Back to the Old House (2)

I sat with Ian and Doug in the beer garden at the back of the Dog and Ferret, looking down at the bright, shiny new factory that now stood in the place where the Streets had been, where we’d all three grown up.

“It’s the future of British industry,” Doug said, “we’re leading the world again, new technology. Makes you proud.”

“I don’t understand it,” Ian admitted, “a tiger-child factory, what is it? They look like tigers, tigers who talk like children, how can those be made in a factory. What sort of technology is it? It worries me.”

I said nothing.

“Great to be back in London,” I said.

“Yeah,” Doug agreed, “really glad the emergency’s over. Lost a lot of trade because of that tiger, most of my business is London based.”

“I thought you said you went on holiday during the tiger escape,” I said.

“Yeah, but only ‘cause I had nothing else to do.”

“I reckon our block would have been there, where that shiny silver shed is now. I wonder what’s in that silver shed, is that where they add the children to the tigers.”

“Na,” said Doug, “that’s probably just a shed.”

We stood supping our pints and admiring the view. The shiny, glistening factory stood bathed in the vivid red glow of a September twilight.

“I’m applying for a job there,” I said eventually. “I’ve got a mate who’s working there, does something in the claws department, says he’ll put in a word for me. They pay very well indeed apparently.”

Ian and Doug said nothing. What they were thinking I couldn’t tell. Were they surprised I was looking for another job? Disappointed at my link with the tiger children? Or maybe they were jealous that I was going to be back on the site of the Streets.

“Another bevvy anyone?” Doug asked, striding to the bar without having to wait for an answer.