The Toff And The Curate

RICHARD CREASEY

The Toff—or the Honourable Richard Rollison—was ‘born’ in the twopenny weekly Thriller in 1933 but it was not until 1938 that my father, John Creasey, first published books about him. At once the Toff took on characteristics all his own and became a kind of ‘Saint with his feet on the ground.’ My father consciously used the Toff to show how well the Mayfair man-about-town could get on with the rough diamonds of the East End.

What gives the Toff his ever-fresh, ever-appealing quality is that he likes people and continues to live a life of glamour and romance while constantly showing (by implication alone) that all men are brothers under the skin.

I am delighted that the Toff is available again to enchant a whole new audience. And proud that my parents named me Richard after such an amazing role-model.

Richard Creasey is Chairman of The Television Trust for the Environment and, for the last 20 years, has been an executive producer for both BBC and ITV It was John Creasey who introduced him to the world of travel and adventure. Richard and his brother were driven round the world for 465 days in the back of their parents’ car when they were five and six years old. In 1992 Richard led “The Overland Challenge’ driving from London to New York via the Bering Strait.

CHAPTER ONE

The Curate Makes A Call

Jolly brought the caller’s card into the bathroom where Rollison was brushing his teeth. Nothing in Jolly’s expression gave a clue to his thoughts, although he would have been justified in thinking that 11.15pm was an unreasonable time for a stranger to pay an unexpected visit, even on a summer night.

Rollison glanced down and read:

The Rev Ronald Kemp

Curate

St Guy’s Church, Whitechapel

then looked up into Jolly’s eyes.

“Why?” he asked.

“Mr Kemp would not explain the reason for his call, sir,” said Jolly. “He insisted that he is prepared to wait all night to see you, if needs be.”

The manservant looked as if he were fighting a losing battle with dyspepsia. His appearance often gave rise to the baseless accusation that the Toff—by which soubriquet the Hon Richard Rollison was widely known—had dubbed his man Jolly, inspired by some whimsical fancy to give him a cheerful name to offset his gloomy expression.

“Is that all?” asked Rollison.

“If you are asking me to give you my impressions of Mr Kemp,” said Jolly, cautiously, “I would say that he is in a state of great agitation. He is a large young man, sir.”

“We don’t know him, do we?” asked Rollison.

“I haven’t met him before,” said Jolly, “but when I was in the district a few weeks ago, I understood that a new curate had arrived at St Guy’s. You may recall that the vicar, the Reverend Cartwright, is seriously ill and that the curacy has been vacant for some time.”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “Kemp has certainly taken on a handful.”

“He looks as though he is beginning to realise it,” said Jolly.

Rollison smiled drily but he was interested and sent Jolly to tell the Rev Kemp that he would see him soon.

He wore a silk dressing-gown of duck-egg blue and maroon-coloured pyjamas and slippers; gifts from aunts. The sash about his waist emphasised his tall leanness and the pale blue threw his dark hair and tanned face into relief. He started brushing his teeth again, needing a few minutes to refresh his memory about the parish of St Guy. It was not a parish in which the Church was likely to thrive, although there were several mission houses and the Salvation Army Hostel had a large, if changing, list of clients. It was poor, even in these days when the workers were receiving more money than they had for a long time past, and ‘dock-worker’ was no longer synonymous with occasional work and long periods of enforced idleness. Its inhabitants, hardy, hard-swearing Cockneys with a sprinkling of Indians, Pakistanis, Chinamen, Jamaicans, Irish and various others, had taken the air-raid blows sturdily and aroused the admiration of the rest of the country.

The Vicar of St Guy’s was more than an estimable man; he was godly. His physical courage and endurance had been an inspiration to his neighbours, who could by no stretch of the imagination be called his flock. Yet St Guy’s, being one of the few churches remaining in the district, had a fair membership. Until Cartwright had worked himself to exhaustion, it had been a considerable power for good.

Rollison, being so fond of the East End and its people, greatly regretted Cartwright’s illness. Now, it seemed, a youthful cleric had descended upon the parish and was in trouble; few people came to the Toff unless they wanted help.

He went into the small drawing-room of the Gresham Terrace flat.

The Rev Ronald Kemp jumped to his feet and Rollison saw that Jolly had not exaggerated when he had called him massive. Kemp towered above the Toff, who was over six feet. He was a fair-haired, rugged-looking man, clad in a well-cut suit of pin-striped flannel and wearing a limp-looking clerical collar. Rollison judged him to be no more than twenty-three or four.

“Thanks for seeing me,” said Kemp in a powerful voice. “You’re my last hope, Mr Rollison. Will you help me?”

“I might,” said Rollison, cautiously.

“For the love of Mike, don’t put me off with pretty phrases,” boomed the curate. “If you’re not prepared to help, say so.”

His fine, grey eyes were stormy. He seemed to be fighting to keep a firm hold on himself and his large hands were clenched. He looked at the Toff as if he were sure that his appeal would be turned down.