Three Men On Tour: 2

It was Harry’s idea. I received an email at work.

To: Ian Chapman, George Lancaster

From: Harry Banks

Subject: Boys on tour

Picture this. Three men, young in spirit and ready for adventure, piloting an automobile through the English countryside with the wind in their hair and alcohol in the boot. Those men could be you, my friends. It’s time for the annual Harry Banks ‘Boys on Tour’ spectacular. Mail me back if you’re up for it.

Some people have a very particular e-mail style, quite different from their normal manner of speech. Harry works in sales – he always talks like that.

George responded immediately.

To: Harry Banks, Ian Chapman

From: George Lancaster

Subject: Re: Boys on tour

Sounds good. Any thoughts on route? I’m up for visiting the Cotswolds.

I smiled and turned back to the report I was pretending to be reading. My boss was hovering nearby. Looking busy immediately became my watchword. I studied the hell out of that report. I knew what Harry would say though. It wasn’t long before the next response appeared in my inbox.

To: George Lancaster, Ian Chapman

From: Harry Banks

Subject: Re: Boys on tour

The Cotswolds??? Isn’t that for poets, homosexuals and Jeremy Clarkson? I don’t want to spend my holiday in a coma.

I’ve known Harry a long time. I can’t even remember where I met him. Maybe it was at university. Maybe it was in the succession of jobs you take straight after university, desperately trying to cling on to the freedom you didn’t realise was there to lose during your degree; a time when you forge lifelong friendships with anyone willing to help you replace the reality of work with a love of all night parties and a reluctance to wake up in your own bed. Harry is tall, with ruffled brown hair that he thinks makes him look like Hugh Grant but that we know makes him look like Bart Simpson, boyish but with a touch of petulance he tries to keep hidden. Being in sales, he talks fast and wears designer clothing, sharp suits to match his sharp features. Even when I met him, he dressed like he owned a yacht, although back then he was scruffy enough that I just considered it an affectation, like having a tie die waistcoat, or painting your fingernails black. Now that I realise it represents the genuine Harry it’s too late, I’ve already struck up the conversation, caught the eye in the corridor, entered into a relationship with a man who looks like the cross between an estate agent and a shipping magnate. I don’t think I’m any the worse for it.

I met George through Harry. George is steadfast. Of all the steads I’ve met, his is the fastest. Over the years we’ve passed many an hour together in pubs and clubs, so now I suppose George is as much my friend as Harry’s. Not that I dislike George, quite the contrary. I just have no concept of him as a separate entity. It’s possible that we would remain friends without Harry around, but I’ve never put it to the test and I’m hoping I’ll never have to.

George is everything Harry is not. Short, tubby, balding. If you were casting the part of Mole from Wind in the Willows, you would pass George over for not being assertive enough. If you stuck Harry and George next to each other, they would form the letter b, but they are my friends and I’ve never found any better, so I guess for the moment I am stuck with them.

To: Harry Banks, Ian Chapman

From: George Lancaster

Subject: Re: Boys on tour

Do not fret. I’ve done my research, and I’ve found several good pubs serving real ale, including one which brews its own on the premises. As for the night life, well Bristol’s pretty close if you feel the desperate need for a disco.

Only George would refer to a club as a disco. It was a step up. He’s younger then me, but it was only recently we’d persuaded him to stop calling it a dance hall.

“Um, are you busy?“ I looked up to find my boss looming over me. Jamie is a shade under 6 foot with schoolboy blond hair, severe school mistress glasses and a threadbare cardigan that he claims lends him authority. He’s tall, rather than wide but like most large men he seems to feel the need to apologise for the space he takes up, hence the cardigan. He shifted his glasses on his nose, and sighed in the manner of one about to deliver bad news.

“You know that article that Terry was writing? About the local recycling centre?“

I nodded. “A bit different from Terry’s normal articles. I was surprised he had time for it, in between reviewing that new pub over in Brentwood and talking to that new weather girl who reckons she was born in Wivenhoe.“

“Ah, yes.“ Jamie pushed his glasses back up his nose nervously. “Well it turns out he doesn’t. I was wondering…“

“…if I’d take it over for him.“ I sighed, but silently and to myself. I figured there was no point in asking if I could interview the weather girl instead.

“Great,“ said Jamie before I had a chance. He put a paternal hand on my shoulder. “I knew I could count on you.“