Read Online Heaven's Promise by Paolo Hewitt - Free Book Online Page B

problemo.’
    Davey Boy was an invaluable time box to the last thirty years, a man who could lead you like a child through a staggering array of styles and fashions and, what’s more, knew exactly what you were after just by the reference points you dropped.
    What’s more, he was a hustler supremo whose every action was dictated by the colour of money and so, even though I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, the charm and cheek made him impossible to dislike.
    On this particular occasion, as we strolled in, Davey Boy welcomed us both with numerous pins jutting out of his mouth In front of him stood a tall, blond haired, blue eyes specimen who stood as straight as Nelson’s column as Davey Boy pinned cloth against him.
    Davey Boy motioned hello to us, unable to parlare until his work was finished and, on which occasion, he then greeted us with a boisterous, ‘Hello there, chaps,’ a definite touch of the upper class accent very discernible in his voice.
    Brother P. and I cottoned on straight away as to the social standing of his customer as Davey continued his line.
    â€˜Now then, sir, on the sleeve, how many buttons would sir like? One? Two? Or maybe we might want to think about going out on the limb somewhat and adding four buttons. What does sir think?’
    â€˜Just the one will be fine,’ came the booming reply, the depth and command of the voice betraying army roots. In his hand he held a cloth version of the family crest which the toff had decided should be displayed on the jacket’s top pocket as pater and mater would undoubtedly be absolutely thrilled to see it shown off in public.
    Trying to figure out why this upper class specimen from the realms of high society was not down at Hacketts with the rest of the braying bunch, Brother P. and I began examining the long rolls of cloth that Davey had stacked against the walls whilst a mix of envy and hatred began to surface in my stomach.
    I know it’s uncool and everything to judge a man’s soul by his accent but from where I’ve been standing these past few years, whichever way you checked it, these people, the rich and privileged had been handed the sweetie jar the day they were born and they were not about to share out the goodies.
    What’s more, it was their set up, from the playing fields of Eton to the company boardroom, that kept out anyone with infinite more imagination and intelligence from getting to where they wanted. No doubt about it, the higher you climbed in this society the stupider the people became, and that’s the truth, Ruth. Not only were they mostly a bunch of hypocrites, prattling on about morals and the like whilst they are robbing some company account blind and knocking off the gardener or the maid, but the codes of conduct and routine they had devised were like antiquated children’s games.
    Next time you’re there check out the House Of Lords or Parliament and all that eyes to the right, eyes to the left, don’t walk in front of him and remember to bow routine that goes on, all put there so that they can go from public school to parliament, and never know the difference. If truth be known, such people, removed as they are from life’s edges, ups and downs, circles and squares, I sometimes feel a little sorry for because, face it, you’ve got to be half a robot to go through with it all in the first place, although please don’t get me wrong, I’d rather go forty days and nights without hearing a decent tune than ever feel total simpatico with the likes of Lord Haw Haw that Davey Boy was now attending to.
    It was time, I decided, for some class warfare.
    â€˜Oi, Davey Boy,’ I called across the shop in my best Cockney accent, ‘comin’ dawn the pub for a shandy later?’
    The man of cloth, spotting the game that was afoot, quickly put me out of play by shooting me a glance of such withering contempt that in an instant, I felt like a