Poetry Joyce Walker

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: JOYCE WALKER

Joyce has previously had work accepted by the now defunct Affairs of the Heart, New Fiction, Writers Cauldron and Voyage and have had some success in competitions, including taking 1st prize in the Writers Brew Short Story Competition in 2002, 2nd prize in the storyfeedback.com competition in October 2009 and more recently taking 2nd Prize in an EWG competition.

THE REFORMATION OF THE GREAT RONALDO

The Great Ronaldo; children’s entertainer by day, became something totally different at

night; something that the mothers who engaged him for their children’s parties didn’t know about,

for if they had, they wouldn’t have allowed him over their doorsteps and certainly wouldn’t have

paid the large fee he requested for his services.

For The Great Ronaldo, or plain Ron to his friends, was not only a magician who made

people gasp at his slight of hand, he was also good at making antiques disappear and would, in fact,

use his time in their houses to search out expensive items that he could sell on. His sole aim was to

make enough money from both of these professions to retire a very rich man.

One afternoon while waiting for the children he’d come to entertain to take their fill of jelly,

ice cream, sandwiches and cupcakes, he slipped as silently as always through the many rooms of the

Georgian town house, sizing up things he could come and collect from the owners later, when he

came across a Victorian sewing box. Made of rosewood and inlaid with mother of pearl, it was

exquisite, in perfect condition with its original lock and key. When he gently lifted the lid he

discovered that it held a cornucopia of sewing items from the period including a boxed set of silver

buttons, a rich haul indeed; definitely something to bear in mind, as, to the right buyer, it could sell

for around three to five hundred pounds. There was also a small jewellery box containing several

rings that might add to his haul.

Yes, he thought, this might well be a place to return to, but not too soon after the kiddies

birthday party, he didn’t want anyone to link his visit to the house with the burglary, and anyway,

there were quite a few properties on his list already.

So it was some months later, while the family were away on their summer vacation that he

returned to relieve them of their goods.

It was a textbook break-in. No one saw him arrive and no one saw him leave. He’d learned

over the years not to draw attention to himself, and although on that day he didn’t need one, always

had a plausible tradesman’s story for being there and a set of keys to the house that he’d taken on

his earlier visit, had copied, and slipped through the letter-box the next day while the house was

empty. The unsuspecting householder, when searching for them, just thought they’d been dropped.

Now, all he had to do was find someone to sell the items to. Preferably someone far enough

away from the area not to recognise them for what they were, which is how he found himself

travelling from his home town of Derby down the M1 motorway to the Capital, ending up in the

antique shops and market stalls of the Portobello Road where he was considered to be a reputable

antiques dealer.

“So Ron, what have you got for me today then?” He showed the dealer the sewing box and

made an opening offer of six hundred pounds.

“No, I couldn’t possibly pay you that much, not when most of the rings are paste, I’ll give

you three for the lot.”

“You’ve got to be joking, have you seen the price of petrol these days? It costs me nearly

that much to bring the stuff down here and the sewing box is worth that on its own.”

“I’ve got a living to earn and a family to support.”

“So have I! How about five hundred?”

“Three fifty.”

“Four fifty.”

“I can perhaps stretch to four, but if I give you any more there’ll be no profit in it.”

“Make it four twenty five and you’ve got a deal.”

“OK four two five, but I still think I’ve been robbed.”

Ron permitted himself a wry smile, not you, he thought, but the woman with the ankle biter

who lived in the Derby town house definitely was.

After doing the rounds with his contacts and off-loading more stolen goods, he decided he’d

enough money and time, to treat himself to a ride on the London Eye before returning home.

What he didn’t know was that while he’d been travelling down from Derby and doing his

elicit trading he was in fact being followed and had been for some time.

Stan, a security guard by profession was a former victim who’d long had his suspicions that

Ron was responsible for the burglary at his home that had resulted in the loss of several family

heirlooms soon after his mother died. Although he mentioned it to the police, they were unable to

find any evidence to support this, so Ron was never convicted. Stan, however, having heard that

several other people who’d hired The Great Ronaldo had also been burgled, began to realise he was

right, so, with the police unable to help, decided to set himself up as an amateur detective and

armed with a camera, notebook and a series of hire cars to prevent Ron recognising the vehicles

that were tailing him, began collecting his own evidence.

With his notebook nearly full and a file bulging with photos in the briefcase he was carrying,

he’d finally decided that today was the day that Ron should be confronted.

So, while Ron was queuing for his tickets, Stan, too, took up his place four people behind

and when Ron stepped into his pod on the London Eye, so did Stan.

Ron, of course, while taking in the view from above the Thames, was totally oblivious to

Stan and his thoughts that if the pod had not been enclosed he might well have just gone up to him

and pushed him over the side into the water below, but being a fairly philosophical person, he also

thought that having waited almost two years to get his revenge another forty minutes or so,

wouldn’t make much difference.

In fact, if Stan was being totally honest, he wasn’t sure how he was going to deal with Ron

when he did confront him. So he used the forty minutes to try and formulate a plan of action.

When they returned to ground level it was Stan who disembarked first, positioning himself

so that his foot jutted out just enough to trip Ron up and send him sprawling face down on the

ground. To the other passengers and any bystanders it would appear to be an accident and his offer

of help to get Ron to his feet, the right thing to do.

Stan’s tight grip on Ron’s arm didn’t look unnatural either, after all, the shock of falling can

make a person feel faint and he could easily be supporting him to prevent another accident.

“I’m so sorry,” Stan said, “Let me buy you a coffee to settle your nerves.”

“No, thank you, I’m fine, really, I have a long drive ahead of me and I should be on my

way.”

Stan’s grip on Ron’s arm tightened, “Yes, it is a long way to Derby, all the more reason to

make sure you’re fit to drive before you set off.”

“How did you know I was going to Derby?”

“It’s a long story and if you value your freedom, I suggest you come with me and listen to

what I have to say.”

Ron swallowed hard, could this man be a plain-clothed policeman about to make an arrest?

He doubted it, he was very aware that with all the recent government cuts, money for surveillance

was tight and even though he’d been successful for many years, he was sure he’d be considered

small-fry in comparison to robbers who not only stole, but were violent too and he thought that

cross border operations, were more expensive than one that stayed within the same county.

His musings were cut short as he was led into a coffee shop and to an empty table.

“So,” Stan said, as coffee was delivered to them by a waitress in an old-fashioned black dress

and white apron. “How long has the Great Ronaldo been selling other people’s antiques and how

much a year does he make doing it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ron replied.

“I think you do,” said Stan, “in fact I know you do.”

He opened his briefcase and produced a large envelope full of photographs, showing Ron

entering houses, coming out with armfuls of goods, then entering antique shops with the same

goods and coming out empty handed. There were even some that showed money changing hands.

He pushed the pictures back inside the envelope and took out the notebook.

“It’s all in here, dates, times, places, for at least the last year. Now I can either take it to the

police, or we can come to some arrangement about compensation.”

“You mean, you want me to pay you commission on future transactions, but wouldn’t that

make you an accessory or something.”

“Do I look that dishonest? No, all I want you to do is mend your ways, and use your honest

earnings as a children’s entertainer to repay your victims.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’m sure the local constabulary would find this notebook very interesting reading, especially

as I have pictures to back them up.”

That’s how over the next few months manila envelopes filled with banknotes found their

way onto several doormats in Derbyshire. The more honest of them went to the police fearing that

they were forgeries, but while it remained a mystery, no law was being broken and it remained a

mystery. A mystery that is, to everyone except the reformed Great Ronaldo and the ever vigilant

security guard, Stan.