Polished Performance

I was at the office when there was a resounding, confident knock on the front door.

We were located off the City Centre in one of the last surviving Garden Squares with three built up sides and our premises facing south in a long terrace of 1830's built town houses.

We rarely had public callers and this justified the front door being locked and only opened on demand. It was also a bit of reassurance for the female staff who were often left for most of the day and with usually only two of them in attendance at any one time.

The central city area did seem to attract more than the usual compliment of what we referred to in politically correct speak as "characters".

In our part of town the Catholic Church ran a daily soup kitchen and the rough sleepers waited around amongst the benched seats in the landscaped square or scavenged in the bins for ciggy ends or discarded Bacardi Breezer bottles from the Saturday night revellers. Our senior typist, sat with a good elevated view from the first floor office, would occasionally scream and protest in disgust if a grubby bare bottom or full frontal exposure emerged from the vegetation where one of the urban congregation was engaged in relieving himself with no inkling of being watched. Our letterbox had a very strong sprung flap and I did live in fear of opening up one morning to find the severed penis of a homeless person on the sisal mat following an attempted urination.

In the next street one of the large, late Victorian buildings operated as a Drug Advisory Service and twitchy, furtive individuals would be seen making their way in that direction daily.

The narrow alleyway immediately behind my office had an old printers workshop which had been converted into basic flats. One of these was occupied by a prostitute whose periodic clients included a few eminent local lawyers, accountants and businessmen. The gentlemen callers were recognisable faces to our staff and I was aware that they ran a sweepstake about how long a particular session would last. On the face of it I am surprised that they managed to get any work done at all with the floor show visible from both elevations, involuntary or not.

Given the likely pedigree of any one person walking past our door in the distinctly dodgy environment I was quite pleased that the knock came from someone who looked quite normal.

The entrance hallway was three steps up from the pavement and a person even of average height appeared diminuitive by comparison. A man, in a dark two piece suit although a bit shiny and bare around the lapels and shoulders, looked up at me with a kindly face and asked by name for one of my colleagues. I apologised that he would not be in for a few hours.

The responding look of contempt initially disturbed me but I may have been mistaken as within a fraction of a second he was smiling and composed. I asked if I could be of any assistance. He asked if he could come in and talk in confidence and I saw nothing sinister in this request. He was of a generation who did not discuss personal issues or crises in earshot of anyone else than the confidante and certainly not in the open air.

I ushered him in, closed the door and followed into the front office. He drew out of his inside jacket pocket a rather crumpled sheaf of papers and carefully spread and straightened them out on the nearest clear desk. The front cover was grubby and discoloured but I could see that it was a Directory of Members of the UK Round Table Organisation.

He told me the story of his last 24 hours in harrowing detail in a voice faltering with emotion and frustration. He was a Time Served, longstanding self employed, French Polisher with a specialist renovation contract in the city for one day. On arriving on the train, the day before, he had taken up his pre-booked Bed and Breakfast accommodation and had ventured out to find an evening meal.

Somewhere between the Indian Restaurant and his overnight room his wallet had fallen out and been lost. The landlady was hardly sympathetic, probably based on her 30 years or so experience in that profession and was holding his tool box to ransom until she was recompensed for the single room tariff and full English breakfast. He had not been able to call his wife as she was away nursing her sister and out of contact. In his desperation he was looking up fellow members of the erstwhile Round Table Charity to ask for a loan to meet his immediate deficit, free up his tools and complete his commissioned work. The skilled polishing job would be paid cash in hand, well paid he said,  and he would be able to reimburse my colleague before he caught the evening train to his home town.

I felt sorry for his plight and sympathised with his less than flattering opinion of the dowdy, officious hostess of the B&B. We spoke about the struggles of the self employed, a status in which we had a common bond and understanding. I asked the ladies in the office to find out when my colleague was expected back. The man, a little agitated but understandably so said he could not really wait about and did I myself have the sum of £50 that he required.

I was aware that I had nothing more than copper coins in my pockets but patted them down as though I might have at least half a ton on my person. Surely, he insisted, an office like this would carry an amount of Petty Cash. That was true, well at least it had been an hour before he arrived, but my late morning sandwich, crisps, bottle of Coke, Snickers Bar and some sundry secretarial supplies had depleted this to a couple of pounds.

He looked around as though sizing up equipment and furnishings for their accumulative value if taken and cashed in at the nearest 'sell-it and soon'.

The atmosphere had deteriorated rapidly from geniality and common purpose to a hostile stand off.

I was prepared to ask the man to leave if he actually became abusive or even violent in his intentions. He helped me from acting completely out of my natural character and temperament by storming out in a cloud of obscenities and slamming the door.

The noise had brought the office staff to investigate. Apparently my rather pale and queasy appearance warranted a hot cup of sweet tea and would I like my early lunch to be turned out on a plate?.

The experience did haunt me for a few days afterwards but I was soon able to laugh it off and put it down to a consequence of having a city centre location.

A couple of weeks later I spied the same man on the doorstep of an office in the west end of town. He was engaged in earnest conversation with a man that I recognised as an accountant and, incidentally, someone who was regularly observed by my staff walking around the corner of our street to the old printers works.

My former acquaintance had in his hands a Directory of Rotary Club Members and was shaking hands and being shown into the plush premises. I drove on by with a sense that by doing nothing I would, in a roundabout and perverse way, be helping a struggling artisan even if he was a graduate, with honours from the School of Scoundrels.