefully, the way was fairly clear for him.
On this happy note, Alfred embarked on the journey between the desks until he reached his own island in the sea of finance. His desk was just as he had left it at five-o-clock the previous evening. His stapler, marker pen, ruler and ballpoint pen were lined up with mathematical precision at exact right angles to his sheaf of forms. These were flanked by a pair of serious In and Out trays and not one thing about the desk gave any hint to the character of the person who sat and worked there daily. Not a single family photo or pot plant broke the monotony of the surface, and without thinking, Alfred reached down and broke the straight line of the pens and rulers by giving them a bit of a nudge. It was strange, but somehow watching that line fall into disarray reflected his mood, and he grinned and gave the sheaf of forms a bit of a nudge for good measure.
Removing his jacket and draping it across the back of his chair, Alfred settled himself in and with a sigh, reached into the In Tray for the first battle of the day. Pulling the form towards him, he found to his amazement that he was looking at the name on the top of the page and then the age and actually querying to himself what kind of person it was that had so painstakingly answered all the questions and filled in all the boxes.
Name: Mrs. Isobel Mason
Age: 75,
Residential Address: Dove Cottage, Dove Cote Lane , Abbotsford, Oxfordshire.
Marital Status: Widow
Dependants - None.
Here Mrs. Mason had proved that she had a sense of humour, because in very small letters she had written ‘not counting the cat’. Alfred found himself smiling at the prospect of Mrs. Mason labouring over her form with the cat curled up on the sofa next to the fire, purring away gently as his benefactor tried to eke out as much as possible from her pension to keep him in tins of cat food and the occasional sardine. He wondered if she was like his Gran who used to sit and knit long jerseys that would eventually cover her cat who spent most of his life curled up on her lap, and who would remain completely oblivious to the steadily extending shroud that was keeping him cosily in the dark. He wondered if she spent time in the kitchen at Dove Cottage baking fragrant crispy loaves of bread and batches of scones and fairy cakes with icing liberally drizzled over the top of them. In his mind's eye, he could see the country home where Mrs. Mason undoubtedly dwelled and could smell the perfume of the roses that twined their way around the front door and could hear the click of the gate latch as the milkman came chirpily stumping up the path rattling his bottles and calling out
‘Mr Ascot. Mr. Ascot’.
It occurred to him that it was somewhat odd that the old lady who called herself Mrs. Mason should answer to his own name, and then Alfred returned to earth with a thump and realised that towering over his desk was Mr. Harris, Head of Department who was calling his name and bringing him sharply back to reality.
‘Mr. Ascot, have you gone deaf?’
‘Sorry Sir’ replied Alfred, trying to stand up and making an awful mess of pushing his chair backwards and getting it tangled in the back of his jacket.
‘Sit down boy, sit down and for heaven's sake pay attention to the job in hand and stop day dreaming’.
‘Yes Sir, certainly Sir, sorry Mr. Harris, I was just thinking’.
‘You have been staring at the same form for the past ten minutes and it is very evident that whatever you have been thinking about, it has not been about ensuring that the correct amount of tax is being paid’.
‘Sorry Sir’ stumbled Alfred, ‘I was just thinking about her cat’.
Evidently he had said the wrong thing, and with a stony look, Mr. Harris said icily,
‘Well forget about her cat and think about her money’. And with that he stomped off to bully someone else.
Alfred sighed and pushed Mrs. Mason back to the bottom of his In Tray and selected another customer, and pulling the form towards him, he firmly resisted the temptation to day dream about the writer, and forced himself to adjust and query the figures written in the boxes.
Occasionally he’d go down to the pub at Blackheath, but the thick smoke, the noise and the jostling really bored him and he couldn't be bothered to make the effort to become better acquainted with the groups that were already formed. On the occasional holidays that he had taken, he did try and get out into the country. He possessed a good strong pair of walking boots and had every intention of undertaking some serious hikes in them, but as yet, the strong laces and stout soles had seen little more than the inside of the box they were bought in. The one thing that he really wanted to do was travel and he always looked longingly at the posters for exotic places that plastered the walls of the underground station and the buses. It just seemed a bit senseless planning to go off by himself, but short of joining forces with one of his fellow workers at the office, he didn't seem to come into contact with anyone that he remotely felt like spending time with.
Each day was like the previous one and would doubtless be like the next. His mundane job at the Inland Revenue Office off Marylebone Road brought with it the usual pile of dog eared forms that represented the agony, lies and pleadings of the nation as they fought to hang on to as much of their hard earned cash as was possible before the long arm of the tax man reached out and relieved them of it. These pieces of paper seldom conjured up images of the writers desperately hoping to avoid doing business with him, and he was never really aware that human beings like himself had wrestled with them at countless kitchen tables across the land.
That Wednesday was like any other day. Once again he had failed to secure a seat on the train and had only managed to wrap his newspaper into a cone and read the smallest items of worthless information while standing shoulder to shoulder with his fellow workers. At the tube station, the escalator was out of order yet again and the dogged trudge of a thousand feet up the long staircase was only offset by the somewhat inappropriately cheerful guitar playing emanating from the long haired youngster who urged them to the top. There was precious little to be seen in his guitar case by way of reward for this service, but he strummed away merrily, a troubadour unsung and largely unpaid in his own land.
Emerging from the Tube Station, Alfred went to join the straggling queues that awaited the arrival of yet another lumbering bus that would bear him along the grey streets of London to his office block. Alfred never bothered to look at the decorated windows that slid by, and he never paid any attention to the gathering crowds of handbag-clutching anxious shoppers who daily filled the pavements of the capital in their endless search for that one item that would make it all worthwhile.
The only slight change in his day was that for once he had secured a window seat on the bus and sank into it, hoping to at least edge his newspaper open a few more inches in order to see who had scored the winning goal in the First Division Game last night. He didn't really care much who had won, but that annoying old Fred Biggin at the office would be rattling on about it, and if he didn't know who the winner was, he would be loudly chastised for ‘having no interest lad’.
Working his way through the paragraph outlining the more exciting parts of the game, Alfred was unaware that someone had plumped down into the seat beside him, and apart from edging his newspaper nearer to the grimy window, he paid little attention.
‘I knew that Sheffield could pull it off’ came a voice from somewhere close to his ear.
‘I beg your pardon’ Alfred said, turning to the girl who sat beside him.
‘I said I knew that they could win. My Dad said that Manchester were going to thrash them, but I bet him five quid that Sheffield would do it’.
For some odd reason, Alfred thought that he should maybe take notice of the girl who seemed to understand a lot more about the game than he did. Perhaps a little first hand knowledge to take into the office might keep the dreaded Fred Biggin off his back for a while, and he might even gain the attention of some of the hierarchy who seemed to be permanently more knowledgeable about such things.
‘You follow the football then?’ he asked, looking at her more directly now.
‘Oh yes, with two brothers and my Dad always going on about it, I've got no choice’
‘Do you go and watch the games?’ he asked, wondering why such an attractive young girl should be taking the time to discuss anything with him, let alone the intricacies of football.
‘Now and again, but mostly we watch it on the telly’.
Taking a quantum leap out of his usual day, Alfred plucked up courage from some unseen source and asked
‘Do you work round here then?’
‘Yes, I'm at Baxter House just off Marylebone’ she replied cheerfully.
‘Good heavens, so am I’
‘What in the old Tax Office? I don't believe it’
‘Yes, I'm on the fifth floor. I'm in Registration. Where are you?’
‘On the second floor in Customer Services’.
Alfred thought about this for a moment and then queried,
‘I've never seen you before, and I see a lot of people up and down in the lift’.
‘Oh I usually work a later shift than this. My Dad's been sick and I've had to stay home and get him sorted out before I come to work, but now he's getting back on his feet, I've decided to go on to the nine o clock shift like everyone else’.
Alfred could hardly believe his luck. Here he was on this grubby old bus with his boring newspaper, and rotten rain smearing the dirty windows, and suddenly next to him was this blond bubbly girl who laughed in his face and talked to him as though he was from the same planet.
‘Whereabouts do you live then?’ he asked, deciding to trust in fate and throw caution to the winds.
‘I'm out at Hither Green, and a lousy long journey it is every day, but the money's quite good and the people aren't too bad’.
‘I'm not far from there, I'm down at Blackheath. I've got a flat just behind the station’.
‘Gee, nice pubs down there’ she smiled at him , and putting a hand on his arm she said
‘Why don't we get together for a drink some time and we can discuss the football and the tax office?’.
‘I can think of lots better things to discuss’ said Alfred, desperately scratching his sub-conscious to come up with a single topic that could possibly interest this fabulous girl.
‘Tell you what’, she said, ‘How about you meet me at lunch time and we can grab a sandwich and make a plan to get together this Friday’.
Things were spinning out of control and Alfred grasped at what was left of his tattered dignity.
‘All right, one o clock by the front door. Here's our stop’.
Hoisting themselves up from their seats they pushed and struggled to the doorway, climbing over the feet and parcels of irate commuters and shoppers who enviously eyed their momentarily empty seats, before they were grabbed by the nearest standing passenger.
Tumbling out onto the wet pavement, Alfred unthinkingly took her arm as they stepped out behind the retreating bus, and dodging the spray thrown up by a passing cab, they headed between the traffic to reach their workplace.
Bidding her goodbye at the lifts, Alfred turned and went into the ground floor office where he had papers to collect, and shaking his head slightly as if he couldn’t believe his own luck, he stopped and looked in the mirror that reflected the passing parade of people.
At first, he saw his usual reflection, and then paused and looked again. He tried to see himself through her eyes and looked hard at the dark straight floppy hair that fell in a damp fringe across his forehead. His heavy framed glasses did little to enhance his brown eyes, and his tie was about as exciting as the weather outside. Although not an ugly face, it hardly struck him as a good looking one when compared with the bright boys of the seventh floor who seemed to be forever whizzing up and down in the lifts, brandishing shining brief cases, and emanating whiffs of expensive after-shave.
He jerked his collar more neatly about his neck and pulling his boring old tweed jacket down over his somewhat shiny trousers he rubbed the toe of his shoe behind the leg of his pants. Maybe he could nip out during tea break and find a more exciting tie. In fact, there was that men's shop just down the road and they might even have a better shirt and a jacket for him. He never seemed to spend any money on himself and what better time to do it than now.
Having cheered himself up with these thoughts, Alfred headed towards the bank of lifts and on entering the first one, found that he was humming softly under his breath. He cast a smile on elderly wrinkled and exceptionally bad tempered Miss Smythe from Records who had entered the lift with him, which action threw her completely off guard and she came dangerously close to smiling back at him before she remembered where she was and snapped her thin lips tightly shut and glared at the flashing numbers above the door..
‘Good Morning Sir’ he said firmly, as old Mr. Bennis from Tax Evasion Procedures climbed aboard, and the somewhat deaf old chap tilted his head and grunted ‘What's that?’ in a gruff voice, completely confused by the possibility that anyone in a lift in the Tax Office at 9am on a wet Wednesday morning might be civil to anyone else.
‘A nice morning’ Alfred insisted, and earned a very stony stare from both Mr. Bennis and Miss Smythe, but this failed to remove the grin from his face or delete the image of that blond bubble of curls that he had watched disappearing into the lifts some five minutes earlier.
Reaching the fifth floor, Alfred stepped out and took a smart right turn and headed for the general office. The jabbering babble of voices spilled out across the serried ranks of desks that were interspersed with the squat heads of an army of computers, some topped with an assortment of potted plants and small furry animals. Just for once, instead of heading straight for his desk, Alfred paused for a moment and took in the scene before him. He tried to separate the noises that he heard and to soak in the atmosphere. The majority of voices were taking part in a one-sided conversation, the other half of which was taking place at the end of the telephone. The voices at this end were already sounding tired and exasperated, as they constantly repeated the same old refrain.
‘I'm sorry Mr. Brown, there is nothing that we can do about it. If you have not completed your form by the end of this week, you will be liable. No Mr. Brown, you cannot claim on your vet bills for treatment for your racing pigeons. Yes Mr. Brown, you are liable for tax on your winnings at the pigeon races’.
The conversations were interrupted by the staccato rattle of the computer printer churning out yet another demand for money to fill the great maw of the Government coffers. It occurred to him that with every one of these demands that the office posted out, someone was going without that much hoped for holiday, that present for a long suffering wife or a night out with the lads.
He found himself wondering if the blond girl downstairs paid taxes and what she had to go without to do so. She looked well fed and well dressed and seemed very cheerful so he doubted that she went without much, and with a Dad and two brothers looking out for her, she shouldn't have too much to worry about. It also struck him that considering her plans for their meeting, it seemed doubtful that there was some ardent admirer lurking in the background which meant that hopefully, the way was fairly clear for him.
On this happy note, Alfred embarked on the journey between the desks until he reached his own island in the sea of finance. His desk was just as he had left it at five-o-clock the previous evening. His stapler, marker pen, ruler and ballpoint pen were lined up with mathematical precision at exact right angles to his sheaf of forms. These were flanked by a pair of serious In and Out trays and not one thing about the desk gave any hint to the character of the person who sat and worked there daily. Not a single family photo or pot plant broke the monotony of the surface, and without thinking, Alfred reached down and broke the straight line of the pens and rulers by giving them a bit of a nudge. It was strange, but somehow watching that line fall into disarray reflected his mood, and he grinned and gave the sheaf of forms a bit of a nudge for good measure.
Removing his jacket and draping it across the back of his chair, Alfred settled himself in and with a sigh, reached into the In Tray for the first battle of the day. Pulling the form towards him, he found to his amazement that he was looking at the name on the top of the page and then the age and actually querying to himself what kind of person it was that had so painstakingly answered all the questions and filled in all the boxes.
Name: Mrs. Isobel Mason
Age: 75,
Residential Address: Dove Cottage, Dove Cote Lane , Abbotsford, Oxfordshire.
Marital Status: Widow
Dependants - None.
Here Mrs. Mason had proved that she had a sense of humour, because in very small letters she had written ‘not counting the cat’. Alfred found himself smiling at the prospect of Mrs. Mason labouring over her form with the cat curled up on the sofa next to the fire, purring away gently as his benefactor tried to eke out as much as possible from her pension to keep him in tins of cat food and the occasional sardine. He wondered if she was like his Gran who used to sit and knit long jerseys that would eventually cover her cat who spent most of his life curled up on her lap, and who would remain completely oblivious to the steadily extending shroud that was keeping him cosily in the dark. He wondered if she spent time in the kitchen at Dove Cottage baking fragrant crispy loaves of bread and batches of scones and fairy cakes with icing liberally drizzled over the top of them. In his mind's eye, he could see the country home where Mrs. Mason undoubtedly dwelled and could smell the perfume of the roses that twined their way around the front door and could hear the click of the gate latch as the milkman came chirpily stumping up the path rattling his bottles and calling out
‘Mr Ascot. Mr. Ascot’.
It occurred to him that it was somewhat odd that the old lady who called herself Mrs. Mason should answer to his own name, and then Alfred returned to earth with a thump and realised that towering over his desk was Mr. Harris, Head of Department who was calling his name and bringing him sharply back to reality.
‘Mr. Ascot, have you gone deaf?’
‘Sorry Sir’ replied Alfred, trying to stand up and making an awful mess of pushing his chair backwards and getting it tangled in the back of his jacket.
‘Sit down boy, sit down and for heaven's sake pay attention to the job in hand and stop day dreaming’.
‘Yes Sir, certainly Sir, sorry Mr. Harris, I was just thinking’.
‘You have been staring at the same form for the past ten minutes and it is very evident that whatever you have been thinking about, it has not been about ensuring that the correct amount of tax is being paid’.
‘Sorry Sir’ stumbled Alfred, ‘I was just thinking about her cat’.
Evidently he had said the wrong thing, and with a stony look, Mr. Harris said icily,
‘Well forget about her cat and think about her money’. And with that he stomped off to bully someone else.
Alfred sighed and pushed Mrs. Mason back to the bottom of his In Tray and selected another customer, and pulling the form towards him, he firmly resisted the temptation to day dream about the writer, and forced himself to adjust and query the figures written in the boxes.
Chapter 2
The morning dragged on and the only respite from the monotony was tea-break. By now the rain was coming down in a steady grey drizzle outside, and Alfred abandoned his plans to improve on his sartorial elegance and decided to make do with tea instead. He was moving towards the front of the queue waiting to collect his cup of tepid milky brew and make his selection from the narrow choice of biscuits, when the booming voice of Fred Biggin bellowed out behind him.
‘Morning Alfred my lad; what did you think of the game then?’ His very tone suggested that Alfred would probably have no idea what he was talking about, but Alfred looked him squarely in the eye and replied
‘I reckon Sheffield did themselves a favour getting that new Centre in from Watford. No-one had paid him much attention before but I always thought he was the man for the job. Caught Manchester a bit wrong footed I reckon as they went in under the impression that there was a big hole in the middle of the Sheffield team’.
Fred did a swift impression of a goldfish and gulped and gawped at Alfred before digesting not only the information concerning the new player, but the fact that Alfred knew about it.
‘Been keeping abreast of events then I see lad’ he blustered, and moved on down the queue to grab the last of the digestive biscuits.
Alfred grinned to himself and placing the cup of tepid tea that had been automatically thrust at him back on the counter, he looked the tea lady firmly in the eye.
‘I'll have a cup of black coffee please, and could you make sure it's nice and hot’.
Mrs. Ludgate who had been pouring tepid tea ever since it helped to fend off Hitler and his cronies sixty years previously, looked at him as though he had asked for a double whisky on the rocks.
‘Coffee?’ she uttered, as though completely unaware that the substance was now considered legal throughout the entire civilised world.
‘And please make it black and hot Mrs. Ludgate, thanks’.
Putting down her tea pot with an indignant rattle, she turned to the gleaming urn behind her and decanting a cup full of boiling water, she pushed the cup and a bowl of instant coffee towards him with her finger tips, and left him to make up his own heathen mixture.
‘Coffee’ he could hear her muttering as he continued on down the queue. ‘Drink of the devil that is and no good'll come of those that drink it. You see if I'm not right, don't hold with it. Nothing like a good cup of tea ........’ .
The rest of her mutterings fell on deaf ears as Alfred moved out of earshot and found himself a table near the door.
Conversations drifted about him. The secretaries bewailed bad hair days and worse boyfriends; the sharp young men of the Records Department were laughing loudly at some witticism repeated from the session in the ‘Bull and Bush’ last night. The older generation were arguing about the prospects of the new girlfriend in ‘Coronation Street’ and the younger bunch were running down the temporary barmaid in ‘Eastenders’ who would undoubtedly bring additional shame and despair to the Queen Vic and its' clientele.
Alfred listened but didn't take any of it in. His thoughts were drifting back to the blond bubble on the bus and somehow, alongside the vision of those smiling eyes and laughing mouth, he kept seeing the hitherto unknown face of Mrs. Mason. Every time he tried to push her out of his mind and concentrate on the girl, he found that she insisted on being present, sitting quietly in the corner of his mind absently stroking her cat and eavesdropping on their conversation.
Gazing round the cafeteria, Alfred shook his head and did a double take. Coming in through the door was the girl from the bus. Looking all around the room and peering intently at the groups of people gathered around the formica tables, she spotted him and her face lit up as she waved and rushed over to join him. Alfred realised that he was getting some fairly strange looks from the people around him, but he didn't care, and leaping up, he pulled out a chair, sat her down and stared at her.
‘What are you doing here?’ he managed. ‘Isn't your canteen on the first floor?’
‘Yes, but they serve lousy tea and the buns were all gone, so I thought I would nip up and see how you were getting on. There are so many people nobody ever knows what Department you’re in and I felt like a change’.
Alfred tried to gather his senses and gabbled ‘It's great to see you, can I get you some tea or coffee?’
‘What are you having?’ she asked.
‘Coffee’ he said pointing rather proudly at the dark contents of his cup, glad now that he was not sitting in front of his usual tepid milky brew.
‘Great, I'll have some too. Make mine black with just one sugar’.
He weaved his way among the tables until he arrived back at the counter, and squaring up to the irascible Mrs. Ludgate, he looked her right in the eye.
‘One more coffee please, black with one sugar’.
She looked at him as if he were a raging lunatic on some overdose of a lethal drug, and snapped ‘You've had one cup already and that's more than enough for a young boy like you. It'll rot your insides and make your hair fall out, mark my words’.
‘Not for me Mrs; Ludgate, it's` for my friend’ he soothed.
‘You youngsters should know better. Tea was good enough for us and it saw us through the War. If those Jerries had been drinking tea, it would have been a very different thing I can tell you, but once we had our tea inside us, they could throw what they wanted to at us, they were no match for us. Won the War on tea we did. Good enough for us it was’
Agreeing with her that the properties of tea must have put paid to the bombs and the threat of invasion by the cursed hordes from across the channel, Alfred pointed at the hot water urn and in his most polite manner, begged for yet another cup of hot water and the instant coffee.
The morning dragged on and the only respite from the monotony was tea-break. By now the rain was coming down in a steady grey drizzle outside, and Alfred abandoned his plans to improve on his sartorial elegance and decided to make do with tea instead. He was moving towards the front of the queue waiting to collect his cup of tepid milky brew and make his selection from the narrow choice of biscuits, when the booming voice of Fred Biggin bellowed out behind him.
‘Morning Alfred my lad; what did you think of the game then?’ His very tone suggested that Alfred would probably have no idea what he was talking about, but Alfred looked him squarely in the eye and replied
‘I reckon Sheffield did themselves a favour getting that new Centre in from Watford. No-one had paid him much attention before but I always thought he was the man for the job. Caught Manchester a bit wrong footed I reckon as they went in under the impression that there was a big hole in the middle of the Sheffield team’.
Fred did a swift impression of a goldfish and gulped and gawped at Alfred before digesting not only the information concerning the new player, but the fact that Alfred knew about it.
‘Been keeping abreast of events then I see lad’ he blustered, and moved on down the queue to grab the last of the digestive biscuits.
Alfred grinned to himself and placing the cup of tepid tea that had been automatically thrust at him back on the counter, he looked the tea lady firmly in the eye.
‘I'll have a cup of black coffee please, and could you make sure it's nice and hot’.
Mrs. Ludgate who had been pouring tepid tea ever since it helped to fend off Hitler and his cronies sixty years previously, looked at him as though he had asked for a double whisky on the rocks.
‘Coffee?’ she uttered, as though completely unaware that the substance was now considered legal throughout the entire civilised world.
‘And please make it black and hot Mrs. Ludgate, thanks’.
Putting down her tea pot with an indignant rattle, she turned to the gleaming urn behind her and decanting a cup full of boiling water, she pushed the cup and a bowl of instant coffee towards him with her finger tips, and left him to make up his own heathen mixture.
‘Coffee’ he could hear her muttering as he continued on down the queue. ‘Drink of the devil that is and no good'll come of those that drink it. You see if I'm not right, don't hold with it. Nothing like a good cup of tea ........’ .
The rest of her mutterings fell on deaf ears as Alfred moved out of earshot and found himself a table near the door.
Conversations drifted about him. The secretaries bewailed bad hair days and worse boyfriends; the sharp young men of the Records Department were laughing loudly at some witticism repeated from the session in the ‘Bull and Bush’ last night. The older generation were arguing about the prospects of the new girlfriend in ‘Coronation Street’ and the younger bunch were running down the temporary barmaid in ‘Eastenders’ who would undoubtedly bring additional shame and despair to the Queen Vic and its' clientele.
Alfred listened but didn't take any of it in. His thoughts were drifting back to the blond bubble on the bus and somehow, alongside the vision of those smiling eyes and laughing mouth, he kept seeing the hitherto unknown face of Mrs. Mason. Every time he tried to push her out of his mind and concentrate on the girl, he found that she insisted on being present, sitting quietly in the corner of his mind absently stroking her cat and eavesdropping on their conversation.
Gazing round the cafeteria, Alfred shook his head and did a double take. Coming in through the door was the girl from the bus. Looking all around the room and peering intently at the groups of people gathered around the formica tables, she spotted him and her face lit up as she waved and rushed over to join him. Alfred realised that he was getting some fairly strange looks from the people around him, but he didn't care, and leaping up, he pulled out a chair, sat her down and stared at her.
‘What are you doing here?’ he managed. ‘Isn't your canteen on the first floor?’
‘Yes, but they serve lousy tea and the buns were all gone, so I thought I would nip up and see how you were getting on. There are so many people nobody ever knows what Department you’re in and I felt like a change’.
Alfred tried to gather his senses and gabbled ‘It's great to see you, can I get you some tea or coffee?’
‘What are you having?’ she asked.
‘Coffee’ he said pointing rather proudly at the dark contents of his cup, glad now that he was not sitting in front of his usual tepid milky brew.
‘Great, I'll have some too. Make mine black with just one sugar’.
He weaved his way among the tables until he arrived back at the counter, and squaring up to the irascible Mrs. Ludgate, he looked her right in the eye.
‘One more coffee please, black with one sugar’.
She looked at him as if he were a raging lunatic on some overdose of a lethal drug, and snapped ‘You've had one cup already and that's more than enough for a young boy like you. It'll rot your insides and make your hair fall out, mark my words’.
‘Not for me Mrs; Ludgate, it's` for my friend’ he soothed.
‘You youngsters should know better. Tea was good enough for us and it saw us through the War. If those Jerries had been drinking tea, it would have been a very different thing I can tell you, but once we had our tea inside us, they could throw what they wanted to at us, they were no match for us. Won the War on tea we did. Good enough for us it was’
Agreeing with her that the properties of tea must have put paid to the bombs and the threat of invasion by the cursed hordes from across the channel, Alfred pointed at the hot water urn and in his most polite manner, begged for yet another cup of hot water and the instant coffee.
Grumpily she sloshed another cupful from the urn, and Alfred mixed up what he hoped would be the tastiest cup of coffee that he had ever made, and selecting the last of the decent looking buns, he made his way back to the table.
‘Great’ she rewarded him with a big cheery smile. ‘Just what I need what with all the complaints downstairs. I have never heard such a lot of moaning minnies in my life. People come in and ask for the most ridiculous things and then get all narky when I can't help them. I don't make the rules, I just work here’.
She picked up her cup and gratefully sank her nose into the steam.
‘Lovely, that smells great’. Alfred proffered the bun and she smiled up at him.
‘Tell you what, I'll go halves with you’.
‘I haven't got a knife’ Alfred said.
‘Well then, I'll have first bite and then you can have the next’,
Suddenly this seemed the most erotic thing that Alfred had ever experienced. This dazzling girl was prepared to sink her pearly white teeth into the pink iced bun and then was going to pass it over to him to repeat the ritual.
‘Are you sure’ he asked, gazing first at her and then at the bun in disbelief.
‘Sure I share everything with my brothers; they taught me - ‘You cut I choose’ but you can have first bite if you like’.
‘Oh no, you go ahead, have as much as you want’ and Alfred watched as her pink tongue found its' way out between her lips and brushed lightly across the left hand side of the bun where the icing had made a delicate drizzle. He found that his own tongue was copying the pattern that she made and it occurred to him that he was sitting in the middle of a crowded room, licking at fresh air and staring at a beautiful girl. He couldn't have cared less, and he watched as she opened her mouth and inserted the bun. Alfred found that his own mouth had fallen open and he was mesmerised by the way in which the bun first bent and then broke in two as she neatly bit through it. He was still in a state of mild shock when she closed her mouth to chew on the contents, and as she did so, she handed him the other half of the bun. Alfred reached out with trembling hands and took it, and never removing his eyes from hers, he stuffed the remaining half into his mouth.
It was their first act of sharing and one that Alfred was never to forget. Chewing his way through the slightly dry dough of the iced bun, Alfred thought it was the most wonderful thing that he had ever tasted, and concentrated on the part of the bun where her lips and tongue and teeth had paused.
‘You've got crumbs on your chin’ she laughed, and reaching across the table, she lightly dusted his skin and flicked them away. Alfred chose that moment to choke on a stray crumb and bursting into a paroxysm of coughing, he sprayed her liberally. Whooping with laughter, she leapt up and pounded him on the back and offered him her cup of coffee to sip from.
‘Listen, I've just realised, I don't think I even told you my name’ she said.
It occurred to Alfred that in fact he had absolutely no idea what she was called and yet he felt as though he knew her better than anyone he had ever met.
‘I’m Angelica Ambury’ she announced and thrust out her hand to shake his.
‘Alfred Ascot’ he replied, taking her long slim fingers in between his and shaking them lightly.
‘All the A's’ she laughed. ‘Alfred and Angelica. We sound like something out of a nursery rhyme’.
Just to hear their names coupled together sent a thrill rippling down his spine and Alfred had a momentary vision of one of those green car stickers that went across the top of the windscreen. ‘Alfred and Angelica’ it would proudly announce to the world in general, but then it occurred to him that he didn't have a car, and anyway, she would probably think it was silly.
Just then, the tea break bell rang and all thoughts of angels and windscreen stickers fled from his mind.
‘Are we still on for lunch’? he asked, praying that she would answer Yes.
‘Of course silly, I'll see you just outside the main door. One o clock. I've just got to pick up a couple of bits of shopping; hope you don't mind, and then we can grab a sandwich’.
‘Great’ Alfred replied relieved that there was no change in the plan. He didn't care if she went out and purchased Big Ben during the lunch break, as long as he could walk along the pavement with this golden creature.
‘Great’ she rewarded him with a big cheery smile. ‘Just what I need what with all the complaints downstairs. I have never heard such a lot of moaning minnies in my life. People come in and ask for the most ridiculous things and then get all narky when I can't help them. I don't make the rules, I just work here’.
She picked up her cup and gratefully sank her nose into the steam.
‘Lovely, that smells great’. Alfred proffered the bun and she smiled up at him.
‘Tell you what, I'll go halves with you’.
‘I haven't got a knife’ Alfred said.
‘Well then, I'll have first bite and then you can have the next’,
Suddenly this seemed the most erotic thing that Alfred had ever experienced. This dazzling girl was prepared to sink her pearly white teeth into the pink iced bun and then was going to pass it over to him to repeat the ritual.
‘Are you sure’ he asked, gazing first at her and then at the bun in disbelief.
‘Sure I share everything with my brothers; they taught me - ‘You cut I choose’ but you can have first bite if you like’.
‘Oh no, you go ahead, have as much as you want’ and Alfred watched as her pink tongue found its' way out between her lips and brushed lightly across the left hand side of the bun where the icing had made a delicate drizzle. He found that his own tongue was copying the pattern that she made and it occurred to him that he was sitting in the middle of a crowded room, licking at fresh air and staring at a beautiful girl. He couldn't have cared less, and he watched as she opened her mouth and inserted the bun. Alfred found that his own mouth had fallen open and he was mesmerised by the way in which the bun first bent and then broke in two as she neatly bit through it. He was still in a state of mild shock when she closed her mouth to chew on the contents, and as she did so, she handed him the other half of the bun. Alfred reached out with trembling hands and took it, and never removing his eyes from hers, he stuffed the remaining half into his mouth.
It was their first act of sharing and one that Alfred was never to forget. Chewing his way through the slightly dry dough of the iced bun, Alfred thought it was the most wonderful thing that he had ever tasted, and concentrated on the part of the bun where her lips and tongue and teeth had paused.
‘You've got crumbs on your chin’ she laughed, and reaching across the table, she lightly dusted his skin and flicked them away. Alfred chose that moment to choke on a stray crumb and bursting into a paroxysm of coughing, he sprayed her liberally. Whooping with laughter, she leapt up and pounded him on the back and offered him her cup of coffee to sip from.
‘Listen, I've just realised, I don't think I even told you my name’ she said.
It occurred to Alfred that in fact he had absolutely no idea what she was called and yet he felt as though he knew her better than anyone he had ever met.
‘I’m Angelica Ambury’ she announced and thrust out her hand to shake his.
‘Alfred Ascot’ he replied, taking her long slim fingers in between his and shaking them lightly.
‘All the A's’ she laughed. ‘Alfred and Angelica. We sound like something out of a nursery rhyme’.
Just to hear their names coupled together sent a thrill rippling down his spine and Alfred had a momentary vision of one of those green car stickers that went across the top of the windscreen. ‘Alfred and Angelica’ it would proudly announce to the world in general, but then it occurred to him that he didn't have a car, and anyway, she would probably think it was silly.
Just then, the tea break bell rang and all thoughts of angels and windscreen stickers fled from his mind.
‘Are we still on for lunch’? he asked, praying that she would answer Yes.
‘Of course silly, I'll see you just outside the main door. One o clock. I've just got to pick up a couple of bits of shopping; hope you don't mind, and then we can grab a sandwich’.
‘Great’ Alfred replied relieved that there was no change in the plan. He didn't care if she went out and purchased Big Ben during the lunch break, as long as he could walk along the pavement with this golden creature.
Dusting the remaining crumbs off her skirt and blouse, Angelica stood up and reaching out she lightly touched the knot of his exceptionally boring tie, then giving him a cheerful wave was lost to view among the workers returning to their respective desks.
Chapter 3
Somehow, Alfred made it through until one-o-clock without incurring the wrath of Mr. Harris. He selected the most boring of the forms that he could find and worked away, ticking at the boxes and marking with red ink those places where chancers had thought they could slide behond the reach of the long arm of the Tax Office. It was quite clear that a great many people out there had very little wish to do any sort of business with the Department of Inland Revenue, but Alfred had to harden his heart and take what the Government had coming and turn his back on the many and varied pleas for financial relief.
The one form he couldn't get to grips with however, was that of Mrs. Mason. Every time she worked her way to the top of the pile, Alfred would tuck her in a few sheets down and push her from his mind. Somehow, she was tied up with Angelica and for the life of him, he couldn't separate the two, and the idea of drifting from thoughts of first the one and then the other was bound the bring the General Manager skidding to an irate halt beside his desk.
At last, it was five to one and Alfred started his lunchtime ritual of lining up his pens and rulers, straightening out the pile of forms and setting them at right angles to the other paraphernalia on his desk before picking up his jacket and finding his way out to the bank of lifts.
Chapter 3
Somehow, Alfred made it through until one-o-clock without incurring the wrath of Mr. Harris. He selected the most boring of the forms that he could find and worked away, ticking at the boxes and marking with red ink those places where chancers had thought they could slide behond the reach of the long arm of the Tax Office. It was quite clear that a great many people out there had very little wish to do any sort of business with the Department of Inland Revenue, but Alfred had to harden his heart and take what the Government had coming and turn his back on the many and varied pleas for financial relief.
The one form he couldn't get to grips with however, was that of Mrs. Mason. Every time she worked her way to the top of the pile, Alfred would tuck her in a few sheets down and push her from his mind. Somehow, she was tied up with Angelica and for the life of him, he couldn't separate the two, and the idea of drifting from thoughts of first the one and then the other was bound the bring the General Manager skidding to an irate halt beside his desk.
At last, it was five to one and Alfred started his lunchtime ritual of lining up his pens and rulers, straightening out the pile of forms and setting them at right angles to the other paraphernalia on his desk before picking up his jacket and finding his way out to the bank of lifts.
But as he began the tidying up process, he suddenly thought of Angelica with her cloud of wayward curls and her waving hands and laughing eyes, and he stirred up the pens, papers and forms into a glorious muddle and turning his back on them firmly, walked out of the office.
Waiting at the bank of lifts was the usual chattering crowd of secretaries and bosses, tea ladies and cleaners. One by one, the lifts bore them downwards into the lobby of the office and from there they were fed out of the great revolving door and into the turbulent pedestrian stream. Alfred was pushed out through the door along with half a dozen rather large ladies who were in a huge rush to make it to the shops during lunch break and feeling like a drowning man caught up in a school of whales, he elbowed his way through the surging masses until he could cling to the relative safety of the wall of the building, like some piece of flotsam pushed out of the mainstream of a raging river.
After a wait of only a few moments, he was rewarded with the sight of her bobbing curls coming towards him through the mass of people, and reaching out to grasp her from the stream he brought her safely in alongside him. Alfred for the first time, closed his hand firmly about hers.
‘Hi there fellow worker’ she laughed at him.
‘Hi Angelica’. Oh the joy of using that name. Of being able to run it over his lips and hear the sound of it in his own ears.
‘How was your morning?’ he asked.
‘Grim’ she answered, ‘But let's forget about work now and head up to the shops. I know a great sandwich bar and we can fight for a table now that there are two of us’.
Before he knew what was happening, she had taken his arm and was shouldering her way into the lemming like rush that passed the building, and for a while they were carried along until being spat out of the flow at the door of a large department store. Angelica dragged him in through the main entrance and Alfred gasped like a fish suddenly thrown up onto a beach after having swum in a huge shoal, and pausing to catch his breath, he looked around him.
Although he lived and worked in London, it never occurred to him to explore the area that surrounded him. Lunchtime for him was usually spent in the canteen, perusing the rest of the newspaper, and idly watching the TV until it was time to return to his desk. Now here he was in this Aladdins cave of a shop, his senses invaded by the sight of swishing silks, the sound of soft music and the scent of a thousand perfumes.
‘Come on, let's go up the escalator’ called Angelica who was already moving ahead of him to reach the foot of that silver staircase that would bear them upwards into heaven knew what cornucopia of delights. Standing side by side with her on the stairs, Alfred caught sight of the two of them in the mirrors that surrounded them. He couldn't believe his eyes. Here he was, boring old Alfred in his lousy tie and horrible jacket, and next to him was this glorious girl, holding on to his arm and laughing into his face. What Gods had decided to smile on him that day he wondered?
Reaching the top of the escalator, Angelica paused for a moment, got her bearings, and pulling him along, she headed for that holy of holies, the ladies underwear department.
‘This won't take long’ she assured him, and she moved confidently towards the racks of silken items that hitherto had filled Alfred's dreams but never confronted him face to face. Here was a whole floor, filled with satin, lace, silk, the colours of a myriad rainbows and the answer to a thousand dreams. Angelica had disappeared in among a series of rails that held every type of bra known to woman kind, and was fingering her way through the underwires, the padding and the B and C cups like a professional. Alfred was far too overwhelmed to think about size or shape, but just thought of texture and colour. Imagine actually seeing these wisps of lace in place on the body of a girl; imagine being allowed to touch them gently and even go so far as being allowed to remove them.
Alfred felt his temperature rising and his face flushing and tried hard to think of cotton underpants and thick woollen socks, but all around him his senses were under attack. He took a wrong turn and found that he was surrounded by negligees and nighties, drifting in the air with the lightness of butterflies. The garments seemed to reach out to him; panels of lace which would allow the slope of a breast to be partly exposed, and flowing skirts which would move in the breeze as the wearer stood on some balcony, the warm tropical wind drifting through her hair, the moonlight dancing on her skin.
‘Get a grip on yourself man’ he scolded himself, but it was a loosing battle. Wading out of the nightwear department, he found that he’d stumbled into the pantie section and this was no better. Here were fragments of cloth that were supposed to stay put on the lower regions of a woman's body. How could anything so infinitesimally tiny be of any use, unless the wearer was thinking only of seduction. What possible protection could the little strip of cloth be to ward off the chill winds that blew along the pavements of London; or perhaps they were meant to be worn under a silken skirt that would slide softly to the carpet, leaving long legs and smooth buttocks exposed to the touch and lips of the onlooker. He could see the candlelight glinting off the lightly tanned skin of some beautiful girl who looked suspiciously like Angelica, and as the music swelled he heard the voice of his beloved saying
‘OK Alfred, I've got sorted out, we can go’.
Alfred stood stunned for a moment trying to regain his composure.
‘Sorry if you were bored, but I just had to get some cotton knicks for my dear old Gran and this is the only place you can find the ones she likes’.
Suddenly the thought of cotton knickers, double stitched and sturdy, forced the images of lace and love out of Alfred's mind, and once again, the gap was filled by the vision of Mrs. Mason standing at the stone sink in her cottage with her arms buried in the suds as she washed out her ‘smalls’.
Shaking his head, Alfred gathered his wits and asked ‘Anything else that you want to have a look at while we're here?’.
‘Nothing special but we can have a wander round if you like. It’s so cold outside, and at least the heating’s good here and there's lots to see’. Angelica seemed to be the most easy going girl and she took his hand quite naturallly, and led him towards the Men's Department.
Here Alfred felt a little more at home. Here were things that he understood and which didn't send his senses reeling and his mind off careering off on some rampant voyage of delight. Belts, shoes, socks, underpants and jackets; these were safe areas, and pausing before a rack of brightly coloured ties, he fingered a few thoughtfully and then tugged at his own unworthy specimen.
‘I reckon I could do with a new tie’ he announced and Angelica bounced up beside him.
‘Oh I love choosing ties. With Dad and two brothers, I'm a bit of an expert. What sort of colours do you like? No let me guess’.
Leaving her to do the work, Alfred watched in amazement as she quickly selected about five that he would have cheerfully had in his cupboard, but which he would never have thought to wear to the office.
‘You don't think they're too bright?’ he ventured.
‘Not at all. The office is dreary enough and it needs cheering up. If more people wore bright ties and smiled occasionally, the whole place would improve one hundred percent.’
Alfred couldn't argue with that and removing the grey blotchy tie from around his neck, he replaced it with one of the daring silk strips that she proffered.
‘I like that one’ she said, ‘It brings out the lovely dark brown of your eyes’.
Alfred looked favourably at the coffee and cream silk that she had selected and decided that it would make only a very slight dent in his fairly healthy bank account and went on to look at the others.
In the end they selected three from the rack and then wandered along to the next section. Shirts were always something that Alfred bought in threes. Three grey ones, three white ones, three beige ones. He had very little problems in decision making when it came to shirts. But here was Angelica fingering button down collars, double breast pockets and far from the usual grey, white and beige, was looking long and hard at some deep crimson, racing green and navy blue ones.
‘I don't know if .......’
‘Rubbish’ she cut in. ‘You’d look marvellous in that one’.
No-one had ever told Alfred that he would look marvellous in anything, apart from his Mother fifteen years ago who said he looked marvellous in the school play dressed up like a carrot.
Waiting at the bank of lifts was the usual chattering crowd of secretaries and bosses, tea ladies and cleaners. One by one, the lifts bore them downwards into the lobby of the office and from there they were fed out of the great revolving door and into the turbulent pedestrian stream. Alfred was pushed out through the door along with half a dozen rather large ladies who were in a huge rush to make it to the shops during lunch break and feeling like a drowning man caught up in a school of whales, he elbowed his way through the surging masses until he could cling to the relative safety of the wall of the building, like some piece of flotsam pushed out of the mainstream of a raging river.
After a wait of only a few moments, he was rewarded with the sight of her bobbing curls coming towards him through the mass of people, and reaching out to grasp her from the stream he brought her safely in alongside him. Alfred for the first time, closed his hand firmly about hers.
‘Hi there fellow worker’ she laughed at him.
‘Hi Angelica’. Oh the joy of using that name. Of being able to run it over his lips and hear the sound of it in his own ears.
‘How was your morning?’ he asked.
‘Grim’ she answered, ‘But let's forget about work now and head up to the shops. I know a great sandwich bar and we can fight for a table now that there are two of us’.
Before he knew what was happening, she had taken his arm and was shouldering her way into the lemming like rush that passed the building, and for a while they were carried along until being spat out of the flow at the door of a large department store. Angelica dragged him in through the main entrance and Alfred gasped like a fish suddenly thrown up onto a beach after having swum in a huge shoal, and pausing to catch his breath, he looked around him.
Although he lived and worked in London, it never occurred to him to explore the area that surrounded him. Lunchtime for him was usually spent in the canteen, perusing the rest of the newspaper, and idly watching the TV until it was time to return to his desk. Now here he was in this Aladdins cave of a shop, his senses invaded by the sight of swishing silks, the sound of soft music and the scent of a thousand perfumes.
‘Come on, let's go up the escalator’ called Angelica who was already moving ahead of him to reach the foot of that silver staircase that would bear them upwards into heaven knew what cornucopia of delights. Standing side by side with her on the stairs, Alfred caught sight of the two of them in the mirrors that surrounded them. He couldn't believe his eyes. Here he was, boring old Alfred in his lousy tie and horrible jacket, and next to him was this glorious girl, holding on to his arm and laughing into his face. What Gods had decided to smile on him that day he wondered?
Reaching the top of the escalator, Angelica paused for a moment, got her bearings, and pulling him along, she headed for that holy of holies, the ladies underwear department.
‘This won't take long’ she assured him, and she moved confidently towards the racks of silken items that hitherto had filled Alfred's dreams but never confronted him face to face. Here was a whole floor, filled with satin, lace, silk, the colours of a myriad rainbows and the answer to a thousand dreams. Angelica had disappeared in among a series of rails that held every type of bra known to woman kind, and was fingering her way through the underwires, the padding and the B and C cups like a professional. Alfred was far too overwhelmed to think about size or shape, but just thought of texture and colour. Imagine actually seeing these wisps of lace in place on the body of a girl; imagine being allowed to touch them gently and even go so far as being allowed to remove them.
Alfred felt his temperature rising and his face flushing and tried hard to think of cotton underpants and thick woollen socks, but all around him his senses were under attack. He took a wrong turn and found that he was surrounded by negligees and nighties, drifting in the air with the lightness of butterflies. The garments seemed to reach out to him; panels of lace which would allow the slope of a breast to be partly exposed, and flowing skirts which would move in the breeze as the wearer stood on some balcony, the warm tropical wind drifting through her hair, the moonlight dancing on her skin.
‘Get a grip on yourself man’ he scolded himself, but it was a loosing battle. Wading out of the nightwear department, he found that he’d stumbled into the pantie section and this was no better. Here were fragments of cloth that were supposed to stay put on the lower regions of a woman's body. How could anything so infinitesimally tiny be of any use, unless the wearer was thinking only of seduction. What possible protection could the little strip of cloth be to ward off the chill winds that blew along the pavements of London; or perhaps they were meant to be worn under a silken skirt that would slide softly to the carpet, leaving long legs and smooth buttocks exposed to the touch and lips of the onlooker. He could see the candlelight glinting off the lightly tanned skin of some beautiful girl who looked suspiciously like Angelica, and as the music swelled he heard the voice of his beloved saying
‘OK Alfred, I've got sorted out, we can go’.
Alfred stood stunned for a moment trying to regain his composure.
‘Sorry if you were bored, but I just had to get some cotton knicks for my dear old Gran and this is the only place you can find the ones she likes’.
Suddenly the thought of cotton knickers, double stitched and sturdy, forced the images of lace and love out of Alfred's mind, and once again, the gap was filled by the vision of Mrs. Mason standing at the stone sink in her cottage with her arms buried in the suds as she washed out her ‘smalls’.
Shaking his head, Alfred gathered his wits and asked ‘Anything else that you want to have a look at while we're here?’.
‘Nothing special but we can have a wander round if you like. It’s so cold outside, and at least the heating’s good here and there's lots to see’. Angelica seemed to be the most easy going girl and she took his hand quite naturallly, and led him towards the Men's Department.
Here Alfred felt a little more at home. Here were things that he understood and which didn't send his senses reeling and his mind off careering off on some rampant voyage of delight. Belts, shoes, socks, underpants and jackets; these were safe areas, and pausing before a rack of brightly coloured ties, he fingered a few thoughtfully and then tugged at his own unworthy specimen.
‘I reckon I could do with a new tie’ he announced and Angelica bounced up beside him.
‘Oh I love choosing ties. With Dad and two brothers, I'm a bit of an expert. What sort of colours do you like? No let me guess’.
Leaving her to do the work, Alfred watched in amazement as she quickly selected about five that he would have cheerfully had in his cupboard, but which he would never have thought to wear to the office.
‘You don't think they're too bright?’ he ventured.
‘Not at all. The office is dreary enough and it needs cheering up. If more people wore bright ties and smiled occasionally, the whole place would improve one hundred percent.’
Alfred couldn't argue with that and removing the grey blotchy tie from around his neck, he replaced it with one of the daring silk strips that she proffered.
‘I like that one’ she said, ‘It brings out the lovely dark brown of your eyes’.
Alfred looked favourably at the coffee and cream silk that she had selected and decided that it would make only a very slight dent in his fairly healthy bank account and went on to look at the others.
In the end they selected three from the rack and then wandered along to the next section. Shirts were always something that Alfred bought in threes. Three grey ones, three white ones, three beige ones. He had very little problems in decision making when it came to shirts. But here was Angelica fingering button down collars, double breast pockets and far from the usual grey, white and beige, was looking long and hard at some deep crimson, racing green and navy blue ones.
‘I don't know if .......’
‘Rubbish’ she cut in. ‘You’d look marvellous in that one’.
No-one had ever told Alfred that he would look marvellous in anything, apart from his Mother fifteen years ago who said he looked marvellous in the school play dressed up like a carrot.
Taking the shirt from her as it hung on its' thick hanger, Alfred held it up against him and looked somewhat dubiously in the mirror. At first the shock was quite palpable, but then he began to consider the way that the colour made his hair look slightly less mousy and the way the collar that came up under his chin made the line of his jaw just a little firmer.
‘Go and try it on’ she urged, ‘And take the tie with you’.
Heading off towards the changing room, Alfred glanced back over his shoulder to see Angelica looking at a rail of new sports jackets, flicking through them with one hand, as she waved him on his way with the other.
Ignoring the somewhat supercilious look of the salesman who appeared at his shoulder, Alfred entered the changing room and stripping off his old jacket and his beige shirt he set about unbuckling his trousers to make room to tuck in the new shirt. Before he could get any further, the salesman appeared at the door of the dressing room and called
‘I have something here that might interest you Sir. The young lady said that I should bring it to you’.
Round the corner of the door came a pair of chino style trousers and a very snappy sports jacket and without further hesitation, Alfred dropped his old trousers, shed his boring jacket and slipped into the new outfit.
It was amazing. First he looked at himself in the rather cramped quarters of the dressing room, and then, emboldened by what he saw, he opened the door and came out into the passage where there was a bigger mirror. Staring back at him was a different Alfred. Somehow he seemed taller and slightly broader across the shoulders. His skin appeared to glow with a healthier look, a great improvement on the pasty London pallor that he usually had. He smoothed his hair back, and squaring up to his reflection, he drew an imaginary gun from the imaginary holster on his hip and fired a single direct shot at the image which stood ahead of him. Blowing imaginary smoke from the weapon, he stowed the gun back in the holster and strode out to see what Angelica thought.
Angelica was deep in the perusal of leather belts bearing expensive logos and at first didn’t realise that he was behind her, but he called her name and she turned. Everything that he had hoped to see was reflected in her eyes.
‘Wow’ she breathed. ‘Is that the same guy who went in there five minutes ago?’
Alfred flushed slightly, but turned first to the right and then to the left, and grinning from ear to ear asked her,
‘So what do you think?’
‘What do I think’ she smiled, ‘I think you look just great’.
It was the best commendation that Alfred had heard in years. Female relations had made polite noises about him and the girls in High School had giggled a bit and not been outwardly rude, but he had never thought that he possessed any flair or charm or indeed had any hope whatsoever of getting a girl to sit up and take notice of him. And yet, here was this golden girl, eyeing him with an extremely speculative look in her eyes.
‘Hang on a mo’ she said, and walking up to him, she removed his glasses.
For a moment, Alfred battled to see clearly, but then as he allowed his eyes to settle down without the accustomed magnification, he realised that in fact he probably didn't need his glasses quite as much as he pretended, and it might just be that he used them more for hiding behind than for practical purposes.
‘Now you are really cute’ she said, circling him and eyeing him from all angles.
‘Will Sir be wanting to try anything else?’ came the decidedly less supercilious request from the salesman who saw a good bit of commission headed his way.
‘I'll take the jacket, the trousers, the three shirts and the three ties thank you’.
‘Certainly Sir, will that be cash or charge?’
‘Cash’ announced Alfred firmly, and Angelica looked at him with renewed interest.
‘Cash, are you sure?’ she asked when the salesman had retreated behind his counter to tap up the total on his calculator.
‘No problem’ answered Alfred. I haven't spent a cent on myself in years, and today’s the day. Now before we're finished here, I want you to choose something as well. This is fun and we are both going to enjoy it’.
‘Oh I couldn't’ Angelica protested, but already her eyes were sliding away to the sign that read ‘Ladies Lingerie’.
‘Just give me a chance to change and then I'll come and join you back in the Cotton Knicker Department, but this time you’re shopping for you and not for Gran’.
In no time, the salesman had totalled up the amount which for a moment seemed somewhere in the region of a month's wages to Alfred, but then he threw caution to the winds and added a beautiful soft leather belt to the pile.
‘It's been a pleasure Sir’ murmured the salesman as he cleared Alfred's bank card through the machine.
‘May we hope that you will visit us again soon?’
‘Could be’ replied Alfred nonchalantly as he scooped up the expensive carrier bags in which nestled his peacock splendour and headed for the Department of Dreams.
Leaving his parcels with a most obliging salesgirl, he found Angelica agonising over nighties, bras, panties, petticoats and suspenders. She would dart towards one thing and then, turning over the price tag, she would drop it as if it was on fire, and head towards something else. Alfred watched her for a while and then decided to take charge.
‘Go and sit over there’ he ordered, pointing towards a ridiculously overstuffed armchair that was strategically placed for the use of irate husbands and impatient lovers who were forced to watch as their ladies flitted about like expensive birds of paradise.
Angelica didn't argue, but demurely went and sat herself down, and decided to let nature take it's course.
Alfred marched up and down a few rows finding his feet again, and then he decided to let his mind take over. Glancing back over his shoulder at Angelica, he memorised the gold of her curls, the soft pink blush of her cheeks and the smooth satiny skin of her neck and shoulders. Like an artist choosing the colours for his palette, Alfred went straight to the nightwear section and selecting a soft lilac coloured full length satin nightdress with the thinnest spaghetti shoulder straps and just a touch of ribbon at the empire waist line, he pulled it from the rail and called the saleslady over.
‘Please ask the young lady if she would like to try this on’ he requested, and turned away so that he could not see the look in Angelica's eyes when she saw the nightdress.
Busying himself among the dressing gowns, Alfred impatiently awaited the results of his choice, and he was not disappointed. He heard his name being softly called, and turning, he saw Angelica framed in the doorway of the Dressing Room. The light from behind outlined her figure through the filmy material and the effect on her golden curls was that of a halo shining about her head. Alfred felt the breath drying up in his throat and he swallowed as he took in the sight of her.
‘Do you like it?’ he asked, praying for an affirmative reply.
‘I love it’ she said, smoothing her hands down the silken surface that covered her hips and thighs.
This action alone was enough to transport Alfred back to his balcony, the sea breeze and the moonlight, and now there seemed to be glasses of champagne and soft music coming from somewhere, and for once there was no sign of Mrs. Mason.
‘Then it's yours’ he told her.
Turning to the hovering assistant, he spoke with new found confidence.
‘Thank you, we'll take it, please have it wrapped and it‘ll be cash’.
The salesgirl took in his shiny trousers and boring tie, and wondered just what this odd looking young man had got to do with this beautiful slim attractive girl, but then again, she saw many strange things in the course of her day, and since she was in the business of selling dreams, she gladly ushered Angelica back into the dressing room, relieved her of the wispy gown and hurried away to lay it between sheets of finest tissue paper before sliding it into an extremely expensive looking carrier bag.
Leaving the shop dressed in the same clothes that they had walked in with, Alfred found himself wondering if it had all been a dream, but then he felt the reassuring weight of the packages that he carried and saw the happiness and pride with which Angelica swung the bag from her hand, the golden logo of the shop gleaming for all to see.
‘And now for something completely different’ he joked, ‘I'm starving. Where's this sandwich bar you were bragging about?’
‘Before we go any further’ she said firmly, ‘Lunch is on me and I won't hear another word’.
‘That's extremely kind of you Mademoiselle’ he teased, already making up his mind to have the least expensive sandwich in the shop.
‘Go and try it on’ she urged, ‘And take the tie with you’.
Heading off towards the changing room, Alfred glanced back over his shoulder to see Angelica looking at a rail of new sports jackets, flicking through them with one hand, as she waved him on his way with the other.
Ignoring the somewhat supercilious look of the salesman who appeared at his shoulder, Alfred entered the changing room and stripping off his old jacket and his beige shirt he set about unbuckling his trousers to make room to tuck in the new shirt. Before he could get any further, the salesman appeared at the door of the dressing room and called
‘I have something here that might interest you Sir. The young lady said that I should bring it to you’.
Round the corner of the door came a pair of chino style trousers and a very snappy sports jacket and without further hesitation, Alfred dropped his old trousers, shed his boring jacket and slipped into the new outfit.
It was amazing. First he looked at himself in the rather cramped quarters of the dressing room, and then, emboldened by what he saw, he opened the door and came out into the passage where there was a bigger mirror. Staring back at him was a different Alfred. Somehow he seemed taller and slightly broader across the shoulders. His skin appeared to glow with a healthier look, a great improvement on the pasty London pallor that he usually had. He smoothed his hair back, and squaring up to his reflection, he drew an imaginary gun from the imaginary holster on his hip and fired a single direct shot at the image which stood ahead of him. Blowing imaginary smoke from the weapon, he stowed the gun back in the holster and strode out to see what Angelica thought.
Angelica was deep in the perusal of leather belts bearing expensive logos and at first didn’t realise that he was behind her, but he called her name and she turned. Everything that he had hoped to see was reflected in her eyes.
‘Wow’ she breathed. ‘Is that the same guy who went in there five minutes ago?’
Alfred flushed slightly, but turned first to the right and then to the left, and grinning from ear to ear asked her,
‘So what do you think?’
‘What do I think’ she smiled, ‘I think you look just great’.
It was the best commendation that Alfred had heard in years. Female relations had made polite noises about him and the girls in High School had giggled a bit and not been outwardly rude, but he had never thought that he possessed any flair or charm or indeed had any hope whatsoever of getting a girl to sit up and take notice of him. And yet, here was this golden girl, eyeing him with an extremely speculative look in her eyes.
‘Hang on a mo’ she said, and walking up to him, she removed his glasses.
For a moment, Alfred battled to see clearly, but then as he allowed his eyes to settle down without the accustomed magnification, he realised that in fact he probably didn't need his glasses quite as much as he pretended, and it might just be that he used them more for hiding behind than for practical purposes.
‘Now you are really cute’ she said, circling him and eyeing him from all angles.
‘Will Sir be wanting to try anything else?’ came the decidedly less supercilious request from the salesman who saw a good bit of commission headed his way.
‘I'll take the jacket, the trousers, the three shirts and the three ties thank you’.
‘Certainly Sir, will that be cash or charge?’
‘Cash’ announced Alfred firmly, and Angelica looked at him with renewed interest.
‘Cash, are you sure?’ she asked when the salesman had retreated behind his counter to tap up the total on his calculator.
‘No problem’ answered Alfred. I haven't spent a cent on myself in years, and today’s the day. Now before we're finished here, I want you to choose something as well. This is fun and we are both going to enjoy it’.
‘Oh I couldn't’ Angelica protested, but already her eyes were sliding away to the sign that read ‘Ladies Lingerie’.
‘Just give me a chance to change and then I'll come and join you back in the Cotton Knicker Department, but this time you’re shopping for you and not for Gran’.
In no time, the salesman had totalled up the amount which for a moment seemed somewhere in the region of a month's wages to Alfred, but then he threw caution to the winds and added a beautiful soft leather belt to the pile.
‘It's been a pleasure Sir’ murmured the salesman as he cleared Alfred's bank card through the machine.
‘May we hope that you will visit us again soon?’
‘Could be’ replied Alfred nonchalantly as he scooped up the expensive carrier bags in which nestled his peacock splendour and headed for the Department of Dreams.
Leaving his parcels with a most obliging salesgirl, he found Angelica agonising over nighties, bras, panties, petticoats and suspenders. She would dart towards one thing and then, turning over the price tag, she would drop it as if it was on fire, and head towards something else. Alfred watched her for a while and then decided to take charge.
‘Go and sit over there’ he ordered, pointing towards a ridiculously overstuffed armchair that was strategically placed for the use of irate husbands and impatient lovers who were forced to watch as their ladies flitted about like expensive birds of paradise.
Angelica didn't argue, but demurely went and sat herself down, and decided to let nature take it's course.
Alfred marched up and down a few rows finding his feet again, and then he decided to let his mind take over. Glancing back over his shoulder at Angelica, he memorised the gold of her curls, the soft pink blush of her cheeks and the smooth satiny skin of her neck and shoulders. Like an artist choosing the colours for his palette, Alfred went straight to the nightwear section and selecting a soft lilac coloured full length satin nightdress with the thinnest spaghetti shoulder straps and just a touch of ribbon at the empire waist line, he pulled it from the rail and called the saleslady over.
‘Please ask the young lady if she would like to try this on’ he requested, and turned away so that he could not see the look in Angelica's eyes when she saw the nightdress.
Busying himself among the dressing gowns, Alfred impatiently awaited the results of his choice, and he was not disappointed. He heard his name being softly called, and turning, he saw Angelica framed in the doorway of the Dressing Room. The light from behind outlined her figure through the filmy material and the effect on her golden curls was that of a halo shining about her head. Alfred felt the breath drying up in his throat and he swallowed as he took in the sight of her.
‘Do you like it?’ he asked, praying for an affirmative reply.
‘I love it’ she said, smoothing her hands down the silken surface that covered her hips and thighs.
This action alone was enough to transport Alfred back to his balcony, the sea breeze and the moonlight, and now there seemed to be glasses of champagne and soft music coming from somewhere, and for once there was no sign of Mrs. Mason.
‘Then it's yours’ he told her.
Turning to the hovering assistant, he spoke with new found confidence.
‘Thank you, we'll take it, please have it wrapped and it‘ll be cash’.
The salesgirl took in his shiny trousers and boring tie, and wondered just what this odd looking young man had got to do with this beautiful slim attractive girl, but then again, she saw many strange things in the course of her day, and since she was in the business of selling dreams, she gladly ushered Angelica back into the dressing room, relieved her of the wispy gown and hurried away to lay it between sheets of finest tissue paper before sliding it into an extremely expensive looking carrier bag.
Leaving the shop dressed in the same clothes that they had walked in with, Alfred found himself wondering if it had all been a dream, but then he felt the reassuring weight of the packages that he carried and saw the happiness and pride with which Angelica swung the bag from her hand, the golden logo of the shop gleaming for all to see.
‘And now for something completely different’ he joked, ‘I'm starving. Where's this sandwich bar you were bragging about?’
‘Before we go any further’ she said firmly, ‘Lunch is on me and I won't hear another word’.
‘That's extremely kind of you Mademoiselle’ he teased, already making up his mind to have the least expensive sandwich in the shop.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)