The Collected Short Stories (24 page)

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Authors: Jeffrey Archer

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“That's the final straw,” said Michael, when he finished reading the article for a third time. Carol realized that nothing she could say or do was going to stop her husband now.
The following Monday, Michael contacted a local solicitor, Reginald Lomax, who had been at school with them both. Armed with the article, Michael briefed Lomax on the conversation that the
Chronicle
had felt injudicious to publish in any great detail. Michael also gave Lomax his own detailed account of what had happened at the club that morning, and handed him four pages of handwritten notes to back his claims up.
Lomax studied the notes carefully.
“When did you write these?”
“In my car, immediately after we were suspended.”
“That was circumspect of you,” said Lomax. “Most circumspect.” He stared quizzically at his client over the top of his half-moon spectacles. Michael made no comment. “Of course you must be aware that the law is an expensive pastime,” Lomax continued. “Suing for slander will not come cheap, and even with evidence as strong as this”—he tapped the notes in front of him—“you could still lose. Slander depends so much on what other people remember or, more important, will admit to remembering.”
“I'm well aware of that,” said Michael. “But I'm determined to go through with it. There were over fifty people in the club within earshot that morning.”
“So be it,” said Lomax. “Then I shall require five thousand pounds in advance as a contingency fee to cover all the immediate costs and the preparations for a court case.” For the first time Michael looked hesitant.
“Returnable, of course, but only if you win the case.”
Michael removed his checkbook and wrote out a figure that, he reflected, would only just be covered by the remainder of his severance pay.
The writ for slander against Philip Masters was issued the next morning by Lomax, Davis & Lomax.
A week later the writ was accepted by another firm of solicitors in the same town, actually in the same building.
Back at the club, debate on the rights and wrongs of
Gilmour
v.
Masters
did not subside as the weeks passed.
Club members whispered furtively among themselves whether they might be called to give evidence at the trial. Several had already received letters from Lomax, Davis & Lomax requesting statements about what they could recall being said by the two men that morning. A good many pleaded amnesia or deafness but a few turned in graphic accounts of the quarrel. Encouraged, Michael pressed on, much to Carol's dismay.
One morning about a month later, after Carol had left for the bank, Michael Gilmour received a call from Reginald Lomax. The defendant's solicitors, he was informed, had requested a “without prejudice” consultation.
“Surely you're not surprised by that after all the evidence we've collected?” Michael replied.
“It's only a consultation,” Lomax reminded him.
“Consultation or no consultation, I won't settle for less than one hundred thousand pounds.”
“Well, I don't even know that they—” began Lomax.
“I do, and I also know that for the last eleven weeks I haven't been able to even get an interview for a job because of that bastard,” Michael said with contempt. “Nothing less than one hundred thousand pounds, do you hear me?”
“I think you are being a trifle optimistic, in the circumstances,” said Lomax. “But I'll call you and let you know the other side's response as soon as the meeting has taken place.”
Michael told Carol the good news that evening, but like Reginald Lomax she was skeptical. The ringing of the phone interrupted their discussion on the subject. Michael, with Carol standing by his side, listened carefully to Lomax's report.
Philip, it seemed, was willing to settle for twenty-five thousand pounds and had agreed to paying both sides' costs.
Carol nodded her grateful acceptance, but Michael only repeated that Lomax was to hold out for nothing less than one hundred thousand. “Can't you see that Philip's already worked out what it's going to cost him if this case ends up in court? And he knows only too well that I won't give in.”
Carol and Lomax remained unconvinced. “It's much more touch-and-go than you realize,” the solicitor told him. “A High Court jury might consider the words were only meant as banter.”
“Banter? But what about the fight that followed the banter?” said Michael.
“Started by you,” Lomax pointed out. “Twenty-five thousand is a good figure in the circumstances,” he added.
Michael refused to budge, and ended the conversation by repeating his demand for one hundred thousand pounds.
Two weeks passed before the other side offered fifty thousand in exchange for a quick settlement. This time Lomax was not surprised when Michael rejected the offer out of hand. “Quick settlement be damned. I've told you I won't consider less than a hundred thousand.” Lomax knew by now that any plea for prudence was going to fall on deaf ears.
It took three more weeks and several more phone calls between solicitors before the other side accepted that they were going to have to pay the full one hundred thousand pounds. Reginald Lomax rang Michael to inform him of the news late one evening, trying to make it sound as if he had scored a personal triumph. He assured Michael that the necessary papers could be drawn up immediately and the settlement signed in a matter of days.
“Naturally all your costs will be covered,” he added.
“Naturally,” said Michael.
“So all that is left for you to do now is agree on a statement.”
A short statement was penned and, with the agreement of both sides, issued to the
Haslemere Chronicle
. The paper
printed the contents the following Friday on its front page. “The writ for slander between Gilmour and Masters,” the
Chronicle
reported, “has been withdrawn with the agreement of both sides but only after a substantial out-of-court settlement by the defendant. Philip Masters has withdrawn unreservedly what was said at the club that morning and has given an unconditional apology; he has also made a promise that he will never repeat the words used again. Mr. Masters has paid the plaintiff's costs in full.”
Philip wrote to the colonel the same day, admitting perhaps he had had a little too much to drink on the morning in question. He regretted his impetuous outburst, apologized, and assured the club's president it would never happen again.
Carol was the only one who seemed to be saddened by the outcome.
“What's the matter, darling?” asked Michael. “We've won, and what's more it's solved our financial problems.”
“I know,” said Carol, “but is it worth losing your closest friend for one hundred thousand pounds?”
On the following Saturday morning Michael was pleased to find an envelope among his morning post with the Golf Club crest on the flap. He opened it nervously and pulled out a single sheet of paper. It read:
Dear Mr. Gilmour,
At the monthly committee meeting held last Wednesday Colonel Mather raised the matter of your behavior in the clubhouse on the morning of Saturday, April 16.
It was decided to minute the complaints of several members, but on this occasion only to issue a severe reprimand to you both. Should a similar incident occur in the future, loss of membership would be automatic.
The temporary suspension issued by Colonel Mather on April 16 is now lifted.
Yours sincerely,
Jeremy Howard (Secretary)
“I'm off to do the shopping,” shouted Carol from the top of the stairs. “What are your plans for the morning?”
“I'm going to have a round of golf,” said Michael, folding up the letter.
“Good idea,” said Carol to herself as she wondered whom Michael would find to play against in the future.
Quite a few members noticed Michael and Philip teeing up at the first hole that Saturday morning. The club captain commented to the colonel that he was glad to observe that the quarrel had been sorted out to everyone's satisfaction.
“Not to mine,” said the colonel under his breath. “You can't get drunk on tomato juice.”
“I wonder what the devil they can be talking about?” the club captain said as he stared at them both through the bay windows. The colonel raised his binoculars to take a closer look at the two men.
“How could you possibly miss a four-foot putt, dummy?” asked Michael when they had reached the first green. “You must be drunk again.”
“As you well know,” replied Philip, “I never drink before dinner, and I therefore suggest that your allegation that I am drunk again is nothing less than slander.”
“Yes, but where are your witnesses?” said Michael as they moved up on to the second tee. “I had over fifty, don't forget.”
Both men laughed.
Their conversation ranged over many subjects as they played the first eight holes, never once touching on their past quarrel until they reached the ninth green, the farthest point from the clubhouse. They both checked to see there was no one within earshot. The nearest player was still putting out some two hundred yards behind them on the eighth hole. It was then that Michael removed a bulky brown envelope from his golf bag and handed it over to Philip.
“Thank you,” said Philip, dropping the package into his
own golf bag as he removed a putter. “As neat a little operation as I've been involved in for a long time,” Philip added as he addressed the ball.
“I end up with forty thousand pounds,” said Michael grinning, “while you lose nothing at all.”
“Only because I pay tax at the highest rate and can therefore claim the loss as a legitimate business expense,” said Philip, “and I wouldn't have been able to do that if I hadn't. once employed you.”
“And I, as a successful litigant, need pay no tax at all on damages received in a civil case.”
“A loophole that even this chancellor hasn't caught on to,” said Philip.
“Even though it went to Reggie Lomax, I was sorry about the solicitors' fees,” added Michael.
“No problem, old fellow. They're also one hundred percent claimable against tax. So as you see, I didn't lose a penny and you ended up with forty thousand pounds tax free.”
“And nobody the wiser,” said Michael, laughing.
The colonel put his binoculars back into their case.
“Had your eye on this year's winner of the President's Putter, Colonel?” asked the club captain.
“No,” the colonel replied. “The certain sponsor of this year's Youth Tournament.”
Coincidences, writers are told (usually by the critics) must be avoided, although in truth the real world is full of incidents that in themselves are unbelievable. Everyone has had an experience that if they wrote about it would appear to others as pure fiction.
The same week that the headlines in the world newspapers read: RUSSIA INVADES AFGHANISTAN, AMERICA TO WITHDRAW FROM MOSCOW OLYMPICS, there also appeared a short obituary in
The Times
for the distinguished professor of English at the University of Budapest: “A man who was born and died in his native Budapest and whose reputation remains assured by his brilliant translation of the works of Shakespeare into his native Hungarian. Although some linguists consider his
Coriolanus
immature they universally acknowledge his
Hamlet
to be a translation of genius.”
Nearly a decade after the Hungarian Revolution, I had the chance to participate in a student athletics meeting in Budapest. The competition was scheduled to last for a full week so I felt there would be an opportunity to find out a little about the country. The team flew in to Ferihegy Airport on a Sunday night and we were taken immediately to the Hotel Ifushag (I learned later that the word meant “youth” in Hungarian).
Having settled in, most of the team went to bed early since their opening-round heats were the following day.
Breakfast the next morning comprised of milk, toast, and an egg, served in three acts with long intervals between each. Those of us who were running that afternoon skipped lunch for fear that a matinee performance might cause us to miss our events completely.
Two hours before the start of the meeting, we were taken by bus to the Nép stadium and unloaded outside the dressing rooms (I always feel they should be called undressing rooms). We changed into track suits and sat around on benches anxiously waiting to be called. After what seemed to be an interminable time but was in fact only a few minutes, an official appeared and led us out onto the track. As it was the opening day of competition, the stadium was packed. When I had finished my usual warm-up of jogging, sprinting, and some light calisthenics, the loudspeaker announced the start of the 100m race in three languages. I stripped off my track suit and ran over to the start. When called, I pressed my spikes against the blocks and waited nervously for the starter's pistol.
Felkészülni, kész—
bang! Ten seconds later the race was over and the only virtue of coming last was that it left me six free days to investigate the Hungarian capital.
Walking around Budapest reminded me of my childhood days in Bristol just after the war, but with one noticeable difference. As well as the bombed-out buildings, there was row upon row of bullet holes in some of the walls. The revolution, although eight years past, was still much in evidence, perhaps because the nationals did not want anyone to forget. The people on the streets had lined faces, stripped of all emotion, and they shuffled rather than walked, leaving the impression of a nation of old men. If you inquired innocently why, they told you there was nothing to hurry for, or to be happy about, although they always seemed to be thoughtful with each other.
On the third day of the games, I returned to the Nép stadium to support a friend of mine who was competing in the
semifinals of the four-hundred-meter hurdles, which was the first event that afternoon. Having a competitor's pass, I could sit virtually anywhere in the half-empty arena. I chose to watch the race from just above the final bend, giving me a good view of the home stretch. I sat down on the wooden bench without paying much attention to the people on either side of me. The race began, and as my friend hit the bend crossing the seventh hurdle with only three hurdles to cover before the finish line, I stood and cheered him heartily all the way down the home stretch. He managed to come in third, ensuring himself a place in the final the next day. I sat down again and wrote out the detailed result in my program. I was about to leave, as there were no British competitors in the hammer or the pole vault, when a voice behind me said:
“You are English?”
“Yes,” I replied, turning in the direction from which the question had been put.
An elderly gentleman looked up at me. He wore a three-piece suit that must have been out of date when his father owned it, and even lacked the possible virtue that someday the style might come back into fashion. The leather patches on the elbows left me in no doubt that my questioner was a bachelor, for they could only have been sewn on by a man—either that or one had to conclude he had elbows in odd places. The length of his trousers revealed that his father had been two inches taller than he. As for the man himself, he had a few strands of white hair, a walrus mustache, and ruddy cheeks. His tired blue eyes were perpetually half closed like the shutter of a camera that has just been released. His forehead was so lined that he might have been any age between fifty and seventy. The overall impression was of a cross between a streetcar inspector and an out-of-work violinist.
I sat down for a second time.
“I hope you didn't mind my asking?” he added.
“Of course not,” I said.
“It's just that I have so little opportunity to converse with an Englishman. So when I spot one I always grasp the nettle. Is that the right colloquial expression?”
“Yes,” I said, trying to think how many Hungarian words I knew. “Yes,” “no,” “good morning,” “good-bye,” “I am lost,” “help.”
“You are in the student games?”
“Were, not are,” I said. “I departed somewhat rapidly on Monday.”
“Because you were not rapid enough, perhaps?”
I laughed, again admiring his command of my first language.
“Why is your English so excellent?” I inquired.
“I'm afraid it's a little neglected,” the old man replied. “But they still allow me to teach the subject at the university. I must confess to you that I have absolutely no interest in sports, but these occasions always afford me the opportunity to capture someone like yourself and oil the rusty machine, even if only for a few minutes.” He gave me a tired smile, but his eyes were now alight.
“What part of England do you hail from?” For the first time his pronunciation faltered, as “hail” came out as “heel.”
“Somerset,” I told him.
“Ah!” he said. “Perhaps the most beautiful county in England.” I smiled, as most foreigners never seem to travel much beyond Stratford-upon-Avon or Oxford. “To drive across the Mendips,” he continued, “through perpetually green hilly countryside and to stop at Cheddar to see Gough's caves, at Wells to be amused by the black swans ringing the bell on the cathedral wall, or at Bath to admire the lifestyle of classical Rome, and then perhaps to go over the county border and on to Devon … Is Devon even more beautiful than Somerset, in your opinion?”
“Never,” said I.
“Perhaps you are a little prejudiced.” He laughed. “Now let me see if I can recall: ‘Of the western counties there are seven. But the most glorious is surely that of Devon.' Perhaps Hardy, like you, was prejudiced and could think only of his beloved Exmoor, the village of Tiverton, and Drake's Plymouth.”
“Which is
your
favorite county?” I asked.
“The North Riding of Yorkshire has always been underrated, in my opinion,” replied the old man. “When people talk of Yorkshire, I suspect Leeds, Sheffield, and Barnsley spring to mind. Coal mining and heavy industry. Visitors should travel and see the dales there; they will find them as different as chalk from cheese. Lincolnshire is too flat, and so much of the Midlands must now be spoiled by urban sprawl. The Birminghams of this world hold no appeal for me. But in the end I come down in favor of Worcestershire and Warwickshire, quaint old English villages nestling in the Cotswolds, and crowned by Stratford-upon-Avon. How I wish I could have been in England in 1959, while my countrymen were recovering from the scars of revolution: Olivier performing Coriolanus, another man who did not want to show his scars.”
“I saw the performance,” I said. “I went with a school group.”
“Lucky boy. I translated the play into Hungarian at the age of nineteen. Reading over my work again last year made me aware I must repeat the exercise before I die.”
“You have translated other Shakespeare plays?”
“All but three, I have been leaving
Hamlet
to last, and then I shall return to
Coriolanus
and start again. As you are a student, am I permitted to ask which university you attend?”
“Oxford.”
“And your college?”
“Brasenose.”
“Ah! BNC. How wonderful to be a few yards away from the Bodleian, the greatest library in the world. If I had been born in England I should have wanted to spend my days at All Souls. That is just opposite BNC, is it not?”
“That's right.”
The professor stopped talking while we watched the next race, the first semifinal of the fifteen hundred meters. The winner was Anfras Patovich, a Hungarian, and the partisan crowd went wild with delight.
“That's what I call support,” I said.
“Like Manchester United when they have scored the winning
goal in the Cup Final. But my fellow countrymen do not cheer because the Hungarian was first,” said the old man.
“No?” I said, somewhat surprised.
“Oh, no. They cheer because he beat the Russian.”
“I hadn't even noticed,” I said.
“There is no reason why you should, but their presence is always in the forefront of our minds, and we are rarely given the opportunity to see them beaten in public.”
I tried to steer him back to a happier subject. “And before you had been elected to All Souls, which college would you have wanted to attend?”
“As an undergraduate, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Undoubtedly Magdalen is the most beautiful college. It has the distinct advantage of being situated on the River Cherwell; and in any case I confess a weakness for perpendicular architecture and a love of Oscar Wilde.” The conversation was interrupted by the sound of a pistol, and we watched the second semifinal of the fifteen meters, which was won by Orentas of the USSR. The crowd showed its disapproval more obviously this time, clapping in such a way that left hands passed right without coming into contact. I found myself joining in on the side of the Hungarians. The scene made the old man lapse into a sad silence. The last race of the day was won by Tim Johnston of England, and I stood and cheered unashamedly. The Hungarian crowd clapped politely.
I turned to say good-bye to the professor, who had not spoken for some time.
“How long are you staying in Budapest?” he asked.
“The rest of the week. I return to England on Sunday”
“Could you spare the time to join an old man for dinner one night?”
“I should be delighted.”
“How considerate of you,” he said, and he wrote out his full name and address in capital letters on the back of my program and returned it to me. “Why don't we say tomorrow at seven? And if you have any old newspapers or magazines,
do bring them with you,” he said, looking a little sheepish. “And I shall quite understand if you have to change your plans.”
I spent the next morning visiting St. Matthias Church and the ancient fortress, two of the buildings that showed no evidence of the revolution. I then took a short trip down the Danube before spending the afternoon supporting the swimmers at the Olympic pool. At six I left the pool and went back to my hotel. I changed into my team blazer and gray slacks, hoping I looked smart enough for my distinguished host. I locked my door, started toward the elevator, and then remembered. I returned to my room to pick up the pile of newspapers and magazines I had collected from the rest of the team.
Finding the professor's home was not as easy as I had expected. After meandering around cobbled streets and waving the professor's address at several passers-by, I was finally directed to an old apartment house. I ran up the three flights of the wooden staircase in a few leaps and bounds, wondering how long the climb took the professor every day. I stopped at the door that displayed his number and knocked.
The old man answered immediately, as if he had been standing there, waiting by the door. I noticed that he was wearing the same suit he had had on the previous day.
“I am sorry to be late,” I said.
“No matter, my own students also find me hard to find the first time,” he said, grasping my hand. He paused. “Bad to use the same word twice in the same sentence. “‘Locate' would have been better, wouldn't it?”
He trotted on ahead of me, not waiting for my reply, a man obviously used to living on his own. He led me down a small, dark corridor into his living room. I was shocked by its size. Three walls were covered with indifferent prints and watercolors, depicting English scenes, while the fourth was dominated by a large bookcase. I could spot Shakespeare, Dickens, Austen, Trollope, Hardy, even Waugh and Graham Greene. On the table was a faded copy of the
New Statesman.
I looked around to see if we were on our own, but there
seemed to be no sign of a wife or child either in person or picture, and indeed the table was set for only two.

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