Authors: Tom Davies
Bums on Seats (9 page)
The girl managed a little smile for him. It really was a beautiful day, and very pleasant just lolling about in a deckchair. She began to relax. Luke passed the flask again. Ten minutes later, Alastair clocked up his twentieth and ran out his partner in the process. Sharon tut-tutted in disgust and Luke scowled in sympathy with her. Yazza added more hieroglyphics to his account of the day.
Shortly, Luke cleared his throat, took a deep breath and said casually, “This is a bit boring, Sharon, and it's a lovely day. Let's take a stroll on the Common.”
She was a highly sexed girl and had started the day with high hopes. Maybe it was the drink, but she gave him an appraising glance. He was a very well built boy. She said, “Why not, Luke?”
With the next flurry of activity at the wicket, they got to their feet and casually walked away down the side of the pavilion. Yazza almost dropped his Biro. He gave them a few seconds, stuffed his notebook in blazer pocket and set off after them. There might be a scoop here!
The school cricket pitch adjoined the village Common. There was just a wooden post and wire fence, marking the boundary. Luke stepped over and offered his hand in assistance. Once over she kept hold of it. He would love to have taken off his blazer, but hoped that Yazza was following. The boy had poor eyesight. Luke thought the bright red blazer would be helpful. The path meandered about through the bushes, so Luke slowed the pace a bit by stopping and picking a wild rose for Sharon. She was touched by the romantic kindness and rewarded it with a kiss. Luke looked over her shoulder and saw a flash of Tillfield red. Great! Yazza was keeping up.
Another fifty yards on, “Drink, Sharon?”
The girl had considerable experience for her age. She'd learned that too much booze took the edge off sex for both parties, and she was something of a connoisseur. “Just a little one for us both then.” Yazza easily kept them in sight and took advantage of the pause to polish the lenses of his distance glasses.
They came to a glade, a patch of grass with silver birches. She turned and faced him, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately. “You smell dead sexy, Luke. Put your blazer down for us.” He joined her on it. The birds twittered and the bees droned. The grass whispered and insects rustled. In the middle distance there was a delightful thwack as willow met leather. All of them were as nothing compared with the rushing of blood through Luke's head and the pounding of his heart. He'd been worried about failing with his very first woman. No chance!
Yazza temporarily lost sight of them, before lowering his searching eyes for a different perspective and catching a glimpse of Luke's sparkling white shirt. He crawled nearer through the long grass to a sheltering bush. He sat up, pulled out the notebook, fumbled on his reading glasses and noted the surroundings. What an Exclusive! He would publish a Special Edition this very evening!
He changed back to distance glasses and saw Sharon's white knees raised. Beads of perspiration started down his collar. She was speaking. He couldn't hear. He dared not go any nearer. He'd have to use a bit of imagination. He reached for his hanky and gave his glasses another polish. Luke half-sat up and removed his trousers. Yazza gasped, changed his glasses again and made notes. By the time the boy had gone back to distance lenses again Luke's bottom was clearly visible, moving slowly and rhythmically up and down. The girl was making loud moaning noises. It was all too much. Yazza dropped his notebook and both sets of spectacles and fumbled his trouser zip!
EXTRA! EXTRA! EXTRA!
Turn up for The Books means Poverty in the Dorm
by Yazza
There was an astonishing outcome to the recent, highly publicised,
contest for the hand, and everything else, of a beautiful young lady whom good manners decree shall be nameless. And your special correspondent was there to observe it for you!
Informed opinion had overwhelmingly indicated that Tillfield's golden boy of the cricket field would prevail. All the evidence seemed
to support this view. Even the maiden herself appeared to favour this outcome. Yet the swain with the unlikeliest of chances, in the end, prevailed easily.
Whilst Tillfield overwhelmed Prince Henry School, a popular, but unfancied in this contest, sixth-former from another continent romped away with a different trophy! And, I can report, stayed for an encore!
The scene was an idyllic sylvan glade. Dappled sunlight illuminated the congress of our Romeo and Juliet. The only competing sound, with the audible expressions of pleasure, was the distant occasional clapping as Tillfield batsmen decimated their opponents
.
The unexpected is one of life's delightful feli
cities.
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At that point in the bulletin Yazza got quite carried away by the supposed power of his prose.The outcome was the talk of the upper school. Alastair, a lad of suspicious nature, visited Yazza late that evening. “Did you really see them at it?”
“I certainly did. Not that I'm a peeping Tom, you understand. I just think that all these things are in the public domain. It's a matter of civil liberties. The press must never be muzzled!” he added, with strong conviction.
“How near were you?”
“About half the length of the dorm. Luke was very vigorous. Sharon was making moaning noises.”
Alastair was convinced; couldn't in fact bear to hear more details of Luke's victory. “Thanks very much Mayhew. Here you are, for an excellent article. Mums the word about this visit.” He handed the other boy a plastic bag containing a bottle of Chateau Tillfield. Thirty years on, when Justin âYazza' Mayhew was Editor of a fabulously successful, national downmarket tabloid, he was wont to put his feet up on his desk from time to time, drink straight from his whisky bottle and recall, with affection, his very first exclusive!
Sharon, who'd lately lost her job through persistent lateness, was delighted with the £100. She'd also found Luke a strong and thoughtful performer.
Luke, a discerning boy who'd always had access to quality in life, knew a good thing when he found one. There was no doubt in his mind that Sharon was something of an artist. Throughout his final year at Tillfield he met her fortnightly, and fulfilled his side of an arrangement whereby he made her an un-repayable loan of half his allowance.
CHAPTER 11
1997
Monday morning again. Simon smiled at his group of final year Business Studies students. They were debating the impact of the European Working Time Regulations on British small businesses. His mind was on Zombek, and he yearned for coffee and bacon butties in the Common Room.
“So, what are the trade-offs then?”
Lucinda, as he’d known she would, came down on the side of the workforce. “The free marketeers huff and puff about excessive labour regulation distorting competition and efficiency. What they mean is that employers should remain able to get away with appalling employment practices. An average working week of 48 hours is a good enough contribution to an employer and to society in general, from anyone.”
Richard, who always put the opposite view from Lucinda, said, “Very fine and socially conscious – when seen from a university lecture room. If you were running a little manufacturing unit on an industrial estate, like my dad does, you’d see the facts of life. You scrabble around for orders and promise delivery dates to suit the customer. If you don’t, you don’t get the orders. If that means everyone working 12 hours a day, 7 days a week sometimes, then that’s what you do. At least it keeps people in work. Lose your job and you can enjoy an average working week of 0 hours!
Simon felt that Lucinda and Richard might become ‘a number’ before long. They acted and sounded remarkably like his parents. Even so, he was quietly pleased that the class saw both sides of issues.
Sonia made a contribution. “The Working Time Regulations are just a step along the way in a long evolutionary trend in working practices. A hundred years ago, when efficiency and working methods were much poorer, things were much worse. There’ll always be good employers and bad employers. And there’ll always be employers operating under difficult economic constraints. But working conditions, in the end, reflect the prevailing view of social justice, in a democracy, at any point in time.”
The debate continued and was largely self-prompted by the students. They visited a number of related issues. To what extent did working practices evolution rely upon political intervention? Could a heavily integrated society like Britain have a truly unfettered free market in anything? Did liberal-minded management sacrifice a measure of authority? Simon thought this was all very pleasing. Of the sixteen students remaining in this particular batch, he anticipated that four would achieve an upper-second class honours and one, probably Sonia, would get a first.
Ultimately he called a halt. “I’m very pleased.You’ve obviously all thought a lot about the subject. Carry on like this to the end and there’s likely to be a good deal of beer flowing when you get your final results. And I’ll be buying it!” This produced cheers all round. “Collect your essays from my desk and leave me work for marking on the way out, please.”
Sonia stopped briefly at his desk and handed over an extra essay. “I’m just revisiting some key topics from earlier in the year,” she explained. “Next month I’m starting to revise the whole course.”
“Good, I’m sure that’s wise. You’re obviously going to do well anyway, Sonia.”
“That will be due in no small measure to you, Simon. You’ve been great for us all. Everyone says so.”
He glowed. “I’ve got a great job. If only it paid me enough to eat,” he joked.
“Thanks for the other afternoon. It was lovely. ’Bye-ee, Simon!” She squeezed his arm and hurried after the others.
Phew! He’d been wondering how she’d be today. Would she be embarrassingly affectionate? Or sorrowing and reproachful? Aloof? Blasé? In fact she’d been her normal warm and polite self. Great! He gathered up the papers and strode off to meet Luke Nweewe in the Common Room.
*************
The Common Room was warm and welcoming. So was Josie. There was no queue. They were alone at the counter. He’d have to be careful.
“Hello Simon,” she gave her best, two megawatt smile.
“Hi Josie, you’re looking outrageously happy for Monday morning.”
“I wonder why that is.” Her eyes travelled up and down him, head to thighs only. She deployed her secret weapon. “I’ve put double bacon in your butties.”
He laughed delightedly at the incongruity. “Josie, you spoil us. You’re bright sunshine on a winter’s day. How can I ever repay you?”
Her colleague approached behind the counter.
“Think how,” said Josie. “But don’t take too long.”
Simon gave a smile equivalent to a clapped-out 10-watt light bulb, picked up the coffee and butties and set out towards Luke Nweewe. As he left, she whispered, “My good old dad’s repaired the Volvo!”
He might have a little trouble with Josie.
“Hi Luke, how goes it?”
“Hello Simon. Everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.”
“Dr. Pangloss in Voltaire’s
Candide
?”
“Correct. But I tend to believe it and I try to act it, Simon.”
“There’s a strange paradox, Luke. Sunny optimists are often going to be disappointed, whereas miserable pessimists never meet worse than they feared. So, you’d expect optimists to become unhappy and pessimists to be fulfilled!”
“I’d describe that as an unwarrantable conclusion from a justifiable premise!” Luke chuckled at his own words, picked up the cups and made to the counter for refills.
Simon noticed Josie laugh at something he said. “Luke, you want to be careful with Josie,” he cautioned.
Luke astounded him. “You sound as if you, too, have had the Volvo treatment, Simon.” Simon was gobsmacked, as they say. “How did you get on with drafting?”
“Here’s a floppy disk for you: one draft syllabus and one draft of a proposal to the Senior Management Executive Committee. I’m discussing them both in outline with Chloe in half an hour. I’ll tell her you’ve copies, so we keep in step.”
“Wonderful, Simon. Unless you telephone me to say otherwise, I’ll email them tonight. You’re doing us proud. It’s very pleasing.”
I’ll give you a call anyway, after Chloe. I say Luke, what did you mean about the Volvo?”
“Volvo? I drive a Lotus. You’d have a job to do anything other than drive in that!” Luke got to his feet, beamed his best Dr. Pangloss smile and strode off.
*************
“Morning Chloe!”
“Hello, you’re prompt.”
“I aim to please, in everything!” he leered.
“Well, you can please me by not acting the campus Lothario! … Sorry, Simon, the last man through that door tried to grope me. He won’t do it again, mind, I stamped hard on his toes. No names, but watch out for a revered colleague with a pronounced limp!”
They shared a laugh, friendship restored. Simon, not for the first time, resolved to treat his female friends with the respect he genuinely felt. It wasn’t that he was always trying it on; he was just a jokey sort of bloke. And he was genuinely interested in Chloe. She had everything, brains, looks, nice personality and she appeared to be unattached.
“Here’s a peace offering.” He passed over a copy of his draft report together with a draft syllabus, for Zombekian students. She sat and skimmed the papers for a minute or two.
“Fine, you’ve had a busy time, talk me through them.”
“Well, the syllabus is aimed at those preparing to be junior managers – which means all the Zombekian students, because that’s their country’s need. I, and others in the Business School, can manage all the Accounting modules and all the Human Relations elements. We’d need help from you and your colleagues in the Economics Faculty to deliver most of the Economics stuff. In essence the syllabus is meant to hammer home the fundamentals. They must learn about the efficient production of goods and services. They must have a sufficient grasp of accounting to be able to keep the score on profit and loss. They must be able to operate in a manner which carries their workforce with them.”
