Fast Forward 6 Months
A Call From Young Mr. Grace
Stephen had just returned from his 9 o'clock coffee break. The telephone rang in the warehouse.
"Peacock! You have a call, mate. It's a Mr. Grace on the phone on the wall," called Jack.
Jack handed the receiver to Stephen, his fingers accidentally brushing Stephen's hand. Jack frowned, did a double-take, and walked away.
"Captain Peacock speaking."
"Peacock, this is Young Mr. Grace, how are you doing over there at Woodward and Lothrop?"
"I'm doing well, sir. Thank You."
"The purpose of my call, Peacock is to ask you: Now that you've taken a wife, how would you like your old job back? Rumbold is an idiot. He knows nothing about being a floorwalker and even less about men's clothing! I'll give you a rise if you come back," he bargained.
Stephen contemplated the idea for a moment.
"Sir, this wouldn't have anything to do with my playing football for Woodward and Lothrop, would it?"
"No, Peacock. I just thought maybe you've gotten tired of pushing a broom in the bowels of a store. Do you like working there?" He almost sounded sincerely concerned.
"Yes, sir. I leave for work before my wife is up; I come home after she's home from work. She has tea waiting for me and dinner is being prepared. She's actually happy to see me, sir. If we worked together, it'd be like when I worked at Grace Brothers: we'd bicker and fight and that would carry over to our home life," Stephen explained.
"Well, Peacock, it sounds like she's got you!" he chuckled.
"Yes, sir, she does. And I couldn't be happier," Stephen said proudly.
"Well, good day, Peacock. It sounds like you're doing very well."
"Thank you, sir. Good day." He hung the receiver back on its wall cradle.
After Stephen hung up, Jack walked back over, "Ere! What was all that about?"
"I used to work for him at Grace Brothers. I think he was trying to lure me back over so's I could play on their football team!" he speculated.
"What'd'ju tell him?"
"I've got it pretty good here. I told him 'no'"
"You're a bloomin' idiot! You would give up the opportunity to go back to your floor-walker position, wear a spiffy suit and tie, eat in the executive dining room, and tell people what to do all day? You prefer to push a broom, unclog toilets, collect rubbish, mop floors, fix broken things, get treated like dirt? What is wrong with you, man?
"It's for whom I gave up that position ," he stated, "If I went back there, my ex-wife is entitled to half of my salary. With a pay rise, she would also get an increase. Working here, she can only take half of my flat wage; she can't touch the overtime pay and bonuses I get. I'd shovel manure before I give her any more than what she's getting now." He sucked his cheeks in; his face screwed up into a scowl.
"Point taken. By the way, what's with your hands?" he questioned suspiciously.
"What do you mean?" Stephen asked.
"When I handed you the phone, I quite accidentally touched your hand. They're soft as a baby's bottom."
"That's my wife's work."
"Is she trying to turn you into a poof?" Jack raised an eyebrow and looked at Stephen strangely.
Quizzically Stephen looked at him, "I don't think so. She just insists that if I'm going to put my hands all over her, that they are to be clean and smooth. She doesn't like when my finger nails and calluses snag her tights and stockings."
"So what does she do to your hands to get them like that?"
"She has a salve she prepares from herbs from the garden. She buffs my fingernails and gets the rough edges smooth. Sometimes, if my hands are very chapped, she slathers on a heavy layer of salve and has me wear cotton gloves to bed. She also massages my hands…" he got all dreamy-eyed talking about his Betty.
"Newlyweds!" Jack scoffed and walked off.