A Traveller's Tale

He shook his head sadly. "It's a pity you weren't a sports mistress. So you're really...

"I'm a police constable, Mr Jolly."

"Ah," he sighed, "I suppose it was bound to happen. You've come to take me in then? You don't have to worry, officer, I'll come quietly."

"Oh no," she assured him, "I really am on holiday, so you can forget the 'officer' stuff. My name's Sheila -- Sheila Potts -- and I'm not interested in you officially at all, nor is any other police officer. In fact, the Shinford police would be very angry with me if I took you in. Why don't you get your cup of coffee and come and sit with me, so we could talk? I assure you my interest is purely personal curiosity, not a constabularious inquestioning."

He smiled at her sally, and said, "I see that you are a very intelligent and well read young lady, Sheila. It's a long story, but you might not find it boring. I'll just have to pop inside for a minute to get my coffee and let them know that I'll be out here for some time."

He rose and went into the inn. It was not long before he reappeared in the doorway together with a tall slim red headed woman in her thirties. She gazed hard at Potts for a long moment, spoke shortly to Lister, and went back inside. Lister joined Potts, and pulled a bench over to sit opposite her across the table.

"Right, Sheila, let's begin then, shall we? Are you going to take notes?"

Potts indicated that her memory would serve her, and he started to tell his tale. For the next three hours she listened entranced as the story unfolded. From time to time customers came and went through the pub door, or sat at one of the other tables. They were sometimes served by the tall red head, but if she was already busy elsewhere, Lister would have to break off to serve them. Occasionally he would stop to have a short chat with the occupants of tourist boats passing through the open lock.

At one point, two hikers arrived who wished to cross the canal, and Lister closed the top canal gate for them. He watched them safely cross before opening the gate again. While he was thus engaged, the red headed waitress came and poured fresh coffee for Potts. "You won't be getting Les into any trouble, I hope," she said pleadingly. "He's a good man, you know. Life hasn't been very kind to him. He deserves some peace and quiet now." Potts assured her that Les was in no danger, whereupon she nodded "Good," and moved smoothly away.

During these intermissions Potts surveyed her surroundings. An air of peace and tranquillity seemed to permeate the place. Among its clientele, be it regulars or passing tourist trade, good fellowship and humour prevailed. Rancour and raised voices were equally absent. It was, Potts thought, almost as if she had stepped through an invisible veil out of the real world and into the world-as-it-should-be.

Around noon Lister asked her if she would care for something to eat.

"Could you do me a ploughman's lunch? And a half of your best?"

Lister was soon back with the order, and left her to enjoy her meal alone. When he returned, Potts said, "Congratulations to the chef. Good cheese, that, and great rolls."

"Baked on the premises this morning, them rolls were," he replied proudly, "and the cheese isn't store bought neither. Local produce it is. Are you ready for me to go on with my tale?"

"Before you do, Les," she replied, "would you give me a half hour on my own, so that I can go over in my mind what you've already told me?"

"No problem, love," he answered. "Can I get you anything in the meantime?"

"No, I'm okay, thanks," she replied. As he moved away, she thought over the account he had given her so far.

* * *

Lister Speaks -- His Career

From the start, there was the problem of my name. It was bad enough to be lumbered with the ludicrously rhyming 'Mister Lister,' but when choosing a Christian name for me, my parents, who had honeymooned in Leicester, had thoughtlessly decided to commemorate the place of my conception, with the unfortunate result that when required to give my full name and title I am obliged to identify myself as 'Mister Lester Lister.'

Then there was my job. I started my career as an assistant in Braithwaite and Hawkes, an old-fashioned establishment which described itself as bespoke outfitters to the gentry. At first I just performed menial tasks like sweeping out the shop and the like. Gradually I progressed to window dressing, and then to cutting out, but when I applied to be promoted to working on the floor of the shop, dealing with clients (B&H were too posh to have mere customers), I was told that that could never be, because of my name.

I should explain that the firm prided itself on conducting business with old-fashioned courtesy. Any client entering the shop would be greeted by the floor walker, Mr Pilsbury, who would then summon such other staff as were required by calling, "Mister Finch, a chair for the Major," or "Mister Lloyd, show Sir George the new Harris tweeds," and so on. The manager said to me, "So you see, my boy, it just wouldn't do. We can't have Pilsbury calling for 'Mister Lister,' can we? It might provoke unseemly hilarity, and we wouldn't want the dignity of our emporium to be disturbed, would we?"

I protested, "But Sir, I can't help my name. It's not fair."

"Listen, let me tell you something," he replied. "My father was a wealthy man. He owned three cotton mills in Lancashire, and had an estate of two hundred acres on the Yorkshire Moors. I was the younger of his two sons. His will left everything to my brother Frank, or to me if Frank should have died before him. One day he bought a car, hired a chauffeur, and took Frank for a spin to show off the vehicle. The car went over a cliff, and they were both killed in the crash. The chauffeur, who had jumped clear, said a tyre had burst.

"My grief at the loss of father and brother with one blow was tempered by the natural expectation that I would now inherit the lot. But such was not to be. Frank was married, and had made a will leaving everything he had to his wife. She hired a lawyer who got a judge to rule that since my father and Frank had died simultaneously, my father, being the older, should be deemed to have died first. So Frank was deemed to have inherited my father's estate. His widow got the lot, and I got damn all. She later married the chauffeur. So don't come to me telling me that life's not fair. Of course it's not bloody fair! Whoever told you that it would be?"

After that I abandoned my dreams of working in Savile Row and owning my own tailor's shop.

Things improved a bit when the war came. I served in the Royal Navy in a land based stores and supplies unit, handing out uniforms and kit. Ordinary Seaman Les Lister didn't sound too bad, and Able Seaman Les Lister was even better. In the stores I worked alongside Leading Seaman Ossie Granger. He was courting a lass named Betty White, a strapping blue-eyed blonde. I fancied her myself, but I knew that I hadn't a chance -- she was true to her Ossie.

Shortly after VE Day, Ossie asked me if I'd go on a double date with him. Betty, it seems, had a younger sister. Naturally I was, as they say, agog with anticipation. As they were out of the same stable, so to speak, I expected Muriel -- that was the sister's name -- to be a younger replica of beautiful Betty. But as usual Fate was lurking round the corner with a cosh to bring me back to reality. Muriel turned out to be a gawky, bespectacled, tooth-brace-wearing 16 year old, not long out of school. Her freckles were interspersed with the fading remnants of teenage acne. I had to play the gent, of course, and hide my true feelings. We went on several double dates. I could hardly tell Ossie that I didn't fancy his girl friend's sister, could I? In any case, the arrangement meant that I got to dance with Betty occasionally.

After one boozy outing the four of us were walking along the sea front when Ossie proposed to Betty, and she accepted. Then they turned to me and Muriel, and Betty said, "What about you two, then?" What could I do? I heard myself proposing to Muriel. She replied, "All right."

For the next few weeks I was just swept along. Ossie and Betty managed everything, including the licences and a double wedding. As the four of us left the Town Hall after the registry office ceremony, Betty handed a sheet of paper to Muriel, saying, "Me and Ossie have got a place in the country. Here's our new address. Cheerio, kid."

Ossie poked me playfully in the ribs. "There you go, Les. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Be seeing you." With that, Ossie and Betty hailed a taxi and drove off. That was the last I ever saw of my mate, Ossie Granger.

I found out later that the girls' parents had both been killed in the war, and Betty had been left with the responsibility of looking after Muriel. Betty had told Ossie that she couldn't marry him until arrangements had been made for Muriel's future. Naturally, Ossie didn't want to have Muriel living with them once they were married, so that's why they had palmed her off onto me.

Muriel was not my only problem. Once I was demobbed I expected to take up my old job again, but Brathwaite and Hawkes had gone out of business. Clothes rationing had hit it hard, and the minor gentry class from which it had drawn its custom could no longer afford their former luxuries. Wartime assembly lines that had been set up to produce service uniforms were now converted to churn out cheap civilian garments. Budget chains like Fifty Shilling Tailors dominated the clothing market. Mergers and takeovers had resulted in Braithwaite and Hawkes being absorbed by a conglomerate called Polyphema Fashions Ltd. They offered me a post as a travelling salesman of ladies' undergarments. I had no choice but to accept, and to swallow the indignity of being thereafter the butt of jokes about 'travelling in ladies' underwear.'

Actually, I was quite good at the job, much as I hated it. I got good results, and since I was paid on commission, as was the practice then, I earned decent money. I was able to buy a nice little semi in Shinford, and keep up the mortgage payments with little difficulty. Muriel did her best, poor lass, but it can't have been easy for her, living with me. There was no merriment in our lives. I took refuge on my allotment as often as I could.

And so it went on for nigh on fifteen years, with me getting more and more miserable, and Muriel, I suppose, getting more and more lonely. Until one day...

* * *

His Epiphany

I had a business appointment in Colwyn Bay. The town was well off my route and I had just the one appointment there, with a small draper's shop, but I was conscientious and made the trip anyway, only to find that the draper had died the day before. I was stuck in the town with four hours to wait before the next train out.

Do you know Colwyn Bay, Sheila? No? I recommend you to cherish that ignorance and preserve it intact. It is an unlovely town on the north coast of Wales totally unappealing on a fine day, and utterly loathsome on a cold wet windy one. I shuffled, hunched up against the elements, into a cinema to get some shelter.

Two and a half hours later I emerged transformed. Amid the dross of Pearl and Dean advertisements, a Pathé newsreel which contained no news, a supporting film of no consequence, and the unsuccessful attempts of some invisible being to make the cinema's organ emit a tuneful note, shining like a nugget of pure gold had been the main feature: 'The History of Mr Polly,' a film adaptation of H G Welles' novel.

As I stood on the steps of the cinema I was in turmoil. In the Wild Surmise Stakes I could have given Stout Cortez a head start and still beaten him by three lengths. "Why not?" I was murmuring to myself, "Why not?"

With a new resolve, I hastened to the B&B where I had spent the previous night, packed my bag, paid my bill, and caught the next train out heading for home, abandoning the appointments I had for the next two days.

* * *

His Homecoming

A railway journey from Colwyn Bay to Shinford involves four changes of train and long waits at each change. Consequently it was well after nine o'clock before I descended from the train at Shinford, and tiredness had wiped the optimism from my face. I could see that the ticket collector was surprised by my arriving at that time, being accustomed to see me return home at teatime on Fridays, but he refrained from commenting on the matter. No doubt my demeanour deterred him.

As I trudged wearily homeward, I reflected that I was not yet free from Fate's malign afflictions. At this late hour Muriel might already have retired for the night, in which case I would be best advised to sleep in my allotment shed rather than risk her wrath at being disturbed. Turning the corner onto Laburnum Drive I could see my house. Only the bedroom light was on, and as I watched, my wife's shadow crossed the blind and the light went out.

With a sigh I walked on past and turned down the lane to the allotments, lighting my way with a small pocket torch. The door to my shed opened to my touch, and I was alarmed to see that the lock had been broken. I shone my torch inside, expecting to find my tools gone, but to my surprise nothing was missing. On the contrary, there was an additional item in evidence. On my extendable deckchair, the inert figure of a man was stretched out.

Cautiously I set my cases on the floor and reached to my right to take a long handled Dutch hoe from its place on a tool rack. Thus armed and emboldened, I kicked the deckchair smartly and ordered, "Oi, you! Get up out of there!" There was no reaction from the chair's occupant. "Get up, I say!" There was still no response of any sort. I hooked my foot under the deckchair and rudely overturned it. The figure fell to the floor with a thud and lay still. An awful suspicion arose in my mind. Apprehensively I jabbed the body on the floor with the hoe. It was as unyielding as a log. I stooped and examined it more closely. There was no doubt about it -- I had a dead man on my hands, or rather on my shed floor.

I was in no mood to allow anything to divert me from the course I had set out for myself. Leaving the body where it lay, I righted the deckchair, threw a clean sack over it, stripped down to my underwear, and reclined myself. Before falling asleep, I had decided what I was going to do.

* * *

His Departure

When I woke up the following morning, I prepared and ate some breakfast. I had always kept in the shed a stock of refreshment, a primus stove, and a folding table. Afterwards I washed and shaved. Then I took my pocket watch from my waistcoat and put it in the dead man's pocket. I transferred my wedding ring from my own hand to the dead man's. In doing so I noted with a touch of alarm that the dead man was missing the tip of one finger. Without bothering to analyse my reasoning, I dealt with this contretemps by taking a pair of secateurs from the tool rack and placing them, opened, near the corpse's hand.

Still in my underclothes, I placed the deckchair over the corpse. I dragged a bale of straw from the back of the shed, cut the twine enclosing it, and strewed the straw over the deckchair. Looking through my stock of fertilisers and weed killers I found two which were labelled as fire hazards. These I sprinkled over the straw. I found a can of paraffin, more than half full, and placed it just inside the shed door alongside my two cases.

I dressed myself as neatly as possible and sat down at the table. Polyphema Fashions did not believe in extending credit to its customers, and insisted on cash or cheques with all orders. I opened my order book and extracted all the cheques not crossed "a/c payee only." I endorsed them "Pay L Lister," franked the endorsements with the firm's rubber stamp, and listed them on a paying in slip for my personal account. I also wrote a cheque drawn on my account. I put the results of my clerical work into my briefcase, and, closing the shed door behind me, walked smartly into the town, briefcase under my arm.

I arrived at my bank at ten o'clock, just as it was being opened by the Assistant Cashier, Colin Digby. Inside, after showing him my card, I presented the paying-in slip, together with the cheques themselves.

Digby was surprised, but could not think of any reason to object, so he reluctantly accepted the cheques, and passed the receipted paying-in slip to me. I then slid my cheque across the counter, saying, "Now if you would just cash this, please."

Digby looked at the cheque and gulped. It was drawn on my personal account and signed by me. It was made out to "Cash," and was for the sum of the cheques just deposited, plus the former balance of my account. Digby looked anxiously towards the door. I dare say that he was wishing that the Manager would turn up, or even the Assistant Manager, but neither of them appeared.

Plaintively he asked, "This is unusual, isn't it, Mr Lister? Don't you usually post the Polyphema cheques to your Head Office, to be banked by them?"

I leaned towards him, and said conspiratorially, "I was afraid you might ask that. Look, you mustn't let this go any further, but Polyphema can't fulfil any more orders. They're in financial trouble, and may have to call in the liquidators any day now. That's why the Chief Accountant has ordered me to cash the cheques immediately and use the money to reimburse the clients."

"But why not simply return their cheques to them, Mr Lister?"

"If I did that it would be as if the orders had never been made at all, and I would lose my commission. I can't afford that."

"But why not post the cheques to Head Office in the usual way, and let them reimburse the clients by cheque?"

"That would take too long. The clients need to have their funds restored to them immediately, so that they can place their orders with an alternative supplier without delay. Besides, Polyphema might go bust before they got their refunds, and that would leave them as unsecured creditors. That's why we have to resort to this stratagem. As a business man yourself, you know how these things are done better than I do, probably." As I spoke, I looked Digby straight in the eye unwaveringly.

Gratifying though the flattery was, Digby was uneasy. He stared hopefully at the door, willing either of his superiors to appear, but in vain. He could think of nothing further to say, and I started to drum my fingers very lightly upon the counter. Dismally he asked, "How would you like it, Mr Lister?"

"Fives and tens will do," I replied confidently.

Digby counted out the sum, banded the notes in convenient bundles, and slid them across the counter. I swept the money into my briefcase, strapped it up, and tucked it under my arm. I bade Digby farewell, and left the bank, restraining the impulse to hurry. Digby watched me go with heavy misgivings. "Oh dear," I heard him mutter to the bank guard, "I hope I haven't made a mistake."

After leaving the bank, I walked smartly back to the allotment shed. I moved my cases outside the door, unscrewed the cap of the paraffin can, and threw the can onto the pile of straw, followed by a lighted match. I closed the door, picked up my cases, and walked across the fields to the highway, where I boarded a bus for Southampton.

I reckoned that if the police managed to track me that far, they would assume that I was meaning to leave the country. In Southampton I bought a bicycle with a luggage rack and two pannier bags. I bought and changed into some new clothes suitable for an open air life. Thus suitably clad and mounted, I cycled away.

* * *

His Travels

For the next two years or so I toured the country, following my nose you might say, with no other aim than the hope that someday, somewhere, I might come across a pub like the Potwell Inn. I lived frugally. If the weather allowed, I slept in the open. In winter I might ask a farmer to let me doss down in the straw in one of his barns, or if in a town, I'd seek a Sally Ann refuge. I mostly avoided towns though, and tried to stick to country lanes. I never begged or stole. I bought food from the slowly dwindling cash that I had started with, augmented now and then by earning a shilling or two in casual employment.