Magnus Mills - Screwtop Thompson

He held out his hands, palms upwards. “Well then. Not once have I shouted at you, or criticised you, or demanded to know anything. Like I said before, I simply want you to trust me, to think of me as your friend.” He reached into his pocket and produced a bar of chocolate, which he passed across the desk. “Here you are. Expect you could do with a bite to eat, couldn’t you?”

“Yes, thanks,” I said, unwrapping the chocolate and breaking off a chunk. “I have been here rather a long time.”

“Three or four hours?”

“At least.”

“That is a long time,” he agreed, puffing his cheeks out. “Yes, the waiting must be the worst part. The interminable waiting. Never knowing what’s going to happen, and always wondering who’ll be the next person to come through that door.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” I said. “To tell the truth.”

“Really?” he asked.

“Really,” I replied.

“Well, I’m sure you will very soon.” He stood up and glanced at his watch. “Look, I’ve got to go now, but I’ll be back shortly, I promise. In the meantime I’d keep that chocolate hidden if I were you.”

♦

The third time he came into the room he looked deeply troubled. He was carrying a steaming hot towel which he tossed to me before going over to the wall and leaning on one elbow, eyes closed, his fingers pressed hard against his brow. He maintained this stance for well over a minute. Meanwhile, I made full use of the towel, running it over my face and head, and breathing deeply as the vapours entered my pores. When at last he spoke, his voice was grave.

“I’m dreadfully sorry about this, dreadfully, dreadfully sorry. That man can be such a beast at times. A monster. Nonetheless, you must understand that he’s only doing his…”

All of a sudden he broke off, and I looked up to see that he was staring at me with a startled expression on his face. He came forward and gave me a closer look, then slumped down in the chair opposite mine.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Never better.”

“Not feeling rough?”

“No, not at all.”

“Well then you’d better let me have the towel back. I’m afraid everything has to be accounted for these days. You know how things are. Nice and refreshing, was it?”

“Yes, thanks,” I replied. “A great comfort.”

My words seemed to perk him up, because he quickly rose to his feet and walked around the room saying, “Good, good. A great comfort. That’s very good.”

Then he halted in his tracks and turned to face me again. “The trouble is that it’s likely to get worse.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, yes, much, much worse. And of course there’ll be little I can do about it because I won’t be here to speak up for you.”

“But I thought you said you were going to help.”

“Well…yes,” he stammered. “I am going to help you, yes I am. But I can only do that…”

“When you come back,” I interrupted.

“Er…yes, that’s quite right. I can only help you when I come back.”

♦

The fourth time he entered the room he was sweating profusely. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and his tie had come loose. Under his arm he carried a sheaf of papers, which he hurriedly laid out on the desk, glancing at me from time to time and adjusting his glasses when they slipped down his nose.

“Dear oh dear,” he said, breathing heavily. “Looks like we have an administrative problem. Can you remember what time you were brought in?”

“I wasn’t brought in,” I replied. “I came of my own accord.”

“What!” he said, plainly taken aback. “Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?”

“I thought it was the best course of action under the circumstances.”

He put his hand to his head and began pacing round in an agitated manner.

“Have you any idea what goes on here?” he demanded. “In this very room?”

“Well,” I answered. “Nothing most of the time, from what I’ve seen.”

“Nothing!? Nothing!? How can you say that after what you’ve been through? Hour after hour of interrogation, verbal abuse and the ever-present threat of physical violence, and you call that nothing!”

“But there’s only been you here,” I said. “And you were kind enough to give me a bar of chocolate.”

He stood stock still, stared at me for several seconds, then marched out of the room.

♦

When he came back I noticed he had changed his shirt. The new one was ironed, crisp and white, and his tie was knotted perfectly at the centre of his collar. He was also wearing a stiffly pressed jacket.

“Sorry about all that earlier,” he said, taking the seat opposite mine. “Staff shortages.”

“Thought so,” I said. “You’re the good cop, aren’t you?”

To my surprise he reached over and slapped me hard across the face.

“Silence!” he barked. “We will ask the questions!”

SCREWTOP THOMPSON! it said on the box. HIS HEAD SCREWS RIGHT OFF! The price was two shillings and sixpence. Screwtop Thompson made his appearance in the toy shop window a few weeks before Christmas, and caught everybody’s attention with his jolly laughing face. He came in several different guises. You could buy Screwtop Thompson as a policeman, a fireman, a sailor, a footballer, a boxer or a schoolmaster, each with the same expression. The policeman brandished a truncheon, the fireman held the end of a hose, while the schoolmaster wore a mortarboard and gown.

Screwtop Thompson was plump and round with a big red mouth and shiny black eyes. His head screwed off, apparently so that you could put things inside him — small coins, for example, or maybe your collection of coloured marbles. We were living in an age of austerity, so my parents agreed that Screwtop Thompson would make an ideal Christmas gift for me. I chose the fireman. The price, as I said, was two and six, or half a crown as we called it in those days.

My brother’s equivalent present was a robot. It did nothing apart from march along the floor with yellow lights flashing where its ears should be, but at the time it was considered a technological marvel by children and adults alike. There were four sizes in the range, and my brother was to receive the third largest. After the two of us had made our choices, we were supposed to forget we’d ever been in the shop, so that we could be appropriately surprised when we were given our presents on Christmas Day. We did our best but it was difficult. Everybody at school was talking about the new robots and the Screwtop Thompsons, as well as all the other treasures that were arriving in the toy shop day after day. Some of them sounded fantastic.

When I heard about the car-racing kits and the ‘genuine walkie-talkies’ that were now becoming available, I began to wonder if I’d made the right choice with my Screwtop Thompson. At the same time, I knew it was too late to change my mind.

At last the big day came. On Christmas morning I unwrapped my present and found I had received not a fireman but a schoolmaster. It seemed that there had been such a rush for Screwtop Thompsons in the days preceding Christmas that the shop had run out of all the other lines. I hid my disappointment and reminded myself that even the schoolmaster would have the same jolly face as the rest.

When I removed the lid of the box, however, I discovered that Screwtop Thompson’s head was missing. All I had was his body, wrapped in the flowing black gown. This provided a bona fide excuse for tears, and my father had to console me by saying that immediately after the Christmas holiday he would write to the manufacturer to demand an explanation, as well as a replacement head.