In Pieces (10 page)

‘Grief, Jimmy. I didn't know any of this was in the pipeline.'

‘Ah well, I wanted to keep it quiet like until I was certain. But you're the first to know. Honest. And just when I was beginning to think my career would never take off. What do you reckon?'

‘Ruddy ace! That's what I think.'

‘Yeah, it is, isn't it?'

‘We should have a drink when you get back from Manchester. It'll be one of the last decent pints you'll have.'

‘What do you mean? The best beer in the world comes from Manchester.'

‘Steady, Jimmy. This whole thing's gone to your head. Weren't you telling me the other day that all northerners were prats?'

‘They are. But they still make good beer.'

‘And they've got the best football teams. Even I know that.'

‘Yeah.'

Si could almost see Jimmy grinning at the other end of the line.

‘Look, Si, this is it. This is the big one, what I've been waiting for all this time. It's going to be amazing, and this is only the start.'

‘Yeah, I'm sure you're right. Well done. You give me a ring when you're back, okay?'

‘Don't be stupid. We're going to celebrate tonight.'

‘Yeah? Sure, tonight. You're right. This needs celebrating now. Badly. I'm going to buy you a serious drink. Feathers tonight?'

‘Sure. I'll be there at eight. Okay?'

‘Yeah, see you then… And Jimmy?'

‘Yeah?'

‘Well done, mate.'

The next call was harder. Jimmy dialled but didn't really have time to compose himself before Brenda picked up the phone.

‘Jimmy,' she wailed, ‘where've you been? I thought you'd forgotten me.'

‘Hi, Brenda. How've you been?'

‘What's wrong with you? You sound all cold. That's not my Jimmy. Why don't I come over tonight and warm you up a bit, hmm?'

‘That was why I rang, really.'

‘Oh. You only ring me when you want something…'

‘No, you're wrong. That's just it. I don't want anything. Not any more.'

Jimmy hoped he wasn't going to have to spell it out. He waited for a reaction, but he could already hear Brenda sniffling at the other end of the line. He felt a total snake, but he knew it was the only thing to do.

~

Jimmy moved up to Manchester and stayed in a huge hotel near the city centre. The deal was more or less tied up and only a few odds and ends remained for the lawyers to resolve. Jimmy couldn't believe his new salary, which was three times what he'd been on at Millwall with the prospect of rapid increases, if things went well. He took pleasure in walking the corridors of the hotel, admiring the plush carpets and the gold fittings, drinking champagne in the bar courtesy of Manchester United. He saw glamorous women come and go in the vast lobby, and later one evening an important games show celebrity nodded affably to him across the bar. For the first time he felt the heady rush of success and was transported by the prospect of great wealth.

The bartender recommended and served an elaborate champagne cocktail which arrived with a grail of peanuts and crisps. He then presented Jimmy with the bill.

‘Oh no,' countered Jimmy, ‘the club will pick that up.' The barman cast him a suspicious look.

‘Club? Sir?'

‘Yeah, Man United. My new club.'

The barman seemed only partially reassured. ‘So if you're a United player, how come I don't recognise you?'

‘You will… you will,' smiled Jimmy confidently. As the barman turned away, he sneaked a look at the bill still sitting on the table. Grief, the one drink came to double the cost of a well-lubricated evening in The Feathers. Suddenly feeling rather sober, he reflected that he still had some way to go before he was totally at home with the new surroundings.

Jimmy's old club Millwall, though sorry to see him go since he was their top scorer and with him went any real chance of promotion that season, knew that they couldn't ignore the half a million pounds which United had offered them. That was serious money for a Second Division club. After some half-hearted deliberation the board agreed to let Jimmy go. It had really happened very quickly.

Si didn't expect to hear from Jimmy for some time. He knew his friend would be caught up in the move and was unlikely to have time for the kind of life he'd been living till then. Si hoped that success wouldn't go to Jimmy's head. But even more, he hoped that Jimmy wouldn't blow this chance. It was almost certainly his last opportunity to make it big as a professional footballer.

~

By now Si had established a routine at work and thought he could read Dougy's mind well enough. He had done three religious pieces and Dougy hadn't complained about the generally pro-Government line he'd been taking. He'd decided that this was the message Dougy wanted to get across. So Si relaxed. It was time to really put the boot into the Opposition's education policy.

Si wrote a story about a vicar in Wakefield—an easy hook—who had spouted a lot of guff about daily prayers in comprehensive schools. A few days later, he heard about an Anglican bishop who'd made some injudicious remarks on local radio attacking the Government's education record. Si followed it up and wrote a witty piece pulling the bishop's arguments apart and asking if it was official that the Anglican Church would be taking sides in the election battle.

The day after the piece appeared Dougy called him. ‘Loved it, kid. Loved it. You just keep it up, okay?'

Si felt smug. This was child's play. He'd got his job sussed and now he was going to enjoy it.

~

‘Jimmy called,' said Bill.

‘Oh yes? Did he leave a message?'

‘Yeah. Said he'd be back on Wednesday night. He'll ring again.'

Si was excited at the prospect of seeing Jimmy so soon. He'd only been gone a month. It would be great to hear how things were going.

On Wednesday evening they met at the usual time at The Feathers. Jimmy was relaxed because Wednesday was Brenda's night off. He didn't want his former lover to spoil his triumphant return from the north.

‘The Boss reckons that if I have another good session in the Reserves, I might be on the bench for next week's first team match.'

‘Shit. That's great. It's really happening for you, isn't it?'

‘Sure is.' Jimmy looked well on his success. He wasn't drinking—just orange juice—and the sallow look which had haunted his face for the past year had gone. This was a man reborn and burning with ambition.

When he first came into the pub, a couple of the regulars looked at him a bit oddly—word had spread fast. Not that they approved of his move to Manchester United—they all supported Arsenal and Chelsea. But otherwise nothing had changed in The Feathers. Not even Si, thought Jimmy. Strange, when so much had happened in his own life since he last saw his friend.

‘So, how've you been, mate?'

‘All right… All right. I got a letter from Roberta the other day.'

‘Roberta?'

‘The foreign one.'

‘Oh yes, Roberta. She was nice, she was. Pity it didn't work out for you.'

‘Well, she wants to work things out.'

‘Really? How? Is she coming back here, then?'

‘No, she wants me to convert and to go visit her in the Sudan.'

‘Grief. That's a bit heavy. Convert to what, anyway?'

‘To Islam. To become a Muslim.'

‘Gawd.'

‘That's what I thought. I mean, I'm not really religious but to become a Muslim… That's really asking a lot.'

‘And what if you don't? Can't you go and visit her anyway?'

‘No. She says her father would never tolerate her going out with a non-believer.'

‘You're in a right mess here. Maybe you should convert?'

Si wondered. Why not? It was quite an attractive philosophy and as religions went it had some good points about it. Si had always had a soft spot for Islamic art and ceramics. ‘Maybe. But that's not the half of it. You see, Roberta said that if I went to the Sudan now, without converting, there would be a danger that I'd be killed. By extremists.'

This decided Jimmy. ‘Forget it, mate. This is crazy. She's only a chick, after all. Many more where she came from.'

‘Yeah, I suppose so.'

‘Get yourself a nice English girl. One who doesn't threaten to kill you. Know what I mean?'

‘But she was special. Really special in some ways…'

‘I don't even want to hear about it. You might end up getting me killed as an accomplice!'

Si managed a smile.

‘That's better. Look, there's plenty of girls who'd leap at the chance to go out with a guy like you. Plenty.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Yeah. Just look at that one over there… No, not there. The one by the bar. With the black jeans on.'

Si began to take heart. It was good to see Jimmy back in London. He brought with him a sense of perspective.

~

Sir Lesley glanced in the mirror and decided that he looked immaculate. Even at his age, he could turn young women's heads. He straightened his bow tie, shrugged inside his dinner jacket and, holding himself erect, returned to the drawing room to await his guests.

Sir Lesley was a self-made millionaire who had long since buried his origins. A shrewd businessman and a friend to what he liked to call “the political class”, he considered himself an influential man. His newspaper was just one way of exerting this influence. Certainly, it was the most public technique he used. As a man of influence and property, Sir Lesley liked to keep a two-bedroom mews cottage in Chelsea. He rarely stayed there, preferring to return to Wiltshire and the young family he had produced with his second wife, Marina. But the mews cottage served for discreet business meetings and occasional dinner parties for select groups of friends.

This evening Sir Lesley was expecting half a dozen guests, including two Cabinet Ministers, the Shadow Spokesman for the Environment, the presenter of a nightly current affairs programme and the head of a merchant bank. The sixth and, in Sir Lesley's eyes, the most important guest was La Contessa di San Benedino, Carla Melli.

Sir Lesley had been introduced to the widow at a Sotheby's reception the week before. He had been struck by her mournful beauty and brooding intelligence. He hadn't met a woman like her before. His interest was heightened by Carla's aloofness and obvious indifference to his presence. But when he had suggested a quiet supper with ‘a few interesting friends', she had accepted graciously.

By the time Carla arrived the other guests were already onto their second drink. As she entered the room, the two male politicians leapt to their feet. The Secretary of State for Education, Alison Smith, and the TV journalist Suzanne Radi remained seated. Alison glanced at the newcomer briefly and, once introduced, returned deliberately to her conversation with the Shadow Spokesman, ignoring the frequent glances he cast over her shoulder.

Sir Lesley perched beside Carla, who was the focus of the other guests' attention. ‘Carla… May I call you that?'

An elegant nod, betrayed only by a slight play around her mouth, indicated he could.

Sir Lesley smiled as if he'd just been elevated to a peerage, and continued declaiming to his guests. ‘Carla lives in London but rarely goes out. We're extremely honoured to have her here tonight.'

Carla offered a demure smile to the collected company.

‘Which part of Italy are you from?' fawned the Government Chief Whip. ‘Tuscany? I do so love Tuscany.'

‘No, not Tuscany.'

The Chief Whip drooped.

‘I was brought up in Paris, but my family are from near Lago Maggiore.'

‘Oh, how wonderful. I had a holiday near Lugano ten years ago…'

Dinner passed off smoothly, and even Alison seemed to warm to Carla.

After the crème brûlée, Sir Lesley sat at the end of the table surveying the scene and congratulating himself. Talk about power and influence, he thought. I've got it, I really have. Just look at my guests… You should always judge a man by his friends… He waved to the waiter to refill Carla's glass with the excellent Sancerre he'd personally chosen.

‘Really my dear Carla, you must have a little bit more wine.'

‘Sir Lesley, you are a naughty man.'

‘Me? No, I'm never naughty.' Sir Lesley flushed.

‘Yes you are naughty… Not just with wine, but also with your newspaper.'

‘Oh?' He was slightly taken aback. He hadn't expected her to take a serious tack.

‘Yes. Just yesterday I read a story in your paper which made fun of the Rabbi Rebecca Schultz. It said that she was an example of the wet liberalism prevalent among religious leaders in Britain today. And that the future of the country should not be trusted to people like her.'

‘Oh…' Sir Lesley vaguely remembered reading the piece in the Diary. It hadn't struck him as particularly offensive at the time. In fact it seemed along the right lines. He was as keen as either of the Cabinet Ministers at the table to pick holes in the Opposition's religious education policy.

‘But it was naughty to write that. And to say that she ate pork.' For the first time that evening Carla became really animated. The other guests broke off their conversations to listen in.

‘The story said she ate pork? Oh, I doubt it.'

‘Are you questioning my word, Sir Lesley?'

‘Not at all, my dear… Now, would you like some coffee? We can adjourn to…'

But Carla interrupted him. ‘In a moment. But just to finish with this story. The paper said that Rebecca, who is a friend of mine… It said she had advised the journalist not to worry too much about eating pork. And that she had eaten pork herself in the past. Your article made fun of poor Rebecca.'

Carla seemed to realise that she had been on the verge of making a scene and embarrassing her host. She slipped back behind her mask and resumed the flirtation. ‘So, you see, Sir Lesley, you
are
a naughty man.'