Ted Bell - Warlord (with a Letter from Ted Bell)

Author Ted Bell tells us about a recent encounter with Alex Hawke at Harrods during the holidays

BOXING DAY
BY TED BELL

For some years now, I have faithfully followed and recorded the gladiatorial, and sometimes titillating, exploits of Lord Alexander Hawke. But never before have I chronicled what follows here. Why? I worried that Hawke, and his friend Ambrose Congreve, might be uncomfortable seeing this tale in print. However, to my knowledge, neither gentleman possesses a modern eReader, so I can now safely share the incident with you, the loyal reader.

It was Boxing Day in London, the day after Christmas, and Harrods had reduced prices drastically. The huge emporium naturally experienced a plague of rabid bargain-hunters. Pandemonium reigned. However, at the two Returns windows on the fifth floor, a few dozen patrons waited patiently to exchange gifts they loathed for more suitable items.

At the tail end of the long queue opposite my own, whom should I spy but Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve. Dressed in jaunty tweeds, a green Harrods bag dangling from one hand, he was looking squarely at a pretty girl passing by when, a moment later, tragedy struck. The elevator slid open and who should pop out but Alex Hawke, identical green bag swinging merrily, whistling Frosty The Snow Man, truly a carefree soul in the spirit of the holiday.

Until, that is, he spotted a familiar figure. He had his back to him, but it was clearly his old friend Congreve. Hawke froze, gathered his wits, and tried to back-track quickly into the lift. Unfortunately, the doors were just sliding shut, snaring the rear hem of his cashmere overcoat in the process. The man was pinned against the closed doors like some human butterfly specimen captured by a mad lepidopterist.

Congreve, myself, and any number of others turned round, our attention drawn by the departed lifts struggling captive. Happy Christmas, all, Hawke said, essaying a cheery smile whilst trying to free himself. Oh, hullo there, Ambrose! Here to return something are you?

Your keen powers of observation have not failed you, dear boy. Congreve immediately went to Hawkes aid. How on earth did you manage this? he whispered. Hawke was tugging fiercely at buttons and coattails and not a few people found his predicament highly amusing.

A simple accident, really. Tripped over something making my exit and the bloody doors snapped shut like the jaws of a Great White shark. I wonder, would you mind pushing that button and releasing me? Congreve pushed and the lift arrived promptly, releasing Hawke from its death grip.

Ah, thats better, Hawke said, shrugging back into the sleeves of his thoroughly disheveled overcoat. Well, fancy meeting you here, old soldier. What are you returning?

Returning? Oh, yes, returning. Some trifle or other, cant even remember. And you?

Me? Some silly thing. You know how Christmas is. Theres always something youyou dont quite see yourself in.

Open the bag.

Why?

Because I know whats in it, Ambrose said, Its that smashing sweater I bought you. I knew you wouldnt appreciate it. I dont know why I even bother every year. You never like my Christmas presents, ever.

Ambrose, really, get a grip.

If youve nothing to hide, lets have a look.

Hawke sighed, reached inside the bag and pulled out a V-necked sweater. A riotous shade of yellow and bedecked with a hideous smattering of golf clubs, golf balls, and golf tees, all depicted in Tabasco red.

How can you possibly object to that? Its very sporting and quite the thing, I think, Congreve said with some petulance.

Ambrose, I dont play golf. Never have, never will. Other than that, I agree, its stunning.

One neednt play a sport to embrace its traditions, Alex.

Fine. Ill keep it. Now, open your bag.

This is absurd, Ambrose said, his color deepening. How do you know I dont have some of Dianas lacy unmentionables in here? Youve no right to make me

Open it.

Congreve, scowling, reached inside and withdrew a neon yellow golf sweater absolutely identical to the one Hawke now held in his hand.

Explain yourself, Constable.

Well, you see, its a funny story, really.

I, for one, am not amused. Go on.

Its all Dianas fault, you see. She bought me two identical sweaters. One to wear at home and one for my golf locker at the Sunningdale Club.

So you dumped one on me and now youre here ditching the otherwhat are you doing now?

Im putting on my sweater. I suggest you do the same. From this day forward this monstrosity shall be our Official Boxing Day Drinking Sweater.

Which means we need to drink immediately, Hawke said, removing his overcoat and donning the sweater.

The long bar at Blacks? said Congreve, referring to Hawkes private club in St. James.

Hawke grinned, Last man at the bar wears the Boxing Day sweater every day for a solid month. Cheers!

So saying, Hawke snatched up his coat and bolted for the stairwell. Hed had quite enough of elevators for one day.

2010 Ted Bell

For Page Lee, who makes it magic

An eye for an eye only makes the whole world blind.

M AHATMA G ANDHI