The Squashed Man Who Married a Dragon (12 page)

I think all women can do miracles if they really want to. It's a sort of second string to their bow, to help even up on the male superiority bit – making the sexes nearly on a par!

The Fairy Godmother has often pulled the odd miracle or two out of the bag, when needed; saving me from hours of darkness and despair. Such as getting unstuck the zip on my trousers or fleece jacket. I stand before her like a small boy, just as I did when my mother used to moisten a corner of her handkerchief (with her mouth) to remove some smudge from my little face – when we arrived somewhere important.

Notice my mother didn't ‘spit' on her handkerchief, my mother was a saint, a gentle, quiet, polite soul – who qualified as a veterinary surgeon, but did not practice for long. She bore three boys, made chocolate logs for Christmas time, loved flower arranging and gardening. She was really a little too generous, putting others first and herself last, always, always. My two brothers, Martin and Neil ungallantly nicknamed her – ‘Mindless Mary'.

She had her golden opportunity – as we saw it – when she was out shopping one day, and the F W Woolworths sign fell down catching her a glancing blow to the head. Taken into the store, a chair was found, a cup of tea brought to her and a concerned manager fussed round. Instead of lying on the floor, moaning or doing impersonations of passing to and fro from this world to the next, she insisted on saying she was alright…give me a minute or two and I'll be fine…. sorry to cause so much trouble! We boys could see the money making opportunity thrown away…Woolworth's sued for thousands, near death injuries, compensation could have been enormous.

Vicki tugs and pulls, finally fixes my trouser zip – what would I have done had it happened in the middle of town? Other women do miracles too, like the young girl in Tesco with multi coloured hair. I understand this non-canonised or unbeatified sainted creature does miracles on a regular basis – as a matter of course for supermarket regulars. People turn to her like I did when the cash machine only spewed out thirty pounds and not the fifty that was needed. The receipt showed fifty, I've checked and rechecked, flicking the twenty pound note, still only one ten and one twenty.

There on the cigarette and lottery counter next to the entrance is her shrine. At first glance she looks much like most other girls with hair of many colours and possible other art work. Never judge miracle workers, they come in all shapes and sizes – I say to myself after years of Rotary servitude.

I explain my problem. ‘Let me see the money', a fat lot of good that will do – says my confused and ungrateful mind, with a flick of her fingers – a wonderful glow of golden halo round her head, and ‘Hey Presto' the twenty pound note turns into two. ‘Oh, thank you' I cry ‘Thank you so much' it must happen so often, a routine sort of miracle – she didn't even bother to pour scorn on me – a gentle saint as well.

My old school friend, Tony Baker (jeweller, gemologist) died recently, I believe he wanted to go. Helen, his wife, had died a year or so before, and Tony who always smoked and drank to excess, continued to do so at a suicidal rate. I can't say I blame him his health had some very serious setbacks, and no amount of exercise or good living would have saved him. This man was mad and generous in even proportions, kind, eccentric, impulsive, and strongly self opinionated, above all a very dear friend.

The last month before he died, I went to see him. We guessed this might be our last talk. So we rambled on about all sorts of things. One of his almost unbelievable escapades was to go to South America with a wad of dollars to buy some ‘stones' from source. It was Brazil and emeralds, but on his own, not speaking Portuguese, no guide or protection, and dealing with dodgy, potentially evil hombres, in the back of beyond as well! Then to come away unscathed, not mugged, murdered or swindled, with a pocketful of uncut emeralds is quite remarkable.

Now bearing in mind Tony had more cars in his life time, than most people have hot baths! I asked him ‘what was the best car you ever had?' Quick as a flash he said a Jensen F. F a great car, but it was a bit the worse for wear and needed some work done. So what happened to it?

Tony and Helen went to a party, somewhere local, and he swapped his car at the party. They drove home in an Aston Martin D.B. 2/4 convertible (now an exceptionally expensive car). Sounds almost too strange to be true. What happened to the Aston? I asked ‘Oh he said…it was in a worse condition than the Jensen and I couldn't afford to repair it either.' I often thought about this and at his funeral I asked Bob, a mutual friend of very many years, about this story. ‘Oh yes' said Bob, and called over two friends, who were also at the gathering. They both confirmed every detail.

Helen was special, she had a serene, beauty about her, a warm engaging way of talking. I imagine that she could explode like Vicki, if provoked but I always remember her laughter and fun. Also and never to be forgotten, the largest diamond I ever saw, as befits the wife of a jeweller like Tony.

It was a ‘cushion cut' stone somewhere near or about five carats, I think. The odd thing was, that after they had both gone, I found out they'd never insured it. The premium was just too high, and in some ways its value brought nightmares. It was quite fascinating to see the look on women's faces when they ‘clocked' this sparkler!

Later Bob and I were deep into our times together in the early sixties, one of the greatest favours I ever received from anyone came from Bob Highfield, (although now…. sometimes I'm not so sure ). How he came to be involved I can't remember but Vicki and her school friend Pam were camping, down in North Wales. Pam, I think had a crush on somebody, a Welsh lover boy. The thought of this character and a mate, meeting up with two pin-up girls, under canvas, demanded immediate action.

Bob, always a car enthusiast, worked for the main Ford agent in those days . He had bought himself an Austin Healey frog-eyed Sprite, and must have been itching to drive it further than to work and back. After work he drove up north to Wigan, collected me, we then set off for Criccieth. It was a long way, with no motor ways or fast dual carriage ways, we were pulled in for speeding, but not booked. Despite having no address, other than camping on a farm belonging to a farmer Jones, on a road leading in or out of Criccieth,…. against all odds we found the tent. For a moment I hesitated to investigate, in case, who knows what?

There was my girl, on her own, chaste and true…. . After very little time we had to set off back to Wigan then Bob back south to Warrington. I imagine he arrived home just before the sun came up. No matter how Vicki trashes and abuses me, I owe it to Bob's efforts….. to stick it out!

I used to think you had to be dead to be seventy (worse still) I realised that I had never been in total control of my own life, not properly. I'd always answered to somebody, and now the one, who I had voluntarily surrendered to (in part) is hacking away – destroying what's left of my control.

It was almost too late……. but a couple of pints of real ale and I began to see the solution….

I clapped my hands and called Victoria into my presence. ‘Now, hear this' I thundered (How much have you had to drink?) ‘We are now entering into ANTHONY TIME' (I thought that had always been the case). Ignoring all interruptions I explained the problem, the years of stolen freedom, and now before oblivion – I must have a bit of what's left (what about me – she cries). Being a wise and generous ruler I pointed out – she wasn't seventy or anywhere near it, but that when she was, she too could claim Victoria Time – logic or what!

I had tried in a half-hearted way to guide the ‘marriage ship', left to her own devices we would wallow in a sea of nothingness. Hasn't it been me who chose the expensive car, or me, who said let's have Chinese twice in one week. I really stuck to my guns – to have a conservatory; now used, enjoyed and much appreciated by all. Permission was sanctioned – ONLY on the condition that I clean all the glass – how shallow some people are.

It was just as bad when we downsized to this very small house, why can't a small house be modern, light and finished with a hint of the twenty first century? All the antique bits and pieces we had sold off or given to the girls and a few went to Spain. As a souvenir – we had dragged in our over thirty year old carpet, multi-coloured, Indian style patterned one. It was one of those carpets – that if you dropped something small it was lost forever. The lasting quality could not be questioned, no holes, nothing could destroy it. Time for a change – that was all.

On this slippery slope approaching old age I had a splurge and through my son-in-law, Wells, acquired a superb second-hand executive Mercedes Benz, this he carefully sourced and selected for me, without breaking the bank. What I loved about this car was the cream Napa leather seats, cream carpets – it oozed luxury and comfort.

I wanted our little ‘matchbox' home to be similar. For a while conflict raged – she and her coven of friends preached the impracticality of pale carpets, especially with young grandchildren. They didn't practice what they preached! All had pale carpets and survived. After proof of ten year stain guarantee, demonstrations of modern carpet cleaning technology, and the fight was won on the NATO ratified understanding that I would do all the hoovering, etc. What's new!

We got the deepest pile, most luxurious pale beige carpet Vicki would allow, with matching décor. The young grandchildren love this carpet; as soon as they arrive they throw themselves down, roll around and play on it, also on the cream leather suite and my cream leather relaxing chair. I've not heard an open acknowledgement that I could be right…not yet! – and then if I was wrong I don't care. It's my time now!

What is it about people that changes them from fairly normal human beings to become rule adhering Zealots, commandeering, losing all common sense and understanding? Uniforms are one of the key factors and a protected/official environment is another, but when people are patients and need guidelines the officials really come into their own.

I'd left the Health Centre with a sheaf of papers, a plastic bag, a plastic tube with sealed cap and an assortment of labels. We have three or four days to study these instructions before I had to comply with them. Struggling to comprehend what the contradictory and complicated instruction actually wanted, brought the power of the brains of the She God to help. Getting not a lot further than me, but not admitting it – she said why didn't you ask at the time?

Try to explain to anyone, that when given this sheaf of papers and its assorted odds and ends at a none too private reception desk, when hundreds of pressing people are behind you, and in a thirty second window of opportunity – add in my hearing problem, a receptionist who whispers and you might begin to understand. What goes in where I wanted to know – she folds inwards with embarrassment, mouths something – I can't get it. In a moment of sublime desperation she points to a word ‘faeces'. All is clear. ‘Shit' why not say so – there's not a person in the town who doesn't know the word.

Now I know what's required only the reality of getting A into B and sealing with C, labeling with D & E into plastic bag F, with further labeling, it should be a doddle. After all hundreds of thousands of people have met this task successfully. How do you catch the unmentionable sample A in full fall on to pieces of special paper a little larger than a postage stamp? I had considered using my gardening gloves, thick green suede-like, but after so many hard working times together I couldn't inflict this sort of ultimate fate on them beside which I might need them again. Next, why not with the aid of a piece of cardboard go out into the garden and like the French toilet in days of old – stand astride the target area and trust to nature and gravity. Wet weather, a weekend of constant rain and strong winds, put that out of the question.

At last in total secrecy the mission was completed except for the quick and easy task of returning the specimen and giving a small sample of my precious blood. There on time, but only just, a throng of people crowded in to Reception area. You can log in on a wall mounted screen, with my skill in this department and sabotaged by a young hyperactive cherub, untrained and out of control who dashed around everywhere, with a hand extended above its head, it flashes down touching my screen at the crucial moment. His charming mother mouths something about him being a handful, screams ‘Jason, cum ere – now' obedience isn't the boy's strongpoint.

Then it's my turn – where do I go first – deposit the sample or go for the blood test. The choice is mine – but return to the desk midway. I decide to deposit the specimen in the Treatment room. Here a small queue is kept at bay, corralled by a rope to give a privacy sanctioned area around the Treatment room reception desk. Once this clears it's my turn. I say good morning and gently place the requested item on the flat shelf, part of her desk/control centre. ‘Have I fitted all the labels correctly?' I ask. Within a second she is out of her chair, stormed back at full panic station, arms out in front and face contorted with fear. ‘No, not there, I mustn't touch them – contamination – oh my God.' Contamination – I hadn't realised that my minute bowel waste specimen was on a level with atomic radiation, the word contamination is the buzz word again and again. How can a tiny specimen in a sealed plastic tube inside a sealed plastic bag cause such eruption? At last she pulls herself together dons a pair of rubber gloves and very reluctantly and carefully examines the package. The bag is sealed but not exactly in the method prescribed. She adds masses of sellotape then notices one label has my name but not D.O.B. She savages me with this fact, and then goes off for some reason to a nearby cubicle. I check the other label on the tube, it's the National Health's own pre-printed label, it proudly bears not only my name but also my date of birth clear to all the world. She's back, ordering me to take it outside and put it in the box on the wall. People look at each other, wondering what sort of contagious plague I'm carrying. Phones are flashing pictures alerting the world – keep away from this man – Black Death returns to North East Lancs.

Making my shaking way back to the main reception desk – it's divided into two sections. The one I want has a ‘temporary closed sign' on it; the other side is deeply surrounded with a seriously long queue back to the entrance. Two women are hiding behind the closed sign, with a surge of courage I creep up to the sign and start to plead my case. Suddenly a voice says ‘You're the man I'm looking for' and out jumps a lovely young woman in whiter than white uniform, smiling with ‘happy happy eyes' – ‘Follow me' she says. Into her cosy room we go – she just gets lovelier and lovelier, such a polite friendly sort of warm feminine angel. This is like Hollywood but for real.

We chat for a few heavenly minutes then with my sleeve rolled up she takes a small sample of blood in a thoughtful and caring way – would she like to take more? I wonder – perhaps some from the other arm? – no pain what so ever, so professional and yet almost with a whiff of romance in the air.