No Sacred Cows

I moved from Leigh-on-Sea to Harrogate in about 1969. Not long before that, when I was ten or eleven, my parents had organised a solo trip to London for me, including an overnight stay with a relative, for reasons I can no longer remember. Having never travelled alone anywhere before, except a five minute stroll to Grindley’s bookshop in the High Street, I proudly took the train from Westcliff to Fenchurch Street, then skilfully negotiated the Tube into central London.

At some point, with time to kill, I found myself wandering up Shaftesbury Avenue from Trafalgar Square. A small group of men had gathered around a box on the pavement, apparently playing cards. I would now recognise them instantly as a thoroughly shady collection of individuals. At that age, however, I merely saw an intriguing game and an easy way to double my money.

It was the three-card trick. I watched closely and correctly identified the jack each time. Naturally, this was because I was being allowed to. Then, in a moment of catastrophic confidence, I slid my entire travelling fund onto the box: the princely sum of £10, which in those days was a considerable amount of money.

I lost.

The box, the cards and the entire little crowd disappeared almost simultaneously. I was left virtually penniless, with barely enough money to telephone home.

My mother answered. Tearfully, I confessed what had happened. She told me to wait by the telephone box and said she would call me back as soon as possible.

In the meantime, she telephoned my Auntie Joan, the mother of my cousins Susan and Jenny. Joan was not a police officer, but worked as personal assistant and administrator to the Commissioner at Scotland Yard. When the telephone rang again, emergency funding had been arranged. I was to present myself at Scotland Yard at a fixed time, where Auntie Joan would meet me in reception.

I had always found her rather intimidating. Her forceful personality was matched by an equally commanding physical presence, and I approached Scotland Yard with considerable trepidation. I made absolutely certain that I arrived early.

At the appointed hour, to the second, Auntie Joan materialised.

She handed over the money, delivered a brief, stern and entirely unsmiling lecture, then turned on her heel and strode back to work.

Although I have since learned exactly how the tricksters perform their trick, I never dared gamble on the three-card con again. Sixty years on, the memory of Auntie Joan’s withering stare and terrifying voice remains more than sufficient deterrent.