A good turn

We had popped in at the English Church on Saturday for coffee, and in the library I had spotted a little volume of Hemingway short stories that looked just right for the beach. But I’m not a member, and I’m not down in Menton often enough to join. One of the redoubtable Old Ladies of St. John (C of E, diocese of Europe) suggested I might like to buy one of the novels on offer on the shelves facing the desk. Clearly these were being sold rather than integrated into the library because they were all trashy, disposable holiday reads, and I attempted a delicate expression of gratitude undercut with just the right amount of disdain, hoping I might ingratiate myself on grounds of literary taste. Later, when I’d put all the cups away and emptied all the flower vases, and the library was shut, I bumped into another of the Old Ladies, the one who happened to hold the key, and feigned great disappointment that I had missed the library.

‘Don’t tell anyone’, she said, quietly unlocking the door ‘and be quick. Be sure to bring it back Tuesday or I’ll be for it’. I slipped silently in and pocketed my Hemingway.

On Tuesday we returned with our booty. We had had a bit of a clearout for the Church Jumble Sale, which we’ll miss unless there’s another volcano next week. We brought in three big bags full of our own old books, and clothes, and ceramics. Bits of Bill’s, bits of Nancy’s, bits of ours, some of Dex’s old toys that have stayed down here. Not a bad effort. I was offloading our books in the library for triage, the Hemingway still secure in my backpack, when I heard a dull pounding. Outside the loo, by the kitchen, an Old Lady was calling through the door ‘just give it a jiggle, it’ll come eventually. It always takes a while’. The toilet door lock was stuck. Apparently it’s a bit of a ritual. The Old Lady at the door told me that usually, if the door won’t open at all, the trapped Old Lady passes the key through the window to an Old Lady outside, who then comes back around and opens the door with the key on the other side of the door. I asked my Old Lady how long it had been like that, and she told me ‘as long as I can remember’. Of course that could mean forty years or four minutes. Once the Old Lady on the inside had wiggled the key wildly enough and long enough, the lock gave up and the door flung open. The trapped Old Lady emerged, beaming, but muttering something about the French. I asked one of the attending Old Ladies whether there might be any oil on the premises, and the throng scattered in all directions to search for anything resembling a lubricant. One of them asked whether some anointing balm would do. Eventually, an especially busy Old Lady approached, tentatively holding a tall bottle of pizza dressing – sunflower oil with chilli flakes. Perfect.

I dismantled the lock with my pocket knife, and, using a kebab skewer dipped in the pizza dressing, I made a number of small yet ostentatiously handy gestures. Two lines of Old Ladies stood by – one lot watching in helpless wonder, the other impatiently hoping to use the loo. Soon it was all back in place, and I was able to demonstrate the smooth and aromatic turning action of the key to audible gasps from the left flank and sighs of relief from the right. The toilet door at the English Church was restored.

My benefaction has been rewarded. Word of my deed reached the custodians of the library almost immediately and I received a visit from the holder of the key. Special dispensation had been made, and it would be fine for me to hang on to Men without Women until my return in the summer.