Screwtop Thompson

2. At Your Service

My friend Mr Wee was only five feet tall, so if he ever had any domestic chores that required a bit more ‘height’ I used to go round and help out. If I was lucky he cooked me Chinese food as a reward. If not (which was more often the case) I got tea and burnt toast. Mr Wee’s manner was imperious to say the least, but in spite of this the pair of us generally got on very well together.

One day he summoned me to his flat and ordered me to bring my bowsaw.

“There is a tree obscuring my view,” he told me.

I arrived on Sunday morning and removed my boots (a prerequisite for entry into the Wee household on account of his spotless carpets). Then I knocked and waited. There was no answer. I knocked again, and after another minute the door opened. Mr Wee examined my feet and ushered me inside without apologising for the delay.

“I was just bathing the cats.”

As we passed through the hallway I saw his two cats glaring at me from the bathroom, their Sunday morning treat having been temporarily interrupted. They were yet to be rinsed, so I continued my wait in the lounge. The gramophone played Beethoven, and on the shelves stood marble busts of all the great composers. They watched in silence as I awaited the return of Mr Wee. Eventually the ablutions were completed and he came back, sat down and lit his pipe.

The tree in question was outside the rear window (Mr Wee lived on the second floor). It was a great overgrown thorny thing, and he expected me to climb into it and remove some branches. I asked if we were allowed to do this.

“Of course,” he snapped with a note of impatience. “I’ve spoken to the property manager.”

“We’ll need a ladder,” I said.

“Of course.”

Apparently it was all arranged: we were to carry the (borrowed) ladder through a ground-floor flat belonging to one of Mr Wee’s neighbours. I wasn’t sure if I liked the sound of this, but decided to say nothing. I got my boots back on and we collected the ladder. Then we went to the other flat.

“Shall I take my boots off again?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “She won’t mind.”

He knocked on the door and it was opened by an elderly lady. This was Mrs Petrov.

“We’re coming through with the ladder,” announced Mr Wee.

“But it’s Sunday morning,” she protested, in a strong Polish accent.

He ignored her and bustled into the flat, taking the ladder with him. Mrs Petrov followed and closed the door. I remained outside, waiting. Presently I heard raised voices within. Suddenly the door was flung open and Mrs Petrov commanded me to come and help immediately. I dashed into the flat and found Mr Wee disentangling the ladder from her kitchen curtains. She began shouting at him. He shouted back at her. Then she noticed my boots and shouted at me. Quickly I got the ladder out through the back door.

Some moments later Mr Wee emerged and the two of us started to examine the tree. I remarked that it was going to be a bit of a balancing act and I was likely to get thorns stuck in me. This did not concern him.

“Are you afraid of heights?” he asked.

I said I was not, and started up the ladder. As I did so I noticed curtains beginning to twitch in another of the flats. Feeling very uneasy I continued climbing. Then a man appeared looking rather upset.

“What are you doing?” he demanded of Mr Wee.

“This tree is obscuring my view,” came the reply.

“But you’re treading all over my garden!”

Mr Wee looked down at some crushed flowers beneath his feet. He muttered something and led the poor fellow away. I stayed in the tree.

Hearing no more raised voices I commenced work, choosing the largest branch that could be safely removed with a bowsaw. After much sweat and toil, it dropped neatly to the ground.

Mr Wee came back and peered up into the foliage.

“Not that branch, that one!” he roared, pointing to a large and almost vertical bough.

“I can’t cut that!” I yelled back. “I’ll probably kill myself or put it through someone’s window!”

Mr Wee stamped round in a fury while I sawed away at a few other branches until we’d both calmed down a bit. Then I descended. He looked at the finished job and said he ‘supposed’ that would have to do.

Running the gauntlet of Mrs Petrov again, we returned to his flat. I pointed out that his view was no longer obstructed. In fact, so much light was flooding into the room that Mr Wee decided to close the curtains, thus defeating the object of the exercise.

He grudgingly offered to make me a cup of tea for my troubles, but on this occasion there was to be no Chinese food.