Tom Graham - Life on Mars - Borstal Slags

Ground floor: perfumery,

Stationery and leather goods.

Wigs and haberdashery.

Kitchenware and food. Going up!

‘A bottle, a chair, and a few old gags about Mrs Slocombe’s pussy,’ Sam said to himself, cracking open the beer. ‘That’ll do me. That’ll do me just grand.’

He swilled back a warm mouthful of brown ale and let his mind drift. But at once he was disturbed by the memory of a voice – a man’s voice, very harsh and brutal, issuing incongruously from the mouth of an immature young scally.

‘I’ll keep coming at you, you cheating bastard. I’ll keep coming at you until I’ve got my wife back – my wife – mine .’

‘Just ignore it,’ he muttered to himself, trying hard to relax. ‘It’s just mind games. Annie’s never been married.’

Annie. Married.

The image floated into his mind of Annie dressed all in white, with a lace veil, appearing in the aisle of a crowded church. The organ struck up the Wedding March. Sam pictured himself, all togged up in his morning suit, getting to his feet and turning to watch her walk slowly towards him.

This beautiful fantasy made his heart turn over. But then, unexpectedly, his dream was invaded by interlopers. Horribly familiar faces appeared amid the assembled guests. First he caught sight of Chris Skelton, uncomfortable in his cheap suit, a wilting flower hanging limply from his button hole as he pulled a leering, Sid James-ish face at Annie: ooh ’eck, cop a load of that!

Beside him, with his collar un-ironed and fag burns on his shirt, stood Ray Carling. He nudged Chris with his elbow – when the boss gets tired of her, he can always chuck her over my way – and swigged flagrantly from a pewter hip flask.

Just across from them was Phyllis, all made up and kitted out in her finest glad rags, but looking as scowly faced and unimpressed as ever. She shot Sam a sour look that said a girl like that – settling for a no-good little ’Erbert like you.

‘Give me a break guys,’ Sam whispered to himself, emerging from his fantasy and taking another swig of beer. Then he settled back again, let sleep tug at his eyelids and the emanations from the TV wash over him like a lullaby.

INT: GRACE BROTHER’S DEPARTMENT STORE – DAY

With her bright orange hair and thick multi-coloured make-up, Mrs Slocombe folds her arms and looks disapproving.

MRS SLOCOMBE: That new girl who’s started – Miss Belfridge, she calls herself. Nothing but a floozy! She’s in line for a promotion already, and all because she wiggles her hips and flutters her eyelashes!

Captain Peacock looks at her across the top of his glasses.

CAPTAIN PEACOCK: Do you feel ready for a promotion, Mrs Slocombe?

MRS SLOCOMBE: I do! I’m totally up for it, Mr Peacock! If only someone would give me one!

CAPTAIN PEACOCK: If I had the power, Mrs Slocombe, I’d happily give you one right now.

Mrs Slocombe simpers and pats her orange hair.

Nearby, Mr Spooner and Mr Humphreys overhear their conversation.

MR SPOONER: Promotion? Personally, I’m not much interested in climbing the corporate ladder. What about you, Mr Humphreys? Would you rather be on top?

MR HUMPHREYS: Ooh, I’m quite happy near the bottom.

The TV burbled on.

Slipping back into his wedding fantasy, Sam tried to ignore the faces of his colleagues amid the pews. Damn it all, this was his dream! Those bastards had no right to gatecrash it!

He tried to fill his imagination with the image of Annie in her bridal gown. She looked – and how could she not? – wonderful. He allowed a pale aura of light to shimmer around her, a soft-focus haze that gave her an almost ethereal radiance. Subtly – perhaps a little tackily – he made her eyes glint alluringly beneath her veil as she turned to smile at him.

The priest stepped forward to read the wedding service. But Sam’s imagination decided on a cruel casting decision.

‘Oh no, not you!’

There was a panatela smouldering unashamedly in the priest’s gob. He tugged at his dog collar to loosen it, sniffed, glanced about, and reached under his cassock to flagrantly shepherd a wayward bollock.

‘Shall we crack on with and adjourn to the bar?’ grunted Father Hunt. ‘The padre is parched.’

‘You’re just bloody spoiling it, Guv. You’re always bloody spoiling it.’

INT: GRACE BROTHER’S DEPARTMENT STORE – EVENING

Later that evening, everyone’s working late.

Bald, jug-eared Mr Rumbold appears dressed in an overcoat and carrying an umbrella. With him is an extremely attractive young new employee, Miss Belfridge. Mr Rumbold is clearly excited by her company.

MR RUMBOLD: Since we’re finishing late tonight, I promised to accompany the lovely Miss Belfridge safely to her front door.

CAPTAIN PEACOCK: Isn’t that rather out of your way, Mr Rumbold? You don’t live anywhere near Miss Belfridge.

MR HUMPHREYS: I can give you a lift home, Miss Belfridge. I’ve got my mother’s motorbike and sidecar.

MISS BELFRIDGE: But Mr Humphreys, I thought you were completely the other way.

MR HUMPHREYS: (Purses his lips) That’s a wicked rumour.

Drifting on the outskirts of sleep, Sam tried to rearrange his fantasy. He blotted out Gene and Ray and the others and tried to replace them. But who with? He wanted to imagine Annie’s father proudly escorting his beautiful daughter up the aisle, but Sam had no image of the man.

I don’t really know anything about Annie’s father, he thought, sleepily sipping more beer, and sliding further into the warm bath of sleep. In fact, I don’t know much about her past life at all. Bits and pieces. She may have mentioned something about brothers. Are they in the Force too? Does she come from a police family? And what about her childhood, all those years before I met her?

He began to imagine old boyfriends she might have had over the years. There would have been no shortage of willing candidates. Spotty, callow-faced youths, trying to impress her at the disco, or deep-voice uniformed coppers with little intelligence and even less imagination, offering her a future of child-rearing and domestic servitude.

Sam felt waves of jealousy lap at the edge of his dozing mind. To think that he could so easily have missed his chance with Annie, that he might have lost her to some schoolyard boyfriend or dull-as-ditchwater lug in uniform. Just to imagine her with somebody else made his muscles tighten and his stomach clench.

But she’s not with somebody else – she’s with me . More or less. Pretty much. In a manner of speaking.

There was no husband, emerging from the shadows to reclaim his runaway bride. Whatever the Devil in the Dark may be, it was not Annie’s husband. It was impossible. It was unthinkable!

MR HUMPHREYS: Wait there, Miss Belfridge, while I get my motorcycle things. I stuck my helmet round the back.

CAPTAIN PEACOCK: Stuck it round the back, Mr Humphreys? I hope you haven’t put it anywhere that might cause a blockage.

MR HUMPHREYS: It’s only a small one, Captain Peacock. I could probably stick it anywhere and nobody would notice.

MRS SLOCOMBE: Well I hope you don’t try sticking it under my ladies’ counter, Mr Humphreys! I’d certainly notice! There’s no room down there to accommodate your helmet.

MR HUMPHREYS: Are you giving me backchat, you orange-haired bitch? Jesus Christ, you need to learn some bloody manners!

Since when did Quentin Tarantino start directing Are You Being Served?, Sam thought. He forced his eyes open and looked at the TV screen, and was disturbed to see Mr Humphreys stride furiously across to Mrs Slocombe’s counter and lay into her with both fists. As Mrs Slocombe went down, curling into a foetal position, Mr Humphreys slammed his foot into her, over and over again, aiming kicks at her back, her legs, her head.