Twink
By Ed Crane
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I was eighteen, she was sixteen. Everybody fancied her. Blonde bouffant hair, not too bulky – just right for her small face and big sparkly green eyes. A slim frame immaculately dressed in fashion: she looked like the fairy on a Christmas tree.
She worked in Admin, new in the job. In those pre-intranet days she was the post-girl and cruised through our laboratory twice a day with a brown envelope full of memos.
Our manager, Fred, a horny old bastard of 50 would whisper, ‘Her comes Spanner.’
We asked him why he called her, Spanner.
‘ ‘cos every time I see her my nuts tighten.’
To us young blokes she was “Twink.” I don’t know who came up with the handle, I think it was Pete, but the name suited her perfectly. She was the archetypal image of sexy-cute.
When she passed the through the lab, work stopped. She’d seemed oblivious the six pairs eyes following her like a Labrador puppy, but her Mona Lisa smile told us she wasn’t.
She liked our place, no doubt because it was full of single college students under twenty. Once she, and we, got over our shyness we managed stolen snippets of chat when Fred was busy.
After a few months Twink was re-trained and put in charge of the Xerox. This was good news for me because I was a senior assistant and occasionally had to take service reports to be copied for clients. So me and a couple of the other seniors got the chance to chat-up Twink on our visits to the copy-room. She was always friendly and a little playful, but none of us ever got anywhere.
Then the bad news: Twink had a boyfriend. After a few months . . . worse news. She came to work wearing a gold ring with a small solitaire diamond on it. Covert questions in admin revealed no information except from one motherly woman who lived near Twink. She gave no detail, but would always shake her head and shrug when the subject of Twink’s fiancé was raised.
The company social club organised a trip to Streatham ice rink and word went around Twink was bringing her fella. Coaches were arranged and I along with six of us from the lab anxiously awaited Twink’s arrival on the chosen Friday.
All conversation stopped when Twink arrived with the closest thing to a Gorilla dressed in a velvet-collared overcoat in tow. His name was Georgie. Behind him were a couple from his troop, similarly dressed, but looking slightly less Neanderthal. The motherly woman from admin nodded with an “I told you so,” look.
The evening went well up until the point that John from our lab - a good skater – offered to help Twink who was struggling with the ice. Hooking her arm, he guided her on circuit of the rink.
Georgie couldn’t skate and stayed near the bar with his fellow cavemen. When he saw John with Twink, he exploded onto the ice in a slithering run; punched John down and tried to kick him in the face . . . with his skates on. The razor sharp blades just missed John’s jugular.
It was all over in seconds. A screaming Twink explained John was a friend from work. The incident accepted as an unpleasant misunderstanding and (more or less) forgotten.
After the show, everybody gathered in the ice-rink foyer waiting for the coaches. We stood in a semi-circle, John facing the rest of our group. We noticed Georgie and his mates coming over. Georgie wore a grin and we all assumed he wanted to apologise when he tapped John on the shoulder. As John turned, his head met the palm of Georgie’s gorilla sized hand travelling at around 50mph. John went down in a bloody heap with loosened teeth and a bad cut inside his mouth. A mute Georgie was pulled away by his giggling friends. The ride home on the coach was very quiet.
At work Twink became something to be avoided and it wasn’t long before she left the company: Twink was history.
A year or so after she left, me and a couple of friends came across Georgie again.
We were in the local bowling alley. It was late, we’d finished our game and were having a quiet beer at the bar. There was a lot of shouting by the entrance and a clearly terrified man ran on to one of the lanes shouting something like,
‘No Georgie, NO-O-O.’
Georgie chased him along the alley and swung a big punch knocking whoever he was on his back. Georgie’s bloodthirsty mates from Streatham rolled bowling balls down the lane which Georgie picked up, raising each one over his head before throwing it at his victim’s head. Lucky for him, Geogie’s aim was useless.
When security arrived, Georgie and his pod ran out, leaving the terrified guy bleeding on the lanes. The guards carried him away. We went home, shaken and wondering where Twink was.
A few years later after changing to a job that let me continue to study for my degree, I was driving through Welling on my way to college. I needed petrol so I pulled into a Shell garage. In those days of no self-service, I waited for the attendant. It was Twink.
We were both surprised and pleased to see someone from the past. We had a longish chat about what we were doing and naturally I asked about Georgie.
‘We got married, he’s working for a contractor building the new motorways. He's doing well.’
Feeling inwardly disappointed I said something like, ‘Great, good for you.’
Twink flashed me that old smile and twinkled those familiar sparkly eyes.
‘Georgie’s away up north, he won’t be home for a month.’
There was a pause, I felt my heart skip. I was between girlfriends. It would be so easy.
‘That’s tough. . . . Um, well I guess I’d better be getting along I’m already late. I’ll see you again now I know where you are.’
‘Yeah, great to see you. Pop in again.’
I left her, promising to do just that, but telling myself it would be the last garage I’d go to if needed to re-fuel. Georgie might be up north for months at a time, but I was sure his voyeur mates who so loved the blood Georgie spilt were around. They had eyes and certainly were not that thick, they couldn’t use a phone.
At the beginning of the final year in college I often went for a beer after evening lectures with fellow students. One Tuesday I was in the Lord Kitchener with Nigel. He was one of those types that liked women and always had a story about his latest conquest. I half listened while he told me about this girl he met at a petrol station. Real hot gagging for it. . . . It was his favourite expression.
‘I’m taking her out tomorrow night. Could be a long one . . . heh-heh.’
‘On a Wednesday? Odd day for a date.’
‘Yeah she’s married. Hubby’s away for a couple of months, she won’t risk it on weekends.’
I drained my glass, packed up my monkeys and parrots and prepared to leave.
‘Well good luck you dirty bugger. See you Friday.’ I said.
Driving through the deserted streets, I noticed the fuel-gauge said I needed to top-up in the morning. That’s when I remembered Twink. . . . It was also the last time I saw Nigel.
A close friend thought he’d dropped out because the course-work was getting too heavy. Another said he heard Nigel had the offer of a very good job, but it meant packing college in.
Me? I reckon he’s just outside Preston, six-feet under the centre-reservation of the M6
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Comments
Very readable Ed. I hope poor
Very readable Ed. I hope poor Twink is ok somewhere
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Well told here, Ed. Sad and
Well told here, Ed. Sad and scary.
Rich
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wow .. makes you wonder if
wow .. makes you wonder if she like that he was a thug or she hated that he was a thug but liked things about him
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Georgie sounds like a right
Georgie sounds like a right gangster, I wonder if they stayed together. The sad part about this story is that it's true, I reckonTwink could probably have had her pick of any man going by the way you described her.
Made for good reading.
Jenny.
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