The Girls from the Local

by Rosie Archer

Genres: Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Ruby loves the bustle of the Point of No Return pub; it helps take her mind off worrying about her fiancé, Joe, away fighting in France. The only thing Ruby doesn't like about the Point is Sylvie, who's out for all she can get, including Joe. Finally, there's Marge, a true party girl and a great friend to Ruby. The three of them face many obstacles but the bonds of friendship that hold the Point together will keep them going through the darkest of times.

Release date: December 14, 2017

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 480

Sample

Chapter One

January 1944

‘C’mon, Merv, open up this door!’

Ruby Garett watched her friend Marge pound on the heavy glass door of Gosport’s High Street’s public house while shouting for the landlord to wake up.

She felt as if she was in a dream, her head whirling, her thoughts muddied. How could her mother be gone? How was it possible her home and all her belongings had been blown to kingdom come? It was all the fault of that madman Adolf Hitler!

‘Merv! Come down!’

Ruby held back her tears as Marge thumped and yelled.

She heard the sound of the bolts scraping back, and the door opened to reveal Merv’s ugly face. His sleep-filled eyes showed Ruby they’d roused him from his bed.

‘Wasser matter?’ He blinked. ‘It’s two in the morning, whatjer want?’ The smell of male sweat mixed with Lifebuoy soap wafted over them. ‘I sent you two home ages ago.’

Marge pushed past him and swept inside, dragging Ruby with her and leaving Mervyn Tanner on the doorstep scratching himself.

‘Shut the door, quick. It stinks of cordite out there.’ Marge, small, feisty, shook her dark curls and took charge of the situation.

Merv stood there, a big man who was running to fat, his huge belly barely held in by blue and white striped pyjamas. Marge stared at his broken nose that leaned to one side; a relic of the boxing ring.

‘Ruby’s been bombed out and her mum’s gone as well. You gotta let her stay here, in one of your rooms—’

She got no further, for the big man stepped forward and enveloped Ruby in his arms, pressing her to him. ‘Poor little bugger,’ he said, and without a moment’s hesitation, ‘Of course you can stop here.’

Ruby, who up until then had tried to keep her emotions under control, burst into tears at his kindness.

‘Oh, thank you,’ she wailed, sagging against him. ‘We went dancing at the Connaught Hall. Marge was walking me home, but there was a raid and we had to go into the shelter near the Criterion picture house.’ She used a hand to wipe the drip from her nose, sniffed, then stepped away from him. ‘We left after the all-clear and when we got to Alma Street there was all these ambulances, ARP men and the WI making tea and handing out blankets.’ She paused. ‘Mrs Symonds from number five rushed up to me and said, “Your mum’s copped it, Rube, an’ your house is a pile of rubble . . .”’ Remembering was too much and once more she crumpled, the tears falling fast.

Marge took over. ‘We couldn’t believe our eyes. Where Ruby’s house used to be there was an empty space. The ground was still smoking.’ She wiped her hand across her eyes. Ruby knew she was upset for her. ‘Funny thing was, the washing was still on the line!’

Ruby whispered, ‘Mrs Symonds said they took what was left of my mum to the mortuary . . .’ Marge pulled her close.

‘She ’as to go there tomorrow, Merv, the ARP man said.’ Marge was hugging Ruby tightly.

Mervyn ushered them into the main bar and parked himself behind the counter. He slopped brandy into three glasses, not bothering with the silver measure.

‘A nice drop of this is what you need.’ He downed one and pushed the other two across the bar. Over the top of the bar was a wooden sign that said, ‘Enter as a Stranger, Leave as a Friend.’ Mervyn believed in that sign.

‘Ruby, I’m sure your mum didn’t feel a thing,’ he said. ‘Drink that up.’

Eighteen-year-old Ruby felt like she’d never be able to smile again. Why did this awful thing have to happen to her mother, who’d never hurt a fly in the whole of her life? She’d brought up Ruby alone, keeping her clothed and fed by doing any job that came her way. Ruby’s dad had disappeared when she was a baby. Her mother had been her rock, the woman she looked up to.

Ruby swallowed the drink straight back. The alcohol scorched her throat as it went down. She wasn’t used to spirits.

Merv stroked his chin.

‘What about you, Marge? Are you going to bunk in with Ruby?’

Ruby was aware that when her friend worked late she often spent the night at the pub sooner than walk home in the dark and wake her nan and her two kiddies, five-year-old Tony and the baby, Chrissie.

‘If that’s all right with you, Merv?’ She gave him a big smile. ‘I’d have taken Ruby home with me, but we haven’t got the room.’

Marge lived in a tiny flat in Albert Street. She had a husband, Alf, in the army, but he wrote as seldom as he sent money home. Her nan looked after the children while Marge worked to keep them all.

‘I don’t know how to thank you, Mervyn, you’re very kind.’

Merv coloured up at Ruby’s words, pulled back the empty glasses and slopped in refills.

‘It’s the least I can offer one of my best barmaids,’ he said. ‘Drink this, then get to bed. I ain’t going to say it’ll be better tomorrow, because something like this takes time to sink in. But you’re welcome here, the pair of you.’

Ruby knew Mervyn had a soft spot for Marge. Her glossy curls, rich red lips and her enthusiasm for life had captivated the middle-aged man shortly after he’d taken her on. She was hard-working and popular with the customers, especially the men, who often included her in their rude jokes. Men felt easy in her company. She had something that made them gather around her like moths to a flame. Ruby always felt better when she and Marge worked together.

The alcohol and her tears had made Ruby very tired.

‘Take her upstairs, Marge,’ said Merv kindly. Ruby looked at the now empty glasses on the bar and already everything that had happened to her tonight seemed more like a scene from a film than reality. Still wearing their coats, Marge gripped Ruby’s arm and led her away from the bar, out into the wide hall and up the thickly carpeted stairs. Ruby’s legs felt like they were made of rubber. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the big wall mirror. Her own face looked back at her, but there was something different about it. In the space of a few hours her life had been shattered. She would never be the same again.

Marge’s arm was tightly clasped about her waist. Ruby knew she was lucky to have such a good friend.

*

Mervyn Tanner allowed himself to sink blissfully down into the deep feather mattress. He sighed and looked at the alarm clock; three more hours before the draymen arrived with the wooden barrels of beer from Brickwood’s Brewery. He’d already unlatched the bolt and opened the wooden hatch to the outside chute, which led to the cellar, so that they could roll the barrels down – if there were any. In this bloody war with all its shortages, promises of beer meant nothing. He needed to be down there to sign for the delivery, but that was three blessed hours away. Another sigh of pleasure escaped.

Until his thoughts turned to Ruby.

Marge was right to bring her here. After all, she worked here so she might as well live in. Sylvie had a room along the corridor. They’d get on all right, eventually. Grace, the cleaner, a big hefty woman not at all like her name, had the room between. Trouble was, Sylvie thought herself a bit hoity-toity because she had a voice that enabled her to sing in some of the other pubs and clubs in Gosport. But she was a quick and nimble barmaid, which was just what he wanted on busy nights in the Point of No Return.

It was a rare night when they weren’t packed, thanks to the dockyard, the naval yard, the pongos from St George’s barracks, the air force at Lee-on-the-Solent and the Allies off the ships that docked in Portsmouth, just over the water.

Sometimes there were so many foreign tongues in the bar, including the Americans from their stores base at Southampton, that he had to pinch himself to remember he was in Gosport!

Mervyn tossed and turned.

He couldn’t get the look of sadness that had settled on Ruby’s face out of his mind. Perhaps he shouldn’t have given her so much brandy? A cup of tea might have been better. Still, the girls knew where the kitchen was; if they wanted tea they could make it themselves. After all, he had plenty.

Bags of loose Brooke Bond Divi had fallen off the back of a lorry right into Lennie Stark’s possession and naturally some of it had come Mervyn’s way, for a fee, of course. Fancy the government only allowing two ounces of tea a week per person! Nobody could exist without a decent cuppa, could they? Cups of tea were what the English needed to win this war, everyone knew that.

He thought about the surprise American and British landings at Anzio that he’d heard about on the wireless. They were trying to stop supplies getting through to the 100,000 German troops at the Garigliano front and meeting little resistance.

He’d also listened to the announcer telling of the RAF bombers dropping 2,300 tons of bombs on the Nazi capital of Berlin. We’ll get them blighters yet, he thought. We’ll stop that dirty swine Hitler from invading.

Memories of the Great War ran through his brain. Twenty, he was, when they sent him to France. All that mud and all that bloodshed, all them bodies!

He was one of the lucky ones, he knew that. The damn gas had got hold of him and after the war he could barely fight his way out of a paper bag, let alone win a bout in a ring! He’d had the world in his hands and it had all been snatched away from him. Still, he’d had a bit put by to buy this place, hadn’t he? That gas had frightened him, though. Even now, all these years later and in a different war, he insisted that all his girls keep their gas masks beneath the counter in the bar while they were working, in case of a gas attack.

He’d met and married his Joanne and she’d been a good wife, until that bloody bomb landed on the picture house in Stoke Road and she’d died along with all the other poor buggers. He still missed her. Told her that when he took flowers up to the cemetery.

Shame they’d never had kiddies. He’d have liked a couple running about the place. Marge sometimes turned up with her two little ’uns. He liked to spoil the boy with crisps, little bugger that he was!

There’d been a few women sniffing about him. He knew it wasn’t him they wanted; it was the pub they were interested in. Well, look at him, ugly old bugger. That’s what boxing does to a man, Mervyn thought, takes away his good looks; takes away his brain as well, sometimes.

He slept.

Chapter Two

Mervyn crawled out of bed. Already the draymen were rolling barrels and he could hear the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves shuffling on the cobbles and their snorting as the animals breathed in the cold January air.

Downstairs in two seconds, he was pulling his braces over his shoulders, watching the two burly blokes at work.

‘Mornin’,’ he called.

‘Did we wake you?’ Jonas Bennet paused, his hand on a cask and laughed, his red face even more scarlet than usual with the effort of the heavy work and the brisk wind blowing up off the Solent.

‘Cheeky bugger,’ Mervyn replied, but he knew he’d been caught napping. A bit more banter followed and then Mervyn went back inside to make tea after signing the delivery chit.

The kettle hadn’t boiled when Lennie Stark pushed open the kitchen door and poked his head inside.

‘Got some spirits, if you want them?’ His voice was like gravel. Merv thought anyone could see where his son Joe got his good looks. They both were as tall as lamp-posts, with deep brown eyes and dark curly hair, Lennie’s with a bit of grey at the temples, but it only seemed to make him more manly. Lennie eased himself into the warmth of the kitchen. ‘I got whisky, gin, bourbon. And if you don’t want it, the Flying Fox’ll have it!’

‘From the American stores at Southampton?’

‘Ask no questions an’ I’ll tell you no lies.’ Lennie grinned. ‘Want it or not?’

‘Of course I’ll bloody take it.’ Mervyn went over to the big old Welsh dresser and took out his wallet from a drawer. He also kept a stash in a National Dried Milk tin at the back of the cupboard, but he didn’t advertise that fact. He extracted some notes, looked up at Lennie, who frowned, added another note, watched Lennie grin, then passed the money to his mate. Without a word the money was transferred to Lennie’s wallet and he left the kitchen, reappearing moments later with a cardboard box containing the spirits which he offloaded on to the table.

‘Good stuff, that is. The American lads gets it for next to nothing from their stores, but they comes down to Gosport, in here, an’ buys it at inflated prices,’ said Lennie.

Merv, filling the teapot said, ‘We all got to make a livin’.’

Lennie grinned again. ‘Don’t forget there’s a war on.’

‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ Merv said. ‘When’s that lad of yours coming home?’

‘You know they don’t let us know nothin’ about what them glider-boys gets up to. An’ even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you, “walls have ears” an’ all that. You pouring out that tea, or are we going to sit and look at it?’

‘I thought Joe went in the army?’ Merv shuffled towards the dresser and took down cups from the hooks.

‘Like I said, it’s hush-hush.’ Lennie parked himself down on a stool at the table.

‘Well, I’ve got his girl upstairs.’ Mervyn lifted his head to denote his bedrooms. ‘Poor little bugger lost her mum last night an’ all her belongings.’

At first Lennie looked cross, then worry etched itself over his face. ‘Why didn’t you send her round to me?’

‘That would be like sending Red Ridin’ Hood straight to the bleedin’ wolf. Anyway, she’s all right. Marge is with her.’

Lennie relaxed his features. ‘Thank goodness she’s safe. Our Joe thinks the world of her. She’s a nice girl, is Ruby.’

‘Yes, and too nice for you to sink your teeth into while Joe’s away.’ Everyone knew Lennie Stark chased anything in a skirt. Merv knew that Joe was different, a one-girl man. He and Ruby had got together a few months ago. Since Joe had left Gosport they’d been exchanging letters.

Merv thought he’d catch old Percy the Post and let him know any letters due for Alma Street could be left on his hall table. He’d make sure Ruby got her post, that was the least he could do.

‘Good cuppa, this.’ Lennie licked his lips.

‘I’d be surprised to hear you say anything else, considering I got the tea off you.’

Lennie slapped his knee and laughed. ‘I got to go. Tell that girl she knows where I am if she wants anything, anything at all.’ He winked at Mervyn. Underneath that checked suit Lennie Stark had a heart of gold, hidden somewhere.

‘Will do,’ said Merv. He watched Lennie get up and move towards the door, then he took down another two cups and began filling them with tea. He grunted as Lennie called goodbye and once out in the hallway Mervyn began climbing the wide stairs to the bedrooms above the bar. He liked that he could smell polish through the stale cigarette smoke from last night. Grace was a bugger for polishing.

He knocked on the door, after setting the teas on the carpet. Marge called, ‘Come in.’

When he stepped inside he saw Marge was dressed, but Ruby was a lump in the double bed.

‘She didn’t sleep well last night,’ Marge said. ‘Only to be expected.’ She eyed the tea. ‘That’s kind of you. Ruby’ll be glad of that; always makes a person feel better, don’t it?’

As if on cue, Ruby opened her eyes. Mervyn saw they were puffy and heavy-lidded. She’d obviously cried herself to sleep. ‘Hello,’ she said drowsily.

‘Stay up here as long as you like. You ought to have a couple of days off, you’ve had a big shock,’ Mervyn said, putting one of the cups on the small table by the side of the bed. The other cup had already been claimed by Marge.

‘No! I must work. I’ll be all right once I’m behind the bar.’ Mervyn was surprised at the sharpness in Ruby’s voice.

‘Well, sometimes work helps, but only if you’re sure.’ He looked at Marge. She passed him back her empty cup and he saw she’d changed her clothes from the ones she’d worn last night. He was used to her spending nights in this room. When they had a lock-in in the bar and she worked late, Marge usually stopped over. Her nan preferred that to her getting home, making a noise and waking them all up. The flat was small and baby Chrissie woke at the slightest sound. Marge kept a few clothes in the wardrobe and toilet things in a drawer.

He turned to go. Marge caught his eye and whispered, ‘Thanks.’

As soon as the door had closed on him, Ruby got out of bed and drank her tea. She’d worn her petticoat as a nightdress.

In the corner of the room was a sink and she spotted a brand new toothbrush on its surround.

‘Mervyn usually keeps a few toiletries for his overnight guests. There’s soap, Gibb’s Dentifrice and I’ve sorted out a few clothes of mine you can wear,’ Marge explained, then stared at her, concerned. ‘You sure you want to work?’

Ruby nodded as she turned the tap, listening to the water gurgling in the pipes.

She bent over the sink and lathered her hands with soap and began washing. ‘I keep thinking that if we hadn’t gone dancing last night and we’d stayed at my house, then maybe my mum would still be here . . .’ She thought of all the servicemen she’d danced with while her mum had . . . had . . .

‘Stop that, Ruby,’ snapped Marge. ‘If we’d stopped round your house my kids could be without a mother now!’

Ruby pressed the towel she was using across her eyes. ‘Oh, Marge, I’m sorry, I never thought—’

‘Well, just thank your lucky stars we’re alive. Get dressed –’ she pointed to a pile of clothes on a nearby chair – ‘and I’ll come with you to the mortuary when we’ve finished here this afternoon.’

Ruby, chastened, finished washing, then she put on Marge’s clothes. She stared at herself in the mirror, glad she and her friend were of a similar height and shape. ‘I think I’ll ask Merv if he can give me a sub so I can buy some clothing and a few things I need.’

She went over to Marge, put her hand on her arm and looked into her eyes. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘For being such a good friend. I dunno what I’d do without you.’

‘Shut up, you silly moo.’ Marge was embarrassed. ‘You’ve got to write and tell Joe what’s—’

‘No can do,’ said Ruby. ‘He’s moved on from the training camp and as yet I don’t have his new address. I’ll have to wait until he writes to me.’

Ruby pulled Marge’s hairbrush through her hair and winced at a tangle.

She was glad she was going to serve behind the bar. It might stave off that dreadful feeling she had, like a thick band of steel was squeezing her heart every time she thought about the loss of her mum.

‘I suppose this room’ll be ours now,’ Marge said. ‘We can’t have separate rooms, otherwise Merv won’t have hardly any left for bed and breakfasters.’

‘You don’t stay here often, though, do you?’

Marge shook her head. ‘Only when absolutely necessary. I’d much rather be home with my family. But I’m the only wage earner, so I can’t afford to say no to overtime, can I? Anyway, it’ll be nice us bunking in together sometimes, won’t it?’

Ruby didn’t relish staying on her own. There would be too much time to think. As if reading her mind, Marge said, ‘After we’ve been to the mortuary, you can come home with me before my nan starts worrying.’

Ruby nodded. Marge was now kneeling on the bed with her compact against the iron bedpost, as she spat on her little mascara brush and coated her eyelashes. She paused, upended her handbag on the bed and said, ‘Whatever you haven’t got you can borrow from me.’ She liberally sprinkled herself with perfume and offered the little bottle to Ruby.

Ruby smiled at her and sat down on the stool in front of the dressing table. The room smelled faintly of polish and strongly of Marge’s scent. The double bed dominated, with a wardrobe along one wall and an easy chair in the corner. The slightly open sash-corded window looked down over the street where the market was almost in full swing. Laughter, noise and the sound of metal bars clanging as the stallholders set up for the day made her feel less isolated.

‘My mum loved the market . . .’

‘Fine,’ broke in Marge, ‘but you mustn’t dwell on what’s happened. You need to grieve, but don’t let sadness swamp you.’

Ruby knew she was right. She outlined her lips with bright red lipstick, sighing because she’d nearly used it all. Make-up was difficult to get hold of, especially red lipsticks. She’d heard that Hitler hated it, so almost every woman in England painted their lips as brightly as possible. The war was now in its fifth year; would it never end? she wondered. She stood up and surveyed herself, wearing the pink fluffy jumper with the puff sleeves and the grey wide-legged trousers that Marge had lent her. Once again, she thought how lucky she was to have such a loyal friend.

Chapter Three

‘Check your gas masks.’

Marge winked at Ruby. Mervyn said this every morning. The bad experience with gas that had left him with lung damage after the Great War had made him doubly careful, so he wanted to be sure that if Adolf Hitler sent planes over that dropped gas along the south coast his staff would be ready. The girls looked beneath the counter, then nodded at him.

‘Humour the daft bugger. After all, he’s only looking out for us.’ Ruby smiled at Marge’s words. They both knew Mervyn was a good boss.

Ruby had put her cup of tea at the back of the bar. Both she and Marge had eaten toast for breakfast. Ruby surprised herself with her hunger and had carried through another cuppa from the kitchen to the bar; she couldn’t drink tea when it was hot and had to leave it until it grew cool. She started polishing some glasses with a tea towel while Marge excused herself, saying, ‘Won’t be a minute.’

Out the window Ruby could see the regulars lined up in the cold, waiting for Mervyn to open up. Marge had waylaid him as he went to unlock the main door. The wireless was on. Bing Crosby was crooning away and Ruby checked the bar top to see that the drip mats and ashtrays were all clean and in their usual places.

Through the window she could see Ol’ Tom rubbing his gloveless hands, so she got his tankard down from the overhead shelf and put it ready to pour his mild as he stepped into the warm bar. Alec and his brother Alan were stamping up and down, all muffled up against the cold. She dived beneath the counter and put the cribbage board ready. Both of them would stay until lunchtime, playing at the table in the corner. Then they’d go along to the Dive café for a bite to eat. They didn’t drink much. Both men were in their seventies, unmarried and regular as clockwork with their custom.

Margaret Bell was also hovering. Her fur coat looked ready for the knacker’s yard, thought Ruby. It reminded her of that song, ‘Stick It on the Wall, Mrs Riley,’ about a woman who had a similarly ancient beaver coat and, like Margaret Bell, was never seen without it.

Standing across the road was a tall straight man wearing a trilby rakishly pulled over one eye and a puce mack­intosh topping a blue suit. His long face and dark eyes gave him a mysterious look. Beneath his arm was a folded newspaper.

Ruby knew the newspaper was the early edition of the Evening News and Richard Williams was a reporter for this esteemed local newspaper. He also wrote Westerns that were published under the pseudonym Hank Wilson. They were very popular. He’d wanted to call himself Hank Williams after an American singer he’d heard once, so he’d told Ruby, but his editor had dissuaded him, reminding him that if and when Hank Williams became famous, he might not appreciate the fact an English writer had stolen his name. A small shiver ran through her body. There was something about Richard Williams that unnerved her. Was it because he never mixed with the rest of the clientele? His accent was not of the slangy Portsmouth twang; he’d obviously attended the kind of schools that Gosport people never had the chance to aspire to and it showed in the way he often left behind newspapers with the difficult crosswords completed. He’d also confided that he hadn’t been able to join the forces because he had a heart defect.

Now, he caught her looking at him through the window and he smiled, sending a flutter through her body. She nodded back, then reached up and took his tankard from the top shelf, ready to serve him when the pub’s doors were finally opened.

‘Here you are.’ Marge breezed up in a cloud of lily of the valley, waving a white note beneath Ruby’s nose. The sharp scent momentarily masked the bar’s smell of beer, polish and stale cigarettes.

‘Where did you get that fiver?’

‘Off Merv, where else? He said pay him back whenever. After we’ve been to my place to see my kiddies, we can go back into town and see what we can find in the shops and market.’ Marge looked expectantly at Ruby, who was quite overcome with emotion. ‘You did have your ration book and identification in your bag last night, didn’t you? You didn’t leave your papers in the house?’

Ruby shook her head. She’d need clothing coupons if they could find anything decent to buy.

‘Thank you,’ she sighed. She knew Marge could twist Mervyn round her little finger. Anything Marge ever desired was never out of bounds with Merv. Then she suddenly grinned. ‘I turned me knickers inside out this morning, so it’d be nice to have some clean ones!’

‘Dirty cow,’ laughed Marge. ‘Sorry I didn’t have a spare pair. Ever heard of washing ’em?’ She dived beneath the counter, found Ruby’s handbag and stuffed the note inside.

‘You serving or not?’ Ol’ Tom was grinning at Marge when she looked up. Their shift had begun.

‘Guinness, please,’ Richard Williams said. He held Ruby’s gaze. She’d already placed his tankard beneath the pump. The Guinness took a long time to pour but she knew he hated the bottled stuff. ‘I heard about your misfortune,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do . . . ?’

‘That’s kind of you,’ said Ruby, suddenly realizing that the bomb that had taken away her mother and home would naturally be a talking point amongst the customers, until, like most gossip, it too died a death. She’d just have to put up with the talk, the stares. People didn’t mean anything by it; mostly they’d be concerned for her welfare.

Mervyn was behind the bar as well. At twelve Sylvie would arrive. Because she sang most evenings, she didn’t work full time, unlike Ruby and Marge. For two hours most lunchtimes she helped out, as it was the pub’s busiest time. When she sang in the pub in the evenings, people turned up to listen and Mervyn was happy with the extra custom.

‘Take a drink for yourself,’ Richard said.

‘Thank you, can I have it later?’ Ruby nodded towards her tea at the back of the bar. Richard nodded. Like other customers, he was aware she might not take the drink in alcohol but would probably take his money and then put a bottle cap at the back of the bar. At the end of her shift, Mervyn wouldn’t mind her and Marge exchanging the bottle tops for cash from the till. It was one of the perks of the job and as long as his barmaids didn’t take liberties, Mervyn trusted them.

‘Are you all right? Got a place to stay?’ At last she was able to put his drink in front of him.

‘Merv’s letting me stay here,’ she said, taking the money he proffered. Richard’s eyes hadn’t left her face.

‘That’s all right then,’ he said. ‘But if you want anything . . .’ His voice tailed off.

While he’d been waiting he’d put on his spectacles. The dark frames made him look even more intelligen. . .