Free The Governor's Lady by Norman Collins

God’s sake don’t let it happen again. H.E.’s furious. Wanted to get on with the book, or something …’
    â€˜I’m sorry, sir.’
    â€˜That won’t help,’ Mr. Frith replied. ‘The harm’s done now.’
    He paused.
    â€˜Got anything on this evening?’ he asked.
    â€˜Nothing in particular,’ Harold told him.
    â€˜Better come across to the Club. Know where it is?’
    â€˜I’ll find it, sir.’
    â€˜Seven o’clock, then. In the bar. Give you time to think up something for me to tell Sir Gardnor.’
    There was a sharp click in Harold’s ear, and Mr. Frith had rung off. He was still annoyed with him, Harold gathered.
    The Milner Club was a handsome, one-storey building, with a raised roof to let the air in. It was approached by a long, dusty drive, bordered on either side by lawns of coarse, closely-cropped grass. A large notice, from which the paint was already flaking, read: ‘STRICTLY MEMBERS ONLY.’
    The bar to which the steward showed him was certainly imposing. It extended the whole length of the clubhouse. And it was staffed for emergencies. Despite the fact that there were only two members lost somewhere in the distance up at the far end, there were three bar tenders all wearing clean white jackets, all standing to attention and all staring vacantly over the mahogany counter into space. Other black faces showed from behind the service hatch.
    Harold sat down and waited for Mr. Frith. He was late; really late. It was nearly seven-thirty when he arrived. And he was perspiring. There was no sign of the tic any longer: the muscles around his mouth had already sagged. It was now an over-relaxed, imprecise kind of face that he was wearing.
    â€˜Why aren’t you drinking anything?’ he asked. ‘Thought I told them to make you a member.’
    â€˜I’ve sent my three guineas.’
    â€˜Then you’re a member,’ Mr. Frith told him.
    He was signalling to the steward while he was speaking.
    â€˜What are you doing, boy?’ he demanded. ‘Come over here. We need you.’
    It was not until Mr. Frith had composed himself, holding his glass in both hands in between the sips, that he seemed to remember why he had asked Harold to come over. Then he suddenly became very serious.
    â€˜You’ve got some explaining to do,’ he said. ‘And not just to me. To H.E. Where were you, this afternoon? The whole bloody switchboard was trying to find you.’
    â€˜I was about,’ Harold told him. ‘As a matter of fact, I was up there all the time. Having tea with Lady Anne.’
    Mr. Frith slopped most of his whisky down his shirt front.
    â€˜Don’t tell me that’s started up again,’ he said. ‘Not already.’
    â€˜What’s wrong with it?’ Harold asked.
    But Mr. Frith ignored him. He was wiping himself down with one hand and, with the other, trying to call the boy over. He wanted his glass re-filled.
    When he turned back to Harold, he had lowered his voice and drawn his stool up closer.
    â€˜You don’t want to go blotting your copybook the first month out here, now do you?’ he said. ‘You’re the third of them, remember. H.E. got rid of Number One like that.’
    Mr. Frith attempted to snap his fingers in the air, but the effect was only mildly dramatic because it was entirely soundless.
    â€˜Slung him out,’ he went on, ‘before he’d even got his bags unpacked. Here today, gone tomorrow. H.E.’s like that.’
    Harold leant back on his stool, and lit a cigarette.
    â€˜What happened to the last one?’ he asked.
    But Mr. Frith only shook his head.
    â€˜Some other time. Not now,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough for one day.’

Chapter 6
    The memorial service for the unhappy Henderson was, for reasons of Government policy, designed to be a really slap-up affair.
    Ever since nine o’clock that morning,