The Sound of Laughter Read Online Free

arm and I still remember the look of confusion my mum gave me on Christmas morning when she opened a tin of Quality Street to find sixteen chocolates (all hard ones), three buttons and a paper clip. Bastards.
    We had no luck with chocolates that Christmas. My Uncle Finton drove up from London in his metallic-green Jaguar on a flying visit. As he left (after eating us out of house and home) he pulled a tin of Quality Street out the boot as a parting gift.
    I've no idea if Uncle Finton was aware that his
chocolates were a year past their sell-by date but it didn't take us long to find out, when we ended up bringing in the New Year with severe stomach cramps and the shits. So memorable was our discomfort that such ailments are now referred to in our house as 'going for a jog down Quality Street'.
    Mr Lee's generosity didn't just stop at Christmas, oh God, no. Every fortnight he gave his workers 'a pack'. This consisted of a large polythene bag filled up with every product that the factory produced. You were given six toilet rolls (in a choice of assorted colours), a patterned kitchen roll, some industrial cling film and two rolls of the finest aluminium foil this side of Wigan. Well, my mum was over the moon when I first brought it home, she'd never seen as much foil and cling film in her life. In fact, it's seventeen years since I worked at Franny Lee's and I'm sure she's still got some of that industrial cling film on top of the cupboard somewhere.
    I was told that Mr Lee and his associates made the noble gesture in an effort to put an end to the huge amount of thieving that was going on at the factory. Apparently staff were increasingly prone to jamming kitchen foil down their knickers and smuggling it home. It's like my Uncle Ronnie used to say:
    'If it's not nailed down, I'll nick it.' Perhaps not the
best motto to live your life by, especially if you work for Securicor like he did.
    The job I'd got was on the evening shift so I only worked from five to nine, which was a bit like the Dolly Parton song but reversed. My mum used to make me a packed lunch every night and I was ready for it, I can tell you. Two tuna-mayonnaise-spread sandwiches, wrapped in foil (there was going to be no shortage of that from now on) and a couple of mint Yo Yos.
    'Be careful at work and don't forget to give me three rings,' she shouted to me on my first night as I ran for the bus.
    I remember feeling very nervous as I approached the gates. It was that noise. It got louder as I got nearer. I'd heard the noise of machinery many times when I was growing up. My dad was a labourer at various factories around town and sometimes I'd walk home from work with him – well, he'd walk, I'd ride my Grifter. While I was waiting for him to clock off I'd stand outside the factory listening to that noise of machinery. It was loud enough standing outside the factory – how much louder must it have sounded inside? After all these years the time had come for me to finally find out.
    I followed a few other workers into the canteen. I think it was a canteen, as there was a drinks vending
machine in the corner of the room. I looked at the picture on the front of it. A bone-china cup and saucer were perched on a white lace doily. Fresh tea was being poured into the cup, and out of focus in the distance, beyond the terrace, there was a field. I could just make out the blurred shapes of women in saris picking tea in the baking sunlight. That's why I was somewhat disappointed when I pushed the button labelled 'Tea' and after forty seconds and numerous bangs I was rewarded with a polystyrene cup which hesitantly began to fill up with a liquid that looked like Bisto gravy granules mixed with saliva. A whistle blew somewhere and everybody got up to leave. I had a quick sip as I headed for the door and, as I'd suspected, it tasted sod all like the Queen's English tea that I'd come to love and respect over the years.
    Like a little lost sheep and without making eye contact I