Newham Writers Workshop Anthology 1998

		James Sharpe I went to Sweden in 1949, and spent a year there. The 3 Ws (Weeks, Walcott and Warrell) of the West Indian touring team brought me back. They won the test series against England through the bowling of Rahmadin and Valentine. This piece relates some of my experiences during my first job after my return. Our Fair Ladies in the Garment Trade My first peace time job in the West End was with J. Doltis Ltd. There were 3 brothers who were in charge of various departments, and their father who kept an eye overall. All these wore white coats to distinguish them from the hoi polloi. Mr J. Doltis came from the army, and married into a family of woollen merchants. Thus he was able to acquire stocks of material, denied to other firms on account of the shortages prevailing in the aftermath of the war. The year was 1952 and I stayed with the firm for 11 years. My designation was top machiner. A black man operating a `power machine' in those days was quite a novelty. There were a number of other blacks who were pressers, using goose irons, weighing 12 lbs, or Hoffman steam giants capable of finishing off a garment really slickly, with a highly fashioned finish. In those days everyone had to be presentable as befits the trade. Young women were at a premium. There were some very delectable `schicksas' (English, foreign or non-jewish women). The females were, on the whole, smartly attired. They were so enticing and provocative, I'll leave most to those of you with a vivid imagination to ponder. But I'd like to relate to you, the activities of Sylvia. This one was a truly luscious `bint'; she modelled herself after the young Elizabeth Taylor. Liz Taylor remains, for men of my generation, the quintessential English rose. Our factory was situation in Lexington Street W.1, between Shaftesbury Avenue and Berwick Market, the very heart of the West End. During the lunch hour, some workers did a quick stroll in the market, some including our Liz, adjourned to a nearby pub for a liquid lunch, where a number of the lads vied with one another to treat Liz. She drank like a fish. When questioned about her ability to hold her drink, she tartly replied, `I only drink to steady myself. Then I get so steady, I can hardly move!' But move she had to, work was waiting. It was a nice bit of theatre to notice her movements most days on her return from the pub. Some of the boys, at times, had to lend her a helping hand, and, quite often, hands strayed to parts not meant to frequent. Most days Liz wasn't perturbed. If she fancied you and you bought her a tot, she pretended not to take much notice of your fooling around. She was known to invite a good smooch with no on in particular when she felt like it, but woe unto anyone who angered her. She'd let rip with the vilest expletives, rolling her bright oval-shaped eyes, trenchantly, as if to say `beware' - she was ready to dish up an absolutely dirty mouthful. Really to look at her, in her neat attire, one maybe forgot, mistakenly to think - butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Just don't try it on. Therefore it came as a bewildering surprise when one afternoon, on the way back to work, the lift, an old contraption was `out of order'. It was shankseys for the pub-crawlers, all the way to the 4th floor. Halfway up, Liz lost her cool, and started to open her `north and south'. Dave started to calm her down. She got even more worked up and gave him what for. Poor Dave. Liz took umbrage. `Why everyone is pitying this so and so! This wanker! Don't any of you come near me again!' And to emphasise her point, she got hold of the Goray skirt she had on and tossed it over her head and shoulders, and gave such a `flash' of her intimacy whilst shouting, `Have a good butchers!' and `Leave me alone, you rotten so and so's!' I hardly thought anyone minded her swearing at them. Swearing can be accompanied with such appealing and surly abetting abandon, `Play on'. On resumption of work, some of the fellows kept making snide remarks, sometimes within our buxom beauty's hearing. `You're behaving as though you'd never seen a `hairy' before. You lousy wankers. I bet some of your partners are too afraid to trust you with even a glimpse of what a c*** looks like!' Liz, you'll be pleased to learn, no longer lords it over the workshop. Her beauty and accomplishments have been rewarded. Our lithesome, if errant lass, has been promoted. She went into modelling and earns a handsome screw. Good luck to her. She can tickle my fancy anytime. I should be so lucky. I can dream - can't I?