Nineteen Fifty-Four

'We’ve got our work cut out here,' announced Nigel, with an eye to the ruination. ‘It’s one hell of a mess.’ 'Yes. I know,’ sighed his landlord, Mr. Weeks, despairingly. ‘Looters?’ ‘Aye. From the first guess they’ve not pinched much, mind. Everyone ‘round ’ere knows I don’t deal in precious things, an’ the shop furniture is too ‘eavy to make off with.’ Agreeing with the old man's appraisal, Nigel nodded. "We'll have to barricade the shop-door shut, and get everything in off the street," he determined speedily, ‘so I’ll get on with the door while you start hauling the smaller stuff inside.’ It was Weeks’ turn to nod, positively if noncommittally. 'I've got around three bob on me,' declared the landlord, misinterpreting Nigel’s motivations, ‘till I get ter the bank…..' ‘I'm not boarding the shop up for money or a rent reduction, Mr Weeks,’ the younger man replied, trying to avoid a note of exasperation. ‘It’s more a case of securing the property for both our sakes. Anyway, I doubt you'll find the National Provincial Bank open for a while.’ ‘Why's tha’?' queried the older man by now standing to Nigel’s rear. ‘Going on what’s happened, money will be worthless for a time, except, perhaps, as lavatory paper. Look at Germany after the last lot. Fags, chewing gum and nylons replaced coins and notes. I know. I saw it. Women were selling themselves for a Hershey bar.’ 'Wha’ about me postage stamps though? ' jabbered the flustered pensioner. ‘The ones in me Post Office savin’s book? Ain't they worth anythin’?' 'I've no idea,’ lied Nigel, guiltily glad his present position denied him eye contact with the pensioner. 'You best ask at the Post Office. The next time it’s open, that is.' Mystification blended with consternation reduced Weeks to silence. Nigel meanwhile used the chit-chat lull to size up the job. From what he could see, the most pressing need was the securing of the wooden framed shop-door, in situ since the building’s birth back in Victoria’s day. A looter had forced the outer panel with a crowbar by the look of it, but Nigel didn’t write off sealing the entry effectively as a lost cause. A pair of broken-up dining chairs wedged tight and nailed to the wainscoting and window frame should keep the door shut, whilst the gaping hole that had replaced the window could probably be bridged with a few panels from the tea chests stacked at the rear of the shop. 'Do you have a hammer? And nails?' ‘An 'ammer? Yeah. In the kitchen drawer,’ replied Weeks. I'll go and get it. Tell yer wot, I'll 'ave a root round fer some nails an' screws while I'm a’ it…' Alone for a moment, and crouching, measuring and stooping by turns, Flinders couldn’t help but have a birds eye view of Wellington Road, the thoroughfare that ran parallel to the shop. As he expected, the street was deserted, except for a bewildered dog. When it came to the more permanent features however, the first thing he thought of was the ovular red Post Box just outside of the shop door, at a distance of something like eight feet, and of a size usually stationed in far busier parts of town. The box wasn’t alone today though, for it shared the pavement with the bulk of Weeks’ shop-ware, the looters having tossed the old man’s ‘antiques’ all over the place, and even along the narrow alley to the left of his home. ‘I've found these,’ whispered Weeks, returning silently and looming up behind Nigel. ‘I 'ope they'll do.’ The old man laid a large ball hammer in Flinders’ hand. The journalist stared at the tool blankly, well aware it was well near useless. Uncomprehending but under the assumption he was performing a useful service, Weeks next uncurled his wrinkled palm to reveal a dozen or so nails nestling within. Nigel looked them over too, but far from the pristine and even-sized specimens he’d half-hoped for, all that the shopkeeper had dredged out of the drawer were rusty and bent derelicts. Weeks’ lack of wherewithal came as no surprise. Having been the old man's lodger for a good two years now, Nigel didn’t need telling the pensioner’s claim to be an 'antiques dealer' or a trader of any kind stretched credibility somewhat, and that the truth was somewhat different, because, even if eminently likeable, in reality Weeks’ mastery of everything he touched was near non-existent, or ‘half-arsed’ as Flinders uncharitably characterised it when alone. The shop itself pretty much epitomised the old man’s ineptness. The room and its contents were, in reality, a cornucopia of junk, where battered furniture, worn-out tools, empty picture frames, and scores of OXO tins containing a sizable array of rubbish, from unmatched nuts and bolts through to buttons and broken pegs, all vied for space. Nigel often shook his head in resigned sorrow at the display, even if he occasionally spotted something interesting. This had happened earlier, when, scouring for wood, he’d chanced on a jam-jar a quarter-full of worthless foreign coins, and one of those small aluminium globes designed for school children, this example shorn of its Bakelite stand. When it came to Weeks’ furniture, cumbersome and unsellable it might be, but that didn’t mean it was destined to wind up outside for good. 'We'll have to get everything in and fast,' Flinders warned Weeks, ‘because your stuff will end up as firewood if we don't pull our finger out.’ The old man nodded ruefully. Shifting furniture was something he avoided at all costs, largely on the grounds of his arthritis, to the point Nigel had even known him to consciously undercharge people, so long as they arranged for the item’s removal. ‘Then there's bad bastards. Take those brass candlesticks for instance,’ explained Nigel, pointing to a pair of trench-art shell casings lying forlorn on the pavement, ‘They'd make a sizable dent in your skull wouldn't they, Mr W?'