The Voyage of the Golden Handshake Read Online Free Page A

said Albert. ‘I usually drink Brown Ale.’
    ‘Brown Ale,’ repeated Havergill. ‘Brown Ale … Is that what they drink up here?’ He took another gulp of his gin and pressed a button situated underneath the desk. ‘Bring in a Brown Ale for our esteemed friend Mr Hardcastle!’ he bellowed, seemingly at no one in particular.
    From somewhere in the room a loudspeaker crackled into life.
    ‘Certainly, Mr Havergill, sir. I think we may have to go to the Co-op to get one.’
    ‘Bring several,’ boomed the Manager, ‘and while you are at it, bring another bottle of Gordon’s. The last one seems to have evaporated.’
    Albert had seen some topers in his time, but sitting before him was surely one of Grimsby’s best. Several minutes passed before there was a tap on the door and Darren Worthington staggered in with a crate of Brown Ale and a litre of Gordon’s Gin.
    ‘Well done, Washington,’ slurred the Manager. ‘Pour MrAlbert an ale and take one yourself and then clear off.’
    Darren poured the ale as requested, and ignoring the generous offer of the Manager to help himself, he quickly left the room.
    ‘Well,’ said Mr Havergill. ‘This is all very homely, isn’t it?’
    He slurped more gin and went to open another bottle of tonic water. ‘All very homely isn’t it’?
    Albert reflected that it was like no home he had ever known, and despite the generosity of the Manager the atmosphere did not seem to be either relaxed or homely. However, he held his tongue.
    ‘Well, well, well,’ uttered Havergill. ‘Well, well, well.’
    Albert was at a loss as to what to say, since he had no idea what Mr Havergill was referring to.
    ‘Well, well, well. It is, isn’t it?’
    By now the gin was beginning to take over the Manager’s ability to speak and reason clearly. For no apparent reason he pressed the button on his desk again, and within a moment Worthington appeared. Havergill fixed him with a glassy stare.
    ‘Warburton,’ he began. ‘You know what I like about you?’
    Darren Worthington said nothing but bowed his head slightly.
    ‘Nothing!’ the Manager exclaimed. ‘Absolutely nothing. Get out.’
    Darren disappeared immediately and Albert took a sip of hisBrown Ale.
    ‘I think we ought to get down to business,’ he said, conscious of the fact that time was slipping by and soon all luncheon establishments in the immediate area would be closing. ‘I understand the lottery folk have paid money into my account and I would like to know exactly how much and what interest I will be getting if I leave it with the bank?’
    Mr Havergill took another swig at his gin and once again replenished his glass. He slouched in his chair and appeared to have considerable difficulty in not slipping to the floor.
    ‘Account?’ he muttered. ‘Account? By all accounts you have an account. We have accounts in banks, you know, old boy. Accounts. Oh yes, by George. Accounts.’
    ‘Well,’ said Albert, now beginning to lose patience. ‘I’m talking about my account, Mr Havergill. I would like to see MY account.’
    Havergill rolled his eyes, closed one and fixed Albert with a glassy stare.
    ‘You can’t see my account, old boy. Private. Secret, you know.’ Here he touched the side of his nose with his forefinger and shook his head.
    ‘I want to see MY account, Mr Havergill. MY account, not yours’. Albert was now running out of patience and not a little apprehensive. The prospect of lunch seemed to be receding by the minute, and as for his account - he seemed to be making noprogress whatsoever.
    ‘Call Withington, old boy,’ mumbled Havergill. ‘Withington is just like Jeeves. He knows everything. Withington?’ he bawled. ‘Wallington, where the hell are you when needed? Wiverington .’
    Once again the door opened and Darren reappeared.
    Mr Havergill turned in his chair, and this time missed his balance and fell under the desk. Both Albert and Darren rushed across the room and helped him back. When he was