Before leaving his car, he checked his brief-case to see if the agreement form was there - although it was as yet half-completed. The Goodhews, if he did pull them off, after this the second interview, piles of lovely loot in the guise of commission would be coming Clive’s way. Being a financial consultant was a potentially rewarding business, if a precarious one.

 

In retrospect, it had been so easy. Clive had left a job in industry, under a cloud as it were and the less said about that the better. He had been at a loose end for a while, but his friends and relations said he had the gift of the gab, so why not try selling? But selling what? Double-glazing? Wasp ointment? Lavatory wigs? At least, with something like those, tangible things, their benefits (if not the eventual cost) would be relatively easy to demonstrate.

 

But how about Financial Services - as the chap in the “know” put it to him one Saturday evening in the pub. What in heaven were they? Clive knew nothing about banking, insurance, stocks and shares. He would need to spend ages training to do such a job - or he’d likely not have a leg to stand on.

 

Nothing to it. He slipped into it like a hand of fingers into a banana glove. Find out a few facts about the prospect’s affairs, shuffle a few pieces of kite-paper under its nose, slide a pen down one of the folded-forms and ask it to append its lovely signature.

 

Direct debit slips were, after all, much easier to pass off as small print than the punter’s own cheques. And Clive’s commission being creamed off the insurance premiums would not be missed until the policy was cashed in. Too easy by half. But Clive wasn’t complaining. He would never be at a loose end again.

 

So, he arrived at the Goodhews’ garden gate, a gate complete with “Beware the dog” sign. He laughed out loud. He had actually seen the mangey mutt. A pitiful specimen that seemed to spend all its days doing little else other than stretch its body into a permanent yawn. Waiting for that lazy wasp to sting its own loose end.

 

The crazy-paving of the garden path led Clive straight to the front entrance. He pressed the bell, which played a tune from “Sound of Music”. He winced. His thing was Dire Straits and, maybe, a spot of that Philharmonic stuff to allow his earthquake-proof speakers to impress his neighbours with the 1812 Overture (complete with real cannons).

 

The Goodhews lived inside a semi-detached house to beat all such semi-detached houses. Full of chintzy knick­knacks and add-ons. The storm porch was outlandishly large. The wallpaper, inside, flock. The toilet fur-lined and the bathroom gold-trimmed. A complete Dickens graced the living-room, but Clive wasn’t convinced that they had much substance beyond the spines.

 

“Hello, Mr Goodhew. I believe we set aside this time for a further discussion on your Endowment policies.” Clive smiled the sickliest smile he could muster.

 

“Yes, come in. I’ve got everything in shipshape order and Bristol fashion for you.” Clive assumed from this that the forms would all be signed and there would be little to do except pat himself on the back for the efficacy of his earlier sales pitch. Closure of the sale was nearer than he had imagined. No need for further proof sources with which his company had furnished him.

 

And this was indeed a humdinger of a sale. One where he could put his feet up for the rest of the year, if need be. Loosen his end again, as it were. He chuckled silently. He didn’t resent it costing two meetings, if the second one was to be this easy.

 

Mr Goodhew was a dapper man, sporting a toothbrush moustache. His carpet slippers padded down the hall as Clive followed him. Mrs. Goodhew carrying the coal scuttle had slipped out past Clive when the front door had first been opened. She wore a universally familiar face. They were a very frugal, abstemious couple. Mr Gooohew had been Clerk of Shipping, and his wife had done a spot of child minding. Clive had earlier congratulated them on their thrift of many years. But now was the time, he said, to spread their wings and make the money work for them, instead.

 

Clive’s mind continued to chuckle as its owner followed Mr Goodhew into the living-room. There was a blazing fire in the grate. It had not been particularly cold of late. So it was rather stuffy.

 

The insurance papers were laid out over the coffee table, neatly clipped and already signed. It looked as if this was a doddle. Other than finishing off the customer fact-find form as the financial watch-dogs dictated. This thought made Clive laugh out loud, which he managed to hide behind his frozen smile, since the Goodhew dog (which looked exactly like its owners or, at least, a combination of them) was mongrellising one of the floral cushions.

 

“Stop it. Spot!” shouted his master seeing the stuffing was coming out, like wads of fibre glass.

 

Clive shrugged. Dogs will be dogs, he intimated. After all, the Goodhews had no children of their own to warn them that animal-life was fundamentally ill-disciplined.

 

Mrs. Goodhew entered with a full scuttle which she proceeded to empty on the already fulsome fire, causing showers of sparks to fly up the chimney. Perhaps he also ought to sell them some house insurance. He laughed again - as surreptitiously as possible.

 

“It’s just this form then, I need your counter-signature on,” Clive said taking the fact-find from his briefcase. “I can see you must already be satisfied on all points...” He nodded towards the neatly pinned papers on the coffee table.

 

Spot the dog had by now lost interest in the cushion and his snuffling jaws were dangerously poised above those very papers. Clive thought he should gather them up before they were torn to shreds by the yappy monster...

 

The erstwhile owner of Clive’s mind slowly proceeded back to the company car left neatly parked in the leafy suburban avenue. Pity Clive hadn’t noticed the signs next to the “Beware the dog” one - saying “no free newspapers, no salesmen and no other pests” in small print - even smaller print than that on the insurance forms.

 

One of Clive’s arms struggled to drag a trunk down the path, rather than his brief-case - a rabies-riddled trunk, a semi-detached torso, or just loose change.

 

The chimney silently chuckled as it released an acrid black smoke.

 

 

(published ‘Beyond The Boundaries’ 1995)