Writing for Fun
July 2015
Deception - Joan Bond
My life is a deceit; I am a spy. The name is Bond – well that's a lie for a start, it's Esmeralda Broadbent – but that doesn't sound the part, whereas even when you arrive in France they say 'Ahh, Madame Bond, how is the man? Still liking his cocktails shaken but not stirred? If they only knew the only thing he stirs lately is his tea, but I give them the old smile and say 'Be afraid, mon ami.'
I work at the old folk's home and the problems I have to solve for them – beyond finding their teeth they also have things at home that worry them. One old buddy, Dodgy Dave, thought his pension was not going as far as it used to; he wanted me to check on his family who were getting him to sign papers he didn't understand. I called on them as a Tax Inspector and needed to see all documents and bank statements. I was suitably dressed in navy blue skirt – telephone type: long enough to cover the subject but short enough to be interesting. Anyway I was impressive enough to get them to cough up to their dodgy transactions. Marjorie, the ex film star, so she said, but I thought cheeky adverts maybe, was missing her Oscar statue. I didn't like to say Daphne had found it on her floor and was using it as an ash tray.
I was bit concerned about Benjamin Brady, the guy running the home; he seemed always to have new cars and I had seen him in the local pub with a proper floozy - she was 65 if a day – but her husband left her quite a stash of money and Ben wanted to impress her into parting with the dosh, so was always buying her fancy meals and sporting her off to entertainments – well they didn't do a bad show at the church – but while she was living the life our meals were getting more meagre and the bingo cash had been rifled. This ended quite well after I told her a thing or two about his deficiencies; she dumped him for buddy Dave whose life had changed when I sorted his cash out and they went off to the Caribbean . . . well, Margate.
They are such a happy lot of people at the house and were devastated Saturday when told they would all have a months' notice; Gevla Barahmi the Indian guy who ran the home had had an accident – fell over his cash I expect – anyway he couldn't run the place anymore.
I felt so sorry that I wanted to help; being on Her Majesties Secret Service I felt it my duty to find a solution. Could they run the business on their own? They had all come from decent backgrounds with professions which provided them with decent incomes.
Firstly, were they in good enough health to survive? I arranged with Doctor No, something or other, to run his Golden Eye over them and with the savings they had – and don't forget they were all paying 800 quid a week each – most of them had jewellery they didn't use anymore ; they don't date as Diamonds Are Forever cash wise. Taking it all into account they could survive. Live And Let Die would be their motto but Tomorrow Never Dies; anyway I wish I still had Jules by my side – he was The Spy Who Loved Me, like The Man With The Golden Gun as he was known, and our life Was For Our Eyes Only.
The lads and lassies all pulled together and I think it rejuvenated some of them. They renamed the house The Quantum Of Solace, feeling The World Is Not Enough to be a problem in this new quest for life.
They had classes, dancing and even opened a room called Casino Royal for games of snake and ladders and Lotto and if they lost a quid or two it was ok - Die Another Day. Thunderball was an old bus they travelled out in to the coast; struggling up the cliffs they had A View To Kill for and if they stayed out late they saw the Sky Fall to earth in the dark. There was only one Spectre on the horizon; the chap came from the Inland Revenue to check on them all. They called him Goldfinger and they were certain he came from Russia To Shove.
All in all it was a good move – Never Say Never Again!