The Haberdasher

Warning this story was written in England by an Englishman. It utilises English vocabulary, spelling and grammatical conventions; some readers find these disturbing.

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The instant I entered the building Syd, our porter, head of security and dedicated Sun reader accosted me. "You're to go straight up and see Mr. Briggs hisself." I plodded towards the stairs. "No lad, you don't understand. You're to take the lift and go directly up to t' top floor, on your own too. Here's 'override key so's lift won't stop for any-bugger else. Give it to Mr Briggs' secretary when you get there and don't forget to do that lad else I'll 'ave to track 'ee down and I'm all'us busy."

Six months with Briggs and Daughters Ltd. and I was to be sacked. As I trudged to the lift I reflected, 'kicked out of my first real job after just six months.' I did not even have the least clue as to what I might possibly have done wrong. I did my work, it thought that it had been going well; OK I had had problems but the warehouse men had grudgingly accepted the changes they had had to make. They couldn't nick stuff quite so easily anymore. Yes at first the'd resented that but they had become resigned to it.

"Mr. Morris," I said to the secretary, "Mr. Briggs asked to see me." I passed over the precious key.

She pressed a button on her intercom and spoke into it, "Mr. Morris is here for you sir."

"Thank you Penelope," the box rumbled back. "Send him in."

I entered the huge office for the first, and probably last, time. I was impressed with the fine view of the moors afforded by the gigantic picture window. "Well lad' has thou summat to tell us then? A little secret thou needs to share?"

"No Mr. Briggs?"

"Don't gawp at me like I'm daft lad. Let's try again. Are you likely to have something to tell me in t' near future?"

"No Mr. Briggs," I answered, my confidence growing. I was not being given the sack, well not right now.

"Are you tryin' to tell me that thou knows nowt about it."

"I'm sorry Mr. Briggs but I really do not have any clue what you're talking about."

"Well then. Congratulations lad you're no longer t' graduate. You've just become my new head of computing. Your salary is doubled, I'll not be thought a niggardly man an' any-road you'll 'ave to put in a load o' time at first, an' as you're staff y' get no chance for grabbin' (local parlance for overtime). Your first job is to recruit a deputy head who'll be paid two thirds of what you get and two assistants who'll be paid what you was on yesterday. All clear lad?"

"Uh, yes Mr. Briggs." I could not hold back, "what's happened?"

"It's none of your damned business but I suppose you'll find out soon enough. Your three colleagues have all buggered off to work the new computer our rivals, Mitchell and sons, have just rented. I kicked 'em out today before they could do any proper damage."

"Mr Briggs may I then suggest a different list of proprieties?"

"If thou knows better than me say thy piece lad. I nivver mind people been' right but I won't put up wi' fools f' long neither."

"First I check that the system is all OK, no hidden nasties, then I recruit my new co-workers."

For the first time Mr. Briggs smiled, "Devious thinking lad. Well don't just stand there like a wet Monday, get checkin' 'n' be right smart about it."

The computer room seemed strange with just me and the two operators in it but with that damned chain printer going it was no more quiet.

In fact I was not head of computing really I was head of programming. Maureen, the woman who supervised the girls on the terminals was given the job of looking after the staff, mine and hers. This was just as well because I have a short fuse when I think that people are being stupid and I find that a lot of people can be pretty stupid. That's why I like computers, they do what they are told when they are told and don't argue back.

I had been in this new role for three months when out of the blue Maureen, or Mrs. Jones as she liked to be addressed, asked if I would care to attend one of her intimate little suppers. Her husband was the head of the town's association of trades and they liked to think that they were someone. Despite numerous reservations I accepted; I knew all too well that I really could not afford to annoy Maureen too much.

I arrived fashionably late but not overly late. I was, by far, the youngest person there. I guessed that the most junior of my fellow guests were in their early forties, close upon twice my age. To my surprise I discovered that many of the guests were also already pretty tipsy. I was handed a cocktail and the very first sip explained why, my 'martini' was really neat gin with an olive in it, the glass huge and the measure deep.

In those days dinner parties, which is what the intimate supper was really, were somewhat predictable: prawn cocktail, Dover sole in a parsley sauce, either duck a l'orange or, as upon that occasion, beef Wellington, trifle and finally a selection of cheeses, one of them adventurously foreign (i.e. French) served with biscuits and celery. That evening every course arrived with its own wine and the guests quickly passed from gentle inebriation to serious drunkenness. On my left sat a lady, well a woman, who was a house wife and a mother to three delightful, perfectly behaved, unbelievably intelligent little angels of indeterminate sex. Her grossly overweight,

rubicond

husband sat to her left. He owned the local pet food company and had political opinions that were dangerously to the right of those of old Adolph one ball himself. Adolphus I christened him. Opposite me was a vicar who appeared to agree with everyone and drank a great deal of, what even I realised, were the truly excellent wines that were being served. I gave a little silent prayer for my decision not to bring a bottle, my best choice would still have appeared to be cheap plonk to our hosts. To my right was a dowdy looking woman, yet one of the younger guests. She sipped her wine, kept remarkably quiet and did her best to conceal a hearty appetite.

Given the, by now, outright racist sentiments being expressed to my left and the banal inanities expressed by the man of the cloth opposite I attempted to engage my remaining taciturn neighbour in conversation. My various remarks, observations and question elicited monosyllabic answers until she suddenly looked me straight in the eye and snapped, "I'm Annabelle, I'm forty four, I'm divorced and I own a small sewing and knitting shop on the high street."

"I'm Keith, I'm nominally Maureen's boss and I expect I'm here to make up the numbers."

Annabelle paused then actually smiled, "so you're not one of them" and her eye swept the table malevolently. "Sorry. I really have been somewhat rude to you and perhaps you didn't deserve it. So you are one of the spare men. At least I have been seated next to the best of the bunch. The other thrree are the dear vicar opposite," who was by then slurring so heavily that he had become incomprehensible. "The old man to the left of our most kind and generous hostesses. He is the most wealthy man here, by far. Finally, there's the fat man near our host; he's actually the cleverest person here and well worth talking with but women have to keep well away from his groping mitts if they don't want a bruised bum, or worse."

The alcohol was getting to me, "if I'm a spare then I guess that makes you a loose woman."

"Any more cracks like that and I will think you're a spare," she reposted almost gaily. "Anyway spare men are hard to find so we have to be nice to them regardless of whether they are noxious or nice. What exactly is it that you do? Maureen considers you to be a really clever pain in the arse whom she has to tolerate because Trevor insists upon it."

Well she certainly knew her gossip but who the hell was Trevor? And Maureen had a cheek. Annabelle listened patiently whilst I summarised the exciting life of a mathematician and computer programmer. "I asked for that didn't I. Do you have hobbies, preferably ones that me be remotely interesting to a human?"

"Reading," I replied and the rest of the meal passed very pleasantly as she too was quite a serious bibliophile. So too was the vicar opposite who sobered mysteriously when he discovered that there was a conversation in progress that he could both participate in and enjoy.

After the meal the ladies were shooed from the room and we men settled down to brandy and cigars, or in my case attacking an excellent decanter of port. As I was not in business I was clearly of no importance and was largely ignored. At least I was presented with an opportunity to move away from Adolfus who, by then, I could have cheerfully beaten to a pulp; the smug, sexist, racist, potty mouthed, pompous, twat that he was.

At eleven it was Adolphus who asked, "shall we rejoin the ladies?" Grunts of assent were forthcoming. "Gents, shall we play the game first?"

This was greeted with a chorus of yeses. Several of the men threw their car keys onto a coffee table and then picked up a different set. The vicar came to with a start, looked at the keys aghast, winked at me and hissed, "wife-swapping. Disgusting," and promptly resumed to his state of somnolence.

Once the various participants had collected their keys we did indeed rejoin the ladies many of whom had then to discover just whom they were saddled with for the night. This appeared to involve enduring a great deal of groping and mauling of breasts and buttocks. Skirting the ruckus carefully, Annabelle came over accompanied by a tall, slender lady of fifty or so. "At least you can't sell me down the river," she beamed at me.

"I would not dream of it. Anyway you're hardly mine to sell. God the whole thing is pretty sordid really."

"They're bored. Sad bored people trying to find a little spice and excitement to sprinkle into their dreary commonplace existences. Don't be so judgmental, you. When you're older, wiser and vastly more experienced..."

"I'll be an even more cynical, sarcastic and pompous liberal!"

Annabelle tittered.

Tall and willowy rescued us, "no please don't judge our little circle by its more unrefined elements," she protested. "I'm having a small, more select gathering on Friday. To be quite frank I was rather hoping you'd come and make up the numbers. I'm a man down and desperate." I had never seen anyone make such a hash of trying to flutter her eyelashes. "It will be considerably more genteel than this..."

She was funny but that genteel did it. I was desperately trying not to giggle. Worse, I knew that if I started I would set Annabelle off as she was already alternating between taking deep breaths and biting her bottom lip. So despite myself and all my reservations I butted in and accepted, not least to defuse the woman's obvious embarrassment at having to ask me in the first place.

Next Friday was a revelation. I knew just three people when I arrived; the tall thin lady, our hostess, Annabelle and to my utter horror my boss, Mr. Briggs himself. "Ah, young Morris if I recall correctly," he boomed. "Meet t' missus, Mrs. Briggs," he laughed loudly at his own worn out joke. "Dorothy meet m' head of computing, Keith Morris. Keith this is Dorothy, t' wife. So thou's climbin' greasy pole without patronage from me. Good on'ee lad," and he actually thumped me playfully on the shoulder. I hoped he didn't pinch ladies bottoms because they'd sustain bruising.

How the hell did he remember my name was what I wondered, but "charmed Dorothy," was what I replied.

"The pleasure is all mine," she twinkled.

I felt like I ought to kiss her hand but the boss's misses? Probably best not.

"Keith here is t' work's bore but he's proper clever in an educated sort of fashion, if you've t' brains f'r that sort o' thing."

"Trevor Briggs! Keith is not a bore. He's better read and more cultured than you'll ever be, you clodhopping, gargantuan ignoramus," Annabelle had appeared at my side and had sprung to my defence.

"Yes Trevor, just you behave yourself or you'll compel me to flirt with this dear boy for the entire evening just to compensate for your lack of social graces," Dorothy slipping in her tuppenny worth. "Alice be a dear and do make sure I'm sat between Keith and my husband here so that I can keep this dreadful boor under control!" So our tall thin hostess was named Alice; the boor was my boss!

I was relieved, I had expected Mr. Briggs to be angry but he was far from it. He was feigning contrition, apologising loudly to left and to right. But he was still grinning, obviously well used to and well satisfied with the lively banter he could generate.

The 'select' gathering was actually rather larger than the one held by Maureen and her husband. No cocktails here, dry champagne - with or without crème de cassis - to get everyone in a celebratory mood. Lobster for starters, followed by perfectly cooked sea bass. The latter was seared but otherwise largely left to speak for itself, the only garnish, a small pile of browned shallots scattered down one side. Saddle of venison for the main course, dished up with what I later discovered were called potato rosti together with red cabbage cooked in wine, rotkraut: all somewhat Germanic. Profiteroles and cream for dessert, now common place but then the epitome of luxury, followed by soft French cheeses, again at the time, their multiplicity a pinnacle of sophistication.

After dinner, and after much heated discussion, we all played charades, no men only cigars and brandy that evening, thank the Lord. I discovered that for all his bluff and bluster my boss was really very smart indeed. As it turned out this was, for me, the first of many such parties as spare men really were hard to find. Moreover, when necessary, I was even young enough to be paired, though not necessarily trusted, with daughters. More often than not I was paired off with Annabelle who, it turned out, was a close friend of the Briggs. Mr. Briggs could not resist the occasional toy-boy joke but never repeated these at work; there he maintained his distance, fastidiously.

Autumn arrived, the leaves began to disappear and Christine Jones was invited into our circle. She was the niece of one of the regular couples: pretty, long blond hair, generous boobs, long slender legs, a gorgeous body, interesting mole on her left breast as well as being quick-witted, intelligent and feisty. Yes it would have been more politically correct to have at least reversed the order of her attributes but: one, I am a man. Two, I think her ordering of priorities was pretty similar to mine, except that my prominent mole is more intimate.

We hit it off immediately and in no time at all we were at it like rabbits, she soon discovered my mole. Their was one problem: sadly it was not long until she had to return to her native Australia, a departure which terminated our brief romance. We knew it had to come but when it did it still hurt. Christine was special, at least to me. I hoped that I had been special to her too. When it was over kindly Annabelle invited me to a series of meals, tête-à-tête, and I must have bored her silly explaining how wonderful Christine had been. She smiled sympathetically, asked lots of pertinent questions yet gently diverted me from the topic and eventually weaned me off of the subject.

I would have to buy Annabelle a Christmas present. I knew that was the thing to do, but what? She lived in a large expensively furnished house with original pictures on the walls, not valuable but all the same all original drawings and photographs she'd picked up here and there. Neither too many nor too few. Her clothes were exquisite, she actually made many of them and I could not afford to match either their style nor their quality. Jewellery, she had heaps, lots of gold, lots of diamonds and the odd swathe of pearls.

In desperation I sought the advice of Mrs. Briggs. I was mortified when she passed the question on to her husband. He guffawed loudly turning the heads of those around him including, to my horror, Annabelle's.

"What was that Trevor?" she asked of him.

"Keith just told us a mucky joke, it's definitely not fit for t' delicate ears of a lady so it's just as well that only t' wife overheard it." He guffawed once more.

She slapped him playfully, "don't be so rude you great big bully."

He mopped his brow with a huge floral handkerchief and tears streamed down his face. "Now I do wonder. What ever could young Keith her give middle aged Annabelle for Christmas?" He was almost choking with laughter, "I ask you? What a ruddy daft question! Well if you need buy summat you could get her a bottle of fine single malt whiskey, try Talisker, th' older t' better. It'll cost you an arm and a leg but you're well paid, I knows that, and you owe her one, mebbe more," and he bestowed upon me the lewdest wink that I had ever received. It fell upon innocently deaf eyes.

The dinner's fell into two sorts: those that ended when a cabal departed for an evening of wife swapping and drunken debauchery and those which ended with, more or less, serene social games. My boss and his wife, the Briggs, only ever attended the latter type but I was invited to both. At the latter, whenever wife swapping was on the menu, Annabelle was always my partner and, as I did not drive, we were precluded from any such activities.

As Christmas approached I discovered that the, hitherto gentle and modest social games could take on a distinctly more intimate aspect. It was the turn of my boss to host the evening. I had been co-opted to help plan the menu. He dictated that it was to be "a rite grand but essentially local do".

"Proper gradely essentially but local do," I had corrected him, cheekily.

To start we were to have potted shrimp on toast, shrimp potted in Morecambe Bay naturally: well it was that or tripe. Have you ever tried tripe and onions, even ladies tripe and onions? Mindful of my brief, Whitby sprats followed. Small fish dusted in paprika and oregano and then deep fried, delicious. Lancashire hot-pot just had to be the main course but made with best-end of neck and accompanied by pickled red-cabbage, pickled beetroot as well as buttered suede. For dessert, pear cobbler with egg custard, none of that cornflower based packet rubbish. Finally, a choice of Lancashire mild, Lancashire creamy, Lancashire tasty, Ribblesdale and Wenselydale cheeses all with distinctly southern, but tasty, Bath Oliver's, served with celery sticks, apple wedges and sweet seedless grapes.

After dinner, as Christmas was coming, they avoided charades, trivial pursuit and the usual panoply of activities. Instead they settled upon playing the jar game. Annabelle and I were the only none (married) couple so we were gently but firmly coerced into joining in together. The jar game is simple and discretely lewd. You all sit in a circle, men with their partner upon their right. Everyone thinks of three rude, but not wholly indecent, forfeits that you and your partner can undertake, writes them down and places their ideas in the jar. Alternatively you can direct a very mild forfeit to be undertaken with the person sitting next to you who isn't your partner. In addition two general forfeits were added to the pot and finally a general two-part forfeit, the two-parter. At first the pot is passed round and the men take their pick; subsequently the ladies take their turn.

I was very nervous when I had to choose for the very first time. My hand was trembling. It was a weird one, "sniff the gusset of your partners panties." I passed it wordlessly to Annabelle. She laughed out loud and parted her knees for me. I ducked my head under her skirt quickly, hoping that no had noticed how much I was blushing. I duly sniffed loudly and resumed my seat. In doing so I learnt that Annabelle was wearing black stockings held up by some sexy blue suspenders. I liked Annabelle, she was really good company and by now a true friend but, for the very first time, I began to contemplate her with a considerably more predatory eye.