‘Banana Drama’

“What’s this?”, shrieked something behind Aviva Brackman.

“I was here first!”, it rasped, poking Miss Brackman’s back so hard, she almost keeled over..

Aviva Brackman and her foe, Mira Donner were pre-Sabbath shoppers at the Megazol Supermarket in Ashkelon. Both were at the check-out and desperate to get home.

“The basket you’ve just pushed away is mine - and this is my banana,”  added  Mrs Donner, still screaming. “I left it here to mark my place in the queue.”

Miss Brackman was tiny. She was imperious – and she boasted a bosom large enough to store spare china. So to see her roused was to view  a model galleon in full sail.

“Excuse me! Behave yourself!” she shouted back,  unused to being thus challenged.

“I was invited to move my goods from the adjacent check-out by the cashier.  If you wish to complain, go to the manager. I’ve shopped in towns throughout Israel for more than 30 years and I have long refused to defer to other people’s oafish behaviour.

“You Israelis are shameless.  First you  stake-out your place in a queue  like  IDF men on manoeuvres. Then you amble around a store picking and pecking at food before you’ve paid. In the U.K., where I was born, that would be considered theft. So Madam, should we meet again,  with me you will employ nimusim anglit – good English manners.”

Then, to the astonishment of the crowd growing around her, Miss Brackman threw back her coat and unbuttoned the blouse beneath, revealing an ornamental fruit nestling inside her capacious bra.

“This is  not a viper I nourish in my bosom,” she announced. “It is a banana I carry  always to sustain me during the vicissitudes of Israeli life.”

But as she spoke,  store security  arrived and propelled her into the branch manager’s office.

Minutes later, which seemed an eternity to Jake Wortenheim, Miss Brackman’s wrath was still in flood.

“For a lady of your er, maturity and demeanour your behaviour has been nothing short of extraordinary,” he told her. “Why didn’t you put your improvised customer place marker in your handbag? Even better, we do a good line in outsize shopping bags, which would contain your belongings very well.”

“Handbag? Products lines?”, thundered Miss Brackman,  “The lines are immaterial! To make one mistake in business is a misfortune. But to cause havoc between two customers looks like carelessness.

“If I were you, I’d ask your employers to examine the British model. The late Jack Cohen of TESCO, for example, used the slogan ‘Pile ‘Em High! Sell ‘Em Cheap!’ His successors preferred ‘Every Little Helps’.

“Your company seems to understand only half of the original equation and has not yet  grasped the basic idea of customer service.

“Even using  something to separate different customers’ purchases at the check-out, would indeed be a little help.

“There is a growing fashion among the religious in this country to use screens to segregate the genders, even when at home. Quite ridiculous, of course! But why, in the name of heaven, can’t supermarkets  divide the ‘holy’ items of one customer from the ‘temporal’ purchases of another?”

“Miss Brackman, that’s a great idea,” enthused Jake, now anxious to end the interview. “I’ll relay your thoughts to head office and I’ll inform you of their decision. But I beg you, please – no more scenes.”

 -----

Several weeks later, Miss Brackman received an invitation to visit Megazol’s  Tel Aviv H.Q. for lunch.

“My dear Miss Brackman, what a pleasure to meet you,” said Yael Aaronson, head of marketing. “We’ve tested your idea at our Ma’alot branch and it’s been an outstanding success. My colleagues and I look forward to discussing our plans with you and the chief executive wishes to offer you a token of Megazol’s esteem.

Later that afternoon, the galleon fairly blew back to Ashkelon bearing a magnificent silver decoration on its prow.

“Do you like my new brooch?”, Miss Brackman asked her neighbour, Naftali Yarden when they met in the hallway of their apartment block.

“A Banana! Most unusual  – and so attractive. I do like the inscription on the stalk. “Hmm. Let me read it again:

“To Aviva Brackman. A lady who gives it to us straight.”

 

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Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 24 May 2012)

‘City’s Blue Moon Shines On Israel’

My favourite sport is sitting outside an Aroma coffee shop watching the world go by. So that’s how I met Tony and Russ – a couple of  lads from Manchester - gabbing the sort of soccer usually reserved for Sabbath morning services.

“You’re expecting me to believe it’s all because you’re a ‘blue’?”,  Russell Simons was sneering as I began to listen. “C’mon. It’s me you’re talking to.”

“Look, Russ. It keeps happening. Last year, City won the F.A. Cup for the first time in 42 years. Agreed?

“Yep!”

“Then comes this week’s  ‘Roy of the Rovers’ turn-around in the final game of the Premier League season. Which bookie in his right mind would have given odds on City pulling back to win 3-2 in the closing moments of the match?”

“Yeah! O.K. – and …?”

“So it’s ‘part of a piece’.”

“What do you know about ‘pieces’, mate? I was in the rag trade and the only soccer pattern I use is the one that goes ‘to follow Manchester City is to have a disease without a cure’. Even my late Val called it ‘football nervosa’. I refuse to believe you. It doesn’t happen!"

Now I couldn’t resist butting in. “What doesn’t happen? I’m intrigued. You lads must be from Manchester - I’d recognise that accent anywhere.”

“Hey, you must be too!” returned Tony Brunner. “Come and join us and listen to the best story of the week,” he invited as they introduced themselves.

“Thanks,  I’m Bernie Pfeffer,” I said moving over. “I came to Haifa from Whitefield 12 years ago and I love a chance to talk ‘real’ football. Most of my new friends  are Yanks and even they say that Israeli soccer used to be bad – and now it’s even worse!”

“Oh, ho!,” laughed Tony. “Russell’s here visiting me in Afula and I’ve been trying to persuade him that things happen in Israel which seem impossible anywhere else.” 

“Go, on!”, I said.

“I’d brought him to Haifa  as there’s a solicitor near the port who authorises television licences and …”

“That’s what I mean, Tony,” said Russell. “If I went to Moore, Morrison on Bury New Road for a TV licence, the girls at reception would say I needed a shrink, not a lawyer.”

“Shut it, Russ and let me tell Bernie the story.”

“So tell – I’m all ears.”, I said.

“Anyway,” continued Tony, “I left Russell to wonder round the shops here at the  Lev ha-Mifratz Cinemall, while I tootled to the port. It took me a while to find the door for Khalid Fahoum.

“I didn’t feel very confident when I finally got inside as the place was a gloomy mess and apparently unstaffed.

“But a couple of seconds later, a pleasant young man emerged from nowhere and using  my broken Hebrew, I  explained   that I was a fairly recent immigrant and a pensioner needing to buy a television licence.”

“You’d better cut the story short Tony”, said Russ. “Bernie’s looking confused.”

“O.K. After some toing and froing, Mr Fahoum himself appeared and ushered me into his office. He examined my papers, made a phone call, then smiled hugely.

“’Mr Brunner. Kol b’seder – all’s o.k.,’” he said, as he  used his professional seal.

“’You don’t owe anything this year as your immigrant status still applies. However, there is a NIS 100 charge for my service.’”

But as I pulled out my wallet, Mr Fahoum continued chatting as though we were old pals.

“’Tell me, my friend. You are from America?’”

“No, I’m from England – Manchester. I suppose you know Manchester United football team – everyone in Israel is crazy about them. My problem is that I’ve loved their rivals, Manchester City since I was a boy but very few people here know or care.”

“’You’re wrong, Mr Brunner. I care - very much. Do you know Italy? That’s where I gained my law degree.  I admire City’s manager, Roberto Mancini and I watched this week’s match on television. It was so exciting – and what a glorious finish!’”

“And believe it or not, Bernie,” added Tony looking hard at Russell, “as I leaned forward to give him the cash, he gestured that I should put it back.

“’You’re a good man, Mr Brunner. I like you. Today you owe me nothing. Perhaps we’ll do business another time.’”

As Tony finished speaking, my wife, Rosie arrived. She’d spent the past hour at Beauty4U in Carmel and looked gorgeous.

“Hi, you!,” she said, collapsing dramatically in an adjacent chair. “ … and your friends …?”

“Russell Simons and Tony Brunner –  they’re also from Manchester.”

I noticed Rosie and Russell share more than a flicker of mutual recognition.

“You look a million shekels.” I told her.

“At least the price of  ten TV licences,” quipped Tony. But Russell went quiet. Then he clapped his hand to his forehead:

“Blimey! Rosie Levine! You still have that cloud of blue-black curls that used to drive me mad.”

“Russ – of course! I don’t believe it! We’ve not seen each other since …”

“Yeah! The weather wasn’t like it is here. We were drenched to the skin after that midweek fixture and you came back to our house to dry off.”

“I certainly did - happy days! Soon after, I went to university in Birmingham and we lost touch.”

“Shame that”, said Russell.

“I think it’s time we went,” I told Rosie. “Great meeting you lads – and enjoy the rest of your time in Israel,” I motioned to Russell.

But as we left, Rosie got dead chippie.

“What’s the matter? Old flame still burning?”

“Well, honey. You know how it is,” she replied beginning to hum that dratted tune. “I’m just replaying an old match of the day.”

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Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 18 May 2012)

‘Of Royal Cabbages And Queens’

Saturday Evening 02 June 2012

St George's Chapel, Windsor Castle

“Your Majesty? It’s Her Majesty, Your Majesty.”

“What? Oh, no!”, groaned the Queen,  roused from a contemplative half-doze in her pew. “I’d better call security.”

“Don’t do that!”, soothed the same voice, now warmer. You know who I am? Surely?”

“Oh, dear! I thought I’d seen a __!”

“Not ‘ghost’,” urged the form  beside her, now  more solid. “I prefer ‘spectre’. It sounds like ‘sceptre’. Much more our style, perhaps?”

“Good grief! Red hair. White makeup.  Ruched blouse. You’re a dead ringer for my near-namesake.”

“Bull’s-eye!”, chortled the first Queen Elizabeth. “But please don’t rub it in. You’ve no idea of  the time and trouble it took to get me here. So to make things easier,  I’ll  call you ‘Lilibet’ – and  you may address me as ‘Ma'am’.”

“I may  - what?” scolded Lilibet, beginning to enjoy herself immensely.

“You may be my chronological senior but as I’ve reigned for 60 years against your 45, I’ll just use ‘Bess’, if you please. But how did you get here? Why aren’t you wearing period costume? Umm,  and I must say,” she added peering at the first Elizabeth more closely, “I could murder you for those pearls.”

“Bit late for that, darling,” snorted her new friend. “Your own beads are super and as for farthingales, ruffs and whatnot - you try getting that lot through the ether. Not even Judi Dench could do it!”

“Well, she’s not there yet, glory be. Anyway,  I’m more interested to know why you’re wearing contemporary clothing and how – er, on earth - you’re using colloquial, modern English.”

“Those in charge,” gestured Bess with raised eyebrows “chose my outfit as we didn’t want you frightened off. I had rather fancied a  t-shirt and jeans but was told it was a ‘no, no’!

“Haha!,”  chuckled  Lilibet. “You’re talking like my grandchildren. In humorous moments Philip and I envisage William and Catherine one day also in tees and jeans  under their Coronation robes –  holding a football and wielding a hockey stick instead of an orb and …” 

The two ladies grinned.

“As for the chat”, continued Bess, you must remember that I was known as an  able linguist, so picking up current jargon has been great fun. Even Winston helped to coach me on word usage from the 50s and 60s. He  sulked dreadfully after he lost out to me for tonight’s job. But he came round when he was told they  wanted to arch the years between the ‘old’ and ‘new’ Elizabethans and for us to discuss the less obvious similarities and differences.

“Such as?”, asked the present Queen.

“Well, it often seems that despite all the documents, diaries and artefacts at their disposal, historians cannot help but reduce entire reigns - lives  - to grubby wisps of war, sex and politics.”

“So generations of schoolchildren, for example,  tell their parents they’ve ‘done the Tudors and the Stuarts’ through the prism of Geoffrey Elton’s popular books as though we had bit parts in a television show written by his nephew, Ben!”

“A little like 1066 and All That:? Or maybe the younger Elton’s Blackadder? I know what you mean,” replied Lilibet. “Of course our situations are quite different. You had much more direct power than I do, as my position became largely ceremonial after 1688.

“Dear Bess, in my worst moments I  long merely to be the power behind my throne! I may have offered a word here or a little advice there to a stream of prime ministers and Commonwealth Heads of State. But during the past 60 years with its extraordinary revolution of social and technological change, my family has sometimes felt quite powerless against the tide of hostile public opinion.

“I’m told we’re most popular now – and this is due not only to my length of service but to our grandchildren’s engaging personalities.

“Of course, the process began when  we were forced to become less formal and more ‘subject friendly’ after Diana died. Now her children – and my other grandchildren – while taking their Royal duties most seriously – are determined to be as ordinary as possible. So I am desperate that we do not lose that sense of ‘kingship’ which marks the fine border between us and our people.”

“Young lady”, reproved Bess gently, “this is the other reason why I am here. But I see, judging by the hour on the timepiece which Dudley gave me, that my allotted time with you is almost spent. So I’ll be swift.

“My most important task is to advise that whatever troubles have beset you, your long and continuing reign will always be marked as a warmly benign and cohesive force in a turbulent world. You may have been snared by one revolution but you’ve most likely helped to prevent another.

“Now if I’m not mistaken, I can see your Philip loping up the path towards the church porch. My, he still looks like a Greek god!”

“Ooh, don’t tell him that Bess,” replied Lilibet, “he hates compliments.” But as she looked up, the old Queen had vanished and the lean, firm figure of the Duke of Edinburgh had taken her place.

“Are you all right, cabbage?”, asked Prince Philip. “You’ve been in here ages and – good Lord, you’re so pale – you look as though you’ve seen …

“Please don’t … oh, never mind  … I’m fine. Nothing a pre-dinner drink won’t cure.”

They left the church and linked arms to walk back to the main house. Suddenly Philip stopped, turned to the Queen  and kissed her brow.

“God bless my lovely wife,” he whispered. “God save the Queen!”, he yelled.

“Steady on, Philip. We don’t want you back in  hospital,” she admonished – and someone in heaven smiled.

 

Technorati Tags: #fridayflash,Flash Fiction,PerfectlyWriteFamilyTales,Of Royal Cabbages And Queens,Queen Elizabeth II,Duke of Edinburgh,William,Catherine,Diamond Jubilee 2012,Queen Elizabeth I

Natalie Wood

(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 11 May 2012)