Open Writing

I decided to put my rent collecting venture on hold.

I had experienced four unforgettable years; discovered an incredible strata of society and dealt with a swathe of itinerant, rootless, feckless inadequates—but now I needed a break from any more Schellenangst (fear of stepping into the unknown).

My frenzy at this time was to be voiced, many years later, by Peter Finch in the film Network, when he proclaimed, 'I want you to get up right now and go to the window; open it and stick your head out and yell—"I'M AS MAD AS HELL, AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE ANY MORE!"'

But I did, though not in my usual weary, wary, way. My wife had become friendly with another young mum, who, when she learnt of our letting disasters and despair of ever finding a reliable tenant, asked if we would consider her recently bereaved uncle as he wanted somewhere within easy reach of his niece.

Mr. Spencer-Ellen (late 70s, courteous, dignified, patrician) moved in with his well-travelled luggage, favourite armchair, and an assortment of books and bric-a-brac.

He soon settled into a routine of either visiting his niece or the local auction rooms, where he liked to bid for items he could restore and then advertise. This enterprise resulted in potential purchasers knocking at our front door, then mistaking me for the vendor, with resulting conversations along these lines:

'Knock! Knock!'

'Yes?'

'I believe you wish to sell a paraffin heater/radio/clock/hoover?'

'Ah, you want Mr.Spencer-Ellen. I'll fetch him for you.'

As the weeks passed, his 'stock' increased to such an extent that we christened his room, Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe—but it was a harmless hobby, just a fun pastime—one that appealed to our own love of auctions and jumble sales.

In fact Mr. S-E was the nicest tenant we could wish for, and we rejoiced at our good fortune (little knowing how much more good fortune there was to come).

Now that I had the perfect tenant, it was time to concentrate on my quest for the perfect job; to aid me in my weekly quest I had The Times Educational Supplement, and one week, whilst scanning the teaching vacancies, I spotted an appeal in the Overseas section.

The Ministry of Defence required staff to teach in its Service children's schools in Cyprus, Oslo and Ceylon. The posts were both exotically and financially appealing with their overseas allowances, rent-free accommodation, duty-free car (Car! Me! I'd never owned more than a bike)—plus the opportunity to spend three years, or more, in a foreign country.

I applied immediately, stating I wished to be considered for any of the vacancies.

I couldn't believe my luck when I received an invitation to attend an interview board at the Defence Ministry in London. Presenting myself (in borrowed suit) at the portals of this formidable establishment, I underwent scrupulous security checks before being led along labyrinthine corridors to meet my interrogators (very Kafka-esque).

I entered the interview room, self-confidence ebbing away, and was welcomed by a panel of Civil Servants. I was soon put at my ease by these surprisingly jolly inquisitors, who seemed delighted that I was interested in the Cyprus job (remember, this was at the time of Britain's conflict with EOKA, the Greek Cypriot terrorist organisation, which was fighting for union with Greece. British troops and civilians had been killed, and a state of emergency existed, so anyone in their right mind would keep well away).

Anyone but me of course, for I was too desperate to have doubts or fears. However, I was assured by my suave interviewers that the conflict would soon be at an end with the forthcoming treaty of independence, whereby both Greeks and Turks would govern the island jointly, with the British Forces maintaining a military presence within the confines of three 'Sovereign Bases'.

I was offered and accepted the post of Head of Art in a school on the R.A.F base at Nicosia, starting in September. Hallelujah!

So it was goodbye tenancy nightmares, making ends meet, lying to bank managers (I needed £20 for a holiday, but had to pretend it was for urgent house repairs—no credit for luxuries in those days).

Goodbye Mr.Cheaps—Chalkie has struck gold!

© John Turner

**

John writes for Bonzer! magazine. Please visit www.bonzer.org.au