Harlequins

     “An unusual combination,” Bond observed some ten minutes later, as the chef expertly got to work on him from his feet to his neck, melting away the tensions built up over the day. “A chef as well as a masseur. Which came first?”
     “The masseur part. I had my own parlour once before I got interested in cookery. I just do it now to keep my hand in and make an extra bob or two.”
     “You’re very good,” said Bond, meaning it. Certainly better at massaging than boiling eggs if the four minute egg he had ordered at breakfast was anything to go by, Bond thought, for if the same timing had been applied when Roger Bannister ran the first four minute mile he would have ran the first four minute three miles, and probably a bit more as well.
     “Thank you I’m sure. Here on business are you Mr Band?”
     “Yes.”
     “From the Smoke?”
     Did people still call London the Smoke? Apparently in Stockport they did. “Yes.”
     “Arsenal or Chelsea?”
     “Pardon?”
     “Football. Or Spurs maybe?”
     “Oh. No, I’m a rugger man;Harlequins when I can manage it; I don’t see too much football.”
     “I wish I didn’t.” The chef said this with great feeling but then bucked up immediately. “Mind you things could change, and soon, we’re expecting big things at County now we’ve been taken over. Yes, apparently he’s seriously minted this Dr Goldnojaws character from what they say, and if the sky’s his limit who knows?”
     Bond turned to face the chef, half sitting up. “Dr Goldnojaws? Someone named Dr Goldnojaws has bought your football club?”
     “Lock stock and barrel. The works.”
     Bond raised a quizzical eyebrow. “How very interesting.”
     “How’s that?”
     “I mean for you. And the town’s football supporters,” said Bond, anxious that the chef didn’t suspect it was Goldnojaws himself who was of interest to him. One couldn’t be too careful.