Pook & Partners

By Peter Pook

Pook & Partners introduces another dynamic personality of the Pook fun club—Al Newman, a high-pressure salesman who persuades Pook to enter the property world in pursuit of that fortune he sought in Pook in Business.

One of the snags in such a partnership is Al’s wife, Lorna, who regards Pook as her partner too—though not always in a strictly professional capacity.

How Pook, with the assistance of Honners, ecapes from her clutches by falling into the jaws of a goodtime girl called Penny is an object lesson in the art of establishing a business and building it up to the pinnacle of financial insolvency.

Some of the scenes are set in that traditional heart of British commercial life—the public house, where the giants of Cudford Estate Agency negotiate their property deals to the limits of human endurance, before being assisted from the premises at closing time in an almost insensible condition.

Once again, in this tenth Pook Book, the wit and humour which his fans relish so much seem to flow non-stop from one of Britain’s cleverest comedy creators.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emissary Publishing
• Release date: Jul 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310930621

Book preview

ONE

Just to look at Al Newman made you feel he was a born salesman and, worse still, made you feel an urge to buy what he sold. He possessed several natural advantages, such as being well over six feet tall and weighing some seventeen stones. He had a charming smile which easily broke into a laugh so loud that it could awe a pub crowd into silence or send them into hysterical mirth according to Al’s intention. It was well said of him that he could sell earrings to a nun, and legend had it that once he sold hair-restorer to the Beatles.

Now you know why Al and his wife Lorna were now sharing my house in Cudford Crescent. Al worked me over one night in the Bold Forester to such good effect that I begged them to take the ground floor off my hands for £2 a week inclusive. Not that Al had to work too hard, because most men would be glad to have a dish like Lorna on the premises at any price—she smiled and the whole world said yes.

All right, Peter—you win, Al told me in his London accent. We’ll move in Monday if your heart’s set on it. Now, rather than have the Council cane you by assessing the house as two separate flats for rates, we’ll work on a gentleman’s agreement without a lease and call ourselves relations spending their holidays with you. From now on I’m your cousin, got it? Mind you, that puts us entirely at your mercy because you can throw us out into the street overnight if it suits you, but if old friends can’t trust each other we might as well wrap up, eh?

Fine, Al, I agreed, although how people who had met only that evening could be old friends was not clear. Furthermore, Al moved in such a mountain of gear that it would obviously take at least a week to throw him out into the street at the risk of blocking the highway for a further week. For example, there were the six cars—two on the driveway and four in the front garden, surmounted by a sign which read: Ken’s Quality Cars For Sale. Inquire Within.

You told me you were selling language courses, Al, I tackled him. And anyway, who’s Ken?

Of course I’m selling language courses, like I said— but in the commercial jungle of today you need two strings to your bow. So, stick a couple of cars out front and they sell themselves. Money for nothing. As for the name, never does to trade under your own monicker for obvious reasons. I insist on keeping the language courses entirely separate from the banger business.

But what about the Town and Country Planning Authority, Al? They just won’t wear it.

Sorry, Peter, but there’s not a thing they can do about it law-wise. They’re my own cars for my own use and so far no one’s brought in a law restricting the number of cars you can own. The only snag is the sign, but you’ll notice it’s stuck above one of the cars so it’s not permanent. Show a fixed signboard and you’re a dead duck. Even then they can have you there on a technicality so this is what we do. I knock up a couple of sandwich-boards advertising the cars and you wear ’em about the garden and on the pavement. There’s no law saying a citizen can’t potter about his garden or go shopping wearing sandwich-boards, so they can’t touch you. On fine week-ends you’ll be glad to sit in the sun on the garden wall and the boards will stop you getting sunburnt into the bargain.

But supposing they question me, Al?

"Tell them the truth—you’re eccentric. You like wearing odd things in public, like the Carnaby Street mob do on telly. Now don’t bother your head about it any more because I want to get you started on the language course. Listen, seven hundred million people speak Chinese—why can’t you?"

Can you speak it, Al?

Of course not, but that’s because I’m selling it, not buying it. Listen, seven hundred million people speak Chinese—why can’t you? Why be the odd man out—are you anti-social or something?

How can you teach me Chinese when you can’t speak it yourself?

Listen, seven hundred million people speak Chinese— why can’t you? What’s going to happen when they invade us? Too late then to learn the lingo. You won’t have a soul to talk to.

But you’ll be in the same boat, Al.

No I won’t, Peter—I’ll be selling them English courses. Listen, seven hundred million people speak Chinese—why can’t you?

Why do you keep saying that, Al?

It’s the company’s slogan. Brain-washing. Eventually it gives you an inferiority complex and you have to learn in order to regain your self-respect. Keeping up with the Chinese, eh! Now you say it.

I smiled sheepishly. Seven hundred million people speak Chinese—why can’t I?

Marvellous! See, it works. I’ll start you off tomorrow with the first lesson and the records. Won’t cost you a penny of course—we’ll deduct it from the rent. You win every time, Peter. We’ve got a roof over our heads and you’re learning Chinese free. How smart can you get?

I didn’t fully appreciate the language course until we were watching television late that night, when Al had drunk so much of my whisky that I wondered if he was an alcoholic in his spare time.

That’s how he got his great fat belly, Lorna explained. I turned from Al to Lorna and wondered if she got her long exposed thighs the same way.

We get a much clearer picture in London, Lorna continued, waving a hand at my flickering screen.

Maybe a valve is going. I’ve never had trouble with the set before, Lorna.

Could be the flag, Peter—it’s quite a windy night outside, Al suggested.

What flag are you talking about, Al?

The flag I fixed on your T.V. aerial when I borrowed your neighbour’s ladder this afternoon. Probably making the aerial bob about a bit, but there’s nothing we can do till I can rig up a proper pole.

You mean there’s a flag flying, over my house? What is it, the Union Jack?

Listen, seven hundred million people speak Chinese— why can’t you? What’s that, Peter?

Your company’s slogan.

Right first time, Peter. Now it’s flying over us for all the world to see. Publicity wins hands down in the selling game.

It’ll have to come down, Al.

Of course it will, Peter. It’s only temporary. When the proper pole’s up there we’ll be able to fly the fun size one.

Let’s talk about it tomorrow, Al, I can’t take any more tonight. It’s bed for me—I’m exhausted.

Al bellowed his mighty laugh. Bed for me too—I’m canned!

I passed a restless night wondering what had hit me, and horrified by the thought of what Olga would say when she found out about the Newman invasion—and the Lorna aspect of it in particular. Olga always referred to the house as our little love-nest, as though we were a couple of broody ospreys or something but now the place looked more like Cudford car park, than a love-nest. The slogan kept running through my mind and all those people who spoke Chinese seemed to march through my bedroom, saluting the flag which now flew above the house.

I was awakened at 7 a.m. by the postman. One of the smaller pleasures of life was to listen for the letters being pushed through the door, wondering if they were rejected stories or the occasional cheque from a publisher—perhaps even a fan letter from some nostalgic reader in Honolulu. So expert had I become that I could estimate the size of the letter by the plop it made on the mat, which enabled me to guess whom it was from. But this morning I thought the plopping would never cease. After twenty-seven I gave up counting and began wondering if the hall would become blocked. The postman took all of ten minutes to deliver the mail, whereupon I ran downstairs to witness the avalanche of letters which lay in a white hill around the door. In the search for my own mail I counted eighty-six letters, from which I gathered that Al operated under several trade names, from Ken’s Quality Cars to Ali Baba’s Pop-out Corn Cure. In addition there were one hundred and three long packages, all printed with the slogan I had come to dread. In order to clear the hall I extracted my own three letters and packed the remainder in one of Al’s removal tea-chests, taking care to stack the bill envelopes on top. This I dragged along to the downstairs’ bedroom, knocked on the door and called, The mail’s come, Al. Looks like a lot of those seven hundred million Chinese are writing to you already.

Oh, thanks, Peter. What time does the parcel post usually arrive? It was Lorna speaking.

About eleven, Lorna.

Oh, good. With luck he’ll be awake by then. Listen, Peter, there may be quite a few parcels—they’re mostly the long-playing records for the course. If Al isn’t up by then be a darling and have them stacked somewhere dry outside—say in the garage. We haven’t an inch of room in here.

But Al’s car is in there, Lorna.

Oh, I forgot. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to move it out, Peter dear.

But there isn’t anywhere else to move it to, Lorna. There’s cars everywhere. The neighbours think we’re organizing a rally.

Oh, park it in the road, Peter. The price card is already stuck in the windscreen-wiper—£170, but you can take £150 for a quick cash deal with no banger in part exchange.

But what about my own car? I want to go out soon.

How much are you asking for it, Peter?

I don’t want to sell it, Lorna, I want to get it out. The driveway’s blocked.

Just move ours any time you wish, Peter. If you often go out early like this it would be best to park it last at night.

Park it last where, Lorna? We can’t close the gate as it is—the boot of your Ford is half-way across the pavement.

Don’t worry, Peter. I’ll make Al get shot of that hideous banger on the lawn. He had to take it in to clear the caravan. I’ve warned him, no more caravans or lorries now because your driveway’s too narrow. You couldn’t possibly bring me a cup of tea, could you, darling? Don’t worry about Moby Dick here—he’s still unconscious.

This was the first of many dawn conversations I was to hold with Lorna through a closed door. For once, Al’s jaws were still, though I knew he was in the land of the living by the regular snore which rattled the window with the rhythm of a pumping engine until 10.30 each day. Never wake up before the pubs open, Peter, he advised me when I tackled him on the subject of the early bird catching the worm. To realize I am conscious when the pubs are shut is the most melancholy thought that can bedevil a man’s happiness. It makes me shudder.

It’s the only time he’s not smoking too, so that’s something to be thankful for, Lorna added, lighting a cigarette from the last one. Though how we’d ever have got a home together without cigarette coupons I’ll never know.

Where is all your furniture then, Lorna—in store?

Oh no, it’s here all around us. Lorna waved her hand vaguely in the direction of a cocktail cabinet, suitcases and trunks, a typewriter and five stopped alarm-clocks. Poor Al had to be treated for nicotine poisoning getting that typewriter. 10,000 coupons it took.

One thing I had to stop was taking Lorna an early morning cup of tea. Lorna apparently slept clad only in a kind of child’s pinny, probably because of the heat generated by her husband, who lay there like a vast whisky-fired central-heating system. Consequently it was necessary to place the tea-tray with some care in order to accommodate Lorna’s outstanding bust without knocking the crocks over. Lorna’s bust always gave me that strange sensation I once experienced on the edge of the Grand Canyon, Arizona, that I was about to fall in head first. Worse still, Lorna had a disconcerting habit of inviting me to have my tea in bed with her, adding, Moby Dick wouldn’t wake up even if you took the mattress away. I could just imagine Olga’s face if she walked in the room to find the three of us in one bed, like refugees, taking our tea. So persuasive was Lorna that on the third morning I found myself actually sitting up in the communal bed beside Lorna, trying to sip the tea as though nothing was amiss, and staring with startled eyes at Al on the other side in case he woke up unexpectedly. Al’s slumber face never failed to fascinate me. It was a smirk of utter contentment, as if even in sleep every one of his plans was working out to his entire satisfaction. He had an alarming habit of chuckling happily on the few occasions when he turned over—an operation rather like a sudden squall at sea that threatens to throw the crew overboard—as though it tickled his vanity to be a smartie amongst a world of mugs.

Al doesn’t mind me having a bit of fun so long as it doesn’t go too far, Lorna explained, putting her arm round me as though dawn was fun time.

How far is too far, Lorna? I gasped. Maybe the Newmans used a different scale of distance to mine.

Well, Al has his booze and I have my little bit of fun too. He doesn’t mind so long as I don’t do anything behind his back.

Is that why he usually sleeps with his face to the wall?

Oh, come on and don’t be so old-fashioned, darling. Snuggle up close for a kiss and a cuddle. You’ll have to come along to our next party and see how the other half lives—we all change partners for the night. Does you good to have a little orgy once in a while, lover boy.

The morbid thought of a Newman party in my own house, with Olga taking round coffee and cheese straws to each bedroom, so unnerved me that I slid out of bed on the pretext of moving the cars in readiness for the new day.

During the fourth day, Al tackled me about the house and our domestic arrangements. It breaks my heart to see this place wasted like it is, Peter. You know the old saying about three can live as cheaply as one—well, why don’t we muck in together, food and accommodation-wise? Lorna may as well do for you as well as me. Then we could let and really start making the money.

Let! I’m already letting the ground floor to you, Al, and I haven’t seen a penny yet.

Ah, that’s because you were sharp enough to take the language course, so we’re quits, but move in with us and we’ll let your three rooms at a fiver a time. That’s fifteen a week pocket-money without lifting a finger. The snag is the house isn’t big enough for real tenancy operation. Why, back in Tottenham my brother owns a decent-sized house— twenty-one rooms at seven-ten a time, say £150 a week— that really pays off. Just picture your own house packed with a hundred and twelve Pakistanis plus what the stork brings each night. By comparison your house is a time-and-motion blot on the nation, like keeping the New Forest for one pony.

Or preserving the Atlantic for a whale.

Exactly, Peter. Give me some action on this.

I’ll have to talk it over with Olga first, Al.

Bring her in too, then we’ll have a round number.

I always fell back on Olga when under attack from Al, and I knew full well she would back me in saving our love-nest from the Newmans. Unfortunately, Olga and I had had a tiff over my career as a writer at this time, with the result that she had gone away for a short holiday to recover. It all began over the virtual disappearance of the short story market, whereby I was forced to turn to the only remaining outlet, the women’s magazines. At first I contributed under the name of Maureen Marvel to Girls’ Dream, a cosy hold-hands magazine for teenagers, then, growing more ambitious, I appeared as Sylvia de Morency-Howarth in the pages of True Passion, a kiss-and-cuddle confession weekly for those who prefer to read about it. The material for both journals I obtained straight from my courtship of Olga, only spicing things up a bit to make it less tedious—such as galloping across Arabia with Olga flung over my saddle instead of pedalling across Cudford Common with Olga on my crossbar.

At first, Olga was flattered by such attention but her attitude changed when I began to write for Sex International as Count Kurt Lustmarker because, driven to it by my competitors in this field, I was horrified to find myself pursuing Olga through the Black Forest armed with a rubber whip.

It just proves what some men will do for money, she moaned. I liked you best when you were Sylvia de Morency Howarth and we were holding