Malcolm and the Rent Boy - 2. Chapter 2 'Charity Stays at Home'

Chapter 2

Charity stays at home

The waiter cleared away the dirty dishes, Roy patted his substantial stomach.

'Ee, bah 'eck, Aa dooo luv a tasty meal' he said lapsing into his Yorkshire monotone.

Malcolm surveyed his old school chum across the dining table. Both men had reached that awkward point, encountered a million times a day all over Yorkshire: who's going to settle the bill?

The waiter gazed impassively. He came from Newcastle, where people spend more on drink and entertaining in an evening than these two characters had spent in a lifetime. And he knew he had more chance of winning X Factor than getting a tip so he ditched the friendly act and resumed checking out the other men in the pub, wishing they were fifty years younger!

Roy Leathard fumbled with his wallet, and paused. He recalled that Malcolm still owed him sixpence from Christmas 1959. Malcolm had claimed that he had given the coin to his mother to put in a Christmas pudding, and told Roy he'd get it back when he came round to tea. But Roy never saw his sixpence again - nor any pudding. He calculated that had he invested that cash in the Yorkshire Mutual Greed Building Society it would now be worth at least £97!

Both men unloaded an unwholesome pile of shrapnel onto the white table cloth and began to rifle through it. Milk tokens, old postage stamps, pre-decimal currency, all were picked over until enough legal coin was assembled to meet the bill to the penny. The waiter gathered up the grotty coinage in two hands and went to the till, his four-lettered commentary filling the air. But Roy and Malcolm were too busy chatting to hear or care.

'So what are you up to now?' enquired Roy, as they left the pub.

'Oh, I'll probably go to the supermarket. They throw out loads from the bakery mid-afternoon'

Malcolm then regaled Roy with some of his inventive ways with stale bread.

'I toast it, put it in bread and butter puddings, use it to block holes in rotten window frames, and when all else fails, give it to the birds'

Roy shuddered. For him retirement was an upgrade. Malcolm on the other hand had his first penny - and many of the subsequent ones besides.

Roy paused at the car and turned to his friend.

'Y'know, you should do some voluntary work. You're more than welcome to help us out at the Deanery Bookshop. There's a good crowd work there, we have a laugh, and when it's quiet you just get on with a bit of reading'

Malcolm was all too aware that his diary wasn't exactly bulging with engagements, but he recoiled from the idea of working for nothing.

'Well what charity is it?' he asked, feigning interest.

'It's Filfy '

'Filfy!' spluttered Malcolm, 'What's that?'

'F.I.L.F.Y. The friends of Indigent Landowners and Farmers of Yorkshire'

'What help do they need?' asked Malcolm incredulously.

'Well, times are hard. Some of these poor buggers are down to their last barn conversions and caravan parks. The banks are getting nasty with them and they need help'

Malcolm mused. Maybe this would be a way of meeting people and socialising. Wasn't it just the other day he was describing rationing during World War Two to a young conductor at the train station when he stopped him midstream and called security.

Roy dropped Malcolm at the door of 33 Lilac Oval and made arrangements to meet him the following morning for a trial run at the shop

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Some miles distant - but a world away - in stately Baggett Manor, a rather elegant, if severe woman viewed herself in the hall mirror. Miss Felicity Scrope, Justice of the Peace, or 'Freddy' to her friends drew an old green deerstalker tightly over her grey hair, scowled at her reflection then cleared her throat. Turning to a young man who was holding open the door for her, she began,

'Now do listen Rupert. Roy Leathard's just called and it seems he's found someone for the bookshop. The chap's a maths teacher or something. He'll be in this morning. Please be nice to him darling'

Freddy's voice could have cowed a brigadier.

'I don't know this chap's name' she continued. 'Roy did say but I forget, but if it works out it will take some of the pressure off you. I shall drop by the shop later. I've those awful tax people to see today and I must get my papers sorted'

When she wasn't sentencing people Freddy's days were often occupied designing curtains and other soft furnishings for an elite circle of her acquaintance. It helped that they were all on familiar and amicable terms for in due course she sent them knee-buckling bills that bore no relation to reality. Today however she was girding her mental loins for a set-to with the VAT people. The tax authorities had taken a dim view of her business, and had rated its annual turnover rather more than the 'hobby' she insisted it was. A battle was looming, and nobody was better equipped to flatten the serried ranks of officialdom than she. They had summoned her to appear before a tribunal and she was determined to defend herself.

Climbing into her Range Rover she threw her folder of papers onto the passenger seat and tore off in the direction of town, leaving wildlife diving for cover.

The town meanwhile was coming to life and, one by one the shops, offices, and businesses took on an air of vitality. All, that is, except the Deanery Bookshop. There, nothing stirred. Moments later two elderly gentlemen ambled up and stopped.

'Not open yet, it's nearly ten!' Malcolm was unhappy.

'Rupert opens up. He's a student and sometimes it's hard to get him out of bed' was Roy's explanation. He went on,

'Look Malcolm, here's a parking space outside the shop. I'll go and bring my car around. Now have you got the disc, your mother's, the one for the disabled? Parking's hell round here!'

Malcolm looked concerned.

'I'm not happy about using the parking disc. We'll get shot if we're caught'

'Don't be a wimp! I have to park at the door. Those books weigh a ton, and remember what I said. You'll get to look through them first and pick out any you like'

Captivated by the thought that he might get something for nothing Malcolm had failed to notice that he was not alone. A tall, willowy young man with orange, curly hair was unlocking the door to the charity shop. He turned to Malcolm and said,

'If you're waiting for the shop, it'll be a while before I get everything opened up'

'Oh I'm meant to be here. I'm helping out'

The young man rolled his eyes and turned away. Malcolm did not feel particularly welcome, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the young man whom he considered bore a strong resemblance to Prince Harry.

'I'm Malcolm Tripp. My friend Roy Leathard will have mentioned me'

'Not to me' replied the upstart.

Malcolm, unfazed, continued,

'So may I know your name?'

'My name is Rupert Baggett-Scrope'

An awkward silence followed then Rupert continued,

'Look, let me get the place opened and perhaps we can sort it out. There must be something you can do'

Malcolm sat down in a corner of the cold shop. The minutes crawled depressingly by as Rupert slowly and meticulously made ready the premises. Not a word was said, and nobody came in. Malcolm had with him a folder of magazines and he'd laid it on the counter but, by now he felt so awkward he didn't want to move from his place of concealment.

Then to his relief he heard Roy's car drive up and park at the door. Malcolm considered helping his portly friend then watched instead as Roy struggled to lug a huge box of books from the boot of his car and into the shop. Malcolm then lost no time in airing his dissatisfaction, and he hissed into Roy's ear,

'That awful young man's just ignoring me'

'Look, I'll show you the ropes' soothed Roy. I've just got to pop to the loo first'

Rupert continued ignoring Malcolm who was standing around looking rather lost. Then the shop door opened and in walked a Traffic Control Officer.

'Any idea whose car that is outside?' he asked, gesturing towards Roy's dilapidated Rover.

Malcolm gulped. This is exactly what he'd dreaded. The official persisted,

'Are either of you two the owner of the disc in the car?'

Rupert shook his head. Malcolm's legs buckled, then he whimpered,

'Well, I'm the owner of the disc '

At this point Roy, coming out of the toilet, realised what was going on and scuttled back inside, locking the door. The Traffic Control Officer meanwhile had gone back outside and was circling the car and making a call on his mobile.

Malcolm sat down, his heart thumping. Rupert, meanwhile went outside to investigate. At the same moment the rear door of the shop burst open and in swept Freddy. She paused, dropped her folder of papers on the counter, then seeing Rupert outside made a beeline for him. She passed Malcolm without so much as a sideways glance.

'Rupert, darling, what's going on?'

'Oh hello, aunt, it's fine. This parking person's checking that old car for some reason, nothing to do with us'

They returned to the shop, talking animatedly. The Traffic Control Officer followed them, and, addressing no-one in particular, asked,

'Alice Tripp is the person entitled to hold this disc. Where is she?'

'She's my mother' Malcolm blurted out. Then he turned to face Miss Freddy Scrope.

'Mother!'

And with that he extended his hand theatrically towards Freddy and darted towards her, almost knocking her over.

'Just pretend to be my mother' he rasped in her ear.

Freddy pulled away. She stared at the elderly train spotter with loathing and turned to Rupert,

'Do you know who this man is?'

Rupert shrugged.

'Said he'd come here to work. That's about it'

Malcolm gave it one last desperate attempt.

'Please, mother, don't start your antics. Just tell the man you're disabled and have a parking disc. Don't make any trouble'

'Trouble! How dare you, you ghastly man' Freddy spun round and faced the officer,

'I don't know what's going on here. I've never seen this demented creature in my life, nor you. My car is parked in the multi storey car park and I know nothing about invalids' parking concessions or that car outside. Now please leave these premises'

The parking attendant bridled.

'I'm afraid it's not as easy as that.You may not understand the law but I have to tell you that......

But he was cut off mid sentence by a bayonet-like finger impaling his chest.

'Clearly you don't know who I am. I'm the Right Honourable Felicity Scrope, Justice of the Peace and I have probably forgotten more about the law than you ever knew. Now kindly conduct your petty investigations in the street and get out'

Dignity urgently needed to be restored. The humiliated official turned to Malcolm and said,

'You have to explain to me who and where the owner of this disc is or I will charge you with abusing the system. These discs are meant for the disabled and I've just seen a man carry a box of books from the boot of the car that would have knackered a sumo wrestler'

And so saying he grabbed Malcolm by the arm and steered him towards the door. The bewildered old ex-teacher just had time to grab from the counter his folder of magazines before he departed, destination unknown.

When they'd left Roy Leathard slunk out of the toilet. Miss Scrope eyed him accusingly,

'Please assure me that that's not the man you told me you were bringing here to start work, the one you recommended so highly'

But for once in his life Roy was lost for words. Miss Scrope glared at him then turned to Rupert,

'This has all proved to be quite a distraction, and one I didn't need. Now I've an important meeting over in court with those dreadful Vat people. Whereis my folder?

'Is that it over there, on the counter?' he suggested

Moments later the magistrate was on her way to do battle with tax officials, leaving Roy and Rupert to mutual silence

......o0o......

Less than half a mile away Malcolm was seated in an interview room at the local police station, awaiting the arrival of an investigator who was anxious to discover how a parking disc for the disabled had come to be misused. It had been a bad day for Malcolm. Idly he toyed with his folder wondering why it contained catalogues of curtain material and a set of annual accounts. He was addled. It was all beyond him.

But things could be worse. And just a few blocks away they were.

A VAT tribunal was sitting. A panel of vinegar-faced businessmen and a barrister were waiting to hear a submission from Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs. But first the Right Honourable Miss Felicity Scrope had an appeal to make, and, eschewing all professional help she had decided to defend herself.

The panel sat in icy silence fixing their eyes on the usually competent lady, as she nervously rummaged through her papers.

'Is there something you need?' asked the chairman, his voice crackling with thinly disguised impatience.

But, as she gazed at the anonymous blue folder on the bench before her the only questions surging through Freddy's tortured mind were,

'Where are my papers, my accounts, my catalogues? And why are the only items in this folder Railway Modeller and Frat Boys like it hot and hard?'