The washing machine story

I met Bill in the local grocery store. He had a heap of groceries in his basket and I was only buying a loaf of bread and a carton of milk. I stepped aside to let him go in before me. There were still three people in front and it was one of those times when each one of them paid by bankcard. By the time they had slipped their cards through the machine, being accepted and signed the slip, it took quite a while.

The man who I had let in before me half turned around and winked at me. Weren’t cards meant to make shopping quicker and simpler?

Yeah, I said, for the bank and the store but not for us.

We who only stand and wait, he said. He changed his full basket from one hand to the other and groaned. Thanks for letting me in front.

When I reached the counter I paid by cash, the same way as he did and I was out of there in no time. I caught up to him in the car park where his vehicle was parked next to mine. It was a yellow campervan. He was stuffing his groceries through the middle door into a kind of large wicker basket.

It looks like you might be going away, I said.

He closed the door and shook his head rather sadly. The wife and I were going. You know, retired now, kids all grown up. Spending our inheritance we joked, but unfortunately my wife got sick. You know how it goes; life chucks you a bit of a wobbly now and again. I’ve had to go back to work for a while to pay off the medical bills.

I told him how sorry I was and asked him what kind of work he did?

White goods mechanic, he said.

Bad luck for him and his wife, good luck for me. Like maybe you fix washing machines? I asked.

I explained to him that my washing machine had broken down a couple of weeks ago and I had been using my daughter’s machine until I could get someone to take it in for repairs.

Sure, he said, I’ll fix it. Half the price of the downtown guys too.

I gave him my address and he turned up the following day and within an hour the machine was going like a new top. An hour’s work, fifty bucks, good all round.

It was a nice sunny day that day and neither of us had much to do so I offered him a cup of coffee and we sat on my bench in the sun and talked.

I asked him how his wife was. He shook his head sadly. She used to be great - a naturally happy person, looking forward to our trip away and all that, then suddenly, without any warning, Bonbon died.

Bonbon? Somebody close was it?

Not somebody exactly, something. My wife’s Pomeranian. Well ours actually, but mostly my wife’s. She took him everywhere. Poor little Bonbon, she found him in his basket one morning just before last Xmas. All cold and stiff. She’s never got over it. I took her to the doctor but that didn’t do much good, he just gave her drugs and it made her more depressed. A psychologist tried to talk her around and that didn’t do any good either. She finished up in a clinic and that cost a heap. He smiled then, wistfully. Nothing seemed to help. Goodbye trip I say.

Look, perhaps it takes more time, I told him at my gate. I thought of my own situation in the past. Sometimes time is the only healer?

I hope so, he said, without a great deal of conviction. I’ve been thinking lately that I might put the van on the market and pay off the debt.

Give it time, I shouted after him as he drove off.

For weeks after, every time I saw a campervan passing in the street I checked it out. But no, I didn’t see Bill or his wife that I never met riding by. I could only hope that it did come out well for both of them.

Some time later I was sitting down reading the ads in the paper. I was looking for someone selling sheep manure for the garden and as my eye slid down the columns, another ad under livestock caught my eye. Someone was advertising for a home for a half grown Pomeranian puppy. A sweet little companion for a lady the ad said. I went to my kitchen drawer to get the scissors and cut the ad out. I picked up Bill’s address from the phone book and sent the ad to him. I signed it from a Well-wisher.

Would my little hint work? As it turned out I didn’t have all that long to wonder what happened to Bill and his wife. Early in autumn I saw a woman sitting in a loaded up yellow campervan outside the same grocer shop where I’d first met Bill. She was sitting up, smiling happily. There was a little, flat-nosed, golden-haired dog with a red ribbon round its neck standing on her lap, yapping out at the world in general. I never did particularly like Pomeranians much but this one seemed to be a little beauty.

I was in a hurry that day and I didn’t stop to verify my assumption that it was Bill’s missus. I reckon it was a pretty sure bet that it was, though.