Leaning on the Lamppost
By Lew Daxx
City of London 1980s
FRIDAY
The New Post.
Nigel Smith was elated. He'd found the envelope on his desk when he'd come into work that morning and had realised it could only mean one thing. All those years of hard work, kow-towing to his 'betters,' cosying up to the clique and relentless social climbing had finally paid off.
He opened the envelope and read the formal letter on the Bank's luxurious headed paper that it had contained. His heart leapt. He'd got the position. He'd made it! He was now one of the big boys!
Nigel never quite believed he would make it; he was just a working-class Essex boy after all. His father had worked in a factory out in Dagenham, working long and often anti-social shifts and his mother had juggled several small part-time jobs as well as running the small house they had rented further out in Ilford.
Nigel had been a slow learner, he had struggled in the large classes at the local state school, although he did show an uncanny aptitude for numbers and an obsessive love of order and organisation. His mother had nurtured these attributes as well as coaching him in reading and writing, in which he was lagging badly at school. Sitting at the back of a classroom with forty other children had done him no favours. He had retreated into his own world of numbers, constructing elaborate games and puzzles in his head. He had been shunned by the other kids, who bullied him at times, before eventually losing interest. He had been overlooked by the teachers who had their hands full enough breaking up fights and just keeping forty rowdy, over energetic normal kids in line to pay much attention to Nigel.
Betty, his mother always harboured the hope that if he could just catch up with his communication skills, he would eventually be able to get a job in the City, London's financial centre, where his particular strengths would compensate for his social ineptitude and rather awkward personality. Most of her friends, parents themselves, had simply advised that all Nigel needed was a 'damn good thrashing.'
After much argument and wrangling with Harold, his father, and some heart wrenching confrontations with a tearful Nigel, Betty had managed to get him a partial scholarship to a minor public boarding school, where it was hoped he could be coaxed out of his strange and introspective bubble. Classes would be much smaller, there would be sports, rigid discipline, and the companionship of boys from families of a better social class than the Smiths.
So, Nigel had been packed off to school. He'd played Rugby, where thanks to a late developing turn of speed, he had turned out to be a surprisingly good wing. He'd played cricket, where he had proved much less successful. He'd stand bored and daydreaming on the edges of the field as the ball trundled past him to the boundary. He'd enjoyed swimming and at athletics was the fastest in the school over 100 metres. He was bullied as a matter of course, although thanks to his speed he enjoyed a modicum of respect from the sportier boys and could more often than not outrun the less sporty ones.
He was caned, quite often, and sometimes quite hard but for minor infringements of the school rules rather than for any innate rebelliousness. This led in later life, to what he considered an unhealthy subconscious compulsion for BDSM, which for a long time he guiltily suppressed.
He'd managed a good Maths degree at university and had indeed managed to find a lowly position in a prestigious City bank to the immense pride of his mother and grudging respect of his father.
Now thirty, he owned a small house in Tonbridge, Southeast of London, had a small portfolio of stocks and shares, a pension and a fair amount of money saved. He lived frugally, didn't drive, and had never had a long-term girlfriend. Everything revolved around his job at the bank. It seemed that after over a decade of slowly climbing the hierarchy, his efforts had paid off. He had been accepted into the ranks of the ex-public-school clique that held all the top positions,
There had been one other candidate for the position, a slightly younger woman who had possessed all the right expertise as well as considerably better people skills than Nigel. She had been there longer and not having wasted four years at university like the rest of them, knew the intricacies of running the bank in far more detail. She was also popular with all the ordinary staff to a degree Nigel couldn't hope to emulate.
She was however female, hadn't been to a 'good' school or the 'right' university and of course could never hope to be 'one of the chaps.' In short, she was just the wrong sex and a bit too common for the snobby chauvinistic bank management. That Nigel had apparently been accepted was still a surprise to him. He had slowly learnt to be able to drop his working-class accent at school, much to the irritation of his father, and admiration of his mother but he still felt a bit of an imposter in the company of those from a more privileged background.
"Well done old chap!" The plummy voice of George Carstairs roused Nigel from his contemplation of the letter, and he turned to see the tall athletic figure of his immediate superior towering behind him, dressed as always in an expensive tailored suit.
"Knew you'd make it. Got the right stuff, I've always said so." George continued with a patronising smile.
"Thank you, sir." Nigel was still overawed by the arrogant self-confidence that always seemed to come from those on whom life had smiled more generously.
George offered his hand and Nigel shook it, noticing the ostentatious Rolex on the hairy wrist.
"Welcome on board! Couple of the chaps are going for a little drinkypoos this evening in honour of your promotion. I assume you're not adverse to a little carousing après le travail?"
Pretentious twat, Nigel couldn't help himself from thinking, but he was supposed to be one of them now, so he smiled and replied.
"Of course, sir. Sounds just the ticket!"
Nigel wasn't much of a drinker. He'd take his dad down the local on Sundays and nurse a pint of lager whilst watching Harold knock back pint after pint of bitter. They'd return home to where Betty would have prepared a Sunday roast and then watch whatever football Harold could find on the TV. Nigel wasn't really that keen on football, preferring rugby which his dad dismissed as a toff's game. Nigel would sit through the match making the appropriate cliched comments until his dad dozed off, when he could retreat to the kitchen and talk to his mum.
"Got yourself a girlfriend yet Nige? The conversation would inevitably begin.
"No mum, too much work." He'd explain.
He'd had a couple of girlfriends at Uni and had even tried a bit of tentative spanking with one of them. She had been quite adventurous and had taught him pretty much everything he knew about sex. It had only lasted a couple of terms and he had never quite got around to introducing her to his mother; the thought alone had terrified him.
He looked forward to telling his parents all about his promotion this weekend. They would be so proud. He'd look for a nice present and a bottle of wine to take round.
