Arvon shortlisted entry- Boiler Room by Michelle Scorziello

Giles Sandy cradled his testicles with his right hand, basking in their familiar pleasing weight before checking his fake Rolex, only four thirty; he yawned, he wasn’t getting any younger and this was definitely a young man’s game. One more call, the hundredth of the day; success would give him a dozen solid prospects. If he could just get a few more nest eggs into Satellite’s bank account maybe this year’s commission would allow him to retire. He looked again at the last name and address culled from a legitimate share register: Mrs Mabel Simines, Applecross Lodge, 70 Hailsham Road, Rye, East Sussex. A house wearing a name meant one of two things: genuine wealth or an upstart. Either provided fertile pickings for Satellite Securities, but his instinct told him Mrs S would be of the former. He began to imagine her: elderly, with her principle lodged at the local bank where interest rates currently ran at one percent, in the back of her mind the nagging knowledge that she must do more. Property? Gold? It was all so confusing.... Let Mr Sandy relieve you of your worries.

He replaced his headphones and pressed the call button; the relentless insistence of the ring tone poured down his ears. Three, four, five rings, then:

‘Rye 7651.’

Definitely elderly. Who else answered the phone with their number except those born at the early stage in the development of telephone etiquette? She sounded precise, punctilious even with the unmistakable catch of a breath that would soon start to labour. He clicked the end of his pen; voice of authority with just a hint of impatience should do it. He rested back, supine upon his leather executive chair, and planted his two black Churchill shoes onto his desk, the toffee brown beams of the converted barn stretching over him like avuncular arms.

‘Giles Sandy of Satellite Securities. May I speak to Mrs Simines?’

He detected the breathing again – a slight pant – she had probably come in from her roses or hurried up from her knitting.

 ‘Mrs Simines, did you say Mrs Simines?’ She was hard of hearing or easily confused or both (music to his ears).

‘I did.’ He picked up a small rubber rugby ball and began to toss it up and down, his mind wandering briefly to his ultimate goal; a villa in Marbella with electric gates, Jacuzzi, white leather sofas, bathrooms the size of billiard rooms, a round bed with black silk sheets. He imagined the look on his father’s face when he showed him what his salesman’s job had realised.

‘Oh.’ A noise like newspapers being cleared or papers shuffled. ‘Yes... now. Mrs Simines. Did you say Mrs Simines?’

‘Yes.’ As dotty as they come, like candy from a baby.

‘And who did you... I mean... who shall I say is calling?’ She was fumbling her words, a good sign, he already commanded authority; the silly old cow hailed from the knee-crooking-knave generation, the sort that probably curtsied to their bank manager in the days when there were such things as bank managers.

 ‘Mr Sandy, Giles Sandy of Satellite Securities.’ He smoothed down the end of his father’s old Etonian tie.

 ‘Securities... did you say security?’

‘That’s right. Satellite Securities. Do I have the pleasure of speaking with Mrs Simines...?’ He felt certain that she wasn’t Mrs Simines but oily manners usually did the trick with the over seventies – and he often found that an ally within the household did all his work for him.

‘Yes... no... I mean...’

‘Is Mrs Simines there?’ He raised the official edge to his voice a notch. Come along I haven’t all day.

 ‘Mrs Simines is outside at the moment.’ She giggled, embarrassed, coy suddenly, as if she had let him down. His tactics were working. It never ceased to amaze him. Only a little tweak of the voice, a sprinkling of politeness and formality and they were his. He loved the older generation; they were so easy to manipulate, they played by such rigid rules, one only had to show that one also adhered to those rules and they were hooked.

‘I’m the housekeeper.’

Housekeeper! Now there was a word. He planted his feet back on the burgundy carpet and sat up straight. Housekeeper. He savoured the word. Rarefied. Nanny, au pair, cleaner, those were commonplace, but housekeeper; he added a kidney-shaped swimming pool to the Marbella villa. He pictured her: small, yet doughty with a faded smock of Liberty print, her hair a neat white bun, the flour of lunch’s steak and kidney pie still dusting her round midriff like a soft swelling loaf, her small spectacles hanging low upon a waxy nose, just like his grandmother’s cook.

A creeping tone of deference had entered her voice and flooded him with a feeling of invincibility, ‘... I won’t keep you a moment Mr...?’

‘Sandy.’

‘Yes, yes, of course... Mr Sandy.’ He could hear her attempt to fix the name in her short-term memory. ‘I’ll just have to go outside to fetch her, don’t worry the phone is cordless.’

The sound of her feet, shoe clad, along a hard surface meant no wall-to-wall carpet – nasty stuff, indicative of jumped-up middle management; his practised mind envisaged a dark satin wood hall embellished with fretwork carvings of acorns and scrolls, in the corner a grandfather clock, maybe even a suit of armour, flowers – gladioli, poppy red, arching and spraying into the ever-present smell of beeswax; he was back in his childhood home again and almost felt nostalgic. The rhythm of her breath began to intrude upon the beat of her feet.

Her footsteps continued and her breathing settled deep and rapid as she made her way outside. He could hear birds singing now and a far off plane scoring the sky. Mrs S must be in the garden, footering around in her greenhouse no doubt, an old floppy felt hat quivering around her shoulders. The other, the housekeeper, would hurry to her, he could almost predict the conversation:

‘Mr Sandy of Satellite Securities on the phone for you Mrs Simines.’

‘Satellite Securities did you say? Make haste, give me the phone.’ He pictured them fumbling the phone in nervous subordination.

He was startled out of his reverie by the housekeeper’s voice, sharp and pungent, bellowing:

‘Mrs Simines! Mrs Simines!’

He winced and pulled the earphones a tad.

He cleared his throat, ‘Will this take long...’

But the receiver had gone all muffled as if she had pressed it to her ample flour-clad breasts.

And then, ‘I’m so sorry Mr…?’

‘Sandy. Giles Sandy.’

‘Yes, yes of course. Mr Giles.’

‘Look, I’m a very busy man...’

He heard her yell again, ‘Mrs Simines, tell Mrs Simines she’s wanted on the telephone.’

She was evidently shouting to someone outside to fetch her employer. Why didn’t she fetch her herself? What was the old bag doing outside that her housekeeper couldn’t reach her? The greenhouse tableau fell aside and he found himself unable to supplant it. He checked his watch and was surprised to see that already six minutes had passed. Time was money and he considered hanging up but felt instinctively that it would be a mistake. Something told him to stick with this one, some instinctive whiff of vulnerability.

He heard the scratchy sound of fabric; her breathing was a definite pant now.

‘She’s on the roof.’

He sat forward and frowned. ‘What? I mean...pardon?’

‘Mrs Simines!’

‘Excuse me (damn he didn’t know her name)... hello? I really cannot wait much longer. I shall have to...’

‘Mrs Simines!’ She belted out again. ‘Oo-ee, could one of you young men tell Mrs Simines there’s a Mr Sandy of Giles Securities on the telephone.’

He grimaced at the sound of his jumbled-up name; he rather liked this name, had given it great consideration, spent hours selecting it and he felt it rolled off his tongue with aplomb but not when it was all mixed up by this doddery old sow.

‘I’m so sorry to keep you Mr Giles... but we’ve had so many loose tiles.’

He held his forehead in the crook of his thumb and forefinger, his elbow upon the desk.

‘It’s Sandy, Mr Sandy, Giles San...’

‘... Like leaves falling off trees they are, you wouldn’t believe it.’

 ‘Now look here, I shall have to...’

‘We’ve had to replace them... the leaking... you should have seen the puddles on the fifth floor. We had to throw away two Aubusson... and the chandeliers; I can’t begin to tell you. Ah, I think she’s coming now. Here she is! I see her! She’s on the turret!’

He choked softly on his own saliva, turret? A vision of mermaid green tiles arranged in a conical cap upon a fairy-tale castle jumped into his head, a silken-dressed Mrs S standing aloft on the battlements holding her hat while the wind billowed her pastel scarf away from her neck like a knight’s pennant of yore.

‘... Yes... the north turret... overseeing the replacements. Well as you probably know Mr Satellite, she’s indefatigable, yes indefatigable that’s what I tell her, insists on climbing up the scaffolding, right to the top to supervise her tradesmen... won’t leave it to others to supervise… oh she’s remarkable – wait now, I see her. Mrs Simines! It’s Mr Jandy... securities... Jandy Siles secure... satellite.’

He sighed. ‘Satellite Securities.’

‘Yes dear, Satellite. Mr Sandy Satellite. Mabel! It’s Mr Sandy Satellite! He’s on the phone!’

‘Really I think...’

‘Sorry about this Mr Jandy but it’s such a long way to the top of the turret. But if we could just trespass on your patience a little longer... you are such a treasure Mr Jandy. She’s descending! Careful dear...’ she shouted, ‘... oh dear, she’s forgotten the safety harness. Mr Jandy... are you still there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh I am glad. You are such a treasure Mr Jandy. She’ll be so pleased she didn’t miss you... anything to do with security she’s so particular about, especially concerning the Fragonards. Do watch your step Mabel! Why isn’t one of the workmen helping you down? Dear me, it’s such a long way...’

He held his breath and looked down upon his script: ... the next Microsoft... about to list on the AIM market... only a few shares left... once in a lifetime opportunity.’

‘She’s coming! Nearly down, watch your step dear... careful... look out!’ She soliloquised into his ear, ‘Oh I wish one of the men had come with you... where is your safety harness? Mr Jandy is waiting.’

He held his bottom lip tightly in his thumb and forefinger and twisted his right leg around his left.

‘She’s coming! Mr Jandy she’s coming! She’s... oh!... oh!... OH!’

Scrambling, screams, a dull but hefty thud. He heard the phone fall and he listened from the ground, impotent and trapped.

‘Oh no, Mrs Simines, Mabel... Mabel talk to me. Oh my dear... Mabel.... MABEL!’

He pressed the red button on his control and instantly the birdsong and windy trees and turreted voices disappeared. He placed his brow inside one palm and was surprised to feel the wet globules of sweat. His hands trembled and shook and he attempted to straighten his papers. He wondered if he would be traced, summoned to an inquest as a witness. The boiler room would be exposed. His heart thudded.

·          

Olive Whittle smiled to herself as she picked up the phone from the grass and heard the click on the other end. Since her retirement she found Tuesday afternoons so dull without the diversion of a sales call. The previous owner of the house, a Mrs Mabel Simines, continued to receive all manner of prospectors. Fifteen minutes she had detained him... his time and money of course; last week she’d managed half an hour with a double-glazing salesman. She would get John to lift the sack of potatoes back up when he came on Thursday. Now, she really must go inside and find her knitting....