EVERYTHING MUST GO 1 of 2

 EVERYTHING MUST GO   (Part 1) 

by Richard Banks

     When the Angel came and told Ernie that he was to give away all his worldly wealth he was less than keen. He had worked hard during his forty years of employment, he deserved what he had, and after all, it wasn’t so much. OK, he had a detached house but so did lots of other people; that didn’t mean he was rich. If he was rich he would be living in the tropics somewhere, enjoying a life of luxury. Instead, he was working his butt end off in Hackney selling plastic grass to those too lazy or busy to be cutting the real stuff. 

         “Why should I?” He asked and the Angel gave him the kind of look that threatened retribution in the form of an earthquake or lightning strike. When it didn’t happen Ernie decided to stick to his guns. After all the Angel wasn’t so impressive, he hardly glowed. Was he an executive Angel? He wasn’t dressed like he was anyone important. “Have you ID?” he asked. The Angel gave him an ‘as if’ expression that, convincing as it was, seemed more at home on the face of a teenage girl. It was an expression not to be trusted and the angel realising his mistake decided to reassert the authority of his office by quoting from the bedrock of faith. “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.”

         “But I’m not rich,” protested Ernie. “Honest, I’m not. If you want rich, go and find yourself a billionaire. I’ll give you a list, they’re the ones you should be talking to.”

         The Angel also wished he was speaking to a billionaire but his client list was restricted to those with assets under three mil; not that this was any business of the man. His divine mission was to deliver a message, not to discuss it beyond the uttering of threats should the man seem likely to defy him. Heaven was not yet a democracy and, while the old guard was in charge, never would be. There was less than fifteen minutes until his next appointment. It was time to cut to the chase. “The choice is yours. Donate it all to charity and go to heaven or continue on as you are and burn in hell.”

         “It’s not much of a choice,” said Ernie.

         “None at all,” agreed the Angel. “So get on with it, you have just seven days to sort things out.”

         “Only seven?” said Ernie. “Is that all the life I have left?”

         The Angel confirmed that it was.

         “Can’t I have a bit longer?”

         “No, next Saturday, between two and four in the afternoon. That’s when it will be. Get used to it.”

         “So, what happens when I come up,” asked Ernie. “Should I bring a toothbrush and a change of clothes, or will I have to wear a frock like the one you’ve got on.”

         “This is my celestial robe,” retorted the Angel smoothing it down so that it covered his knees. “And less of the ‘when’; you aren’t up there yet. Remember, everything must go. Now shut your eyes, it’s time I was off, there will be flashing images you won’t want to see.”

         The man did as he was told reinforcing his eyelids with the palms of both hands. On the count of ten, he peeped out and was relieved to find himself alone in his front garden, lawn mower plugged-in and ready to go as it was when the Angel appeared. There was no time to be lost, and abandoning the transitory delights of gardening for the more serious business of everlasting life he immediately set off to the nearest solicitor for the purpose of making a Will.

         “So, who is to be the beneficiary?” asked Mr Hand, the second Hand in the practice of Hand, Hand and Armstrong.

         “A charity,” replied Ernie, wondering which he should choose. Did Heaven have a favourite charity? If it did it would surely be a church one, but which church would that be – RC, C of E or one of the others? They all claimed to be the true church and maybe one was, but who knew for sure this side of the pearly gates. If he was on ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire’ he would be able to dial a friend who was also a theologian but he wasn’t, and anyway he didn’t know any theologians. He had only Mr Hand to guide him and although he had evidently not sought a vocation in the church he might still be the conduit through which heaven would make its wishes known. While Mr Hand would have made no such claim for himself he did have a list of the UK’s most prominent charities.       

         “Perhaps,” he said, “one of these will catch your eye,” but none did and Ernie was left squirming with indecision. For the first time in his life, he sent up a prayer for divine guidance and after peering hopefully at the ceiling returned his gaze to the list to find his thumb resting on number seventeen, the ‘Christian League for the Relief of World Poverty’.

         “An excellent choice,” said Mr Hand freed from the complexities of making a Will without a beneficiary. “And what do you wish to leave?”

         “Everything,” said Ernie, “house, furniture, cash at bank, the whole caboodle.” 

         “And nothing to anyone else, no close relatives who might consider themselves to have a claim on your estate?” Mr Hand had never written a Will cutting off a wife or son with a shilling piece. The thought of doing so, even in new pence, had an appeal that was almost intoxicating. Given such an opportunity he might easily have been persuaded to waive his fee. Sadly this was not to be; Ernie it turned out was both an orphan and a bachelor. The news raised a fresh concern that might in the years ahead reflect unfavourably on his professional reputation; “but supposing you were to marry.”

         “No time for that,” said Ernie, “I’m dying on Saturday.”

         “Are you ailing?” enquired Mr Hand, “you look fit enough to me.”

         “Never fitter,” agreed Ernie, “but when your time is up what choice do you have? At least I’m going to a good place, to tell you the truth it’s a bit of a promotion.” 

         Mr Hand attempted to look pleased but was troubled by a deep sense of puzzlement followed by concern that his client might decease before the encashment of his cheque. “The Will will be ready by Tuesday,” he said, “can you pay by card?”

         Their business concluded for the day Ernie returned home to finish his gardening and consider what else he should be doing in his final days. “Everything must go,” the Angel had said and everything would to the Christian League but could they be relied on to make use of all his bits and pieces - his books, DVDs, Star Wars figurines, clothes, bed linen, garden tools, and kitchen stuff. What if the League abandoned these to the tip? What good would that do, and in his last few days on Earth he definitely needed to be doing good. As the Angel had said, he wasn’t there yet and what he did next might well decide his abode for centuries to come.

         He determined that nothing must be wasted, that every last thing should be found a new owner who would value or find it useful. Consequently, on the following Monday, he hired a handcart and for the rest of the week used it to convey his many things to the local street market where he gave them away to anyone who declared themselves willing and able to give them a good home. On Saturday he bid farewell to his house and set off with the final cartload to his pitch and the crowd that was waiting for him. As usual business was brisk and by 2pm he was almost out of stock when the ranks of his customers were augmented by the Angel.

         “Is it time?” asked Ernie.

(To be continued)

Copyright Richard Banks