Tommy was the bee’s knees. At least he believed he was. He was the only genuine Mod in his small rural town where people rarely lock their doors. True, there were a few trendy lads, but none of them were ‘a face’. They weren’t precise. Everything about Tommy was precise. He travelled to Dorchester to get his bespoke suits. The single vents were always precisely one inch longer than the tailor recommended, precisely one more button on the cuff than was usual, with precisely one ticket pocket more than was strictly necessary.

“If you’d care to find the catalogue numbers from the book, I will order them. I know the Moody Blues’ version of ‘Go Now’, but I’ve never heard of Bessie Banks,” said the lady in the stationery shop. In the late 1960s, Woolworths sold records, but they were strictly chart stuff. Or, even worse, those dreadful compilation LPs of covers of popular songs. Tommy blessed the day that he’d seen the sign in the stationer’s window proclaiming: ‘We Can Order Any Book or Record’.

Tommy loved Soul Music.

“And you say that this Erma Franklin is the sister of that Aretha Franklin whose LP you ordered before?” the lady went on. “That’s right. They played ‘Piece of My Heart’ on Radio 1 late the other night. Once I heard it, I just had to have a copy,” said Tommy, enthusiastically.

The stationer’s was at one end of the long, narrow high street and Tommy worked at the other. Most lunchtimes, he would walk the length of the street. He didn’t always get as far as the lady’s shop.

What he did do was to pop into the baker’s. They sold him a ham roll with mustard, a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, and a can of Coke. In this respect, Tommy was a creature of habit. He took them back to his office to eat his lunch.

Halfway between Melve’s the Bakers and Fenchurch Packaging Ltd—where he was Personal Assistant to the Managing Director—a side road led off the High Street. On the corner of this junction was a large Victorian house. It was constructed in the late Gothic Revival style; very late. It had obviously been created by the mind of a local architect who didn’t quite have his finger on the pulse. With its turrets, steeply sloping roofs, arched windows and doors, and ornate carvings, it was mimicking a trend that had died out five or ten years before 1890, the year proudly displayed above its main entrance. Tommy knew nothing about this. All he knew was that he liked the house.

Every time he walked by, he would stop and stare. Not just at the house, but also at the great Monkey Puzzle Tree that stood in front of it. The house was unlike any house he had seen before, and so was the tree. The sharp, angular, spiked leaves perfectly reflected the angles of the building. Nothing about it was modern, yet somehow it held a fascination for Tommy.

He never said it aloud, but Tommy always thought that one day, some day, he would live in that house.

Working as assistant to the Managing Director, Mr A. J. Murray, meant that Tommy could go to work each day wearing one of his precise suits. Tony Murray had started his career with Fenchurch as assistant to the then-managing director. He had then become their Sales Representative before becoming Manager and later joining the board. Thus, there was a clear line of travel between Tommy’s current position and the very top.

Nothing was guaranteed. Pete Bushel, the current Sales Rep, conducted himself as if he were destined for the top job. Tommy wasn’t so sure. He felt as if Tony would last forever. He had been in the Army and now played hockey every Saturday during the winter and cricket in the summer.

Tommy had dated a few local girls, but they weren’t really what he wanted from life. They mainly dressed like their mothers and thought like their mothers. Quite often, he would find himself alone with a girl in the back parlour while the family watched telly in the front room.

After a lot of snogging, there would follow a brief period of tussling when the girl pretended that she didn’t want Tommy’s hand up her skirt. This usually led to the inevitable surrender.

He never pushed it. Tommy had a sort of sixth sense. He knew which girls really didn’t want to be fingered and which ones felt as if they needed to put up a show of defending their honour. If they didn’t, it was their loss. He went back to snogging, only to try again later.

Some could be persuaded to wank him off, some couldn’t. There was a thrill in the uncertainty. If he played his cards right, they eventually let him shag them. Tommy made sure that he always used a Durex Featherlight. If a girl said, “You don’t need to use that,” that was the signal to move on. He was too savvy to fall for that old trap.