Quasimodo
He was a real Quasimodo, that Arthur Vincent Evans! No, honestly! Nina said it exactly like thatthe new caretaker was a proper fright.
“His face is all pitted, nose broken, likeits got this funny bend,” Nina pinched her fingers together and pressed them to her neat and dainty nose, as the rest listened, aghast. “You could see straight away hes got a rough past. Probably got into all sorts in the Nineties, bit of a villain, now his age is catching up with him, so hes ended up running the storeroom. All hunched over, always holding his left arm, not sure if its just stiff or something else. He was swaying as he walked, and then when he started signing my formhonestly, I nearly fainted!” The “girls” Nina was regaling, all craned their necks and hung on every word.
“What? Go onwhat happened when he signed?” piped up Dorothy Matthews.
“Hes missing a finger!” Nina whispered, wide-eyed. “Hes definitely a crook! Its what they do if they catch em stealing, you know! Chop it off!” Nina sliced her own hand at the spot where Arthurs finger was gone.
These girlsall past sixty, long parted with their youthful figures, burdened with chores and lonelinessgulped, Dorothy Matthews smothered her mouth.
“Oh my word! Whys he here? Its scary! Ill be living in fear now!” Zinaida Simmons clutched her handbag, feeling for her purse. “Im alone, as we all are here…”
In Midhurst, truly, men were a rarity. There were the usual drinkers and troublemakers, but even those had been snapped up, divided between families. There simply wasnt enough to go around. Many women stayed old maids, some, like Ninas friends, had divorced with scandal, but it didnt lessen their interest in the opposite sex.
“Whats there to worry about now? Hes no threat anymore,” Nina stated, all glassy bravado. “Hes had his wild years. I wouldnt be surprised if this chapwhats his name again?” She squinted at her papers, perched her glasses on her nose, and lifted her brows. “Oh right, Arthur Vincent. I bet hes still being watched by the authorities!”
“Then whyd they take him on? Oh, dont be daft, Nina. I can tell a person straight away!” said little, bony old Fanny Jacobs, standing tall with confidence. “Ill know as soon as I see him.”
“Well, pop down to the storeroom then! Go on, you could fetch some drawing pins. We need them for the April poster, and there arent any left.”
The bright, painted poster for May Day lay across Ninas desk, weighted at the corners by bulky metal punchers.
Nina had done the doves, Fanny Jacobs had painted red flags, and Zinnie had sketched the people and a grand wall that stood for Buckingham Palace. Shed been in an art club as a child, and her people didnt come out nearly as grotesque as the others did.
“Whats the point of traipsing about? Ring upget him to bring the pins. Why go wandering about those dingy basements?” sighed Fanny. “Ill call now.” She picked up the faded yellow, now more grey, telephone, her ringed fingers spinning the dial.
“Stores? Is that the stores?” she trilled, the final s turned sharp and shrill. “What? Cant hear you! Speak up! Is this the stores or not?”
The phone crackled. Fanny nodded, the others pricked up their ears.
“Yes! We need drawing pins. Fourth department. We have a poster to put up! What? What? You want us to come ourselves? Oh, really! You cheek! Ill have you know youre rude and incompetent! Evans, am I right? Well, youll hear from me! Yes! And thats not a threat! Weve seen your kind before. Goodbye!”
Fanny slammed down the phone, her beak-sharp nose jutting with affront, her already squinty eyes now narrow with rage.
“Fine, fine! Sarah! Sarah Johnson, youre the youngest, stop faffing on those keys, that report will keep. I said weve the deadline! Youre coming with me to the basement for drawing pins,” she called to the next office, where a short, round lady, around fifty, typed with swollen fingers that missed more keys than they hit, headache pounding, and a dozen tasks at home to follow. Sarah had a little house, with a tiny back garden, a rickety shed, currant bushes to prune and watch overa lot, really, and her energy was wearing thin…
Sarah Johnson paused, rummaged in her desk for a cardboard box.
“Fanny, weve still got plenty of pins. Well manage. Lets finish up that report first.”
“Not enough. We need more. Come on!” Fanny was halfway to the door before the directors red phone rang. She answered, nodded briskly, then sighed. “Well thats that… The parade is off. Ive got a conference. Sarah, go anyway, make sure they know we arent making up stories, and the poster must be up in the hall when Im back,” she said with authority. Nina helped Fanny into her mac and all the women trickled out in whispers to their desks.
Sarah, shrugging, shuffled down the stairs, fixing a wayward plant, and closing a drafty window on the way. She paused at the mirror to pat the collar of her jacket.
Sarah, as neighbour Mary Davidson liked to say, “wasnt exactly the first bloom.”
“Not off yet, still sweet enough to tempt a bumblebee,” Aunt Mary would titter, comparing men to bees, “but no spring rose either. Our Sarahs waited so long, shell be due for pension soon. Shouldnt be picky, should take what you can get! All the good ones are gone.”
But Sarah ignored the advice, holding onto her daydreams, watching romantic dramas and sniffling at love stories. Shed hug her fluffy, tufted-eared tabby, Percival, and whisper how well they were doing, really.
“In any case, Percy, were alright, arent we?” shed murmur as he bobbed his head. “Well get through to the next holiday, off to Aunt Pollys cottage; youll doze on the porch in the sun, and Ill pick wild strawberries!”
As a child, Sarah and her friends would go out picking berries, bandanas tied on their heads, tins in hand. She and Annie would fill theirs to the brim, while dreamy Vicky would gather a mugful before sitting on a hilltop, basking and nibbling the lot.
“I dont know how you girls resist eating all those berries!” Vicky would say with an apologetic smile. The others just laughed, always sharing their bounty for Vicky to take home.
That whole forest, all those strawberries, the sky, whispering birches, and the lazy ribbon of river, the steamer honking, calling to adventureit belonged to them, and yet, to no one.
It was from Aunt Pollys cottage that Sarah once brought home little Percival, a shabby, battered kitten shed nursed back to health. Now he was a tomcat, purring contentedly on her soft lap, barely fitting, tail tucked neatly, as she once did him.
Counting her heels on the cold steps to the basement, Sarah wincedthe place was even chillier, with its drab, mouse-grey walls, scraped red stripes round the bottom, stacked with new frames and doors. Renovations were planned for summer; supplies were everywhere.
Carefully tiptoeing between planks, Sarah caught her sleeve, a woollen thread dangling out awkwardly.
“Hello? Excuse me! Anyone here? I need some drawing pins!”
No answer at first. Then a distant door creaked.
“Here! This way, mind your step. Where are you?”
“I cant get through, Ill ruin my jacket. What a barricade youve built!” she called back.
“Ill come out, wait there.”
Sounds of shifting, something clattered, a mans voice mumbled an oath, then offered a loud apology. Finally, a man in a blue work coat appeared at the corridors end. He walked a little sideways, keeping his face turned, as if not wanting Sarah to see.
She was curious. Nina had described him in such detail, she had to see herself.
The man shuffled nearershort, burly, with a sort of halo around his head that made Sarah imagine a battered angel descending.
She coughed and stepped back. He sidled up, holding out a box of pins.
“Here, signed out for your department. One sec,” he took a register from his pocket, opened it against the wall. “Sign here.”
Sarah Johnson rolled her eyes.
“For this battered little box, with pins ready to spill everywhere?” she grumbled, then felt bad for sounding like Fanny. “Alright, but Ive no pen.”
He handed her a blue pencil, and Sarah glimpsed his disfigured hand, missing a finger.
Perhaps she stared too obviously, because Evans quickly drew in a sharp breath, hid his hand, snatched the register, turned and hurried away.
“SorryI didnt mean to…” Sarah stammered. He didnt answer.
Back upstairs, when Sarah dropped the box on the polished table, the women swooped to quiz her, but barely let her speak, rushing to repeat Fannys earlier stories.
“Well, of course hes hideous! Poor you, Sarah, why did you even go?!” came voices all around.
“A real nightmare,” Sarah confirmed, sitting down to tepid tea, passed by Zinaida. “I tried not to look at his face, but that hand… My heart just thumped awayI bolted! Like a fiend, I tell you. He reeked, tooold sweat! And that stubble, and those massive, hairy hands. Ugh! Even my late uncles nails were neater!”
Sarah stoked their fears a bit more, pursing her lips, and when they scattered to their desks, rustling wrappers and banging drawers, the work day carried on…
Home time was six, as usual. Fanny didnt return, rang to say shed head straight home, reminding them about the poster.
Sarah put it up alone. The huge sheet kept flapping off, pins falling; she puffed, jumped, and tried again, but nothing stuck.
Suddenly someone stood behind her, almost hugging her, but then moved to the front, smoothing the poster for her.
“Hold it there, Ill fix it! Pins? You need tape here,” Evans muttered, inhaling (with what seemed a grim delight). “Let go, Ill get proper tape.”
He vanished, leaving a smell of cigarettes and apples. Sarah noticed a half-eaten green apple in his pocketshe loved crisp green apples, too.
“Here you go. Stick this on.” Evans tore tape with his teeth, handing Sarah the strip. She pressed it into place.
Soon the poster gleamed under the halls lamps. Evans switched off the corridor lights, jangling keys on his finger.
Sarah slipped on her coat, swinging her bag over her shoulder.
“Thank you for your help! See you,” she called. Evans turned, and for once, he smiled…
The “basement Quasimodo” was the gossip of the office: stories were spun, speculations whispered, people sneaking glances like children peeking at old Tom the blacksmith down the lane.
But Evans didnt seem bothered. Soon, he swept through all departments, laying down the law about missing equipment. He stuck to the rules, but could bollock you so sharplywith proper English expletivesthat the women, just putting away their cakes and finishing up sandwiches, would feel sheepish. Arthur Vincents tongue-lashings were oddly comical, yet stung.
“Why are you all crowding that kettle like mice in a larder?” he bellowedhe was in charge of safety, too. “The wiring is ancient and you lot gather here for a tea party? This isnt Surbiton, and youre not in a Jane Austen painting. Kettle away, now!”
Lips pursed, theyd exchange looks, and later whisper Evans mustve learned to bark orders in a prison hut, that he couldnt talk to people, and was hideous! Whod want someone like that? Men are extinct, no hope for marriageguess theyd just have to make do with single life.
Under Fannys guidance, theyd “peck” at the caretaker, complain about his work, make mischief, but at home, each would sit by her kitchen table, sighing, remembering how Evans had glanced at herthe others were just “old biddies”; she, Dorothy or Mary or Zina, was something special, wasnt she?
Life plodded on, but Sarah made a fuss, wangling a weeks holiday in a seaside convalescent home.
“Who are you taking, Sarah?” pressed Fanny. “Youve never complained, and now thisoff to the spa!”
Sarah shrugged and sighed.
“My cousins poorly, her legs arent right. Im going to help,” she finally said. “My Aunt Pollys taken a turn. Poor thing… You went to Worthing, didnt you, Fanny? How was it?”
Fanny brightened. Shed been, it was finenothing special, but good enough for Aunt Polly.
“But next time, Sarah, check with me. Ive seen a hundred convalescent homes! Ill recommend the right one!” Fanny insisted before heading off.
So it seemed settled: the caretaker, branded a criminal, stayed in his cubby, barely emerged, Zinnie grew bolder and even ventured into the archives alone, Dorothy took up crochet again, after Evanss arrival had rattled her too much for craft. Nina switched focus to telly soaps, updating everyone daily, while Sarah, curiously, grew more frostily negative about Evanssomething had put them at odds.
“Men’ll never change, dear,” Fanny would sympathise.
In short, the office hummed along, until right before Christmas something devastating happenedDorothy gasped the news: Evans had resigned. Just like that, with no warning or explanation, left with a “ghastly grin,” as Fanny put it, joking and winking at her.
“Bet he nicked stuff and scarpered,” concluded Zinnie, clutching her purse.
“I saw him take a pot plant out the main doors!” declared Dorothy, straightening her blouse. “Why? Stealing plants! Sarah, did you know anything?”
“Just his type. Good riddance!” Sarah replied, flustered. “Better we get a nice, polite old gent instead of that Evans! Terrible specimen. Agree?”
Nods all roundanyone would be better…
…In late February, after her two weeks notice, Sarah left, too.
“Where are you off to, Sarah Johnson?” Fanny scolded. “If something was wrong, you ought to have told me! Youve kept apart from us, as if you dont belong…”
“Its personal, nothing to do with the office,” Sarah beamed…
Very soon, they spotted her near the bookshop, the haunt of Fannys crew, where they went to sigh over Dickens and Hardy. Sarah was strolling with a manlaughing!
“Look, girls!” Dorothy pointed, halting as the others bumped into her. “Who is that with her? Handsome! Short, but what a bearing! Looks like a commander. Tank regiment, maybe! Shes fairly glued to him, brazen minx! Where do women lose all shame?!”
“Waitthats our Quasimodo! Sarah! What have you done? You used to say he was frightful”
Evans, hair neatly done, cap and smart coat, crisp shirt peeking out, clean-shaven, new trousers and shoes, stopped at the crossword display, flicking through a little book.
“Afternoon, ladies,” he nodded. “A pleasure to see you all. Youre looking marvellous!”
They pursed lips and turned away.
Sarah, with lace at her collar, stroked Arthurs arm, then stepped over.
“Dont be cross, girls. I wasnt with you or against youI was just looking for happiness. Who are we to keep turning people down? Any Quasimodo can become a proper gentwith a little care, love and patience. Arthurs handy, kind, full of jokes, easy at homehell sit with his crosswords and Im beside him. Its peaceful! And he plays the guitarat Aunt Pollys wedding, everyone cheered him, never mind his missing finger. Hes the best, really, and Im so happy… Dont be upset! You lovely, clever, interesting womenyou deserve princes. For me, Arthurs my prince. Sorry, we must dashhis mums birthday do, need to buy an adventure novel for her. Long drive. Hes an excellent driver. Goodbye!”
Sarah linked arms with her husband and they drifted off together, glancing shyly and smiling.
How did it happen? Well, after a week of Evans being there, Sarah had noticed his deft hands, his hungry expression, and, yes, those keen male glances. Percival, her cat, had been battered and lost till she cared for him. Why not try with a man, especially at her age? Arthur welcomed being “tamed”he liked Sarah from the off. She snuck him pies, they “accidentally” met at the bus stop, walked home together, both discovering a secret fondness for nearly-melted ice cream and lemonade. One thing led to another: their first kiss, whispering, shy breaths, butterflies, Arthurs physio sessions organised by Sarahs friend mending his hand, trips to the spa, visits to Aunt Polly, and a wedding. All very quietSarah was scared someone might “steal” Arthur from her if they realised how lovely he was. She still worries: hes handsome to her! Her first love ended through jealousythis time, shes careful not to make the same mistake…
“What a nerve! What a scandal! Hes a dashing manheaven sent! But Sarahs not half good enough for him! She pounced, bewitched him, hes gone blind with it! And all in secret, too! Happiness loves silencewhat nonsense, just a cover for sneaking about! Shocking!” Zinaida pressed her eyes, breathing deeply. “Oh, I feel faint”
“Hold fast, Zinnie! Our day will come. The caretakers post is open nowone rival down in the race for happiness. Therell be plenty of men to go round!” Fanny grunted, clutching her friends hand. Fannys waiting for a generalshe could do without Arthur.
The women nodded and drifted to the bookshelves, perhaps hoping to find their fatea lover of encyclopaedias or thrillersand with luck, walk arm-in-arm, smiling as everyone looked on in envy. Who knows? God willing!
But now, Sarah has two menPercy and Arthur, both well-cared-for and cherished. At last, shes found her happiness.
Life surprises us, and sometimes happiness comes in the most unlikely shape. With a little care, even a “Quasimodo” can become a princeif only we open our hearts and look beyond the surface.
