Museum of Old Beliefs by I. Peter Lavan (classic books for 7th graders .TXT) 📕

let’s have telephone sex.”

“Telephone…?”

“You know I tell you what I’m doing and you tell me what you’re doing.

“Dad!!”

“I really don’t think this…”

“I know; I know it’s a bit kinky, but things are only kinky the first time you try them.”

“No Dad!”

“Listen.” Things went quiet for a short time, then a faint slapping could be heard. “That’s my todge against the mouth piece.”

“This is inappropriate Mr Thomas.”

“Talking of inappropriate what are you touching now doctor? Are you having a little rub, a little play?”

He could just make out Amy sobbing through a series of sorrys, served her right, if she wanted to put him in a hospital or a home she should have discussed it with him first.

“We need to address your medication Pete.”

Doctor Livingston was back calling him Pete. “No we shouldn’t be looking at addressing, we should be looking into un-dressing doctor, not hospitals and medication. Bet you wear those really, really brief Frenchie knickers, not like the mega-pants on the extension, don’t you doctor, you can tell me, go on doctor, tell me, tell me!”
Everything went quiet. “Hello, any depraved doctors out there, any un-dutiful daughters, hello, HELLO.” Nothing, just a dial tone. A slightly confused he went to put his todge back in his pants, but he hadn’t got it out. His thoughts moved to Amy wondering what she might say or probably not, still they unquestionably had things to discuss, just needed to get the todge thing out of the way first though.


The house had turned into a ghost abode; the spectre of Amy was nowhere to be seen. What was that the extension telephone had no telltale damp fingerprints or the smell of bleach or the sent of Amy’s perfume, either Amy was getting quicker with the cleaning or there was something else going on. He sat at the kitchen table, with a slightly amused embarrassment at what he’d just said. The thought of a cup of tea acted as a distracter, but he wasn’t thirsty or hungry, he was going to have to come off the damned doctors drugs.

As thoughts expanded tenacity tightened, if plans were a foot to put him in an institution then the buggers were definitely not getting his money. He went in search of his daughter; there were things that needed to be thrashed out… in a metaphorical meaning. Amy was hiding somewhere, he could sense she was near, but she was keeping out of his way, either through the embarrassment of the telephone conversation, or she couldn’t face telling him what she was thinking, or even telling him she had made arrangements with the hospital. He made a quick telephone call to his old bank and found a new envelope.


Peter was incredibly weary on the bus going into town, thank goodness it was fairly quiet, there was no drunken nutter to mutter meaningless diatribe at anyone who made eye contact. He thought of remedying that, too tired. Settling back into a surf of sound created by groups of passengers who couldn’t stand the void of silence, the thought of Sabine brought about a Pavlov type of response, making him shuffle in his seat. He planned to first see Jessie, give her the envelope, then sort out the bank, go and see Tom, then he was going to spend some time with that little, well not so little lady Sabine, probably his last chance, who knows what would happen to him when he got the chemical straightjackets of hospital surging through his veins.

Stopping outside the travel agent, there was a feeling of sadness that this might be the last time he saw the girl in the bikini, he stood for half a minute or so admiring her curves, forty or so years ago and well… well he… he stopped himself and smiled, he’d probably be attempting a date with her mother. Some unknown force carried him inside the shop. Taken aback for a second, there, sat at a desk was the real live girl who’d modelled the cutout in the window.

“May I?”

“Please, how can I help you?”

“You look different..?”

“I know, with my clothes on.” The girl’s smile didn’t match the words.

“No, no it’s your eyes, they haven’t caught the light in your eyes on the poster.” He shocked himself, he couldn’t remember looking at her eyes.

“Thank you, you’re the first person to notice.”

He didn’t say what he was really thinking. “Welcome.”

“You looking for a particular type of holiday?”

“Not really just looking at what you’ve got, you know what I …mmm”

The girl didn’t know what to say; she’d seen more then a glint in his eyes.

“Tell me your perfect holiday” He looked at her nametag, “Melinda?”

She looked like she was looking to deflect obvious interest. “Well when my boyfriend and I were planning a honeymoon we would have gone out to Dubai, do a three day stop over and then fly down to the Maldives for 16 days.”

“Show me?”

Melinda got out the brochures and turned to the relevant pages, he watched the longing in her eyes.

“Looks great, how much?”

Melinda tapped a few keys on the keyboard and with a final well-practiced flourished tap, sent the printer into work mode. She passed the computers conclusion.
Peter inwardly gasped, you could buy a new small car for the cost of the holiday; no wonder she had said ‘would have gone’, ‘would have’ being the operative words.

“That’s for two.”
He couldn’t help himself. “Hundred?” Melinda looked confused. “Joking.” He took out his wallet. “Card OK?”

“Err yes, of course, just a few details, are you sure?”

“Sure.”

As Melinda brought up the booking pages, Peter concocted a plan. “When are you getting married?”

“One moment, erm one second, there. On the 21st of next, just a, right, up a page, of next month.” Melinda was talking to him and the keyboard at the same time.

“Day before I want to fly, is that date OK?”

With a short disappointed type of hiss from her nostrils, Melinda forlornly replied, “I don’t need to look that up, I know it is. Name?”

He gave his name and Amy’s address.

“And your partner, it’s Mrs James?”

“Sadly no, Mrs James died a number of years ago.”

Melinda took her hands off the keyboard and opened them up in a placating questioning manner.

Peter leant forward to ensure he got it right. “Melinda Thomas.”

“That’s my name…”
He wasn’t sure if it was confusion or she was contemplating the possibilities, his overactive Id plumbed for the latter.

“Is this all a perverted joke Mr Thomas, I can’t come with you, I’m getting married.”

“You sure about both?”

“Shall we get the manager?”

“No, no just wait a little bit,” sighing to slow things down. “Put your name down, just do it.” He ordered, and then said softly, “and put your boyfriend’s name and address in the other box, your honeymoon is a gift from me. Your picture has brought a smile to me most mornings, it’s a thank you.”
Melinda came round the desk in tears, Peter couldn’t help himself, putting the fox down he gave her bottom a more then fatherly rub. “Just call me Christmas.”
After approval and witnessing by the manager, He left the travel agents with a considerably lighter bank balance and a considerably lighter conscience.

Peter, nearly forgot and went straight into the terminus café, he stopped just in time. He couldn’t risk being doused again by a juxtapositional Jessie, who knows it could be curry next and he didn’t particularly like curry, played havoc with his sarcastically highly hilarious hiatal hernia. He peeped in to check who was there. Jessie was nowhere to be seen, probably been sacked for her… he stopped the thought ‘demented dotage’, the words didn’t sit well with him, and she didn’t deserve that. Who did, echoed deep, deep down inside. He entered the café with the stealth of a geriatric ninja.

“Is she about?” He had tucked the fox under an armpit, bent his knees with hands ready in a karate position.

The owner smiled. “No I’m afraid Jessie left and after yesterday’s performance…” she shrugged her shoulders. “What can I get you? It’s on the house”

Peter didn’t totally relax; he transferred the cane and swished it like a foil, still on guard, just in case. “Will you be seeing her again?”

“She should be back in a couple of days, collect her wages.”

“Can you give her this?” He cavalierly tossed the cane to his other hand, to free his right hand, only his left hand didn’t get the message and the cane fell at the feet of an older woman. Three times he tried to pick it up. Eventually the woman leant on her tartan shopping trolley and picked it up for him. “Here you are Athos.”

He honoured her with a touch of his homburg and turned his attention back the cafés owner. “Could you give this to Jessie?” He pulled out the envelope he’d prepared earlier.

The owner took it extremely reluctantly. “What is it?”

“Open it.”

The owner lifted the tucked in flap and took out a cheque. “I don’t understand.” It was made out to Mrs Jessie Jones for five thousand pounds – only. “After yesterday?”

“She was always complaining about her teeth, this should help put them right.”

Dumbfounded the owner put the cheque back in the envelope. “I’ll… I’ll pass it on.”

“Tell her it’s from tooth fai…ellow.”

Peter couldn’t help feeling a little despondent about how Jessie and he had parted; it would have been good to have one final jest with Jess, if she’d been a few years younger, who knows?
He was about to leave when he heard a voice shout. “Can I pour a tin of peas over you?” He shook his head, there’s always a wit that starts with T.

There was a small diversion from his usual route, he needed to sign some papers and pick up some cash from his old bank. As he walked in, shock shook him. A name from the past had returned to trouble him, Debra Schofield. Debra had been a trainee when he was branch manager, a vivaciously ambitious girl who had caused him a lot of problems and Maureen a lot of pain. She was now well up the ladder, Branch manager. He pulled his hat down to cover some of his face. As he concluded his banking and was putting two large packages inside his coat, the electronic voice of the cashier nasally droned. “Mr Thomas, Ms Schofield would like to see you, could you wait there a moment?” Damned telephone call earlier.
“No, no,” came out a lot louder then it should, a deafening quiet descended into the bank, everyone now tuned into Peter who pulled his hat even further down across his face. “No sorry, haven’t time, got to rush, next time.” He left a perplexed casher with the speed just short of a Zimmer framed arthritic bank robber.


“Tom.”

“Pete.”

He accepted the hip flask.

“Amy still got you signed up for the temperance movement?”

“Umm. Tom got something for you.” Peter reached inside his coat, checked the size of each package then passed one to Tom.

“Know that there Thai bit must have left you more then a bit