Fast Fiction: Major Gorringe
“No bloody backbone.’’ said Major Gorringe. But what did the stiff-upper-lip Major die of? There was laughter in the club when the question was asked, as Richard Mallinson reveals.
'No,' said Major Gorringe, who had chaired the selection panel (in my favour), 'we didn't want one of those gabby lawyer types as our MP.'
'Hear, hear,' was the response in the local club.
'All wind and waffle, let 'em join Labour, that's what I say.'
'Hear, hear.'
'No bloody backbone, that's their trouble,' he went on.
'Hear, hear.'
'Now,' he barked, 'whose bloody round is it?'
All eyes went down.
'M-mine,' I said, though it wasn't.
*
Several years later I asked in the club, 'What did he die of?'
There was silence for a while, then somebody said 'Everything' and they all fell about in hysterics. After a pause, so did I.
Order having been restored, somebody shouted 'No bloody backbone' and off we went again.
*
The day before the funeral I visited his widow, who was much younger than I'd expected.
After accepting a whisky, I boldly asked, 'Do I take it that you were his second wife?'
She laughed. 'Oh no,' she said, 'I was his fifth . . . You see, there was something about him that women found irresistible - and impossible.'
*
Later, when the girl from the local paper asked me for a comment, I said, 'We cannot calculate the loss, the Major Gorringes of our party are beyond price.'
Of course I should have foreseen the headline:
Tory stalwart was priceless, says MP.
