Chapter 1

BUNTER AND THE WORLD OF COMMERCE

London October 1964.

Harry Wharton strode down Haymarket towards his London club. It was a sharp autumnal Saturday morning and city centre felt fresh; little swirls and eddies caught the brown desiccated leaves and sent them dancing across the road before letting them come to rest again. The disinterested observer would have seen a middle-aged man of above medium height, sturdily built, squared faced, and smartly dressed in clothes that conveyed expense without ostentation. Something in his demeanour and steady stride communicated, the impression of someone determined, and used to getting his own way. Crossing the road, avoiding the traffic, came another man; our observer would have seen him as of similar build and age to Wharton. On closer inspection he would have noted the cruder features, reddened and slightly blotched from hard living; a slight, but noticeable paunch mitigated the sturdy build; his dress whilst no less expensive was as ostentatious as Wharton's was understated. Upon reaching the footpath he halted, drew a box from his inner pocket, extracted a small cigar, lit it and waited for Wharton to catch up.

"Wharton - good to see you," He extended his hand.

"Smithy thanks for coming. You're early," He took the other's hand and shook it warmly.

"I knew you'd be in the advance party. Thanks for organising this reunion. Hard to believe it’s 30 years since we left Greyfriars," responded Herbert Vernon Smith.

The two old Greyfriars boys stood together, now, although with many reservations, friends. Wharton had entered the Remove in Greyfriars, aged 14, gaining an ascendancy in the form becoming captain firstly of the Remove then the Fifth and finally Captain of the School. Wharton and Herbert Vernon Smith had many similarities; outstanding at both football and cricket; quick-witted and intelligent, they were tough fighters and brave to the border of recklessness; each could be headstrong and stubborn. Yet, to their contemporaries, their differences defined them. Whereas Wharton epitomised what would later be termed “establishment” values, on the side of authority and proponent of conservative views with a sometimes inflexible personal moral code Vernon Smith was, by contrast, a natural rebel against any authority, in whatever shape or form, that sought to restrain his natural impulses. Wild and impetuous and often less than particular in his methods, he had been resentful of being bested by Wharton as they progressed through school.

“How are the family?” enquired Vernon Smith.

“Fine, thanks. And how is Cynthia?”

Smithy smiled wryly, “Judging from the bills that come flooding in rather well, I should suppose. She’s been living in the South of France for the last 9 months,”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,”

“Don’t be. I’m not, and neither is she. She’s having a ball,”

“And you’re not?”

“Well, you know me. Being tied down was never my style, and I’ve never had a problem enjoying myself. Changing the subject. How many of the old boys did you get hold of?”

“Most of them. I tried to locate Skinner with no luck. Any idea where he is?”

“I’m certain that he’s in the London area, but that’s it. Is Hazel coming? I assume he still lives in Paris?”

Wharton shifted uncomfortably, “Yes. He’s coming. Now Smithy we want a nice get together, the 30th anniversary of our leaving Greyfriars don’t for heaven’s sake ruin it. We don’t want any unpleasantness,”

Vernon Smith snorted, “OK, OK I’ll do my best,”

“I’m afraid you must do much better than that,”

Smithy laughed, “Wharton. Have you developed a sense of humour after all these years?”

Wharton smiled both men, glad that an unpleasant subject had been side-tracked. He looked toward Trafalgar Square and nodded to Vernon Smith who, at the cue, turned around.

What they saw was a shambling figure struggling its way up the hill towards them. Its face was an almost perfect circle save for the pointed bullet head covered by stubbly hair; two round lenses held by a wire frame perched on a snub nose covered much of the red sweating face. The corpulent body was swathed in a three-piece suit of indeterminate brown material topped by a spotted bow tie. His appearance was redolent of a young child’s effort to draw a human body comprising several concentric circles with thick balloon like limbs stuck at the appropriate corners. It stopped, pulled out a spotty handkerchief to dab its face, and leant heavily and with relief against a lamppost.

“I see Bunter’s shadow grows no less,” remarked Vernon Smith.

Wharton smiled but said nothing.

“You still keep in contact with him, don’t you?”

“I do and have since the war,”

Smithy looked at him curiously, “Surely nothing to do with your Military Intelligence work?”

Wharton was silent for several seconds and then said slowly.

“Bunter had a much more interesting war that you might have thought. Bunter had a much more interesting war than even he thinks,”

“But which you can’t talk about,”

“Which I can’t talk about,” agreed Wharton.

“Unless Bunter has changed massively all I have to do is ask him and he’ll blurt it out,”

“True. But he’s still Bunter. By the time you get it out of him you won’t be able to tell the truth from invention, fantasy, confabulation and downright whoppers. And maybe he doesn’t know everything anyhow.” 

“Fair enough,”

“He’s early,”

“Of course,” responded Smithy “The thought of a free meal with booze? Wild horses wouldn’t hold him back,”

Wharton scowled, “who said anything about a free dinner? We’ll pay for ourselves,”

“No-one; but Bunter will assume since you invited him, you’ll be paying,”

“He had better oil his assumer if that’s the way it’s working,”

Smithy chuckled, “My God it must be 30 years since I heard that expression. I’ll bet you ten bob that he doesn’t intend paying,”

“You know I don’t gamble,”

“Harry! Come off your high horse. Ten shillings isn’t gambling. It’s a gentleman’s wager,”

“Oh, all right then,”

Bunter struggled to disengage himself from the lamppost and resume his plodding way up the slight gradient. Wharton and Vernon Smith crossed over the road to intercept him. Neither spoke, so it wasn’t until he was ten feet from them that Bunter, blinking through his thick glasses, recognised Wharton.

“Harry! Good to see you” he said extending a sweaty, grubby hand which Wharton took with reluctance.

“Glad you could make it, Billy,”

“Decent of you to stand a spread,”

Smithy chuckled again, “Who said anything about Wharton standing anything?”

“Oh, Smithy, it’s you. Of course, Harry invited me. He’s a gentleman; not the sordid type who would present a fellow with a bill,”

“Wouldn’t I?”

Bunter chuckled, “You will have your little joke. Anyhow, good to see you too, Smithy,”

With that he extended his hand again which Vernon Smith ignored, instead taking out another cigar and proceeding to light it.

“I say could you spare me a gasper old man?”

With a sigh of resignation, Smithy pulled out a spare packet of cigars and gave Bunter the whole packet.

“There, keep the lot. Just don’t ask me again,” 

“OK. And do you have a light?” Smithy produced his lighter again.

“I thought you had given up smoking Billy?” queried Wharton.

“Sort of. Mrs B objected so much I said I’d stop. She said it was a nasty filthy habit and that it cost too much. I compromised and gave up buying them, but if old pals want to offer me a fag, then how could I refuse?”

“And you’re such a whale on politeness,” 

“Exactly,”

Smithy interposed to say “I think you owe me ten bob Wharton,”

“It seems I do” And he pulled out a ten-shilling note from his wallet.

“Eh! What’s that?” exclaimed Bunter “Why are we standing around her gossiping like fishwives. We’re losing good drinking and eating time,”

With that, Bunter strode away with unexpected vigour towards the club.

Taking the note, Smithy said, “Hang on a second,” to Wharton and ran across the road to a charity collector and gave the surprised man the ten shillings and refusing the proffered piece of cardboard and pin crossed back to re-join Wharton. There was no sign of Bunter. Wharton and Smithy walked towards the club and as they entered noticed a heated altercation between Bunter and the club porter.

“What’s wrong, Jenkins?” Wharton enquired.

“Ah, Mr Wharton. This gentleman states he is here as a guest of a member. Do you know him?”

Jenkins viewed Bunter’s appearance disdainfully.

“Yes indeed. That’s OK Jenkins, I’ll look after him,”

“Yes Sir,”

“Some kind of porter you are,” interjected Bunter “Can’t you recognise a gentleman when you see one,”

“Indeed, sir. I have no difficulty in recognising a gentleman!” 

The heavy emphasis on the last word and its intended insult wasn’t lost on Bunter. He reddened even further and was going to respond with an indignant retort when Wharton intervened.

“Come on, Billy. I’ll buy you a drink,” and with a sigh led him by the arm into the adjoining room. The three of them sank into deep leather chairs and a waiter padded over to them.

“Yes, chaps? asked Wharton

“Gin and tonic,” said Bunter

“Whiskey and water,”

“And tonic water for me thanks Eric,” added Wharton. “I’ll have wine later with the meal” he added Smithy looked at him.

“I better point Percy at the porcelain before we start,” blurted Bunter.

“What!!?”

“Where are the toilets?” he explained

“Out the side door and to your left,” answered Wharton. They gazed on the retiring bulk of Bunter as he exited the room.

“He really has changed little,” remarked Smithy

“Not much” agreed Wharton………..

GREYFRIARS JULY 1934

Bunter approached the headmaster’s study with trepidation. Over the previous six years he had often been summoned to the study but, never was he there because that’s where he wanted to be. Countless times he had been told off, and caned. As a man of the sixth he now was beyond the indignity of corporal punishment, but old unhappy memories persisted. On this occasion, however, he knew he was in no trouble. He was attending for the Headmaster’s valedictory talk as his undistinguished career at Greyfriars ended. It was tradition that the Head had a friendly and, it was hoped, useful chat with the parting pupil. He hesitated and then knocked on the door.

“Come in,”

Bunter opened the door and saw the angular figure of the headmaster Henry Samuel Quelch seated behind a large mahogany desk. At the beginning of the academic year Mr Quelch had taken over the headmastership of Greyfriars upon Dr Locke’s retirement. Dr Locke had been a genial and popular headmaster but his successor, whilst well respected, possessed neither quality. His face was thin and lined and bore a perpetual stern look; tall and thin, he was frequently disrespectfully compared, to his disadvantage, to the gargoyles in the quad. A stern disciplinarian, he was conscientious, hardworking, and had a genuine interest in and concern for the pupils under his care. When Dr Locke retired, they advertised the job, but few doubted that Mr Quelch was his appropriate successor given his long history of dedicated service to the school. One doubter had been the irrepressible Mr Prout, the fifth form master, who whilst having doubts as to his Quelch’s suitability had none concerning his own; as he would tell anyone who could bear to listen, and indeed those who couldn’t. Still, the appointment was a happy one for both master and pupils as Mr Quelch appeared, whilst not exactly convivial, more relaxed than he had been in his role as Remove master.

Mr Quelch and Bunter had a long history together; a not altogether happy one. He had overseen Bunter’s slow progress through the Remove, the fifth and finally into the sixth. Being in charge of the sixth form, as well as headmaster, over the previous twelve months, Mr Quelch had, a second chance to instil learning into the unreceptive mind of Bunter. 

As he opened the door and entered, Mr Quelch smiled. At least that is what he must have intended. What Bunter saw was the parting of lips revealing rows of crooked teeth resembling gravestones in an old unkempt graveyard conveying neither humour nor welcome. Bunter startled by this unexpected sight stopped dead and stared at his headmaster. The smile disappeared as if a light had been switched off and he snapped.

“Come in boy and take a seat,”

Reassured by this return to normality, Bunter did as he was bidden.

Mr Quelch viewed, without enthusiasm, the papers and reports regarding Bunter in front of him. Their paucity showed the lack of participation by Bunter’s in school activities and their content his failure in those he did. Nonetheless it was, as he saw it, his duty to deliver the standard homily and to discuss the boy’s future, and, as was often said, he was a whale on duty.

“Well Bunter,” he began genially “Shortly you will leave Greyfriars to make your way in the world. You have had the privilege of a first-class education which will stand you in good stead for the future. Wherever you go and no matter how successful you become, the experience of the last six years will be forever a part of you; the skills and above all the values that have been instilled in you. As you make your way in the world, you will be a credit to your family, the school and above all to your country and the empire…..”

Mr Quelch became aware that Bunter was staring at him with a look of surprise. Bunter had no doubt that he’d be a credit to school and country but not that Mr Quelch shared that belief. The homily continued.

“….. you will no doubt conduct yourself in a manner worthy of an Englishman and public school……”

But Bunter’s attention was wandering as Mr Quelch continued on his monologue. After several minutes he became aware that it had stopped and he had been asked a question. 

“Pardon sir?” he enquired.

Mr Quelch breathed hard and repeated, “Have you any immediate plan upon leaving Greyfriars?”

“Oh yes sir. I’ve been speaking to Mauly, I mean Lord Mauleverer, and he is to employ me as his estate manager at Mauleverer Towers,” Mr Quelch looked dubious, “Has he agreed to this?”

“Well, more or less…..”

Lord Mauleverer was in the same form as Bunter, and Bunter knew him well. Unfortunately for Bunter, Mauly knew Bunter just as well. Mauleverer was heir to one of the major estates in the country. As a minor his uncle held it in trust for him who, although his ward was still only 19, gave him considerable latitude in using his large fortune as he saw fit. He lived in Mauleverer Towers, a large stately home with extensive lands attached, and it is this that Bunter envisaged himself as a manager. All term he had tried to engage Mauly in discussions whilst Mauly spent the term trying to avoid Bunter. Mr Quelch continued.

“What do you know of country estates? You live in suburban Surrey,”

“It can’t be that hard and I can learn. Also, I shall have a staff under me,”

Bunter’s vision became clear; He saw himself swanning around the Mauleverer estate giving occasional orders to those who would do the work whilst he drew a large salary and enjoy the luxuries associated with one of the richest and most aristocratic families in the country.

“In case that doesn’t work out, what do you intend? Your exam results exclude any academic career.”

“You know I was ill through most of the exams….”

Mr. Quelch glowered at him “Yes you missed many of them but those you sat…” Here he looked at a paper in front of him “For instance in mathematics you got 0 percent,”

“Oh sir, how could that be?”

Mr. Quelch warmed to the subject and said sternly, “I wondered about that myself and queried it. You only answered two questions, and you got them both wrong!”

Since there was nothing to be said, Bunter remained silent. Mr Quelch pulled out another document; This was a report from a careers guidance expert who interviewed, and gave advice to those about to leave the school. Bunter’s combination of total stupidity, absence of any obvious skill combined with a total lack of self-awareness as to his limitations and ill-deserved confidence in his abilities left him baffled. His conclusion made unhappy reading.

“The career advisor found it difficult to make any recommendation. The only talent you have is ventriloquism, as I know from your misuse of that ability” … Here he looked up and glared at Bunter….” He says you could become a stage comic, a professional ventriloquist,”

“Oh Sir,”

“Quite right. The very idea of a Greyfriars boy becoming a red nosed music hall entertainer.…..” The interview continued as a Quelch monologue until he concluded, a relief to both of them. “Well Bunter, I wish you the best in whatever path you choose,”

He stood up and extended a hand to Bunter, who shook it for the first and only time.

“I trust you will visit me in the future and if I can be of any help do not hesitate to contact me,”

“Certainly Sir,” said Bunter. Both knew it would never happen. It never did.

SEPTEMBER 1934

Mr Bunter was cross. The weather reflected his mood. It was a day where it veered from light to heavy rain with occasional torrential downpours, accompanied by heavy winds and temperatures unseasonably low for September. It had been a long, frustrating day in the stockbroking firm where he worked. He had missed his usual train and had to stand from Waterloo Station all the way home in a steamy fug generated by hundreds of wet fellow commuters. As he alighted from the train, the rain had worsened.

Mr Bunter put his hand down and then looked in exasperation at the train as it sped off southwards bearing 500 commuters and his umbrella. The rain turned from heavy to torrential. After a brief wait under shelter and with an irritated grunt and a dogged determination to make a bad situation, worse, pulled up the collar of his coat and set off to walk home.

20 minutes later, by now a sorry looking bedraggled figure, he made his way up the path of Bunter Villa, inserted the key in the lock and opened the front door. He was confronted by a sound, often heard in the dormitories of Greyfriars and in the upper rooms of Bunter Villa, but little loved in either.

“Snore!!!”

Mr Bunter pursed his lips and removed his hat and coat, placed them on the hat stand where they made small puddles on the linoleum floor, and made his way to the living room door and opened it.

“Snore!”

The sight before him did little to mollify his temper, and Mr Bunter was a short-tempered man to start with. It was his elder son sprawled in his armchair in front of the fire. Beside him, on a small table, and on his waistcoat, were the remnants of tea, sandwiches and cake provided by the ever-obliging Mrs Bunter. Mr Bunter strode over and shook him, none too gently, by the shoulder.

“Wharrer….. Gerrof Cherry, you beast. T’Aint rising bell,”

Shake Shake.

“Wake up, William. You aren’t at Greyfriars now,”

Bunter jammed on his glasses and looked up at the irate face of his father.

“Ah father… Sorry I thought it was that other beast Cherry,”

“What?

“I mean….Did you have a good day at the office?” Bunter looked up, hoping this friendly enquiry would assuage his father. It didn’t.

“Never mind that. I find you lazing around the house as you have been for the three months since you left Greyfriars. Living off my bounty ever since and making no serious attempt to get a job. I must ask you, Sir, what your intentions are?”

This sudden reversion to the language of a Victorian father interrogating his daughter’s suitor nonplussed Bunter who remained silent.

“I’m going to get changed now. When I return, we’ll have a man-to-man discussion,”

He squelched his way from the room, leaving a disconsolate Bunter fearing that a “man to man” discussion wouldn’t be to his advantage.

A few minutes later a slightly less damp Mr Bunter returned to the room and sat opposite his son.

“Now William, you left school over 10 weeks ago and have made no realistic attempt to get a job and pay your way. This can’t continue.”

“But father, I’m waiting for Mauly to come back to me….”

Mr Bunter snorted, “You know as well as I do that this won’t happen. What do you know of estate management? Less than I do, and I know nothing. Why has he not contacted you or take your calls? No, my boy, it’s time for you to get a job and contribute something to your upkeep. I’ve been thinking about this and I have a friend who owes me a favour and I’m sure he would be prepared to give you a job,”

“As what?”

“He runs a tea importing and blending business. What do you know about tea?”

Bunter considered this. He, in truth, had never thought about tea. He only knew that it comprised small black objects that you poured boiling water over to make a satisfactory beverage. Where they came from or what they were was of little or no interest. They were called leaves, so he supposed, now he thought of it, they must come from a type of tree despite their small size.

“Nothing,”

“Well, you soon will. I’ll speak to him tomorrow,”

With that Mr Bunter left the room.

“Oh dear,” said Bunter.

So it was that two weeks later Bunter and his father left Bunter Villa together at half past seven in the morning to catch a commuter train up to London. Bunter’s face looked as red and shiny as a pippin apple he sported a smart black suit offset with a bowler hat. His sharp appearance was due to the diligence of Mrs. Bunter in smartening up her son. Bunter settled glumly into the seat on the train, as his father immersed himself in the newspaper, and stared out the window. However, Bunter was nothing if not a natural optimist, and as he contemplated his future, he came to view the forthcoming job as a potential opportunity to shine. In his mind’s eye he was sitting in a large mahogany lined office giving orders to many minions, sending them scurrying to advance his and the company’s fortunes. He would be a “captain of industry”. The phrase appealed to him and he repeated into himself several times “a captain of industry”. That will show Wharton and the rest of them as they struggle through university, living off a pittance, whilst he a “captain of industry” drew a handsome salary in a successful large company. By the time the train reached the London terminus, he was in quite a cheery mood. He and his father parted company, and he took the tube to a station in the East End of London. He had received clear instructions how to get to the company premises. These he had forgotten. Two hours later, a dishevelled Bunter finally found himself outside the impressive Victorian facade of Andrews and Son Purveyors of Fine Tea. After losing his way several times he had asked friendly passers-by the way and receiving no doubt accurate instructions he followed the first, forget the rest and had to ask yet again. At one stage a group of small boys threw stones at him, attempting to knock off his bowler hat. Most struck his ample waistcoat. They easily avoided Bunter’s occasional rushes until they got bored and gave up. Bunter’s hat was still on his head, but the rest of him bore dirty marks where the stones had struck. His collar which had been so nicely starched earlier that morning was now limp and damp around his neck. 

Once he entered through the front doors and he was impressed with the elegant tall reception area, a monument to early Victorian architecture. To his right he saw a wooden door with the word secretary on it. Upon opening it he saw inside a middle-aged lady behind a desk at a typewriter. She looked at him with surprise at his dishevelled appearance.

“Can I help you?” she asked genially.

“I’m Bunter,” he replied assuming this was sufficient. She looked at him and raised her eyebrows inquisitively but said nothing.

“I am here for a meeting with Mr. Andrews. I’m due to start work today,”

“Ah yes. Were you not due here at 9 o’clock? It is now nearly 11,”

“I lost my way,”

“Mr. Andrews is at a meeting. If you take a seat, I’ll let you know when he becomes free,”

Bunter sat down in a comfortable chair in the corner. It was a warm day, and the sun shone through the tall windows, causing little dust particles to gleam as they danced through the air. Sounds of industry could be heard in the distance, as could the clacking of the typewriter. All of this had a soporific effect upon Bunter, already weary from his unnecessarily long journey, and after several minutes his eyes closed and gentle snoring noises emanated from him. Perhaps fortunately at this stage the secretary, Mrs. Foster, came over, shook him gently by the shoulder saying. 

“Mr. Andrews will see you now.”

 She looked disapprovingly at Bunter’s appearance and, retrieving a clothes brush, proceeded unbidden to brush Bunter’s waistcoat and trousers. She straightened and perked up his collar and said,

“Now that’s much better. You’re fit to go in now,”

Bunter was unsure whether to be grateful at her efforts to spruce him up or to be indignant at being treated as if he were a small child instead of an important public-school man. He mumbled a thanks, went into the adjoining office.

“Good morning, William,” Mr Andrews stood up to shake Bunter’s hand. “You are somewhat late?”

“Yes. I’m sorry I got lost on the way,”

“Still better late than never,” responded Mr. Andrews affably “Please take a seat. I know your father well and am sure that you will be a great acquisition to this company.”

After an exchange of pleasantries, he got down to business.

“You appreciate that employees start at the bottom to learn the business and work their way up. As no doubt you will,”

This did not reassure Bunter.

“I’m sure that you know that Andrews and Son are one the leading importers and blenders of tea in Britain. My grandfather founded the firm and the Son in the firm's title is my father, now semiretired. We are one of the leading importers in the country with branches throughout the Empire, in China and other tea producing countries. Tea is offloaded here from countries throughout the world as it has been for 150 years. We used to own a fleet of tea clippers although now merchant shippers bring in the teas we process. Andrews and Son is the leading blender of tea in the country.”

Mr. Andrews explained how his grandfather had worked his way up from being an apprentice on board a tea clipper to captain. He realised that with his expertise he could better run the business than his superiors. It helped that he had the wisdom to marry the daughter of the tea importing company which had employed him. In a short space of time, he had taken over the company, expanded it into a major concern before handing it over to his son, who developed it further and in turn passed it to the present Mr. Andrews.

At the end of the exposition, he pressed a button and asked his secretary to send Mr. Rogers to him. He explained to Bunter that Rogers would show him round and explain his duties.

Bunter enquired, “Will he be showing me to my office?”

“Ah! Your office? Yes, indeed he will show you to your office after your tour,”

Bunter wasn’t sure, but he thought he detected a slight smile on Mr. Andrew s face. The door opened and Mr. Rogers entered. He was a tall well-built man in his 50s, a former Sergeant Major in the Army who had seen service in the Boer and Great Wars. Bunter viewed this stern looking upright man sporting a pencil moustache with a slight feeling of apprehension. However, after the introduction he said pleasantly enough as he put his hand out to shake Bunter’s.

“Pleased to have you on board,”

His handshake was so firm that Bunter let out a short gasp.

“Rogers, would you be so good as to show Mr. Bunter around and then explain his duties and then escort him to his office,” 

“Yes, Sir” responded Rogers with a slight smile.

“Now William, as your father has, no doubt, explained, you will be on a six-month trial period. You will work in different departments to give you a full grasp of how the business works. We will then see how we are suited to each other. So good luck and I trust you will enjoy working here,”

“Come this way,” instructed Rogers and Bunter followed him obediently.

The next hour was bewildering for Bunter. He was taken to the loading bays overlooking the Thames where the tea was offloaded. Here burly men in brown coats and overalls moved the large wooden chests to the storage area. Everything was weighed, counted and invoiced. He saw the area where, under careful supervision, men in white coats checked the tea. The rooms where the tea was either resealed in bulk for onward sale to distributors who repackaged it under their own name, or for premium products packages in small bags under the Andrews label for the more discerning and wealthier customers. Rogers took him to the administrative area where serious looking men and women concentrated on paperwork. Everywhere there was a hubbub of noise as the employees bussled around in pursuit of the interests of the company. 

 The exception was the last area he was brought to. This was a long room at the top of the building. A large skylight flooded it with natural light. Several men in white coats padded quietly around the principal room and the smaller ones set off the side. There were innumerable jars on shelves around the room in the centre of which were sinks, kettles and cups. This, explained Rogers, was the testing and blending rooms. Bunter was drawn to the relative serenity of the room. It compared favourably to the rest of the building with the quiet, purposeful way the men in white coats went about their business. As if reading Bunter’s mind, Rogers said.

“Don’t worry, you won’t be working here. These chaps are specialists, carefully selected and trained because of their knowledge of teas from around the world. They could tell you in a flash where in the world any individual tea comes from or how it was blended. They sort out the good from the bad, or at least from the less good and how to blend teas to satisfy various markets. Quality control, it’s called. They work on the popular teas that you and I drink. But now you’ve seen everything it’s time for you to start working Bill,”

Bunter bridled, “My name’s not Bill. My friends call me Billy and to you I’m Mr. Bunter,”

Rogers’ eyes narrowed, and said curtly. “Come with me,”

They went along several corridors leading towards the rear of the building, close to the river and into a largish room. In it set against the walls were several metal lockers and dotted around were tables and chairs with about 20 men of varying ages dressed in the brown coats and overalls Bunter had seen earlier. Most were drinking tea dispensed from a large metal urn in the corner; clearly it was their morning break. Most of them looked up with interest as Bunter and Rogers entered.

“This is the new man,” he announced, “His name is Bill, although he likes to be known as Mr. Bunter,” There was a small guffaw. Bunter opened his mouth, as if to say something, but thought the better of it. 

“I shall now show Mr. Bunter to his office. Over here,”

A puzzled Bunter followed him over to a corner of the room where Rogers produced a key, opened a locker, and in a mock ceremonial gesture handed the key to him. There was another guffaw. The locker comprised two parts, on the left empty shelves and on the right a pair of overalls, a brown coat and a pair of galoshes.

“Your office, Bill. Now please change into your work clothes we’ll get started,”

Bunter looked disconsolately at the clothing and his face turned red with indignation.

“Do you expect me to wear these? What for?” he spluttered.

“Not only do I expect it, you will wear them. Mr. Andrews explained that you need to see all aspects of the work here. You can’t expect to be managing director just yet,” His tone sharpened 

“Now put them on and look sharpish and we’ll get started,”

Bunter slowly and in the lowest of moods changed. Gone was his illusion of smart offices and attendant attractive secretaries. For, perhaps, the first time in his life, he faced the unwelcome prospect of hard work. The disdainful looks and comments from his co-workers didn’t improve his mood as he struggled to put on his new uniform.

“Do you need your suit let out fatty?”

“Watch out for flying buttons,”

“Roll out the barrel,”

When he had changed Rogers asked in a kindlier fashion, “Do you want a cup of tea before you start?” 

Bunter eager to leave both the room and his new comrades declined.

“Right then grab that bucket and mop and follow me,” Bunter did as instructed and followed Rogers out into the long corridor to receive his instructions.

“Cleanliness in the building is essential. We’re handling foodstuffs and we pride ourselves on hygiene,” At this he looked at Bunter’s grubby hands disdainfully. “When I next see you, I expect your hands to be spotlessly clean. Since we are handling large quantities of tea, inevitably tea dust will get everywhere so the job of cleaning is unending. Water and cleaning materials are in that small storeroom there. I want this and the corridor directly above cleaned. That should take you to lunchtime and then I’ll take you round to the canteen,”

These last words cheered Bunter. He then he looked at the vast expanse of tiling to be mopped and his spirits sank again. Is this what it has come to? he thought to himself, that he William George Bunter, public school man, should be expected to act as a drudge. Surely his father didn’t mean that he should have to humiliate himself in this manner? But then he thought he probably did. With joint emotions of outrage and depression turned slowly to his task. 

He set to work without a will. He moved along the corridor in a desultory fashion splashing water over the tiling with a gay abandon, waving his mop in sweeping moves, rearranging the water and dirt without removing either. People walking up or down the corridor did so gingerly avoiding the worst of the water and glared at Bunter. Some made rude comments which Bunter either did not hear or in his self-obsessed misery ignored. Just before one o’clock Mr. Rogers returned. He stared at Bunter who had just completed, in his own fashion, half of one corridor. 

“What on earth?” he exclaimed. Bunter looked round at the watery scene before him.

“I just did what you told me to,”

“Now listen here, my lad, this won’t do. Do you take me for a bloody fool?”

Bunter looked at him with alarm as Rogers’ voice raised and face became flushed with anger

“When I give you a job to do, I expect it to be done properly. You haven’t done a quarter of the job and you made a right mess of the bit you attempted. I gave you an easy one to start with. Nobody, I repeat nobody, makes a fool of me. When I give you a task you DO IT,”

The last words were shouted as he pushed his face close to Bunter’s and said.

“You understand?”

“Yes,” gasped Bunter. 

“It’s my job to make sure you, and the rest of the spotty Herberts work. Do you understand? You mess with me and I promise that you’ll regret it. Do you understand?”

Bunter cowered back and said meekly, “Yes,”

“Then we’ll forget this morning and you can start afresh this afternoon. But don’t try it on with me. I know the tricks,”

Bunter nodded miserably.

“Good, then I’ll take you to the canteen,”

Even these words, normally so welcome to Bunter failed to raise his spirits.

And so, Bunter began his career in the world of commerce. That first day, working until half-past five felt interminable. Wherever he went, whatever job he was given Rogers seemed to be at his elbow supervising, criticising so that he hadn’t a moment’s rest. The following days were a nightmare. He was starting at eight am so had to leave the house before 7, albeit now without the company of his father, who caught a later train. When he remonstrated with Mr. Bunter about the nature of his work, he received the reply.

“A bit of hard work will do you no harm. I know it’s a fresh experience for you. And” he added menacingly, “If you don’t see this through then it may be time for you to strike out on your own rather than relying on your parents to support you,” 

No quarter or sympathy was to be had in Bunter Villa and Bunter was dispatched to work regular as clockwork despite his suffering from pneumonia, flu, lumbago, sprained ankles and various self-diagnosed ailments. The work, though no more palatable, became routine and with familiarity became somewhat easier. It couldn’t be said, though, that he was an enthusiastic or hard worker and Rogers had to keep him under constant supervision. At least he now had money of his own from his modest wages, since, surprisingly, Mr. Bunter paid for his train season ticket and didn’t demand a contribution to the household.

“We’ll wait until you finish your probation period and then we’ll see,”

His money didn’t stretch far after he succumbed to the lure of the nearest café or restaurant where buns, cakes or any sticky comestible was to be had. The food in the works canteen was plentiful and to his satisfaction, so there were consolations. His relations with his immediate work colleagues were another matter. Bunter’s arrogant self-regard, his snobbish disdain for the ‘lower classes’, which he didn’t bother to hide made him as unpopular as it was possible to be. He was a prime candidate for bullying and there were several incidents. They physically attacked him on one occasion and on another time, he was debagged. Mr. Rogers, who it has to be said had no great affection for Bunter, stepped in. He was a fair man and wouldn’t tolerate anyone under him being mistreated. So, Bunter and the rest co-existed in an uneasy and silent truce. This didn’t suit him either though, since he was a gregarious and indeed garrulous individual who liked the sound of his own voice and an audience for it. Eventually he found two younger office workers to sit with at lunchtime and, unless they saw him first, gave them the benefit of his company and opinions.

After three months they moved him to the administrative section. He was painfully aware that he had thus far made a poor impression. Rogers, as stated a scrupulously fair man, told Bunter he couldn’t overlook his laziness, and inability to carry out the simplest of tasks unless closely supervised and would report back accordingly. His time in the office section couldn’t be regarded as any more successful. Although relieved from the drudgery of manual labour and now able to wear his own clothes, his disinterest in the work together with an unwillingness or inability to learn what was required rendered him of little value here either.

As the six months of his probationary period approached, he was only too well aware that he was unlikely to be retained. His immediate superior in the office, Mr. Hagan, fed up with his recalcitrant attitude told him he was too stupid, too lazy and too unwilling to merit a job in his department. An indignant Bunter recognised nothing of himself in this description but could scarcely fail to realise that the genial Mr. Andrews was unlikely to employ him after such a reference. He shuddered at the prospect of the consequences should his father carry out his threat. 

One morning Bunter, reduced to the role of messenger boy, was dispatched to the blending room to deliver a parcel. He handed the package to the addressee Robin Jackman, one of the admired white coated ones. He thanked Bunter cursorily, but as he turned to leave called him back.

“Your name’s Bunter, isn’t it?”

“Yes,”

“An old Greyfriars man?”

“Yes,”

” So, I heard. I went to Rookwood although I suppose that was before your time. Let me see. You would have known the Wingates?”

“Yes. He was School Head when I was in the Remove,”

“That was George?”

“Yes,”

“I’m a great friend of his older brother Dave. But you wouldn’t have known him I don’t suppose?”

“I can’t say I ever heard of him,”

“He was also a captain of Greyfriars but as I say before your time. So, you’ve joined Andrews? It’s a great company to work for as no doubt you’re finding. I take it you’re being put through your paces on probation?”

“Yes I am. Nearly finished it,”

“And how are you getting on?”

“Oh swimmingly,” Bunter lied. 

“Oh Goodo. I daresay we’ll see a lot of each other over the years,”

Bunter doubted it but just replied “I hope so”

As Bunter turned to walk away Jackson said.

“Wait, a second do you mind if I try something with you?”

“No,”

He then spoke to one of his colleagues further along the room hunched over a series of small handleless cups.

“It might be interesting to get the opinion of an average tea drinker. You are an average tea drinker aren’t you,” This was addressed to Bunter.

“I suppose so,”

Jackson’s colleague, Allie Jeffreys, shrugged his shoulders 

“Well, if you think there’s any point by all means,” he said in a strong Scottish accent.

Jackson turned back to Bunter.

“We’ve been experimenting with a new blend and would like a comparison test. Try these two teas and see what, if any, difference you find between them,”

“Yes OK. How long will it take? Just clear it with my boss? He’ll be expecting me back,”

“Don’t worry I’ll tell him you’re helping us out for the rest of the day.”

Bunter cheered up at this. A day of drinking tea was preferable to running around, or in Bunter’s case strolling lethargically around, with his deliveries. 

“We want you to try these two cups of tea, don’t swallow just roll it round in your mouth and then spit out and tell me what you think,” 

Bunter did as he was asked.

“Well, what do you think? Could you tell the difference and if so, which did you prefer?”

Bunter thought for a moment “I preferred the first one,”

Jackson let out a short laugh and turned to Jeffreys “See, I told you so,”

“Hardly a brilliant piece of science. A single test,” was the derisory response. “Here let me. Do you mind trying that again?

A puzzled Bunter agreed and Jeffreys produced two more cups saying “Try again”. Once again Bunter said he preferred number one. Several times he went through the same procedure. Sometimes he chose the first cup other times the second and on a couple of occasions spotted a trick when he said both tasted the same.

Jackson asked “What did you think of them?”

“I don’t know why you keep giving me the same two teas,”

“You always knew which one you felt was better?”

“Yes,”

“And why did you prefer it?”

At this Bunter was stumped. He hadn’t the vocabulary to express why he regarded one as superior to the other “I don’t know” he replied simply.

“We’d like you to come back here tomorrow. You can assume that you’ll be spending the day here and I’ll clear it with your department. Arrive at 10 and just wear your normal clothes. We’ll provide you with a coat. Does that suit you alright?”

It did.

After he left Jeffreys asked “What was that about?”

“He could tell the difference. I told you that that inferior blend was noticeably poorer and Bunter just proved it,”

“I don’t accept that. He may have an unusually developed palate for tea – not your normal undiscerning tea drinker,”

“Perhaps. Or are you just a poor loser? That’s why I’ve asked him back tomorrow. Just as an experiment. Let’s see just how good he is or if he’s a one-off fluke,”

“Should be interesting,”

Despite protestations to a sceptical Mr. Bunter he was bundled off to the train at the usual time. Consequently, he arrived in the blending department well before those who worked there. When Jackson arrived, he was surprised to see Bunter.

“Well, you’re certainly in in good time,” he said cheerily “I like your enthusiasm though we won’t be ready for you for another hour. So just take it easy and we’ll be with you.”

Bunter needed no injunction to take it easy and shortly the soporific sounds, in such contrast to the rest of the building had him fast asleep. Jeffreys had joined Jackson, and they set about working on a series of preparations of tea. Eventually they turned their attention to Bunter and woke him up. Then they gave him several cups and asked him to place them in order. Sometimes he was asked to put them in order of personal preference. On other occasions they gave him the same teas to compare, and he always recognized them to be the same. After an hour of this and with Bunter getting jaded Jackson called a halt.

“There’s no real point in continuing. Your taste buds must be swamped by this time. An impressive performance young Bunter,”

Bunter preened although he had little idea of what exactly he had done to merit such praise.

“How are you enjoying the work in the office?”

“I’m not. It’s beneath me if truth be told,”

“Oh! Is it indeed?” Bunter’s response took him back a bit.

“Well anyhow we’ll discuss that but for tomorrow return here at 9 again. You needn’t check in below. It that OK?”

It was.

When Bunter left, they looked at each other. Jeffreys spoke first.

“The man’s a fool but there’s no doubt that he has, what in music terms would be described as perfect pitch. He could even tell us if one tea was a mixture of what he had previously tasted. He not only could read my googlies he smashed them for six. You or I, even with our experience couldn’t have done any better,”

“Speak for yourself,” responded Jackson, “But I take your point. The question is, could he turn this talent into becoming a proper taster and blender or buyer? That’s the real question but I think we should give him a shot at it. Do you agree?”

“Agreed,”

“We’ll suggest it to Mr. Andrews,”

The next day Bunter arrived in at 9am and was summonsed to Mr. Andrew’s room. The first time he had returned since his first day. Arrayed in from him were, apart from Mr. Andrews, Jackson and Jeffreys, two departmental heads and Bunter’s immediate superior in the office. He felt intimidated, but Mr. Andrew’s greeting was reassuring.

“Come in William and take a seat. I suppose you know why you’ve been asked to attend this meeting?”

Bunter had sinned too often and called to account for his sins to make him feel comfortable in the presence of authority.

“No sir,”

“You needn’t look so worried,” he and the others smiled reassuringly, apart from his departmental head who scowled. “Yesterday you were put through a test, even if you didn’t realise it. And you passed with flying colours,”

Bunter looked puzzled.

“You appear to have an almost unique, if untrained, ability to differentiate between different types and blends of teas. This is a talent you could put to use for the company. We want you to transfer to the tasting department starting at once. That might suit you better than your present or earlier postings,”

He added dryly. The mild rebuke showed he was aware of Bunter’s manifest failings. 

“It involves a pay increase to four pounds ten a week. I take it that’s acceptable?”

“Oh yes, sir” Bunter gasped

“You will have to turn this gift of yours into something of practical value. At the moment you have no knowledge to go with this ability. I will expect you to work hard under the supervision of Mr. Jackman and Jeffreys.”

He laid emphasis on these last words staring directly at Bunter so that even he realised that Mr. Andrews expected something better from him.

“You will be on probation for a further 12 months to get the training you need. If all goes well then you may expect to become a full-time member of staff. It is up to you. Work hard and you will become a member of our professional staff. I may ask you to go abroad to production areas but you will find it a satisfying and well rewarded job,”

Bunter smiled. A self-satisfied smirk. He always knew that he had a special talent unrecognized by anyone but himself. This would show Wharton and the rest. He’d rise in the ranks of this major company; be the captain of industry he had anticipated on the morning of his first day. Everyone has a special ability. Bunter had found his. Bunter smirked.