SADLER’S BIRTHDAY

Colonel Bassett had been a tidy man. Came from his army training, so he said. Never so much as a hair out of place on him except, as he got older, in his ears where they sprouted untended. It was always a mystery to Sadler why so meticulous a man had allowed this one part of himself to become so very overgrown.

Sadler looked round the room. The Colonel had been very fond of cupboards. He had put them in all over the house, so that whenever he saw something lying around, he could be sure to be near one and just pop it away out of sight. At least once a year he’d turned out all the cupboards and made inventories of what they held.

It was cold in the room, so cold that Sadler lay there without moving, wrapped in his blankets and his two eiderdowns, lay trapped by the morning cold, cursing himself for not leaving the fire on all night. He thought to himself, never minded an East Anglian winter when I was a lad. Quite enjoyed an excuse to wear my green balaclava. But now. He was seventy-six, give or take a day or two (he knew his birthday was coming round soon, one day this week or next – he’d have to look at the calendar) and the cold seemed to wake up all the little aches and pains that dozed in his joints, even set the bile in his stomach trickling backwards into his throat.

Don’t get up, he thought. Don’t move. Lie here all day in the warm bed. Just clamber out for a second or two, long enough to turn on the fire, then back into the warm. Lie there, arms straight down, waiting for the fire to come red. Wait till the room’s nice and warm, then prop yourself up with another pillow, put your dressing gown on and your glasses and have a little read . . .

He lay rigid. Cowardly old sod, he thought. Get the bleedin’ fire on or you’ll be trapped like this all day. So silly when it wouldn’t take more than a few seconds, just the time it takes to walk four and a half paces.

Then he remembered the dog. He looked at his clock, saw half past seven and knew that by now the dog would be scratching at the kitchen door, desperate for a pee but so well trained poor old thing he only did it on the floor if he had to. Sadler never had known what kind of dog he was: brown wiry body, black eyes and no tail to speak of, just a small woolly tuft to wag. From behind he looked like a little brown sheep. One hundred and five he was by human computing and except at moments like this Sadler was glad of his company. He often wondered what it would be like to be totally alone with not so much as a yap to break the silence and no one to read the paper to. He sincerely hoped he would die before the dog, recognizing at the same time that this thought was a bit Colonelish. Because the Colonel always used to say, ‘You know, Sadler, the only thing that’s bearable about death is that I’ll die first, before Madge.’ And then in the end Madge and the Colonel had died on the same day, Coronation Day.

Sadler sat up in bed and fumbled about for his dressing gown. At the window, heavy chintz curtains held out the sunlight. March morning, cold as January, but clear as a jewel in the grounds of the great house. Sadler switched on the fire, resisted the impulse that drove him back to bed, went to the window instead, big south window where the merest twitching of the curtains sent sunlight jumping over the sill.

Everything he could see from this window belonged to him: a wide lawn, cut in two by the drive and sweeping leftwards past the house, right round to the north side. Beyond the lawn, an old yew hedge like a line of sentinel shoulders hunched at the gate of a wood of evergreens. To the right of the lawn, the apple orchard, walled on one side but straggling over rising ground to a meadow. At the bottom of the meadow, a stream tunnelling a windy course among dense rushes, never flowing fast enough to stay clear but in late spring its banks gaudy with kingcups. This morning everything was white with frost. Much prettier than snow, Sadler always thought, much more delicate. But spring was such a fickle whore. Daffs couldn’t push up innocent shiny buds without she sent a frost to snap them off.

The dog was whining now, would be crossing his little legs if he could. Sadler heard the whining as he came barefoot down the wide stairs and thought, time I took him to the vet again to see about his worm. He seems happy with his worm, though. Fond of being hungry all the time, makes him feel young again I wouldn’t wonder. Funny things, worms. Worm lies trapped in his belly, eating for him, eating and growing fat and the dog’s as thin as a fox.

It was too late when Sadler opened the kitchen door. The dog sat silent, reproachful, looking at the puddle he’d made. Sadler never scolded the dog, couldn’t bear to do it any more. He patted the dog’s little head, opened the door to the garden and sent him trotting out into the cold. Five minutes and he’d be whining again, asking to be let in.

Sadler sat down at the kitchen table, wondering how many countless mornings had there been, just like this one, sitting there thinking to himself, twenty years ago I’d be up and dressed by now, smart enough in my morning uniform – black trousers, striped cotton jacket, clean white shirt and one of the Colonel’s old ties – chivvying Vera who moved so ponderously about the kitchen, watching the clock to be sure to sound the gong on the dot of eight. Then waiting there, standing almost to attention, for the Colonel to come down at one minute past.

‘Good morning, Sadler.’

‘Good morning, Sir.’

Handing him The Times as he went into the dining room, following him in, serving his eggs or his kidneys or his sausages, pouring his strong coffee and then retiring with a nod and a ‘thank you, Sadler’. Back to the kitchen then, watching Vera’s thin hands decorating the butter balls with a sprig of parsley, putting the finishing touches to Madam’s tray. What a neat little breakfast she took every day: lightly boiled egg, lightly toasted bread, a little pot of china tea and a slice of lemon.

‘Ready, Vera?’

‘Yes, Mr Sadler.’

Lifting the tray up with pride, it looked so nice with its clean linen traycloth (Madam always bought her tray-cloths from the Ladies Work Stall at the Hentswell fête, they were so finely embroidered), carrying it up the wide staircase to her room. And there she was, sitting up in bed in her bed-jacket, her rouge on already, smiling at him.

‘Good morning, Sadler.’

‘Good morning, Madam.’

Still smiling. ‘Is the Colonel down?’

‘I’ve just served his breakfast, Madam.’

No one to carry a tray to any more. Dead and gone now, the smiling face. And he’d never known it when it was young and pretty. Lined and rouged already when he had taken up service under its kindly eye. Older than the Colonel, his Madge. Twenty-six she’d been as the century turned and she’d gone on her father’s arm to St Margaret’s Westminster. And her groom only twenty, not long out of school, a young lieutenant with hardly the need to shave more than twice a week. What a wedding! A thousand lilies at the altar alone. Friends of royalty in the congregation, quite a crowd in Parliament Square to see the bride and groom come out. Madge remembered her wedding day all her life, just as if it had been yesterday. She told Sadler that her mother had spent forty-three shillings a yard on ivory satin for her dress and when she’d put it on and her maid had handed her the bouquet she’d felt as good as a queen.

The dog was scratching at the door.

‘Come on then,’ Sadler called, ‘never seen a door before?’

He chuckled, got up slowly and shuffled over the stone floor to let the dog in. It went at once to its warm mat by the old Aga, lay down and look up at Sadler who remembered the puddle and cursed.

‘Incontinent little rat!’

The dog wagged its clump of a tail, might have smiled if it could have.

‘Come on then, sod you,’ Sadler said, ‘better mop it up.’

He found an old cloth under the sink, ran a cold tap on to it and wrung it out. His back hurt as he bent down to wipe the floor. What a dose of humiliation old age could give you. What a creaking, stinking, barnacled old wreck life made of the boat in which your soul was forced to sail. Might live another twenty years in this ghastly old body, Sadler thought as he pushed the cloth to and fro. ‘But all I can say, God, if you’re there,’ he said aloud, ‘is I hope not.’ He straightened up painfully, went back to the sink and rinsed out the cloth. Then he crossed to the Aga and the dog looked up.

‘If you think you’re going to get a meal, you’re wrong, friend,’ he said. He would have patted the dog, to give it reassurance that he cared about it, but he couldn’t bear the thought of bending down again. ‘Later,’ he said, touching the dog with his foot, ‘just make myself a cup of tea and then I’ll get you something. You be a good boy.’

He was met by the Colonel’s chauffeur in the Austin Seven. Cold autumn day in 1939. A winter wind blowing through Norfolk, straight from Russia.

‘You must be Mr Sadler.’

‘Yes indeed. Cold isn’t it?’

‘Very cold, Mr Sadler. My name’s Wren, Sir, the Colonel’s chauffeur.’

Smart little cap, nice kid gloves and a lovely shine on his worn boots, Wren sat bolt upright at the wheel, driving as carefully as he dressed. Must be sixty-five, Sadler thought, sitting beside him. More at home with a pony and trap probably than with the Austin. Less than ten miles to do and it took them best part of an hour.

‘She’s a good little car,’ Wren said as they set out, ‘but she don’t go.’

Sadler pondered this saying for most of the journey, sitting silent, smiling to himself, looking out at the wide fields. Wren, intent on the road, liable to slow almost to a halt each time a car came the other way, only spoke a couple more times. Once he said ‘Did you have a good train journey, Mr Sadler?’ and Sadler, who liked trains, replied ‘Oh most enjoyable, thank you.’ Then, as they neared the house, Wren took a nervous hand off the wheel to point ahead to the gates.

‘There you are, Mr Sadler. The house of course is hidden from the road.’

They swept into the drive, Wren full of daring now that they were off the public road. Sadler put his hat on, thought nervously that it wouldn’t be long till dinner-time and of course Madam would expect him to serve. There might even be guests and who knew in what state of preparedness he would find the kitchen staff.

Leaves flew like a flock of golden sparrows as they drove down an avenue of beech, and then there at last was the house, perfect copy, so the history books ran, of one of Queen Victoria’s favourite residences, yellowish in its stone skin with a gleam of sun on it.

‘Well,’ said Wren, ‘there she is.’

The house he meant, did he? Or was it Mrs Bassett with a nice smile on her lips coming out of the porch? There she stood watching them as Wren brought the car to a stop, got out quickly and stood to attention. Sadler fumbled with his door handle, wished he’d paid the landlady in Charing Cross to press his suit, stepped out on to the gravel and into the orbit of the smile.

‘Sadler.’

‘How d’you do, Madam.’

‘Did you have a pleasant journey?’

‘Most enjoyable, thank you.’

‘You’re not too tired, then?’

‘Oh no.’

A voice from within. ‘Did I hear the car, Madge?’

And then the Colonel materialized, shoved a wide red hand into Sadler’s and smiled the smile that had earned him a reputation for frankness in the regiment, the smile that had stiffened and narrowed just a little since the day, forty years before, when it had lighted Madge’s wedding.

They guided him in, leaving his suitcase in the car and Wren, still stiff and straight like a bowling pin in the middle of the drive. Into the lofty hall, the meeting point for numerous doors and passageways. To the right, Sadler glimpsed a comfortable, heavily curtained room where a coal fire burned, the shut door on the left he guessed would be the dining room. But on of course, away from the splendour, leaving the Colonel behind, to the furthest passageway, cold as they entered it, that led to the kitchen and the servants’ hall.

Sadler heard a chatter of voices – Vera and her kitchen maids like a scrawny chicken and her brood of two. But as Sadler and Madge entered they stopped all movement and Sadler found that he was looking at three apprehensive faces. He smiled and heard Madam say ‘This is Mr Sadler’, held out his hand to the cook who wiped hers on her apron and shook his limpiy. The kitchen maids bobbed and Sadler felt a blush coming to his face, remembered bitterly how his mother always had her curtsey ready for Milady, used to practise it in front of her looking glass . . .

‘My cook, Mrs Prinz, who likes us to call her Vera, and this is Jane and Betty who help her in the kitchen.’

His army. This thin, tired woman with her pert helpers.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Vera.

‘You must be tired.’ From Madam.

‘Oh no.’

‘Come and see your room and then I expect you’d like to unpack.’

Sadler remembered his suitcase.

‘Thank you.’

He followed Mrs Bassett back down the cold passage, through a door and up a flight of stairs, green linoleum on them. Out on to a landing, carpeted with coconut matting, then past her while she stood at another door, holding it open for him, into such a nice little room, not large by any standards but wonderfully neat.

‘Do you think you’ll have enough room for your things?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘You’ll find a rug in the wardrobe if there’s not enough blankets on your bed.’

‘The nights are getting cold in this part, I wouldn’t wonder.’

‘I’m afraid so. It’s been such a wonderful summer, but it’s over now.’

Sadler was caught by the measure of despair in her voice, looked at her and thought: how will war touch us here? And into his head came this odd picture of the chauffeur falling down where he stood so smartly to attention, knocked down like a skittle and his body rolling away under the car.

‘Wren will bring up your suitcase.’

‘Thank you, Madam.’

‘We dine at eight fifteen.’

‘Very good.’

‘You may wear a short coat to serve in the dining room, except when we entertain.’

And then she was gone, leaving him to his room. He looked all round it, noting the simplicity of the things in it and finding them pleasing. Then he saw the picture above his bed, a gentle pastoral scene, belonging more correctly in a nursery – two fat little children, boy and girl, picking daisies in some wonderland of a meadow. Sparrows and thrushes, fat too and friendly, hopping about near them and in the distance an old water wheel. Sadler laughed. The room reminded him of a room he’d shared with his mother countless years back, the year they’d gone to Milady’s house. Put to bed at six without much in the way of supper, he’d lie straight as a stick waiting for his mother to finish work and get into bed beside him. She was usually there by eight for she’d be up again before dawn. He remembered how when she climbed into bed he’d turn towards her, pretending to roll over in his sleep, and feel the warmth and smell of her body soothing him. There’d been a child’s picture in that room too. His mother had said Milady had put it there especially for him. But he didn’t believe that and one evening, before his mother came up, he took it off the wall to see if there was a pale patch on the wall behind it and there was. There was even dust on the wire.

Sadler got up and closed the window. It looked out over the orchard, untidy with fallen fruit, its leaves reddish and impatient to be gone. So quiet it was up there in this room. Impossible to think of war in that silence. He took his jacket off and hung it up.

Dining alone, the Colonel and his Madge sat either end of the mahogany table and Sadler, smart in his short black jacket, trod the distances in between. His practised hand served them with an ease and elegance which, on that first evening, gave Madge the satisfaction of knowing she had ‘found her man’. Unobtrusive in a corner of the long room, Sadler waited absolutely silent and still while they ate, politely deaf, politely invisible.

‘Did you catch the news at six, dear?’

‘Barricades they’re talking about now.’

‘What sort of barricades?’

‘Well, roadblocks on all routes into London from the coast.’

‘Really? That’ll be terribly inconvenient, surely.’

‘Yes. And it’ll be our lot, us Local Defence chappies, who’ll have all the work.’

‘Anything else?’

‘On the news?’

‘Yes.’

‘Nothing much. No one seems to be able to make their minds up about rationing.’

‘Well I wish they would. Its very difficult not knowing where we stand.’

‘Bound to come sooner or later.’

‘I thought it was the Germans that were meant to be having food shortages.’

‘Depends on the blockade, Madge. What no one seems to realize is that Italy is quite unreliable.’

‘What about the children? Nothing about that? I can’t believe they won’t give us a decent warning.’

‘What children?’

‘On the nine o’clock news last night they said they were preparing to send thousands more out of London. I mean, if people are going to be asked to open their homes to strangers I would have thought it only fair that they should be able to choose whom they get.’

‘May not happen, dear.’

‘It’s happening, Geoffrey. They’ve sent hundreds out already – millions I believe.’

‘Well, no one’s asked us to take any.’

‘It’s probably just a question of time.’

Sadler listened to their talk of the war. It was, he thought, as if an earthquake somewhere else was sending almost imperceptible shudders across their shoulders. And the Colonel, well, he’d do his bit for the Home Guard, but he had to admit that he was glad to be safe at home with Madge and he knew, not without shame, that the part of him that had wanted to die for England had died.

They ambled out of the dining room, asked Sadler to bring their coffee to them by the drawing room fire and gave him a smile as they left, relieved at last to have found a butler who seemed so unobtrusive and careful, and quite determined to treat him well.

His first evening’s duties complete, Sadler went to the servants’ hall, a long awkward room with a square of carpet in the middle of the floor, a couple of old sofas and a table and four chairs by the window. Vera, half asleep with her knitting on her knee, would have scrambled to her feet when he came in.

‘Lord no, Mrs Prinz,’ he said, ‘there’s no need for that. I’ve no doubt at all you’ve earned the rest.’

She smiled at him, a nervous doubting smile, and said: ‘Don’t know what’s the matter with me these days; sit down for a couple of minutes and find I’m nodding off.’

‘You have a long day.’

‘No more’n it always were. Course, that’s not a complaint when I say that. I wouldn’t want you thinking I’d any complaints, for I’m not one for grumbling – only about m’self. You could say it was a complaint againt m’self.’

Sadler sat down, glad to be off his feet. Whenever he found himself with strangers he tooks pains to disguise his limp as much as he could and the effort always made his legs ache. Vera took up her knitting.

‘Of course,’ she said after a while, ‘things ’aven’t been right ’ere.’

Sadler was cautious. ‘No?’

‘I was on the point of leaving. I’d even told Madam, because I couldn’t live in the same house with ’im, Mr Sadler. I had to go and tell her “I can’t work with that man any more”.’

‘Who would that be?’

‘Mr Goss. It was a wonder Madam didn’t lose all ’er staff. The way he treated some of us.’

‘The butler?’

‘Not good at his job either, you know. Such a big man. Got in the way all the time.’

‘Happy to see him leave, were you then?’

‘I’d say. I told Madam, it was either me or ’im.’

‘What was it that he did, Mrs Prinz?’

‘Vera – I do prefer Vera.’ She put down her knitting and leant forward on her chair. ‘There was something evil about that man. He liked to see a person suffer.’

‘That’s not right, is it.’

‘Just loved to pass a personal remark, make you feel awkward.’

She went on in a whisper: ‘He sat down on that settee one evening, right where you’re sittin’ now, Mr Sadler, and he turned to me and said: “Prinz – now that’d be a German name, wouldn’t it?” I mean you can’t call that kind, can you? In time of war. Of course I didn’t answer ’im. I just got right up and walked out of the room. Betty was here. She told me afterwards he’d looked quite surprised when I went out, had the cheek to ask her what he’d done wrong. But it was all over for me then. I couldn’t go on working with a man like that. And they value me ’ere, Mr Sadler, the Colonel and Madam, they know what I’m worth, they know I’m loyal. In fact the Colonel was quite upset when he heard about the trouble. He sent for me and said: “I can’t be doing with that kind of unpleasantness in the servants’ hall.” “There’s enough trouble in the world,” he said, “without bringing any into my own house.” Of course, I personally think they’d never taken to Goss. As I say, ’e wasn’t a good servant – too cocksure of ’imself and too clumsy. I used to wonder ’e could get between the chairs in the dining room, he had such a girth on ’im.’

‘Where was he from, Mrs Prinz?’

‘Vera, Mr Sadler. I do prefer it.’

‘Oh Vera, yes.’

‘Yorkshire, so he said, but I said to Betty “that doesn’t sound like Yorkshire to me” and we never did find out.’

‘My last position was in Yorkshire.’

‘Oh yes, Mr Sadler?’

‘In Scarborough.’

‘On the coast then?’

‘Oh yes, quite near the sea.’

‘I used to like a nice swim. I’m from London – you can tell that can’t you? But my mum always took me to the seaside come August. Too ’ot to breathe in town, she used to say, and off we’d go, me and ’er on the train.’

‘And your husband, did he like the sea?’

‘Oh no.’

Then she went quiet, picked up her knitting, middle of a row, and set the needles clacking. Whenever Vera knitted, her jaw dropped and her mouth came open. Sadler felt pity for her, with her thin body and her anxious face and her pride.

It wasn’t much after nine by the clock on the mantlepiece, but Sadler found himself yawning, thinking longingly of his neat quiet room. He stood up.

‘I’ll be turning in then, Vera.’

‘Oh yes.’ She kept her eyes fastened on her knitting.

‘Good night then.’

‘Good night, Mr Sadler.’

He shut the door behind him, came out into the cold passage and then climbed the green lino stairs. On the coconut matting landing he paused, letting himself enjoy the last few paces that took him to his door.

His kettle was boiling, spilling tiny beads of water, like mercury, on to the hotplate. He lifted it off and made the pot of tea. Cheap brown pot. They’d had that, hadn’t they, before the Colonel died? He sat down at the table. The dog got up, shook himself and lay down again on his old mat.

‘Good boy,’ said Sadler.

He didn’t want to think about the dream. He always chose the memories of his mother with such nervous care, examining only those that gave him hardly any pain. The rest he would have kept hidden for ever, but once in a while they slipped like intruders into his sleep. Standing there, then, in the sunshine by the lych gate, waiting for the people to come, for all the people she’d ever seen, ever smiled on, ever touched, to come on that spring morning. Believing it only right, only natural that for her funeral the ugly little church would be filled, but waiting there and waiting and seeing no one come. Where were they? Charlie Ackroyd, the man she’d married, chauffeur to Milord, where was he that Saturday morning? ‘Oh don’t be soft, Jacky,’ she herself would have said, ‘of course he wouldn’t come. He’s been gone years now, love, and not so much as a postcard from him ever since he left.’

But Sadler had hated Charlie Ackroyd more than he’d ever hated anyone in the whole of his life. Handsome face, great mop of shiny hair, he’d met Annie Sadler when she was still just young enough to fancy. A bit thin she was and her hair never looked very nice – always untidy and wispy – but her skin was pale and clear and her grey eyes fringed with thick lashes used to look at him in quite a sexy way. But then, try as he might, he couldn’t get her to bed. She kept telling him about this lover she’d had and had a child off, said she couldn’t be doing with something like that all over again. And the more she pushed him away, the more Charlie Ackroyd wanted her. So he went to her room early one Sunday morning. She had the day off and was still half asleep when she opened the door, too sleepy to argue with him, forced to let him in. He sat down on a chair, didn’t try to go near her in her yellow nightdress, even though he wanted to. Instead he cleared his throat like some slip of a courting lad and offered her a wedding. Annie sat down on her bed, puzzling out what was real and what just part of a dream. And Ackroyd sat there smiling, liking her confusion, noting to himself that even early on a grey morning she looked rather pretty.

Milady gave the wedding her blessing, organized a little party afterwards in the servants’ hall. For a month or two both of them were happy. Annie’s cheeks began to bloom and she combed her untidy hair into a little bun at the nape of her neck. Ackroyd took pleasure in her so long-neglected body, preened his male feathers. Just for a few weeks he fancied he truly loved her.

Annie wrote to Jack who was working in Scarborough, asked him to spare them a little of his time. But it was two months before he could bring himself to go. He was glad – glad for her – if she was happy. But by his silence he chose to reproach her. She wrote again. So anxious now to see him, wanting his blessing on what she’d done, knowing with sadness that his love for her had never encompassed forgiveness. And was there indeed anything to forgive? Lord, Annie said to herself, why not have myself a spot of joy – after forty-three years – without the reproaches of my son?

Slowly and carefully, Sadler prepared himself for the meeting, then wrote to Annie to say he would come. But when his train came into the station Annie was standing alone on the platform. ‘As fate would have it, Charlie couldn’t be here, Jack. He had to take the car out, but he’ll be meeting us later.’

They spent the afternoon wandering round the town. Sadler began to enjoy himself, walking round arm in arm, just the two of them. Then they went to a café where Charlie had said he’d come and Sadler ordered two teas and they waited. For more than an hour they sat drinking tea, with Annie’s eyes always on the door. Then at last Sadler saw them light up and Charlie Ackroyd came in, so smart in his chauffeur’s uniform, but with never so much as an apology and hardly a glance at Sadler. For Sadler was of no consequence to Charlie Ackroyd. Charlie Ackroyd didn’t care twopence what Jack Sadler thought of him. Child of Annie’s youth, he belonged to the past and only reluctantly did Charlie acknowledge his continuing right to exist. So Sadler went back to Scarborough and within a year Charlie Ackroyd had gone. Tired of his Annie with her thin legs and her flyaway hair. Gone because he couldn’t stand the stillness in her eye. Gone to better things.

Better things! Sadler stirred his tea. He was too early for the milkman and he’d given the last drop to the dog last night. Well, he’d have to drink the tea without milk; it wouldn’t be the first time. And the strong tea would make him feel better. The odd pains that crept into him in his sleep would go away once he got a warm drink inside him. And the dream? He’d forget the dream.

He rubbed his eyes. For as long as he could remember, he’d woken up early in the mornings. Habit, he supposed. A lifetime in service, up and dressed and ready with the breakfast before the master had cleaned his teeth. But now that he was old he wished he could have slept late in the mornings. So much less time to pass if you could put off waking up for an hour or two.

The Colonel, of course, with his army background, was a stickler for punctuality. ‘One thing I shall make clear to you, Sadler,’ he said on his second day, ‘we do like things on time.’

‘Naturally, Sir.’

‘A house, you see, is not unlike a headquarters. Everybody does the job appointed to them at the right time and in the right place and then it all works.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Do you understand what I mean?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘That’s it then. Jolly good.’

Of course he was too old to do the job now, his hand much too unsteady. But some mornings, sitting there, just him and the dog, he longed for the great empty house to come alive again, to hear a lawn-mower out there in the sunshine, to say a word or two to the paper boy who delivered the Colonel’s Times and Madam’s Daily Mail