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Shorts
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| Penny wise | |
| By MikeMorris | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| 08 September 2006 | ||||||||||||||||||||||
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“Damn,” thought Jack, looking into the tin, “I should’ve known. There’s not enough.“ He rested the paint brush across the top of the can and wiped his hands on the turps-soaked rag. Sitting on the step with his back to the partly painted front door, he rolled a cigarette. He let the smoke out of his lungs and picked a bit of tobacco off his tongue. The factory was shut down for the annual break. Jack used the first week to do the jobs his wife nagged him into before going off to Benidorm for the San Juan Fiesta. “There’s nothing else for it, I’ll have to get another tin.” His Yorkshire soul bristled at the thought of buying a full tin of light blue paint for just half a door. But there was another annoyance. Her indoors had wanted a different colour, “For a nice change”, she’d said. “Give over, “ he’d replied. “We’ve enough of that blue left to paint a battleship. I’ll use that up. I’ll have it done while you go to town with our Molly on Saturday.” So he’d lose face as well as time and money. The thought rankled. But what could he do? Now, psychologists say that our subconscious mind is always at work and who am I to gainsay eminent men of Science? All I know is that from somewhere deep in the recesses of the penny-pinching, parsimonious brain that was Jack Butler’s there popped a solution. “Billie Marshall, “he said partly to himself, partly to the omniscient being who looks after latter day Scrooges. “Billy Marshall.” A slow, crafty grin almost softened his features. “Billy Marshall.” Rubbing his hands together he went to the garage. He backed out the van, reversed and drove off down the road. Parking up outside the Marshall house he rang the bell. Whilst waiting for an answer he admired the front door. Blue. The same shade of blue that he needed. His memory had been right. He’d only seen this door once before when dropping Billy home from a darts match when Bill’s own car was having some M.O.T. welding done. But he’d remembered it, even down to the exact shade. Billy opened the door. “Hey up, Jack. What do you want?” Workmates rather than friends, Billy and Jack got on but didn’t visit each other. “How do, Billy. I’m hoping you can help me out, mate.” Billy’s eyes became guarded. It was obvious that one thought had come to mind. Money. A loan? “Well, I will if I can, like. But things are not too good at present. There’s nowt extra doing at work, as you know and …….” “It’s a bit of paint I’m after, Billy. This paint.” Jack tapped the door. “ I’m painting mine the exact same colour, Only I’ve run out. I need about three brushfuls. Can you spare us some?” Billy’s face cleared, at least a bit. “I think I’ve some left. But I were thinking of giving mine another coat before the Winter. Hang on a minute while I get the garage key.” Billy’s garage was immaculate. Tools arranged on racks; brushes hanging from hooks round the side; even the floor looked swept. He went over to the neatly grouped paint tins. “ Here we are,” he said, “April Blue.” He lifted the tin, judging its weight. “I’d say that’s about three quarters full.” “Oh, I’ll only use a drop, mate. I’ll let you have it back Monday. How’s that?” “Well, all right. But you’ll not forget will you?” “Not a chance Billy, mate. Monday without fail. And thanks, Bill, you’ve saved my life!” If only. Jack went home, finished the painting, tidied up, put the paint away in his garage and went upstairs for a good soak to get the smell of paint off him and to ease his aching back. “Yes,” he said to himself as he lowered himself into the hot, steaming bath (He was against showers, “Foreign I call’em), “Yes, good old Billy saved my life.” If only. Monday came and went. But no paint. Billy felt annoyed. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday passed. Still no paint. Billy now was angry. “I’m good enough to borrow paint off, but not good enough to return it to. Well, we’ll see about that, Jack Butler.” And at 3 o’clock on Friday afternoon he drove round to Jack’s. “That’s funny,” he thought. “ There’s a lot of cars here.” “At least he’s made a good job of this door. I hope he didn’t give it too many coats” The newly painted door was opened by a young woman of about 30. “Jack’s daughter,” Billy thought. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m a friend of your Dad’s. Is he in?” The girl looked at him oddly. “I’ll just get me Mum.” A lady came, looking a bit upset, Billy thought. “Good afternoon Mrs. Butler. I’m a friend of Jack’s. Is he in?” “ Jack died last Saturday,” sobbed the woman. “I found him myself, in the bath. And the water was stone cold. We’ve just come back from the crematorium.” “Oh, I am sorry to hear that, Mrs. Butler. Please accept my sincere condolences. I won’t intrude on your grief.” Billy turned to go. “By the way, since I’m here, he didn’t mention anything about a tin of blue paint?”
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