The journey the station the streets the accents the bus station the driver the accents the stop the walk the church the service the car park the drive the roads the roundabouts the creme the service the curtains the wait the car park the drive the roads the lodge the cousins the voices the memories the car park the drive the traffic the lights the queues the detour the station the rain the train the rain the rain the rain…
A cynic would say that funerals are civilisation’s way of dealing with what is essentially a waste disposal problem, best solved by cremation. One in, one out – a conveyor belt for the dead, exploited by those in the business for a tidy sum that continues to rise. Leaving the house that morning, I was more concerned about the weather. And the trains. It was just about feasible. It meant catching the first train from Church Stretton and leaving Durham fairly early to catch the last train from Manchester. The trains were on time. Then a bus ride to the rendezvous, a church in the middle of a housing estate. Leaving the church, the guests exchanged nods and smiles and words of satisfaction that the resume of Sheila’s life had been a fitting tribute. But falling asleep that night, the eulogy was lost, the details dissolved in the day’s events which were strung together like scenes from a movie.
And the movie was rewound, replayed, rewound and replayed, over and over – the journey the station the streets the accents the bus station the driver the accents the stop the walk the church the service the car park the drive the roads the roundabouts the creme the service the curtains the wait the car park the drive the roads the lodge the cousins the voices the memories the car park the drive the traffic the lights the queues the detour the station the rain the train the rain the rain the rain....
Wednesday 22 January 2020
Thursday 9 January 2020
The Office Cleaner, by Peter Morford
About out a year ago I told Betty, the House Manager, that my office was not being cleaned properly.
“I’m sorry Mr Perkins, we’ve had a number of complaints lately. We’re going to change the cleaning contractors – they start next week. I’m sure you’ll see a difference.”
“I’m on holiday for a fortnight.”
“You’ll see an improvement then. Have a good time.”
Two weeks later I checked the bookshelves and the top of my filing cabinet. They were clinically clean. The phone smelled medicinal. The air was fresh and wholesome even though I had yet to open a window. I said as much to Betty.
“I’m glad you’re happy. We bend over backwards to serve our clients,”
“Really?”
“Of course.” She winked and rolled her eyes.
As I said, I try to work regular hours. On this occasion I was having deadline trouble.
The Telegraph had commissioned an article about a company in Glasgow and I had spent a few days researching and interviewing. It was going to be a late session. It must have been about 7 o’clock when my door burst open.
“I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t think you’d be in. Shall I come back later?”
She was about thirty, dressed in the smart uniform of our new cleaning contractors, with her vacuum cleaner, basket of dusters and polish. Her ID tag told me she was Mary Patel.
“No. Come on in. I’m almost finished.”
She started in my spare office while I rechecked my article and emailed it to the paper. As I was locking my desk and filing cabinet she came back. I said, “My office is much better since you took over.” She smiled.
“Goodnight Mrs Patel.”
“Goodnight Mr Perkins.”
For the next week or two I kept to my usual times and was away before the cleaner came. And then I had another tight deadline. I had been down to the café for a sandwich and returned to finish my article. There she was, sterilising the phone.
“I’m nearly finished,” she said.
I decided then that she was not quite the sort of person one associated with the term ‘cleaning lady.’ I may sound old fashioned, but I usually expected cleaners to be, well, more working class. She spoke properly, for a start and there was the lilt in the voice, as you would expect from a Patel. I decided that she was too old to be a student. Perhaps she worked three hours a night because she needed the money, while her partner (she wore no wedding ring) looked after the children.
“How long have you been working for OffKlene?” I asked.
“Two years.”
“Do you like the work?”
“It’s fine. It doesn’t stretch the mind. I’ve just read that,” she added, pointing at a new-published novel on my desk.
“Did you enjoy it?”
Within three minutes she had analysed the style, psycho- analysed the author, found an inconsistency in the plot and anticipated the sequel. Here, I thought, was a cultured, educated and beautiful woman.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,”
“Goodnight Mr Perkins.”
“I’m sorry Mr Perkins, we’ve had a number of complaints lately. We’re going to change the cleaning contractors – they start next week. I’m sure you’ll see a difference.”
“I’m on holiday for a fortnight.”
“You’ll see an improvement then. Have a good time.”
Two weeks later I checked the bookshelves and the top of my filing cabinet. They were clinically clean. The phone smelled medicinal. The air was fresh and wholesome even though I had yet to open a window. I said as much to Betty.
“I’m glad you’re happy. We bend over backwards to serve our clients,”
“Really?”
“Of course.” She winked and rolled her eyes.
As I said, I try to work regular hours. On this occasion I was having deadline trouble.
The Telegraph had commissioned an article about a company in Glasgow and I had spent a few days researching and interviewing. It was going to be a late session. It must have been about 7 o’clock when my door burst open.
“I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t think you’d be in. Shall I come back later?”
She was about thirty, dressed in the smart uniform of our new cleaning contractors, with her vacuum cleaner, basket of dusters and polish. Her ID tag told me she was Mary Patel.
“No. Come on in. I’m almost finished.”
She started in my spare office while I rechecked my article and emailed it to the paper. As I was locking my desk and filing cabinet she came back. I said, “My office is much better since you took over.” She smiled.
“Goodnight Mrs Patel.”
“Goodnight Mr Perkins.”
For the next week or two I kept to my usual times and was away before the cleaner came. And then I had another tight deadline. I had been down to the café for a sandwich and returned to finish my article. There she was, sterilising the phone.
“I’m nearly finished,” she said.
I decided then that she was not quite the sort of person one associated with the term ‘cleaning lady.’ I may sound old fashioned, but I usually expected cleaners to be, well, more working class. She spoke properly, for a start and there was the lilt in the voice, as you would expect from a Patel. I decided that she was too old to be a student. Perhaps she worked three hours a night because she needed the money, while her partner (she wore no wedding ring) looked after the children.
“How long have you been working for OffKlene?” I asked.
“Two years.”
“Do you like the work?”
“It’s fine. It doesn’t stretch the mind. I’ve just read that,” she added, pointing at a new-published novel on my desk.
“Did you enjoy it?”
Within three minutes she had analysed the style, psycho- analysed the author, found an inconsistency in the plot and anticipated the sequel. Here, I thought, was a cultured, educated and beautiful woman.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,”
“Goodnight Mr Perkins.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)