And Thereby Hangs a Tale

“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, despite the fact that so many more people now attain 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 wife’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.

HIGH HEELS*

3

I was at Lord’s for the first day of the Second Test against Australia when Alan Penfold sat down beside me and introduced himself.

“How many people tell you they’ve got a story in them?” he asked.

I gave him a closer look before I replied. He must have been round fifty years old, slim, and tanned. He looked fit, the kind of man who goes on playing his chosen sport long after he’s past his peak, and as I write this story, I recall that his handshake was remarkably firm.

“Two, sometimes three a week,” I told him.

“And how many of those stories make it into one of your books?”

“If I’m lucky, one in twenty, but more likely one in thirty.”

“Well, let’s see if I can beat the odds,” said Penfold as the players left the field for tea. “In my profession,” he began, “you never forget your first case.”

Alan Penfold put the phone gently back on the hook, hoping he hadn’t woken his wife. She stirred when he slipped stealthily out of bed and began to dress in yesterday’s clothes, as he didn’t want to put the light on.

“And where do you think you’re going at this time in the morning?” she demanded.