manner.
‘The
way I see it, we’re better off up north – I mean, give me one good reason
to live in this urban jungle.’
‘The
aqueduct?’
‘What?’
Skelgill is taken aback by DS Leyton’s apparently nonsensical retort.
‘Sanitation,
Guv?’ DS Leyton breaks into a grin. ‘The roads...’
Skelgill
suddenly gets the joke.
‘Very
funny, Leyton – but the roads are nothing to write home about, that’s for
sure.’
DS
Leyton nods.
‘Tell
me about it, Guv – when we come down to visit the in-laws we spend more
time on the M25 than we do with them.’ He lifts his beer and takes a
sip. ‘Which has its compensations, mind.’
The
others grin, and their conversation continues in this vein as the meal
progresses. Though DS Leyton and DS Jones have their respective associations
that bind them to Western Europe’s greatest metropolis, ultimately their
colours are pinned beside Skelgill’s on his rural Cumbrian mast: DS Jones, like
him, being a native, and DS Leyton now firmly embedded with a young family
whose accents edge further north by the day. So there is little real
argument over the issue and as Skelgill, in appeasing mode, points out: it’s
all England, anyway – a perspective that is reinforced as a group of
football fans passes the restaurant tunelessly singing ‘Keep St George in my
Heart’ , a drunken pursuit that is no doubt being repeated up and down the
country, from London to the Lakes. Reacting to this cue, DS Leyton confesses
that he ought to go and telephone his wife before it becomes too late. He
offers to register them and obtain their room keys, and meet them for a nightcap
in the hotel bar – a proposition that Skelgill accepts without
protest. Thus DS Leyton departs, leaving Skelgill and DS Jones
alone. It is ten p.m. and diners in the restaurant are thinning out
– a Central London phenomenon, as last buses and tubes are sought, and unoccupied
taxis become like hen’s teeth. The pair is silent for a while –
Skelgill is looking tired again, while DS Jones seems to be waiting for him to
make the running. However, after a minute or two, she leans forward, placing
her elbows on the table and pressing her palms together in the manner of
prayer. Her arched brows gather with concern.
‘Guv
– I wondered – if you knew about DS Leyton – what happened on
the London Underground?’
Skelgill
folds his arms. Her tone of voice has told him that it is not some
humorous anecdote she is about to relate.
‘What
are you talking about, Jones?’
‘Earlier
on, Guv – when we arrived at Euston – I noticed he wasn’t keen to
take the tube – then I remembered what a DS from the Met told me on a
course I was on – she’d worked with him previously.’
Skelgill
is implacable. DS Jones continues.
‘It’s
going back over ten years – when they were both constables on the beat
– there was a fire at a tube station – in north London somewhere.’
‘So
what happened?’
‘They were
the first on the scene – by then there were clouds of smoke billowing up
from the tunnels – but the station staff thought everyone was safe
– so they were guarding the entrance to stop anyone going inside.’
She pauses to brush away strands of hair that have fallen across her face.
‘Then someone said there was a tramp left behind on the platform – he was
disabled and probably drunk.’
An
expression of alarm fleetingly crosses Skelgill’s intense countenance.
‘So
Leyton went in for him?’
DS
Jones nods, wide-eyed.
‘He
saved him, Guv.’ Suddenly her eyes flood with tears and glisten as they
reflect the flickering tea light on their table. ‘He carried him up
something like fifty steps because the escalators had been switched off. They
were both in hospital for a month. DS Leyton received the Queen’s Medal,
Guv.’
Skelgill
is chewing his lip vigorously – it looks painful and he clearly cannot be
aware that he is doing it –
‘The
way I see it, we’re better off up north – I mean, give me one good reason
to live in this urban jungle.’
‘The
aqueduct?’
‘What?’
Skelgill is taken aback by DS Leyton’s apparently nonsensical retort.
‘Sanitation,
Guv?’ DS Leyton breaks into a grin. ‘The roads...’
Skelgill
suddenly gets the joke.
‘Very
funny, Leyton – but the roads are nothing to write home about, that’s for
sure.’
DS
Leyton nods.
‘Tell
me about it, Guv – when we come down to visit the in-laws we spend more
time on the M25 than we do with them.’ He lifts his beer and takes a
sip. ‘Which has its compensations, mind.’
The
others grin, and their conversation continues in this vein as the meal
progresses. Though DS Leyton and DS Jones have their respective associations
that bind them to Western Europe’s greatest metropolis, ultimately their
colours are pinned beside Skelgill’s on his rural Cumbrian mast: DS Jones, like
him, being a native, and DS Leyton now firmly embedded with a young family
whose accents edge further north by the day. So there is little real
argument over the issue and as Skelgill, in appeasing mode, points out: it’s
all England, anyway – a perspective that is reinforced as a group of
football fans passes the restaurant tunelessly singing ‘Keep St George in my
Heart’ , a drunken pursuit that is no doubt being repeated up and down the
country, from London to the Lakes. Reacting to this cue, DS Leyton confesses
that he ought to go and telephone his wife before it becomes too late. He
offers to register them and obtain their room keys, and meet them for a nightcap
in the hotel bar – a proposition that Skelgill accepts without
protest. Thus DS Leyton departs, leaving Skelgill and DS Jones
alone. It is ten p.m. and diners in the restaurant are thinning out
– a Central London phenomenon, as last buses and tubes are sought, and unoccupied
taxis become like hen’s teeth. The pair is silent for a while –
Skelgill is looking tired again, while DS Jones seems to be waiting for him to
make the running. However, after a minute or two, she leans forward, placing
her elbows on the table and pressing her palms together in the manner of
prayer. Her arched brows gather with concern.
‘Guv
– I wondered – if you knew about DS Leyton – what happened on
the London Underground?’
Skelgill
folds his arms. Her tone of voice has told him that it is not some
humorous anecdote she is about to relate.
‘What
are you talking about, Jones?’
‘Earlier
on, Guv – when we arrived at Euston – I noticed he wasn’t keen to
take the tube – then I remembered what a DS from the Met told me on a
course I was on – she’d worked with him previously.’
Skelgill
is implacable. DS Jones continues.
‘It’s
going back over ten years – when they were both constables on the beat
– there was a fire at a tube station – in north London somewhere.’
‘So
what happened?’
‘They were
the first on the scene – by then there were clouds of smoke billowing up
from the tunnels – but the station staff thought everyone was safe
– so they were guarding the entrance to stop anyone going inside.’
She pauses to brush away strands of hair that have fallen across her face.
‘Then someone said there was a tramp left behind on the platform – he was
disabled and probably drunk.’
An
expression of alarm fleetingly crosses Skelgill’s intense countenance.
‘So
Leyton went in for him?’
DS
Jones nods, wide-eyed.
‘He
saved him, Guv.’ Suddenly her eyes flood with tears and glisten as they
reflect the flickering tea light on their table. ‘He carried him up
something like fifty steps because the escalators had been switched off. They
were both in hospital for a month. DS Leyton received the Queen’s Medal,
Guv.’
Skelgill
is chewing his lip vigorously – it looks painful and he clearly cannot be
aware that he is doing it –
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