Bread

by Stephen Brown

THE JOURNAL OF ELLIOT CRIPPLESBY

  The ship sailed at eleven in the morning and our dastardly Professor went with it. He has “more caber tae toss than a McGovern highlander,” as was said to me one summer by a Scotsman called Wally. He was a Highlander I shared a table with once at a transport café on the A1 just North of Peterborough. He was going off on one about a ‘Sassenach’ he constantly referred to as ‘Beaky.’

  I think they had been working together on the roads and this Beaky fellow had done him over in some way. It was difficult to tell because I was only picking up every third or fourth word the man said, his thick, accented drawl being worsened by a face full of egg and chips. This thing about the cabers was one of the few phrases I actually picked up in its entirety. Quite what it means though I still have no idea.

  No doubt les gendarmes have Humphries’ fingerprints, but who would expect the man to choose the most publicised event of the month as his getaway? The French constabulary must have men posted at the airports, both in Nice and at the couple of local aerodromes dotted about the countryside and there were more than likely all manner of squad cars buzzing up and down the main roads leading out of the area, keeping their beady little eyes open for a man answering to the Professor’s description (which they now had from Ollie in Kenya), but none of this running the gauntlet for Alan Humphries. He just hitches himself a lift on the Snowy-downed Swan with the eyes of the world watching and has the audacity to wave at the cameras as he does so!

  I contacted Donald in his sick bed back in Mombassa, for he seems as keen as us now to catch this brazen, brass-necked psychopath - so much so that he is throwing the weight of his not inconsiderable fortune behind us. I think the coins, the battering, and the whole principle of the thing have really got under our South African friend’s skin.

  Of course, we couldn’t get anywhere even remotely close to the ship as the massed members of the press and media had closed ranks and flexed their collective muscles - it was alright for the public to read about the event in their papers or see it on TV, but not to actually be there and see it for themselves. Good God no!

  So we were forced to watch as the Swan sailed away, standing amongst the cheering throng of adoring fans who were je t’adore-ing and waving their little Tricolours with mad abandon.

  That always puzzles me: just why do people get so excited about watching someone arrive somewhere, or leave again, just because they are rich and – well, I was going to say ‘talented’ there, but you can never be sure can you? It’s the same with royals. Just where do all these people come from with their ridiculous bows and curtsies and gawd bless you ma’ams? It’s beyond me, it really is.

  The ship is stopping off in the Azores to allow a few more high profile guests to board and is then sailing for Matagorda Bay, in Texas. We’ll take a couple of days off here to recover and then fly over there to await his arrival. I think perhaps that Mr. Humphries may have been too clever for his own good this time.

  ***