ds_flashfiction | Relatively Speaking

939 words. My thanks to zen of punk and sheyheyred for their input. also thanks to byob kenobi for her hysterical tale about slippers, which kinda got me thinking.

The new dry-cleaning establishment was a wonder, prompt, professional, able to get out all those interesting stains he acquired while dropping, tripping, and bumping his way through his day. Best of all, it picked up and delivered free. They were at the Consulate now, in fact, slightly earlier than expected.

Turnbull went ahead and signed for Constable Fraser’s uniforms, then realized he had a slight dilemma. On the one hand, he wasn’t quite comfortable entering Constable Fraser’s office in his absence to put the uniforms away. On the other hand, after the incident with the tea service tray and the fire extinguisher, the hall closet no longer had a hanging rod. He decided the constable wouldn’t object and walked ever so carefully - he had an adversarial relationship with dry cleaning bags - to the small room.

He loved this office. It always smelled so clean and crisp, with a touch of winter snow, even on the hottest Chicago day. He opened the closet door, hung the uniforms on the rod, nodded good day to the gentleman polishing his boots by the fire, and closed the door behind him.

Turnbull was halfway to his desk when he realized there really had been a gentleman polishing his boots by the fire in Constable Fraser’s closet. He stopped, thought about it for a moment. Turnbull had never had a problem seeing things that weren’t there (his difficulty had always been not seeing things that were). Still, simply as a matter of duty - for who knew if this gentleman was an authorized visitor to the consulate - he backtracked and re-entered the closet.

The gentleman still sat by the fire, dressed in casual clothes, with all the tools necessary for the care and maintenance of leather spread beside him on a small table. There was a Sam Browne hung on a hook nearby, and next to the fire was a right boot that was polished to a mirror finish. The gentleman was working on making the left boot match it.

“Um, sir - that is, sir-”

“Son, either come in or go out, but close the door. It’s causing a draft.”

“I beg your pardon, I’ll just-” Turnbull closed the door, but stayed inside.

“Well, sit down, make yourself comfortable. I’d offer you tea, but that’s a bit beyond my capabilities.”

“Oh, please don’t worry about that, sir. It’s usually beyond my capabilities as well.” Turnbull approached the fire, took the other chair. He looked around the small cabin, and the snow falling outside the front windows caught his eye. “You have a beautiful view here, sir.”

“Thank you. Would have liked the windows a bit bigger, but you do what you can with the space you have.”

Turnbull couldn’t fault that line of reasoning. The closet wasn’t that large, after all. “I must say you’ve used the space wisely. The fireplace in particular is most efficiently placed.”

“Ah, a man with a practical eye. Benton doesn’t approve of it, you know. Thinks the fireplace is a bit over the top.”

“Oh, so you know Constable Fraser?” The man looked familiar.

“Yes, known him all his life.” The gentleman grinned, a matching twinkle in his eye, and Turnbull finally placed him from the small framed picture on Constable Fraser’s desk.

“Oh my goodness! Are you - do I have the honor to be addressing Sergeant Robert Fraser?”

“In the flesh, well such as it is.” Finally, things began to make sense, well, as much sense as could be made considering he was sitting in a closet sharing a fire with Constable Fraser’s deceased father. “And who are you?”

“How unpardonably rude of me, partaking of your hospitality without an introduction. I’m Constable Renfield Turnbull, and I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is. I’ve heard so much about you. You’ve long been a hero of mine.”

Bob Fraser was pleased as punch. “Well, nice to know someone appreciates history.” Bob held up the left boot. “What do you think? Will it pass muster?”

Turnbull compared it to the polish on his own boots. He really should work harder on those. “It’s beautiful, sir. I’ve never seen better. It must have taken hours.”

“Oh, I have lots of time on my hands now that Benton is spending all his time with the Yank. I’m not exactly welcome over there.”

Renfield couldn’t believe that. “I’m certain Constable Fraser would be delighted to take any opportunity to see you. Surely Detective Vecchio--”

“Last time I checked in on him, the Yank threatened to kick me upside the head.” Bob put the left boot next to its mate. “Let me give you a word of advice, Renfield, never walk in on your son and his lover. It isn’t an image you want to carry with you throughout all eternity.”

Turnbull could only agree with him. “I shall do my best to see that never happens, sir.”

“Wise man. You don’t play checkers, do you, or cribbage?”

“I have a fondness for board games of any kind, sir--” The distant sound of a clock striking made it’s way to the closet, and Turnbull bounced to his feet. “Good heavens, I must go. I promised Inspector Thatcher I’d get those letters posted today.”

Turnbull made his way to the door, then turned to say his goodbyes. “I hope I might see you again, sir.”

“There’s no avoiding it, son.” Bob laughed and shooed him out the door. “Next time you come, bring your polish. Those boots are a disgrace.”

Turnbull smiled in agreement and returned to the front desk. He wondered if the Sergeant enjoyed curling.

Current Mood: frustrated
Current Music: just the rain, thank the PTBs!