Take a look out of the window; do you see those rocks, just to the north of Herm island? Six nautical miles. Even in bad weather, it is a trip of no more than forty minutes. With the current, you could probably swim it in a reasonable time. You would certainly be able to reach the island of Herm in less than thirty.

It was out there on those rocks where my boat, the Elicia, ran aground, and what I am about to tell you happened.

No doubt you have heard rumours about me. I will leave it to you to work out which ones are true and which are not – I hate to disappoint. On this occasion, however, you have the luxury of hearing it from the horse’s mouth.

I have friends in Spain who needed my help. Naturally not everyone is happy with the fact that I run guns – oh come on, do not act shocked that I admit this openly. Apart from a couple of old ladies in St.Malo, it must be one of the worst kept secrets around these parts. It is with the British Royal Navy that I have the most bother. They are always keen to stop me at every opportunity. They have the notion that I emptied out an armoury of theirs in Southampton. Ah – I see from the look on your face that you have heard that story.

Those Royal Navy chaps can put a shiner on a good day so I do my best to avoid them, which normally means moving at night; as indeed it was, when I was returning from my little mercy trip.

The Elicia was a Scottish wooden fishing trawler. The guise of being such a craft, I’m certain has helped many a time.

I was coming up from the south of Herm island, when I got a signal that there was a navy boat in dock. While it was the small hours and I had an empty cargo hold, as I said, the British can put a shiner on a good day. I decided instead to take my boat out of view of the harbour for the following reason: those Brits can be quite observant. While it would not be uncommon for them to see a fishing boat out at that time, it would be odd to see one without its nets out, ready to go, or without a hull full of fish.

A swell was beginning to build up as I went to put the crane arms out for the nets. It then all happened in a flash. There was a guide cable which ran through the pulley on the arm to a gear on the engine which, when engaged, should have pulled the nets along and out onto the arms. What happened however was that, less than a second from engaging the gear, I found myself hanging upside down with the bottom of my left leg oilskin trousers caught in the pulley.

I did not realise immediately, but my foot had been crushed in the pulley. I felt no pain at first, which I put down to adrenaline. I did try to reach up to the crane arm, but the swaying action from the swell made this nigh on impossible. I watched helplessly as the boat came stern-to onto those rocks.

Where the sun should have been rising in the sky, tall black clouds were forming. I knew no one would be venturing out today, and that any hope of being spotted was gone. Before the rain came, a wave, accompanied by a roar, dislodged the Elicia and began to thrash her about between the rocks. I could see through the centre hatch, she was beginning to take on water. It was then that I realised I was either going to be dragged down or be lambasted against the rocks.

On my belt I carry a knife – you will find most fisherman do. Perfect for geting the hook out of a fish, but not much else. I had a notion of trying to save as much as my leg as possible, and tried to haul myself up, to cut my leg above the ankle, but the sea had other ideas.

The first cut was the most painful. I had to muster considerable strength to get the knife to break the skin, and when it was no more than an inch in, a violent wave caused me to rip the knife upwards – that is pain.

I was going to light a cigarette as a distraction. Instead, I ended up biting down on the entire packet as blood, rain and seawater flowed down me.

It felt like great pockets of heat were escaping me, as I forced the knife crudely through the flesh. The tendons, while tough to cut, I do not remember causing me much pain. I was part fascinated and part distracted, as when cutting through one of them I felt the muscles in the back of my leg tighten then let go.

The Elicia was sitting below her water line by the time I got to the bone. The temperature had dropped and the heavens had joined in on my punishment. The packet of cigarettes had now become pulp, but it was a welcome distraction when the acrid nicotine filled my mouth as I began to saw.

I didn’t have to saw far, as a combination of my weight and the swaying did the rest. In the water, and the right way up, I felt my body began to drain. I don’t know how much blood I lost, but I have a vague memory of using my belt as a torniquet while I was in the water.

The next thing I remember was awakening on the beach of Herm, where I was rescued later that day. For those hours I was on the island, I watched the crane arm bob before finally vanishing – a moment I marked by mustering what strength I had left and burying the knife in the sand.

Doctor: Do come in, if you would just like to just remove your trousers and wait behind the screen.

Captain: Right-ho! And it’s ‘Captain’, if you don’t mind.

Doctor: Do excuse me, Captain, we are rather a quiet little community. It’s not often we have a man like yourself come to live. You were in the Royal Flying Corp, I understand?

Captain: That’s right, Doc, No.1 Squadron… the best! Three years on the Western Front, thirty-one confirmed downings, eight crashes and a piece of shrapnel in the leg. I can tap It’s a Long Way to Tipperary just by bending my knee. Tick tick tick… tick… tick…

Doctor: I see. I am curious, Captain… what brings you to our sleepy little village?

Captain: Well I stayed on in Paris after the war, and truth be told, It was becoming a bit much. Needed a break from those French fillies. Two, three I can handle, but four of them on a Friday night, every Friday night, week after week, month after month… Steady on, Doc, hand’s a bit cold there.

Doctor: Now if you wouldn’t mind giving me a cough.

Captain: A cough? How about I give you a roar instead? ROAAARRRRRRR!

Doctor: Ahem. Do you drink much at all?

Captain: Do I? Rather! Hatch, gullet, stomach, in less than 3 seconds – ten times a night. I treat my drink like I want my women to treat me.

Doctor: I see. Erm… you may want to look at cutting down on that.

Captain: Ha! The women or the drink? Good one, Doc!

Doctor: Now excuse me whilst I just go through with this comb.

Captain: I say, that’s a bit ticklish, Doc, reminds of this five foot two, green-eyed little thing from ‘Le Chabanais’ – twenty-five francs and she’s over you top and tails with that tiny little tongue of hers.

Doctor: Right… well I can’t see or feel anything. Have you had any itching?

Captain: Nothing, except an itching for a good ride on that little creature I saw in the post office this morning. ROAARRR!

Doctor: Any unwanted discharge?

Captain: Not since I was fourteen years old and the Spanish mistress accidentally flashed a view of her stockings. I was quite a tent, I can tell you.

Doctor: Any pain or discomfort?

Captain: Well, actually Doc, there is…

Doctor: Really? Please do go on.

Captain: It’s the thought of those Parisian girls who are going to go unfulfilled this weekend. Damn shame. Damn shame.

Doctor: Captain, I cannot see anything wrong, I cannot feel anything wrong. You say you have no discharge or itching and nor are you in any sort of medical pain. What did you say was actually wrong again?

Captain: Nothing

Doctor: Pardon.

Captain: Nothing wrong, old bean, I just wanted to show you my knob. ROAAARRRRRRR!

You only need a little bit of Gentlemen’s Spice for a rise…

“Get your lips tighter around it, you’re dribbling.”

This was the third time in the space of ten minutes I had to draw attention to Miss Rotterlicks’ technique. She looked up to me with those bugged eyes of hers, blessed with all the grace of a grasshopper. As she always did in these scenarios, she began to go faster.

I slammed my baton down on the pedestal. Christ! I curse the day I ever began teaching music at the Rotherham Girls’ Finishing School. For the last two years, I had taught at a private girls’ school in the foothills of the Swiss Alps, surrounded by beauty as we bathed in the delights of Chopin. But, there was an unfortunate misunderstanding. You must see, I was only massaging the young girl’s bare thigh to help her accommodate the cello better. Since then, this was the only school that would take me on.

Where once I had been surrounded by the delicate creatures of Europe’s aristocratic elite, I now found myself amidst the far-from-darling offspring of the city of Sheffield’s steel elite – all three of them. There was a fourth, but she was removed by her father after he misheard me talking about wanting to get my legato.

It was Saturday, the worst day in my now miserable existence, because I had the angels of death for a full four hours. They arrive at 10am, dropped off by their fathers, who constantly try and give me the horn – do they not know there is more to music than the brass band?

The girls below me stared as I got my baton up. Miss Rotterlicks sits in the middle with her clarinet – how she has turned playing this fine instrument into a sideshow at the Moulin Rouge, I do not know. To her right is the large round Miss Lumpington and her double bass – sometimes I have to do a double-take to remind myself which one is made of wood. Finally, on the left, is Miss Teakles, who handles the violin with the grace of a miner attacking the strongest material known to man.

They all constantly fight to be on top, but usually Miss Lumpington’s heavy plucking wins out. I did once volunteer to spend some extra time with her, to lighten her fingering. But this was met with a black eye from her father, when I explained I wanted to work on his daughter’s crotchet.

Sigh… I brought my baton halfway down and gave it a flick, and Miss Rotterlicks resumed her practice of pleasuring the British Navy. With my left hand, I waved in Miss Teakles who fiddled up, then down, then up, down, up, down, and – surprise!  Teakles’ all over the place. Which is the cue for Miss Lumpington to come in with her coma-inducing plucking.

Slurp, clump, clump plunk, slurp, clump, plunk…

“Girls, Triad! You’ve got to be together on this.“

“We’re trying as hard as we can, sir.”

Do you see? Do you see what I have to put up with?

“Softer, girls, this is Scheidt.”

“I don’t think that’s very fair, sir.“

Is it any wonder I spend my day constantly pissed?

My experiment worked and I have my proof that Newton was wrong. I have been exploring ways to pass on my observations and I feel that, after going through this in my head, the following is the best way I can find.

Let us say that today, I walk across Dulwich Common. I pass a gentleman who I have never made the acquaintance of. Neither do we acknowledge each other as we pass.

When I retire that evening, I dream the event that took place on the common in the exact same way. From my observation point, the gentleman I passed now exists in two states.

The first, the past where I passed him.
The second, where I dreamt I passed him.

Now let us theorise a third party, an observer. In the context of the park this may be a nanny who is sitting on a bench whilst her care run around. She witnessed myself passing the gentleman and introduces a third state. It is the state, and the only state, where both I and the gentleman are observed to exist.

We can refer to both the first and third states as being part of the Real. I know it to be real for it is my observation, and because the nanny is the only witness to both me and the gentleman existing in the same space. If I know I exist, then for me to be real, so must too that third state be real. As the second state is a product of my observation in the first state, we can note that for the first and second states to exist, the third state must exist.

Now I will refer to the second state as the unknown state. As the nanny did not see my dream, she did not observe me passing the gentleman in my dream – there is no verifiable evidence, but both I and the nanny in the first and third states have observed the gentleman to exist in that space. We must then conclude, that the gentleman in the second state can both exist and not exist.

I trust you are still with me. These three states, the First Real, the Second Unknown, and the Third Real, comprise the very fabric of our Universe. But that is not to say there are not more states. Imagine that the nanny went home tonight and dreamt about the same event I did. From her point of view, she has the three states, but because I also dreamt it, I now have my 3 states, plus her 3 states. If you will now entertain that the gentleman also dreamt of the event, that becomes 3 plus 3 plus 3.

Each time there is a difference in the event (say I dreamt that the gentleman’s cravat was blue and not red) this causes what I refer to as a new plane of reality, and all the states from the previous plane are repeated. (3+3+3)+(3+3+3). Now think of all the people you may pass in a busy day in London and, as I’m sure you can imagine, the numbers get big very quick – everyone has that first state which is observed by many combinations of third states, which means an infinite number of second states, on an infinite number of planes.

There is an indescribable amount of energy holding this together. I would need a blackboard to run through my hypothesis here, but my final observation is there is no mass or force. Ha! I will have to be fair, however, and give Newton his ‘action’. My experiment has also, unexpectedly, proven that time is irrelevant, which I have yet to understand.

So you see, after I fired my machine up, the iron support I was forced to use (thanks to not getting the funding from the Academy) broke. As I went to stop the machine from falling over, the carrier tube shattered and I was covered in my Huygen fluid, which was the key to this whole experiment. Amusingly, you may say, I now have no mass, nor can I apply any force. My eye-line was fixed in that split-second before I was covered in the fluid. From this viewpoint, I have witnessed my experiment over and over again.

Sometimes the differences are slight; my hair is longer, the room a different colour. Other times it would cause Charles Darwin to spin in his grave. I am sure that by these laws, there eventually must come a state where the ‘me’ doing the experiment, will notice the ‘me’ watching, and act accordingly. Though I do worry about the problem of time.

I cannot see, but I feel as if the walls of my laboratory have long since gone. It was about observation 400 when I felt the wallpaper was getting mouldy. Around 800 to 900 I could have sworn I smelt fresh paint. Long after I stopped counting, I felt at one point there were children in the room with me. And then there was an entire period of cycles where I regularly imagined I could hear sirens, followed by large explosions, until that ended abruptly. Now there is the feeling that I am in an open space. Sometimes I feel as I can taste the dew in my mouth.

I feel quite content, for I am watching the mechanics of the universe. I never get tired or bored and each cycle teaches me something new. I am also happy to fulfil myself with the thought, that one day, I will get back to that Academy, face my critics and physically shove Newton’s Principia where it belongs.

I say, toy soldiers! What fun! What’s this fellow’s name?

Colonel Robert Kekewich? Who’s this chap? General Jan Kemp?. He seems to have a lot more horses, that doesn’t seem fair.

Oh I see, silly me, you are discussing the situation in Southern Africa and that snuff tin is the British Camp.

Mmm, yes I see, yes… Yes it is, somewhat. You know, it reminds me of a decision I had to make once. Did I ever tell you the time I was faced with the Complexing Conundrum?

Well, if we are going to talk tactics, then we need officers’ drinks. You, young sir at the bar, fetch us some gin and tonics, will you?

As you are well aware, I promised my mammy I would never fight for the English, but father insisted (with the exception of Caligula) that all us O’Donnells would do service. I did a year as a mercenary within the Royal Austrian Hungary Imperial Calvary. However, my tale does not stem from here, but a few years later, when I went to visit an old cavalry chum in his hometown of Montespertoli, Italy.

Our regiment had been a right mixed bag of potatoes, mainly made up of Saxons and Hungarians and a group of Italians, including my chum, Marco. He had joined the mercenary core to raise money to start his own vineyard. We kept in touch, and I promised one day I would come out and visit him. Roll on five years, and I happened to find myself in Florence – a day’s ride away – and I decided to pop in.

When I arrived, I was most shocked. Expecting to find a merry hamlet in the glorious Tuscany countryside and wine flowing freely, I instead found a dusty, soulless shell, and not a wine barrel in sight.

I seemed to attract hidden stares from behind closed blinds, which made one feel most awkward – like when you accidentally step in a puddle and have to put up with a wet shoe. I was nearly about to leave, when who should appear… not my friend Marco, but another from my regiment, a Bavarian fellow called Hermann.

After we exchanged hails and hellos, I enquired what he was doing here and why the place was so glum. He said two words which changed the taste in my mouth.

“Capitano Vittore.”

I had the displeasure of serving under him and he was a vile man. The kind who moments before parade, picks up a large handful of mud and wipes it all over your Shabraque.

Turns out he was now the Mayor – Vae Victis! No one was allowed to make any wine in the village except for him, and having tasting a bottle of the stuff, it was as foul as his nature. Next, he had taken everyone’s horses in the village and kept them locked up in a huge barn on his estate. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

He had resurrected Jus primae noctis, the right to take the virginity of the maidens of the estate. It was then Hermann revealed why he was here. Turns out the old Hun had fallen hopelessly in love with Marco’s daughter, Letizia. The Capitano had taken her to his villa and was keeping her locked up. It had nearly ruined Marco, and Hermann was on the point of breaking himself.

If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is a bully, and with all bullies, one must confront them straight on.

I went straight up to his villa, jumped over the wall and barged my way in. I found the Capitano, lying down eating grapes.

“I will not call you ‘sir’, for you do not deserve such a title. You have made my chums Marco and Hermann quite sad. I will not leave here until you learn your lesson and release Letizia into my custody.”

Do you know what he did then? He had the nerve to pass wind, and defiantly at that. Well, I made to walk straight past him so I could find Letizia, but before I got halfway across the room I was stopped by a sabre that flew past and embedded itself in the wall. I turned to see the Captain, now standing. He belched, then called, “En guard!”

For a whole hour it was clash, clash, clash, and our fight took us out onto the balcony. He had grabbed Letizia and was holding his sabre to her throat when he said:

“You have proved to me that you are my equal when it comes to the sabre, but are you my equal when it comes to the mind? You can continue to fight me for the girl, or you can rescue the villagers’ horses.”

There was a small fire pit on the balcony, and he kicked the lit contents over the edge, onto the roof of the barn. It caught instantly.

As you can see, it was quite a complexing conundrum. Would I put the happiness of my chums before an entire village?

Never let your heart rule your head, gentlemen. I rationalised that like most bullies he was full of codswallop, and would not harm the girl. He would, however, allow a stable of other people’s horses to burn, so I jumped down from the balcony and let the horses out.

It was quite a sight – the flames leaping high in the air and all the horses running down to the village. So much so, that this sign of freedom was enough to rally the entire village! Soon there was a mob at the gates and the Capitano Villa was being torn down brick by brick. Letizia, Hermann and Marco were all reunited and I stayed on for the wedding, which was a right hoot!

As for the Capitano? He was locked up in his cellars, and was not let out until he had drunk all of his foul wine. The last I heard of him, he had re-enlisted in the French Foreign Legion and was last seen on a slow boat to Indochina.

Now, let’s say we stop talking about the Boer crisis and have a proper game of toy soldiers.

Stagehand: Curtain call, five minutes, ladies…

Doris: He wanted to put it where?

Ethel: Me back passage.

Doris: But, Ethel… That’s tiny.

Ethel: I know, that’s what I said, wouldn’t listen though. He gave it a good try and got covered in oil, the silly goose. Told him, to stick it round front.

Doris: What I don’t get is why ‘e didn’t do that in the first place.

Ethel: Well, ‘e was ‘fraid someone would nick it. Doubt anyone in Lambeth would knows how to drive it any’ow.

Doris: They do like their toys. ‘Ere, can you pass us those nipple tassles – the blue ones. So are you seeing him again?

Ethel: Well I don’t know, seems a bit obsessed with wanting to educate me, gave me a dictionary last night.

Doris: Any good?

Ethel: Not really, it keeps changing subject every other line. Nah, don’t think I will see him again. For one thing ‘e’s got his eye on Gladys over at the Imperial.

Doris: Gladys? Thought she went off to sea with that sailor fellow with the beard.

Ethel: She went off to SEE the sailor with the beard, that didn’t last very long at all. She met him round the back of the music hall expecting for him to take her on the town, and he was expecting her to take him right there and then on the floor – are my feathers straight, love?

Doris: Nah, bend over a second I’ll fix it for ya… (Sigh) – Do you ever ask what it’s all about?

Ethel: What, Doris?

Doris: You know… this.

Ethel: You mean the frilly knickers?

Doris: No, I mean… Surely there must be more to life than gettin’ on stage and whirling our bits for the lord and gentry.

Ethel: Oh Doris… ‘ere, stand up and look in the mirror, will ya. What do you see?

Doris: Me left nipple tassle is wonky.

Ethel: Your bottom, Doris!

Doris: Me bottom?

Ethel: Yes, your bottom.

Doris: What about me bottom?

Ethel: It’s a very pretty bottom.

Doris: I don’t see what me bottom has to do with wondering if there is more to life.

Ethel: You ever asked yourself why you have such a pretty bottom?

Doris: I….

Ethel: It’s becasue God wanted you to have that bottom and you were meant to wiggle it. Not just for the lord and gentry, for everyone.

Doris: It is rather pretty, ain’t it?

Ethel: Yes, yes it is, Doris… The prettiest bottom I have ever seen. Every night when we come to the end of our act and I am standing behind you as you bend down — It, well… It, it makes me smile inside.

Doris: Oh, Ethel, that’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me, I think I’m going to cry.

Ethel: Don’t cry, remember the crowd, they need to see your bottom smiling.

Doris: And so they shall…..

— 00 —

Stagehand: ‘Ere, what did you say to Doris? She’s been a moody moo-ha all day and now she looks like she’s on top of the world.

Ethel: Well, it was what this gentlemen was telling us last night really. To get to the top, you got start at the bottom.

“Certo. Inglese?”

“Si.”

Adam Fletcher pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow as the young lady behind the counter at the Poste e Telegrafi stepped off her small stool to reach one of the blank telegram forms behind her. She picked up one of the green slips, laid it out neatly in front of her and poised her pen ready to start.

“Questo i testo di telegramma?” she paused “What text of telegram? ”

Adam felt as if the air was being ripped from his lungs as she looked up at him and smiled. What would he say? He had it all worked out in his head before entering through the door, but like the air from his lungs, words were now rushing out of his head. He excused himself from the counter and sat on the tiny bench in the room, the heat overwhelming him. While his peers would be counting down their final days before retirement in the luxury of an oak carved office in London, Adam had spent the last three weeks on a hunt that had started on the coasts of Cornwall and had become a race against a decrepit sea-going boat and the European rail system.

He had only been two days behind the boat when he had arrived at the port of Lisbon in a post-revolutionary Portugal. Some expensive information bought here, had informed him that the boat Ta Metut would head first to Morroco to resupply and then would be proceeding to Gibraltar – which Adam had hoped would be where he would make his intercept. Seven days he had waited and the ship had indeed come into the port, but had not docked, the Captain having chosen instead to anchor in deep water and send a small lighter ashore for whatever business it had.

Information had been harder to come by on the ship’s next move. A Corsican Merchant Captain had told him that these Berber pirate ships normally kept away from the French Algerian coast and the most likely next stopping ports would either be Civitavecchia or Napoli in Italy. After that the boat would only land at obscure ports in Asia Minor where westerners were not welcomed. It would end its journey in Syria and from there its cargo would be taken deep into Arabia. This was something Adam could not allow to happen – Isabella, the daughter of his best friend of thirty years, was a part of that cargo.

Having arrived in Civitavecchia two days previously, he had instructed his business partner to wire him more funds; he had known he would have to have help if he was to have any chance of rescuing her. He had spent the first night scouting the most run-down looking bars and brothels around the dock, but to no avail. He had in his mind a romantic notion of finding a British crew he would be able to rally to his cause in the name of righteousness; reality would be much different.

Along the main dock front had been a brothel with a bar that stretched out along the quay. He had been drinking there, watching the clientele in the hope of finding that crew when he had felt a blunt object being pressed into his lower back. A voice had whispered “Lira, Lira”. Adam had slowly gone to reach for his money, but as he did the look of his friend the morning after Isabella was kidnapped appeared his mind. It was the look of a man who had lost everything and it filled him with rage.

He had then clenched his fist and unleashed a punch that belonged to man half his age and twice his size, sending the vagrant flying backwards. In an area in which fights were an hourly occurrence, he had been surprised to find himself surrounded in response by several of the other bar patrons who branded knives.

Adam had got into a boxing stance – if he was to have gone down it wouldn’t of been without a fight. The stand-off had been broken just as quickly as it had started when the brothel’s Madam had pushed her way through to the vagrant and started screaming at him Italian. She had then made Adam sit down and started to scream at him.

An ex-navy Dutch fisherman Pauel had helped translate. The youth who had tried to attack Adam had been her son, and she had berated the boy, not for robbing her clients, but for having had the daylights knocked out of him by a man who was old enough to be his grandfather. She had then demanded to know Adam’s story and so he then told it, not just to her but to the entire bar.

He had spoken of his friend having found love later in life, and had described how the man had lost his wife in childbirth; how he had brought up a beautiful daughter he doted; how the child had taught him to love the world again. He had told of their holiday in Cornwall when the Berber pirates had come in the middle of the night and kidnapped the fourteen-year-old girl. Adam had spoken of how he could not bear to look at his friend the next morning, then how he had for the last three weeks been trying to get to the boat.

By the time dawn had come, Adam had had all the assistance in place that he would need to take on the pirates, including the Madam’s son. Pauel had warned him that half of those who had taken his money in the promise of help would not turn up, but Adam had been sure that even half would be twice as much as he’d need. Pauel had also offered his boat and crew (for a price, of course) in case the chase needed to go further.

This had been four hours ago; Adam got to his feet and walked back over to the counter. The Ta Metut was due to arrive this evening.

“Signoria, erm, testo…” he watched as the young lady picked up the pen, he cleared his throat and continued ” H…O…P…E…”

December 21st 1901

Hello Mammy,

It’s with great sadness that I write to tell you I will not be making it back home for Christmas. It sounds like it is going to be quite a feast and the largest O’Donnell reunion in years. I have even heard that Father has sent a young man over from Argentina in proxy – that must be nice for you, Mammy. Please pass on my apologies to all, I am most disappointed that I will not get to see my new nephew. Do give Drusilla and her husband my warmest congratulations. And how is Titus? Has he grown out of eating flowers?

I ask for your strictest confidence as I tell you my reasons why. I know you brought me up to believe the affairs of men are best left to other men, such as my Uncle Seamus and my younger brothers, Claudius and Galba, but I couldn’t help get involved in this matter.

It began when I was traveling down from Leeds to London and was entertaining a fellow passenger with the time I was on a whaling ship. I told him how I had made the faux pas of bringing brandy instead of rum onto the ship. I cried, “What could possibly be worse?” The fellow sitting opposite me shouted out, “What rot!” Well, I was a little taken back and asked him to explain himself, and by the end of his speech I had to admit that the wrong choice of spirit on a whaling ship was a rather trivial matter.

You see, he explained to me there were some boys and girls who have no mammy and daddies, and they live in this rather sad-looking building. I know this, for when we alighted at Kings Cross he invited me to come and see it with my own eyes. I was most shocked at what I saw, for their accommodation was somewhat basic and a bit rough around the edges. The gentleman from the train explained to me that they relied on charity and really had to work hard to stretch every penny. He also added that he was lobbying Parliament to change this, and that night at my club I ruddy well gave my MP a good clump around the ear. I am also pleased to say that my club now has a swear box set up, with the proceeds going to the orphanage – we have raised the extraordinary sum of twenty pounds so far.

Mammy, I do need to make a confession to you. I have to admit I have been going to the square church as I have been helping out every Sunday at the orphanage, and that is their faith. I’ve been teaching them to play rugby, entertaining them with my tales, and I have tried to get them excited by Ceaser’s Commentarii de Bello Gallico. But we need to make a few more nursery steps first. In the meantime, Hans Christian Anderson seems to be the biggest hoot!

I spoke to Father Kelly about going to the other church and he said Jesus wouldn’t mind in this case – I hope you don’t either, Mammy.

What most got me, though, was Christmas was going to be a most sad affair for them. No presents, no turkey and not even brandy and mince pies. There weren’t even the funds to put up a tree. Well, you know me, Mammy, and I don’t like to be sad.

Again, in the interests of subterfuge, I ask you to keep this to yourself. Even my household staff do not know – which reminds me… I told my cook that there was a bird shortage in Ireland this year, and had him cook up eight large turkeys. I would be most grateful if you could keep up this pretense when you come to visit in the spring.

My man is aware of one disappearing on Sunday mornings, but as far as he is aware I am playing rugby – in which I have the misfortune of constantly losing my balls. I also told him (hee he he!) that I read in The London Paper of pirates in the Irish Sea, and to buy two lots of Christmas presents for all my nephews and nieces, just in case, which amazingly is the same number of orphans – fancy that!

I will leave my house just as if I was coming to you, but I have booked into an hotel in Holyhead, and instead of catching the ferry, I will turn back to London the very next day. I have come up with the cover story that my name is Edward Book, a Latin expert who is on his way to the British Museum to decipher some urgent relics.

Whilst the kids are at the chapel on Christmas morning, I will be busy back at the orphanage setting up the Christmas tree and organising the kitchen, and when they return they are in for a huge surprise. I have also managed to procure a piano, and I intend to give them a riot of a Christmas with enough Christmas pudding to sink the Cutty Sark.

I ask for your secrecy, as I have become known in London circles as something of a debonair cavalier adventurer type, and I feel some might think this sort of thing to be a bit soft. If the family ask, I am in Russia hunting bears.

I will not be alone over the rest of the period as my good friend, Hans, is coming over from Berlin – he has written a play about a young boy in an ancient Greek gymnasium which he wants to show me. I will be at Galba and his wife’s for Boxing Day (they are in on the plan, it was Galba’s idea re the swear box).

Lots of love

Tibs

PS. Please can you telegram my chum, Peter, to put him straight. He does not believe me when I told him that Aunt Ruth has had the same stew on the hob for thirty years.

All Rise…

Well, your ‘onour, I arrived on the corner of Brick Lane and Whitechapel ‘igh street at approximately 3am on the morning of November 6th 1927. Across the road, lying on the ground face-down, was a body which I presumed to be that of a reveller who was slightly worse for wear. I called out twice before going over and giving ‘im a slight tap on the ‘ead with me truncheon, to which there was no response. Turning the body over, I identified it to be that of a very pretty young women in ‘er twenties in some sort of Arabian attire, and that she was still breathing. ‘Aving earlier on that evening dealt with a drunken reveller from Lord Brownes’ party, who ‘ad been dressed as a pirate, I plopped her on me bicycle and cycled the six miles to where the party was ‘appening. When I knocked on the door, I was met by Lord Browne ‘imself, who greeted me with the following:

“I say, Merk’s come as a policeman. How superb!”

After a lot of what can only be described as young man’s joviality, which involved having me ‘elmet knocked off and tossed all over the room, I established I was not the gentleman known by the name Merk, but a constable appointed by ‘is Majesty of the realm. ‘E did not recognize the young lady, and neither had any of the other guests remembered seeing ‘er that evening. ‘E did, ‘owever, point out that the jewellery she was wearing was of extremely ‘igh quality and that was no doubt a real diamond in ‘er tiara. I then repeated my attempts to awake the young lady with another tap from me truncheon, with no success. Plopping ‘er back on me bicycle, I cycled three miles to the ‘ouse of Richard Neumann, who I knew to be an expert on jewellery, and who would be up at this early ‘our.

‘E explained to me that what she was wearing was most definitely antique, and that ‘e ‘ad a friend over in Battersea, which was two miles away, who would be able to tell me more. ‘E was also most kind in serving me some kippers. I plopped the lady back on me bicycle, but not before giving ‘er another tap on the ‘ead.

This friend turned out to indeed be most knowledgeable in the field of antiquities, and informed me that the jewellery was of Persian origin and at least three thousand years old – but could offer no more than that.

With all leads exhausted, I plopped her back on me bicycle and began to ‘ead back to Scotland Yard. As I crossed over Battersea Bridge the sun began to come up. I noticed the young lady begin to stir. ‘Er eyes opened to reveal the most beautiful green eyes I ‘ave ever seen. She smiled… oh… a smile that would light a thousand candles… – sorry, your ‘onour, what did I do next? Well, I gave ‘er one with me truncheon.