"Samuel, I want you to look into hiring some red carpet,"
announced Mrs Platt upon Samuel's arrival at the office.
"Red carpet?" he questioned slowly. "Hiring?"
"Yes. There's a VIP coming over from America and Sir Hector
wants the red carpet treatment."
Samuel nodded warily.
"It's all top secret, so not a word to anyone."
"Mum's the word."
For a moment Samuel contemplated his boss's unusual request.
Acquiring tons of photocopier paper, fixing the telephone company,
and keeping the troops supplied with ballpoints, staples and
paperclips was more Samuel's line of work. Red carpet was another
thing entirely; quite outside the normal remit of dreary office
existence.
"Any idea where you can get red carpet from? I don't think we
have any stashed away," said Samuel eventually.
"Carpet shop?" Mrs Platt suggested with an impish smile.
"But aren't those VIP roll-up carpets made specially? Super
herd-resistant Wilton and what have you."
"It always looks like ordinary stair carpet to me."
"Wide, stately homes of England stair carpet you mean."
"Who knows.?
Mrs Platt slipped out of the office without another word,
leaving Samuel to thumb through the local phone directories in
search of red carpet pile; sniffing round the pages of regimented
text like Sherlock Holmes seeking an elusive clue that is so
tantalisingly close but which fails to divulge itself. The phone
book revealed a dearth of carpet shops locally and Samuel
was rather at a loss. He even contemplated phoning Buckingham
Palace to see whether they could recommend someone. After all,
that particular household had lots of experience when it came
to rolling out red carpet for visiting potentates and pauper princes.
And so it was that a few days later Samuel found himself in one
of Oxford Street's finest department stores.
"I'm looking for some red carpet," he informed the smartly dressed
saleslady who peered at him from behind half moon spectacles.
"Certainly sir. We've a number of red shades in stock, but
can deliver others we don't have within a couple of days. If you'll
just follow me."
As they settled by a display of samples and swatches the saleslady
turned.
"Where's the carpet for?"
"The floor?" Samuel proffered.
"Well of course, Sir," the saleslady replied with more than a hint
of sarcasm in her voice.
"You know how some people like to carpet their loo walls and such
like..." Samuel continued.
"What room will the carpet be fitted in?"
"The front hall and a corridor."
"Then you'll need our hardest wearing pile."
"I'm not sure that's necessary. The carpet's only going to be
walked over a few times."
When the saleslady adjusted her glasses and gave Samuel a highly
circumspect look he decided that his predicament needed to be
explained in more detail. Eventually the saleslady suggested a carpet
at a princely fourty pounds a yard which would look good and not
damage too easily.
'How nice,' Samuel thought, 'there are still die-hards who cling
to the old principle of measuring lengths in feet and inches, whisky
in gills, cricket pitches in chains, and baker's dozens.' None of that
European metric nonsense to cloud your fuddled brain cells.
Between them, Samuel and the saleslady calculated that
twenty-odd yards of red carpet of a suitably grand width would
cost the best part of nine hundred pounds, at which point Samuel's
office-frayed nerves began to jangle at the thought of interrogation
by Arnold Grabbit in Tweedales' Accounts Department. Grabbit was
the sort of fastidious figure twiddler who would count every grain of
sand on a beach if he'd bought it, and the bill for Samuel's carpet
would be closely scrutinised for sure.
"I suppose we could hire you some carpet for the day," the
saleslady suggested, "at about thirty pounds a yard. But it's still
quite a large sum. My own feeling is that you might as well buy the
carpet."
"I don't know what we would do with it afterwards. We don't really
need any carpet in our offices."
"I'm sure it would look splendid in your executive washrooms when
you're done with it."
Uncharacteristically Samuel hummed and ha'd then finally bit the
bullet and placed his order for twenty-something yards of scarlet
carpet in an assortment of lengths to fit the lobby and corridor
outside the Chairman's office. It even crossed his mind that he might
earn a few brownie points for adorning the loos with red pile once
the carpet had served its immediate purpose. Even Sir Hector might
approve of the improvements to Tweedales' fusty loo interiors with
their clinical tiled walls and concrete floors.
'Fat chance of that!' thought Samuel.
Several days later the carpet arrived; cut into the required
lengths, and each bundled into a neatly labelled roll. That evening
Samuel remained behind at the office to try the carpet out for
size. So perfectly did the pieces fit together that even a fly
couldn't have put a foot between the gaps, and Samuel felt a certain
sense of accomplishment. In the following days Mrs Platt was given
the Chairman's agenda for the VIP visit, and together with Samuel
performed a small dress rehearsal; finally issuing an internal staff
memo on behalf of the Old Toad to the effect that: 'Mr Elmer
Finklebaum, President and CEO of Finklebaum Industries Inc. of
American will be visiting Tweedales tomorrow. I know everyone will
extend a courteous and warm welcome. The Chairman's Office.'
When they arrived at work the next morning Tweedales' staff
and management were in a state of heightened anticipation, and even
Samuel failed to achieve any purposeful chores such were his worries
that everything should run according to plan. Restlessly he sifted
through the morning's delivery of junk mail from office furniture
and photocopier companies, sharpened pencils, and rearranged the
paperwork lying in his in-tray.
As the pre-ordained arrival time approached so various managers
drifted from their desks to join the welcoming committee in Tweedales'
lobby where the Old Toad was strutting back and forth impatiently.
A clock somewhere in the distance struck eleven as Samuel joined
the waiting group, and he became acutely aware of the minutes
slipping by; the Old Toad's footsteps beating on Tweedales' lobby floor
reminding Samuel to quickly rub the tips of his shoes against the back
of his trousesr. It wouldn't do to have scuffed toecaps on such an
important occasion would it?.
The stretched limo which eventually glided past Tweedales'
front door was almost as long as the line of company representatives
waiting nervously within. On cue, the Old Toad descended Tweedales'
front steps and croaked a welcome before ushering his guests inside
to meet the waiting posse of glad-handers lining the route of Samuel's
precious red carpet.
At the very end of this line were Mrs Platt, and Samuel, who
studied the visitors from his distant vantage point. Elmer Finklebaum
appeared to be one of those over-indulgent American businessmen
in his late fifties; a puffy pink face signalling an impending heart
attack, stroke, or a recent apoplectic fit of corporate rage. At his
side walked a tall, fur-wrapped, woman some twenty years his junior,
and a tubby young boy of about ten.
Passing along the line Elmer introduced himself and his wife to
each person in turn, Mrs Finklebaum adding:
"Preeceela Faynklebowwm. Playsed to mek' yo'r kwain'nce."
Evidently Priscilla Finklebaum hailed from one of those sleepy
corners of America where the only thing to move more slowly than
the ploughshares was the local dialect. Indeed, she gave the
appearance of being one of those lesser educated Southern belles
who, in a past decade, would have passed for a gangster's moll;
her bleached platinum blonde hair, vibrant lipsticked mouth and
tottering high heels presenting to the unaccustomed eyeball an
air of seediness.
'No,' thought Samuel, 'money does not buy style, even though it
may help one acquire tastelessness in handfuls.' And he wondered
whether Elmer had found Priscilla in a nightclub or some far-flung
honkytonk.
Her husband, Elmer Finklebaum the Third, Fourth, or something or
other, was a self-made million or billionaire whose mega-glomerate
company had an eagle-eye on expansion into Europe. Previous
generations of Finklebaums had probably been immigrant gypsies,
carpet baggers, or Wall Street bandits, but the latest generation
were into respectable fast-food, property, and widgets for the
automobile industry.
Behind the Finklebaums trailed a brutish bodyguard who never
let his masters stray from eyeball reach for more than a few seconds.
Such was his demeanour that Tilly the Hun would have chalked up a
positive charm rating by comparison, and Samuel wondered whether
the Finklebaum's Big Percy was ever dispatched to smack corporate
opponents on the kisser to assist the progress of business.
Reaching the end of the assembled welcoming party Sir Hector
introduced Mrs Platt and Samuel, informing them that a further carload
of guests would be arriving shortly. This was Elmer's entourage of
lawyers and financial gurus, and, after Mrs F's performance in
Tweedales' lobby, probably a simultaneous interpreter. With that,
Sir Hector, followed by the company's high and mighty, marched
towards the lifts with the Americans in tow; a procession resembling
a medieval royal progress, minus the trappings of horses and carts,
and a bevy of cringing, unwashed serfs.
At lunchtime the staff canteen was buzzing with excited gossip.
Was there to be a takeover? Would this mean new office furniture and
a coat of paint on Tweedales' lacklustre walls? And what was to be
made of Mrs Finklebaum, high heels and all?
If the Americans were to take Tweedales over there would be
something of a culture shock. New accounting procedures; exotic
business practices dreamt up by some overpaid corporate mystic
perched on a Californian mountain top; and probably new feet
under many managerial desks. There would undoubtedly be a culture
shock in the canteen too; the chef serving eggs sunny side up or
easy-over, while fries would replace chips, and beverages would
suffer the fate of being categorised as regular or large.
When he thought about the prospect of Tweedales becoming a
soulless new-age corporation Samuel liked the idea much less than
the status quo. It was true that Tweedales lived in the past, had
creaky business procedures, an ancient office building, and quaint
ways of manufacturing widgets and grommets, but somehow the
atmosphere felt homely and friendly. If nothing else Tweedales'
failings gave its employees something to gripe about across the
table at lunchtimes.
Speaking of lunch, Sir Hector demanded that outside caterers be
hired to serve lunch in the old oak panelled boardroom from where
he exercised his daily reign of terror; being unconvinced that
Tweedales' own catering department could master anything better
than its usual pork chops in diesel oil, bleached cabbage leaves,
and spotted dick that made tree branches look quite palatable.
The less charitable of Tweedales' canteen dwellers often referred
to this offering as 'dead man's leg', which didn't help the chef
gain confidence in his culinary abilities.
Mid afternoon Samuel was summoned to the boardroom.
'Now what?' Samuel pondered, since a call to the hub of Tweedales'
empire usually meant the high jump for the individual concerned, or
a roasting over hot coals.
Sir Hector's PA met Samuel in the ante-room and greeted him
warmly: "Sir Hector wants you to show Mrs Finklebaum round the
building Samuel."
"Heaven's," Samuel panicked. "What about the red carpet? We only
have enough for this floor and the lobby."
"I'm sure you'll think of something Samuel," the PA said, trying
to wash her hands of the problem dumped in his lap.
"You'll have to stall them for five minutes then."
"Fine."
With the original plan to limit Tweedales' guests to the
Chairman's floor and lobby now in tatters Samuel had to resort to
'Plan B'. Only there was no 'Plan B', and in several panic-stricken
minutes he corralled a task-force of helpers from around the
building; Tracy in Accounts, Crusher Jones from the post-room, and
odd souls from the Maintenance Department. Even Mrs Platt was
roped in.
Samuel's brainwave involved this amateur team lifting carpet from
Tweedales' lobby and placing it in the main corridor on each floor.
Since, however, the carpet lengths would only fit two such corridors
at a time there would be a lot of running around. Indeed, manoeuvres
would require great dexterity and agility on the behalf of Samuel's
motley task-force. As Samuel and his guests departed one floor in the
lift, so the red carpet would have to be rolled up, spirited down the
stairwell, and deposited two floors below in time for Mrs Finklebaum
to dig her stilettos into the red pile. At least that was the plan.
When the boardroom doors eventually swung open Samuel was almost
speechless. For there, standing before him, was Mrs Finklebaum in an
immaculate designer suit which swathed a figure that most Hollywood
starlets would kill for. Somehow the voluminous fur coat she had
worn in the lobby had made this seductress look tarty, but her
clothes and composure now gave Mrs F a definite air of style. The only
thing to mar this stunning vision was the voice.
"Baby-doll?" her husband called from somewhere behind.
"Yais sweetness."
"Why don't you take young Theo with you."
"Surely."
The tubby child with no neck came out and joined his mother as she
stepped forward to meet Samuel.
"Hello again Mrs Finklebaum. I've been delegated to show you
around Tweedales."
"Oh say thait aigayn," Mrs Finklebaum cooed. "Ah jest aydore thait
larmee aksaint."
"Larmy?' Samuel plumbed.
"Larmee. Ays in Briddish," she affirmed.
"Ah," he nodded. "And where is your husband's company based?"
"Oh thar yew go ai-gayn. We're locayteed in Niew Jarsy."
"So do you come from New Jersey too?" said Samuel, trying to
pinpoint Mrs F's origin.
Seeing through his question she laughed. "Honey, ahm naht from
Jarsy bite Tayxas, althow ma husbaind hiles from Niew Yawk."
"My apologies. I don't know much about America. It's such a huge
country. We're pocket-sized by comparison."
As they entered the lift Samuel tried to befriend the young Theo
just to make sure Tweedales' hospitality extended to all the family.
"And how old are you Theo?" he asked.
"Twelve."
"And what do you want to be when you're grown up? A scientist?
A Doctor?"
"Successful!" snapped the no-neck, cutting Samuel short.
"Like your dad, eh?"
Theo was having none of this idle grown-up banter.
"You Brits are so stuffy."
"Theo!" his mother exploded. "Yew be nars to the gen'l'man or
yew'll cetch a hidin'. Yew heear?"
It was one of those embarrassing moments when you become a
participant in the intimate workings of someone else's relationship
and don't want to, and Samuel tried his best to look inconspicuous.
The lift came to a stop on the floor below but Samuel hardly dared
open his eyes as the doors slid aside. Wonder of wonders, two slivers
of red carpet trailed from the lift along the corridor.
'Phew!' thought Samuel. 'The master plan is working.'
For the best part of an hour the trio roamed Tweedales; Mrs F
repeatedly commenting on how 'kwaynt' the building was and admiring
some of its older fixtures and fittings. Upon reaching the Accounts
Department, where financial fiend Arnold Grabbit propped up a desk,
Mrs F gave a little frown.
"Say, yew don't haiv much neiw technalagy around, do yew?"
Samuel was tempted to say something to the effect that Tweedales
still lived in the industrial dark ages but restrained himself on
account of not being seen to let the side down.
"Well we like to apply IT just to those areas that need it."
"In ma husbaind's comp'ny aivryone hays a compuder," Mrs
Finklebaum admitted, then added: "Perhaips we should rai-think thait
pol'cy if yew're main'ging to do witha't thaim."
A thought which Samuel somehow felt was unlikely to happen, given
the impact of computers on late twentieth century society and office
sanity. Besides, what would stressed out executives do without quality
time to play Doom?
It was about this time that the no-neck became uppety.
"Ma, I want some candy."
"Hush, hunny-chile. Naht now."
"I want some candy. I want some candy!"
Young Finklebaum circled round his mother in a filthy mood;
kicking wastebins and doors, and yelling uncontrollably. Samuel
stood back from the commotion, mesmerised at the sudden tantrum
of the spoilt child.
"Layt's see whaat way cain do theyn," his mother soothed.
"Mr Waimbush, is thar anywhayer I cain gait some caindy for
young Theo hayer ?
For what felt like at age to Samuel his brain set about
deciphering Mrs F's dialect. Natural neuronal computations failed to
do the trick and he was obliged to probe the linguistic minefield
deeper.
"Could you be a little more specific ?"
"A caindy stawer."
Samuel looked decidedly non-plussed. 'What is that word?' he
thought to himself. 'Caindy.'
Mrs Finklebaum sensed Samuel was struggling and added: "Yew
know..."
He continued looking at her vacantly, to the point of rudeness
even.
"Sugary thaings. Swaits aind caindy.'
Suddenly the penny dropped and Samuel broke into a smile. Mrs F
did not hail from another planet after all.
"Ah! Sweets!"
"Wha yais."
"You should have said. We don't usually use the word candy. We
call them sweets over here."
"So yew don't haiv caindy kayins thain?"
There was another vacant look as Samuel's grey cells struggled.
'Candy kay-ins. What on earth is that?' he thought to
himself. Fiery cayenne pepper Samuel knew all about; from first hand
experience at that! But kayins? Now that truly was a mystery.
"Yais. Shaped lak a walkin' stayk," added Mrs F, outlining a crook
shape in the air and then hobbling a couple of steps with an
imaginary walking support.
"A walking stick! Candy CANES! Yes, yes!' he gushed. "Yes we
sometimes see candy canes at Christmas."
Another piece of the linguistic puzzle had been solved. Samuel
felt he was beginning to get the hang of the American language at
last.
"Well we don't have any sweet shops nearby but I could get someone
to pop out to find some sweets for Theo. What sort of thing does he
like?"
"Anything," the malcontent no-neck growled.
'Ungrateful, brattish youngsters like you should be seen and
not heard,' Samuel found himself thinking.
Some while later a minder was delegated to lead the spoilt Theo
on a shopping trip to the local newsagent. The no-neck was reluctant
to leave his Momma and after a great kerfuffle was persuaded to go;
Mrs F commenting on is departure:
"Ah declare that sumtames ah thaink Theo hays feed of clay."
'And no manners,' Samuel thought quietly to himself.
With the no-neck out of sight and mind Samuel and Mrs F were
able to resume their tour; uninterrupted by the bothersome child
now unleashed on the streets and possibly terrorising London's
native folk.
That evening the Finklebaums left London, returning Tweedales
to its quaint old ways and business practices, and the company's
employees to reflect upon the visit from afar. As for the red carpet.
Well that ended up lining the corridor outside Sir Hector's office;
hiding the old grey linoleum polished to perfection by a succession
of anonymous night cleaners over the decades. And yes, the
executive loos took on a new lease of life too; several senior
managers taking Samuel aside to thank him personally for bettering
their existence and hailing him as Tweedales' very own Mr Fixit which
gave Samuel a great feeling of satisfaction.
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