“Oh, come on, it’s nothing to worry about…”
I bumped into Helen, our finance director, in the hallway. She was proudly holding a cardboard box.
I asked, “Is that the payroll from the bank?”
She replied, “No, an old friend gave it to me during a traffic jam.” The box was labeled “Medical Equipment.”
“What’s he hinting at with that?”
“Nothing really. I’ve known him so long that I could give him deodorant, and he’d be genuinely pleased. We met back in ’98. I had a big problem with my car back then. I was young and foolish and bought a Toyota from a dodgy dealer. The registration was messed up, the import paperwork was off, and even my cop acquaintances took money promising help, but did nothing. The final straw was handing my last few pounds over to traffic officers to prevent my car from being towed away.
The car was worth a fortune, and now it’s only good for parts. I parked it near the bins in my yard, munching on lemon drizzle cake and crying. I didn’t want to go home in such a state.
Someone tapped on my window. I rolled it down. A man in an orange vest, holding a shovel, apologized with a cheerful grin, “Would you mind moving five meters back? We’re about to resurface the road here. Are you alright, though?”
I was about to tell him where to go, then shut the window to block out the asphalt smell, but instead, I found myself quickly sharing my woes.
He said, “Oh, come on, it’s nothing to worry about. The main thing is everyone’s healthy. Those cakes look tasty. Could I have one?”
I was annoyed at myself for confiding in him and peeved at his cheekiness, but I handed over a cake without thinking.
“Could I have another one, for my partner? There are two of us, you see.”
I was stunned by his audacity, but I gave him a second cake. Then, I moved the car and cried in peace without bothering anyone.
Ten minutes later, there was another tap at the window.
I opened it and asked bitterly, “More cakes?”
The man said, “No, you got something to write with? Take this down.”
He dictated a number from his notebook, “That’s my home line, call after nine and say you’re calling on behalf of John. I’ll let him know. He’s a senior police officer and could help you out.”
He vanished into the grey haze of asphalt, leaving me bewildered. I decided to call that evening—couldn’t get much worse, right?
And just two days later, I watch in M.O.T. as they officially registered my car and gave me brand new plates! Officers were tripping over themselves to assist me.
I spent a week looking for John to thank him. I finally found him on a nearby street. I gave him extravagant chocolates, champagne, coffee, and something else I can’t remember, expressing my gratitude. I inquired how he knew the officer so well that they exchanged regards with each other’s families.
John explained that six months ago, he’d been quite wealthy, dealing in medical equipment, but the recession ruined his business. Now, he worked three jobs, and even his wife, who never worked a day in her life, took a job washing dishes at a school canteen.
It was all to maintain appearances. They lived in a grand 2000 square foot apartment and stretched their finances thin to keep it. They sold everything except for their daughter’s schoolbooks. Their utility and security costs alone were £600 a month.
They kept up pretenses with their millionaire neighbors, yet the three of them lived on fifty pounds a month. Fortunately, their daughter attended a regular school.
Since then, our families have been friends. We always spend New Year’s together. It didn’t even take two years for John to bounce back stronger than before.
Today, I was at a traffic light when someone tapped on the roof. It was John in his SUV. “Helen, fancy a Geiger counter?”
“Sure thing.”
“Here you go. Enjoy, and treat yourself,” he said with a laugh.
