time . . . we always get them, in the end. Getting very pricey, though, now. No craftsmanship left in the world, you see.’
Hermione asked who the Olympic had belonged to.
‘I’ve looked it up in the records. Chap called Hutchinson – Samuel Hutchinson. Thirty-nine Belvoir Road, Wheatstone. Called his house ‘Nevsky Villa’ for some reason best known to himself. Lot of stuff and nonsense! Nevsky Villa indeed! He was a member of the Neptune Yacht Club, of course. Steam section. We made a lot of ships for the Neptune. Bigger and better all the time. Had to do each other down, you see. Great rivalry. Expense no object. Far more money than sense, really. Still, we did well out of it. Here they are, damned idiots.’
He passed across a large group photograph. By the Wheatstone Pond (you could tell it by the stone kerbing) a row of trestle-tables had been laid out. Upon them, rows of huge, magnificent steam models. The Olympic, in all the glory of shining, brass funnels, was among them. There was an even bigger model of a steam-yacht, with a single huge brass funnel. And a model of the Dreadnought battleship, and a Mississippi paddle-steamer, tugs, trawlers, cargo-steamers.
Behind this, a row of solemn-faced schoolboys, each with a huge floppy cap on his head, with a button on top, and his small hand on one particular model. And behind each boy, a portly father, moustached or bearded, bewaistcoated, bewatch-chained. Full of civic pomp. On a small blackboard below had been chalked:
Neptune Yacht Club, Steam Section, 1913
‘That was almost the last photograph they had taken. Just before the blood-letting started in France. We did a lot of work for the sailing section, too. More sense to that. They raced each other – new modifications every year, to sail faster. But the steam section was pure showing off. Couldn’t even race the things properly . . . Now that model of the Dreadnought we do have. Made a dozen of those . . .’
Two hours later, our heads spinning with technical detail, and our lungs fuzzy with fag-smoke, we took our leave and departed, with profuse thanks.
‘Come again, any time. You’ll find me here. Nowhere else to go to. World’s full of damned young women, constantly nagging me about smoking. As if it would make any difference at my age . . .’
‘Samuel Hutchinson, 39 Belvoir Road,’ said Hermione thoughtfully, as we walked back to the car.
I thought about Abbeywalk being in Belvoir Road as well: but guilty feelings kept me silent.
‘Eighty years ago,’ I said. ‘World’s full of Hutchinsons, I’ll bet.’
‘I’ll put adverts in. The Times and Telegraph personal columns. It might do some good.’
‘He was ready to do a deal with you on the spot; twelve thousand quid. He wouldn’t have asked any questions . . .’
‘Unlike you, Morgan, I happen to have a conscience.’
We had lunch at a pub I know, on the way home. Gave us time to get over Mr Makepeace; try to work out how old he was.
‘He was away at school before the First World War,’ I said to Hermione. ‘That makes him at least eighty-two.’
‘And the rest. Still got all his marbles, though.’
‘An old stag at bay. I liked that. They won’t shove him into any old people’s home . . .’
‘Probably end up running it, if they did. Didn’t like the son much . . .’
‘The son’s made of plastic and the father’s made of oak.’
‘Why, Morgan, you have got a poetic soul after all! When money’s not involved.’
We drove home in a high good humour. Innocent lambs to the slaughter.
The smell hit us, as soon as we arrived home and opened the car doors. It seemed ten times worse. Really evil.
‘Look at the stuff they’re pumping out now. They must be very near the end . . .’
The gutters were clogged with black slime. Fresh waves moved downhill like treacle, then gave up moving, leaving a fresh layer. It was more like lava from a volcano than water. Holding our noses, we walked round to the workshop. It seemed abnormally quiet.
‘Hallo?’ I called.
There was a feeble greeting from the back, and none other than Lenny emerged from behind a row of wardrobes, with a clean yellow duster and a tin of polish in his hands. How often had I told him not to put on polish with clean yellow dusters? I buy rags for that.
‘Oh, so you’ve come back, then?’
He shuffled, eyes on the ground. He didn’t look at