charisma was the only singular thing about
Hutchcraft, if an absence of something may be described that way. There was little to be said about him at
all. Even his staff would have had
trouble describing his clothes, for example, or the make of car that he drove,
or tobacco he smoked. He seemed to carry
a nebulous cloud of grey with him that shrouded everything he touched. Gossip had it (and, however uncharismatic a
person, there is always gossip in every organisation – most especially one with
as many secretaries and switchboard operators and tea ladies as HQ), that he
was in his late sixties, although even that was questionable. And that he possessed a wife out in the
suburban badlands of North West London. Possibly. He definitely possessed
a border terrier, because he’d once brought it into the office and the
secretaries had fed it on digestive biscuits . . which was about as far as the
powder-room gossip could stretch, in terms of Sir Godfrey Hutchcraft. Or ‘Hutch’, as his staff called him, to a
man.
“Good evening, Hutch,” I said, climbing out of the
Austin and stretching my legs upon the red, herring-bone patterned bricks of
HQ’s courtyard. “Have you met my wife?”
“Evening, Upshott. I don’t believe I have.”
A situation he was obviously determined to remedy,
having got himself round to her side of the car and tugged the door open for
her in double-quick time. I stared at
him in frank surprise. For the first
time in our seven-year acquaintance, the grey cloud above his head had shifted
a bit. Kathleen often had a powerful
effect on men, but it would never have occurred to me that old Hutch might be
susceptible.
My wife was still a beauty at 38 - possibly even more
beautiful than when I’d first met her - but she also had what the popular press
called ‘a famous face’. She’d been a
singer during the war of the ‘Forces’ Sweetheart’ variety, and then been cast
in a number of British films. She spent
a lot of time in places like Pinewood and Bray [12] . To my mind, Kathleen wasn’t looking her best
at that precise moment, having turned rather grey herself, but that didn’t
appear to be putting Hutch off.
“Mrs Upshott!” He exclaimed, pawing at her hand. “How delightful!”
He was acting as if she’d decided to visit her husband’s
place of work of her own accord, rather than been abducted from Vauxhall
Bridge.
“Are you a fan, Hutch?” I enquired, but he chose to ignore me.
Kathleen clutched her free hand against the car for
support. She looked like she might be
about to heave.
“I’m sorry,” she thrust Hutch from her and covered her
mouth with her hands, “may I use your loo?”
“Ah,” Hutch replied, at a loss. “My secretary’s gone home and . . any ideas
where the girls’ powder-room might be?”
He glanced, helplessly, at myself and the other man
present, the shadow who’d been at the wheel of the black van.
“Now’s not the time for protocol, Hutch; she can use
the downstairs Gents, surely.”
I directed Kathleen to the relevant quarters and she
stumbled over the herring-bone bricks to get there in time. Hutch drifted into the building after her,
vaguely indicating that I should follow.
All was quiet inside, save for a distinct hum - like a
trapped swarm of bees, I’d often thought - that emanated from the basement.
“I don’t like involving civilians, Upshott. You should know that,” Hutch murmured,
peeling back the brass gate of his personal lift.
I refrained from commenting upon how delighted he’d
seemed to have met that particular civilian. It was time to get down to business. Hutch, himself, might be a tad underwhelming, but the accoutrements of
his power were not : the tiny box of a
lift with the gold fleur-de-lys on ceiling, walls and floor, as if one were
wrapped up in a box of Christmas marrons glacés, or smart cigars. The spacious office at the
Hutchcraft, if an absence of something may be described that way. There was little to be said about him at
all. Even his staff would have had
trouble describing his clothes, for example, or the make of car that he drove,
or tobacco he smoked. He seemed to carry
a nebulous cloud of grey with him that shrouded everything he touched. Gossip had it (and, however uncharismatic a
person, there is always gossip in every organisation – most especially one with
as many secretaries and switchboard operators and tea ladies as HQ), that he
was in his late sixties, although even that was questionable. And that he possessed a wife out in the
suburban badlands of North West London. Possibly. He definitely possessed
a border terrier, because he’d once brought it into the office and the
secretaries had fed it on digestive biscuits . . which was about as far as the
powder-room gossip could stretch, in terms of Sir Godfrey Hutchcraft. Or ‘Hutch’, as his staff called him, to a
man.
“Good evening, Hutch,” I said, climbing out of the
Austin and stretching my legs upon the red, herring-bone patterned bricks of
HQ’s courtyard. “Have you met my wife?”
“Evening, Upshott. I don’t believe I have.”
A situation he was obviously determined to remedy,
having got himself round to her side of the car and tugged the door open for
her in double-quick time. I stared at
him in frank surprise. For the first
time in our seven-year acquaintance, the grey cloud above his head had shifted
a bit. Kathleen often had a powerful
effect on men, but it would never have occurred to me that old Hutch might be
susceptible.
My wife was still a beauty at 38 - possibly even more
beautiful than when I’d first met her - but she also had what the popular press
called ‘a famous face’. She’d been a
singer during the war of the ‘Forces’ Sweetheart’ variety, and then been cast
in a number of British films. She spent
a lot of time in places like Pinewood and Bray [12] . To my mind, Kathleen wasn’t looking her best
at that precise moment, having turned rather grey herself, but that didn’t
appear to be putting Hutch off.
“Mrs Upshott!” He exclaimed, pawing at her hand. “How delightful!”
He was acting as if she’d decided to visit her husband’s
place of work of her own accord, rather than been abducted from Vauxhall
Bridge.
“Are you a fan, Hutch?” I enquired, but he chose to ignore me.
Kathleen clutched her free hand against the car for
support. She looked like she might be
about to heave.
“I’m sorry,” she thrust Hutch from her and covered her
mouth with her hands, “may I use your loo?”
“Ah,” Hutch replied, at a loss. “My secretary’s gone home and . . any ideas
where the girls’ powder-room might be?”
He glanced, helplessly, at myself and the other man
present, the shadow who’d been at the wheel of the black van.
“Now’s not the time for protocol, Hutch; she can use
the downstairs Gents, surely.”
I directed Kathleen to the relevant quarters and she
stumbled over the herring-bone bricks to get there in time. Hutch drifted into the building after her,
vaguely indicating that I should follow.
All was quiet inside, save for a distinct hum - like a
trapped swarm of bees, I’d often thought - that emanated from the basement.
“I don’t like involving civilians, Upshott. You should know that,” Hutch murmured,
peeling back the brass gate of his personal lift.
I refrained from commenting upon how delighted he’d
seemed to have met that particular civilian. It was time to get down to business. Hutch, himself, might be a tad underwhelming, but the accoutrements of
his power were not : the tiny box of a
lift with the gold fleur-de-lys on ceiling, walls and floor, as if one were
wrapped up in a box of Christmas marrons glacés, or smart cigars. The spacious office at the
Similar Books
