Four Warned (Quick Reads 2014) Read online

  Diana would slow down and then speed up at each familiar bend in the road, making sure the van was never given enough room to pull level with her. She tried to concentrate on what she should do once the farmhouse came into sight. She reckoned that the drive leading up to the house must be about half a mile long. It was full of potholes and bumps which Daniel had often explained he couldn’t afford to have repaired. But at least it was only wide enough for one car.

  The gate to the driveway was usually left open for her, though on the rare occasion Daniel had forgotten, and she’d had to get out of the car and open it for herself. She couldn’t risk that tonight. If the gate was closed, she would have to travel on to the next town and stop outside the Crimson Kipper, which was always crowded at this time on a Friday night, or, if she could find it, on the steps of the local police station. She checked her petrol gauge again. It was now touching red. ‘Oh my God,’ she said, realising she might not have enough petrol to reach the town.

  She could only pray that Daniel had remembered to leave the gate open.

  She swerved out of the next bend and sped up, but once again she managed to gain only a few yards, and she knew that within seconds he would be back in place. He was. For the next few hundred yards they remained within feet of each other, and she felt certain he would run into the back of her. She didn’t once dare to touch her brakes – if they crashed in that lane, far from any help, she would have no hope of getting away from him.

  She checked her mileometer. A mile to go.

  ‘The gate must be open. It must be open,’ she prayed. As she swung round the next bend, she could make out the outline of the farmhouse in the distance. She almost screamed with relief when she saw that the lights were on in the downstairs rooms.

  She shouted, ‘Thank God!’ then remembered the gate again, and changed her plea to ‘Dear God, let it be open.’ She would know what needed to be done as soon as she came round the last bend. ‘Let it be open, just this once,’ she pleaded. ‘I’ll never ask for anything again, ever.’ She swung round the final bend only inches ahead of the black van. ‘Please, please, please.’ And then she saw the gate.

  It was open.

  Her clothes were now drenched in sweat. She slowed down, wrenched the gearbox into second, and threw the car between the gap and into the bumpy driveway, hitting the gatepost on her right-hand side as she careered on up towards the house. The van didn’t hesitate to follow her, and was still only inches behind as she straightened up. Diana kept her hand pressed down on the horn as the car bounced and lurched over the mounds and potholes.

  Flocks of startled crows flapped out of overhead branches, screeching as they shot into the air. Diana began screaming, ‘Daniel! Daniel!’ Two hundred yards ahead of her, the porch light went on.

  Her headlights were now shining onto the front of the house, and her hand was still pressed on the horn. With a hundred yards to go, she spotted Daniel coming out of the front door, but she didn’t slow down, and neither did the van behind her. With fifty yards to go she began flashing her lights at Daniel. She could now make out the puzzled, anxious look on his face.

  With thirty yards to go she threw on her brakes. The heavy estate car skidded across the gravel in front of the house, coming to a halt in the flower bed just below the kitchen window. She heard the screech of brakes behind her. The leather-jacketed man, unfamiliar with the terrain, had been unable to react quickly enough, and as soon as his wheels touched the gravelled area he began to skid out of control. A second later the van came crashing into the back of her car, slamming it against the wall of the house and shattering the glass in the kitchen window.

  Diana leapt out of the car, screaming, ‘Daniel! Get a gun, get a gun!’ She pointed back at the van. ‘That bastard’s been chasing me for the last twenty miles!’

  The man jumped out of the van and began limping towards them. Diana ran into the house. Daniel followed and grabbed a shotgun, normally reserved for rabbits, that was leaning against the wall. He ran back outside to face the unwelcome visitor, who had come to a halt by the back of Diana’s Audi.

  Daniel raised the shotgun to his shoulder and stared straight at him. ‘Don’t move or I’ll shoot,’ he said calmly. And then he remembered the gun wasn’t loaded. Diana ducked back out of the house, but remained several yards behind him.

  ‘Not me! Not me!’ shouted the leather-jacketed youth, as Rachael appeared in the doorway.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked nervously.

  ‘Ring for the police,’ was all Daniel said, and his wife quickly disappeared back into the house.

  Daniel advanced towards the terrified-looking young man, the gun aimed squarely at his chest.

  ‘Not me! Not me!’ he shouted again, pointing at the Audi. ‘He’s in the car!’ He quickly turned to face Diana. ‘I saw him get in when you were parked on the hard shoulder. What else could I have done? You just wouldn’t pull over.’

  Daniel advanced cautiously towards the rear door of the car and ordered the young man to open it slowly, while he kept the gun aimed at his chest.

  The youth opened the door, and quickly took a pace backwards. The three of them stared down at a man crouched on the floor of the car. In his right hand he held a long-bladed knife with a serrated edge. Daniel swung the barrel of the gun down to point at him, but said nothing.

  The sound of a police siren could just be heard in the distance.

  The Queen’s Birthday Telegram

  (from And Thereby Hangs a Tale)

  Her Majesty the Queen sends her congratulations to Albert Webber on the occasion of his 100th birthday, and wishes him many more years of good health and happiness.

  Albert was still smiling after he had read the message for the twentieth time.

  ‘You will be next, ducks,’ he said as he passed the royal message across to his wife. Betty only had to read the telegram once for a broad smile to appear on her face too.

  The festivities had begun a week earlier, building up to a celebration party at the town hall. Albert’s photograph had appeared on the front page of the Somerset Gazette that morning, and he had been interviewed on BBC Points West, his wife seated proudly by his side.

  His Worship the Mayor of Street, Councillor Ted Harding, and the leader of the local council, Councillor Brocklebank, were waiting on the town hall steps to greet the honoured guest.

  Albert was escorted to the mayor’s parlour where he was introduced to Mr David Heathcote-Amory, the local Member of Parliament, as well as the local MEP, although when asked later he couldn’t remember her name.

  After several more photographs had been taken, Albert was ushered through to a large reception room where over a hundred invited guests were waiting to greet him. As he entered the room he was welcomed by a spontaneous burst of applause, and people he’d never met before began shaking hands with him.

  At 3.27 p.m., the precise minute Albert had been born in 1907, the old man, surrounded by his five children, eleven grandchildren and nineteen great-grandchildren, thrust a silver-handled knife into a three-tier cake. This simple act was greeted by another burst of applause, followed by cries of speech, speech, speech!

  Albert had prepared a few words, but as quiet fell in the room, they went straight out of his head.

  ‘Say something,’ said Betty, giving her husband a gentle nudge in the ribs.

  He blinked, looked around at the expectant crowd, paused and said, ‘Thank you very much.’

  Once the people realised that was all he was going to say, someone began to sing ‘Happy Birthday’, and within moments everyone was joining in. Albert managed to blow out seven of the hundred candles before the younger members of the family came to his rescue, which was greeted by even more laughter and clapping.

  Once the applause had died down, the mayor rose to his feet, tugged at the lapels of his black and gold braided gown and cleared his throat, before delivering a far longer speech.

  ‘My fellow citizens,’ he began, ‘we are gathered
together today to celebrate the birthday, the one hundredth birthday, of Albert Webber, a much-loved member of our community. Albert was born in Street on the fifteenth of April 1907. He married his wife Betty at Holy Trinity Church in 1931, and spent his working life at C. and J. Clark’s, our local shoe factory.

  ‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘Albert has spent his entire life in Street, with the notable exception of four years when he served as a private soldier in the Somerset Light Infantry. When the war ended in 1945, Albert was discharged from the army and returned to Street to take up his old job as a leather cutter at Clark’s. At the age of sixty, he retired as Deputy Floor Manager. But you can’t get rid of Albert that easily, because he then took on part-time work as a night watchman, a responsibility he carried out until his seventieth birthday.’

  The mayor waited for the laughter to fade before he continued. ‘From his early days, Albert has always been a loyal supporter of Street Football Club, rarely missing a Cobblers’ home game, and indeed the club has recently made him an honorary life member. Albert also played darts for the Crown and Anchor, and was a member of that team when they were runners-up in the town’s pub championship.

  ‘I’m sure you will all agree,’ concluded the mayor, ‘that Albert has led a colourful and interesting life, which we all hope will continue for many years to come, not least because in three years’ time we will be celebrating the same landmark for his dear wife Betty. It’s hard to believe, looking at her,’ said the mayor, turning towards Mrs Webber, ‘that in 2010 she will also be one hundred.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said several voices, and Betty shyly bowed her head as Albert leaned across and took her hand.

  After several other important people had said a few words, and many more had had their photographs taken with Albert, the mayor walked with his two guests out of the town hall to a waiting Rolls-Royce, and told the chauffeur to drive Mr and Mrs Webber home.

  Albert and Betty sat in the back of the car holding hands. Neither of them had ever been in a Rolls-Royce before, and certainly not in one driven by a chauffeur.

  By the time the car drew up outside their council house in Marne Terrace, they were both so exhausted and so full of salmon sandwiches and birthday cake that it wasn’t long before they went to bed. The last thing Albert murmured before turning out his bedside light was, ‘Well, it will be your turn next, ducks, and I’m determined to live another three years so we can celebrate your hundredth together.’

  ‘I don’t want all that fuss made over me when my time comes,’ she said. But Albert had already fallen asleep.

  * * *

  Not a lot happened in Albert and Betty Webber’s life during the next three years: a few minor ailments, but nothing life threatening, and the birth of their first great-great-grandchild, Jude.

  When the historic day approached for the second Webber to celebrate a hundredth birthday, Albert had become so frail that Betty insisted the party be held at their home and only include the family. Albert reluctantly agreed, and didn’t tell his wife how much he’d been looking forward to returning to the town hall and once again being driven home in the mayor’s Rolls-Royce.

  The new mayor was equally disappointed, as he’d hoped that the occasion would guarantee his photograph on the front page of the local paper.

  When the great day dawned, Betty received over a hundred cards, letters and messages from well-wishers, but to Albert’s profound dismay, there was no telegram from the Queen. He assumed the Post Office was to blame and that it would surely be delivered the following day. It wasn’t.

  ‘Don’t fuss, Albert,’ Betty insisted. ‘Her Majesty is a very busy lady and she must have far more important things on her mind.’

  But Albert did fuss. When no telegram arrived the next day, or the following week, he felt a pang of disappointment for his wife who seemed to be taking the whole affair in such good spirits. However, after another week, and still no sign of a telegram, Albert decided the time had come to take the matter into his own hands.

  Every Thursday morning, Eileen, their youngest daughter, aged seventy-three, would come to pick up Betty and drive her into town to go shopping. In reality this usually turned out to be just window shopping, as Betty couldn’t believe the prices the shops had the nerve to charge. She could remember when a loaf of bread cost a penny, and a pound a week was a working wage.

  That Thursday, Albert waited for them to leave the house, then he stood by the window until the car had disappeared around the corner. Once they were out of sight, he shuffled off to his little den, where he sat by the phone, going over the exact words he would say if he was put through.

  After a little while, and once he felt he was word perfect, he looked up at the framed telegram on the wall above him. It gave him enough confidence to pick up the phone and dial a six-digit number.

  ‘Directory Enquiries. What number do you require?’

  ‘Buckingham Palace,’ said Albert, hoping his voice sounded full of authority.

  There was a slight pause, but the operator finally said, ‘One moment please.’

  Albert waited patiently, although he quite expected to be told that the number was either unlisted or ex-directory. A moment later the operator was back on the line and read out the number.

  ‘Can you please repeat that?’ asked a surprised Albert as he took the top off his biro. ‘Zero two zero, seven seven six six, seven three zero zero. ‘Thank you,’ he said, before putting the phone down. Several minutes passed before he gathered enough courage to pick it back up again.

  Albert dialled the number with a shaky hand. He listened to the familiar ringing tone and was just about to put the phone back down when a woman’s voice said, ‘Buckingham Palace, how may I help you?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to someone about a one hundredth birthday,’ said Albert, repeating the exact words he had memorised.

  ‘Who shall I say is calling?’

  ‘Mr Albert Webber.’

  ‘Hold the line please, Mr Webber.’

  This was Albert’s last chance of escape, but before he could put the phone down, another voice came on the line.

  ‘Humphrey Cranshaw speaking.’

  The last time Albert had heard a voice like that was when he was serving in the army. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said nervously. ‘I was hoping you might be able to help me.’

  ‘I certainly will if I can, Mr Webber,’ replied the courtier.

  ‘Three years ago I celebrated my hundredth birthday,’ said Albert, returning to his well-rehearsed script.

  ‘Many congratulations,’ said Cranshaw.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Albert, ‘but that isn’t the reason why I’m calling. You see, on that occasion Her Majesty the Queen was kind enough to send me a telegram, which is now framed on the wall in front of me, and which I will treasure for the rest of my life.’

  ‘How kind of you to say so, Mr Webber.’

  ‘But I wondered,’ said Albert, gaining in confidence, ‘if Her Majesty still sends telegrams when people reach their hundredth birthday?’

  ‘She most certainly does,’ replied Cranshaw. ‘I know that it gives Her Majesty great pleasure to continue the tradition, even though so many more people now reach that magnificent milestone.’

  ‘Oh, that is most gratifying to hear, Mr Cranshaw,’ said Albert, ‘because my dear wife celebrated her hundredth birthday some two weeks ago, but sadly has not yet received a telegram from the Queen.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that, Mr Webber,’ said the courtier. ‘It must be an administrative oversight on our part. Please allow me to check. What is your wife’s full name?’

  ‘Elizabeth Violet Webber, née Braithwaite,’ said Albert with pride.

  ‘Just give me a moment, Mr Webber,’ said Cranshaw, ‘while I check our records.’

  This time Albert had to wait a little longer before Mr Cranshaw came back on the line. ‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr Webber, but you’ll be pleased to learn that we have traced your wi
fe’s telegram.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ said Albert. ‘May I ask when she can expect to receive it?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation before the courtier said, ‘Her Majesty sent a telegram to your wife to congratulate her on reaching her hundredth birthday some five years ago.’

  Albert heard a car door slam, and moments later a key turned in the lock. He quickly put the phone down, and smiled.

  Stuck on You

  (from And Thereby Hangs a Tale)

  Jeremy looked across the table at Arabella and still could not believe she had agreed to be his wife. He was the luckiest man in the world.

  She was giving him the shy smile that had so bewitched him the first time they met, when a waiter appeared by his side. ‘I’ll have an espresso,’ said Jeremy, ‘and my fiancée’ – it still sounded strange to him – ‘will have a mint tea.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Jeremy tried to stop himself looking around the room full of ‘at home’ people who knew exactly where they were and what was expected of them, whereas he had never visited The Ritz before. It became clear from the waves and blown kisses from customers who flitted in and out of the morning room that Arabella knew everyone, from the maître d’ to several of ‘the set’, as she often referred to them. Jeremy sat back and tried to relax.

  They’d first met at Ascot. Arabella was inside the royal enclosure looking out, while Jeremy was on the outside, looking in. That was how he’d assumed it would always be, until she gave him that beguiling smile as she strolled out of the enclosure and whispered as she passed him, ‘Put your shirt on Trumpeter.’ She then disappeared off in the direction of the private boxes.

  Jeremy took her advice, and placed twenty pounds on Trumpeter – double his usual wager – before returning to the stands to see the horse romp home at 5–1. He hurried back to the royal enclosure to thank her, at the same time hoping she might give him another tip for the next race, but she was nowhere to be seen. He was disappointed, but still placed fifty pounds of his winnings on a horse the Daily Express tipster fancied. It turned out to be a nag that would be described in tomorrow’s paper as an ‘also-ran’.