The Policy

The Policy

It is sensible to take out an insurance policy. Who knows what lies around the corner for any of us? But if you have insurance, at least the insurance company will pay you money if you have an accident, or will pay your family if you are unfortunate enough to die.

Arnold Snell is a sensible man; he believes in planning for the future. However, his plans are not quite the same as other people’s…

Arnold Snell, licensed butcher, practised rolling a cigarette without using the first finger of his left hand. Bending it forwards and holding it still while the other fingers worked, he spread out tobacco onto the paper, rolled it up neatly and licked the edge of the paper. No problem.

He lit the cigarette and narrowed his eyes against the smoke, as he read through the policy one more time. There it was, in black and white. Thirty thousand dollars if he lost a finger. The company would pay out more for other, larger parts of his body, but Arnold wasn’t prepared to lose any of those.

A finger, however, was different - he could manage without that. And thirty thousand dollars would set him free. Free of hindquarters, forequarters, sausages, and mince. Free of Mrs Prentice’s weekly visit to buy a kilogram of top-side steak and to complain about her teeth.

‘I’d really like to buy fillet, Mr Snell,’ she told him every week. ‘With my false teeth, it would be so much easier to eat. But who can afford it at these prices?’

‘Why doesn’t she either grow new teeth, or drop dead?’ Arnold used to think crossly. He didn’t even eat fillet steak himself. It was the cheaper cuts of meat that he took home to Marge in the evenings - whatever his customers hadn’t bought that day.

Marge. A slow smile spread across his face. He’d be free of Marge. He supposed he’d once had a reason for marrying her, but it was so long ago that he’d forgotten what it was. They had no children, which didn’t come as any surprise to Arnold. Marge had never enjoyed what she called ‘that sort of thing’.

‘And anyway,’ she added when they discussed it, ‘the smell of another body close to mine makes me feel sick.’

Marge was deeply worried about Arnold’s refusal to go to church. She herself went every week.

‘What if something happened to you, and you’re not at peace with God? You haven’t confessed to a priest for thirty years, not since before we were married.’

Arnold argued that, thanks to her, he had nothing to confess. Well, thirty thousand dollars would change all that. Maybe he’d go to a casino and play cards for money, or drink whisky from a bottle, the way they did in Western movies. He had a further thought and his heart beat faster. Maybe he’d visit a woman in town, and pay to get what Marge wouldn’t give him.

Arnold found it difficult to hide his delight. He wondered if Marge would miss him. Possibly. Maybe he’d send her a postcard from Turkey or Lapland. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Sometimes a clean cut was best. A clean cut.

Arnold laughed quietly and made an appointment with himself. 10 a.m. tomorrow, St Patrick’s Day. Perhaps St Patrick was smiling on him. He felt strangely lucky.

Irish people all round the world celebrate St Patrick’s Day, and although neither Arnold nor Marge had any Irish family at all, she liked to join in the happiness of the occasion. So, once a year, she brought out the green tablecloth with Irish designs sewn all round the edges.

‘Such a bright touch if a visitor happens to call in,’ she said to herself as she laid it over the table. ‘And if I’m not mistaken, there are footsteps on the front steps right now.’

It was a young policeman, who looked very serious. He refused Marge’s offer of a cup of green tea. ‘I have bad news,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’d like to sit down?’

Arnold’s death was quite simple really. At 10 a.m. he had been about to cut off his finger, as he had planned. But when Mrs Prentice entered the shop unexpectedly, he lost his concentration and accidentally cut off the whole of his left hand. He bled to death before you could say ‘top-side steak’. Mrs Prentice was taken to hospital, suffering from shock.

Marge watched thoughtfully as the police car drove away. She was a widow, and she felt delighted at this sudden rise in her social importance. She had never liked appearing in public with Arnold anyway - even after he had taken a shower, dogs used to follow them around.

How fortunate that Arnold had an insurance policy! Two hundred thousand dollars would go a long way towards helping her forget her sadness at his death. Perhaps she would go on a trip, somewhere quiet and far away with palm trees and beach umbrellas. Marge felt sure that Arnold would advise it.