My Name is....

You've met them, haven't you? Those people who mimic the way the person they're speaking to speaks. Do you ever wonder what they really sound like? I can tell you. They sound like me. Strange though, isn't it? Even I know that. I have my reasons, I don't suppose they are the same as anyone else's. Can you guess mine? I suppose not, why would you? What do you know about me? Or care for that matter.

Sometimes it goes too far. I made too close acquaintance with a gutter in Peckham, not long ago. It's not often that people notice, really, if you're subtle enough. The hint of an accent, the ghost of their grammar, the sheen of their syntax and, of course, the voice of their vocabulary, that's all you need. People are flattered, mostly. They like you, without quite knowing why. That's not the reason I do it, although I suspect that might number among others' motives.

My job took me to places. Some places on the average bucket list, most not. There are Brits everywhere and they'll always find you. The expatriate wants you to tell him that Britain is broken, that there are too many immigrants, to tell them that they've done the right thing. Unless they've got a local for a spouse, they won't speak much of whatever it is the locals do. He, or she, will speak an English that's not quite old-fashioned, but certainly isn't current. Of course, they pick up street-slang filtered through the prism of imported videos or satellite television, but it won't feel right in their mouths and so they avoid it, unless they consider you a boon companion. These are the last people unaffected by memes; if something should penetrate their armour, its time will already be past. I copied these people too. They told me secrets, and were less good at telling me lies because of it.

Sometimes I would pretend to be a remittance man, or an import/export agent, or even a reporter. What they used to call a stringer. The internet has put paid to that profession I should think.

I met George in Lagos. His accent was not like that of his wife. It placed him as having left Small Heath in about 1970, every 'fab', with its percussive 'b' following the shortened 'a', caused another wrinkle in Elizabeth's forehead. It was 1990, Elizabeth was excited about Diana's visit, although George thought Charles' visit to the refineries might be more useful. Shell-BP employed many consultants like George; fixers, middle-men or just people who knew people. Or said they did. George had been in Lagos only since 1979. He still called his former home Rhodesia, so naturally I did too. There was not a trace of the yarp, and the word kaffir never passed his lips. He still said darkie, and it placed him in time and aspic forever.

'Is it okay then, what you do?' I asked.

'Roight, money for old rope,'

'But what is it... exactly?'

'Oi know people. Important people.'

'How?'

He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together – and I stifled a laugh.

'Do you know ----------- ?'

I named a known gangster reputed to have the ear of President Babangida's brother-in-law.

'Yes, of course,' the words spilled out. He cleared his throat, 'I mean... I know someone...'

'Who knows someone? That's what I meant, George, of course.'

We were in the bar of the Lagos Hilton. I wasn't staying there and doubtless George and Elizabeth lived in some expatriate ghetto near the embassy district. I was paying for the drinks, George was on Gordon's and tonic, but his wife was drinking Dubonnet. I would not have been surprised to see them smoking Guards.

'Well, what would you need? A meeting?'

'With Babangida? No. I'd need to talk to... someone.' I laughed.

George gave a hiccough of a laugh. Elizabeth's lip curled, before she took a belt of her drink that almost emptied the glass. She looked the kind of 50 that was still going to turn heads for another year or so. The stringy muscles of her neck were prominent, if George said or did something she thought crass. Those muscles got a lot of exercise.

Elizabeth, as I said, did not speak like her husband. This was a little tricky: but I have always found that, unless you're in conversation with a Cockney and a Scot, you can pull it off.

'Mrs Cross, can I get you another?'

'I should like that very much.'

'Do you miss it?' I asked.

'Rhodesia?'

Her eyebrows were already plucked high, they almost reached her hairline at this.

'Home.'

She gave a laugh as bitter as day-old coffee.

'Home is where the heart is? I don' t think much of that. You can take all that guff two ways, you know.'

'What do you mean?'

She looked over at George, who was looking down into the clear gin.

'Take that other one, there's no place like home. Well, there you are...'

'Sorry, I don't get it.' I said

But I did. It gets to a stage where no place feels like home. I looked at George.

'So... a meeting? Will there be any special arrangements?'

He looked up and I could see the bitter retiree he would be in only a few years time,

'Of course there will, I take it you – or your people – can afford it?'

'My people? Don't worry, it will be covered.'

He gave me a ratty look, 'A retainer?'

Elizabeth looked away. My hand was in my inside pocket. George became quite forceful

'Not here!'

I'd had no intention of handing him money in the Hilton Bar. I just wanted to see if he was a predictable as I thought. I handed over 2000 US Dollars in the men's lavatory. A uniformed flunky did not blink as we entered the same cubicle. I checked his face for a smirk as we left a few minutes later, but there was nothing. Elizabeth had filled her glass on my tab, I noticed, as I went to the bar to pay. She raised the glass to me as I left.

George's arrest and deportation got a tiny squib on page two of the Daily Punch a month later, I left for Bangkok the next day. I wondered who George had upset. The Service was usually quite tolerant of such people. Sometimes they even used them for some task that needed doing but not by themselves. I just moved the inconvenient ones on, a word here, an invented plot there. The only essential item from Burundi to Bangkok was money. There never was any need for the Double-O agent, really.

It is impossible for an Englishman to open his mouth without making some other Englishman despise him.

George Bernard Shaw