had never previously played together.
The doctor’s reign was absolute. While Beefeater after Beefeater languished in jail, the general practitioner would rampage across the board, buying up property in a monstrous display of avarice. Once he had acquired all the title deeds of a colour group, he would double the rent and, without so much as a blush, hold out his palm for payment when his opponent landed on his holdings. It was a strategy that many claimed to be illegal. The rules were searched for but declared lost, and a number accused the doctor of having hidden them. Tempers flared in the fortress to such an extent that arbitration had to be sought from the board game’s manufacturer. It sent back a closely typed letter stating that the doctor’s methods did not contravene the holy regulations.
The general practitioner, who would secure the Strand, Fleet Street, and Trafalgar Square as the epicenter of his colossal hotel empire, put his supremacy down to the fact that he always played with the boot. He was offered all manner of bribes to swap it for the hat with its alluring brim, the motorcar with its tiny wheels, or even the Scottie dog with its cute shaggy coat. But nothing could persuade him to surrender the boot.
When a much more urgent whisper sounded in his ear about the alarming frequency of the contractions, the doctor turned to the messenger and snapped: “I’ll be up in a minute.” But when he looked back at the board, the boot had vanished. He immediately blamed the Beefeater, who vehemently denied the accusation of theft. The game was stopped for thirty-nine minutes while the corpulent doctor stuffed his stash of pink £500 notes into his breast pocket and hunted between the chair legs for the sacred object. When he returned to his seat, red-faced and empty-handed, he insisted that his opponent turn out his pockets. The Beefeater obliged, and then offered the doctor the iron with a limp smile. Just as the medic was about to declare a suspension of play, the Beefeater started to choke. Instantly suspecting what he had done, the doctor stood him up, turned him around, and proceeded to perform the Heimlich maneuver. And, as Ruby Dore skidded onto the kitchen floor, the disputed boot sailed from the Beefeater’s mouth and landed on the board, scattering a row of tiny red hotels.
Once she had finished the dusting, the landlady returned to her stool behind the beer taps. She rested her feet on an empty bottle crate and reached for her knitting, a diversion started to relieve the desire for a cigarette but which had sincebecome an even more compulsive habit. Before long, her mind drifted to the test she had done in the bathroom that morning, and she thought again how the result didn’t make sense. Unable to stand the uncertainty any longer, she stood up. Sidestepping the creeping pool of water on the worn flagstones, she grabbed her coat, opened the door, and pulled it shut behind her.
Lowering her chin to her chest to keep the rain out of her eyes, she ran past the Tower Café, where some of the tourists had taken shelter, much to their regret after sampling its fare. Turning the corner at the White Tower, she continued past Waterloo Barracks, and when she reached the row of houses with blue doors overlooking Tower Green, a now sodden ponytail swung heavily behind her.
After a vigorous knock, Dr. Evangeline Moore eventually appeared and stepped back to let the landlady in out of the rain. Apologising for her wet feet, Ruby Dore walked down the hall to the surgery. She sat in front of the desk, in a chair with a cracked leather seat, and waited until the Tower doctor had taken her place opposite her. It was only then that she announced: “Sorry to barge in, but I think I might be pregnant.”
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, when darkness had crept over the parapet, Balthazar Jones hesitated outside the Rack & Ruin waiting for the courage to enter. He hadn’t bothered changing out of his uniform since coming
The doctor’s reign was absolute. While Beefeater after Beefeater languished in jail, the general practitioner would rampage across the board, buying up property in a monstrous display of avarice. Once he had acquired all the title deeds of a colour group, he would double the rent and, without so much as a blush, hold out his palm for payment when his opponent landed on his holdings. It was a strategy that many claimed to be illegal. The rules were searched for but declared lost, and a number accused the doctor of having hidden them. Tempers flared in the fortress to such an extent that arbitration had to be sought from the board game’s manufacturer. It sent back a closely typed letter stating that the doctor’s methods did not contravene the holy regulations.
The general practitioner, who would secure the Strand, Fleet Street, and Trafalgar Square as the epicenter of his colossal hotel empire, put his supremacy down to the fact that he always played with the boot. He was offered all manner of bribes to swap it for the hat with its alluring brim, the motorcar with its tiny wheels, or even the Scottie dog with its cute shaggy coat. But nothing could persuade him to surrender the boot.
When a much more urgent whisper sounded in his ear about the alarming frequency of the contractions, the doctor turned to the messenger and snapped: “I’ll be up in a minute.” But when he looked back at the board, the boot had vanished. He immediately blamed the Beefeater, who vehemently denied the accusation of theft. The game was stopped for thirty-nine minutes while the corpulent doctor stuffed his stash of pink £500 notes into his breast pocket and hunted between the chair legs for the sacred object. When he returned to his seat, red-faced and empty-handed, he insisted that his opponent turn out his pockets. The Beefeater obliged, and then offered the doctor the iron with a limp smile. Just as the medic was about to declare a suspension of play, the Beefeater started to choke. Instantly suspecting what he had done, the doctor stood him up, turned him around, and proceeded to perform the Heimlich maneuver. And, as Ruby Dore skidded onto the kitchen floor, the disputed boot sailed from the Beefeater’s mouth and landed on the board, scattering a row of tiny red hotels.
Once she had finished the dusting, the landlady returned to her stool behind the beer taps. She rested her feet on an empty bottle crate and reached for her knitting, a diversion started to relieve the desire for a cigarette but which had sincebecome an even more compulsive habit. Before long, her mind drifted to the test she had done in the bathroom that morning, and she thought again how the result didn’t make sense. Unable to stand the uncertainty any longer, she stood up. Sidestepping the creeping pool of water on the worn flagstones, she grabbed her coat, opened the door, and pulled it shut behind her.
Lowering her chin to her chest to keep the rain out of her eyes, she ran past the Tower Café, where some of the tourists had taken shelter, much to their regret after sampling its fare. Turning the corner at the White Tower, she continued past Waterloo Barracks, and when she reached the row of houses with blue doors overlooking Tower Green, a now sodden ponytail swung heavily behind her.
After a vigorous knock, Dr. Evangeline Moore eventually appeared and stepped back to let the landlady in out of the rain. Apologising for her wet feet, Ruby Dore walked down the hall to the surgery. She sat in front of the desk, in a chair with a cracked leather seat, and waited until the Tower doctor had taken her place opposite her. It was only then that she announced: “Sorry to barge in, but I think I might be pregnant.”
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, when darkness had crept over the parapet, Balthazar Jones hesitated outside the Rack & Ruin waiting for the courage to enter. He hadn’t bothered changing out of his uniform since coming
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