Sky Blue Miracle.

A long time ago in New Zealand, a young woman of a petite build with a dark bob gazed at a sky-blue coat hanging in the shop window. She shook herself sharply, “it’s no good Shirley. You know a receptionist’s wage won’t cover the rent and a new coat.”

 Then, with a determined step, for this receptionist was not inclined to linger on gloomy thoughts, Shirley marched onto work.

 Work was a doctor’s office with an impressive filing system. Or at least, it had been impressive before Shirley had been hired.

 “I’m so glad the doctor found you,” muttered Mrs Beezley. Mrs Beezley had a constant case of ‘flu and was a regular. “That last girl was a tiger. Not interested in anything. Why the doctor kept her around, I’ll never know. She was awful.”

 Shirley nodded sympathetically.  As a matter of fact-thought Shirley-the doctor probably kept the last girl around because she could file. Shirley had tried the established system and it got, well, muddled. These days she just flung paperwork into the nearest drawer and hoped it wasn’t wanted again. Fortunately, she was the only receptionist, but if the doctor found out….oh help.

“I remember,” continued Mrs Beezley crossly, “I once had a very interesting case of constipation. Couldn’t go at all, if you grasp my meaning my dear, and the last girl didn’t want to hear any details at all! Well!” Indignation rendered her briefly speechless.

 Shirley leaned over the counter, “I’ve heard molasses can help with that,” she said sympathetically.  “And avoid red meat.”

 “I think all doctor’s receptionists ought to take such an active interest in disease as you do,” announced Mrs Beezley suddenly. “It’s a good thing you don’t have a boyfriend. You might run off and get married like the last one, although I think it a good thing we got rid of her. How she caught a husband, I shall never know. I imagine his life will be a void and empty place if he gets diarrhoea and seeks sympathy from her.”

Pleased with this witticism, Mrs Beezley stomped out.  She was replaced by Mrs Smith.

“How are you today, Mrs Smith?” asked Shirley.

“Thanks for asking,” said Mrs Smith. “Completely foul. My daughter-in-law made a hideous chicken pie for Sunday lunch, and I feel sure it poisoned me. At the time, I did think it very odd that she insisted I had three helpings, (I am usually completely uninterested in food), but I now see what she was up too. If I hadn’t had pudding, I’d probably be dead by now. I believe that the sponge cake sort of mopped up the toxicity of the pie and diluted the poison. It’s a good thing I had five pieces.”

“Err, yes,” said Shirley doubtfully. “I hope you haven’t been too poorly.”

“Poorly?” boomed Mrs Smith majestically. “Poorly isn’t the word for what I’ve been through! Thirty-two times I awoke to vomit, my dear. My husband says it was only twice which just shows how insensitive he is. Don’t get married, Shirley dear, it is very galling to suffer as I have suffered and be told that you merely ate too much and only threw up twice. Be glad my dear, that no one seems to want to marry you.”

Mrs Smith vanished into the doctor’s room.

The day continued in the same strain. People came in, had a nice chat with Shirley, and then cheerfully expressed the hope she would never marry.

“Good bye,” said the doctor. “Lock up for me, won’t you? My family will be waiting to have dinner with me.”

“It is quite tedious,” grumbled Shirley as she pulled her hat on and checked her reflection in the foggy windowpane. “One likes to be kind, but to be told all week that one is not likely to ever marry because one has a gift for pretending to like hearing about diarrhoea, is too much.”

She marched down the street and stopped to gaze once again at the sky-blue coat. “I told you before and I shall tell you again,” she sternly informed her ghostly twin who peeped out of the shop glass in front of the blue coat, “I told you that rent and blue coats cannot be both accommodated this month.”

The reflection seemed to wilt at the bad news.

“I know Arthur is coming to Wellington,” said Shirley with a flick of her hand. The reflection jeeringly mimicked the gesture.

“Don’t you start!” growled Shirley. “I should hope a woman’s own reflection would think more highly of her attractiveness than to condemn her to a loveless life as an underpaid receptionist. Did you know Mrs Thompson had fungus sprout in all her toes this month? Yes, of course you do, you had to listen to it for hours and hours!” She shook her head sadly.

The reflection shook its head reprovingly.

“Oh very well, but it felt like hours!” snapped Shirley. “And the point is, I think Arthur might fall in love with me.”

The reflection, for a fleeting second assumed a wide eyed, dreamy expression.

“Oh all right, you needn’t get sappy about it!” Shirley scowled.

A group of people passing by, flicked their eyes in her direction.

Shirley straitened her old brown coat and sighed. “I think it might be best if we talk later,” she hissed.

The reflection nodded. Then drooped. Then straitened. A smile blossomed across the reflection’s face.

“Alright,” said Shirley. “It’s worth a shot.”

It was beginning to drizzle as she walked away from the window.

“God,” said Shirley. “I need to pay my rent, but I also really, really want that coat. Couldn’t you do something about it?”

The next day, she went to pay the rent.

“Good morning, Shirley,” said the landlord. “What brings you here?”

“I’m here to pay my rent,” said Shirley, brightly, mentally pushing visions of sky-blue coats from her mind. Apparently, God wasn’t currently dealing in woman’s attire.

The landlord opened his book. “I don’t see why,” he said. “You’ve already paid for the month.”
“I have not,” said Shirley.

“Yes, you have,” said the landlord patiently. “It’s marked in my book.”

“Now listen,” said Shirley suddenly. “Let’s say I believe you, that I’ve paid my rent, you’re not going to find you made a mistake and want it later, are you? Because by then, well, I might not have it.”

“Not going to be a problem,” said the landlord. “I promise I’ll expect no more rent from you until next month. This month is paid.”

❤

“So I went and got my sky blue coat!”  said Grandma triumphantly. “And I wore it when I went to meet your grandfather at the bus stop!”

 “Did you think she looked pretty in her coat, Granddad?” I asked.

 “I don’t recall,” muttered Granddad trying, unsuccessfully, to hide behind beetling eyebrows and a deep teacup.

“Oh Arthur! What a story!” gasped Grandma in horror. “You told me that I looked beautiful. You said I was the most beautiful woman you ever saw and…”

“Oh all right,” grumbled Granddad in panic less further revelations of his ardour should spout forth. “I would have married you any way you know. I already thought you were very pretty.”

“What!?” boomed Grandma with interest. “I can’t hear you, dear.|”

“VERY PRETTY!” shouted Granddad. He tried to camouflage himself into the grey upholstery of his easy chair. 

We gazed at him fondly. We knew the truth he was vainly trying to hide. He had always been in love with Grandma and the passing of years had not diluted his affection one jot.

 “How do you think your rent got paid?” I asked.

“Who knows,” replied Grandma dreamily. “God has his own ways of keeping books.”

 Granddad sprouted up from his grey surroundings. “And so do you!” he said. Then he started laughing.

Grandma started laughing too. “Oh dear,” she said. “It’s a good thing we moved towns after we got married. I didn’t want to be around when the doctor discovered what I did to his filing system!”

 Story- copyright- R.M. Hamilton. I am grateful to Pixabay for providing some of the images used in creating the graphics for this post.