AN AUSTRALIAN BUSH NURSING HOSPITAL.

‘Morning Glory’ was a bush nursing hospital in a remote country town and surrounded by shady eucalyptus trees, giving it a picturesque appearance. During recent renovations, it had just installed new PVC floorings throughout. It was my company’s product and it was selected because it needed only the occasional quick buffing with a floor polisher. Yet despite this ease of maintenance, I had received a phone call requesting my visit to sort out a ‘faulty vinyl’. Sure, sure, I thought grimly.
Sister Theresa, who was running the hospital, smiled when she saw me. It was a trusting smile which made me determined to get to the bottom of her problem.
‘Mal, our cleaner tried to buff the floor with his floor polisher but said your vinyl was too soft!’
Despite the nonsense I’d just heard, I smiled back at her reassuringly. ‘Is Mal here?’
‘No, he starts work at six o’clock in the afternoon’, she stated.
‘But, sister, if I can come all the way from Melbourne to impart some knowledge and help him solve a problem, don’t you think that this merits his being present in his own time?’
‘I’ll phone him now because he does not live very far from here.’ Sister Theresa liked to get on top of problems.
While she retreated into her small office, I walked around the building, head bowed and studying the flooring. It was very well installed and looked bright and friendly. Suddenly, I came across the complaint mentioned and knew instantly what had happened to the flooring. The cleaner had switched on his floor polishing machine without having a buffing pad on the rotating disk with gripping spikes and he had routed into the PVC flooring. Of course, he had not admitted to having made a mistake and damaging the flooring himself, but complained instead about ‘the appearance of the floor after having buffed it’.
Within half an hour Nigel Firty had arrived. He looked annoyed for having been called from his home, in his own time, and, showing no embarrassment, pointed to the spot of approximately 70 cm of damaged vinyl. He took the buffing machine out of the cleaner’s room and polished an area of passageway without any problems. Obviously, he had learned his lesson in the meantime!
‘Unfortunately, I was not here, Sister, when this happened but I am confident that it will not happen again. If I send you a large piece of the same PVC flooring free-of-charge, could you ask the flooring contractor to cut out the damaged part and insert the new piece?’
Sister Theresa nodded ‘That will be fine.’ She, too, realised that this was not the time to point the finger at anybody but to ensure a friendly working relationship all round.
‘Thank you for coming, Peter,’ Sister Theresa spoke again. ‘If you could help us with that piece of vinyl that would be great.’

ME AND THE KGB / NKVD ……..

Dear Visitor,

Today, I have the pleasure of introducing a guest author, my good friend Michael Muschamp, and am confident that you will enjoy his amusing reminiscing as much as I do. PETER FREDERICK

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Yes, I know the heading should be “The NKVD and I”. Whatever, at least it rhymes.

1962 found me in London where I had worked for three years or so as manager of a New Zealand firm’s UK office. Not the world’s biggest office; self plus secretary and the occasional visiting fireman.

For the past three years, I had been sharing an office in the posh environs of Mayfair with another Kiwi, Alex Marks, who was the London end of a large NZ construction company. His boss and mine were good friends and the arrangement worked very well until the summer of ’62 when, for reasons unknown either to me or Alex, the bosses fell out and I was told to find an alternative home. Which I did, just round the corner from the ‘old’ one. Mind you, to get to my small office on the first floor, you had to fight your way past he rubbish bins of the ground floor caff.

Alex was about fifteen years my senior, a chap of medium height, greyish hair, bright eyes behind large rimmed glasses. Annually, he attended his good friend, a Jewish tailor, and bought two suits; by the month’s end they looked as if he’d slept in them. He probably had, for his success with the opposite sex was, not to put too fine a point on it, extraordinary. Given that he was usually emitting a good deal of garlic, I could only remain somewhat staggered

An example of his success in this important aspect of heterosexual life occurred in the spring of 1962. We met, by arrangement, in Geneva, both en route to the Hannover Fair, the biggest of its kind in Europe. It was chilly for the end of April but we put up with the temperature and had a coffee in a lakeside café. There was hardly a soul there, save for, a few tables away, an attractive woman in, I guessed, her early thirties.

We left to do our own bits of business, arranging to meet at Alex’s hotel three hours hence, i.e. at 7.30. A stickler for punctuality (a defect which has haunted me ever since my naval days), I knocked on Alex’s door at precisely 1930, local time. The door was opened. But not by Alex but the “lady by the lake”.

She joined us for dinner and left immediately after, explaining that her husband was due home early next morning. She spoke English with a decided Russian accent, but, at the time, I thought no more of that, knowing Alex’s love of his native country and its language.

He had arrived in New Zealand in 1920, the youngest of three children whose parents had undertaken the perilous journey to escape the Bolshevists, via Siberia and Kamkatcha for, as I was to discover a little later, they were , in the words of another émigré, “upper-middle class intellectuals, a bit like the Huxleys”. The language at home in Wellington, where they eventually settled, was Russian. Indeed, his father who was one of the founders of New Zealand’s radio manufacturing business, only spoke a very few words of English to his dying day and, whatever their family name was, it certainly wasn’t Markov or even Marx, the anglicised version of which had become Alex’s patronymic.

A few months later, in early October, it was cold, grey in England and, when it wasn’t raining, looked as if it would do so at any tick of the clock.

The newspapers, the BBC and ITV (thank God, only two channels then) were full of dire warnings. World War Three was just a-round the corner. Or, so they said. The United States and the USSR were playing a deadly game of ‘chicken’. Who was going to crack first as the Russian ships bearing missiles for Mr Castro were approaching Cuba?

My previous employment as a naval officer meant that I was subject to recall to the forces of the Crown whenever a state of emergency was declared or such seemed likely. Thus, I was not completely bewildered when my phone rang and an unmistakably military voice said, “Muschamp?”

“Michael Muschamp,” I replied, hoping, in vain, as it transpired, that the disembodied one might be a little less peremptory.

“You’re on the Emergency List of the RN, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I was transferred from the RNZN when I came to live in England.” I purposely omitted ‘sir’ as I had no idea who was interrogating me. I didn’t have long to wait.

“I’m Colonel Allen, War Office,” quoth the ill-mannered one, “come to my office in Curzon Street tomorrow at eleven.”

Not so much as ‘by your leave’ or ‘hope you haven’t another appointment.’

“I’ll be there, sir.”

“Room 35 on the third floor. Don’t be late.”

Having established that the fellow was three ranks senior to me (maybe only two as Lieutenant-Colonels are usually referred to without the first word), I thought I had better throw in the ‘sir’ in aid of good and friendly British Commonwealth relations. And ‘Curzon Street’ meant ‘MI5’, a fact of which I had become quite aware. for, before she was lucky enough to marry me, my wife had worked there though, of course, her post was a good deal junior to that of the peremptory “Brown Job” (the navy’s epithet for army personnel).

This exchange had left me aghast. I was fully aware that, some seven years since I had ‘been at sea’, I would be about as much use to one of Her Majesty’s Ships as a rope entangled in a propeller (‘screw’ in naval parlance). Nevertheless, I fronted the apparently anonymous Curzon Street building, told the guard who I was and where I was going. He checked, made a phone call to which he contributed,

“He’s in a suit, sir. Quite smart, actually.”

Some compliment.

I took a creaky lift to the third floor, found Room 35 and knocked.

“Come in, damn you.”

So I came in.

To face an angry-looking fifty-ish man, regimental tie, rather creased suit. He motioned me to a chair opposite him.

“Siddown.”

If that’s the way to win friends and influence people, I went to the wrong school, I mused.

I sat.

“This feller Alex Marks, you know him?”

“Yes, sir. We shared an office until about six months ago.”

“Why did you leave?

“Our respective bosses in Auckland had a bit of a falling-out.”

“But you still see Marks?”

“Yes, he’s a very good friend.”

“Funny sort of friend. You know he’s a Russian?” 

“ I know he was born in Moscow about 1916 and fled eastward with his family a bit later.. They finished up in New Zealand after a hair-raising trip. Not that he remembers it, but I’ve met his sister who told me about it.”

“You know he’s been seeing some Russians from their embassy here?”

“Yes, sir. I went with him once to the Moscow Arms where he introduced me to several Russians.” (The pub’s name had nothing to do with matters Russian except for the odd coincidence that it was in Moscow Road. In West Kensington) “But they all wanted to speak Russian so I didn’t go again. Of course he knows plenty of Russians who live here. He enjoys speaking Russian and, as someone once said, ‘You can take the man out of Russia but you can’t take Russia out of the man’”

“Well, I don’t want you to see him any more.”

“Might I enquire, sir, what right you have to tell me this? I may well be on the Emergency List of the Navy, but I am yet to be called up and I was unaware that a State of Emergency had been declared.”

“You are a cheeky young colonial. Get out.” 

So I got out.

I didn’t tell Alex.

(to be continued…..)

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NOTE: 

Would you like to leave a message for  Michael, right below? Many thanks!

TOPLESS LADY

One day, which I particularly remember, was very hot - one of the hottest on record and the city was sweltering in the heat. It was the kind of weather that was popularly called a ‘real stinker’ and school children were sent home, building sites were deserted and I had the feeling that only company representatives were kept working as a refinement of torture.

On that day, I had to call on a private household to inspect a complaint about a flooring installation. It meant having to find the address in a new suburb called Brentworth, which was not recorded in my antiquated street directory. Also, it had a lot number instead of a house number which were always more difficult to find and very time consuming. However, despite those difficulties, I had to get the inspection over with!

Whilst driving in my air conditioned car the temperature was not a problem but every time I had to stop and get out, the heat hit me like one of the hot towels that barbers of old slapped onto customers’ faces!

In the end, the owner of a new milk bar had pointed me in the right direction: ‘The Fletchers are second street to your left. A white weatherboard house with roses planted along a white fence. We know them well.’

That would be easy, I thought. All that was needed was a quick inspection of the PVC flooring in the kitchen, asking all the relevant questions, making notes, and a speedy getaway to my normal calls, namely architects and government departments, who have all nice, air conditioned, offices!

Parking in front of the house, the heat caused me to stagger back as soon as I had stepped out of the car. Nevertheless I had grabbed my clipboard, tape measure, complaint forms and staggered towards the house. Ringing the bell took an eternity and there was no answer. I rang once more, taking care to keep under the shade of a newly installed veranda awning.

I had just decided to loosen my tie and unbutton my collar when I perceived movement in the house. Somebody was in there. I glanced at my watch which showed that it was indeed the appointed time of my inspection. Eventually the door opened slowly and a young girl of about 15 years of age stepped out. She was dressed only in a bikini bottom, had a kind of very open fishnet scarf wrapped around her shoulders and was covering up her ‘topless-ness’ with one arm folded across herself.

‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Who are you looking for?’

‘Is Mrs Fletcher in? I have an appointment to inspect the kitchen floor.’ I tried all the time to keep looking casually into her eyes but only managed a fixed stare, although I did notice her beautiful long wavy hair and her statue-like figure, with a shiny, silky skin.

‘Yes, this is the right house but my mother is not here at the moment. You are welcome to inspect the kitchen floor. Please come in.’ She stepped back, opening the door wide to let me in, using the other arm.

‘No, no, no, ‘I heard myself reply. ‘In order to inspect a complaint, the complainant must be present. An appointment had been made, but perhaps there was a misunderstanding somewhere.’ I tried to smile. She smiled back and tried to be more helpful by waving with her free arm in the direction of where her mother was right now.

‘She went over there (pointing over the trees to the next street) to the Wellingtons’ and my father’ - this time she nearly used the other arm - ‘went to work at the service station over there. Both will be back soon. Would you like to wait?’

Standing there in the searing heat and with her so close to me, I had to force myself to keep from getting dizzy. There was a sudden ringing in my ears and I had to force myself to concentrate.

‘No, thanks. But I’ll come again when I’ve made another appointment with your parents. Here is my business card’ and I held it towards her free hand. ‘Please ask your mother or father to give me another phone call and we will try it again. Goodbye for now!’

She smiled and reached out for my card, nearly shifting her other arm which gave me an electric sensation.

I could not get into my car quickly enough and had turned on the motor, blasting the air conditioning into my face at full force. This should ease my sudden headache, I had thought but it took me some time to recover enough to continue with the remainder of my calls for the day. Regaining my philosophical mood, I reminded myself that there were situations in a rep’s life that he dreaded but that he simply had to be in control of.

One day which I particularly remember was a very hot day - one of the hottest on record and the city was sweltering in the heat. It was the kind of weather that was popularly called a ‘real stinker’ and school children were sent home, building sites were deserted and I had the feeling that only company representatives were kept working as a refinement of torture.

On that day I had to call on a private household to inspect a complaint about a flooring installation. It meant having to find the address in a new suburb called Brentworth, which was not recorded in my antiquated street directory. Also, it had a lot number instead of a house number which were always more difficult to find and very time consuming. However, despite those difficulties, I had to get the inspection over with!

While driving in my air conditioned car the temperature was not a problem but every time I had to get out, the heat hit me like one of the hot towels that barbers of old slapped onto your face!

In the end, the owner of a new milk bar had pointed me in the right direction. ‘The Fletchers are second street to your left. A white weatherboard house with roses planted along a white fence. We know them well.’

That would be easy, I thought. All that was needed was a quick inspection of the PVC flooring in the kitchen, asking all the relevant questions, making notes, and a speedy getaway to my normal calls, namely architects and government departments, with nice, air conditioned, offices!

Parking in front of the house, the heat caused me to stagger back as soon as I had stepped out of the car. Nevertheless I had grabbed my clipboard folder, tape measure and forms and staggered towards the house. Ringing the bell took an eternity and there was no answer. I rang once more, taking care to keep under the shade of a newly installed verandah awning.

I had just decided to loosen my tie and unbutton my collar when I perceived movement in the house. Somebody was in there. I glanced at my watch which showed that it was indeed the appointed time of my inspection. Eventually the door opened slowly and a young girl of about 15 years of age stepped out. She was dressed only in a bikini bottom and had a kind of fishnet scarf wrapped around her shoulders and was covering up her ‘topless-ness’ with one arm folded across herself.

‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Who are you looking for?’

‘Is Mrs Fletcher in? I have an appointment to inspect the kitchen floor.’ I tried all the time to keep looking casually into her eyes but only managed a fixed stare, although I did notice her beautiful long wavy hair and her statue-like figure, except with a shiny skin.

‘Yes, this is the right house but my mother is not here at the moment. You are welcome to inspect the kitchen floor. Please come in.’ She stepped back, opening the door wide to let me in, using the other arm.

‘No, no, no, ‘I heard myself reply. ‘In order to inspect a complaint, the complainant must be present. An appointment had been made, but perhaps there was a misunderstanding somewhere.’ I tried to smile. She smiled back and tried to be more helpful by waving with her free arm in the direction of where her mother was right now.

‘She went over there (pointing over the trees to the next street) to the Wellingtons’ and my father’ - this time she nearly used the other arm - ‘went to work at the service station over there. Both will be back soon. Would you like to wait?’

Standing there in the searing heat and with her so close to me, I had to force myself to keep from becoming dizzy. There was a sudden ringing in my ears and I had to make myself concentrate.

‘No, thanks. But I’ll come again when I’ve made another appointment with your parents. Here is my business card’ and I held it towards her free hand. ‘Please ask your mother or father to give me another phone call and we will try it again. Goodbye for now!’

She smiled and reached out for my card, nearly shifting her other arm which had given me an electric sensation.

I could not get into my car quickly enough and had turned on the motor, blasting the air conditioning into my face at full force. This should ease my sudden headache, I had thought but it took me some time to recover enough to continue with the remainder of my calls for the day. Regaining my philosophical mood, I reminded myself that there were situations in a rep’s life that he dreaded but that he simply had to be in control of.