Foskett's Farewell
Friday, 8.45amThis is it then; my final day at the coal-face. TGIF - in spades; the end of my glittering career; FREEDOM!! Old Datchery, my solicitor for the past thirty years, keeps telling me 'it won't be over till the fat lady sings'.
I can hardly wait for 6 o'clock tonight, when the proud new owners of P. Foskett Property Rentals come to collect the keys to their kingdom. They tell me, incidentally, that they're toying with the idea of abbreviating the trading name to PFPR within the year. Good luck to 'em, I say. While Her Ladyship and I are sunning ourselves in some quiet corner of southern Europe, PFPR will certainly give my more literate former clients and tenants innocent amusement, coming up with alternative meanings: Peter Foskett Please Return may or may not be among them!
'What brought this about all of a sudden?' I hear you ask. The smart answer would be to quote the title of the memoirs I'm planning: 'A Fall from Grace.' But to tell the truth, it was more a fall over Gracie, my long-suffering receptionist, that set the process in motion. I was pie-eyed that afternoon, I don't mind admitting it now. I'd spent a lengthy lunch hour in the Flute and Flyswat, just down the road, attempting to drown the bitter memories of the latest example of betrayal by a landlord-client; the details of which are far too tedious to relate, and too familiar to all in this business. When I got back to the office I was on the point of opening the door when I heard an all-too familiar voice from within. It was either the mating call of a sex-starved corncrake (unlikely in these parts), or Gladys Battersby throwing a wobbly. And believe me, when she does that everything within twenty feet wobbles, her own ample carcass leading the way ! So I turned tail and returned to my local, thanking Providence for all-day opening.
Four o'clock was striking when I finally made it back to base. I wasn't seeing things any too clearly by then, so you'll understand that Gracie's lower limbs projecting from beneath her desk, whence she was trying to retrieve the scattered contents of her waste paper basket, kicked as a surrogate for Mrs B's backside, constituted a navigational hazard. I failed to avoid them, ending up sprawled on the floor in embarrassing proximity to Gracie's prone figure. A less than convincingly professional impression was thus made on the couple who, at that of all moments, stepped into the premises.
However, my luck was in. The new arrivals were not strangers, but Ian and Alice Atkins, who'd taken up teaching jobs in Africa with more than a touch of missionary zeal about five years earlier. Now returned, they wanted to discuss regaining possession of the little house I'd been managing for them all the while. Conversation turned to their future plans. 'We've had enough of teaching, and of abroad,' said Ian. 'We want to settle back here,' explained Alice, 'and our first task is to find a new way to earn a living. Any suggestions for a couple like us, with only our teaching skills and a better than adequate command of Swahili?' I was frankly stuck for a reply but Gracie, coming in with a well-timed tray of tea, was not. 'Why don't you buy Peter out?' she asked, bold as brass. 'He's had enough of working for a living, and I've had more than enough of him!' As sales pitches go, hardly the most compelling you'll ever hear, and duly laughed off by all present at the time - except by me; I just wanted a few minutes alone with Gracie, to issue a stern rebuke for insubordination.
But the very next morning, in they came again, the 'Innocents Abroad', as I'd dubbed them as they'd first set off for Africa. They had been talking over Gracie's bombshell, and now wanted to ask me if I would indeed be interested in selling up. With heroic restraint, I replied that we could do worse than kick the idea around; inwardly, I was whooping with glee. For several years I'd been wondering how I was ever going to get myself off my treadmill. I couldn't believe I'd ever find anyone interested in taking on a small, labour-intensive business like mine, with a bottom line that would make any accountant laugh; it makes mine laugh, anyway. So even this tentative opening represented an important milestone. And, would you credit it, the discussions that followed revealed that the Atkins, thanks to the timely demise of an affluent relative, had funds enough to meet the figure I daringly proposed. With little or no argie-bargie, we shook hands on a deal that allowed a three month handover period which I've largely spent downloading into my successors as much as possible of the wisdom and tradecraft I've accumulated over the years. The 'Innocents Returned' have lapped it up and here we are, on my last day. A final, celebratory lunch with Gracie and then, roll on 6pm.
Friday 6.47pm
All done and dusted then. I can bale out now, after that last phone call. I dithered about picking it up, as it wasn't really my affair any more.
I'm glad I did though, or I'd have missed Mrs
B's final gesture. 'Oh, Mr Foskett' she burbled, in that way I'd
come to know and dread. 'Or may I call you Peter? Anyway, I just
wanted to say cheerio and good luck. I know we've had our little
problems from time to time (haven't we just!) but I'll really miss you,
you know.' And then, would you believe it, the old trout broke
into song. 'Good byee. Good byee. Wipe a little tear from
your eyee!' She's up to the minute, our Gladys, you have to give
her that. And as for Old Datchery, he knows a thing or two too...