And Thereby Hangs a Tale Read online

  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 round 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 Inquiries. 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 dialed 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.

  HIGH HEELS*

  3

  I was at Lord’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 round 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 toward 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,