I'm All Right Jack (12 page)

“Perhaps we could sit here for a bit while I think,” said Stanley. He thought for a moment and then said “Cynthia….”, heaving himself round towards her, but simultaneously catching his knee on the window ledge and his head on the roof.

“Blast,” he said, subsiding. He had not thought of the courting difficulties of the bubble car, so obsessed had he been with miles per gallon. “Let’s go and sit on one of the benches,” he suggested, “while I think it out.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” demurred Cynthia.

“Oh, come on,” urged Stanley, plunging round again and catching his knuckles on something. His attention was distracted by an impolite rap above him. Squinting up, he saw the face and helmet of a policeman, some distance up.

“Yes?”

“Trouble?”

“Yes. I banged my head.”

“Oh yes? You thinking of staying here? Only you can’t.”

He did not seem to be the nice man children are taught to consult when in trouble, but then, policemen are very snobbish about motor cars.

“Well, I’ll have to stay till I get some petrol, officer. I’ve run out.”

“Oh yes? The young lady all right, is she?”

“Oh, I’m all right,” said Cynthia.

“You didn’t think I was attacking her, did you, ha-ha?”
asked Stanley. But the policeman was not to be bought with fair speech. A companion policeman came across from the river wall.

“Says he’s run out of petrol,” said the first policeman over his shoulder. The second policeman made a little noise of contempt.

The first policeman began a mild inspection of the bubble car, poking it and then giving it a rather scornful rock on its springs with his foot.

“Thought these never used any petrol at all,” he sniffed. “Just shows you.”

“Don’t know any all night garage round here?” asked the second policeman of his companion.

The other drew in his breath with a long sucking sound, wagging his head. “Victoria’s the nearest,” he said at last.

They both looked at Stanley.

“Well, I live near there,” said Stanley. “That’s
something
.”

“Fair way to push,” said the second policeman, sniffing. “Still.”

“Look, I couldn’t
leave
it here, I suppose …?” asked Stanley. “Locked up?”

“You
could
‚”
admitted the first policeman. “But you’d lay yourself open. You’re obstructing, small as it is,” he added derisively.

“Oh come on,” said Cynthia impatiently, getting out.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to get in again in the front seat and steer,” said Stanley. “And I’ll put the lid back on and shove.”

“What?”

“Young lady got a licence, has she?”

“No, but I don’t see how else I can do it.”

The policemen looked dubiously at each other for a while.

“Ah well,” the second one said, relenting. “We’ll look the other way.”

But they both watched the curious equipage out of sight.

The thing rolled easily enough, but to Stanley, shuffling along in the gutter, the bubble car was about the same
height as a pram. It was odd to be wheeling a grumbling Cynthia in it.

“That’s the last time I go in that,” she announced, emerging in Eaton Square. “And the way you let those coppers talk to you: just like dirt.”

“Policemen always talk to me like that, and anyway all the buses are on strike.” Having to stay otherwise at home was a telling consideration with the Kite family.

“Actually I was on the point of asking you to marry me,” went on Stanley, “but I don’t feel like it now.”

“You picked a funny place.”

“Well, anyway, what about coming on this outing?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Dad’s going.”

“Oh, that’s all right. We can go in one of the other coaches. Why’s Dad going, by the way? It doesn’t sound like him.”

“To keep an eye on Mum.”

“Y
O
U KNOW
, Wallace,” said Stanley in the Buttery of the Hyde Park Hotel, “you can say what you like, but I really think I’m beginning to
fit
in.
For the first time in my life.”

“Good for you,” said Wallace Hardy-Freeman absently, thinking of the chances for his re-posting application. “I only ever really fitted in in Bangkok. How I hate it here.”

“Let’s face it,” went on Stanley. “I never could play rugger at school, and I suppose that was what was wrong with me in the army too. Then at Oxford I only got a third. Now why was that? Anyway. And they didn’t think I fitted in at the Foreign Office and witch-hunted me.”

“And you wouldn’t have fitted in making soap and whatnot.”

“No. They work you like mad and anyway I kept sneezing. But I get on like a house on fire at this factory and make endless money.”

“Jolly crowd to work with, I imagine? They looked a rather suspicious lot to me when I went round.”

“Oh well, you went round with all those coloured gentlemen and all the management. I’m just one of the cogs. You see, it’s the Age of the Cogs. And then there’s Cynthia. Here’s to Cynthia.”

“Good health to Cynthia. Incidentally, I’m expecting a rather nice Persian girl to turn up any moment. I came across her at the Conference….”

“How are your industrial relations coming along, Bertie?” asked Cox. “Deteriorating, I hope?”

“Not so far,” admitted Uncle Bertram. “But we’ve got all the elements of a nice dissension. There’s this new Time and Motion man mad keen to ginger up the efficiency, and there’s the outing this weekend. That always unsettles them for a couple of days afterwards.”

“How about young Stan?”

“Oh, young Stanley is convinced he really fits in to the industrial pattern. Actually, he sticks out like a sore thumb.”

“We not got much time,” pointed out Cox. “Couple more days and we’ll be tooled-up at Shipshape Harpoons to do those rockets. You can’t just rely on old Stan.”

“Oh no, of course not. There’s a whole lot of things I can do to stir things up. Don’t you worry: I’m going to do them all.”

The day of the outing dawned uncertainly, and by eight o’clock an intermittent drizzle was coming down on the dozen coaches which stood drawn up at the entrance to Missiles. It came down, too, on Mr Hitchcock, who stood greeting the workers charmingly as they arrived, and talking gloomily to the Time and Motion man during lulls.

“How are you, Mr Prince? Fit? Jolly good, that’s the stuff. Morning, Tanner. Looks as if it’ll clear. Hullo, Mr Kite, Mrs Kite. What’s the form? Jolly good.”

The people thus greeted returned these good wishes cautiously and entered the coaches with a curious air of sour wariness, as if half expecting them to burst into flames.

“Glad you came along, old boy,” said Mr Hitchcock in low tones to the Time and Motion man. “I’m always on thorns over this business. Never know what’ll crop up; they’re an ungrateful lot. Who are these people? Don’t
know them.
Good
morning,
Hawkins,
good
morning.
Hope
you
enjoy
yourself.
It’ll
clear
up,
I
expect.
Morning,
Miss
Blake;
that’s
the
stuff.
The whole day’ll be
ghastly,
but what I really dread is when we all stop at a pub on the way back tonight.” He shuddered, and took a quick swig at a brandy flask. “Drunken lot.”

With noncommittal faces becoming less and less visible through the rapidly steaming windows, the procession of coaches moved off.

“Any idea when we’ll get there, Knowlesy?” asked Stanley as the coaches crawled through a traffic jam on Maidstone bridge.

“——d if I know,” admitted Knowlesy, in a low tone because Cynthia was sitting next to Stanley. “But don’t you worry; they’ll still be open.”

“Oh, I was thinking more of the tide,” explained Stanley.

“What? You brought your
costume
?”
asked Knowlesy, incredulously.

“Yes, of course.”

“Blimey, I dunno. I told you it was a booze-up. Perce!” he called, to Perce Carter, who was sitting near the front. “Young Stan’s brought his cozzy. Laugh!”

“You not brought your bucket and spade, then?” called Perce Carter. “Eh, Squire? I say you’ve not brought your bucket and spade, ’ave you, Squire? Young Stan’s brought ’is swimming cozzy,” he went on, bending across the gangway to a crony. “I said I don’t suppose ’e’s brought ’is bucket and spade, eh? Eh?”

But he ultimately tired of this
mot,
and leaned back again to doze. Most of the coach load were in a similar torpor, though Cynthia was eating. Her friend Brenda was in the same coach towards the rear, sitting with her Baz. Stanley could see one of Baz’s feet sticking out in the gangway, a
pink radioactive sock glowing away. When the coach
wireless
gave out a tune familiar to Baz, Stanley was aware of a continuous pink oscillation at the corner of his field of vision, as Baz’s foot beat out the rhythm. Stanley held Cynthia’s left hand, which she permitted, unless she needed its help in her eating.

The weather had cleared a little, and when they arrived at the coach park in Ramstairs it seemed as if the rain might hold off. Everyone began getting down and
stretching
, though as yet there was no life in the party. The characteristic smells of whelks, batter, mud and ozone surrounded them in the peculiarly bright light.

“I’m off to the Bull with Perce Carter,” announced Knowlesy. “You coming along later?”

A large proportion of the party seemed similarly resolute, making off at once to pubs they remembered from previous years.

“Start back at eight,” said the driver. “Can’t wait for nobody.”

Stanley could hear a loud guffaw across the coach park. Mrs Kite was opting for the Green Lion, overriding Kitey’s gloomy presentiments of beer specially watered for the holidaying workers.

“Get out of it; always keep on
nattering
‚”
she exclaimed. “I’m off there, with Mrs Jordan and Sid and his friend, even if you’re not. Why d’you never enjoy yourself, stead of keeping on about capitalist oppression?”

Stanley took Cynthia on several of the amusements, keeping her fed on the shellfish she fancied. They had rather an early lunch at Cynthia’s request, with Baz and Brenda, among gleaming surfaces of chromium, formica and marble, to the music of a monstrous omelette-coloured juke-box, into which Baz inserted a number of coins. The records he had paid for did not come into sequence until after they had eaten, and as he had been on edge to hear them it did not surprise Stanley that he should opt to hang on with Brenda afterwards and have some of his money’s worth.

“Listen ta this one, it’s t’r’i’c,” said Baz. “Billy Jones.”

“I like him,” said Brenda.

“He’s not bad,” said Cynthia.

“Who is he?” asked Stanley.

“You kiddin’?” asked Baz. “Top pop singer all this month. Get that voice. You read his life story? When you think that boy was working in an undertaker’s till this April.”

“I read it was a butcher’s shop,” said Brenda. “Only eighteen and never got in the choir at school.”

Baz was mouthing the words.

“Well, I
was
in the choir at school,” said Stanley.

“Ah, you’ll never be any good at this stuff then,” said Baz, breaking off briefly before intoning again: “Der-hoo ya lar-huv me ber-haby coz Ah’ll do maself i-hin …”

Cynthia and Stanley spent a quiet hour after the meal looking at a Chamber of Horrors, several freaks and a rather disappointing dance routine by one Karima from the Exotic Kasbah. Stanley was new to these forms of enjoyment and was quite pleased with the day.

“Look, there’s Mum,” said Cynthia, a little after closing time, and there, sure enough, was Mrs Kite on the railings of a jetty with Perce Carter and several others. To a little cheer from the crowd they all jumped into the shallow water, fully dressed, though Mrs Kite was restrained at the last moment by her husband.

“Mum always has a good time,” said Cynthia at this episode. “They’ve all had a drop too much.”

From the water by the jetty came a cry from Perce Carter: “Ain’t you brought your cozzy, Mrs Kite?” and the crowd cackled.

“I’m sorry, would
you
like a swim at all?” asked Stanley. “I’d meant to ask.”

“Oh, I dunno,” demurred Cynthia. “It’s always so cold. What about the pictures or a tea-dance?”

“Oh, you could do that at home,” objected Stanley. “What about something different?”

“Well, what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How about the cliff railway?”

“Where’s it go to, apart from up the cliff?”

“Well, there’s sort of gardens at the top, it says. Let’s get away from all these people.”

“I thought you said you liked all the crowds.”

“Well, not all the time.”

They went up in the car, painted the bright omelette colour affected by nearly all the commercial and civic enterprises in Ramstairs, and from the top saw the same colour spreading far over the hinterland where groups of chalets and caravans had taken root. The cliff gardens were rather small and formal, with gnomes, and proved to be deliberately designed to forestall any dalliance,
containing
a number of well-exposed benches and two notices exhorting visitors to Commit No Nuisance. There was a form of cave, Stanley noticed, but with an iron gate to it and a floor an inch deep in sweet wrappings.

“I’ve often wondered,” said Stanley, “what
are
these
cave-things
with iron gates? You get them everywhere in parks.”

“
I
don’t know,” said Cynthia, a little irritably. “I expect they keep things in them.”

“
What
things, though?”

“How should I know?”

“What’s the matter, Cynthia?”

“I’m getting a bit hungry.”

So Stanley abandoned any plans of asking her to marry him, and they went down again for an early tea.

It was impossible to lie and sunbathe on the beach because of the great press of people there and the persistent lack of sun, so they wandered round the shops and along the promenade, eating and settling into the atmosphere of the place. This process was completed by the purchase of two cardboard hats, each bearing a strange device. Stanley’s said:
ALL RIGHT FOR TONIGHT
? and Cynthia’s: 
I PREFER SAILORS
.

At eight o’clock the coaches started back, with many a jolly chorus, and after an hour stopped at a large floodlit inn with a sign: Coaches by Appointment. They all got out and went into the single-storey annexe where temporary help stood ready to deal with them.

“Coming in, Stan?” called Knowlesy. “Half hour stop. It’s on the firm.”

The scrum inside the annexe took Stanley aback, but he fought his way gamely to the bar for drinks for himself and Cynthia. He could not see her when he got back, and tiring of the noise he made his way through to the main building of the inn and sat down for a minute in the private bar. The noise here was more tolerable. He had lost his cardboard hat and half his drink in the annexe, but he was able to drink the rest peacefully. He was about to go when a man sat down morosely beside him and then gave a cry of recognition.

“Windrush!” he said. “I know you, don’t I?
Extraordinary
thing seeing you again. You remember me? Hitchcock.”

Stanley and the Personnel Manager had not so far met.

“Oh yes, in the Army,” said Stanley. “You were a major. You gave me seven days’ once.”

“Bad luck,” said Mr Hitchcock. “Mind you, that unit was an absolute shower. You live round here, I suppose?”

“No, I live in London.”

“Really? Actually I’m just here for the evening. My dear chap, I’ve had an absolutely
appalling
day. Down at Ramstairs, taking a works outing. Frightful place. You ever been? I shouldn’t. I can’t think why I stay at this job I’ve got, frankly.”

“Oh, what job’s that?”

“Personnel Manager. Never go in for it. Waiter, another shot in the arm. Brandy. Must have one more before I go in the annexe and face the swinish multitude.”

“The annexe? But that’s a works outing from—— Oh.”

“That’s it, old boy. Missiles.” A cheer arose from the annexe. “Hear that? That’s them.”

“Stanley,” said Cynthia’s voice at his elbow, “here you are. Aren’t you coming back in? Mum’s doing a knees-up.” Baz was with her. There was no concealing their social status.

“Er, yes, of course, do excuse me,” said Stanley, agitated at being revealed. “I must—er.”

Mr Hitchcock’s eye followed him to the door. It had an extremely curious expression in it.

“This is the place,” said Uncle Bertram as the hired Rolls turned into the enclosure of the coaching inn. “Where are you going to wait?”

“Oh, I’ll nip in the old saloon bar while you’re busy,” said Cox. “Don’t forget to pitch it good and strong. Crummy, they sound lively enough.” The tinkle of glass could be plainly heard from the annexe above the merry hubbub. “Don’t forget the bits about working their fingers to the bone, and maintaining the Old Country’s place in world markets.”

Uncle Bertram, expensively and provocatively dressed, lit a cigar.

“Leave it to me, my dear Cox,” he said. “Leave it to me.”

“Glad you could get here, sir,” said Mr Hitchcock, looking dubiously at Uncle Bertram’s opulent turn-out. “You’ll find they’re a bit noisy, but it’s always like that.”

“Grand, my dear Hitchcock. That’s the right spirit. As you know, the Chairman can’t leave his sick-bed. He was very grateful when I suggested I should go and do the honours.”

They had a quick brandy and made their way into the multitude, Mr Hitchcock switching on his jolly face at the doorway. He introduced Bertram to Kitey and Charlie Prince, as representatives of the two major unions, and conducted them all to the little bandstand at the end of the room, apologizing for shifting several affectionate couples when they arrived. Still smiling ingratiatingly, he blew a blast on a whistle. This was greeted with a cry or two of “Where’s your glasses, ref?” and “Mind the door, there, please,” but the noise died down.