Village Squire, 1976-03, Page 15The Bicycle Winner
Take one civil servant,
one newspaper
photographer and one bicycle
and create havoc
A short story
by Keith Roulston
It seemed like an ordinary Monday morning. The sun was
shining through the window gleaming off the chrome pen holder
on my desk and reflecting in my eyes, stirring the aching
memory in the back of my head that I had committed a few too
many indiscretions on the weekend at Barney's bar, across the
street from my office. The clacking of Joe's typewriter across the
desk was already beginning to endanger my sanity and it was
only 9:45 in the morning. The last thing I needed was a visitor.
But the buzz on the intercom was presistent and Joe growled
"Can't you answer that thing. I'm the one who's busy."
It was Jane, the -receptionist -clerk -bookkeeper and champion
instant coffee maker of our little establishment. "There's a Mr.
Howard here who'd like to speak to someone about doing a
story," she said.
I looked at Joe, hopefully. He ignored me.
"All right, send him back", I sighed. Joe typing busily ignored
my glare.
"Hello I'm Harry Howard," he said. He had the smile of a
politician, the confidence of a good lawyer and the dress of an
accountant: I figured he was a bureaucrat.
"Have a chair," 1 invited, then scampered over to lift the Toad
of press releases that had arrivedin this morning's mail off the
only chair available in the little cubicle set aside as the
newsroom.
"It's a nice, ah, little office you have here," he said.
"The boss keeps trying to convince us of it," 1 said.
"This must be a fascinating business, the weekly newspaper
business," he said.
"Well, that's one word for it," I said, "although we often use
stronger language."
"Ha, ha," he said in his hollow laugh. I knew he was a
bureaucrat.
Finally, when it seemed the small talk might go on all day I
asked him just what he had in mind.
"I work for the government,"'he said conspiratorially. "I'm
here on a special mission". I expected him to check my desk Tamp
for hidden microphones.
"You see we had a contest down at the Royal Winter Fair for
the Ministry of Transport. The kids had to colour this drawing
about a safety rule and sign their name and address. We'd pick
out the best and there's be a prize." He leaned forward and
almost whispered, "I wouldn't want this to go far but actually we
didn't judge them, just threw them all in a big drum and pulled
one out. Can you imagine judging 25,000 scribbled crayon
'drawings?"
said I couldn't.
"Well", he said, "the winner just happens to be a lad from
over on Market Street, a nice young man called Mervin McEvan.
Do you know him?"
I said I did. 1 should, that nice young man had let the air out of
my tires twice last week when I parked the car outside my
rooming house.
"I'm here", he said, "to set up the presentation of the
bicycle...the one that was first prize in the contest."
"How do you mean 'set up'?".
Well the minister is going to come up to present the bicycle and
we want to make a little bit of an event of it. Nothini elaborate,
just his parents and a few friends.
And where, I wondered, did I come in.
"Well, I was hoping, Mr. Johns, that you being a newspaper
reporter and photographer would come and take some pictures.
We need some for publicity down at the Ministry. We'll be glad'
to pay you for it."
He had said the magic word. With the money old "Short
change Hopkins" our publisher handed out on payday, you
needed anything you could get to supplement the income. What
time and where,..1 asked. Thursday night, he said, location still
unknown.
There was a problem. Thursday night, I said, .was the night I
taught photography at nightschool. Couldn't I miss one night, he
asked. Not this Thursday I said definitely. This Thursday we were
doing photography of the human form with a very special live
model, a shapely blonde from the class who had volunteered to
pose et al.
He said he understood. Well, he said, in the way of one used to
solving problems, there must be some way around it. He thought.
and thought and thought maybe he'd fallen asleep before he
jumped to his feet. "I've got it," he said. It the photographer
can't come to the celebration than the celebration skill go to the
photographer."
"You think the Minister would like to see the blonde ter,? I
asked.
"Certainly not!" he said in .h0r1. There must be wmes�here
VILLAGE SQUIRE/MARCH lire. 13