I spot him coming towards
me from three cars away, his ugly strides swallowing up the
pavement between us. I see the veins on his neck bulging,
his cheeks red with indignation.
Think Lady Macbeth, I tell myself. Or Saint Joan. Trouble
is I’ve always rather seen myself as a Desdemona or
Ophelia, so by the time he reaches me my stomach is thudding
into a sickening spiral. I feel sweat gathering under the
rim of my cap.
‘I suppose you get some kind of sad thrill out of this,
do you?’
He waves the penalty notice inches from my face. He doesn’t
need to. I know it off by heart: Blue BMW. Registration number
TP10DOG. Forty five minutes over time.
‘Pardon?’ Play for time. Calm the stomach. Smile.
‘This.’ He holds it between thumb and forefinger
like a piece of rotting cabbage. ‘Made your day, has
it? Putting a ticket on my car, while I’m doing my best
to earn a living. Mmm?’
No actually.
BMW man doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘I was with
a client for God’s sake! What am I supposed to say?’
His voice mimics high-pitched, feminine. ‘“Sorry,
I know your order is worth millions to my company, but I’m
just nipping out to feed the parking meter.”?’
He jabs a finger at my shoulder. I feel the familiar trembling
begin in my legs.
‘At least I do something productive for a living. People
like you, you’re nothing but parasites.’
‘I’m sorry. The notice is written. I can’t
take it back.’
I turn away, tears already gathering, and wonder once again,
why I put myself through this.
The answer is, of course, that it’s perfect for auditions.
As long as I get through the requisite number of notices and
car parking areas, my time is my own. So I fit work in around
auditions. Not that there has been a lot of those recently.
At the moment I’m very firmly ‘resting’.
Nothing in fact since the panto work dried up. A couple of
commercials seemed possible, but they came to nothing. That’s
why I can’t believe what’s happened.
‘It’s the perfect part for you, darling,’
my friend Joel said last week.
Joel plays the behind-the-counter-at-the-café-man on
a TV soap. Regular work, good money. If he weren’t my
friend, I’d hate him.
He laid immaculately manicured hands on mine. ‘I said
to the producer, I said, “Madeleine, I know the perfect
person. Not only is she a great actress, but she actually
works as a traffic warden. How perfect do you want?”
Of course, she needs to hear you read, so I’ve brought
the script for the episode when Rita makes her grand entrance,
booking the main man as he waits for his kid to be born.’
I took the script with apprehension. ‘Isn’t it
a bit naff to call her after the Beatles’ meter maid?’
‘All about audience identification, darling. Trust me.’
Actually I do trust Joel. He was there when Pete decided to
dump me, and I returned the favour when his partner decamped
with a waiter from the local Italian. He’s been very
down lately, so it was good to see him enthusiastic about
something.
‘How are you?’ I ventured, folding the script
and putting it in my handbag for future study. ‘Have
you seen Mick?’
He rolled his eyes dramatically. ‘No, thank the Lord.
Darling we are so over. That clod wouldn’t know his
karma from a car boot sale. Whatever did I see in him? Actually
there’s a new cameraman on set who’s quite cute.’
As always with Joel I ended up laughing. It would be so good
to work with him.
Later at home I take out the script, scanning the stage instructions.
‘Rita is short, blonde, with butter-wouldn’t-melt
eyes.’ So far, so good. My blonde, blue-eyed looks are
the reason I always get the panto good fairy parts.
‘– but inside she has a will of steel, and takes
sadistic pleasure in her victims.’ I groan inwardly.
Hardly an accurate description of my performance as a traffic
warden. Still, everyone knows it’s much harder when
you’re being yourself. I start to study the lines, intrigued
to see how the cool, efficient Rita goes about her duties.
The audition is next week. I’ve decided I must get into
practice. I’m really going to try hard today to summon
some of Rita’s aggression.
The sun bounces off the metal of car bonnets as I patrol.
Today I could almost love my job. So much better than being
stuck in an office all day, turning the treadmill of temp
work. I make a good start: fifteen tickets in the first hour.
One of them was only ten minutes over, which was a bit mean.
I wouldn’t normally do that. But today I am banishing
all compassion. Like Rita.
I swing my stiff woollen-clad arms. I am a soldier marching
in the war against parking infringement. With the pinpoint
accuracy of a panther, I spot my next victim. Red VW Polo,
muddy, cracked number plate, parked on the end of a row, outside
official parking bays. A gift. Penalty notice pad poised,
I stride over to dispense retribution. I flip over the pad’s
cover, click down my retractable pen.
‘No, please! Wait!’
A woman with a pushchair approaches, its wheels an insistent
drumbeat on the tarmac’s sooth surface. One of them
catches the kerb, jolting the small occupant, who starts to
scream his protest.
‘Damn! It’s all right Joshie. We’ll be home
soon. It’s all right.’
Her voice, artificially sweet for the child, takes on a note
of desperation.
‘Please don’t give me a ticket. My husband will
kill me.’
Her mousy hair is scraped back into a ponytail. There are
ridges along the sides, as if it were done in a hurry, without
a brush. The hair needs washing.
The child screams.
‘We ran out of Readybrek. He won’t eat anything
else for breakfast. I was only a few minutes.’
Rita’s lines, so recently learnt, flash into my mind:
‘They think the rules don’t apply to them. They’re
begging to be booked. I’m happy to oblige.’
I look back at the woman. She is chewing her lip. Something
she obviously does a lot because there are red sore blotches
all along it.
I look down at the penalty notice. All I have written is the
date. I’m not committed to anything. I click back the
end of my pen.
‘It’s OK. Don’t worry.’ I try a half
smile. ‘Lucky you caught me in time.’
‘Oh, thank you, so much!’ She looks like she’s
going to cry.
Isn’t that just typical of me, to cave in? I’ll
never get the part.
I gave the audition my best shot. Tried to block out my own
feelings about being a traffic warden, and summon instead
some of Rita’s certainty and confidence. They took my
mobile number. Said they’d call.
That was three days ago. I haven’t had it switched off
since. Not even at night. I can feel it in my jacket as I
patrol. Like a rock next to my heart.
When it rings, I feel it first. It trembles against my skin
like something alive. I prise it from my pocket, struggling
to press the green arrow, before the voicemail takes it.
‘Laura?’
‘Yes.’
‘Congratulations! Welcome to the team.’
My stunned brain is preoccupied with the penalty notice I
am writing, (motorcycle parked in disabled bay), so I don’t
immediately recognise the voice as producer’s assistant,
Jenny.
‘What?’ ( Registration number: YB51AGT.)
‘You got the part. So I’m calling about rehearsal
schedules. We’re talking week after next. Would that
be OK. with you?’
My pen flies across the printed form. Think. Think. (Time:
eleven forty-one.)
‘Err – yes. Yes that would be fine.’ (Signature.)
‘Great! See you then.’
The dial tone buzzes at me. Very efficient, Jenny. Very concise,
neat. Goes with the territory I suppose. I did it.
I attach the penalty notice to the motorcycle, replace the
pad in my pocket, body performing mechanical actions, while
my mind races mental laps of honour around the car park. I
did it.
I move into the metered street cocooned in a bubble of delicious
incredulity. With a trained eye I track the progress of the
meters as I have hundreds of times before, when suddenly it
hits me: Someday soon this will all be over.
Somewhere across town there is a studio door with little metal
slats waiting for the piece of card with my name on it to
be inserted. A make-up girl will have me on her list of ‘to-dos’.
And weeks afterwards my mother will phone to point out what
was wrong with my performance. I did it.
Last car in the line. At first it doesn’t register.
Then I feel my mouth stretching into the widest grin. Blue
BMW. Registration number : TP10DOG. Sixty-two minutes over
time.
I hear him shouting as I walk away. I turn, and beam him one
of Rita’s best smiles. After all: he was begging to
be booked.
|
| Shortlisted
Entries shortlisted to final judging stage in the Traffic
Warden short story competition were from: Pete Allard, Watford;
Ruth Collet-Fenson, Witcham, Ely; David Ellis, Allithwaite.
Grange-over-Sands, Cumbria; Elaine Grotefeld, Singapore; Simon
Jefferies, Upton, Chester; Patty Lafferty, Seaton, Devon;
David Lazell, East Leake, Loughborough; Liz McPherson, Calverley,
Leeds; Maria Savva, Hertford; Rachel Sarah Williams, Chepstow
.
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