Jeffrey Archer - A Twist in the Tale

‘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 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 Hazelmere 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 ‘The writ for slander between Gilmour and Masters,’ the Chronicle reported, ‘has been withdrawn with the agreement of both sides but only after a substantial out-of-court settlement by the defendant. Philip Masters has withdrawn unreservedly what was said at the club that morning and has given an unconditional apology; he has also made a promise that he will never repeat the words used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 but only wondered who 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 onto 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 at the highest tax 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.’

The rabbi knew he couldn’t hope to begin on his sermon until he’d read the letter. He had been sitting at his desk in front of a blank sheet of paper for over an hour and still couldn’t come up with a first sentence. Lately he had been unable to concentrate on a task he had carried out every Friday evening for the last thirty years. They must have realized by now that he was no longer up to it. He took the letter out of the envelope and slowly unfolded the pages. Then he pushed his half-moon spectacles up the bridge of his nose and started to read.

My dear Father,

‘Jew boy! Jew boy! Jew boy!’ were the first words I heard her say as I ran past her on the first lap of the race. She was standing behind the railing at the beginning of the home straight, bands cupped around her lips to be sure I couldn’t miss the chant. She must have come from another school because I didn’t recognize her but it only took a fleeting glance to see that it was Greg Reynolds who was standing by her side.

After five years of having to tolerate his snide comments and bullying at school all I wanted to retaliate with was, ‘Nazi, Nazi, Nazi,’ but you had always taught me to rise above such provocation.