The Rotters' Club Read Free Page A

Jack Forrest, had gone to the bar to get three pints of Brew XI, leaving Colin to make halting conversation with Bill Anderton, a shop steward in the Longbridge underseal section. A fourth member of the party, Roy Slater, was yet to arrive. It was a great relief when Jack came back from the bar.
    ‘Cheers,’ said Colin, Bill and Jack, drinking from their pints of Brew. After drinking in unison they let out a collective sigh, and wiped the froth from their upper lips. Then they fell silent.
    ‘I want this to be nice and informal,’ said Jack Forrest, suddenly, when the silence had become too long and too settled for comfort.
    ‘Informal. Absolutely,’ said Colin.
    ‘Suits me,’ said Bill. ‘Suits me fine.’
    Informally, they sipped on their Brew. Colin looked around the pub, intending to make a comment about the décor, but couldn’t think of one. Bill Anderton stared into his beer.
    ‘They brew a good pint, don’t they?’ said Jack.
    ‘Eh?’ said Bill.
    ‘I said they serve a good pint, in this place.’
    ‘Not bad,’ said Bill. ‘I’ve had worse.’
    This was in the days before men learned to discuss their feelings, of course. And in the days before bonding sessions between management and workforce were at all common. They were pioneers, in a way, these three.
    Colin bought another round, and there was still no sign of Roy. They sat and drank their pints. The tables in which their faces were dimly reflected were dark brown, the darkest brown, the colour of Bournville chocolate. The walls were a lighter brown, the colour of Dairy Milk. The carpet was brown, with little hexagons of a slightly different brown, if you looked closely. The ceiling was meant to be off-white, but was in fact brown, browned by the nicotine smoke of a million unfiltered cigarettes. Most of the cars in the car park were brown, as were most of the clothes worn by the patrons. Nobody in the pub really noticed the predominance of brown, or if they did, thought it worth remarking upon. These were brown times.
    ‘Well then, you two – have you worked it out yet?’ Jack Forrest asked.
    ‘Worked what out?’ said Bill.
    ‘There’s a reason for this evening, you know,’ said Jack. ‘I didn’t just pick you out at random. I could have got any personnel officer, and any shop steward, and set this evening up for them. But I didn’t do that. I chose you two for a reason.’
    Bill and Colin looked at each other.
    ‘You have something in common, you see.’ Jack regarded them both in turn, pleased with himself. ‘Don’t you know what it is?’
    They shrugged.
    ‘You’ve both got kids at the same school.’
    This information sank in, gradually, and Colin was the first to manage a smile.
    ‘Anderton – of course. My Ben’s got a friend called Anderton. They’re in the same form. Talks about him from time to time.’ He looked at Bill, now, with something almost approaching warmth. ‘Is that your boy?’
    ‘That’s him, yes: Duggie. And your son must be Bent.’
    Colin seemed puzzled by this, if not a little shocked. ‘No, Ben,’ he corrected. ‘Ben Trotter. Short for Benjamin.’
    ‘I know his name’s Benjamin,’ said Bill. ‘But that’s what they call him. Bent Rotter. Ben Trotter. D’you get it?’
    After a few seconds, Colin got it. He pursed his lips, wounded on his son’s behalf.
    ‘Boys can be very cruel,’ he said.
    Jack’s face had relaxed into a look of satisfaction. ‘You know, this tells you something about the country we live in today,’ he said. ‘Britain in the 1970s. The old distinctions just don’t mean anything any more, do they? This is a country where a union man and a junior manager – soon to be senior, Colin, I’m sure – can send their sons to the same school and nobody thinks anything of it. Both bright lads, both good enough to have got through the entrance exam, and now there they are: side by side in the cradle of learning. What does that tell you about the class war? It’s over.