On the west
side of Downshire is Northchapel which has always been the Industrial
powerhouse of the County and although it doesn’t physically occupy its center
it is the beating heart of the County.
In recent
generations its fortunes had suffered greatly but in the 70s it was still a
major employer, and one of those employers was Pomery’s Perfume’s, which was an old family business
established in 1879 by Jules Sebastian Pomery.
They had
moved to that location in Northchapel in 1928, to the broad white building
which was a prime example of the Art Deco style with its angles, curves and
symmetry.
Not that Thomas Evans had any appreciation
of the stylish building, it was just where he worked.
He started there straight from school in
1969 and had been at Pomery’s for six years when the memorable Christmas Lunch
occurred.
It was four days before Christmas 1975 and
the staff had just returned to the factory after having had their Christmas
lunch at the Long Ship pub.
Although in truth calling it “Christmas Lunch”
was perhaps a bit of a stretch and makes it sound grander that it actually was,
in the 1970s, even in Northchapel, pub grub was very unsophisticated fare and
invariably consisted of Chicken in a Basket or a Ploughman’s.
The more up market establishments might
well offer Scampi in a Basket and a selection of Ploughman’s including a
variety of cheeses as alternatives to the norm.
The Long Ship however was not an up-market
establishment in any way shape or form and offered Chicken in a Basket or
cheddar cheese Ploughman’s, however in addition to that, as it was Christmas
you got a Mince Pie as well.
So, after their “Christmas Lunch” they all
arrived back at work with some of their number much the worse for drink.
Tom Evans himself had perhaps over
indulged to a small degree with an unspecified number of Light and Bitters so
as a consequence he was wearing beer goggles and even scabby Carole was looking
passable, as was Wonky Wendy, so called because she
had a wonky eye, in fact Wendy had one eye that looked at you, while the other
one was looking for you.
Not a politically correct name
and “Wonky” wasn't even a very imaginative nickname but there you have it, that
was the 70s and they were simple folk and easily amused, but regardless of the
appropriateness of the name, Tom thought that viewed through
beer goggles even she looked quite appetising.
Another of the girls he wouldn’t normally have
looked at twice, had he been sober, was Patricia Clarke, although she had nice
eyes and a pretty smile, other than that she was a plain looking girl about a
year younger than he was.
Over the previous year Pat had made no
secret of the fact that she fancied Tom, he on the other hand did not fancy her
one iota and not because she was plain or because she was stick thin and
featureless or because she was ginger, the truth was she just didn’t do it for him,
but that was without the benefit of alcohol fuelled lust.
On returning to the factory they continued
the party in the canteen, Tom’s tipple of choice from what was available was
Light Ale while for Pat it was Port and Lemon and on that day they both necked a
few and with every bottle of beer he drank Pat was
getting prettier and prettier, and it reached a point that when she went off to
the loo he followed a few minutes later and intercepted her as she returned and
took her into the coat room.
It was a small room, about 20’
square, with frosted glass on two sides but with the lights off it was dark
enough in the shadows for what he had in mind, and apparently it was what she
had in mind too, because as soon as the door closed behind them Pat was all
over him like a rash and her tongue was in his mouth like an Excocet missile,
and her hands were all over him.
“Blimey you're keen” Tom
thought to himself and thought he had better join in quick and yanked her
blouse from the waist band of her skirt and partly unbuttoned it before going
in search of her treasures and when he found them, such as they were, he made a
startling discovery.
Not a Scaramanga third nipple kind of thing, what Tom found was something
altogether different.
Tom Evans was just a callow youth and he
wasn’t hugely experienced in the ways of the world, but he had unbuttoned
enough blouses, and unhooked enough bra’s, and had sufficient experience of their
contents to know that nipples shouldn’t be hairy, the last thing he expected to
find surrounding her treasures were course two-inch-long
curly ginger hairs, although the ginger part was an assumption as he didn’t
actually get to see them.
At the time his brain was sufficiently
fogged by Light Ale for him not to care that the contents of her bra were unconventional,
so he just resumed his examination of her form and his hands headed south,
where he got his hand up her skirt easy enough and was attempting to get his
hand in the promised land when the door flew open.
“Aye, aye” Shaft said
Shaft was the Warehouse Foreman,
his real name was Ted, but his nickname was Shaft, not because he was black, or
was a fan of the TV show, but because he was shafting Beryl from picking, Tom
did the gentlemanly thing and positioned himself between Ted and Pat, so she
could redress herself.
“I’ve just come for my coat”
Ted said with a chuckle as he took his coat off the peg
“Carry on” he said and closed
the door.
Tom would have liked to carry
on where he left off, but Pat wasn’t so keen in light of their discovery, so they
went back to the party and that was that.
He never had another close
encounter with Pat and in the light of his discovery, he had no desire to, as
in the sober light of day he didn’t fancy her.
The day after their
St Thomas’ Day fumble in the coat room, when the alcohol fog had lifted,
like his namesake he had doubts about the encounter, Tom
had always assumed that Pat was short for Patricia but after his discovery, he
wasn’t so sure.
Obviously if Shaft hadn’t
interrupted them when his hand was up her skirt and he had reached his goal he
would have known for sure if his Christmas fumble was fish or
fowl, but he didn’t so he remained a Doubting Thomas.
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