A Lingering Odour of Citrus

By Christien J Heslop

What do you need to achieve a dream life? Young Travis Bone has a dream, but like many of us he is not entirely sure what that dream is. We follow the exploits of Travis, a cynical amateur philosopher as he attempts to survive the trials and tribulations most of us have to endure in the world of the gainfully employed. Join Travis on his journey, a journey that may at times seem all too familiar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christien J Heslop
• Release date: Jul 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370367573

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A lingering Odour Of Citrus

By Christien James Heslop

First Edition

Copyright ã 2015 by Christien James Heslop

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed,

or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying,

recording, or other electronic, mechanical methods,

without prior written permission of the publisher,

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews

and certain other non-commercial uses

permitted by copyright law.

For permission requests, email the publisher,

addressed, Attention: Permissions Co-ordinator at the email address below.

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All the characters and businesses are fictitious

and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

is purely coincidental.

Dedication

To Len, who encouraged me to write this book.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Stuart Mains from Stirling IT for his editorial input and marketing advice. Jim Barker from Barker Illustrations and Graphics for his cover illustration

and Paul Dalling from pauldalling.co.uk for his work in editing and proofreading A Lingering Odour of Citrus.

Special thanks must also go to my partner Kerry for her patience and support during the writing of this book.

Introduction

I have never been much of a one for books or reading anything at all, unless the book chiefly consisted of pictures rather than text. I generally found I would be initially enthused by the cover of a book only to become disinterested when faced with hundreds of pages of printed words. From an early age, I began to quickly understand I had been bestowed with a ridiculously short attention span. This meant I could never quite face the prospect, of staring at pages of text for any significant period of time. I wrote this story with the intention of keeping someone like myself interested. In order to achieve this I wrote in a selfish way with the intention of amusing myself.

Another reason for writing the story was to ascertain if my hero was completely alone in this world, or if there might be others that feel like he does about life and work. A Lingering Odour Of Citrus is my attempt to contact like-minded individuals, who have survived some of the rigours of full-time employment. I hope that those who feel frustrated, demoralised and unfairly treated will pick up my faint transmission and realise that it is not themselves, but that it is the rest of the world that is at fault. I also hope that by writing this book I have demonstrated that anything is possible; all you have to do is give it a go.

Chapter 1

Life in the Fast Lane

1983 was to be the end of my life, or certainly the end of its first and carefree stage. I was to complete my secondary education and would pursue a new life of full-time employment, this part had already been decided, but what to do that was the question.

My name is Travis Bone and I had grown up living in my parents’ pub, The Stag Inn, situated in a remote part of Lancashire’s Ribble Valley. The pub was located close to the small village of Moldburn, in a small hamlet called Gullets Home; we lived in the modest flat above the main bar. It was a time when country pubs were social hubs for the native inhabitants and in part due to the popularity of drinking and driving, were always busy.

My parents had never run a pub before coming to Gullets, as the Stag Inn was commonly known, but both being social animals had comfortably settled it to their roles as landlord and landlady. I however found that sharing my life with hoards of people – mostly drunk – seven days a week was not my ideal future career path, this being said as of yet I had no idea what my career path should be. People often talk about a light bulb moment when inspirational ideas jump from the universal ether into our minds. I am not certain that at the time I would have recognised such a moment as a light bulb, however I do think these moments do occur for all of us.

Placed outside the pub were two long church pews set against the wall offering a grandstand view of the road and a small parking area. This was a favourite place for me to sit and watch the world; such as it was, go by. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon and I found myself in the company of Trevor, one of the local lads from the village. Trevor was older than me and drove a lorry for a small local haulage firm; one of the more interesting things about Trevor – if not the most interesting – was his car. Trevor was the proud owner of a Ford Escort 1.6 Sport not the most potent of the Escort family it has to be said but still pretty impressive none the less.

Cars occupied an important place in the mind of most young boys, from an early age you would be subjected to a mild form of brain conditioning from the likes of Corgi, Dinky and Matchbox. Television programmes adverts and magazines further cemented this brainwashing. Whether I was aware of it or not the Ford Motor Company had moulded my perception and embedded ownership of one of their products as a key indicator of success. It was at this point that a car drew up onto the parking area immediately in front of where Trevor and I were sitting, but this wasn’t any old car. Ford had recently produced a new more potent version of its 70’s fastback, the Capri. This version featured a V6 fuel injected engine, which in the pre-programmed mind of a young man about to embark on the great adventure of employment represented the pinnacle of achievement and success.

This was then further confirmed as the driver’s door swung open and a young boy who barely looked old enough to drive stepped out. Looking like the Fred character from the Scooby Doo cartoons, he swaggered past us followed by a small entourage of attractive young girls.

I hope that’s his dad’s car, I said looking at Trevor for a reassuring confirmation.

No that’s Roger Lenon, apparently he just got it brand new from the main agent in Barrow, replied Trevor.

For a few seconds I was speechless as my brain tried to cope with the reality of someone not much older than me owning a car like this. It was like a dream, something you would see on television not in real life, not here on the fell side. The most obvious next question, how does someone his age buy such a car?

He’s an apprentice fitter at the plaster board works, said Trevor nonchalantly.

Was this a true light bulb moment? Whatever this was it was certainly a moment, a moment that I was sure I would have great difficulty getting out of my mind. A picture of my future was starting to come into view. In this future I was being handed the keys to a brand new Capri, in this future I rose aloft of my fellow affiliates. In this future I was no longer of average height and slightly overweight – one of the hazards of living above a pub – in this future I was somebody.

Trevor, how the fuck do you get to be an apprentice fitter at the plasterboard works? I asked with more than a slight hint of impatience in my voice.

Not sure, replied Trevor. I suppose you would need to apply or give them a ring or something.

Trevor’s response to my request was far from what I had hoped. A detailed step-by-step process detailing what I needed to do to secure a mechanical apprenticeship that was what I wanted. As I sat outside my parent’s pub it was becoming clear to me, that if it was going to be me stepping from that car, followed by a throng of adoring beautiful young girls there was more work to be done.

*

Did you see that handsome young man with those girls that was in at lunchtime Travis? my mother pronounced at the tea table.

Yes he’s an apprentice at UK Plaster apparently and he’s just bought a new Capri as well, because they earn a fortune down there according to Trevor, I said.

Maybe you could get a job there and start paying some bloody keep, it would be about time, grunted my father with more than a hint of sarcasm.

This was a time before home computers and the Internet, or certainly before the military industrial complex had allowed the Internet to be accessed by general populations. Trevor’s comment that I should give them a ring, was how things were done back then, so maybe this would be a place to start. In the meantime, I tasked my parents with the job of bleeding as much relevant information out of the locals. You could say the locals were an early version of the Internet, brimming with a fountain of local knowledge, albeit tainted with the smell of sheep’s droppings.

That night I found it difficult to get off to sleep, all I could think about were various scenarios featuring that car and entourage of beauties. I would call UK Plaster first thing in the morning nine am sharp, after all, the clock was ticking I was nearly finished school and the dates for my final exams were looming up. Of course exams, the very thing that could foil my plans, I must make an effort to do some revision, for at worst they could put multiple nails in my coffin or at best provide at least a fly for my ointment. I was my own man, a man of innovation, a free thinking spirit, a divine conscious being; no comprehensive school system was going to put any spanners in my works, no pun intended.

UK Plaster products how can I help you, said a female voice.

Ah yes, I spluttered. I wonder if you could help me. I was wondering if you could tell me how someone would go about becoming an apprentice fitter?

I felt that it was better to adopt an air of subservience at this early stage, as I didn’t want to reduce my chance of future employment.

Please hold while I connect you to the personnel department, said the voice.

Hello can I help you? said another female voice."

Ah yes, can you tell me how I would go about applying for an apprentice position?

If you let me have your name and address I will send you out an application form, we will be looking to recruit next June, the letter will detail when you should apply, the voice said.

,Yes my name is Travis Bone. I blurted excitedly and I live at the Stag Inn Gullets, Moldburn Barrow".

This was better than I had hoped, a done deal as far as I was concerned, All I had to do would be to fill in the form, wow them with my technical knowledge and the job was mine. After all who else would have had the initiative and brass balls to call them up direct let alone be put straight through to the personnel department. Maybe they were struggling for applicants I mused wishfully, all they are interested in around here are sheep and maybe beasts, (a name for a young beef cow),

I’m in; definitely, I thought.

I felt extremely pleased with myself and quite positive, I had taken the initiative, made the call and it appeared to have paid off, I was unstoppable. Filling the shelves behind the bar an incredibly dull and never-ending task, even became bearable. As I clinked the Britvic Oranges and Snowballs into neat rows, my father emerged from the cellar.

Dad I called UK Plaster this morning and guess what; they are sending me an application form for an apprentice job and sounds to me, like I might be the only applicant.

The evidence to support the theory that I could be the only applicant was thin, if not none existent, yet I felt it was part of the whole positive thinking process, better to kid yourself and be positive than to look on the black side I reasoned.

Good lad, you’ll be able to pay me and your mother some board and lodgings instead of free loading, my father joyfully retorted. I had a word with Tommy Eggelston last night, you know Tommy he’s the skinny bloke with the funny lump on his neck, he drives a forklift at UK Plaster. He reckoned you only get an apprentice job if your father works there, it’s how they work it apparently.

This news certainly wasn’t music to my ears and I felt the dark mist like cloud of defeat settling down over me. This was one of the many times during my life I would feel completely defeated by some small piece of second-hand information. Many believe that applying positive thinking is the antidote to all life’s problems, but this approach could result in a dead horse being flogged if you’re not careful. Giving up now was the best option save face before it goes too far, thus avoiding any further disappointment.

All this claptrap about anything is possible if you want it badly enough was utter rubbish spouted by Mr and Mrs perfect from the land of clouds and cuckoos; Bastards. Anyway would I really want to work for a sadistic company that actively sends out application forms, for jobs they know are already promised to the pampered offspring of the senior management and their cronies?

You’re father said you rang UK Plaster and they’re sending you out an application, said mother with more than a hint of enthusiasm.

Yes but apparently you’ve got no chance unless your father works there. And that’s from that Tommy with the funny neck, so they can send as many applications as they like. I’m sure they all have a good laugh in that personnel department as they toss my crumpled submission in the bin.

Well that’s not what Brian Thwaites was saying and he’s the chief buyer, he thought you had a great chance, said they usually need two mechanical apprentices and one electrical, I do like Brian, gushed my mother.

Brian Thwaites was a senior man, the chief buyer no less, not just some jumped up Forklift driver with a neck deformity. This was it, my dream was back on; maybe the universe was just testing my resolve, to see if I would give in at the slightest hint of trouble, luckily I was made of sterner stuff!

So mother, what else did Brian say?

He said they initially hold a group aptitude test, sort of an exam and then they whittle the applicants down through a series of interviews, replied mother.

Aptitude test, series of interviews, I wouldn’t have thought there would have been enough applicants for all that, I mocked.

Oh yes, said mother, apparently they sometimes get two hundred applicants for three jobs. He said the aptitude test was designed to weed out the totally unsuitable, people with little or no mechanical skills and after that you needed to stand out from the crowd.

They like applicants that have hobbies that have engineering elements; fixing bikes, building model planes that sort of thing, like that radio controlled car you built from that kit. He kept saying you need to stand out from the rest and be able to demonstrate a skill the others don’t have, said mother.

There is a school of thought that suggests that we create our own reality or at least have the ability to do so. In this case I would need to engineer my own reality, to at least stand out from the hordes of applicants and the apparent nepotism policy adopted by UK Plaster.

When I was a child I was given a Lego set which I enthusiastically added to whenever I got the chance. This toy literally enabled me to build my own reality in miniature. I would watch programs like Thunderbirds and then build a huge plane, far too ambitious in scale and scope, which would quickly manifest a fault on its maiden flight. Usually wafts of smoke ominously emitted from the massively over complex landing gear, yet all the while a blissfully oblivious flight crew, perched up in the cockpit commented on how well things were going.

After the inevitable catastrophe, a sophisticated rescue attempt would be required at no less than one hundred thousand feet, the highest a plane had ever been flown. The rescue would be carried out by a piloted ballistic missile, blasted out from beneath a folding swimming pool, or was it some folding palm trees. A rendezvous would then be made with the stricken aircraft high over the earth’s surface. Once the crew was safely aboard the ballistic missile, the huge aircraft would crash harmlessly into the sea; this would then result in everyone promising never to build such an ambitious plane again.

That evening I found myself sitting with Trevor and his mate Alistair, the son of a local farmer.

Why don’t you speak to Big Graham? announced Trevor looking up from his pint.

Big Graham? I replied with a quizzical look, Big Graham who.

Big Graham Thompson the builder, he might give you some tips on plastering, if you know how to plaster that would stand you apart.

I want a maintenance fitters apprenticeship; the ability to skim up a wall isn’t going to be much help fixing a rock crusher or a conveyor belt, I replied. As ludicrous and ill conceived as Trevor’s idea was he might be on the right track, maybe it was a skill I needed.

Jim Morgan lived in the cottage across the road from the pub and was in most nights when he was at home. Jim was an interesting character; he had spent the majority of his working life employed on large construction projects in the Middle East and more recently Africa. He tended to work one month on, two weeks off and was due to fly back to the Niger Delta on Friday. Jim was extremely knowledgeable with a wealth of varied experiences; he had worked on constructing one of the biggest ports in the Middle East and had even been held up at gunpoint in Africa. What better man to give me some tips regarding crowds and standing out from them, when he comes back from the bar I’ll collar him and see what he thinks.

Jim I am trying to think of ways to improve my chances of getting an apprentice fitters job at UK Plaster, I want set myself apart from the others, what would you do if you were me for instance, how did you get started as a fitter?

I was always fascinated by earth moving equipment, when I was a lad, Jim said nostalgically. At that time Britain was in the process of constructing the motorways, so there was a lot of earthmoving stuff about, said Jim. When I was a kid I would spend hours watching the Terex motor scrapers working on the M1 near where I lived, they were always getting stuck and would have to get a push from a bulldozer to get them going again. I could stand there all day I was so impressed by the Terex stuff; it was the shear size, the lime green colour, they had a huge engine at both ends you know, fantastic!

Terex was an American outfit, but a company called Blackwood Hodge was the main agent in the UK, said Jim. They had a depot where I lived in Barnsley so I went round there to see if there were any jobs going. The depot manager told me to come back the very next day and he would have a chat. It wasn’t really a formal interview as such I just turned up the next day on an old BSA moped that I had re built from a box of bits. The old moped coupled with my enthusiasm for earthmovers and especially Terex earthmovers got me the job. I think it was easier then, the construction industry was booming and they were always on the look out for new starters.

What about the first job you got working abroad? I asked, hoping for some revolutionary bit of advice.

Funny how that happened, said Jim stroking his chin, "one of the lads came in to the bait cabin at work one morning. He was holding a copy of the Construction News or the Jackers Journal as they used to call it. There was an advert for Terex fitters wanted for a Dutch construction firm. They were holding interviews in Manchester the following week and were looking for time served applicants. We were single lads and the advert said you could earn twenty-five thousand a year tax-free, so we thought we should have a look. We went down the next week and they offered us jobs, so that’s how I ended up working in Saudi."

This all sounded very straightforward and not that remarkable, I had built up a picture of Jim in my head based on reports of conversations conducted with my parents. This was a picture of a hugely remarkable and confident man living a jet set tax-free life, funded from the limitless wealth obtained from Middle East oil. Huge machines operating in exotic locations, riding around in American pick-up trucks and doing very little of the hands on work yourself, living in fully supplied, luxury air-conditioned compounds drinking ice-cold beers every night and generally having a good time.

Maybe I was over complicating things I thought, looking for some incredibly unique ability to set myself apart from the others; surely the ability would just need to be mechanical in nature. Maybe I should just sit back and relax and things would just fall neatly into my lap, like it had for Jim. They do say that your life is mapped out in advance and nothing we consciously do makes any difference, but how would you know? I made the conscious decision to call UK Plaster didn’t I; I mean they didn’t call me so my decision to call must have had an effect.

Welding, announced Alistair, the farmer’s son, my brother went to a night class at Heston Bank College in Barrow and learned to weld, it took about six weeks I think and at the end of it he got a certificate.

Of course welding: welding the art of joining together two pieces of metal so that bonding accompanied by appreciable interatomic penetration takes place at their original boundary surfaces. Or to put it in laymen’s terms, ‘sticking bits of metal together’. I felt very confident that the certified ability to stick bits of metal together could be just the thing to set me apart from the thronging masses of prospective candidates.

The welding idea seemed to go down well with my drinking partners; I doubt any one else will have a certified welding qualification, said Jim who had joined us at the table.

I mean that’s a qualification from a college. I bet no one else would have taken night classes while still at school, that’s bound to impress any prospective employer.

How did your brother get on to the course Alistair? I enquired.

Our mother rang them up and they sent out a form.

Ring them up and they send out a form, who would of thought it.

Hello Lancashire college of agriculture how can I help you? said a female voice.

Ah yes I am interested in your night classes, specifically the farm welding course with subsequent certificate.

Oh yes, please hold and I will put you through to the lady that deals with that.

Hello course admin, Beryl speaking how can I help?

Yes I am interested in enrolling in the farm welding course, the night class with the certificate, when does it start?

We run the course all through the year the next one starts on Thursday and runs from 6.30 p.m. to 9.30 p.m. and every Thursday for six weeks, we have two places left and it’s one hundred and eighty pounds.

This Thursday, I wasn’t expecting her to say this Thursday. A bit short notice and I didn’t have one hundred and eighty pounds, in fact I didn’t have any pounds, how was I going to get out to Barrow, how would I get back at 9.30 on a Thursday night.

That’s fine I blurted, can you please include me.

Yes certainly what’s your name?

Yes the names Bone; Travis Bone. I may not have had a licence to kill, but all being well, I would soon have a certificate to weld.

Now that I had enrolled myself on a course with no immediate prospect of either being able to pay for it or effectively attend it and return home, I needed a plan. Had I been a little hasty, no of course not, after all ‘Fortune Smiles Upon The Brave,’ it was a worthy cause and I felt confident my parents would have no other option but to pay the fees and provide free transport to and from the venue. After all it would be political suicide on their part to stand in the way of further education. Not only that but also to stand in the way of their sons dreams of being welcomed into the bosom of British industry and becoming a valuable asset to society.

I felt under the circumstances that my mother would be the softest target, so I would approach her first. I should say that at this point I felt a little uneasy, I would be placing my mother in a situation where due to the ongoing pressure of being a good parent, had little or no option than to agree unconditionally with my demands.

Mother, you know what Brian Thwaites said about standing out from the crowd if I wanted to get the job at UK Plaster?

Yes, replied my mother.

Thursday night soon came round and it was time to marshal my mother into action and get the show on the road.

Are you ready mother I don’t want to be late, and I’m not sure where it is when we get there, Heston Bank is a big place.

*

The drive from Gullets to the college was uneventful and we arrived outside the main entrance not entirely sure where we should be. Up ahead was a car park with what looked like a small block of flats running across the back of it, must be student accommodation or something I thought. There was a set of steps to the side of the block and there appeared to be quite a lot of people coming and going.

Stop here mother. I’ll ask over there and see if any one knows where the welding classes are held.

I approached a plump ruddy-faced boy wearing a green body warmer, who bore an uncanny resemblance to the son of a farmer. No doubt sent to Heston Bank to learn how to farm thus legitimising him in some way as a professional and not just some son of a wealthy farmer born with a silver spoon