Open Writing

Down there is the town of Pencham, where I used to work as a rat-catcher. I wasn’t a very good rat-catcher. In fact, by the time I’d finished, there were probably more rats nibbling at the underbelly of the town than when I began.

No, that’s not quite true but never mind.

Anyway, here I am, years later, sitting in my car on the hill outside the town and thinking that if I’d stayed I might have risen to become head of pest control and lived quietly in the suburbs with my local wife and children.

Instead of which I crossed the Atlantic and made a fortune. I had the golden touch, you see. I was hailed as the Brit whiz kid and became a celebrity.

I married a Hollywood actress and brought her to England for all to see. I acquired property. My wife played the lady of the manor to perfection.

Oh, what an actress.

I drive slowly down the hill, passing the sign which says Pencham welcomes careful drivers.

I park the car in the usual slot, enter the municipal tower block, take the lift and approach my desk through the door marked head of pest control.

‘Ah, there you are, at last,’ says Mona, my secretary.

She holds her shorthand notebook a long way from her and says, ‘The chief exec has been on the line asking, and, er, I quote, where the bloody hell is he and tell the silly bugger to come up to see me pronto when he gets back, if ever.’

She gives me a shy, wry smile. She has bluebell-blue eyes.

I close the door and lock it.

‘This can’t go on,’ she says, backing away.

The notebook falls.

When she resumes, she says, ‘And by the way, your housekeeper rang and said not to forget the, er, cat food…’

‘No, I won’t forget the cat food, Mona, ever, never,’ I murmur.