Dear Sirs,
Claims on Insurance Policies Nos.
Dates
---------------- 06.10.1919
---------------- 03.05.1920
---------------- 24.03.1941
---------------- 01.02.1943
---------------- 10.07.1961
Following the recent death of my mother, Elizabeth Smalley, the subject of the above life policies, I today visited your Norwich branch office to set the claims in motion, which was done, and with that aspect, I have no problem.
How it was done displeased and disturbed me greatly. The matter was dealt with (not attended to- dealt with) by the Office Dragon. She didn’t give her name, but it was probably something like Else Hoch or Rosa Klebb, (if you don’t know who they are, you must ask) a lady- a technical term, you understand- of a certain age, who obviously thought it was far beneath her dignity to deal with such footling little policies, but she magnanimously waded through the paperwork with much scowling, slouching, face scrunching, and sighing, all of which I found mildly offensive, but I thought ‘her attitude to her work is her problem, not mine’.
But when I had the temerity to say that I would like the original policy documents back afterwards, then our relationship entered a new dimension. She gave me a look which would have curdled vinegar, took a couple of reefs in her top lip, smoothed the nap back down over the cordage, and said “We can ask…” I immediately thought ‘but you won’t though, will you?” I let her complete her paperwork. By now her odium and distaste for these pathetic scraps of time wasting trivia was plumbing new heights (or is it scaling new depths?) while I, who had had the audacity to make a request beyond the obligations and procedures of the company, had clearly become a creature of loathing- arrogant and ignorant.
Then, when she had finished, I did something, which put me beyond the pale of civilisation forever! Without asking, I took back the claim forms and wrote in a vacant space- ‘Original policies must be returned- N.S.’ Yes, I did. The EH/RK lady almost shrieked “Why do you want them?”
“Sentimental value”, my wife and I replied in unrehearsed unison. I asked “If you had such documents, wouldn’t you want to preserve them?” No reply. EH/RK’s face was a mask of astonished incomprehension, but after a moment, she resumed vinegar-curdling mode, made some notes in my Mother’s payment record book, and skimmed it back across the counter at me, as one would skim a playing card.
With that, EH/RK stood up, told us that was it, the claims would be sent to head office, good morning, and disappeared round a partition, out of our sight, leaving us to…get up..and…..go.
So, now back to the original policies- they are part of my family history. Consider that the first one was taken out by my Grandmother just 10 days after my Mother’s birth, as she insured all her children, so that if one died in childhood, there would be money to pay for a funeral- a very real concern for a working class family in the aftermath of the 1st War. Now that is social history of an acutely personal nature. Whoever you are, if you had such documents in your family, wouldn’t you want to pass them on to your children? I’m not asking the impossible. I’m simply asking for some common sense and co-operation.
Call it ‘public relations’. Your doorstep collectors have been quiet masters of the skill for the last 75 yrs to my knowledge. Mr Flint was before my time, but I remember Mr Ball and Mr Eyre, and my mother spoke often of being at ease dealing with Mr Fox. I’d see Mr Eyre, every week, wading through a great wodge of cards, all to be ticked and initialled, not one worth more than a penny a week, but I never saw him without a broad smile on his face. EH/RK wouldn’t have approved of him at all.
If my letter seems at all aggressive towards you, be assured that was not my intention. Unfortunately my relationship with your company was badly mauled by EH/RK. I’m looking to you to bring out the first aid box.
Regards,
P.S. Believe it or not, I’ve tried not to be unkind to EH/RK, but when one is suddenly confronted by an apparition with all the charm and allure of a female Baldrick. The dress sense of Nora Batty, and who’s PR skills rapidly present themselves in a manner suggestive of a boxer performing a self-lobotomy without removing his gloves, then a measure of un-hingement is unfortunately inevitable.
The documents were returned without comment.