there's a bit of tit or summat to see,' I say, watching his face out of the corner of my eye. His nose curls as though he's just noticed a bad smell and he blushes ever so slightly. 'But I can't stand having to read what they're saying at the bottom of the screen. Give me the good old English language any day.'
'Everyone to his taste,' Rawly says, and turns and says some thing to the bod on his other side.
I'm a bit sorry now that I've gone out of my way to make him think I'm just another cloth-head..But then, I think, what do I care what a nig-nog like Rawly thinks about me anyway?
The waitress puts a plate of sponge pudding and custard in front of me and I'm just going to start in on it when I hear chairs squeaking and see that Ingrid and her pals are leaving. She passes so close to me her sleeve brushes my shoulder but she doesn't flicker an eyelid to show she knows I'm there. So much for that.
I don't know what I'm flogging myself to death for. But it's getting worse. Only just before the holidays I put eight-foot-two over a row of dimensions that totted up to nine-foot-seven and Bob Lacey, my section leader, pointed it out to me in a friendly way and told me to watch what I was doing. It's a good job Bob did spot it or there would have been a lot of angle-iron cut and wasted in the shop. I'm getting so I expect to drop clangers now and I nearly always check my drawings myself before I pass them on to Bob. But one of these days I'll slip up and we'll all miss it and the next thing I know I'll be called down into the Works to look at a pile of scrap iron worth maybe hundreds of pounds. Then I'll have really had it.
I'm nearly sure that Hassop's got his eye on me as well. He seems to be always nosing around, creeping up like he does, in these school-issue glasses he wears, and breathing his bad breath all over you. He's a littlish bloke with ginger hair. He hasn't all that much left on his head now but there's always a fair amount sprouting out of his nose. He always wears the same kind of bluish grey suits that look neither new nor old, and he just seems to wear one till it gets too shiny and then comes in another just like it. You wish sometimes Hassop would get his hair off and really bawl you out, but he never does. If he gets really mad he goes white, but he hardly ever lets go except on the younger lads. He daren't, that's his trouble, and everybody despises him for it. But nobody goes too far because right behind Hassop there's Mr Althorpe and he's a different kettle of fish altogether. Tell any body to go to blazes, Althorpe would, and make no bones about it. So everybody respects him, even if they don't like him like they like somebody like Miller, for instance.
So it seems to me that sooner or later, the way I'm going on, I'll wind up on Althorpe's carpet, and I can't see any way out of it because I just can't get my mind off Ingrid. It's this not know ing. If only I knew one way or the other just how I stand...
III
First you take an old knife (I used the broken one the Old Lady scrapes potatoes with) and get rid of all the mud, doing a bit of prising if it's caked up solid under the instep. Then when you've given them a good going over with a stiffish brush they're ready for the polish. (You really should take the laces out but I can't always be bothered going to that trouble, even though tonight I'm doing a special job.) I like to clean shoes, especially when I've got something on my mind, because giving your hands something to do kind of helps you think and sometimes it even takes your mind off things. I like to poke into the waxy polish and spread it all over the shoes and go at them like mad with the brush and watch the shine break through and deepen; then finish off with a velvet till the toecaps are like black glass. Tonight I'm cleaning the shoes because I'm going out; but I've got something on my mind as well; and every now and again I have to stop and tell myself it's true and it's really
'Everyone to his taste,' Rawly says, and turns and says some thing to the bod on his other side.
I'm a bit sorry now that I've gone out of my way to make him think I'm just another cloth-head..But then, I think, what do I care what a nig-nog like Rawly thinks about me anyway?
The waitress puts a plate of sponge pudding and custard in front of me and I'm just going to start in on it when I hear chairs squeaking and see that Ingrid and her pals are leaving. She passes so close to me her sleeve brushes my shoulder but she doesn't flicker an eyelid to show she knows I'm there. So much for that.
I don't know what I'm flogging myself to death for. But it's getting worse. Only just before the holidays I put eight-foot-two over a row of dimensions that totted up to nine-foot-seven and Bob Lacey, my section leader, pointed it out to me in a friendly way and told me to watch what I was doing. It's a good job Bob did spot it or there would have been a lot of angle-iron cut and wasted in the shop. I'm getting so I expect to drop clangers now and I nearly always check my drawings myself before I pass them on to Bob. But one of these days I'll slip up and we'll all miss it and the next thing I know I'll be called down into the Works to look at a pile of scrap iron worth maybe hundreds of pounds. Then I'll have really had it.
I'm nearly sure that Hassop's got his eye on me as well. He seems to be always nosing around, creeping up like he does, in these school-issue glasses he wears, and breathing his bad breath all over you. He's a littlish bloke with ginger hair. He hasn't all that much left on his head now but there's always a fair amount sprouting out of his nose. He always wears the same kind of bluish grey suits that look neither new nor old, and he just seems to wear one till it gets too shiny and then comes in another just like it. You wish sometimes Hassop would get his hair off and really bawl you out, but he never does. If he gets really mad he goes white, but he hardly ever lets go except on the younger lads. He daren't, that's his trouble, and everybody despises him for it. But nobody goes too far because right behind Hassop there's Mr Althorpe and he's a different kettle of fish altogether. Tell any body to go to blazes, Althorpe would, and make no bones about it. So everybody respects him, even if they don't like him like they like somebody like Miller, for instance.
So it seems to me that sooner or later, the way I'm going on, I'll wind up on Althorpe's carpet, and I can't see any way out of it because I just can't get my mind off Ingrid. It's this not know ing. If only I knew one way or the other just how I stand...
III
First you take an old knife (I used the broken one the Old Lady scrapes potatoes with) and get rid of all the mud, doing a bit of prising if it's caked up solid under the instep. Then when you've given them a good going over with a stiffish brush they're ready for the polish. (You really should take the laces out but I can't always be bothered going to that trouble, even though tonight I'm doing a special job.) I like to clean shoes, especially when I've got something on my mind, because giving your hands something to do kind of helps you think and sometimes it even takes your mind off things. I like to poke into the waxy polish and spread it all over the shoes and go at them like mad with the brush and watch the shine break through and deepen; then finish off with a velvet till the toecaps are like black glass. Tonight I'm cleaning the shoes because I'm going out; but I've got something on my mind as well; and every now and again I have to stop and tell myself it's true and it's really
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