The Man Who Won the Pools Read online

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  The Man Who Won The Pools

  First published in 1961

  Copyright: John Stewart Literary Management Ltd. 1961-2012

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

  The right of J.I.M. Stewart to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AU, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755130308 9780755130306 Print

  0755133242 9780755133246 Kindle

  0755133552 9780755133550 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Innes Mackintosh Stewart (who also wrote as Michael Innes) was born in Edinburgh where his father was Director of Education. He attended Edinburgh Academy before going up to Oriel College, Oxford where he was awarded a first class degree in English and won the Matthew Arnold Memorial Prize and was named a Bishop Frazer scholar. After a short interlude travelling with AJP Taylor in Austria, including studying Freudian psychoanalysis for a year, he embarked on an edition of Florio’s translation of Montaigne’s Essays. This subsequently helped him secure a post teaching English at Leeds University.

  In 1932, Stewart married Margaret Hardwick, who practised medicine, and they subsequently had three sons and two daughters. By 1935, he had been awarded the Jury Chair at the University of Adelaide in Australia as Professor of English and had also completed his first detective novel, ‘Death at the President’s Lodging’, published under the pseudonym ‘Michael Innes’. This was an immediate success and part of a long running series centred on ‘Inspector Appleby’, his primary character when writing as ‘Innes’. There were almost fifty titles completed under the ‘Innes’ banner during his career.

  In 1946, he returned to the UK and spent two years at Queen’s University in Belfast, before being appointed Student (Fellow and Tutor) at Christ Church, Oxford. He was later to hold the post of Reader in English Literature of Oxford University and upon his retirement was made an Emeritus Professor. Whilst never wanting to leave his beloved Oxford permanently, he did manage to fit into his busy schedule a visiting Professorship at the University of Washington and was also honoured by other Universities in the UK.

  Stewart wrote many works under his own name, including twenty-one works of fiction (which contained the highly acclaimed quintet entitled ‘A Staircase in Surrey’, centred primarily in Oxford, but with considerable forays elsewhere, especially Italy), several short story collections, and over nine learned works on the likes of Shakespeare, Kipling and Hardy. He was also a contributor to many academic publications, including a major section on modern writers for the Oxford History of English Literature. He died in 1994, the last published work being an autobiography: ‘Myself and Michael Innes’.

  J.I.M. Stewart’s fiction is greatly admired for its wit, plots and literary quality, whilst the non-fiction is acknowledged as being definitive.

  Part I

  OXFORD

  Chapter One

  ‘Twenty Camels, please,’ Phil Tombs said, and put down two half-crowns. He put them down as if he was saying here was the end of his old life. And the fags would certainly take most of the second two-and-six. He was still dazed – still after all this checking and telegram-sending and waiting – and his mind was working queerly. Twenty camels. Fifty elephants. A hundred houris. Anything money can buy. It was a comedy – or it would be a comedy if he wasn’t frightened of it.

  ‘Camels, did you say?’ The girl behind the counter accompanied the sauce of her arched eyebrows with a sharp glance. She was thinking there was nothing out of the way in a chap like him buying Yank cigarettes. She was thinking his kind often had more money than the Varsity lot. Only she was thinking he had made this particular demand so offhandedly he must be doing something rash.

  Tombs seeing this in the young woman’s mind felt panic again as he thought how wrong she was. He said, short but civil: ‘Yes, please.’

  She slapped down the fags and slapped down his change. It was a sixpence.

  ‘Quite going it, aren’t we?’ she asked sarcastically.

  He saw she was surprising herself, making a pass like this. It was a class tobacconist’s, next door to one of the big colleges. Sometimes you would go in behind another customer and there would be nobody there except just this girl because the other customer would be away in the back with Mr. Melchizedek – his name was – buying boxes of cigars. It might be a prosperous business type or it might be undergrads – not the scholarship ones idling on your taxes, since their money didn’t run quite to that. The really wealthy ones, as you could tell at once.

  Come to think of it he might have said to this girl, A five-shilling cigar. Only perhaps you don’t say just that. There was this Ginger Grant from Glasgow got a girl said she was a secretary, so Ginger took her to a restaurant full of executives and said he wanted a bottle of Wee St George. Only he’d picked it up wrong and the word was French like the words for wines are. Nuits it was, meaning some place in France, and the girl laughed at him, which served him right for being so pitiful.

  As for this girl in the fag-shop, probably she wasn’t bad. In less expensive fag-shops a girl got credit for being ready with a bit of come-hither or cheek. But he’d been in here often enough to see that Mr. Melchizedek – that was his name – discouraged the free-and-easy. Cold-and-lofty was what he approved, as if his girls didn’t think much of anything short of selling Sobranies to royal dukes. Phil had seen it work, though. As the girls did their stuff he’d seen customers changing their minds and asking for something a bit more expensive than they’d intended. Yes, pitiful people are.

  ‘What about a gold cigarette-case?’ the young woman went on.

  This time Phil grinned at her. He guessed it was his hair. The way it tumbled about his head cost him eight shillings a week, but there was always a chance of its paying off like now. He felt suddenly more secure. He stopped feeling like there was something wrong with his right buttock, where the newspaper was still in his hip-pocket that he’d checked and checked with.

  He picked up the sixpence.

  ‘Bottom of the packet,’ he said, looking at it. ‘Chips and vinegar for one. We’ll have to get together another time.’

  The young woman sniffed and went frozen up again. The lady, he thought – and he was grinning to himself now, because he liked language – had reassumed her professional manner. Because this customer had come in.

  The customer was Phil’s own age. His hair was short and brushed down, with no oil on it. He was tall and fair and free from pimples, as if he bought health soaps and things a lot. He was togged in the more casual sort of clothes for riding a horse in, and he had a flowery affair like a woman’s scarf arranged where a man would wear a good American tie. You could see at once he’d come in to do a bit of creating. But in an easy confident way. Graceful nonchalance of the aristocracy.

  ‘I say!’ The newco
mer spoke almost before the bell had stopped ringing on the door. ‘It’s absolutely too bad. Is your manager in? Tell him it’s Sir Aubrey Moore.’

  Phil winked at the young woman but she ignored him. Before she could speak there was the scraping of a hastily moved chair in the back shop. Then in came this oldish silky man with a nasty gliding action like he was on a belt and not on legs. Mr. Melchizedek of course. Phil lingered. He needed his mind taken off things. It was queer that he did, but Christ he did.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir. I ‘opes that you are receiving hevry satisfaction, sir.’

  Mr. Melchizedek was softly rubbing his hands together, in the way they always make his toady-sort do on the telly. He was a foreigner of course, and his aitches didn’t seem to behave in an honest way – not either in one honest way or the other. Phil registered this at once. You can’t be a Tombs in Oxfordshire, any more than you can be a Timms or a Belcher or a Pratley, and not be very aware of how foreigners and aliens come seeping in. Like how Radiators and Pressed Steel and Lucys have them from all over, and now blacks, very decent chaps, on the buses.

  ‘It’s this mixture you make up for me, you know. My personal mixture, dash it. And it’s as dry as dust.’ Sir Aubrey Moore tossed an open tobacco-pouch on the counter. It hadn’t a coat of arms or even a monogram but it looked expensive. ‘Just take a glance at the stuff.’

  Phil wondered whether he could toss down any rejected article just like that. It was tossing, all right. Only there was more to it than that. The chap had it so that he could be insolent without being not polite. Phil, whom the laws of electricity were training to get things accurate, had just graphed the young man’s manner like this when he saw that Mr. Melchizedek wasn’t worried. Mr. Melchizedek was fingering a pinch of the tobacco, and over his pasty face there was coming a kind of pitying but respectful smile.

  ‘No,’ Mr. Melchizedek said. ‘No, sir—I think not.’ He looked up at the young man and gently shook his head. You realised that he had nicely dressed silver hair, so fine that it stirred gently in the breeze of his own soft movements. He might have been the old family butler, remembering how he’d dandled the infant baronet or whatever he was on his knee, and putting him right now on some silly thing he’d said about the old crusted port or the champagne.

  ‘I venture to suggest, sir,’ Mr. Melchizedek said, ‘that you ’ave neglected one factor, sir. A very simple and very himportant factor if I may say so, sir. The’ igher class of tobaccos, sir, ‘as the moisture scientifically hextracted from them.’ Mr. Melchizedek closed the pouch and handed it gently back to Sir Aubrey. ‘A great pleasure, sir. A great pleasure to be of service at any time, sir. Thank you, sir. Good afternoon, sir.’

  Phil didn’t look at the young man. It didn’t seem fair. But he tried another wink at the girl. This time, he thought, she’d have done a snort of laughter if she hadn’t been scared of Melchizedek. So Phil put one hand into the front pocket of his jeans – for her benefit, that was – and with the other swung open the door and went out. Male and arrogant, he thought. And he crossed Carfax and walked up Cornmarket Street.

  There had been a big bell jangling for some reason in one of the colleges. But here the noise of traffic drowned anything of the sort at once. It was plain these places weren’t what they had been when there was nothing but Varsity around. You could see that old Oxford set-up in the plans, enlarged to the size of murals, that Woolworth’s decorated their side windows with. He’d thought of going into Marks and Sparks, but now he thought he’d go across and into Woolworth’s. There was nothing he wanted to buy but he’d walk round. It was the biggest Woolworth’s in the country, they said, and hadn’t he to think big? He went across.

  It was clever. It was clever the way the covered part, before you came to the doors, half sucked you in under the bright lights, specially if it was wet. And those great squashy letters woolworth must be psychology; they must be that as they certainly weren’t art. He went in.

  Phil Tombs passed where the kids got ice-cream and threaded through the idle-buy counters near the doors which were psychology too. He’d go down to Electrical Appliances, where he had professional standing, so to speak, and see if there was anything new. The whole place was pretty full. It was all on one floor, all except the cafeteria, and he wondered about the ventilation which was O.K. He wondered what went on on the floors above. Executives in offices, he supposed, some of them smoking Melchizedek’s cigars. It must be better fun for a girl working here than in Melchizedek’s – except that here you were right out in the open, with customers all round you. It’s psychology that it’s good to have a wall to put your back to, they say.

  He stood still, so that women with parcels and women with children bumped into him, and a man carrying some doubled-up metal curtain-rod pretty well jabbed him in the neck. He was trying what it would be like to be one of these girls – in a sort of pen with these little trays all round, and beyond that always people fingering things or waving ten-bob notes at you. He turned round as if he was facing customers, and then turned round again, so that people must have thought he was cracked. Then it occurred to him that a store detective might come along and be suspecting him. So he hurried on. He didn’t know what it was that sometimes made him do these fool things.

  He never got to Electrical Appliances, because he stopped again, and this time it was without really knowing it. It was all these people, and all these things – small cheap things mostly, in all these trays and on all these shelves. And there were all the other Woolworth’s, and Marks and Sparks all over the place, and Littlewood’s, and Great Universal Stores, and the people that used to be the Fifty Shilling Tailors, and the Elegance Taste Economy people and you couldn’t say what. There was so much of it all and of everybody – the same sort of people buying the same sort of things and covering up the same sort of bodies with them or fixing them up on Sunday afternoons in the same sort of houses – that it could only be meaningless. He felt unaccountably scared. So he had to hurry out of Woolworth’s, as if suddenly he’d been told he didn’t belong there. And perhaps no more you do, he thought. The place could belong to you now, in a manner of speaking. So you no longer belong to it. Write your bleeding autobiography, and call it Outside Woolworth’s. A good title. But perhaps it wouldn’t be a very good book.

  Outside Woolworth’s there was a newspaper woman and posters. Phil went past keeping his glance away. It was like hunted-man stuff. You stop at a corner, with the collar of a stolen coat up round your mouth, and there suddenly is this poster with a photograph of you. A corner of it gets loose and flaps in the wind. A few fallen leaves scurry by. Then a bit of old newspaper blows across the street, catches on the poster, blots out the photograph just as a dick or some nosey old woman might be glancing at you and then turning to look at it. You pull the collar higher and hurry on. And the wind is icy in the streets and you haven’t got the price of a cup of coffee left.

  Phil turned into George Street. He found his hand was still in that front pocket, like he’d put it in a bit of sexy swagger for Melchizedek’s girl. It was clutching his sixpence change. The last sixpence of his old life. Through the thin lining, close to where his tight-fitting X-Fronts left off, he rasped the milled edge of the coin against his groin. Face it, he said to himself. Begin to think it out. About Beryl, for instance, and all that.

  Instead of thinking, he looked around, that being easier. It was getting on for six, the time in Oxford you begin to get what some book calls the two nations in the streets. Of course you get them all day: always those undergrads and their professors; always plenty of town folk – women in from Cowley and the housing estates shopping, clerks hurrying importantly around to hand each other bits of paper. But it’s in the evening you get this split-up affair of young men: the undergrads again, in twos mostly and smiling and talking rapidly; lads from Morrises and that, more in fours and sixes, laughing and shouting like they were paid for it, sweeping the pavements line-abreast where there are no dicks about. Fancying t
hemselves regular Teds, a lot of them, but not much good at it and through with it in eighteen months. They have girls after that and don’t come much to the centre of the city, a part inconvenient for what they’re mostly thinking about. Another eighteen months and somebody’s got careless, so that it’s all waiting for a house and doing crazy sums about the never-never. Sort of so many Ages of Man, and that’s several blown before you notice. Of course in the electrical trades you’re a bit apart from it; you have your standards. Still, he’d done that Ted stuff himself a bit before latching on to Beryl. And for some reason he’d dressed a bit young this evening. The word was nostalgia, he told himself.

  Suddenly he knew he was hungry. He’d better have something before he went home – since what he’d have to face there there was no telling. Hour of destiny, perhaps. Facing it at least for a minute now, and therefore a bit absent about what he was doing, he went into this Pompadour. Never been there before. He could see at once it was cheap. He could see it was rather an undergrad place. Didn’t matter, of course. He sat down at the counter and ordered something from a man in a tall white cap affair. Pretending to be a chef.

  Phil didn’t know why he did it, and it must have been just because he was disturbed. But as the man turned away, Phil made some fool gesture above his own head.

  ‘Pitiful,’ he said.

  ‘Pitiful,’ a voice agreed in his ear. And it added something quite unintelligible.

  ‘What’s that?’ Phil turned and stared.

  ‘Cucullus non facit monachum,’ repeated the voice.

  Phil noticed the repetition wasn’t quite confident. It was rather as if the speaker felt he might have got one of his words wrong.