‘Don’t hesitate to come and see me at any time if I can be of assistance to you. I’ve enjoyed our talk immensely.’
‘What have you been up to, Mr Eric?’ said Miss Stallybrass when I returned disconsolate to Lane and Newby’s. ‘Mrs Locke-Smythson has been on the phone. She was absolutely livid. She says that apparently you practically burst into the Chairman’s office and asked him why she hasn’t been doing more business with us. She threatened to close the account. It’s taken me half an hour to calm her down. I’ve got enough to do as it is with that bloody girl away.’
I had nothing to say. There was nothing I could say. From behind the fixture which separated the Showroom from the Mantle Stockroom, where Mr Wilkins had his abode, there came a sound that I already knew extremely well. Something that sounded like ‘Huh, Huh, Huh!’
As if this was not enough I received a letter marked ‘Strictly Private and Confidential’, written in a spidery copperplate with ink that had been diluted with water. Its contents were highly alarming.
Dear Sir,
I have a matter of an extremely delicate nature to discuss with you. As the matter is one that, to coin a phrase, you would not wish to ‘come out’, I suggest that we meet for a quiet talk at Lyons in Oxford Street at four o’clock this afternoon. I shall be identifiable by my bowler hat, which I shall be carrying.
Yours faithfully,
Ernest Topper.
There are eight Lyons teashops in Oxford Street. I hadn’t realised this until I set out to meet Mr Topper; neither had he. Once I found the right teashop the tryst was not difficult to keep. Mr Topper was readily identifiable. He held his bowler hat in front of him almost at arms’ length, as if it contained some noxious substance. He did not seem put out by the fact that I was more than half an hour late. He had the air of a man who was used to waiting.
Soon we were seated at a table at which there was only one other occupant. Mr Topper now proceeded to reveal his identity. In doing so he quite unconsciously obtained over me a degree of superiority.
‘As you know, I am Lola’s father,’ he said, without preamble. So deftly had Mr Wilkins woven his fantasy that I had forgotten that her maiden name was Topper.
‘As I said in my letter I have come here to acquaint you with a matter of an extremely serious nature.’ His speech was a curious mixture of the jargon used by the doctors of forensic medicine to describe their gruesome finds, and the reports of court proceedings in the News of the World .
‘I have reason to believe,’ said Mr Topper, ‘that my daughter is in a certain condition. Furthermore, I am of the belief that a particular person, who is in a position of trust so far as my daughter is concerned, is responsible for having performed certain acts that put her in this condition. I have reason to believe that you, Mr Newby, know who that person is. Who did it.’
Not since the day at my prep school, when I had been beaten by the headmaster for a crime I had not committed, had I experienced such a sensation of awe and doom as I now felt. It was certainly true that I had wanted to ‘do it’ with Lola, but unfortunately her own interest in doing it had proved more academic than real. The ‘certain acts’ referred to by Mr Topper were certainlynot calculated to put anyone in an interesting condition except by schizogenesis.
‘Mr Topper,’ I said, with as much dignity as I could muster in a teashop. ‘I must confess that your daughter had a most stimulating effect on me when I first met her. Nevertheless I must tell you that I never had the opportunity to do anything that could have made her pregnant. You must have realised that your daughter is an exceedingly popular young woman. The Manager of our Counting House, Miss Gatling, will testify that she has an extraordinarily large following.’
Whilst saying this I looked Mr Topper straight in the eye. Doing so I began to
‘What have you been up to, Mr Eric?’ said Miss Stallybrass when I returned disconsolate to Lane and Newby’s. ‘Mrs Locke-Smythson has been on the phone. She was absolutely livid. She says that apparently you practically burst into the Chairman’s office and asked him why she hasn’t been doing more business with us. She threatened to close the account. It’s taken me half an hour to calm her down. I’ve got enough to do as it is with that bloody girl away.’
I had nothing to say. There was nothing I could say. From behind the fixture which separated the Showroom from the Mantle Stockroom, where Mr Wilkins had his abode, there came a sound that I already knew extremely well. Something that sounded like ‘Huh, Huh, Huh!’
As if this was not enough I received a letter marked ‘Strictly Private and Confidential’, written in a spidery copperplate with ink that had been diluted with water. Its contents were highly alarming.
Dear Sir,
I have a matter of an extremely delicate nature to discuss with you. As the matter is one that, to coin a phrase, you would not wish to ‘come out’, I suggest that we meet for a quiet talk at Lyons in Oxford Street at four o’clock this afternoon. I shall be identifiable by my bowler hat, which I shall be carrying.
Yours faithfully,
Ernest Topper.
There are eight Lyons teashops in Oxford Street. I hadn’t realised this until I set out to meet Mr Topper; neither had he. Once I found the right teashop the tryst was not difficult to keep. Mr Topper was readily identifiable. He held his bowler hat in front of him almost at arms’ length, as if it contained some noxious substance. He did not seem put out by the fact that I was more than half an hour late. He had the air of a man who was used to waiting.
Soon we were seated at a table at which there was only one other occupant. Mr Topper now proceeded to reveal his identity. In doing so he quite unconsciously obtained over me a degree of superiority.
‘As you know, I am Lola’s father,’ he said, without preamble. So deftly had Mr Wilkins woven his fantasy that I had forgotten that her maiden name was Topper.
‘As I said in my letter I have come here to acquaint you with a matter of an extremely serious nature.’ His speech was a curious mixture of the jargon used by the doctors of forensic medicine to describe their gruesome finds, and the reports of court proceedings in the News of the World .
‘I have reason to believe,’ said Mr Topper, ‘that my daughter is in a certain condition. Furthermore, I am of the belief that a particular person, who is in a position of trust so far as my daughter is concerned, is responsible for having performed certain acts that put her in this condition. I have reason to believe that you, Mr Newby, know who that person is. Who did it.’
Not since the day at my prep school, when I had been beaten by the headmaster for a crime I had not committed, had I experienced such a sensation of awe and doom as I now felt. It was certainly true that I had wanted to ‘do it’ with Lola, but unfortunately her own interest in doing it had proved more academic than real. The ‘certain acts’ referred to by Mr Topper were certainlynot calculated to put anyone in an interesting condition except by schizogenesis.
‘Mr Topper,’ I said, with as much dignity as I could muster in a teashop. ‘I must confess that your daughter had a most stimulating effect on me when I first met her. Nevertheless I must tell you that I never had the opportunity to do anything that could have made her pregnant. You must have realised that your daughter is an exceedingly popular young woman. The Manager of our Counting House, Miss Gatling, will testify that she has an extraordinarily large following.’
Whilst saying this I looked Mr Topper straight in the eye. Doing so I began to
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