"Here at Elysian Fields we believe that teamwork is the key. We are a team and we work as a team. And if you work successfully as a team, not only will you get the job done more effectively, but I think you'll find you'll derive much more personal satisfaction from your work."
The man who was speaking was some sort of camp functionary by the name of Mr. Palmer. He had a high, domed, completely smooth and constantly glistening forehead. It wasn't high due to receding hairline; it just seemed to belong to a size of face slightly larger than the one he otherwise had. Other things about him were the wrong size. His arms were slightly too long and his hands were far too small. Also, his knees didn't seem to be in the right place. Kevin could find nothing else to criticize about him apart from his moustache, which was slightly lopsided and looked as though it would blow away in a high wind, and his clothes: a smart enough blazer, shirt and tie and immaculately creased trousers, but he had only previously seen someone wear an ensemble whose colours were so vibrant and so discordantly mismatched on the screen of an ailing portable TV he'd once owned, during the two minutes or so of riotous psychedelia which had preceded its death. Palmer's shoes, adorning a pair of feet which must have been bound up since birth, had possibly come supplied with a Mr. Man badge, and visible between the uppers of one of them and the bottom of his trouser leg was a baggy expanse of sock, in some hitherto undiscovered shade of pink, which Kevin reckoned properly belonged over his heel. Presumably the loving but colour-blind mother who had dressed him had ill-advisedly left him to work that bit out for himself. He spoke with a faint Welsh lilt, and with a kind of diffident passion or nervous fervour, like a man who had never spoken in public before doing the warm-up at a Billy Graham gig; blazing looks of certainty directed into the eyes of his audience alternated with timidly beseeching looks, bashful glances at the floor, worried frowns, rapid bobbings of his Adam's apple and fretful tugs at his collar; he seemed to be filled in equal parts with a belief in the importance and sheer life-changing wonder of what he had to say, and a constant fear that someone in the audience was about to yell, "You're full of shit, Palmer," which Kevin, underslept, depressed and irritable, had had the urge to do almost every time Palmer's words had managed to intrude on Kevin's intense scrutiny of his aesthetic defects. As well as irritable, however, Kevin was also feeling strangely lachrymose and tender, and he had several times felt a competing and altogether stronger urge to hug Palmer and tell him he loved him and that he wouldn't let anyone hurt him and that everything was going to be all right for both of them one day, even if it was only in the next life.
"...the efficiency ratio of a successful team will be greater than the sum of its individual parts..."
Kevin, along with a couple of score other new recruits, was sitting in a little improvised lecture theatre in the main office building. He was seated at the end of one of the middle rows of chairs, next to the lanky boy in the tweed jacket who'd wanted the opera on. Jack and Brian were sitting in the back row in the middle of a boisterous group he hadn't felt lad enough to join, a couple of whom were furtively skinning up on their laps and who had started up a ragged chorus of, "Oh they've all gone potty at the front," shortly before Mr. Palmer had entered.
Palmer had kicked off with a few words of welcome and introduction. He was here, he said, less to give them a list of do's and don'ts than to help them get the most out of their time there. First off they'd been shown what he called an orientation video. The first half of it was a potted history of the Elysian Fields holiday camp from its inception to the present day. Early years as internment camp for enemy aliens living in Britain at the outbreak of World War 2: the staff chalets and showerblock clearly recognizable on the grainy film of pissed-off-looking Italian waiters. Heyday as mecca for working class holidaymakers in the fifties and early sixties: stock footage of Harold Macmillan, Bill Haley, people jiving in dancehalls, man with pipe patting an Austin Seven. Years of decline in the seventies, consequent of increasingly sophisticated tastes and cheap package tours to the continent: shots of locked gates, litter blowing like tumbleweed across empty camp, sad music playing. Triumphant rebirth in the mid-eighties, with the installation of the big dipper and the log flume and the general makeover of the camp into a leisure experience for the 21st Century: the rousing strains of Jerusalem swelling to a grand finale, and a smell of cannabis from the back row. The second part of the film was a slightly longer and altogether reverent biography of the multinational conglomerate that now owned the place, culminating in an extensive listing of all its other holdings to the sound of Also Sprach Zarathustra.
When the lights came back on Palmer told them that the company had a track record of filling key vacancies from in-house applicants wherever possible; today, hot-dog vendor at Elysian Fields, tomorrow, Chairman of the Board, was presumably the implication. Furthermore, he said, the company philosophy - "and I'm quoting now from a past managing director," - was that a pyramid structure is only as strong as its lowest level. "To put it more simply, you are very important to the company. You at your level of the industry are the interface between the company and the public. You are the foundation stones on which the company's prosperity is built, perhaps the most vital part of the corporate organism." Palmer had gone on to say that there was a suggestion box they could use outside the main office; Kevin had already thought of a couple, more to do with Palmer and his anatomy than with improved corporate efficiency. At the same time, he found Palmer's simple faith in the goodness and wisdom of his masters almost unbearably touching and was aware of a longing to cradle Palmer's head against his chest and stroke his hair.
Now Palmer's teamwork spiel was coming to the sort of climax that Kevin, primed by his Job Club experience, had foreseen for the past couple of minutes.
"...and in order to get a true sense of esprit de corps, you've got to take the time to get to know your fellow members of staff, their hopes and dreams, what makes them tick. And with that aim in mind I'd like to make a start now by simply having each and every person in this room stand up and tell us their name, a bit about themselves, and what their ambition in life is."
"Oh, my God," groaned the boy in the tweed jacket.
"Okay," said Mr. Palmer. "I'll go first. My name is Mr. Palmer, as you know. I'm from Bangor originally. I live off-camp, just outside the village down the road. My main responsibilities at this camp are, I'm in charge of a section of the catering department, a venue called The Chuck Wagon, some of you may find yourselves working with me. I think I'm quite an easy-going fellow, but I like to think I've got quite a bit of drive underneath it all. My goals in life...oo, let me see, my short-term goal is to have the best-run section in the camp, my medium-term goal is promotion to higher positions within the camp, and my long-term goal...well, the company's just built a new holiday-centre in the Midlands, see, which is really at the cutting edge of leisure facilities, the longest water-slides in Europe, and a funfair and a heritage theme-park, all on the one site, a really exciting venture, and ideally my dream would be to work there one day."
"Oh, my God," groaned the boy in the tweed jacket with a sneer, "talk about your vaulting fucking ambition."
Brian went next.
"Me name's Brian, I'm a Blackburn lad born and bred, me hobbies are having a few jars, the odd fag, and a bit of a laugh, coz that's what it's all about in my book. I'm a bit of a joker as you'll soon find out, always ready with a merry quip or two, always got a song in me heart, and me ambition is to be a top-flight family entertainer with me own Rolls-Royce and a big-titted wife."
"Oh, my God," groaned the boy in the tweed jacket.
"Right, good," nodded Palmer. "Next."
No-one else was quite as forthcoming as Brian. Next was Jack, who said his name was Jack and his ambition was to get off with the redheaded bird in the front row, which got a laugh. The person next to him was a Geordie man with a booming voice who said his ambition was to live to see the extermination of every thieving Tory bastard in Britain, which earned a general cheer, a nervous smile and something of a blush from Palmer, and a groan of, "Oh, my God," from the boy in the tweed jacket. When it was Kevin's turn he said his ambition was to go home, which got booed, and then the boy in the tweed jacket said, "My name is Forbes, and I want to be a Ziegfeld girl," which got a puzzled silence.
"Well, a man can dream," he said defensively.
Esprit de Corps established, they moved on to some do's and don'ts. They were told some elementary rules of safety and hygiene. Kevin was interested to learn that a sarcastic attitude was one of the major causes of accidents in the workplace. This part of the talk was illustrated by a series of colour slides, half of which were initially upside-down, back-to-front, or, on a couple of occasions, pictures of Palmer's Aunty Marjory on holiday in Austria. Aw, bless him, thought Kevin. They were taught some basic first aid, what colour fire extinguisher to use on different types of fire, how to turn off the fairground rides if someone fell into the machinery or something, and given a brief grounding in the 'Mister' system of code-words used to report various crises and emergencies without alarming the holidaymakers. Although Palmer reassured them that copies of this exhaustively pessimistic list were to be found near all staff telephones and that only those of them destined to become security guards would have to learn them by heart, several of these euphemisms lodged in Kevin's memory. A Mr. Orange was a wounded holidaymaker. A Mr. Pryor was a holidaymaker on fire. A Mr. Buehler indicated a malfunction of the Big Wheel, while a Mr. M'Toombo, for no very good reason that Kevin could see, referred to a derailment or other mishap with the miniature railway. A Mr. Reed was a drunk causing a nuisance. A Mr. Sutcliffe was someone brandishing a knife. A Mr. Beatty was a goat running amok. These codewords could also be combined into double or even triple-barrelled names to yield further information, so that someone holding a hostage at knifepoint at the top of the Big Wheel would be a Mr. Sutcliffe-Buehler, whilst a burning goat running amok on the railway track would, presumably, be a Mr. Beatty-Pryor-M'toombo.
Palmer then treated them to a long-winded harangue about what he seemed to think were uniquely American and Japanese philosophies of customer service and consumer relations which the company was desperately trying to import into hidebound crap old Britain. All they seemed to boil down to in practical terms was that staff should try to wash, shave and comb their hair on a regular basis and not swear at or paw up the customers where it could possibly be avoided. Developing this theme, he added another couple of definite no-no's to the list of infractions punishable by immediate expulsion which the jowly man had given Kevin the day before, namely physically attacking the holidaymakers and having sexual relations with young holidaymakers here with their parents without parental consent. He neglected to say whether parental consent could be verbal or had to be given in writing.
He told them that when off-duty and out of uniform they were welcome in any of the camp bars or eateries as long as they didn't abuse the privilege. They could get concessionary prices on the rides and other facilities as long as they didn't abuse the privilege. There was a staff canteen serving three free meals a day (free meaning automatically deducted from their wages) and a staff bar with entertainments and games room but they were not to abuse the privilege. They could go to the village down the road as long as they didn't steal anything or get in fights, but the villagers didn't like them much and would occasionally beat them up because people from the camp had abused the privilege in the past, so if they went it was best to travel in a pack of ten or so, especially at night. There was a lot more in this vein but Kevin missed most of it because he was absorbed in trying to confirm a suspicion, which had been growing on him steadily for some time, that Palmer's ears might be different sizes.
At last the lecture ended and they all filed out to the foyer where several people bearing clipboards stood around waiting for them. The people with clipboards called out names and the people belonging to the names responded and trooped out after them to their various assignments. Finally only Jack, Brian, Forbes and Kevin were left.
Palmer consulted his clipboard. "John Clayborn, Brian Bingham, Forbes Grenville, Kevin Kilroy? All right, you're with me in The Chuck Wagon."
Brian abruptly left off rubbing his willy and jiggled all three eyebrows in dismay.
"There's some mistake," he said. "I'm here to be an entertainer."
"No no, they've got all the entertainers they need, took 'em all on at the start of the season."
"But I came here to be an entertainer! I've got an act, all me own material, I've done stand-up in me local pub, all I need is-"
"Yes yes, but they don't need any entertainers, see? I'll tell you what. You do your job all right for me, and if they get any vacancies in the entertainment department you can put in for a transfer. Can't go right in at the top, can you, got to work your way up, stands to reason. Now come along with me now."
Brian still grumbling refractorily, they followed Palmer outside. First off he led them to the staff laundry where uniforms were doled out to them: black trousers with a hint of bellbottom, a white tunic-type affair, an apron, and a hat similar in style to the ones the pilots on Thunderbirds used to wear only made out of paper.
"You're responsible for this lot, mind," said Palmer. "Any damage beyond reasonable wear and tear comes out your wages. Hats excepted, you can do what the bloody hell you like with the hats. You can wipe your bottoms on them at the end of every shift for all I care." He smiled chummily at the nearest person, which happened to be Forbes, who just stared at him as though he was something somebody had sneezed up. Palmer held the grin for a few seconds and then replaced it with a mild frown. "Don't tell anyone I told you, though."
He led them to The Chuck Wagon. It was a bright big glassy building that reminded Kevin of the refectory at university. It was half full of holidaymakers eating burger and chips and so forth and people in uniforms like the ones they now carried taking orders and serving them. The walls of the restaurant were lined with framed stills from film and TV Westerns. There was a wagon wheel propped in one corner and a small cactus in another. Near the door stood a blackboard menu in the shape of a waving cowboy. Beneath his painted smiling face were chalked the words 'TODAY'S SPECIAL VITTLES' and beneath them 'TRY TEXAS PETE'S LAREDO LASAGNA only £2.85 (includes chips & small tea)'.
Palmer rapped a knuckle against Texas Pete.
"We're aiming to develop a Western theme, see," he said happily. "Next year we're going to have all the staff kitted out in stetsons and six-shooters and get them to say, 'Howdy, partner,' before taking orders."
"While managing, no doubt, to preserve the essential dignity of labour," said Forbes. "Perhaps you should install a plaque calling the roll of all the famous Welsh cowboys who fell at the Alamo."
"That's an idea," said Palmer brightly.
He led them across the restaurant and through a door marked Staff Room. Inside was a reasonably comfortable lounge. A thickset and hairy man with a visage like a fairytale troll was sitting alone at a long table smoking a cigarette and staring at page three of The Sun with his face contorted in an expression that seemed to have more to do with rage than lust. Palmer sidled up to him deferentially.
"Brought the new recruits," he said.
"Dregs of the barrel as usual, I suppose," said the troll without looking up. He spoke like a northern self-made man from a 1960s film. Still without looking up he said casually, "Your house is on fire."
"Yes, I suppose it is," said Palmer. He frowned. "I'm sorry, what was that?"
"Your house is on fire," repeated the troll in a voice that held not only no human sympathy but a complete and utter lack of any interest whatsoever. "Your neighbour called. It's probably over now. It was only the roof but it looked like it was catching."
"What about my mother?"
"Possibly in shock," yawned the troll turning a page. "She kept asking for you, seemed to think you were still inside."
"Oh bloody hell," said Palmer. "I'd better get down there. Will you be all right if I leave you to run things here for a while?"
"Daresay I'll manage."
"Something personal's come up," said Palmer to Kevin and the others as if they hadn't just heard everything. "I've got to pop out for a while. This is Desmond, I'll leave you in his capable hands."
Palmer dashed out. Desmond continued to smoke and stare at his paper for a minute or two, occasionally making indefinable little snorting noises. When he at last looked up at them it was with an expression of mingled surprise, contempt, and non-specific anger.
"Well you're no fucking use to me like that, are you?" he said. "This shift's half over, anyway, I'm not booking you down for it. Fuck off and get changed and get fed and come back at half three. A couple of you might wash your hair, too. Two things I can smell a hundred feet away, dirty hair and a dirty fanny." He returned to his paper.
"What a vulgar little man," said Forbes as they left the restaurant.
En route to the staff canteen they split up to leave their uniforms in their various chalets. Kevin and Jack entered theirs to find Kevin's suitcase pulled out and its contents strewn over his bed. As predicted, his tape deck and his nice shirt had been taken. A moment later there was an incoherent cry from Jack. His wallet and some other stuff had gone.
There was a security man walking down the path not far away. They told him what had happened.
"Mister Grossman in Charlie two-seven," he said into his walkie-talkie.
Within minutes there were half a dozen security men including Big Chief himself milling around the chalet. The one called Gary opened Kevin's empty drawers and peered into them intently as if he expected to find vital evidence. Big Chief stood in the middle of the room nodding weightily to himself.
"Professional job," he announced solemnly after a while. "Got to admire them in a way."
When Kevin told him the lock didn't work he spent fully five minutes opening and closing the door to satisfy himself that this was so. Then he blamed them for not taking more precautions and left. Kevin followed Jack to the accomodation office and watched admiringly while Jack mau-maued an old woman unremittingly for twenty minutes until she broke down and agreed to move them into the next de luxe chalets that became available. Then they went to eat.
In the canteen, a dingy bleak brick building that reminded Kevin of the dining hall at high school, they queued to be served with some food that reminded him of the same place and found Brian and Forbes sitting over empty plates and coffee, Brian treating Forbes to some jokes and Forbes patently ignoring him, reading a copy of Dostoyevsky's Memoirs From The House Of The Dead propped up by the condiment cellars in front of him and not reacting to Brian's patter at all except to wince visibly whenever he nudged him in the ribs.
"That Welsh prick were right," said Brian as they sat down. "Can't go right in at the top, can I, got to work me way up. Bound to come a time when one of the entertainers is off sick, then I'll grab me chance. Then I'm away, lads. All the greats started off like this."
"Indeed yes," intoned Forbes. "I believe Peter Cook and Dudley Moore were discovered whilst serving burgers in that very restaurant. They'd had to wait for their chance because Lenny Bruce was topping the bill here, with his partner Bonzo the Wonder-Dog. Woody Allen counted himself lucky to collect coats at the door. You can't buy a comedic education like this."
"Well, just you wait and see," said Brian. "I'll show you."
"Of course you will," said Forbes indulgently. "I shouldn't be surprised if one day there was a plaque right where you're sitting now. And speaking of posterity, unless you want to waste all of yours I'd advise you to stop agitating your pudendum every moment God sends."
"Eh?"
"Your nob. Unless you've been stricken with some unspeakable rotting disease and your penis is liable to slide down your trouser leg and onto the floor at any moment, kindly refrain from feeling it to check it's still there every two seconds, there's a good fellow."
"Fucking hell," said Jack with a grin, "I thought my nob was gonna drop off last night, I tell you. I mean, you saw that one I was with in me chalet, and she left scorch-marks, but then I got a grip of this fucking rampant bint in the staff bar, fucking hell, real little darling, tits like rugby balls, I'm fucking right up for it, so we went back to her place and could she get enough?..."
While Jack proceeded to regale them with a tale of sexual excess containing enough material for at least three letters to Penthouse, Kevin took the opportunity to study Forbes, who was affecting to be wrapped up in his book again but seemed unable to stop himself from shooting Jack looks of pure revulsion from time to time. He had dark blond hair, long in the fringe and parted in the middle. He had a finely sculpted nose and finely marked eyebrows. His mouth almost always seemed to hang slightly open, in a way that somehow conveyed total disgust for the world; it was as if he was tasting something bitter, had just sucked on a lemon perhaps. It was a mouth that was particularly well suited to the habitual sneer he wore. The sneer was perhaps somewhat intensified at the moment, the top lip more wilfully curled, but it was never altogether absent.
"...so she's there bouncing up and down like she's riding a fucking pogo-stick, going 'Oh yeah man yeah, I worship your cock,' and the next salute her fucking chalet-mate walks in stark naked and goes, 'Is this a private orgy or can anyone join in?' So I says, 'Climb on board, love, plenty of room up top.' I mean it was only polite, but, fucking hell, I thought I'd need a fucking neck-brace this morning."
"Yes, well," said Forbes, closing his book and rising, "that's the price you pay for being a New Man. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to lie down in a darkened room."
Jack recounted more of his erotic adventures for another hour or more, while Brian chimed in with dirty jokes they reminded him of. Kevin grinned heartily in a man-of-the-world way while inwardly rehearsing various bits from Henry Miller for his own use in case he was called upon to contribute, but this proved not to be necessary. A good thing too, probably, as he doubted he was the sort of person who could say stuff like 'I shot hot bolts into her, I made her ovaries incandescent' or 'I was fucking her so that she stayed fucked' and get away with it; also he would either have had to explain what he'd been doing in Paris or Brooklyn in the first place, or else, say, rework the one about the dry-hump in the crowded subway in terms of a Greater Manchester bus.
Eventually they went and got changed. When Kevin and Jack were ready there was still a few minutes to spare so they skinned up and sat around smoking and chatting for a while. On the way out they were whistled at by a group of girls in chalet maid uniforms, either the same ones or interchangeable with the ones who had accosted Kevin the previous night. Jack went over and flirted with them for a bit while Kevin stood nearby scratching his neck and trying to look amiable and inoffensive. They strolled into the Chuck Wagon staff room twenty minutes late to find Palmer pacing agitatedly up and down and Desmond in the same position they had left him in.
"What a stupid bloody cruel bloody hoax," Palmer was saying. "All the way out there and everything's right as rain. Scared the living daylights out of my mother bursting in with talk of a fire. Who could have done such a thing?"
"Any of these lot here," said Desmond. "They're all scum."
"It would have to be someone who knew me pretty well to know my mother was there."
"There is that."
"Did you recognize the voice at all? Could it have been the same one who rang that time to say my windows had been smashed?"
"Couldn't say. Could have been. Gruff sort of northern voice it was."
"Ah. That rules Thomas out, then. I was thinking it might have been Dai Thomas from the Gastrodrome. Fancies himself as a bloody comedian, that one. Always looking to put one over on me."
"Now you mention it, it did sound a bit like Thomas."
"I thought you said it was a northern voice?"
"Northern Wales."
"Oh?...Thomas is a Swansea man, though."
"Could have been South Wales. All the same to me."
"Little bastard. I'll fix him."
"You do that."
Palmer strode purposefully from the room. Desmond looked after him with something that might almost have been a smile and might almost have been affectionate. He turned to regard Kevin and Jack with a trace of the same almost affection.
"You two are late," he said. "As I'm in a good mood I'll just dock you an hour's wages each."
"Our chalet was broken into," said Jack. "We've just been sorting it out."
"Bollocks," said Desmond, still almost good-naturedly.
Jack erupted into a torrent of incredulous invective. Kevin was aware that the only thing more irritating than the truth not being believed was a perfectly good lie that could have been the truth not being believed, but was still quite impressed by the white-hot intensity of Jack's righteous indignation and the speed with which he flew off the handle. "You can fucking ask fucking-"
"I don't give a fuck," said Desmond cheerily. "Not my fucking problem."
"But the fucking-"
"One more word and you lose two hours," yelled Desmond, suddenly no longer in the least bit affectionate or cheery and standing two inches away from Jack with a finger jabbing and a pugilistic set to his shoulders. "And speak to me like that again, sunshine, and you'll be picking teeth out your arse with your one good arm."
Kevin giggled. Suddenly Desmond was two inches from his own face, and then Kevin had to bite his tongue to keep from giggling again, because not only were Desmond's nostrils actually dilated with actual rage, but as if that wasn't hilarious enough he had had an instant premonition of what it was Desmond was about to say, a second later did say:
"Something funny?"
Kevin found there was no reply he could think of that would not cause him to crack up again when he heard himself say it. Maybe he should pull a faint.
"Nothing," he mumbled at last when he had himself under control again.
For a second he feared Desmond was going to say something like There's a name for folk who laugh at nowt, in which case it was all over. To forestall this he added: "Something on telly the other night." Then, in case that sounded insubordinate: "Sir." Then, deciding that that definitely smacked of being a smart-arse: "Sorry."
Desmond continued to stare him out and apparently contemplate physical violence for a second or two. Then he took a step back, pointed at Kevin's breastbone, then did the same to Jack.
"Congratulations," he said. "You two just shot to the top of my shit-list. You're marked men, the both of you. Now get your arses out there and get something done."
After this auspicious start the afternoon went rapidly downhill, for the work began. Actually, it was for the most part pleasantly unstrenuous, with boredom rather than overwork being the main enemy. All the really vital roles had already been assigned to those who had arrived on time and Kevin and Jack were merely required to remove the crockery left behind by those who had finished eating and transport it to the dishwasher's hatch. As the patrons were actually requested by large notices to help the staff by doing this for themselves and generally did so, Kevin spent most of the ensuing four hours loitering vigilantly at the side of the room, occasionally making lackadaisical forays to remove a teacup, empty an ashtray, wipe a table down with a damp cloth. In his previous experience of manual work, i.e. in woodwork classes in school and his extremely brief-lived stints of kitchen and factory work after college, he had many times heard words like 'Even you couldn't possibly fuck that up,' upon his inevitable demotions to ever more simple-minded tasks, and they had always had the effect of a personal challenge, a goad to stimulate him to further heights of incompetence. Here, however, it was hard to see where the fuck-up could come. True, he had committed the one possible serious gaffe, that of removing a diner's plate before he had fully finished with it, within five minutes of starting work, and true, the victim had been some sort of slumming camp commandant of fairly high rank, but the man had reacted quite phlegmatically to returning from the serving hatch where he had merely been talking to the kitchen staff and finding that his very nearly untouched meal had vanished, had really been quite sweet about it in the circumstances, shrugging off Kevin's appalled apologies with a philosophical sigh of, "It was shite anyway." Embarrassing, certainly, but not a mistake he was likely to repeat. All in all, this was a far from bad job, and after a time he began to feel quite warm towards the Elysian Fields organization for paying him to perform such a function when they could presumably have got a mental defective or a trained chimpanzee to do it for about 20p less. He only wondered whether Desmond would in future permit him to skin up while standing there, or at least read a book.
Unfortunately, Mr. Palmer informed them on his return that the Elysian Fields ethos was that all parts of the corporate machine were interchangeable, or some such bollocks, which meant they would be rotated onto different jobs in forthcoming shifts, and some of their colleagues didn't seem to be having quite such a congenial time of it. Brian, who was taking and serving food orders in the section of the restaurant in front of the bit of wall where Kevin was slouching, started out by taking ten minutes over each table, cracking jokes, nudging the customers boisterously, telling of his dreams of being an entertainer, recounting his life story and expounding on the joys of Blackburn, but as the tea-time rush developed he descended into a permanently harried fluster, rushing to and from the serving hatch at breakneck speed, mixing up orders and stumbling over outstretched legs and rogue handbags, with neither a song in his heart or a quip on his lips. Forbes, on the other hand, who was supposedly Brian's partner and helpmeet in that section, sauntered through his duties with a serene unconcern for the growing backlogs of impatient customers and cooling food. Not that he was taking the time to interact with the clientele as Brian had started by doing; rather, he would loom up sinisterly over a table like the angel of death, stare coldly, impersonally, silently at the occupants with his pen poised over his pad, as though they were some slightly unusual, slightly repellent, and yet not particularly interesting species of insect whose habits he was about to start recording, and then not react to their order at all except to sneer at their choice, lip curling faintly but unmistakably in distaste, finally moving off slowly and reluctantly as if to intimate that it was hardly worth his arse bothering, that it was a great personal affront to have to bother, to get such bland and unnourishing food for such obviously insignificant people. The only enjoyment he seemed to be getting from his work was, now and then, when taking orders from men with wives in tow, to politely ask, "And for your squaw?"
At one point when taking an order he added a hollow bark of laughter and a pitying shake of the head to his sneer. On his unhurried journey to the kitchen he stopped a few feet away where Kevin was standing.
"We have an epicure in our midst," he sneered. "I am to convey a request for burgers in gravy and a portion of chips on separate plates. The gravy may thus enhance the flavour of the one without impairing the texture of the other. I believe he may be an operative of the Egon Ronay organization." Forbes examined Kevin's slouched inertia approvingly. "And whose orifice did you service to get that job?"
"You're taking things pretty damn laid-back yourself."
"I'm moseying. Texas Pete would approve."
"Excuse me," called the man whose order Forbes had just taken, "could you get a move on with my order, please? I've been waiting ten minutes already."
Forbes smiled thinly at him. "Steady up there, partner," he said in his cut glass tones. "I am conferring with my colleague, if you don't mind. We were just debating whether we would have the resources to meet your unusual and, may I say, unnatural request."
"Chips on a separate plate, it's not difficult."
"The hell you say."
"Just get a bloody move on."
Forbes stared at him coldly. "Have you ever read Proust's A la Recherche du Temps Perdu?" he asked.
"No," said the man, frowning.
"I have," said Forbes. He gave the man several more seconds of his insect stare and then turned and moseyed off.
Chapter 6
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