Charles Sanderson, Sandy to his friends, of whom there were many, was as broad as he was long. He stood five feet three in his stocking feet, though he himself had admitted that he had not seen the aforementioned feet for some considerable time. He could be found, every day, seated on a worn leather chesterfield that might have accommodated any two lesser mortals. From which vantage point he surveyed the reading room of the Pontifex Club, over which he presided with jovial majesty. His expansive waistcoat sported a heavy gold Albert chain to which was attached his grandfather’s half hunter. With this he would at times check the arrival and departure of members with all the thoroughness of any stationmaster of the Great Western Railway Company.
On one cold, bleak winter day a new member chose to enter the reading room and came under the watchful eye of Sandy.
‘Good morning.’ said Sandy cheerily.
‘Is it?’ the new member said testily.
‘Well it is from my position,’ Sandy replied, ‘I have breakfasted well, there are plenty of logs on the fire and the morning papers are filled with interest and erudition. ‘
‘I, however, have had an uncomfortable journey through poor driving conditions. I have had difficulty parking and was soaked through. So, I beg to differ in my opinion of the day.’ With that he stomped across the room and threw himself into an armchair. By putting a broadsheet newspaper between himself and his correspondent he signalled that the conversation was over.
Sandy was not a man to be so easily dismissed and gazed intently at the newspaper for a few moments before speaking.
‘You’re a new member, old chap.’ He spoke with what he hoped was a welcoming smile. Silence. ‘Not seen you in here before.’ Ruffled paper but still silence. ‘I’m Charles Sanderson but most people call me Sandy.’ Loud cough, more rustling and yet more silence. ‘What do your friends call you?’ The newspaper quivered in the new members hands then lowered to reveal a face flushed, not with the heat of the log fire, but with pent up fury.
‘Since I feel that we are not going to be friends, Sir, I think it immaterial what they might call me. My name is Thomas Johnson but what business it could be of yours I am at a loss to contemplate.’ He raised the newspaper wall and noisily cleared his throat.
Sandy’s smile never left his face but it did dim just a little and his brow furrowed ever so slightly. Clearly, he thought this gentleman was going to be a challenge.
‘You’ll find the food very good here.’ His next salvo of cheery conversation was slightly hesitant. He was fishing now for openings where he could thaw the icicle that threatened his warm surroundings. Again, there was no reply. ‘Cook is a dab hand with Spotted Dick. That’s what you could do with after the journey you’ve had, a good portion of Spotted Dick with lashings of hot, sweet yellow custard.’ The temperature of the room got colder and Sandy’s smile slipped a little further. ‘The Roly-Poly pud’s pretty good too he ventured, less sure of himself.
The figure behind the newspaper rose to its feet rather like the demon king through a trapdoor and the face would have suited the role without the need for stage makeup.
‘I joined this club,’ he began, ‘because I was assured that I might find peace and quiet when I required it together with good accommodation when needed. I did not expect nor do I require idle conversation.’ With that parting remark, which he spat venomously, he departed leaving a trail of newspaper sheets fluttering in his wake.
At the door of the reading room he pushed past two gentlemen who had, at that moment, chosen to enter. The gentlemen stared after him in mild surprise. When he had finally disappeared, they entered the reading room and greeted Sandy.
‘Mornin’ Sandy, that our new member?’ Norman James was a tall thin man with dark hair falling over his brow. He brushed it back and blue eyes sparkled.
‘Seemed in a bit of a hurry,’ added Peter Baxter-Browne, a smile spreading over his broad ruddy face.
‘Yes that’ s our new member boys, but somehow I don’ t think he’Il stay. Not our type, I think. Doesn’t seem to be keen on Spotted Dick.’ Sandy grinned.
‘Not keen on Spotted Dick? Definitely not our sort then.’ Peter said.
‘Not our sort at all.’ Norman added. ‘Anyway, he could have had Roly-Poly.’
Gales of laughter blew through the reading room as the last of the chill air was replaced with the warmth of good company.
