Is that so? said Col.
Yeah. He dead, is he?
We don’t know, said the constable, finishing his lemonade shandy.
The world won’t weep, said Tubby.
Well, if you hear anything, bung it my way, said the policeman, and he picked up the photograph and left, passing Peg who was on her way in.
Aye aye, said Tubby. Here’s a woman on a mission.
But Peg ignored him and walked up to Col. Something you should know, she said.
Go on, he said.
You wanna do this here?
Why not? We’re amongst friends.
You sure about that?
Col laughed.
Davy’s back, she said.
（Freeze-Frame:） Col mid-scream, flying towards Tubby, reaching for his neck. Tubby’s grin, now a grimace. Tubby toppling back, reinforced boot waist height fending off Col’s attack. Col’s knee between Tubby’s legs, next to his roll of cash. A jet of water spurting in from the left. Old Cress commandeering the soda syphon as if it were a mortar gun. Claude mid-air, wingspan impressive, no moult but a run on droppings. Ulysses on Col’s back, trying to pull him off. Peg emptying an ashtray into Tubby’s mouth.
Suddenly, the front door opened and a gentleman appeared.
I’m looking for a Mr Ulysses Temper! he shouted. He picked up a chair and banged it down. A Mr Ulysses Temper! Anyone?
The brawling stopped. Groans and panting rose from the pile of bodies, and five heads turned towards him. He said, Roland Burgess at your service, and he raised his hat.
Ulysses stood up and offered his hand. I’m Ulysses Temper, he said.
Mr Burgess smiled and brushed a blue feather off his shoulder. Mr Temper, he said. You don’t know how happy I am to meet you.
Ulysses led Mr Burgess up two flights of dingy stairs to his room. He closed the door behind him and motioned for Mr Burgess to sit at the table.
Sorry about all that, Mr Burgess, said Ulysses.
Spot of bother?
Nah. Long old story. Ulysses sat down opposite. So, what can I do for you, sir?
My card, said Mr Burgess, opening his briefcase.
Solicitor?
You’re part of a long trail that ended up at the Italian church in Clerkenwell, Mr Temper.
I am?
Yes. I’ve often worked for the community around there. Especially after the war. Tricky time, as you can imagine. So they sought me for this little venture. And I found you.
Found me, Mr Burgess?
Yes. Arturo Bernadini. Ring a bell?
Ulysses shook his head. I don’t know him, sir. I don’t go to the Italian church. I mean I have, during the procession, but not— No no, I’m confusing you. Mr Arturo Bernadini of Santo Spirito, Florence. Not St Peter’s, Clerkenwell. Does the name—？
Hold on a minute, said Ulysses. Arturo Arturo?
I think that’s probably him. Arturo Bernadini died a year ago – and Mr Burgess pulled out a bundle of paperwork from his briefcase – yes, here we are. This, Mr Temper, is a copy of the last will and testament of Arturo Bernadini, and he spun the document round and showed it to Ulysses.
What’s this got to do with me, Mr Burgess?
Oh, everything, Mr Temper, everything, and he lifted the document and read: I leave all my worldly possessions to Mr Ulysses Temper of the British Army.
Ulysses stared at him.
You are the sole beneficiary of his estate, Mr Temper. So, you see. It was vital I found you.
Silence.
I don’t know what to say, said Ulysses.
I’m not sure anyone would.
Ulysses got up, went over to a bottle of Scotch. Worldly possessions? he said.
A property and the furnishings within. An amount of money resides in a bank account, too.
Ulysses handed Mr Burgess a glass of whisky.
Do you believe in fate, Mr Temper?
It’s a gift, right? According to a friend of mine.
A gift? I like that. Then, let’s raise a glass to fate. And before I forget, said Mr Burgess, there’s a letter too, and he rummaged around his briefcase and handed it to Ulysses.
Ulysses opened it. It’s in Italian, he said.
Would you like me to translate?
Could you, sir? and Mr Burgess took the letter and began to read out loud.
My dear Ulysses,
If you are reading this letter, then I am dead.
Nine years have passed since our brief acquaintance. And the image of you seated across the table from me has led me across them all.
Did I change my life sufficiently to reflect the kindness you showed me that strange afternoon in August? I don’t know. I hope so. In my small way I think maybe I did. No single act of generosity remains in isolation. The ripples are many.
And what did the years bring you? Happiness, I hope.