1979

 

Bang, Bang

 

By nineteen-hundred-and-seventy-nine

Punk, spitting and screeching,

had been and gone

and the records

were all stiff pub-rock,

novelty and ska.

 

I was already up the junction,

Squeeze-style

(I remember her smile

and the urgent, inexpert sex).

 

I had voted

according to my conscience

but the Grantham Greengrocer’s daughter won

for better or worse,

which words I was soon to say

for the first time.

 

Crossley Hall

 

We sold bricks and tiles

manufactured at kilns

all over the county.

An open plan office,

the sales department

with a typing pool,

the chatter of the keys

counterpointed

in alto and soprano

never baritone.

Men Only salesmen…

 

I was a drone

I was not alone

every flashing on a key lamp ‘phone

identical to another

dozen telephonic men…

 

We saw sales reps once a month,

the sales manager’s corner office

too small for Guy and Ralph and

… Was it Reggie?

There were rumours about Our C.J.

and his Joan, though she was plain

and we claimed The Monks

song as her theme tune.

 

I hope she was oblivious.

 

 

Guy

 

Guy stood tall,

regimental tie alternating

with old school,

depending on the client;

Qatari Sheikh

or Barratt’s buyer.

Almost sixty,

there were rumours of

the death railway

and breakdowns,

but not of rolling stock.

 

One day he sent me out

for shoe polish.

I couldn’t drive,

paid for a taxi

out of my own

wallet.

 

I bought Cherry Blossom,

not Kiwi.

 

I’m ashamed of that.

 

Ralph

 

Thirty-something,

Roger’s Bond smooth,

even wore a safari suit once,

but the next day

he had an interview

with the Chairman

-Mr Usherwood to me-

and he got no coffee,

or rich-tea biscuits.

 

There were rumours.

 

Of course there were.

 

The dowager queens

of the typing pool

loved him,

as much as

they loved Larry Grayson.

 

He was married.

 

Doug

 

Doug gave me a lift to work

every day, except when he was off.

The car was a Vauxhall Viva,

a “family saloon”.

He listened to Radio 4,

because he cared

about current affairs,

and I didn't.

 

Twenty five years

at the company,

he had an office

and the title “office manager”,

though I don’t know

what he did.

 

Doug’s accent was as exotic

as cargo on a South Sea Island,

he’d washed up from Eastbourne

into the cold North East,

after a chance encounter

during National Service.

 

Doug looked like Alan Whicker

right down to the tie,

moustache and glasses.

He wasn’t as interesting

as the TV Traveloguer.

 

Or maybe I wasn’t paying attention.

 

Another Country

 

The trousers were skinny,

there was white towelling

above the shoe,

amongst us Sales Clerks.

Later

David Mamet’s play

made me laugh.

 

The past isn’t so different,

but there is always

something to mock,

if you’re young enough.

 

I left,

in those days,

you could leave one job

and get another.

 

I took a uniform

and lost a wife.

 

It was careless of me.