Martin Dixon
Author
RACING GREEN JAGS
Available free to read on my blog
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Summary
At sixteen Aubrey Richards does not have a lot going for him. Screwed up he's on a mission to escape his life. Chucked out of home by an abusive father his dream of being a lawyer evaporates. Fortunately Rich already has the creativity to make the most of opportunities including ways to maximise financial gain. His problem: how to resolve the issues with his father and get back to realising his ambition. Meeting Monkie, a similarly defined character, is a start and a fella wearing a snappy suit appears who provides an opportunity. Then there’s Alice and, of course, Rich’s landlady, Marge. But, how does a very rich seemingly insignificant owner of a Mark 10 Jaguar fit into the final solution.
First Chapters
1
It was when I first saw Monkie and coincidentally the first time he saw me just before eight on a Saturday morning spring of ‘66 shortly after the train had pulled into the station. I felt rough, there was no doubt about that. So rough I felt lucky to be there considering how the previous night’s entertainment had gone. What with all the drink and then, of course, the hospital visit didn’t help.
Walking away from the platform I dodged through the crowds, swung past a lady with a twin pushchair full of screaming kids who did nothing to help the way my head thumped, came out of the station and there was Monkie stepping off the bus but not just getting off, he made a real show of it. As the bus slowed towards the stop he swung around the pole to agilely land on the pavement with a big dip of his knees. Spun, kind of shook his head throwing his long blond fringe across his forehead and laughed, pointed at the clippie who was making full use of his peaked cap authority.
As he straightened and brushed down his maroon leather bomber jacket he glanced my way and grinned. I noticed the scuff marks on the jacket and the ripped knees of his jeans. Maybe he saw something, I don’t know, but one thing’s for sure, I did. I saw a fella smack bang in the middle of my world. Right down to the faded Levis and red bumper boots. He touched his head and lifted his hand as though he was tipping a hat and was off. Double-time down the street away from the station heading for the High Street. I watched him disappear around the corner as the bus pulled away with the clippie hanging on the pole shouting in Monkie’s direction something about him breaking legs.
Pulling dark shades from the breast pocket of my white T-shirt I glanced at the sky and slipped them on. Sauntered towards the High Street, felt the glare through the lenses and regretted the one too many last night. My destination: the clothes store on the corner of Market Street. First though the paper shop to check the charts.
Now, I already had an inkling the Doris behind the counter did not take too kindly to her mags being fiddled with without the intention to buy. Today though she was engaged in a frantic conversation with a guy with steam in his ears violently prodding the pile of newspapers so I snuck in behind a big fella wearing a dark suit. Slipped over to the magazine racks on the side wall and sort of hid behind the dark suit as he stood waiting for the tirade to abate.
Happened to glance out of the window and there he was, Monkie again. I was not too sure how old he was but maybe not a lot older than me. Being tall I can get away with telling everyone I’m coming up nineteen so, if he was not much older than me and no taller than me I’d say he was probably around sixteen maybe even seventeen, something like that anyway. Wore a smile that he aimed at the two girls as they passed. Trendies we called them and virtually untouchable. You know the sort I’m sure. Kind of swaggered along, arms linked, with their noses in the air. A lot of giggling involved. Mini-skirts straight off the hangers of Carnaby Street. Tight tops just hugging their high waistband with the two telltale no bra bumps. White go-go boots. Long hair. Blonde but sure to be dyed. That was the thing with trendies, they all had the same look and all had the same not interested snapped out superficial smile. Just a quick lowering of the lids and a flash of super white teeth. Was I interested? Not so much. I had the necessary wealth, no doubt about that, but… why waste it on what was, after all, nothing but a sponge?
The fracas had ended and, having been served, the dark suit was leaving. Suddenly noticing me, the Doris started saying stuff, asking if I wanted anything in particular but I was distracted. I flicked the top shelf mags but didn’t turn towards her and continued to look at Monkie thinking he was behaving oddly. He’d stopped to stand almost on the edge of the kerb watching the cars approach. Stared along the High Street as though he was searching for something.
The Doris spoke again. This time a bit sharply and that made me turn. Forties I’d say with a look of steel pins coming through her glasses. Those thick rimmed ones that made her look sinister. Stood tall behind the counter in front of the shelves of cigarettes but that meant nothing. Some shops had a raised floor section and, over the folded newspapers, I could easily see the waist tie of her floral apron.
The row had clearly had an effect on her mood. “If you want to buy something get on with it,” she snapped, shaking her head so her blue rinse wobbled. That made me grin but inside so I didn’t antagonise her, “and don’t play with the stock,” she continued. Slammed her pen down as she just stared at me through those creepy lenses. Maybe sensing my amusement, she growled, “My eyes are on you.”
“Sorry, but I like to take my time,” I replied. Nicely though and slung her a not too bothered smile. Left the dodgy mags where they were, picked up the Melody Maker and flicked to the charts.
She started to speak again but I wasn’t concentrating. I had a half eye on Monkie. Saw him suddenly stand on his toes staring down the street. Hand over his eyes shielding out the glare. He shuffled right to the edge, toes hanging over the kerb. What the hell, I thought as I turned to stare through the window. He looked at his feet and shot one final glance through the traffic. Maybe at the S-type Jag, three back. I’d say doing about twenty-five. Certainly no more than that.
“Did you hear… are you going to buy that?” were the next words that flew my way with quite some momentum and, I’d have to say, venom.
Clearly patience was running out so I slung her a momentary glance and said, “Probably.” Nothing else though. I went straight back to the scene outside. I heard her huff and I smiled but not because of her, because I realised what was unfolding. I was thinking of the torn jeans and scuffed jacket Monkie was wearing.
As the car in front went by Monkie stepped onto the road right in front of the Jaguar. A woman screamed. A man shouted. As I watched, Monkie gave a small almost indistinguishable jump. A kind of hop. The bumper clipped his right calf and he was side-on onto the bonnet as the Jag’s tyres screeched. Shoulder taking the impact as he simultaneously slammed the flat of his hand on the British racing green steel. Seemed to hang in position, sort of suspended in time, then rolled over the nearside wing, took out the headlight with his knee and landed on the tarmac. Left-side arm absorbing the impact. Spun once. Stopped before he hit the kerb and lay still. The lady quickly knelt next to him.
Now the Doris, still blurbering away, was getting on my nerves. I turned and yelled at her, “Did you see that?” and quickly swung my head back. The Jag had stopped maybe thirty yards down the road. A man in a smart sports jacket, yellow cravat with black dots, dark hair creamed back, got out of the driver’s side.
He ran to look over the lady’s shoulder. The lady talked softly to Monkie who was now resting on one elbow. Eyes scrunched up as he rubbed his knee. He looked up at the lady with a weak smile. He was so convincing I expected to see tears.
I glanced back at the Doris, “Did you see that?” I asked again but quietly this time. “That fella’s just got run over.” But she just shrugged and carried on marking the papers and putting them in the big canvas shoulder bag. Glanced up at the wall clock maybe wondering where the delivery person was. The scene outside started to heat up. Monkie shouted at the driver. The lady had a look that suggested trauma. I could see her mouthing words. You know, a long while back I learnt the advantage of having certain skills and made a point of working on those I thought were the essential ones. The latest wheeze, lip reading, a great attribute. I could just make out a stream of soothing words.
Slick, that’s how I would describe the action. Staged accidents, what a great scam. Quite a new thing around here so not many people had heard about them but I had. I’d even thought of giving it a go but knew, for me, it was a non-starter. I’d broken my leg when I was really young, when my brother had died, but I’ll get on to that later because it was relevant to my story. Anyway, that made me realise that perhaps I was not so subtle. But Monkie, I’d already seen how lithe he was with him swinging round that pole the way he did. Now, though, he was having trouble. Clearly the driver was not playing ball.
Putting the MM back I slipped past the Doris’s scowl and pulled the door. Onto the pavement and pushed through the small crowd. “What’s up, matey,” I asked Monkie and noticed a look of recognition.
“He,” and he nodded at the driver, “he’s run me over…” soft feeble words. Brilliant, just like he was speaking from a hospital bed.
“I didn’t,” started the driver.
But I quickly cut in with, “How’s my mate got himself all covered in dust if you didn’t? Explain that if you can. Look at him all battered and damaged.”
“But…”
“No buts, matey… What about it, lady,” I said turning to the fifty something with greying hair who I had tabbed as firmly on Monkie’s side stroking his hair like she was.
“You hit him,” is all she quivered. A fact that was indisputable.
“Are you okay?” I asked Monkie.
“Not really, my knee,” which got a vigorous rubbing for effect, “but I’ll be okay,” and added a pursed lip ooh and an accompanying scowl of fake pain.
“Shall I call the police?” I asked and looked at the driver who just stared back. I could see he was not keen so continued, “Or…”
“Or what?” the man said.
Monkie wasted no time getting to the point, “You’ve torn my jeans and scuffed my jacket…” Held up his left elbow showing the leather with a massive gash and pointed at the ripped knees. I had trouble holding back a smile.
“How about I replace them,” replied the driver. “Ten pounds should be more than enough.” I could clearly see hope in his eyes.
I could tell Monkie was tempted so, before he could get himself committed, I quickly stepped in, “I think twenty’s fair… don’t forget the pain he’s in.”
“That sounds way too much.” frowned the driver.
“No problem,” I said, “We’ll let the cops sort it out, shall we. I know the lady in the paper shop, she’ll phone the police,” and I turned to go.
“Wait… wait. Okay… twenty,” the man snapped, pulled out his wallet and, with quite some fury, squashed two tens into my hand.
Just then movement across the road momentarily caught my attention. A door opening and a snappy suit but at the same time the lady spoke. I tore my gaze away and looked at her. Saw, if I ignored the pained expression, she would more than stand up to scrutiny in a very nice mature lady way. So, putting my hand tenderly on her shoulder, I gave a slight squeeze and said, “Thank you so much… you know, for all your concern,” and I really meant it, after all, it was her testimony that helped up the ante to twenty. I feigned helping Monkie to stand, brushed his jacket and said, “Come on, matey, I’ll get you home. A hot bath will ease the pain.”
As we started to walk away I scowled at the driver as I grabbed Monkie’s arm to tug him after me. Then, thinking we could do with some rapid invisibility, headed towards the alley, the shortcut to Market Square. On impulse I swung a quick glance back. The driver was getting into his car and the lady had wandered off. None of that interested me though. Across the road standing in the doorway of the Burger Bar chewing a cheeseburger a man in a light blue Take Six suit was taking more than the usual interest. Tall guy, young-looking face but over thirty for sure. Swept back mid-length black hair. Looked like he knew how to spend money. He caught my gaze, grinned then walked away in the other direction.
2
As we wandered along the alley there was no time to wonder about Take Six man. I noticed Monkie was limping. Not so much though, just a bit here and there, but enough for me to wonder.
Then I decided he must be a mind reader because, the next moment, he said, “That was a tough one. The Jag was going the fastest I’ve ever had to handle but I don’t think I misjudged the speed, I think the guy might’ve slightly tweaked the throttle as he got close to me. He almost had me but… I got away with it... Anyway, thanks for the help. The name’s Monkie.”
I grinned one of my specials at him, “That’s very appropriate, don't you think, considering. Anything to do with long tails and trees or were you named in anticipation?”
Monkie shrugged, “Something like that, I suppose… Anyway, Tommy Monk. Hence the…”
“Monkie. That’s a relief. I had visions of you unzipping your human suit when you arrived home from the fancy dress party… Rich. That’s me.”
“What literally?” Monkie had a look of hope on his face so I shot him down.
“Depends on your definition, of course, but not generally. Consistently financially stable is a fine expression. Although there can be periods of unexpected austerity due to a downturn in expected revenue culminating in simply being broke.”
“A fine line for sure. You sound like a city type pinstripe suit sitting behind a mahogany desk counting stacks of money but I suspect you’re not mostly because of the lack of the pinstripe… Like the boots… So, it’s Rich… Just Rich?”
“That’s it… for now anyway. My name comes on a need to know basis.”
“Interesting, it must be a real humdinger as they say in the good old US of A.”
“Not so much, it just takes some explaining and just at this precise moment we lack time… I’m due at work.”
“You work… How so?” Monkie actually sounded quite disgusted by the idea.
“Money comes to those who strive and that’s what I do, strive to make the wherewithal by any means possible and hopefully with the least effort possible to produce maximum reward.”
Monkie’s amused expression would cheer up any dark day, “Where?” he asked.
We had come to the end of the alley and I stopped at the edge of the square, “There,” I pointed.
Now he sounded astonished, “You’re not a shop worker are you? A bit dull I’d think.”
“Far from it. It fills all the criteria.” I had an inkling Monkie would know what I was referring to.
“That’ll need some explaining,” he replied.
“Later… Do you know the pub down by the river?”
“Sure, The Crown.”
“I’ll meet you there at six… now, I really do have to go. Here.” I handed Monkie one of the tenners.
He scowled and said, “Hang on… I seem to remember twenty being the appropriate amount.”
“Sure twenty was accepted but my interpretation was you were anticipating ten. The other ten was the direct result of my interrupting your imminent premature acceptance of the lesser amount…”
“You do have a way of explaining things, don’t you. All those big words. Now you’re sounding like a lawyer but…”
“No buts now we’re equal partners. We split everything fifty-fifty and I’m happy to extend that to include all income sources, present and future…”
Monkie wore a frown of confusion, “I don’t remember any agreement. What makes you think we’re partners?”
I shrugged and said, “The fact that we’ve decided…”
Monkie’s look now suggested quite a considerable amount of confusion, “You’ve decided,” he replied.
“Not so, it’s a joint decision…”
Was there a slight enlightenment maybe, “Oh, I see, one of those one-sided joint decisions.”
“Nope. I think you’ve agreed.”
“Really?” I detected that was said with real astonishment so I felt obliged to explain.
I nodded and momentarily held Monkie’s eyes giving him a knowledgeable smile, “Yes, really. Sitting in your hand is a ten pound note which you have clearly accepted. Acceptance suggests agreement to you receiving exactly fifty percent of the proceeds from the recent transaction with the owner of a racing green Jag. Fifty percent of the sum derived from our combined efforts. Your contribution being the instigation and mine the negotiation. Therefore, by definition, we’re partners in at least that endeavour. As I previously stated this partner is prepared to extend the contract to include all future influxes of cash up until the said contract is deemed, by mutual agreement, to be dissolved. The second part does require your agreement.”
Monkie shrugged and frowned, “I’m not so sure I follow much of that. I know lawyers are fickle fellas but… Where the f…”
“Stop. One more thing. No expletives and certainly not the real nasty one beginning with the third letter of the alphabet. There are far better ways to make your point with the use of suitable words and a way of saying said words.”
“Which you have clearly mastered… I was going to say where on earth did you get all that crap… That’s okay, isn’t it? Crap.”
“Sure, it falls outside the parameters of a full on swear word. All the crap, as you put it, I learn from books. I read a lot and it also helps immensely that my uncle, who lives out of town, is a barrister who generally talks to me in riddles... So, what do you say?”
“You obviously take after your uncle is the first thing that comes to mind. The second might be to wonder why you aren’t pursuing a career in something you seem to excel at.”
“I was intending to but circumstances revolving around a rubbish home life intervened but I might get around to it in time. For now though…” I left that drifting on the breeze making Monkie decide.
Monkie stared at me for a moment while he shuffled a few thoughts then grinned as he said, “Okay, I agree. All present and future proceeds fifty-fifty. One thing though, on the agenda of our first get-together will be my proposal that words be spoken in simple English with no attempt to bamboozle. That said, I’d spit on my hand first but actually I find that a bit disgusting so…”
Monkie offered his hand. I kept the extra tenner and strolled off to work after confirming our first board meeting be convened at around six in the Crown and thinking there was nothing like a bit of mental exercise to blow away last night's blues. Monkie wandered off muttering something about cats which I must admit did sound intriguing after he assured me it did not involve the making of cheap, naturally warm coats. I suspected the explanation would be extremely interesting. Watching him wander across the Square I had the feeling things were taking an upturn and about time. Up until six months ago my life had been one pile of misery after another. Although my mum was weak and somewhat negligent as far as I was concerned I loved her more than anything. Maybe even more than Marge but that was doubtful considering how my mum was. One certain thing: it was definitely a close run thing with my Uncle. My dad though, certainly not him, I had dark thoughts about him.
I took a moment to ponder. I’d only had a partner one time before and that had worked out well. At school a couple of years before I’d gone to live with Marge. A spot of gambling had been involved. Like then, this time I was sure the benefits of such a clearly like-minded fella would outweigh possible downsides assuming, of course, there were some which somehow I doubted. I was smiling as I pushed the shop door. Then I saw the normally lively manager, Julie, leaning on the counter. Glum, perfectly described her appearance. She looked my way and gave her watch a severe visual beating.
I think I mentioned my Uncle. Every year, after I was eight, I’d go and stay with him and aunt Viv in the summer holidays. South and east of us, just outside of Horsham where my Uncle could get the train into London. 1960 it was when I stayed for four weeks instead of the usual two. I would have been ten. My mother had packed me off as usual but didn’t say why the visit was extended but we both knew although I was sure she didn’t know that I knew. I could see it in her face as she waved goodbye on the platform. A mixture of dread and relief. One hand up to her mouth, in a loose fist, with her thumb nail resting on her lips. A look I was so familiar with. The other raised as the carriage rattled away. Hanging out of the window I watched her waving become more frantic as the train rounded the bend a short way after the platform.
Although I was only ten I knew the whole story. That was one of my best attributes, I quickly understood stuff and I mean really understood and very quickly. Some might say I was a fast learner which was true but it was more than that and that part was mostly gained purely by careful observation.
How she managed to hang on everyday until after my father had gone to work I do not know. But she did and then she was sick. Not the violently I’m really ill sort of sick though. More an ending of an uncomfortable bout of nausea. Everyday, almost exactly at eight, just before I went to school. I knew what the extra two weeks were for and I hoped the old man would never find out. He beat her enough as it was. The telltale signs hidden under heavy makeup that she thought a young kid would not notice and if they did would not know why. But I did know. It was just so obvious.
Anyway, most times by nine in the evening my father was with the fairies so I thought maybe he wouldn’t notice. The empty bottles of bottom shelf whisky lining the route to the bin told that story well enough. That was a thing I still think about. The way he managed to get stuff almost there but never quite completed a task. That was except when he was having words with me. Drunk and extracting revenge, as he called it, for something that happened a long time ago that he had convinced himself was my fault but wasn't. He snuck in so my mother didn't know how he treated me. Why didn’t I tell her? Simple, she had enough worries and besides, I was independently minded and could look after myself. It was just a case of biding my time.
The prime time for his conversations, late at night. My bedroom dark until the light flicked on. Me curled up under the covers in a tight ball hoping it would not be tonight. Whisky breath making me gag as he whispered close. Nasty mean words said without thought and full of spite. The wide leather always made a snapping sound as he whipped it from his trouser loops. I didn’t cry. I never cried. Never even muttered a sound. It didn’t last long. Just a couple of swift swipes to ram home his point. I just locked my teeth and scrunched up my eyes then… all that happened was my resolution, determination and hate slowly dug a deeper and deeper hole until it was firmly embedded in my soul.
What my mother experienced at the end of the day after I left, when my father arrived home from work, I do not know. A temper that snapped in an instant was certainly not a thing to mess with. This time though she must have been desperate and prepared to endure to get me away so she would have one less concern. But in some way it was almost counterproductive. After four weeks I had to go home and my father’s fragile disposition would be there just waiting to explode.
People might be tempted to say why stay. Why did she put up with my father’s violence. Why did my mother not just grab me and up and go? Those people all said the same uneducated thing from the viewpoint of someone who didn’t understand. They all said they would leave and without any hesitation. But it was not that simple. There’s a whole range of reasons. The main one being it’s hard to break a tyrant's hold. They can be devious. My father was. He was a salesman and a good one by all accounts. The word was his charm was irresistible. I’d guess that’s how he snagged my mother. He exuded an air of niceness that masked a smouldering furnace. Things did not happen all the time, though. There were certainly long periods when everything seemed… normal. He would beguile, buy her gifts and then with no warning something happened and then… But afterwards there was always remorse. Then the charm offensive resumed and my mother smiled and things settled again. Maybe that was enough to convince her leaving was the wrong choice, but I don’t know. I’ve never asked her. Anyway, there’s a whole heap of other reasons that could be reeled off all ending with the same conclusion: it was not so easy. It wouldn't surprise me if she felt some guilt for what had happened to my brother and it was simply that that made her stay.
My grandparents had all passed close together in their sixties. That was not so unusual then. I think the war had some effect. Maybe diet but I’m not sure. Then what about her brother? The one thing he was desperate to do was help. He had the means and that was the ironic thing. His field of expertise was in social responsibility. But to become involved in a serious way he needed her permission and after the tears she always relented and said it was not as bad as it seemed and begged him not to do anything. But what about me you might ask? Now, that was one thing I can categorically give a firm answer to. There was no need to worry there. I was tough enough and sharp enough. I would survive just fine. Besides, my time would come. In these circumstances it always did. I was convinced it was just a case of how and when.
Anyway, my uncle. A man anyone would love until death overtook them and I was no exception. Uncle Ralph Lamont, barrister of law representing the weak and needy with a tendency to use way too many words in extraordinarily convoluted explanations of all things to do with life. As Monkie had quite rightly said, a habit it did not take too many years for me to emulate.
It was that year he gave me his very own, use-worn, copy of To Kill A Mockingbird. He told me how it was new to the shelves and how he’d already read it and reread it two times almost without a break. He said it was the most extraordinary tale of injustice and hatred. A fine example of the subjugation of one race of people by another who consider themselves superior and free to abuse and distort the truth. You must read it, he told me, it’ll make you think. Then said how coincidentally one of the main protagonists was a lawyer.”
And you know what, after he finished explaining, at quite some length, the meaning of the long words he used, I did read it. Two times while I was there and we talked about it. My uncle explained some bits to me. Parts I was unsure of. It made me understand why he defended people who struggled to pay. From that moment on I resolved to work hard at school. I had decided I wanted to be a lawyer. That was until almost six months ago when everything quite abruptly changed.