A Stone Called Fred
Page 4
I found her among other journalists at the bar, all waiting for the celebrities to reappear and the usual line-up to be introduced to the Queen. Fiona was chatting to a young cameraman I recognised from the video to be Justin Savin. When she saw me, she came over at once and greeted me with her usual affectionate fervour. “How did you get on? I noticed you managed to get into the theatre with the help of Fred. Where is he, by the way?”
I explained I had left him in the care of a potted plant.
“AND managed to get into the Royal Box with the Queen and all the Royal Family.” I said proudly.
“No!” she exclaimed incredulously.
“Yes, I’ve just left. I managed to pinch one of their chocolates, but I s’pose that wouldn’t make headline news.”
“Er - no. Not really.”
“I managed to keep the recorder going and captured most of the conversation.” “Clever boy, Jack!”
(While I was talking, I had one eye on Justin Savin) which was another reason I wanted to impress Fiona with my achievements).
“Wow! The Royal Box! That is AMAZING! Let’s go home now and hear what you have on the recorder. You must have some riveting stuff there. I’ll delegate my interview with Lily Lushus to someone else - this is more important. Wait there, Jack,” and she dashed off on the mission to present some lucky colleague with her plum job of interviewing Lily Lushus. I meanwhile was feeling a little uncomfortable, hoping fervently that the conversation on the differing merits of whiskey distillers would live up to her expectations.
She came back having fulfilled her mission. “Jack, you collect Fred, you’ll easily get past the security at the door. I’ll meet you outside in about ten minutes. See you. ‘Toodle-ooo”, and off she went leaving an aura of extreme national importance and optimism behind her.
I went obediently to collect Fred, but with the uncomfortable premonition that somehow all was not going to go right with the day. Returning to the potted palm where I remembered I had left him, there was no sign of him. Could I have made a mistake? There were plenty of other potted palms scattered round the lobby. I went to each in turn, and then back to the first. I started scrabbling in the earth round the plant, getting more panicky by the minute.
By this time, I was getting some very strange looks from the theatre staff. “May I help you sir?” asked one. I straightened up from my excavations, with very hot face. “I - er - thought I had left a glass of wine in there.” I explained sheepishly.
“You BURIED it?” I could see the suspicious look on his face.
“So it wouldn’t get knocked over.” I explained. I was learning to be a good liar, but could see the unlikely story was not much of a hit with the listener. I laughed in an embarrassed sort of way. “Someone must have walked off with it. Must go and get another.”
Leaving him, I went into the bar. It was full of customers, probably mostly journalists. Feeling more ridiculous by the minute, I asked the barman if he had seen a large stone. He was used to customers with strange questions. “How large?” he asked.
“About this big.” I said, indicating Fed’s dimensions. With a voice that could be heard from the top of Piccadilly to the bottom of Regent Street, he shouted to the assembly: “Someone ‘ere’s lost a large stone.”
A joker called back. “I’ve put on two since I came into thish shtablishment. It’s all that beer you keep a’pourin’down me frote, Pat.”
The barman joined in the fun. “Ye haven’t by chance been to County Cork lately have you, sir? Someone tole me the Blarney Stone had gone a-miss’n’”
There was a lot of banter, ending with a customer tipping a tiny piece of grit from his shoe onto the counter. “Thish it, mister?” I smiled at his little joke, and as casually as I could, left the bar to continue the hunt for Fred.
Mentally picturing Fiona waiting outside in the rain, I stood uncertainly wondering what to do next. There seemed nothing for it but to try and bluff my way out of the theatre.
A NIGHT IN THE CELLS
“Should I stick to the truth as near as possible, embellished a little?” I wondered. “Yes, this might be the best policy”. I rehearsed the story in my mind…
This was it: “I was in the crowd outside the theatre, an innocent bystander, but the crowd surged forward like a great tidal wave and I was swept along into the theatre entrance, all the time trying to fight my way back. “Help” I cried. “I have no ticket. This is illegal. You must not force me into the theatre against my will’. But the crowd prevailed and I found myself helplessly propelled inside.”
It sounded improbable, but it might work. Alternatively, another, rather further from the truth… “I was mistaken for a famous actor and forced into the theatre by a crowd of journalists and autograph hunters, protesting all the time I was not the person they took me for”. That sounded even more unlikely. I could not think of anyone in the thespian world who looked the least like me. much as I had always wanted to resemble Hugh Grant.
In the end, I decided to brazen it out.
I walked innocently towards the policeman at the door, looking as gormless as I could (not too diffcult) and made to stroll outside.
He of course barred my way. “Just a minute. Where do you think you’re off to?” “My girlfriend is waiting for me outside.”
“Your theatre ticket” he demanded, showing no mercy whatever. It seemed I was already under grave suspician.
“I - I’ve lost it.” I had a sudden inspiration. “I’m a reporter with the journal ‘Mainstream.’
“Your press card.” He was a hard man!
“I -I’ve lost that too.” I strained my eyes into the darkness outside, desperate for Fiona to come and rescue me, but could see no sign of her.
“You are rather good at losing things, aren’t you.”
(I was just going to make up a long story about the documents were all contained in a wallet I had inadvertently dropped in the gents. and having returned to retrieve it, found it was gone, etc. etc.), when an attendant came hurriedly over and whispered in the policeman’s ear. Two more policeman appeared from nowhere, the recorder was taken from me and I was put into a fierce armlock.
“You are under arrest on a charge of suspected terrorism.” read one of the policeman from his notebook. “You have been seen acting suspiciously near four pot plants in the foyer of the Dreary Lane Theatre and carrying an electronic package. We are taking you in for questioning. Anything you say may be used in evidence against you.”
With that, I was marched outside to a waiting police car in time to see the horrified figure of Fiona, who had been waiting for me all this time. Bundled into the police car, I could hear the sound of sirens in the near distance. I was obviously the cause of a major emergency.
Still dazed at this sudden turn of events, at the police station, I was stripped-searched, the underpants eventually restored to me and, shivering more from shock than from cold, taken to a cell and left there to ponder my impending fate.
“Did they still execute people for treason?” I wondered. Would a charge of treason involve listening into private royal conversations, let alone that of terrorism? I concluded it most certainly would. Pictures came into my mind from school history books of the beheadings of Charles the First, of Anne Bolyn and worse still, those of Guy Fawkes and the fates of Babington and gruesome hangings at Tyburn, all now remembered with a clarity and attention never accorded to them in my school days.
Tyburn now did not exist I remembered with some relief, having been replaced with the more peaceable Marble Arch. It would be shameful being hanged in full view of the shoppers in Oxford Street. My mother might have been one of them, with her friend Mrs. Juniper.
“Ruby dear, is that your Jack on the scaffold over there?”
“Does look something like him. What’s he been up to now, I wonder?” “I think he is about to be drawn and quartered.”
This comic scenario was meant to cheer myself up. It didn’t. I wondered now what Fiona was thinking and where she was.
While I was sitting miserably on the little hard bed in the cell, the police sergeant came back bearing the rest of my clothes, plus five pounds and sixpence, a handkerchief and an unopened packet of chewing gum, items found in my jacket pocket, evidently considered harmless, the recorder, mike and my wristwatch still in custody. In the meantime, Fiona had not been idle. She had jumped into the nearest cab and instructed the driver to “follow that police car.” She had always loved those dramatic Hollywood scenes and now she was in one herself and rather enjoying the excitement. She arrived at the police station a few minutes after me.
While I was sitting in the police cell awaiting my fate, she had pleaded my cause with the detectives on duty, taking a lot of the blame on herself for my unauthorised entry into the theatre without ticket or pass. She told them I was a harmless and rather dim individual, easily persuaded into stupid actions, (which was partly true). The upshot of it all was that she herself was arrested as a possible ‘accessory after the fact’.
So now we were both in it, up to our necks!
DUMPED
Fiona was not one to take things lying down. She was led away to a police cell , protesting loudly and calling for all the witnesses she could think of to testify as to her innocence and as a bona fide law-abiding citizen of the United Kingdom and respected employee of Mainstream Ltd. Apart from her parents, who were summoned, she was told only a solicitor was allowed.
Sitting in my lonely cell, I could now hear her voice which gladdened me greatly.
The long night wore on. I was brought sandwiches and a mug of tea. I could hear more voices and recognised those of Fiona’s parents and that of a man. I assumed that would be the family solicitor. No further sounds were heard, except those of a drunkard brought in after a particularly celebratory night on the town. I was brought a blanket, so laid down and tried to sleep. I wondered when it would be my turn for questioning.
I must have dropped off eventually and when I awoke, the first signs of a grey dawn were creeping through the little cell window high up. The cell door was unlocked. A police sergeant stood there. “You are free to go, Mr. Watt.” That was it. No explanation given.
As I walked through the door, I saw Fiona and her parents standing at the desk. Apart from Fiona, the usually friendly faces were stern. I was handed my wristwatch and wallet with bank card intact, Fiona already had possession of the recorder and accessory. I was then handed a form.
“Fill this in please, Mr. Watt and sign it.” said the sergeant. No one else said a word. The atmosphere was icy. I filled in and signed the form which obliged me to report to the police station every day for the next seven days to make sure I suppose, I was not going to abscond to some enemy country. Fiona had also been given one. I had to sign another form to acknowledge receipt of the watch and wallet. Formalities completed, we were given permission to leave.
“Fiona, are you coming home with us?” asked her father. There was an implication in his voice that spoke of a severe ‘ticking-off’ once they were safely on home ground.
“Dad, I have to be at work by nine. I’ll go back with Jack and have some breakfast with him at his flat. See you this evening.” I could tell that she was hoping things might have calmed down by then and her father’s wrath diminished somewhat.
As her parents left the station and went their separate ways, Fiona and I hailed a cab, arriving at my flat at 6.30 a.m. I had walked to the theatre, so my car was still safely in its garage. On the way, we had marvelled at the fact that no one had thought to play back the recording we assumed was still on the machine. Surely its contents would have been enough to convict us of a felony. This was a great relief at least.
We were still in sober mood when we reached my flat. In the kitchen, while Fiona sat silently at the table, I made coffee and toast for us both. Everything was working perfectly. The coffee helped to cheer up both of us somewhat. Fiona was obviously thinking of all the “juicy” bits waiting for us on the recorder which would be the making of her career, I, with relief that there was still no sign of Fred. We finished our breakfast and switched on the recorder.
After it had run for a bit and nothing happened, Fiona said: “Play it back and let’s start again.” We did. We waited. And waited… The expression on Fiona’s face began to resemble a thunderstorm in the making. “Jack, you wally!” she exploded.
“Fiona, I can’t understand it. I know I operated it correctly. It doesn’t take rocket science to play a recording machine. I know I did nothing wrong. This is quite ridiculous.”
“You must have forgotten to turn it on. Blast, the interview with Lily Lushus lost - and for what? Probably my job is finished as well. I had told them I had something even more important up my sleeve. What a fool I am going to look! I suppose you’re now going to tell me the Queen and Royal Family were all struck dumb. “
“There was a lot of talk about whisky and liquor chocolates… and ghosts. The Queen said that the ghost of Noel Coward haunted the theatre and Princess Augusta said she had seen him. I omitted to mention that I was responsible for the “ghost” pinching a chocolate and for other manifestations and that Mr. Coward was perfectly innocent of any hauntings that day, as far as I knew.”
Fiona picked up her coat and handbag hanging on the back of the chair. “I must get to work if I’ve still got a job. Jack, I think we had better call everything off. Bad luck seems to follow you around and it looks as if I’m catching the bug.”
“But Fiona darling, the whole idea was yours. I was reluctant from the beginning to spy on Her Majesty.”
“And you very effectively made sure you didn’t. I see the whole thing now. You made sure there was nothing recorded. You planned this all along. I’m finished with you, Jack.” She was crying now.
“Fiona, honestly, I promise you this was not my doing.” But she was out of the door and running down the stairs before I could stop her. I heard the downstairs door slam.
I raced after her, but was too late. She had already hailed a passing cab. I was in time to see the tail lights disappearing round the corner of our road. There was no one else about and no sound except the clink of bottles from the milkman’s delivery van in the next road. I stood there, street-lights shining on the wet surface from last night’s rain. It felt incredibly lonely. I almost wished Fred was back.
FRED…! OF COURSE! It was he who was responsible for the malfunctioning of the recorder. Why on on earth had I not realised this before? I had known of his dislike for all electrical equipment, not only kettles and toasters, but of course it would extend to recorders as well.
Now, far from wishing him back, I resolved to finally put an end to the so-and-so if I ever saw him again!
EVERYTHING
GOES WRONG
I awoke next morning with an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach. In a state of semi-wakefulness, something seemed amiss. Then dawned the realisation.
Fiona had left me for reasons I was not completely clear about, except that she suspected me of a dire plot to thwart her grand plan of a giant headline in next morning’s press. It had after all, I reasoned, been her idea to stage that silly deception at the theatre, to which I had only reluctantly agreed to. Despite all that, I missed her terribly. Outside, the rain battered on the window. It was going to be a horrible day. Time to get up and get ready for work. Instead, I buried my head under the bedclothes, wishing yesterday had never happened.
In the end, I did get up and blearily made my way into the kitchen. There was Fred, back again in his old place in the middle of the table, but, as if sympathising with my mood, he was in sober garb, grey and quiet, with none of the theatricals he sometimes displayed. I felt surprisingly glad to see him. At least
, he was someone - or something - to talk to.
“You old reprobate! You let me down yesterday. Now I’ve lost Fiona. Fiona’s probably lost her job and I feel thoroghly miserable. What have you to say for yourself?”
It wouldn’t have bothered me unduly if he had answered. Anything could happen with Fred. Never a dull moment with him. But now he remained silent and passive like any old piece of granite found on the seashore, but with magic incorporated in that cold, grey exterior.
Having duly reported to the local police station as per orders given the day before, I decided against going to work. Up to that time, with a discipline imposed at school and at home, it would have been unthinkable to have missed a day’s work for no particular reason. I would say I was sick and it was true. I was sick at heart which was a very painful illness. The recorder and mike were still where Fiona had left them. I would go to Fiona’s office to return them, accompanied by Fred. The latter was almost assuming the character of a faithful pet dog, except that a dog would have been better trained. I reasoned that I could then choose whether or not to become unseen, depending on what the reception might be. In a sort of muddled way, since I had no particular plan, I could perhaps persuade her to come back to me.
I hoped she had not lost her job, otherwise I would not be welcome and it could make matters worse, if that were possible.
Accordingly, I made ready. Fiona’s office was somewhere in the vicinity of Fleet Street. I had never been there, but I knew the address. With Fred in my pocket, I got into my car and off we went - into the unknown. At that time of day, traffic was heavy as usual, but, while negotiating my way through it, it did occur to me to wonder why I seemed to be getting some rather unusual attention as I drove along. I put it down to the fact I hadn’t cleaned the car lately and it was looking muddy from a trip made to East Anglia about three weeks ago when I took my mother to visit an ageing relative somewhere in the Fens district. I made a mental note to visit a car-wash as soon as possible.