Chapter 4
Future Perfect
Business was booming on Europe’s south-western extremity. The big conglomerates were doing well in a corporate state designed to serve their interests and protect them against competition. Labour-intensive, low-tech sectors did well, as long the labourers were content with low wages or afraid to demand better conditions. Enough money trickled down to the slowly-forming middle class for it to have income to dispose of in the new supermarkets which Brazilian chains were opening to compete with the myriad small, over-priced, poorly-stocked local shops that were part of the nation’s social fabric. Ed saw opportunity on every corner, saw it far more clearly than the cautious supermarket managers with whom he dealt and whose outlook he tried to broaden as he expounded his schemes and expanded his contacts.
Ed’s parents welcomed him like a prodigal son when he came home to spend Christmas at his father’s vicarage. Stevenage itself seemed cold and sad compared to Lisbon. The afternoon light disappeared earlier, and the familiar aroma of coffee, as well as the occasional olfactory treat of cinnamon, was absent. Nevertheless, Ed relished the home comforts that he could not provide for himself in Portugal.
He did not tell anyone how close he was to becoming engaged, and Ção, who was always present in his mind, would rarely stay long on the end of a telephone. Besides, calls were expensive and his father’s stipend was low; nor would the vicar have accepted money from his son to pay for them. After Christmas, Ed managed to get a few evenings out with his pals in their habitual watering holes in town. He relished their company and the familiar English beer served at room temperature, which they downed in large quantities, though he was disconcerted that their interest in Portugal went little further than the sexual proclivities of its young people, with a view to possible summer holiday jaunts there. Ed began to feel that his own centre of gravity was fast moving south.
He was back in England in March, in London this time. Although his business prospects were shaping up nicely, Ed still had nothing concrete to show for his efforts, so he decided to put some flesh on the Plan B that Keith had outlined to him. He enrolled for a two-week course in teaching English as a foreign language. To keep his independence and increase his options, he signed up for it not at a Sussex School but at the headquarters of the Interlingua International organisation, which was located in Wimbledon. The organisation housed its trainees in student-type accommodation above its classrooms and offices. Most of his fellow-trainees were used to the lifestyle, but it was new to Ed, and he found it to his taste. Moreover, he found the training sessions to be light, enjoyable and practical.
In the evenings, those who polished off their assignments early tended to head out as a pack to sample the limited nightlife of Wimbledon or else go in small groups into the heart of the metropolis. They were more interested in Portugal than his Stevenage pals. After all, Portugal was a potential workplace for them. Ed, in his turn, was keen to see if any of them had potential as business partners.
One who did was Clarice, who had worked for over a year in Brazil and whose Portuguese, when she tried it out on him, sounded to Ed more mellifluous but even less comprehensible than the Lisbon version. She was the kind of willowy blonde who appealed to Latin men, so Ed assumed she had acquired her fluency in bed rather than in the classroom. She looked upon the training course, like her time in Brazil and learning a minor international language, as sound investments for the future. She let Ed infect her with his enthusiasm for Portugal and its prospects, while insisting that Brazil was the real jewel of the Lusophone world.
“Why don’t you come to Rio with me, Ed? You could set up a language school there. I’ll be your star teacher!”
“Money, honey. Got to make it before I can waste it.”
They were in a pub near the Common, with five fellow trainees. A rare football match on the television set at the side of the bar had claimed the others’ attention. Neither Stevenage not Liverpool was playing, so Ed was not especially interested.
Clarice was more interested in Ed than in football, as became obvious when she slid up close to him, and put her hand over his under the table. Ed freed his hand but moved even closer to her, enjoying the human warmth she emanated. They talked more about life in Brazil and Portugal; Clarice’s experience gave her more to say. When they moved on to their career plans, Ed’s enthusiasm took centre stage. By the time England’s football match came to its disappointing conclusion, they were spending the small fortunes they would make, and were more inebriated with future success than with drink. An hour later, at closing time, the drink was catching up. All seven of them left the pub and stumbled across the Common together. Clarice snuggled up against Ed, and this time he drew her closer to him as they joined in the unsteady rendition of the Wombling Song.
By the time they had also murdered “Jambalaya”, “Rebel, Rebel”, “School Love” and “Jealous Mind”, they were back on the streets, outside the suburban stronghold of Interlingua International. Frankie, the trainee with the least resistance to alcohol and the strongest resistance to its effects, invited everyone to his room to finish a bottle of tequila. Ed was up for it – he had never drunk the stuff and wanted to do so. Clarice was willing to tag along, but once outside Frankie’s room, three of the others cried off, citing the need for sleep, leaving only Martha to share it with them. Frankie gave Ed a pointed look, and the penny dropped.
“Yeah, well. I’ve got some plans to discuss with Clarice, and we really ought to discuss them alone. Right, Clarry?”
Clarice nodded.
“If there’s any tequila left tomorrow, bring it down to breakfast, will you?”
“Sure thing, Edward.”
Clarice’s room was along the same corridor, so they headed for that.
“This is not what it looks like,” Ed said to an imaginary audience as Clarice unlocked the door.
Ed stepped inside and waited for Clarice to remove the key and follow him in. When she did, he caught her in an urgent embrace and pushed her back against the door as his lips sought hers. The door slammed shut. He opened her mouth with his tongue as his hands unzipped her jacket and homed in on her breasts, which were protected by a thick woollen jumper. He jumped back when Clarice lightly bit his intrusive tongue.
“Whoa! What’s the hurry, Ed? You’ll be missing half the fun. And we’ve got all night.”
Ed thought of his own bed. He had intended to spend that night in it.
“Don’t look so forlorn.” She kissed him teasingly, then moved past him to the writing table in the small room. Above it were two shelves with a few books and folders dumped on them. From the lower one, Clarice brought down two tumblers and a bottle containing a transparent liquid.
“This is not tequila,” she said. “It’s even better. It’s called cachaça. Brazilian white rum, our national drink over there. Hang on a minute, Ed, I’m going to the kitchen for more ingredients.”
She picked up her keys and went out into the corridor. Ed felt glad she did not lock the door behind her. He drew the curtain closed, sat on the chair by the writing table and awaited her return with interest.
Clarice was soon back, clutching a saucer with slices of lemon on it, a mug full of ice cubes and a few sachets of sugar. Humming what sounded like a lullaby, she poured two generous shots from the bottle into the tumblers, stirred in a little sugar, threw in a few slices of lemon and filled the remaining space with ice.
“Caipirinha!” she announced, handing one of the tumblers to Ed. “It means ‘country bumpkin’. Or something. Here’s looking at you.”
“Cheers!”
The first sensation was the cold. Then Ed’s throat felt the sweetness of the sugar and the burn of the rum. His lips smarted from the lemon. He smacked them.
“I could get used to this.”
“I’ll bet. Now look at me, good sir, if you don’t mind.”
Clarice shook off her jacket and pulled her jumper over her head. She threw it on a chair beside the bed.
Still humming, she began to dance.
Slowly, she undid her blouse and let it fall to the floor.
“You like what you see, I hope.”
“Very much.”
Clarice turned her back to Ed, wiggled her bottom, undid a short zip at the side of her long skirt and stepped out of it. She moved backwards to where Ed was sitting and stopped just in front of him. She got to her knees, still facing away from him.
“Unhook my bra, please.”
“With pleasure.”
He did so. Slowly, Clarice crawled to the bed, rose and then lay on top of it, on her back. All she wore now was a pair of flesh-coloured tights.
“Come and take these off me, please, Ed. Slow and easy.”
Ed gulped the rest of the caipirinha, stood up, methodically took off all his own clothes, folded them and laid them on top of the writing table. Then he turned his attention to the woman squirming on the bed.
“Come on!”
Ed sat on the bed, slipped his hands under the elastic of the tights. Clarice arched her body to help him as he eased them from her waist, down her thighs and calves, over her feet and off. He left them on the bed, moved his hands to her knees and parted her legs. His lips brushed the inside of her thighs.
“Wait, Ed. Satisfy my upper lips first.”
Ed moved up until he was lying on top of Clarice. He wanted to move swiftly but his reactions were slow.
“Kiss me tender. Kiss me long.”
Ed wondered what song she had taken those lines from. Then he pressed his lips on hers and fought his instinct to enter her at the same time.
Clarice held his face in her hands and let her tongue play with his.
Ed tried to think of Clarice as an old woman, but his excitation failed to diminish; he brought an image of Ção to his mind, but this only strengthened his erection. Ed tried to empty his mind. He succeeded, and, as he did so, the rum washed over his brain like an incoming ocean wave, catching him up in its ineluctable embrace and dumping him on the shore of sleep.
Ed awoke with pain in his brain, nausea in his throat and a barely-suppressed revolt in his intestines. Even his watch was against him: it read 4:17. He forced his eyes fully open. He was lying next to somebody. Who was it? Where was he? Then he remembered, and his pain was intensified by remorse: towards Ção, towards Clarice and even towards himself. Clarice had the look of a Rossetti angel as she snored lightly. Ed managed not to wake her while he got out of the bed, put on his underpants and trousers, gathered the rest of his things and let himself out of the room. He hurried down the corridor to the bathroom, where he relieved himself, splashed his face and put on the rest of his gear before going up to the next floor and finding his own room. Once inside, he located and swallowed a couple of painkillers, set the alarm clock, collapsed onto his bed and fell asleep again before his conscience could torment him further.
Ed was one of the few trainees at breakfast the next morning. Clarice was not there and he did not go looking for her. She showed up mid-morning and shunned him. Ed understood. He did not understand why he got a request to see the course director at the end of the day.
Lisa Davies was a slim, dark, intense woman who told everyone her ambition was to write successful romance novels featuring strong female characters. In the meantime, she was doing well in the teaching profession. She appreciated Ed’s honesty in admitting that teaching was not his first-choice career, either.
The shelves of her temporary office were lined with someone else’s books.
“Just another couple of days to go, Ed. Then it’s back to the real world for you, isn’t that right? Sad, eh?”
Despite his hangover, Ed chuckled.
“Yeah, it’s been good. Time off. New people. Interesting ideas. Crap coffee.”
“Going Latin already, are we? I’ve been there, too, as it happens.”
“Portugal?”
“Yes, among other places. A few years ago, I taught in Oporto for a time.”
“The frozen north. I’ve only been up there once. Flying visit. Good coffee.”
“When are you heading back to Portugal?”
“End of next week. Seeing my business bosses in Croydon, then taking some time to see the family.”
“I’m asking because we’re a teacher short next week, and I haven’t got cover. It’s mornings only. You’ve done well on the course. Would you like to stand in?”
“Are you going to pay me?”
“Sure, a pound an hour, the standard rate.” She noticed Ed’s raised eyebrow. “It’ll be good experience for you, a chance to put into practice what you’ve learned.”
“Plus board and lodging here, I take it.”
“No, actually.”
“You said you haven’t got cover. Is my room booked for next week? There isn’t a new training course.”
“OK. Deal!” She laughed. “You never know, you might get a taste for it. We run Business English courses, too. Don’t forget to give us a good evaluation.”
“Sure. But only because you deserve it.”
The course ended a couple of days later. Ed’s status was high, not only because he had been invited to teach at Interlingua International but also because he was presumed to have laid the blonde bombshell, Clarice. Evidently, she had not scotched the rumour. Most of the trainees and trainers stayed for a raucous party on the Friday evening, and a few of them, including Clarice, were still around for a late pub lunch on Saturday. Afterwards, Ed would set off for King’s Cross to get the train to Stevenage, where a weekend of preparing lessons and avoiding church awaited him.
“Goodbye, Morfeu,” Clarice said to him outside the pub. “Here’s my card. If you’re ever awake in Rio ...”
“I will be. One day. Here’s mine.” He turned down one corner of it, in the Portuguese style, before handing it to her. The others looked on quizzically.
“By the way, Ed, there’s some kind of uprising going on in Portugal today, according to the radio. It might set your plans back a bit.”
Ed watched Clarice amble back towards Interlingua International to pack her things, then ran to catch up with the group walking briskly towards the Underground station.
None of them had heard any news about Portugal; nor had anyone he spoke to on the train; nor had his parents, who were mighty glad to see him. The BBC’s early evening news was preoccupied with the Golan Heights and British party politics. With his father’s permission he called Ção, who was getting ready to go out for an evening with her elder sister, Maria da Agonia, and Agonia’s husband, Sebastião.
“Ed! I miss you so much! When are you coming back to me? I’ve been going to the gym to practise my moves for you.”
Ed asked about the uprising.
“Oh, that. That is just some soldiers playing. They have nothing better to do, poor things.”
Ed asked exactly what had happened.
“If you want details, ask your girlfriend.”
“You are my girlfriend, Ção!”
“I mean Miss Rent-a-car Rich-bitch Lourdes.”
“Ção, I’ve been thinking. I don’t need a car. I’m going to give it back to her as soon as I’m in Lisbon again. All I need is you. Desperately!”
“Oh, Ed! Do you mean that?”
“I do.”
“Ed, you can be so sweet. I just melt for you.”
Nevertheless, he did phone Lourdes, because he wanted details of the uprising and Lourdes kept herself informed. She was not at home, though. Instead, Ed spoke to her brother, Paulo.
“Seems like a failed coup. A rather half-hearted one. Have you heard of a place called Caldas da Rainha?”
“I’ve heard of it, but I don’t know much about it. Some kind of spa, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. A bit like your Cheltenham. Only there’s an infantry regiment based there, and they decided to march on Lisbon today. Caldas is only fifty miles north of here.”
“What happened?”
“They got stopped at the gates of the city. Loyalist units arrested the lot of them.”
“How many of them were there?”
“A couple of hundred.”
“What did they want?”
“Who knows? More money? Shorter conscription? Democracy? The earth?”
“Was anyone killed?”
“Not a shot was fired, apparently. They saw they were outnumbered, outgunned, alone, so they gave up.”
“Where are they now?”
“No-one knows.”
The idea of people just disappearing reminded Ed of his party.
“Any news of Jorge?”
“No. Not a word.”
“After six months, nearly!”
“Anyway, everything is quiet here. No-one is on the streets and no-one is getting shot in the streets. You don’t need to be afraid of coming back, although Lourdes doesn’t seem to like you the way she used to.”
Ed was not afraid of getting shot; he was afraid of losing Ção, losing her even before he had truly made her his.
The week he spent teaching in Wimbledon was a revelation to Ed. It was a pleasant surprise to find himself in a classroom full of students who wanted to learn. And he enjoyed helping them to do so, even though teacher-pupil exchanges did not have the frisson that business dealings held for him. After lunch with his students on Friday, his stint completed, he went to thank Lisa for giving him the break.
“We have a branch in Lisbon, you know. And in many other cities that young people tend to like.”
“Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind. It’s been great learning the Direct Method with you.” Ed noticed the cheque book in front of her.
“Can you pay me cash, please? I’ll be back in Portugal before the banks open again here, on Monday.”
Lisa sighed.
“It’s only fifteen quid, Lisa. It’s not going to leave you short.”
“Yes, all right.” She opened her handbag, pulled out a wallet, took out some banknotes, counted them and handed over the exact sum to Ed, together with a pay slip. “Just sign for it, would you?”
They chatted for a while, then Lisa asked Ed if he’d be interested in acting as an agent for Interlingua International, recruiting Portuguese students for their summer courses in England.
“Sorry, I can’t. I’ve got too many friends at the Sussex School there. Your rivals.”
“Friendly rivals.”
“Even so. You’ve got to have ethics in business, I believe. And I want my ethical standards to be high.”
“Good for you, Ed. Have you got any ethical business tips for us, then?”
“Your business ethics are fine, as far as I can tell, but I have got a couple of business suggestions for you.”
“Let’s hear them.”
“First, all your schools here are in the south of England. You should open up in places like York, Durham, Edinburgh.”
“Too cold for our students.”
“You’re joking! Your Scandinavians are used to the cold. So are the Swiss, Germans ...”
“And the Latins?”
“For them, it’s so cold anywhere on this island that they hardly notice the difference. If they can put up with London weather, they’ll happily come to Edinburgh as well. Though in a few years, I expect they’ll be going to Los Angeles instead. Which is why you should be looking ahead for new markets. Russia and China won’t be Communist forever. And you should be thinking of teaching their languages to our lot, too.”
“OK, Ed. Thanks. I’ll pass those ideas on to the Boss. They sound good to me, but I know what he’ll say: pie in the sky.”
“Yeah? It’s funny, that’s what they said at Stevenage Tech when I suggested they go private. They could be right, too.”
On the train to Croydon the next day, Ed took out Lisa’s business card and made a note on the back of the dates when she’d said she was likely to be visiting Interlingua International in Lisbon. He had offered her a dinner if she did show up, and he intended to make good on his promise.
Retail Support Services operated out of premises in Oakfield Road, near the Masonic Hall, though they were planning a move to more spacious offices in the glitzy business district that was emerging in the town centre. Ed’s appointment was with his boss, James Towsey, a short, dapper man in his early forties who was sharp and serious about business, yet apt to articulate his appreciation of art and to philosophise about reincarnation.
“Ed! You look like the day I first clapped eyes on you. When was that?”
“1970?”
“You were still a teenager. Just out of the Tech.”
“No. I’d done a year with Tesco’s in Manchester.”
“Yeah, well, say no more about Tesco’s. What’s the secret? You got a portrait in the attic that’s wrinkling and greying already?”
“Come on, I’m only twenty-three. And I live a healthy life.”
Apart from the occasional binge.
“Good man. So tell me about Portugal. Especially loyalty discount cards.”
Ed explained all that he had done, the contacts that he had made, the difficulty of introducing new ideas into a deeply conservative society. He drew out and passed over to James a list of all the supermarkets and managers who had shown openness to his ideas, and ended by predicting that at least one major chain would take up his offer of Retail Support Services’ technical assistance in introducing a loyalty card scheme in the autumn, once people were back from their holidays spent by the sea or visiting relatives inland. He was well aware that he had nothing concrete to show.
James nodded, then gave him his own assessment.
“Look, Ed. Apart from your reports, we’ve gathered reports about you.”
Ed swallowed.
“People there like you. They say you’re warm, friendly, polite. You explain things carefully and clearly. They like your ideas, even if they don’t leap to take them up. Not just loyalty cards, but ideas of your own. What have you been advocating? Evening opening, shopping advisers, mechanical checkouts. Hmm, not too sure about that one myself. The point is, we think you’re doing a good job. Only ...”
“No concrete results as yet.”
“This is it. So how do we square the circle? Maximise our exploitation of what you have achieved in terms of preparation, but not pay you money forever without getting anything in return?”
It didn’t sound like he was getting the sack.
“Yes?”
“Here’s how. We give you two things: promotion and a deadline. From now on, you still report to me, but just to keep me informed. From now on, Ed, you are Retail Support Services, Portugal! You make your own decisions, and you make sure that by July 31 you have firm commitments that Retail Support Services, Portugal will generate an income for the mother ship starting next autumn, at the latest.”
“Or else?”
“What do you think? No more money, no job, no reference; no future!”
“Do I get a rise?”
“Don’t push your luck, Ed.”
“Look, I really need my own transport out there. Public transport is good in the city, and taxis are cheap. But outside, it’s a disaster.”
“Most supermarkets are in the cities, but you do have a point. How about this? As soon as you generate an income for us, we’ll feed some of it back so that you can purchase a jalopy. I mean a company car.”
“Deal! Thanks for your patience, James, and thanks for the challenge. I appreciate it.”
For the remaining hours that he was in England, and on the plane back to Portugal, Ed Scripps thought long and hard about his future. He knew that he wanted very much to spend his life with Ção, and that Portugal was a great place for a young, aspiring businessman to be. However, he realised that Retail Support Services, Portugal, was unlikely ever to generate the income and consequent lifestyle that he aspired to. Ed Scripps International would be a surer bet. The outlook was rosy.
A greasy rain fell on the city as Ed’s plane landed. Ção surprised him by meeting him at the airport, and he luxuriated in her aroma of cinnamon as they held e