Читать книгу The Confessions Collection - Rosie Dixon, Timothy Lea - Страница 32

The next morning the Harlem Globetrotters are bouncing a concrete basketball round the inside of my nut and my tongue feels like the mat the All-Nippon Sumo Championships have been wrestled on. Added to that it is Monday, and only a berk of the first water would bother to show up at work. Nevertheless, I push my face round the door of the E.C.D.S. mainly because I want everybody to say flattering things about my performance in the sevens.

Sadly, the subject is hardly mentioned—certainly not by Dawn, who does not put in an appearance all day—and when Cronky arrives it is to brief us all on our part in the approaching Cromingham Carnival.

This riot of colour and spectacle occurs every year and is supposed to coincide with the arrival of spring—or April 1st, as it is known in the absence of any dependable signal from the weather.

It appears that all the local tradesmen take part in a procession of floats through the centre of the town and that it has been decided that the Major School of Motoring and ourselves will each contribute one vehicle with an instructor sitting beside his latest pupil to pass the test. Miss Frankcom is due to take hers again for the umpteenth time and Cronky is obsessed with the idea that, if she passes, she will be the ideal advertisement for the E.C.D.S.: the perfect, happy ending to all the free publicity we had the year before. I can’t get very excited myself but I play along to humour him.

I have my own test to worry about and it so happens that on the very same day that Miss F. is due to go into action I have to report to Norwich to take the practical part of my Register Qualifying Examination. Eyesight, driving technique and instructional ability are the three things I am tested on and, though I say so myself, I hardly put a foot or hand wrong and pass with flying colours. At last I am a ‘Department of the Environment Approved Driving Instructor’. I should be highly chuffed but now I have qualified it is rather like getting married to a bird you have been knocking off for months. There is nothing new to look forward to and you wonder why you bothered. When I first thought about it, being a driving instructor seemed quite a class profession, but now I’m not so sure. The more you come into contact with the nobs, the more you fancy a bit of their style of living, and when I look round the E.C.D.S. I wonder what my chances are of getting amongst it. Even Cronky, who runs the joint, can hardly be said to be overloaded with mazuma.

These and similar thoughts are running through my mind as I drive back to Cromingham, but they soon get pushed to one side when I pull up outside the office. Quite a party is going on and it appears that Miss Frankcom has passed her test and bought a bottle of champagne to celebrate.

“Oh, there you are, dear,” she says when she sees me. “We’d almost given you up for lost. Aren’t I a clever girl?”

“Very,” I say, giving her a peck on the cheek. “I passed as well, so we can have a double celebration.”

And we do. Gruntscomb of the Echo rolls up to take a few pictures and we all chip in for a couple of bottles of plonk, which go down very nicely. Miss Frankcom says she will be delighted to appear in the procession and Cronky beams away like a headmaster on Parents’ Day.

Unfortunately, his smile dries up on the morning of the carnival because Miss Frankcom rings in to say she has twisted her ankle and won’t be able to make it. He fumes and sulks but there is nothing he can do about it so we have to dig up a substitute. This proves no problem and Dawn, who is now back with us— and joining me in making no reference to the Shermer Sevens—soon gets a chap called Roper to agree to turn out.

He seems quite normal when you look at him. About fifty, with leather patches on his elbows and a white nylon shirt. His hands shake slightly but I don’t pay much attention to that—not then, anyway. We tell him what to do and he is perfectly relaxed about it all.

The procession forms up behind the bus station and the big scene there revolves around whether the M.S.M. should take precedence over the E.C.D.S. or the two of us should drive abreast. It is all so bloody petty, but in the end Minto and Cronky have to toss for it. Minto wins and with obvious satisfaction waves his bulled-up Ford in front of my equally gleaming Morris 1100. In order not to be upstaged by Minto, Cronky has lent his brand new private motor and had an E.C.D.S. sign mounted on its roof.

The instructor is Tony Sharp, who, for some reason best known to himself, has decided to wear a racing driver’s tunic. He looks a right berk, I can tell you. Rumour has it that blood samples taken from him at the hospital after the Sevens revealed signs of drugs, and there are differing schools of thought as to whether he was nobbled or took an overdose when trying to pep up his own performance. No prizes for guessing which version I am supporting.

“Take it nice and easy,” I say to Roper. “No need to get too close to him. Let the crowd have a good look at you.”

For once the Town Council have got their dates right and it is a nice day—the best I can remember in my six months at Cromingham. I wind down my window and savour the warm sunshine on my cheek. Behind us a party of six fishermen sit on a float, representing the sea-bed, and make unfunny jokes in order to hide their embarrassment. Beside the inevitable Neptune with a pitchfork for a trident there is a self-conscious mermaid sporting a fish-net brassiere and what looks like jodhpurs sticking out of the top of her silver foil tail. She is obviously not taking any chances with the weather.

At last the Town Cleric gives the signal and the procession lumbers off with all the proud patrons racing back to the middle of the town to watch their underlings make fools of themselves. Past the Methodist chapel we go and Roper is performing perfectly. Sharp’s ex-pupil is a middle-aged, middle-class woman dressed up as if for a Buckingham Palace garden party, and I watch her flowered hat practically obscuring the windscreen in front. The first part of the procession hits the High Street and I can hear the cheers beginning to build up. A policeman waves his arm officiously and I tell Roper to take up a position in the middle of the road. There it is, the High Street. Bunting and flags everywhere. Dear old Woolworth’s next to the new Marks & Spencer’s, the ‘Comeinside Cafe’ (called the ‘Semen’s Rest’ by Garth), the crab shop, ‘Cromingham Crafts’. I look at all the familiar landmarks and feel almost attached to the place. The Majestic Cinema—are they still showing ‘The Big Sleep’ or is it that they never change the posters?—and opposite, in all its shabby glory, the East Coast Driving School, with Dawn, Cronky, Lester, Petal and Garth all waving from the first-floor window.

I am wondering where Crippsy is when Sharp’s car suddenly back-fires. I have only just woken up to what the noise is when I am thrown back in my seat as Roper’s foot goes down on the accelerator.

“The swine’s firing at us,” he screams and rams the Ford up the backside.

“Stop it, you bloody fool!” I begin, but before I can grab the wheel he has done it again.

Crunch! The Ford shudders forward a few feet and the beautiful flowered hat is jerked over its wearer’s eyes.

“Fight fire with fire,” shouts Roper, who is quite clearly mad. “That’s the only thing the bastards understand.”

He gets in one more lunge just as Sharp is clambering out of the passenger seat and my rival is thrown into the gutter like an ejected cartridge.

“They’re abandoning ship! We’ve got ’em! Depth charge the survivors!”

I manage to turn the ignition off and Roper and I are wrestling over the front seats.

“Bloody Kraut-lover! Don’t you see, you fool? If you don’t get them, they’ll get you.”

It must be shell-shock or battle-fatigue or something, but why does it always have to happen to me?

Suddenly Roper changes tack.

“We’re sinking,” he howls. “Let me out of here. Let me out! Let me out!” He begins beating against the windscreen and pressing the horn as if he intends to push it out through the front of the car.

“Abandon ship! Abandon ship!”

Bugger you, I think, and start to open the door.

“Women and children first, you swine,” he hisses. “I’ve met your kind before.”

I can’t bring myself to say anything so I shake him off and climb out.

But my troubles are not over yet.

Sharp is coming for me, bristling like a fur jelly.

“What in God’s name are you playing at now, you fool—” he begins.

Sometimes it becomes painfully obvious that the gods intend to destroy you and that you are only delaying the inevitable by trying to deny them. This revelation comes to me with startling clarity when I see Sharp’s undershot jaw quivering invitingly eighteen inches away. I swing my fist into it so hard that his feet nearly leave the ground, and I stride across the road to resign.

Ten minutes later I am leaving Cronk’s office and my career with the East Coast Driving School is over. I have done most of the talking, but Cronk has been quick to agree that my particular streak of impetuosity and ability to attract questionable publicity makes me somewhat of a liability to any firm not registered purely as a tax loss.

As I come out, Gruntscomb of the Echo is lining up a photograph which captures both Cronk’s mangled Morris and the front of the office. He is working with swift relish and I shudder when I think of the headlines in the evening.

“Well, that’s it, lads,” I say to the assembled throng. “I’m off! Great to have worked with you all. I’m sorry it has to end like this and I hope this little lot doesn’t cause you too much embarrassment. I’ll probably see you if Sharp brings an assault charge—remember, it was self-defence—or maybe I’ll be back with my bucket, spade and icepick one day.”

“You can’t go just like that,” says Garth. “You’re staying for the Ball, aren’t you?”

I may not have mentioned that the day’s activities culminated in a Grand Fancy Dress Ball at the golf club with cabaret by an entertainer whose last recorded public appearance had been at Bow Street Magistrates Court on a charge of accosting males in a public lavatory—big deal!

“How can I?” I tell him. “I’m going to be a dead embarrassment, aren’t I, with Minto and all his mob there in force. It would probably end in another punch-up. Besides, I told Cronk I’d get out right away.”

“Well, have a drink before you go. I know a little place where we can knock back a couple undisturbed.”

So we all slope off and it develops into quite a session, I can tell you. One by one they drop out, starting with Dawn and working through Lester, Petal (“… look me up—and down—if you’re ever this way again, duckie … lovely working with you …”) to Crippsy, who we meet in the club, and finally Garth, who breathes a few emotionally charged words: “How are we going to win the Sevens next year without you, boyo?”—before we both stagger away, pissed out of our tiny minds.

Even in my paralytic state I am aware that Mrs. Bendon is going to be a problem. I have been having it away with her on a pretty regular basis recently and I don’t think she is going to take kindly to me suddenly announcing that I am never going to darken her bath towels again.

Maybe it is female intuition or something, but she looks uneasy when I come into the parlour—and not just because I catch my foot on the flex and bring down the standard lamp.

“I don’t know how to say this,” I mumble, deciding to come straight out with it, “but there was a bit of trouble during the procession today—you may have heard about it—and I handed in my resignation. That means I—that I—well, I will have to—I can’t stay here and it’s probably better if I go as soon as possible.”

“How soon?” Her voice seems remarkably composed.

“Well, if I paid you this week’s rent in lieu of notice, I was wondering if I might go immediately. Tonight, in fact.”

I hold my breath but she does not turn a hair.

“Yes, that seems quite fair, dear. In fact, it works out very well. I don’t mean your spot of bother, of course. No, I mean your vacating your room. My friend Mr. Greig, who you’ve heard me talk about, was saying he would like to sample a little sea air and it would be very useful having your room back again.”

My face must mirror my feelings pretty accurately because she stretches out a hand and squeezes my arm.

“Of course, I’ll be very sorry to see you go, dear. But really, to be honest, it would be better for me if you left. I want to get married again and having you in the house doesn’t help at all. It was very nice, what happened, but it couldn’t go on, could it?”

She is right, but the cool way she puts it leaves me a bit lost for words.

“You pack your things,” she says firmly, “and I’ll make us a nice tea to have before you go.”

I go upstairs feeling choked. I don’t want Mr. Greig sleeping in my bed or kicking his slippers off under Mrs. B.’s. I wish, too, I had got across Mrs. B. when I first had the chance. I hardly feel I have had my money’s worth.

Carefully draped across a chair, my Harlequin costume reminds me of the evening I will be missing. I have tried it on half a dozen times and would be the last person to deny that I look pretty magnetic in it. It is skintight so you get the total broad shoulders narrowing down to kitten hips bit, and with the mask to add an air of enticing mystery I would have been half-way to scoring before I opened my mouth.

The mask! A thought coincides with my discovery of the two quid admission ticket I had meant to give to Garth to flog. If I do look in for a couple of hours nobody need recognise me and it seems a shame to chuck a couple of oncers down the drain—not to mention the cost of hiring the costume.

That settles it. I throw my things in a case and spend fifteen minutes easing myself into my suit of lights. Snazzy is too small a word for it and my spirits perk up a bit. One thing I will say for myself: I may be a bit moody, but I am never down in the dumps for long.

Looking as good as I do, it is not surprising that I should draw a few admiring words from Mrs. B. and on the strength of this and with an attack of the ‘Auld Lang Synes’ surging through me I suggest that a bit of the other would be a nice way of saying goodbye—I also have two hours to kill before the carnival ball starts at nine o’clock and I don’t fancy wandering around the streets of Cromingham until then dressed in a style that might easily be misinterpreted by the bloody-minded locals. Unfortunately, Mrs. B. is not of a mood to take advantage of my suggestions and after a while I wish I had never raised the subject—about the time she hits me over the head with a frying-pan, in fact. This incident does at least rob our goodbyes of any lingering embarrassment and I find myself on the doorstep with my suitcase quivering beside me and her last words coming at me through the letterbox: “Don’t come back. If you’ve left anything, I’ll drop it in at the driving school.” I turn round and all the lace curtains in the street drop back into place.

What am I going to do now? Luckily it is a fine evening by local standards, so I can walk more or less upright to the bus stop and wait for half an hour for something to take me to the station. By the time it comes, there are four small urchins and a dog watching silently as if they expect a spacecraft to arrive for me instead of a bus.

“Gonk gannet gub gub,” I say to them humouringly as I climb aboard.

“Git you back to Lunnon, you girt nancy boy,” they shout. The passengers do not receive me any more warmly, but at least they keep their mouths shut, and, having overcome the embarrassment of opening my suitcase to delve for the bus fare, I gratefully slip through the station entrance. There is a train in half an hour, which I am tempted to catch, but my native meanness and the considerable amount of liquor swilling about in my veins persuades me to stick it out until eleven forty-five, when the next and last train of the night goes. I commandeer the waiting-room and by putting a jacket and trousers over my costume manage to look less like a refugee from a Martini advertisement. In this condition I nip across the road to the Railway Hotel and sink a few swift pints until darkness coincides with the arrival of the nine-fifteen. Back to the station and I strip for action, leave my case with a suspicious porter and ring for a taxi.

The driver turns out to be the one who picked me up when I first arrived and is quick to remind me what a good memory he has.

“Hello, hello,” he says, “if it isn’t Anthony Armstrong-Jones come up for the festivities. No prizes for where you want to go to, squire.”

I smile grimly and we don’t speak again until I amaze him with the smallness of my tip at the golf club.

“Are you sure you can afford this?” he says sarcastically.

“Now you come to mention it,” I say, removing my tanner from his outspread palm, “no.”

He makes a few unpleasant remarks about my costume not being right for Shylock, but I ignore him and, pulling my mask over my eyes, I stride up the flight of steps in front of the club. A Dresden Shepherdess tears my ticket in half and I go through to mingle with the cream of Cromingham Society. A champagne buffet is included in the price of a ticket and if you look up ‘buffet’ in a dictionary you will see how accurately it is described: ‘knock, hurt, contend with’ it says, and if you want any champagne that is just what you have to do. Half Cromingham seems to be waging war over a pile of sausage rolls and cress sandwiches with a glass of lukewarm pomagne for the tenacious winners. I can resist this, and retire to the bar to case the joint. Minto and Cronk seem to have tables at opposite ends of the dance floor, which shows good planning on somebody’s part, and I can see Mrs. Dent dressed up as a pantomime cat, sitting by herself on a table with a Python’s Pesticides pennant on it. Normally I would not start moving in too early, but it is now ten o’clock and I have no time to waste. Pausing only to take a last, longing look at myself in the bar mirror, I skim over to Mrs. D.’s side.

“Would you care to dance?” I say in my best upper-crust accent. Mrs. D. cranes forward as if she has difficulty hearing me and it occurs to me that she might have had a few herself. Couldn’t be better.

“Do I know you?” she begins; then she waves her hand in a self-dismissing gesture and starts to get up. “Doesn’t matter whether I do or don’t. I’m not sitting here by myself any longer. Lead me to the floor.”

We weave our way unsteadily through the tables and I am just beginning to wonder whether the band are supposed to be playing a waltz or sounding the retreat when Mrs. D. grips my arm.

“Let’s go to the discotheque,” she says. “The sight of my husband chatting up the boss’s wife is more than my stomach can stand.”

I follow her glance and there is a balding thirty-five-year-old dancing elaborately with Mrs. Carstairs who has on her best ‘be nice to the natives’ expression. As we watch, Mr. D. starts patting his bonce with his breast pocket handkerchief and it is obvious that a combination of heat and nerves is bringing him out in a muck sweat. He looks less competition than Quasimodo with lockjaw, and this, coupled with the fact that Garth is tied up with Mrs. Cronk, makes me daring.

“Come on,” I say passionately. “I want to find somewhere where I can hold you very tight in my arms.”

I take her by the hand and lead her into the welcome darkness of the discotheque, which is full of twitchers and gropers, either doing the total dance bit or touching up each other’s wives. I fall very speedily into the second category and start moulding Mrs. D. to my torso like I am using her to take a plaster cast of my body.

“Hey,” she pants, “who are you? There’s something about you that’s familiar—apart from what you’re doing with your hands.”

“I took your knickers off once,” I say, “and I’d like to do it again. Right now!”

“Can’t you give me any more help than that?” she says.

I lean forward and whisper into her ear what I did when her knickers were off.

“Oh, I know who you are,” she says. “Colin Kelly.”

“No!”

“David McMillan? Peter Por—”

“Look! Let’s forget it,” I yelp. I mean, you can take just so much, can’t you?

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m a little bit pickled tonight, but—” she struggles close to me, “I’m certain whoever you were it was very nice. You’ve got a lovely body.”

“Just what I was going to say about you, darling,” I murmur, deciding to forgive her, “and very soft lips.” I am prepared to gamble that they don’t feel like emery paper and I am right.

“You might have worn a dress,” I grumble. “I want to put my hand up your skirt.”

“This takes off very easily.”

“But where?”

“That’s up to you.”

I seem to remember that we have been through all this before. But that time I was sober. Tonight I am drunk. And when I am drunk and there is a chance of getting my end away, I’d dive through a plate glass window for it.

“I’ve got a car outside,” I lie.

“I don’t like it in cars.”

“This is a big car.”

“Well, I don’t know—”

“Come on!” I kiss her passionately on the mouth, almost loosening one of my front teeth in the process. “I’ll see you round the corner from the front entrance.” I lead her back to the table before she can argue with me, and nod politely at Mr. D., who is leaning forward earnestly in case Mrs. Carstairs wants to stub a fag out in his ear. Mr. C.’s eyes flicker over me for a second, but I don’t think he remembers where we last met. Mrs. C. is dancing with somebody else. I thank Mrs. D. and make tracks for the side entrance which leads to the car park.

I need a pee but there is no time.

Outside the night air makes me giddy but I take a few deep breaths and start checking out the cars. There is a bloody great Vauxhall station wagon, an Alvis and—Minto’s Rolls. I wonder! It would give me a lot of satisfaction to have it away in the back of a Rolls—especially Minto’s. I might even forget to tidy up afterwards. I have no sooner tried the back door and found it open than I see Mrs. D. hovering in the entrance. I kiss her quickly and draw her after me into the shadows.

“This isn’t yours,” she hisses when she see the Rolls. “This is Major Minto’s. Supposing he comes back suddenly?”

“He won’t,” I comfort her. “He’s drawing the raffle at midnight.” This, of course, is a complete lie but it shows you how fast on my feet I can be. ‘Lea the flea’ they call me. I kiss her again and pull her into the car. The door shuts on us with a click as gentle as the snapping of a sparrow’s wishbone.

“Roomy, isn’t it?” I murmur, but Mrs. D. was never one to waste precious moments on conversation. She starts kissing me like she is trying to make my mouth fray at the edges and her fingers tie knots in the hair at the nape of my neck. It is no problem finding the zip of her cat-suit and as it plunges down to the small of her back she wriggles forward so that I can feel that she is not wearing a bra. I run my finger over her body and she sinks down until she is lying across the length of the back seat. I peel off her suit, which for some bloody stupid reason reminds me of the Babygro my sister Rosie’s kid used to wear, and see she is naked except for a pair of panties. I take a firm grip on these and as our mouths meet again I pull them down inch by inch over her straining body. She must be near coming now because her legs are rigid and trembling, and I’m not exactly thinking about Chelsea Reserves’ chances in the London Combination Cup either.

“Lick me,” she moans. “Please lick me.”

Well, you don’t like to disappoint people, do you? And, as I’ve said before, get a few beers inside me and I make your average eyetie seem like Sir Alec Douglas Home with a heavy cold. I am kneeling on the thick pile carpet and just about to make her a very happy lady when I am reminded again of my body’s urgent need for a piss. Better to go now, I think, for in a few minutes it’s going to be impossible. So, detaching myself with difficulty from Mrs. D.’s imploring fingers, I tell her where I am going and nip over to the nearest wall.

I don’t know how many of you have experience of pissing with a hard on but it is bloody difficult. With my hampton sticking up in the air like a level-crossing pole, I nearly pee up my own nostril and end up scoring a direct hit on the Vent-Axia unit. I have just tucked everything away and am about to return to the quivering Mrs. D. when somebody comes round the corner and I shrink back into the shadows. It is, in fact, two people, and to my amazement I recognise Dawn and Tony Sharp, the star-crossed lovers of the Shermer Sevens.

“Oh, God, I want you,” breathes Sharp, sounding like a poor imitation of me a few minutes earlier. “I’ve got to have you.”

They clinch enthusiastically and for a few moments I think they are going to have it away there and then. Before they can prove me right, there is the sound of somebody else approaching and Gruntscomb of the Echo looms into the light.

“Oh, excuse me,” he mumbles, “not trying to be a Peeping Tom. Oh, it’s you, Mr. Sharp. Good evening. Sorry about your accident today, but it didn’t half make a lovely picture, didn’t it? Did you see it in tonight’s Echo? I should think your friend Cronk must have felt like shutting up shop immediately. And, you know—” he drops his voice conspiratorially, “—there’s better to follow. We’ve got an interview with the man, Roper, who was driving the Morris, and he has practically admitted that it was the pressure that he was subjected to when he was with the E.C.D.S. that made him crack up. That’s not going to do them any good, is it? We’re printing his story tomorrow and we can get a very good slant on it, if you know what I mean.”

“You’re doing a grand job,” says Sharp hurriedly, obviously worried because Dawn had been listening. “Enjoy yourself—we’ll be in touch.”

“What was all that about?” says Dawn when Gruntscomb has padded away. “You’ve really got it in for poor old Cronky, haven’t you?”

She doesn’t seem that worried and when Sharp starts mauling her again she soon forgets all about it.

“What are we going to do?” she pants, when they come up for air.

“Have you ever made love in a Rolls Royce?” says Sharp, “It’s unforgettable.”

Oh no!!! I think.

“What do you mean?” says Dawn beginning to sound excited.

“I drove Minto here tonight and I’ve still got the keys. Come on, I love screwing you in cars.”

“You’ve only done it once.”

“That was enough to know I liked it.”

“Where’s the car?”

“Over there.”

“It’s a bit near the golf club, isn’t it?”

“You didn’t mind last time.”

“I didn’t have any alternative last time. You practically raped me.”

“You didn’t mind that, either.”

“I don’t want to do it here, that’s final! Come on—” she squeezes his arm enticingly—”take me for a spin, and then we’ll make love.” Sharp thinks about it and I pray that he is going to say no but of course his twisted, cock-happy little mind reacts in exactly the same way that mine would have done.

“O.K.” he says. “A quick spin along that road that goes out to the fourteenth. We can’t be away too long. Valerie will start getting neurotic.”

And as I hold my breath, they walk towards the Rolls and climb into the front seat. Sad as it is from my point of view, I can’t help feeling a bit amused. The naked Mrs. D. squatting in the back, no doubt hearing voices and wondering what the hell has happened to me. Sharp and his lady love purring off into the countryside, little knowing what awaits them when they eventually fumble towards the rear seat. I wish I could have a photograph of it all. It would be almost enough to make up for my disappointment.

Wait a minute. Photograph! A scheme of monstrous brilliance suddenly occurs to me. Majors are always trying to drop the E.C.D.S. in the brown stuff. Why shouldn’t they have a taste of their own medicine?

I race inside and as luck would have it bump straight into Gruntscomb.

“Quick,” I shout, “where’s a telephone? I’ve just seen a couple of roughs driving off in Major Minto’s Rolls.”

“Really!” Gruntscomb swallows it hook, line and sinker. “which way did they go?”

“That road that goes out towards the links. They’re probably taking a shortcut to Aylsham.”

The last sentence is spoken to myself for Gruntscomb is off to get the biggest scoop of his life. I dial 999 and wait to be put through to the police.

“Hello. Good evening. I’d like to report the theft of a car. A Rolls Royce. I saw it being driven away from Cromingham Golf Club on the links road. About five minutes ago—yes, I’m quite sure. Major Minto … Look officer, I know this sounds stupid, but I was certain I saw a naked girl on the back seat. I thought it might be some of those hippies going to have an orgy. It would be like them to steal the best car they could get their hands on, wouldn’t it? Yes, I’ll be here. My name’s Roger Carpenter, didn’t I tell you? I am sorry.”

I ring off and pass the good news on to the night desks of the Sun, Express and Mirror and by the time I have finished the Rolls was loaded to the roof with naked hippies, many of them bearing a striking resemblance to members of the royal family.

It would be nice to do more but it is now eleven fifteen and I barely have time to catch my train. A shame I won’t be able to see the meeting between Sharp, Mrs. D., Dawn, Gruntscomb and the police, but luckily I have a vivid imagination and it will give me something to think about on the way to London.

I dig out my last 2p bit and start dialling for a taxi.

THE END