‘May I be allowed to open it?’ the church leader asked, unaware of the Japanese custom of waiting until the giver has departed.
The little man bowed again.
The Archbishop slit open the envelope and removed a check for three million pounds.
‘The late Bishop must have been a very close friend,’ was all he could think of saying.
‘No, sir,’ the President replied. ‘I did not have that privilege.’
‘Then he must have done something incredible to be deserving of such a munificent gesture.’
‘He performed an act of honor over forty years ago and now I try inadequately to repay it.’
‘Then he would surely have remembered you,’ said the Archbishop.
‘Is possible he would remember me but, if so, only as the sour half of “Sweet and Sour Pork.”’
There is one cathedral in England that has never found it necessary to launch a national appeal.
Checkmate
As she entered the room every eye turned toward her.
When admiring a woman some men start with her head and work down. I start with the ankles and work up.
She wore black high-heeled velvet shoes and a tight-fitting black dress that stopped high enough above the knees to reveal the most perfectly tapering legs. As my eyes continued on their upward sweep they paused to take in her narrow waist and slim athletic figure. But it was the oval face that I found completely captivating, slightly pouting lips and the largest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, crowned with a head of thick, black, short-cut hair that literally shone with luster. Her entrance was all the more breathtaking because of the surroundings she had chosen. Heads would have turned at a diplomatic reception, a society cocktail party, even a charity ball, but at a chess tournament...
I followed her every movement, patronizingly unable to accept she could be a player. She walked slowly over to the club secretary’s table and signed in to prove me wrong. She was handed a number to indicate her challenger for the opening match. Anyone who had not yet been allocated an opponent waited to see if she would take her place opposite their side of the board.
The player checked the number she had been given and made her way toward an elderly man who was seated in the far corner of the room, a former captain of the club now past his best.
As the club’s new captain I had been responsible for instigating these round-robin matches. We meet on the last Friday of the month in a large clublike room on top of the Mason’s Arms on High Street. The landlord sees to it that thirty tables are set out for us and that food and drink are readily available. Three or four other clubs in the district send half a dozen opponents to play a couple of blitz games, giving us a chance to face rivals we would not normally play. The rules for the matches are simple enough — one minute on the clock is the maximum allowed for each move, so a game rarely lasts for more than an hour, and if a pawn hasn’t been captured in thirty moves the game is automatically declared a draw. A short break for a drink between games, paid for by the loser, ensures that everyone has the chance to challenge two opponents during the evening.
A thin man wearing half-moon spectacles and a dark blue three-piece suit made his way over toward my board. We smiled and shook hands. My guess would have been a solicitor, but I was wrong as he turned out to be an accountant working for a stationery supplier in Woking.
I found it hard to concentrate on my opponent’s well-rehearsed Moscow opening as my eyes kept leaving the board and wandering over to the girl in the black dress. On the one occasion our eyes did meet she gave me an enigmatic smile, but although I tried again I was unable to elicit the same response a second time. Despite being preoccupied I still managed to defeat the accountant, who seemed unaware that there were several ways out of a seven-pawn attack.
At the halftime break three other members of the club had offered her a drink before I even reached the bar. I knew I could not hope to play my second match against the girl as I would be expected to challenge one of the visiting team captains. In fact she ended up playing the accountant.
I defeated my new opponent in a little over forty minutes and, as a solicitous host, began to take an interest in the other matches that were still being played. I set out on a circuitous route that ensured I ended up at her table. I could see that the accountant already had the better of her and within moments of my arrival she had lost both her queen and the game.
I introduced myself and found that just shaking hands with her was a sexual experience. Weaving our way through the tables we strolled over to the bar together. Her name, she told me, was Amanda Curzon. I ordered Amanda the glass of red wine she requested and a half-pint of beer for myself. I began by commiserating with her over the defeat.
‘How did you get on against him?’ she asked.
‘Just managed to beat him,’ I said. ‘But it was very close. How did your first game with our old captain turn out?’
‘Stalemate,’ said Amanda. ‘But I think he was just being courteous.’
‘Last time I played him it ended up in stalemate,’ I told her.
She smiled. ‘Perhaps we ought to have a game sometime?’
‘I’ll look forward to that,’ I said, as she finished her drink.
‘Well, I must be off,’ she announced suddenly. ‘Have to catch the last train to Hounslow.’
‘Allow me to drive you,’ I said gallantly. ‘It’s the least the host captain can be expected to do.’
‘But surely it’s miles out of your way?’
‘Not at all,’ I lied, Hounslow being about twenty minutes beyond my flat. I gulped down the last drop of my beer and helped Amanda on with her coat. Before leaving I thanked the landlord for the efficient organization of the evening.
We then strolled into the car park. I opened the passenger door of my Scirocco to allow Amanda to climb in.
‘A slight improvement on London Transport,’ she said as I slid into my side of the car. I smiled and headed out on the road northward. That black dress that I described earlier goes even higher up the legs when a girl sits back in a Scirocco. It didn’t seem to embarrass her.
‘It’s still very early,’ I ventured after a few inconsequential remarks about the club evening. ‘Have you time to drop in for a drink?’
‘It would have to be a quick one,’ she replied, looking at her watch. ‘I’ve a busy day ahead of me tomorrow.’
‘Of course,’ I said, chatting on, hoping she wouldn’t notice a detour that could hardly be described as on the way to Hounslow.
‘Do you work in town?’ I asked.
‘Yes. I’m a receptionist for a firm of estate agents in Berkeley Square.’
‘I’m surprised you’re not a model.’
‘I used to be,’ she replied without further explanation. She seemed quite oblivious to the route I was taking as she chatted on about her holiday plans for Ibiza. Once we had arrived at my place I parked the car and led Amanda through my front gate and up to the flat. In the hall I helped her off with her coat before taking her through to the front room.
‘What would you like to drink?’ I asked.
‘I’ll stick to wine, if you’ve a bottle already open,’ she replied, as she walked slowly round, taking in the unusually tidy room. My mother must have dropped by during the morning, I thought gratefully.
‘It’s only a bachelor pad,’ I said, emphasizing the word ‘bachelor’ before going into the kitchen. To my relief I found there was an unopened bottle of wine in the larder. I joined Amanda with two glasses a few moments later to find her studying my chessboard and fingering the delicate ivory pieces that were set out for a game I was playing by post.