A little after ten oclock, while feeding the third stack of floppy disks into my tremendously exciting new computer, I heard Captain Hook’s laugh drift up the office.
I looked up.
A sharp suited, bryl cream haired head was striding purposely through the office, bellowing confident morning greetings to anybody and everybody who made eye contact.
It was Count Dracula. With Dustin Hoffman’s Captain Hook voice, and a gap between his front teeth. Apparently this was what a real, live salesman looked like.
“Aha! What do we have here then ?”
Oh crap. Count Dracula was heading my way.
It turned out his name was Dominic Cheeseman, and he sold conservatories to unsuspecting garden centre owners up and down the land. He probably drank their blood too. As a first example in my short career of a professional salesman, he was instructive. The crease of his trousers could probably be used as a weapon, as could the shine of his shoes. He was perhaps 50 years old, and sported a face bedecked with lines undoubtedly forged by innumerable stories of life on the road. And fake tan.
After shaking hands (his were cold), I politely introduced myself and started retelling the story of my arrival.
I got the impression during our few moments of conversation that he had only heard selected words;
”. computer help.. … computer…. easier. . help . computer”
“So young John, you’re one of these computer whizzes then ?”
I guess technology in transylvania is pretty thin on the ground.
“My computer at home isn’t working right at the moment. Do you think you know what might be up with it?”
Classic. Absolutely bloody classic. I’ve never seen his computer, and he has provided no explanation what so ever about the problem it’s experiencing. I smiled in the most non commital way possible.
“Sam made us start using computers last year. I can’t see them taking off you knowall they ever do is get in the way, go wrong, and make things take longer. Give me a pocket book every time”
He fishes a small spiral bound notebook from the inside pocket of his suit and waves it around in a proud manner. He then opens in on a fresh page, and writes “seea look of infinite smugness envolopes his orange face”If I tip my coffee over your computer, you’ll be buggered too”
Fair point. Hopefully you’ll get electrocuted doing it though.
In these early days among new colleagues I had no idea where the boundaries lay in terms of ignoring such obvious (and common) resistance to change, so agreed with his stance on technologyat least to his face anyway.
Sam leaned on the corner of his desk facing us”okaywe’ll start processing your commission by hand thenit will take a couple more weeks to work out, so we’ll not be paying until next monththat okay with you?”
“Ha Haaaaaa” Captain Hook was back in the room.
While listening to the continuing monologue detailing the life of Dominic Cheeseman, international man of mystery, I failed to notice that an impressive looking elderly gentleman in a tweed suit was propped on the edge of Sian’s desk, busily charming the pants off her in the style that Terry Thomas may have.
So this was Jock Gadwin DFC, fighter ace. He stood smartly upright and straightened his suit jacket before striding imperiously through the office, greeting staff affably along his way with a warm smile, and relaxed wave.
“Morning Jock”
“Good morning Anita”
“Morning Jock!”
“Good morning young master Darren”
Wow. This was some respect. At perhaps seventy years old, he stood 6ft tall, and was immaculately turned out. Whereas Cheeseman radiated menace and tomfoolery, Gadwin had charm, warmth and personality by the bucketload. He also had quite possibly the shiniest bold head and perfectly manicured moustache I had ever seen.
“Good morning young Jonathanlovely to meet you”
Okay. He knows my name. Impressed.
I decided his voice would not have been unsuitable for a 1930s BBC news report. RAF Englishclear, with each sentence carefully considered. No ums. Everything about him really was impressive. After demonstrating an incredibly firm/bone crunching handshake, he leaned over my desk conspiratorially.
“You’re doing fine young manno need to look so worried”
I smiled back, and listened as he recounted his personal history to me in the way of an extended greeting. Apparently he had fought in the war as a Mosquito pilot in Canada. Something in the back of my mind told me that he might therefore never have seen any action, but I didn’t say a word. I decided he probably lived in the home counties with his jolly hocky sticks wife, drove a lumbering car, and smelled of peppermints.
Presently the two salesmen wandered down to the end office with G.
G.
L. , and started talking animatedly about a hand drawn graph on the whiteboard.
Darren shouted across to Dick Lions”Hey Dick, he’s not met Beaker yet!”
Dick laughed a sudden shouted stage laugh.
Darren stood up, and did his best muppet impersonation.
“Wait until the other salesman arriveshe’s a cross between a mad professor, and Beaker off the Muppet Showjust waitoh this is going to be good”
Darren was suddenly a bullying 10 year old, picking on some unfortunate salesman who hadn’t arrived in the office yet. It was no wonder Darren found himself divorced so young. Apparently Beaker’s real name was Tony Ballcock.
I sat for a minute, laughing politely as Darren explained how Tony had improbably cartoon like tufts of hair growing from his ears, and talked by tipping his entire head back. My polite laughter was taken as encouragement, and Darren’s act became ever more exciteable. If he had indeed been 10 years old, he would have thrown up his fizzy pop at any moment.
Sian leaned round the corner”Stop it you lothe’s coming!”accompanied by a withering, scowling stare for Darren.
Into the office walked the living embodiment of a real, breathing muppet. Not quite the larger than life depiction given by the child sat across the room from me, but the likeness was there. His tall, gangling, unsteady gate combined with thick glasses turned him unintentionally into a comic turn.
He waved through the conservatory/office windows to Sam, Jock and Dominic, and took two goes to open the door.
Mr Lions got up from his desk and opened the window.
“Lets get a bit of fresh air in here”
Anita was not impressed. She was wearing a pretty sheer blouse, and was no doubt aware of the effect the cold air was going to have. She was also certainly aware of the letcherous old bugger who had just opened the window.
“Do you have to open it? It’s freezing out there!”
“A bit of fresh air will do us all good”
Anita pulled her cardigan on, while mumbling various threats in Mr. Lions direction. I vaguely heard “dirty old man” in among the various rants.. He appeared to have turned deaf, and started signing a song about wind blowing up ladies skirts.
I would later learn that Mr Lions had a song for every eventuality, occaision, or happeneing that could possibly occur. The songs were always “colourful”, no doubt harking from the time he spent in her Majesty’s Royal Navy.
“How about another cuppa young John”
I gathered together the office mugs. You can tell a lot about people by their mug. “Super Dad”, “I’m with Idiot”, “Coffee” (how original), and various flowery patterns. Only the young men in the office had words on their mug.
In the kitchen I came across an older, bigger version of Darrenonly with dark hair and more scruffy. He was busily eating a chocolate bar while waiting for the kettle to boil.
“Nice to meet you”
He turned and smiled.
“Bad luck sitting across from Darren”
This, it turns out, was Aiden, the middle brother. Perhaps the most academically gifted of the brothers, he turned drawings of buildings into instructions that the morlocks in the workshop could understand. Cutting lists. Measurements. Plans. It also turned out he was an outstanding squash player, and the only family man (in the traditional sense) of the three brothers.
He discovered I didn’t play squash, which made me somewhat less attractive. I had actually played once with a friend, but nearly killed myself just hitting the damn ball back. Apparently it gets easierI never progressed past “this is f*cking impossible”.
“Me and my mate fat bloke play a couple of times a weekyou should come down with us after work”
“Maybe”
I smiled, and carried on making the coffeesand spied the box of chocolate bars.
“Hows does that work then ? How much are they?”
“You just put your money in the tin. I expect it’s all going to be stopped soon thoughour Mum, who’s the cleaner buys the chocolate from the big Sainsbury in town a couple of times a month. The workshop have started dibbing in though and not paying. Tossers.”
Although I had heard of the stereotypical “them and us” divide that traditionally existed between office and workfloor staff, this was my first real experience of it. White collar and blue collar except in this case, the workshop staff wore various combinations of hoodies, jeans, and t-shirts advertising various beer drinking accomplishments.
The tour of the workshop was planned for later in the week apparently. The name “Mr Herring” was mentioned by several people. Some kind of alpha male pub quiz genius ape, apparently.
Voices drifted into the kitchen from the office
“Where’s that coffee young Johnit’s dryer than a camel’s jockstrap in here”
Good old Mr. Lions.