On the west side of Downshire is Northchapel which has always been the Industrial powerhouse of the County and although it doesn’t physically occupy its center it is the beating heart of the County.
In recent generations its fortunes had suffered greatly but in the 70s it was still a major employer, and one of those employers was Pomery’s Perfume’s, which was an old family business established in 1879 by Jules Sebastian Pomery.
They had moved to that location in Northchapel in 1928, to the broad white building which was a prime example of the Art Deco style with its angles, curves and symmetry.
Not that Thomas Evans had any appreciation of the stylish building, it was just where he worked.
He started there straight from school in 1969 and had been at Pomery’s for six years when the memorable Christmas Lunch occurred.
It was four days before Christmas 1975 and the staff had just returned to the factory after having had their Christmas lunch at the Long Ship pub.
Although in truth calling it “Christmas Lunch” was perhaps a bit of a stretch and makes it sound grander that it actually was, in the 1970s, even in Northchapel, pub grub was very unsophisticated fare and invariably consisted of Chicken in a Basket or a Ploughman’s.
The more up market establishments might well offer Scampi in a Basket and a selection of Ploughman’s including a variety of cheeses as alternatives to the norm.
The Long Ship however was not an up-market establishment in any way shape or form and offered Chicken in a Basket or cheddar cheese Ploughman’s, however in addition to that, as it was Christmas you got a Mince Pie as well.
So, after their “Christmas Lunch” they all arrived back at work with some of their number much the worse for drink.
Tom Evans himself had perhaps over indulged to a small degree with an unspecified number of Light and Bitters so as a consequence he was wearing beer goggles and even scabby Carole was looking passable, as was Wonky Wendy, so called because she had a wonky eye, in fact Wendy had one eye that looked at you, while the other one was looking for you.
Not a politically correct name and “Wonky” wasn't even a very imaginative nickname but there you have it, that was the 70s and they were simple folk and easily amused, but regardless of the appropriateness of the name, Tom thought that viewed through beer goggles even she looked quite appetising.
Another of the girls he wouldn’t normally have looked at twice, had he been sober, was Patricia Clarke, although she had nice eyes and a pretty smile, other than that she was a plain looking girl about a year younger than he was.
Over the previous year Pat had made no secret of the fact that she fancied Tom, he on the other hand did not fancy her one iota and not because she was plain or because she was stick thin and featureless or because she was ginger, the truth was she just didn’t do it for him, but that was without the benefit of alcohol fuelled lust.
On returning to the factory they continued the party in the canteen, Tom’s tipple of choice from what was available was Light Ale while for Pat it was Port and Lemon and on that day they both necked a few and with every bottle of beer he drank Pat was getting prettier and prettier, and it reached a point that when she went off to the loo he followed a few minutes later and intercepted her as she returned and took her into the coat room.
It was a small room, about 20’ square, with frosted glass on two sides but with the lights off it was dark enough in the shadows for what he had in mind, and apparently it was what she had in mind too, because as soon as the door closed behind them Pat was all over him like a rash and her tongue was in his mouth like an Excocet missile, and her hands were all over him.
“Blimey you're keen” Tom thought to himself and thought he had better join in quick and yanked her blouse from the waist band of her skirt and partly unbuttoned it before going in search of her treasures and when he found them, such as they were, he made a startling discovery.
Not a Scaramanga third nipple kind of thing, what Tom found was something altogether different.
Tom Evans was just a callow youth and he wasn’t hugely experienced in the ways of the world, but he had unbuttoned enough blouses, and unhooked enough bra’s, and had sufficient experience of their contents to know that nipples shouldn’t be hairy, the last thing he expected to find surrounding her treasures were course two-inch-long curly ginger hairs, although the ginger part was an assumption as he didn’t actually get to see them.
At the time his brain was sufficiently fogged by Light Ale for him not to care that the contents of her bra were unconventional, so he just resumed his examination of her form and his hands headed south, where he got his hand up her skirt easy enough and was attempting to get his hand in the promised land when the door flew open.
“Aye, aye” Shaft said
Shaft was the Warehouse Foreman, his real name was Ted, but his nickname was Shaft, not because he was black, or was a fan of the TV show, but because he was shafting Beryl from picking, Tom did the gentlemanly thing and positioned himself between Ted and Pat, so she could redress herself.
“I’ve just come for my coat” Ted said with a chuckle as he took his coat off the peg
“Carry on” he said and closed the door.
Tom would have liked to carry on where he left off, but Pat wasn’t so keen in light of their discovery, so they went back to the party and that was that.
He never had another close encounter with Pat and in the light of his discovery, he had no desire to, as in the sober light of day he didn’t fancy her.
The day after their St Thomas’ Day fumble in the coat room, when the alcohol fog had lifted, like his namesake he had doubts about the encounter, Tom had always assumed that Pat was short for Patricia but after his discovery, he wasn’t so sure.
Obviously if Shaft hadn’t interrupted them when his hand was up her skirt and he had reached his goal he would have known for sure if his Christmas fumble was fish or fowl, but he didn’t so he remained a Doubting Thomas.
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