We was in the office canteen at the time.
It was buzzing like a bee'ive.
Marge was shovelling 'er spoon round 'er coffee like she was mixing cement, and it looked like she 'ad something on 'er mind. After a bit she finally spoke up, but she still didn't come straight out with it, she nibbled round the edges.
'I'm not sure I should be telling you this,' she said.
'So? Don't tell me!'
'But I want to tell you. I've got to tell you, Gerald.'
Christ! She could rile me up!
''Ow long 'ave we known each other, Marge.'
'Eh! What's that got to do with anything?'
'Come on . . . 'ow long?'
'Four . . . five years I suppose, but -'
'And 'ow often 'ave I told you not to call me Gerald?'
'Well, it is your name . . . I don't see -'
'Gerry! That's my name. All right? Gerry!'
'I don't know why you're so fussy, Gerald's a nice name.'
'Yeah, well, if you want to say something, say it to Gerry, 'cause Gerald's not listening.'
'All right then, Gerry . . . BLOODY GERRY.'
She'd got quite worked up - in a womanly sort of way - and there was a bit of a pause while she got 'erself together, sorted 'erself out.
But it went on a bit too long.
'So?' I asked
'So what shouldn't I know you're going to tell me anyway?'
'It's about Ronnie.'