Pat stared up at the bench and looked at the three magistrates who made up this morning’s panel. Something was wrong. He had been expecting to see Mr Perkins, who had been bald this time last year, almost Pickwickian. Now, suddenly, he seemed to have sprouted a head of fair hair. On his right was Councillor Steadman, a liberal, who was much too lenient for Pat’s liking. On the chairman’s left sat a middle-aged lady whom Pat had never seen before; her thin lips and piggy eyes gave Pat a little confidence that the liberal could be outvoted two to one, especially if he played his cards right. Miss Piggy looked as if she would have happily supported capital punishment for shoplifters.
Sergeant Webster stepped into the witness box and took the oath.
‘What can you tell us about this case, Sergeant?’ Mr Perkins asked, once the oath had been administered.
‘May I refer to my notes, your honour?’ asked Sergeant Webster, turning to face the chairman of the panel. Mr Perkins nodded, and the sergeant turned over the cover of his notepad.
‘I apprehended the defendant at two o’clock this morning, after he had thrown a brick at the window of H. Samuel, the jeweller’s, on Mason Street.’
‘Did you see him throw the brick, Sergeant?’
‘No, I did not,’ admitted Webster, ‘but he was standing on the pavement with the brick in his hand when I apprehended him.’
‘And had he managed to gain entry?’ asked Perkins.
‘No, sir,’ said the sergeant, ‘but he was about to throw the brick again when I arrested him.’
‘The same brick?’
‘I think so.’
‘And had he done any damage?’
‘He had shattered the glass, but a security grille prevented him from removing anything.’
‘How valuable were the goods in the window?’ asked Mr Perkins.
‘There were no goods in the window,’ replied the sergeant, ‘because the manager always locks them up in the safe, before going home at night.’
Mr Perkins looked puzzled and, glancing down at the charge sheet, said, ‘I see you have charged O’Flynn with attempting to break and enter.’
‘That is correct, sir,’ said Sergeant Webster, returning his notebook to a back pocket of his trousers.
Mr Perkins turned his attention to Pat. ‘I note that you have entered a plea of guilty on the charge sheet, O’Flynn.’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
‘Then I’ll have to sentence you to three months, unless you can offer some explanation.’ He paused and looked down at Pat over the top of his half-moon spectacles. ‘Do you wish to make a statement?’ he asked.
‘Three months is not enough, m’lord.’
‘I am not a lord,’ said Mr Perkins firmly.
‘Oh, aren’t you?’ said Pat. ‘It’s just that I thought as you were wearing a wig, which you didn’t have this time last year, you must be a lord.’
‘Watch your tongue,’ said Mr Perkins, ‘or I may have to consider putting your sentence up to six months.’
‘That’s more like it, m’lord,’ said Pat.
‘If that’s more like it,’ said Mr Perkins, barely able to control his temper, ‘then I sentence you to six months. Take the prisoner down.’
‘Thank you, m’lord,’ said Pat, and added under his breath, ‘see you this time next year.’
The bailiff hustled Pat out of the dock and quickly down the stairs to the basement.
‘Nice one, Pat,’ he said before locking him back up in a holding cell.
Pat remained in the holding cell while he waited for all the necessary forms to be filled in. Several hours passed before the cell door was finally opened and he was escorted out of the courthouse to his waiting transport; not on this occasion a panda car driven by Sergeant Webster, but a long blue-and-white van with a dozen tiny cubicles inside, known as the sweat box.
‘Where are they taking me this time?’ Pat asked a not very communicative officer whom he’d never seen before.
‘You’ll find out when you get there, Paddy,’ was all he got in reply.
‘Have I ever told you about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool?’
‘No,’ replied the officer, ‘and I don’t want to ’ear—’
‘—and the foreman, a bloody Englishman, had the nerve to ask me if I knew the difference between a—’ Pat was shoved up the steps of the van and pushed into a little cubicle that resembled a lavatory on a plane. He fell onto the plastic seat as the door was slammed behind him.
Pat stared out of the tiny square window, and when the vehicle turned south onto Baker Street, realized it had to be Belmarsh. Pat sighed. At least they’ve got a half-decent library, he thought, and I may even be able to get back my old job in the kitchen.
When the Black Maria pulled up outside the prison gates, his guess was confirmed. A large green board attached to the prison gate announced BELMARSH, and some wag had replaced BEL with HELL. The van proceeded through one set of double-barred gates, and then another, before finally coming to a halt in a barren yard.
Twelve prisoners were herded out of the van and marched up the steps to an induction area, where they waited in line. Pat smiled when he reached the front of the queue and saw who was behind the desk, checking them all in.
‘And how are we this fine pleasant evening, Mr Jenkins?’ Pat asked.
The Senior Officer looked up from behind his desk and said, ‘It can’t be October already.’
‘It most certainly is, Mr Jenkins,’ Pat confirmed, ‘and may I offer my commiserations on your recent loss.’
‘My recent loss,’ repeated Mr Jenkins. ‘What are you talking about, Pat?’
‘Those fifteen Welshmen who appeared in Dublin earlier this year, passing themselves off as a rugby team.’
‘Don’t push your luck, Pat.’
‘Would I, Mr Jenkins, when I was hoping that you would allocate me my old cell?’
The SO ran his finger down the list of available cells. ‘’Fraid not, Pat,’ he said with an exaggerated sigh, ‘it’s already double-booked. But I’ve got just the person for you to spend your first night with,’ he added, before turning to the night officer. ‘Why don’t you escort O’Flynn to cell one nineteen.’
The night officer looked uncertain, but after a further look from Mr Jenkins, all he said was, ‘Follow me, Pat.’
‘So who has Mr Jenkins selected to be my pad mate on this occasion?’ enquired Pat, as the night officer accompanied him down the long, grey-brick corridor before coming to a halt at the first set of double-barred gates. ‘Is it to be Jack the Ripper, or Michael Jackson?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ responded the night officer as the second of the barred gates slid open.
‘Have I ever told you,’ asked Pat, as they walked out on to the ground floor of B block, ‘about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool, and the foreman, a bloody Englishman, had the nerve to ask me if I knew the difference between a joist and a girder?’
Pat waited for the officer to respond, as they came to a halt outside cell number 119. He placed a large key in the lock.
‘No, Pat, you haven’t,’ the night officer said as he pulled open the heavy door. ‘So what is the difference between a joist and a girder?’ he demanded.
Pat was about to reply, but when he looked into the cell was momentarily silenced.
‘Good evening, m’lord,’ said Pat, for the second time that day. The night officer didn’t wait for a reply. He slammed the door closed, and turned the key in the lock.
Pat spent the rest of the evening telling me, in graphic detail, all that had taken place since two o’clock that morning. When he had finally come to the end of his tale, I simply asked, ‘Why October?’
‘Once the clocks go back,’ said Pat, ‘I prefer to be inside, where I’m guaranteed three meals a day and a cell with central heating. Sleeping rough is all very well in the summer, but it’s not so clever during an English winter.’
‘But what wo
uld you have done if Mr Perkins had sentenced you to a year?’ I asked.
‘I’d have been on my best behaviour from day one,’ said Pat, ‘and they would have released me in six months. They have a real problem with overcrowding at the moment,’ he explained.
‘But if Mr Perkins had stuck to his original sentence of just three months, you would have been released in January, mid-winter.’
‘Not a hope,’ said Pat. ‘Just before I was due to be let out, I would have been found with a bottle of Guinness in my cell. A misdemeanour for which the governor is obliged to automatically add a further three months to your sentence, and that would have taken me comfortably through to April.’
I laughed. ‘And is that how you intend to spend the rest of your life?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think that far ahead,’ admitted Pat. ‘Six months is quite enough to be going on with,’ he added, as he climbed on to the top bunk and switched off the light.
‘Goodnight, Pat,’ I said, as I rested my head on the pillow.
‘Have I ever told you about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool?’ asked Pat, just as I was falling asleep.
‘No, you haven’t,’ I replied.
‘Well, the foreman, a bloody Englishman, no offence intended –’ I smiled – ‘had the nerve to ask me if I knew the difference between a joist and a girder.’
‘And do you?’ I asked.
‘I most certainly do. Joyce wrote Ulysses, and Goethe wrote Faust.’
Patrick O’Flynn died of hypothermia on 23 November 2005, while sleeping under the arches on Victoria Embankment in central London.
His body was discovered by a young constable, just a hundred yards away from the Savoy Hotel.
‘THEY CHARGED ME with the wrong offence, and sentenced me for the wrong crime,’ Max said as he lay in the bunk below me, rolling another cigarette.
While I was in prison, I heard this claim voiced by inmates on several occasions, but in the case of Max Glover it turned out to be true.
Max was serving a three-year sentence for obtaining money by false pretences. Not his game. Max’s speciality was removing small items from large homes. He once told me, with considerable professional pride, that it could be years before an owner became aware that a family heirloom has gone missing, especially, Max added, if you take one small, but valuable, object from a cluttered room.
‘Mind you,’ continued Max, ‘I’m not complaining, because if they had charged me with the crime I did commit, I would have ended up with a much longer sentence –’ he paused – ‘and nothing to look forward to once I’m released.’
Max knew he had aroused my curiosity, and as I had nowhere to go for the next three hours before the cell door would be opened for Association – that glorious forty-five minutes when prisoners are allowed out of their cell for a stroll around the yard – I picked up my pen, and said, ‘OK, Max, I’m hooked. So tell me how you came to be sentenced for the wrong crime.’
Max struck a match, lit his hand-rolled cigarette and inhaled deeply before he began. In prison, every action is exaggerated, as no one is in a hurry. I lay on the bunk above and waited patiently.
‘Does the Kennington Set mean anything to you?’ Max began.
‘No,’ I replied, assuming he must be referring to a group of red-coated gentlemen on horseback, glass of port in one hand, whip in the other, surrounded by a pack of hounds with intent to spend their Saturday morning in pursuit of a furry animal with a bushy tail. I was wrong. The Kennington Set, as Max went on to explain, was in fact a chess set.
‘But no ordinary chess set,’ he assured me. I became more interested. The pieces were probably crafted by Lu Ping (1469–1540), a master craftsman of the Ming Dynasty (1368–1644). All thirty-two ivory pieces were exquisitely carved and then delicately painted in red and white. The details have been faithfully recorded in several historic documents, though it has never been conclusively established exactly how many sets Lu Ping was responsible for producing in his lifetime.
‘Three complete sets were known to be in existence,’ continued Max as smoke spiralled up from the lower bunk. ‘The first is displayed in the throne room of the People’s Palace in Peking; the second in the Mellon Collection in Washington, and the third at the British Museum. Many collectors scoured the great continent of China in search of the fabled fourth set, and although such efforts always ended in failure, several individual pieces appeared on the market from time to time.’
Max stubbed out the smallest cigarette butt I have ever seen. ‘I was at the time,’ continued Max, ‘carrying out some research into the smaller objects of Kennington Hall in Yorkshire.’
‘How did you manage that?’ I asked.
‘Country Life commissioned Lord Kennington to write a coffee-table book for Christmas, in which he detailed the treasures of Kennington Hall,’ Max said, before rolling a second cigarette. ‘Most considerate of him,’ he added.
‘Among the peer’s ancestors was one James Kennington (1552–1618), a true adventurer, buccaneer, and loyal servant of Queen Elizabeth I. James rescued the first set in 1588, only moments before he sunk the Isabella. On returning to Plymouth, following a seventeen-four victory in the match against the Spanish, Captain Kennington lavished treasure plundered from the sinking ship on his monarch. Her Majesty always showed a great deal of interest in anything solid, especially if she could wear it – gold, silver, pearls or rare gems – and rewarded Captain Kennington with a knighthood. Elizabeth had no use for the chess set, so Sir James was stuck with it. Unlike Sir Francis or Sir Walter, Sir James continued to plunder the high seas. He was so successful that, a decade later, his monarch elevated him to the House of Lords, with the title the first Lord Kennington, for services rendered to the Crown.’ Max paused before adding, ‘The only difference between a pirate and a peer is who you divide the spoils with.’
The second Lord Kennington, like his monarch, showed no interest in chess, so the set was left to gather dust in one of the ninety-two rooms in Kennington Hall. As there were few historical incidents worthy of mention during the uneventful lives of the third, fourth, fifth or sixth Lords Kennington, we can only assume that the remarkable chess set remained in situ, its pieces never moved in anger. The seventh Lord Kennington served as a colonel in the 12th Light Dragoons at the time of Waterloo. The colonel played the occasional game of chess, so the set was dusted down and returned to the Long Gallery.
The eighth Lord Kennington was slaughtered during the Charge of the Light Brigade, the ninth in the Boer War, and the tenth at Ypres. The eleventh, a playboy, led a more peaceful life, but eventually found it necessary, for pecuniary reasons – Kennington Hall required a new roof – to open his home to the public. They turned up every weekend in countless numbers, and for a small sum were allowed to stroll around the Hall; when they ventured into the Long Gallery they came across the Chinese masterpiece on its stand, surrounded by a red rope.
With mounting debts, which the publics entrance fees could not offset, the eleventh Lord Kennington was forced to sell off several of the family heirlooms, including the Kennington Set.
Christie’s placed an estimate of £100,000 on the masterpiece, but the auctioneer’s hammer finally fell at £230,000.
‘When you next visit Washington,’ added Max between puffs, ‘you can view the original Kennington Set, as it’s now part of the Mellon Collection. This would have been the end of my tale,’ continued Max, ‘if the eleventh Lord Kennington hadn’t married an American striptease artiste, who gave birth to a son. This child displayed a quality that the Kennington lineage had not troubled themselves with for several generations – brains.
‘The Hon. Harry Kennington became, much to the disapproval of his father, a hedge-fund manager, and thus the natural heir to the first Lord Kennington. He was a man who took as easily to the currency market as his pirate ancestor had to the high seas. By the age of twenty-seven, Harry had plundered his first million as an asset stripper, much to his moth
er’s amusement, who suggested that stripping was clearly a hereditary trait. By the time Harry inherited the title he was chairman of Kennington’s Bank. The first thing he did with his new-found wealth was to set about restoring Kennington Hall to its former glory. He certainly did not allow members of the public to pay five pounds to park their cars on his front lawn.
‘The twelfth Lord Kennington, like his father, also married a remarkable woman. Elsie Trumpshaw was the offspring of a Yorkshire cotton mill proprietor, and the product of a Cheltenham Ladies’ College education. Like any self-respecting Yorkshire lass, Elsie considered the saying, If you take care of the pennies, the pounds will take care of themselves to be a creed, not a cliché.
‘While her husband was away making money, Elsie was unquestionably the mistress of Kennington Hall. Having spent her formative years wearing her elder sister’s hand-me-downs, carrying her thumbed books to school and later borrowing her lipstick, whatever the colour, Elsie was well qualified to be the guardian of a hereditary pile. With consummate skill, diligence and good housekeeping, she set about the maintenance and upkeep of the newly restored Hall. Although she had no interest in the game of chess, she was irritated by the empty display cabinet in the Long Gallery. She finally solved the problem while strolling around a local car-boot sale,’ said Max, ‘and at the same time changed the fortunes of so many people, myself included.’ Max stubbed out his second cigarette and I was relieved that he didn’t immediately roll another, as our little cell was fast coming to resemble Paddington Station in the era of the steam engine.
Elsie was trudging around a car-boot sale in Pudsey on a rainy Sunday morning – she only ever attended such events when it was raining, as that ensured fewer customers and it was therefore easier for her to strike a bargain. She was rummaging through some clothes when she came across the chessboard. The red and white squares brought back memories of a photograph she had seen in the old Christie’s catalogue, dating from when the original set had been sold. Elsie bargained for some time with the man standing at the back of an ancient Jaguar, and ended up having to part with £23 for the ivory chessboard.
The New Collected Short Stories Page 32