The Spy Who Couldn't Count

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Book excerpt

Chapter One

Thick and proud of it

It may be of some consolation to those who were not particularly bright at school, that there are others in the same boat who do not appear to have suffered unduly from the experience. But anyone like Jyp who had the misfortune to be educated at Watlington County Grammar was not expected to show any evidence of intellectual output. They were simply thick as planks and quite proud of it.

Although the headmaster talked expansively about Watlington's long and glorious history at the drop of a hat, and constantly referred to the string of famous old boys who were to be found listed on the honours board in the Great Hall, he was always coy about his other former pupils who exercised more unusual talents, such as robbing banks or selling London Bridge to trusting American tourists.

Despite the not unexpectedly low exam results every year, the school earned a certain fashionable notoriety as the worst school in the south-east, and parents liked to boast about their schooldays there. How awful it had been, and what happened to that bounder, what's-his-name, who pulled off that bank robbery and ended up in South America or somewhere.

None of them would, of course, admit even privately to themselves that school had been a complete waste of time, and that the chances of any of them getting on in the world, or winning any sort of public recognition for their services were remote in the extreme. That was before anyone had heard of Jyp.

Not that Jyp had any idea of making a name for himself. With a name like Jefferson Youll Patbottom, he felt he had already been burdened with more than his fair share of bad luck - which explains how he accepted his nickname so readily in the first place.

The simple explanation is that whereas most of the others at his school couldn't think, Jyp couldn't count. He never had been able to, and as far as he could see, he never would. Which may explain why he ended up working for the Civil Service.

When his father, George, heard about it, he simply couldn’t contain himself and roared with laughter.

‘You - in the Civil Service?’ he gasped. ‘You've got to be joking. What sort of work are you doing there?’

Jyp pulled at his nose in some embarrassment. ‘Statistics…’

‘Statistics?’ choked his father, with rising disbelief. ‘What kind, for Pete's sake? You can't even add two and two together!’

‘Birth, marriages and deaths - that sort of thing.’

The news proved too much for his father. He looked around the room waiting for someone to tell him it wasn't true, then collapsed in his chair, wheezing with laughter. He rocked backwards and forwards, his face turning purple, until it looked as if he was going to have a seizure, and for a moment Jyp thought he would have to revise his mortality statistics for England and Wales.

‘Maud,’ his father called out weakly at last, wiping his eyes and making his way blindly to the kitchen to seek out an appreciative audience. ‘Listen to this, it's a corker. D'you know what your son's gone and done this time? They've made him a Civil Servant. He's the one they're relying on to tell 'em how many people we've got in the country. Blimey, I don't know why they don't get him to count up the number of Civil Servants there are - we're knee deep in them already!’

Jyp tried not to listen and pushed the cat away moodily.

‘It's all right for you, Rosy,’ he groaned, hearing a burst of muffled laughter in the other room. ‘All you do is feed your face all day. You don't have to add up columns and columns of perishing figures until your eyes pop out.’

Rosy stretched herself languidly, and jumped on his lap, demanding instant attention.

‘Give over, Rosy.’ He shook her off again, wondering vaguely why his mother couldn't call her pets unflowery names like anyone else, and mentally kicked himself for letting slip about his job. He wished he'd never mentioned it. With a juicy tit-bit like that to impart, his father would be full of it when he met his old pals down at the British Legion and it would be all over the village by the morning.

‘Why did I have to have a joker for a father?’ he asked the cat. ‘Most ordinary fathers go to sleep in front of the telly when they get home, but not our dad - all he wants is a straight man for his double act. And guess who that is?’

But Rosy had her own problems, and started washing her front paws. As far as Jyp could remember, his father had always been the life and soul of the party, determined to see the funny side of everything. His mother, bless her, was loving and a bit scatter-brained at times, but she had lots of patience. Just as well, he thought, she has a lot to put up with.

A few minutes later she popped her head round the door and regarded him sympathetically.

‘You've gone and done it now, Jyp. Whatever made you tell him such a thing - you know what he's like?’

‘Sorry, Mum,’ sighed Jyp. ‘I should have guessed what he'd say.’

Maud ruffled his hair. ‘What made you pick a funny old job like that, anyway? You've never been keen on figures before. Not even the other kind.’

Jyp was slightly taken aback.

‘You were always poking around in corners, playing with your stamps and things, never girls.’

‘I tried to get a job in stamp collecting, Mum, but they found out I didn't know the difference between a Pfennig and a Schilling.’

‘But we don't use that old fashioned currency anymore, silly,’ said his mother lovingly. ‘It's all new pence now.’

There was a sigh as Jyp tried again.

‘I know that, Mum, but there aren't many jobs you can get without counting, these days,’ he admitted sheepishly. ‘I thought I was onto a good thing washing up dishes at the local restaurant, but I made so many mistakes working out the breakages, I ended up owing them money.’

‘What about that job as a night watchman at the clock repairers? That didn't need any counting, did it?’

Jyp winced at the memory. ‘No, but I knocked off one night earlier than I should have done, and some bright spark broke in and cleaned the place out. The manager told me to get a new alarm and when I asked him to give me one, he gave me the sack instead.’

He pondered on the sheer injustice of it all.

His mother looked puzzled. ‘How did you get this job in the Civil Service then?’

Jyp took a deep breath. ‘Well, it all started when I was leaning up against a wall having my lunch break at the Wall of Death, and this man came along…’

‘Wall of Death?’ repeated his mother faintly. ‘That sounds rather dangerous.’

‘No,’ Jyp reassured her. ‘They just ride around and around inside this bowl-shaped place. It's dead easy, like falling off a log. Well, perhaps not exactly like that,’ he allowed. ‘Anyway, all I had to do was to go and flag them in, now and then, so that someone else could take over. The only trouble was, I forgot to tell them one day 'cause I got the times mixed up, and one of them got tired and fell off. He was a bit cross,’ he remembered reflectively.

‘But why did you have to lean against the wall to have your sandwiches?’ asked his mother, her mind running off at a tangent.

Jeff disregarded her question. ‘He got his own back by tying me onto the front of his handle bars the next time he did his act.’ He shuddered at the recollection. ‘I couldn't sit down for weeks afterwards.’

‘But why…?’

A hunted look appeared on Jyp's face. ‘Look, Mum, why don't you let me tell the story my own way, otherwise I'll never get through it?’

‘Sorry, Jyp.’ His mother sat back obediently.

‘Anyway, this man I was telling you about,’ went on her son doggedly. ‘He asked me to hold a bit of string for a minute and never came back. So I followed the line and found someone at the other end. He was so chuffed I’d stopped him wasting his time he offered me a job to help him out, doing his deliveries for him.’

He hesitated and seeing his mother smother a yawn went on quickly, ‘Before I knew where I was, I'd lost my way. I asked a policeman and he found I had enough drugs on me to start up my own business. Mr Big the sergeant called me. I don't think he meant it, Mum. He said I hadn't got the brains for anything that smart, and they let me off with a caution. Anyway, it gave me an idea, and I decided to team up with George, down the road, in a travel agency. You are following me, Mum?’

‘Mmm?’ His mother jerked her head back with an effort. ‘Er, yes, of course.’

‘Right, well we did so well that George decided he couldn't wait for an accountant to work out our profits - he nipped off to the West Indies with all the money.’ He added bitterly, ‘He could count.’

His mother nodded her head in sympathy and tried to concentrate.

‘When I reported it to the police, I got the same sergeant who pinched me with the drugs, and all he said was I was one of life's losers. He was dead right. So that's when he put in a good word for me to become a prison warder. Said it would give me a purpose in life, helping others.’ He paused. ‘It may have helped others, but it didn't help me.’

There was a muffled snort and his mother woke up. ‘What happened then?’ she asked automatically.

‘They got rather upset 'cause I reported back with ten prisoners after a trip to the laundry one day.’

‘What's wrong with that?’ His mother smiled indulgently. ‘Nothing wrong with your counting this time, was there?’

Jyp snorted. ‘He says I took fifteen out with me.’

His mother rallied. ‘It could have happened to anyone. Was that when you joined the Girl Guides?’

‘Men aren't allowed to join the Girl Guides, Mum,’ he explained patiently. ‘I told you that before. I was at a fancy dress party, and there was a… misunderstanding.’ He wriggled uncomfortably. ‘I told you ages ago.’

‘Well, they didn't have to lock you up,’ she defended him stoutly. ‘I wish I'd have been there, I'd have told them a thing or two. Anyway, what's that to do with the Civil Service?’

‘There was this girl I borrowed the dress from for the fancy dress party. She told me about this vacancy in her office. Her name's Patience.’

‘That's nice,’ his mother beamed vaguely. ‘I had a budgie called Patience once.’

‘She was very nice to me. Told me where to go and what to say. I'd never have got the job with old Benson without her help.’

‘Never mind love, you’ve got a job for life now – no more putting up with funny old lodgings. You’re back home where you belong. Fancy, who’d have thought you’d end up with the Civil Service. What’s your new boss like?’

A cloudy look passed over his face at the thought of his boss.

‘I suppose some people like him, but he's a funny old cove. Mind you, most of them are in that place. Suppose it's something to do with counting figures all day. Not like Patience. She couldn't do enough for me. Can't understand it. Even her family's nice as well. Keep on asking me round for supper. You remember Aunt Ethel, Mum? The one you said was so fat they mistook her for a barrage balloon in the war? Well, I wouldn't call Patience fat exactly, but she's certainly well made.’ He hesitated. ‘She always wants me to kiss her, as soon as I get in the office.’There was a silence as he struggled with the next question. ‘Mum, did you ever know anyone with a moustache - Mum?’

He peered forward eagerly, hoping for advice, but his mother was fast asleep.

* * *

Later that night, he woke up in a sweat, as realisation swept over him. ‘They'll all know about it on the train tomorrow now. What am I going to do?’ He groaned. ‘Why couldn't I learn to count like anybody else?’ Then he started. ‘Oh, blimey. I forgot to give old Benson those figures yesterday. I wonder if I can get Patience to do them? He’s bound to complain about them, he always does.’

He tossed and turned and eventually fell asleep, trying to count sheep and getting a different total every time. One of these days, he murmured to himself, you'll get a job that doesn't need figures. The only trouble was, he couldn't think of a single one.