The Toll Bridge by Aidan Chambers Page B

blue-pinstriped oleaginous creep. Podgy and suntan-brown as well as greasy, he’d just been holidaying, he had to tell us, somewhere in the Caribbean, Dominica I think he said, and kept finding opportunities to slip offhand references to the place into the chat. He sleazed around the major, whom he treated, beneath his unctuous surface, with a condescension betrayed in his eyes and in his sneering answers to the major’s questions. ‘No, no, sir, that sort of thing went out years ago! . . . You’ve rather let the property decline, not a wise tactic, major, if I may say so. You’ll be well advised to give it a good going over with a paintbrush, if nothing else . . . We’ll do the best we can for you, major – there’s always a dumb punter around who’ll buy anything, if you know how to sell it.’ ‘Your job, your job,’ commanded the major as to a parade (he was hard of hearing as well as regimental). ‘And we’ll do it, sir, we’ll do it, leave it to me!’ mimicked Brown-and-Greasy.
    I watched him, and thought of them at school, with their careers advice. ‘Banking is safe. Or you might like to follow in your father’s footsteps and become a solicitor, or a barrister even. There’s the stock market of course, but it’s very competitive, which is hardly you, is it? Accountancy might suit you, that’s fairly solid, though your maths isn’t up to much, but it’s a nicely paid profession. Or computing, what about that? Or business management? Or you could do worse than property and estate agenting. Pays well and you could combine it with the law and do well in both areas.’
    Watching him, I heard them banging on about earning power and status and career prospects and security, and knew that oleaginous prat was what they meant, what they wanted me to become, and rejected it there and then, that very moment, finally, for ever.
    I don’t mean there’s anything intrinsically wrong with the law or accountancy or business management or even handling property. What’s wrong is why Brown-and-Greasy and his kind do it. As a means to something else. To money for money’s sake, and living off the fat at other people’s expense, usually the people who actually producethings that make the money the B-and-G brigade are after. They’re bloodsuckers. And they have the cheek to parade about as if they are the ones who matter, the ones who are superior, the ones who make the world turn. When what they really are is a drain on the rest of us. Parasites. We’d be better off without them.
    An hour after they’d gone, Bob Norris returned. I was reading by the fire.
    â€˜No more easy life for you, sonny boy,’ he said, in no mood for jokes. ‘The major’s in a huff.’
    â€˜How come?’
    â€˜That flaming agent stirred him up. I knew he’d cause trouble. The major wants the place renovated and completely repainted, inside and out. I’ll bring in a builder for the renovation work but you’ll have to do the painting. And a proper job, mind, not just to make it look a bit better.’
    â€˜On my own?’
    â€˜He’ll do another inspection in three weeks.’
    â€˜I’ll never finish by then.’
    â€˜Do the best you can. He’ll probably forget. Can’t remember when yesterday was most of the time.’
    â€˜What about some help?’
    â€˜Think yourself lucky you’re still here. He’s laying off more men. We’re down to three. Three! Used to be fifteen only two years ago.’
    â€˜But if I can’t get it done?’
    â€˜Don’t cross your bridges . . .’
    â€˜I’m not a professional decorator, you know that.’
    â€˜You’ll manage. Learn as you go. Any problems, ask. I’ll keep an eye when I can.’
    â€˜And I have to take the tolls as well, remember.’
    â€˜Look, son,