'Is this place new?' the cabbie asked as they pulled up outside the pink and purple diagonally-striped double doors.
'Not sure,' Jarvis said. 'To be honest, I'm not even sure how I know about it. I suppose someone must have told me. Or maybe I read about it somewhere.'
'Tell you what, squire,' the cabbie said, 'if it were my place, first thing I'd do is get a decent sign. Can't hardly see that one.'
He had a point. The sign above the door was not that much bigger than an A4 sheet of paper. And it seemed to be shrinking. By the time that Jarvis had got out of the cab and paid the cabbie, the sign was only about the size of a postcard. 'You might know this,' Jarvis said. 'Does anyone send postcards anymore?'
The cabbie shrugged his shoulders. 'Dunno. I think it's all Instagram these days, innit?' he said.
Jarvis wasn't really familiar with Instagram. He pushed open the door and was greeted by a girl dressed in what seemed to be the top half of a naval officer's dress uniform. Below, she was wearing just black fishnet stockings. 'Hello,' Jarvis said. 'I'm here to meet a friend.'
The girl nodded. 'Looking for friendship? Well, you've come to the right place, sailor. I'll just need you to fill out a form. Likes and dislikes. Favourite foods. That sort of stuff. Oh ... and whether you're looking for a male or female of course.'
'No. The friend ... she's someone I already know,' Jarvis said. 'I think we were supposed to be meeting for a cup of tea.'
'I could probably find you a very nice tranny. Best of both worlds, so to speak,' the girl said.
Jarvis found himself wondering why the girl wasn't wearing any trousers.
'Her name ....' But Jarvis couldn't remember the name of the friend he had come to meet. 'Do you know why I'm here?' Jarvis asked a man dressed in the manner of a Jedi knight.
'The future has many entry points, young Jarvis,' the man said, 'but the past has few exits. Follow the dog, young Jarvis. Follow the dog.' And then he dissolved into a bright light.
When Jarvis opened his eyes, the sun was shining through a gap between the bedroom curtains, and Toby, Jarvis's aging black Labrador, was nose-butting his hand. Somewhere in Jarvis's head a mellow, 1930s-style voice was singing. 'The sun has got his hat on, hip-hip-hip hooray.'
'That's Ambrose,' Jarvis told the dog. 'Ambrose and His Orchestra. It's funny the things that stick with you through the years, isn't it? "The sun has got his hat on and he's coming out to play." About time, too.'
Jarvis pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and followed Toby out across the landing and down the stairs.
Summer was late. It should have arrived weeks ago. And yet as recently as Wednesday morning there had been a stiff breeze laced with brief showers. Not cold showers. But not really warm either. Certainly not the sort of weather that one would expect for the time of the year. Not flaming June. Not strawberries and cream on Henman Hill. But now it seemed the sun had finally decided to pay a proper visit. As the voice in Jarvis's head was telling him: the sun had finally got his hat on.
'Actually, Tobe, I'm not sure that Ambrose did the actual singing,' Jarvis said. 'I think he played the violin. The fiddle. You know. And I seem to recall that he might originally have been Polish. Bert Ambrose. I think. Is Bert a Polish name, Tobe? What do you think? Maybe short for Bertoliski.'
Jarvis let Toby out through the French doors that opened out onto the terrace that led to the garden. And then he made himself a cup of coffee and he too went out into the garden. Even though it had only just gone seven in the morning, there was already some real warmth in the sun, and Jarvis decided, there and then, that he would get the folding table and chairs from the garden shed and set up a workspace in the shade of the walnut tree.
Where had Ambrose suddenly come from? How had he found his way into Jarvis's head? And then Jarvis remembered that there had been a club of some sort in his dream. And a girl dressed as an admiral. Had Ambrose been playing at the club perhaps?
'Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together and make some noise for Ambrose and his Orchestra.'
Maybe. But Jarvis couldn't remember. That was the problem with dreams. One moment everything was right there. Right in front of you. In fine detail. Making perfect sense. And the next ....
'So ... what's your column about?' a new voice in Jarvis's head asked.
'It's generally about 800 words,' another voice answered. 'Boom! Boom!' Oh yes, the old jokes are still the best jokes. 'I say, I say, I say ....'
'Although, in practice, I generally write 800 words plus a few,' Jarvis muttered to himself. 'Got to leave something for the hard-working subbies to get their pencils into.'
'Do they still use pencils?' the original voice asked.
'I think so,' Jarvis replied. 'It seems that the much-vaunted paperless office is still just around the corner, just over the horizon.'
Jarvis's copy deadline was 11am. In almost five years, he had never missed a deadline. Not once. Mind you, he had sometimes flown pretty close to the wire.
He could probably write his column at any time during the preceding week. But writing habits are hard to break. And so Sunday's column was written on Friday morning. A good deal of thinking went on beforehand, but the actual writing started at 8am on Friday. 'Eight am on the dot,' one of the voices confirmed.
By the time that Jarvis had set up his table and his laptop, and opened his shorthand pad covered in hand-jotted notes, Toby had already claimed his spot under the table. 'I do hope that my feet are not in your way, Tobe, old chap,' Jarvis said. But Toby seemed to have already dozed off. Jarvis moved his chair slightly and flexed his fingers.
Right ... 'Old dogs, and children, and watermelon wine,' he typed. He wasn't sure that he was going to use the actual Tom T Hall line, but it summed up what he wanted to say: that there aren't that many reliable things in this world. And, placing one's trust in the fancier promises of politicians and would-be politicians -- especially at election time -- is almost always a mistake.
'Ten long years ago, the good people of East Norbury elected Edwin Brocklehurst as their Member of Parliament,' Jarvis wrote.
'For those of you who may have forgotten, Mr Brocklehurst said: "Vote for me and I will ensure that the number of mainline trains between London and King's Androm is doubled. Furthermore, I will ensure that the local line from Ousemarket to Condle -- a line which should never have been closed -- is once again at the service of this community."
'Today, ten years later, the number of services on the London to King's Androm line has halved. And the local line from Ousemarket to Condle remains nothing more than a thin black line on a few old maps.
'There was never any real possibility of the rail services to and from the East Norbury region being restored to what they were in earlier times. Mr Brocklehurst should have known this. But, as the late Oliver Harmsworth said on more than one occasion: Politicians will promise whatever it takes to get elected. After that, they will promise whatever it takes to get re-elected.'
Jarvis read through what he had written. Yeah, that was coming together.
'Mr Brocklehurst has now announced that he is to retire from politics. Apparently, like so many before him, he is going to spend more time with his family. So far, there has been no word of how his family feels about this.
'At the forthcoming election, the good people of East Norbury will have five new candidates from whom to choose: Oswald Martin, Sir Matt Tanner, James Herkus, Gillian Green, and Buttercup Shilling. (Ms Shilling is promising free cannabis to all persons over the age of 18.)'
Jarvis glanced down at the word count in the bottom left hand corner. So far, so good. Maybe time for another cup of coffee. 'Every good boy deserves figs and every good writer deserves more coffee,' a voice in Jarvis's head said.
When Jarvis returned to his outdoor office, coffee in hand, he set about summarising the key promise of each of the other candidates. And then he posed the question: 'How likely is it that any of these fancy promises will be met? How likely is it that any of these fancy promises
can
be met?
'As the world gets ever more complicated, what voters need are candidates who promise not what they think the voters want, but what they
know
they can deliver. A promise is a promise. Making promises you know you can't keep is simply dishonest.'
Jarvis glanced down at the word count again. It was showing 823 words. There was a little something there for the subbie to work with.
It was coming up for a quarter to ten. Time to do something else. Time to let the pudding prove. And then Jarvis could come back, read through what he had written, perhaps make a few tweaks, and then press Send.
The sun was really getting into its stride. Jarvis took off his T-shirt; and then, because he could, he also removed his shorts. 'There are advantages to be had from living in the middle of nowhere,' Jarvis told himself.
When Jarvis had bought the cottage, the garden at the back had been almost a formal garden. But Jarvis wasn't really a gardener. He liked gardens. He
enjoyed
gardens. But he wasn't exactly green-fingered. And so, after struggling for the best part of a year, he had hired a woman from a nearby nursery to come and make a few changes. Now, three years after Cynthia had worked her magic, the garden was more of an informal green room which, in summer at least, was punctuated with splashes of intense colour.
For 25 minutes or so, Jarvis worked his way around the small garden, talking to himself, already beginning to think about next week's column, removing a weed here and a weed there, and dumping them in the cunningly-concealed compost bin. Then he returned to the shade of the walnut tree and reviewed what he had written. Yes. A few minor tweaks and it was time to press Send.
'Will it make any difference?' a voice in his head asked. 'Will it prompt the voters of East Norbury to ask any hard questions of their candidates?'
'I certainly hope so,' Jarvis said. 'I certainly hope so.' But he also recognised that people tend to listen for what they want to hear. 'Oh, well. One does what one can do,' he told himself.
Jarvis closed his laptop and took his chair out into the full sun. The warmth of the sun's rays on his body felt good. Very good indeed. Almost erotic. Or perhaps there was no almost about it. Jarvis lay back in his chair, spread his legs slightly, and watched as his cock began to fatten and grow in the sun's warmth. 'Interesting,' he said to himself. 'I wonder how far it will go. All the way?' And if it did go all the way -- without him actually touching it -- should he just ignore it? Or should he call upon the services of Mrs Palmer and her five daughters?
'Tis a terrible thing to waste an erection,' a voice in his head said.
