A CRISIS FROM NOTHING

A CRISIS FROM NOTHING ©Mollie Kay Smith

Ron and Edna had worked together for over twenty years so their early morning get-togethers in the cubbyhole tea room were by now something of a ritual. Other than for these two Venturer House was deserted at this hour and with only a drowsy security man sitting in his cabin on the ground floor wishing for home they could do whatever they wanted. Well, almost.
Today started like any other ordinary day with no hint of the chaos to follow. Whilst Ron reached out to take a third chocolate covered biscuit from a box labelled Strictly Reserved for Minister and Guests Edna wiped over the sink's draining board with a spotless white dishcloth.
‘Thanks, love’. Ron seemed a bit pre-occupied as he munched at the biscuit.
‘Ron, is there something wrong? You haven’t really seemed yourself for the last couple of days. A problem shared is a problem halved you know so you’d better spill the beans.’
Ron did have something on his mind though it was unlikely he would tell Edna about it. The details rested clear in his mind as if it had happened yesterday. The sleazy night-club, the girls gyrating around poles on the stage, the half-drunk chap at a table with the almost naked woman on his lap, the rowdy laughter and gestures of his mates.
‘No nothing wrong. It’s just his lordship. He’s getting on my nerves. So what's on today, then? Red letter day with visiting dignitaries?'
His quick change of subject told Edna something else was amiss but she knew better than to push him further.
'No, just a normal run of the mill day. Still you never know. We might be in for a bit of excitement. He's the sort to create a crisis from nothing as well you know.'
'Don't I!’ Ron’s memory skills were legendary. He could recall all Chelsea’s matches and the results for over a decade so it was unlikely he would have forgotten the first time he’d met Frederick Plimsoll, the new Minister. He was banking on Plimsoll not remembering him for he knew his future at Venturer House depended on it. Hence his anxiety.
‘Rumour has it he'd better watch out. There's more than one's got it in for him. He's an arrogant b...'
'Ron!' Edna cut him off before any unacceptable words could pollute the air in her kitchen. Any conversation here must be as free from smut as the work surfaces and crockery. Actually few feet other than hers and Ron's were ever allowed to sully the shiny floor. The vase of flowers adorning the fridge was generally admired from the corridor outside as was the cork information board Ron had installed during the pantry's second year.
The board, Edna's real pride and joy, displayed her multitude of postcards. Every one was addressed exactly the same. The Boss. Edna's Den. Ministry of Technomechanics. Venturer House.
'All on that top row were sent by my ministers’. she would boast whilst ushering unknowing newcomers back across a threshold which those who had worked at Venturer House for longer knew better than to cross.
Unfortunately the new minister’s behaviour destermined he would never be represented in this postcard gallery of greats.
From the moment of his arrival he failed to appreciate Edna's qualities and seemed unable to accept what he felt was her insufficiently servile manner. And to prove his point he insisted that Edna's Den be referred to by its official name. The Pantry. His words forced Ron to restrain Edna as she read out aloud the offending memo.
'Who does he think he is? Thirty years old and telling me what I can call my own kitchen. You'd think he'd be proud to follow on from such great names as...' Her breath expired as she sought to name his predecessors. 'No doubt about it. His personality is flawed. He's inflexible, without humour and has no common politeness.'
‘You’re absolutely right love.’ Ron knew he could do nothing immediately to champion Edna, a woman he respected above all others, though his silent pledge to find a way to revenge the slight the new Minister had caste on her was real.
And whilst Ron seethed Edna recollected her first Minister; he who christened the pantry ‘Edna's Den’.
It seemed like only yesterday. She was an evening cleaner in those days and after a late supper meeting found the current Minister sitting alone at his desk surrounded by the remnants of chicken legs and chocolate gateaux.
He, after drinking a few glasses of wine too many, had seemed to feel the need of loving company. She, a lonely widow, allowed their mutual need to prove a fatal smidgen too strong. Even so nothing terrible happened. A few kisses, nothing more, before they both regained their senses.
Afterwards searching for something to say to break the embarrassing silence Edna thought of that age-old English remedy.
'What we could do with, Minister, is a nice cup of tea. With a little kitchenette here I could have made you one. I've often thought the big cupboard by the lift would be ideal for the job. It's only full of rubbish. I'm sure Ron could find somewhere in the basement for that.'
'Whatever you ask shall be done, my dear.'
Only later she wondered at the strange fatalistic ring in his voice.
Edna was not only given her den. A few days later she learned of her unasked for promotion from cleaning grade to something called housekeeping and with this came the status she valued so highly.
The then Minister continued to treat her with the same respect he afforded everybody else and soon the once off late night escapade faded into memory for them both.
Her colleagues teased her about 'Edna's Den', but she was such a kind and caring person that her promotion did not change her one little jot - she remained everybody's auntie, listening to their problems and offering valuable advice based on her long service in Venturer House. Ministers had come and gone and none of them treated her other than as a friend.
Until, that is, this latest one arrived three months ago.
The day of his arrival had been fraught for Ron and he’d kept out of the Minister’s way as much as he could. Questions chasing each other through his mind gave him a head ache. Would the Minister remember him? Would that episode in the sleazy night-club be remembered? Would the Minister ensure Ron lost the job at Ventura House to make sure his own part in that escapade was never revealed?
After a few days Ron relaxed. The Minister was too high and mighty to even look at a humble handyman. For him Ron might not exist.
On the morning when Edna and Ron bemoaned their fate they both heard the swish of the ascending lift at the same moment. It was the signal for Ron to move.
'I'd best get on,' he said picking up his tool bag.'See you later. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.' And with a wink he disappeared down the stairs next to the lift just as its doors slid open.
First out was the Minister. He sped comet-like along the corridor, a tail of sombre civil servants streaming in his wake.
His scarlet face and rigi shoulders foretold yet another storm in the offing.
'Oh dear! Did somebody burn his toast this morning then?
Edna's sarcastic syllables accompanied the rattle of the crockery on her trolley as she hastily directed it towards the Minister's room. Once there she did northing to prevent it from crashing into the wooden door frame.
'Knock on the door and wait outside until you're given permission to enter.' She mimicked his voice under her breath as she repeated the order the Minister had given her the previous week.
Merely thinking about it again made her blood boil. Just another pin prick, another mark against him. Nobody had spoken to her like that during all her years on this floor.
Now she did not hear the word 'enter', but went in nevertheless. The Minister sat at his desk.He regarded her as if she were an approaching alien, but did not acknowledge her. Instead he continued to harangue the civil servants seated around him. His face had purpled and he seemed about to explode.
'I want the name of the culprit before the House sits this afternoon.'
Edna handed out cups and saucers. He glared through her, directing his anger at the civil servants.
'Of course Minister. But leaks are difficult to track down.'
The voice of the assistant grew hesitant and faded away to nothing as the Minister sprang to his feet.
'Difficult my foot. Find out which of the typists has a boy friend in the opposition's camp and it'll be her. What are you waiting for? Get on with it.'
'Yes Minister.'
They filed out, their drinks remaining untouched. He picked up the telephone. Edna took her time. Perhaps she might learn something. Perhaps he might even have some ideas himself regarding the culprit.
The perpetrator of the leak was not tracked down during the morning. As the hour for the afternoon's proceedings in the House drew near the excitement in Venturer House sizzled like an electric current through the corridors. Edna wished she could transform herself into a fly on the wall of the House of Commons. She couldn't, but at least she could watch her enemy's humiliation on the television in his office.
Her expression as she gazed at the screen was unfathomable. Things were hotting up. The spokesman for the opposition smirked as he blasted away at the Minister for Technomechanics.
'Would Madam Speaker be kind enough to ask the Honourable Gentleman why he does not install a loudspeaker on the roof of Venturer House. Perhaps if he did so he might find it easier to disseminate his secrets.'
The noise in the chamber seemed to indicate it had been invaded by hooligans, but gradually things settled down and the camera once again focused on the miserable face of Edna's Minister.
She was back in her den by the time the lift wooshed his return. This time the comet trailed a longer and even more dejected tail
Within seconds of his door slamming Edna's trolley again found its mark. Not wanting to miss a trick she did not wait for an invitation to enter.
The eyes of the assistant who spoke were those of a terrified rabbit. 'Yes, Minister. You are absolutely correct. No clues whatsoever as to who leaked the information.' The man gulped before continuing. 'Er, in fact, the letter to The Source, the newspaper which printed it, appears to be in your own hand-writing. Evidently the leak was not, as is usual, a photocopy of a typed document.'
What happened next Edna considered would be best forgotten. Certainly no lady should have been expected to witness such mayhem.
Next morning she filled in the details for Ron. 'He swears he never wrote that letter, even though the experts claim he could have. Apparently his writing is never the same on two days running. Erratic like him. He's always in such a hurry it more often than not looks like a spider's walked over the paper. The report says his writing shows a rare lack of any individual identifying clues.'
'But what would he gain by leaking his own secrets?'
'Don't ask me. They say that's the only thing which is preventing the PM from asking him to resign.'
But resign he did. Next day one of the nation's best respected newspapers published a photograph of him. He was portrayed with an acknowledged courtesan on his lap. They were both half naked and his easily identifiable smile was inane. Only the large black X printed across the picture prevented it from being indecent.
That afternoon Edna watched him on television again as he made his resignation speech in the chamber. This time Ron sat with her and his grin as the Minister admitted the photograph was genuine was that of a Cheshire cat.
The Minister tried to wriggle off the hook by saying that it was merely the result of a stripogram sent to him during a leaving party and he claimed he was totally innocent. Ron knew otherwise. Hadn’t he been at the Stag Party when the photograph was taken. Admittedly not as a guest, but as a security guard. In fact it was he who took the picture!
'The picture was kept,' the Minister said, tears evident in his eyes,'in a drawer to which I have the only key.'
Later Edna found him in is office putting his personal belongings into cardboard boxes ready for his final departure.
'Oh, do excuse me Minister. I mean ex-Minister. I came in to do a final check before going home. I leave early on Wednesdays. My Graphology Club. Perhaps you didn't know that's a passion of mine. Some say I'm really quite an expert on the subject. Generally though I keep it a secret from those I work with. Do remember to leave the key of your personal drawer with security, won't you.'
She could not resist giving a little skip before getting in to the lift. A self-satisfied smile hovered on her lips as she pondered on the irony crowning the whole episode.
Her questioning hinged on exactly who controls the balance of power. Only she and Ron shared the secret that the key to the ministerial personal drawer was a duplicate of that which fitted her biscuit cupboard door. She’d not sent the photograph. Could it have been Ron? Perhaps she’d ask him about it in the morning. Or then again, perhaps not. Sometimes secrets are better not shared. Like hers for instance. She knew who’d sent the letter!

MOLLIE KAY SMITH