Writing for Fun
March 2021
Billy Bailey (Simple Things)- Pete Norman
Someone has stolen the Mirror.
John Bond walked carefully around the Common Room, searching in all the places that a careless old crumbly might have dropped the paper but it was definitely not here.
Someone has stolen the Mirror – and it is Friday and Friday is ‘have a little flutter on the gee-gees’ day and the Mirror is the only paper which prints out all the racing stuff in a way that he can understand it. It was an unmitigated disaster.
Dejected, he sat nursing a cup of dark tea and munching on the extra chocolate biscuit that his favourite nurse, Mary, had given him because he was so upset. (He made a mental note that that one was worth trying again!)
However, there was still the matter of the paper to be dealt with. He was absolutely certain that it must have been taken back to the thief’s room and he was also absolutely certain that the prime suspect had to be that new bloke, the one who had moved into the room next door to Becky – was it Ben? Len? Ken? . . . or maybe it was Colin. That was it, Colin – he knew it started with a ‘C’. Whatever, Colin needed teaching the rules of this place and John had come up with a cunning plan.
Tomorrow morning he would get up before the sun and wait in his favourite seat until the papers arrived. Then he would then sneak the Mirror out and hide it. Then he would wait until Ben, Len, Ken . . . Colin came looking for it. He would then have the pleasure of watching him as the thieving swine searched in vain for it.
The second part of the cunning plan was more immediate. After breakfast he would have a walk down to the Betting Shop where there was always an unlimited supply of racing stuff which is owned by the same people he had made a profit from for the past three weeks. Therefore he would sit in BetFred’s shop, studying BetFred’s paper and then place a bet with BetFred’s own money – what could possibly be finer than that?
A little over an hour later he pushed open the door and to the sound of a tinny, jangly bell, he entered. However, there was someone sitting in his favourite seat – the leather seat in the far corner which was next to the Racing Times and a pile of betting slips. The man was scruffy, almost vagrant-like in his beaten up coat and trilby hat beneath which an unruly mess of grey hair was trying to escape. He was not a Sunningdale resident, so he could not possibly be the thief but his face did look somehow familiar – a face from the past, perhaps? It was only when the man turned and looked directly at him that the penny dropped . . .
‘Billy Bailey, is that really you?’
‘Still was when I woke up this morning alongside Raquel Welch!’ Billy grinned. As his mouth opened it was abundantly clear that he had not lost the disgusting habit of chewing tobacco. The mouthful of otherwise perfect black teeth was a frightening sight. ‘So, how’s ya doin’ Johnny Boy?’
All thought of racing stuff and betting slips evaporated. He had not seen Billy for years and they had been good mates when he lived in Bermondsey.
The girl behind the counter was so engrossed with tapping on her phone that she took very little interest in two old codgers chewing the fat – and chewing tobacco.
Billy looked at his watch. ‘I reckon the Green Baize Club next door must be open by now. Is it any good?’
John shook his head. ‘Never been in it. It’s only been here a few months – used to be an ALDI.’
Billy grinned his frightening grin again. ‘Then there’s a chance I might be able to relieve you of a little cash, then.’ He gestured towards the door.
The Snooker Club looked quite small from the outside but it was more like the Tardis inside, with neat rows of tables disappearing into the distance.
The gorilla behind the desk did not look too amused at having the likes of them in his club . . . but as there were no other paying customers in the place, beggars can’t be choosers. He took their money and turned the lights on at a table close enough to the desk for him to be able to keep an eye on them.
John fought hard against the prospect of playing for money because what he had in his pocket was intended to take BetFred to the cleaners, not to fill Billy Bailey’s piggy bank. He knew that Billy had always been good – as he himself had been in his misspent youth – but John had not picked up a cue for decades.
It was a surprisingly quick game and Billy had clearly lost none of his natural ability. As he potted the last black he punched his fist in the air and sang in a very loud but surprisingly good baritone voice: ‘Bill Bailey, won’t you please come home!’
The gorilla called across, ‘Oi! Keep your noise down.’
Billy glared at him and turned back to the table. ‘If I was 10 years younger I’d have that miserable sod.’
John shook his head. ‘But if you were 10 years younger then you’d only be 8.’
Billy looked puzzled.
John smiled. ‘Didn’t you always say you were still 18 in your head?’
Billy’s laughter was even louder than his singing and the gorilla came out from behind his desk.
Then Billy coughed.
Then Billy broke wind noisily.
Then Billy sneezed and his false teeth flew out of his mouth and onto the expensive green cloth. A large piece of gooey black tobacco slowly rolled out from between the teeth, dropping perfectly onto the pink spot. Billy shouted out a gummy, ‘Foul shot – 6 points away!’
A few seconds later he was standing outside on the pavement, nursing his sore ear and shouting at the closed door, ‘I’ve been thrown out of better places than this, you know!’
Indomitable, however, he shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘So, Johnny boy, is that your place up the top of the hill? The one with all them red bricks and a big sun on the front? What’s it like, then? Mine’s like a prison camp.’ He jerked his thumb towards the door. ‘The staff in there must all be his sisters, they’re a miserable lot . . . and the inmates too. There ain’t an ounce of fun in any of them. ’
John said, ‘Well, we’ve got a thief in ours.’
Billy laughed. ‘Nowt wrong with a thief – everyone’s got to make a living.’
John said, ‘But it was the Mirror . . . on a Friday.’
Billy pulled a solemn face. ‘You didn’t say it were that serious! Anyhow, what’s the ladies like?’
John conjured up an image in his mind, ‘Well, there’s three ladies there would give even you a run for your money.’ However, as soon as the words had left his lips he knew he had said the wrong thing. This was never going to be a good idea. However, he could not find the right words fast enough and before he knew it he was being led to the bus stop.
Ada, Flavy and Joanna were sat around the large table in the corner of the Common Room playing a game of Rummy and they never even looked up as John walked in. Billy made a beeline for their table. He took up a Jack-the-lad stance and said, ‘Hello, girls. Billy Bailey. At your service.’ Only Joanna took her eyes from the cards, gave him a cursory look up and down and then turned back to her hand.
Undaunted, Billy cracked his knuckles – somewhat painfully – and said, ‘If you girls like the cards, has you ever played strip poker?’
He said afterwards that he had never known a woman bring up her foot so quickly, so accurately and so painfully.
When he had finally pulled himself back up to his full height of 5ft 4 he took a step back out of harm’s way and tried again. ‘Or maybe we could make it spin the Sanatogen bottle?’
He said afterwards that he had never known a woman throw a cup full of tea so quickly, so accurately and so painfully.
He sat on the floor nursing a bruise on his forehead. ‘I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then.’
John took hold of his elbow and tried to pull him up. As Billy slowly unwound a piece of paper fell from his coat pocket. Even though it was folded up roughly into a small square it was instantly recognisable.
He said afterwards that he had never known Johnny Bond throw a punch so quickly, so accurately and so painfully.
A few seconds later he was standing outside on the pavement, nursing his sore chin and shouting at the closed door, ‘I’ve been thrown out of better places than this, you know!’