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A Gentleman and a Pickpocket in Piccadilly
“Simon, have you finished your breakfast? We have to get moving!”
“Yes Grandpa, I’m coming.”
Simon jumps up from the breakfast table, plants a soft kiss on Grandma Mary’s cheek and runs down the elegant marble staircase. “Are we driving to Fortnum & Mason in the coach?” he asks excitedly.
“No, we’re walking. It’s only a short distance to Piccadilly if we go down Oxford and Regent Streets and then cross over the Circus.”
What Simon sees as he enters the brazen double doors at Fortnum & Mason at his grandfather’s side leaves him agasp. The shop is elegant and noble, and there are wondrous aromas in the air. Simon discovers rare spices and specialties from the wide world on display, along with a few wines and spirits and a huge selection of teas from many different countries.
A tall, lean, middle-aged man approaches the pair with a smile on his face. His dark suit and black bow tie lead Simon to the conclusion that he knows a thing or two about this shop.
“Good morning Simon, how do you do?”
“Good morning Richard – splendid! May I introduce you to my grandson, Simon? As you already know, he’s Josephine-Christine’s youngest.”
“Hello Simon. Is this your first time in London?”
“Yes, it’s my first time!”
Grandpa Simon turns to his grandson and says, “Richard Morrison is one of Fortnum & Mason’s managers and a friend of the family.”
“Good morning Mr Morrison”, says Simon, smiling.
“I apologise for just ambushing you like this, Richard. But it would please me very much if Simon can learn some more about tea and the tea trade first-hand.”
“That suits me fine, since I don’t have any special duties to carry out today. Would you be so kind as to follow me to the storeroom?”
Walking down long, sporadically-lit corridors, separated from one another by heavy, oak doors, both Simon the older and the younger follow Richard Morrison’s quick strides into the large warehouses. Simon gets the impression that this Mr. Morrison is a true gentleman: he is wearing a perfectly fitted suit complemented by the bow tie and highly polished shoes; he is tall and slender and keeps perfectly upright while walking – as though he has swallowed a broomstick. Simon studies him carefully. His bony fingers, in which each joint is clearly visible, suggest that Mr. Morrison has never spent a day doing hard, physical labour.
Simon is torn from his thoughts when he hears Richard Morrison saying, “We must work absolutely dryly here. I mean to say that moisture damages the tea stored here, as does too much light. Simon, there are many tonnes of various teas stored here, that come from every tea-growing country on Earth. The bulk of it, however, comes from China and India.”
“Are there different kinds of teas like the grape varieties used in winemaking?”
“There is an original tea plant species called the Camellia thea sinensis. And there is also Camellia thea assamica, which was found in Assam, India last year. According to legend, the history of tea begins with the Chinese emperor Shên Nung, who ruled from the Honan Province – south of the Yellow River in 2737 BC. He used to have his water boiled for hygienic purposes, and one day some tea leaves floating in the wind drifted into his hot water. The water then turned golden. The emperor tried it and felt refreshed.”
“Do you mean to say that this happened 2737 years before Christ was born? It’s now 1824 – that means it happened 4561 years ago!” says Simon, astonished.
The three wander around the tea stores for hours on end. They speak about the growing conditions and maintenance of tea plants, and about the different processing methods to turn the plants into black, green and oolong tea. As they do so, they keep stopping in front of piles of tea boxes to smell their contents and to examine the tea leaves carefully.
“Mr. Morrison, how did the tea actually come to England?”, asks Simon once they are finished with their tour.
“In the mid-seventeenth century, tea became more and more popular in Europe, and therefore became more available. Those responsible for this were the East India Companies, which were commissioned by their governments to engage in trade with India and East Asia – and especially with China and Japan. The company responsible for England was – and still is – the British East India Company. In 1800 there were already five-and-a-half million pounds of tea imported into England each year. And you can count on the same amount again being smuggled in without paying duty tax.”
Simon hears a light squeaking sound, then a thud, as though a door has just been opened and shut. Next comes the sound of heels clicking on a hard floor, and suddenly a young, blonde lady is standing next to Simon and is smiling at the group.
“Yes, Ann?” asks Mr. Morrison.
“Mr. Morrison, the tea sampling is now ready.”
“Thank you Ann, we’ll come with you right away,” says the manager, turning to his guests. “Well, you two: I’ve arranged a tea tasting session so that Simon can get a sense of the essential tea varieties.”
“That’s great, Mr. Morrison – thank you!”, blurts out an impressed Simon.
He follows Ann to the tasting room with his grandfather and Richard Morrison. It’s a very sterile looking, lightly furnished room in which everything is white. There are two things that strike Simon as positive: the light flooding through the great big windows and the wonderful aroma of tea emanating from the white teacups.
The day goes past so quickly there and before he knows it, Simon and his grandfather are saying goodbye to Richard Morrison.
“Richard, you have to let me know if I owe you anything for this tour. I have a crate of Château Palmer red wine from Bordeaux and it’s reserved for you.”
“But Simon, it was a pleasure!”, objects Richard Morrison, holding up his right hand in protest.
“Goodbye Mr. Morrison”, says Simon, and a moment later he is standing with his grandfather on the footpath.
“Grandpa, that was great!” says Simon to his grandfather as they walk down Piccadilly.
“So my promises weren’t exaggerated?”
“No, that was very exciting – all those fragrances and different flavours!”
There is a lot of hustle and bustle in Piccadilly. Coaches and carriages jostle for space on the road, while crowds of people rush pell-mell along the footpaths.
Grandpa Simon bumps into someone with his right shoulder and turns around in shock. He sees a man with a long coat looking back at him angrily as he hurries away and shouts: “Watch out, why don’t you! Next time look where you are going!”
Simon Hill apologises, reflects for a moment and then, as a reflex, he grips the spot where he keeps his pocket watch. “Gone … Police, police! It’s gone! Someone stole my pocket watch! The man in the long coat … Police, police!”
Simon quickly catches a glimpse of the man in the long coat. “Police? What’s the point of that? How can they get here so fast?” he thinks to himself before running off in pursuit of the man. Zigzagging, he dodges the many people on the footpath. Concentrating and without a sound, he sprints behind his target. In time, he gets closer to the man in the long coat, who keeps turning from one street into the next. The man either feels safer the further he gets from the crime scene, or he is running out of stamina.
Simon wonders how he should get his grandfather’s gold watch back from the man. Asking politely wouldn’t work – after all, he is maybe four or five times older than Simon. He then has an idea that could work. In one short spurt, he sprints directly up to the man from behind and with lightning speed jumps feet first between the thief’s legs to trip him over. Still in full sprint, the man cannot move his right leg forward and falls with all his weight on his left knee before ending up sprawled out on the cobblestones.
He lets out a scream and a wail as Simon jumps straight back to his feet. But how to get to the watch that the thief is clutching in his right fist? He kicks the man in the face with full force. The man cries out once more, opening his hands and drawing them up to cover his face. In doing so, he leaves the pocket watch on the ground. Simon picks it up and says politely, “Thank you for my grandfather’s watch!”
“Ow, you bastard! Some day I’ll get my hands on you and then…”
Simon doesn’t hear the rest. He has already turned around and is heading back toward his grandfather.
A fairly large crowd of people have gathered around the spot where he left his grandfather in Piccadilly. In the centre, Simon can see his grandfather and a policeman, who is taking notes. He pushes his way through. “Grandpa, excuse me, here is your pocket watch.” Simon puts the watch into his grandfather’s left hand.
“Simon, how did you get it back?”
“Who is that, Mr. Hill?” interjects the policeman.
“This is my grandson, Simon. He ran after the thief … and he managed to get the pocket watch back. But how Simon?"
“There isn’t much to tell. Can we go home now?”
“Mr. Hill, what should I do with the report? You now have your watch back and we’re not likely to readily catch the thief.”
“Thank you sir. I think we can let the matter rest after all.”
Late in the afternoon, at tea time, Simon Hill tells his wife, Mary about the events at Fortnum & Mason and the adventure involving the pickpocket. How Simon managed to get the watch back is a mystery to his grandfather. But now that he has had a few days to get to know the boy, the old man knows it will remain a mystery. Simon is back in the shop once again, studying the labels of different wines, whiskies, cognacs and other delicacies.
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