Текст книги "The James Bond Anthology"

Автор книги: Ian Fleming

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Текущая страница: 115 (всего у книги 190 страниц)

The barman’s face had run through indignation, respect and then the sullenness of guilt and fear. Reprieved, but clutching at his scraps of professional dignity, he snapped his fingers for the waiter to take away the glasses. ‘Okay, suh. Whatever you says. But we’ve got plenty overheads here and the majority of customers they doan complain.’

Leiter said, ‘Well, here’s one who’s dry behind the ears. A good barman should learn to be able to recognize the serious drinker from the status-seeker who wants just to be seen in your fine bar.’

‘Yassuh.’ The barman moved away with Negro dignity.

Bond said, ‘You got those figures right, Felix? I always knew one got clipped, but I thought only about a hundred per cent – not four or five.’

‘Young man, since I graduated from Government service to Pinkertons, the scales have dropped from my eyes. The cheating that goes on in hotels and restaurants is more sinful than all the rest of the sin in the world. Anyone in a tuxedo before seven in the evening is a crocodile, and if he couldn’t take a good bite at your pocketbook he’d take a good bite at your ear. The same goes for the rest of the consumer business, even when it’s not wearing a tuxedo. Sometimes it gets me real mad to have to eat and drink the muck you get and then see what you’re charged for it. Look at our damned lunch today. Six, seven bucks with fifteen per cent added for what’s called service. And then the waiter hangs about for another fifty cents for riding up in the elevator with the stuff. Hell,’ Leiter ran an angry hand through his mop of straw hair, ‘just don’t let’s talk about it. I’m fit to bust a gut when I think about it.’

The drinks came. They were excellent. Leiter calmed down, ordered a second round. He said, ‘Now let’s get angry about something else.’ He laughed curtly. ‘Guess I’m just sore at being back in Government Service again watching all the taxpayers’ money going down the drain on this wild goose chase. Mark you, James,’ there was apology in Leiter’s voice, ‘I’m not saying this whole operation isn’t a true bill, hell of a – mess in fact, but what riles me is that we should be a couple of arse-end Charlies stuck down on this sand-spit while the other guys have got the hot spots – you know, places where something really may be happening – or at least likely to happen. Tell you the truth, I felt like a damned fool gumshoeing round that feller’s yacht this afternoon with my little Geiger toy.’ He looked keenly at Bond. ‘You don’t find you grow out of these things? I mean it’s all right when there’s a war on. But it seems kinda childish when peace is bustin’ out all over.’

Bond said doubtfully, ‘Of course I know what you mean, Felix. Perhaps it’s just that in England we don’t feel quite as secure as you do in America. The war just doesn’t seem to have ended for us – Berlin, Cyprus, Kenya, Suez, let alone these jobs with people like SMERSH that I used to get tangled up in. There always seems to be something boiling up somewhere. Now this damned business. Dare say I’m taking it all too seriously, but there’s something fishy going on around here. I checked up on that fuel problem and Largo certainly told us a lie.’ Bond gave the details of what he had learned at police headquarters. ‘I feel I’ve got to make sure tonight. You realize there’s only about seventy hours to go? If I find anything, I suggest tomorrow we take a small plane and really run a search over as much of the area as we can. That plane’s a big thing to hide even under water. You still got your licence?’

‘Sure, sure.’ Leiter shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ll go along with you. Of course I will. If we find anything, perhaps the signal I got this evening won’t look so damned silly after all.’

So this was what had put Leiter into such a vile temper! Bond said, ‘What was that?’

Leiter took a drink and gazed morosely into his glass. ‘Well, for my money it’s just so much more attitudinizing by those power-struck fatcats at the Pentagon. But that sheaf of stuff I was waving about was a circular to all our men on this job to say that the Army and the Navy and the Air Force are holding themselves ready to give full support to C.I.A. if anything turns up. Think of that, dammit!’ Leiter looked angrily at Bond. ‘Think of the waste of fuel and manpower that must be going on all over the world keeping all these units at readiness! Just to show you, know what I’ve been allocated as my striking force?’ Leiter gave a harsh, derisive laugh. ‘Half-squadron of Super Sabre fighter bombers from Pensacola, and – ’ Leiter stabbed Bond’s forearm with a hard finger. ‘And, my friend, the Manta! The – Manta! Our latest – atomic submarine!’ When Bond smiled at all this vehemence, Leiter continued more reasonably: ‘Mark you, it’s not quite so idiotic as it sounds. These Sabres are on anti-submarine sweep duties anyway. Carrying depth charges. They have to be at readiness. And the Manta happens to be on some sort of a training cruise in the area, getting ready to go under the South Pole for a change I suppose, or some other damned promotion job to help along the Navy Estimates. But I ask you! Here’s all these million dollars’ worth of material on instant call from Ensign Leiter, commanding Room 201 in the Royal Bahamian Hotel! Not bad!’

Bond shrugged his shoulders. ‘Seems to me your President is taking all this a bit more seriously than his Man in Nassau. I suppose our Chiefs of Staff have weighed in with our staff on the other side of the Atlantic. Anyway, no harm in having the big battalions in the offing just in case Nassau Casino happens to be Target No. 1. By the way, what ideas have your people got about these targets? What have you got in this part of the world that fits in with SPECTRE’S letter? We’ve only got the joint rocket base at a place called North-West Cay at the eastern end of the Grand Bahamas. That’s about 150 miles north of here. Apparently the gear and prototypes we and your people have got there would easily be worth £100,000,000.’

‘The only possible targets I’ve been given are Cape Canaveral, the naval base at Pensacola, and if the party really is going to take place in this area, Miami for Target No. 2, with Tampa as a possible runner-up. SPECTRE used the words “a piece of property belonging to the Western Powers”. That sounds like some kind of installation to me – something like the uranium mines in the Congo, for instance. But a rocket base would fit all right. If we’ve got to take this thing seriously, I’d lay odds on Canaveral or this place on Grand Bahama. Only thing I can’t understand, if they’ve got these bombs, how are they going to transport them to the target and set them off?’

‘A submarine could do it – just lay one of the bombs offshore through a torpedo tube. Or a sailing dinghy for the matter of that. Apparently exploding these things is no problem so long as they recovered all the parts from the plane. Apparently you’d just have to insert some kind of fuse thing in the right place between the T.N.T. and the plutonium, and screw the impact fuse off the nose and fit a time fuse that would give you time to get a hundred miles away.’ Bond added casually, ‘Have to have an expert who knows the drill of course, but the trip would be no problem for the Disco, for instance. She could lay the bomb off Grand Bahama at midnight and be back at anchor off Palmyra by breakfast time.’ He smiled. ‘See what I mean? It all adds up.’

‘Nuts,’ said Leiter succinctly. ‘You’ll have to do better than that if you want my blood pressure to go up. Anyway, let’s get the hell out of here and go have ourselves some eggs and bacon in one of those clip joints on Bay Street. It’ll cost us twenty dollars plus tax, but the Manta probably burns that every time her screws turn full circle. Then we’ll go along to the Casino and see if Mr Fuchs or Signor Pontecorvo is sitting beside Largo at the black jack table.’

15 | CARDBOARD HERO

The Nassau Casino used to be the only legal casino on British soil anywhere in the world. How this was justified under the laws of the Commonwealth no one can quite figure. It is leased each year to a Canadian gambling syndicate and their operating profits in the smart winter season are estimated to average around $100,000. The only games played are roulette, with two zeros instead of one, which increases the take to the house from the European 3.6 to a handsome 5.4; black jack, or 21, on which the house makes between six and seven per cent; and one table of chemin de fer, whose cagnotte yields a modest five per cent. The operation is run as a club in a handsome private house on West Bay Street and there is a pleasant dance and supper room with a three-piece combo that plays old favourites in strict time, and a lounge bar. It is a well run, elegant place that deserves its profit.

The Governor’s A.D.C. had presented Bond and Leiter with membership cards, and after they had had coffee and a stinger at the bar they separated and went to the tables.

Largo was playing chemin de fer. He had a fat pile of hundred-dollar plaques in front of him and half a dozen of the big yellow thousand-dollar biscuits. Domino Vitali sat behind him chain-smoking and watching the play. Bond observed the game from a distance. Largo was playing expansively, bancoing whenever he could and letting his own banks run. He was winning steadily, but with excellent manners, and by the way people joked with him and applauded his coups he was obviously a favourite in the Casino. Domino, in black with a square-cut neckline and with one large diamond on a thin chain at her throat, was looking morose and bored. The woman on Largo’s right, having bancoed him three times and lost, got up and left the table. Bond went quickly across the room and slid into the empty place. It was a bank of eight hundred dollars – the round sum being due to Largo making up the cagnotte after each play.

It is good for the banker when he has got past the third banco. It often means the bank is going to run. Bond knew this perfectly well. He was also painfully aware that his total capital was only 1,000 dollars. But the fact that every-one was so nervous of Largo’s luck made him bold. And, after all, the table has no memory. Luck, he told himself, is strictly for the birds. He said, ‘Banco.’

‘Ah, my good friend Mr Bond.’ Largo held out a hand. ‘Now we have the big money coming to the table. Perhaps I should pass the bank. The English know how to play at railway trains. But still,’ he smiled charmingly, ‘if I have to lose I would certainly like to lose to Mr Bond.’

The big brown hand gave the shoe a soft slap. Largo eased out the pink tongue of playing card and moved it across the baize to Bond. He took one for himself and then pressed out one more for each of them. Bond picked up his first card and flicked it face up into the middle of the table. It was a nine, the nine of diamonds. Bond glanced sideways at Largo. He said, ‘That is always a good start – so good that I will also face my second card.’ He casually flicked it out to join the nine. It turned over in mid-air and fell beside the nine. It was a glorious ten, the ten of spades. Unless Largo’s two cards also added up to nine or nineteen, Bond had won.

Largo laughed, but the laugh had a hard edge to it. ‘You certainly make me try,’ he said gaily. He threw his cards to follow Bond’s. They were the eight of hearts and the king of clubs. Largo had lost by a pip – two naturals, but one just better than the other, the cruellest way to lose. Largo laughed hugely. ‘Somebody had to be second,’ he said to the table at large. ‘What did I say? The English can pull what they like out of the shoe.’

The croupier pushed the chips across to Bond. Bond made a small pile of them. He gestured at the heap in front of Largo: ‘So, it seems, can the Italians. I told you this afternoon we should go into partnership.’

Largo laughed delightedly. ‘Well, let’s just try once again. Put in what you have won and I will banco it in partnership with Mr Snow on your right. Yes, Mr Snow?’

Mr Snow, a tough-looking European who, Bond remembered, was one of the shareholders, agreed. Bond put in the eight hundred and they each put in four against him. Bond won again, this time with a six against a five for the table – once more by one point.

Largo shook his head mournfully. ‘Now indeed we have seen the writing on the wall. Mr Snow, you will have to continue alone. This Mr Bond has green fingers against me, I surrender.’

Now Largo was smiling only with his mouth. Mr Snow suivied and pushed forward 1,600 dollars to cover Bond’s stake. Bond thought: I have made 1,600 dollars in two coups, over five hundred pounds. And it would be fun to pass the bank and for the bank to go down on the next hand. He withdrew his stake and said, ‘La main passe.’ There was a buzz of comment. Largo said dramatically, ‘Don’t do it to me! Don’t tell me the bank’s going to go down on the next hand! If it does I shoot myself. Okay, okay, I will buy Mr Bond’s bank and we will see.’ He threw some plaques out on to the table – 1,600 dollars’ worth.

And Bond heard his own voice say banco! He was bancoing his own bank – telling Largo that he had done it to him once, then twice, and now he was going to do it, inevitably, again!

Largo turned round to face Bond. Smiling with his mouth, he narrowed his eyes and looked carefully, with a new curiosity, at Bond’s face. He said quietly, ‘But you are hunting me, my dear fellow. You are pursuing me. What is this? Vendetta?’

Bond thought, I will see if an association of words does something to him. He said, ‘When I came to the table I saw a SPECTRE.’ He said the word casually, with no hint at double meaning.

The smile came off Largo’s face as if he had been slapped. It was at once switched on again, but now the whole face was tense, strained, and the eyes had gone watchful and very hard. His tongue came out and touched his lips. ‘Really? What do you mean?’

Bond said lightly, ‘The SPECTRE of defeat. I thought your luck was on the turn. Perhaps I was wrong.’ He gestured at the shoe. ‘Let’s see.’

The table had gone quiet. The players and spectators felt that a tension had come between these two men. Suddenly there was the smell of enmity where before there had been only jokes. A glove had been thrown down, by the Englishman. Was it about the girl? Probably. The crowd licked its lips.

Largo laughed sharply. He switched gaiety and bravado back on his face. ‘Aha!’ His voice was boisterous again, ‘My friend wishes to put the evil eye upon my cards. We have a way to deal with that where I come from.’ He lifted a hand, and with only the first and little fingers outstretched in a fork, he prodded once, like a snake striking, towards Bond’s face. To the crowd it was a playful piece of theatre, but Bond, within the strong aura of the man’s animal magnetism, felt the ill-temper, the malevolence behind the old Mafia gesture.

Bond laughed good-naturedly. ‘That certainly put the hex on me. But what did it do to the cards? Come on, your SPECTRE against my SPECTRE!’

Again the look of doubt came over Largo’s face. Why again the use of this word? He gave the shoe a hefty slap. ‘All right, my friend. We are wrestling the best of three falls. Here comes the third.’

Quickly his first two fingers flicked out the four cards. The table had hushed. Bond faced his pair inside his hand. He had a total of five – a ten of clubs and a five of hearts. Five is a marginal number. One can either draw or not. Bond folded the cards face down on the table. He said, with the confident look of a man who has a six or a seven, ‘No card, thank you.’

Largo’s eyes narrowed as he tried to read Bond’s face. He turned up his cards, flicked them into the middle of the table with a gesture of disgust. He also had a count of five. Now what was he to do? Draw or not draw? He looked again at the quiet smile of confidence on Bond’s face – and drew. It was a nine, the nine of spades. By drawing another card instead of standing on his five and equalling Bond, he had drawn and now had a four to Bond’s five.

Impassively Bond turned up his cards. He said, ‘I’m afraid you should have killed the evil eye in the pack, not in me.’

There was a buzz of comment round the table. ‘But if the Italian had stood on his five …’ ‘I always draw on a five.’ ‘I never do.’ ‘It was bad luck.’ ‘No, it was bad play.’

Now it was an effort for Largo to keep the snarl off his face. But he managed it, the forced smile lost its twist, the balled fists relaxed. He took a deep breath and held out his hand to Bond. Bond took it, folding his thumb inside his palm just in case Largo might give him a bone-crusher with his vast machine-tool of a hand. But it was a firm grasp and no more. Largo said, ‘Now I must wait for the shoe to come round again. You have taken all my winnings. I have a hard evening’s work ahead of me just when I was going to take my niece for a drink and a dance.’ He turned to Domino. ‘My dear, I don’t think you know Mr Bond, except on the telephone. I’m afraid he has upset my plans. You must find someone else to squire you.’

Bond said, ‘How do you do. Didn’t we meet in the tobacconist’s this morning?’

The girl screwed up her eyes. She said indifferently, ‘Yes? It is possible. I have such a bad memory for faces.’

Bond said, ‘Well, could I give you a drink? I can just afford even a Nassau drink now, thanks to the generosity of Mr Largo. And I have finished here. This sort of thing can’t last. I mustn’t press my luck.’

The girl got up. She said ungraciously, ‘If you have nothing better to do.’ She turned to Largo: ‘Emilio, perhaps if I take this Mr Bond away, your luck will turn again. I will be in the supper room having caviar and champagne. We must try and get as much of your funds as we can back in the family.’

Largo laughed. His spirits had returned. He said, ‘You see, Mr Bond, you are out of the frying pan into the fire. In Dominetta’s hands you may not fare so well as in mine. See you later, my dear fellow. I must now get back to the salt mines where you have consigned me.’

Bond said, ‘Well, thanks for the game. I will order champagne and caviar for three. My SPECTRE also deserves his reward.’ Wondering again whether the shadow that flickered in Largo’s eyes at the word had more significance than Italian superstition, he got up and followed the girl between the crowded tables to the supper room.

Domino made for a shadowed table in the farthest corner of the room. Walking behind her, Bond noticed for the first time that she had the smallest trace of a limp. He found it endearing, a touch of childish sweetness beneath the authority and blatant sex appeal of a girl to whom he had been inclined to award that highest, but toughest, French title – a courtisane de marque.

When the Clicquot rosé and fifty dollars’ worth of Beluga caviar came – anything less, he had commented to her, would be no more than a spoonful – he asked her about the limp. ‘Did you hurt yourself swimming today?’

She looked at him gravely. ‘No. I have one leg an inch shorter than the other. Does it displease you?’

‘No. It’s pretty. It makes you something of a child.’

‘Instead of a hard old kept woman. Yes?’ Her eyes challenged him.

‘Is that how you see yourself?’

‘It’s rather obvious isn’t it? Anyway, it’s what every-one in Nassau thinks.’ She looked him squarely in the eyes, but with a touch of pleading.

‘Nobody’s told me that. Anyway, I make up my own mind about men and women. What’s the good of other people’s opinions? Animals don’t consult each other about other animals. They look and sniff and feel. In love and hate, and everything in between, those are the only tests that matter. But people are unsure of their own instincts. They want reassurance. So they ask someone else whether they should like a particular person or not. And as the world loves bad news, they nearly always get a bad answer – or at least a qualified one. Would you like to know what I think of you?’

She smiled. ‘Every woman likes to hear about herself. Tell me, but make it sound true, otherwise I shall stop listening.’

‘I think you’re a young girl, younger than you pretend to be, younger than you dress. I think you were carefully brought up, in a red-carpet sort of way, and then the red carpet was suddenly jerked away from under your feet and you were thrown more or less into the street. So you picked yourself up and started to work your way back to the red carpet you had got used to. You were probably fairly ruthless about it. You had to be. You only had a woman’s weapons and you probably used them pretty coolly. I expect you used your body. It would be a wonderful asset. But in using it to get what you wanted, your sensibilities had to be put aside. I don’t expect they’re very far underground. They certainly haven’t atrophied. They’ve just lost their voice because you wouldn’t listen to them. You couldn’t afford to listen to them if you were to get back on that red carpet and have the things you wanted. And now you’ve got the things.’ Bond touched the hand that lay on the banquette between them. ‘And perhaps you’ve almost had enough of them.’ He laughed. ‘But I mustn’t get too serious. Not about the smaller things. You know all about them, but just for the record, you’re beautiful, sexy, provocative, independent, self-willed, quick-tempered, and cruel.’

She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘There’s nothing very clever about all that. I told you most of it. You know something about Italian women. But why do you say I’m cruel?’

‘If I was gambling and I took a knock like Largo did and I had my woman, a woman, sitting near me watching and she didn’t give me one word of comfort or encouragement I would say she was being cruel. Men don’t like failing in front of their women.’

She said impatiently, ‘I’ve had to sit there too often and watch him show off. I wanted you to win. I cannot pretend. You didn’t mention my only virtue. It’s honesty. I love to the hilt and I hate to the hilt. At the present time, with Emilio, I am half way. Where we were lovers, we are now good friends who understand each other. When I told you he was my guardian, I was telling a white lie. I am his kept woman. I am a bird in a gilded cage. I am fed up with my cage and tired of my bargain.’ She looked at Bond defensively. ‘Yes, it is cruel for Emilio. But it is also human. You can buy the outside of the body, but you cannot buy what is inside – what people call the heart and soul. But Emilio knows that. He wants women for use. Not for love. He has had thousands in this way. He knows where we both stand. He is realistic. But it is becoming more difficult to keep to my bargain – to, to, let’s call it sing for my supper.’

She stopped abruptly. She said, ‘Give me some more champagne. All this silly talking has made me thirsty. And I would like a packet of Players’ – she laughed – ‘Please, as they say in the advertisements. I am fed up with just smoking smoke. I need my Hero.’

Bond bought a packet from the cigarette girl. He said, ‘What’s that about a hero?’

She had entirely changed. Her bitterness had gone, and the lines of strain on her face. She had softened. She was suddenly a girl out for the evening. ‘Ah, you don’t know! My one true love! The man of my dreams. The sailor on the front of the packet of Players. You have never thought about him as I have.’ She came closer to him on the banquette and held the packet under his eyes. ‘You don’t understand the romance of this wonderful picture – one of the great masterpieces of the world. This man,’ she pointed, ‘was the first man I ever sinned with. I took him into the woods, I loved him in the dormitory, I spent nearly all my pocket money on him. In exchange, he introduced me to the great world outside the Cheltenham Ladies’ College. He grew me up. He put me at ease with boys of my own age. He kept me company when I was lonely or afraid of being young. He encouraged me, gave me assurance. Have you never thought of the romance behind this picture? You see nothing, yet the whole of England is there! Listen,’ she took his arm eagerly, ‘this is the story of Hero, the name on his cap badge. At first he was a young man, a powder monkey or whatever they called it, in that sailing ship behind his right ear. It was a hard time for him. Weevils in the biscuits, hit with marlinspikes and ropes’ ends and things, sent up aloft to the top of all that rigging where the flag flies. But he persevered. He began to grow a moustache. He was fair-haired and rather too pretty,’ she giggled, ‘he may even have had to fight for his virtue, or whatever men call it, among all those hammocks. But you can see from his face – that line of concentration between his eyes – and from his fine head, that he was a man to get on.’ She paused and swallowed a glass of champagne. The dimples were now deep holes in her cheeks. ‘Are you listening to me? You are not bored having to listen about my Hero?’

‘I’m only jealous. Go on.’

‘So he went all over the world – to India, China, Japan, America. He had many girls and many fights with cutlasses and fists. He wrote home regularly – to his mother and to a married sister who lived at Dover. They wanted him to come home and meet a nice girl and get married. But he wouldn’t. You see, he was keeping himself for a dream girl who looked rather like me. And then,’ she laughed, ‘the first steamships came in and he was transferred to an ironclad – that’s the picture of it on the right. And by now he was a bosun, whatever that is, and very important. And he saved up from his pay and instead of going out fighting and having girls he grew that lovely beard, to make himself look older and more important, and he set to with a needle and coloured threads to make that picture of himself. You can see how well he did it – his first windjammer and his last ironclad with the lifebuoy as a frame. He only finished it when he decided to leave the Navy. He didn’t really like steamships. In the prime of life, don’t you agree? And even then he ran out of gold thread to finish the rope round the lifebuoy, so he just had to tail it off. There, you can see on the right where the rope crosses the blue line. So he came back home on a beautiful golden evening after a wonderful life in the Navy and it was so sad and beautiful and romantic that he decided that he would put the beautiful evening into another picture. So he bought a pub at Bristol with his savings and in the mornings before the pub opened he worked away until he had finished and there you can see the little sailing ship that brought him home from Suez with his duffel bag full of silks and seashells and souvenirs carved out of wood. And that’s the Needles Lighthouse beckoning him in to harbour on that beautiful calm evening. Mark you,’ she frowned, ‘I don’t like that sort of bonnet thing he’s wearing for a hat, and I’d have liked him to have put “H.M.S.” before the “Hero”, but you can see that would have made it lop-sided and he wouldn’t have been able to get all the “Hero” in. But you must admit it’s the most terrifically romantic picture. I cut it off my first packet, when I smoked one in the lavatory and felt terribly sick, and kept it until it fell to pieces. Then I cut off a fresh one. I carried him with me always until things went wrong and I had to go back to Italy. Then I couldn’t afford Players. They’re too expensive in Italy and I had to smoke things called Nazionales.’

Bond wanted to keep her mood. He said, ‘But what happened to the hero’s pictures? How did the cigarette people get hold of them?’

‘Oh well, you see one day a man with a stove-pipe hat and a frock coat came into the hero’s pub with two small boys. Here,’ she held the packet sideways, ‘those are the ones, “John Player & Sons”. You see, it says that their Successors run the business now.

Well they had one of the first motor-cars, a Rolls-Royce, and it had broken down outside the hero’s pub. The man in the stove-pipe hat didn’t drink of course – those sort of people didn’t, not the respectable merchants who lived near Bristol. So he asked for ginger beer and bread and cheese while his chauffeur mended the car. And the hero got it for them. And Mr John Player and the boys all admired the two wonderful tapestry pictures hanging on the wall of the pub. Now this Mr Player was in the tobacco and snuff business and cigarettes had just been invented and he wanted to start making them. But he couldn’t for the life of him know what to call them or what sort of a picture to put on the packet. And he suddenly had a wonderful idea. When he got back to the factory he talked to his manager and the manager came along to the pub and saw the hero and offered him a hundred pounds to let his two pictures be copied for the cigarette packet. And the hero didn’t mind and anyway he wanted just exactly a hundred pounds to get married on.’ She paused. Her eyes were far away. ‘She was very nice, by the way, only thirty and a good plain cook and her young body kept him warm in bed until he died many years later. And she bore him two children, a boy and a girl. And the boy went into the Navy like his father. Well, anyway, Mr Player wanted to have the hero in the lifebuoy on one side of the packet and the beautiful evening on the other. But the manager pointed out that that would leave no room for all this’ – she turned over the packet – ‘about “Rich, Cool”, and “Navy Cut Tobacco” and that extraordinary trade mark of a doll’s house swimming in chocolate fudge with Nottingham Castle written underneath. So then Mr Player said, “Well then, we’ll put one on top of the other.” And that’s just exactly what they did and I must say I think it fits in very well, don’t you? Though I expect the hero was pretty annoyed at the mermaid being blanked out.’

‘The mermaid?’

‘Oh yes. Underneath the bottom corner of the lifebuoy where it dips into the sea, the hero had put a tiny mermaid combing her hair with one hand and beckoning him home with the other. That was supposed to be the woman he was going to find and marry. But you can see there wasn’t room and anyway her breasts were showing and Mr Player, who was a very strong Quaker, didn’t think that was quite proper. But he made it up to the hero in the end.’