Johnny Swanson - Eleanor Updale [89]
The reporter asked again, interrupting Hutch’s thoughts, ‘Mr Hutchinson? The boy, Mr Hutchinson? Is he well?’
‘Well? Yes … he’s well. Just not here tonight. I’m all alone. Is that all you wanted to know?’ Hutch tried to usher the reporter back towards the door.
‘Oh no,’ said the reporter. ‘I didn’t come about Johnny at all. Like you, I don’t like being up so late, especially for work, but they’ve sent me to check on a story. Trouble is, this one involves the paper itself, and we never like that sort of news to go public. The police have been round at the office, asking about bogus adverts that we’ve printed in our paper, tricking people into parting with money. Apparently it involves a post office box here. Have the police been to see you too?’
‘Yes, they have. But I couldn’t help them. I can’t go giving out people’s personal details just because some policeman decides he wants them. I told him to go off and get a warrant.’
‘And did he?’
‘I don’t know. He hasn’t come back yet.’
‘Well, we’d better wait for him together. Then maybe we can clear all this up tonight.’
Hutch didn’t want to take the reporter up to his flat. He hated the idea of the man mooching about among his things and looking for signs of Johnny. So he gave him the chair he kept for old ladies to sit on while they were doing their shopping, and dragged out the high stool from behind the post office counter for himself. He perched on it uncomfortably, but he preferred to be higher up than his unexpected guest. Their conversation was fitful. Both of them were getting more and more annoyed.
The reporter turned to the subject of the trial. ‘So whatever happens, you will accept the verdict?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think I’ll face a problem there. Mrs Swanson will be found not guilty, I’m sure.’
‘And that’s the reason you’ve taken her son under your roof?’
‘That, and the fact that the poor boy has no one else in the world.’
‘You don’t see it as a conflict with your responsibilities as a postmaster?’
Hutch corrected him: ‘Sub-postmaster.’
‘Oh, sub-postmaster. Of course. No doubt standards are somewhat lower for a sub-postmaster.’
Had he been less tired, Hutch would not have risen to the bait. But he was worried about Johnny, and about the possible return of the policeman, and the one thing he could not stand was cynicism about his duties as an employee of the Post Office.
‘Standards are the same for everyone involved in public life,’ he said.
‘Public life! That’s raising your status rather high, isn’t it, Mr Hutchinson? Selling stamps, fruitcakes and carrots counts as “public life” now, does it? I’ll try to remember that I’m in the presence of an eminent public official when I next pop in for some toilet paper!’
Before he had finished the last word, Hutch was off his stool and had the reporter by the lapels. They were both ex-army men. They both knew how to fight. The reporter had the advantage of height; Hutch had bulk, and familiarity with the terrain. He knew just when he could reach out and grab a jug or a wooden butter-pat to use as a weapon. The two of them wrestled and rolled, bringing jars of sweets down from the shelves. Soon the floor was covered in bulls’-eyes, pear drops and cough-candy twists. The reporter lurched towards Hutch and slipped on some humbugs. He grasped for something to steady him, but only found one of the bags of flour Johnny had filled the day before. The packet exploded under the force of his grasp, showering both men with white powder. The reporter picked up the high stool and swung it round, hoping to knock Hutch off balance. Hutch caught