Newham Writers Workshop Anthology 1997

		BOB THOMSON I retired from my professional job a few years ago, and was faced with the problem of having too much time on my hands. What to do with it? Possibilities include spending all day in the pub, which is pretty deplorable, or watching TV all day, which is worse. As I have always liked short stories, I decided to try writing some. This is one of my efforts. I leave it to the reader to decide whether or not my time would be better spent in pubs. MRS GIBSON It was very quiet in the police station today. Sergeant Bulford was sitting at the desk doing the Times Crossword puzzle. Constable Reynolds was loitering on the other side of the room, looking out of the window. Bulford looked up as Reynolds, presumably having seen something interesting, opened the window and leaned out. There was an instant bedlam of traffic noise, and Bulford was irritated. Before he could say anything the door opened and an elderly lady entered the room. She went straight to Reynolds and started talking excitedly. Reynolds listened to her, and asked her a question. She answered, and there was a short conversation. "Ahead of army on the continent with foreign money, six letters." The sergeant looked at the clue with a mixture of boredom and incredulity. British Expeditionary Force, he muttered, writing the letters B, E, F into the puzzle. First World War again! He wondered if the average age of the Times crossword compilers was ninety, or if they thought the average age of the people who did the crossword puzzles was ninety. As he was writing the rest of the answer into the grid, Reynolds and the old lady came over to him. Reynolds reached him first, leaned over the desk, and said quietly, "I think perhaps you had better have a word with the lady, Sergeant. I’m due on patrol in five minutes, and this could be a complicated case from what I can make out of what she is saying. Missing person, I think." "All right," said the Sergeant. "Shut that window on your way out, will you?" He clicked off his stop-watch, noting that it read eleven minutes. Reynolds walked to the window and shut it. He looked at his watch, and then stood there looking out of the window again. The Sergeant took a pad from a drawer in the desk and said, "Please sit down Madam. Can I have your name, please?" "Gibson. Mrs Ada Gibson." "And your address?" "Forty-seven Sebastopol Street." "Right. Now what exactly is the problem?" "Well, I just told the policeman. My Charlie – he’s got lost." "I see. Age?" "What’s my age got to do with it?" "Not your age, Madam, Charlie’s age." "Well I don’t see what that’s got to do with it either." Oh dear, it’s going to be one of those, thought Sergeant Bulford, still irritably thinking about the Times crossword puzzle and wondering what the fee was for compiling them. He thought he could compile better ones, and certainly more up-to-date ones. He looked sternly at Mrs Gibson. "We have to do these things by the book," he said. "If you would just answer my questions, Madam! Now, how old is Charlie?" Mrs Gibson thought for a moment, then said, "Five." "Five?" The Sergeant was surprised. "Whose is he?" he asked. "Mine, of course," said Mrs Gibson. The Sergeant looked at her: she must be about seventy. Definitely one of those. "And when did you last see him?" he asked. "Ten o’clock this morning." "And where did you see him?" "He was indoors. I went out of the front room for a minute, and when I came back he was gone. He must have gone out of the window; I had forgotten it was open." "Didn’t you go and look out of the window?" Sergeant Bulford was finding Mrs Gibson a pain in the neck. "I mean, he couldn’t have gone far." "Of course I went and looked out of the window," said Mrs Gibson. "And he wasn’t in the street below?" "No, no. He was sitting on the roof of the greengrocer’s." Constable Reynolds went silently out of the room, his face expressionless. I’ll wipe the grin off your face when you get back, thought Bulford, not inaccurately, as there was a broad grin on the policeman’s face when he got to the other side of the door. "We are talking about a bird, are we?" he asked the old lady. "Well of course we are," Mrs Gibson said, sounding surprised. "What did you think we were talking about?" "I don’t know. You didn’t say. What sort of bird?" "A budgerigar." "Well, we can’t actually send out a posse," said Bulford. "I’ll tell our policemen that a budgie is on the loose, and ask them to look out for him." "He’s my only companion now that my husband has gone," said Mrs Gibson. "I’m sorry to hear that," said Bulford. "When did your husband die?" "Oh, he’s not dead. At least, I don’t think so." "Oh? Where is he then?" "I don’t know. He disappeared about a month ago." "Really? Just disappeared? How, exactly?" "He went out lunchtime. He didn’t say where he was going, so I thought he might have gone to the pub, although he’s not supposed to drink. He never came back." "And this was a month ago?" "Yes." "I don’t remember a case like this last month. When did you report him missing?" "I didn’t report him missing." "You didn’t? Why not?" "Well, why should I?" "Madam, you have come all this way to report that your budgerigar has gone missing, but you didn’t bother to come and report that you husband has gone missing?" "Well he knows the way home, doesn’t he; Charlie doesn’t." "Oh dear," said Sergeant Bulford tiredly. He didn’t know whether to pursue the subject or not. If she was so little bothered about the whereabouts of Mr Gibson, why should he bother? He looked at his stop-watch, which still read eleven minutes, of course. He estimated that he had done about a third of the crossword puzzle. At that rate it would take thirty-three minutes in total to finish it. If he ever took more than half an hour to solve the Times crossword he started to worry about Alzheimer’s disease. He reckoned that without the distraction of Mrs Gibson he could have made up the three minutes, but she had destroyed his concentration. Perhaps he could allow himself to knock off three minutes to account for the Gibson factor? His better nature asserted itself, and he decided to pursue the subject of the missing husband. "Has he ever spent the night away from home?" he asked. "Yes he has, quite often," said Mrs Gibson. "When was the last time?" Mrs Gibson gave the matter some thought. "Last August," she said. "How long was he away?" "Three weeks." "Do you know where he went?" "Yes. Galway, in Ireland." "Did he write to you in those three weeks?" "No, he didn’t; why on earth should he?" "It might have been polite. Told you when he got back, did he?" "Told me what?" "That he had been in Galway." "Course he didn’t. Why would he have to tell me where we had been? Do you think I am gaga or something, not knowing where I am?" "You were with him?" "Yes, we went there on holiday." Sergeant Bulford sighed. "When I asked you if he had been away from home, I meant without you being with him." The minute the words were out of his mouth he had a horrible feeling that she would say yes, and then, after another twenty questions, she would say that he had been in the local hospital for an operation. This time Mrs Gibson surprised him by giving a straight answer. "Only when he was taken to the hospital," she said. "He used to drink too much." "Right!" said Bulford. "If you would bring a photograph of him we can keep a look out for him, as well as the budgerigar." Mrs Gibson said she would do so, and left the police station. Then she trundled her shopping trolley to Sainsbury’s, where she bought a prawn curry, six eggs and forty half-pound packets of tea. That evening she ate the curry, followed by cheese and biscuits and a nice pot of coffee. She looked in the Radio Times. It was Friday. Had the gaga old sod been there he would have wanted to watch Wheel of Fortune on the telly, and then spend the rest of the evening until midnight or later switching from channel to channel viewing any programmes he could find which catered for people with a mental age of six or less. Now she could please herself and listen to Any Questions on the wireless. On Saturday morning she went to see the estate agent. After the conventional greetings the agent, Mr Sykes, said, "There is just one problem about the flat that I ought to mention before we go any further…" "I’ve quite made up my mind," said Mrs Gibson. "I am willing to pay a year’s rent in advance." "It wasn’t the money I was thinking of," said Mr Sykes, quite truthfully, although he had been a little concerned about the financial aspect of the transaction. Why a woman of her age who had a house of her own should want to take a twenty-year lease on a poky little flat had puzzled him. She did not look wealthy and the flat was not cheap. "It was about the flat being on the top floor," he said. "There is a lift," said Mrs Gibson. "Yes, but lifts sometimes break down. Now you are not as young as…" "Oh stop being so bloody polite!" said Mrs Gibson, in a peremptory manner, which would have greatly surprised Sergeant Bulford had he heard it. "I’m an old woman, you can see that!" "Yes, well, in view of your age are you sure that you want to live on your own in a flat right at the top of a building?" "It’s not a council flat, it’s private and there is a caretaker living in the basement. There won’t be a lot of vandals running around." "All right, Mrs Gibson; if you’re sure." "I am sure and here’s the cheque. That should clear your bank on Wednesday and keep your accountant happy. I would like to start moving in some of my things on Saturday." On the way home she went to the only decent butcher left in the area and bought some thick-cut ham and a pound of chipolata sausages. In Safeways she bought a jar of coleslaw, a jar of pickles, and forty half-pound packets of tea. That evening she put some eggs on for hard boiling, and thought how nice it was: she could cook what she liked without that old sod moaning about his indigestion. On Wednesday she went to see Mr Chatterjee. He and his brothers ran a hardware shop about two miles from where she lived, and they also did household repairs, electrical and plumbing. They did not advertise themselves as removal men, which is why she chose them. She liked their style, too. On the side of their van was painted, "Chatterjee Brothers, First-class Repairs. You have tried the cowboys, now try the Indians!" "You did some work for a friend of mine," she said to the Chatterjee behind the counter. "She said you were very efficient and very reliable." Mr Chatterjee smiled. "We always try to be," he said. "I don’t want any repairs done, not at the moment," said Mrs Gibson. "But if ever I do, I shall come to you. What I want is for you to do a small removal job." "What exactly do you want removed?" Mr Chatterjee asked. "I only have a small van, you see: no great furniture van." "I have some china that I want moved," said Mrs Gibson. "Although it is of no great value, I do want care taken of it – it has been in the family a long time." "What you call sentimental value?" suggested Mr Chatterjee. "That’s it!" said Mrs Gibson. "That’s the phrase. Now I have seen the way some of those big removal firms work. Even if you put labels on things saying fragile, they still bang them about. I don’t want my china all broken." Mr Chatterjee looked a little hesitant. "Do you want us to pack it?" he asked. "You see, we would handle everything with the utmost particular care, but we do not have supplies of packing materials." "It is already packed," said Mrs Gibson. "It is very heavy – you will need two men." Mr Chatterjee got out his work-book, and they arranged a time for the following Saturday morning. Mrs Gibson pushed her shopping trolley to the shopping centre, where she met her friend Mrs McIntosh in the Prince Albert. Mrs McIntosh nibbled an egg sandwich and drank a gin and tonic, while Mrs Gibson devoured a plate of French bread with Cheshire cheese and pickled onions, which she helped down with draught Guinness. Mrs McIntosh eyed Mrs Gibson’s plate. "You’ve got a good appetite," she said. "And a good digestion." "I can really enjoy my food now…" said Mrs Gibson. "Have you heard from him?" Mrs McIntosh asked. "No, not a word." "How long is it now?" "More than a month." "Have you been to the police?" "I told them about it last Friday." "Last Friday?" exclaimed Mrs McIntosh. "But he’s been gone a month!" "I know. I wasn’t going to report it at all: quite honestly, I don’t care if I never see him again." Mrs McIntosh looked shocked at this, and Mrs Gibson said, "You know what he has been like. Twenty years of boozing from when he lost his last job, and then twelve months stuck in front of the television set after the doctors told him he would be dead in three months if he didn’t stop drinking. Until last month he hadn’t been out of the front door for three months: it was better when he was boozing. Never-ending moaning about his stomach and criticising every meal I put in front of him." "What made you go to the police in the end?" "My budgie got out of the house. When I went to the police about that I told them about my old man as well." Mrs McIntosh laughed. "I bet they liked your sense of priorities, didn’t they? ‘I’ve come to tell you about my lost budgie. By the way I’ve lost my old man as well!’" "They did seem to find it funny," said Mrs Gibson. "But I was being honest, wasn’t I?" Mrs McIntosh looked hesitant, then said, "He was on a pension, wasn’t he? Are you all right for money? You know, the insurance company won’t go on paying his pension when they find out he has gone missing. They will want proof that he is still alive." "When I got married I took my father’s advice, thank God!" said Mrs Gibson. "He gave me quite a large sum as a present, but told me to keep it in a separate account, not in a joint account. ‘You never know what might happen,’ he said. ‘All marriages start off all right, but if he ever started gambling or something stupid like that, you don’t want him getting rid of your money as well as his own.’" After they parted company, Mrs Gibson went to the delicatessen for some sliced roast pork, and then to Marks and Spencer where she bought two packets of stir-fry Chinese-style vegetables, a carton of noodles, and forty half-pound packets of tea. On Saturday morning she was quite busy. First, the police telephoned to tell her that someone had brought in a stray budgerigar. A patrol car would be passing her house later, and they would bring the bird to her. Then Mrs McIntosh, who had said she would call at one o’clock so that they could go out for a lunchtime drink, turned up at noon. As she arrived, so did the police car. A young policewoman brought in the bird, and Mrs Gibson identified him as Charlie. "I went to see my Elsie," said Mrs McIntosh. "I came away a bit early because I got annoyed and I didn’t want to say anything out of turn – you know how it is." "What’s she done?" Mrs Gibson asked. "It’s not her, exactly, it’s her daughter, Charmain. I told her the way that girl goes about she is asking for trouble. Talk about ‘come and get me!’ Then Elsie said she is only young, isn’t she? She just wants a good time. Then she said she was all mini-skirts and beehive hairdos at that age, and it didn’t do her any harm. I nearly said, ‘Oh no, it didn’t do you any harm, did it? Only landed you up with that bleeding Fred.’ But I thought I’d better not, so I came away. Shall we go for a drink now?" "I’m expecting another caller," said Mrs Gibson. She looked at her watch. "He should be here any minute now." "Haven’t the police found your old man yet?" Mrs McIntosh asked. "If they had, I wouldn’t be looking so cheerful, would I?" said Mrs Gibson. "I’ll put the kettle on; we can have a cup of tea while we’re waiting." She had just finished pouring the boiling water into the teapot when the Chatterjee brothers arrived. She let them into the house and showed them upstairs. "There it is," she said. She gave them the key to the flat. "You needn’t bother to bring it back here," she said. "I’ll call at your shop tomorrow." The sharp-eyed Mrs Probert who lived next door just happened to look out of the window as the Chatterjees were carrying the large, brassbound cabin trunk out to their van. She dashed out of her house and up to Mrs Gibson’s front door just as Mrs Gibson was about to close it. "Are you moving?" she asked breathlessly. "No," said Mrs Gibson. "Just making a bit more room – getting rid of some junk that’s been cluttering up the house far too long. Come in and have a cup of tea." The two women went into the kitchen. Mrs McIntosh had poured out two cups of tea, and was just taking her first sip. "You’ve made this very strong, Ada," she said. "You could stand your spoon up in it!" Mrs Probert picked up the second cup and had a taste. She winced and said, "If I give my husband tea this strong he always says, ‘What is this – tea or embalming fluid?’" Mrs McIntosh laughed. "What an idea!" she said. "You can’t embalm a body in tea, can you?" "I think you can if you know how," said Mrs Gibson.