Spinlight
by john carter
Chapter One
It was 1 o'olock, lunchtime, and Simon Spinlight, whose stomach was rumbling, pushed open the gate to the blue painted terraced house on Duckfield Road London SW18. It was a warm spring day in 2020 and the sun was beating down. He surveyed the scene. Overflowing rubbish bins. Check. Not unusual at the moment, mostly due to a local dustman's strike ...flaking paint work on the walls of the old house ( they had used the wrong kind of paint on the brickwork ) The colorful stained glass windows of the front door glowed from the inner light as his eyes absent mindedly scanned upwards. That's strange, he thought, his kitchen window located on the top floor of the house was ajar and a large black and white cat was perched precariously on the window sill. This was alarming, particularly because said feline, Simon's flatmate, who he had somewhat unimaginatively named Cat, was perched worryingly right next to a very large pot of geraniums. I'm coming up ! shouted Simon as the cat looked down quizzically, pondering how to respond to the yelling human looking up at him.
The not so silent sound of Simon shouting had alerted the downstairs neighbour and a silver haired lady in a blue cardigan peered cautiously through her pale blue net curtains. She stared as the man, now with his back to the house, moved , a film in reverse, up the path of the tiny urban front garden . Simon, the backwards walker, now had his eyes on a car parked on the other side of the road. It was a mult-coloured but predominantly red Citroen ' Deux Chevaux ', Simon's favourite car, and very rare in these parts....
Crash ! The pot of geraniums hurtled downwards and hit the paved floor of the front yard, narrowing missing Simon's head. Shards of pottery flew everywhere as Simon shrieked something about not doing that again and no lunch if you do..Panicking slightly, he fumbled for his front door key... He had always intended to put a label on it for quick access at times like these, but had never got round to it. Hence the fumbling.
Then he noticed something quite unusual. On the doorstep was a large cardboard box with his name on it in large slightly child- like felt pen lettering . There was no address, and taking hold of the box he discovered it to be very heavy. Caught now between two situations of equal magnetism he inserted his key , dragged the box across the threshold and stepped onto the colourful tiled floor of the entrance hall. Shutting the door with his foot the thud was accompanied by another crash as a second slightly smaller pot succumbed to the laws of gravity and the encouragement of a furry tabby paw. He raced up the carpeted stairs, unlocked the second door, and raced again up a second flight onto the top floor landing which was the centre of his sprawling south london abode of the last 5 years..
The cat stared at Simon through the kitchen window and gave him a welcoming meow..then sent a third pot flying off the cill. Another distant crash. That was good. No crash and an ouch would have meant it had landed on someone , which it hadn't. Landing on someone would mean trouble resulting no doubt in a large bill and Simon had enough of those at the moment..
He dragged the box across the floor and heaved it onto the kitchen table. Cat , who had squeezed through the gap between ajar window and its frame , now perched on the inner cill, and meowed again. It was a hungry meow and Simon's stomach rumbled in agreement. Tossing a slice of bread into the toaster and pulling off the top of a tin of cat food , Simon turned his attention to the mysterious box.
But as he did so there was a faint and rather timid knock on the door of the kitchen . A grey haired head peered round the door. Mrs Timmins. She had a habit of letting herself in unexpectedly...
“Simon..” she said “ what are you doing home at this time ?”
Simon was always polite to Mrs T, who was a good friend in times of need. A widower once married to the local vicar, she was a good sort, old fashioned and personable . He looked up from studying the box on the old pine table..
“Oh ..I’ve just been sacked..mrs T”
“I’m sorry to hear that Simon..what will you do ?”
Simon worked , or rather had been working, in an architects office in the centre of town. Sir Phillip Gibard was the boss. A nice guy, except that morning, when he had summoned Simon to his office and told him they had no more for him to do. Simon had been the office tea maker, eraser of unwanted lines, and general low paid dogsbody..Except now they no longer needed a dog.
“ I’ll just have to get my cv out there..” But his cv might look a little under-impressive, he thought. The title ‘general dogsbody’ didn’t look too good on paper. The cat meowed in agreement, reading his thoughts.. it was now lying, legs stretched out, on top of the newly arrived box on the table. She purred and promptly fell asleep.
“Tea , Mrs T ?” enquired Simon moving over to the kitchen sink and grabbing two, as yet unwashed, mugs .
“It’s a mugs game, architecture” he said , rinsing two of them , each of which sported the emblems of, respectively, his favourite football team and tv show..
Mrs T sat down at Simon’s table. They had a curious friendship. Often while climbing the stairs Simon would be invited in for a pre lunch glass of sherry or two and they would chat. She was a good listener, and at the moment Simon needed her ear..
“Oh well, it was a boring job anyway”
“ Hmm Simon, but you need the money ..what will you do now ? “
Simon pondered this question. Mrs T had a habit of getting to the point. And tea in hand, she had done it again. Some money would be a good idea.
“ No idea “ replied Simon, as Cat scratched lazily at the top of the box whose now loosened cardboard flap posed a particularly fascinating object of study.
“ I suppose I’ll have to find someone else who needs a dogsbody..”
Chapter Two
Mr Fawcett, or Fred to his still surviving mates, meandered slowly along the high street. This was his normal mode of movement, trundling here, moseying there, making the most of his days in retirement , basically wandering around the town. He looked in shop windows, counted the cracks in the pavement and occasionally nodded to a passerby who nodded back, despite only having the vaguest recollection who Fred actually was. Forgotten is what he was, or so he thought. The newsagents. Hasn’t changed in 40 years...just the headlines were different. Wars here, political scandals there. Oh , well they haven’t changed either. One local headline did catch his eye though..” part of our heritage to be demolished to make way for new shopping centre..”. Hmm must investigate, he thought as his feet followed their random route down the sunny side of the street. It was almost empty, and there was not a soul about as Fred found himself walking up to the door of the old library. ........
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On a shelf behind the long window next to the neglected entrance lay a few moth-eaten old titles surrounded by dust and a few literary minded spiders. He peered into the glass. Dickens Great Epectations. Tarzan. A copy of an indistinguishable Enid Blyton novel. Squinting at the still visible cover illustration, he muttered to himself. Not Noddy then. Shame, he thought. He liked Noddy...
With images of a guy with big ears sitting in the passenger seat of a little red car in his head, Fred turned his attention to a notice pinned to the door. Of the library, not the car. That had the license plate, NOD 1.
“Save our library" it read. “Stop the demolition..we dont need a new shopping centre !”
Indeed thought Fred. The town had always had small shops, a grocer’s here, a butchers there. Even a candlestick maker somewhere , he was sure. He had an intense dislike of shopping centres with their indentikit interiors, glassy sliding doors and general atmosphere of concentrated commercialism. And shops which were always waiting for a delivery of the thing he was looking for.
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Chapter Three
Simon took a gulp of tea and pulled the kitchen window to. As he did so he looked down at where the multi coloured car had been. Had been, because it was no longer there. That’s funny he thought, he hadn’t heard it start and drive off. Electric deux chevaux ? Was there even such a thing? He turned back to Mrs T.
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