Uxbridge Returns

One evening, an unexpected visitor came to Quentin’s office. He was a thin, stoop-shouldered man, who looked as if he had stolen his suit from a rather random set of clotheslines.

“I’m sorry,” said Quentin, rising, “but I am no longer taking appointments today. If you speak to my secretary, she will tell you when…”

The man sat down and smiled in a manner which awakened all of Quentin’s newly-developing political instincts.

“Hullo, Quentin,” said the man, and Quentin suddenly had a deep, spinal memory of blood. Someone from the War…

“I’m sure we’ve met,” he said, “but you really must telephone for an appointment…”

The man’s smile widened, and he leaned forward. “Grenades.”

Quentin’s heart seemed to widen in his chest. “Pardon me?”

“Grenades,” repeated the man, sitting back. “That were the last time we met. Over boxes. Overnight.”

Quentin sat down, making sure not to collapse into his chair. Damn me, why did I make myself so prominent? “I’m not sure I remember,” he said, touching the knot of his tie, wanting to loosen it, but afraid of showing any nervousness.

“One night, you and me, we put grenades into sausages and sausages into grenades. And d’you know what became of it?”

Quentin’s eyes were frozen, slightly wide. His mind flashed here and there. I have to get him out of here! What if he blabs? It’s just a story. Why is he here? Can I give him something without compromising myself? What does the man know about politics? I could just make anything up!

“It was a bad night, that night,” said Uxbridge. “Not the night of the boxes, but the next night. The Krauts were dug in, and since we had no grenades to blow ’em out, nor not sausages to lure ’em out, it were a bloody night.”

“We met – while I was a supply sergeant?”

The man nodded. “Ah yeah. And to save you time and words, I have a sheet of paper which says that you signed for them grenades and knew that they were grenades. And another which says that you signed for them sausages and knew that they were sausages.”

Quentin stood up, almost shooting to his feet. “Perhaps you could tell me what this is all about, but I have no time today. Put it in writing, come back another time.”

“I’ll be quick then. We both have our businesses. I want a job, Quentin.”