The Collected Short Stories Read online

  “Your Majesty,” he continued after the usual formalities and thanks had been completed, “I also would like to make two awards. The first is to an Englishman who has given great service to my country through his expertise and diligence”—the king glanced in Gerald’s direction. “A man,” he continued, “who completed a feat of sanitary engineering that any nation on earth could be proud of and indeed, Your Majesty, it was opened by your own foreign secretary. We in the capital of Teske will remain in his debt for generations to come. We therefore bestow on Mr. Gerald Haskins, CBE, the Order of the Peacock (Second Class).”

  Gerald couldn’t believe his ears.

  Tumultuous applause greeted a surprised Gerald as he made his way up toward their majesties. He came to a standstill behind the gilt chairs somewhere between the queen of England and the king of Multavia. The king smiled at the new recipient of the Order of the Peacock (Second Class) as the two men shook hands. But before bestowing the new honor upon him, King Alfons leaned forward and with some difficulty removed from Gerald’s shoulders his Order of the Peacock (Third Class).

  “You won’t be needing this any longer,” the king whispered in Gerald’s ear.

  Gerald watched in horror as his prize possession disappeared into a red leather box held open by the king’s private secretary, who stood poised behind his sovereign. Gerald continued to stare at the private secretary, who was either a diplomat of the highest order or had not been privy to the king’s plan, for his face showed no sign of anything untoward. Once Gerald’s magnificent prize had been safely removed, the box snapped closed like a safe of which Gerald had not been told the combination.

  Gerald wanted to protest, but remained speechless.

  King Alfons then removed from another box the Order of the Peacock (Second Class) and placed it over Gerald’s shoulders. Gerald, staring at the indifferent colored-glass stones, hesitated for a few moments before stumbling a pace back, bowing, and then returning to his place in the great dining room. He did not hear the waves of applause that accompanied him; his only thought was how he could possibly retrieve his lost chain as soon as the speeches were over. He slumped down in the chair next to his wife.

  “And now,” continued the king, “I wish to present a decoration that has not been bestowed on anyone since my late father’s death. The Order of the Peacock (First Class), which it gives me special delight to bestow on Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.”

  The queen rose from her place as the King’s private secretary once again stepped forward. In his hands was the same red leather case that had snapped shut so firmly on Gerald’s unique possession. The case was reopened and the King removed the magnificent Order from the box and placed it on the shoulders of the queen. The jewels sparkled in the candlelight, and the guests gasped at the sheer magnificence of the piece.

  Gerald was the only person in the room who knew its true value.

  “Well, you always said it was fit for a monarch,” his wife remarked as she touched her string of pearls.

  “Aye,” said Gerald. “But what’s Ramsbottom going to say when he sees this?” he added sadly, fingering the Order of the Peacock (Second Class). “He’ll know it’s not the real thing.”

  “I don’t see that it matters that much,” said Angela.

  “What do you mean, lass?” asked Gerald. “I’ll be the laughing stock of Hull on mayor-making day.”

  “You should start reading the evening papers, Gerald, and stop looking in mirrors, and then you’d know Walter isn’t going to be mayor this year.”

  “Not going to be mayor?” repeated Gerald.

  “No. The present mayor has opted to do a second term, so Walter won’t be mayor until next year.”

  “Is that right?” said Gerald with a smile.

  “And if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, Gerald Haskins, this time it’s going to cost you a tiara.”

  ONE MAN’S MEAT …

  Could anyone be that beautiful?

  I was driving round the Aldwych on my way to work when I first saw her. She was walking up the steps of the Aldwych Theatre. If I’d stared a moment longer I would have driven into the back of the car in front of me, but before I could confirm my fleeting impression she had disappeared into the throng of theatergoers.

  I spotted a parking space on my left-hand side and swung into it at the last possible moment, without signaling, causing the vehicle behind me to let out several appreciative blasts. I leapt out of my car and ran back toward the theater, realizing how unlikely it was that I’d be able to find her in such a melee, and that even if I did, she was probably meeting a boyfriend or husband who would turn out to be about six feet tall and closely to resemble Harrison Ford.

  Once I reached the foyer I scanned the chattering crowd. I slowly turned 360 degrees, but could see no sign of her. Should I try to buy a ticket? I wondered. But she could be seated anywhere—the orchestra, the dress circle, even the upper circle. Perhaps I should walk up and down the aisles until I spotted her. But I realized I wouldn’t be allowed into any part of the theater unless I could produce a ticket.

  And then I saw her. She was standing in a line in front of the window marked “Tonight’s Performance,” and was just one away from being attended to. There were two other customers, a young woman and a middle-aged man, waiting in line behind her. I quickly joined the line, by which time she had reached the front. I leaned forward and tried to overhear what she was saying, but I could only catch the box office manager’s reply: “Not much chance with the curtain going up in a few minutes’ time, madam,” he was saying. “But if you leave it with me, I’ll see what I can do.”

  She thanked him and walked off in the direction of the orchestra. My first impression was confirmed. It didn’t matter if you looked from the ankles up or from the head down—she was perfection. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and I noticed that she was having exactly the same effect on several other men in the foyer. I wanted to tell them all not to bother. Didn’t they realize she was with me? Or rather, that she would be by the end of the evening.

  After she had disappeared from view, I craned my neck to look into the booth. Her ticket had been placed to one side. I sighed with relief as the young woman two places ahead of me presented her credit card and picked up four tickets for the dress circle.

  I began to pray that the man in front of me wasn’t looking for a single.

  “Do you have one ticket for tonight’s performance?” he asked hopefully, as the three-minute bell sounded. The man in the booth smiled.

  I scowled. Should I knife him in the back, kick him in the groin, or simply scream abuse at him?

  “Where would you prefer to sit, sir? The dress circle or the orchestra?”

  “Don’t say ‘orchestra,’” I willed. “Say ‘circle’ … ‘circle’ … ‘circle’ …”

  “Orchestra,” he said.

  “I have one on the aisle in row H,” said the man in the box, checking the computer screen in front of him. I uttered a silent cheer as I realized that the theater would be trying to sell off its remaining tickets before it bothered with returns handed in by members of the public. But then, I thought, how would I get around that problem?

  By the time the man in front of me had bought the ticket on the end of row H, I had my lines well rehearsed and just hoped I wouldn’t need a prompt.

  “Thank goodness. I thought I wasn’t going to make it,” I began, trying to sound out of breath. The man in the ticket booth looked up at me, but didn’t seem all that impressed by my opening line. “It was the traffic. And then I couldn’t find a parking space. My girlfriend may have given up on me. Did she by any chance hand in my ticket for resale?”

  He looked unconvinced. My dialogue obviously wasn’t gripping him. “Can you describe her?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Short-cropped dark hair, hazel eyes, wearing a red silk dress that …”

  “Ah, yes. I remember her,” he said, almost sighing. He picked up the ticket by his side a