When My Friend Harry was living in a one-bedroom flat in Barnet in 1972, his son bought a house in St. Albans, about ten miles away. On the day after they moved in, he rang Harry at his place of work at Greater London House, Camden.
“Come over and see us tonight," he said.
“Terrific," replied Harry eagerly. He had a great admiration of his daughter-in-law’s cooking.
Harry got back to the flat at 6.30, had a quick wash-and-brush-up and decided to set off. Down the stairs of the big, old house in the Hadley Wood district of Barnet he trotted, looked in on the landlady to say he’d be back about 11, walked across the spacious hall, opened the ornate front door-and couldn’t believe his eyes.
Fog! Dense, old-fashioned pea-soup-type fog had descended as if by magic in less than half-an-hour. Hoping against hope that it was just a local phenomenon, he got into his Rover 2000, switched on the fog lights and groped his way out of the drive.
He managed to find the turn-off from Barnet High Street and then ran into real trouble. The fog got even thicker and by then there were no street lights to help him. He could just make out the stone verge and was, of course, crawling along in bottom gear with the windscreen wiper going fifty to the dozen.
Harry tried to remember the number of turnings he had to pass before coming to the huge roundabout at the junction of the A1 and the A6 - and the number of turn-offs before he came to the A1, but what with one thing and another, his mind was hopelesly fuddled. After some heart-stopping near misses and much brain-racking, he managed to get on to what he was fairly certain was the A1. All he had to do then was try to recall his son’s telephoned directions to the village of Colney Heath and the new house.
There came the time when Harry found himself in a road so narrow he could see the hedges on both sides. He got out to discover he was on a farm track. Nothing in his son’s instructions had said anything about farms. Gingerly he crept along the track until there was room to turn. Then he headed back down the track again, came to the road and turned left, reasoning that that must have been the direction he was heading before turning off. It was a bitterly cold night, but hapless Harry was sweating.
He was in the depths of despair when, after 90 minutes of bumping over kerbs, just missing telegraph poles and riding up grass verges and into culverts in the densest fog he had ever experienced, he recognised that he hadn’t the slightest idea where he was and hadn’t the slightest idea what he should do next. He pulled up close to the kerb and sat helplessly, the engine ticking clearly as it cooled.
He wound down the window to let himself cool off, too, and then saw the vague outlines of a gate to his right. Perhaps that led to a house. He’d knock on the door and ask where on earth he was. So, he opened the gate, walked up the drive, keeping close to the fence so that he wouldn’t stray on to a lawn or flower bed, and came to a front door. He rang the bell.
“Good Lord!" exclaimed his son as he opened the door. “How on earth did you find your way here on a night like this?”
My Friend Harry is not a religious man, but he did offer up a silent prayer on that occasion.
******
My Friend Harry had a friend who, when not working for the bank in Newcastle which employed him, lived happily in the oily, cacophonous and extremely animated world of motorcycles and motorcycling. His dear wife, as was only right and proper, strove to lead him away from pistons and chains and clutches and into the more genial surroundings of domesticity, but eventually conceded defeat and consoled herself with the thought that at least he didn’t gamble, or drink or run after women.
It was in June, 1957, when this motorbike nut was in the Isle of Man for the annual TT races. That was the year when the attractions included a vintage rally. Harry’s friend was particularly anxious to see entry No. 69, a 1925 Triumph, which had been entered by Mr. G. Robinson, of Middlesbrough. He knew Mr Robinson, so he was surprised to find a stranger fiddling with the venerable Triumph.
“Where’s Mr. G. Robinson, then?" he inquired suspiciously.
“I’m G. Robinson,” said the man. “Why?"
“I’m looking for Mr. G. Robinson, of Middlesbrough, the owner of this machine."
“I am G. Robinson. I’m from Middlesbrough and this is my bike. You want the other G. Robinson, of Middlesbrough-who also owns a 1925 Triumph."
Now, that was curious enough, but worse is to come.
The bank-clerk friend of My Friend Harry who was searching for Mr. G. Robinson, of Middlesbrough and discovered that there were two of them, was, himself named - G. Robinson. And although he lived in Gateshead, he'd been born in - that’s right-Middlesbrough.
And on the day he was telling My Friend Harry about this amazing series of coincidences, he had to break off to attend to a customer. Name? You’ve guessed it: G. Robinson. Nothing to do with the others, of course.
Then, an hour later, bank-clerk G. Robinson’s mail arrived. It included a letter from the Editor of Motor Cycle News asking him to cover a race meeting at Croft for them. Who do you suppose signed the letter on behalf of Editor Cyril Quantrill?
Correct! Miss G. Robinson ...
******
THERE was the time when My Friend Harry was in the Europa Hotel, Belfast, for a conference. With him was a chap named Ken Withers, Editor of the Belfast News-Letter.
“Let’s have one for the road, Ken," said Harry. “It’s my birthday."
“We’ll make it two," he said. "It’s my birthday, too."
The political editor of the Irish News drifted up. “We’re just having two for the road," Harry said. “It is both our birthdays."
“Make it three for the road," he said. “It is my birthday also."
This is not Irish blarney. Gospel truth, every word.
A little later, Harry was with a chap named Eugene Watson, Editor of the Belfast Telegraph. They were in the case room watching the sixth edition being put away.
One of the compositors, Adam Kirkpatrick, asked Harry why he was swaying about.
“I have an excuse," chuckled Harry. “It’s my birthday."
“My God," said Adam, “let’s go to the Brown Horse (the pub opposite the Telegraph office) after our labours are over and have a pint to celebrate. It’s my birthday as well.”
And as Harry wobbled back to the Europa late that night he wasn’t in the least worried. He knew that if he was stopped by a policeman, sure as fate it would be his birthday, too.
******
MY Friend Harry had a colleague named Ronnie Hogg who served in the RAF during the war and had a gold signet ring given him by his Mother to replace one he had lost in France during the evacuation from Rheims in 1940. Back in England, his unit became part of Bomber Command and he was billeted at Hucknall with a kind old lady, Mrs Buck.
Mrs Buck’s daughter Lizzie brought in an RAF truck driver one day for a cup of tea. The conversation turned to Ronnie’s signet ring and the driver became very interested when Ronnie said the original one had once had to be cut off, was re-soldered and a little discoloured.
“Can you make me a rough drawing of the original one?” asked the driver.
Ronnie, surprised, drew a sketch on the back of an envelope, whereupon the driver rushed out. Twenty minutes later he returned to the parlour and placed in front of Ronnie his old ring. This is what had happened.
He’d driven up from Paris to Rheims and had loaded up stores and documents from the operational headquarters. His was the only vehicle to survive the continuous enemy attacks and it was lifted bodily on to a ship and brought back to England. While it was being unloaded on the docks, he’d noticed the ring and pocketed it as a souvenir, it being relatively valueless.
Ronnie, having had his lost ring restored, then wore both, one on each hand. Not for long, though. He lost Ring No.1 six months later, Ring No. 2 12 months after that, and Ring No. 3--replacing both of them--at Slapton Sands. So if, at any time, you should be bucket-and-spading at Slapton and come up with a Georgian ring of unusual design, Ronnie would be delighted to hear from you.
******
BACK, briefly, to Lagos. My Friend Harry was Assistant General Manager at the Thomson centre at Newcastle when he got the Nigerian appointment. One of his close friends at Newcassel was Arthur Appleton, formerly of Newcastle Evening Chronicle, later on the staff of the BBC.
After Harry had been in Lagos for a week or so, he thought it would help if he had a radio. So, he drove along to the Kingsway store and bought himself a Philips push-button short-wave set and 100 feet of aerial and headed back to the flat. He slung the aerial along his verandah, connected the plug and shoved it into the socket.
He switched on. And without having touched the tuning dial, what do you think he heard?
Arthur Appleton commentating on the Newcastle -Tottenham soccer match being played at St. James’s Park, Newcastle!
Comentários