A Discovery...
Chapter ThreeI hear babies cry, I watch them grow
They'll learn much more than I'll never know
And I think to myself what a wonderful world
Yes I think to myself what a wonderful world.
What a Wonderful World, Louis Armstrong
Highest Chart Position No 1 Feb 1968
Monday 12th February 1968 : 7.10pm
The traffic on Kirkstall Road heading north out of Leeds city centre has quietened a little and Bob makes the trip from the Azids house to Kirkstall Road in just six minutes and turning up the alleyway at the side of the Tomato Dip, he parks up and jumps from the cab without bothering to lock it as it has no locks and who the hell is going to nick a battered VW Pickup anyway, he walks quickly in the rain around to the front of the cafe, searching in the dark for the correct key on the bunch that he keeps in the van he finds it on the third attempt, and moves across the floor in the complete darkness inside the cafe catching his shin on the counter as he gropes his way around looking for the light switch.
The three flourescent tubes flicker slowly into life as if protesting that they've already done their days work, one of them will only flicker and never burst into life at this time of night which will only intensify the tightness that Bob feels over his left eye, he'd best be quick in here tonight before a proper headache starts, just time for a coffee and the sandwich that Maureen has left out for him then he'll get off to the pub, kill this headache with beer before it gets started.
The geyser keeps the water warm for a long time after Maureen locks up at five, which shouldn't be suprising as its been boiling all day and Bob takes a mug puts two spoonfulls of Nescafe powder in it and fills it with water, takes it and his sandwich over to the table in the far corner, then returns to the door and drops the Yale latch to prevent anyone wandering in and demanding service like that dead beat did last Thursday, on his way back to the counter he lights a Slim Panatella, his fifth of the day and presses the No Sale key on the till before removing a small wad of paper money then returns to his table, collecting a copy of the Yorkshire Evening Post from another table where a kind teatime punter has forgotten to take it home with him.
Sitting at his table reading the newspaper for the next ten minutes Bob draws deeply on the cigar and finishes the cheese sandwich without really noticing that there was cheese in it at all and browses the latest sports news on Don Revies team selection problems for next Saturday. a swig from the coffee mug makes him realise that its now empty and he has a choice to make - go to the Cardigan Arms over the road or stay here to count the paper money, he chooses the latter and rises from his seat to go get another coffee, the aching eyebrow is a memory as the caffeine and nicotine have worked on the tense muscles, as he rises from the seat his left foot slips slightly on the puddle that has gathered from his wet boots while he sat and he feels the work boot contact something soft under the table.
Bending down to look under the table he spots a leather briefcase, the sort that looks like a doctors bag, this one is old and a well worn black leather one with a brass clasp holding the top together, bloody punters thinks Bob they leave all sorts of crap in here. He goes to the counter and pours the second cup of Nescafe, the water just a tad cooler since last time and wonders if he's got a half a Panatella in the box, he likes his time in his cafe after everyone's gone home, his half hour when he counts up the paper money and decides whether there's enough to take home or just enough to squander in the Cardigan over the road, its dark outside and the glare from the fluorescent tubes means that he can't see outside, the café is still warm from the days activities and he got no reason to want to go home to the small back-to-back terraced house that he's got bored of renovating, one day he'll finish doing it up, sell it and move to somewhere like Horsforth, somewhere outside of the city where you can sit and not listen to traffic noise twenty four hours a day and as if to underline his thoughts as he sits at his table gazing into the blackness outside the café window a No 5 bus rumbles past just a few feet away making the cups rattle on the shelf under the counter, the café front is so close to the kerbside that he can hear the conductor ring the bell on the bus as it passes and the gears grind as the driver slows for the bus stop outside Woodrups cycle shop.
The coffee cup is drained again and Bob feels much more relaxed now, his mouth tastes of cigars and Nescafe and he thinks he'll pop over the road and have a few pints in the Cardigan to round the day off, its been a miserable February day outside, wet and cold, and it will be the same tomorrow and the same the day after and then after that he and Foxy don't have any more jobs to go to so Bob will have to ring around a few mates of his in the building trade and see if anyone knows what's going on, who's hiring, who's building, its more for Foxy's sake because of course Bob has the café to fall back on now, it makes a small profit enough to keep him in cigars although he hasn't a clue how Stan Barlow the previous owner managed to make a living and raise five kids in the flat above, the bloke must never have spent any money on the kids because from what Bob can see of the café's turnover he spent most of the takings in the Cardigan in fact Stan's prolific drinking every night is what made Bob believe Stan's promise that the café was “a little goldmine”.
He blinks hard, an annoying habit of his which he is unaware of, and leaving the mug on the table for Maureen to clear up in the morning he slides the chair back form the table and stands then notices the black briefcase again and out of curiosity picks it up and tries the lock. Not surprisingly its locked and so he puts it back down on the chair to leave for Maureen to deal with, no doubt some dozy punter, some office worker who called in for a cup of tea tonight on his way home will return in the morning to ask for it back after his nights homework was ruined and his sleep disturbed trying to retrace his steps in his mind.
Bob stands and stares at the briefcase for a few seconds, Maureen won't even notice it in the morning she's a dateless bird at times and she's not too alert at 6am in the morning, some other chancer will pick up the briefcase and walk out with it then Bob will have to lie to the real owner and explain that they never saw the bloody thing, what the hell, he's got an early start in the morning he'll bring it in around seven and hand it personally to Maureen, so he picks the briefcase up again and makes for the door with it, turning off the lights on the way out.
The wind is blowing rain in his face once more as he locks the door and then trots around the corner and throws the briefcase in the VW Pickups cab, slams the van door then heads over the road to the Cardigan Arms and the first of a few pints tonight.
posted by Gary @ 6:21 PM
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