LITMIR.BIZ

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      If I had asked him to wear brown boots in London he could not have been more horrified. ‘Oh dear me no. Most definitely not.’ There was a suggestion of a shudder. In his world rucksacks were definitely not de rigueur. I was glad he had not seen us on the road.

      ‘We must meet in Juan-les-Pins,’ he said. Not only a charmer but a mind reader. ‘Let’s split up now, go our separate ways and meet in three days. At the Hotel .’ I have forgotten the name of the hotel but not him.

      We made Juan in two days. The next afternoon we met, as arranged, at his hotel, naturally the one with the most stars of any in the resort. He was draped languidly but elegantly in a chair at the best table with a glass of wine. He seemed as delighted to see us as we were to see him and we arranged to travel to Cannes, the queen of the Riviera. The next morning we met outside his hotel at the arranged time, but he had forgotten something in his room. Great. I would go with him. I wanted to see inside this famous hotel.

      ‘Come along,’ he said. But instead of going into the hotel he walked away from it.

      ‘Where are you going?’ I said.

      ‘To my hotel.’

      ‘Isn’t this it?’

      He laughed. ‘I couldn’t afford their prices.’

      I was disappointed although I should have realized that if he chose to hitch-hike he too must be on a budget. Aideen and I followed him along side streets well away from the promenade, through a quiet courtyard, and stopped at a brightly painted house which looked like a private home.

      He invited us up and ushered us into his barely furnished room. He had his back to us as he sorted through a drawer and I caught a glimpse of a passport on the wash stand. I thumbed through it quickly and the shock rocked me on my heels. ‘John Huggins, Clerk in Holy Orders.’

      ‘You’re a clergyman!’ I gasped.

      He nodded. ‘A vicar.’

      ‘How come you’re hitch-hiking?’

      ‘It’s a bit complicated.’

      ‘Uncomplicate it for me.’

      It was the only time I saw him slightly embarrassed. ‘You see –’ he started, almost in a whisper, then hesitated.

      ‘Go on.’

      ‘I was caught kissing a girl in the vestry.’

      ‘Well, I suppose the vestry isn’t the place for that, but it’s not criminal.’

      Again a hesitation, then a cough. ‘It was a shock to my wife.’

      Not as big a shock as the ‘wife’ was to me. I could excuse a kiss. But a married man …

      After it happened, he explained, everyone thought it better that he should leave the district. I suppose it had shocked the strait-laced among his parishioners but even in those days the offence did not seem to merit the punishment. That was why he was in France. He had no private means but was bilingual and worked as an interpreter. He explained his disappearance every evening: he was being hired by wealthy tourists who might lose thousands at the casino if they said ‘Oui’ at the wrong time.

      ‘I’ve let everybody down,’ he said, looking so crestfallen I could have hugged him. ‘The church, my wife, the family, they’re all very critical, except my brother, Jeremy. But he’s different. He’s an actor.’

      I had never heard of an actor called Jeremy Huggins.

      ‘His professional name is Jeremy Brett,’ said John.

      The name meant nothing until I saw Brett many years later as an unforgettable Sherlock Holmes. He was good-looking all right, and female viewers swooned over him, but John was the more handsome brother.

      After this discovery a black cloud seemed to have settled over Cannes, but being only twenty, I found my spirits revived in the days that followed, and I was dazzled once more by his charm. The two of us went out together on our last night in Juan before leaving for Cap Ferrat. As we left the bistro he repeated what he had done in the vestry. It was our first and last kiss. A street photographer spotted us and took our picture. His resulting panic was out of all proportion. ‘My wife’s put a detective on me! It’ll be a divorce if she sees the picture.’ Paranoid no doubt, but the next morning as he said a more formal goodbye he gave me a gardenia. I knew he could not afford it, which made it all the more touching.

      ‘Meet me in Juan when you decide to go home,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you how to travel back in style.’ He explained his method. Before leaving he visited the best hotel to find out from the concierge whether he was expecting any English visitors who would be driven to the Riviera by their chauffeurs. Their employers considered it cheaper to send them back to England for the month or so of their holidays and then ring for them when they decided to make the return trip. He travelled back with the chauffeurs, who ‘appreciated the company.’ He was unashamedly elitist about it. ‘I get the chauffeurs’ names and registration numbers and choose the best Bentley or Rolls available.’

      Trust John Huggins to have worked that one out. We said we would meet when we returned to Juan, but that never happened as Cap Ferrat had its own unattached attractions. We have never met since, but as you can see, I have never forgotten him.

      All holidays come to an end and once more it was Saturday nights at Saltburn Spa. There I met Michael Williams and we fell in love. He was an officer in the Merchant Navy, good-looking and reliable but fun, in fact every working-class mother’s dream of a suitable son-in-law. We had wonderful times when he was on leave and became unofficially engaged. Everyone, including me, expected us to walk down the aisle. But a new man, not yet in my life, put paid to that.

      After five years at ICI I was ready for a change. I stopped going to Saltburn Spa because Pat had moved to London and I was more or less engaged. Kenneth Kendall still looked benignly at me but one day I had a few words with him. ‘It’s time we moved on.’ What I needed was a more demanding job. I was lucky because that same evening I spotted just what I was looking for in the local newspaper:

      National newspaper journalist needs hard working secretary with good shorthand typing speeds. Clock watchers need not apply. This is a challenging post and merits a commensurately higher than usual salary. Telephone 4500.

      That was more like it. I made an appointment, dressed with care and set off with all the aplomb of a Lucy Clayton graduate. I sat in the waiting room and was about to leave after fifteen minutes when a girl walked out of his office, looked at me and mouthed one word: ‘Bastard’.

      Although based in the north-east Jack Clarke was probably at that time the U.K.’s highest-paid journalist. Savile Row suits and the latest sports cars were his badges of success. He had worked in Fleet Street and become a news editor, but decided he could make more money as a freelance investigative journalist. Jack would travel anywhere, any time to get an exclusive where others had been rebuffed, so he prospered. When I met him he employed six reporters, two photographers and a cine man, and supplied national newspapers and television stations with stories from the region. At the time, however, I did not know much about him.

      When the ‘bastard’ opened his office door, I saw a man in his mid-thirties, five feet nine or so, with a receding hairline but very well groomed and wearing a bow tie. Not dapper but smart. I liked that. He had twinkling blue eyes and, though no Hollywood heartthrob, had something about him. He smiled after the departing girl. ‘Come in, if she hasn’t put you off.’ How could he know? I soon found out that he read people very well, and quickly.

      It was unlike any interview I had had. Questions about all sorts of things; current affairs, gossip, all discussed at a whirlwind rate as if time was money. He asked me courteously enough if I would mind taking some dictation, handed me a pad and pencil, then rattled off a letter at about one hundred and thirty words a minute, which I only just managed to get down.

      ‘Now type it.’ He must have noticed my expression. ‘If you don’t mind, and you want the job.’

      I

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