Librarians by Peter Lingard, a glass of flat beer

 I fancied Philomena until I found out she was a librarian. I told my mate, Jasper about her and her job and he said I was stupid. ‘Ya read books, dontcha?’

‘Well, yeah, but …’

‘But nothing. Get in there.’

I rummaged through my wallet and found an old library card. Was it still valid? Is the issue date in the code at the bottom? It bears an instruction to report its loss to the library. That could be an excuse to go to the place. Rather than get a book?  I didn’t see an expiry date. If I get a couple of books, won’t Philomena see in her computer that I haven’t taken one out in years? Should I apply for a new card? No, she’d go into her computer and come up with the same info on me. It has to be the reported loss routine. It was weak, but it’d get me in the door.

 Why hadn’t I rummaged through my wallet before? What else is in there? A telephone number without a name – how old is that! A bakery’s loyalty card. Two hundred-dollar notes. I must do this more often.

               

‘Excuse me, I want to report a lost library card.’

‘Well, you’ve come to the right place.’ The brunette’s eyes narrowed. ‘Wagner, isn’t it?’

‘Er, yes. Do we know each other?’

‘Not exactly know, but I gave you my number a couple of years ago and you never called.’

I took out my wallet and extracted the paper with the number. ‘Would this be it?’

The librarian smiled. ‘Yes. How come you kept the number, if you didn’t want to call?’

I shrugged. ‘To be honest, the paper got stuck behind a baker’s loyalty card and I’m not even sure what I was doing with that.’

‘Really. So, you kept your bakery card but lost your library card? Not sure we can trust you with a replacement of such an important document.’

‘Perhaps if I take you out to dinner, I might be able to convince you of my ability to look after things. I did keep your number safe for a couple of years.’

‘Hah! Have a big presentation in mind, do you?’

‘No, just a pleasant evening. Are we on?’

‘How about Friday?’

‘Friday’s good.  By the way, does Philomena work here?’

‘How would you know about Philomena? Yes, she’s a friend of mine. That’s what all this is about, isn’t it? You came hoping you’d meet her and you got me, someone who recognises you. Put a spanner in the works, did I?’

‘No, not at all. I, er …

‘Never mind, Wagner. Your card will be ready in a few minutes, if you’d care to wait.’

I look at my watch. ‘I can’t, I’m afraid. Can I pick it up tomorrow?’

‘Of course. Philomena will be on the desk then. I’ll tell you finally showed up to ask me out.

About the author

  Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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Home by Peter Lingard, a glass, no a bottle of bubbly

‘Forget the new carpet and curtains, Cara. We’re going home.’

‘We’re going back to Rome?’

Manchester, Cara. Manchester, my home, and the home of cotton shirts, revolution, meat pies and fish and chips - not that I’ll be eating any of it.’

‘No, no, nooooo Roberto. I want to go to Rome. Can’t you play for Roma again?’

‘I’m going up in the world, not down. Manchester City are going to pay me a hundred-thousand pounds per week. How do ya like them apples?’

‘Apples?’

‘Better apples than trying to work out how many euros it is. Manchester’s a great city, full of history. You’ll love it.’

‘More history than Rome?’ She flicked her long black tresses to emphasize her point. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Different history. You didn’t want to come to Hoffenheim, did you? But we’ve had fun here for the last two years, haven’t we, Bella?’

‘Not a lot. I came here because Roma sold you, not because it’s like Rome, or Parma or Napoli or any other Italian city with a football club. Why can’t you play for one of them?’

‘I’m under contract, Chiara, you know that. I have to go to whatever club bought me. We’ll buy a nice home and you’ll be able to decorate it any way you want from top to bottom. You’d like that. You could even change the toothpaste we use.’

‘But it rains so much in Manchester. It’s famous for its rain. I want blue skies and sunshine. Rain is bad for my hair and all that industry must be bad for my complexion.’

‘No. Cara. English weather is perfect for your hair and complexion. It’s famous for it. English women have the best skin of any country in the world, believe me. I learned that at school.’

She put on a spoilt air. ‘I don’t believe it. Anyway, how far is Manchester from London?’

‘Depends on where you want to go. A couple of hours plus by car, if I remember.’

‘Mama mia! Un paio d’ore! You are crazy. How could I live in such a place? No, Roberto, I shall go back to Rome and my family.’

 

When I returned to the living room, after giving Chiara time to mull things over while I packed a suitcase, I found her was watching television.

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘There’s a flight to Manchester we need to catch. My agent will be waiting. He’ll be anxious to see me put my signature on the new contract so he can get his fifteen per cent.’

Chiara turned down the volume and swivelled to face me. ‘Listen, Roberto,’ she said coyly. ‘I don’t want to live in Manchester or even in England. I am Italian.  Please don’t go.’

‘Did you hear how much I’ll be earning? When my football career is over, I’ll have enough money for us to live anywhere you want. But I have to earn it first. So, I’m going. If you don’t want to come with me,’ I was wary before uttering my next words, but I blundered on, ‘I’ll expect you gone when I return in a couple of days to shut this place down. Capiche?’

Her face turned to stone. ‘Gone, huh. No problem. Like they say, it’s been real. I’m going home to bella Roma and I’m taking the car with me. How would a Lamborghini look in stinky, rainy Manchester anyway?’

She could have the car. It was only worth two or three weeks, perhaps four, of my new pay-packet anyway. ‘The are plenty of beautiful cars in Manchester, Chiara. Tell me, given you moved with me from Rome to Hoffenheim, why is it such a big deal to move on the Manchester?’

‘Why? Because I got smart, that’s why! Capiche?’

There was no comeback to that. At least I’ll get a proper set of wheels and continue using the same toothpaste.  

About the author

  

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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Hard Rubbish by Peter Lingard, a glass of champagne

Ramona meant to walk through the court, across the vacant plot and into the park.  However, piles of hard rubbish awaiting collection caught her eye.  There was an old peddle car showing rust undoubtedly accumulated in a garden shed.  She felt for the mother who must have resisted ejection for as long as was practically possible.  Had the boy left home and his parents had a clean-out of his no-longer treasured childhood possessions?  What was that expression?  Something to do with becoming a man and putting aside childish things.  Perhaps. 

She moved on and saw an old, heavy computer and its equally heavy monitor.  She remembered when monitors had been called a visual display units.  Who thinks these things up?  There was a bedside table.  Didn’t they come in pairs?  Where was the other one?  Had somebody come by, taken one and rejected the other?  Why?  Maybe there wasn’t enough room in the car?  Are they going return for this second, matching piece?  Was that a pogo-stick?  How long’s it been since she saw one of those?  Do kids have pogo-sticks today?  She hadn’t seen one in a long while.

            On the next nature strip stood a brown leather settee.  Are they still called settees?  Couch, sofa, lounger?  The colour had changed.  Colours. She saw many different colours, some light, some dark - several shades of dark.  The arms were the darkest, well, the tops of the backrest were dark too.  How many people had rested their heads against it?  It was a lot like the one she and Juan had had at the start.  They’d picked it up from the street.  They’d been starting out and couldn’t afford much furniture.  They’d planned to replace it once they had the money, but they’d never got round to it. They had made love on it that first night.  She felt a tinge of excitement in recalling the event.  She had found the raised edges of the seat cushions too uncomfortable and had thrown them onto the floor. 

            Afterwards, she’d been convinced that they’d conceived a child and had told Juan.  He’d laughed and asked how she could possibly know that.  They’d picked up the cushions and had been about to replace them when they found a penny lying on the settee’s seat.  Juan had said it must be an omen and if they had a baby girl as a result of that night’s loving, they’d call her Penny.

            They hadn’t got rid of the settee until Penny moved to Adelaide with her husband and Juan had helped pack the settee into the U-Haul along with the newlywed’s meagre possessions.

            She circled the nature strip, inspecting the piece, irrationally wondering if there might be some remembered mark.  But her settee was in Adelaide wasn’t it?  She smiled at her foolishness as she headed to the park.

About the author

 

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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Supply Chain by Peter Lingard, an ice-cold Schnapps,

It was my first day in a new job. Management had chosen me, so I was confident in being the right man. My eyes swept the room and I saw nervousness in the eyes of some as I strode to my office in the corner. Not a windowed corner, but still a corner. I wasn’t here to grow the company directly, just manage the office. I couldn’t care less about what the company’s product was, only that the office ran smoothly and efficiently. My last job had been despatching trucks around the city and state. If you can handle truck drivers, you can handle anyone. This gig should be a trip.

              I stopped at my office door and turned to face everyone. I asked them to interrupt whatever they were doing and pay attention. ‘I’m Dave Cratchit, the new office manager. I’m not concerned with the plastic ducks this company manufactures but with the running of this office. I’ve been advised that one problem is the constant disappearance of office supplies. This will stop. Anyone found stealing will be fired on the spot. I’ll be looking at who signed for said supplies, that is, who lost (I raised my hands and wiggled my first two fingers on each one) a lot. If you find you have superfluous staplers, et al, return them to my office by nine tomorrow and we’ll start out with clean sheets.’

‘Signed?’ a woman said. ‘We don’t sign for stuff.’

‘Well, you do now. Just return all your excesses by nine and we’ll be right.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

             When I got to my office the next morning, it was as if a tsunami of office supplies had surged in. My seat was covered in memory sticks, paperclips, staples and a letter opener that someone probably hoped I’d sit on. My desk was awash with computer mice, mousepads, cables, chargers, Stickum pads and a keyboard with a dab of red nail polish on the letters f,u (two dabs), c,k,y and o.

Someone had made a notice board in the shape of a triangle with requests for new computers, service and parts. The most urgent at the apex.

When I turned to look at the office, I found everyone silently staring at me.

We had sent messages to each other and now we all knew where we stood.

 

About the author  

 

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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Grandma’s Christmas Cake by Peter Lingard, egg nog

Grandma puts the cake on the table

then retreats to the hot kitchen.

Feeling the stress of Christmas catering,

she can’t witness the cake being cut.

 

She gathered the fruits in their seasons,

carefully dried them and set them aside.

Then, on a cold and bitter January day

she mixed and baked the holiday loaf.

Her creation dwelled in dry darkness

of brown paper and an airtight tin.

Fruit, eggs, nuts and drops of whiskey

maturing and growing full flavour. 

 

On Christmas Eve, she unwrapped the paper

and searched cake’s surface for flaws.

She spread a thick layer of almond paste,

then a snow-white crown of icing.

 

 

Eldest grandson has a duty.

Before the opening of presents,

he stands on a chair in the pantry

and rummages for the special platter

that sees daylight once a year.

When found, it’s dusted, washed and dried

and graced with a large white doily

before the cake is carefully placed on top. 

 

The knife is thrust downward

and back to make the first cut.

Turn the cake around, slice it again

and the moment of truth has arrived.

 

Grandma’s ears are alert as she waits

to hear diners assess her skill.

She grips eldest grandson’s shoulders,

prays the centre will be good and firm,

the cake moist and full of rich flavour. 

 

About the auhtor 

 

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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Assembly Required by Peter Lingard, strong lemonade

Everybody except Jones drank sparingly and acted with decorum at the office party on Christmas Eve afternoon.  Decorum is the last thing Tim and I like at parties, so, once we persuaded Melanie and April to accompany us, we high-fived our friends and important bosses, wished them whatever they wished for themselves, and headed for the bars.  The girls like a bit of fun so it was no surprise when they went topless at Pete’s Place around nine-thirty.  Their frivolity earned them too much attention and so Tim and I, heroes without hidden agendas, had to help them escape.  Well, Tim didn’t have any hidden agenda – he’s married with kids.  I hoped to get horizontal, vertical or askew with either or both of our companions.  When it turned out that the girls were inseparable, I told Tim to tell his wife not to expect me too early the next day. 

             June, Tim’s wife, said I looked bad.  ‘You look like death warmed up, Harry.’

            ‘I feel like it, too.  How’s Tim?’

            ‘The same.  Merry Christmas, by the way.’

            ‘Oh yeah!  Sorry.’  I gave her a hug.  ‘Merry Christmas to you, too.’

            ‘Phew!’ she said.  ‘You smell like a brewery.’

‘I smell like Christmas cheer,’ I said.

She gave me an insincere smile.  ‘A rose by any other name.’

The children realised I was at the door.  ‘Harry!’ they cried with painful enthusiasm.

‘Shhhhh,’ I said, ‘you’ll wake the baby Jesus.’

‘That’s silly,’ said Diana.  ‘They killed him last Easter.’

‘They couldn’t kill him before he was born,’ said Charles.  ‘They’ll kill him next Easter.’

‘Actually, they claim it was a few years later,’ I said as I handed each a present.  Charles looked askance at his sister’s much larger gift.  ‘Size isn’t everything,’ I said.

They ooohed and aaahed and said ‘thank you’.

‘That has to be assembled,’ I told Diana.  ‘I’ll help you do that later.  Okay?’

‘Okay,’ she said with a disappointed air.

I shook hands with Tim’s dad and kissed his mum on the cheek.  I found Tim in the kitchen, sweat rolling down from under a floppy red hat with a damp white fringe.

‘That’ll improve the taste of the gravy.’

‘You’re late.’

‘I did say.’

‘You know how to carve?’

‘I’ve been known to.’

‘So do a guy a favour and take that thing apart, will ya.’

I found the tools and started slicing.

‘How’d it go with April and Melanie?’

‘Good.  They’re a fun couple.’

‘I don’t wanna know.’

‘You just asked,’

‘I know I did.  But now I don’t want to know.’

‘Bad day?’

‘Nah.  How can Christmas Day be a bad day?’

‘But you don’t wanna know.’

‘No.’

‘Okay.’

 

‘Speech.  Speech.’

‘I just want to say how nice it is to have friends and family here on Christmas Day.  It’s been a good year.  We paid off the mortgage, had a great vacation...’

‘The turkey’s getting cold.’

‘Come on, Dad.  We wanna eat.’

‘Yes, well, as consensus of opinion seems to be I should shut up, I will.  Dig in folks.’

 

‘This wine is good.’

‘I’m glad you like it.  I’ve got some special port for afters.’

 

‘Jeeze, I’m stuffed.  Great meal, June.  Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome, Harry.  Why don’t you plonk yourself on the settee next to mum and relax.’

‘I’ll help you clear away first.  Tim and I’ll do the washing up.’

‘Did you check that with Tim?  What am I saying?  I accept.  Thanks.  I’m so glad you offered before you saw the kitchen.’

 

‘Come on, Uncle Harry.  You said you’d help put my pressie together.’

‘I know I did, Di but you gotta let me take five.  I’ll get to it later.  You’ve got plenty other stuff that Santa bought.’

‘Leave him be,’ said June.

‘Muum!’

‘Leave him.  Go on; off with you.’

‘Thanks, June.’

 

‘The taxi’s here, Harry.’

‘What?  What time is it?’

‘Ten.  The children are in bed.  You owe Diana a date to assemble her present.’

‘Oh, God.  What must she think?  Next weekend?’

‘Next weekend’s New Year, Harry.  I think you’re celebrating with Melanie and April.’

‘What?  Oh yeah.  Well, the weekend after that.  I promise.’

 

Melanie and April weren’t around the following Christmas.  Celebrating Christmas Eve with Tim didn’t happen as one, it was a Saturday and two, June made him and the kids attend a carol singing session.  Poor sod.  I had acquired a semi-permanent companion who preferred sober celebrations.  Semi-permanent because she wanted us to be permanent and I didn’t.  She told her friends she was working on me and felt she’d achieved some success when I invited her to Tim and June’s place on Christmas Day. 

‘You actually don’t smell like a brewery,’ June said by way of greeting.  She turned to the semi-permanent one.  ‘You must be doing something right.  Merry Christmas!’

The kids laughed and clapped when I gave them presents that the semi-permanent one had helped select.  Tim said she had a nice arse.  June said she was delightful.  The woman was amassing points at an alarming rate.

After the meal and after the semi-permanent one and I washed and dried the dishes, Tim unpackaged some indoor fireworks.  ‘Where’s Diana?’ he said.  She won’t want to miss these.’

‘She went down to the cellar,’ Charles informed him.

‘I’ll go and tell her,’ I said.  I strode to the door, opened it and proceeded down the carpeted steps.  Diana was on her knees singing ‘Happy Birthday to you,  Happy Birthday to you’ in her sweet melodic voice and I thought she was singing to the baby Jesus until I saw she was looking at the yet unassembled gift I had given her last Christmas.

 

About the author  

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English.

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

A Bumper Christmas by Peter Lingard, a glass of port

After lunch at an out-of-town restaurant, three women window-shopped along the small town’s main thoroughfare. One window displayed a lone dollhouse made of white wood.  The structure was like houses Bettina had seen near the water’s edge in communities dependent on the fishing industry. The widow’s walk on the scaled down version went completely around the top of the building.  A central flagpole jutted from below the balustrade that surrounded the widow’s walk.  The main entrance had stained glass windows.  Curved over the door was the name, Cape Cod Cottage.  There were small white lace curtains on the inside of every window and miniature green painted shutters on the outside.  The front door and all window shutters were the same green color.  Bettina immediately thought the toy dwelling would be the perfect Christmas gift for Katie, the eldest of her two young daughters.  But then she paused; do today’s techno-savvy children still want such toys?  Still, if Katie rejected it, she’d keep it herself.

 

Bettina’s friends continued along the high street, saying they’d either see her later or stop at the store on their way back. Bettina expected to find other dollhouses in the slightly decrepit store but she found the place bare, except for a table on which parts of a new construction lay.  The place smelled of wood and paint. Curled shavings and sawdust lay on the bare floorboards. An old man appeared from the back of the store, presumably in response to the old-fashioned bell activated by the opening and closing of the door from the street.  The white-haired man was drying his hands on a dirty towel. A well-worn leather tool holder surrounded his waist.

‘What can ah do for ya?’ he asked in a slightly gruff voice.  There was a hint of a Scots accent worn away by time absent from the country that must have once been his home.

‘Is the dollhouse in the window for sale?’

‘Nope.  That one is waiting ta be picked up by the buyer.’

Bettina thought the man was going to say something else but he looked down at his hands, inspected his fingers and, obviously satisfied with their cleanliness, threw the towel into the corner of the room where it landed on the floor amidst wood shavings.  He raised his eyes to look inquiringly at Bettina. 

She felt intimidated.  ‘Can I order a dollhouse exactly like the one in the window?’ she asked, half expecting the man to show displeasure at her request.

‘It’ll tack me three months ta mack it, what with the orders I already have.’

‘That’s okay’ Bettina told him. Slowly exhaling her tension.  ‘Just as long as I have it in time for Christmas.  It’ll be a present for my daughter.’

‘I wouldna say three months if I didna mean it.  Today is the eighteenth of September, so it’ll be ready on the eighteenth of December.  Not a day earlier or later.  It will then sit in ma window until you pick it up.  The cost is five-hundred dollars.  Cash only, mind.  Half now and half when you pick it up.’

It would be an expensive gift, but it was an exquisite model house.  Bettina took out her wallet.

 

Bettina returned to the shop on the eighteenth of December and saw what she hoped was her dollhouse in the window. It looked exactly like the one she had so admired three months before. As she entered the store she found the man sat at the table carefully carving a curving staircase.

‘So ya came back exactly on the day, then.  With nary a ‘phone call?’

‘You were so emphatic about the date I didn’t feel a need to check up on you.’

‘Ah could ha bin run down by a bus or something.’ The man smiled, his accent suddenly becoming thicker.

‘True.  That never occurred to me.  Is that my house in the window?’

‘It is.’ The man slid back two bolts that kept the window backing in place and folded the panels to one side.  ‘Where’s ya car?’

‘It’s out front. I’ll open the boot for you.’

‘Before ya do that perhaps ya might like to give me the rest of ma money.’

‘Of course.  I forgot, sorry.’  Bettina withdrew the money from her bag.

‘Ya should never forget about the money woman.  Else, what’s it all for?’

 

Other Christmas gifts littered the floor of Bettina’s and her husband Kenny’s wardrobes and so the doll-house would have to remain in the boot of Bettina’s car until after her daughters went to bed on Christmas Eve.  A toy pram to be purchased for Kristy would soon join it and that thought caused Bettina to suffer another pang of doubt.  Will Kristy want a doll’s pram?  She had dolls, so why not?

 

When Bettina went shopping, bags of groceries and children shared the back seat of the car.  They first thought it amusing but the novelty soon wore off and the inevitable question was asked.

‘Why can’t you put all this stuff in the boot, mummy?’

‘Because the boot is broken.  It’ll get fixed soon but for now you’ll have to put up with the inconvenience.’

 

On Christmas Eve morning Bettina helped feed a traditional Christmas dinner to the city’s homeless people.  The affair went on longer than anticipated and Bettina worried she’d be late for afternoon tea at the city’s leading hotel with her two best friends.  After the last pot was stowed away in the school’s kitchen Bettina looked at her watch and saw she should have been at the hotel five minutes ago. 

She dialed Nadine’s number, turned on the ignition and spun the wheel as she speedily backed out of her parking space. 

Nadine’s voice came on the line.  ‘Hello?’

‘Oh, hi Nadine.  I just called to tell you…’

Thump.  The car stopped dead after hitting some unseen object.

‘Shit!’

‘Bettina?  What happened?  Are you OK?’

‘I’ve just hit something with my car.  Hang on while I get out and take a look.’

Still holding the phone to her ear, she went to the back of the car she saw the tree stump she’d hit.  A short protruding limb had smashed into the boot’s lock. ‘Oh this is too much!’ she yelled into the ‘phone.  ‘Just a sec.’

Bettina got into her car and moved it forward a couple of metres.  She then tried to insert the key into the boot lock but was unable to do so.

‘This is just fucking perfect,’ she shouted into the ‘phone.  ‘Katie’s dollhouse and Kristy’s pram are in the boot and the boot is broken.  What the hell am I going to do?’

‘Jimmy the boot?’ Nadine suggested half-heartedly.

‘No, don’t do that.  That’s just the excuse her insurance company would need to refuse the claim.’ Bettina heard Pauline interject.

‘Who’s your insurance company?’ Nadine asked. ‘Maybe you could call them.’

‘For Christ’s sake,’ screamed Bettina, ‘It’s three-thirty on Christmas Eve.  They’re all partying or have gone home for the holiday already.’

‘What about Kenny?’ Pauline asked.  ‘Has Bettina called him?’

‘That’ll get me nothing but grief.  All my caring husband will want to know is how much damage was done to the car.  He’ll probably suggest that we give the girls each a note telling them that they had another Christmas present coming once the boot has been fixed.  That could be half way through January!’

‘Listen.  Will the car get you here?’ Nadine wanted to know.

‘Yeah, I think so.  Why?’

‘Come and have your afternoon tea.  Calm down a little.  We’ll work something out.’

 

Bettina was a little breathless as she sat at the table.

‘Here, I ordered you a glass of port to sooth your nerves,’ said Pauline as she pushed the glass across the table.

‘Thanks.’ Bettina smiled in gratitude.

After a sip, she told the two women she had called her insurers only to hear a recording state the company had closed for the holidays, and one should dial such-and-such a number in an emergency or call again after the third of January.  ‘I can hardly call my situation an emergency, so do you have any brain waves.’

‘Sort of.’ Nadine grinned.  ‘You must have heard of someone asking if there’s a doctor in the house.  Well, I propose we give our sexiest smiles to the Maître D’ and ask him to page any insurance assessor who might be in the hotel.’

‘You must be joking!’ Bettina nearly spluttered her second sip of port across the table.

‘Why not?  It’s worth a try.’

 

The waitress induced the Maître D’ to visit their table.  ‘We have rather a strange request,’ Pauline ventured.  ‘We’re in urgent need of an insurance assessor and wondered if there’s one in the hotel.’

‘An insurance assessor?’

She nodded.  ‘Yes, an insurance assessor.’

‘And how would I know that?’

‘Well, don’t you have one of those boys with the jaunty hat who stroll around the hotel with someone’s name chalked on a miniature blackboard?  A page?’

The man smiled.  ‘The days of boys with jaunty hats are long gone.  We do however have a modern day version. What do you suggest we write upon his miniature blackboard?’

‘Insurance assessor.’

‘Insurance assessor?’

‘Well, yes, if you can.’

The Maître D’ nodded.  ‘I’ll see what can be done’

‘You’re so kind.’

‘It must be the season.’

 

A short while later a young man dressed in the hotel’s livery, wound his way through the bar, lobby and dining room calling out, ‘Looking for an insurance assessor.  Insurance assessor.  Any insurance assessor.’

 

The Maître D’ arrived at their table with a thin, bespectacled woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties.  Behind them the young man carried a chair.

‘May I introduce Mrs. Kennedy?  I’m advised that this good lady works in the claims department of one of the country’s leading insurance companies.’

Bettina ordered another pot of tea and another round of scones and cream.  ‘Thank you for responding to our call,’ she said.  ‘Would you like something a little stronger to drink?’

‘No, thank you.  How could I refuse such a dramatic plea?  And that handsome young man clearly had no idea who or what he was summoning.  What is it you want to speak to me about?’

Bettina told the tale of the gifts trapped in the damaged boot of her car.  ‘I have to get them out of the car tonight but I don’t want to give my insurance company an excuse to refuse the claim because they weren’t given the chance to view and assess the damage.’

‘Well, speaking as a medical claims assessor, I suggest we take the car to the emergency room at the local hospital,’ the woman said with a grin.

‘You’re a medical person!’ The three women laughed.

‘At your service.’

They quickly calmed and Nadine asked, ‘Can you still help?’

‘Possibly.  Why don’t you show me the car?  I’ll take some pictures and give you my business card.’ She handed one to each of the three friends.

‘Then you can jimmy the boot and I’ll assist you with your claim in January.’

The three friends divvied up the money to cover the bill for tea and drinks and then they all went to the stricken car.

 

The children finally went to bed around nine-thirty. They placed a glass of milk and a plate of cookies under the tree, kissed the dog, then their parents, said goodnight and went up the stairs to bed.

‘Do you think you could get the kids to kiss the dog after they’ve kissed us in the future?’ Kenny asked his wife.

‘Hey, they’re your kids too.  Why don’t you take care of it?  ‘Fraid of what the dog might have been licking?’

‘I don’t even want to think about it.’

Bettina got up from the settee and went to the drinks cabinet to pour a generous measure of single malt whisky for her husband.

 

The dog was forgotten and the whisky half drunk.

‘Had a slight bump in the car today, hon.’

‘What!  How much damage?’

‘Oh, I’m fine.  The kids weren’t in the car at the time.  Just a little dent in the boot.  Nothing really.’

Her husband put down his drink, stood and strode through the kitchen to the garage door.  He yanked on the dangling brass chain that switched on the garage light and shuffled sideways in a crab-like motion towards the rear of the cramped area.

‘You have to be kidding me!  You call this a little dent?  There’s maybe a grand’s worth of damage here.  What the hell happened?’

Bettina told him.

‘Didn’t you call the insurance company?’

‘I did but they’d gone home for the holidays.’

‘Gone home!  What does someone do in an emergency?’

‘They gave an alternate number for emergencies, but this is hardly an emergency.’
‘That’s all right for you to say.  You don’t pay the bills around here.’
‘What bills?  It’ll be an insurance claim.’

‘Yeah, but you know they’ll put the premiums up next year.’

‘Kenny, we won’t be making a claim until January so next year is thirteen months away.  Stop bitching.’

‘Okay, okay.  Can you manage without the boot until January?’

‘That’s the next thing I want to talk about.  I need you to jimmy the boot open.’

‘Are you nuts?  They’ll never pay out on a claim on which they weren’t given the opportunity to view the damage.  The boot’ll have to stay like it is until January.’

‘Kenny, darling.  I’ve taken care of that.  I found a claims agent who took photographs and gave me her card so that when the time comes we’ll be able to show the insurance company the extent of the original damage and have the statement of one of their kind to back it up.’

‘Does she work for the same company?’

‘No, but she’s still an insurance assessor.’

‘Auto claims?’

‘Er, no.  She’s in medical claims.’

‘Oh, okay.  You found some bimbo who works for a different company in the medical claims department who guarantees our insurance company, auto claims division, will pay the claim without any hassle.  Great!  I don’t know why I was so worried.’

‘Stop being such a prima-donna, Ken and jimmy the goddamn boot!’

‘Tell me, Bet, how will you explain to the insurance company why the pictures of the damaged boot look completely different from the boot itself?’

‘We’ll take more pictures.’

‘But what does that do to the statement from the medical claims woman?’

‘Just jimmy the boot, Ken.  We’ll claim for the total damage.  Given that the boot was so damaged what possible difference will it make if the thing has been jimmied open?  The lock is shot anyhow.’

‘All right.  All right.  But don’t blame me if the bastards refuse to pay.’

 

The unharmed dollhouse and pram joined the cookies and milk.  The couple brought gifts from their wardrobes and placed as many as possible under the tree.  Others spread onto the carpet.  Kenny finished his scotch while Bettina lefthandedly wrote a ‘thank you’ note from Santa and wondered if it was time to admit she was the Santa for their family. She ate the two biscuits, drank the milk and left the note, powdered with crumbs, on the plate.  

 About the author 

 Peter Lingard, plingaus@bigpond.com, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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