good minestrone.
But then a speedy return to grandeur. Across Pall Mall and into Waterloo Place.
No 14 was an impressive mansion built of Portland Stone. But here the magnificence was principally external. Although one of the original functions of this house had no doubt been to provide a sumptuous ballroom, lit brilliantly by chandeliers, now its meanly partitioned pokiness wasn’t even enlivened by a solitary low-wattage bulb.
Yet, dim as its interior was, and far removed from the heady days of Beau Brummell and of the present King’s somewhat unstable forebear, there was still enough penetration of daylight, just, to enable visitors to read the nameplates near the entrance. And I saw that McKenna & Co., Solicitors, had their offices on the first floor.
The staircase itself remained imposing. But in place of a footman to announce my name and a fashionable duchess to receive me at the top, there was now only a shabby green-painted door with, beyond that, a motherly-looking typist who sat at her desk before a switchboard.
She clearly doubled as a secretary. When I went in she was trying to transcribe something from a folded-over notepad; my first glance had taken in a perceptible frown. But then she looked up and gave me a friendly smile.
“Good afternoon. I suppose you wouldn’t have a talent for reading back shorthand? My shorthand?”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t have a talent for reading back anybody’s shorthand.”
“What a shame! Even so. May I help you?”
“Yes, I’m here to see Mr Gwatkin.”
“Mr F.A. or Mr L.G.?”
“Mr F.A.”
“Which is just as well,” she answered lightly. “Mr L.G. is away for the moment, sick. And your name, please?”
“Andrews. Eric Andrews.”
She consulted a diary that lay open on her desk.
I said, “No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t implying that I had any appointment. Although if he could fit me in…? It’s extremely urgent—and it needn’t take long!”
“How long? Fifteen minutes?”
“I’d happily settle for ten. Or even five.”
“Then I’ll see what I can do. No guarantees, mind.” She was putting on her headset. “May I ask about its general nature?”
I gave her a brief outline and presently she was passing on what I’d said. But it obviously wasn’t a good connection: there were several things she needed to repeat. And it seemed that for some reason Mr Gwatkin was being obstreperous. The woman looked startled—she even flushed a little—cast me an agitated glance.
“Yes, very well,” she said. “Very well. Yes, of course, Mr Gwatkin. Yes, I will.” She nervously pulled out the jackplug.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured. “Have I got you into trouble?”
“What? Oh, no. That was something else entirely.” But she was now finding it difficult to look at me and I felt convinced I must have laid her open to some form of reprimand.
(I could certainly see why Mr Martin would have chosen Mr Gwatkin. Plainly they were both sticklers; plainly carved from the same block of granite. Granite, I thought, because it was grey rather than hard.)
She rallied, though. “No, Mr Gwatkin says he’ll be quite willing to see you. But at present he has a client and hopes you won’t mind having to wait. Perhaps you’d care to take a seat?”
There were some armchairs, a small sofa, and a low table bearing copies of Punch and Picture Post . I took off my raincoat and settled on the sofa—beneath a large framed photograph, in colour, of the King and Queen.
“He should only be a short while.” Her manner was nearly back to what it had been. (Yes, she was indeed motherly-looking.) “In the meantime, would you like a cup of tea? I was just about to make one.”
I declined, with gratitude.
“Or perhaps you’d like some coffee? It’s only Bev, of course.”
“No thank you. Nothing.”
“Then if you’re quite sure…? I shan’t be long.”
It seemed slightly strange that, in a firm of solicitors, tea or coffee wasn’t made for everyone at
But then a speedy return to grandeur. Across Pall Mall and into Waterloo Place.
No 14 was an impressive mansion built of Portland Stone. But here the magnificence was principally external. Although one of the original functions of this house had no doubt been to provide a sumptuous ballroom, lit brilliantly by chandeliers, now its meanly partitioned pokiness wasn’t even enlivened by a solitary low-wattage bulb.
Yet, dim as its interior was, and far removed from the heady days of Beau Brummell and of the present King’s somewhat unstable forebear, there was still enough penetration of daylight, just, to enable visitors to read the nameplates near the entrance. And I saw that McKenna & Co., Solicitors, had their offices on the first floor.
The staircase itself remained imposing. But in place of a footman to announce my name and a fashionable duchess to receive me at the top, there was now only a shabby green-painted door with, beyond that, a motherly-looking typist who sat at her desk before a switchboard.
She clearly doubled as a secretary. When I went in she was trying to transcribe something from a folded-over notepad; my first glance had taken in a perceptible frown. But then she looked up and gave me a friendly smile.
“Good afternoon. I suppose you wouldn’t have a talent for reading back shorthand? My shorthand?”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t have a talent for reading back anybody’s shorthand.”
“What a shame! Even so. May I help you?”
“Yes, I’m here to see Mr Gwatkin.”
“Mr F.A. or Mr L.G.?”
“Mr F.A.”
“Which is just as well,” she answered lightly. “Mr L.G. is away for the moment, sick. And your name, please?”
“Andrews. Eric Andrews.”
She consulted a diary that lay open on her desk.
I said, “No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t implying that I had any appointment. Although if he could fit me in…? It’s extremely urgent—and it needn’t take long!”
“How long? Fifteen minutes?”
“I’d happily settle for ten. Or even five.”
“Then I’ll see what I can do. No guarantees, mind.” She was putting on her headset. “May I ask about its general nature?”
I gave her a brief outline and presently she was passing on what I’d said. But it obviously wasn’t a good connection: there were several things she needed to repeat. And it seemed that for some reason Mr Gwatkin was being obstreperous. The woman looked startled—she even flushed a little—cast me an agitated glance.
“Yes, very well,” she said. “Very well. Yes, of course, Mr Gwatkin. Yes, I will.” She nervously pulled out the jackplug.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured. “Have I got you into trouble?”
“What? Oh, no. That was something else entirely.” But she was now finding it difficult to look at me and I felt convinced I must have laid her open to some form of reprimand.
(I could certainly see why Mr Martin would have chosen Mr Gwatkin. Plainly they were both sticklers; plainly carved from the same block of granite. Granite, I thought, because it was grey rather than hard.)
She rallied, though. “No, Mr Gwatkin says he’ll be quite willing to see you. But at present he has a client and hopes you won’t mind having to wait. Perhaps you’d care to take a seat?”
There were some armchairs, a small sofa, and a low table bearing copies of Punch and Picture Post . I took off my raincoat and settled on the sofa—beneath a large framed photograph, in colour, of the King and Queen.
“He should only be a short while.” Her manner was nearly back to what it had been. (Yes, she was indeed motherly-looking.) “In the meantime, would you like a cup of tea? I was just about to make one.”
I declined, with gratitude.
“Or perhaps you’d like some coffee? It’s only Bev, of course.”
“No thank you. Nothing.”
“Then if you’re quite sure…? I shan’t be long.”
It seemed slightly strange that, in a firm of solicitors, tea or coffee wasn’t made for everyone at
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