Kind Hearts And Martinets Collection

Chapter 5

No immediate competition on the horizon, Jack pedalled at a relaxed rate, the morning still bright. He loved his adopted City of Portsmouth. Even cycling up into the north, arguably less attractive than Southsea, where he lived close to the seafront, he saw much to contribute to his sense of wellbeing. Portsmouth was flat, making cycling easy, which allowed Jack time to indulge his favourite pastime of daydreaming, marginally more favoured than rememincing, mainly because he couldn’t spell reminisce or say it. He had many arguments of justification for his love of daydreaming; thought processing, a form of meditation, but whatever reason he was using at the time, he did it because he loved it and looked for any opportunity to indulge. Mandy said it was the natural state of a man, a vacant mind, but what did she know; probably why Buddhist monks were men, Jack would say to himself, would be one himself only orange didn’t suit him, or was that Gerry Kitchener?

rememincingJack cycled lazily, sometimes wonky, which he called multi-directional; hand gestures, tooted horns, occasional shouts, all ignored, this was a good morning, and he would not allow the intolerant to spoil it for him. He turned off the main drag into a parade of seedy shops where the Asian Emporium took up three units. Osama’s shop was alongside an off licence, an irony Jack thought, the other side a betting shop, even more ironic. A tatty hairdresser advertising in its window a special for manicures completed the line-up. Jack pushed his bike to the nearest lamppost, and Martin sprung from his orange box and marked the post as his territory. Jack locked the bike and a sulky Martin to the lamppost; well, it was his territory.

Osama’s expansive frontage display offered all kinds of fruit and vegetables that Jack hadn’t a clue to the identity. To Jack, the Asian Emporium looked chaotic, sacks of rice here, and in another part of the shop, more sacks of rice, interspersed with sacks of rice and fragrant and the not so fragrant commodities that served the Asian community, strong in this part of town and well-integrated. No ghettos here. Jack liked the Pompey people; they got on with life, rubbed along.

Martin gave Jack an old-fashioned stare, shrank as he sensed Jack’s thoughts, and goldfish-like, forgot his concerns, attracted to a poodle tied up outside the off-licence. ‘Leave it out.’ Jack couldn’t stand poodles and made a mental note to get Martin’s eyes tested. Dickey arrived, parking the ridiculously small patrol car. Keanu exited nimbly, Mickey Splif languorous, Dickey puffed and blew invisible steam from his inflated red cheeks and pursed lips, ‘Get a bike or a trumpet, Dickey,’ Jack called out.

‘If they gave me a proper car...people will think you’re barmy talking to Martin like that, Boyo.’

Jack screwed his good eye up as he looked into the sun, ‘Dickey-old-chap, my dog is my soul mate, my muse, did you know Shakespeare had a Border Terrier, did you know Martin sniffed Mandy’s crotch this morning?’ Jack’s face beamed pride; a two-point rejoinder.

In his grumbling Welsh baritone, Dickey looked at Martin, ‘You lucky, lucky bastard.’

No mention of the Bard, I work with Philistines, Jack thought as he heard the incongruous Pompey accented voice of Osama, or as Sitting Bull would say, Mr Ali. ‘"Allo, Mr Austin, lovely day, in it.’ Jack looked down on the diminutive Osama’s joyful smile and sparkly teeth, his thin face animated, wide brown eyes contained by squinting into the bright sun that illuminated the pencil thin moustache balanced on the edge of his lip, held in place by a hooked nose. A slender man in baggy white linen garb, upside down pie-dish cloth hat, and black waistcoat, a natural born Portsmouth lad whose manner conveyed energy and goodwill, though Osama’s demeanour changed in an instant when he saw Keanu with Dickey. ‘Bloody Nora, why’s that boy not in prison, in it?’

Jack loved to hear the second and third generations of Asian people speaking, not only in the local accent but with the Asian idiosyncrasies, it was all he could do to focus on the point. “No change there, then,” he could hear Mandy saying in his head; he’d drifted off again.

‘A word in your shell-like?’ Osama appeared nervous, a normal reaction when the police call unexpectedly, Jack thought, but his eye was twitching; Jo’s caustic comments intruded, “Well, he’s obviously guilty, nick him now.” Jack would explain his non-existent eye twitches when something is not right, and the fact Jo-Jums is never around when he had got it right just meant she should get out more.

‘Mr Austin, you alright?’ a polite Osama asked, nervous, shuffling his soft-shoed feet. Maybe it’s the police car parked outside, Jack thought, Osama kept looking at it. ‘Can we talk out here, lovely day, in it?’

Irritated, Jack returned his gaze and thoughts to Osama. ‘Yes, yes, let’s go in and have a cup of tea over the rice sacks, so oriental; slow boat to India or something like that?’ Osama, thinking it should be a boat to Pakistan, went off in one direction, Jack another. ‘I meant these rice sacks,’ Jack said, rolling his eye to the ceiling that had posters of Asian scenes, women in saris. Jack’s mind flitted, should be Burkhas, he thought, falling over another stack of rice sacks.

‘Sorry, Mr Austin.’

‘Osama, what’s up?’ Jack gave him the quizzical eye, he only had the one and making it quizzical involved a momentary blurring of his vision, his explanation for the rice trip, an outspoken thought.

‘Nuffing, in it.’

‘Is it, I don’t know, in it,’ Jack, getting into the swing. ‘You look upset. Mickey Splif’s family are the good guys, what d’you say we give Keanu a break, eh?’

‘Okay, right oh, in it,’ Osama agreed, turning to go deeper into the store, conversation over.

‘Old yer camels Osama, what ‘appened to the "aggling?’

‘Stone me, Mr Austin, it’s you what says stop ‘aggling and get on with life, in it. Yeah, he’s good kid, bye. I’m needed in the back, in it.’

Jack’s eye twitched. ‘Osama, I want you to give Keanu a Saturday job. Let him hump things for you, stack shelves, what d’you fink?’

‘Yeah, whatever, Mr Austin.’

‘He can start Saturday morning, okay?’

‘Yeah,’ and Osama made it away, stumbling past more rice sacks.

Back outside, Jack’s eye was on red alert; he had to act. ‘Mickey, get lost; Keanu, you’re off the hook, but so help me..." listened, "...I will come down on you like a ton of...’ he heard something, ‘...ton of rice, and you’ve a Saturday job, and don’t let me down.’

‘Fanks, Mr Austin, you’re a diamond geezer,’ Mickey said.

Jack felt good, did a forward defensive cricket shot, and clicked his tongue.

‘Good shot, Jane,’ Dickey said, by rote.

‘A push into the covers, a single, I think.’

Keanu didn’t look so pleased; it was a good shot as well. ‘Yeah, fanks, Mr Austin, can’t work in there, it stinks.’

Jack was pre-occupied, told them to bugger off, and called Dickey to one side. ‘Osama seemed troubled. I think he’s in the process of being robbed. You go round the back, cover the rear and call for back-up, I’m going inside. I’ll confront them when we have the support in place.’ He looked inquisitively around, and so did Dickey, mimicking the look. ‘Go on,’ Jack ordered, annoyed Dickey was copying his looks.