‘What about my job?’
‘It will be kept open for you . . . they have to do that by law. I understand that your secretary is going to be promoted to company secretary, and sit in your chair until you get back. All’s well that ends well.’ I remembered how someone often used to say that in 1947. It irritated me then as well . . . and Elaine must have known the score before I set off, but didn’t tell me. I’d have to watch her. That was interesting.
‘Where exactly is this national emergency you’re packing me off to, sir?’
‘Egypt I expect: the wogs are getting uppity again. Time to get your knees brown, Charlie, and sand in your shoes.’
‘What’s my alternative?’
‘Jankers for failure to report. Maybe even with the Brown Jobs at Aldershot. They’re a bad lot, I understand.’ For the uninformed among you – Brown Jobs are soldiers: the guys with guns, and khaki suits, who walk everywhere. They have a penal colony at Aldershot.
‘And that’s it?’
‘. . . or you could always get married instead. We’re only taking single men.’ He raised his glass again, and an eyebrow. ‘Cheerio.’
Ah.
I suddenly felt Old Man Halton’s hand jerking my chain. I’d proposed to his ward in 1948, grown less keen on her with every passing minute, and had been putting off the evil day. Halton hadn’t said anything but I sensed he was taking a dim view of it. The bastards had me now, hadn’t they? Get married, or get chased round the pyramids by a bunch of wogs armed with goolie knives.
I raised my glass back at him. ‘That’s it then; back to bloody war I suppose. Cheers. Where do I get measured for a tropical rig?’
‘Sir . . .’
‘. . . sir.’
‘We’ll take care of all that. After you’ve had a couple of refreshers I expect . . . and this is not a war by the way.’
‘What is it then?’
I expected his nagging little sir again, but he just shook his head. ‘It’s a police action.’
‘What does that mean when it’s at home?’
‘That they don’t have to pay your dependants a decent pension when you cop it.’
I swirled my drink in the glass, and watched the circles it made. ‘They think of everything, don’t they, sir?’
‘Apparently; but in your case, Charlie, I suspect they will live to regret it. Now all you have to do is sort out your bloody father.’
‘The old man? What’s it got to do with him?’
‘He was arrested three days ago at the Cenotaph. He disrupted the Remembrance service. Didn’t anyone tell you?’
Charing Cross nick. I suspect that by the time I was in my twenties I was more familiar with the inside of police stations than your average Joe. It hadn’t always been my fault, and the only advantage I can see is that I could generally get up the front steps and through the door without my apprehensions on parade. In the 1950s, having got that far you usually found yourself facing a front desk behind which, if you were lucky, was a desk sergeant.
After I introduced myself this one introduced himself back as Sergeant Pry . . . and then paused as if his name should mean something to me. Maybe he had won the George Cross when my back was turned. He continued, ‘So, you’re Albert Bassett’s son?’
‘Yes, Sergeant. What’s happened to him?’
‘Less than he deserved. He was up in front of the magistrate yesterday and was admonished.’
‘What for?’
Pry had a kindly face. ‘Shouldn’t you ask him yourself, son?’
‘I will, when I catch up with him. I didn’t even know he was in town. He lives just outside Glasgow.’
‘He made a mockery of the service at the Cenotaph, and was eventually charged with being drunk and disorderly, being a public nuisance and resisting arrest. He’s a bit of a tough old bird, your old man.’
‘He was one of the Old Contemptibles, and served all the way through to 1919 . . . I can never remember him being anything else except tough.’
That wasn’t true. He had wept openly at the funerals of my mother and sister.
‘The magistrate is an old soldier as well; he threw out the drunk and resisting charges, and only admonished on the public nuisance. I don’t know why we even bothered.’
‘What exactly did he do?’
‘He sang.’
‘That’s what we usually do at the Remembrance parade isn’t it? March up and down, shout silly orders at each other, and sing hymns? Hitler used to do that sort of thing as well.’
He frowned, but ignored that last bit. ‘He managed to wriggle his way near the front, and bawl out some of the old soldiers’ songs, but with very disrespectful lyrics – disrespectful to the Top Brass in attendance that is. I understand that the Duke of Gloucester smiled, and even Her uncrowned Majesty’s lips gave a little twitch.’
‘Good old Dad. I must find him and buy him a pint. Where did he go to?’
‘He gave the Union Jack Club as his London address, but I don’t know if he’s still there.’ Then he added, ‘You don’t seem all that respectful yourself.’
‘They just called me up again,’ I explained.
‘Do you good I expect. Teach you some manners.’
I had a phrase waiting for him, but didn’t use it. I didn’t want to be the second person in my family to be arrested inside a week. As I turned away I saw a framed theatre bill on the wall. It advertised a show called the Great Tay Kin – a Japanese Mystery, but its star billing was reserved for one Paul Pry. I
