Newham Writers Workshop Anthology 1999

		JAMES SHARPE James was born in the West Indies and came to England for a cricket match. Unfortunately that was 1939 and the war stopped him going home. He has been here ever since, mostly working in the rag-trade. DEMANDE DE RESPONSE THE YEAR 1976 was the hottest summer in living memory. My term of employment with J. Doltis Ltd, having been ended sometime before, I was recommended to Ben Bloom (London) Ltd, a manufacturing firm at City Road, in close proximity to Old Street Underground Station. The reversible coat was then the height of fashion. A simple garment which nonetheless requires premier skill from the machiner. I was recommended to the position by the union. This garment was new to me. I was virtually thrown in at the deep end and it took me a while to master the skill and technique of this new designer outer-garment. I soon teamed up with a genial guy, Lou by name. Lou had five children and was very intelligent, we became great friends. A friendship that I am pleased to relate that exists to this very day. During breaktime the work force divided into sets, some writing bets on the gee-gees whilst others played cards, the favourite being 500 or Club Lash, a game which can be very exciting and emotional. My friend Lou and I spent our time reading, much more edifying. We drew much on each other, to our mutual benefit. One lunch hour I bumped into an old acquaintance, a Mr. Foster. This gent had been a civil servant in the bad old days in Jamaica. He held a senior position. Unfortunately he got caught with his fingers in the till and was convicted for embezzlement and sentenced to nine months in prison. After his release he decamped, made his way to London and a ‘new life.’ Mr. Foster got a high post with the London County Council. He was a brilliant accountant, and was in the Crown Agents office dealing with the pay of Colonial Governors, some of the very personages who had engineered his downfall in Jamaica: there’s irony for you. Mr. Foster was always immaculately dressed; even as late as the heat of 1976 he wore spats and was never without a Trilby. He must have modelled himself on La Carre or some spy writer. Mr. Foster had a beautiful flat at number 31 Charlotte Street W1. He invited me to call on him once and I was very impressed: wall to wall carpet, sofa and easy chairs and a piano he could play a little. I was very pleased to see him surrounded by, for those days, much affluence. My visit coincided with the time when the GPO Tower was bombed. Mr. Foster gave me to understand that he was responsible for the damage to what was then described as the Postmaster Generals amazing erection. Mr. Foster is either mad or some sort of secret agent. I stopped seeing him there and then. Sometime later I got a call asking me to visit a Mr. Foster in Middlesex Hospital. I went to see my friend. The West Indian Cricket Team was visiting around this time. On my arrival I was stunned to find Mr. Foster out of bed and lying on his back with his genitals exposed. He was popular with the nurses. He told them that Maurice Foster, a very prominent member of the West Indian Cricket Team, was his ‘son.’ He also claimed to be the father of Archie Lewis, a very popular crooner who imitated Bing Crosby with tremendous success. Mr. Foster is a strange creature. I have no way of testing his allegations. He strenuously denies his involvement in the embezzlement for which he was convicted, that’s as maybe. I’ve asked the questions, the answers are lost in the mists of time.