described as
a sort of Home Office advisor, I suppose
, a vagueness that from any other nationality Alva would have read as an attempt to conceal unimportance, but which from this kind of Englishman probably meant he was very important indeed.
When they parted he said how much he’d enjoyed her company, and she replied that the feeling was mutual, realizing, slightly to her surprise that this was no more than the truth. He was certainly very good to talk to, meaning, of course, that he was an excellent listener!
Next morning she was surprised but not taken aback when he rang to invite her to take tea with him in Claridge’s. Curious as to his motives, and also (she always tried to confront her own motivations honestly) because she’d never before been invited to take tea at Claridge’s, she accepted. The hotel lived up to her expectations. Childs couldn’t because she had none. They chatted easily, moving from the weather through the ghastliness of politicians to more personal matters. She learned that he came from Norfolk yeoman stock, lived alone in London, and was very fond of his godson, whose parents, alas, had separated. Childs had clearly done all he could to minimize the damage done to the boy. He seemed keen to get her approval for the way he’d responded to the situation, and once again Alva enjoyed the pleasure of being deferred to.
Later she also had a vague feeling with no traceable source that she was being assessed.
But for what? The notion that this might be an early stage of some rather old-fashioned seduction technique occurred and was dismissed.
Then a couple of days later he asked her to lunch at a Soho restaurant she didn’t know. When on arrival she found she had to knock to get admittance, the seduction theory suddenly presented itself again. Might this be the kind of place where elderly gentlemen entertained their lights-of-love in small private rooms decorated in high Edwardian kitsch? If so, what might the menu consist of?
She knocked and entered, and didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed when she was escorted into an airy dining room with very well spaced tables. Any residual suspicions were finally dissipated by the sight of a second man at the table she was led towards.
Childs said, ‘Dr Ozigbo, hope you don’t mind, I invited Simon Homewood along. Homewood, this is Alva Ozigbo that I was telling you about.’
‘Dr Ozigbo,’ said the newcomer, reaching out his hand. ‘Delighted to meet you.’
Not as delighted as me, she thought as they shook hands. This had to be the Simon Homewood, Director of Parkleigh Prison, whose liberal views on the treatment of prisoners, widely aired when appointed to the job six years earlier, had met with scornful laughter or enthusiastic applause, depending on which paper you read.
Or maybe, she deflated herself as she took her seat, maybe it was
another
Simon Homewood, the Childs family trouble-shooter, come to cast an assessing eye over this weird young woman bumbling old John had taken a fancy to.
One way to settle that.
‘How are things at Parkleigh, Mr Homewood?’ she enquired.
He smiled broadly and said, ‘Depends whether you’re looking in or out, I suppose.’
The contrast with Childs couldn’t have been stronger. There was nothing that you could call retiring or self-effacing about Homewood. In his late thirties with a square, determined face topped by a thatch of vigorous brown hair, he fixed her with an unblinking and very unmoist gaze as he talked to her. He asked her about her book, prompted her to expatiate on her ideas, outlined some of the problems he was experiencing in the management of long-term prisoners, and invited her opinion.
Am I being interviewed? she asked herself. Unlikely, because if she were, it could only be for one job. Ten days previously, the chief psychiatrist at Parkleigh Prison, Joe Ruskin, had died in a pile-up on the M5. She’d had only a slight acquaintance with the man, so her
a sort of Home Office advisor, I suppose
, a vagueness that from any other nationality Alva would have read as an attempt to conceal unimportance, but which from this kind of Englishman probably meant he was very important indeed.
When they parted he said how much he’d enjoyed her company, and she replied that the feeling was mutual, realizing, slightly to her surprise that this was no more than the truth. He was certainly very good to talk to, meaning, of course, that he was an excellent listener!
Next morning she was surprised but not taken aback when he rang to invite her to take tea with him in Claridge’s. Curious as to his motives, and also (she always tried to confront her own motivations honestly) because she’d never before been invited to take tea at Claridge’s, she accepted. The hotel lived up to her expectations. Childs couldn’t because she had none. They chatted easily, moving from the weather through the ghastliness of politicians to more personal matters. She learned that he came from Norfolk yeoman stock, lived alone in London, and was very fond of his godson, whose parents, alas, had separated. Childs had clearly done all he could to minimize the damage done to the boy. He seemed keen to get her approval for the way he’d responded to the situation, and once again Alva enjoyed the pleasure of being deferred to.
Later she also had a vague feeling with no traceable source that she was being assessed.
But for what? The notion that this might be an early stage of some rather old-fashioned seduction technique occurred and was dismissed.
Then a couple of days later he asked her to lunch at a Soho restaurant she didn’t know. When on arrival she found she had to knock to get admittance, the seduction theory suddenly presented itself again. Might this be the kind of place where elderly gentlemen entertained their lights-of-love in small private rooms decorated in high Edwardian kitsch? If so, what might the menu consist of?
She knocked and entered, and didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed when she was escorted into an airy dining room with very well spaced tables. Any residual suspicions were finally dissipated by the sight of a second man at the table she was led towards.
Childs said, ‘Dr Ozigbo, hope you don’t mind, I invited Simon Homewood along. Homewood, this is Alva Ozigbo that I was telling you about.’
‘Dr Ozigbo,’ said the newcomer, reaching out his hand. ‘Delighted to meet you.’
Not as delighted as me, she thought as they shook hands. This had to be the Simon Homewood, Director of Parkleigh Prison, whose liberal views on the treatment of prisoners, widely aired when appointed to the job six years earlier, had met with scornful laughter or enthusiastic applause, depending on which paper you read.
Or maybe, she deflated herself as she took her seat, maybe it was
another
Simon Homewood, the Childs family trouble-shooter, come to cast an assessing eye over this weird young woman bumbling old John had taken a fancy to.
One way to settle that.
‘How are things at Parkleigh, Mr Homewood?’ she enquired.
He smiled broadly and said, ‘Depends whether you’re looking in or out, I suppose.’
The contrast with Childs couldn’t have been stronger. There was nothing that you could call retiring or self-effacing about Homewood. In his late thirties with a square, determined face topped by a thatch of vigorous brown hair, he fixed her with an unblinking and very unmoist gaze as he talked to her. He asked her about her book, prompted her to expatiate on her ideas, outlined some of the problems he was experiencing in the management of long-term prisoners, and invited her opinion.
Am I being interviewed? she asked herself. Unlikely, because if she were, it could only be for one job. Ten days previously, the chief psychiatrist at Parkleigh Prison, Joe Ruskin, had died in a pile-up on the M5. She’d had only a slight acquaintance with the man, so her
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