Aloysius Jones

Aloysius Jones





Wind barreled across the fields, whistled down the alleyways between the houses and finally spent itself amongst the trees on the hills beyond. The noise of an engine, under-tuned and sadly in need of oil barely registered above nature's sounds. The rust-bucket slewed to a stop in front of the middle house, using the curb stones to stop its downward motion as if the driver had little faith, or indeed interest in, the brakes.

Gusting and howling, the wind strengthened beyond the gale level on the Beaufort scale, frustrated at the domestication in its path. The driver clambered out of the truck, with great difficulty; he clutched an enormous object wrapped in an old shirt, which the wind snatched with contempt and flung over the rooftops.

The roar of the wind crescendoed and boded no good outcome of the approaching meeting, likely to be as wild and unpredictable inside as the weather was out. He had known such things happen even to men like himself, who were only the messengers. He had been well briefed on the customer he but surprises were always possible.

Aloysius Jones, for that was his name, staggered up the path; he almost fell under the weight of the object he carried, now wrapped only in the open front of his jacket in a vain gesture of protection. He was a big man, heavy and disadvantaged in maintaining his balance not only by the load in his arms but by the artificial leg which could find little traction on the slippery path.

The door opened as the ferocious wind forced him against it. “At last,” said a rough voice. “You‟re late.”

Al limped into the shelter of the hall.

“On the left,” rasped the voice.

Al turned into a small, bare room, lit by one low-wattage bulb with no shade. He rested his burden on a rough table but did not take his hands off the square wooden box. Muttering from the hallway suggested some difficulty in closing the door in the face of the wind.

Eventually, his host entered, breathing heavily. He was a strange looking man. His body appeared lumpy and uneven, loosely enclosed in a leather belt which hovered somewhere in the vicinity of what might at one time have been a waist. What little hair remained on his head may have been gray under the grease which layered it across his skull.

“Let‟s see it, then” he rasped.

“Where‟s the cash?” asked Al reasonably.

“After I see the goods.”

“After I see the cash.”

For a moment, stalemate hovered in the dust but reluctantly, and with expletives under his breath, the other opened a drawer and tossed a bundle of bills on the table. Al maintained his hold on the box with one hand and delicately extended a finger to spread the bills on the table.

“It‟s short.”

“It‟s fair.”

“Five hundred was the agreement; there‟s only three hundred and fifty here.”

“That‟s all there is.”

Al did not reply but hefted the box again and turned towards the door. The other man re-opened the drawer and threw more bills onto the table. Al looked at them critically. The total was now five hundred.

Without a word, he put the box back on the table and resting his left hand on the top surface, warily reached forward to pull the money closer to him, at the same time gently pushing the box towards the other man. While Al checked the money and patted it away in a deep pocket inside his jacket, the other drew the box closer to him.

“Just a word,” said Al, on his way out of the door, “I was told to tell you that the contents were wiped, very thoroughly, so the only prints will be yours.” A vicious stare was the only response. Al shrugged and left the room, relieved that the meeting had, after all, gone better than he feared. A few moments later, crashing gears announced the departure of his ancient truck.

Left alone with the box, the lumpy man underwent an amazing transformation. He undid his belt and allowed his garments to fall to the floor; as he stepped out of them, it became apparent that he had been wearing a clumsily padded body suit. With a swift movement he seized a fold of skin at his neck and ripped off a mask, dropping the speckled cranium and sparse gray hair carelessly on top of the crumpled clothes. The person now revealed was dapper and slim, dressed in a neat, dark suit, blue shirt and sombre tie. His hair was thick and glossy; taking a comb from his breast pocket, he combed it into shape, redressing the disarray wreaked by the mask. Fastidiously, he toed the clothing away from his polished shoes. He disliked the charade of disguise but accepted it as an occasional necessity and, at times, even enjoyed it. Finally, he took a pair of very thin cotton gloves from his pocket and turned his attention to the box.

It was rough, about 30 inches along each side, probably knocked together from old wood; splinters and gouges marred its sides; it was not an object of beauty. The only interesting thing about it was that it was there at all. He undid two tiny latches and lowered the end panel to the table. Old, soft cloths, pushed in roughly were packed tightly enough to hold the content firmly. His eyes gleamed at something wrapped in good quality, black velvet. Gingerly, he drew this out and laid it on the table, pushing the rough box out of the way; he took no notice as it slipped to the floor with a hefty crash.

Unwrapping the black velvet, he found a beautifully made cube, eighteen inches along each sharp mahogany edge; an intricate marquetry design of esoteric and cabalistic characters in cherry, pine, alder, and ebony, inlaid with mother of pearl decorated the top; the side panels were outlined with a narrow band of very pale wood, possibly ash he thought. The whole gleamed quietly with the patina of devoted polishing and care. Two unobtrusive pressure points were hidden in the pattern on the top and Francis Burgoyne - for that was his true name once the disguise was discarded - carefully pressed two dimples and lowered the front panel.

The box was lined with deep cushioning and, nestled in the very center, in shining contrast to burgundy velvet, sat his personal grail. Slowly, delicately, he reached in to draw the treasure towards him. This was the culmination of many years‟ searching, bribery and desire. He found it difficult to believe that, finally, he had in his hands the reward he had craved, the crown jewel for his collection .This was a moment worth savouring. On the other hand, he thought suddenly, why here? Why unveil his prize in this dirty, anonymous little room? Why not take it home and bask in his pride of possession with a glass of good cognac, a warm fire and comfortable chair? There he could enjoy and examine to his heart‟s content before locking his treasure away in the hidden vault.

With immense self-control, he replaced his glittering prize, cautiously nestling it in the cradling velvet; he re-wrapped the black cover lovingly around the beautiful box and then packed it back into the plain wooden chest retrieved from the floor.

Only when he tried to pick it up, did he realize the weight of the combined load. The gale still howled around the chimneys and he knew he could never manage to carry it all the way to his car, parked discreetly some streets away. What to do? Did he dare leave the box here and risk bringing the Jaguar into this neighborhood? Did he dare risk leaving the prize here, unguarded? Damn, why hadn‟t he asked the delivery man to wait? He knew why: he didn‟t want anyone else to know the content of the box; neither did he want to give any clue to his real identity.

He managed to get the box onto the seat of a chair nearer to the door, partly hidden from view if anyone should take the trouble to look in the uncovered window. He turned off the lights and stood for a long time, listening to make sure there was no-one lurking outside but the noise of the wind made that impossible; there could be an army out there and he wouldn‟t hear a thing. Slowly, he tiptoed to the rear of the house, hoping to let himself out that way but the house sat in the centre of a row, its garden surrounded by a high wall; no escape that way. He retraced his steps to the front door and, remembering how it had slammed into him when he opened it for the driver, braced himself to open it as slowly and quietly as possible. He felt in his pocket to make certain he had the keys to this house but still he hesitated. The thought of leaving his precious treasure panicked him; he had an unreasoning terror that if he left it, he would never see it again. „Don‟t be so stupid, Francis‟ he admonished himself and stepped bravely out into the howling wind, now laced with stinging hail, and closed the door firmly behind him.

It took him longer to walk back to his car than he had anticipated and his fingers were so cold that he fumbled with the lock and dropped the keys so it must have been fifteen minutes before he drew up in front of the house, praying that the bad weather would keep any neighbours firmly behind closed curtains.

To his horror the door was open, banging against the inside wall of the passageway. „Fool, you could not have shut it properly‟, he berated himself and ran to the front room. The box was gone. In panic, he switched on the light and searched the room but found only a small piece of the packing cloth which had been around the inner chest. What? Who? He felt sick. He rushed outside to make certain he was in the right house. Of course, he was. He felt tears freezing on his cheeks, mixing with the hail and snow which had begun to fall again. The nausea in his stomach threatened to rise but he made himself go back inside and search again and again until his mind had to accept what his brain had told him: the box was gone. He sat in the expensive car, frightened to leave and scared to stay. Finally, he engaged the clutch and slipped silently down the hill, following the route taken earlier by Aloysius Jones.

Francis Burgoyne was known to his acquaintances as a „warm‟ man in the financial sense and, if not exactly „cold‟ in the social one, then certainly restrained, although words like „aloof‟ or „distant‟ had also been used to describe him. As far as people knew, he had no living family and no close friends. Not that he was a recluse; occasionally he hosted cocktail evenings, catered, and sometimes he accepted invitations to gallery openings or book launches or the opera. His acquaintances and business associates would have been amazed, if not appalled, to see him now, pale-faced and distraught in his penthouse apartment, clutching a Waterford goblet of brandy, although in normal times he would have balked at calling a Rémy Martin XO 1st Cru Grande Champagne a mere brandy.

It took effort to calm himself down. It wasn‟t the loss of £5 million which worried him – within a couple of years that would be made up and his portfolio would look no different – it was the devastation of having his prize within his grasp and letting it slip away. If only he had taken it out of its case in that dingy little room, then he would at least have had the privilege of having seen it, of knowing the feel of it; he would have had the picture of it clear in his mind. One of the problems with being a collector of rare objects was that one could seldom report their loss. Provenance was always a bit shady in these circumstances and one was as likely to be prosecuted for illegal acquisition as to gain help in restoration of the property. Francis tried to be rational about his loss. After all, yesterday he hadn‟t possessed the artifact so he was no worse off; it was being so close to possession and failing through his own stupidity which was bitter to accept.

The ringing of the phone startled him.

“Well,” said the rough voice of Aloysius Jones, “we‟ve got ourselves a problem „aven‟t we?”

“Who is this?”

“The delivery man. Part of my instructions was to go back after you „ad left and make sure the place was clean.” Francis couldn‟t restrain a sniff of disbelief. “Yeh, well that‟s what I was told to do. Clean in the sense of no clues left lying around. I don‟t think that place „as been clean in the other sense for years.” Disapproval rang righteously in Al‟s voice.

“You didn‟t do a very good job,” observed Francis. “I found a piece of the packing material on the floor.”

“Yeh, well, you came back didn‟t you?” Al sounded aggrieved. “‟Coz you‟d left the box behind, I „ad to take that first. That box is damned „eavy, especially in that wind.”

“Yes, I know. That‟s why I had to leave it while I went for my car.”

“Well, then, you know. When I went back to finish the job there was this bloody great car sitting outside and I didn‟t know whose it was, so I scarpered.” Al did not think it necessary to add that he had noted the number plate and got a mate to run it through the police computer for him.

“Mine.” said Francis, getting back to business, “So - you have the box – and all its contents?” He didn‟t even think to ask how Al had found him in spite of the disguise.

“Probably.” said Al gloomily. “I „aven‟t opened it and looked inside. I don‟t want to know, I just want to get rid of it.”

Francis held his breath for a moment. “How much?”

“‟ow much? I don‟t want more money. I just want to get rid of it, whatever it is. Obviously it‟s sommat that ought not to be riding around in a rough old box and I don‟t want to be the one caught „olding it.”

“You mean you‟ll just hand it over to me?” Francis sounded incredulous.

“Well, it‟s yours, haint it? You paid for it, I „spect.” Al‟s voice became more tense.

“Oh, yes, I paid for it. So where do you want to meet?”

“Not back at that „ouse, any‟ow. What say I come to your place and „and it over, all civilized like.”

Francis was no fool and immediately he wondered what the catch was. Would there be several men, wielding weapons, wanting to get into his apartment and strip it bare, injuring him into the bargain?

Al chuckled. “I know what you‟re thinking,” he said “but no funny business, on my word. I just want to get rid of this thing. It‟s too big for me. And I‟ll come alone so long as you promise not to have the rozzers waiting.”

Francis took a moment to calm himself. “All right. When?”

“As soon as bloody possible, mate.”

“Now?”

“Suits me but you haven‟t agreed my terms. No rozzers or other welcoming committee!”

“No rozzers or anyone else – on my word.”

“Right then. I‟ll come now.”

“Good.”

Francis went to the lobby and waited for the elevator to arrive. Al stepped out, carrying the large box, staggering slightly as his leg tried for traction on the shiny floor.

“Come in,” said Francis, after a quick glance ensured the elevator cage was empty.

Al lurched in “Where d‟you want it?”

Francis moved swiftly and threw a cloth over the nearest table. “There will do just fine.”

Al lowered the box with a grunt and stretched his back as he stood.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Nice cup of tea wouldn‟t go amiss.”

“Oh,” Francis looked blank. “I‟ll see what I‟ve got.” He came back from the kitchen to see Al looking out of the windows at the scene below. The snow had stopped falling but had draped everything in a cloak of white, softening outlines and brightening the night.

“Nice view.”

“Yes. Tea won‟t be a moment. Lapsang Souchong all right?”

Al looked at him and shook his head. “As long as it‟s „ot and sweet, I don‟t care what name you give it.”

An uncomfortable silence rang for a moment and then Al said, “Well, don‟t you want to open it? Now it‟s safe and in the right „ands, I wouldn‟t mind seeing what‟s inside and caused so much trouble and I can take the box away with me if you want.”

Francis felt an unfamiliar warmth towards this man. “Sit down for a minute while I bring in the tea, then we‟ll open it.” Al looked at the teatray, set with fine china, a pot of aromatic tea, milk jug, sugar bowl and a plate of chocolate biscuits and, controlling his urge to smile, set to. Francis went over to the box and once again, undid the clasps, and pulled out the rags he had hastily stuffed around the prize earlier in the evening. Gently, he lifted the smaller box out, still in its black velvet cover and placed the outer packaging by the door for Al to pick up on his way out.

Al came over, teacup in hand, to watch the reverent unveiling. Francis put on his cotton gloves and carefully unwrapped the black velvet, seeing once again the exquisite marquetry on the lid. Al drew in his breath and leaned closer. “Gawd, that‟s fantastic. Look at the workmanship. No wonder you wanted it.”

Francis smiled. “That‟s only the container, wait until you see what‟s inside.”

Al didn‟t seem to hear him. He was leaning over the small chest, tracing the intricate lines with a finger held just above the surface. Francis went to a drawer nearby, “Here,” he said, “put these on and you can touch it.”

The gloves were tight on Al‟s hands but the reverence with which he traced the work and touched the inlay gladdened Francis. “My Dad was a cabinet maker,” said Al quietly “and „e did good work but I „aint never seen anything like this.” He straightened up and put out his hand. “Aloysius Jones, Al to my friends and to you. Thank you for letting me see this.”

Francis was unaccountably touched; he shook Al‟s hand, “Francis Burgoyne,” he said, “Francis to most people who know me.” The two men sized up each other and liked what they saw. “Pull up a chair,” said Francis, “then we won‟t drop it.

They sat side-by-side as Francis sought the hidden catches.

“There and there,” said Al, “you can see the dimples.”

The front panel popped, Francis caught it and slowly lowered it. Al drew in a long breath and let it out gently as if afraid to breathe too heavily. Gleaming softly in its bed of burgundy velvet sat the cause of so much trouble. Hardly daring to breathe, Francis drew it out and laid it on the black cloth: a crystal bowl, incredibly thin and clear, rising from a heavy crystal foot, thick with millefiori. Francis delicately tapped the bowl and the sweet note rang around the room. Al shook his head in wonder and both men were silent, lost in reverence for such an exquisite work of art.

“What‟s that at the bottom?” asked Al.

Francis explained that the designs, flowers, ribbons and patterns were all worked in glass, tiny rods put together to make the flowers, drawn out while still molten and twisted to make the ribbons and the whole encased in a gather of glass which could be any colour; in this case, the palest aquamarine in which the blue, green, ruby strands stood out as if you could reach in and pick them. The two men became engrossed in the fine detail and wonder, discussing the glass-making traditions. Francis fetched books and together they pored over pictures of the tools used – still the same as in mediaeval times.

At last, Al leant back. “That glass is as thin as a bubble and just about as fragile. What will you use it for?”

He could hardly have shaken Francis more if he‟d dropped the bowl. “Use it? It won‟t be used!”

“What‟ll you do with it then?” Al seemed perplexed; if it wasn‟t to be used, why go to all the trouble and expense of getting hold of it?

“It will go into my collection. In the vault. It will be put back into the chest and locked away. To keep it safe.”

Al looked at him. “There‟s a lot of skill in there,” he said, “to produce something so beautiful. Do you think those workmen did that just to „ave it locked away? Surely, they would „ave wanted it to be admired?”

The gulf between the two, which had almost disappeared while they were admiring the bowl, yawned widely again. Francis was horrified at the thought of his precious acquisition being left on a shelf, gathering dust, risking a crack or worse when the cleaning woman dusted it. Al could not understand the desire to hide away something so beautiful. “So even you won‟t see it very often,” he said, “only when you remember it‟s there and make a special effort.”

“I want to keep it safe.”

“And „idden!”

“What else can I do? It‟s far too precious and lovely to be risked in everyday living, not to mention expensive. I couldn‟t insure it. It‟s one of the greatest artifacts ever to come out of the Baccarat workshops and it has a long history. It has to be protected.”

“Still,” muttered Al, “‟idden away and never seen.” He thought for a moment. “You could put it in a museum, they „ave security. We take the kids to the museums often to look at their beautiful things. People should see this so they can admire what those workmen did.”

Francis had never thought much about the artisans who produced the lovely things he collected or whether other people should share his joy and excitement in them.

“Well,” demanded Al“, that „ld work wouldn‟t it.”

“I suppose it might. I‟ll have to think about it.”

“You do that. Now, I‟d better be getting „ome; the missus will be wondering where the „ell I‟ve got to.”

“You won‟t tell anyone, about this?” Francis suddenly panicked at the thought of his collection becoming the gossip of the East End.

“Certainly not,” said Al with dignity. “I know when to keep my mouth shut and, no, I don‟t need paying to do so either. This is yours fair and square since you paid for it, quite a bit too I guess and I‟ve really liked „earing all about that glass and stuff. No, your secret‟s safe with me – but, do think about a museum, eh?”

“Yes,” said Francis, “I most certainly will. You have put a few suggestions into my mind tonight, Al, and I thank you.”

Al picked up the rough outer chest and headed for the lift. When the doors opened, the two men shook hands in mutual respect and went their individual ways. Of the two, Francis Burgoyne had the most to ponder in the night hours ahead.

On the way home, Al stopped the truck in a quiet side road and carefully divided the money he had received from Francis. One lot went back into the deep pocket, the other he secreted under a loose liner in the back of the truck until he could move it to a safer place.

“I suppose I‟m not that much different from that bloke,” he thought. “‟e „ides his stuff away where no-one can see it or get to it and I‟m doing the same – on a much smaller scale of course!” He comforted himself that his secret was small beer compared with what Francis stashed away.

His wife was not best pleased that he was late home. “I didn‟t wait dinner for you,” she scolded. “I don‟t know why you have to take on all these odd jobs after a day‟s work. I never know where you are or when you‟re coming back.”

Al recognized the signs of a brewing row. ”Well, I get paid for it,” he said, “I got three hundred tonight.” She looked at him expectantly and he delved into his deep pocket and laid three hundred pounds on the table. She whisked them away quickly „for a rainy day‟ she always said and disappeared to her favorite hiding place. Al had never bothered to look for it. Everyone was entitled to some secrets.

The following morning Francis had his usual breakfast: one boiled egg, two slices of whole meal toast, a glass of orange juice and a carafe of coffee. Today, there was an addition to the breakfast table: a pad and pencil. His brain had obviously been working while he slept. His normal method with problems was to write things down, in lists, to organize and clarify, so he had divided the page into two columns: Pros and Cons.

Somewhat tentatively, he had listed under „Pros‟ Aloysius Jones‟ comments about the artists wanting their work to be seen. Francis wasn‟t sure this was the case; he didn‟t know any artists or craftsmen personally, only through their workmanship.

The list under „Cons‟ was less controversial. Provenance came first. Francis had never knowingly purchased a stolen artifact; on the other hand, he never inquired too closely into the shadowy history presented to him; much safer and easier on the conscience to accept what he was told. However, if one of his treasures were offered to a major museum, there was absolute certainty that a bright and unforgiving light would be shone into its history.

The next item was safety. His treasures were safe now because no-one but Francis knew where they were (well, until Al of course) but as soon as they became exposed to public view, no matter how intricate the precautions, the possibility of theft or damage existed; some of the major museums had suffered breaches of security and attacks from deranged members of the public so this was a definite „Con‟.

The last item was loss: loss to Francis‟ sense of possession, loss of his access to his treasures whenever he wished to indulge himself.

Looking at the list, Francis admitted that the „Cons‟ outweighed the „Pros‟ but . . . For some reason Aloysius Jones‟ reaction was affecting his usual practicality. Perhaps beautiful things should be seen and appreciated, even by the ordinary people. Francis was not consciously a snob but he had absorbed with his mother‟s milk that the lower classes did not appreciate the finer things of life. Perhaps a compromise could be reached? If he could find a small, exclusive gallery with top-of-the-line security in place, maybe he could place one object at a time, on loan for a limited period? He was pleased with this solution. It satisfied both Aloysius‟ feelings and his own caution. Folding his napkin in his usual precise manner, Francis resolved to start looking for such a place straightaway.

He spent the next few weeks, strolling around some of the smaller, less well-known galleries in Belgravia and Mayfair. Most of them catered to a limited clientele and were very discreet. Front of house staff usually consisted of a beautifully dressed young woman with noticeable attributes and little knowledge of the valuables in her trust. Any questions were met with “I‟ll ask the owner for you, sir” or “Can you leave your card, sir? Shall I ask the owner to call you?”

It was all so unsatisfactory that the whole idea began to pall. After all, he had been quite happy before that man‟s comments. Feeling very irritable after another abortive venture, Francis decided to go into the vault and calm himself down by admiring his collection. When he had first acquired this apartment, he had alterations made to what the agent had described as a second bedroom. Since he had no family and few friends, certainly none whom he would ever invite to stay with him, he didn‟t need a second bedroom so he had the room divided into two unequal parts. The smaller became his dressing room, containing his suits, overcoats, shoes and other necessities. The larger became what he liked to call the vault. It had only a subdued, background lighting but when he had placed one of his treasures on the centre table, he could pull down an overhead light to examine the detail. Entry to this second room was via a hidden door in the dressing room, controlled by an electronic entry pad.

Today, Francis washed his hands carefully and made his way to the dressing room. Deliberately, he keyed in his pass code and waited. Nothing happened. Francis frowned; this had never happened before. He pressed the Clear button and again keyed in the code, taking care to hit the correct pads. Still nothing. His irritation increased. He called the security company who had installed the device and asked them to run a remote check. They assured him it was in perfect order. Once again, Francis keyed in his code; once again, nothing happened. The door remained stubbornly closed. A sense of panic began to rise from his stomach. Things like this did not happen to Francis Burgoyne. His life was ordered to run smoothly. This just could not happen to him. Not to him. If he sat down calmly and thought it through, everything must return to normal. He did that. He did not want music; he did not even want a glass of Rémy Martin XO 1st Cru Grande Champagne. Sitting in his favorite armchair he tried to work out what had gone wrong.

What Francis did not realize was that when he had put away the mahogany box, late in the evening after Al had gone, he had been very tired and preoccupied with thoughts of their discussion. As he entered the vault, he had accidentally brushed against a coat hanger holding a winter suit and it had pressed one of the buttons on the keypad. The new combination could be any one of thousands, if not millions and it would now be pure chance if Francis or anyone else ever opened the vault again.

The security company sent someone around to fit a computing device to the pad to run through the millions of possible combinations and it hummed incessantly for days with no success. Francis grew more and more irritable. „It‟s all the fault of Aloysius Jones‟ he muttered. If he hadn‟t suggested the ridiculous museum idea, this would never have happened‟. In his heart he knew this to be merely a sop to his pride. No-one had forced him to consider Al‟s suggestion.

In the end, Francis accepted what he had known all along: that the only resolution would be to have the builders in to remove the door; have the security company dismantle their system, rebuild the door, fit a new system and start all over again. There were two enormous drawbacks to this plan. When he had the original alterations made, the space had been empty; no-one had any ideas about the items he intended to store there. Now, once the builders came, strangers would see what he had in the vault. Equally important was the appalling possibility of damage to the artifacts themselves: vibration, dust and uncontrolled movement could inflict irreparable harm to delicate objets d’art. That clock, for instance, once owned by Charles II. He shuddered. The possible damage was too awful to contemplate.

He dithered.

There is no other word for it. In a most un-Francis-Burgoyne manner he hesitated; he hummed and hawed, hoping against hope that the electronic thingy on the security system would magically find the elusive combination. And then, one morning, he woke with an idea: Aloysius Jones. If anyone could help, Al could. If anyone could be trusted, Al could. Problem: how to contact him? Over his second slice of toast, Francis decided that an advertisement in the personal column of The Times would not bring much result. No. Somehow he had to track Al himself. This problem consumed several days. Looking up Jones, Aloysius in the telephone book was a joke; Francis had to admit that if that were his name he would not be in a hurry to advertise it. Then, one miserable, wet morning, when Francis had gloomily decided he would have to call a builder, Fate took a hand. Francis answered the phone, “Yes.”

“Blimey, you don‟t „arf sound miserable.”

“Al? Aloysius? Is that really you?”

“Well, it was a few minutes ago but if you‟re that pleased to „ear me, there must be trouble around, so I‟m not so sure - - - “

“Al! I‟ve been trying to find you. I need your help.”

After a long silence, “Well, bein‟ as „ow I was ringing to ask for your „elp, per‟aps we can come to a mutual agreement.”

“Can you come round? Now?”

“Not now! No! Not in broad daylight. I‟ll come by this evening – if that‟s convenient”

“Yes. Yes. What time shall I expect you?”

“Well . . . about 8.00?”

“Good, that‟ll be fine. I‟ll have the kettle on.”

Al put down the phone wondering what on earth was going on. Francis sounded pleased – no, more than pleased - to hear from him. It must mean trouble.

Promptly at 8 o‟clock, Al stepped out of the elevator to find Francis waiting for him.

“Come in. The tea‟s made.”

Al was definitely apprehensive. This looked bad. Once they were seated, Francis said ”You said there was something I could do for you?”

Al shifted uncomfortably. “It‟s a bit embarrassing, really. I was wonderin‟ if you would write me a reference?”

“A reference? What for?”

Al‟s embarrassment grew. “A job.”

“What sort of job?” Francis had a sinking feeling that this would not turn out well after all.

“Oh, a real one. A janitor at the school. The kids are growing up and the missus thinks I should „ave an honest job. I filled out all the forms and that but they need a character reference as well and I thought . . . well, a reference from a toff, - sorry gentleman - like you might go down well.”

Francis was so relieved he would have promised him almost anything. “Of course I will. Just tell me what you want me to say. Do you want it now?”

Al was taken aback by this enthusiastic agreement and was about to say “yes, please” when he remembered that Francis wanted something from him in return. He chewed thoughtfully on a chocolate biscuit.

“Well, let‟s see. What was it you wanted from me?”

“Ah! Well, it‟s like this . . . oh, dear, this is really embarrassing too.” He told Al the whole story about the security lock on the room and how it seemed that the only recourse would be to take down the wall and start again. “But, you see, I don‟t want strangers seeing, well, my treasures, so I wondered whether you, ah, could help me out?”

Al wiped his mouth, “Let‟s „ave a look see.”

The two men went into the small dressing room and Al looked at the problem security box, now with its busily humming addition, and knocked on the walls a bit. “Well, I don‟t think you need to knock down the whole wall. Get that security company to turn off their gizmo and you can cut out that bit. Then you‟d need a locksmith to take out the locks on your door and fit new ones; patch up the wall with a bit of plaster and bob‟s your uncle.”

Francis was lost in admiration. “I knew you‟d have a good idea. Would you do the work yourself?”

“Not the locksmith bit” said Al hurriedly. “I‟m not familiar with locks.” This was said with a tad too much emphasis but Francis was beyond caring.

“Do you know someone reliable and, er, discreet?”

“I could probably find someone but „e‟d need paying cash. I‟ll do the cutting and patching if you‟ll do the reference.”

Francis beamed in relief and extended his hand. Solemnly the two shook hands and the deal was done.

Francis wrote the reference that night and Al went off with it feeling uncomfortably heavy in his jacket, casting his mind around his various acquaintances who might be trustworthy enough to change the locks on Francis‟ door without asking too many questions.

A month later, everything had been done. Francis paid, without a quibble, the large amount of cash necessary to buy a top-of-line locksmith after hours, who could be trusted to keep his mouth shut. The newly-installed security system had a cover over the pad, so the accident could never be repeated. As a celebration, Francis invited Al to come for a visit inside the room to see all the treasures he had collected; fortunately, none of them had suffered damage from the work, just a lot of dust which Francis had carefully removed. They enjoyed the evening so much that they repeated it on several occasions. Al settled so well into his respectable job as a janitor at the local school that he soon won promotion to caretaker/handyman and hired someone else to do the dirty work. Francis never managed to persuade Al that a Rémy Martin XO 1st Cru Grande Champagne was better than a good cup of tea but, over time, mutual respect developed into a real friendship. Strange, thought Francis more than once, that such an unpropitious beginning should turn out so well.

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