Cradle Snatch

CRADLE SNATCH...

Peter couldn't help himself. Throughout the day shift, his eyes
continually strayed across the busy factory floor towards the new girl.
Still in the training section, Paula had been operating her machine for
less than a week, but was already nearly as fast as some who'd been
doing it for years. Her hands were nimble and quick, and she was a
conscientious worker. She never wasted time giggling or gossiping like
the other young women. Peter sensed that she was a little older than
most of the girls who caught his eye, and this intrigued him. He wanted
to get to know her.
The company made automotive components, and Peter was a machine setter.
He'd been there for six years, ever since he'd left school. He was a
good setter, knowing everything there was to know about his high-speed,
automatic machine. This meant it usually ran smoothly, leaving him with
time to spare - time to wonder how to approach a girl like Paula.
Peter was unused to this kind of self-doubt. He was popular, and a
likeable fellow. Normally he would have simply walked up to a girl and
shouted above the noise of machinery, "Hi! I'm Peter. You doing
anything tonight?" Discreet conversation was impossible on the factory
floor, as ear defenders had to be worn - only shouting was effective.
But Peter sensed that this would not go down well with Paula. She
seemed sensitive and a little shy. He eyed her rich brown hair, worn in
a single braid down her back - factory regulations. Long hair had to be
tied up. He wondered how it would look loose.
He noticed that she never used the canteen at lunchtime, preferring to
remain alone by her machine, usually reading a book. One day, he
overheard two girls talking in the canteen queue.
"You know, Paula's 25 and quite pretty, but she hasn't got a boyfriend.
I wonder why?"
"It's 'cos she's so boring. Hardly ever talks - always got her nose in
a book."
Peter didn't believe she was boring. He was more determined than ever
to get to know this enigmatic girl. He decided to enlist the help of
old George, the labourer and general handyman. This friendly old man
was free to wander about the shop floor in the course of his work, and
Peter had often noticed him chatting to Paula.
"Yes. A nice girl, that one," George informed. "Quiet, but good-natured
- and determined to get on. She don't intend to stay 'ere. She's
learning to be a writer, so 'as to study a lot. She don't go out much,
'cept to the library, but she does go jogging every morning and late
evening 'round the mobile home park - she lives there."
"Thanks George." Peter was impressed by this account, though it didn't
seem to leave much of an opening for him.
"Always glad to 'elp," the old man said. "Want me to put in a good word
for yer?"
"No - don't do that." He couldn't let Paula think he was unable to
speak for himself.
"Well, good luck son. And watch out for Joe Watson. 'E likes 'er too.
She's already told him where to go, 'cos 'e's married. 'E don't like
that. She's marked 'er card with 'im."
Joe Watson was the foreman - handsome, arrogant, and known to be a
womaniser. Peter cast a wary glance towards the office, a small
cubicle, almost entirely built of perspex, so that Watson could have a
clear view of his workers. This was humorously known as "the Aquarium".
As expected, the foreman was regarding them both with cold eyes. George
shuffled away, and Peter turned back to his machine. Watson might be
his superior at work, but he didn't have the right to influence his
private life. Peter's mind was quite clear on that score.
*******
The next day, at lunch break, when the noise of machinery had dwindled
to an idling murmur, Peter walked over to the bench where Paula sat.
"Mind if I join you?"
She looked up at him, slightly startled. "Feel free. Don't mind me -
I'm just studying." Her attention instantly returned to her book.
Her eyes were the darkest blue he had ever seen, like midnight. Peter
sat down beside her with his heart racing. He'd never felt so nervous
with a girl. But at least she hadn't sent him packing, like Watson.
That was progress he supposed. Now she seemed to have forgotten he was
there. Time to remind her. "My name's Peter," he said, feeling utterly
gormless.
The midnight eyes found his once more. "That's nice," she said
politely. "Mine's Paula." Her eyes deserted.
He began to take huge bites from a corned beef sandwich, to hide his
agitation. Why did he feel such a fool? What had happened to his usual
cool line of patter, and why was he breaking out in a sweat? He just
had to try again. "What are you reading?"
This time she treated him to a slightly longer night-blue gaze. "It's a
correspondence course," she informed. "I want to be a writer."
"That's interesting," he said lamely, wishing he could think of
something clever to say. She probably thought him an idiot by
now.
"It's necessary," she informed.
Most young men would have given up at that point. She hadn't given him
a single word of encouragement, not even a smile. But Peter was not the
giving-up kind. He knew he had to find a way to reach her, else this
was likely to become an obsession.
*******
The next morning was Saturday, and Peter was down to work overtime. He
hardly made it after his restless night, and got up too late to
intercept Paula's jogging as he had planned. She wasn't at work, and he
spent the ensuing four hours mindlessly adjusting his machine and
thinking of ways to bump into Paula over the weekend.
Walking through the town centre on the way home, Peter was caught in a
sudden downpour of rain. He retreated into the Kwik Kuppa to wait it
out, and there she was, sitting alone with an empty seat opposite.
Peter was amazed at his luck. He bought coffee and joined her. This
time she had no book, and she smiled at seeing him. "Hello Peter. Have
you been working?"
Her hair was loose and glorious against her white mac. He was suddenly
conscious that he must smell of machine oil. "Yes," he said nervously.
"I'm saving for my own place. Every penny counts."
She nodded approval. "That's good, Peter. So many young people think of
nothing but today."
The dark blue eyes were having their usual effect. He floundered while
desperately searching for something to say. "I never see you in the
social club," he finally blurted.
"It's not really my scene," she replied calmly. "I've got so much work
to do."
"Everyone should take some time off," he said bravely. "Would you spend
some time with me, Paula?"
Her eyes widened as if she'd never seen him before, and she turned a
little pink, but said nothing for several long moments.
Peter was almost literally holding his breath with anticipation.
Then she said, "Do you think I'm a cradle snatcher or something? I like
you, Peter, but you're much too young! I'm sorry.."
*******
Deflated, but not defeated, Peter wondered what to do next. So, she was
three years older. What did that matter? Why did girls make so much
fuss about that kind of thing? What was a few years? He was a man,
wasn't he?
It drizzled all through the Rovers' home game, and Peter consoled
himself with the thought that Paula wouldn't have enjoyed this
anyway.
That evening, he scrutinised his face in the bathroom mirror. He did
look a bit boyish, he decided. Large brown eyes and dimples didn't
help. He practised a macho scowl, then a lecherous leer. Paula wouldn't
fancy either of those. He just couldn't be anything but his natural
self. Yet how could he make her accept him as an equal?
*******
Sunday lunchtime, in the works' social club, Peter confided in his best
mate, Steve.
Steve grinned knowingly. "Send her flowers, love-letters, that kind of
thing," he advised. "Girls are real suckers for corny stuff."
Peter grinned back, though he was quite sure that Paula wasn't like
other girls. Neither of the young men noticed Joe Watson - all ears, at
a nearby table.
*******
On Monday morning, Peter noticed that Paula was called into the
foreman's office. Jealously, he wondered if Watson was chatting her up
again. Old George was managing to push his broom around nearby. Maybe
he would hear something.
All through the morning, Peter tried to catch Paula's eye, but she
simply did not look his way.
At lunchtime, he approached her with his sandwich box, and felt quite
mortified when she got up and moved away from him without a word. What
had he done? She hadn't seemed that annoyed on Saturday.
Old George came to enlighten him. "Watson y'know, son." The old man
looked just as indignant as Peter felt. "He told her you was a wild
one. He said you drink too much and then get violent."
Peter's heart sank. How could she have believed that from Watson?
Couldn't she judge for herself? He spent the rest of the afternoon
rooted to his bench. Fortunately, his machine ran well.

He spent the evening in the local pub with Steve, and quite out of
character got terribly drunk. Staggering home, he was unaware that
Paula had seen him when returning from her late-night jog.
*******
Tuesday, Peter woke with a raging headache, and had to force himself to
go to work. He was quite unprepared when Paula rushed up and slapped
his face hard. "You're disgusting!" she ranted. "Take your filth back!"
She stuffed a crumpled envelope down the front of his boiler
suit.
Peter was stunned and humiliated amid the laughter of surrounding
workmates. He retrieved the envelope and read the lurid contents. He
dropped it in dismay. It was filth - the kind of thing he would never
send to Paula or anyone else in a million years - an obscene vicious
attack from someone - but who would do such a thing? He had no enemies.
Did she?
He sat down on his bench - too shattered even to start up his machine.
The foreman was watching from the aquarium with baleful eyes like a
shark. Old George picked up the discarded envelope. "I think I know who
sent this," he informed.
"How?" Peter asked stupidly.
"Yesterday, Watson gave me a load of post to take out lunchtime. I
noticed this one 'cos it was addressed to her. And see how the A's and
S's are dropped on his typewriter - they always do that.."
This was more than enough to convince Peter. Frustration and outrage
boiled over. He stormed into the foreman's office, pulled the startled
man out of his chair, and threw him against the cabin wall, causing the
flimsy structure to vibrate alarmingly. "I know it was you! You leave
her ALONE! Or you'll be SORRY!"
Joe Watson picked himself up with as much dignity as he could muster.
"You're sacked!" he hissed. "Get OUT!"
Peter left without another word, not even bothering to collect his
tools - with only a brief glance at Paula's scared face and the other
shocked faces of his workmates. His rage and desolation were too much
to bear.
He took to his bed for the rest of the day, to get rid of his hangover,
as well as wallow in misery, and to sort out his disturbed
thoughts.
After dark, he went for a walk, deciding to give the pub a miss. On the
road leading to town, he was dismayed to see Paula jogging towards him.
She looked stunning in a pale blue tracksuit with her hair flying
loose. There was no time to hide in the hedgerow. Peter wondered if she
would think he had been lying in wait for her, or something.
But she stopped to speak to him. "Peter, I've been so worried about
you. George told me everything, and I've reported Joe Watson. He'll get
the sack - not you. Personnel have been trying to ring you all day. You
can come back tomorrow. Please say you will, Peter?"
She was looking at him like a starry-eyed schoolgirl.
"If you let me take you out," he said cautiously.
"It's a deal," she assured.
"Still think you're cradle-snatching?"
"I don't know what you mean." She snuggled into his eager arms. "I
can't understand why other girls make such a fuss about that kind of
thing. What does a few years matter? You're twice the man Watson
is."