A Twist in the Tale (24 page)

Michael told
Carol the good news that evening, but like Reginald Lomax she was
scep-tical
. 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
realise
,” 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Masters,” the Chronicle “has been withdrawn with the agreement of both sides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Masters has withdrawn unreservedly what was said at the club that morning and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 plaintiffs 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,
apologised
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
behaviour
in the clubhouse on the morning of Saturday, April 16th.

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 16th 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 club- house. 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
legitim
-ate 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 per cent 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.”

T
HE rabbi knew he couldn’t hope to begin on his sermon 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
realised
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 ever 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, hands cupped around her
lips to be sure I couldn’t miss the chant. She
must have come from another school because I didn’t
recognise
her, but it only took
a fleeting
glance to see that it was Greg
Reynolds
who was standing by her side.

After 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.

I tried to put them both out of my mind as I
mooed
into the second lap. I had dreamed
for years of winning the mile in the West
Mount High School championships, and I
was determined not to let them do anything
to stop me.

As I came into the back straight a second
time I took a more careful look at her. She
was standing amid a cluster of friends who
were wearing the scarves of
Marianapolis
Convent. She must have been about sixteen,
and as slim as a willow. I wonder if you
would inane chastised me had l only
shouted, “No breasts, no breasts, no
breasts,
“ in
the hope it might at least provoke the
boy standing next to her into a fight.
Then I
would have been able to tell
you truthfully
that he had thrown the
first punch but the
moment you had
learned that it was Greg Reynolds you would ham
realised
how little
provocation I needed.

As I reached the back straight I once again
prepared myself for the chants. Chanting at
track meetings had become fashionable in
the lad 1950s when “
Zat
-o-
pek
,
Zat
-o-
pek
,
Zat
-o-
pek
” had been
roared in adulation
across running
stadiums around the world
for the
great Czech champion. Not for me
was
there to be the shout of “
Ros
-en-
thal
,
Ros
-en-
thal
,
Ros
-en-
thal
” as I came into
earshot.

‘Jew boy!
Jew boy! Jew boy!” she said,
sounding
like a gramophone record that
had got
stuck. Her friend Greg, who would
nowadays
be described as a preppie, began
laughing.
I knew he had put her up to it, and
how
I would
life
to have removed that smug
grin from his face. I reached the half-mile
mark in two minutes seventeen seconds,
comfortably inside the pace necessary to
break the school record, and I felt that
was
the best way to put the taunting
girl and
that fascist Reynolds in
their place. I
couldn’t help thinking
at the time how unfair it all was. I was a real Canadian, born
and bred in this county, while she was just
an immigrant. After all, you, Father, had
escaped from Hamburg in 1937 and started
with nothing. Her parents did not land on
these shores until 1949, by which time you
were a respected figure in the community.

I gritted my teeth and tried to concentrate.

Zatopek
had written in his autobiography
that no runner can afford to lose his concentration during a race. When
I reached the
penultimate bend the
inevitable chanting
began again, but
this time it only made me
steed up
and even more determined to break
that
record. Once I was back in the safety of
the home straight I could hear some of my
friends roaring, “Come on, Benjamin, you
can do it,” and the timekeeper called out, “Three twenty-three, three
twenty-four,
three twenty-five” as I
passed the bell to begin the last lap.

I knew that the record -four thirty-two -
was now well within my “rasp and all those
dark nights of winter training suddenly
seemed worthwhile. As I reached the back
straight I took the lead, and even felt that I
could face the girl again. I summoned up
my strength for one last effort. A quick
glance over my shoulder confirmed I was
already yards in front of any of my rivals,
so it was only me against the clock. Then I
heard the chanting, but this time it was even
louder than before, ‘Jew boy! Jew boy!
Jew
boy!”
It was louder because the two of
them
were now working in unison, and
just as I
came round the bend
Reynolds raised his
arm in a flagrant
Nazi salute.

If I had only carried on for another twenty
yards I would
hare
reached the safety of the
home straight and the cheers of my
friends,
the cup and the record. But
they had made
me so
angy
that I could no longer control
myself I shot of A the track and ran across
the
grass over the long-jump pit and
straight
towards them. At Cast my
crazy decision
stopped their charting
because Reynolds
lowered his arm and
just stood there staring
pathetically
at me from behind the small
railing
that surrounded the outer perimeter
of
the track. I leaped right over it and
landed
in front of my adversary. With all
the
energy I had saved for the final straight
I took an almighty swing at him. My fist
landed an inch below his left eye and he
buckled and
jell
to the ground by her side.