James Field's Blog, page 14

Part 24: A vintage typewriter is best for all normal office duties…

Mr Styles insisted that a vintage typewriter is best for all normal office duties.-

“There’s one advantage of living one hundred years in the past,” said Olive.

“Well, it’s not this clumsy typewriter.” The secretary wrinkled her nose at the bulky monster.

A modern computer terminal sat in the office's corner, but Mr Styles insisted that a vintage typewriter is best for all normal office duties. “The advantage for Styles is that payment in cash means he avoids paying taxes”. He’d never registered the part-time workers to the authorities. He was a bigger rogue than she and Bert put together. But that was okay. She was about to change all that. Soon, she would be England’s most infamous crook.

In her usual methodical manner, Olive went about her ordinary routine of business. She counted out money to amounts as listed on a typed payroll schedule.

She’d placed both suitcases at her feet, and though one of them was heavy, it contained nothing but the pages of her encyclopedias, cut to the size of paper money. With a slight movement of her foot, she opened the suitcase and exchanged a worker’s wages for roughly the same number of false bills. She then stuffed the worthless sheets of paper into his pay envelope, sealed it, and dropped it into a black pouch with dozens of other envelopes.

Whenever the secretary spoke on the phone, or her typewriter clanked, or the low screen hid her, Olive swapped money for rubbish. All the while, Olive rubbed her eyes as though they hurt her, and moaned at the headache that was about to split her head in two. Mr Styles, as usual, remained in his office, drinking coffee and taking small naps.
 
To be continued… 

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Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-Image by Peter H from Pixabay

Part 23: Olive makes up the pay packets…

Olive makes up the pay packets ready for tomorrow.-

Olive placed the two suitcases and the handbag next to her feet. “Can’t stop to chat,” she said to the secretary. “I’m in a hurry. I’ll get on with making the pay packets ready for tomorrow.”

She ambled to the entrance door and locked and bolted it. Then she crossed the room to the vault—a narrow, unaired cell, with a hard linoleum floor and one central light bulb that dangled from a wire in the ceiling. In bygone days, someone had painted the walls and ceiling in a dull whitewash. These days, it smelled of dank decay and cobwebs festooned in the corners. Three steel doors hung on massive hinges, made up the right-hand wall. Behind them lay several millions of pounds in cash and securities.

Each door had two dials. They needed two people to open them, each person knowing one of the two combinations. As bookkeeper and cashier, Olive knew the second combination for the door furthest in. Mr Styles knew the other, and he’d already opened his half of the lock. The safe contained one million, seven hundred thousand pounds in cash, and forty thousand pounds in gold and silver.

Olive passed back and forth, carrying bundles of currency to her desk, less than three feet from the secretary’s. A low screen divided them, and you had to stand to see over.
After counting out one hundred and ninety thousand pounds, Olive peeked over the screen and flung a few casual words to the secretary. “Big payroll for the part-time workers this week.”

The secretary stopped punching the keys of her typewriter and smiled up at Olive. “Those men draining a new meadow for the horses?”

“Yeah, a few hunky nuggets there. Shame I won’t be here to dish out their pay.”

“Uh-huh!” said the secretary. With a loving husband and five cute kids, she showed no interest. Her fingers thudded down on the typewriter once more, and while Olive could hear that sound, she felt safe to carry out her plan.
 
To be continued… 
The real world:
 
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Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-
Image by PublicDomainPictures from Pixabay

Part 22: Lightweight suitcases…

Olive needs two lightweight suitcases for her make-up. -

Bert dabbed his mouth on the back of a hand. “Can I give you a lift?”

“No, thanks. I’m just taking a couple of lightweight suitcases with some old clothes, and my make-up, and plenty of room to shop. I packed them already, before I came here. Anyway, it’s time you went to work.” Bert worked at the nearby Cloud Estate as a security guard, and he seldom took time off. “I’ll probably take the noon train North if I can get the pay packets ready in time. We’re busy at the moment, with these payrolls for the extra part-time workers.”

“Okay, I’ll give you a lift to the office, then I’ll mosey on up to the estate.”

Five minutes later, Olive arrived at her office, carrying the two small suitcases and a neat, frilly handbag. Mr Styles helped her to carry the suitcases inside.

“Be careful with that bag,” she said. “My make-up is in it.” That was a lie; it contained her Penelope disguise. “I can’t wait to get started for Harrogate and the spa.”

“Wish I could go along, Olive. How is the head this morning? Does it still ache?”

“Somewhat better, but now my feet ache, too. Guess I’ve been using them too much, but the spa will soon sort that out. I’ll try to catch the train North at eleven-thirty. Can you have a taxicab here for me at eleven? I need to get to Edgware.”

“Edgware?”

“Yes, my car broke down there yesterday, but they promised to fix it by noon.” Another smooth lie; her car was at Sidcup.

“Okay, Olive. Taxi here at eleven. You should buy yourself a new car.”

“I plan to. Something sporty.”

“Good.” Then Mr Styles disappeared into his own office, muttering under his breath about taxis and sports cars.

The secretary at her desk close to Olive called heartily: “All right for some people! You wait! Next summer holiday, I’ll go for a month spa!”
 
To be continued… 
​
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-

Part 21: The underground is a great way to travel…

Olive travels by underground-

Olive hastened to the town’s underground station. The underground is a great way to travel: discreet and fast. It was ten minutes to eleven. She bought a ticket from a machine, and rather than sit in the waiting room, she stayed outside in the shadows, hidden in a dark corner. When the train wheezed and sparked into the platform, she slipped into the last seat of the rear carriage, and with the hood of her jacket tugged over her eyes, she pretended to sleep. She had to change trains often on her course across London. When she reached a station close to The Stables, she jumped off and started a two-hour trudge to her house at number two Flintstone Terrace. She reached home at two o’clock in the morning.

She slept beautifully that night, hummed in her morning shower, and popped in to visit Bert in his house next door at midday. He was drowsing on a large settee against the wall in the lounge. “Wake up!” she shouted.

He snorted and squeezed open one eye. When he sighted Olive, he rubbed both eyes and opened them fully. “Aren’t you at Harrogate?”

“I ran into some hard luck. My car broke down and I left it at Epsom.”

Bert swung his legs to the floor and scratched his bald head. “You left it at Epsom?”

“That’s what I said. Epsom.”

“Oh.” Bert glanced around, then pointed his fingers this way and that. “I thought you were driving north. Epsom is south.”

“Yes, that’s right, south to Epsom. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.”

Throughout the meal of egg, beans, bacon, toast and marmalade, Olive complained of her headache and swollen feet. “As soon as we’re finished, I’m going to pick my car up at Epsom and drive north to Harrogate. I need that spa and a rest.”
 
To be continued… 
The real world:
 
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Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-
Image by PublicDomainPictures from Pixabay

Part 20: Something wrong with the ignition?

Olive fiddles with her spark plugs! -

On the edge of Bushy, Olive halted, opened the car’s bonnet, tugged off a spark plug cap, and placed it back on loosely so it didn’t make contact. When she started the engine again, it bucked and spat, missing on one cylinder, with the unattached plug.

“I suppose there must be something wrong with the ignition,” she said cheerfully.

With the car struggling to keep up with the traffic, she ran it into a garage in Bushy. Most lights were out, making it look closed. She spotted an old guy, busy emptying the forecourt rubbish bins, and surmised he was the night cleaner.

“Are there any mechanics here?” asked Olive through her car window.

The dumpy little man ceased his work and gaped at Olive, his face blank. Then he must have realised that her car engine sounded sick, and he said. “No, Ma’am; guess you’ll have to leave it till morning.”

“Damn! Something is wrong with the carburettor or the ignition.” She gave a heavy sigh. “Well, I’ll leave it, then. Will you be here in the morning when the mechanic comes?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good. Could you please tell him I must have the car by tomorrow noon? No, by tomorrow at nine. Now, don’t forget. This will help your memory.” She handed a twenty-pound note to the cleaner, who grinned and said: “Yes, Ma’am; that’ll help my memory a lot!” He stuffed the money into a pocket and leaned closer. “What name shall I tell him?”
“Uh-my name? Oh, most people know me as Sugar Pop, but Miss Hanson will do. Remember now, I’ll be back for the car at nine tomorrow.”
 
To be continued…
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-

Part 19: A wild and swampy pond will do…

Olive knows of a wild and swampy pond... -

Olive headed for Bushey. At a spot she knew well, two miles from Chipwick, she veered off the road onto a farmer’s track. Her car bounced along until she reached an extensive copse of trees, most of them oaks and maples. There she turned her car lights off, parted ways with the track, and inched her car along a seldom-unused woodland road. The car splashed through puddles, and every so often a boulder or tree root scrapped and knocked the underside of her car.
 
Stiff after her long drive, she climbed out, stretched, and switched on a torch she’d brought with her. With the torch held down, she lunged through the woods and up a rise of ground to a low bank overlooking a wild and swampy pond. In that pale light, she made out the reedy expanse of the pool. It was so muddy, slimy, and tangled with weeds that nobody used it for swimming or fishing. It stank worse than Bert’s outside toilet. Olive shone the torch over the water and bit her lip. She had no way of knowing the pond’s depth, but out in the middle, where it was clear of growth, she reckoned it would do.
 
The deep rutted farmer’s trail led to the pond’s bank, continued around the perimeter, and melted into the woodlands on the other side. She paced the rough path back to her parked car and smiled. The track was straight, dotted with tufty grass and weeds, and had no serious obstacles.
 
Satisfied with what she’d seen, she flew back to the main road. There she waited until a considerable gap opened in the traffic, and then renewed her northward course toward Bushey, driving fast.
​
To be continued… 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-

Part 18: A spa will do you good…

A spa will do you good-
​
That evening, Olive invited Bert for dinner, but she was rather silent, which was unusual.
 
“Something wrong?” said Bert, starting on his third pizza. “Been arguing with Penny again?”
 
“No, I’ve avoided her for weeks now.” She took a nibble from her first slice of pizza and dropped it back onto her plate. “I’ve got a stinking headache. Hurry and finish eating, I’m driving north to Harrogate for a spa.”
 
"Yeah, a spa will do you good." Bert gulped beer from a can, burped, and said with a straight face, “When my Grandma died, I took her to one of those spas where the little fish eat your dead skin.”
 
“Why?”
 
“It was cheaper than having her buried or cremated.” He laughed, his body wobbling like a mound of jelly.
 
At nine-thirty, Olive drove away from The Stables, headed south, not north. When she reached the outskirts of Chipwick, she joined a motorway and put her foot down. The mini's little engine screamed, while Olive settled into her chair and concentrated on the traffic.
 
She raced south for twenty-five miles—almost to the town of Epsom. Then, by a busy B road, she swung back to the north, and making a vast circle about the city of London, made toward the town of Bushy. These directions were important to her: Epsom was eighteen miles south of Chipwick; The Stables was eight miles north of Chipwick; and Bushy another ten miles further north.
 
To be continued… 

The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-Image by ijmaki from Pixabay

Part 17: The best cure for flu…

The best cure for flu-

Mr Styles rubbed the back of his tired old neck. Olive wasn’t a saint, he’d admit that, but she wasn’t a murderer or a bank robber. Far from it, he thought he could rely on her one-hundred percent. He cackled. The idea was ludicrous. “Well, when you rob a bank, or us, I’ll look up Penelope. But try not to. I’d hate to have anything to do with a religious investigator in a flaring skirt.”

Both laughed, but then Olive broke off with a soft moan and stroked her forehead. “My head still hurts.”

Mr Styles barely held his irritation at bay, and his voice fostered a rough edge. “You’d better take the rest of the week off.”

“I don’t want to, Mr Styles. The difficulty is that I’m worn out. It’s almost as if I’m coming down with the flu. In fact, from the way my lungs ache and my ears fizz, it’s almost certain.”
“Rest is the best cure for flu.”

“Oh, you’re so sweet. I think I’ll drive north, to Harrogate, and take a spa.”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll make up Thursday’s pay packets before I leave and turn them over to the secretary.”
​
“I’d appreciate that if you can manage.” Mr Styles sniffed noisily and swallowed the phlegm. “A spa, eh? If I had the time, I’d join you.”
*
That Wednesday evening, Olive’s sister Penelope appeared at the All Saints service. Afterwards, when back in her house and transformed into Olive, she didn’t return Penelope's wig and garments to the bureau. Instead, she packed them into a suitcase, carried the suitcase to her own house, and locked it in her wardrobe.
 
To be continued… 

The real world: 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-Image by Sambeet D from Pixabay

Part 16: Freaked out…

Freaked out-
“I suppose I ought to be glad to hear you praise poor Olive,” said Penelope, “but I'm more concerned with her lack of respect for the affairs of the spirit.”

Although Mr Styles considered himself a friendly person, and because he didn’t like her type, he found little to say to the caustic woman, and therefore he sat back, fiddled with his pen, and listened politely.

“She never comes to visit me,” continued Penelope, “and when I went to visit her, we quarrelled. How can I make her see her sins when she shuns me so?"

Mr Styles couldn't care less and he gave a simple little half shrug.

"I was hoping to catch her here.” Penelope clenched her jaw and spoke through her teeth with forced restraint. “That Olive is so shameless and flippant.”

“We don’t think she’s flippant.” Mr Styles swallowed gently and murmured. “We think she’s a pretty steady worker.”

“But her play-acting, and those horny love stories she reads, and the way she dresses. Well, I try to keep in mind the teaching ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged’, but I am pained to find my dear sister dropping immortal promises for mortal amusements.” She sighed. “Well, I’ll call on her, but I doubt she’ll let me in.” Her stiff, black dress rustled as she rose to her feet, and with her hands clasped and her chin high, she said, “I trust that some day we shall see you at All Saints. Good day, Sir.”

The following Monday, when Olive reappeared at work, Mr Styles gave her shoulder a squeeze and said, "Nice to see you back. I'm going to give you compliment. You're nothing like your sister."

Olive sighed: “Oh, Penelope is a good person in her own way, but she’s a religious nut, inside and out.” She rocked back in her chair, gave a little giggle, and sat forward again. “If I murder Bert, or rob a bank, I bet you the finest lunch in town that she’ll do her best to bring me to justice. That’s how freaked out she is.”
 
To be continued… 

The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-Image by Azmi Talib from Pixabay

Part 15: The best cure for migraine…

The best cure for migraine.-
​
One week later, someone knocked brashly on Mr Styles’ office door and opened it enough to push her head through. He smiled at Olive, dropped his pen, and waved her in.

Mr Styles, owner of The Stables, forced his ageing back to sit up straighter and blinked his dry eyes rapidly to moisten them. He had a narrow face, with a long chin and nose. He never wore a suit or tie, preferring instead baggy trousers suspended with braces and warm pullovers, mostly hand-knitted by his wife.

“Won’t keep you a minute,” said Olive. She strode into the office, leaving the door open behind her.

It didn’t take Mr Styles more than a glimpse to see Olive wasn’t well. Her nose glowed red, her eyes were dull, and a look of suffering replaced her usual smile. “Come in and sit yourself,” he said, false teeth clicking.

Olive flopped into the chair and placed her right hand on her forehead. “I can feel one of my migraines coming on. Mind if I go home early?”

Mr Styles didn’t like the sound of that. Today was Wednesday. The next day was payday.

“I’ve got all the pay envelopes ready,” said Olive. “So there won’t be any problem tomorrow.”

“Off you go then. Try to get a good night’s sleep and stay home tomorrow, that's the best cure for migraine. My secretary can deal out the wages.” Mr styles linked his fingers on the desk and glanced down at them. He couldn’t remember a time when Olive worked an entire week. She had migraine attacks, or a dicky tummy, or the flu, or toothache. Her excuses were boundless. But he liked her and her bubbly, flirtatious spirit. She made him feel thirty years younger.

Olive puckered her lips, blew a kiss, and strolled from the office, her generous hips swaying.

One hour later, someone else tapped on his door. “Come in,” he called.

Olive’s twin sister Penelope stepped in, bringing with her a smell of musty somberness. Mr Styles had seen Penelope only once before, and on that occasion too, by coincidence, Olive had been absent, out of town.

“Your sister is at home,” said Mr Styles. “The poor creature has a nasty headache. Hope she gets over it. She’s popular here. You ought to be proud of her. What can I help you with?”

As he spoke, Mr Styles looked Penelope over. Once or twice, Olive had spoken of the remarkable likeness between herself and her twin sister. But Styles saw little closeness. The features of the two were alike, but Penelope carried an expression of chronic spiritual indigestion. She also had an unfriendly manner, and her hair was unkempt and lifeless brown. Olive’s was sleek black, or curly blond, or streaked with green or whatever the trend was. Mr Styles dry washed his hands. He disliked Penelope as much as he liked Olive.
 
To be continued… 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-Image by squarefrog from Pixabay