Love and Chaos. Part 1(C) Melanie 1

12th November 2020

Photo by Pete Flatwound. Follow Pete on Instagram:

Part One. London. September 1992 – Spring 1993


Unlike Richard, who had left University more or less spontaneously, Chris had planned his gap year.

He had travelled so many times to London from the Midlands to see concerts and films, or just to savour the atmosphere of a city, that he thought he should live there for a year. He knew about the crowds, the rudeness of people, the near impossibility of making friends not to mention the astronomical cost of everything, but was prepared for this and welcomed the experience, before returning to complete the degree and then to embark on a brilliant career.

He explained this to Richard one Tuesday night in a small, quiet pub they liked near Soho Square. They had decided that it being only a Tuesday, they needed a drink. Debbie was going to join them, but cancelled and although Charlotte did come, she left after fifteen minutes, a fact that Richard vocally blamed Chris for. Chris took full responsibility.

So they were left to themselves and compared notes on their studies and on the whole student experience, both of them expressing severe disappointment and boredom. Both of them had had images of idealised college life, inspired by books and films and they, in their separate campuses, were having an increasingly difficult time reconciling fantasy with reality.

They simultaneously decided to end that conversation and broadened the topic from student life to life in general.

Their tastes in the arts, seemed to be so similar that Richard wondered if Chris was just agreeing to be polite.

Chris kept checking his watch and even ran outside, just to check the name of the pub.

“She’ll be here, soon,” he said, but didn’t elaborate.

And then Melanie arrived. For many years after, Richard was still unsure as to the extent of the relationship between her and Chris.

At that first meeting, she seemed to be just an old friend of his from the Midlands, in town for a few days, but over subsequent meetings, all in pubs or on the way to pubs, he detected that there may have been something deeper. Her manner of speaking to and about Chris showed a certain familiarity. The mocking tone and disparaging comments which alternated with sometimes quite embarrassing compliments, seemed to border on the obsessive.

A further clue may have been the fact that she was transferring to London to complete her art history course, stating that it was the obvious move, with all the galleries and resources in the capital. Richard couldn’t be certain, but he thought he saw Chris shudder upon hearing this news. She had already found a place to stay, a place which sounded far better than where either Chris or Richard lived and there was the implicit offer that Chris could move in, but that point hung in the air, unresolved.

Despite her seeming openness, and slightly forced affability, Melanie exuded an air of confidence that veered uncomfortably close to arrogance, especially when the subject of conversation was the arts.

She apparently had seen all the films worth seeing (in her irreproachable opinion), all the exhibitions worth attending, and read all the latest books worthy of her time.

She also continually caressed her short, dyed-blonde hair, as if hunting a stray hair that was causing her irritation, continually talking or drinking or gesticulating. But there was no doubt that there was something very attractive about her and Richard found her very friendly, if a little talkative.

He mentioned this to Chris when they were momentarily alone.

“She’s nice. Can certainly talk.”

“Oh, you noticed. Yes, she has opinions. Whole bloody manifestos. Don’t start her on art, there’s no off-switch. She suddenly turns into back-of-book blurb.”

Richard laughed at this reference to their work, then added, quickly,

“Quite cute, too. You and her … ?”

“She’s like a tap,” was all Chris allowed, obtusely. “Runs hot and cold.”

Before Richard could ask further, Melanie returned and more drinks were ordered and the night blurred into drinking, walking and tube tunnels that seemed to go on forever.

Melanie became such a regular drinking partner that by January, it was taken as read that she would be joining them whenever she was free, which was at least twice a week. The three went to films together, generally those selected by Melanie, the occasional museum and once or twice, money permitting, an Indian restaurant. Chris noticed that when she came to the Fordham’s staff drinks, her presence seemed to deter others from speaking to them, so he tried to discourage her, to little effect.

By this time, there had been changes at Fordham’s. Angela and Debbie had both moved on to jobs in publishing, Simon and Ben had simply moved on. Derek, a full timer from Transport was now acting head of Technical and as Richard had requested a department change, he was also relocated to Chris’ section. Work now played a very poor second to ever increasing jokes.

Richard would develop a serious limp every time persistence customers demanded that he go and check the shelves for them. Chris would pretend to be a customer and stand between a genuine shopper and the shelves, blocking their view, whilst keeping a serious, searching look on his face and continuously shifting position to maintain the blockade. They would both try on new accents, a favourite being an invention of Richard, The Cockney, who would appear only when a pompously aristocratic customer demanded attention. The Cockney would normally open procedures by a friendly

“Yes, Squire, what can I do ya for ?” then loudly asking another member of staff to take over as he, “was dying for a slash.” The Cockney would often interrupt transactions, shouting across the shop floor to passing staff, “go git a cut-a-teee, there’s a luv.” which even Chris found somewhat impenetrable. However, Chris was intent not to be outdone, and on one occasion, he came into the staff room, one lunchtime, while Richard was massaging Charlotte. He didn’t have time to pass comment, as he was accosted by the most senior member of staff, an ex-public school type, wanting to know if Chris was, “The vending boy ?”

Gilbert, always dressed in blazer and tie, was having trouble getting a cup of tea. Without a flinch, Chris studied the machine and slowly drew his hand to his chin and nodded.

“I see. Forgive the question, Sir, but did you by any chance use a coin of foreign denomination ?”

“Certainly not.”

“No French Franc ? It’s easily done. You may answer without prejudice.”

“No, I used two ten-pence coins.”

“Twisted or in any way deformed ?”

“Not that I was able to ascertain.”

“Ah, ‘able to ascertain’, I see, I see. I don’t have my tools with me. They’re in the van. OK, you stay here, you stay right here and I’ll be back promptly.”

With that, Chris left, taking his coffee in the second floor staff room. He kept a low profile all afternoon as he realised that Gilbert must, at some point, emerge, and would, he predicted, not appreciate the humour.

One Saturday, Ed brought in two fez hats and dared Richard and Chris to wear them, all day. Without hesitation, they both put them on, with earnest ceremony, and won the dare. There was a tricky moment, when Chris had to deal with an irate customer who wanted to return a book, but had no receipt, and something of an Egyptian stand-off occurred, neither side backing down, until the customer threw the book into a pile and fled the shop, cursing.

There was widespread applause and laughter. Ed stood open-mouthed, and had some difficulty in asking,

“How … how did you do it ? I would have cracked up. Oh, that’s it, you’re the main man, I swear.”

General sounds of concurrence.

“You were so calm, I thought he was going to hit you. When he threw the book. And with the hat on.” Admiration from Sophie, a new girl in Biology.

“It was because I had the hat on. It’s impossible to be angry at someone in a Fez.”

“Really ?” asked Sophie, as if it were a piece of received wisdom that had so far eluded her.

“You saw for yourself,” said Richard, gesturing to the invincible Chris.

Their department became the place to hang out, not least because Chris always brought in a small radio for live football commentary. Every Saturday, Dave from the main desk in General Fiction would pass by around ten to six, and hang out and chat while the scores came in. The rest of the week, he wouldn’t even acknowledge them.

“Our fair-weather friend,” pointed out Richard as he saw Dave coming up the escalators on cue. This time he knew about the fez incident as seemed keen to discuss it. It had been telegraphed all around the shop and everyone was impressed. Everyone, except the manager who summoned Chris to his office the following Monday and gave him an official warning. Chris observed the order of the fez by not mentioning that Richard had also sported the hat, a fact that entitled him to free drinks that night, after they decided that it was only Monday and therefore cause enough for a session.

As spring came, Richard knew that his time was nearing its end, unless he were to be made full time. As that didn’t seem to be in the offing, he began looking around for other jobs and finally got accepted as assistant manager in a small classical record shop in the City. He had a genuine love of Classical music and that along with his experience and ability to improvise quick, impressive answers, got him the position. His happiness was tempered when it was revealed to him that the other candidates couldn’t tell their arias from their Elgars.

The timing coincided with a new, permanent manager in Technical. Nigel was in his late twenties but could well have been late forties in both appearance and mentality. He had been the manager of a bookshop in the Home Counties and acted as if he were manager of the entire Fordham’s, sometimes even referring to himself as Floor Manager, a post that simply didn’t exist.

Naturally, his style clashed with Richard, who was on his last week, and Chris, who had been happy drifting, not being told what to do. He also asked for a transfer, but with his disciplinary record, it was never going to happen. And then the incident occurred that forced the hand of the management and, indirectly, the course of their lives for the next few years.

It was a Wednesday morning in London in spring, which meant it looked like a black and white film. The sky was grey, the roads were grey, the building were grey, the people looked grey. There was a light, persistence drizzle outside, constant and irritating.

Richard and Chris were talking about the film that Melanie had dragged them to.

“She knew who the D.P. was … I didn’t even know what the D.P. was,” said Chris.

“What a turkey. I don’t care how many festivals it won. Megabore.”

Their review was interrupted by a stern-looking customer who dripped onto the desk and looked over his glasses at them with a look of disdain and impatience. Without any introduction, he shouted out the name of a certain book, as if expecting it to be there waiting for him. Chris rose to the occasion.

Adopting a similar expression as the middle-aged man, he walked slowly, yet purposefully out from behind the desk, somewhat in the manner of a somnambulist forced to obey an inner command. He didn’t change his expression once as he told the man, in such a close repetition of his own voice that it startled Richard, to, “Follow me.”

Chris went to the nearest bookshelf and scanned first one, then another and another shelf. Slowly shaking his head, he progressed to the reverse of the unit and repeated his performance. Then onto another unit. And another, all the time, the unwitting victim trailing him and seeming to actually grow in confidence that the book would soon be discovered.

Minutes passed and Chris had covered half of the shop floor and was now busy on the second, but increasing his pace, knowing that timing is all important. Then, without a word, he disappeared down the escalators, never looking back. The man was visibly perturbed and unable to decide what to do, when he suddenly made a dash for the escalators and ran after Chris.

Richard moved over to the window, but couldn’t believe it when he saw Chris on the street below, closely followed by the hapless chap, walking over the side street and into a neighbouring bookstore. Some minutes later, Chris came out and, seeing Richard in the window, gave a thumbs up sign, which slowly sank as he saw Nigel behind Richard’s back.

Several hours later, in their usual pub, Chris explained what had happened in the manager’s office. It had been quick and painless. His pay check was already made out in cash, along with his paperwork. From that moment on, he was free to seek other employment.

“I’ll ask at Warren’s,” said Richard, referring to the new company he was to work for, “but it’s only a small shop. Maybe there’s other branches.”

“Yeah, thanks. I have to find something. I’ve got my rent covered this week, but next week could be troublesome. This,” tapping the pay pocket in his chest pocket, “isn’t going to last long, especially the way you drink.”

As reward for such an impressive joke, Richard insisted on paying, but Chris was having a hard time maintaining the good humour. Richard noticed this, after Chris had gotten up to use the toilet and the way was blocked by a young lady who was kneeling on the floor, showing a crowded table some photos.

“It’s OK, darling, just climb over my legs.” she instructed, and he did so without comment. Not even a subtle wink. Richard thought of a possibility and when Chris returned, he borrowed some change to make a call. He returned, smiling.

“Right, it’s not much, but it’s something.”

“What ?” asked Chris, without enthusiasm.

“Better than nothing. A place to start, Pay the rent, anyway.”

“What are you talking about ?”

“I’ve got you an interview tomorrow at Howard’s. I used to work there, before Fordham’s, so I called the manager and he’ll see you, two-thirty tomorrow. Ask for Mr …”

“Howard ?”

“Sealey. You’ll like him, he’s a character. Bit of a sergeant-major type and sometimes, to be honest, a bit whiffy. But he owns four stores, so good for him.”

Richard went on to tell about the job, how it would be quite hard, never a chance to sit down and about the type of produce and client.

“You’ll be dealing with Earls and Barons and minor members of the Royal Family.”

“Really ?”

“Oh, yeah. Awfully nice, actually. Charming. Be that as it may, most people are quite polite but you will get those who’ll treat you like shit. You’ll learn humility.”

“And the money ?”

“Yeah, it’s not great, but you get lunch and leftovers. Two-thirty tomorrow. Don’t wear the fez.”

“Thanks. Good advice. Now, I appear to have a fistful of dollars. What shall we drink ?”

Love and Chaos Part 1(A) Richard 1

11th November 2020

The decline of Tottenham Court Road, former electronics capital of London –  urban75 photo features

Part One. London. August 1991 – September 1992

Everything came to a head for Richard Marshall that summer.

The University course and campus life were nowhere near as exciting as he had been expecting; no budding life-long friendships, merely uninspiring inoffensive exchanges with fellow students. The lectures either confused or bored him. Indeed, as the year progressed, he felt the only reason he went at all, was to get away from the bed-sit.

The bed-sit. Another way life was cheating him. The landlord, a rather over-familiar sort, had oversold it, telling him what was going to happen, what improvements were going to be made, how the washing machine would “soon” be repaired and Richard had believed all of it. But one point irritated him beyond all others.

When he had been shown the house, he had glimpsed a very attractive girl hanging her washing in the garden, said washing consisting solely, it seemed, of black lingerie. He didn’t know that it was her last week in the house and that she would be gone before he arrived.

A suitable metaphor of his luck. No wild student parties, no hot flat-mates running around in skimpy underwear.

The house was home to a bleak collection of loners and misfits: a recently divorced teacher, a prudish secretary, a Danish student, unbelievably arrogant, and a girl about whom he knew little and wished to know even less. Unfortunately her boyfriend had semi-officially moved in and tended to walk around the house singing, “Arsenal, Arsenal.”

Richard had to move and to do that, he needed money. To do anything in London, he needed money, so that made the decision easier; he wouldn’t go back for the second year of the Physics degree, but would take some time out, get a job, save up.

Initially, he went to a temp agency and got some unskilled factory work, then unskilled kitchen work, then progressed to a record store, for the Christmas rush, subsequently onto a bigger branch in the new year, then to a provisions shop in the West End. He moved to a better bed-sit, bigger room, less tenants. He enjoyed being able to buy food other than dried beans, and had signaled his new affluence with five different types of deodorant.

One day he was in Fordham Books & Tapes, looking at the well-stocked Physics Department, and began a conversation with the elegant Finnish lady who worked there. He jokingly asked about a job and she told him that with his background in physics and a university education, he had a good chance, providing he applied before the post-study student onslaught.

Thus, at the beginning of June 1992, having passed the perfunctory interview, Richard was offered a place in either the Physics or Medicine departments and, unsurprisingly, choose the former. On his first day he was directed to his new post; the Theology Department.

That gave him plenty of scope for jokes, but they, like the work, soon got tired. He was alone in the small top floor corner of the immense five-floor store, and found himself dealing not with quiet vicars or genteel old ladies, but obnoxious occultists who cursed him for not stocking out-of-print diabolical texts or people proclaiming that they would be paying in US Dollars, as printed on the back cover. Every second customer demanded a discount because they were buying Bibles and how dare he profit off the prophets. Richard became very familiar with camels and needles.

Evidently, working in a bookshop in the West End would be no picnic. The threats of assault, the atmosphere of barely repressed anger and frustration and the constant alerts for shoplifters and pickpockets made for an unpleasant environment. Something had to done.

Richard, at first, dressed the part, turning up in a suit, causing no end of amusement among the other staff who were very causally dressed. He toned down, by degree, but still chose to wear a smart shirt and more often than not, a tie, though now it was more for irony than fashion. It also helped in the playing of pranks.

By mid August, there was no pretence that this was in any way a serious job. It paid a weekly wage, but staff were mostly on temporary contracts. This created an attitude where as long as staff did the minimum required, which most of them did, they would be left alone to do as they pleased.

Richard had been a fan of Mark Twain, more specifically Tom Sawyer and how he wouldn’t just sit back, like Huck Finn, and allow things to happen, but would instigate them. He must follow the same approach.

At first, he left his department, which was hardly a hub of activity, to talk to other members of staff. Philosophy was next door, but the staff were too pretentious, as if it were they who had actually written the books, so Richard peregrinated further, eventually covering most of the five floors. He would go up to the desks and ask the staff if everything was ‘OK ?’ Afterwards, he would explain that he was doing the regulation ‘OK check’. The foreign staff seemed to respond better to this than the British who mainly just looked at him and shook their heads.

One night, after clocking out, an unpleasant, heavily-built man, working in Military, got out of the staff lift, letting the door swing back into young Charlotte (who was in classics), giving her a hefty blow to the head. Charlotte was one of several women that Richard liked and had frequently yet innocently flirted with, when their lunch breaks coincided.

Richard, who comprised the third person in the lift, had just cause to caress Charlotte’s head and plant a gentle kiss there. Unfortunately she had a second job to get to and therefore couldn’t go for a drink, to help ‘numb the pain’.

A few days later, and for several weeks thereafter, the villain of the piece received, among the usual delivery of books on uniforms, weaponry and famous battles, various self-help books on dealing with obesity, addressed to him, personally. Ordering books was just a phone call and a Department number away.

The next step was harassing new staff with instructions to meet him half an hour before work in the office, on the following Friday, for the informal Arabic lessons.

Four months into his contract, having already decided that he needed at least another year to save up before continuing his degree, Richard saw that there was a new intake of staff. He checked out the fresh victims, deciding that the two women were not suitable at all, but that the lanky lost-looking lad in Technical was a prime target. He went to the first floor, ostensibly to borrow a Hoover, but more to get background information. After a brief chat with Angela, he went over to the desk where Simon and Ben were engaged in one of their inane conversations.

“What’s the new guy’s name ?”

“Dirk,” offered Simon.

“No it ain’t, it’s Chris Somingkkk.”

“Well, which one is it ?”

“What you going to do this time ? Arabic ?” asked Ben.

“No, got something a little more … you’ll see. So, who is he ?”

“Yeah, Ben’s right, Chris’s his moniker. Friday’s best, no Angela.”

“Friday ? Right. You’ll both be here ? Good. Just follow my lead. No giggling.”

That lunchtime, Richard went out and bought a specimen jar from a nearby chemists.