Stairlift to Heaven

by Terry Ravenscroft

  This exercise is fine for people of normal height, but as I have already mentioned the shallow end of the pool is three feet deep six and Mr Leeson is only three feet tall, a discrepancy of six inches on the part of Mr Leeson. Last week when Mr Leeson got in the pool and promptly disappeared underwater he quickly got out again before he drowned. He obviously didn’t want the same thing to happen again so when Miss Hobday - who had more than likely instructed dozens of other would-be swimmers since our session last week and had probably forgotten all about Mr Leeson’s problem - asked us all to get into the pool, Mr Leeson refused point blank, and went on to tell Miss Hobday his reason for refusing, i.e. that if he did he may never live to tell the tale.

  Miss Hobday had a think about it but from her bemused expression clearly a solution to the problem was beyond her. She told us to practise the arm movements of the breast stroke on dry land and disappeared for about ten minutes. When she returned, obviously having taken counsel from a higher authority, she told Mr Leeson that to overcome the problem he would be transferred to the ten-year-olds’ swimming classes, where the pupils would be the same size as he was. She added that unfortunately, unlike the Oldie lessons, the lessons wouldn’t be free and would have to be paid for by Mr Leeson, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances.

  Mr Leeson hit the roof. Or as near to the roof as it’s possible for a dwarf to hit it. “Are you joking?” he protested. “If you think you’re putting me in with a load of ten-year-old kids and expecting me to pay for the privilege you’ve got another think coming. People will accuse me of being a bloody paedophile!”

  “Yes, I’ve already had to stop being a Santa Claus because of that,” said one of the normal men, Mr Littlewood, although without bothering to enlarge on his statement.

  “And anyway,” said Mr Pargeter, the man with the glass eye, “How do you manage to teach children? If they’re the same height as Mr Leeson how come they don’t disappear under the water?”

  A good point, and one I hadn’t thought of myself.

  “Yes, if the water goes over Mr Leeson’s head it’ll go over a child’s head as well,” said the hunchback, Mr Gearing, adding his three-pennyworth.

  Miss Hobday had the answer however. “We use a different teaching system for children,” she said primly.

  “Well then use your usual system for us and the children’s system for Mr Leeson,” said Mr Pargeter.

  Rather reluctantly, and against her better judgement it seemed to me, Miss Hobday agreed to do this, starting the following week.

  One week on we found that the system employed by the local leisure centre to teach ten-year-olds is to first kit out him or her with inflatable arm and leg bands. Having been made buoyant little Brad or little Angelina is then fitted with a shoulder harness attached to a long length of rope. The child then gets in the water and whilst simulating the arm and leg movements of the breast stroke is gently towed across the width of the pool by the instructor. The idea is that over a period of time the child will become less and less dependent on the arm and leg bands, the harness and tow rope, and will eventually be able to swim unaided.

  This system was now being employed by Miss Hobday to instruct Mr Leeson. Naturally when she is towing Mr Leeson to and fro across the pool she can’t be instructing the eleven non-dwarfs in her class, who are left to their own devices. Miss Hobday apologised in advance for this inconvenience but said there was nothing she could do about it, that another instructor couldn’t be spared, they didn’t grow on trees, and that she had been told by her superiors to devote half her time to teaching Mr Leeson to swim by the ten-year-olds’ method, and the other half to teaching the rest of us to swim by the normal method.

  One of the normal men using the normal method men, Mr Hall, said that this was patently unfair as there were eleven non-dwarfs in our group and only one dwarf, and that to be fair our hour’s instruction should be split up in the ratio 11.1, eleven parts going to the normals and one part to the dwarf. Mr Leeson said this would mean that it would give him only five minutes instruction time per session while the rest of us would have fifty five minutes, which was not only clearly unfair but also discrimination against dwarfs.

  Before Miss Hobday could make a ruling on this the fat fuck Mr Liddiard complicated matters further by saying that he too wanted to be treated like a ten-year-old and be kitted out with arm and leg bands and towed across the pool by Miss Hobday.

  There is a little history with Mr Liddiard and Miss Hobday, inasmuch as just before the session was about to begin Mr Liddiard had taken it upon himself to jump into the pool again, despite having been warned not to do so after what had happened to me during our first lesson. Fortunately no one was in the pool this time so nobody was in danger of being drowned, but the resultant splash drenched Miss Hobday, who was standing poolside, immediately transforming her neatly-ironed white top and shorts into saturated and see-through top and shorts, and her neatly coiffed hair into a bedraggled mess. This could well explain what she then said to Mr Liddiard, after he had asked to be treated like a ten-year-old and be kitted out with arm and leg bands and towed across the pool, which was, and I quote, “If I can get hold of four Goodyear blimps for your arm and leg bands and a ten ton lorry to tow you across the pool I will do that; in the meantime you’ll have to stay with the others.”

  Five of us, including me, applauded her. The man with the glass eye, Mr Pargeter, and the man with the hunchback, Mr Gearing, laughed out loud, but then both had axes to grind, Mr Liddiard having previously referred to them, within their hearing, as Quasimodo and Cyclops.

  Mr Liddiard, by now red-faced and fuming, stomped from the scene without a word, and that was the last we ever saw of him. Five minutes later Miss Hobday was summoned to the office. Ominously, we didn’t see her again either.

  The following week, about half-an-hour before I was due to set off for my next lesson, I had a phone call from the manageress of the leisure centre telling me not to bother, as following her altercation with Mr Liddiard last week Miss Hobday had been suspended on full pay until such time as the matter had been fully investigated by an independent body and a decision made as to her future. The manageress went on to inform me that they were trying to find a replacement for Miss Hobday but that she didn’t hold out much hope because ‘you know how things are’.

  I said, “No, I don’t know how things are, how are they?”

  “Well it’s such a long drawn out process getting a replacement,” she explained, “with all the vetting we have to do in case the applicants are paedophiles or sex crimes offenders, and what with instructors coming into contact with children and vulnerable adults. It would be more than likely that Miss Hobday will be back with us by the time the vetting is completed so it just wouldn’t be worth our while trying to get a replacement.”

  I thought about this for a moment then played what I thought was a trump card. “You do realise you’re discriminating against Mr Leeson, do you?”

  A slight pause. “Is he the dwarf?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, we’re not. We’ve managed to get the dwarf, the fat man and the gentleman with the hump back in with another group.”

  I went berserk. “The fat man? The bloody fat man? He’s the cause of all the trouble!”

  “Maybe he is,” said the manageress, keeping her cool, “but that doesn’t give us carte blanche to discriminate against him.”

  “And what about the rest of us?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well you’re discriminating against us as well. You’re discriminating against us for not being dwarves, fat men or hunchbacks.”

  She thought about this for a moment before saying, “Well I suppose we are in a way.” But then added, a note of relief in her voice, “But you can’t discriminate against people for being normal.”

  And she was right of course. You can’t. I tried a different tack. “What about the man with the glass eye?”

  “What man with what gl
ass eye?”

  “Mr Pargeter. You don’t think he’ll sue you for discriminating against people with only one eye when he hears about what you’ve done for the others?”

  “Thanks for the tip off,” she said, relieved. “We’ll be getting in touch with him. Well goodbye.”

  “I’ve got a club foot!” I yelled , before she could hang up.

  There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment, then, “A club foot?”

  “Yes.”

  More silence, then a rustling of papers, the manageress obviously checking up on my application form. “It doesn’t say anything here about you having a club foot?”

  “I don’t like to make a fuss about it.”

  More silence, then she said, “Can you make Tuesdays at 10.30?”

  “I think I should be able to limp along to that,” I said. “God willing.”

  Since then, and before joining the 10.30 Tuesday swimming class at the invitation of the manageress, I discovered, thanks to a chance meeting in Matalan with the hunchback Mr Gearing - apparently their jumpers are the only ones that will fit him - that the class in question is the female equivalent of our men’s Oldies class. Evidently the leisure centre powers-that-be had decided in their wisdom to lump us all together, disregarding their previous reservations about the risk of possible hanky-panky, rather than take the risk of being sued by the hunchback Mr Gearing, the dwarf Mr Leeson, the fat pillock Mr Liddiard, the man with the glass eye Mr Pargiter, and the man with the club foot, me.

  In the event I had second thoughts and didn’t continue with the swimming lessons. I knew what would happen. Once the instructor had started to give Mr Leeson individual tuition by towing him across the pool Mr Liddiard would demand the same treatment. What would happen after that I don’t know, except that it would be some sort of almighty shambles, but whatever it was it certainly didn’t warrant my having to pretend I have a club foot.

  And so my swimming career came to a premature end, even before it had ever really started. And if I fall in the canal I shall just have to take my chances; it’s not all that deep anyway.

  ****

  April 28 2008. BALL PARK PRICE.

  I’d gone shopping for a new up-and-over garage door as the other one has never been quite the same since The Trouble backed into it when she was going through the menopause. Neither has The Trouble for that matter, but whether it’s because of the menopause or backing into the garage door I’m not sure.

  After taking the particulars of my garage door the salesman worked out a price and said, “Ball park, £210.”

  If there’s anything guaranteed to get my goat it’s the Americanisation of the English language. I treated him to a withering look, and then in my best clipped Captain Mainwaring tone said, “What was that you said?”

  “It’ll be £210. Ball park.”

  I slipped Walmington-on-Sea’s finest into overdrive. “And which ball park would that be then?

  “What?”

  “Yankee Stadium? Shea Stadium? Candlestick Park?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “They’re ball parks. Or perhaps it’s some other ball park to which you refer?”

  A bemused shake of the head. “I’m not with you.”

  I came to his assistance. “I mean when you said the ball park price was £210?”

  He shrugged. “I meant it’s just a ball park price.”

  “So it’s any ball park then?”

  “….Well, yes. I suppose.”

  “So what’s the normal price?”

  “The normal price?”

  “The price that isn’t the ball park price?”

  “….Well, it’s the same.”

  “The same?”

  “The same as the ball park price.”

  “Then why call it the ball park price?”

  “….Well…..well it’s just an expression, that’s all.”

  “Well here’s another expression. You know where you can stick your ball park price, along with your up-and-over garage door.”

  After shopping around for the rest of the morning the best price I was able to get for a new garage door was £230, so it looks like my intolerance will be costing me £20. But as this isn’t a ball park price it will cheap at the price.

  ****

  April 29 2008. I DON’T BELIEVE IT!.

  I told The Trouble about the ball park incident yesterday and far from being on my side she just shook her head and said, “You’re getting more like Victor Meldrew every day.”

  I didn’t argue with her because she’s probably right, there being little doubt that the older I have grown the more intolerant I have become. Mention of the late-lamented Victor reminded me that at the time ‘One Foot in the Grave’ finally put both its feet in the grave because writer of the show David Renwick had run out of ideas for more episodes I heard an opinion ventured on some TV show or other that perhaps another writer could have taken over writing of it. This suggestion was ridiculed, the one doing the ridiculing advancing the opinion that there wasn’t a writer capable of taking over from Renwick. Rubbish. I know David and I’m sure he would agree with me. I had the scenario for the first half of an episode in five minutes flat.

  The scene - The Meldrew’s Living Room. Victor has a streaming cold and is halfway through a large brandy and hot lemon. The phone rings. Victor answers it. The caller wants to know how much Victor wants for his elephant.

  Victor: “Elephant? What are you talking about? I haven’t got an elephant!”

  He sits down, muttering to himself and Margaret about wrong numbers. The phone rings again. It’s another caller wanting to buy Victor’s elephant.

  Victor: “I haven’t got a bloody elephant. Anyway, what on earth do you want with an elephant?”

  The caller explains that an elephant has escaped from a nearby circus winter quarters and the owners are advertising in the local newspaper, offering a £5000 reward for its safe return. The caller was hoping to buy Victor’s elephant for less than this and pocket the difference. Victor puts the phone down thoughtfully. An alarm bell rings in his head. An unbelievable thought strikes him. He picks up the newspaper, turns to the small ads section.

  Victor: “I don’t believe it!”

  Margaret: “What don’t you believe now?

  Victor: “That advertisement I put in the ‘Lost and Found’ column for my lost watch - they’ve only gone and got it mixed up with the advert for a lost circus elephant!”

  The phone rings again. Victor picks it up, listens for a moment, shouts into it “I haven’t got a bloody elephant,” glares at it, leaves it off the hook and says to Margaret, “I’m going for that hot bath now, try to shake off this blasted cold.”

  We pick up Victor emerging from the shower. He has a towel wrapped round his waist. While he is making for the bedroom he is wrapping another towel round his head in the form of a turban. Passing the bedroom window he happens to glance through it. His jaw drops.

  Victor: “I don’t believe it!”

  From Victor’s point of view we see his back garden. There is an elephant in it. He rushes downstairs to tell Margaret. They look at the elephant through the window.

  Margaret: “The escaped circus elephant!”

  The elephant starts eating Victor’s rhubarb.

  Victor: “It...it’s eating my rhubarb!”

  The elephant does a dump.

  Victor: “Now it’s going in at one end and coming out of the other. It’s manuring the bloody garden now!”

  Margaret: “Well you can’t fault it environmentally.”

  Victor: “Bugger the environment, it’s taken me six weeks to force that rhubarb through.”

  Margaret: “It isn’t taking the elephant that long.”

  Margaret tells Victor he must get onto the circus immediately and get someone to come for the elephant. However Victor has designs on the £5000 reward. He fears the elephant might make off before its owner arrives, so decides to take it back himself as the circus winter
headquarters being only a mile up the road. He ties a rope round the elephant’s neck to lead it away. It won’t budge. Margaret suggests that as it’s a circus elephant it might be more inclined to move if he were to get on its back and ride it.

  Victor: “Who do you think I am, Sabu?”

  Margaret: “Well you certainly look like Sabu!” (The reader will recall that Victor is still dressed in a towel round his waist and has another towel wrapped round his head like a turban.)

  Victor still can’t budge the elephant and eventually adopts Margaret’s suggestion. Lo and behold it works and Victor, atop the elephant, sets off for the circus. A hundred yards down the road a police car stops him.

  Policeman: “Who do you think you are, Sabu?”

  Victor: “Don’t you bloody start!”

  The policeman smells alcohol on Victor’s breath and breathalyses him. (You will also recall that quite recently Victor had a large brandy.)

  Victor: “I do believe it - you bloody people would breathalyse someone if you suspected him of sucking a beer mat!”

  The breathalyser turns green and the police take Victor to the police station....with hilarious consequences, as they say.

  Piece of cake.

  ****

  May 18 2008. SHIT GARDEN OF THE YEAR.

  In the front garden of the house was the complete back axle assembly of a large lorry, a car wing, a supermarket trolley with the wheels missing, a pram with the wheels missing, two bike frames, a bath, half a WC, a roll of carpet, two live hens and sundry other bric-a-brac including paper, polythene packaging and dead leaves. All except for the two hens were partially submerged in what was once a lawn but now resembled elephant grass. The front door bore traces of the last three colours it had been painted and had ‘Piss Off’ in large letters written on it in spray paint. Atkins and I approached it. Atkins knocked on it. It was answered by a man who hadn’t troubled himself to put on a shirt that day, relying on just his filthy vest to impress any callers.