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The fume of sighs 
or Mr. Metzgers pistol.

     I was sitting in the coffee pot in the height of summer,
reading a copy of  The Shuttle' (the local newspaper) when
amongst the articles on Golden wedding anniversaries and the
latest work of Shakespeare to be tackled by the local Am-Dram
 society, I noticed a small thumbnail advertisement.  Mr.
Metzger of Metzger's tailors announces his appointment as
protector of Miss. Haxsby upon the death of her two beloved
and dearly missed parents'. The name Haxsby induced an itch
in the cortex of my brain as I couldn't for the life of me
remember how I knew it.
     Judith arrived just as my crisis was becoming
unbearable (and therefore if unresolved would be placed to the
back of my mind and ignored intensely) and shed light upon
the problem.
     "She's Taffy Turner's half-sister, remember?"
     Indeed I did remember Taffy, a pasty young welsh girl
who as far as I could recall was quite subdued. Taffy had been
one of quite a number of people on a basket weaving course
that I had enrolled on by accident a couple of summers
previously. Other than a waste paper bin the only thing I
gained from the course was an impression that Taffy was not
only adept with her hands but also a person who was prone to
quite sudden and unexpected bouts of apathy.
     Judith it seems however, knew her slightly better.
     "The thing about Taff is that she never got over the
way her mother left their family. If she had run away with
another man or if she needed time to herself then she might
have been able to feel some empathy. But her mother had been
suffering from alzheimers for some years, and slowly it
became apparent that she no longer even knew who her
children were. Her father had remarried some years later to a
buxom lady, freshly divorced with an insatiable appetite for
travel. In the following years Taffy had seen little of her father
as he travelled the world with his new wife. Taffy was left to
bring up her step-mother's teenage daughter, an unruly brat
called Elizabeth Haxsby. Anyway Mr. and Mrs. Turner were
killed in a car crash on the road to Ludlow last weekend, it
seemed so strange that after all the times they'd flown out to
Africa and the disappointingly uneventful trip to Sarajevo that
they should meet with death so close to home. The last time
I saw Liz was about a fortnight ago," she pursed her mouth as
though she was sucking something bitter, "she'd dyed her hair
a sort of corn yellow colour and she was dabbing the blood
from where her belly button had been pierced."
     "So why hasn't Taffy been asked to look after her?
Why this Metzger bloke?"
     "Don't ask me!" she snapped quickly, "I don't claim
to be an expert on the in's and out's of the Haxsby's lives."
     The conversation then drifted on to the cut of men's
suits and how the latest designs were always generous around
the waist (in order Judith assured me, to compensate for the
increasing girth of the collective male population).

     But the little advert had intrigued me, I wanted to
know what had made this couple trust someone seemingly
unconnected with the family with their daughter once they'd
gone. Or was it Taffy, fed up with playing nursemaid, palming
off her step-sister on to some poor friend of the family?
Metzger's tailors had a little shop just outside the town centre
on Victoria street, when it had been built at the turn of the
century it had been right at the hub of the town, prominently
positioned between the Chemists and the Town Hall, but the
town hall had been demolished due to unsafe foundations, and
now there was a doctor's surgery and a dentist on the site
(both with plenty of parking). It was not somewhere you
might stumble upon.
     So when I dropped by there it was partly because I'd
been unimpressed by the last suit I'd bought from the tailor I
knew in Worcester, and mostly due to my desire to know
more about the private lives of the Haxsby's.
     There was the smell of warm cloth as the little service
bell rang. Mr. Metzger called from up some stairs to let me
know that he would be down shortly, but he was just
unpacking the latest batch of silk ties.
     The shop looked very  authentic', a wooden counter
and old fashioned till (I knew that it would cost more to keep
it maintained and in working order than it would cost to buy
a new one). It was certainly part of the furniture, but the way
in which it still remained (in defiance) strained against the
comfortable surroundings. There were small books of
materials & cloths, a rack of suits another of waistcoats.
     "Just feel this," he handed me a yellow silk tie.
     I looked quizzically at the man. This was not quite
how I'd pictured Mr. Metzger. He was lean and grey, his face
friendly and his yellowing teeth shone brightly and highly
polished. My mind had imagined a plump and dour old fellow.
He was smartly dressed in a dark suit and waistcoat, his tie
was a perfectly judged blue and green stripe. It's amazing how
often men get their choice of ties wrong.
     "Perfect silk, it's probably been made by some poor
Indian girl in a sweatshop in the Black country, but it's fine
craftsmanship nonetheless."
     Ahhh, an honest man. It is so rarely that you meet a
really honest person these days. It made me wonder if he'd be
honest about all the advert business, or whether I'd have to
read between the lines. As I get older I get more self
conscious (or more self-obsessed) and I begin to question
what I'm doing. What I used to feel was people watching has
taken more of a snooping dimension of late. But then again, to
get to the real root of why people do what they do, you need
to pry once and a while. Or occasionally give them a prod.
     "It is a nice tie, I'm not quite sure about the colour."
     "Yes, yes," he concurred (always the mark of a true
salesman!), "but it's the gaudy taste of many of the less
discerning we get in here. Were you here to browse, or were
you after something in particular?"
     "I was just looking to get measured up for a single
breasted suit, no waistcoat."
     "Did you have any particular style in mind? You could
have a look along this rack to get a few ideas, I think that
these are particularly smart, Sir. Were you looking for a suit
for business or something for casualwear?"
     "I need a suit for work, but I like to be fairly casual, so
nothing too severe."

     It was just then that I noticed a pistol, mounted in a
mahogany glass case on the wall. It looked strangely out of
place, so I mentioned it offhand, to try and relax the
atmosphere, but he tensed and answered me somewhat
cryptically,
     "That damn thing! It's got me into so much trouble
these last few weeks." he looked at me, rolled his eyes
heavenward, "but you really don't want to hear about it."
     But I did want to hear about it.
     "Something to do with the new gun laws I suppose,
my dad used to clay pigeon shoot and the hassle he's had to
go to because of the two shotguns he still had through that
was unnerving. They need to be secure these days, so they
wanted my dad to have a safe fitted. He sold them in the end,
too much bother."
     "No, no." he smiled ruefully "It would be a relief if that
was all I had to worry about."
     "So what's the story?"
     "Well, I really need to get this off of my chest, have
you got a couple of minutes to hear a confession?"
     "If you can stretch to a cup of coffee I'd be more than
happy to oblige."

     So, settled with a cup of coffee (with milk, he'd added
it before I could say no, so I grinned and bared it) he began to
unload his burden.
     "I was in the war, you see. My friend gave me the gun
in  42, it was a bit of a joke on his part.  Just in case you need
it for protection' he laughed  just in case those unruly peas
decide to break out again'. I was in the catering division, you
see. When the war was over I came back, and reopened the
shop, the gun took pride of place, everyone knew then, you
see. Every single person who contributed in the war was a
hero, there was no laughing about your place in the scheme of
things."
     "That does surprise me." I admitted.
     "Okay, okay, there was some mickey taking I admit,
but there was still a certain respect that people had for anyone
who had done their bit. But as the years rolled on, the case got
dusty, I forgot about it. People would ask about it from time
to time, and I started to feel embarrassed about the fact that it
was a joke. So I began to tell people that I'd been on the front
line, I began to tell little stories that my friends had told me,
but now I was the person flying the plane, or I was the one
who was risking my life day in day out. They were only
harmless little throwaway tales, no one took them seriously
anymore. Until the day I met Mr. and Mrs. Turner. Mr. Turner
had been coming to me for years to get his suits made, but this
time he brought his new wife, a very impressionable lady. She
noticed the gun immediately and her husband started to repeat
the tales I'd told him. I just wanted the ground to open up
under me! It was strange because it seemed alright when I was
telling these fibs, but to hear someone else, it made me cringe.
Well before I knew it she was calling me brave and smart and
wonderful, that it was good to still see me in the best of health
and spirits after all I'd been through. I frowned and squirmed
and was glad when they left. That, I thought, would be the end
of that."
     "Is this to do with the advert?"
     "Oh God." he cried "I was hoping that no-one would
see that."
     "Sorry."
     "Don't worry, dear boy, don't worry. When they died
and the will was read there was a great shock to all who had
gone to hear it. It seems that Mrs. Turner had requested that
I keep an eye on her daughter. That I should be in charge of
her  moral welfare' because the reports of my valour had
impressed her so greatly. It seems that Liz Haxsby had never
been baptised, she didn't have any Godparents. It was just so
strange to be given this responsibility, and I feel so guilty
because it's all based on a lie."
     "Why did you advertise it, if you didn't want people to
know."
     "It was one of the conditions of the will."
     "What are you going to do?" I asked.
     "Do? Well, nothing, of course!" he smiled, "It's a dead
woman's wishes, and although I've been feeling really bad
about it all, talking to you has helped considerably. Thank-you
young man. Now , can I help you find a suit?"

     So I bought a charcoal pinstripe suit, without a
waistcoat and with 3 pairs of trousers (they always wear out
first).

©1998 Mark Sexton