Glory Boys by Harry Bingham Page B

quoted. ‘Don’t mind Powell too much, old fellow. He likes to be a bit fierce.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Larry Ronson, by the way. Most of us do have first names around here, though it’s easy to forget it at times.’
    The other men came over too.
    Leonard McVeigh was a bull-necked red-head, with a strong grip and a look of military directness. He mangled Willard’s hand, grunting ‘Good to have you with us.’ He held Willard’s eyes for a second, as though checking to see how much competitive threat the newcomer might pose, before dropping back and letting the last two men come close.
    ‘Iggy Claverty,’ said one, as tall as Willard though not as broad, olive-skinned. ‘And before you dare to ask, Iggy is short for Ignacio. And before you dare to speculate, yes my mother is Spanish but no, I am not secretly a Catholic; no, I do not stink of garlic; and no, I do not have three hundred poor relations living in Spain. Finally, before you decide what to call me, you should know that any use of the name Ignacio will buy you a kick in the seat of your pants.’
    ‘OK, Iggy, I’ll remember.’
    The last man was Charlie Hughes. Right from that moment, Hughes struck Willard as a misfit. The other men – Ronson, Claverty, McVeigh – were the sort of fellows Willard had roomed with at Princeton. They were smart enough, good-looking enough, well dressed. Men like these had been the life-blood of Princeton, standard issue for the East Coast social scene. Willard’s four sisters flirted with men like these. They petted with men like these. One day they’d marry men like these.
    But not Hughes.
    Hughes was no shorter than Ronson and not much lighter. But where you could imagine all the other men playing tennis or a game of ball or messing around in boats or on the beach, Hughes was different. He stood out. His hands were fidgety and nervous. His spectacles were thick and bookish. His clothes were decent enough, but the cut wasn’t quite right, the fashions weren’t quite of the moment, the poor fellow’s tie wasn’t even tied right.
    ‘Hughes. Charlie Hughes. Hello. Nice to have you join us. Really.’
    He nodded once too often, shook Willard’s hand once more than he should have done.
    Willard, whose instinct for these things was immaculate, instantly placed Hughes at the bottom of the pack. The pack-leader he guessed was probably Larry Ronson, for his intelligence and likeability, though Willard couldn’t see Leo McVeigh being bossed around by any of them. That left Iggy Claverty, court jester to Ronson’s prince. Willard’s colossal debt and his bootblack-style income was a disaster whichever way he looked at it. But at least his new work colleagues were ones he was sure he’d get on with. His nerves began to recede.
    ‘And allow me to introduce you to the sun of our little solar system, the flower of our garden, the lovely Miss Annabelle Hooper.’
    Larry Ronson took Willard over to the secretary’s circular desk. Miss Hooper, blushing, stood up to shake Willard’s hand. She was mid-twenties, brunette, light blue eyes, freckled, petite. She was pretty, but unspectacular, the sort of girl you’d be happy to kiss, but not the sort you’d want on your arm anywhere important.
    ‘Just Annie, for heaven’s sake. Don’t listen to Larry.’
    ‘What, never?’ said Willard. ‘You’re very stern.’
    ‘Oh no!’
    ‘Oh yes!’ said Ronson. ‘Powell barketh, but Miss Hooper biteth. And if she says she don’t, then she speaketh not the truth. See this?’ He held up a brown manila folder, perhaps half an inch thick. ‘This may look like office stationery. It may feel, smell and – for all I know – taste like office stationery. But all that’s a snare and a deception. These files will consume your life. They’re the curse of Powell Lambert. Mr Claverty, if you please…’
    Ronson handed the file to Iggy Claverty, who took it with an air of exaggerated ceremony. Bringing the file over to