Robert Rankin - Retromancer

And that is what I did.

There is something almost magical about the atrium of Broadcasting House. Perhaps because so many famous people have moved through it, loitered around and about it, swanned within and posed throughout it, been there and sat there and stood.

‘I hope we see someone famous,’ I said as we entered.

‘We are bound to, Rizla,’ replied Mr Rune. ‘But please remember who you are with and try to remain dignified.’

‘Oh look,’ I said, pointing. ‘Is that not Valentine Dyle?’

‘Where? Where?’ went Hugo Rune. ‘Let me get his autograph.’

I looked at Mr Rune.

He looked at me.

Oh how we laughed together.

‘I will have to ask you gentlemen to keep the laughter down,’ said an official-looking body with a BBC-issue gas-mask case and a hint of the Lochs and Glens. ‘I am the groundskeeper here and this is the BBC.’

‘I have an appointment,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘at fifteen-hundred hours with the PM. You will find my name in the book if you look. That name is Hugo Rune.’

‘Hoots mon,’ said the official-looking body. ‘Can ye hear that wee scratchin’ sound? I ken that there’s a moose loose aboot this Broadcasting Hoose.’

And I looked once more at Hugo Rune.

But he was looking elsewhere.

Elsewhere, as it happened, happened to be towards Miss Elsa Lancaster. I recognised her immediately, as The Bride of Frankenstein was one of my favourite movies. But who was that with her, I wondered. It was not Boris Karloff.

‘That is Winston Churchill,’ said Hugo Rune. And he waved to this fellow, who waved back at him. ‘Just in case you were wondering.’

‘That is never Winnie,’ I said to Hugo Rune. ‘Winnie was short and fat and looked like a bulldog with a big cigar in its chops.’

‘I told you you wouldn’t like him.’

‘But that is not him. That is a tall skinny man with an eye-pencil moustache. That looks more like George Cole than Winston Churchill.’

‘That,’ said Hugo Rune, in a whisper and behind his hand, ‘is because it is George Cole. He plays the part of Winston Churchill. And very well he does it too, when he’s all done up in prosthetics.’

‘No no no,’ I said and shook my head to my no-ings. ‘Winston Churchill is Winston Churchill, no one ever played him.’

‘Lots of actors have played him over the years, young Rizla.’

‘Yes, but that was in films and on TV-’

‘And on the wireless?’

‘Yes, on the wireless too.’

‘I rest my case,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Point made QED.’

‘No. No. No,’ I said once more. ‘That is not what I mean and you know it.’

‘Rizla.’ And Hugo Rune now drew me to a quiet corner and whispered into my ear. ‘George Cole does the voice. Other actors, stunt-doubles if you will, do the morale-boosting walkabouts of the East End, or go off to peace talks and war talks and whatnots. But there is no specific Winston Churchill. He is a construct. An idea. An ideal. Cometh the hour, cometh the man, and things of that nature generally.

‘And-’ And Mr Rune raised his finger to staunch the flow of my protests. ‘Even if there were a real Winston Churchill, he would not be running the English side of this war. The speech within this briefcase originated at the Ministry of Serendipity. And, as you know full well, the tactics employed in the military campaign against the Reich are put together by the computer Colossus at Bletchley Park.’

‘So there is no real Winston Churchill? I find this most disappointing. ’

‘We’d be lost without George Cole,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘No one can do the voice as good as George.’ And Mr Rune perused his watch. ‘Ten minutes to go,’ he said.

The official-looking body who had vanished from our sight now reappeared with a clipboard held tightly between official-looking fingers. ‘Och braw the noo,’ he intoned. ‘If ye’ll sign this piece of paper, I’ll have-’

But he did not finish.

An explosion roared outside in the street and our latest cab went skywards.

Having done the instinctive duckings, Mr Rune and I returned to our feet and viewed the devastation without.

‘Do I see some kind of pattern emerging here?’ I asked. ‘Has God got it in for taxis, or is some basic engine design fault bringing itself to the fore?’

Hugo Rune once more perused his watch. ‘That one was a little too close for comfort,’ he said. ‘You will pardon me, Rizla, whilst I take myself off to the Gents.’

And with that he did so, leaving me to stand around and wait. But I really did not mind too much about the waiting, as it did give me an opportunity to see if I could spy out any more stars of the wireless set.

And would not you know it, or would not you not, I spied out the great Harry ‘put on your plimsolls, Mother, I’ve got a dose of the runs’ MacKentyre. Charlie ‘if it looks like a ferret and smells like a ferret, it shouldn’t be stirring my tea’ MacAlistair. And Jimmy ‘boil up the orange sauce, Uncle, I’ve just been bowled out for a duck’ MacMackMack. And-

‘Cease, Rizla,’ said Hugo Rune, returning. ‘It is neither big, nor clever. But, say, isn’t that Leslie “if God is dog spelled backwards, then what the kcuf is taht?” Tomlinson?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Though it does look like him. Are you all better now?’

‘Better now?’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Ah, I see what you mean. The taking myself off to the Gents. Just needed to highlight my cheekbones – what do you think?’

‘I think we have become caseless and plotless and lost,’ I said. ‘And now I know that Winnie is not Winnie, I think I would just like to go home and have a good sulk.’

‘And miss all the excitement?’

I did head-bobbings to signify ‘weighing-up’. ‘We nearly got beaten to pulp at the Savoy Grill and the two cabs we requisitioned have exploded. Let us say that I have had sufficient excitement for today and perhaps a case will present itself tomorrow.’

‘It has already presented itself,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘You have failed to put two and two together. I, however, have done that very thing. Come, Rizla, destiny awaits.’

At precisely three of the afternoon clock, myself and Mr Rune, George Cole, a radio producer called Neil and a number of probably nameless secret service fellows in morning suits and bowler hats gathered in a green room on the second floor of Broadcasting House. With a gravity that was little less than ludicrous, Hugo Rune clicked open the briefcase and passed a sheet of paper to the pretend prime minister.

George Cole examined this, turned the sheet over and looked at the back and then turned it front-wise again. ‘And is this all there is?’ he asked, in the voice of Winston Churchill. ‘Nothing about fighting them on the beaches and in the fields and over the cricket greens and up the back passages or whatnot?’

Hugo Rune shook his head. ‘Only what you see, I’m afraid.’

‘I could perhaps put in something about “some chicken, some neck”, or how this was “their finest hour”. What exactly is my motivation? Should I pad it out with a bit of King Lear?’

‘Best to stick to what it says on the paper,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘But there is one thing you could do.’

After we had left Broadcasting House, I thanked Hugo Rune.

‘That was very decent of you,’ I said, ‘asking him to sign his autograph for me.’

‘For you?’ said the Perfect Master. ‘For me, if you please.’

But he was only joking.

‘So,’ I said, ‘should we listen to a wireless set and hear what this highly important message to the nation might be?’

But Hugo Rune shook his head. ‘We should be getting on with the exciting stuff,’ he said. ‘And to do this we must return to the Ministry of Serendipity.’