Four Warned (Quick Reads 2014) (3 page)

Once the applause had died down, the mayor rose to his feet, tugged at the lapels of his black and gold braided gown and cleared his throat, before delivering a far longer speech.

‘My fellow citizens,’ he began, ‘we are gathered together today to celebrate the birthday, the one hundredth birthday, of Albert Webber, a much-loved member of our community.
Albert was born in Street on the fifteenth of April 1907. He married his wife Betty at Holy Trinity Church in 1931, and spent his working life at C. and J. Clark’s, our local shoe
factory.

‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘Albert has spent his entire life in Street, with the notable exception of four years when he served as a private soldier in the Somerset Light
Infantry. When the war ended in 1945, Albert was discharged from the army and returned to Street to take up his old job as a leather cutter at Clark’s. At the age of sixty, he retired as
Deputy Floor Manager. But you can’t get rid of Albert that easily, because he then took on part-time work as a night watchman, a responsibility he carried out until his seventieth
birthday.’

The mayor waited for the laughter to fade before he continued. ‘From his early days, Albert has always been a loyal supporter of Street Football Club, rarely missing a Cobblers’ home
game, and indeed the club has recently made him an honorary life member. Albert also played darts for the Crown and Anchor, and was a member of that team when they were runners-up in the
town’s pub championship.

‘I’m sure you will all agree,’ concluded the mayor, ‘that Albert has led a colourful and interesting life, which we all hope will continue for many years to come, not
least because in three years’ time we will be celebrating the same landmark for his dear wife Betty. It’s hard to believe, looking at her,’ said the mayor, turning towards Mrs
Webber, ‘that in 2010 she will also be one hundred.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said several voices, and Betty shyly bowed her head as Albert leaned across and took her hand.

After several other important people had said a few words, and many more had had their photographs taken with Albert, the mayor walked with his two guests out of the town hall to a waiting
Rolls-Royce, and told the chauffeur to drive Mr and Mrs Webber home.

Albert and Betty sat in the back of the car holding hands. Neither of them had ever been in a Rolls-Royce before, and certainly not in one driven by a chauffeur.

By the time the car drew up outside their council house in Marne Terrace, they were both so exhausted and so full of salmon sandwiches and birthday cake that it wasn’t long before they
went to bed. The last thing Albert murmured before turning out his bedside light was, ‘Well, it will be your turn next, ducks, and I’m determined to live another three years so we can
celebrate your hundredth together.’

‘I don’t want all that fuss made over me when my time comes,’ she said. But Albert had already fallen asleep.

*   *   *

Not a lot happened in Albert and Betty Webber’s life during the next three years: a few minor ailments, but nothing life threatening, and the birth of their first
great-great-grandchild, Jude.

When the historic day approached for the second Webber to celebrate a hundredth birthday, Albert had become so frail that Betty insisted the party be held at their home and only include the
family. Albert reluctantly agreed, and didn’t tell his wife how much he’d been looking forward to returning to the town hall and once again being driven home in the mayor’s
Rolls-Royce.

The new mayor was equally disappointed, as he’d hoped that the occasion would guarantee his photograph on the front page of the local paper.

When the great day dawned, Betty received over a hundred cards, letters and messages from well-wishers, but to Albert’s profound dismay, there was no telegram from the Queen. He assumed
the Post Office was to blame and that it would surely be delivered the following day. It wasn’t.

‘Don’t fuss, Albert,’ Betty insisted. ‘Her Majesty is a very busy lady and she must have far more important things on her mind.’

But Albert did fuss. When no telegram arrived the next day, or the following week, he felt a pang of disappointment for his wife who seemed to be taking the whole affair in such good spirits.
However, after another week, and still no sign of a telegram, Albert decided the time had come to take the matter into his own hands.

Every Thursday morning, Eileen, their youngest daughter, aged seventy-three, would come to pick up Betty and drive her into town to go shopping. In reality this usually turned out to be just
window shopping, as Betty couldn’t believe the prices the shops had the nerve to charge. She could remember when a loaf of bread cost a penny, and a pound a week was a working wage.

That Thursday, Albert waited for them to leave the house, then he stood by the window until the car had disappeared around the corner. Once they were out of sight, he shuffled off to his little
den, where he sat by the phone, going over the exact words he would say if he was put through.

After a little while, and once he felt he was word perfect, he looked up at the framed telegram on the wall above him. It gave him enough confidence to pick up the phone and dial a six-digit
number.

‘Directory Enquiries. What number do you require?’

‘Buckingham Palace,’ said Albert, hoping his voice sounded full of authority.

There was a slight pause, but the operator finally said, ‘One moment please.’

Albert waited patiently, although he quite expected to be told that the number was either unlisted or ex-directory. A moment later the operator was back on the line and read out the number.

‘Can you please repeat that?’ asked a surprised Albert as he took the top off his biro. ‘Zero two zero, seven seven six six, seven three zero zero. ‘Thank you,’ he
said, before putting the phone down. Several minutes passed before he gathered enough courage to pick it back up again.

Albert dialled the number with a shaky hand. He listened to the familiar ringing tone and was just about to put the phone back down when a woman’s voice said, ‘Buckingham Palace, how
may I help you?’

‘I’d like to speak to someone about a one hundredth birthday,’ said Albert, repeating the exact words he had memorised.

‘Who shall I say is calling?’

‘Mr Albert Webber.’

‘Hold the line please, Mr Webber.’

This was Albert’s last chance of escape, but before he could put the phone down, another voice came on the line.

‘Humphrey Cranshaw speaking.’

The last time Albert had heard a voice like that was when he was serving in the army. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said nervously. ‘I was hoping you might be able to help
me.’

‘I certainly will if I can, Mr Webber,’ replied the courtier.

‘Three years ago I celebrated my hundredth birthday,’ said Albert, returning to his well-rehearsed script.

‘Many congratulations,’ said Cranshaw.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Albert, ‘but that isn’t the reason why I’m calling. You see, on that occasion Her Majesty the Queen was kind enough to send me a telegram,
which is now framed on the wall in front of me, and which I will treasure for the rest of my life.’

‘How kind of you to say so, Mr Webber.’

‘But I wondered,’ said Albert, gaining in confidence, ‘if Her Majesty still sends telegrams when people reach their hundredth birthday?’

‘She most certainly does,’ replied Cranshaw. ‘I know that it gives Her Majesty great pleasure to continue the tradition, even though so many more people now reach that
magnificent milestone.’

‘Oh, that is most gratifying to hear, Mr Cranshaw,’ said Albert, ‘because my dear wife celebrated her hundredth birthday some two weeks ago, but sadly has not yet received a
telegram from the Queen.’

‘I am sorry to hear that, Mr Webber,’ said the courtier. ‘It must be an administrative oversight on our part. Please allow me to check. What is your wife’s full
name?’

‘Elizabeth Violet Webber, née Braithwaite,’ said Albert with pride.

‘Just give me a moment, Mr Webber,’ said Cranshaw, ‘while I check our records.’

This time Albert had to wait a little longer before Mr Cranshaw came back on the line. ‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr Webber, but you’ll be pleased to learn that we have
traced your wife’s telegram.’

‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ said Albert. ‘May I ask when she can expect to receive it?’

There was a moment’s hesitation before the courtier said, ‘Her Majesty sent a telegram to your wife to congratulate her on reaching her hundredth birthday some five years
ago.’

Albert heard a car door slam, and moments later a key turned in the lock. He quickly put the phone down, and smiled.

Stuck on You

(from
And Thereby Hangs a Tale
)

Jeremy looked across the table at Arabella and still could not believe she had agreed to be his wife. He was the luckiest man in the world.

She was giving him the shy smile that had so bewitched him the first time they met, when a waiter appeared by his side. ‘I’ll have an espresso,’ said Jeremy, ‘and my
fiancée’ – it still sounded strange to him – ‘will have a mint tea.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Jeremy tried to stop himself looking around the room full of ‘at home’ people who knew exactly where they were and what was expected of them, whereas he had never visited The Ritz
before. It became clear from the waves and blown kisses from customers who flitted in and out of the morning room that Arabella knew everyone, from the maître d’ to several of
‘the set’, as she often referred to them. Jeremy sat back and tried to relax.

They’d first met at Ascot. Arabella was inside the royal enclosure looking out, while Jeremy was on the outside, looking in. That was how he’d assumed it would always be, until she
gave him that beguiling smile as she strolled out of the enclosure and whispered as she passed him, ‘Put your shirt on Trumpeter.’ She then disappeared off in the direction of the
private boxes.

Jeremy took her advice, and placed twenty pounds on Trumpeter – double his usual wager – before returning to the stands to see the horse romp home at 5–1. He hurried back to
the royal enclosure to thank her, at the same time hoping she might give him another tip for the next race, but she was nowhere to be seen. He was disappointed, but still placed fifty pounds of his
winnings on a horse the
Daily Express
tipster fancied. It turned out to be a nag that would be described in tomorrow’s paper as an ‘also-ran’.

Jeremy returned to the royal enclosure for a third time in the hope of seeing the lovely woman again. He searched the paddock full of smart men dressed in morning suits with little badges
hanging from their lapels, all looking exactly like each other. They were accompanied by wives and girlfriends adorned in designer dresses and outrageous hats. Each one was trying desperately not
to look like anyone else.

Then he spotted her, standing next to a tall, aristocratic-looking man who was bending down and listening intently to a jockey dressed in red-and-yellow hooped silks. She didn’t appear to
be interested in their conversation and began to look around. Her eyes settled on Jeremy and he received that same friendly smile once again. She whispered something to the tall man, then walked
across the enclosure to join him at the railing.

‘I hope you took my advice,’ she said.

‘Sure did,’ said Jeremy. ‘But how could you be so confident?’

‘It’s my father’s horse.’

‘Should I back your father’s horse in the next race?’

‘Certainly not. You should never bet on anything unless you’re sure it’s a certainty. I hope you won enough to take me to dinner tonight?’

If Jeremy didn’t reply immediately, it was only because he couldn’t believe he’d heard her correctly. He eventually stammered out, ‘Where would you like to go?’

‘The Ivy, eight o’clock. By the way, my name’s Arabella Warwick.’ Without another word she turned on her heel and went back to join her set.

Jeremy was surprised Arabella had given him a second look, let alone suggested they should dine together that evening. He expected that nothing would come of it, but as she’d already paid
for dinner, he had nothing to lose.

Arabella arrived a few minutes after the appointed hour, and when she entered the restaurant, several pairs of male eyes followed her progress as she made her way to Jeremy’s table. He had
been told they were fully booked until he mentioned her name. Jeremy rose from his place long before she joined him. She took the seat opposite him as a waiter appeared by her side.

‘The usual, madam?’

She nodded, but did not take her eyes off Jeremy.

By the time her Bellini had arrived, Jeremy had begun to relax a little. She listened intently to everything he had to say, laughed at his jokes, and even seemed to be interested in his work at
the bank. Well, he had slightly exaggerated his position and the size of the deals he was working on.

After dinner, which was a little more expensive than he’d anticipated, he drove her back to her home in Pavilion Road, and was surprised when she invited him in for coffee, and even more
surprised when they ended up in bed.

Jeremy had never slept with a woman on a first date before. He could only assume that it was what ‘the set’ did, and when he left the next morning, he certainly didn’t expect
to ever hear from her again. But she called that afternoon and invited him over for supper at her place. From that moment, they hardly spent a day apart during the next month.

What pleased Jeremy most was that Arabella didn’t seem to mind that he couldn’t afford to take her to her usual haunts, and appeared quite happy to share a Chinese or Indian meal
when they went out for dinner, often insisting that they split the bill. But he didn’t believe it could last, until one night she said, ‘You do realise I’m in love with you,
don’t you, Jeremy?’

Jeremy had never shown his true feelings for Arabella. He’d assumed their relationship was nothing more than what her set would describe as a ‘fling’. Not that she’d ever
introduced him to anyone from her set. When he fell on one knee and proposed to her on the dance floor at Annabel’s nightclub, he couldn’t believe it when she said yes.