and get his two weeks for nothing if you didn’t deincentivise him.’
‘Didn’t what?’
‘It’s a word I learnt on one of Funfrall’s bleeding courses. You can have it. I’m not going to need it any more.’
‘Have you been invalided out?’
‘I’ve resigned with honour.’
‘Why, Sid? You were doing so well.’
‘Breathing is what I do best, Timmo, and I want to make a career of it. My next posting was going to be Kew Gardens.’
‘Kew Gardens!’
‘Yes. They wanted to get Malaysia but Eye Twang Knickers, or whatever his name is, wouldn’t play ball. You see, Timmo, when my number nearly came up they got more applications from people who wanted to be guards than prisoners. It’s understandable when you think about it, you know what I mean? Much more fun machine-gunning people and setting guard dogs on them than it is digging bleeding tunnels. Sir Giles saw that straight away. First of all, he tried to get the Japs to start another Death Railway and promised them cheap labour–but they thought it would be bad for their car exports so in the end he had to settle for the Hot House at Kew. Two bananas and a survival pack is four hundred guineas with cremation at the crematorium of your choice thrown in for nothing. Up on the cat walk with your Hirohito forage cap and a Nippon issue rifle is six hundred guineas or you can have the intermediate, “Jungle Boy” holiday, Dyak blow pipe and a plastic shrunken head for every camper you knock off. Personally, I thought it was going a bit too far. Specially when they said I was going to be umpire. I mean, get a few light ales in that lot and they’d open up on anything. So I said bugger it and handed in my armband.’
‘So you’ve jacked it in, Sid?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Going to leave you a bit short, isn’t it?’
‘Well, I thought of that, didn’t I? I told Sir Giles straight. I said “you can’t go around having your senior executives shot by blood-crazed Krauts and expect to leave a nice taste in everybody’s mouth.”’
‘Right, Sid.’
‘Especially if they are reading about it in the News of the People. I mean, it gets around.’
‘You were approached were you, Sid?’
‘Not exactly approached, Timmy. But I have a few contacts. Know what I mean?’
‘Oh yeah. So Sir Giles paid up, did he?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes, Timmo. What he really did was to indemnify me against the enormity of the mental and physical suffering I had endured in the course of pursuing my duties in a manner calculated to further enhance the unbesmirched reputation of Funfrall Enterprises.’
‘Blimey Sid, did you say all that?’
‘No, Timmy, my solicitor did. Very good bloke he is and all. I’ll give you an introduction if you ever need one.’
Solicitors? Sidney is really beginning to motor. Another couple of weeks and he’ll be tearing crumpets with the Queen Mother.
‘So you grabbed a nice helping of moola, did you, Sid?’
‘Nosey basket, aren’t you? Yes, if you must know. I did accept a settlement. But not in cash, mind.’
‘What, then?’
‘I bought a hotel.’
‘You done what?’
‘I’ve bought a hotel, Timmo. Very nice article. Down on the south coast. Hoverton, do you know it?’
‘Mum took me there for the day once when I was a nipper. Haven’t Funfrall got a place near there?’
‘Yeah, just outside the town.’
‘Sid, what I don’t understand is why you’re buying it. I thought Old Man Slat was going to give you some mazuma.’
‘Well, he has really. The price is dirt cheap when you think what I’m getting. It’s one of these big old Regency places. Funfrall are selling off a lot of their stuff as part of a rationalisation programme. Mind you, it’s still costing me a bomb. That’s why I sold El Nido.’
‘And Rosie and the kid are going to live there with you?’
‘Not to start with. I want to get the place sorted out first.’
‘Sounds fantastic, Sid. What kind of shape is it in?’
Sid begins to look uncomfortable. ‘Quite good, I think. I haven’t seen it yet.’
‘Haven’t seen it?’
‘Well, you know what Sir Giles is like. He came up with the idea so fast; and he was so enthusiastic, I thought it would sound rude if I started humming and haing.’
‘You didn’t worry about humming and haing when he suggested that you got your head shot off in the Hot House at Kew. I bet he came up with that idea pretty fast, too.’
‘I’ve seen some photographs,’ says Sid pathetically. ‘It looks very nice.’ He pulls open a bedside drawer and thrusts a couple of crumpled prints into my hand.
‘Blimey, that bird is wearing a crinoline, isn’t she? I didn’t know they had invented cameras in those days. Haven’t you got anything a bit more recent?’
The photographs Sid has given me are khaki coloured and have horse-drawn bathing cabins in the foreground. Sometimes I think that Sid has more luck than judgement.
‘Anything that is bricks and mortar is worth its weight in gold these days,’ says Sid sulkily. ‘I’ve got the freehold, you know.’
‘What does that mean?’
Sid is relieved to find that he can assert himself again. ‘It means, you prick, that I own it. I am not renting it.’
‘Well, good luck, Sid. I’m certain you’ll do very well. Not exactly your line, though, is it?’
‘No really new opportunity is ever likely to be, is it?’
‘True, Sid. What am I going to do at Funfrall, now that you’re gone?’
Sid takes a sip at his Robinson’s Lemon Barley Water and gives me his ‘I don’t really know what it means but I am trying to appear inscrutable’ look.
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ he says. In the old days, I would have thrown myself full length and kissed the end of his pyjama cord saying: ‘Oh, Sid am I deceiving myself when I think that you might actually be offering me the chance of employment in your new passport to easy riches–?’ the last few words being drowned in grateful sobs. Now
