A Twist in the Tale (17 page)

The man he was
staring at bowed his head in embarrassment and the vicar quickly continued with
his sermon.

When the
service was over Richard Moore waited by the east door to be sure his eyes had
not deceived him. When they met face to face for the first time in fifteen
years both men bowed and then shook hands.

The priest was
delighted to learn over lunch that day back at the vicarage that Chopsticks
Sakata had been released from prison after only five years, following the
Allies’ agreement with the newly installed Japanese government to release all
prisoners who had not committed capital crimes. When the Colonel enquired after
“Sweet and Sour Pork” the Major admitted that he had lost touch with Sergeant
Akida
(Sweet) but that Corporal Sushi (Sour) and he were
working for the same electronics company. “And whenever we meet,” he assured
the priest, “we talk of the
honourable
man who saved our
lives, ‘the British Bullfrog’.”

*
* *

Over the years,
the priest and his Japanese friend progressed in their chosen professions and
regularly corresponded with each other.

In 1971 Ari
Sakata was put in charge of a large electronics factory in Osaka while eighteen
months later Richard Moore became the Very
Revd
Richard Moore, Dean of Lincoln Cathedral.

“I read in the
London Times that your cathedral is appealing for a new roof,” wrote Sakata
from his homeland in 1975.

“Nothing
unusual about that,” the Dean explained in his letter of reply. “There isn’t a
cathedral in England that doesn’t suffer from dry rot or bomb damage. The
former I fear is terminal; the latter at least has the chance of a cure.”

A few weeks
later the Dean received a
cheque
for ten thousand
pounds from a not-unknown Japanese electronics company.

When in 1979
the Very
Revd
Richard Moore was appointed to the
bishopric of Taunton, the new managing director of the largest electronics
company in Japan flew over to attend his enthronement.

“I see you have
another roof problem,” commented Ari Sakata as he gazed up at the scaffolding
surrounding the pulpit. “How much will it cost this time?”

“At least
twenty-five thousand pounds a year,” replied the Bishop without thought.

“Just to make
sure the roof doesn’t fall in on the congregation during my sterner sermons.”
He sighed as he passed the evidence of reconstruction all around him. “As soon
as I’ve settled into my new job I intend to launch a proper appeal to ensure my
successor doesn’t have to worry about the roof ever again.’

The managing
director nodded his understanding. A week later a
cheque
for
twentyfive
thousand pounds arrived on the
churchman’s desk.

The Bishop
tried hard to express his grateful thanks. He knew he must never allow
Chopsticks to feel that by his generosity he might have done the wrong thing as
this would only insult his friend and undoubtedly end their relationship.
Rewrite after rewrite was drafted to ensure that the final version of the long
hand-written letter would have passed muster with the Foreign Of lice man-
darin
in charge of the Japanese desk. Finally the letter
was posted.

As the years
passed Richard Moore became fearful of writing to his old friend more than once
a year as each letter elicited an even larger
cheque
.
And, when towards the end of 1986 he did write, he made no reference to the
Dean and Chapter’s decision to designate 1988 as the cathedral’s appeal year.
Nor did he mention his own failing health, lest the
oldJapanese
gentleman should feel in some way responsible, as his doctor had warned him
that he could never expect to recover fully from those experiences at
Tonchan
.

The Bishop set
about forming his appeal committee in January 1987. The Prince of Wales became
the patron and the Lord Lieutenant of the county its chairman. In his opening
address to the members of the appeal committee the Bishop instructed them that
it was their duty to raise not less than three million pounds during 1988. Some
apprehensive looks appeared on the faces around the table.

On August 11th,
1987, the Bishop of Taunton was umpiring a village cricket match when he
suddenly collapsed from a heart attack. “See that the appeal brochures are
printed in time for the next meeting,”
were
his final
words to the captain of the local team.

Bishop Moore’s
memorial service was held in Taunton Cathedral and conducted by the Archbishop
of Canterbury. Not a seat could be found in the cathedral that day, and so many
crowded into every pew that the west door was left open. Those who arrived late
had to listen to the Archbishop’s address re-
layed
over loudspeakers placed around the market square.

Casual
onlookers must have been puzzled by the presence of several elderly Japanese
gentlemen dotted around the congregation.

When the
service came to an end the Archbishop held a private meeting in the vestry of
the cathedral with the chairman of the largest electronics company in the
world.

“You must be
Mr
Sakata,” said the Archbishop, warmly shaking the hand of
a man who stepped forward from the small cluster of Japanese who were in
attendance. “Thank you for taking the trouble to write and let me know that you
would be coming. I am delighted to meet you at last. The Bishop always spoke of
you with great affection and as a close friend – ‘Chopsticks’, if I remember.”

Mr
Sakata bowed low.

“And I also
know that he always considered himself in your personal debt for such
generosity over so many years.”

“No, no, not
me,” replied the former Major.

“
I,
like my dear friend the late Bishop, am representative of
higher authority.”

The Archbishop
looked puzzled.

“You see, sir,”
continued
Mr
Sakata, “I am only the chairman of the
company. May I have the
honour
of introducing my
President?”

Mr
Sakata took a pace backwards to allow an even smaller figure,
whom the Archbishop had originally assumed to be part of
Mr
Sakata’s entourage, to step forward.

The President
bowed low and, still without speaking, passed an envelope to the Archbishop.

“May I be
allowed to open it?” the church leader asked, unaware of the Japanese custom of
waiting until the giver has departed.

The little man
bowed again.

The Archbishop
slit open the envelope and removed a
cheque
for three
million pounds.

“The late
Bishop must have been a very close friend,” was all he could think of saying.

“No, sir,” the
President replied. “I did not have that privilege.”

“Then he must
have done something in-credible to be deserving of such a munificent gesture.”

“He performed
an act of
honour
over forty years ago and now I try
inadequately to re-pay it.”

“Then he would
surely have remembered you,” said the Archbishop.

“Is possible he
would remember me but if so only as the sour half of ‘Sweet and Sour Pork’.”

There is one
cathedral in England that has never found it necessary to launch a national
appeal.

A
S she entered the room every eye turned towards her.

When admiring a
girl some men start with her head and work down. I start with the ankles and
work up.

She wore black
high-heeled velvet shoes and a tight-fitting black dress that stopped high
enough above the knees to reveal the most perfectly tapering legs. As my eyes
continued their upward sweep they paused to take in her narrow waist and slim
athletic figure. But it was the oval face that I found captivating, slightly
pouting lips and the largest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, crowned with a head of
thick, black, short-cut hair that literally shone with
lustre
.
Her entrance was all the more breathtaking because of the surroundings she had
chosen. Heads would have turned at a diplomatic reception, a
soci-ety
cocktail party, even a charity ball, but at a
chess tournament . . .

I followed her
every movement, patron-
isingly
unable to accept she
could be a player. She walked slowly over to the club secretary’s table and
signed in to prove me wrong. She was handed a number to indicate her challenger
for the opening match.

Anyone who had
not yet been allocated an opponent waited to see if she would take her place
opposite their side of the board.

The player checked
the number she had been given and made her way towards an elderly man who was
seated in the far corner of the room, a former captain of the club now past his
best.

As the club’s
new captain I had been responsible for instigating these round-robin matches.
We meet on the last Friday of the month in a large club-like room on top of the
Mason’s Arms in the High Street. The landlord sees to it that thirty tables are
set out for us and that food and drink are readily available. Three or four
other clubs in the district send half a dozen opponents to play a couple of
blitz games, giving us a chance to face rivals we would not normally play. The
rules for the matches are simple enough – one minute on the clock is the
maximum allowed for each move, so a game rarely lasts for more than an hour,
and if a pawn hasn’t been captured in thirty moves the game is automatically
declared a draw. A short break for a drink between games, paid for by the
loser, ensures that everyone has the chance to challenge two opponents during
the evening.

A thin man
wearing half-moon spectacles and a dark blue three-piece suit made his way over
towards my board. We smiled and shook hands. My guess would have been a
solicitor, but I was wrong as he turned out to be an accountant working for a
stationery supplier in
Woking
.

I found it hard
to concentrate on my opponent’s well-rehearsed Moscow opening as my eyes kept
leaving the board and wan-
dering
over to the girl in
the black dress. On the one occasion our eyes did meet she gave me an enigmatic
smile, but although I tried again I was unable to elicit the same response a
second time. Despite being preoccupied I still managed to defeat the
accountant, who seemed unaware that there were several ways out of a seven-pawn
attack.

At the half-time
break three other members of the club had offered her a drink before I even
reached the bar. I knew I could not hope to play my second match against the
girl as I would be expected to challenge one of the visiting team captains. In
fact she ended up playing the accountant.

I defeated my
new opponent in a little over forty minutes and, as a solicitous host, began to
take an interest in the other matches that were still being played. I set out
on a circuit-
ous
route that ensured I ended up at her
table. I could see that the accountant already had the better of her and within
moments of my arrival she had lost both her queen and the game.

I introduced
myself and found that just shaking hands with her was a sexual experience.
Weaving our way through the tables we strolled over to the bar together. Her
name, she told me, was Amanda Curzon. I ordered Amanda the glass of red wine
she requested and a half-pint of beer for myself. I began by commiserating with
her over the defeat.

“How did you
get on against him?” she asked.

“Just managed
to beat him,” I said. “But it was very close. How did your first game with our
old captain turn out?”

“Stalemate,”
said Amanda. “But I think he was just being courteous.”

“Last time I
played him it ended up in stale-mate,” I told her.

She smiled.
“Perhaps we ought to have a game some time?”

“I’ll look
forward to that,” I said, as she finished her drink.

“Well, I must
be off,” she announced suddenly. “Have to catch the last train to Hounslow.”

“Allow me to
drive you,” I said gallantly.

“It’s the least
the host captain can be expected to do.”

“But surely
it’s miles out of your way?”

“Not at all,” I
lied, Hounslow being about twenty minutes beyond my flat. I gulped down the
last drop of my beer and helped Amanda on with her coat. Before leaving I
thanked the landlord for the efficient
organisation
of the evening.

We then
strolled into the car park. I opened the passenger door of my
Scirocco
to allow Amanda to climb in.

“A slight
improvement on London Trans-port,” she said as I slid into my side of the car.
I smiled and headed out on the road northwards. That black dress that I
described earlier goes even higher up the legs when a girl sits back in a
Scirocco
. It didn’t seem to embarrass her.

“It’s still
very early,” I ventured after a few inconsequential remarks about the club
evening. “Have you time to drop in for a drink?”

“It would have
to be a quick one,” she replied, looking at her watch. “I’ve a busy day ahead
of me tomorrow.”

“Of course,” I
said, chatting on, hoping she wouldn’t notice a detour that could hardly be
described as on the way to Hounslow.

“Do you work in
town?” I asked.

“Yes. I’m a
receptionist for a firm of estate agents in
Berkeley
Square
.”

“I’m surprised
you’re not a model.”

“I used to be,”
she replied without further explanation. She seemed quite oblivious to the
route I was taking as she chatted on about her holiday plans for Ibiza. Once we
had arrived at my place I parked the car and led Amanda through my front gate
and up to the flat. In the hall I helped her off with her coat before taking
her through to the front room.