Free Red Herrings by Tim Heald

was rather bad news. If it had been a different sort of place and Felix a different sort of person he would have said simply, ‘Guinea fowl’s off.’ Instead of this he said, ‘I am most terribly sorry, sir, madam, but there appears to have been the teensiest bit of a crossed wire in the commissariat and it seems that we’re down to our very last guinea fowl.’ He fixed Bognor with a fraudulently obsequious smile in the style of Uriah Heep and said, ‘We do have some very good fillet steak which Norman could flash under the grill for you.’
    If there was one thing Bognor was exceptionally partial to it was fillet steak, just the well done side of sanglant. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘in the circumstances I’m prepared to be a bit of a martyr. Madam will take the last guinea fowl and I’ll make do with the boring old steak. Never mind. Can’t be helped.’
    As Felix went on his way Monica skewered her spouse with a wounding glance that would have deeply unsettled someone less used to them than Bognor of the Board of Trade. If looks could kill Monica Bognor’s would have been the facial equivalent of the black mamba or that peculiarly lethal spider which lives in Australia. Over the years however Simon had developed an impressive immunity. Nevertheless the hostility of this one was so marked that even he flinched.
    â€˜Qu’est ce que c’est?’ he enquired dutifully. ‘You look as if you’ve swallowed a prune lightly sautéed in raspberry vinegar and garnished with kiwi fruit.’
    â€˜Pig!’ said Monica. ‘Selfish pig!’
    â€˜What do you mean, “pig”?’ Bognor was affronted and genuinely surprised.
    â€˜Don’t you “what do you mean, pig” me, Simon Bognor,’ said Monica her voice rising ominously. ‘First of all you force me to stay down here in this hell hole and then you have the effrontery to order steak when I’m stuck with a mingy bit of raw pigeon in a poncy piece of puff pastry.’
    â€˜But you ordered pigeon. And it wasn’t pigeon it was guinea fowl.’
    â€˜I don’t care, I don’t want it. And you know perfectly well I don’t want it. I want to go home. No one ever offered me steak. It’s the most disgusting form of sex discrimination. Typical. Men get steaks while women have to make do with itty bitty little bits of bird wrapped up in fussy flakes.’
    Bognor decided that a tactical withdrawal was in order.
    â€˜O.K.,’ he said, ‘have the steak.’
    â€˜No, no,’ Monica was getting worryingly near the edge. ‘You have the steak. I’ll make do with the guinea fowl. You’re a man. You need the steak. Why don’t you have it raw with a handful of red chillis and a flagon of foaming ale?’
    â€˜This is silly,’ said Bognor. ‘If you want the steak have the bloody steak. If you don’t want it then have the guinea fowl. I really don’t mind. I just want you to be happy.’
    Monica glowered.
    â€˜All right,’ she said, eventually, ‘I will.’
    â€˜Good.’ Bognor smiled. ‘And I’ll have the guinea fowl.’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Monica.
    Bognor knew from years of experience that the correct procedure now was to leave bad alone. If you pursued the matter Monica would flare up, remaining in full volcanic eruption for quite astonishingly long periods. If ignored, however, she subsided, quite fast. She was inclined to smoulder for a while but provided one said as little as possible there were no more explosions.
    After what seemed like a very long time Monica said: ‘I suppose it could have been a sort of double bluff.’
    For a moment he thought she was still talking about the steak. Just in time he realised she was talking about Sir Nimrod Herring and checked what might have proved an incendiary response.
    â€˜Go on,’ he said cautiously.
    â€˜Well,’