The New Collected Short Stories (63 page)

The mayor waited for the laughter to fade before he continued. ‘From his early days, Albert has always been a loyal supporter of Street Football Club, rarely missing a Cobblers’ home
game, and indeed the club has recently made him an honorary life member. Albert also played darts for the Crown and Anchor, and was a member of that team when they were runners-up in the
town’s pub championship.

‘I’m sure you will all agree,’ concluded the mayor, ‘that Albert has led a colourful and interesting life, which we all hope will continue for many years to come, not
least because in three years’ time we will be celebrating the same landmark for his dear wife Betty. It’s hard to believe, looking at her,’ said the mayor, turning towards Mrs
Webber, ‘that in 2010 she will also be one hundred.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said several voices, and Betty shyly bowed her head as Albert leaned across and took her hand.

After several other dignitaries had said a few words, and many more had had their photograph taken with Albert, the mayor accompanied his two guests out of the town hall to a waiting
Rolls-Royce, and instructed the chauffeur to drive Mr and Mrs Webber home.

Albert and Betty sat in the back of the car holding hands. Neither of them had ever been in a Rolls-Royce before, and certainly not in one driven by a chauffeur.

By the time the car drew up outside their council house in Marne Terrace, they were both so exhausted and so full of salmon sandwiches and birthday cake that it wasn’t long before they
retired to bed.

The last thing Albert murmured before turning out his bedside light was, ‘Well, it will be your turn next, ducks, and I’m determined to live another three years so we can celebrate
your hundredth together.’

‘I don’t want all that fuss made over me when my time comes,’ she said. But Albert had already fallen asleep.

Not a lot happened in Albert and Betty Webber’s life during the next three years: a few minor ailments, but nothing life-threatening, and the birth of their first
great-great-grandchild, Jude.

When the historic day approached for the second Webber to celebrate a hundredth birthday, Albert had become so frail that Betty insisted the party be held at their home and only include the
family. Albert reluctantly agreed, and didn’t tell his wife how much he’d been looking forward to returning to the town hall and once again being driven home in the mayor’s
Rolls-Royce.

The new mayor was equally disappointed, as he’d anticipated that the occasion would guarantee his photograph appearing on the front page of the local paper.

When the great day dawned, Betty received over a hundred cards, letters and messages from well-wishers, but to Albert’s profound dismay, there was no telegram from the Queen. He assumed
the Post Office was to blame and that it would surely be delivered the following day. It wasn’t.

‘Don’t fuss, Albert,’ Betty insisted. ‘Her Majesty is a very busy lady and she must have far more important things on her mind.’

But Albert did fuss, and when no telegram arrived the next day, or the following week, he felt a pang of disappointment for his wife who seemed to be taking the whole affair in such good spirit.
However, after another week, and still no sign of a telegram, Albert decided the time had come to take the matter into his own hands.

Every Thursday morning, Eileen, their youngest daughter, aged seventy-three, would come to pick up Betty and drive her into town to go shopping. In reality this usually turned out to be just
window shopping, as Betty couldn’t believe the prices the shops had the nerve to charge. She could remember when a loaf of bread cost a penny, and a pound a week was a working wage.

That Thursday Albert waited for them to leave the house, then he stood by the window until the car had disappeared around the corner. Once they were out of sight, he shuffled off to his little
den, where he sat by the phone, going over the exact words he would say if he was put through.

After a little while, and once he felt he was word perfect, he looked up at the framed telegram on the wall above him. It gave him enough confidence to pick up the phone and dial a six-digit
number.

‘Directory Enquiries. What number do you require?’

‘Buckingham Palace,’ said Albert, hoping his voice sounded authoritative.

There was a slight hesitation, but the operator finally said, ‘One moment please.’

Albert waited patiently, although he quite expected to be told that the number was either unlisted or ex-directory. A moment later the operator was back on the line and read out the number.

‘Can you please repeat that?’ asked a surprised Albert as he took the top off his biro. ‘Zero two zero, seven seven six six, seven three zero zero. ‘Thank you,’ he
said, before putting the phone down. Several minutes passed before he gathered enough courage to pick it up again. Albert dialled the number with a shaky hand. He listened to the familiar ringing
tone and was just about to put the phone back down when a woman’s voice said, ‘Buckingham Palace, how may I help you?’

‘I’d like to speak to someone about a one hundredth birthday,’ said Albert, repeating the exact words he had memorized.

‘Who shall I say is calling?’

‘Mr Albert Webber.’

‘Hold the line please, Mr Webber.’

This was Albert’s last chance of escape, but before he could put the phone down, another voice came on the line.

‘Humphrey Cranshaw speaking.’

The last time Albert had heard a voice like that was when he was serving in the army. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said nervously. ‘I was hoping you might be able to help
me.’

‘I certainly will if I can, Mr Webber,’ replied the courtier.

‘Three years ago I celebrated my hundredth birthday,’ said Albert, returning to his well-rehearsed script.

‘Many congratulations,’ said Cranshaw.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Albert, ‘but that isn’t the reason why I’m calling. You see, on that occasion Her Majesty the Queen was kind enough to send me a telegram,
which is now framed on the wall in front of me, and which I will treasure for the rest of my life.’

‘How kind of you to say so, Mr Webber.’

‘But I wondered,’ said Albert, gaining in confidence, ‘if Her Majesty still sends telegrams when people reach their hundredth birthday?’

‘She most certainly does,’ replied Cranshaw. ‘I know that it gives Her Majesty great pleasure to continue the tradition, despite the fact that so many more people now attain
that magnificent milestone.’

‘Oh, that is most gratifying to hear, Mr Cranshaw,’ said Albert, ‘because my dear wife celebrated her hundredth birthday some two weeks ago, but sadly has not yet received a
telegram from the Queen.’

‘I am sorry to hear that, Mr Webber,’ said the courtier. ‘It must be an administrative oversight on our part. Please allow me to check. What is your wife’s full
name?’

‘Elizabeth Violet Webber, née Braithwaite,’ said Albert with pride.

‘Just give me a moment, Mr Webber,’ said Cranshaw, ‘while I check our records.’

This time Albert had to wait a little longer before Mr Cranshaw came back on the line. ‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr Webber, but you’ll be pleased to learn that we have
traced your wife’s telegram.’

‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ said Albert. ‘May I ask when she can expect to receive it?’

There was a moment’s hesitation before the courtier said, ‘Her Majesty sent a telegram to your wife to congratulate her on reaching her hundredth birthday some five years
ago.’

Albert heard a car door slam, and moments later a key turned in the lock. He quickly put the phone down, and smiled.

I
WAS AT
L
ORD’S
for the first day of the Second Test against Australia when Alan Penfold sat down beside me and introduced
himself.

‘How many people tell you they’ve got a story in them?’ he asked.

I gave him a closer look before I replied. He must have been around fifty years old, slim and tanned. He looked fit, the kind of man who goes on playing his chosen sport long after he’s
past his peak, and as I write this story, I recall that his handshake was remarkably firm.

‘Two, sometimes three a week,’ I told him.

‘And how many of those stories make it into one of your books?’

‘If I’m lucky, one in twenty, but more likely one in thirty.’

‘Well, let’s see if I can beat the odds,’ said Penfold as the players left the field for tea. ‘In my profession,’ he began, ‘you never forget your first
case.’

Alan Penfold put the phone gently back on the hook, hoping he hadn’t woken his wife. She stirred when he slipped stealthily out of bed and began to dress in
yesterday’s clothes, as he didn’t want to put the light on.

‘And where do you think you’re going at this time in the morning?’ she demanded.

‘Romford,’ he replied.

Anne tried to focus on the digital clock on her side of the bed.

‘At ten past eight on a Sunday morning?’ she said with a groan.

Alan leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Go back to sleep, I’ll tell you all about it over lunch.’ He quickly left the room before she could question him any
further.

Even though it was a Sunday morning, he calculated that it would take him about an hour to get to Romford. At least he could use the time to think about the phone conversation he’d just
had with the duty reports officer.

Alan had joined Redfern & Ticehurst as a trainee actuary soon after he’d qualified as a loss adjuster. Although he’d been with the firm for over two years, the partners were such
a conservative bunch that this was the first time they’d allowed him to cover a case without his supervisor, Colin Crofts.

Colin had taught him a lot during the past two years, and it was one of his comments, oft repeated, that sprang to Alan’s mind as he headed along the A12 towards Romford: ‘You never
forget your first case.’

All the reports officer had told him over the phone were the basic facts. A warehouse in Romford had caught fire during the night and by the time the local brigade had arrived, there
wasn’t a lot that could be done other than to dampen down the embers. Old buildings like that often go up like a tinderbox, the reports officer said matter-of-factly.

The policy holders, Lomax Shoes (Import and Export) Ltd, had two insurance policies, one for the building, and the other for its contents, each of them for approximately two million pounds. The
reports officer didn’t consider it to be a complicated assignment, which was probably why he allowed Alan to cover the case without his supervisor.

Even before he reached Romford, Alan could see where the site must be. A plume of black smoke was hovering above what was left of the hundred-year-old company. He parked in a side street,
exchanged his shoes for a pair of Wellington boots and headed towards the smouldering remains of Lomax Shoes (Import and Export) Ltd. The smoke was beginning to disperse, the wind blowing it in the
direction of the east coast. Alan walked slowly, because Colin had taught him that it was important to take in first impressions.

When he reached the site, there was no sign of any activity other than a fire crew who were packing up and preparing to return to brigade headquarters. Alan tried to avoid the puddles of sooty
water as he made his way across to the engine. He introduced himself to the duty officer.

‘So where’s Colin?’ the man asked.

‘He’s on holiday,’ Alan replied.

‘That figures. I can’t remember when I last saw him on a Sunday morning. And he usually waits for my report before he visits the site.’

‘I know,’ said Alan. ‘But this is my first case, and I was hoping to have it wrapped up before Colin comes back from his holiday.’

‘You never forget your first case,’ said the fire officer as he climbed up into the cab. ‘Mind you, this one’s unlikely to make any headlines, other than in the
Romford Recorder
. I certainly won’t be recommending a police inquiry.’

‘So there’s no suggestion of arson?’ said Alan.

‘No, none of the usual tell-tale signs to indicate that,’ said the officer. ‘I’m betting the cause of the fire will turn out to be faulty wiring. Frankly, the whole
electrical system should have been replaced years ago.’ He paused and looked back at what remained of the site. ‘It was just fortunate for us that it was an isolated building and the
fire broke out in the middle of the night.’

‘Was there anyone on the premises at the time?’

‘No, Lomax sacked the night watchman about a year ago. Just another victim of the recession. It will all be in my report.’

‘Thanks,’ said Alan. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen any sign of the rep from the insurance company?’ he asked as the fire chief slammed his door closed.

‘If I know Bill Hadman, he’ll be setting up his office in the nearest pub. Try the King’s Arms on Napier Road.’

Alan spent the next hour walking around the waterlogged site searching for any clue that might prove the fire chief wrong. He wasn’t able to find anything, but he couldn’t help
feeling that something wasn’t right. To start with, where was Mr Lomax, the owner, whose business had just gone up in smoke? And why wasn’t the insurance agent anywhere to be seen, when
he was going to have to pay out four million pounds of his company’s money? Whenever things didn’t add up, Colin always used to say, ‘It’s often not what you
do
see
that matters, but what you
don’t
see.’

After another half-hour of not being able to work out what it was he couldn’t see, Alan decided to take the fire chief’s advice and headed for the nearest pub.

When he walked into the King’s Arms just before eleven, there were only two customers seated at the bar, and one of them was clearly holding court.

‘Good morning, young man,’ said Bill Hadman. ‘Come and join us. By the way, this is Des Lomax. I’m trying to help him drown his sorrows.’

‘It’s a bit early for me,’ said Alan after shaking hands with both men, ‘but as I didn’t have any breakfast this morning, I’ll settle for an orange
juice.’

‘It’s unusual to see someone from your office on site this early.’