Moggerhanger

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“I like people to talk,” Bill said when we were heading south on the A10. “I can’t stand silence.”

“I’m not married to you, so shut up.”

“Michael, there’s nobody more capable and willing than me of shutting his haybox when the need arises, as it invariably does, but the sort of mood you’re in will be of no use to us on the present trip. It isn’t for my advantage that I’m telling you not to brood. It’s just to let you know that I have your best interests at heart, and if you don’t believe that then there’s not much else I can do for you.”

He couldn’t see my smile. “Have a cigar, so that we can be silent and amiable at the same time.” We’d been first in the queue at the bank to hand over our parcels of money and witness the glittering eyes of the bank manager. Bill was calm, but my nerves were, to say the least, friable, for you never knew when the Sword of Damocles wouldn’t snap its thread and put the kibosh on our astounding success. When things went badly I could always hope they would get better, but this was a coup that scared me.

After a few days Bill would light off to spend the few thousand he was keeping back, and I would return to Upper Mayhem, staying there till I’d decided what to do. We were on our way to unload the white gold in London, and I hoped all would go well, but however it did, the die was cast.

Close to Buntingford, Bill said: “We’ve got to stop, for our elevenses.”

“But you’ve not long eaten your tens.”

“I know, and soon I’ll want my twelves’s, and then my ones’s and twos’s. We can afford it, can’t we?”

The café had homemade cakes in the window, and we went in to fill the place with our cigar smoke. We were the only customers, and hard luck on anyone who might mind. In any case the man and woman who seemed to be the owners were puffing on their fags like two chimneys from a cotton mill. I recognised them from when they’d run a tarpaulin shack in an A1 lay-by selling bacon and sausage butties as big as doorsteps, and quart mugs of iodine tea, to lorry drivers heading for the Midlands and all points north. Husband Ken still wore a mask of misery and failure, in spite of the notch or two they’d come up since those enterprising but uncertain days, in having a proper roof over their heads. Ken slapped our order on the table: “You’re the first fucking customers we’ve had this morning.”

“Don’t swear,” Lil said, busy at the tea urn. “People might not like it.”

“I’ve got a right to swear, haven’t I? A few more days as slack as this and we’ll be in giro land eating bits of paper.”

“There’s worse places.” Bill was busy with an eccles cake. “You could be on the pavement begging for a living, like I was a few weeks ago. And look at me now. I’m in the money. You ought to take things as they come. Live a bit more in hope.”

“Oh yes? And what shady business might you be in?” Ken demanded with, I thought, more belligerence than Bill would normally tolerate.

“Transport is my trade,” Bill said. “And don’t get sarky, or I’ll duff you up. Then me and my mate will rip this chintzy tinpot place to pieces — and I can’t alliterate further than that.”

“Oh, very fucking good. Do it then, if you like. We can get the insurance.”

“You wouldn’t be in much shape to enjoy the pay-out, I promise you. Bring me a few of them Bakewell tarts from the counter, and stop whinging.”

“He’s always complaining,” Lil said. “I tell him it does no good, but he just goes on. He won’t stop.”

Ken lit another cigarette from a packet out of the stock, and stood by while Lil hustled to get Bill’s cakes. “It might do no good,” Ken puffed, “but it lets off steam, don’t it? It’s what keeps me going.”

“That’s as may be,” Lil said, “but the customers don’t like hearing it. It’s what gives the place a bad name.”

“They’d better stop coming, then,” he said, as if ruination was a Nirvana to be aimed for.

“That’s why they don’t,” she said. “But where would we be if they did?”

“If I was you,” Bill put in for Ken’s benefit, “I’d have a shave, tie a tie on, and shut up. You ought to do some work while you’re at it.”

I thought Ken was about to explode into blood and guts, all over the lace-curtained windows. “Work?” he shouted. “Work, you say? Fuck me, I’m at it from six in the morning till late at night. Lil is, anyway, cleaning the place up, setting the tables, baking cakes, and doing funny things to the books. What man wants to see his wife working such long hours as that? I’m always working, though. I’ve been to the bank already with yesterday’s takings, haven’t I? Don’t talk to me about work. I’m up to here in it. And what do we have to show for it at the end of the week? I’d like to say it’s peanuts, but it ain’t even that.”

He seemed on the point of crying, but I can only suppose that pride stopped him or, being generous for once, he let Lil do it. “I got into this trade to make money,” he went on, “but all I do is earn a living.” He looked into the distance. “A posh restaurant near here charges fifty quid a meal, if you can call it that, and the bloke who runs it told me the other day that he’s getting out as soon as he’s made his pile. That clever bleeder’s not in it to make a paltry living. I ask you, what sort of a world is it when you can’t get in, make a mint, and then get out quick? It’s every Englishman’s right, ain’t it?”

Lil had used too much sawdust in the cakes, and the coffee was so weak it hadn’t even seen an acorn. “Surely,” I said, “working in this place is better than digging holes in the motorway?”

“Is it? Is it, then? What do you know about it? Them blokes earn five hundred a week just for leaning on a drill, or driving a dumper truck in circles. And they don’t have the worry. It’s the worry as kills me. Worry, worry, worry, all day long and in the night as well. It makes me sick at the stomach. Sometimes I can’t even eat my dinner.”

“I do all the worrying,” Lil said, “and a lot of it I have to do, living with somebody like you.”

I thought he was going to hit her for showing him up in public, but he didn’t even have the energy for that. “If I was you, missis,” Bill said, “I’d kick the bone idle no-good out. In the meantime perhaps his wrist’s not too limp to bring the reckoning for this gentleman here.”

I was going to remind him that, with our recent acquisition, it would be easy for him to pay, but because old Bill did things in too cavalier a fashion for me to lay myself open to a charge of meanness by mentioning his fifty thousand smackers, I didn’t, partly because the revelation might have sent Ken mad with envy, or made him double the bill. So I paid with as open a smile as I could muster, knowing that while such habits must have had something to do with Bill’s upbringing, he also could be generous at times — in his way.

“A bloke like that deserves a good talking to,” he said when we were back on the road. “And I’ll do it if ever I go in there again.”

“Best leave him alone, and only feel sorry for his wife.”

“I suppose so. But I can’t understand people who aren’t conscious of themselves and what they do. Whatever I’m doing I’m looking down at myself doing it. And whenever I talk I hear myself saying it.”

“That’s news to me.”

“You’re lucky if something can still be news to you. I hope you’re suitably obliged to me for sharing my thoughts. As long as you think, that’s all that matters.”

He turned anti-clockwise onto the North Circular, occasionally held back by various knots of traffic. As usual I had underestimated him, because he had indeed been thinking, and I was even more glad he’d come on the jaunt to keep me company. I took up his advice that I carry the loaded handgun. “I’m bringing mine,” he said, “not with any intention of using it, of course. Certainly not, Michael, but it’s as well to have it, to show we’re not a couple of fools should Moggerhanger or any of his layabouts get a bit stroppy. In spite of what you told me about his accommodating attitude at the station yesterday it’s impossible to imagine him not holding a grudge. I would, in his place. It isn’t a matter of not trusting him, but think about it: how can you trust anybody you’ve just done down? So when we go in, make sure the safety catch is off, and keep your eyes open. What’s more, do everything I tell you to do, such as keeping me covered every second. I’ll do the same for you.”

Descending on Moggerhanger’s fastness put us on full red alert, though I couldn’t resist looking forward to the delight of a quick return to Upper Mayhem. Bill played the horn in front of the house, and such was the peculiar note personal to Moggerhanger’s Roller that it was a signal for whoever was on gate duty to press the button and open sesame. The huge and solid sides swung inwards, and Bill stopped the car in the middle of the courtyard.

Jock banged the gate shut as if never to open it again. “The boss told me to expect you. He wants you to go in right away, before you unload the contents.”

I couldn’t understand why Bill at this moment chose to antagonise Jock, who had always been friendly to me. He pulled him aside. “Keep your distance. We’ll get the stuff off, and see Moggerhanger at our convenience.” He opened the boot and began stacking the packets by the wheel, as it came on to rain, Jock therefore deciding to take the goods up into the garage flat to keep them dry.

Bill winked at me. “That’ll be one out of the way.”

“Not for long, I expect.”

“Long enough.” When Jock came down for the final packet Bill said: “Now go back up. Don’t show yourself for half an hour. You’ll be better off that way. And I know there’s a phone up there, but if I hear it chime in his Lordship’s sanctum I’ll be sure to blast you on the way out.”

Jock gave an understanding look, and smiled, and did as he was told. Bill was already holding the kitchen door flat against the wall in the expectation, it seemed, that I would charge through and begin shooting at whatever moved. “Jildi! ” he snapped. “Quick! Move!”

Mrs Blemish pulled a tray of currant cakes from the stove. “This is a pleasure, Mr Straw. You’re just in time. You as well, Michael. Sit down while I make a pot of coffee.”

She was as neat and tidy a cook as any out of Mrs Beeton, but the Victorian aspect of severity forced on her by the behaviour of her daft husband was lessened by a real smile at seeing us. Caught in the midst of action, which he had delighted in all his life as an alternative to hard drugs, Bill fixed the cakes with a gaze that must have gone back to childhood. “It’ll be such a shame not to eat one,” Mrs Blemish said. “They’ll be ready soon.”

“Sorry,” Bill told her, “we’ve got some business on with Lord Moggerhanger first.”

She set half a sugared cherry on each. “I don’t suppose he’ll want to see you for a while. He has three other gentlemen with him.”

Bill’s spinaround brought him back in reach of the inviting cakes. “Gentlemen?”

“Well, not exactly. It’s only my figure of speech. I can’t think why Lord Moggerhanger has anything to do with rough-looking people like that, though I know it’s nothing to do with me.”

“Let’s clear out,” I said. “There’s no pushing our luck.” The cake I put into my mouth was so hot I barely got it down, while Bill didn’t flinch. He would have preferred for them to cool further, but beckoned me into the central part of the house: “The sooner we’re in, the sooner we’re out.”

The prospect of violence was too much for him to resist. Any attempt to stop him would be hopeless. He could never have enough. “The arrangement was that we would say goodbye,” he said, “and it’s a point of politeness that we do. We also want our payment for getting the stuff out of Doggerel Bank.” At which barefaced statement I was too astounded not to follow.

I thought him misguided when he kicked open the door of Moggerhanger’s study with such force, for I assumed, fool that I was, that the boss had no intention of laying an ambush, because what could be in it for him? At the scent of battle Bill couldn’t think straight. The orientation of his mind was as far from mine as it was possible to get, which led me to wonder for a moment why we had worked so long together, but I was pulled in the wake of his excitement, even if only to see whether or not his behaviour was justified.

Mrs Blemish’s ‘three gentlemen’ would hardly describe the bruisers who faced us. I’d half expected to see Kenny Dukes, as well as Cottapilly and Pindary, a trio of Moggerhanger’s oldest trusties. Surely those three would have been enough, but he’d imported something special, giving me little time to question why his own lads were away. Nevertheless the present hirelings looked highly competent for the job, a well suited trio yet a little too beefy to be anywhere near as manoeuvrable as Bill, or me.

They had expected us to come in like lambs, and the crashing in of the door surprised them as much as it did His Lordship who, however, recovered before his thugs, who looked more ready to kill us for that than the money Moggerhanger would pay them after they’d all but done us in.

“I didn’t think I’d have the pleasure of Mr Straw as well.” Moggerhanger stood to hold out a hand. “Two for the price of one. Now that’s what I call good business. I’m glad you delivered the stores, Michael, and called for a farewell chat. You promised you would and, I must say, I’ve always had a soft spot for a chap who keeps his word, though it’s an ill wind that blows everybody some good.” His mug turned to an ugliness I’d never seen before: “Give them a good hiding, lads.”

Each of the three had a whisky in hand from the giant bottle by the desk, and as one made a move to put his glass down — he must have been slow not to slew it in one of our faces — Bill, knowing well enough how to gain tactical momentum, as he might have said, but not finding the time, since he seemed to act outside it he was so quick, sent a lightning kick at his bollocks that promised some difficulty in inspecting the area for a fortnight.

Moggerhanger reached for the telephone. My hand crashed down. “Drop it.”

He took a swipe at me, but his old force wasn’t there. In any case he missed. Unable to avoid the strongest push I could give, he went arse backwards onto the floor. Everything happening in atomic time seconds, I turned to the two who had set onto Bill.

I found it unbelievable that Moggerhanger had been so barmy as to lay such a trap, till realising that his punishment battalion had been meant for me alone, which thought drove me into such anger that my geyser of inherited Irish fury helped me to pull one of the men from Bill, and I damaged my knuckles so much against his face that his collision with the glass whisky container shook its base.

I had felt resentment against that monumental bowser of fiery piss-coloured booze since first seeing it, a rage that even now I can’t explain. The pet adornment of Moggerhanger’s inner sanctum, it was his precious memento placed there to cow all callers, perhaps installed after some great and crooked job in his blustering days of middle life, or maybe taken from his worst enemy who had at the time looked on Moggerhanger as his best friend. Perhaps he had won it in a game with marked cards, and liked to be reminded of the occasion.

The quantity of alcohol would have kept a party going for the best part of a month, since the glass was nearly full, Moggerhanger always sparing of its contents, and only allowing special guests a sample of its aroma. From anywhere in the room it was hard not to keep it in view, which was its main value for him, because in that case you were not staring at him, which gave the advantage of weighing you up while you were so enthralled. I assumed it to be his most precious artefact, a weapon of sorts, since that brew, however fiery, was as mellow as he could ever get, as well as self-contained and large bodied, a sign of hospitality so false that you would certainly be in trouble if he allowed you too much of it.

While Moggerhanger was behind his desk regretting, I hoped, what a fracas he’d set off, Bill and I were doing our best not to get into bear hugs with our well-bodied antagonists, which involved not unduly caring for the furniture and fittings round about. As the fight went on, from the corner of my half-swollen eyes, I noted the Ming vase in more pieces than I had been able to count in school at five. The reproductions of the Nightwatch and the Mona Lisa slid and ripped under our feet, while a bust of Julius Caesar proved more hollow than Moggerhanger had thought.

He had been careful at least to give Alice Whipplegate a day off, while Lady Moggerhanger was probably shopping at Harrod’s, and daughter Polly had gone only too willingly on another adulterous fling in Nice, otherwise they would have been screaming in the doorway at the wrecking of Moggerhanger’s study, which work even his three hired numbskulls seemed to be tackling with malicious gusto.

Bill, though capable, didn’t relish too long a bout of fisticuffs. “The give and take of blows was never one of my pleasures.” I recalled his axion in the flash of a second, while fighting for my life against a skilful and indefatigable opponent — “It’s wasteful of blood and energy, and too slow for coming to a decision.”

He saw his chance, on glimpsing Moggerhanger behind the desk take a revolver from the drawer, meaning I suppose to end a scene which he saw as becoming more distressful by the minute, as well as less certain of outcome.

The gun flew into the air, an explosion that startled the rest of us into statuary, though not for long. The bullet must have gone as close to Moggerhanger as would scorch the hair on the back of his beefy hand, at which crackshot Bill, unable to put the gun away now that it was out, levelled it at our assailants. He was gasping, as we all were. “One move, and you’re very seriously injured.” I was encouraged by this to wield my shooter, and give the expected back up.

“Tactical retreat, Michael,” Bill shouted. “Now move!”

Firing so rapidly I thought he had a machine gun, but it was his idea of covering fire. The men fell to the floor, Moggerhanger clutching his wrist. “Don’t be a fool, Michael!”

I had always hated to hear my first name from his lips, and now he used it once too often. What followed came of the one vicious thought I’d never so far had the opportunity to act on. Why I did what I did was still hard to say, but I had no regrets. One of Bill’s rounds hit the giant whisky flask, hair cracks around the wall of a dam, a curve of pure spirit arching from the hole into the mouth of a gentleman of the Nightwatch on the carpet. It’s hard to know what anyone would have expected me to do, apart from what I did. If ever a course of action was irresistible that was, and doubly so when Moggerhanger’s face turned demented on guessing what was in my mind. “No, don’t. Not that!”

I fired once, twice, three times for fair measure, and then some more at different points of the glass, till the holes joined up and the whole container opened from top to bottom, sending innumerable gallons of whisky in a tidal wave to the four walls.

Bill guarded the door till both of us were through, along the corridor and into the kitchen where, with his usual presence of mind in even the most perilous situation, he snatched a now cool and fully decorated bun, and with a full mouth, gave Mrs Blemish a kiss on the way out. Jock, walking aimlessly about the courtyard, ran to open the gate on seeing our armaments.

Bloody-faced Moggerhanger raved from the kitchen door, his Bermondsey hard cases pushing by to get at us. Bill slipped in another clip, and with a few more shots stopped them coming into the open, though I noticed he aimed carefully in case Mrs Blemish was anywhere in the line of fire.

My gun went click on pressing the trigger to join in, but the elation at having spent the best part of a magazine on Moggerhanger’s prize piss bottle stopped any regret, since back up at the moment was hardly necessary, given Bill’s amazing know-how and aggression. My only thought was: “He’ll be throwing a hand grenade next, like in the movies.”

Moggerhanger must have picked up his large heavy-duty revolver, for the racket of ricocheting shots echoed like fireworks on Bonfire Night, sizzling so close I swayed left and right like a metronome, as if that would stop one from hitting me.

Then I was amazed and stupefied when Bill did take a hand grenade from his pocket, pulled out the pin so that everyone in the doorway could see, and professionally hurled it, as the gate fully opened behind us.

That the missile didn’t explode was no accident. As he told me later, it was a replica taken from the component parts of a Johnny-Seven toy out of Hamley’s window. “But how would anybody know?”

Moggerhanger and his pals ran so fast that no pursuit was considered, because by the time they realised it wasn’t going to blow their feet off they could hardly be sure that the next one wouldn’t.

When we were outside Bill insisted that running down the street was futile. “We’re doing a hundred and twenty paces to the minute, so needn’t hurry, unless it’s a matter of life and death.”

We were so adept at jinking it would have taken more than one pursuer to find us. Bill followed his rule of choosing the second turn off instead of the first. “Another thing, never take the first left when you are on foot, and always the second to the right. Let’s cross.”

“Why is that?” I gasped.

“Whoever’s chasing us will go to the left because it’s on the side of the heart. People don’t think when they’re in such a hurry. They followed the body and not their brain.”

“What if there’s more than one bod after us, and they can take both directions?”

“Then they’ve divided their forces. Just what we want. We’d give the poor bastard who chooses our way such a hammering when we jump on him from a doorway: fist at the throat, boot at the goolies, and a couple to the phizzog to remember us by when he comes back to life.”

“You think of everything.”

He even had the breath to laugh. “Michael, I learned to fight in Slaughterhouse Lane when I was five. The army only refined my style.”

We flagged a cab on the main drag, and in half an hour were joshing down the escalators of Tottenham Court Road station. At Liverpool Street Bill groaned with hunger, so I bought him cakes and sandwiches. With mouth still full he went to the bog and rubbed half a mile of toilet paper over his boots to get the whisky off. He washed his face and combed his hair, retied his tie and handkerchiefed bloodmarks from his face. Encouraging me to do the same, I did.

A train to the Fens left in ten minutes, and I couldn’t refrain from marvelling at our luck in getting away so clearly. “That was a job well done.”

“I’d like a bust up like that every week,” Bill said. “It would keep me in trim for life.” I faced the engine, fields flying by. Our boots and trousers still reeked of Moggerhanger’s whisky, and a few sharp glances from other passengers came our way, which was fine because, with our clothes torn in places as well, they thought we’d been to a wild party, so didn’t want to get too close. I was even wary of lighting up, in case we vanished in an orange flash like the bloke in Bleak House. “What I need from now on,” I said, “is an extended period of leisure, after all the running about in the last few weeks.”

“Better you than me,” Bill said. “Never a dull moment’s the ticket for me.”

“You aren’t still thinking about Runna-Runna, are you?”

He sighed. “A bit of nation building would have been so exciting and rewarding, so I have my regrets. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life it’s that you can’t have everything.”

Which gave me reason to laugh. “I want to spend the summer sitting in a deckchair by my bit of railway line, reading novels and listening to the birds, with a trip to the bank now and again for a slice of the cash. I’ll have a fully furnished fur lined kennel built for Dismal, who deserves no less, and on rainy days we’ll sit together in the signal box admiring the view.” On one level, so het up was I, I didn’t see how I could ever be calm again, though realised that two or three days would rectify that. “There’s a hotplate in the signal box for frying eggs and making tea. I could play the hermit for weeks there if I wanted to.”

“And then what?” Bill bit into another sandwich. “Every good thing must come to an end. Storm after calm — you know the sort of thing — but I prefer storm all the time so that I know where I stand. Calm’s a worrying state to be in.”

“We’re different,” I said. “If storm comes, then let it, but I’ll be more able to face it after a stretch of peace. The longer calm goes on from now on, the better. Part of my life’s coming to an end now that we’ve put the lid on Moggerhanger.” I laughed, rather shakily perhaps, so that people standing turned to stare, even more convinced I’d been soaking whisky at the sort of party they’d only dreamed about. “I’ll never forget how that giant bottle broke up and flooded the room. You should have seen the look of horror on Moggerhanger’s clock.”

Bill’s hand, rubbing across his face, painted on a serious expression. “I didn’t want to deprive you of the pleasure, but I have to say that such an act isn’t in any training manual I’ve ever read. You overstepped the mark in dealing with that bottle. When I ordered you out you should have obeyed instantly, but I won’t put you on a charge, since we got away unscathed. I remember in Normandy going through a wood and seeing a hut with a padlock on the door. I thought there must be calvados inside, but because we were under fire we had to look in after the Gerries had gone. When we got to it I knew they must have seen it as well, so why hadn’t they gone inside for a drink? I told the lads to give it a few hundred rounds, and it went up like a real fireball. The fact is, I expect our recent bust up at you know where will get to the ears of the Green Toe Gang. Not only will Oscar have a good laugh, but he’ll want two chaps like you and me to join his organisation. He’ll pay well, commensurate with our expertise.”

“No,” I said.

“There you go again. When I’ve run through my fortune — I’ll be a gentleman in that, at least — I might ask Oscar for some gainful employment. I’ll have to, if I’m on my uppers. And you know I’ve never liked being idle. Even begging was only a means of survival till something better came along. And it always did, because hard work was bred into me as a kid.”

“Stop bellyaching. I’m not tempted. When I’m broke I’ll do something, but meanwhile I’ll stay idle till I get bored. In any case there’s running repairs to do in the house, and on the outside as well.”

We found a taxi at the station to take us the twenty-odd miles home. The driver, a small dark chap wearing a beany-like Moslem hat, sniffed us up and down as if wondering whether to take us, due to the odorous booze. “What’s bothering you, brother?” Bill said. “Our money’s good, so get going.”

We sat in the back. “After a high tea of sausages and eggs,” Bill said, “we’ll go and stock up at the supermarket. I noticed your freezer was getting a bit low when I last looked in, so we’ll need at least two trolleys.”

“A good plan,” I agreed. “I’ll pull in enough to last me and Clegg for a fortnight. We won’t even have to go out for a box of matches, unless you intend staying another day or two.”

“Michael, that would make little difference. You know I don’t eat enough to feed a fly. I say, what’s that smoke up ahead? It’s a bit early in the year for burning stubble.”

“Don’t know.” I was mulling happily on my forthcoming period of exquisite laziness, seeing myself taking Dismal on pleasant walks along the water channels, even across a few muddy fields. Sophie would call and we’d go out hand in hand, then come home to an especially big bed I’d installed in the signal box. If not Sophie, I’d inveigle Frances to share a uxurious weekend. Blaskin would drive up in his superannuated Bentley with Mabel, his car smelling strongly of leather so intensely it always made her want to throw up, especially at the way he drove. I’d bed and breakfast them and give them dinner, though for one night only in case, staying longer, they might murder each other.

The driver braked, barely able to swerve where the road widened, to let a fire engine drum by, so close that one of its screaming sirens threatened to detach and fall on us. “I expect some farmer’s dropped a kerosene lamp on a hay stack,” Bill said. “Look at the smoke, though, Michael.” He coughed, and gripped my arm. “I don’t think it smells of hay, either.”

At a corner in the lane I cried out so loud that our nervous driver barely avoided putting us into a ditch. The way ahead was blocked by fire engines.

“I’m afraid,” Bill said, “that your dreams of dolce fa niente will not be possible for the foreseeable future. Luckily, our gallant green goddess men, at the risk of their worthy lives, seem to be doing their best to stop it spreading to the signal box.”

I deteriorated in seconds to a lump of animated jelly, at the spectacle of the Spoils of Cullen going up in smoke. Leaping from the car, leaving Bill to pay for once, I was held back by a policeman. “It’s a listed building,” I shouted, as if the inane claim would be my passport to getting closer.

“It was certainly on somebody’s list,” Bill said, unnecessarily, “and that’s a fact.”

“I don’t care whose list it was on,” the copper said, his arm across me like the bar of a gate. “If you go any nearer you’ll burn, so you’re not going.”

Bill wiped sweat from his face. “Don’t worry, Michael. You’ll be able to build it up again with the insurance, and put Buckingham Palace in its place. I’ll help you to fill in the forms.”

I had never believed in insurance. Money coughed up for it was so much wasted, assuming anyway that in ten or twenty years I’d have saved enough to buy another house, if it hadn’t been spent (as it had been) rather than put aside. Luckily, my sensible and farseeing Dutch wife had paid the remittances by a standing order I’d been too lackadaisical to cancel which, however, provided little consolation as I saw the main part of the house on its way to becoming gutted, and the waiting room and ticket office well scorched.

“It hasn’t got to the signal box yet,” Bill said, who seemed to be enjoying himself. “You can rely on me not to desert you in your hour of need. I won’t mind kipping down in a ruin, especially when I think of some of the places I slept in in Normandy.”

“Fuck off.” I walked up the lane, between fire engines queuing up to spew their water, calling: “Leave me alone.”

He came after me. “Very understandable sentiments under the circumstances. You’re somewhat shell-shocked. Who wouldn’t be, except me? I had a lad in my platoon who was a demon in action, but manifested a genuine bout of shellshock afterwards. He didn’t stay like that for long, though. A few bangs at the loaf soon got him smiling like the rest of us, and he was always grateful. An officer once caught me knocking him about, but he turned a blind eye.”

To try stopping his windpipe wasn’t on, since his jaws only moved to help me out of my despair. I backed away nevertheless. “Well, you can keep your hands off me. Look at it. It’s still burning. All I own. What will I do now?”

“Michael, it’s only property, though I know that at a time like this you need a friend to stand by you, and I’m your man.”

No leisure, no Sophie, no Frances, no mother with her lesbian girlfriends, not even Blaskin and Mabel to sample my hospitality, the most humane intentions gone for a burton, from one minute to the next all I owned turned into an inferno and on its way to becoming an ash heap. Every reason for staying alive was wafting up in smoke and hiding the sun.

“If it was winter we could take advantage of the heat,” Bill went on, which made me suddenly and perhaps unaccountably glad to have him at my side. “Even in France, in the summer, we’d enjoy a little fire after it got dark.”

I wondered what disaster could have stricken him before he cracked up, and decided that nothing ever would. I was happy for him. The thought that God always looked after his own indicated, as the afternoon passed, that I might eventually recover from the shock, till I shouted in such misery that only Bill’s strong hold stopped my legs folding: “Where’s Clegg? And where’s Dismal?” A picture of them fully roasted and dead in the kitchen made me feel a callous bastard for not having thought of them before.

Bill laughed. “I expect they’re all right. Remind me to tell you sometime about when I was in a house that burst into flames over my head. It was my fault. I wanted a brew up, and put too much petrol on the fire. You should have seen me run. It took five minutes for the lads to forgive me.”

His assumptions proved correct when I spotted Clegg and Dismal crossing the line, and ran as close as I could get towards them. “What happened, then?”

“I don’t know,” Clegg shouted. “I was out with Dismal for a walk, but the house was well alight when we got back. I can’t understand it. I didn’t leave anything on the stove. But I’ve taken all I could to the signal box, so I hope it doesn’t spread that way. Dismal kept wanting to run into the house for his Bogie, so I put him on a lead.”

I couldn’t tell whether the wet on my cheeks was from tears, or sweat due to the heat. Smoke was elbowing the main column skywards, but the bigger flames had gone down. Luckily the car had been parked far enough off not to be damaged, so I handed Bill four fifties to go to the supermarket and bring us back something to eat.

He rubbed his large hands together, the glee of the swaddie written all over him: “We’ll have a marvellous fry up in the signal box.”

I shouted, as he started the car: “And don’t forget a carton of Bogie for Dismal.”