Canterbury [25]

Dear ______,

I'm sure you are acutely aware when your sins have found you out. Well, at last it's even happened to me, and in very strange circumstances!

As you know, I often visit the Palm House at Kew to reflect on things. (I have a Relaxation Pass.) Unfortunately, when I was there last Monday a strange thing occurred. it took my mind back to my trip to Canterbury.

Last year, I journeyed to Canterbury Cathedral. On entering, I gasped aloud with astonishment at the architecture. Two vergers approached me swiftly and discreetly, like hunting bats. "Can I help you?" one whispered in that throaty insinuating manner they acquire during training.

"No thank you," I replied firmly. I indicated the overall length of the cathedral. "Can't you see that it's bent?" (Some tourists, ever ready for the possibility of a free spectacle, were already closing in.) "It's not bent. It's just slightly curved. Look at it," said the verger. We all looked. "It was built like that to miss an existing castle in the corner. It's all in the guide, which you can purchase . . ." (The crowd started to drift away.)

"Look," I said to the verger. "I need to have a confidential word with you." (The tourists paused.) "It's about Thomas à Becket. Well not really about him. It's about the money. (The tourists were back!)

The verger regarded me as would a kindly physician dealing with the mentally obsessed. "You're looking for the treasure, aren't you? An immense fortune acquired over hundreds of years." I nodded vigorously in agreement.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the tourists also nodding as they pressed closer. "Come," said the verger, and, opening a little door, we descended to the crypt. We went along a passage and then climbed up to where a narrow door opened out by the screen and where Thomas à Becket's tomb had been. The verger now said, "I know the first part of the story. Ginger is best with the rest."

I protested. "You don't have to go to all this trouble."

The verger replied. "Yes, I do. You know something which we don't. We learn to smell out such things. If we keep on telling you more, you'll be more and more in our debt. It's the secret of extracting painless confessions. Are you ready?" I indicated that I was. He pinned me against a pillar and began.

"As everyone knows, Thomas à Becket was slain here on 29 December 1170. Forget the rights and wrongs between him and Henry II. Let's just say he defended his own privileges more than his faith.

"The effect of his death was immediate and was felt throughout Europe. It was like the death of Princess Diana, except that in his case he really was canonized. As with Diana, the pilgrimages started immediately. Donations flowed in from all parts of the world. The treasure was enormous. The city of Canterbury lived off the presence of pilgrims and the sale of tasteless 'sacred objects', rather like the Diana industry today."

He paused and said "But you're not interested in all that, are you? Ginger an tell you what happened regarding the treasure. Then you must make your contribution." From behind a pillar stepped a figure in a black cassock. It was Ginger!

He had a thin, highly complexioned face, with bright red hair and straggly beard. "It's Rufus. Mr Rufus to you lot," he snarled. Then he turned to the verger. "Has he said anything yet? No? Alright, I'll fill him in and then see if he's got anything useful to say."

Mr Rufus turned back to me and showed me the commemorative tablet. "The remains of Thomas à Becket lay here for centuries," he said. "In those days there was a whole shrine to mark the spot. Then Henry VIII came along, dissolved the monasteries, and as head of the Church confiscated Church lands and treasured.

"Henry was particularly keen to destroy the shrine of Thomas à Becket. It had signified a victory of the Church over an English king 368 years earlier. The symbol of royal shame had to be removed. Henry VIII had the right instruments to hand.

"Henry was not directly involved. Instead, Thomas cromwell called on the Office of Sequestrations to issue a Donations Order on the Abbey officials. A company of collectors rode down here. They removed the remains of Thomas à Becket, the timber and marble masonry of the shrine and the vast amounts of gold. All in all, they filled twenty-four wagonloads and three great chests of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, etc., and delivered it to Whitehall Palace."

"WRONG!" I interrupted. "They only delivered five wagonloads and two great chests. I know because I looked up the reports of the General Receiver in the Exchequer Rolls, at the Public Records Office."

Mr Rufus turned on me. "Look, we can't talk here." He indicated the throng of interested tourists. "We need to reach what I call an accommodation. Do you know a pub called The Hole in the Wall?" I said that I could find it. We arranged to meet in the back room in one hour. He hurried away through the multi-coloured cloud of tourists.

When I got to the back room of The Hole in the Wall I was surprised to find five men there surrounding Mr Rufus. He didn't bother to introduce me but plunged straight into the meeting.

Jabbing one thumb in my direction he said: "This man knows all about the missing chest of treasure. Almost certainly he's worked out how it went missing, and where. I say we elect him a member of the company with a full equal share. Then he can spill the beans."

In a trice I was elected to full membership; they sat me down with a pint of beer. Mr Rufus said "Start!"

I said "I can't tell you much really (The pint of beer disappeared.) except that they followed the Pilgrim's route back to London, largely the old Watling Street Harbledown – River Medway at Rochester – Shooters Hill – Blackheath – Deptford – Southwark. To take treasure required more than one person. That means cooperation and that means planning."

I explained "You can't dispose of heavy chest of jewels in a hurry. It's got to be hidden swiftly and unobtrusively. The best place is underwater. We know that they had two objectives. The first was that they must remove all trace of Thomas à Becket. The final resting place must not be known. The second objective was to deliver treasure to the King. The only legitimate place for them to stop on the way to London was to dispose of the bodily remains. That's when they hid the treasure chest.

"I propose that we split up and each of us survey a section of the route, using old maps to show the lie of stretches of water. There is just one other place worth the search. That's the Leper Hospital at Harbledown. It's on the route and it was isolated."

Mr Rufus immediately took command. Copies of AA maps were produced (my pint of beer re-appeared). The maps were studied and route sections were allocated. Within five minutes we were ready for dispersal. Mr Rufus looked through the window. "Out the back way, quickly!" he ordered. Sure enough, already there was a tide of tourists shuffling forwards.

As I left the pub I asked Mr Rufus "How do we keep in touch?" He plied "Don't worry. We'll be watching you. You'll be contacted at the right time." As I drive norther to London, I reflected on an interesting experience. The more I thought about the matter, the more preposterous is appeared. But now it was over.

As I was saying, one year later I was relaxing in the Palm House at Kew. Suddenly, those luscious green fronds in front of me were parted and a foxy face with red hair and straggly beard appeared.

The red haired man said to me: "You know me don't you?" he said. I nodded "Yes". "and I know you too," he went on. "Just to let you know, we're waiting for ou. We shall not wait much longer." He disappeared.

I rushed to the other side of the display. No one was there, except a squat uniformed female attendant with a purple muzzle. But was she genuine or was it just a clever disguise?

I'd better get off to Chatham to continue the search.

The Departure Lounge [54]

Dear ______,

For some time now, I have had the growing suspicion that you all think these letters were written a long time ago, and that all I am doing is to update them.

To correct any misimpression on your part I am writing this note, which will both remind you of The Greystoke and act as a reminder of your role therein.

As you know, there is an area of of The Greystoke pub which is secluded from the more lively atmosphere pervading the place. This special area is known as "The Departure Lounge", and contains those who will not be with us much longer.

The rules for membership are highly complex and therefore are unspoken. They were formulated by Cameron or Peter (or anyone who happens to be present).

Recently, Cameron invented a gambling game. To join in one has to wager a penny or two to predict whether the next person to enter the pub will be male or female. At first, Cameron would creep around the back of the pub and enter boldly and the door nearest our table, claiming to be a strange male. We quickly saw through this ruse and barred it from the bet.

One day, we were bored with the bet, when the door opened and a strange creature entered. It was impossible to detect whether it was male or female because it was dressed from head to foot in a single shapeless garment rather like a Muslim chador. The face was hidden behind thick cosmetics which displayed a grisly grin. The only one with a definite opinion was Lou, who said it could not be a Muslim, since Muslims eschewed alcohol. This left us in uproar! Who, if anyone, had won the bet?

It seemed natural that Cameron should decide our action. Like all great field commanders, he chose the most dependable of subordinates – Peter. This man had shown great knowledge, both tactical and background, to apply to our problem. Peter knew everyone who visited the pub – their personal backgrounds, their occupations, hobbies, friends, relatives and lovers. In a flash, Peter had contacted everyone in the pub. He'd drawn a blank. Meanwhile, the strange person had moved, sedately but purposefully, towards the toilets. But which toilet would be used?

By now, a silence had descended over the pub. Would Gentlemen or Ladies be chosen? We watched eagerly. The ladies' toilets were chosen. A sigh of relief came from the Departure Lounge. Our strange visitor was female. This means that those betting on a woman had won. However, Cameron does not accept defeat without a struggle. With a dismissive gesture, he indicated that Peter should "follow through", Peter is not an automaton. He exchanged a few co-operative words with Wendy, a leading figure among the bar staff. "You want me to lead the way and find this person of indeterminate sex. I suppose what we do then will depend on what we find." They disappeared inside the ladies' toilets. We heard a few of Peter's mating calls, such as "Hello, Flower" and "How are you, Petal?" Then there was silence.

After a while, the stranger appeared and made its way to the pub exit to disappear in the melée that characterizes the pedestrian traffic in Queen's Parade. All eyes now focused on the ladies' toilet.

Then the door swung open and Wendy appeared. "I didn't find anyone," she announced. "You'll have to ask Peter." Meanwhile, another person had arrived and had taken his place where Peter used to sit. He looked like an exact copy of our Peter, except that he had less hair and was not very good at crosswords. Still, the new Peter was an acceptable substitute for our one.

We never found the old Peter. Later, the police were called. Again, we got no result. Even Cameron was prepared to accept that Peter had gone. We organized a reward. The notice was contrived by Cameron:

WE WILL PAY A PREMIUM PRICE FOR A PREMIUM PETER

Parking Ticket [53]

Dear ______,

As you may know, I have recently started to behave in an odd manner. For example, I was recently detected wandering the bedroom corridors of the Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool with a cricketing enthusiast! The cause was simple. I had to tell you, if only to clear the air.

A few weeks ago I received a fine for parking without a parking ticket. The penalty was only £30, but I was angered at the injustice of it.

I had been showing my nephew's wife – a lovely and exotic Colombian lady – how to negotiate Ealing by car. We stopped to meet her husband. I had parked in the car park and had bought a parking ticket. With a youthful, careless gesture, I had stuck the adhesive part of the ticket to my windscreen and thrown the other part – the vital part – away. I decided to appeal against the fine.

Waving goodbye to my Colombian friend, I hurried to the Fixed Motor Penalties Office, which is modestly situated to one side of the Town Hall. This was the first time I met the lady officer whom I came to know as Esme. She is a muscular person, with dress appropriate to a whaling vessel. Her full name is Esme Jones. I told her that I accepted some of the blame but that the parking tickets were badly designed. I was about to simulate the movements of careful parking ticket disposition when she stopped me in my tracks.

"What this amounts to is that you are contesting the basic procedures of a highly skilled car park attendant. Complete a CONTENTION FORM. You can take it away to complete, with or without expert advice. In this event you must complete a DELAYED COMPLETION TICKET."

As you know, I prefer the simple approach to life, so I decided to complete my Contention Form there and then. Of course, I had to book my place at the Contention Completion Desk, but finally I was ready with my completed Contention Form.

Esme took my form and glanced through it. "This form appears to fulfill the requirements of an APPEALS SUBMISSION", she said. "When would you be available for your appeal?" I shook my head, indicating reluctance to attend in person. This simple negatory gesture seemed to inflame Esme's anger.

"Look," she cried loudly, "don't waste everyone's time! You've already completed your Contention Form and, even as we speak, it is being automatically entered in the Appeals Register." She indicated a computer screen. "See? Your appeal is already booked for next Thursday at 10.20am. It will be heard before Ms Esme Jones and will last until 10.27am. That is swift and certain justice, is it not?"

"It's not justice at all," I protested. "My appeal is to be before you and is scheduled to last only seven minutes. I want to appeal right now against your appeals procedure."

I thought at first that Esme was going to attack me, but then her expression softened. "I empathise with your concern for us to achieve higher levels of justice throughout Ealing. You may like to know that the Mayor of London has allocated a source fund for what is to be called COMMUNITY CONSENSUS.

"Ealing Community Consensus Committee (ECCC) is our local group, dedicated to enriching the lives of all of us by communication, co-operation, open discussion of differing aims and objectives, and active aid and assistance to all other groups in the ECCC. Would you like to join?

I told her I'd like to join but asked about my fine. "I'm afraid that must stand," she said. "You must pay before your application to join the ECCC can be considered. We can't have people with outstanding criminal charges joining us. You pay your fine now and then complete your ECCC application form. I will endorse it. Once your ECCC application is approved, I'll see you in the back bar of the Old Vic pub at half past seven on the second Tuesday of any month commencing next May."

I paid my fine and left, leaving my uncompleted ECCC application behind. I have ignored numerous postal and telephone reminders. I advise you to do the same!

Yours,

Recorded Note of Greeting [35]

Date ___________

To Whom It May Concern

The undersigned transmits this personal note of regret for not having sent you a greeting on ___________.

It must be appreciated that the originator of this communication has many demands on his time.

Therefore he cannot be expected to attend to every matter on which he is expected to burden himself.

Your eager letter of gratitude concerning this communication will be properly processed.

Signed on behalf of

___________

Coach to Andalucia [36]

Dear ______,

I have been involved in legal action ever since making a coach journey to Spain. My solicitors are Malahide, Leech & Loot. They have told me there is money in this thing. What do you think?

On 2 May 1997, after a preparatory drink at The Shakespeare pub, Richard Hart and I hurled ourselves into the maelstrom that is Victoria Coach Station on a Friday night. There was confusion about everything: tickets, coaches, destination, departure locations.

We were pointed to a section marked EUROPEAN AND OTHER OVERSEAS DESTINATIONS. There, an official with a thick European accent yelled "Get behind the rope!! All you passengers stay behind the rope!!" We waited. Then they started assigning us to our specific coaches.

I moved towards the nearest luxury coach, but was directed around it to an old bus standing behind it. An official with a large peaked cap, whom we later came to know as "Herr Direktor", inspected my ticket as though he had never seen one before. Finally he said "Due to an office error, you are not a first class passenger. This means that you are not authorised to avail yourself of all the facilities on this coach."

"Like what?"

"Permanent seating position. Use of toilet. TV viewing. Things like that. However, a modest payment now will immediately elevate your status. The coach is about to depart. It's your decision. 'Pay or stay!' I could see Richard waving, so I paid.

We staggered to the back of the old bus at 10pm as it roared out of the station. It smelled of old, perfumed disinfectant. I found myself on the narrow rear seat with four others. We were struggling to stow the luggage which the driver had refused to take in the luggage compartment. This included four large hat boxes, a guitar and what looked like an alligator. The only empathy among us on the back row was the timing of our bouncing.

There were only a few lights on within the bus. They were available only to "front of bus" passengers. Just in front of me, one of the "back" passengers started to adjust the individual light above her seat. She was immediately detected by a "front" person, who called "Stop! Don't do anything so foolish as to interfere with the controls of this coach! You endanger everyone. I shall report you!" We were silent for a while.

As the bus clattered through South London, we stopped at traffic lights alongside the luxury coach. On its upper deck, they appeared to be holding a cocktail party. A couple were dancing. Below, they had commenced ten-pin bowling. Meanwhile, on our bus, an official (Herr Direktor) shouted "Tickets!" and moved to inspect them once again. This was to be a recurring feature of the trip. Thus, clutching our belongings in the semi-darkness and bouncing against each other, we rattled down into Dover harbour.

After boarding our ferry we were allowed to get off the bus. Before doing so we were told our deck and staircase position: G6. We had to chant it in unison to prove we would remember it. We were not allowed access to our luggage. Escape would be impossible before Paris. So we used the ferry like everyone else. We had a modest meal and relaxed. The passengers from the luxury bus were attending a banquet at the Captain's table.

On boarding our bus again at Calais, I noticed that it had no destination sign. However, in view of the other defects I didn't treat this as significant. The bus lurched to wards Paris but it had only travelled for 30 minutes before it pulled into a secluded service are. The driver, a Romanian, announced "Stop. Meal. One hour."

Of course, there were protests, but he had already disappeared into the service station kitchen to visit his brother, the owner. We sat around in groups with passengers of another bus. You know how it is when we bus travel veterans get talking about our experiences – famous drivers, transfers, marathon trips. After a while, a grizzled man, his pockets flowing with tickets, turn to me and said "I see your bus has no destination sign."

"Is that significant?" I asked.

"It means that you are on the 'Bus from Hell'. Yes. There are some buses like this. They are fated to roam the motorways of Europe carrying their passengers to their doom. Only when the last person has been delivered to a municipal cemetery will the curse be lifted and the drivers be allowed to return to their loved ones."

Now I knew that I must escape as soon as I could land on neutral territory. Meanwhile, we all climbed back on the bus. From there we could see our driver in the kitchen stuffing himself with steak and chips. After 45 minutes he was ready and we were away. Of course, soon the old cry went up: "Another sick bag for the driver!"

Thereafter, the journey was chaotic with commotion and complaints. It started with the German woman crying that her alligator, Gertrud, was ill. She suspected poison. She complained until we all moved from the back seat so that Gertrud could lie stretched out. Gertrud's rheumy eye betokened no gratitude. Our driver contacted a mobile vet by phone. He joined us in a deserted lay-by. Monsieur Noah, our Euro-vet, was accompanied by an attractive nurse who immediately made a cash collection.

M. Noah examined his patient. "Aha!" he exclaimed. "As I thought. Poor petite Gertrud has indeed been poisoned, and with a lavender-scented nougat bar!" He turned on the Direktor. "What kind of sub-specification vehicle are you running here? You allow your reptile passengers to be attacked in this way?"

The Direktor responded immediately. "Right! If I find the swine who has attacked Gertrud, he will be put straight into the cooler. Empty your pockets everyone! We're smelling for lavender here!"

The cooler was a small cell under the luggage compartment. It was used for recalcitrant passengers until they could be handed over to the proper authorities. At present, the cooler contained Carruthers, who kept his spirits up by incessantly singing "We're Riding Along on the Crest of a Wave". (Apparently, Carruthers had been caught winking at a pretty female passenger. In European Law this is called "monocular molestation".)

No lavender-scented nougat could be found. The Direktor told us that the bus would have to be diverted to Paris(!) for a more detailed search. We skirted Mönchengladbach and entered France once more.

At Paris Coach Station, we met up with the luxury coach. Under cover of the uproar involved in removing Carruthers, we were able to recover our luggage and deposit it in the luxury coach.

We offered our tickets to the coach host. "We were expecting you yesterday, Gentlemen," he said with a subservient smile. "I'm afraid you have missed fun events and free refreshments. Still, if you'll pass right down to the rear, there are two seats in the corner. Yes, next to the man with the sick gorilla. I'll be along later to rent out some Travel Scrabble."

As the coach sped through South Paris, I suddenly remembered something which hadn't previously registered. Our coach carried no sign of its destination.

____________________________________


The above had been thrown from the window of an old bus passing northwards through Bordeaux. It pleaded for onward transmission.

"HONOUR BOUND"

or "ALL'S WELL AT ST NETHERFIELDS"

Take that, you young cub!" roared the lout, punctuating each word with a kidney punch. It was Steggs, the dunderhead of 5X, bullying poor little Miggs again.

"I'll teach you to burn my toast, you beastly little fag," he mouthed with a frightful oath, and, again fixing the poor young chap's ear firmly between his decaying teeth, he set about him once more.

Suddenly the door was flung open and there stood Chalmers, hero of the younger crowd (flexing his muscles), his blue hair blazing with fury and his fetching fair eyes parted into a neat quiff.

"Here, enough of that rot, Steggs," he murmured politely, as he stepped lightly into the filthy den. Then, turning to Miggs, he added quietly "Here, cut along young 'un, and report to Matron." Miggs' eyes filled with tears of gratitude, but a chap must not blubber, so merely nodding his thanks, the plucky child picked up his ear and fled.

Steggs, who until now had watched speechless with amazement, now turned the full fury of his rage against our hero.

"What the hell d'you think you are on, Sir Flippin' Galahad?" he choked, and rushed at Chalmers.

But Chalmers, neatly sidestepping, gave him a smart clip on the jaw. "So, it's a brawl you want is it?" sneered Steggs, spitting out the odd molar. "No, not at all," riposted his potential contestant, "I merely disapprove of violence, save in defense of a just cause." (Well said, lad!)

With this, the impetuous and headstrong bully rushed forward once again. And so the famous fight was joined – Steggs committing every foul trick that his white-haired papa had thought to teach him; Chalmers adroitly parrying every time, each of his blows landing with telling effect.

Soon Steggs began to tire. He now regretted those moments behind the cricket pavilion, when he had idled his time away drinking fizz and smoking cheap cigars. Why had he not joined the Scout Troop, he groaned to himself. However, it was not this intense spiritual interrogation, but a crashing blow from Chalmers that finally caused him to sink defenseless to the ground.

"OK, enough," he blubbered. "I'm sorry. Help me up, will ya?"

"Certainly old chap," replied the other with a friendly smile. Then the rotter, as our hero approached, lashed out treacherously with his boot. After this incident, Chalmers made short work of Steggs, leaving him senseless. Chalmers turned to go, then stopped, for there stood the Head, the Rev. Scheckthorpe-Johnson, his head on one side, nodding wisely. "I saw everything," he muttered. "You are a credit to the school, Chalmers," he mused pathetically. "We are all proud of you. Remember as you sail majestically down the lane of life . . . ah . . . um . . ." then he turned and shuffled off down the dusty passage, gibbering to himself: "Haec otia studia fovent" (Liverpool, Geography, 1905–15, failed).

Chalmers, left to himself at last, poured himself a large whisky. "Aw hell!" he growled, as he grabbed viciously for the terrified chambermaid in the corner.

Lip Reading & Meditation [34]

Dear _____,

All has NOT been well with me. You may recall that some time ago I mentioned my disablement due to leg injury.

My doctor advised that I undertake a new range of interests. His exact words were: "Everyone is fed up with your constant complaints about a trivial disorder. Why don't you get another interest?"

Accordingly, I joined the Hanwell Community Centre Lip Reading Group. My purpose was to be able to converse with confidence across a crowded room. However, after only three lessons I was summarily expelled. The reason given was that I was mouthing obscenities at the other students. My explanation that  I was simply chewing a large toffee was not accepted. "They always blame the confectionary," commented my tutor. She advised me to go for something less controversial.

So I joined the Medway Meditation Group. I was briefed on my role by Dr Gupta Singh, who is also a specialist in treating halitosis. He explained that we would sit in a circle. Using the mental exercises he had taught, we would acquire deep insights into our psyches. Eventually we would achieve nirvana.

"How do I start?" I asked. "Sit over there with the others," replied Dr Gupta. "When I nod in your direction you may feel you wish to strike this little gong. This will have tonal affiliation with the gentle humming of your psychic partners."

I joined the group. I found it difficult to focus both on my talisman and on Dr Gupta's nods. After a while I drifted off to sleep. I was awakened by the crash of my gong, which had fallen. All the others now started humming vigorously, while Gupta was shaking his head in a negative manner. But did he want me to sound my gong again or stay where I was?

To clarify the matter, I asked the advice of the other participants. "What does he want me to do? Sound the gong or sit still?" I enquired in a clear whisper. I got a variety of responses. There were two main schools of thought. One group were well advanced on their road to nirvana, while the others wanted to start again, using the gong as stimulus.

I was about to deliver my judgment, when Dr Gupta intervened. "Why are you trying to wreck the meditation group?" he demanded. I replied that I should have thought one of the main functions of the group was to dispel controversy. I was simply taking a lead in this. Dr Gupta took me to one side.

"I am the leader of this group," he said. "I have led this group for three years and now you attempt to usurp my position within half an hour of joining. You cannot stay. You must decide what you are going to do. After much debate we agreed that I start a new group: the North Thames Meditation Mediation Institute.

So if you are having trouble with your social group, put it down to lack of concerted meditation and send for me. My attention will be undivided as will my extraction of maximum fees.

Yours,