Free Maxwell's Retirement by M. J. Trow

deflated, beaten. When Sylvia Matthews was not on your side, you didn’t have a side. ‘I’m not that much help, though, Sylv. I don’t drive.’
    She smiled at him ruefully and patted his hand. She knew that and she knew why. The battered photos in the Great Man’s wallet were a permanent reminder of what it is to drive. And to die. A family one moment. Old photos the next. Unfortunately, Maxwell’s hand was holding his hot coffee at the time and after much mopping and soothing, she spoke. ‘I know that, Max, and no one is expecting you to start. But if you were only contactable, it would save a lot of time with Jacquie phoning round to find you. I can imagine how it looked yesterday. That particular injury bleeds as though your throat’s been cut. She just needed the moral support.’
    ‘I know.’ He looked as contrite as he felt. ‘I’ll try, Sylv. Old habits, you know.’
    ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But give it a try, eh?’
    ‘All right. I’ll do my best.’
    ‘Where is the phone now?’
    ‘Mrs B answered it last night so I am assuming it is in my office somewhere.’
    ‘Mrs B answered your phone? It’s a smartphone, isn’t it?’
    Maxwell made a noise which was difficult to quantify. It somehow encompassed amazement, confusion and mild distress.
    Sylvia made it easier for him. ‘Is it one of those phones with a little keyboard?’ she asked in the tones she usually kept for her grandmother, ninety-seven, still going strong but without a functioning synapse to her name.
    ‘Yes,’ he smiled happily. ‘It has got a little keyboard. Yes, it has. And I have to say – perhaps I should say that
even
I have to say – that it makes the occasional text I send much easier. None of that silly tapping at one key all the time.’ He had never really understood why the people who invented the earlier type assumed it was all right to reduce twenty-six letters of the English alphabet to eight buttons.
    ‘Well, there now!’ Sylvia could not have been happier had his ears sprouted multi-coloured balloons to the strains of
Cavatina
. ‘That’s excellent! But I am surprised that Mrs B tackled one of those.’
    ‘You can’t miss the ring,’ Maxwell said. ‘It’s
The Bum of the Flightlebee
.’
    Mavis from Textiles bridled as she walked behind his chair. They were talking about bums now. Thank
goodness
she was retiring soon.
    ‘Very lovely,’ Sylvia patronised. ‘But I meant she might not know how to answer one of those.’
    Maxwell tutted. ‘Don’t get me started on Mrs B and technology. She seems to be morphing into Bill Gates. It gave me quite a turn.’ He was interrupted by the bell, yammering away in the corner of the room. He slurped his remaining coffee. ‘Ah,
la
damn bell
sans merci
,’ he said; it was a mantra for him. ‘Oh well, time to face Ten Oh Zed Pea. Or is that Oh Zee Pea, if my television watching is any guide.’
    ‘Don’t despair, Max,’ Sylvia chuckled. ‘American pronunciation will never invade your little corner of England.’
    He shook his head sadly. ‘It will, Sylv, but I’m going down fighting.’ He made for the door and ended up holding it open for Mavis. The last thing Sylvia heard was his merry, ‘Mavis, dear thing, I understand you are leaving us …’
    The door swung closed and she heard no more. But she thought to herself as she watched through the glass door as his barbed wire head disappeared down the corridor, bent in fascination to Mavis’s Seventies perm, that greater love hath no man.

Chapter Five
    Briefly dropping into his office before the delights of Year Ten, Maxwell found his phone where he had left it, in the drawer. His detective’s nose smelt polish and old cigarettes and so he knew that Mrs B had indeed been the answerer of Jacquie’s call. Trying to remember his masterclass of the previous evening, he tentatively probed a few buttons and found that his wife had not lied; the phone was indeed easy to use, and so he set it to silent and put