Well, you asked for this. I promise I won't inflict much more on you. 
Here's a short story I wrote about 20 years ago. Again it's a true story and it was published in a Revenue magazine. I wrote several of these - for when I write my "James Herriot book" about my job (oh, if only....).
The telephone on our bank of desks rang. Jackie answered and nodded to me. “It’s her again,” she said, giving me the name and reference number. I sighed as I picked out the yellow concard from my drawer and found her file on a nearby shelf. I went to the enquiry counter.
“Hello, Bessie”, I said, trying to look enthusiastic.
On the other side of the high, wooden counter stood a middle-aged woman of about my height and as round as she was tall. She was dressed in a shapeless, grubby, floral dress topped by an equally shapeless red cardigan fastened with a large safety pin. On her head a brown beret was pulled, cloche-like, over her ears. On her feet she wore once-white pumps.
“What can I do for you today?” I asked her.
Bessie’s big, brown, sad eyes filled with tears. “I’m very sorry, madam,” she mumbled in her soft West Country accent. “I didn’t mean to do it and I’m really sorry. Really I am.” A large tear spilled from her dark lashes on to her flushed cheek and she wiped her nose, noisily, on her shiny sleeve.
I stared at her, bewildered. “What are you sorry for?” I asked. I was no longer fazed by her habit of addressing me, an 18 year old girl, as madam. Bessie had been “in service” all her working life and deference and humility had become part of her personality.
“Will I get into trouble, madam?” she asked, her voice, by now, barely a whisper. “Will I? It were a mistake. I never meant to do it, honestly, it just sort of happened.” The tears flowed and her expression was one of real fear.
“Bessie, what have you done?” I was beginning to worry. Had she been caught shop-lifting? Committed a murder? It must be something very serious to have got her so worked up.
From the depths of a pocket she produced a few tatty pieces of paper and, the tears now rolling fast down her face, handed them to me. Laying them on the counter I saw they comprised a P45 cut in two across the middle.
“Oh, it’s O.K.” I told her, my relief showing in my voice. “Just take the pieces to your new boss. It doesn’t matter, honestly, you can still read all the information.” I pushed the pieces back across the counter towards her. I knew that Bessie couldn’t read any of it but she got along in life without literacy.
She peered at my face like a frightened child, wanting to believe me but still not sure, sniffing loudly.
I had a flash of inspiration. “Just a minute,” I said and, grabbing the severed document, I darted into the post-room. Ignoring Mrs. Hughes’ offended stare I grabbed a couple of lengths of Sellotape and stuck the pieces together. Mrs. Hughes was the Clerical Assistant in charge of the Post Room and the antiquated wooden telephone switchboard with its maze of wires and the handle on its side. She ruled the room with a rod of iron and brooked no nonsense from even the highest Inspectors. I would be “spoken to” about pinching her sticky tape before the day was out.
I strode back to the counter and handed the cobbled item to Bessie. “There you are,” I said. “Good as new.”
An expression of relief spread over Bessie’s face as she picked up her P45, now back to a semblance of its original condition. Slowly a smile replaced her sad frown and revealed her remarkably beautiful, white teeth. “Thank you, madam,” she whispered. “You’re ever so kind.”
A week later she was back. I trotted off to the counter wondering what she had ripped up this time.
She stood smiling at me and, as I approached, held out a tattered brown envelope. “I thought you might like to see my wedding pictures,” she said. I knew she had married only a year ago at the age of 43.
“Oh, yes, I’d love to,” I lied, opening the envelope. Out spilled three, rather battered, black and white snapshots. I studied them carefully and smiled at her. “They’re lovely,” I said, handing them back. “Thanks for bringing them in to show me.” She beamed at me proudly as she stuffed the pictures back into place.
“Thank you, madam,” she said. “And I’ve started my new job and it was all right with the papers and they said it didn’t matter, just like you said.” She headed for the door, turned round again, bobbed a small curtsey and muttered another “Thank you, madam,” and went out. I could hazard a guess that she’d be back within a few weeks having lost yet another cleaning job and about to start a fresh one.
Back at my desk I described the photos to Jackie. They had all shown Bessie and her new husband, a thin man in a striped, double breasted “demob” suit and lop-sided NHS specs, standing outside a small church. Three or four other people comprised the group photo and all stood to attention as though on parade.
Bessie, radiant and flashing her improbably perfect teeth in a wide smile, was carrying an enormous bunch of chrysanthemums which she clutched, rigidly, under her ample bosom. I recognised the dress as the one she usually wore when she came to see me, though it was newer and looked clean. On her head she wore the cloche/beret and on her feet, matching those of her new husband, were her good old, reliable off-white pumps.
Here's a short story I wrote about 20 years ago. Again it's a true story and it was published in a Revenue magazine. I wrote several of these - for when I write my "James Herriot book" about my job (oh, if only....).
The telephone on our bank of desks rang. Jackie answered and nodded to me. “It’s her again,” she said, giving me the name and reference number. I sighed as I picked out the yellow concard from my drawer and found her file on a nearby shelf. I went to the enquiry counter.
“Hello, Bessie”, I said, trying to look enthusiastic.
On the other side of the high, wooden counter stood a middle-aged woman of about my height and as round as she was tall. She was dressed in a shapeless, grubby, floral dress topped by an equally shapeless red cardigan fastened with a large safety pin. On her head a brown beret was pulled, cloche-like, over her ears. On her feet she wore once-white pumps.
“What can I do for you today?” I asked her.
Bessie’s big, brown, sad eyes filled with tears. “I’m very sorry, madam,” she mumbled in her soft West Country accent. “I didn’t mean to do it and I’m really sorry. Really I am.” A large tear spilled from her dark lashes on to her flushed cheek and she wiped her nose, noisily, on her shiny sleeve.
I stared at her, bewildered. “What are you sorry for?” I asked. I was no longer fazed by her habit of addressing me, an 18 year old girl, as madam. Bessie had been “in service” all her working life and deference and humility had become part of her personality.
“Will I get into trouble, madam?” she asked, her voice, by now, barely a whisper. “Will I? It were a mistake. I never meant to do it, honestly, it just sort of happened.” The tears flowed and her expression was one of real fear.
“Bessie, what have you done?” I was beginning to worry. Had she been caught shop-lifting? Committed a murder? It must be something very serious to have got her so worked up.
From the depths of a pocket she produced a few tatty pieces of paper and, the tears now rolling fast down her face, handed them to me. Laying them on the counter I saw they comprised a P45 cut in two across the middle.
“Oh, it’s O.K.” I told her, my relief showing in my voice. “Just take the pieces to your new boss. It doesn’t matter, honestly, you can still read all the information.” I pushed the pieces back across the counter towards her. I knew that Bessie couldn’t read any of it but she got along in life without literacy.
She peered at my face like a frightened child, wanting to believe me but still not sure, sniffing loudly.
I had a flash of inspiration. “Just a minute,” I said and, grabbing the severed document, I darted into the post-room. Ignoring Mrs. Hughes’ offended stare I grabbed a couple of lengths of Sellotape and stuck the pieces together. Mrs. Hughes was the Clerical Assistant in charge of the Post Room and the antiquated wooden telephone switchboard with its maze of wires and the handle on its side. She ruled the room with a rod of iron and brooked no nonsense from even the highest Inspectors. I would be “spoken to” about pinching her sticky tape before the day was out.
I strode back to the counter and handed the cobbled item to Bessie. “There you are,” I said. “Good as new.”
An expression of relief spread over Bessie’s face as she picked up her P45, now back to a semblance of its original condition. Slowly a smile replaced her sad frown and revealed her remarkably beautiful, white teeth. “Thank you, madam,” she whispered. “You’re ever so kind.”
A week later she was back. I trotted off to the counter wondering what she had ripped up this time.
She stood smiling at me and, as I approached, held out a tattered brown envelope. “I thought you might like to see my wedding pictures,” she said. I knew she had married only a year ago at the age of 43.
“Oh, yes, I’d love to,” I lied, opening the envelope. Out spilled three, rather battered, black and white snapshots. I studied them carefully and smiled at her. “They’re lovely,” I said, handing them back. “Thanks for bringing them in to show me.” She beamed at me proudly as she stuffed the pictures back into place.
“Thank you, madam,” she said. “And I’ve started my new job and it was all right with the papers and they said it didn’t matter, just like you said.” She headed for the door, turned round again, bobbed a small curtsey and muttered another “Thank you, madam,” and went out. I could hazard a guess that she’d be back within a few weeks having lost yet another cleaning job and about to start a fresh one.
Back at my desk I described the photos to Jackie. They had all shown Bessie and her new husband, a thin man in a striped, double breasted “demob” suit and lop-sided NHS specs, standing outside a small church. Three or four other people comprised the group photo and all stood to attention as though on parade.
Bessie, radiant and flashing her improbably perfect teeth in a wide smile, was carrying an enormous bunch of chrysanthemums which she clutched, rigidly, under her ample bosom. I recognised the dress as the one she usually wore when she came to see me, though it was newer and looked clean. On her head she wore the cloche/beret and on her feet, matching those of her new husband, were her good old, reliable off-white pumps.
