It's a Thomas Hardy summer; filled with tempestuous harlots and bucolic half wits, rammed with dappled sunlight playing on the oil seed rape and meadows lazily swaying like a stoned sixties pop concert audience. The occasional burst of rain dampening the dusty lanes. England getting beaten in semi-finals. The sound of mowers moving in unison. Tel clad like a lounge lizard in a Benidorm bar.
The football on offer has been underwhelming. We watched a desperate, quality-lacking Champions League final down the pub, surrounded by white and navy clad Spurs fans, laughing and gloating at the start, embarrassed and shot at the end. "Glad I nevver s'ported them lot" said Tel, the glee dripping from his visage like beads of sweat on a fat bird in a sponsored mile walk. Even Ipswich wouldn't have embarrassed him as much as that. Partly, as he said, because Ipswich are now relegated to the "whatever 'appened to you?" category, and are as relevant now as Colchester United in the annals of great pub debates about footy.
There's been changes. Mickey, Tel's assistant, is no more. She was (daftly) caught nicking a tenner from the till, a crime in Tel's eyes which made her only slightly less felonious than Ted Bundy. It was ironic as well that Tel had, just that morning, been telling me about the new Ted Bundy film he'd watched on Sky. 'Bleedin' syco, yer wonder 'ow 'e weren't caught earlier'.
He'd noticed small amounts of money going missing about three weeks ago. A fiver here, a tenner there, a couple of quid down on his accounts when he cashed up. It coincided with a few uncharacteristic episodes from Mickey. She started turning up late, having been a stickler for punctuality previously. She was normally hungover on weekend mornings, and she dropped three previously good mates for no reason and had become friends with people Tel described as "complete pillocks".
It's a sorry tale, and Tel recounted how he confronted her. "Din't say anyfing, jus' cried and then left. I gave 'er a week in loo'n'all (which I hope was in lieu as the alternative doesn't bear thinking about; his shop toilet is now completely blocked and has thence become his rubbish room and smells roughly like I'd imagine an outside sh*tter does in hell). His thoughts are introspective and angry. "Gave a local kid a chance an' thass 'ow she repays me. Well, aint taking that agin". He's also rightly hurt and bewildered how someone he trusted so implicitly could do something like that.
So it's him and Mrs Tel again. Only, it's winding down. I fear for the future. They shut at 2pm regularly now. Mrs Tel moans about the early starts. It means he has more free time to meet up in the pub, but he's now being careful not to do this too often. We stopped the bets when Mickey left; it seemed there was never enough time for him to spend looking at form. We had nine hundred quid in the kitty so we shared it out. Tel's making tentative moves to sell the shop. "Missus don't wanna know, not really. We're 'ardly skint'n' it never was werf the 'assle. Ah don't trust local kids to give 'em a job, not now". So it looks like he'll be selling.
He made it to the England game last night and we watched in the comfort of the saloon bar, eating the pub's burgers and drinking rose together (which is my new summer tipple following Tel's love of the wine and it being cheaper to buy two bottles with the pub's 'BOGOF' offer they're running until July. "Bleedin' rubbish" muttered Tel as we stayed for extra time and the calamity of our defence. "Might as well be wotchin' your lot" he added, twisting the knife.
He's up for coming more next season. He might have a bit of extra time himself if he sells the shop. He's stopped talking about emigrating to Spain ("Nah, I can see Brexit makin' it impossible an' too expensive) but he'll surely need SOMETHING to do if the shop goes? He doesn't seem too concerned.
One happier tale. He took an Endowment policy out in 1989 for thirty years. It paid him last week, £35k. More than he expected, I think, although he still grumbled and said he 'fought it was werf fifty grand'. They're thinking of going to Florida for September. He's looking at a new three piece suite for the conservatory. "I don't need work rearly" he grinned this morning. "Ah'd rather be free of all this". Then he asked Mrs Tel if she fancied a cuppa, and I left them to it.
We're having a curry later. To celebrate my day off work today. In truth, we don't need an excuse....... |  |
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