“He sounds like a beastly man!” shouted Mrs Golden, rattling her dolls’ heads.
“He is indeed, madam,” I replied. “But the good news is they are now safe from his clutches, thanks to the generous hospitality of the good people of this fine Chateau!” I gestured at the Spott-Hythes. The protesters applauded once more.
“Well, it was the least we could do!” piped up Jeremy Spott-Hythe, looking confused.
“Furthermore,” called Tariq, waving the papers in the direction of the uncomprehending Somalis, “these poor people are now free! They are officially claiming asylum in the United Kingdom, as they are entitled, by the grace of her Majesty the Queen!”
“The Queen!” shouted Spott-Hythe, jumping in excitement, waving his shotgun, his old chap twirling in reply.
The police suddenly remembered that Spott-Hythe was armed. “Can you place that weapon on the ground please, sir!” shouted the Sergeant.
“Don’t worry officers, he’s firing blanks,” I explained. “It’s a Kent University project to study bird-scaring techniques. Apparently, naked men are much more likely to scare crows than clothed men.” Nevertheless, Jeremy placed his shotgun on the ground and raised his hands.
“I see. Well, just ensure you keep your research project to private land. We don’t tolerate that kind of thing on the Queen’s Highway.”
“Ears, of course, officer.”
I heard the chatter of a helicopter approaching over the hills. The sun had already set in the late mid-winter afternoon and a spotlight stabbed down through the gathering dusk.
“And what’s the story with these scruffy types who’ve been rolling in the mud?” The Sergeant gestured at Fistule and the battered protesters.
“Misguided socialists, officer, who’ve grabbed the wrong end of the stick. But don’t treat them too harshly – their hearts are in the right place. Besides, they’ve already had a good kicking.”
“Did you say my son was delivering a baby?” asked Mrs Golden.
“Ah, yes. Would you be good enough to call an ambulance and social services?” I asked the Sergeant.
We all marched down to the stables in the fading light. And there, on a camp bed, surrounded by straw, lay Khadro, the new mother, a little baby in her arms.
Dan sat next to her, pulling a sleeping bag over the exhausted pair and dabbing her head with a sponge. He looked up as we entered. “It’s a boy,” he said, wonder in his eyes.
The policemen, Somalis and protesters all knelt before the camp bed, cooing and offering advice, while the Press snapped away.
“This is pure gold, I’m going to make a fortune,” sobbed the freelancer from the Ashford & Maidstone Times, tears of joy running down his cheeks. “It’s a world-wide front pager and no mistake!”
“Bless the little blighter. Here’s something to get the young chap on his way in the world,” said Wodin, stepping forward and wedging a wad of used twenty pound notes under Khadro’s sleeping bag.
“And here are your asylum papers madam,” added Tariq, placing the official documentation next to her. “You won’t be needing any for the little one – he’s as British as a Yorkshire Pudding!”
“And here are my brother’s details, he’s a top literary agent,” said Mr Cohen, leaning over and giving her a card. “You’ve got one hell of a story, give him a call.”
Bessie whinnied in approval from next door and the alpacas, still chewing Mrs Golden’s hair, peered through the open stable door, all illuminated by the searchlight from the police helicopter shining brightly overhead.
I stood back and surveyed the beautiful scene I had brought about.
And I saw that it was good.
***
The rest of the story is now wine folklore. As Jeremy Spott-Hythe’s naked body attested, that night was the coldest of the year, and on the morning of Christmas Day the Somalis were hard at work, in their woolly hats and gloves, picking the frozen grapes. Jeremy Spott-Hythe was able to produce several hundred bottles of a magnificent Kentish ice-wine, the first ever, which he christened ‘A Kentish Miracle’.
With the worldwide publicity from the story of the bidoun, and their intrepid escape from the evil Sheikh Rashid bin Salem, Jeremy Spott-Hythe was able to auction his bottles for over a thousand pounds apiece. He invested the money in upgrading the stables to a proper accommodation block and founding the Pluckley Institute of Viticulture and Islamic Thought, appointing Galad as vice-chancellor. To this day, it is the only Islamic institution housed in a winery, and it stands as a shining beacon of tolerance and hope in a dark, suspicious world.
Dan was promoted to Director of Public and Legal Affairs at Jews for Goodwill and, through the careful use of judicial injunctions, was able to effectively silence his mother’s campaigning career. Tariq was rewarded handsomely by his father, who declared him the most loyal and successful of all his sons. He was gifted a large shareholding in one of his father’s arms-dealing companies, allowing him to retire at the ripe old age of twenty-five.
Khadro, with the help of Mr Cohen’s brother, published a best-selling account of her dramatic life which, as they say in the movies, was loosely based on a true story. She shared the royalties with the rest of her compatriots, allowing them to set up a thriving co-op selling freshly baked artisanal Somali flatbreads to the chattering classes of Notting Hill.
A few parties remained unhappy, but you can’t please everyone. Sheikh Rashid bin Salem was furious, of course. But nobody gave him much sympathy as he raged in his palace on the shores of the Persian Gulf because he was indeed, to use Ms Golden’s words, a beastly man.
He wasn’t, however, as beastly as his sworn enemy, Tariq’s father, who had secretly shafted him by forging all the bidoun papers supplied as evidence for the Somalis’ asylum claim. The fraudulent, libellous paperwork caused the Sheikh a PR disaster back in Dubai, disqualifying him from a major public sector business tender, which was awarded to… yes, Tariq’s father.
You make think this a despicable state of affairs and no way to conduct business, but I urge you to concentrate on the positive, particularly the relentless and virtuous advance of yours truly up the greasy pole of the international wine trade.
Gatesave’s directors were delighted that their supermarket was associated with the now world-famous Chateau Spott-Hythe, not to mention basking in the reflected glory of my recently revealed exploits as an undercover human-rights activist. And nor were my achievements limited to the world of ethics – my Asti Spumante sales triumph propelled Gatesave to an all-time high in market share, and we liberated hundreds of thousands of customers from exploitation at the hands of our competitors.
And so, following the management reshuffle that January, I was summoned to the tenth floor office by Roland Bonnaire himself, the CEO of Gatesave Supermarkets. As I entered the plush office with its ankle-deep carpet, the perma-tanned CEO leapt from his seat, placed his guitar on his desk, and pumped my hand. “Congratulations Felix. A magnificent performance! You are promoted, with immediate effect, to Head of Wine, Beer, Spirits and Salted Snacks.”
And that is the story of how I became a true connoisseur among mere sniffers and spitters, a champion of the down-trodden, and a titan of the retail trade. In short – and you know how I hate to boast – a god among mere mortals.
EPILOGUE: A CHEEKY DIGESTIF
There was a long pause, as my interrogators stared at me, open-mouthed.
Then the man pushed a button on the tape recorder. “I think that’s probably all we need,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. He fiddled briefly with the stout wires running from the machine to the wall, then stood and stretched. The standard lamp in the corner flickered again – he walked over and felt under the shade, switching it off.
The woman put her pen down and yawned. “Yes, we can stop now. A litany of fraud, violence and subversion. The authorities will be most interested, Felix.”
“But you promised you wouldn’t say anything,” I wailed.
“We promised nothing of the so
rt. And why should we?”
The big man by the door smirked and rose to his feet, massaging the back of his neck.
Bugger. This was it then. Just when I’d reached the pinnacle of the wine trade I was going to be shot out of the sky. I shook my head at the sheer injustice of it all. What was next? Arrest, extradition, electric shocks to the genitals and eighty years in a maximum security penitentiary? What a bloody shit show. Maybe if I sobbed and begged for mercy they would take pity on me? It was a long shot but I could feel the tears welling up.
“Unless, Felix, you would care to work for us? You have unconventional methods but you do appear to be a man who gets things done.”
I looked up sharply.
“We see no reason why you shouldn’t continue to work for Gatesave,” the woman continued, “but we may require you to help us from time to time.”
Hello. This sounded better. “What’s the pay?”
“Don’t be an arsehole, Hart!” shouted the man as he adjusted the standard lamp.
“This is your remuneration, Felix,” said the woman, tapping the recording machine.
Worth a try, I thought. I wondered whether I’d be given a gun. “Well, now that I’m working for Her Majesty’s Government…”
“No, you’ve not quite understood, Felix,” interrupted the woman. “We don’t work for British Intelligence.” She pulled a phone from her bag, pushed a couple of buttons and held it to her ear. “Bonjour. Oui.”
Oh Christ. Not the bloody French Secret Service, surely? Still, the staff canteen was probably better than the one at MI6.
The woman held the phone away from her ear for a second. “What was it Sandra said? ‘Not too bright, but intelligent enough to dress without help’. A certain peasant cunning, I think it’s called.” She returned the phone to her ear. “Oui. D’accord.”
“Sandra? Sandra who?” I demanded.
“Sandra from Paris-Blois Brands International, Felix.”
What the hell? I had no idea what was going on.
“We work for their research division. We’re a thirty-billion-euro business, Felix. I think you’ll find we’re better resourced than most governments.” She passed the phone to me. “Many people work for us, whether they want to or not. And now you work for us, too. Your new boss wants a word.”
I took the phone and held it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Felix. Sandra here.”
“What…? How…?”
“You’re quite a talker, aren’t you? I’ve had the dubious pleasure of listening to your life story half the night.”
“I see. Well, I trust you enjoyed the racy bits?”
“Think of the past few hours as an audition, Felix. We’re having this conversation because you’ve been successful. Congratulations. You’ve got the role.”
“What role?”
“As an operative for Paris-Blois. There’s no pay and I’m not suggesting it will be a satisfying or enjoyable job. But, thanks to that loose tongue of yours, you’re going to do it anyway. Because the alternative will be considerably worse.”
I tried to recall the more compromising parts of my confession. The corpses buried in the garden would be inconvenient to explain to the authorities, true, but it’s not as if I bludgeoned them to death myself, was it? All the narcotics had been sold, bar a small chunk in the flat. And, according to my interrogator, Father Turk was dead. A recording wasn’t enough on its own, surely?
“I’m calling your bluff Sandra. You’ve got nothing on me but a drunken audio tape.”
Sandra sighed. “I wish I could be there Felix, to give your balls a good squeeze and engage that brain. We’ve no intention of telling the police. I only have to tell our Napoli office what you’ve been up to. We work very closely with the local families a little further south, their help is invaluable when it comes to, shall we say, stakeholder relations. Just imagine how they’ll take the news of your involvement in their business affairs.”
I remained silent. A Calabrian vendetta was not at the top of my Christmas present list. Sandra must have passed the phone over. A new, heavily accented voice squawked from the handset. Sandra’s boss.
“Felix ’Art! This is Pierre Boulle. Welcome to ze team, preek. You dick me about, we ’ave enough to put you in an ‘ole in ze ground. So, listen to my people and do what zey say, comprendre?”
The line went dead and my heart sank. I handed back the phone. The woman leant down and I heard the squeak of a metal box opening. She deposited my own phone on the desk and next to it placed a thick, expensive-looking white envelope bearing the crest of Paris-Blois Brands.
“It’s the Brazilian Grand Prix next week. We require you to be in São Paulo the day before. These are your tickets. Flight details too.”
A vision of tanned and athletic women floated before my eyes, all tousled dark hair and knowing smiles. I perked up. “How will I get the time off from Gatesave at such short notice? They’re not going to let me just jet off to Brazil.”
The woman rose and walked to the door. The big man stood aside and she retrieved a key from her pocket. “We employ you to find solutions, Felix, not problems.”
She unlocked the latch and the heavy door swung open. Sunlight flooded in from the lobby. It was morning. Time for Felix to go to work.
About The Author
Peter Stafford-Bow has decades of experience in the international wine trade and has worked for some of the largest retailers in the world. A precocious, self-taught imbiber, his travels have taken him to every major wine producing region, from Argentina to New Zealand, and over the course of his career he has swallowed, or spat, the vinous equivalent of several Olympic swimming pools.
He writes under a nom de plume to avoid attention from angry winemakers, supermarket executives, policemen, gangsters, religious fanatics and the British Board of Wine & Liquor. Corkscrew is his debut novel and he lives alone in Blois, France, surrounded by his wine collection and his loyal pet ferrets, Brett and Corky.
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