140: Swing

‘Captain’s orders, sir. You are to report to his cabin afore noon.’

‘Not aft.’

‘No, sir.’ 

‘How’s his mobility been lately?’

‘Not good, he needs a lift anywhere beyond Royal Oak, his mind seems okay though.’

‘I see, what does he want to talk about?’

‘Absolutely no idea.’

Throughout the autumn, we’d been playing musical chairs, literally. First, we cleared Ken’s flat, anything usable or valuable we stacked around the ground and first floors of the villa. Then we ascended to the second floor and contemplated the two attic rooms, still not in use and still full of the surplus possessions of the late Aunt. We both agreed about the objective, that being to provide two, all be they small, guest bedrooms, but we lacked the will to act. After a couple of days rest and recuperation however, we found the will. Inevitably, more came out than went back in. The two new single bedrooms looked very nice though!

Charlie then took a photographic inventory of what she felt might be useful to Royal Oak, their response was very gratifying, they handed the entire project to the removals division of the not-for-profit second-hand furniture and domestic appliance shop. They in turn gave us their exclusive attention for a day, loading our entire surplus onto the van, proceeded to Royal Oak and allowed them a generous amount of time to select and unload anything they fancied. They then proceeded to the shop for their selection, leaving only the detritus for the dump.

In all this great turnaround, I had at the back of my mind thoughts of my parent’s role in life and what might have spurred Ken’s interest. Charlie had naturally set aside his ‘documents of life’, and graciously allowed me temporary custody of his two passports, which I determined to use to add data to my infographic along with my own first passport and those of the aunt Elisabeth.

‘I’ve been thinking about Ken’s memorial.’ Said Charlie as she steered me towards my encounter with the good captain. ‘It has to be gardens related.’

‘That does have a certain logic.’

‘Maybe the Trust could use the funds to sponsor scholarships in horticulture.’

‘I wasn’t aware young Tim was short of a bob or two.’

‘Bob’s what?’

‘A colloquialism from another age, let me rephrase; I'm not aware Tim is short of the readies.’

‘Well, not necessarily him, but there could be several annually, if the money was properly invested.’

‘Perhaps.’ We were coming to a halt at Royal Oak. ‘Right now, there’s something a little more pressing that I need to discuss before we go inside.’

‘Well?’

‘Mel still volunteers here once in a while, right?’

‘Half a day a week usually, why?’

‘Have there been any rumours about her coming from a wealthy family?’

‘I don’t think so, and anyway she doesn’t come across that way.’

‘If they find out, don’t let Bob, or anyone else for that matter, touch her for funds for the charity.’

‘I don’t get it, I mean I know she’ll push a twenty in the collection box from time to time.’

‘I’ve been at this game for thirty-five years, if she’s approached now, it’ll backfire. It has to come from her. The point is, the Gruber Foundation is a good long-term bet for real funding, numbers that could make their future secure. But it has to be done right. Bob would muck it up. So too, any professional beggars from the charity industry who may be hanging around. Okay? Right, let’s get on with it, I imagine it’ll be hard cop, soft cop again today.’

Royal Oak looked noticeably more, well, ship-shape than on my previous visits. It was also losing its institutional look, helped along a little by some of the pieces we'd donated. Inside the old Admiral’s study, that we so flippantly refer to as “the captain’s cabin”, the transformation was altogether of a different order. Gone were the disorganised contents of the yacht; organised they now made the room look even more cabin-like. It appeared long and cramped, demanding order, with barely enough space for his narrow cot. Two, high chairs and a large plain table, strewn with architect’s drawings, illustrations and lists, rather than maps and charts. Charlie slipped into the free chair, I found space to stand behind her, for all the world like a consort for a queen. ‘Now then, Anthony, time to move to the next phase, our most pressing problem, housing, where can our clients move on to?’

‘Why are you asking me?’

‘Damn it man, you’re one of the biggest property and landowners in the county. And there’s a housing crisis!’

‘Our town properties have an over ninety per cent occupancy, only those in the process of being sold or restored can in any sense be called vacant. And our rural properties have an actual one hundred per cent occupancy rate, one out one in, cheap rents offered to other family or community members. We, in our small way have a profitable farming community, because they’re not owners. Bit like you, your cheap rent is a chance for you to get on your feet, whilst we carry the cost of the building’s upkeep. Besides, your problem isn’t future housing for clients, it’s future work.’

‘But decent secure housing... Many will never work, and those that do will need secure addresses, benefit support...’

‘Sod the practicalities, they’ll take care of themselves, the clients will want to sort them, my point is you’re putting the cart before the horse.’

‘How so?’

‘You sold the idea of this place to me on the basis that clients with mental health issues had particular problems, they feel confined by conventional homes, need to be outside a lot of the time, free to roam, never been able to settle to a timetabled life, least not one that isn’t of their own design, but they do need purposeful work. Perhaps work is the wrong word, purposeful activity, by which I mean, whether paid or not, they must be able to see, at the end of every day, the product of their endeavours. And the same is true of the would-be craftsman, as it is for someone who is just being there for someone else. The kind of place to call home, follows from that.’

‘I see. You’ve clearly thought this through. Which suggests to me, you do have something in mind.’

‘No, just bring me an individual who is enthusiastic about any of the Trust’s activities, then if suitable, accommodation will be part of the package!’

It was Swing Night, the club’s calendar having had something of a rescheduling this year, the golf had been given its own final night entertainment and the Awayday had moved from post-season to pre-season. I was driving on our way to the dance, for we were in traditional mode for the evening event. Charlie had one of her party frocks on and that required the holding open of doors.

‘When I saw Margot yesterday for my hair, she asked if I required colouring. How bad is it getting?’

‘It’s not bad anything! I’ve always liked the style, keeping it up and the sometimes fringe. As for going grey, I really don’t care.’

‘It was noticeable when I did the podcast apparently.’

‘And yet, the Don thought you didn’t look your age!’

After the first dance, I lost track of Charlie. Fiona our part-time marketing manager had included dance cards with the invitations, I doubted they’d catch on. Inevitably I was soon in the company of Daphne; ‘Your Bel has seriously gone to town with the look, I notice.’

‘The New Look, is all she’s about these days, become obsessed with the nineteen forties. She says she wants, to be somebody, something in the media, but you have to have apparent novelty, she intends to be a revival! I blame you, it was these themed dances that gave her the idea.’

‘Then I’m more than happy to take responsibility.’

‘You know she’s good at languages? Well she’s got the sixth form on her side, in her desire to study a four-year French literature course at university, can you believe it?’

‘Four-year?’

‘It’s a sandwich, with a year studying in Paris. Apparently, it’s what you do these days if you want to be finished!’

‘It’ll cost a fortune.’

‘The foundation will pay.’

I don’t know about you but I never walk into a room without a deliberate hesitation. A check in the step, a slight leaning back on the ball of the trailing foot. On this occasion I’d noticed Mel and Tim propping up the bar, sat facing each other. Then I remembered something Charlie had said about Mel becoming a member in her own right using part of her grandfather’s inheritance. Tim was still in work clothes, Mel in something matching. Both of them were drinking pints, of the draught bitter the committee had recently demanded, I’d managed to steer them towards a micro-brewery renting from the Trust.

‘I say, your sister is cutting a dash.’

‘Isn't she just.’ Mel replied

'What brought this on?’

‘She wants to be like mother, isn’t it obvious.’

111: Captain Bob's cabin

‘Captain’s orders, sir. I’m to deliver you to his cabin. Forthwith.’

‘Forthwith? But you only got back at midnight.’

‘I know, but he said it was urgent.’

‘He’s not having trouble finding the rent, is he?’

‘He said to tell you, should you be hesitant, that it’s not just matters regarding The Grange but issues of wider mutual interest. Or something like that.’

‘I know what he means.’

‘You do? I don’t.’

‘Ahoy there!’ I shouted up to a half open first floor window. And when a head appeared; ‘Permission to come aboard?’

‘Escort the prisoner, if you would be so kind Sparkwell.’ Replied the Captain.

We were standing in the garden, having made a discrete entrance avoiding our own security, in view only, of those lounging on the patio enjoying their smoking area. ‘Who the fuck is that?’ I overheard a quiet voice say. ‘Charlotte’s bloke, he’s the money!’ Such was the not so low-key reply.

What had once been the late Admiral’s study was now stuffed with the as yet unorganised contents of the good Captain’s yacht. He could be heard rustling behind a pile of junk almost as tall as he was. ‘Here we go, now then what do you make of that?’ He was holding up a large, old, framed black and white photograph of a wide-open bay turned into a harbour, with a few scattered ships.

‘Scapa Flow. During World War Two, presumably. You want your old name back. You want this, er, shore establishment of yours, to return to being known as Royal Oak?’

‘Leading by a head, as usual. Here, take this, a personal cheque for the rent, from your tenant, for the time being, for this private house, which just happens to have a few guests right now.’

‘With you so far.’

‘Once the right name is back on all the documents you arrange for a very discrete sign, just for the postman’s benefit, couple of inches high, on one of the pillars of the gate, simply saying Royal Oak.’

‘Consider it done.’

‘Now, you and I know that the staff, paid and unpaid, have between them numerous certificated qualifications bestowed upon them by the mental health industry down the years, but we want to be as informal, and to be at arm’s length from local authority health and social care regulation as humanly possible. We don’t want environmental services on our back and most of all, want to stay out of the clutches of the Poor Law Care Quality Commission!’

‘You need a good lawyer.’

‘And you’ve got a building full of them.’

I took out my mobile device. ‘Bernard? Well, it’s not that early. I want you to place the file on The Grange in the hands of your best man on public health and social care, and set up a meeting for the three of us sometime in the next week, low key, a background briefing from yours truly.’

‘Breakfast, gentleman?’ Said Charlie, appearing from nowhere bearing a tray.

‘Coffee and doughnuts! With pink icing!’

‘Addicts breakfast, sugar rush, sorry about that.’ Replied the Captain.

‘So, what news from down the coast?’

‘The quayside is clear, with just the yacht alongside, the modern floating wharfs are beginning to clear, prior to removal.’

‘What’s the word on the dredger?'

‘Chugging along the coast as we speak. The cinque port charities are up in arms about their cosy relationship being broken, but the mining corporation has the money and expertise to go over their heads. It wouldn’t be a problem of course if there were more dredgers around...’

‘But that’s part of the point of it, rough up the Environment Agency a bit, make them realise that the Victorian, industrial-style of inland waterway management for commercial benefit, is the solution to sea level rise and the increased inland flooding from the weather, changes in land use, etcetera.’

‘A deeper, faster flowing river is a cleaner river.’

‘Exactly. Puts sand back on the beaches if you dump it right.’

‘And tourists.’ Chipped in Charlie.

‘And what have you got to report, Tony?’

‘The King has been made aware of the railway project and made encouraging noises, what we need now is for him to hear good news from the naval college. How is that going?’

‘Ongoing negotiations, visits scheduled. But how the King might hear about it I’ve no idea!’

‘It is vital that word should come from the bottom-up, might I suggest the next time you’re alongside the Commodore, or whoever it is, you enquire how they intend to memorialise the involvement of our late Queen and the Duke with the college? I mean, naturally the King would travel to unveil, or cut a ribbon, possibly survey other activities in the environs.’

‘Your world of influence peddling is a total mystery to me; I’ve often asked Charlie to explain.’

‘Ah, now I haven’t given you the final pieces of your end of the jigsaw yet.'

‘When my father was a child, the Great Western used to hand out their own brand of jigsaws to kids on their named trains.’

‘I’ll remember that. We have yet to acquire the station on the other side of the river, but I’m keeping my efforts there on deep background for the moment. What I really should mention though, is the coastal barge.’

‘You want to acquire a Thames barge?’

‘No, I mean a new, smallish, flattish bottomed vessel with battery-powered electric engine and modern sails.’

‘Good lord, I’m not aware of such a thing. What on earth for?’

‘To carry the steam coal from the new covered mine, which is located a mile or so up-stream from the coast and then transport it down the west coast to our quay.’

‘But that’s turning logic on its head!’

‘Somewhat counter intuitive I’ll grant you.’

‘That’s like pre-railway.’ Said Charlie.

‘Precisely. Green and cheap, once it is up and running, but from our point of view carrying a very valuable cargo.’

‘The locals won’t like the handling; the unloading and then moving it to over by the turntable.’ Said the Captain.

‘It will be bagged. Degradable and combustible.’

‘Blimey!’

‘But, has anyone made such a vessel?’

‘Well, almost. The Norwegians now have two electric powered, battery-charged passenger ferries doing the coastal, island hopping, fiord crossing, routes above the Arctic Circle.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of that, whilst our local university is still pissing around in a little converted river-fishing boat.’

‘And modern sails have been added to small ocean-going ships.’

‘Still, one would imagine the Navy has some involvement, somewhere.’

‘Can you find out?’

‘Maybe. There is also a genuine original “coals from Newcastle” sailing barge in the process of restoration, they’re in desperate need of sponsorship.’

‘I'll pass that on.’

‘You’ve done it again!’ Declared Charlie as I exited the car to open our mews garage doors for her.

‘Done what?

‘Groaned.’

‘What?’

‘Every time you get out of the car these days you make a kind of groaning noise.’

‘Can’t say I’ve noticed, what I have noticed is my joints, or muscles or whatnot are getting stiffer.’

‘Well, attend to it. Otherwise, you’ll draw attention to yourself, people will start thinking you sad and desperate, too old for the car you don’t drive!’

103: King Coal

‘My noble lord.’

‘Ah! Anthony.’

‘I’m surprised to find you here, shouldn’t you be in Whitehall, fighting off yet another crisis?’

‘Merely a little R and R, to recharge the batteries.’

‘Yes. That’s rather the problem isn’t it, wind and solar energy never arrives when you want it to, batteries can’t hold a full charge for twenty-four hours and the wires are never more than semi-conductors.’

‘Not my responsibility old man, I’m strictly post-Brexit stuff.’

‘But you sit at the cabinet table. You must hear things.’

‘There are usually twenty-five people in that room for a two-hour meeting. That’s less than five minutes each, if you’re lucky.’

‘Do you know anything about transport?’

‘Historically it’s had the highest turnover of ministers of any department. Though, what with the fall, others must be catching up.’

‘As in decline and fall?’

‘So, one must assume.’

‘Lucky you were ennobled then.’

‘Luck had nothing to do with it. Anyway, what’s your interest?’

‘I and some like-minded individuals, have been acquiring former railway land throughout the south of the county for some years now.’

‘Really!’

‘Ever heard of the Fell Mining Corporation?’

‘Heard of them? My dear fellow, my old firm is into them for... Well, a considerable amount. They’re sitting on this nation’s highest quality industrial coal deposits. With money to burn, if you’ll excuse the pun, but with a slight public relations problem.’

‘How would they like to buy-up, lock, stock and barrel, one of our best, but worst run heritage railways?’

‘But you can’t do that, such people are wrapped in various charity, stroke trust, stroke third sector non-profit, non-tax paying, volunteer shareholder schemes - you wouldn’t believe! You’d need the expertise of an... Arlington Trust to get around that one... You know, the reason preserved railways have been in the doldrums of late is that their single greatest expense is steam coal. I say, I’ve always wanted to plan a corporate raid from the bar of a gentleman’s club!’

I ended up buying Frimley lunch and taking him into my confidence over the full extent of what I’d come to think of as the Steam West project. Then I explained that almost everyone assumed the desired avoiding line for the eroding coastal route was the old Southern Railway, and that although we owned three odd bits of land which could be used to delay it, our desired route was the less obvious old GWR line. ‘But really Anthony, that was a single track, much is now enjoyed as footpaths, and it is crossed by a dual carriageway!’

‘But still a cheaper option for the government. At some point, if the motorway is to proceed further west, the current arrangement of dividing into three dual carriageways halfway up a hill, just a mile south, will need to be realigned, involving a heightening of our carriageway, as it were, it would be a simple matter of allowing the new elevation to continue awhile, and let the railway run along the existing road.’

‘Well, I’ll be damned!’

Once that had sunk in, I continued; ‘What we’re proposing as a settlement, is a collaboration, in which we own the infrastructure from the old naval port all the way to Morestead, including the biggest current eyesore en-route, the Abbey Station.’

‘You’re crazy.’

‘Network Rail and the current operator have been making ever more desperate attempts to clean it up and reduce its size for decades, with every new initiative it just looks worse. The answer of course is to restore it to its former glory. We’ll pay, the town will love it. The best layout was achieved in nineteen twenty-nine, it lasted until the end of steam.’

‘Anthony, the government will never hand over the ownership of a mainline station!’

‘All the land to the south is held by the local authority, worth remembering how they acquired it. It was when it was all a private estate that part of it was sold to the GWR, later the council took over the remainder for their heritage style headquarters, then at the government’s bidding they bought back more and more land from the railway, making the railway accounts look good.’

‘Stop. I think I know where you’re going with this.’

‘Well, there are other ways of considering the proposition. Every night the up and down Night Riviera sleeper passes through, pulled by an old Diesel which gives off more emissions than our computer controlled, oil-fired, mainline steam locos will.’

‘How come?’

‘Well, when the weekly steam hauled Bay Express resumes from platform one at Paddington, it will run non-stop to our great cathedral city on cruise control...’

‘But how does it work?’

‘Like the Swiss Glacier Express. The oil is injected through an atomiser, like a perfume bottle, the flash not only gives instant heat but something like ninety-eight per cent of the oil is burnt off, virtually nothing left to go up the chimney.’

‘I see, I think.’

‘Of course, the royal train is worse, half the size and with an old Diesel at both the front and back, but then old railwaymen and many locals remember it for another reason.’

‘Oh, god.’

‘Yes, how the few remaining miles of the Morestead branch line track has been used as a favourite overnight stop for the luxury train, it’s royal passengers and guests, particularly in the nineteen eighties and early nineties. Not quite at the heart of the Duchy, but...

‘I should warn you, I’m an active member of the Privy Council.’

‘Some photographic evidence even, of the married Prince’s mistress arriving and departing. Ironic really, that he should now wish to see her crowned alongside himself.’

‘I’ve always thought of you as a loyal subject of the Crown, Anthony.’

‘Oh! Indeed. Never more so, but then to coin an old military phrase, one salutes the uniform, not the man.’

A few weeks later I found myself sheltering from the rain, under a canopy, part way along the harbour side. ‘Captain!’

‘Anthony! Not like you to be lurking in the shadows.’

‘Yes, I normally leave that sort of thing to Charlie.’

‘She’s not here I take it?’

‘I’ve not taken her fully into my confidence yet, have you time to walk and talk?’

‘All the time in the world old boy.’

‘I suspect you may be becoming persona non grata with the council, or the harbour authorities at least.’

‘I know. That’s the only downside to the move.’

‘Ever thought of just sailing off to the next bay along, I mean what with your naval connections and the potential of your craft as a training vessel?’

‘I’d have moved some little time ago, were it not for those shits who run the marina there.’

‘The marina company are under new ownership; I’m pleased to report.’

‘Who?’

‘Specifically, the Fell Mining Corporation.’

‘Good lord!’

‘But as part of a new collaboration with my family trust and other prominent local businesses, working title, Steam West.’

‘The marina company operated from the old railway land of the GWR, the locomotive sheds, where the turntable used to be, that meant control of access to the wharf, also once owned by the railway. They posed as a benevolent force, were quiet heavy investors in the preserved railway, but in practice they blocked any attempts at real restoration.’

‘Not anymore.’

‘Now that is something I’d like to see; doubt I’ll live long enough though.’

‘You could play a major role in it.’

‘How?’

‘Do you have any contact with those who command your old alma mater?’

‘My dear fellow, the place is run by the daughters of my contemporaries!’

‘Well, we both know what that’s like.’

‘Er?’

‘You see, the thing is, your priority as I understand it, is that the charity should have an income from the yacht, that might not mean selling her as such, you could bequeath her to the charity, then rent her out permanently, to just the one client.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Then you could rest easy seeing out your days in the admiral's cabin at The Grange. And, perhaps after cadets or ratings or whatever the terminology is, have learnt to sail coastal waters in a green, traditional way, they might care for a little volunteering at the charity...’

‘You, you... I was going to say you’ve got more front than Magdalen Place, but you’re giving that even more as we speak!’ Then after a long pause whilst staring inland; ‘It was your father who saved your old apartment building, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re a good son, Anthony. Not sure why I should say that, but on-board ship one’s a kind of stand-in for everyone in authority.’

‘Thank you.’

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.

96: The art of trash

As autumn slowly closed upon us and we all adjusted to life under the new King, The Beacon announced, in an exclusive, our former prime minister’s future intentions. It seemed the Don had secured the rights to the story of Buffy’s premiership, to be told in a series of two-hour interviews for The Don Wooley Podcast. It had already been some weeks since the Park committee had approved and adopted the proposed changes to it’s media room. I rather assumed both Buffy as well as Wooley would want to use it. I was at a loss to know why they hadn’t been in contact, surely, they didn’t think I’d be willing to bid for their presence? They’d have to take their chances with the booking system and pay the going rate. Ditto the idea of regularly broadcasting the podcast.

There were other things on my mind at the time. Even if railway building was going to be a sometime, maybe never kind of a plan, I still needed to get sorted title to the properties, and what of Mr Tufnell senior’s other possessions? Having scanned what was required from the diaries and notebooks, I decided to return them via Victoria at the gallery. ‘We’re off to the New Realist Gallery today.’ I announced, assuming my paramour was present; ‘I’m hoping you can distract Tuffy.’

‘Again! What’s the sleight of hand this time?’

‘Oddly enough, the aim is not to confuse Tuffy.’

‘Can we include some refreshment at the cafe? I need to consult Captain Bob about the shelter committee.’

‘Yours to command.’

We were both staring in disbelief so long, Tuffy actually came out onto the pavement to see what was wrong. There in the window, given pride of place was one of those hideous constructions one is forced to witness for a month or so every year whilst walking the promenade. ‘Enjoying our modern trash?’ He enquired.

‘Enjoying is hardly the word. It sits below your shop sign which clearly states, New Realist Gallery! What’s going on? Vic has no truck with modern art!’

‘We’ve just hired out the window for the month, nice little earner, fact is this is the “Start Here”, for the trail.’

‘What, all the cringe art on the front is meant to be viewed in sequence?’

‘It’s themed, apparently. Telling the story of climate change through recycling.’

‘You know it doesn’t matter how well crafted this stuff is, it’s still the result of dustbin diving. It still leaves general public on a downer, feeling depressed about the world. Where do these artist’s get their cash? Can’t believe anyone buys this kind of thing.’

‘One of the arts bodies I suppose, maybe it’s the council.’

‘Come on, let’s go inside.’

Almost immediately we were confronted by Victoria saying; ‘What brings you here Tony?’ Charlie hadn’t yet had the opportunity to get Tuffy out of the way.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘we were sort of wondering why we hadn’t heard from you about getting underway with sorting the older generations possessions. Needs some planning, right?’

‘Rather distracted by the solicitors at the moment,’ said Tuffy. ‘I’m a bit disappointed about assets and all that, to tell the truth. Mother doesn’t seem to have left much in terms of cash. Well, less than expected on that front anyway.’

I saw an opening and took a chance. ‘Ah! Well, I may have good news then. Here are your father’s diaries returned, all in good order.’

‘Where did you get them?’

‘From the study of course, hope I wasn’t out of order, you did say you couldn’t make them out. I have to tell you they’re not in code, but written using your father’s own abbreviations and shorthand, a few minutes spent rereading the half a dozen or so letters he sent me during his lifetime, got me familiar with his script again.’

‘I didn’t know father wrote to you.’

‘Oh yes, I treasure them to this day, he did a lot to buck me up in hard times. Anyway, it allowed me to make some sense of the property deeds.’

‘What deeds?’

‘Well, at first, I couldn’t understand why the last time I saw your mother, she insisted I take this bunch of keys, here, there you go, you’d better take charge of them now. That one, opens a safety deposit box at our bank, guess what was inside?’

‘Cash?’

‘Alas, no. Only title deeds to sixty-seven bits of property across the county.’

‘My God! I knew it. I knew father wouldn’t have let us down in the end. Where are these deeds?’

‘Oh! Perfectly safe, in my safe at the villa. You can pick them up on your way to your next appointment with the solicitors, it’s still old Blythe, isn’t it?’

‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you’d thrown in the towel. Also, you know Bernard gave me a crash course in Wills and Executors before Bob’s was finalised - well property is property, not possessions!’

‘So then, I’ll give you one clue, what did I say when I first opened the letter with Mary’s Will in it?’

‘Oh! For goodness’ sake, I can’t remember trivia like that!’

It was still warm enough for the good Captain’s crowd to be sitting out at the Harbour Cafe, though the man himself had yet to turn up. We took a table just along from the old sea dogs. ‘There’s something Bob wants to put to you.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘He can explain better than me. You know a while ago you said when we were at the shelter about distancing ourselves from the council and how I should take a closer look at the Trust’s property portfolio.’

‘I see, I think.’

‘Well, he has a proposal.’

‘So, this is a set-up, you lured me here.’

‘Absolutely! Sir.’

‘Just the man I want to see.’

‘And good morning to you too.’

‘Charlie has explained, has she?’

‘Only that she hasn’t the bottle and that you’ll do the explaining.’

‘Age, authority, has certain benefits, ask the King! And it is a matter of public record, the ownership of property.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘You see, our problem is, we’ll never be able to satisfy the demand for beds the way things are, the recession, cost of living and everything. We want to drop the council in it, force them to act. More or less do a moonlight flit, declare that we’re now a specialist charity for those who are homeless because of enduring mental health issues and just need to be outside a lot of the time. We can’t keep trying to deal with the whole range of problems that turn up at the moment and which really only have political solutions.’ Then he hesitated a moment before saying; ‘Myself, and a couple of the ex-marines who have become regulars at the shelter have been up to see The Grange, that is the property you were thinking of I take it?’

‘Yes, just because of the naval connection really, it overlooks the sea, just five minutes walk from the harbour side, but with enough seclusion, enough of a garden. Plus, the little lodge come gatehouse thing.’

‘Great minds think alike. And you must know the history of the place. My lads were very impressed with your security and the way the outside is maintained. Took them a good five minutes to find the alternative method of access, so to speak. So, anyway, we had a good look at the house from the garden, they appreciated immediately the way it was built. Funny, there’s always a tension on board a ship, between the captain and a detachment of marines, they have to submit to our authority, but they’re land lovers confined, isolated if you like, no purposeful work to do. Anyway, my point is they get the house, especially when I explained it was originally designed and built for an ex-admiral. Given it’s been a care home latterly, how much can we put back?’

‘Well, now you’re putting me on the spot, asking specific questions, in a public place. This is where I go into, official “negotiating on behalf of the Trust” mode, I’m afraid. If you want a more informal chat about these wild imaginings, then fix a date with Charlie to come up to the Villa, for tea, alone!’

95: The history man

‘What are we doing today?’

‘I don’t know, but I know where we are going this evening!’

‘Oh, a glamourous dinner, before taking in a show, on tour before the West End? No?’

‘No, they’re still in official mourning.’

‘The cinema then?’

‘No, none of that.’

‘What then?’

‘We are going to a lecture on local history.’

‘You really know how to show a girl a good time!’

‘By a professor of international repute let me tell you, who just happens to use our county as his field area.’

‘And my presence is required to what end?’

‘To better understand the machinations of your employer with regard to the property portfolio of the late great Mr Tufnell senior.’

‘Terrific!’

Our extra mural exertions took us to the more respectable of the county’s two universities.

‘Good evening, everyone, as you can see from the first slide, I have called tonight’s lecture, Our Man-made Landscape. I feel more than justified in retaining the Man, not just as the indefinite pronoun but in the literal sense too, our landscape was built by men for men, you may say; “but women toiled in the fields too”, but what they did and why they did it... Well, need I elaborate? Besides I believe myself to be too ancient now to draw censure, to be cancelled as I believe the phrase has it, indeed many believe me already dead, or at least of so little consequence as to be literally brushed aside in the rush of the canteen that was once the Senior Common Room and home to so much competitive debate over the inadequate ideas of one’s table companions. That was a joke by the way, laughter is still permitted during my little entertainments. As you will have already noticed, I am the last to wear an academic gown on anything other than ceremonial occasions of self-congratulation. It is remarkably efficient in preventing the chill reaching these old bones and at signalling to others in advance, that I should be given a wide berth. However, the key to my academic longevity and continued relevance, and this will be my final point in these introductory remarks, is simply that none of my students has ever risen up to successfully challenge my ideas, no one as yet has, in the intellectual sense, killed his tutor. No tall, angular, neurotic Wittgenstein has dispatched the old pompous and diminutive windbag, Russell. And of course that dreadful old queen, who’s name escapes me for now, has finally been banned from the airwaves, the one who made a name for himself out of hundreds of hours spent pawing over the laundry lists of Tudor monarchs, to the great delight of fans of the televisual extravaganza, always claimed he’d literally killed his former tutor, the old man’s lifeless body having been discovered slumped over his desk, which had lying upon it a copy of the aforementioned’s latest paper, pointing out over a hundred errors of fact and interpretation in the old tutor’s later writing.’

‘Slide two, is an archival photograph showing my old tutor looking down from the summit of one of the highest hills in the realm. No, no, I didn’t push him off. He was far too wise a fellow for such a fate. It was he who would point out that wherever you stood in the British Isles, however close you might think yourself to nature, in reality the entire landscape was a man-made one. Let us examine this example more closely, there, just below the summit are the scree slopes, absent of scree. I confess, I was one of those undergraduates in bygone days, who in youth enjoyed the occasional scree run, thus doing my bit to destroy the planet. The tree line used to reach to within a hundred feet of the summit, part indeed of the arboreal forest which once encircled the entire temperate zone of the northern hemisphere, its partial demise, here in this part of the United Kingdom certainly, due almost entirely to man’s cutting down trees with metal tools, in order to create charcoal fires, with which to fashion even harder metals, to cut down even more trees. The short grass that can be seen here, is the result of grazing by deer and sheep, who of course like nothing better than the shoots of new trees, which would have reforested the area...’

There was a great deal more of this, before he finally got to his principal focus of the evening; ‘Slide Ten, gives us a feel for the sheer impact of railway building, on the left, I offer you a scan of Bradshaw’s railway map of nineteen-seven, the railways had reached their greatest extent at the turn of the century, extending over twenty-three thousand miles, now of course reduced to something less than half that figure. Coincidently, the Edwardian era was also the period of highest profitability for the railways at any time in their history, whether privately or publically held. I ask you to note not only their sheer reach, but their remarkable density, even in the more rural areas. They literally divided up the nation. On the right, an enlargement of our own county, here note not only the coverage but the plethora of stations, here are halts, both on the mainline and branch lines, usually short wooden platforms from which a potential passenger could literally hail a local train or request a stop from within the train...’

What must have once been a crisp fifty-minute lecture, finally staggered to a close after an hour and a quarter, but none the worst for that, it ended with a considerable amount of applause, the kind of public endorsement few academics could claim. We hung back, hoping for a quick word. When the hall was all but empty, I chanced my arm; ‘Professor, I wonder if I might be permitted a rather speculative question about the future?’

‘You can always try!’

‘There is an interest in opening up old railways, I wonder would you consider it a practical proposition given the land is parcelled up and in the hands of so many different interests?’

‘My dear fellow, were I considering reviving old railways, my attention, far from being on dubious rights of property and the law’s delay, would be focused on the Department of Transport itself, the greatest opposition coming from within! At the time of all the kerfuffle over closing railways there were, if memory serves, about two hundred and fifty civil servants dealing with British Railways, against about two thousand concerned with road transport. I’m sure there are a lot more now, though I doubt the ratio has changed. Sorry to disappoint. Now then, young lady, have we met before? You don’t look like one of my students, but you do seem vaguely familiar.’

‘I don’t think so, sir.’

‘Not unless you’re a reader of The Beacon.’ I offered, as a glib aside.

‘Of course! You’re Charlie Sparkwell, what a delight, may I have your autograph? Er, here, sign my lecture notes.’

I confess, to peering over her shoulder, the dedication above the title on page one read; ‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Charlotte Sparkwell xxx’.

A week or so later we made our next visit to our great cathedral city. Charlie left first, in number one car, to pick up Captain Bob. Ten minutes later I set off in the other. On arrival at the old bank, we had the great good fortune to get adjacent parking opposite our intended destination. After intense negotiation over the previous few days, the Forsyth Will was finalised, with attached memorandum of guidance, leaving it up to Charlie whether she opted for being a rich woman or simply a generous one. It took but a matter of minutes for them to formally sign it, in Merriweather and Stollard’s conference room. Afterwards the two of them amused themselves in reception whilst Bernard, Brinkley, Thayer and I had an informal conference.

Bernard paced the room throughout my pitch, while the owl sat comatose but slightly menacing in the centre of the table, now Bernard’s eye was caught by something outside the window. ‘Good lord, they’re identical! I’m surprised you don’t have them wrapped, one with “his” and one with “hers”.’

‘To all but the eye of love, one sports car in British racing green, looks much like another.’ Offered Thayer.

‘Closer to the GWR’s and British Railways’, Brunswick Green actually.’

‘Ah! Now, yes, that’s just it, isn’t it?’ Broke in Bernard. ‘Let me see if I’ve got my ducks in a row here Tony. Mr Tufnell senior spends forty years buying up railway land on the off-chance BR will one day want it back, they don’t, he dies, another fifteen years pass, nothing happens, you now want Lawrence and I to waste what time we have left to us, creating a company - working title, “Steam West” - owned by Mr Tufnell junior and the Arlington Trust, to hold all these properties and update the land registry. And, because there is talk of an avoiding line for the coast, these properties aren’t worth anything on the open market, they’re just a bargaining chip to get any revived railway looking like, what, they did in Victorian times?'

‘To get the railway the community wants.’

‘And none of this actually stops a compulsory purchase order, if the Department of Transport has the will to see it through.’

‘Well, they might need a new act of parliament...’

‘Tony! This is a non-starter, imagine, every one of sixty-seven bits of land would need re-surveying, I mean what’s this one, for example; “including plate-layer’s hut”, what in the name of God was that, in nineteen sixty-five, or at any other time?’

88: Talk of war

‘How long is this cost-of-living crises going to last?’

‘Good lord! Are you psychic, Sparkwell?’

‘I really couldn’t say, sir.’

‘The question is bothering Brinkley too. I’m currently reading his amended budget projections for twenty-two, twenty-three.’

‘And?’

‘He thinks, for what it’s worth, there should be no new projects and no further property sales this financial year.’

‘Will he get his way?’

‘Yes, I would think so. Just as well everything we wanted started, is started.’

‘But for how long is it going to last?’

‘Well, that’s unknown. The pressure on energy prices, which is pushing the inflation, will likely stay awhile. The war in eastern Europe following the pandemic following the disruption of Brexit. Mind you, there will be falls as well as rises, but you never know when it will level off.’

‘Why no property sales?’

‘Because, for reasons which are unclear, property prices continue to rise in a buoyant market, therefore also the valuation of the Trust’s assets, he hopes it will act as a hedge against inflation. Wisely, he also asserts, one should think twice about passing on rising costs in case they stifle demand, better to look for cost savings first.’

‘Not like you to accept a pep talk from Larry!’

‘I accept it, because he’s right. Don’t shoot the messenger.’

‘Does our happiness depend on riches?’

‘I beg your pardon! Is this the same Charlotte Sparkwell that we know and love speaking, the natural therapist, the fitness fanatic who can claim with some justification that joy is gravity defying behaviour, that love and happiness must be remade every day through exercise that takes us to our goal of human social connection, huh?’

‘I meant, have you sucked me into your world; of forever looking for the edge, of pecuniary advantage, financial power, have I become corrupted by association?’

‘Absolutely not. Quite the reverse. You have led me on a path of enlightenment. Just because you are no longer as poor as a church mouse, doesn’t make you a running dog of capitalism.’

Then she was pinged, and a moment later; ‘Oh my god! A message from Captain Bob. And a link, “see me on tv”, blimey!’

We sat and watched the five-minute clip on the big tv screen. It was some sort of ceremony in Port Stanley. Captain Bob, smartly dressed with medals, standing to attention. He seemed to be in charge of an elderly, but far from motley crew. They were clearly the guests of honour at some sort of anniversary celebration hosted by the town, or city as we must learn to call it; ‘Bob appears to be the star of the whole show!’

‘We need to share this with the rest of the world.’ Asserted Charlie. ‘We’re not doing anything for the rest of today are we?’

‘I’m due to check out the yacht again anyway.’ So said Charlie as we headed into town. ‘I’ll do that first, then meet you at the Harbour Cafe.’

At the cafe, the talk was all of the current war. Plucky underdogs fighting a clear and obvious enemy. That had been the way it seemed forty years ago as a child. Most of Captain Bob’s regular crowd were milling around. I kept my own council, setting up the laptop, until Charlie returned. ‘How’s the yacht?’

‘Fine, no problem.’ She started working the room as if she still worked there, then began rearranging a couple of the outside tables.

There were half a dozen souls who wanted to view the video in the end. Quite an involved discussion followed, with general agreement that the country would have been unlikely to get behind the government, if it had all happened today. Someone quoted Margaret Thatcher; ‘Our first duty to freedom, is to defend our own.’ People doubted anyone would regard the Falklands as our own anymore. Someone else, suggested Charlie take the video up to the shelter, on account of there always being ex-squaddies there, and that everyone there, knew Captain Bob.

‘You should take a picture Charlie, to send to Bob.’ I spoke. Then a thought suddenly occurred; ‘Did you ever go anywhere on the yacht?’

‘Oh, aye! She had no choice, living there!’ Chipped-in a third.

‘Smile, everyone! Only down the coast for a couple of hours, long enough to check out she was still seaworthy, as a sailing ship. But I got to learn a few of the ropes. Not that easy to organise a crew for sailing though. Sometimes we’d just go around the bay, if it was the engine that needed testing.’

On the walk to the shelter, I said to Charlie; ‘You might consider the potential of the yacht, as a training vessel, when looking to the future. That combination of a proper sea-going engine and sail only, if you see what I mean?’

‘Oh, right. Yes of course.’

We found the manager in the canteen. Someone had been doing some baking. Having shown her the clip, I then posted her the link. Charlie and she started talking shop, I sat and earwigged their chat. It seemed the manager thought it worth pursuing Captain Bob’s long held conviction that the local authority, the council and or harbour commissioners, had some sort of legal obligation to support the shelter because they had taken over from the old Seaman’s Mission. Apparently, there was some sort of historical precedent for providing temporary accommodation if the local community failed to do so. They then moved on to moaning about the perennial problem of the annual rough sleepers count, the one time in the year that the council really wanted their cooperation. The charities outreach staff were of course the best at finding and signposting the homeless to the shelter. It was in the council’s best interest to have full occupancy at the shelter at the very moment they did the count!

Someone offered me an iced bun. I hesitated, looking at Charlie. ‘Oh, go on.’ Said the manager; ‘After all, you paid for it.’

‘Thank you. Who was it who said it takes as much generosity to receive, as it does to give?’

‘Sounds like a definition of charity.’ She replied.

‘You two do realise you are talking about probably the worst council in the country, historically speaking?’ I asserted.

‘How do you mean?’ Asked Charlie.

‘Well, its been run by Buffy Trumpton’s party, almost continuously since the war. Once the country’s premier seaside resort, now dominated by the retired and disabled, the homeless and dispossessed from the rest of the country. They totally missed the rise of the heritage industry; practically destroying the work of Isambard Kingdom Brunel, our greatest engineer ever, and disregarded the legacy of Agatha Christie at one time the world’s best selling author.’

‘Whilst you’ve been living here over fifty years, and, you went to school with half the jokers who run the country now! What’s your excuse?’ Countered Charlie.

‘There’s only so much one man can do.’

‘At least you and the captain are keeping us afloat.’ The manager kindly offered.

‘Is it important to your punters, clients, or whatever you’re calling people this week, to be close to the harbour side?’

‘What are you thinking?’ Asked Charlie.

‘Well, you could pursue an alternative strategy of distancing yourself from the authorities altogether.’

‘Nothing we’d like better, but they own the building, the half-way house too. And come to that, the precinct where the shop is!’ So retorted the manager.

‘I know that look, Tony has spotted an opportunity, but I warn you whatever it is, it will profit him too.’

‘Well, it might occur to you too, young Sparkwell, if you paid as much attention to the Trust’s property portfolio as you should. I’ll say no more.’

‘Talking of youth, who’s this young lass you’re foisting on us in a few weeks time?’ Asked the manager.

‘Daughter of a family friend, smart as hell, curious about people. She asked Charlie if she could fix it, so as to prevent the school sending her somewhere they thought would be appropriate.’

‘You do realise I’m on leave next week?’

‘Of course.’

‘We’re meeting in the borders.’

‘Good lord!’

‘I’ll be driving the length and breadth of the country, at the invitation of a Duke.’

‘Blimey, as you might say. Now I may know nothing about fishing...’

‘True.’

‘But isn’t that stretch of the Tweed just about the most famous, the best and most difficult to get permission to...’

‘Correct.’

‘Don’t tell me, his grace is a reader of The Beacon?’

‘More likely his gillie!’

73: The art lovers

‘I’m on the train.’

‘And you’d like a pick up at the station.’

‘At two-thirty.’

‘No problem, see you then.’

‘You haven’t made any changes, have you?’

‘No.’

‘That’s all right then. Bye.’

‘What are we doing today?’

‘We, are off to meet the art lovers.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘A new exhibition apparently, poster art, nineteen thirties to the present day.’

‘Surely it all started earlier than that?’

‘Oh, I think so, but this is the mass-produced stuff, like thousands of copies of railway posters, commercial art and advertising, that sort of thing...’

‘I’ve something to say.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘I’ve decided against a cleaning lady, if I get unhappy with your standard of upkeep, I’ll step in myself, much as I did at the apartment.’

‘Okay, but you do surprise me sometimes.’

‘I can’t do it, give orders, especially to someone in a servant kind of a role. I’m not you, I can’t judge the moment, or what to say, know the difference between a schoolmaster, the vicar, a gardener, a farm manager, insult your uncle in the first half of a sentence, then praise Julia in the second half. I can do equals when we’re alone, be a subservient servant or uppity servant in public, but that’s it. Daphne’s wrong, I’m not being understanding, I just don’t understand.’

‘There’s just one thing, what’s going on when you give orders to kitchen or bar staff?’

‘They’re not my orders, they’re the customers.’

‘We are just dropping in, it’s not a do?’ So asked Charlie as we walked the harbour side.

‘Correct, but it is the opening day, and they’ve only been going an hour, so no doubt there will be those who wish to be seen to be there.’

‘Welcome old man. Charlotte, do step this way.’ So said Tuffy, holding open the door. ‘There are just a few exhibition pieces, the rest are prints for sale, various ages, conditions, rarity. But the thing is we are now the sole local agent for new print runs from the National Railway Museum Collection, hoping it will be a nice little earner on the side, so to speak.’

As we wandered, Charlie confided; ‘How does Lady Victoria cope with Tuffy? I mean all the obsequious attention? I know I’d find it terribly, cloying. Worshiping someone, not the nicest thing you can do.’

‘Well, I imagine always having been a Lady, helps. She must understand what’s genuine. And if it’s for real, it is flattering. She has a natural confidence, she’ll know how much rubs off on him, she’ll know she’s good for him. She’ll also know of Tuffy’s reputation for falling in love every five minutes, and how, somehow, she’s managed to bring an end to all that. Tuffy may not appear much of a catch, but there is every sign the devotion is real.’

We ruminated awhile on the romance of train travel before the war, and wondered how much of it had been for real. After a minute or two I saw a familiar face approaching. ‘I say, Walpole! What ho.’

‘I didn’t think anyone spoke like that anymore?’ He appeared to be in the company of a lady, a little taller than himself.

‘He doesn’t usually, only when he’s especially happy.’ Interceded Charlie. ‘How are you sir? A pleasure to meet at last.’

‘Charmed. Likewise. Ah, yes. I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Helene. Helene, this is Anthony, part owner of Crawford Spa and his partner Charlotte Sparkwell.’

‘Surely, not by any chance...’

‘Yes, one time tearaway daughter of my old sparing partner down the Bailey.’

‘Good lord. You never mentioned any of this before Walpole.’

‘Well, it hardly seemed relevant.’

‘How are you finding life on the Riviera, Mrs Walpole?’ I asked.

‘Most relaxing. A lot less worry now, since I was able to drag Walpole away from the criminal bar, such sordid cases he’s been doing these last few years.’

‘Are you the art lover, Mrs Walpole?’ Asked Charlotte.

‘Oh, indeed. But alas only from a distance. Walpole never got the money briefs, unlike your father. I’m afraid we’ll never be able to afford the luxuries of your spa.’

‘Well, Charlie here managed to get herself signed-in as a guest most weeks, for the better part of eighteen months, made herself so essential to the life of the place I was eventually forced to persuade our accountant to put her fees on expenses.’

‘I’ve never understood the world of finance, one reason why I stuck to a life of crime.’ Commented Walpole.

‘An idea occurs to me, perhaps the two of you would like to be our guests on the club’s annual outing?’

We were just working our way towards the door again when we came across someone else previously known. ‘Good lord, Thayer! What are you doing here? Lady Victoria isn’t going bust just yet, is she?’

‘Not that I’m aware of, sir. I’m just inveigling myself with local society, better to improve contacts. Oil the wheels of business.’

‘Well, I guess we are amongst the well healed. Thank you for your negotiations on our behalf by the way. Has Brinkley paid you yet?’

‘No, but in fairness I only submitted the account a week ago.’

‘Still, one of the advantages of being on the premises, eh!’

‘Let’s go to the Harbour Cafe, I’ve not been this way for ages. And I’ve had word that Captain Bob wants to speak to me. Talking of whom, how do I properly account for my time at the night shelter?’

‘Ah, good question. I would say, any time spent in meetings or doing anything that smacks of administration can be legitimately marked up as Trustee work - and expenses claimed accordingly. But obviously, informal chatting with clients is something else. Ah, I’ve got it, any time spent where you need to be supervised by a qualified worker should count as voluntary.’

‘Yes, that works.’

Sure enough, the captain was holding forth to his table of followers when we arrived. After ordering at the counter, we took a vacant table outside. ‘By the way, just for the record,’ whispered Charlie, ‘it’s Captain Robert Forsyth RN.’

‘Thanks for telling me.’

‘Glad to catch you two together. I need your help, both of you. Charlie knows me as well as anyone, and since you’ve spent a lifetime looking after a family fortune, you’re a disinterested expert. Fact is, one really ought to make a Will.’

‘Ah, yes indeed. Do I take it your classic yacht is worth more than you paid for it?’

‘My god, Charlie said you were quick! Fact is I can trust Charlie to know what to do with my possessions, what I really value, who might value them or benefit from them after I’m gone, I just need someone with the clout to make it happen.’

‘Well,’ I said picking up my mobile, ‘the answer is probably to name Charlie as your executor, then - given she’s now a Trustee of the Trust - she can get my people to do the leg work, but still have the final say. Besides, she’s totally taken me over when it comes to moral or ethical decisions... Bernard! I need to make an appointment on behalf of an acquaintance. Just a case of drawing up a Will, but a chap with a lot to leave and a close personal friend of Charlotte. His name? Captain Robert Forsyth RN. Yes, I’m sure Lawrence will be interested too.’ I placed a hand over the phone. ‘Are you free next Tuesday morning? Sparkwell can chauffeur you over to our great cathedral city.’

‘Why all this now Bob? You’re not ill, are you?’ Asked Charlie a few minutes later.

‘Apart from the usual ailments of old age, no. The fact is, I’ve signed-up for a cruise. I’ll be off to the Falklands this winter, to take part in one of the fortieth anniversary tours. Had thought of sailing myself, but was advised against it.’

‘Thank god for that.’

‘Would have done, just can’t guarantee supplies of fuel at the south Atlantic ports. Still, one feels one has to be there of course, so an organised tour it had to be. It’ll be nice to see the old place again, though during the conflict itself, we never got near it.’

‘How come?’

‘By that time, I’d transferred to the old Merchant Marine, in charge of a refuelling vessel. Stuck in mid-Atlantic, doing ship to ship transfers. Hell on earth at times, terrified of collisions. Bloody suicidal for the boys on deck.’