They Made Their Mark: Chapter 1

It was hot and stuffy in the offices of the Gazette and the young reporter was only too glad to get away. The working environment was relaxed and it wasn't unusual for employees to swap assignments and this time it was Brenkleson who wanted an extra day off so that he could join up with friends to go north on leave. His junior colleague who wanted and needed more interviews under his belt, jumped at the chance. The current editor was innovative. He read up on all the latest journalistic techniques and had recently adopted the policy of occasionally sending new reporters to assignments with no knowledge of whom they were interviewing – the idea being that the questions asked wouldn't be totally structured according to journalist policy but of the kind that any readers of the daily newspaper would themselves ask should they be the persons asking the questions. Whether or not it worked would be gone into at the bi-monthly executive meeting and meanwhile, Brenkleson, following his boss's policy, gave no background details to the junior reporter. The assignment: – to interview the founder of FTI.

"Just wander over there tomorrow morning – it's a 10 o'clock appointment. Enjoy!" was Brenkleson's parting remark as he jumped into his car and headed for the hills.

The sky was blue and the autumn sun was bright. The clock above the Post Office showed 9.45 as the reporter from the Gazette made his way down the High St. and turned into Oakfield Road where there was an entrance to a block of offices. He went in and a sign in the foyer instructed him to go up the stairs to the first floor. He did so and found himself outside double doors with a simple notice – FTI. Pushing his way through into the reception area he approached a counter behind which was a desk. On it was a typewriter at which a woman sat, tapping the keyboard furiously. There was an office door on the opposite side, cupboards along one of the walls behind the counter and also a filing cabinet containing small drawers. At the rear there was an opening that led into a kitchenette. A few pictures brightening the brown panelled walls and the Light Programme playing soft music from a radio up on a shelf gave the office a comfortable and muted atmosphere. Placing the woman in her mid thirties, the reporter scrutinized her face and liked what he saw – kindly, efficient-looking with bright, almost mischievous eyes. A sharp nose and a great big clump of curly hair spilling all round her face added character. He placed her after-hours life in a suburban home with perhaps one or two kids and a husband who did something in the city – or more likely not far from the High Street. A card lying on the counter introduced – Mrs. Dorothy Crockelby. The typewriter ceased to clatter –

"Hallo, I'm Dot and you have to be from the Gazette."

"That's right!"

Before he could introduce himself she smiled and the crinkles round her eyes gave the impression that she laughed a lot.

"You're expected and you're dead on time, not that it matters all that much because he's usually here – waiting for me to bring him coffee. He knows you're coming so just go straight in."

She pressed the button of an intercom; the reporter thanked her and crossed to the door opposite and gave a peremptory knock before entering. He walked into a pleasantly laid out room with a desk facing a window looking out onto the High Street and through which the morning sun beamed a circle of light onto the floor. Another window with brightly coloured curtains overlooked the side street where he had just been. There was a plush couch and matching chairs on one side, a sideboard which supported several attractive Hummel figurines and framed photographs, and a couple of doors set into a wall possibly concealed a refreshment area. Glancing down at the carpet which looked quite new he perceived a rather faded tiger-skin with a head that glared up at him. All this took a matter of seconds and then his gaze rested on the solidly built person at the desk. The man turned and a pair of very sharp eyes rested on the visitor –

"Larry!"

The reporter started and looked closely at the figure who had risen and was coming towards him with an arm outstretched. A realization came upon him. The face was more than vaguely familiar – surely not!

"Fatty?"

"His hand was clasped warmly and Frederick Algernon Trotteville clapped him on the shoulder."

"Larry. Wait! My deduction tells me you're from the Gazette. Come to interview an Up & Coming Entrepreneur who's set Peterswood on its heels! Businessman Supreme! The Greatest in his Chosen Career!"

"Fatty! Still the same old Fatty! Reporter Larry Daykin has arrived to find out what makes you tick and unless I'm dreaming, 'you' is apparently Frederick Trotteville."

"Still the same old Fatty! Reporter Larry Daykin has arrived to find out what makes you tick and unless I'm dreaming, 'you' is apparently Frederick Trotteville."

Silence! Two Peterswood residents of old – trying to grasp the fact that a completely unexpected reunification was taking place right at that moment.

"Larry! A journalist for the local rag. Why didn't I know you were in town?"

"You couldn't have been expected to Fatty, I've been here just under a week. You know Brett of the Gazette?"

"Brett of the Gazette! Brenkleson... yeah, I know him."

"He's been there only a little longer than I have but he's the senior reporter and was booked for this one but he gave it to me and I wondered why because it should really have gone to another chap. He must've known I'd worked with you in the past and I guess he thought I might savour a little surprise."

"Good old Brett!"

"Yeah, we get on well together. He probably thought I'd already been in touch with you but he didn't know we hadn't seen hide nor hair of each other for years. Fatty – it's been…"

"Comealonga me!"

Larry was hauled out into the reception area and escorted to the counter.

"Dot, guess who this is."

"Mr. Brenkleson from the Gazette – isn't he, or is he an imposter?"

"It's Larry... Larry my old friend from way back."

"Don't tell me it's 'Find-Outers' Larry? I didn't ask for a name – I just gathered he was the reporter who'd made the appointment. You're not kidding me Mr. T?"

She winked at Larry -

"Mr. T is a kidder, a caution, and a clown of the highest calibre, which means that I have to authenticate his statements now and again. Are you really one of his troupe – the renowned Find-Outers?"

"Yes, I am actually, but I don't think we were all that renowned, were we?"

"Dot, Larry and I haven't seen each other for years and now he's working for the Gazette."

"Well I never – I didn't cotton on of course but I've certainly heard about the Find-Outers. I must shake your hand."

She did so – vigorously, and Larry smiled at her.

"I feel a little like an instant movie-star so I might as well be in for all I'm worth. Incidentally, just call me Larry."

"Dot addresses males by their initials. You're lucky – at least she calls you Larry. I'm Mr. T. I'll bet she even calls her husband Mr. C. That right Dot?"

"Never you mind. Go back to your office and entertain this handsome lad. Like a cuppa?"

"Absolutely, yes! Thanks. Come on Larry – talk and sustenance are what we need."

Larry followed Fatty back into his office. "Sit down, sit down!" Fatty plonked himself on the couch and Larry eased his form into a comfy chair. They looked appraisingly at each other for a few seconds trying to absorb the reality with all its affiliated memories from times past that had entered abruptly into their lives.

"O.K., Fatty – I'm going to accept I'm not dreaming and that I'm actually sitting face-to-face with you after all these years."

"You know Larry; it's not all that long when you think about it. It's the unexpectedness that's thrown us a little off kilter."

"True. This reminds me how lax I've been at keeping in touch with my old friends and the only excuse I've got is my long absence from the island."

"Let's stop being amazed at what's happened and bless the fact that we can now get up to date with each other and examine some of the water that's passed beneath the bridge."

"Right on, Fatty. Say... you look healthy. You've lost as much weight as you need to and because you're taller I don't think I'll be able to call you Fatty much longer. Incidentally, you don't mind?"

"Of course not. You look good yourself – a little more lean and sinewy, and that clear-cut jaw gives you a fine profile."

"Practising your description techniques, Fatty? I like your suit – straight from Savile Row I'll bet. Obviously this outfit of yours affords you nice outfits."

"Savile Row? No! A Burton. I spotted it at a sale, ex-Harrods. I generally prefer the casual look but, as it happens, I'm going straight from here to a Rotary dinner."

Fatty sat back in the couch and studied his friend -

"You went to the movies last night."

"How did you know that? You mean to say you spotted me and didn't make yourself known?"

Fatty grinned – "I'm seeing you for the first time right now. I know you went to the movies by looking at you."

"How can you tell... incidentally Fatty, I'm here to interview you, right? But I've got about a thousand or so extra questions to ask you on the personal side so I'll lay out little of my own recent history first but before I do that, what's FTI? There's no indication outside and being a new boy in town I'm ill-informed of the industries that have sprung up in recent years. I didn't have a chance to bone up before I left although in this particular case I wasn't meant to but I envisaged a routine interview with some boring executive of a run-of-the-mill business that's contributing to the Peterswood coffers. I thought you went into the police force, in fact I know you did because Daisy sent me a news-clipping which had you in it – something that came up in the Woolwich area.

"Yeah... that'd be the Zhoud case."

"That's it – Someone Zhoud ..."

"Herman!"

"What was it about – I've completely forgotten?"

"Dock thefts, Larry – but let's not worry about that. I was in the police all right and now I'm not – although I'm still connected."

"No riddles thanks, Fatty. What about your obsession with being a detective – has that gone bye-the-bye?"

"No. I am a detective, Larry."

"Hold it! Is FTI an agency? Does that mean you're what... a private detective or something? FTI is your business obviously but that son-of-a-gun Brett told me naught."

"Yes, Larry, FTI is my business. It's a detective agency – Frederick Trotteville Investigations."

Larry got up, solemnly shook Fatty's hand, and sat down again –

"Well, well, well! You made it – good on you old chap. Fred... Algernon. You could have made it FATI."

Fatty with a twinkle in his eye – "Please... a little decorum Larry old friend, old buddy!"

"Sorry Fatty – it's my penchant for playing around with words. I'm a writer you know."

"A writer of substance I'm sure. Larry, look – give me your potted history first and then I'll not only tell you my side but I should be able to answer the few hundred questions you're about to fire off which I'm sure will involve our past times and assorted people and where everyone is now. You know – seeing you, has made me realize just how estranged we've been but we have our excuses. I've been flat out building up a business; you've been flying all over the place I guess. How are your parents?"

"Not so bad. Mum's fine but Dad's been a little unlucky health-wise. He has arthritic problems from way back and his specialist suggested a more southern clime so they're both down in the West Country... Penzance of all places. They're in Newlyn and the doc's suggestion seems valid. A warmer climate can work wonders for the afflicted."

"I'm glad. Make sure you remember me to them. Have you been down?"

"Only once since I got back. They're in a quaint little cottage with the required honeysuckle – very small but they love the place. How about your parents? Safe and sound I hope."

"They're fine. Left the White House of course because it was too roomy – too big even when I was there. They're in Maidenhead and you'll have to call on them. Father still works but only in an advisory capacity and being semi-retired gives him a chance to enjoy the fruits of his labours and also to help out a little in the community. Incidentally, where're you staying?"

"I'm renting but I want to get my own place. I almost have the money and it's invested so when I'm just a little richer I'll begin surveying the field as they say."

"Let me know when you decide to buy and I'll put you onto a good man. I got my offices through his outfit and he comes highly recommended."

"Thanks Fatty. Will do. Whereabouts are you?"

"A little further out – Chapman Lane way and you'll be visiting before we're very much older."

"You bet. Chapman eh? Fits into the stamping ground of our sleuthing days. You have your own house then?"

"Yes. It's one my father owned. He rented it out and when I came back here a family deal of sorts was made and I took it over."

"I'll definitely call on your parents – in fact there'll be several other friendships to renew once you've brought me up to date although many of our mutual acquaintances may have moved on."

"Quite a few have, Larry. So, you're not up in the air anymore. You've bowed out?"

"Yes. Left the Air Force September last and I've been with the Gazette for just under a week. I'd always resolved to come back here if at all possible but I had no idea whether you were still around these parts."

"I left for a while but, like you, I had to come back."

"No place like home – Daisy wanted to return as well. I think we all left our hearts here together with the memories."

"Larry, how long have you got. According to the schedule I have this interview booked for an hour."

I've got the rest of the day. The Gazette is flexible – the hours aren't set and as long as assignments are completed, that's all there is to it. I started round 4 o'clock this morning and don't need to go back to the office – the copy won't go in till next week so I've all the time in the world. What say you?"

"Well, I've got an easy day and if I didn't, I'd make it an easy day and I can do that because I'm the boss!"

"Swunderful!"

To be continued...