101: Pro-celebrity spa

‘A text from Mr Mackintosh, sir.’

‘And what does he want?’

‘We’re invited to take morning coffee, this morning, at our old apartment.’

‘Good lord.’

‘He says, he’s had another idea for an annual event.’

‘Well, the second annual Awayday was a roaring success, though I must admit I was sceptical at the time, a guided tour of the old convict colony on the Moor seemed an odd choice, until one realised that one total institution is much like another. The chaps can be awfully sentimental about the old school. So perhaps he deserves a hearing, reply that we’ll be happy to attend.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘Marietta! Long time no see.’

‘How are you sir?’

‘Oh, mustn’t grumble, and your good self?’

‘Jim keeps me young.’

‘Really! Well, that’s good then.’

‘Isn’t it strange about Mr Brinkley?’

‘Well, he always seems a bit strange to me.’

‘I mean having to talk to him all that way away in Spain, and he’s forever emailing documents.’

‘Sign of the times I’m afraid. And Alistair, he’s behaving himself I trust?’

‘Oh yes. But between you and me, he doesn’t quite have your style.’

‘What ho, Charlie, Tony. Come along in.’

‘Morning Cat.’ I’d not been to the apartment in sometime, what was striking was how much of it still remained unchanged from the days of our occupancy. What we’d left behind was still there, and what we’d taken away seemed to have been replaced with remarkably similar items, apart from the cameras and the high tech of course.

Suddenly the door to the treatment room, formerly known as my spare bedroom, er no, I mean Cat’s spare bedroom, was flung open and out breezed the lady from number forty-two. ‘Good morning! Coffee everyone?’

‘Er, thank you.’ I responded.

‘Charlotte?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Thank you, my darling! Isn’t she a wonder?’ Said Cat, as the swing door to the kitchen closed behind her.’

‘Yes. A woman who makes coffee. Truly a wonder.’

‘Tony! You’re just an old cynic. Isn’t he, Charlie?’

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘We’ve just been chatting with the Dragon Concierge, how are things going on that front?’

‘Oh, ask Annabella, she deals with all that side of things.’

‘Cat, why are we here?’

‘I had a notion. An annual knockout golf tournament.’

‘Ah! Correct me if I’m wrong, but such a proposal has been discussed on a number of previous occasions. As I remember, the general consensus has been that since it’s a small club where everyone plays everyone else several times a year, leading to everyone knowing where everyone else stands in the rankings, such a tournament is somewhat superfluous.’

‘Yes, but things have changed since the new improved spa.’

‘Really?’

‘There’s been an influx of new playing members.’

‘Mainly women.’ Added Charlie.

‘Go on.’

‘And somewhat fitter than your average male.’ She continued. ‘Even Ada Armitage is forever asking me to loosen her up so she can improve her swing.’

‘Good god!’

‘We want a genuinely open, mixed tournament.’ She asserted.

‘Have you told him yet?’ Cat said.

‘Told me what?’

‘Well, er, the thing is...’ She hesitated.

‘I’ll tell him! Charlie has been dragged, kicking and screaming, by popular acclaim, into becoming chairperson of the new Sports and Spa Committee.’

‘Excellent! So, what do you need me for?’

‘My idea, to help market the whole thing, is that part of the tournament should be pro-celebrity.’

‘But we don’t have any professionals and we certainly don’t have any celebrities, unless you count Buffy or Charlie here, neither of whom play!’

‘Yes, but Buffy has met everyone. And like many politicians he’s a bit star-struck. We were rather hoping you could see your way to persuading him to head up the organising sub-committee and thereby draw in celebs for the climax of the whole show.’

‘Sure, no problem.’

‘What, just like that, no quid pro quo?’ Charlie interceded again.

‘No. Except, perhaps the proceeds of such an event should go to our favourite charity. And, you must get Fiona working with Buffy, tv rights and all that kind of thing.’

Then the coffee arrived.

After twenty minutes or so of polite coffee conversation and having turned down the offer of a refill - I was after all under the beady eye of Sparkwell - I said; ‘Well, we mustn’t out stay our welcome...’

‘Alistair, darling, you must tell Anthony your news, you can’t let it slide any longer.’

There then occurred one of those emotional moments, where because the initiator adopts the stiff upper lip, you find yourself doing the same; ‘Bad news I’m afraid old man,’ he said, standing up and offering an out-stretched hand; ‘I fear I must resign, as your aide-de-camp.’

‘Oh no, surely not,’ I replied, getting to my feet and accepting his hand; ‘It’s been nigh on forty years, man and boy. What’s happened?’

‘My folks are no longer at the castle. Luckily, they’re together in a care home, but father they say, has only a matter of weeks.’

‘When you see your father next, please convey my thanks in whatever way you can, happy carefree days and all that.’

‘Of course, but you and Charlie must visit, there’ll be the investiture first, then the wedding.’

‘Investiture?’

‘Yes, one doesn’t automatically take on title, the monarch must grant it anew.’

‘Good lord.’

‘Technically, I think on father’s death, the castle reverts, so the ceremony is all about the throne of Scotland walking out of it, and me walking in! We’ll see to it that you both get invites.’

‘All in the heart of England!’

‘Absolutely. Well, we did rather take you over, alas our original ancestral land consists of half a glen, only ever seen by the most intrepid of Munro baggers, I’ve never even been there!’

‘What’s it called?’ Asked Charlie.

‘It’s only ever been known in Gaelic, no one can agree about it’s pronunciation, spelling or meaning, father still gets letters about it.’

‘He’ll be back, sooner than one might suppose.’ I said as we worked our way out of the building.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Difficult to break the habits of a lifetime, besides the castle has been running itself for years as Cat’s folks have got older.’

‘What I don’t understand is why you accepted the job of getting Buffy onside without demanding your usual pound of flesh.’

‘Simple. It’s because it’s really no kind of job at all. I simply make one short call to Carrie and pass the task on, but take all the credit naturally.’

‘But why would Buffy accept, without you to twist his arm?’

‘Well, it will be coming from Carrie for a start, she I imagine will appeal to his vanity in the first instance, then point out he’ll be in everyone’s good books at the club, but most of all, he’s a politician, he loves to connect...’

By now we were approaching the car, Jim could be seen standing stock still and staring at it, seemingly lost in thought.

‘Oh, my god. That thousand-yard stare again.’ Said Charlie.

‘Jim! Standing in admiration I take it?’

‘It’s not the same one.’

‘No. We have two now, this is the latest edition, more or less.’

‘Four-wheel drive when required, sir?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact I had my chauffeur here, practice a little discrete off-roading up on the Moor just the other day.’

‘Someone’s been moving the rocks, sir.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘In the garden, sir.’

‘Oh, I see. Any damage, soil collapsed onto the pavement, that sort of thing?’

‘No, but it looks different.’

‘I see, well if it’s all within the garden, then it’s for the residents to sort out, you can stand at ease.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

100: Winter Break

‘You sprung this on me at the last moment as a surprise treat, because you knew I’d see it for what it really is, a busman’s holiday!’

‘Well...’

‘Come on, explain! Why are we having a weekend away only thirty minutes up the road, at a country house hotel? We, who spend half our lives at the Park or Checkley Manor. And why are we sat here on the roadside staring through the mist at a rather sorry excuse for an industrial estate?’

‘We, are looking at what remains of Morestead railway station. The one time branch line terminus, from which the old GWR used to bus it’s rich first class punters up onto the Moor to it’s luxury Morestead Manor Hotel. And our home for the next two nights.’

‘I see, this is all to do with Mr Tufnell’s obsession.’

‘Correct. Well, in a way. A scheme, as you would have it, has occurred to me, and others.’

‘Oh, god.’

‘I’ll take over the driving from here on, this is the fun part.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘In a minute or two we shall be coming to that part of the road onto the Moor, which is the true source of the legend of The Hairy Hand.’

‘My God! Be careful.’

‘Oh, it never appears in daylight. And generally, only afflicts drivers coming in the opposite direction.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, first you have to understand it’s a very modern legend. No one ever heard of it before the age of motorised vehicles. Reports of a hand which wrestles control of the steering wheel from the driver, seemed to come only from those coming down off the Moor at night whilst returning home from one or more of the remote public houses with the more relaxed opening hours. These stories originated from a time before seat belts and the drink driving laws. Now, coming up is the first of what are in essence one and a half s-bends in quick succession!’ Having already turned off all the modern gizmos, I crashed the car through the first of the up hill curves. ‘Don’t you love the way she just sticks to the road!’

‘That’s if your old arse, can take it.’ So said Charlie as she did that old trick of letting her right hand brush my inner thigh, just as we were hitting the second of the bends. ‘Don’t tell me, it used to be an accident black spot.’

‘Precisely so, and one imagines the legend began with a local farmer trying to explain to the police, how he came to be stuck upside down in his vehicle half way down the hill at two in the morning! But you can also imagine the story being told by the hotel’s bus driver, to his posh passengers from the city, as he crashed the gears whilst his charabanc coughed and spluttered it’s way up and down the hill.’

‘That romance of travel again.’

‘Indeed. Tomorrow, I’ll find a discrete spot out of reach of the park rangers to give you a chance to practice using the four-wheel drive, off road.’

‘You know how an open horizon always gives me a bit of an itch...’

‘Good god woman! It’s the end of January and we’ll be a couple of thousand feet up. We may even find some snow.’

‘It never stopped the Eskimos, or Inuit, or whatever.’

‘The name is Arlington, a double for two nights, on your off-peak deal.’

‘Ah yes, sir. The manager has asked me to upgrade you to the Garden Suite.’

‘Well, okay as long as the price stays the same.’

‘Of course, sir. Only the extras will be extra.’

The receptionist’s eyes, gave away a presence behind me. I turned, to find myself confronted by a tall, looming and stern male figure; ‘My god, Junior Jack, we haven’t met in years! Er, it’s okay we’re travelling light, only a grip each, and I’m sure we can find our own way.’

‘I’m the manager, Miss. As this cocky bastard knows perfectly well. Dad said you were getting worse.’

Then Charlie piled in with; ‘He had me thinking it was a surprise romantic weekend away. We’ve met before.’

‘Yeah. I used to be the bouncer at the old Majestic, when Dad owned it. You were a right grubby street urchin back then. You’ve done well for yourself. How’s the Captain?’

‘Hail and hearty, thanks!’

‘The boys who operate the spa and pool are looking forward to meeting you. Brought your bathers, have you?’

‘What do you think?’ Said Charlie, as she came out of the bathroom wearing only a bikini. One of those modern affairs, beloved of fitness types, made of the stretchy stuff, intended to minimise drag.

‘I like it! For someone who doesn’t care for swimming, you have all the right kit.’

‘It always goes in the bag, just in case.’

‘I’m sure the boys at the pool and spa will be impressed.’

‘So, what’s the set-up?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You know what I mean, you want me to wander the whole place, absorb the stuff you wouldn’t notice, but is there anything I should be on the look out for, anything I need to be briefed about?’

‘No, no. Just. Don’t initiate anything, just let employees tell you stuff about their employers they think, I might need to know.’

‘So, as usual I’m a mere conduit, sir.’

‘John!’

‘Tony.’ He said as I sidled up to him in the bar.

‘How is your father?’

‘We, need your help.’

‘Go on.’

‘We have this place, as of last week we have the old station, for a while now we’ve had the track bed as far as the arty-farty, middle classy, second home, picturesque village, but now we’re stuck. You’re the ideas man.’

‘Umm. They mustn’t be forced, we need them on side, their money and enthusiasm. Somehow heritage Britain, which on the face of it would love a steam railway, has to be offered a green solution. Tricky one that. Unless of course their preferred political party gets into power and tells them it is the green solution, know what I mean John!’

‘Bloody hell! All the same, whenever I confront Dad about how we ever get our money back, he avoids the question.’

‘If, the government effectively pays for half the overall scheme, we go into operating profit as soon as it is open in it’s entirety, north to south.’

‘How?’

‘Because everyone will have to use us.’

‘You can’t know that.’

‘We will be cheaper, more convenient, more comfortable and certainly more reliable, than the roads - that is, once the Mediterranean climate truly kicks in, and we’re everyone’s favourite green tourist destination again.’

‘Well, that was exciting. It is a bit nippy though. Look at the car, it’s a mess.’

‘We’ll hit the other Jack’s carwash on the way home.’

‘Oh no, I can’t see where we’ve come, the mist, and the light’s going.’

‘Worry not, I’ll drive back, I’ve driven it before, and walked it come to that.’

‘Are you sure, that was decades ago.’

‘I can have the compass off the sat-nav in the corner of my eye.’

‘How does that work?’

‘When you walk it, you do it with a compass bearing, whether you think you need it or not. Memory is a wonderful thing. It even helps that the light is going, conscious awareness can focus on feeling the contours, on avoiding the ditch, as it were.’

Charlie began to relax again as we got towards the main road; ‘So, if Morestead is the end of the line, in the north, where’s the southern end?’

‘You were there, just over a year ago.’

‘Oh my god! How the hell do you get your hands on all of that?’

‘A unique collaboration between the navy, and a revived coal industry.’

‘Coal!’

99: Recovery

It wasn’t until the first week of the new year that events seemed to slow down and I could get my breath back. I mused aloud in the media room; ‘Is it my destiny to spend my fifties as a kind of Mr Fix-it for the octogenarian population of the Bay area? To be an enforcer for old men in a hurry?’

‘No one is forcing you!’ Replied Charlie, from deep in the chaise longue, as well as The Beacon.

‘You know, when offering your private treatments, you might care to specialise in the relaxation of the older male.’

‘With the possible exception of Tuffy, the result with older men is rarely relaxation, more a rejuvenation and revitalisation!’ Then, in one flowing movement she was on her feet and leaning over my shoulder saying; ‘And you, are in no position to deny that.’

‘Oh, of course, undoubtedly.’

‘More to the point, regarding your dangerous old men, are we finally done with politics now?’

‘I certainly won’t go looking for it, but I can’t promise it won’t find us. Buffy seemed to be suggesting the other week that he could be useful to me. Which I doubt. And if he was hoping for a role in Trust related business, he can forget it. No, the only question mark, is the newly ennobled and promoted Frimley, who seems untainted by association with the aforementioned.’

‘What’s he calling himself?’

‘Lord Coates of Matchet.’

‘I didn’t know he came from across the border?’

‘Oh yes, he claims his family took refuge there, around the time of the Reformation.’

What I diplomatically failed to mention, was the conversation I’d had with Buffy immediately preceding the Christmas lunch. ‘I realise you are one of our most accomplished public speakers, your speech in the Commons on the passing of she, of blessed and glorious memory, was really quite moving...’

‘Thank you, Anthony.’

‘But there are mixed feelings about you around the club since the podcasts, and the Christmas lunch is regarded by members as, well, not at all a time for controversy, so, appropriate anecdotes only please.’

‘I’m not a fool Anthony, I’m always sensitive to my audience.’

‘Excellent, you were happy with the visuals I was able to offer the podcast I take it?’

‘Oh, indeed.’

‘I’ve decided how you can pay me back.’

‘Oh, really.’

‘I know I chided you about influence in government, but there is one area in which I’m lacking expertise and would appreciate being pointed in the right direction.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘The Department of Transport, how it works.’

‘Road or rail?’

‘Well, that’s the thing. It’s more how they work together, when they cooperate. Under what circumstances are road makers prepared to give way to the priorities of rail?’

‘What an extraordinary question! I suppose it must happen on occasion. Still, I’m sure I could find you the right person to talk to.’

‘A while ago, when I was first trying to explain you to Charlie, I said you were the ultimate man who doesn’t know, but always knows a man who does.’

‘Well, thank you again.’

In the end the lunch went off without a hitch, more joyous than raucous, and of course we all got the chance to toast the King!

The Boxing Day book club met, though I didn’t attend. Charlie did the refreshments and reported that nothing untoward had occurred. Murchison had so far proved as mercurial regarding his past association with Captain Bob, as he was about everything else. But the garden looked good, though with the passage of time, inevitably, Charlie took on more of the legwork, or do I mean spadework?

The following week we had our first ‘all remote’ Trust meeting. Which again, was odd from the off! We were all in separate boxes, yet Charlie and I were sat side by side at the Villa, whilst Bernard and Brinkley must have been talking from separate rooms in their apartment on the Costa del What’s It! One of our Green experts, the professor of something or other, claimed to be talking from his Tuscan villa; the other from a hotel room in Bogota! Apart from the routine business, I gave everyone the official line, previously agreed with Bernard, on the fortuitous acquisition of the railway land. I also explained we might have a tenant for The Grange, and Charlie said how she might deal with any conflict of interest. At the end Lawrence announced he’d not be returning to the UK until spring, declaring he could work just as well from home! At which point the Chair brought proceedings to an end.

‘Is everything alright between Bernard and Brinkley?’ I asked Charlie once we were offline.

‘Sure, Lawrence just prefers being in Spain. It’s better for his condition.’

‘I beg your pardon!’

‘Brinkley has a condition.’

‘As in medical?’

‘Sure, didn’t you know? It’s caused by too much sitting, making standing painful unless you’re actually moving. Trouble is, the only relief is more sitting. He says he’s had it for decades. Have you never thought it odd that he’s always sitting unless he’s actually on his way somewhere else?’

‘Oh, right. Shame really, less opportunity for you to get pally with Larry...’ Ping! Another train of thought interrupted. ‘Ah! A text. From the Lady Vic; “Buy me a stiff drink, tonight seven pm, the club.” What on earth?’

‘Well, that makes sense.’

‘It does?’

‘I’ve been asked to maintain order in the Games Room tonight. Darts match.’

‘Oh, of course, Tuffy is on the Darts team.’

‘He’s quite good, seems able to relax, when he’s in the zone.’

‘Really. How fascinating.’

‘There you go, I ordered one in.’

‘Just what I need. I wish Tuffy was as attentive. It would be a start if he could remember what my usual is!’

‘And I take it this is all about...’

‘He, is bothered, perturbed, permanently distracted it would seem, by the fallout from Mary’s death.’

‘Have I made things worse?’

‘No. No. It’s just, he can’t get his head around the reality of his father not spending every last penny on his family.’

‘Ah, well I can give you a very clear and definitive answer to that one. It’s all very simple actually, you’ve met it countless times in your own life.’

‘Hit me with it then.’

‘Mr Tufnell senior, self-made man, doesn’t want any child of his to become one of the idle rich, believes they should make their own way in life. Me, son of one of his pals, is one of the idle rich. But my father and he were good enough pals, for the message to get through that the idle rich aren’t that idle - unless they want to see their wealth disappear within a generation or so. Father and mother die. And I was there, standing next to Tuffy when Mr Tufnell gave his encouragement, occasional pep talks and homilies. I got the message, Tuffy didn’t, he just picked up bad habits at school and university, whilst I was picking up cash on the side, before I left either of them! Tuffy’s father and mother did everything right, he’s no business feeling aggrieved. But once Tuffy picked up the message others thought him stupid, he somehow turned it into, the world owes me a living.’

‘I believe you.’

‘Same again?’

‘Please.’

‘And, no I don’t have a solution to the problem, other than you keeping doing what you’re already doing, making him feel useful.’

And then the Dart’s team started drifting in.

‘That was quick!’ I exclaimed.

‘Play suspended.’

‘The Ref called extended injury time,’ said another, ‘she’s helping Tuffy over to the spa as we speak.’

98: The Trumpton Interviews (part two)

‘Blimey! Pause it. Pause it and go back.’

‘Hang-on, this is clearly an event, I’ll switch to the tv screen and go back to the beginning, we can then pay proper attention, it is almost the full two hours, see?’

It was the week before Christmas, and the Don Wooley Podcast with the ex-prime minister was snatching the nation’s attention away from traditional media and their reverence for the late Queen. Which of course was fine for The Beacon - we were watching it on their channel having been prompted by verbatim transcripts in the paper - but their rivals and the BBC were floundering.

The aftershock promised to be considerable, grabbing the attention of the millions of us determined to listen, but in our case also watch, in our own time via social media. The podcast format seemed to have come of age, but in an incongruous set-up. There were Buffy and the Don, lounging in grand country house surroundings but talking like, well I imagine a couple of Aussie lager louts would, in some outback bar. The uninhibited atmosphere of the podcast, conducive to intimate confessions. The first of these ‘finished’ programmes surprised from the off, simply by its frankness about government affairs, an openness we British aren’t use to. Within a couple of minutes, the Don was interrupting Buffy’s flow with a query as to whether he was breaking the Official Secrets Act by talking in such a way.

‘Oh, don’t be such a big girl’s blouse Don!’

‘And that as well Buffy, some might say such language is sexist, if not misogynistic?’

‘It’s a joke, made by chaps against other chaps, nothing to do with the girls at all!’

‘To be honest, I’m not sure I understand it, where does it come from?’

‘Part of the great music hall tradition.’

‘But neither of us are old enough to remember!’

‘Misspent youth. I was one of the first generation to have a portable tv in my room at school, and at university come to that. Northern comics, drew a lot on their idols from the variety theatre.’

‘But what does it mean?’

‘Well, it’s the timeless image isn’t it! British working-class women chatting over the yard wall, or in the back lane as they hung out the washing, fussing and flustered, ample bosomed, grown fat on a diet of bread and dripping, shocked by the inconsequential behaviour of their neighbours.’

‘Making a fuss about nothing you mean?’

‘Absolutely. Cross talk and banter, the stuff of tv chat to this day.’

‘Yes. So, to bring it all back, the Official Secrets Act, is nothing?’

‘No, no, no, of course not. But my point is Don, so much of my tenure in Downing Street has been pawed over by the newspapers, parliamentary committees, even the Supreme Court, leaked emails, security footage, much of what we have to say to each other clearly has a precedent and is already in the public domain, or so the girlie-swot lawyers tell me!’

‘And how do you justify that one?’

‘One what?’

‘Girlie-swot.’

‘Oh! You want more definitions and derivations. Well now. You see again, its boys ripping the piss out of the other boys. I blame the teachers. Around about the end of the seventies, early eighties, there became available for the first time, mass stats on what happens to exam results when kids are taught in single sex classes or entire schools. As we all now know, not only do both sexes do better when not distracted, but girls out-performed boys. Right? So, in the years that followed our teachers were forever trying to motivate us to do better by ribbing us about how well the girls did. So, any lad who kept his head down, did everything the teacher asked of him...’

‘Was a girlie-swot.’

‘Precisely.’

‘And educational attainment through hard work is a bad thing?’

‘No, no. Its the going mad about exams. Specialising far too early. Not realising what school is really about.’

‘You mean things like, critical thinking and creativity?’

‘No Don! That may well be what schools, ought, or should be about, what they’re really about is learning what authority is, learning to conform to social norms, living by a timetable, learning how to be a future employee, how to spend your time working for somebody else.’

‘And you approve of that?’

‘Well its alright for most people, probably what they need, but not for the likes of us, aye Don? The measure of a chap, is can he escape all that? Do his own thing, cut his own path through life. But you’ve got to know the rules before you can break them, develop a touch of class, of style. Chaps who are focused on outcomes, don’t mind much how they get there, will do whatever it takes. Be your own man, that’s the thing. Of course, once in a while you get a girlie-swot who does come good, given enough time, boys like our A.A.’

‘A.A?’

‘Oh! Of course, you wouldn’t know, the chap you know as Tony, owner of this place.’

‘Part owner, along with the Earl.’

‘He always has aspired to be part of the landed gentry.’

Charlie grabbed the remote and pressed pause, saying: ‘That’s a good place to leave it for now, we’ve got Bob for tea, and I’ve got prep to do.’

‘Well thanks a lot! Stopping it just as my name is about to be dragged through the mud.’

‘I wonder how the club will react?’

‘Well, I imagine there will be a few stony-faced types who will be wittering about the constitutional implications and suchlike, but most will just find it hilarious!’

‘And how will Rory and Prudence react?’

‘They won’t like it. They’re going to find Buffy even more difficult to defend. Still, we won’t have long to wait, Buffy has been called in as a late substitute for Uncle, as speech-giver at the club Christmas lunch.’

‘Is his lordship unwell, sir.’

‘No, I don’t think so, just losing his taste for drunken revelries.’

As soon as we were sat around the kitchen table, staring at the pot, waiting for it to stew a little, the good Captain started in. Such romantic idealism was surprising in an older person, he’d clearly been captivated by the prospect of making their new prospective house, a home. It wasn’t long before I felt the need to put my foot down.

‘The bottom-line Bob, is the Trust retains the freehold permanently, we like The Grange, will pay for the upkeep of the structure and any interior work that brings it back closer to the original, but all that costs! We shall no longer donate to the charity; we’ll as likely as not be your landlord initially. Charlie will no longer participate as a Trust representative but as a private individual, whatever she donates will come from her own savings. The area for negotiation is the level of rent, followed later by the possible cost of a lease. Remember, the move itself is going to cost you, you also don’t know if the move will bring you more or less donations. There is the question of how much you personally wish to commit, versus the benefit of holding off till after your time when Charlie will have considerable discretion over negotiating a long lease if both sides are still happy.’

The temperature seemed to have been falling as I made my pitch, almost as if a draft had caused the pantry door to slowly open.

‘The answer Robert old boy, is to give the real, current, accounts to Charlie to show to the Trust’s accountant, Lawrence Brinkley of Brinkley Associates.’ The voice came from Kenneth, silhouetted in the doorway, for all the world like the ghost of Duncan.

‘My God! Kenneth Murchison, I thought you were dead!’ Cried the captain.