14 Apartments

By Cherishé Love

Lady Elizabeth Barrington-Elsworthy’s charred remains are discovered after her home, Barrington Hall, is burned to the ground. She was ‘the keeper’ of the infamous Barrington jewels and heirlooms and her untimely death means that their whereabouts are now unknown. It is believed they are hidden somewhere on the estate. The estate is closed. Years pass and then Cavendish House, a palatial building, now stands where Barrington Hall once stood.

The property is now divided into fourteen apartments. Cherishé Love lives in apartment 4. She discovers a book, ‘The History of Barrington Hall’, that references the missing heirlooms and also that a substantial reward is being offered by Lord Henry Barrington-Elsworthy if they are found. Cherishé and her best friend Sonia are determined to seek out the treasure but they are not alone - others are also keen to look for them.

So begins an hilarious journey where lies, deceit, betrayal and lust all have their part to play.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Sep 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781035808632

Cherishé Love

Cherishé Love is a storyteller. She loves and lives life to the fullest. To her, every minute is an adventure, and her claim to fame is that when she was born, her parents, ‘the Loves,’ couldn’t agree upon a name for her until, that is, they purchased a cushion for their summer house and there, embroidered upon the material was—Cherishé. Enough said.

Book preview

About the Author

Cherishé Love is a storyteller. She loves and lives life to the fullest. To her, every minute is an adventure, and her claim to fame is that when she was born, her parents, ‘the Loves,’ couldn’t agree upon a name for her until, that is, they purchased a cushion for their summer house and there, embroidered upon the material was—Cherishé. Enough said.

Copyright Information ©

Cherishé Love 2023

The right of Cherishé Love to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035808625 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035808632 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

My thanks to family and friends who supported me whilst I put this book together. Also, my heartfelt thanks to my publishers for their support throughout.

Apartments

Wing Commander Fergus Pugsley Jnr

Maurice and Timmy Husbands

Benjamin and Angel Sundarin

Mr Giorgo Boneher and Cherishé Love

Helen and Theodore Culpepper

Mr Noah and Mrs Gladys Cole

Bridgette de Sousa

Mr Ruud van Bakker

Lucas Smith

Robert and Belinda Glum

Robert Jones the Third

Sidney and Veronica Shoesmith

Barbara Frogmore and Salvatore ‘Jumbo’ Friedmann

Jordan and Heather Frobisher

Prologue

ICU—Primary-Care, Christmas Eve 2022

The ventilator whirs. It is by all accounts an ugly, noisy contraption. Its incessant grating hum fills every square centimetre of the space and is riding on the frowning faces of the ICU Primary Care personnel. It could care less. It has a job to do and its job of delivering oxygen-rich breathable air in to and out of the lungs, allowing them to fulfil their primary function of ‘maintaining life’ is all that matters. So, its sound is irrelevant; ‘it is what it is—move on—get over it!’

To me, I find its position reassuring.

It is just a machine I know but, to me, it is a ‘special’ machine, a saviour if you like. It’s non-stop whirring, day in day out, ensuring that the patient continues to receive life support means that there’s still hope and, importantly, it gives me comfort as it shows that the medical team haven’t given up on him. Well, not yet anyway.

So, possibly to some, the noise it makes is irritating, annoying even, and, dare I say, having been here these past four weeks or so I know that too, but it is ‘bearable’ and to be more precise it is absolutely necessary.

Tubes, see-through pre use, are now coloured off-white, red, orangey-yellow and liquid-brown. They are many in number and all for just one person—my husband. Tubes feeding in, tubes taking away, tubes inserted into every orifice; sometimes more than one in the same hole; some nestled into veins.

It is extraordinary and, at the same time, mind-blowing! Tubes, tubes and yet more tubes—the way that they weave in and out it crosses my mind that it looks like a maze of plastic spaghetti and that makes it difficult to count how many tubes there actually are.

Twice a day, every day, they are unravelled, removed, trashed and replaced. As I watch the whole painstaking process through a plastic observation window, I marvel at the PPE dressed nurses, their patience, their dedication to undertake this essential task. It is clear to me that they are demonstrating that neither infection nor contamination are welcome or tolerated in ICU Primary Care.

A bank of LCD polarised glass screen monitors ‘blink’ every millisecond, reporting data, feeding analytical information into the computers’ hard-drives and then, in response, they react by recommending finely-tuned adjustments to the patient’s care. However, more often than not, any proposed A.I. change is over-ridden by the bedside technician who sits, robot-like, keying-in a myriad of her own instructions.

Window ‘pop-ups’ appear creating ‘warning’ boxes—the machines are defying her impudence, with an air of ‘how dare you’. However, she’s used to it, she closes or deletes them just as fast as they appear, effectively nose-thumbing the source.

She is part of an elite, all-female team of six, each working a four-hour cycle, monitoring, maintaining, actioning, commanding; keeping control. It’s not unlike a battle of wills—‘Woman versus Machine’.

As an on-looker, it’s like watching a war of attrition, like a game of ‘tug-of-war’.

My money is on the females, although very young, maybe an age range average of twenty-three—they are tough, they are thorough.

A shift change. This one is called Jodie, it’s her turn; Alice exits. She has just come on duty and immediately she is ‘on it’. She’s at the helm, nothing phases her, nothing at all. My man is in good, capable, hands.

At the end of the day, he is their patient and it’s their skills, their knowhow and decision-making that is keeping him alive and I thank God for it.

The machines, well, like me, they are merely bystanders, onlookers.

A pretty nurse is writing pertinent information onto a hard-copy chart confirming what the super-computers were depicting on their phosphorus displays. She is ICU hospital dressed; her security clearance card is hanging from the chord around her neck. She takes a manual check of his pulse, the levels of all the plastic bags, stops for several seconds at the barbiturates records the result, checks the bedding, the tubes—apparently ticking boxes, replaces the chart at the bottom of the bed and exits. She tells me nothing—something I’ve gotten used to these past weeks.

The clip-board is ‘old-school’, something I can relate to but despite my natural instinct, I cannot get close enough to take it and read what’s there. All I can do is sit, watch and wait.

What about me? Well, I’m shrouded in PPE, not my preferred outfit. I’m sitting in a visitor’s armchair, occasionally peering through the plastic curtain’s window watching, hoping that he will open his eyes, twitch a finger, anything to indicate he is coming out of induced coma. I want to be the first person he sees. See my smile and maybe everything would be okay, back to normal. That outcome, I realise, would be a huge ask; but, you never knew.

How did it come to this? How come we are where we are? Well, the one thing I’ve had since coming here is ‘lots of free time’ and as I’m not leaving without my man, I’ve taken the opportunity to put into words and share with you the last year or so of my, sorry, our lives. Parts of it have been great, some funny, in fact very funny indeed; some tragic and a lot of it very, very odd.

In truth, we are here, in a Hong Kong hospital in ICU, because of me. It’s definitely my fault, my mistakes. So, here it is in black and white, my ‘guilty as charged’ confession; there’s no escaping it.

This is my story which I’ve titled ‘Fourteen Apartments’. I hope you read and enjoy it. I hope you laugh where appropriate, wince, but only where necessary, and then, once you get to the end and you judge me, which I’m sure you undoubtedly will, please feel free so to do but, please, please, do it ‘ever-so gently’. It’s been a rough ride.

So, as the ventilator does its thing, its never-ending journey humming and whirring, I’m sitting with my tablet. I’ll start at the beginning—here goes.

Chapter 1

The Book

"Cavendish House stands in the grounds of Cavendish Park. It is stately, it is regal, it is befitting a King! Its aspect, captured in more than sixty acres, is breathtakingly s-t-u-n-n-i-n-g!"

That description, an extract from the developer’s eloquently narrated ‘fly-through’ and their fully illustrated brochure, is undeniably accurate but there is more. In fact, ‘a whole lot more’. Let me loose with my adjectives for a moment and I can give you a ‘day-to-day’ person’s perspective.

"Cavendish House is a luxurious, sumptuous, deluxe, grand, ‘delish’ ’out-of-this-world property and, here comes the punchline, it is all of the above all of the time!"

There, I’ve said it; a bold statement I know but why am I so boastful? Well, that’s simple—I am because I live there! However, and as I am sure you will agree, whilst we can choose our home, our friends, our lifestyle, in fact most things, we cannot choose our neighbours, we are stuck with them and they with us, it can be tough, as you will see!

Cavendish House’s reception area is both spacious and elegant, and at this very moment I am perched on one of two rather lovely, Shackleton made, Chichester armchairs that are positioned either side of a Marylebone, solid oak coffee table, which nestles symmetrically upon a stunning, silk, Persian rug. My fingers are inquisitive, they can’t resist, and as I’m a ‘touchy-feely’ kind of person, I allow them to explore the chair’s texture. It is soft, I feel its silk fabric and sense it’s richness, the undeniable opulence; wow!

It is coloured royal blue with a gold thread sewn perfectly along and around its edging. With its long-seated matching blue cushion, high back and winged arms I could imagine myself, on any autumn or winters’ day, sitting back in it, or its twin, cosying up by a fireside, sipping hot chocolate; perhaps reading a book. All that’s missing of course, from my ‘dreamy’ thoughts, is the fireplace itself.

Hey, I say out loud, pinching myself, lest I forget, and this is just the reception area, or the ‘lobby’ as my American friends would say.

This is Cavendish House, in Cavendish Park and home to fourteen apartments!

A few moments ago, I closed and locked the door of apartment 4—my apartment, and with a double espresso in one hand, a warm almond croissant, wrapped in a napkin, in the other, I strolled over to where I’m now sat. Totally comfortable, I’m ready to face the day ahead. However, there is a slight problem, I don’t have anything to do!

I’m bored. I need to be busy—I’m just that type of person.

My optician’s appointment is not until 11.30 am, and although, I’ve been up for hours, it is, even now, only 9.15. So, I’m at a bit of a loose end and feeling fidgety.

Out of the corner of my left eye, my peripheral vision latches onto a large object, and from where I’m sitting, it appears to be a book. Having lived here for almost a year, I’m surprised that I can’t remember having seen it, or even noticing it before. So, I get up and go to take a better look.

It is rather ‘rich’ looking, A3 sized, if I’m not mistaken, and to me, it would seem to have been ‘intentionally’ left on the marble-topped sideboard for residents to browse through. I don’t want to disappoint.

‘The History of Barrington Hall’ is etched in gold on its front. It looks, and is, rather heavy. It is burgundy coloured, leather-bound and has a hand-stitched, coat of arms in the top right-hand corner—a ram’s head inside a gold ring. I admit to being the inquisitive type, bordering on being nosy.

I cannot resist. I carry it over to where my half-eaten croissant, and lukewarm coffee, await.

The reception area is quiet and, so far, there is no one else around.

I open it. Its ‘feel’ gives me a sense of expectation. Each illustrated and each text driven page is protected by a parchment-like greaseproof paper, a little like tracing paper, impressive! I wipe my hands on my napkin, to avoid finger marks, and look to the first page.

It is a typed note in emboldened Italics:

Dear Residents,

Welcome to Cavendish House, formerly Barrington Hall—home of Lord Henry Barrington-Elsworthy. His Lordship extends a warm welcome and a hand of friendship to all its residents.

Since the fire in 2009 that destroyed the once elegant Barrington Hall, leaving nothing more than a charred shell, the site has remained empty, barren, untouched. That is…until now!

In 2016, in collaboration with Proud & Biased property developers, Lord Henry, wiping away tears, fighting off the memories of that tragic, fateful time, agreed to the building of ‘Cavendish House’. His Lordship’s one and only caveat being, ‘the new build must stand upon the exact same footprint as Barrington Hall once did’.

And so, now, like the Phoenix, it is ‘re-born’!

The herculean efforts by Proud & Biased stand before you. A building of unparalleled architectural beauty, boasting fourteen luxury apartments, built and dressed to the highest specification. Fourteen apartments to rival any similar-sized property anywhere in the world. A lavish building, captured within the boundary of Cavendish Park’s sixty-one point nine eight three (61.983) acres.

This book, one of only four copies—the others being held by, Lord Henry, Proud & Biased and the London Library—gives you an insight into Barrington Hall, and moreover, it outlines the tragedy that befell the stately home. It records and examines the efforts made to save it, and pays homage to Lord Henry’s wife, Lady Elizabeth, who perished in the blaze.

All we ask is, that you handle this book with both care and respect. Further, once you’ve finished with it, please put it back in a suitable place, so that others might also enjoy it’s content.

*Please note that all photographs, illustrations, texts and news reports are in their original state. They are unaltered and unvetted. Therefore, some of the narrative might cause readers’ discomfort—if so, we apologise in advance.

Nonetheless, please enjoy.

Wow, I mused, that’s some introduction and how absolutely precise, I mean I love accuracy but why not ‘61.9’ or ‘approximately 62’ acres?

Oh well, I didn’t dwell on it. I turned to page one.

There, dead centre, is a picture of Barrington Hall in its heyday. It is in colour. A stately home, with horse drawn carriages parked in front of its six, huge, marble, fluted columns—it is beautiful. I move on. There follows at least ten pages of family member portraits, in fact several centuries worth, two per page.

Every one of them dressed in finery befitting the day, each has their name neatly stencilled beneath. Then, there are pages and pages of black and white photographs of ornate furniture, artefacts and unusual bric-a-brac, gathered, I imagine, from the four corners of the world. Most are extraordinary, some are beautiful, all make amazing imagery. I turn another page.

A collection of wall-framed tapestries and oil paintings—originals no doubt—make me involuntarily gasp, open mouthed, I am gaping. How rich is this family? I say it, unwittingly, out loud.

From what I’d seen so far, my best guess would be that at least one member of the Barrington-Elsworthy dynasty is, or was, an art-world equivalent of a ‘bon vivant’; probably an understatement on my part. Again, I move on.

Next, a nest of pages outlining the businesses that the Barrington family were, and probably still are, involved in—pharmaceuticals, agriculture, mining, oil, cosmetics, shipping, etcetera, etcetera.

My interest begins to wane. I begin to skim through. I’m now getting a little bored and losing focus—there’s nothing juicy, nothing gossipy! Then, as I turn to the latter pages, towards the end of the book, things become more interesting, in fact very interesting indeed! I slow down.

I think I should say at this point that, although I do not know it yet, this brief encounter with a simple book, will change and most likely shape my life, forever!

The next page, page 46, read like this:

Stately Home Burns to the Ground

In the early hours of this morning, 6 November 2009, a fire broke out at the Barrington-Elsworthy’s stately home, Barrington Hall, which lies just outside the Royal Borough of Windsor. According to an onlooker, the beloved mansion known to many as ‘the place to party—if you’re rich enough’, burst into flames and very quickly turned into an inferno. Despite the heroic efforts by the emergency services, led by fire-brigade captain, Marmajuke Numbly, Barrington Hall is now nothing more than a charred shell.

Members of the public who gathered to gawp as the elegant building crumbled into nothingness could be heard saying, Wow, this is better than bonfire night, wish we had some rockets! Some on-lookers laughed, some even clapped, and a few children were heard asking, Mum, did you bring any marshmallows, we could toast them?

Later, a council spokesperson said, Such comment and, dare I say, inappropriate behaviour is un-welcome and likely made by a few, jealous, ‘have-nots’ from outside the local community.

One ‘gawper’, a Mr Smith, said, "As soon as I saw the fire from my bedroom window, I realised something was terribly wrong. I figured people could be stuck inside. I thought seconds count!"

So, I quickly rang a dozen of my mates and told them to meet me there. I made a couple of flasks of coffee, poured a drop of whisky in to each, then ran to the Barrington estate. With the fire raging in the back ground, I took some great pics—paparazzi style, you know, ‘to make some extra cash’—then I took a few selfies and shortly after that, I raised the alarm! I rang the Fire Brigade.

A public-spirited hero indeed.

Josh Bolder—your reporter for the Burnham ECHO.

With furrowed brow and raised eyebrow, I shake my head in disbelief, Some people, I say out loud. I turn the page. There, one beneath the other, are two black and white landscape images of Barrington Hall. Inscribed in bold text above and below them is, ‘before’—a carbon copy image of the first page of the book, and ‘after’—nothing more than a charred shell!

Surprisingly, it was, for me, quite an emotional moment.

I slowly turn to page 48, there is an extract from The Telegraph. I read the narrative, and as I do, a wave of sadness hits me.

From the Editor in Chief

Lady Elizabeth Barrington-Elsworthy burned to death!

To our readers. It is with heavy heart that I, as Editor in Chief, inform you of Lady Elizabeth’s passing. She was a good friend of the Telegraph and of the press. We wish Lord Henry well during this sad and difficult time.

Lord Henry Barrington-Elsworthy is today mourning the loss of his beautiful wife, Lady Elizabeth. It is now more than a week since the fire ripped through and destroyed their home. Both hers, and their twenty-five-year-old pool attendant, Bronco’s, charred to ‘hell and back’ remains, have been found.

Lady Elizabeth, who was thirty-nine just a few short weeks ago, adored Bronco, aged twenty-five, and often said that He isn’t just a pool attendant, he can turn his big hands and inquisitive fingers to anything. Whatever that meant!

Their blackened bones were discovered in the master bedroom, bodies entwined, welded together. Clearly, their clothes had been burned off their backs as the searing heat left no trace of fibres!

Lord Henry said, Well, at least she didn’t die alone. I take some comfort in knowing that Bronco held her close, protecting her from the flames, until the very end.

Police Chief Havers said, We have not ruled anything in at this stage, and in so doing, have also ruled nothing out. In other words, we have no idea what happened. There are no witnesses as to how the fire started and we don’t have a ‘scooby’, as they say on TV, why someone might do this; unless, of course, they were a fire-starter! You know, one of those people who start fires—an ‘organist’—that’s the word I’m searching for!

In case of foul play, we have cordoned off the sixty-something-acres estate whilst people who know what they’re doing, like forensics and the crime-scene boys, try and come up with some answers. Who knows if they’ll get anywhere. I wish them luck!

Lady Elizabeth, R.I.P. ‘God rest her soul’. From all your friends at the Telegraph.

I am a little stunned at the statement from Chief Havers and I’m sure he meant ‘arsonist’—probably a mis-print. Poor Elizabeth. I pull a tissue from by bag, dab my eyes, and then, almost reluctantly, I turned to page 49.

Barrington Hall: Fire Inquiry finding, concludes today.

Baroness Abigail de Winter, the nominated Chair of the ‘Barrington Hall’ fire Inquiry stood at the rostrum and stated, It is now more than six months since the tragedy at Barrington Hall and, clearly, closure is needed.

She went on, Media speculation and, dare I say, ‘fake news’, as to whether or not Lady Elizabeth was, ‘getting-it-on’ with handsome pool-man, nick-named, ‘Bucking Bronco’, is getting out of hand, and such cruel comment is doing nothing to allow the respective families to get closure and grieve. So, enough is enough! She took a sip of water, allowing her last comment to sink in.

Therefore, today, Friday 28 May 2010, I hereby declare that, this shall be the end of the matter. And, in my position as Chair, I shall recount and reflect upon what happened on that fateful night and trust that lessons can be learned from it.

She glanced around, her head slightly bowed, glasses at the end of her nose, talking at the gathering of thirty news and media reporters, twenty-five rich friends of Lord Henry and three members of the public, which included Bronco’s parents,

I shall give a brief synopsis of what occurred, and once done, I will not be answering any questions. I trust I make myself clear.

But, first, she said, Lord Henry cannot be present today as he is abroad, but he offers his thanks to, myself, ‘Baroness Abigail’ for my undying support, and passes on his sincere apologies to you all for not being able to be present. He has had to travel to Monaco to see his new, twenty-two-year-old personal secretary. She needs his help with filing some of her paperwork.

She smiled to herself. Ladies, Gentlemen, what more can I say about the man, he is so considerate, so caring. I’m sure you will all agree with me, he’s the kind of boss we’d all like to have! The Baroness glowed in admiration.

Hear, hear! A number of ‘rich’ voices from the audience chortled, clapping in appreciation.

She raised her hands bidding them to quiet themselves.

Ladies, and Gentlemen, the synopsis: In the early hours of the morning of 6 November 2009, a fire, nay, a blazing inferno engulfed the infamous, ‘I love to party’ Barrington Hall. The hitherto resplendent stately home of Lord Henry and Lady Elizabeth Barrington-Elsworthy, which had been the ‘symbol of capitalist opulence’ over the centuries, is now nothing more than a charred shell! She paused, pulled a tissue from her sleeve, and gently dabbed her eyes and nose.

Continuing she said, Despite the fire brigade’s brave and heroic efforts, the fire raged, and quickly became out of control. As a result, not only was the wonderful, out-of-this-world, ‘Barrington Hall’ destroyed but, also, two people sadly lost their lives!

"We are here today, under my instruction, to give closure to both, Lord Henry Barrington-Elsworthy—a fine upstanding, handsome, member of the elite, and to Juan and Juanita, I do hope I’ve pronounced that correctly—the parents of ‘Bucking Bronco’ the pool-man. They sit there, right in front of me."

She pointed to them, and then, smiled a smug-like grin in their general direction.

In my capacity as overseer to this investigation, I can candidly report that having examined all the forensic and police evidence, I am in a position to make my judgement.

In anticipation, the audience leaned forward as one and there, to a ‘man’, they remained. Stock-still, eyes pin-pointed, focussed. Some were a little sweaty, others open-mouthed. You could have heard a tear drop! The reporters tensed their fingers—scribbling pencils at the ready, their mobiles on standby—waiting to send one of two, hurriedly prepared, texts!

However, she paused, looked up, snatched her glasses from her nose, paused longer, one elbow on the lectern.

The ‘rich’ members of the audience paused, looked out, nervous! What was coming?

The reporters, on the edge of their seats, paused, unsure where to look! What was coming? What the hell was coming?

Then, after what seemed like an eternity, she un-paused and went on, "As a show of respect, and to illustrate that my compassion is offered equally to both families at this difficult time, I have listened to Bronco’s parents’ ‘heartfelt plea’ and will allow Captain Numbly, who commanded the fire service truck on that fateful night, to give us a full account of what happened.

It would seem that Juan and Juanita believe that the fire services’ negligence and ineptness somehow contributed significantly to the loss of their one and only child, Bronco. Well, ladies and gentlemen, we shall see!

Please know this, and let me make myself crystal clear, there will not be any cross-examination or, any questions allowed.

A curtain of silence fell upon all present. This unexpected announcement of a verbal account by the ‘captain’, no less, ‘of the Fire Service’, was news! Possibly even follow-up opportunities!

Quietness, an eerie feeling of righteousness. Would the truth out?

A whispered voice from someone, somewhere in the seated gathering, remarked, About bloody time too!

Unphased, Abigail de Winter looked across the room, Captain Marmajuke Numbly, would you please be so kind as to stand and give us your account of that sad, and unforgettable night.

Captain Numbly stood. Do I have to swear under Oath on the Bible, Ma’am? He asked.

WHY? No, I don’t think so. You’re a captain in the Fire Brigade, that’s good enough for me! Please, go ahead, but first you might want to adjust your, um ‘fly’.

Captain Numbly, looked down, poked his protruding shirt tail back into his trousers, zipped his fly, reddened slightly, took out his note book, flicked through a dozen or so pages, satisfied himself that he’d got the right one and that he’d found the correct start point, then he cleared his throat. He began.

The emergency call came in to the station at 1.23 am on the 6 November, I remember it well, like it was yesterday! A member of the public, a Mr Smith, was on the line. I asked him what he wanted—me and the boys were playing three card brag and I had a doozy of a hand, three queens, there was thirty quid in the pot! Smith yelled down the blower, ‘Help, fire, fire!’

I said, ‘Well you’ve come to the right place.’ I mean, I’m not a complete idiot, Ma’am. I know what I do for a living.

It went a little quiet at his end. I thought I heard him gulp, you know, like he was drinking something, So, I took a chance and yelled back, ‘Where? Where? Are you still there?’ I think it took him off guard. I heard him sigh.

He said ‘Barrington Hall, twat.’ I laughed, I mean, was he taking me for a complete fool? Barrington Hall was wired directly into the Station. There had been no notification. So, I said, ‘Go on, you’re shitting me’.

He said, and I quote, ‘Look, you prick, I’m not shitting you, it’s for real. Is your boss there?’ At first, I thought it was a hoax, you know—someone foolin’ around, it happens regularly. He sounded drunk and overly worried AND, of course, his name WAS Smith!

Numbly stopped, looked around at the nodding heads in the rich section of the audience that clearly agreed with him, ‘Smith’ was a name ‘not to be trusted’. Nonetheless, I got up and checked the notification box—there was no red light, which meant there were no fires anywhere in our area.

I said, ‘I am the boss, Captain Numbly actually, and I’m getting nothing at this end, Bud! Have you been drinking?’

Again, he shouted, at the top of his voice, ‘Fire, there’s a fire, YOU wanker! And my name’s Smith, not Bud, and I’m drinking coffee!’

I rubbed my chin. It still wasn’t enough, not for me. I’m a professional and it was my lay next, I needed absolute proof!

It was then, at that precise moment, one of my team, Malcolm, said, ‘Hey, Boss, I think the batteries in the alarm system need replacing ’cos they’re fried. I meant to tell you last week.’ A useful piece of information, of that there is no doubt.

I pontificated, could this be for real, a fire at Barrington Hall? Very unlikely! So, still needing proof, I asked Mr Smith to spell Barrington Hall, as authentication of his call being for real, and also to give me the postcode. ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘don’t you know? Aren’t you the fire brigade? Shouldn’t you know where it is? You’re a fucking disgrace.’

I stayed firm. ‘Postcode?’ It took him a few goes at it but, he got it right in the end.

I asked him what he expected us to do and he replied, and I quote, ‘Christ, do what you’re paid to do, you total fucking cretin, COME AND PUT IT OUT.’ That was good enough for me, Ma’am, I believed him.

I laid my hand down, won outright and pocketed the thirty quid—what a result! Then, we, all eight of us, slid down our pole, geared up and piled in to the fire wagon. We set off.

"Malcolm, the guy who forgot to tell me about the ‘fried’ batteries, is our apprentice, a nineteen-year-old and a bit of a dreamer, was at the wheel, it was his turn. He’d never driven a fire truck before, although he