One of them fancy magazines, I reckon – they’re all there, you know. Any publication worth its salt is based in London.’
To Freddie Mills, a year and a half from retirement and the undisputed pub quiz champion at the Star and Highwayman – the small cosy pub at the far end of Stone Yardley – anything hailing from England’s great capital was worthy of note and due reverence. In all his sixty-three years, Freddie had only ever made the journey to London once: an away match of the Stone Yardley Darts Club on which his brother had managed to blag him a seat.
A non-player, Freddie managed to convince Big Bruce McKendrick, much-feared team coach and owner of Long and Winding Road Motorcycles, of his suitability with a near-textbook explanation of the finer points of the game. The team enjoyed an afternoon’s sightseeing and arrived at the match venue in Fulham, only to lose magnificently – but at least Freddie was able to revel in the delights of the city he had dreamed about since childhood.
Unusually for a Wednesday at Sun Lovers International Travel, business had been brisk. Tom, Harri and new girl, Nusrin, barely had time to pause for breath between each new customer, exchanging incredulous glances as they passed one another carrying brochures or escorting customers to their desks. The reason for this unexpected influx of custom remained a mystery until the late entrance of SLIT’s owner, George Duffield, just before midday.
‘Ah, the unmistakable power of advertising,’ he boomed, his thick Wolverhampton accent bouncing off the shabby travel-poster-covered walls. ‘It’s amazing what a little bit of local advertising can do for a reputable business like SLIT, you know. Best twenty-five quid I’ve spent this year.’
His mystified staff rewarded his enthusiasm with a selection of blank expressions.
‘You paid people to come into the shop?’ Tom ventured. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Thomas. A successful local business like SLIT doesn’t need to resort to bribery – and I resent the very implication, actually. No, I placed two hundred and fifty offer leaflets in the Edgevale Gazette yesterday. Twenty per cent off any booking made this week.’
‘You put leaflets in the free paper?’ Nusrin asked.
‘The very same,’ George grinned, his shiny, red head blushing with pleasure. ‘Genius, eh?’
‘I didn’t think anyone read the Gazette ,’ Harri said. ‘Mine goes straight into the recycling box.’
‘Well, apparently there are people in Stone Yardley who don’t follow your woeful example, Harriet,’ retorted George, sailing into his office. ‘I think the hustle and bustle of this travel agency speaks for itself, don’t you?’
As he shut the door, Tom chuckled. ‘Shame nobody actually booked anything today then, isn’t it?’
‘Apart from the Wilkinsons booking their annual coach trip to Rhyl,’ Nusrin replied.
‘But we’ve done a brisk trade in brochures,’ Harri smiled.
Half an hour later, the impressive flow of browsing customers had all but vanished, allowing Harri, Tom and Nusrin to grab a well-earned lunch break. Nusrin had seized the opportunity to vacate the premises, ever-present mobile in hand and packet of cigarettes hastily shoved in her coat pocket, leaving Tom and Harri to eat their lunch in relative peace. And for Harri finally to read the letter. Trying to read its contents, Tom nodded knowingly. ‘Top secret communications, eh?’
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, folding the letter defensively to hide its contents from her prying colleague.
‘Not judging by your face it isn’t.’
‘Seriously, Tom, it’s nothing.’
‘Liar.’
‘Am not!’
‘So if it’s nothing you can tell me what it’s about then, can’t you?’ Tom smirked, mayonnaise glistening on his chin as he pointed his half-devoured sub roll at Harri. ‘Ha – get out of that one!’
Harri let out a sigh of resignation. ‘It’s something I’m doing for a friend.’
His eyebrows
To Freddie Mills, a year and a half from retirement and the undisputed pub quiz champion at the Star and Highwayman – the small cosy pub at the far end of Stone Yardley – anything hailing from England’s great capital was worthy of note and due reverence. In all his sixty-three years, Freddie had only ever made the journey to London once: an away match of the Stone Yardley Darts Club on which his brother had managed to blag him a seat.
A non-player, Freddie managed to convince Big Bruce McKendrick, much-feared team coach and owner of Long and Winding Road Motorcycles, of his suitability with a near-textbook explanation of the finer points of the game. The team enjoyed an afternoon’s sightseeing and arrived at the match venue in Fulham, only to lose magnificently – but at least Freddie was able to revel in the delights of the city he had dreamed about since childhood.
Unusually for a Wednesday at Sun Lovers International Travel, business had been brisk. Tom, Harri and new girl, Nusrin, barely had time to pause for breath between each new customer, exchanging incredulous glances as they passed one another carrying brochures or escorting customers to their desks. The reason for this unexpected influx of custom remained a mystery until the late entrance of SLIT’s owner, George Duffield, just before midday.
‘Ah, the unmistakable power of advertising,’ he boomed, his thick Wolverhampton accent bouncing off the shabby travel-poster-covered walls. ‘It’s amazing what a little bit of local advertising can do for a reputable business like SLIT, you know. Best twenty-five quid I’ve spent this year.’
His mystified staff rewarded his enthusiasm with a selection of blank expressions.
‘You paid people to come into the shop?’ Tom ventured. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Thomas. A successful local business like SLIT doesn’t need to resort to bribery – and I resent the very implication, actually. No, I placed two hundred and fifty offer leaflets in the Edgevale Gazette yesterday. Twenty per cent off any booking made this week.’
‘You put leaflets in the free paper?’ Nusrin asked.
‘The very same,’ George grinned, his shiny, red head blushing with pleasure. ‘Genius, eh?’
‘I didn’t think anyone read the Gazette ,’ Harri said. ‘Mine goes straight into the recycling box.’
‘Well, apparently there are people in Stone Yardley who don’t follow your woeful example, Harriet,’ retorted George, sailing into his office. ‘I think the hustle and bustle of this travel agency speaks for itself, don’t you?’
As he shut the door, Tom chuckled. ‘Shame nobody actually booked anything today then, isn’t it?’
‘Apart from the Wilkinsons booking their annual coach trip to Rhyl,’ Nusrin replied.
‘But we’ve done a brisk trade in brochures,’ Harri smiled.
Half an hour later, the impressive flow of browsing customers had all but vanished, allowing Harri, Tom and Nusrin to grab a well-earned lunch break. Nusrin had seized the opportunity to vacate the premises, ever-present mobile in hand and packet of cigarettes hastily shoved in her coat pocket, leaving Tom and Harri to eat their lunch in relative peace. And for Harri finally to read the letter. Trying to read its contents, Tom nodded knowingly. ‘Top secret communications, eh?’
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, folding the letter defensively to hide its contents from her prying colleague.
‘Not judging by your face it isn’t.’
‘Seriously, Tom, it’s nothing.’
‘Liar.’
‘Am not!’
‘So if it’s nothing you can tell me what it’s about then, can’t you?’ Tom smirked, mayonnaise glistening on his chin as he pointed his half-devoured sub roll at Harri. ‘Ha – get out of that one!’
Harri let out a sigh of resignation. ‘It’s something I’m doing for a friend.’
His eyebrows
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