Fiction

By Lynley Capon

Based on a True Story

SOMETIMES it’s foolish to take someone at his word. I discovered this nugget of wisdom after taking our faulty TV set for fixing. I delivered it to a repair shop on the theory that’d be much cheaper than calling out a repair-man. Maybe so, but when accepting the repair-man’s assurances about a quick and easy job, I missed the mark.

My husband and I had tolerated a foggy TV screen during the rugby season so it seemed only fair to ensure better viewing for the summer. My repair-man assured me the problem looked minor. The set would be ready at 5 p.m. the same day. Excellent, I thought, never doubting his pledge.

At 5 p.m., I returned, cheque-book in hand, triggering an electronic bleeper as I strode expectantly inside. There on the counter sat my TV, ready to go, I wrongly assumed.

The repair-man apologised. No, the trouble wasn’t what he first thought. He needed to test the tube. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a tube-tester on him. Come back at 5 p.m. on Tuesday.

Admittedly, I felt crestfallen. I’d hoped to watch a rerun of Only Fools and Horses on a clear screen. Instead, I’d miss it altogether. We settled for listening to National Radio.

On Tuesday at 5 p.m., I again visited the shop. Once more, my repair-man apologized. He still hadn’t located his tube-tester. With misgivings, I noticed his shifty eyes.

Again, he assured me. By tomorrow, he’d know if the tube caused the problem. Then he’d ring me and we’d decide on replacing the tube.

For two days, I awaited his call. The shop’s phone didn’t seem to be connected.

On Friday, I barged in to see what’d happened. Gleefully, the repair-man told me the tube seemed fine. Probably a small component had gone fizz. He’d find out which one and fix it. Simple!

On Wednesday, nine days after first taking in the set, I again entered the shop. Beeping sounds from the electronic devices by the door had started to corrode my nerves.

My shifty-eyed, overweight, body-odorous repair-man rushed to serve. It’s me, again. The set remained unfixed. Sadly, he felt ill. The hot, windy days bothered him. Work accumulated. Videos, stereos, computers….

Reluctant to hurl abuse or stamp my feet in rage, I restrained my temper and quietly asked for my set back. No, that wouldn’t do. He’d called in a helper. Come back on Thursday at lunch time. The TV would be fixed.

On Thursday, I strode into the shop with fists clenched, teeth gritted and ears assailed by the electronic noises. My repair-man smiled. He and his helper had pinpointed the problem. The set would be fixed and waiting at 5 p.m. I doubted it, but silently left.

At the appointed time, I returned, pondering the probable outcome. Like some hairy ape, my repair-man emerged at the beeping sounds. Ah, he no longer had my set. No, no! Don’t get mad, lady. His helper had taken it with some others to fix at home. He’d deliver it in the morning

I took his workmate’s address and phone number. Once home, I rang the number, but heard only a disconnected signal. The next day I waited, but no set arrived.

My husband had turned irate too. Several times, he visited the shop on his way home from work, but the repair-man had always gone. My husband phoned the man’s home number, always without a reply. We wondered what pub he haunted so that we could hound him.

Several days later, I summoned the courage to again enter the den. Nearly three weeks had passed since the first promise of a quick fix. This time my repair-man looked like he’d bathed and washed his hair. The shop’s atmosphere seemed fresher.

I smiled indulgently. A TV, I said. You planned to deliver it last Friday. I’d like it back.

Ah, the TV. Alas, he didn’t have it. He hadn’t caught up with his friend. He’d try again after work and deliver it to me immediately.

Declaring that I didn’t believe him, I walked out. I felt foolish for ever trusting the man. What next?

My husband telephoned the police and asked how we should repossess our property. An officer suggested telling the man that the police knew he held our TV and had failed to return it. If nothing positive happened, lawmen would act.

That’s exactly what I told the repair-man. Within two hours, he had our TV ready for me to take home. He neither delivered, nor fixed, it. He and his mate couldn’t say what was wrong with it.

I asked the repair-man to tote the TV to my car. He did, assuring me he wanted no money for the set’s long holiday in his shop.

My gasoline costs had mounted on the many car-trips to his place of business. I sent him a bill for this. So far, he hasn’t paid.

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