The smoking Gnome

Angus watched from his small office as the middle-aged woman walked down the arcade and into the atrium. She wore a faux-fur coat and carried several carrier bags from the designer boutiques further down the High Street. She made for the seat that encircled the giant Gnome in the centre of the atrium, and slumped heavily onto it. Dropping her bags on the floor, she reached into her large leather shoulder bag, produced a cigarette, lit it and drew heavily on it.

An iron and glass vaulted ceiling over the arcade and an architecturally-famous cupola over the circular atrium bathed both in natural light. The pale cream paintwork and colourful shops made it seem always sunny even when the weather was dull outside. Visitors came from miles around to browse the artisan shops in the arcade and atrium. They sold everything from glassware and knitwear to handmade sweets and cakes, soaps and perfumes. There was a fossil shop, a basket shop, a jeweller, a candle-maker, a wood carver, a card shop, a gift shop, a café with tables and chairs in the atrium, and others besides.

The two-faced Gnome – or identical twin gnomes, back to back, depending on how you looked at him – dated from Victorian times. He (never “it”) was always referred to as The Gnome, never “a gnome”, and was affectionately called Percy after the younger son of the arcade’s architect. Visitors would lean over the seat, and children stand on it, to touch the statue and make a wish, and drop the suggested donation of silver or gold coins in the sturdy collecting boxes by each of his left hands.

                “Emptied daily,” read the sign beside them. “What I mine is not mine to keep but to share. The more you give the more wishes come true. All proceeds to local charities.” Percy featured on all the town’s publicity and children would badger their parents to take them to see him and make a wish.

                Angus, the Site Manager, dealt with everything from changing lightbulbs and unblocking drains to answering multiple queries from shop tenants and visitors alike. When he was not occupied with some incident, he would don the hi-vis jacket with “Site Manager” in reflective blue lettering on the back, and wander among the crowds, greeting visitors and conversing with shopkeepers.

                He had been Site Manager for some twenty years, and had a practised technique for dealing with people who contravened the arcade’s strict no-smoking policy. If the culprits were boisterous youths, he would don the other hi-vis jacket with “Site Security” in reflective blue letters on the back, march out, pull himself up to his full six-feet-two height and adopt his ex-Royal Marine manner. He would tower threateningly over the offenders, feet planted firmly in front of them, his arms hanging at his sides as if he was a cowboy about to pull out a pair of pistols or a wrestler poised to throw an opponent. He would politely request they extinguish the smoke or kindly leave the premises.

He always smiled, especially if the scent suggested there was more than tobacco in the roll-up. In that case he would sniff knowingly as he spoke to them, which combined with his physique tended to induce their quick submission. As they obeyed, he then engaged them in conversation, assuring them they were always welcome so long as they observed the no-smoking rule and did not use the circular atrium as a scooter or skate-board race-track.

                With older people on their own, he was more casual, observing their body language, assessing their mood, before exerting his authority. So when the woman lit up, Angus watched and waited. She intrigued him. He had never seen her before. She opened her coat, as if to cool down. She had probably been hurrying, he thought. She had rings on several fingers, bracelets on both wrists, and a thick silver necklace. She wasn’t short of a bob or two, then. Without taking his eyes off her – the office afforded clear views of both the atrium and the arcade – he reached for the Site Manager jacket and slipped it on.

                She continued to drag deeply on the cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke with such force that it reminded Angus of an old steam engine’s safety valve gushing into the air. A family sitting near her got up and moved away, the mother shielding her child’s ice cream from the sudden eruption of illegal pollutants.

                Angus called his young deputy, Charlie, on the radio, and gave him a couple of instructions. Charlie was round the back emptying bins, and obeyed the summons to return to the office at once. By then the woman appeared to have finished what she wanted of the cigarette and was looking for somewhere to stub it out and dispose of the butt.

                Angus moved quietly out of the office as she looked left and right, obviously realising that there was no bin in which to place the offending item. She twisted in the seat, and stared at Percy first from one angle, and then from the other, the still burning cigarette between her fingers. Then she seemed to spot Percy’s wide grinning mouth above her. She stretched up and peered closer.  She looked left and right again, as if she was about to cross a busy road. A passer-by seemed to catch her eye and she hurriedly turned away. Then, thinking she was unobserved, she reached up, and stuffed the smouldering cigarette into a cavity she had spotted in the centre of the Gnome’s mouth, and turned back to button up her coat.

                Angus planted himself in front of her in a second, hands behind his back. “Good afternoon, madam,” he said politely. “I trust you are enjoying your visit this afternoon?”

                She seemed surprised and flustered to be addressed. She glanced up briefly and muttered, “Thank you. Yes.” She tried to finish buttoning her coat with one hand while she half rose and attempted to pick up her shopping bags with the other. It was an impossible task, not least because Angus was so close to her that she would have knocked into him. He did not give way. She sat back down again.

                “You are aware that this is a no-smoking zone, I trust?” Angus continued, evenly.

                She gave him a “how dare you speak to me like that?” sort of stare. Angus guessed she was more used to giving orders than observing them. “Yes of course,” she blustered. She tried to rise again. “Excuse me. I have an appointment to keep.”

                Angus stayed stock still. “May I ask, then, madam, why you stubbed out your cigarette on – or rather in – this historic monument?

                “Don’t be so ridiculous. Are you going to get out of my way?”

                Angus pointed over his shoulder towards the office. “You’re on CCTV, madam. If you like, we could go into my office and review the footage. It is an offence to smoke in here, and not one we take lightly.”

                She put her bags down again. “I’m sorry. I must have missed the signs. They’re not very clear, are they? You ought to make them bigger.”

                Angus said nothing. He just pointed to the signs on the back of the seats, and on the dividing walls between the shops.

                “They must have been covered by people. I didn’t see them. I really must be going.”

                “It is also an offence to cause damage to the fabric of this building, which is Grade One Listed, and to our priceless and famous Gnomic centrepiece.”

                “Don’t be ridiculous,” she blustered again, leaving her coat half undone and reaching down to pick up the bags with both hands. “Damage? What damage? Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

                Angus pointed to Percy behind her. The woman turned, looked, and dropped her bags. She covered her mouth with her hand. Smoke was streaming out of the Gnome’s mouth.  Then, quickly recovering her composure, she snapped, “Well, if it’s that important, aren’t you going to do something about it?”

                “My colleague is observing this from the office and he’ll take the action necessary,” Angus said. “However, madam, there is the small matter of (a) the crime of smoking in an enclosed public space; (b) causing criminal damage to an historic and irreplaceable item of public property; and (c) the likely repair bill.”

                A worried look crossed her face. She seemed puzzled. There was a chattering crowd around Percy, although giving her and Angus a wide berth. Far from moving away from what might have seemed a hazard, people were leaning over the seat to touch him and coins were rattling into the collecting boxes. In the brief pause Angus added, “I will have to inform the appropriate authorities, madam.”

                At that she melted. “Oh, God, no. Don’t do that. My husband will kill me. He thinks I’ve given up. And we can’t afford a scandal. Look.” She opened her voluminous shoulder bag. “Look. I’ve got money. Isn’t there a spot fine or something?”

                Angus screwed his face up, pondering the suggestion. “Well,” he said slowly, dragging it out, “well, there is a statutory fine, but that really should be imposed by the authorities after I’ve filled out the relevant paperwork.”

                The woman interrupted. “How much?” She was fingering a wad of notes so that Angus could see them.

                “It’s a bit irregular,” he said. “But I suppose we could settle it now. Let’s just move away from the crowd here.” He guided her away from Percy without actually touching her. “I am supposed to report offences. The Council’s policy on transparency and accountability, you know.”

                “How much?” the woman repeated. “Can we avoid the paperwork?”

                Angus turned back to the office and made a small gesture to Charlie. The crowd began to move round to Percy’s other face. “Well, usually the minimum fine for smoking is £50, and for minor criminal damage it’s also £50. But then there’s the clean-up.” He looked doubtful.

                The woman looked back at Percy. “It doesn’t seem too bad. The smoke’s almost stopped.”

                “We’ll have to extricate the butt, though, and clean away the tar. It’s hard to estimate. We’ll need special solvents. Maybe another £50?”

                She counted out £150, mostly in £20-notes, and held them out but did not let go of them as Angus moved to take them. “And my husband won’t be told? Or the authorities?”

                “I haven’t even asked your name yet, madam,” Angus replied. “So if you don’t tell me, I can’t fill in the paperwork.” She released the money and he pushed it into his jacket pocket, and stood aside. The woman picked up her bags and hurried down the arcade towards the High Street.

                She did not look up at the large sign near the entrance. “This arcade was designed and built by the renowned architect Horatio Buckman and opened in 1864,” it read. “The iconic Gnome at the centre of the atrium was designed by his elder son Ebenezer. It originally housed a clockwork mechanism which once an hour triggered a stream of smoke from one face, followed by tears from the other. Ebenezer claimed that it was a depiction of the human emotions of anger and sorrow which he hoped the gentle, bright ambience of the building would dispel. Ever since visitors have touched the smoking or crying Gnome to transfer their negative feelings to it, and it is hoped that they leave in a more peaceful frame of mind than when they entered. In the 1970s the clockwork mechanism was replaced by electric controls which offer greater flexibility in the timing and quantity of the emissions. Further information can be obtained from the Site Manager’s Office and the Town Hall Information Centre.”

                “There you go, Charlie,” Angus announced as he re-entered his office. “Sixty for you, sixty for me, and thirty for Percy.” He hung his jacket on the back of the door and switched on the kettle. “Time for tea, I reckon. Give the tears another couple of minutes. There’s a good crowd in today.”

                He peered out of the window and looked up the arcade to check that the woman had disappeared. “The trouble with people like that, Charlie,” he continued, “is that they only see what they want to see, and not what’s really there. And they think they can do what they please and that every ill can be cured with cash.”

                “Helps cure some of my ills,” said Charlie, putting his share in his wallet. “Fancy a pint later?”

 

Why be moral when you could be rich? See a more reflective view of ethics at the author’s other website: www.gentlerword.blogspot.co.uk/Why be moral when you could be rich