his every move.
Lydia Startright had followed me on to the stage. She was there to adjudicate the meeting; it was she and Colonel Phelps who had insisted on waiting for me. Startright was glad they had; Phelps was not.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ announced Lydia grandly, ‘the negotiating table is empty at Budapest and the offensive lies waiting to happen. As a million troops face each other across no-man’s-land, we ask the question: What price the Crimea?’
Phelps got up to speak but I beat him to it.
‘I know it’s an old joke,’ I began, ‘but a simple anagram of “Crimea” is “A Crime”.’ I paused. ‘That’s the way I see it and I would defy anyone to say that it isn’t. Even Colonel Phelps over there would agree with me that it’s high time the Crimea was put to bed permanently.’
Colonel Phelps nodded.
‘Where the Colonel and I differ is my belief that Russia has the better claim to the territory.’
It was a controversial remark; Phelps’s supporters were well primed, and it took ten minutes to restore order. Startright quietened them all down and finally managed to get me to finish my point.
‘There was a good chance for all this nonsense to end barely two months ago. England and Russia were around the table, discussing terms for a complete withdrawal of all English troops.’
There was a hush. Phelps had leaned back in his chair and was watching me carefully.
‘But then along came the plasma rifle. Code name: Stonk.’
I looked down for a moment.
‘This Stonk was the key, the secret to a new offensive and the possible restart of the war that has—thank God—been relatively free of actual fighting these past eight years. But there’s a problem. The offensive has been built on air; despite all that has been said and done, the plasma rifle is a phoney—
There was an excited murmuring in the chamber. Phelps stared at me sullenly, eyebrow twitching. He whispered something to a brigadier who was sitting next to him.
‘The English troops are waiting for a new weapon that will
I sat down. The significance of this was not lost on anyone either there or watching the programme live; the English Minister for War was at that moment reaching for his phone. He wanted to speak to the Russians before they did anything rash—like attack.
Back at the hall in Swindon, Colonel Phelps had stood up.
‘Large claims from someone who is tragically ill informed,’ he intoned patronisingly. ‘We have all seen the destructive power of Stonk and its effectiveness is hardly the reason for this talk.’
‘Prove it,’ I responded. ‘I see you have a plasma rifle with you.
Lead us outside to the park and show us. You can try it on me, if you so wish.’
Phelps paused, and in that pause he lost the argument—and the war. He looked at the soldier carrying the weapon, who looked back at him nervously.
Phelps and his people left the stage to barracking from the crowd. He had been hoping to give his carefully rehearsed hour-long lecture over the memory of the lost brethren and the value of comradeship; he never spoke in public again.
Within four hours a ceasefire had been called for the first time in 131 years. Within four weeks the politicians were around the table in Budapest. Within four months every single English soldier was out of the peninsula. As for the Goliath Corporation, they were soon called to account over their deceit. They expressed wholly unconvincing ignorance of the whole affair and laid the blame entirely on Jack Schitt. I had hoped the Corporation would be chastised further, but at least it got Goliath off my back.
36. Married
‘Landen and I were married the same day as peace was declared in the Crimea. Landen told me it was to save on the fee for bell-ringers. I looked around nervously when the vicar got to the bit about “Speak now or forever hold their peace” but there was no one there. I met with the Bronte Federation and they soon got used to the idea of the new ending, especially when they realised that they were the only people who objected. I was sorry about Rochester’s wounds and the burning down of his house, but I was very glad that he and Jane, after over a hundred years of dissatisfaction, finally found the true peace and happiness that they both so richly deserved.’
The reception turned out to be bigger than we thought and by ten o’clock it had spilled out into Landen’s garden. Boswell had got a little drunk so I popped him in a cab and sent him to the Finis. Paige Turner had been getting along well with the saxophonist—no one had seen either of them for at least an hour. Landen and I were enjoying a quiet moment to ourselves. I squeezed his hand, and asked: ‘Would you
‘I’ve got those answers you wanted, Sweetpea!’
‘Dad?’
He was attired in the full dress uniform of a colonel in the ChronoGuard.
‘I’ve been thinking about what you said and I made a few enquiries.’
‘I’m sorry, Dad, I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You remember, we spoke about two minutes ago?’
‘No.’
He frowned and looked at us both in turn, then at his watch.
‘Great Scott!’ he exclaimed. ‘I must be early. Damn these chronographs!’
He tapped the dial and left quickly without saying another word.
‘Your father?’ asked Landen. ‘I thought you said he was on the run?’
‘He was. He is. He will be. You know.’
‘Sweetpea!’ said my father again. ‘Surprised to see me?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘Congratulations to the two of you!’
I glanced around at the party still in full swing. Time was
‘To hell with SO-12, Thursday!’ said he, divining my thoughts and taking a glass from a passing waiter. ‘I wanted to meet my son-in-law.’
He turned to Landen, grasped his hand and sized him up carefully.
‘How are you, my boy? Have you had a vasectomy?’
‘Well, no,’ replied Landen, vaguely embarrassed.
‘How about a heavy tackle playing rugby?’
‘No.’
‘Kick from a horse in the nether regions?’
‘No.’
‘What about a cricket ball in the goolies?’
‘No!’
‘Good. Then we might get some grandchildren out of this fiasco. It’s high time little Thursday here was popping out some sprogs instead of dashing around like some wild mountain piglet—‘ He paused. ‘You’re both looking at me very oddly.’
‘You were here not a minute ago.’
He frowned, raised an eyebrow and looked about furtively.
