A QUIVER FULL OF ARROWS

by

Jeffrey Archer



First came his financial caper NOT A PENNY MORE,
NOT A PENNY LESS. Then a political thriller SHALL
WE TELL THE PRESIDENT? Then the brilliant
bestsellers KANE AND ABEL and THE PRODIGAL
              DAUGHTER
Now Jeffrey Archer has taken up a new challenge with
this, his first collection of short stories. The locations
move from New York and London to Mexico and
Nigeria. Each tale reveals the author's talents as a short
storyteller, and, as befits the form, he uses the stories to
build up a small cast of characters and then shock the
reader with an unexpected final twist.
Few people will guess the endings of any of the tales, and
everyone will have their own favourite. What is certain is
that with this archer every story unerringly hits its
mark!



          A QUIVER FULL
            OF ARROWS
'Somerset Maughamnever penned anything so swift or
  so urbanely satiric as this'
        Publishers Weekly
'A quite delightful collection of short stories . . .
distinguished by lightness of touch and ideas. I
particularly recommend "Old Love"'
      Liverpool Daily Post
'When a top storyteller likeJeffrey Archer turns his
talent to producing short stories, the scene is set for the
sort of memorable mix that's much in demand these
days. A QUIVER FULL OF ARROWS adds to his
already impressive literary score'
       Bolton Evening News

'Jeffrey Archer's quiver is full of sharp arrows. His
stories show evidence of much polish . . . and the
result is always neat and satisfying'
Huddersfield Daily Examiner a'

          A QUIVER FULL
            OF ARROWS
'A QUIVER FULL OF ARROWS shows the same gins
of vivid characterization and smooth writing as his three
successful novels.... He has a neat talent for giving each
of his twelve tails a quirky, unexpected twist at the end'
        South Wales Argus
'Jeffrey Archer's strength in A QUIVER FULL OF
ARROWS is his ability to absorb the reader immediately
in a variety of different situations'
   Sheffield Morning Telegraph
'In a QUIVER FULL OF ARROWSJeffrey Archer
enhances his reputation with a dozen short stories. All
have different settings and are well written'
   North Western Evening Mail
'Mr Archer puts his storytelling skills which have made
his novels such a commercial success to equally effective
use on a dozen nicely put together tales'
       Bradford Telegraph
                
Jeffrey Archer is a master story-teller, the author of
six
novels which have all been worldwide bestsellers. NOT
A PENNY MORE, NOT A PENNY LESS was his first
book, which achieved instant success. Next came the
tense and terrifying thriller SHALL WE TELL THE
PRESIDENT? followed by A QUIVER FULL OF
ARROWS, a collection of short stories. After this came
the triumphant bestseller KANE AND ABEL, and
its superb sequel THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER.
His latest novel is FIRST AMONG EQUALS, the
story of four men's battle to control our lives.
Jeffrey Archer was born in 1940 and educated at
Wellington School and Brasenose College, Oxford. He
represented Oxford, Somerset, and Great Britain in the
loo metres in the early sixties, and became the youngest
member of the House of Commons when he won the by
election at Louth in 1969. He wrote his first novel,
NOT A PENNY MORE, NOT A PENNY LESS, on
leaving the House in r974. In September 1985 he was
appointed Deputy Chairman of the Conservative Party.
He is married with two children and lives in
      London and Cambridge.

,

To Robin and
Carolyn

A190 by Jeffrey Archer
and available in Coronet Books
Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less
Shall We Tell The President?
     Kane and Abel
 The Prodigal Daughter
  First Among Equals
           
               ID :~L CT
            Jeffrey Archer
                   c
             CORONET BOOKS
         Hodder and Stoughton
                   
Copyright ~ 1980 by Jeffrey Archer

First published in Great Britain 1980 by
Hodder and Stoughton Ltd

Coronet edition 1981 Reprinted 1981 three
times Reprinted 19S2 four times Reprinted
1983 five times Reprinted 1984 four times
Reprinted 1985 twice Reprinted 1986 once
This impression August 1986

British Library C.l.P.

Archer, Jeffrey
 A quiver full of arrows. - (Coronet books)
 1. Short stories, English
 I. Title
 823'.91 4[F] PR605.R/
 ISBN 0 340 27272 4

The characters and situations in this book
are entirely imaginary and bear no relation
to any real person or actual happening

This book is sold subject to the condition
that it shall not, by way of trade or
otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or
otherwise circulated without the publisher s
prior consent in any form of binding or
cover other than that in which this is
published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on
the subsequent purchaser.

Printed and bound in Great Britain for
Hodder and Stoughton Paperbacks, a division
of Hodder and Stoughton Ltd., Mill Road,
Dunton Green, Sevenoaks, Kent (Editorial
Office: 47 Bedford Square. London, WC1 B
3DP) by Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press)
Ltd., Bungay, Suffolk

Contents

 THE CHINESE STATUE              1 1
 THE LUNCHEON                    25
 THE COUP                        33
 THE FIRST MIRACLE               59
 THE PERFECT GENTLEMAN           73
 ONE-NIGHT STAND                 85
 THE CENTURY                     101
 BROKEN ROUTINE                  111
 HENRY S HICCUP                  I 1 9
 ~ MATTER OF PRINCIPLE           1 3 7
 THE HUNGARIAN PROFESSOR         1 55
 OED LOVE                        167

Author's note

Of these twelve short stories,
eleven are based on known incidents
(some embellished with considerable
licence).

Only one is totally the result of
my own imagination.

In the case of 'The Century' I took
my theme from three different
cricket matches. Lovers of Wisden
will have to do some considerable
delving to uncover them.

'The Luncheon' was inspired by W.
Somerset Maugham. J.A.

          The Chinese Statue

The little Chinese statue was the next
item to come under the auctioneer's
hammer. Lot 103 caused those quiet
murmurings that always precede the sale
of a masterpiece. The auctioneer's
assistant held up the delicate piece of
ivory for the packed audience to admire
while the auctioneer glanced around the
room to be sure he knew where the
serious bidders were seated. I studied
my catalogue and read the detailed
description of the piece, and what was
known of its history.

  The statue had been purchased in Ha
Li Chuan in 1871 and was referred to as
what Sotheby's quaintly described as
"the property of a gentleman", usually
meaning that some member of the
aristocracy did not wish to admit that
he was having to sell off one of the
family heirlooms. I wondered if that
was the case on this occasion and
decided to do some research to discover
what had caused the little Chinese
statue to find its way into the auction
rooms on that Thursday morning over one
hundred years later.

  "Lot No. 103," declared the
auctioneer. "What am I bid for this
magnificent example of . . .?"

  Sir Alexander Heathcote, as well as
being a gentleman, was an exact man. He
was exactly six-foot-three and a
quarter inches tall, rose at seven
o'clock every morning, joined his wife
at breakfast to eat one boiled egg
cooked for precisely four minutes, two
pieces of toast with one spoonful of
Cooper's marmalade, and drink one cup
of China tea. He would then take a
hackney carriage from his home in

                  11
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

Cadogan Gardens at exactly eight-twenty
and arrive at the Foreign Office at
promptly eight-fifty-nine, returning
home again on the stroke of six
o'clock.

  Sir Alexander had been exact from an
early age, as became the only son of a
general. But unlike his father, he
chose to serve his Queen in the
diplomatic service, another exacting
calling. He progressed from a shared
desk at the Foreign Office in Whitehall
to third secretary in Calcutta, to
second secretary in Vienna, to first
secretary in Rome, to Deputy Ambassador
in Washington, and finally to minister
in Peking. He was delighted when Mr.
Gladstone invited him to represent the
government in China as he had for some
considerable time taken more than an
amateur interest in the art of the Ming
dynasty. This crowning appointment in
his distinguished career would afford
him what until then he would have
considered impossible, an opportunity
to observe in their natural habitat
some of the great statues, paintings
and drawings which he had previously
been able to admire only in books.

  When Sir Alexander arrived in Peking,
after a journey by sea and land that
took his party nearly two months, he
presented his seals patent to the
Empress Tzu-Hsi and a personal letter
for her private reading from Queen
Victoria. The Empress, dressed from
head to toe in white and gold, received
her new Ambassador in the throne room
of the Imperial Palace. She read the
letter from the British monarch while
Sir Alexander remained standing to
attention. Her Imperial Highness
revealed nothing of its contents to the
new minister, only wishing him a
successful term of of lice in his
appointment. She then moved her lips
slightly up at the corners which Sir
Alexanderjudged correctly to mean that
the audience had come to an end. As he
was conducted back through the great
halls of the Imperial Palace by a
Mandarin in the long court dress of
black and gold, Sir Alexander walked as
slowly as possible, taking in the mag-
nificent collection of ivory and jade
statues which were scattered casually
around the building much in the way
Cellini

                  12
                   
Tic Chinese Statue

and Michaelangelo today lie stacked
against each other in Florence.

  As his ministerial appointment was for
only three years, Sir Alexander took no
leave, but preferred to use his time to
put the Embassy behind him and travel
on horseback into the outlying
districts to learn more about the
country and its people. On these trips
he was always accompanied by a Mandarin
from the palace staff who acted as
interpreter and guide.

  On one such journey, passing through
the muddy streets of a small village
with but a few houses called Ha Li
Chuan, a distance of some fifty miles
from Peking, Sir Alexander chanced upon
an old craftsman's working place.
Leaving his servants, the minister
dismounted from his horse and entered
the ramshackled wooden workshop to
admire the delicate pieces of ivory and
jade that crammed the shelves from
floor to ceiling. Although modern, the
pieces were superbly executed by an
experienced craftsman and the minister
entered the little hut with the thought
of acquiring a small. memento of his
journey. Once in the shop he could
hardly move in any direction for fear
of knocking something over. The
building had not been designed for a
six-foot-three and a quarter visitor.
Sir Alexander stood still and
enthralled, taking in the fine scented
jasmine smell that hung in the air.

  An old craftsman bustled forward in a
long, blue coolie robe and flat black
hat to greet him; ajet black plaited
pigtail fell down his back. He bowed
very low and then looked up at the
giant from England. The minister
returned the bow while the Mandarin
explained who Sir Alexander was and his
desire to be allowed to look at the
work of the craftsman. The old man was
nodding his agreement even before the
Mandarin had come to the end of his
request. For over an hour the minister
sighed and chuckled as he studied many
of the pieces with admiration and
finally returned to the old man to
praise his skill. The craftsman bowed
once again, and his shy smile revealed
no teeth but only genuine pleasure at
Sir Alexander's compliments. Pointing a
finger to the back of the shop, he
beckoned the two important visitors to
follow

                  13
                   
A Quiurr Full of Arrows

him They did so and entered a
veritable Aladdin's Cave, with row
upon row of beautiful miniature
emperors and classical figures The
minister could have happily settled
down in the orgy of ivory for at least
a week. Sir Alexander and the
craftsman chatted away to each other
through the interpreter, and the
minister's love and knowledge of the
Ming dynasty was soon revealed. The
little craftsman's face lit up with
this discovery and he turned to the
Mandarin and in a hushed voice made a
request. The Mandarin nodded his
agreement and translated.

  "I have, Your Excellency, a piece of
Ming myself that you might care to
see. A statue that has been in my
family for over seven generations."

"I should be honoured," said the
minister.

  "It is I who would be honoured, Your
Excellency," said the little man who
thereupon scampered out of the back
door, nearly falling over a stray dog,
and on to an old peasant house a few
yards behind the workshop. The
minister and the Mandarin remained in
the back room, for Sir Alexander knew
the old man would never have
considered inviting an honoured guest
into his humble home until they had
known each other for many years, and
only then after he had been invited to
Sir Alexander's home first. A few
minutes passed before the little blue
figure came trotting back, pigtail
bouncing up and down on his shoulders.
He was now clinging on to something
that from the very way he held it
close to his chest, had to be a
treasure. The craftsman passed the
piece over for the minister to study.
Sir Alexander's mouth opened wide and
he could not hide his excitement. The
little statue, no more than six inches
in height, was of the Emperor Kung and
as fine an example of Ming as the
minister had seen. Sir Alexander felt
confident that the maker was the great
Pen Q who had been patronised by the
Emperor, so that the date must have
been around the turn of the fifteenth
century. The statue's only blemish was
that the ivory base on which such
pieces usually rest was missing, and a
small stick protruded from the bottom
of the imperial robes; but in the eyes
of Sir

                  14
                   
7]e Chinese Statue

Alexander nothing could detract from
its overall beauty. Although the
craftsman's lips did not move, his eyes
glowed with the pleasure his guest
evinced as he studied the ivory
Emperor.

  "You think the statue is good?" asked
the craftsman through the interpreter.

  "It's magnificent," the minister
replied. "Quite magnificent."

  "My own work is not worthy to stand by
its side," added the craftsman humbly.

  "No, no," said the minister, though in
truth the little craftsman knew the
great man was only being kind, for Sir
Alexander was holding the ivory statue
in a way that already showed the same
love as the old man had for the piece.

  The minister smiled down at the
craftsman as he handed back the Emperor
Kung and then he uttered perhaps the
only undiplomatic words he had ever
spoken in thirty-five years of serving
his Queen and country.

"How I wish the piece was mine."

  Sir Alexander regretted voicing his
thoughts immediately he heard the
Mandarin translate them, because he
knew only too well the old Chinese
tradition that if an honoured guest
requests something the giver will grow
in the eyes of his fellow men by
parting with it.

  A sad look came over the face of the
little old craftsman as he handed back
the figurine to the minister.

  "No, no. I was only joking," said Sir
Alexander, quickly trying to return the
piece to its owner.

  "You would dishonour my humble home if
you did not take the Emperor, Your
Excellency," the old man said anxiously
and the Mandarin gravely nodded his
agreement.

  The minister remained silent for some
time. "I have dishonoured my own home,
sir," he replied, and looked towards
the Mandarin who remained inscrutable.

  The little craftsman bowed. "I must
fix a base on the statue," he said, "or
you will not be able to put the piece
on view."

                  15
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

  He went to a corner of the room and
opened a wooden packing chest that must
have housed a hundred bases for his own
statues. Rummaging around he picked out
a base decorated with small, dark
figures that the minister did not care
for but which nevertheless made a
perfect fit; the old man assured Sir
Alexander that although he did not know
the base's history, the piece bore the
mark of a good craftsmam

  The embarrassed minister took the
gift and tried hopelessly to thank the
little old man. The craftsman once
again bowed low as Sir Alexander and
the expressionless Mandarin left the
little workshop.

  As the party travelled back to
Peking, the Mandarin observed the
terrible state the minister was in, and
uncharacteristically spoke first:

  "Your Excellency is no doubt aware,"
he said, "of the old Chinese custom
that when a stranger has been generous,
you must return the kindness within the
calendar year."

  Sir Alexander smiled his thanks and
thought carefully about the Mandarin's
words. Once back in his official re-
sidence, he went immediately to the
Embassy's extensive library to see if
he could discover a realistic value for
the little masterpiece. After much
diligent research, he came across a
drawing of a Ming statue that was
almost an exact copy of the one now in
his possession and with the help of the
Mandarin he was able to assess its true
worth, a figure that came to almost
three years' emolument for a servant of
the Crown. The minister discussed the
problem with Lady Heathcote and she
left her husband in no doubt as to the
course of action he must take.

  The following week the minister
despatched a letter by private
messenger to his bankers, Coutts & Co.
in the Strand, London, requesting that
they send a large part of his savings
to reach him in Peking as quickly as
possible. When the funds arrived nine
weeks later the minister again
approached the Mandarin, who listened
to his questions and gave him the
details he had asked for seven days
later.

                  16
                   
The Chinesetatuc

  The Mandarin had discovered that the
little craftsman, Yung Lee, came from
the old and trusted family of Yung Shau
who had for some five hundred years
been craftsmen. Sir Alexander also
learned that many of Yung Lee's ances-
tors had examples of their work in the
palaces of the Manchu princes. Yung Lee
himself was growing old and wished to
retire to the hills above the village
where his ancestors had always died.
His son was ready to take over the
workshop from him and continue the
family tradition. The minister thanked
the Mandarin for his diligence and had
only one more request of him. The
Mandarin listened sympathetically to
the Ambassador from England and
returned to the palace to seek advice.

  A few days later the Empress granted
Sir Alexander's request.

  Almost a year to the day the
minister, accompanied by the Mandarin,
set out again from Peking for the
village of Ha Li Chuan. When Sir
Alexander arrived he immediately dis-
mounted from his horse and entered the
workshop that he remembered so well,
the old man was seated at his bench,
his flat hat slightly askew, a piece of
uncarved ivory held lovingly between
his fingers. He looked up from his work
and shuffled towards the minister, not
recognising his guest immediately until
he could almost touch the foreign
giant. Then he bowed low. The minister
spoke through the Mandarin:

  "I have returned, sir, within the
calendar year to repay my debt."

  "There was no need, Your Excellency.
My family is honoured that the little
statue lives in a great Embassy and may
one day be admired by the people of
your own land."

  The minister could think of no words
to form an adequate reply and simply
requested that the old man should
accompany him on a short journey.

  The craftsman agreed without question
and the three men set out on donkeys
towards the north. They travelled for
over two hours up a thin winding path
into the hills behind the

                  17
                   
A 0'iocr Full of Arrows

craftsman's workshop, and when they
reached the village of Ma Tien they
were met by another Mandarin, who
bowed low to the minister and
requested Sir Alexander and the
craftsman to continue their journey
with him on foot. They walked in
silence to the far side of the village
and only stopped when they had reached
a hollow in the hill from which there
was a magnificent view of the valley
all the way down to Ha Li Chuan. In
the hollow stood a newly completed
small white house of the most perfect
proportions. Two stone lion dogs,
tongues hanging over their lips,
guarded the front entrance. The little
old craftsman who had not spoken since
he had left his workshop remained
mystified by the purpose ofthejourney
until the minister turned to him and
offered:

  "A small, inadequate gift and my
feeble attempt to repay you in kind."

  The craftsman fell to his knees and
begged forgiveness of the Mandarin as
he knew it was forbidden for an
artisan to accept gifts from a
foreigner. The Mandarin raised the
frightened blue figure from the
ground, explaining to his countryman
that the Empress herself had
sanctioned the minister's request. A
smile of joy came over the face of the
craftsman and he slowly walked up to
the doorway of th

beautiful little house unable to
resist running his hand over the
carved lion dogs. The three travellers
then spent over an hour admiring the
little house before returning in
silent mutual happiness back to the
workshop in Ha Li Chuan. The two men
thus parted, honour satisfied, and Sir
Alexander rode to his Embassy that
night content that his actions had met
with the approval of the Mandarin as
well as Lady Heathcote.

  The minister completed his tour of
duty in Peking, and the Empress
awarded him the Silver Star of China
and a grateful Queen added the
K.C.V.O. to his already long list of
decorations. After a few weeks back at
the Foreign Office clearing the China
desk, Sir Alexander retired to his
native Yorkshire, the only English
county whose inhabitants still hope to

                  18
                   
The Chinese Statue

be born and die in the same place - not
unlike the Chinese. Sir Alexander spent
his final years in the home of his late
father with his wife and the little
Ming Emperor. The statue occupied the
centre of the mantelpiece in the
drawing room for all to see and admire.

  Being an exact man, Sir Alexander
wrote a long and detailed will in which
he left precise instructions for the
disposal of his estate, including what
was to happen to the little statue
after his death. He bequeathed the
Emperor Kung to his first son
requesting that he do the same, in
order that the statue might always pass
to the first son, or a daughter if the
direct male line faltered. He also made
a provision that the statue was never
to be disposed of, unless the family's
honour was at stake. Sir Alexander
Heathcote died at the stroke of
midnight on his seventieth year.

  His first-born, Major James Heathcote,
was serving his Queen in the Boer War
at the time he came into possession of
the Ming Emperor. The Major was a
fighting man, commissioned with the
Duke of Wellington's Regiment, and
although he had little interest in
culture even he could see the family
heirloom was no ordinary treasure, so
he loaned the statue to the regimental
mess at Halifax in order that the
Emperor could be displayed in the
dining room for his brother officers to
appreciate.

  WhenJames Heathcote became Colonel of
the Dukes, the Emperor stood proudly on
the table alongside the trophies won at
Waterloo and Sebastopol in the Crimea
and Madrid. And there the Ming Statue
remained until the colonel's retirement
to his father's house in Yorkshire,
when the Emperor returned once again to
the drawing room mantelpiece. The
colonel was not a man to disobey his
late father, even in death, and he left
clear instructions that the heirloom
must always be passed on to the
first-born of the Heathcotes unless the
family honour was in jeopardy. Colonel
James Heathcote M.C. did not die a
soldier's death; he simply fell asleep
one night by the fire, the Yorkshire
Post on his lap.

                  19
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

  The colonel's first-born, the
Reverend Alexander Heathcote, was at
the time presiding over a small flock
in the parish of Much Hadham in
Hertfordshire. After burying his father
with military honours, he placed the
little Ming Emperor on the mantelpiece
of the vicarage. Few members of the
Mothers' Union appreciated the
masterpiece but one or two old ladies
were heard to remark on its delicate
carving. And it was not until the
Reverend became the Right Reverend, and
the little statue found its way into
the Bishop's palace, that the Emperor
attracted the admiration he deserved.
Many of those who visited the palace
and heard the story of how the Bishop's
grandfather had acquired the Ming
statue were fascinated to learn ofthe
disparity between the magnificent
statue and its base. It always made a
good after-dinner story.

  God takes even his own ambassadors,
but He did not do so before allowing
Bishop Heathcote to complete a will
leaving the statue to his son, with his
grandfather's exact instructions
carefully repeated. The Bishop's son,
Captain James Heathcote, was a serving
officer in his grandfather's regiment,
so the Ming statue returned to the mess
table in Halifax. During the Emperor's
absence, the regimental trophies had
been augmented by those struck for
Ypres, the Marne and Verdun. The
regiment was once again at war with
Germany, and young Captain James
Heathcote was killed on the beaches of
Dunkirk and died intestate. Thereafter
English law, the known wishes of his
great-grandfather and common sense
prevailed, and the little Emperor came
into the possession of the captain's
two-year-old son.

  Alex Heathcote was, alas, not of the
mettle of his doughty ancestors and he
grew up feeling no desire to serve
anyone other than himself. When
CaptainJames had been so tragically
killed, Alexander's mother lavished
everything on the boy that her meagre
income would allow. It didn't help, and
it was not entirely young Alex's fault
that he grew up to be, in the words of
his grandmother, a selfish, spoiled
little brat.

When Alex left school, only a short
time before he would

                  ~0
                   
The Cam

have been expelled, he found he could
never hold down ajob for more than a
few weeks. It always seemed necessary
for him to spend a little more than
he, and finally his mother, could cope
with. The good lady, deciding she
could take no more of this life,
departed it, tojoin all the other
Heathcotes, not in Yorkshire, but in
heaven.

  In the swinging sixties, when casinos
opened in Britain, young Alex was
convinced that he had found the ideal
way of earning a living without
actually having to do any work. He
developed a system for playing
roulette with which it was impossible
to lose. He did lose, so he refined
the system and promptly lost more; he
refined the system once again which
resulted in him having to borrow to
cover his losses. Why not? If the
worst came to the worst, he told
himself, he could always dispose of
the little Ming Emperor.

  The worst did come to the worst, as
each one of Alex's newly refined
systems took him progressively into
greater debt until the casinos began
to press him for payment. When
finally, one Monday morning, Alex
received an unsolicited call from two
gentlemen who seemed determined to
collect some eight thousand pounds he
owed their masters, and hinted at
bodily harm if the matter was not
dealt with within fourteen days, Alex
caved in. After all, his great-great-
grandfather's instructions had been
exact: the Ming statue was to be sold
if the family honour was ever at
stake.

  Alex took the little Emperor off the
mantelpiece in his Cadogan Gardens
flat and stared down at its delicate
handiwork, at least having the grace
to feel a little sad at the loss of
the family heirloom. He then drove to
Bond Street and delivered the
masterpiece to Sotheby's, giving
instructions that the Emperor should
be put up for auction.

  The head of the Oriental department,
a pale, thin man, appeared at the
front desk to discuss the masterpiece
with Alex, looking not unlike the Ming
statue he was holding so lovingly in
his hands.

  "It will take a few days to estimate
the true value of the piece," he
purred, "but I feel confident on a
cursory glance

                  21
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

that the statue is as fine an example
of Pen Q as we have ever had under the
hammer."

  "That's no problem," replied Alex,
"as long as you can let me know what
it's worth within fourteen days."

  "Oh, certainly," replied the expert.
"I feel sure I could give you a floor
price by Friday."

"Couldn't be better," said Alex.

  During that week he contacted all his
creditors and without exception they
were prepared to wait and learn the
appraisal of the expert. Alex duly
returned to Bond Street on the Friday
with a large smile on his face. He
knew what his great-great-grandfather
had paid for the piece and felt sure
that the statue must be worth more
than ten thousand pounds. A sum that
would not only yield him enough to
cover all his debts but leave him a
little over to try out his new
refined, refined system on the
roulette table. As he climbed the
steps of Sotheby's, Alex silently
thanked his great-great-grandfather.
He asked the girl on reception if he
could speak to the head of the
Oriental department. She picked up an
internal phone and the expert appeared
a few moments later at the front desk
with a sombre look on his face. Alex's
heart sank as he listened to his
words:

  "A nice little piece, your Emperor,
but unfortunately a fake, probably
about two hundred, two hundred and
fifty years old but only a copy of the
original, I'm afraid. Copies were
often made because . . ."

"How much is it worth?" interrupted an
anxious Alex.

"Seven hundred pounds, eight hundred
at the most."

  Enough to buy a gun and some bullets,
thought Alex sardonically as he turned
and started to walk away.

"I wonder, sir . . ." continued the
expert.

  "Yes, yes, sell the bloody thing,"
said Alex, without bothering to look
back.

"And what do you want me to do with
the base?"

  "The base?" repeated Alex, turning
round to face the Orientalist.

"Yes, the base. It's quite
magnificent, fifteenth century,

                  22
                   
Tic Chinese Statue
undoubtedly a work of genius, I can't
imagine how . . ."

  "Lot No. 103," announced the
auctioneer. "What am I bid for this
magnificent example of . . .?"

  The expert turned out to be right in
his assessment. At the auction at
Sotheby's that Thursday morning I
obtained the little Emperor for seven
hundred and twenty guineas. And the
base? That was acquired by an American
gentleman of not unknown parentage for
twenty-two thousand guineas.

                  23
                   
     The Luncheon

She waved at me across
a crowded room of the
St. Regis Hotel in New
York. I waved back
realising I knew the
face but I was unable
to place it. She
squeezed past waiters
and guests and had
reached me before I had
a chance to ask anyone
who she was. I racked
that section of my
brain which is meant to
store people, but it
transmitted no reply. I
realised I would have
to resort to the old
party trick of
carefully worded
questions until her
answers jogged my
memory.

  "How are you,
darling?" she cried,
and threw her arms
around me, an opening
that didn't help as we
were at a Literary
Guild cocktail party,
and anyone will throw
their arms around you
on such occasions, even
the directors of the
Book-of-the-Month Club.
From her accent she was
clearly American and
looked to be
approaching forty, but
thanks to the genius of
modern make-up might
even have overtaken it.
She wore a long white
cocktail dress and her
blonde hair was done up
in one of those buns
that looks like a
cottage loaf. The
overall effect made her
appear somewhat like a
chess queen. Not that
the cottage loaf helped
because she might have
had dark hair flowing
to her shoulders when
we last met. I do wish
women would realise
that when they change
their hair style they
often achieve exactly
what they set out to
do: look completely
different to any
unsuspecting male.

  "I'm well, thank
you," I said to the
white queen. "And you?"
I inquired as my
opening gambit.

  "I'm just fine,
darling," she replied,
taking a glass of
champagne from a
passing waiter.

          25
           
A Quiver Full of Arrows

  "And how's the family?" I asked, not
sure if she even had one.

  "They're all well," she replied. No
help there. "And how is Louise?" she
inquired.

  "Blooming," I said. So she knew my
wife. But then not necessarily, I
thought. Most American women are
experts at remembering the names of
men's wives. They have to be, when on
the New York circuit they change so
often it becomes a greater challenge
than The Times crossword.

  "Have you been to London lately?" I
roared above the babble. A brave
question, as she might never have been
to Europe.

  "Only once since we had lunch
together." She looked at me
quizzically. "You don't remember who I
am, do you?" she asked as she devoured
a cocktail sausage.

I smiled.

"Don't be silly, Susan," I said. "How
could I ever forget?"

She smiled.

  I confess that I remembered the white
queen's name in the nick of time.
Although I still had only vague
recollections of the lady, I certainly
would never forget the lunch.

  I had just had my first book
published and the critics on both
sides of the Atlantic had been
complimentary, even if the cheques
from my publishers were less so. My
agent had told me on several occasions
that I shouldn't write if I wanted to
make money. This created a dilemma
because I couldn't see how to make
money if I didn't write.

  It was around this time that the
lady, who was now facing me and
chattering on oblivious to my silence,
telephoned from New York to heap
lavish praise on my novel. There is no
writer who does not enjoy receiving
such calls, although I confess to
having been less than captivated by an
elevenyear-old girl who called me
collect from California to say she had
found a spelling mistake on page
forty-seven and warned me she would
ring again if she discovered another.
However, this particular lady might
have ended her transit

                  26
                   
Tic Lit -
atlantic congratulations with nothing
more than goodbye if she had not dropped
her own name. It was one of those names
that can, on the spur of the moment,
always book a table at a chic restaurant
or a seat at the opera which mere
mortals like myself would have found
impossible to achieve given a month's
notice. To be fair, it was her husband's
name that had achieved the reputation,
as one of the world's most distinguished
film producers.

  "When I'm next in London you must have
lunch with me," came crackling down the
phone.

"No," said I gallantly, "you must have
lunch with me."

  "How perfectly charming you English
always are," she said.

  I have often wondered how much
American women get away with when they
say those few words to an Englishman.
Nevertheless, the wife of an
Oscar-winning producer does not phone
one every day.

  "I promise to call you when I'm next
in London," she said.

  And indeed she did, for almost six
months to the day she telephoned again,
this time from the Connaught Hotel to
declare how much she was looking forward
to our meeting.

  "Where would you like to have lunch?"
I said, realising a second too late,
when she replied with the name of one of
the most exclusive restaurants in town,
that I should have made sure it was I
who chose the venue. I was glad she
couldn't see my forlorn face as she
added with unabashed liberation:

  "Monday, one o'clock. Leave the
booking to me- I'm known there."

  On the day in question I donned my one
respectable suit, a new shirt which I
had been saving for a special occasion
since Christmas, and the only tie that
looked as if it hadn't previously been
used to hold up my trousers. I then
strolled over to my bank and asked for
a statement of my current account. The
teller handed me a long piece of paper
unworthy of its amount. I studied the
figure as one who has to

 take a major financial decision. The
bottom line stated in
                  27
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

black lettering that I was in credit
to the sum of thirty-seven pounds and
sixty-three pence. I wrote out a
cheque for thirty-seven pounds. I feel
that a gentleman should always leave
his account in credit, and I might add
it was a belief that my bank manager
shared with me. I then walked up to
Mayfair for my luncheon date.

  As I entered the restaurant I
observed too many waiters and plush
seats for my liking. You can't eat
either, but you can be charged for
them. At a corner table for two sat a
woman who, although not young, was
elegant. She wore a blouse of powder
blue crepe-de-chine, and her blonde
hair was rolled away from her face in
a style that reminded me of the war
years, and had once again become
fashionable. It was clearly my
transatlantic admirer, and she greeted
me in the same "I've known you all my
life" fashion as she was to do at the
Literary Guild cocktail party years
later. Although she had a drink in
front of her I didn't order an
aperitif, explaining that I never
drank before lunch - and would like to
have added, "but as soon as your
husband makes a film of my novel, I
will."

  She launched immediately into the
latest Hollywood gossip, not so much
dropping names as reciting them, while
I ate my way through the crisps from
the bowl in front of me. A few minutes
later a waiter materialised by the
table and presented us with two large
embossed leather menus, considerably
better bound than my novel. The place
positively reeked of unnecessary
expense. I opened the menu and studied
the first chapter with horror; it was
eminently putdownable. I had no idea
that simple food obtained from Covent
Garden that morning could cost quite
so much by merely being transported to
Mayfair. I could have bought her the
same dishes for a quarter of the price
at my favourite bistro, a mere one
hundred yards away, and to add to my
discomfort I observed that it was one
of those restaurants where the guest's
menu made no mention of the prices. I
settled down to study the long list of
French dishes which only served to
remind me that I hadn't eaten well for
over a

                  28
                   
Rae Lu~on

month, a state of affairs that was
about to be prolonged by a further day.
I remembered my bank balance and
morosely reflected that I would
probably have to wait until my agent
sold the Icelandic rights of my novel
before I could afford a square meal
again.

"What would you like?" I said
gallantly.

  "I always enjoy a light lunch," she
volunteered. I sighed with premature
relief, only to find that light did not
necessarily mean "inexpensive".

  She smiled sweetly up at the waiter,
who looked as if be wouldn't be
wondering where his next meal might be
coming from, and ordered just a sliver
of smoked salmon, followed by two tiny
tender lamb cutlets. Then she
hesitated, but only for a moment,
before adding "and a side salad".

  I studied the menu with some caution,
running my finger down the prices, not
the dishes.

  "I also eat lightly at lunch," I said
mendaciously. "The chefs salad will be
quite enough for me." The waiter was
obviously affronted but left peaceably.

  She chatted of Coppola and Preminger,
of Al Pacino and Robert Redford, and of
Greta Garbo as if she saw her all the
time. She was kind enough to stop for a
moment and ask what I was working on at
present. I would have liked to have
replied - on how I was going to explain
to my wife that I only have sixty-three
pence left in the bank; whereas I
actually discussed my ideas for another
novel. She seemed impressed, but still
made no reference to her husband.
Should I mention him? No. Mustn't sound
pushy, or as though I needed the money.

  The food arrived, or that is to say
her smoked salmon did, and I sat
silently watching her eat my bank
account while I nibbled a roll. I
looked up only to discover a wine
waiter hovering by my side.

"Would you care for some wine?" said I,
recklessly.

  "No, I don't think so," she said. I
smiled a little too soon: "Well,
perhaps a little something white and
dry."

The wine waiter handed over a second
leather-bound

  29

A Quiver Full of Arrows

book, this time with golden grapes
embossed on the cover. I searched down
the pages for half bottles, explaining
to my guest that I never drank at
lunch. I chose the cheapest. The wine
waiter reappeared a moment later with
a large silver salver full of ice in
which the half bottle looked drowned,
and, like me, completely out of its
depth. A junior waiter cleared away the
empty plate while another wheeled a
large trolley to the side of our table
and served the lamb cutlets and the
chef's salad. At the same time a third
waiter made up an exquisite side salad
for my guest which ended up bigger than
my complete order. I didn't feel I
could ask her to swap.

  To be fair, the chef's salad was
superb- although I confess it was hard
to appreciate such food fully while
trying to work out a plot that would be
convincing if I found the bill came to
over thirty-seven pounds.

  "How silly of me to ask for white
wine with lamb," she said, having
nearly finished the half bottle. I
ordered a half bottle of the house red
without calling for the wine list.

  She finished the white wine and then
launched into the theatre, music and
other authors. All those who were still
alive she seemed to know and those who
were dead she hadn't read. I might have
enjoyed the performance if it hadn't
been for the fear of wondering if I
would be able to afford it when the
curtain came down. When the waiter
cleared away the empty dishes he asked
my guest if she would care for anything
else.

  "No, thank you," she said - I nearly
applauded. "Unless you have one of your
famous apple surprises."

  "I fear the last one may have gone,
madam, but I'll go and see."

  Don't hurry, I wanted to say, but
instead I just smiled as the rope
tightened around my neck. A few moments
later the waiter strode back in triumph
weaving between the tables holding the
apple surprise, in the palm of his
hand, high above his head. I prayed to
Newton that the apple would obey his
law. It didn't.

"The last one, madam."

                  30
                   
77~ Lunchers

"Oh, what luck," she declared.

  "Oh, what luck," I repeated, unable to
face the menu and discover the price. I
was now attempting some mental arith-
metic as I realised it was going to be
a close run thing.

  "Anything else, madam?" the
ingratiating waiter inquired.

I took a deep breath.

"Just coffee," she said.

"And for you, Sir?"

  "No, no, not for me." He left us. I
couldn't think of an explanation for
why I didn't drink coffee.

  She then produced from the large Gucci
bag by her side a copy of my novel,
which I signed with a flourish, hoping
the head waiter would see me and feel I
was the sort of man who should be
allowed to sign the bill as well, but
he resolutely remained at the far end
of the room while I wrote the words "An
unforgettable meeting" and appended my
signature.

  While the dear lady was drinking her
coffee I picked at another roll and
called for the bill, not because I was
in any particular hurry, but like a
guilty defendant at the Old Bailey I
preferred to wait no longer for the
judge's sentence. A man in a smart
green uniform, whom I had never seen
before appeared carrying a silver tray
with a folded piece of paper on it
looking not unlike my bank statement. I
pushed back the edge of the check
slowly and read the figure: thirtysix
pounds and forty pence. I casually put
my hand into my inside pocket and
withdrew my life's possessions and then
placed the crisp new notes on the
silver tray. They were whisked away.
The man in the green uniform returned a
few moments later with my sixty pence
change, which I pocketed as it was the
only way I was going to get a bus home.
The waiter gave me a look that would
have undoubtedly won him a character
part in any film produced by the lady's
distinguished husband.

  My guest rose and walked across the
restaurant, waving at, and occasionally
kissing people that I had previously
only

  seen in glossy magazines. When she
reached the door she
                  31
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

stopped to retrieve her coat, a mink.
I helped her on with the fur, again
failing to leave a tip. As we stood on
the Curzon Street pavement, a dark
blue Rolls-Royce drew up beside us and
a liveried chauffeur leaped out and
opened the rear door. She climbed in.

  "Goodbye, darling," she said, as the
electric window slid down. "Thank you
for such a lovely lunch."

  "Goodbye," I said, and summoning up
my courage added: "I do hope when you
are next in town I shall have the
opportunity of meeting your
distinguished husband."

  "Oh, darling, didn't you know?" she
said as she looked out from the
Rolls-Royce.

"Know what?"

"We were divorced ages ago."

"Divorced?" said 1.

  "Oh yes," she said gaily, "I haven't
spoken to him for years.

I just stood there looking helpless.

  "Oh, don't worry yourself on my
account," she said. "He's no loss. In
any case I have recently married
again" -another film producer, I
prayed- "In fact, I quite expected to
bump into my husband today - you see,
he owns the restaurant."

  Without another word the electric
window purred up and the Rolls-Royce
glided effortlessly out of sight
leaving me to walk to the nearest bus
stop.

  As I stood surrounded by Literary
Guild guests, staring at the white
queen with the cottage loaf bun, I
could still see her drifting away in
that blue Rolls-Royce. I tried to
concentrate on her words.

  "I knew you wouldn't forget me,
darling," she was saying. "After all,
I did take you to lunch, didn't I?"

                  32
                   
               The Coup

The blue and silver 707 jet,
displaying a large "P"on its tail
plane, taxied to a halt at the north
end of Lagos International Airport. A
fleet of six black Mercedes drove up
to the side of the aircraft and waited
in a line resembling a land-bound
crocodile. Six sweating, uniformed
drivers leaped out and stood to
attention. When the driver of the
front car opened his rear door,
Colonel Usman of the Federal Guard
stepped out, and walked quickly to the
bottom of the passenger steps which
had been hurriedly pushed into place
by four of the airport staff.

  The front section cabin door swung
back and the colonel stared up into
the gap, to see, framed against the
dark interior of the cabin, a slim,
attractive hostess dressed in a blue
suit with silver piping. On her jacket
lapel was a large "P". She turned and
nodded in the direction of the cabin.
A few seconds later, an immaculately
dressed tall man with thick black hair
and deep brown eyes replaced her in
the doorway. The man had an air of
effortless style about him which
self-made millionaires would have paid
a considerable part of their fortune
to possess. The colonel saluted as
Senhor Eduardo Francisco de Silveira,
head of the Prentino empire gave a
curt nod.

  De Silveira emerged from the coolness
of his airconditioned 707 into the
burning Nigerian sun without showing
the slightest sign of discomfort. The
colonel guided the tall, elegant
Brazilian, who was accompanied only by
his private secretary, to the front
Mercedes while the rest of the
Prentino stafffiled down the back
stairway ofthe aircraft and

                  33
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

filled the other five cars. The driver,
a corporal who had been detailed to be
available night and day for the
honoured guest, opened the rear door of
the front car and saluted. Eduardo de
Silveira showed no sign of
acknowledgment. The corporal smiled
nervously, revealing the largest set of
white teeth the Brazilian had ever
seen.

  "Welcome to Lagos," the corporal
volunteered. "Hope you make very big
deal while you are in Nigeria."

  Eduardo did not comment as he settled
back into his seat and stared out of
the tinted window to watch some passen-
gers of a British Airways 707 that had
landed just before him form a long
queue on the hot tarmac as they waited
patiently to clear customs. The driver
put the car into first gear and the
black crocodile proceeded on
itsjourney. Colonel Usman who was now
in the front seat beside the corporal,
soon discovered that the Brazilian
guest did not care for small talk, and
the secretary who was seated by his
employer's side never once opened his
mouth. The colonel, used to doing
things by example, remained silent,
leaving de Silveira to consider his
plan of campaign.

  Eduardo Francisco de Silveira had
been born in the small village of
Rebeti, a hundred miles north of Rio de
Janeiro, heir to one of the two most
powerful family fortunes in Brazil. He
had been educated privately in
Switzerland before attending the
University of California in Los
Angeles. He went on to complete his
education at the Harvard Business
School. After Harvard he returned from
America to work in Brazil where he
started neither at the top or the
bottom of the firm but in the middle,
managing his family's mining interests
in Minas Gerais. He quickly worked his
way to the top, even faster than his
father had planned, but then the boy
turned out to be not so much a chip as
a chunk off the old block. At
twenty-nine he married Maria, eldest
daughter of his father's closest
friend, and when twelve years later his
father died Eduardo succeeded to the
Prentino throne. There were seven sons
in all: the second son, Alfredo, was
now in charge of banking; Joao ran
shipping; Carlos orga

                  34
                   
The Coup

nisedconstruction; Manoel arranged food
and supplies; Jaime managed the family
newspapers, and little Antonio, the
last- and certainly the least - ran the
family farms. All the brothers reported
to Eduardo before making any mayor
decision, for he was still chairman of
the largest private company in Brazil,
despite the boastful claims of his old
family enemy, Manuel Rodrigues.

  When General Castelo Branco's military
regime overthrew the civilian government
in 1964 the generals agreed that they
could not kill off all the de Silveiras
or the Rodrigues so they had better
learn to live with the two rival
families. The de Silveiras for their
part had always had enough sense never
to involve themselves in politics other
than by making payments to every
government official, military or
civilian, according to his rank. This
ensured that the Prentino empire grew
alongside whatever faction came to
power. One of the reasons Eduardo de
Silveira had allocated three days in his
crowded schedule for a visit to Lagos
was that the Nigerian system of
government seemed to resemble so closely
that of Brazil, and at least on this
project he had cut the ground from under
Manuel Rodrigues' feet which would more
than make up for losing the Rio airport
tender to him. Eduardo smiled at the
thought of Rodrigue8 not realising that
he was in Nigeria to close a deal that
could make him twice the size of his
rival.

  As the black Mercedes moved slowly
through the teeming noisy streets paying
no attention to traffic lights, red or
green, Eduardo thought back to his first
meeting with General Mohammed, the
Nigerian Head of State, on the occasion
of the President's official visit to
Brazil. Speaking at the dinner given in
General Mohammed's honour, President
Ernesto Geisel declared a hope that the
two countries would move towards closer
co-operation in politics and commerce.
Eduardo agreed with his unelected leader
and was happy to leave the politics to
the President if he allowed him to get
on with the commerce. General Mohammed
made his reply, on behalf of the guests,
in an English accent that normally

                  35
                   
A Quiver Full o/A"ows

would only be associated with Oxford.
The general talked at length of the
project that was most dear to his
heart, the building of a new Nigerian
capital in Abuja, a city which he
considered might even rival Brasilia.
After the speeches were over, the
general took de Silveira on one side
and spoke in greater detail of the
Abuja city project asking him if he
might consider a private tender.
Eduardo smiled and only wished that
his enemy, Rodrigues, could hear the
intimate conversation he was having
with the Nigerian Head of State.

  Eduardo studied carefully the outline
proposal sent to him a week later,
after the general had returned to
Nigeria, and agreed to his first
request by despatching a research team
of seven men to fly to Lagos and
complete a feasibility study on Abuja.

  One month later, the team's detailed
report was in de Silveira's hands.
Eduardo came to the conclusion that
the potential profitability of the
project was worthy of a full proposal
to the Nigerian government. He
contacted General Mohammed personally
to find that he was in full agreement
and authorised the go-ahead. This time
twenty-three men were despatched to
Lagos and three months and one hundred
and seventy pages later, Eduardo
signed and sealed the proposal
designated as, "A New Capital for
Nigeria". He made only one alteration
to the final document. The cover of
the proposal was in blue and silver
with the Prentino logo in the centre:
Eduardo had that changed to green and
white, the national colours of
Nigeria, with the national emblem of
an eagle astride two horses: he
realised it was the little things that
impressed generals and often tipped
the scales. He sent ten copies of the
feasibility study to Nigeria's Head of
State with an invoice for one million
dollars.

  When General Mohammed had studied the
proposal he invited Eduardo de
Silveira to visit Nigeria as his
guest, in order to discuss the next
stage of the project. De Silveira
telexed back, provisionally accepting
the invitation, and pointing out
politely but firmly that he had not
yet received

                  36
                   
The Coup

reimbursement for the one million
dollars spent on the initial
feasibility study. The money was
telexed by return from the Central Bank
of Nigeria and de Silveira managed to
find four consecutive days in his diary
for "The New Federal Capital project":
his schedule demanded that he arrived
in Lagos on a Monday morning because he
had to be in Paris at the latest by the
Thursday night.

  While these thoughts were going
through Eduardo's mind, the Mercedes
drew up outside Dodan Barracks. The
iron gates swung open and a full armed
guard gave the general salute, an
honour normally afforded only to a
visiting Head of State. The black
Mercedes drove slowly through the gates
and came to a halt outside the
President's private residence. A
brigadier waited on the steps to escort
de Silveira through to the President.

  The two men had lunch together in a
small room that closely resembled a
British officers' mess. The meal con-
sisted of a steak, that would not have
been acceptable to any South American
cowhand surrounded by vegetables that
reminded Eduardo of his schooldays.
Still, Eduardo had never yet met a
soldier who understood that a good chef
was every bit as important as a good
barman. During the lunch they talked in
overall terms about the problems of
building a whole new city in the middle
of an equatorial jungle.

  The provisional estimate of the cost
of the project had been one thousand
million dollars but de Silveira warned
the President that the final outcome
might well end up nearer three thousand
million dollars the President's jaw
dropped slightly. De Silveira had to
admit that the project would be the
most ambitious that Prentino
International had ever tackled, but he
was quick to point out to the President
that the same would be true of any
construction company in the world.

  De Silveira, not a man to play his
best card early, waited until the
coffee to slip into the conversation
that he had just been awarded, against
heavy opposition (that had included
Rodrigues), the contract to build an
eight-lane highway

                  37
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

through the Amazonian jungle, which
would eventually link up with the
Pan-American highway, a contract second
in size only to the one they were now
contemplating in Nigeria. The President
was impressed and inquired if the
venture would not prevent de Silveira
involving himself in the new capital
project.

  "I'll know the answer to that
question in three days' time," replied
the Brazilian, and undertook to have a
further discussion with the Head of
State at the end of his visit when he
would let him know if he was prepared
to continue with the scheme.

  After lunch Eduardo was driven to the
Federal Palace Hotel where the entire
sixth floor had been placed at his
disposal. Several complaining guests
who had come to Nigeria to close deals
involving mere millions had been asked
to vacate their rooms at short notice
to make way for de Silveira and his
staff. Eduardo knew nothing of these
goings on, as there was always a room
available for him wherever he arrived
in the world.

  The six Mercedes drew up outside the
hotel and the colonel guided his charge
through the swing doors and past
reception. Eduardo had not checked
himself into a hotel for the past
fourteen years except on those
occasions when he chose to register
under an assumed name, not wanting any-
one to know the identity of the woman
he was with.

  The chairman of Prentino
International walked down the centre
ofthe hotel's main corridor and stepped
into a waiting lift. His legs went weak
and he suddenly felt sick. In the
corner of the lift stood a stubby,
balding, overweight man, who was
dressed in a pair of old jeans and a
tee-shirt, his mouth continually
opening and closing as he chewed gum.
The two men stood as far apart as
possible, neither showing any sign of
recognition. The lift stopped at the
fifth floor and Manuel Rodrigues,
chairman of Rodrigues International
S.A., stepped out, leaving behind him
the man who had been his bitter rival
for thirty years.

Eduardo held on to the rail in the lift
to steady himself as

                  38
                   
The Glib

he still felt dizzy. How he despised
that uneducated selfmade upstart whose
family of four half-brothers, all by
different fathers, claimed they now ran
the largest construction company in
Brazil. Both men were as interested in
the other's failure as they were in
their own success.

  E:duardo was somewhat puzzled to know
what Rodrigues could possibly be doing
in Lagos as he felt certain that his
rival had not come into contact with the
Nigerian President. After all, Eduardo
had never collected the rent on a small
house in Rio that was occupied by the
mistress of a very senior of ficial in
the government's protocol department.
And the man's only task was to be
certain that Rodrigues was never invited
to any function attended by a visiting
dignitary when in Brazil. The continual
absence of Rodrigues from these state
occasions ensured the absent-mindedness
of Eduardo's rent collector in Rio.

  Eduardo would never have admitted to
anyone that Rodrigues' presence worried
him, but he nevertheless resolved to
find out immediately what had brought
his old enemy to Nigeria. Once he
reached his suite de Silveira instructed
his private secretary to check what
Manuel Rodrigues was up to. Eduardo was
prepared to return to Brazil immediately
if Rodrigues turned out to be involved
in any way with the new capital project,
while one young lady in Rio would
suddenly find herself looking for
alternative accommodation.

  Within an hour, his private secretary
returned with the information that his
chairman had requested. Rodrigues, he
had discovered, was in Nigeria to tender
for the contract to construct a new port
in Lagos and was apparently not involved
in any way with the new capital, and in
fact was still trying to arrange a
meeting with the President.

  "Which minister is in charge of the
ports and when am I due to see him?"
asked de Silveira.

  The secretary delved into his
appointments file. "The Minister of
Transport," the secretary said. "You
have an appointment with him at nine
o'clock on Thursday morning." The
Nigerian Civil Service had mapped out a
four-day

                  39
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

schedule of meetings for de Silveira
that included every cabinet minister
involved in the new city project.
"It's the last meeting before your
final discussion with the President.
You then fly on to Paris."

  "Excellent. Remind me of this
conversation five minutes before I see
the minister and again when I talk to
the President. "

The secretary made a note m the file
and left.

  Eduardo sat alone in his suite, going
over the reports on the new capital
project submitted by his experts. Some
of his team were already showing signs
of nervousness. One particular anxiety
that always came up with a large
construction contract was the
principal's ability to pay, and pay on
time. Failure to do so was the
quickest route to bankruptcy, but
since the discovery of oil in Nigeria
there seemed to be no shortage of
income and certainly no shortage of
people willing to spend that money on
behalf of the government. These
anxieties did not worry de Silveira as
he always insisted on a substantial
payment in advance; otherwise he
wouldn't move himself or his vast
staff one centimetre out of Brazil.
However, the massive scope of this
particular contract made the
circumstances somewhat unusual.
Eduardo realised that it would be most
damaging to his international
reputation if he started the
assignment and then was seen not to
complete it. He re-read the reports
over a quiet dinner in his room and
retired to bed early, having wasted an
hour in vainly trying to place a call
through to his wife.

  De Silveira's first appointment the
next morning was with the Governor of
the Central Bank of Nigeria. Eduardo
wore a newly-pressed suit, fresh
shirt, and highly polished shoes: for
four days no one would see him in the
same clothes. At eight-forty-five
there was a quiet knock on the door of
his suite and the secretary opened it
to find Colonel Usman standing to
attention, waiting to escort Eduardo
to the bank. As they were leaving the
hotel Eduardo again saw Manuel
Rodrigues, wearing the same pair of
jeans, the same crumpled tee-shirt,
and probably chewing the same gum

                  40
                   
The Comb

as he stepped into a BMW in front of
him. De Silveira only stopped scowling
at the disappearing BMW when he
remembered his Thursday morning
appointment with the minister in charge
of ports, followed by a meeting with the
President.

  The Governor of the Central Bank of
Nigeria was in the habit of proposing
how payment schedules would be met and
completion orders would be guaranteed.
He had never been told by anyone that if
the payment was seven days overdue he
could consider the contract null and
void, and they could take it or leave
it. The minister would have made some
comment if Abuja had not been the
President's pet project. That position
established, de Silveira went on to
check the bank's reserves, long-term
deposits, overseas commitments, and
estimated oil revenues for the next five
years. He left the Governor in what
could only be be described as a
jelly-like state. Glistening and
wobbling. Eduardo's next appointment was
an unavoidable courtesy call on the
Brazilian Ambassador for lunch. He hated
these functions as he believed embassies
to be fit only for cocktail parties and
discussion of out-of-date trivia,
neither of which he cared for. The food
in such establishments was invariably
bad and the company worse. It turned out
to be no different on this occasion and
the only profit (Eduardo considered
everything in terms of profit and loss)
to be derived from the encounter was the
information that Manuel Rodrigues was on
a short list of three for the building
of the new port in Lagos, and was
expecting to have an audience with the
President on Friday if he was awarded
the contract. By Thursday morning that
will be a short list of two and there
will be no meeting with the President,
de Silveira promised himself, and
considered that was the most he was
likely to gain from the lunch until the
Ambassador added:

  "Rodrigues seems most keen on you
being awarded the new city contract at
Abuja. He's singing your praises to
every minister he meets. Funny," the
Ambassador continued, "I always thought
you two didn't see eye to eye."

                  41
                   
A Quiver of Arrows

  Eduardo made no reply as he tried to
fathom out what trick Rodrigues could
be up to by promoting his cause.

  Eduardo spent the afternoon with the
Minister of Finance and confirmed the
provisional arrangements he had made
with the Governor of the bank. The
Minister of Finance had been
forewarned by the Governor what he was
to expect from an encounter with
Eduardo de Silveira and that he was
not to be taken aback by the
Brazilian's curt demands. De Silveira,
aware that this warning would have
taken place, let the poor man bargain
a little and even gave way on a few
minor points that he would be able to
tell the President about at the next
meeting of the Supreme Military
Council. Eduardo left the smiling
minister believing that he had scored
a point or two against the formidable
South American.

  That evening, Eduardo dined privately
with his senior advisers who
themselves were already dealing with
the ministers' officials. Each was now
coming up with daily reports about the
problems that would have to be faced
if they worked in Nigeria. His chief
engineer was quick to emphasise that
skilled labour could not be hired at
any price as the Germans had already
cornered the market for their
extensive road projects. The financial
advisers also presented a gloomy
report, of international companies
waiting six months or more for their
cheques to be cleared by the central
bank. Eduardo made notes on the views
they expressed but never ventured an
opinion himself. His staffleft him a
little after eleven and he decided to
take a stroll around the hotel grounds
before retiring to bed. On his walk
through the luxuriant tropical gardens
he onlyjust avoided a face-to-face
confrontation with Manuel Rodrigues by
darting behind a large Iroko plant.
The little man passed by champing away
at his gum, oblivious to Eduardo's
baleful glare. Eduardo informed a
chattering grey parrot of his most
secret thoughts: by Thursday
afternoon, Rodrigues, you will be on
your way back to Brazil with a
suitcase full of plans that can be
filed under "abortive projects". The
parrot cocked his head and screeched
at him as if he had been let in on his

 -        42

The Coup

secret. Eduardo allowed himself a smile
and returned to his room.

  Colonel Usman arrived on the dot of
eight-forty-five again the next day and
Eduardo spent the morning with the
Minister of Supplies and Co-operatives
- or lack of them, as he commented to
his private secretary afterwards. The
afternoon was spent with the Minister of
Labour checking over the availability of
unskilled workers and the total lack of
skilled operatives. Eduardo was fast
reaching the conclusion that, despite
the professed optimism of the ministers
concerned, this was going to be the
toughest contract he had ever tackled.
There was more to be lost than money if
the whole international business world
stood watching him fall net on his face.
In the evening his staff reported to him
once again, having solved a few old
problems and unearthed some new ones.
Tentatively, they had come to the
conclusion that if the present regime
stayed in power, there need be no
serious concern over payment, as the
President had earmarked the new city as
a priority project. They had even heard
a rumour that the army would be willing
to lend-lease part of the Service Corps
if there turned out to be a shortage of
skilled labour. Eduardo made a note to
have this point confirmed in writing by
the Head of State during their final
meeting the next day. But the labour
problem was not what was occupying
Eduardo's thoughts as he put on his silk
pyjamas that night. He was chuckling at
the idea of Manuel Rodrigues' imminent
and sudden departure for Brazil. Eduardo
slept well.

  He rose with renewed vigour the next
morning, showered and put on a fresh
suit. The four days were turning out to
be well worth while and a single stone
might yet kill two birds. By
eight-forty-five, he was waiting
impatiently for the previously punctual
colonel. The colonel did not show up at
eight-forty-five and had still not
appeared when the clock on his
mantelpiece struck nine. De Silveira
sent his private secretary off to find
out where he was while he paced angrily
backwards and forwards through the hotel
suite. His secre

                  43
                   
A Quiver of Arrows

tary returned a few minutes later in a
panic with the information that the
hotel was surrounded by armed guards.
Eduardo did not panic. He had been
through eight coupe in his life from
which he had learnt one golden rule:
the new regime never kills visiting
foreigners as it needs their money
every bit as much as the last
government. Eduardo picked up the
telephone but no one answered him so he
switched on the radio. A tape recording
was playing:

  "This is Radio Nigeria, this is Radio
Nigeria. There has been a coup. General
Mohammed has been overthrown and
Lieutenant Colonel Dimka has assumed
leadership of the new revolutionary
government. Do not be afraid; remain at
home and everything will be back to
normal in a few hours. This is Radio
Nigeria, this is Radio Nigeria. There
has been a..."

  Eduardo switched off the radio as two
thoughts flashed through his mind.
Coups always held up everything and
caused chaos, so undoubtedly he had
wasted the four days. But worse, would
it now be possible for him even to get
out of Nigeria and carry on his normal
business with the rest of the world?

  By lunchtime, the radio was playing
martial music interspersed with the
tape recorded message he now knew offby
heart. Eduardo detailed all his staff
to find out anything they could and to
report back to him direct. They all
returned with the same story; that it
was impossible to get past the soldiers
surrounding the hotel so no new
information could be unearthed. Eduardo
swore for the first time in months. To
add to his inconvenience, the hotel
manager rang through to say that
regretfully Mr. de Silveira would have
to eat in the main dining room as there
would be no room service until further
notice. Eduardo went down to the dining
room somewhat reluctantly only to
discover that the head waiter showed no
interest in who he was and placed him
unceremoniously at a small table
already occupied by three Italians.
Manuel Rodrigues was seated only two
tables away: Eduardo stiffened at the
thought of the other man enjoying his

                  44
                   
7~ con

discomfiture and then remembered it was
that morning he was supposed to have
seen the Minister of Ports. He ate his
meal quickly despite being served slowly
and when the Italians tried to make
conversation with him he waved them away
with his hand, feigning lack of
understanding, despite the fact that he
spoke their language fluently. As soon
as he had finished the second course he
returned to his room. His staffhad only
gossip to pass on and they had been
unable to make contact with the
Brazilian Embassy to lodge an of ficial
protest. "A lot of good an official
protest will do us," said Eduardo,
slumping down in his chair. "Who do you
send it to, the new regime or the old
one?"

  He sat alone in his room for the rest
ofthe day, interrupted only by what he
thought was the sound of gunfire in the
distance. He read the New Federal
Capital project proposal and his
advisers' reports for a third time.

  The next morning Eduardo, dressed in
the same suit as he had worn on the day
of his arrival, was greeted by his
secretary with the news that the coup
had been crushed; after fierce street
fighting, he informed his unusually
attentive chairman, the old regime had
regained power but not without losses;
among those killed in the uprising had
been General Mohammed, the Head of
State. The secretary's news was
officially confirmed on Radio Nigeria
later that morning. The ringleader of
the abortive coup had been one
Lieutenant Colonel Dimka: Dimka, along
with one or two junior officers, had
escaped, and the government had ordered
a dusk to dawn curfew until the evil
criminals were apprehended.

  Pull offa coup and you're a national
hero, fail and you're an evil criminal;
in business it's the same difference
between bankruptcy and making a fortune,
considered Eduardo as he listened to the
news report. He was beginning to form
plans in his mind for an early departure
from Nigeria when the newscaster made an
announcement that chilled him to the
very marrow.

"While Lieutenant Colonel Dimka and his
accomplices
                  45
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

remain on the run, airports throughout
the country will be closed until
further notice."

  When the newscaster had finished his
report, martial music was played in
memory of the late General Mohammed.

  Eduardo went downstairs in a flaming
temper. The hotel was still surrounded
by armed guards. He stared at the Beet
of six empty Mercedes which was parked
only ten yards beyond the soldiers'
rifles. He marched back into the
foyer, irritated by the babble of
different tongues coming at him from
every direction. Eduardo looked around
him: it was obvious that many people
had been stranded in the hotel
overnight and had ended up sleeping in
the lounge or the bar. He checked the
paperback rack in the lobby for some-
thing to read but there were only four
copies left of a tourist guide to
Lagos; everything had been sold.
Authors who had not been read for
years were now changing hands at a
premium. Eduardo returned to his room
which was fast assuming the character
of a prison, and baulked at reading
the New Federal Capital project for a
fourth time. He tried again to make
contact with the Brazilian Ambassador
to discover if he could obtain special
permission to leave the country as he
had his own aircraft. No one answered
the Embassy phone. He went down for an
early lunch only to find the dining
room was once again packed to
capacity. Eduardo was placed at a
table with some Germans who were
worrying about a contract that had
been signed by the government the
previous week, before the abortive
coup. They were wondering if it would
still be honoured. Manuel Rodrigues
entered the room a few minutes later
and was placed at the next table.

  During the afternoon, de Silveira
ruefully examined his schedule for the
next seven days. He had been due in
Paris that morning to see the Minister
of the Interior, and from there should
have flown on to London to confer with
the chairman of the Steel Board. His
calendar was fully booked for the next
ninety-two days until his family
holiday in May.

                  46
                   
"I'm having this year's holiday in
Nigeria," he commented wryly to an
assistant.

  What annoyed Eduardo most about the
coup was the lack of communication it
afforded with the outside world. He
wondered what was going on in Brazil
and he hated not being able to
telephone or telex Paris or London to
explain his absence-personally. He
listened addictively to Radio Nigeria
on the hour every hour for any new
scrap of information. At five o'clock,
he learned that the Supreme Military
Council had elected a new President
who would address the nation on
television and radio at nine o'clock
that night.

  Eduardo de Silveira switched on the
television at eightforty-five;
normally an assistant would have put
it on for him at one minute to nine.
He sat watching a Nigerian lady giving
a talk on dressmaking, followed by the
weather forecast man who supplied
Eduardo with the revealing information
that the temperature would continue to
be hot for the next month. Eduardo's
knee was twitching up and down
nervously as he waited for the address
by the new President. At nine o'clock,
after the national anthem had been
played, the new Head of State, General
Obasanjo, appeared on the screen in
full dress uniform. He spoke first
ofthe tragic death and sad loss for
the nation of the late President, and
went on to say that his government
would continue to work in the best
interest of Nigeria. He looked ill at
ease as he apologised to all foreign
visitors who were inconvenienced by
the attempted coup but went on to make
it clear that the dusk to dawn curfew
would continue until the rebel leaders
were tracked down and brought to
justice. He confirmed that,~all
airports would remain closed until
Lieutenant Colonel Dimka was in safe
custody. The new President ended his
statement by saying that all other
forms of communication would be opened
up again as soon as possible. The
national anthem was played for a
second time, while Eduardo thought of
the millions of dollars that might be
lost to him by his incarceration in
that hotel room, while his private
plane sat idly on the tarmac only a
few miles away. One of his senior
managers

                  47
                   
A Quiver of ArrouJs

opened a book as to how long it would
take for the authorities to capture
Lieutenant Colonel Dimka; he did not
tell de Silveira how short the odds
were on a month.

  Eduardo went down to the dining room
in the suit he had worn the day before.
A junior waiter placed him at a table
with some Frenchmen who had been hoping
to win a contract to drill bore holes
in the Niger state. Again Eduardo waved
a languid hand when they tried to
include him in their conversation. At
that very moment he was meant to be
with the French Minister of the
Interior, not with some French
hole-borers. He tried to concentrate on
his watered-down soup, wondering how
much longer it would be before it would
be just water. The head waiter appeared
by his side, gesturing to the one
remaining seat at the table, in which
he placed Manuel Rodrigues. Still
neither man gave any sign of
recognising the other. Eduardo debated
with himself whether he should leave
the table or carry on as if his oldest
rival was still in Brazil. He decided
the latter was more dignified. The
Frenchmen began an argument among them-
selves as to when they would be able to
get out of Lagos. One of them declared
emphatically that he had heard on the
highest authority that the government
intended to track down every last one
of those involved in the coup before
they opened the airports and that might
take up to a month.

"What?" said the two Brazilians
together, in English.

"I can't stay here for a month," said
Eduardo.

"Neither can 1," said Manuel Rodrigues.

  "You'll have to, at least until Dimka
is captured," said one of the
Frenchmen, breaking into English. "So
you must both relax yourselves, yes?"

  The two Brazilians continued their
meal in silence. When Eduardo had
finished he rose from the table and
without looking directly at Rodrigues
said goodnight in Portuguese. The old
rival inclined his head in reply to the
salutation.

  The next day brought forth no new
information. The hotel remained
surrounded with soldiers and by the
evening Eduardo had lost his temper
with every member of staffwith

                  48
                   
Ilk Coup

whom he had come into contact. He went
down to dinner on his own and as he
entered the dining room he saw Manuel
Rodrigues sitting alone at a table in
the corner. Rodrigues looked up, seemed
to hesitate for a moment, and then beck-
oned to Eduardo. Eduardo himself
hesitated before walking slowly towards
Rodrigues and taking the seat opposite
him. Rodrigues poured him a glass of
wine. Eduardo, who rarely drank, drank
it. Their conversation was stilted to
begin with, but as both men consumed
more wine so they each began to relax in
the other's company. By the time coffee
had arrived, Manuel was telling Eduardo
what he could do with this god-forsaken
country.

  "You will not stay on, if you are
awarded the ports contract?" inquired
Eduardo.

  "Not a hope," said Rodrigues, who
showed no surprise that de Silveira knew
of his interest in the ports contract.
"I withdrew from the short list the day
before the coup. I had intended to By
back to Brazil that Thursday morning."

"Can you say why you withdrew?"

  "Labour problems mainly, and then the
congestion of the ports."

  "I am not sure I understand," said
Eduardo, understanding full well but
curious to learn if Rodrigues had picked
up some tiny detail his own staff had
missed.

  Manuel Rodrigues paused to ingest the
fact that the man he had viewed as his
most dangerous enemy for over thirty
years was now listening to his own
inside information. He considered the
situation for a moment while he sipped
his coffee. Eduardo didn't speak.

  "To begin with, there's a terrible
shortage of skilled labour, and on top
of that there's this mad quota system."

"Quota system?" said Eduardo innocently.

  "The percentage of people from the
contractor's country which the
government will allow to work in
Nigeria."

  "Why should that be a problem?" said
Eduardo, leaning forward.

"By law, you have to employ at a ratio
of fifty nationals to
                  49
                   
A Quaver Filll of Arrows

one foreigner so I could only have
brought over twenty-five of my top men
to organise a fifty million dollar
contract, and I'd have had to make do
with Nigerians at every other level.
The government are cutting their own
throats with the wretched system; they
can't expect unskilled men, black or
white, to become experienced engineers
overnight. It's all to do with their
national pride. Someone must tell them
they can't afford that sort of pride
if they want to complete the job at a
sensible price. That path is the
surest route to bankruptcy. On top of
that, the Germans have already rounded
up all the best skilled labour for
their road projects."

  "But surely," said Eduardo, "you
charge according to the rules, however
stupid, thus covering all
eventualities, and as long as you're
certain that payment is guaranteed . .
."

  Manuel raised his hand to stop
Eduardo's flow: "That's another
problem. You can't be certain. The
government reneged on a major steel
contract only last month. In so
doing," he explained, "they had
bankrupted a distinguished
international company. So they are
perfectly capable of trying the same
trick with me. And if they don't pay
up, who do you sue? The Supreme
Military Council?"

"And the ports problem?"

  "The port is totally congested. There
are one hundred and seventy ships
desperate to unload their cargo with a
waiting time of anything up to six
months. On top of that, there is a
demurrage charge of five thousand
dollars a day and only perishable
foods are given any priority."

  "But there's always a way round that
sort of problem," said Eduardo,
rubbing a thumb twice across the top
of his fingers.

  '`Bribery? It doesn't work, Eduardo.
How can you possibly jump the queue
when all one hundred and seventy ships
have already bribed the harbour
master? And don't imagine that fixing
the rent on a flat for one of his
mistresses would help either," said
Rodrigues grinning. "With that man you
will have to supply the mistress as
well."

Eduardo held his breath but said
nothing.

                  50
                   
7h~ Coup

  "Come to think of it," continued
Rodrigues, "if the situation becomes
any worse, the harbour master will be
the one man in the country who is
richer than you."

Eduardo laughed for the first time in
three days.

  "I tell you, Eduardo, we could make a
bigger profit building a salt mine in
Siberia."

  Eduardo laughed again and some of the
Prentino and Rodrigues staff dining at
other tables stared in disbelief at
their masters.

  "You were in for the big one, the new
city of Abuja?" said Manuel.

"That's right," admitted Eduardo.

  "I have done everything in my power to
make sure you were awarded that
contract," said the other quietly.

"What?" said Eduardo in disbelief.
"Why?"

  "I thought Abuja would give the
Prentino empire more headaches than
even you could cope with, Eduardo, and
that might possibly leave the field
wide open for me at home. Think about
it. Every time there's a cutback in
Nigeria, what will be the first head to
roll off the chopping block? 'The
unnecessary city' as the locals all
call it."

"The unnecessary city?" repeated
Eduardo.

  "Yes, and it doesn't help when you say
you won't move without advance payment.
You know as well as I do, you will need
one hundred of your best men here full
time to organise such a massive
enterprise. They'll need feeding,
salaries, housing, perhaps even a
school and a hospital. Once they were
settled down here, you can't just pull
them off the job every two weeks
because the government is running late
clearing the cheques. It's not
practical and you know it " Rodrigues
poured Eduardo de Silveira another
glass of wine.

  "I had already taken that into
consideration," Eduardo said as he
sipped the wine, "but I thought that
with the support of the Head of State."

"The late Head of State - "

"I take your point, Manuel."

"Maybe the next Head of State will also
back you, but

                  51
                   
A Quiver of Arrows

what about the one after that? Nigeria
has had three coups in the past three
years."

Eduardo remained silent for a moment.

"Do you play backgammon?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

  "I must make some money while I'm
here." Manual laughed.

  "Why don't you come to my room,"
continued de Silveira. "Though I must
warn you I always manage to beat my
staff."

  "Perhaps they always manage to lose,"
said Manuel, as he rose and grabbed the
half empty bottle of wine by its neck.
Both men were laughing as they left the
dining room.

  After that, the two chairmen had
lunch and dinner together every day.
Within a week, their staffwere eating
at the same tables. Eduardo could be
seen in the dining room without a tie
while Manuel wore a shirt for the first
time in years. By the end of a
fortnight, the two rivals had played
each other at table tennis, backgammon
and bridge with the stakes set at one
hundred dollars a point. At the end of
each day Eduardo always seemed to end
up owing Manuel about a million dollars
which Manuel happily traded for the
best bottle of wine left in the hotel's
cellar.

  Although Lieutenant Colonel Dimka had
been sighted by about forty thousand
Nigerians in about as many different
places, he still remained resolutely
uncaptured. As the new President had
insisted, airports remained closed but
communications were opened which at
least allowed Eduardo to telephone and
telex Brazil. His brothers and wife
were sending replies by the hour,
imploring Eduardo to return home at any
cost: decisions on major contracts
throughout the world were being held up
by his absence. But Eduardo's message
back to Brazil was always the same: as
long as Dimka is on the loose, the
airports will remain closed.

  It was on a Tuesday night during
dinner that Eduardo took the trouble to
explain to Manuel why Brazil had lost
the World Cup. Manuel dismissed
Eduardo's outrageous claims

                  52
                   
The

as ill-informed and prejudiced. It was
the only subject on which they hadn't
agreed in the past three weeks.

"I blame the whole fiasco on Zagalo."
said Eduardo.

  "No, no, you cannot blame the
manager," said Manuel. "The fault lies
with our stupid selectors who know even
less about football than you do. They
should never have dropped Leao from
goal and in any case we should have
learned from the Argentinian defeat
last year that our methods are now out
of date. You must attack, attack, if
you want to score goals."

"Rubbish. We still have the surest
defence in the world."

  "Which means the best result you can
hope for is a O O draw."

"Never . . ." began Eduardo.

  "Excuse me, sir." Eduardo looked up to
see his private secretary standing by
his side looking anxiously down at him.

"Yes, what's the problem?"

"An urgent telex from Brazil, sir."

  Eduardo read the first paragraph and
then asked Manuel if he would be kind
enough to excuse him for a few minutes.
The latter nodded politely. Eduardo
left the table and as he marched
through the dining room seventeen other
guests left unfinished meals and
followed him quickly to his suite on
the top floor, where the rest of his
staffwere already assembled. He sat
down in the corner of the room on his
own. No one spoke as he read through
the telex carefully, suddenly realising
how many days he had been imprisoned in
Lagos.

  The telex was from his brother Carlos
and the contents concerned the
Pan-American road project, an
eight-lane highway that would stretch
from Brazil to Mexico. Prentinos had
tendered for the section that ran
through the middle of the Amazon jungle
and had to have the bank guarantees
signed and certified by midday
tomorrow; Tuesday. But Eduardo had
quite forgotten which Tuesday it was
and the document he was committed to
sign by the following day's deadline.

                  53
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

  "What's the problem?" Eduardo asked
his private secretary. "The Banco do
Brasil have already agreed with
Alfredo to act as guarantors. What's
stopping Carlos signing the agreement
in my absence?"

  "The Mexicans are now demanding that
responsibility for the contract be
shared because of the insurance
problems: Lloyd's of London will not
cover the entire risk if only one
company is involved. The details are
all on page seven of the telex."

  Eduardo flicked quickly through the
pages. He read that his brothers had
already tried to put pressure on
Lloyd's, but to no avail. That's like
trying to bribe a maiden aunt into
taking part in a public orgy, thought
Eduardo, and he would have told them
as much if he had been back in Brazil.
The Mexican Government was therefore
insisting that the contract be shared
with an international construction
company acceptable to Lloyd's if the
legal documents were to be signed by
the midday deadline the following day.

  "Stay put," said Eduardo to his
staff, and he returned to the dining
room alone, trailing the long telex
behind him. Rodrigues watched him as
he scurried back to their table.

"You look like a man with a problem."

"I am," said Eduardo. "Read that."

  Manuel's experienced eye ran down the
telex, picking out the salient points.
He had tendered for the Amazon road
project himself and could still recall
the details. At Eduardo's insistence,
he re-read page seven.

  "Mexican bandits," he said as he
returned the telex to Eduardo. "Who do
they think they are, telling Eduardo
de Silveira how he must conduct his
business. Telex them back immediately
and inform them you're chairman of the
greatest construction company in the
world and they can roast in hell
before you will agree to their
pathetic terms. You know it's far too
late for them to go out to tender
again with every other section of the
highway ready to begin work. They
would lose millions. Call their bluff,
Eduardo."

"I think you may be right, Manuel, but
any hold-up now

                  54
                   
The Coup

can only waste my time and money, so I
intend to agree to their demand and look
for a partner."

"You'll never find one at such short
notice."

"I will."

"Who?"

  Eduardo de Silveira hesitated only for
a second. "You, Manuel. I want to offer
Rodrigues International S.A. fifty per
cent of the Amazon road contract."

  Manuel Rodrigues looked up at F:duardo.
It was the first time that he had not
anticipated his old rival's next move. "I
suppose it might help cover the millions
you owe me in table tennis debts."

  The two men laughed, then Rodrigues
stood up and they shook hands gravely. De
Silveira left the dining room on the run
and wrote out a telex for his manager to
transmit.

  "Sign, accept terms, fifty per cent
partner will be Rodrigues International
Construction S.A., Brazil."

  "If I telex that message, sir, you do
realise that it's legally binding?"

"Send it," said Eduardo.

  Eduardo returned once again to the
dining room where Manuel had ordered the
finest bottle of champagne in the hotel.
Just as they were calling for a second
bottle, and singing a spirited version of
Esta Cheganda a hora, Eduardo's private
secretary appeared by his side again,
this time with two telexes, one from the
President of the Banco do Brasil and a
second from his brother Carlos. Both
wanted confirmation of the agreed partner
for the Amazon road project. Eduardo
uncorked the second bottle of champagne
without looking up at his private
secretary.

  "Confirm Rodrigues International
Construction to the President of the bank
and my brother," he said as he filled
Manuel's empty glass. "And don't bother
me again tonight."

  "Yes, sir," said the private secretary
and left without another word.

Neither man could recall what time he
climbed into bed

                   55

.

A Quiver Full of Arrows

that night but de Silveira
was-abruptly awakened from a deep
sleep by his secretary early the next
morning. Eduardo took a few minutes to
digest the news. Lieutenant Colonel
Dimka had been caught in Kano at three
o'clock that morning, and all the
airports were now open again. Eduardo
picked up the phone and dialled three
digits.

  "Manuel, you've heard the news? ...
Good.... Then you must By back with me
in my 707 or it may be days before you
get out . . . One hour's time in the
lobby . . . See you then."

  At eight-forty-five there was a quiet
knock on the door and Eduardo's
secretary opened it to find Colonel
Usman standing to attention, just as
he had done in the days before the
coup. He held a note in his hand.
Eduardo tore open the envelope to find
an invitation to lunch that day with
the new Head of State, General
Obasanjo.

  "Please convey my apologies to your
President," said Eduardo, "and be kind
enough to explain that I have pressing
commitments to attend to in my own
country."

  The colonel retired reluctantly.
Eduardo dressed in the suit, shirt and
tie he had worn on his first day in
Nigeria and took the lift downstairs
to the lobby where he joined Manuel
who was once more wearing jeans and a
tee-shirt. The two chairmen left the
hotel and climbed into the back of the
leading Mercedes and the motorcade of
six began its journey to the airport.
The colonel, who now sat in front with
the driver, did not venture to speak
to either of the distinguished
Brazilians for the entire journey. The
two men, he would be able to tell the
new President later, seemed to be
preoccupied with a discussion on an
Amazon road project and how the
responsibility should be divided
between their two companies.

  Customs were bypassed as neither man
had anything they wanted to take out
of the country other than themselves,
and the fleet of cars came to a halt
at the side of Eduardo's blue and
silver 707. The staff of both
companies climbed aboard the rear
section of the aircraft, also
engrossed in discussion on the Amazon
road project.

                  56
                   
~ coup

  A corporal jumped out ofthe lead car
and opened the back door, to allow the
two chairmen to walk straight up the
steps and board the front section of
the aircraft.

  As Eduardo stepped out of the
Mercedes, the Nigerian driver saluted
smartly. "Goodbye, sir," he said,
revealing the large set of white teeth
once again.

Eduardo said nothing.

  "I hope," said the corporal politely,
"you made very big deal while you were
in Nigeria."

                  57
                   
        The First
        Miracle
Tomorrow it would be I
A.D., but nobody had
told him.

  If anyone had, he
wouldn't have
understood because he
thought that it was the
forty-third year in the
reign of the Emperor,
and in any case, he had
other things on his
mind. His mother was
still cross with him
and he had to admit
that he'd been naughty
that day, even by the
standards of a normal
thirteen-year-old. He
hadn't meant to drop
the pitcher when she
had sent him to the
well for water. He
tried to explain to his
mother that it wasn't
his fault that he had
tripped over a stone;
and that at least was
true. What he hadn't
told her was that he
was chasing a stray dog
at the time. And then
there was that
pomegranate; how was he
meant to know that it
was the last one, and
that his father had
taken a liking to them?
The boy was now
dreading his father's
return and the
possibility that he
might be given another
thrashing. He could
still remember the last
one when he hadn't been
able to sit down for
two days without
feeling the pain, and
the thin red scars
didn't completely
disappear for over
three weeks.

  He sat on the window
ledge in a shaded
corner of his room
trying to think of some
way he could redeem
himself in his mother's
eyes, now that she had
thrown him out of the
kitchen. Go outside and
play, she had insisted,
after he had spilt some
cooking oil on his
tunic. But that wasn't
much fun as he was only
allowed to play by
himself. His father had
forbidden him to mix
with the local boys.
How he hated this
country; if only he
were back home with his
friends, there would be
so much to do. Still,
only another three
weeks and he could . .
. The door swung open
and his mother came
into

          59
           
A Quiver Full of Arrows

the room. She was dressed in the thin
black garments so favoured by locals:
they kept her cool, she had explained
to the boy's father. He had grunted his
disapproval so she always changed back
into imperial dress before he returned
in the evening.

  "Ah, there you are," she said,
addressing the crouched figure of her
son.

"Yes, Mother."

  "Daydreaming as usual. Well, wake up
because I need you to go into the
village and fetch some food for me."

  "Yes, Mother, I'll go at once," the
boy said as he jumped off the window
ledge.

"Well, at least wait until you've heard
what I want."

"Sorry, Mother."

  "Now listen, andlisten carefully."
She started counting on her fingers as
she spoke. "I need a chicken, some
raisins, figs, dates and . . . ah yes,
two pomegranates."

  The boy's face reddened at the
mention of the pomegranates and he
stared down at the stone Door, hoping
she might have forgotten. His mother
put her hand into the leather purse
that hung from her waist and removed
two small coins, but before she handed
them over she made her son repeat the
nstruct~ons.

  "One chicken, raisins, figs, dates,
and two pomegranates," he recited, as
he might the modern poet, Virgil.

  "And be sure to see they give you the
correct change," she added. "Never
forget the locals are all thieves."

"Yes, Mother . . ." For a moment the
boy hesitated.

  "If you remember everything and bring
back the right amount of money, I might
forget to tell your father about the
broken pitcher and the pomegranate."

  The boy smiled, pocketed the two
small silver coins This tunic, and ran
out of the house into the compound. The
guard who stood on duty at the gate
removed the great wedge of wood which
allowed the massive door to swing open.
The boy jumped through the hole in the
gate and grinned back at the guard.

                  60
                   
T;k Firs' Mirack

  "Been in more trouble again today?"
the guard shouted after him.

  "No, not this time," the boy replied.
"I'm about to be saved."

  He waved farewell to the guard and
started to walk briskly towards the
village while humming a tune that
reminded him of home. He kept to the
centre of the dusty winding path that
the locals had the nerve to call a road.
He seemed to spend half his time
removing little stones from his sandals.
If his father had been posted here for
any length of time he would have made
some changes; then they would have had
a real road, straight and wide enough to
take a chariot. But not before his
mother had sorted out the serving girls.
Not one of them knew how to lay a table
or even prepare food so that it was at
least clean. For the first time in his
life he had seen his mother in a
kitchen, and he felt sure it would be
the last, as they would all be returning
home now that his father was coming to
the end of his assignment.

  The evening sun shone down on him as
he walked; it was a very large red sun,
the same red as his 6ther's tunic. The
heat it gave out made him sweat and long
for something to drink. Perhaps there
would be enough money left over to buy
himself a pomegranate. He couldn't wait
to take one home and show his friends
how large they were in this barbaric
land. Marcus, his best friend, would
undoubtedly have seen one as big because
his father had commanded a whole army in
these parts, but the rest of the class
would still be impressed.

  The village to which his mother had
sent him was only two miles from the
compound and the dusty path ran
alongside a hill overlooking a large
valley. The road was already crowded
with travellers who would be seeking
shelter in the village. All of them had
come down from the hills at the express
orders of his father, whose authority
had been vested in him by the Emperor
himself. Once he was sixteen, he too
would serve the Emperor. His friend
Marcus wanted to be a soldier and
conquer the rest of the world. But he
was more

                  61
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

interested in the law and teaching his
country's customs to the heathens in
strange lands.

  Marcus had said, "I'll conquer them
and then you can govern them."

  A sensible division between brains
and brawn he had told his friend, who
didn't seem impressed and had ducked
him in the nearest bath.

  The boy quickened his pace as he knew
he had to be back in the compound
before the sun disappeared behind the
hills. His father had told him many
times that he must always be locked
safely inside before sunset. He was
aware that his father was not a
popular man with the locals, and he
had warned his son that he would
always be safe while it was light as
no one would dare to harm him while
others could watch what was going on,
but once it was dark anything could
happen. One thing he knew for certain:
when he grew up he wasn't going to be
a tax collector or work in the census
office.

  When he reached the village he found
the narrow twisting lanes that ran
between the little white houses
swarming with people who had come from
all the neighbouring lands to obey his
father's order and be registered for
the census, in order that they might
be taxed. The boy dismissed the plebe
from his mind. (It was Marcus who had
taught him to refer to all foreigners
as plebe.) When he entered the market
place he also dismissed Marcus from
his mind and began to concentrate on
the supplies his mother wanted. He
mustn't make any mistakes this time or
he would undoubtedly end up with that
thrashing from his &then He ran nimbly
between the stalls, checking the food
carefully. Some of the local people
stared at the fair-skinned boy with
the curly brown hair and the straight,
firm nose. He displayed no
imperfections or disease like the
majority of them. Others turned their
eyes away from him; after all, he had
come from the land of the natural
rulers. These thoughts did not pass
through his mind. All the boy noticed
was that their native skins

                  62
                   
77icFirst Miracle

were parched and lined from too much
sun. He knew that too much sun was bad
for you: it made you old before your
time, his tutor had warned him.

  At the end stall, the boy watched an
old woman haggling over an unusually
plump live chicken and as he marched
towards her she ran away in fright,
leaving the fowl behind her. He stared
at the stallkeeper and refused to
bargain with the peasant. It was beneath
his dignity. He pointed to the chicken
and gave the man one denarius. The man
bit the round silver coin and looked at
the head of Augustus Caesar, ruler of
half the world. (When his tutor had told
him, during a history lesson, about the
Emperor's achievements, he remembered
thinking, I hope Caesar doesn't conquer
the whole world before I have a chance
to join in.) The stallkeeper was still
staring at the silver coin.

  "Come on, come on, I haven't got all
day," said the boy sounding like his
father.

  The local did not reply because he
couldn't understand what the boy was
saying. All he knew for certain was that
it would be unwise for him to annoy the
invader. The stallkeeper held the
chicken firmly by the neck and taking a
knife from his belt cut its head offin
one movement and passed the dead fowl
over to the boy. He then handed back
some of his local coins, which had
stamped on them the image of a man the
boy's father described as "that useless
Herod". The boy kept his hand held out,
palm open, and the local placed bronze
talents into it until he had no more.
The boy left him talentless and moved to
another stall, this time pointing to
bags containing raisins, figs and dates.
The new stallkeeper made a measure of
each for which he received five of the
useless Herod coins. The man was about
to protest about the barter but the boy
stared at him fixedly in the eyes, the
way he had seen his father do so often.
The stallkeeper backed away and only
bowed his head.

  Now, what else did his mother want? He
racked his brains. A chicken, raisins,
dates, figs and . . . of course, two
pomegranates. He searched among the
fresh-fruit stalls and

                  63
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

picked out three pomegranates, and
breaking one open, began to eat it,
spitting out the pips on the ground in
front of him. He paid the staJlkeeper
with the two remaining bronze talents,
feeling pleased that he had carried out
his mother's wishes while still being
able to return home with one of the
silver denarii. Even his father would
be impressed by that. He finished the
pomegranate and, with his arms laden,
headed slowly out of the market back
towards the compound, trying to avoid
the stray dogs that continually got
under his feet. They barked and
sometimes snapped at his ankles: they
did not know who he was.

  When the boy reached the edge of the
village he noticed the sun was already
disappearing behind the highest hill,
so he quickened his pace, remembering
his father's words about being home
before dusk. As he walked down the
stony path, those still on the way
towards the village kept a respectful
distance, leaving him a clear vision as
far as the eye could see, which wasn't
all that far as he was carrying so much
in his arms. But one sight he did
notice a little way ahead of him was a
man with a beard - a dirty, lazy habit
his father had told him - wearing the
ragged dress that signified that he was
of the tribe of Jacob, tugging a
reluctant donkey which in turn was
carrying a very fat woman. The woman
was, as their custom demanded, covered
from head to toe in black. The boy was
about to order them out of his path
when the man left the donkey on the
side of the road and went into a house
which from its sign, claimed to be an
inn.

  Such a building in his own land would
never have passed the scrutiny of the
local councillors as a place fit for
paying travellers to dwell in. But the
boy realised that this particular week
to find even a mat to lay one's head on
might be considered a luxury. He
watched the bearded man reappear
through the door with a forlorn look on
his tired face. There was clearly no
room at the inn.

  The boy could have told him that
before he went in, and wondered what
the man would do next, as it was the
last dwelling house on the road. Not
that he was really in

                  64
                   
Tic First Mirarlc

terested; they could both sleep in the
hills for all he cared. It was about all
they looked fit for. The man with the
beard was telling the woman something
and pointing behind the inn, and without
another word he led the donkey off in
the direction he had been indicating.
The boy wondered what could possibly be
at the back of the inn and, his
curiosity roused, followed them. As he
came to the corner of the building, he
saw the man was coaxing the donkey
through an open door of what looked like
a barn. The boy followed the strange
trio and watched them through the crack
left by the open door. The barn was
covered in dirty straw and full of
chickens, sheep and oxen, and smelled to
the boy like the sewers they built in
the side streets back home. He began to
feel sick. The man was clearing away
some of the worst of the straw from the
centre of the barn, trying to make a
clean patch for them to rest on - a near
hopeless task, thought the boy. When the
man had done as best he could he lifted
the At woman down from the donkey and
placed her gently in the straw. Then he
left her and went over to a trough on
the other side of the barn where one of
the oxen was drinking. He cupped his
fingers together, put them in the trough
and filling his hands with water,
returned to the fat woman.

  The boy was beginning to get bored and
was about to leave when the woman leaned
forward to drink from the man's hands.
The shawl fell from her head and he saw
her face for the first time.

  He stood transfixed, staring at her.
He had never seen anything more
beautiful. Unlike the common members of
her tribe, the woman's skin was
translucent in quality, and her eyes
shone, but what most struck the boy was
her manner and presence. Never had he
felt so much in awe, even remembering
his one visit to the Senate House to
hear a declamation from Augustus Caesar.

  For a moment he remained mesmerised,
but then he knew what he must do. He
walked through the open door towards the
woman, fell on his knees before her and
offered the chicken. She smiled and he
gave her the pomegranates and

                  65
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

she smiled again. He then dropped the
rest of the food in front of her, but
she remained silent. The man with the
beard was returning with more water,
and when he saw the young foreigner he
fell on his knees spilling the water
onto the straw and then covered his
face. The boy stayed on his knees for
some time before he rose, and walked
slowly towards the barn door. When he
reached the opening, he turned back
and stared once more into the face of
the beautiful woman. She still did not
speak.

  The young Roman hesitated only for a
second, and then bowed his head.

  It was already dusk when he ran back
out on to the winding path to resume
his journey home, but he was not
afraid. Rather he felt he had done
something good and therefore no harm
could come to him. He looked up into
the sky and saw directly above him the
first star, shining so brightly in the
east that he wondered why he could see
no others. His father had told him
that different stars were visible in
different lands, so he dismissed the
puzzle from his mind, replacing it
with the anxiety of not being home
before dark. The road in front of him
was now empty so he was able to walk
quickly towards the compound, and was
not all that far from safety when he
first heard the singing and shouting.
He turned quickly to see where the
danger was coming from, staring up
into the hills above him. To begin
with, he couldn't make sense of what
he saw. Then his eyes focused in
disbelief on one particular field in
which the shepherds were leaping up
and down, singing, shouting and
clapping their hands. The boy noticed
that all the sheep were safely penned
in a corner of the field for the
night, so they had nothing to fear. He
had been told by Marcus that sometimes
the shepherds in this land would make
a lot of noise at night because they
believed it kept away the evil
spirits. How could anyone be that
stupid, the boy wondered, when there
was a flash of lightning across the
sky and the field was suddenly ablaze
with light. The shepherds fell to
their knees, silent, staring up into
the sky for several minutes as though

                  66
                   
~ First Miracle

they were listening intently to
something. Then all was darkness again.

  The boy started running towards the
compound as fast as his legs could
carry him; he wanted to be inside and
hear the safety of the great gate close
behind him and watch the centurion put
the wooden wedge firmly back in its
place. He would have run all the way
had he not seen something in front of
him that brought him to a sudden halt.
His father had taught him never to show
any fear when facing danger. The boy
caught his breath in case it would make
them think that he was frightened. He
was frightened, but he marched proudly
on, determined he would never be forced
off the road-When they did meet face to
face, he was amazed.

  Before him stood three camels and
astride the beasts three men, who
stared down at him. The first was clad
in gold and with one arm protected
something hidden beneath his cloak. By
his side hung a large sword, its sheath
covered in all manner of rare stones,
some of which the boy could not even
name. The second was dressed in white
and held a silver casket to his breast,
while the third wore red and carried a
large wooden box. The man robed in gold
put up his hand and addressed the boy
in a strange tongue which he had never
heard uttered before, even by his
tutor. The second man tried Hebrew but
to no avail and the third yet another
tongue without eliciting any response
from the boy.

  The boy folded his arms across his
chest and told them who he was, where
he was going, and asked where they
might be bound. He hoped his piping
voice did not reveal his fear. The one
robed in gold replied first and
questioned the boy in his own tongue.

  "Where is he that is born King of the
Jews? For we have seen his star in the
east, and are come to worship him."

"King Herod lives beyond the . . ."

  "We speak not of King Herod," said the
second man, "for he is but a king of
men as we are."

  "We speak," said the third, "of the
King of Kings and are come to offer him
gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh."

                  67
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

  "I know nothing of the King of
Kings," said the boy, now gaining in
confidence. "I recognise only Augustus
Caesar, Emperor of the known world."

  The man robed in gold shook his head
and, pointing to the sky, inquired of
the boy: "You observe that bright star
in the east. What is the name of the
village on which it shines?"

  The boy looked up at the star, and
indeed the village below was clearer
to the eye than it had been in
sunlight.

  "But that's only Bethlehem," said the
boy, laughing. "You will find no King
of Kings there."

  "Even there we shall find him," said
the second king, "for did not Herod's
chief priest tell us:

And thou Bethlehem, in the land of
Judah, Art not least among the
princes of Judah, For out of thee
shall come a Governor That shall rule
my people Israel."

  "It cannot be," said the boy now
almost shouting at them. "Augustus
Caesar rules Israel and all the known
world."

  But the three robed men did not heed
his words and left him to ride on
towards Bethlehem.

  Mystified the boy set out on the last
part of his journey home. Although the
sky had become pitch black, whenever
he turned his eyes towards Bethlehem
the village was still clearly visible
in the brilliant starlight. Once again
he started running towards the
compound, relieved to see its outline
rising up in front of him. When he
reached the great wooden gate, he
banged loudly and repeatedly until a
centurion, sword drawn, holding a
flaming torch, came out to find out
who it was that disturbed his watch.
When he saw the boy, he frowned.

  "Your father is very angry. He
returned at sunset and is about to
send out a search party for you."

  The boy darted past the centurion and
ran all the way to his family's
quarters, where he found his father
addressing a sergeant of the guard.
His mother was standing by his side,
weeping.

                  68
                   
77k first Mirack

  The father turned when he saw his son
and shouted: "Where have you been?"

"To Bethlehem."

  "Yes, I know that, but whatever
possessed you to return so late? Have I
not told you countless times never to be
out of the compound after dark? Come to
my study at once."

  The boy looked helplessly towards his
mother, who was still crying, but not
out of relief, and turned to follow his
father into the study. The guard
sergeant winked at him as he passed by
but the boy knew nothing could save him
now. His father strode ahead of him into
the study and sat on a leather stool by
his table. His mother followed and stood
silently by the door.

  "Now tell me exactly where you have
been and why you took so long to return,
and be sure to tell me the truth."

  The boy stood in front of his father
and told him everything that had come to
pass. He started with how he had gone to
the village and taken great care in
choosing the food and in so doing had
saved half the money his mother had
given him. How on the way back he had
seen a fat lady on a donkey unable to
find a place at the inn and then he ex-
plained why he had given her the food.
He went on to describe how the shepherds
had shouted and beat their breasts until
there was a great light in the sky at
which they had all fallen silent on
their knees, and then finally how he had
met the three robed men who were
searching for the King of Kings.

The father grew angry at his son's
words.

  "What a story you tell," he shouted.
"Do tell me more. Did you find this King
of Kings?"

  "No, Sir. I did not," he replied, as
he watched his father rise and start
pacing around the room.

  "Perhaps there is a more simple
explanation as to why your face and
fingers are stained red with pomegranate
juice," he suggested.

"No, Father. I did buy an extra
pomegranate but even

                  69
                   
A Qpw~r Full of Arrows

after I had bought all the food, I
still managed to save one silver
denarius."

  The boy handed the coin over to his
mother believing it would confirm his
story. But the sight of the piece of
silver only made his father more
angry. He stopped pacing and stared
down into the eyes of his son.

  "You have spent the other denarius on
yourself and now you have nothing to
show for it?"

"That's not true, Father, I . . ."

  "Then I will allow you one more
chance to tell me the truth," said his
father as he sat back down. "Fail me,
boy, and I shall give you a thrashing
that you will never forget for the
rest of your life."

"I have already told you the truth,
Father."

  "Listen to me carefully, my son. We
were born Romans, born to rule the
world because our laws and customs are
tried and trusted and have always been
based firmly on absolute honesty.
Rornans never lie; it remains our
strength and the weakness of our
enemies. That is why we rule while
others are ruled and as long as that
is so the Roman Empire will never
fall. Do you understand what I am
saying, my boy?"

"Yes, Father, I understand."

  "Then you'll also understand why it
is imperative to tell the truth."

"But I have not lied, Father."

  "Then there is no hope for you," said
the man angrily. "And you leave me
only one way to deal with this
matter."

  The boy's mother wanted to come to
her son's aid, but knew any protest
would be useless. The father rose from
his chair and removed the leather belt
from around his waist and folded it
double, leaving the heavy brass studs
on the outside. He then ordered his
son to touch his toes. The young boy
obeyed without hesitation and the
father raised the leather strap above
his head and brought it down on the
child with all his strength. The boy
never flinched or murmured, while his
mother turned away from the sight, and

                  70
                   
Tote First Miracle

wept. After the father had administered
the twelfth stroke he ordered his son to
go to his room. The boy left without a
word and his mother followed and watched
him climb the stairs. She then hurried
away to the kitchen and gathered
together some olive oil and ointments
which she hoped would soothe the pain of
her son's wounds. She carried the little
jars up to his room, where she found him
already in bed. She went over to his
side and pulled the sheet back. He
turned on to his chest while she
prepared the oils. Then she removed his
night tunic gently for fear of adding to
his pain. Having done so, she stared
down at his body in disbelief.

The boy's skin was unmarked.

  She ran her fingers gently over her
son's unblemished body and found it to
be as smooth as if he had just bathed.
She turned him over, but there was not
a mark on him anywhere. Quickly she
covered him with the sheet.

  "Say nothing of this to your father,
and remove the memory of it from your
mind forever, because the very telling
of it will only make him more angry."

"Yes, Mother."

  The mother leaned over and blew out
the candle by the side ofthe bed,
gathered up the unused oils and tiptoed
to the door. At the threshold, she
turned in the dim light to look back at
her son and said:

"Now I know you were telling the truth,
Pontius."

                  71
                   
 The Perfect Gentleman

  I would never have
met Edward Shrimpton if
he hadn't needed a
towel. He stood naked
by my side staring down
at a bench in front of
him, muttering, "I
could have sworn I left
the damn thing there."

  I had just come out
of the sauna, swathed
in towels, so I took
one off my shoulder and
passed it to him. He
thanked me and put out
his hand.

  "Edward Shrimpton,"
he said smiling. I took
his hand and wondered
what we must have
looked like standing
there in the gymnasium
locker room of the
Metropolitan Club in
the early evening, two
grown men shaking hands
in the nude.

  "I don't remember
seeing you in the club
before," he added.

"No, I'm an overseas
member."

"Ah, from England. What
brings you to New
York?"

  "I'm pursuing an
American novelist whom
my company would like
to publish in England."

"And are you having any
success?"

  "Yes, I think I'll
close the deal this
week - as long as the
agent stops trying to
convince me that his
author is a cross
between Tolstoy and
Dickens and should be
paid accordingly."

  "Neither was paid
particularly well, if I
remember correctly,"
offered Edward
Shrimpton as he
energetically rubbed
the towel up and down
his back.

  "A fact I pointed out
to the agent at the
time who only countered
by reminding me that it
was my House who had
published Dickens
originally."

          73
           
A Quiver Full of Arrows

  "I suggest," said Edward Shrimpton,
"that you remind him that the end
result turned out to be successful for
all concerned."

  "I did, but I fear this agent is more
interested in 'up front' than
posterity."

  "As a banker that's a sentiment of
which I could hardly disprove as :he
one thing we have in common with pub-
lishers is that our clients are always
trying to tell us a good tale."

  "Perhaps you should sit down and
write one of them for me?" I said
politely.

  "Heaven forbid, you must be sick of
being told that there's a book in
every one of us so I hasten to assure
you that there isn't one in me."

  I laughed, as I found it refreshing
not to be informed by a new
acquaintance that his memoirs, if only
he could find the time to write them,
would overnight, be one of the world's
best sellers.

  "Perhaps there's a story in you, but
you're just not aware of it." I
suggested.

"If that's the case, I'm afraid it's
passed me by."

  Mr. Shrimpton re-emerged from behind
the row of little tin cubicles and
handed me back my towel. He was now
fully dressed and stood, I would have
guessed, a shade under six feet. He
wore a Wall Street banker's pinstripe
suit and, although he was nearly bald,
he had a remarkable physique for a man
who must have been well into his
sixties. Only his thick white
moustache gave away his true age, and
would have been more in keeping with a
retired English colonel than a New
York banker.

  "Are you going to be in New York
long?" he inquired, as he took a small
leather case from his inside pocket
and removed a pair of half-moon
spectacles and placed them on the end
of his nose.

"Just for the week."

  "I don't suppose you're free for
lunch tomorrow, by any chance?" he
inquired, peering over the top of his
glasses.

                  74
                   
The Perfect Gentleman

  "Yes, I am. I certainly can't face
another meal with that agent."

  "Good, good, then why don't you join
me and I can follow the continuing
drama of capturing the elusive American
Author?"

"And perhaps I'll discover there is a
story in you after all."

  "Not a hope," he said, "you would be
backing a loser if you depend on that,"
and once again he offered his hand.
"One o'clock, members' dining room suit
you?"

"One o'clock, members' dining room." I
repeated.

  As he left the locker room I walked
over to the mirror and straightened my
tie. I was dining that night with Eric
McKenzie, a publishing friend, who had
originally proposed me for membership
of the club. To be accurate, Eric
McKenzie was a friend of my father
rather than myself. They had met just
before the war while on holiday in
Portugal and when I was elected to the
club, soon after my father's
retirement, Eric took it upon himself
to have dinner with me whenever I was
in New York. One's parents' generation
never see one as anything but a child
who will always be in need of constant
care and attention. As he was a
contemporary of my father, Eric must
have been nearly seventy and, although
hard of hearing and slightly bent, he
was always amusing and good company,
even if he did continually ask me if I
was aware that his grandfather was
Scottish.

  As I strapped on my watch, I checked
that he was due to arrive in a few
minutes. I put on my jacket and
strolled out into the hall to find that
he was already there, waiting for me.
Eric was killing time by reading the
out-of-date club notices. Americans, I
have observed, can always be relied
upon to arrive early or late; never on
time. I stood staring at the stooping
man, whose hair but far a few strands
had now turned silver. His three-piece
suit had a button missing on the jacket
which reminded me that his wife had
died last year. After another
thrust-out hand and exchange of wel-
comes, we took the lift to the second
floor and walked to the dining room.

                  75
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

  The members' dining room at the
Metropolitan differs little from any
other men's club. It has a fair
sprinkling of old leather chairs, old
carpets, old portraits and old
members. A waiter guided us to a
corner table which overlooked Central
Park. We ordered, and then settled
back to discuss all the subjects I
found I usually cover with an
acquaintance I only have the chance to
catch up with a couple of times a
yearour families, children, mutual
friends, work; baseball and cricket.
By the time we had reached cricket we
had also reached coffee, so we
strolled down to the far end of the
room and made ourselves comfortable in
two well-worn leather chairs. When the
coffee arrived I ordered two brandies
and watched Eric unwrap a large Cuban
cigar. Although they displayed a West
Indian band on the outside, I knew
they were Cuban because I had picked
them up for him from a tobacconist in
St. James's, Piccadilly, which
specialises in changing the labels for
its American customers. I have often
thought that they must be the only
shop in the world that changes labels
with the sole purpose of making a
superior product appear inferior. I am
certain my wine merchant does it the
other way round.

  While Eric was attempting to light
the cigar, my eyes wandered to a board
on the wall. To be more accurate it
was a highly polished wooden plaque
with oblique golden lettering painted
on it, honouring those men who over
the years had won the club's
Backgammon Championship. I glanced
idly down the list, not expecting to
see anybody with whom I would be
familiar, when I was brought up by the
name of Edward Shrimpton. Once in the
late thirties he had been the
runner-up.

"That's interesting," I said.

  "What is?" asked Eric, now wreathed
in enough smoke to have puffed himself
out of Grand Central Station.

  "Edward Shrimpton was runner-up in
the club's Backgammon Championship in
the late thirties. I'm having lunch
with him tomorrow."

"I didn't realise you knew him."

                  76
                   
The Pcrfcct Ccn~leman

  "I didn't until this afternoon," I
said, and then explained how we had
met.

  Eric laughed and turned to stare up at
the board. Then he added, rather
mysteriously: "That's a night I'm never
likely to forget."

"Why?" I asked.

  Eric hesitated, and looked uncertain
of himself before continuing: "Too much
water has passed under the bridge for
anyone to care now." He paused again,
as a hot piece of ash fell to the floor
and added to the burn marks that made
their own private pattern in the
carpet. "Just before the war Edward
Shrimpton was among the best half dozen
backgammon players in the world. In
fact, it must have been around that
time he won the unofficial world
championship in Monte Carlo."

"And he couldn't win the club
championship?"

  "Couldn't would be the wrong word,
dear boy. 'Didn't' might be more
accurate." Eric lapsed into another
preoccup~ed silence.

  "Are you going to explain?" I asked,
hoping he would continue, "or am I to
be left like a child who wants to know
who killed Cock Robin?"

  "All in good time, but first allow me
to get this damn cigar started."

  I remained silent and four matches
later, he said "Before I begin, take a
look at the man sitting over there in
the corner with the young blonde."

  I turned and glanced back towards the
dining room area, and saw a man
attacking a porterhouse steak. He
looked about the same age as Eric and
wore a smart new suit that was unable
to disguise that he had a weight
problem: only his tailor could have
smiled at him with any pleasure. He was
seated opposite a slight, not
unattractive strawberry blonde of half
his age who could have trodden on a
beetle and failed to crush it.

"What an unlikely pair. Who are they?"

"Harry Newman and his fourth wife.
They're always

                  77
                   
A Quiver Full oJ Arrows

the same. The wives I mean - blonde
hair, blue eyes, ninety pounds, and
dumb. I can never understand why any
man gets divorced only to marry a
carbon copy of the original."

  "Where does Edward Shrimpton fit into
the jigsaw?" I asked, trymg to guide
Eric back on to the subject.

  "Patience, patience," said my host,
asherelit hiscigarfor the second time.
"At your age you've far more time to
waste than I have."

  I laughed and picked up the cognac
nearest to me and swirled the brandy
around in my cupped hands.

  "Harry Newman," continued Eric, now
almost hidden in smoke, "was the
fellow who beat Edward Shrimpton in
the final of the club championship
that year, although in truth he was
never in the same class as Edward."

  "Doexplain," I said, as I looked upat
the board tocheck that it was Newman's
name that preceded Edward Shrimpton's.

  "Well," said Eric, "after the
semi-final, which Edward had won with
consummate ease, we all assumed the
final would only bea formality. Harry
had always been agood player, hulas I
had been the one to lose to him in the
semi-finals, I knew he couldn't hope
to survive a contest with Edward
Shrimpton. Theclub final is won by the
first man to twenty-one points, and if
I had been asked for an opinion at the
time I would have reckoned the result
would end up around 21-5 in Edward's
favour. Damn cigar," he said, and lit
it for a fourth time. Once again I
waited impatiently.

  "The final is always held on a
Saturday night, and poor Harry over
there," said Eric, pointing his cigar
towards the far cornerofthe room while
depositingsome more ash on thefloor,
"who all of us thought was doing
rather well in the insurance business,
had a bankruptcy notice served on him
the Monday morning before the final -
I might add through no fault of his
own. His partner had cashed in his
stock without Harry's knowledge,
disappeared, and left him with all the
bills to pick up. Everyone in the club
was sympathetic.

"On the Thursday the press got hold of
the story, and for

                  78
                   
nofcet C - ~

good measure they added that Harry's
wife had runoffwiththe partner. Harry
didn't show his head in the club all
week, and some of us wondered if he
would scratch from the final and let
Edward win by default as the result was
such a foregone conclusion anyway. But
the Games Committee received no
communication from Harry to suggest the
contest was offso they proceeded as
though nothing had happened. On the
night ofthefinal, I dined with Edward
Shrimpton herein theclub. He was in
fine form. He ate very little and drank
nothing but aglass of water. If you had
asked me then I wouldn't have put a
penny on Harry Newman even if the odds
had been ten to one.

  "We all dined upstairs on the third
Door, as the Committee had cleared this
room so that they could seat sixty in a
square around the board. The final was
due to start at nine o'clock. By twenty
to nine there wasn't a seat left in the
place, and members were already
standing two deep behind the square: it
wasn't every day we had the chance to
see a world champion in action. By five
to nine, Harry still hadn't turned up
and some of the members were beginning
to get a little restless. As nine
o'clock chimed, the referee went over
to Edward and had a word with him. I
saw Edward shake his head in
disagreement and walk away. Just at the
point, when I thought the referee would
have to be firm and award the match to
Edward, Harry strolled in looking very
dapper adorned in a dinner jacket
several sizes smaller than the suit he
is wearing tonight. Edward went
straight up to him, shook him warmly by
the hand and together they walked into
the centre of the room. Even with the
throw of the first dice there was a
tension about that match. Members were
waiting to see how Harry would fare in
the opening game."

  The intermittent cigar went out again.
I leaned over and struck a match for
him.

  "Thank you, dear boy. Now, where was
1? Oh, yes, the first game. Well,
Edward only just won the first game and
I wondered if he wasn't concentrating
or if perhaps he had become a little
too relaxed while waiting for his
opponent. In

 the second game the dice ran well for
Harry and he won fairly
                  79
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

easily. From that moment on it became
a finely fought battle, and by the time
the score had reached I 1-9 in Edward's
favour the tension in the room was
quite electric. By the ninth game I
began watching more carefully and
noticed that Edward allowed himselftobe
drawn into a back game, a small error
in judgment that only a seasoned player
would have spotted. I wondered how many
more subtle errors had already passed
that I hadn'tobserved. Harrywenton
towintheninth making the score 1~17 in
his favour. I watched even more
diligently as Edward did just enough to
win the tenth game and, with a rash
double, just enough to lose the
eleventh, bring the score to 20 all, so
that everything would depend on the
final game. I swear that nobody had
left the room that evening, and not one
back remained against a chair; some
members were even hanging on to the
window ledges. The room was now full of
drink and thick with cigar smoke, and
yet when Harry picked up the dice cup
for the last game you could hear the
little squares of ivory rattle before
they hit the board. The dice ran well
for Harry in that final game and Edward
only made one small error early on that
I was able to pick up; but it was
enough to give Harry game, match and
championship. After the last throw of
the dice everyone in that room,
including Edward, gave the new champion
a standing ovation."

  "Had many other members worked out
what had really happened that night?"

  "No, I don't think so," said Eric.
"And certainly Harry Newman hadn 't.
The talk afterwardswas that Harry had
never played a bettergamein his life
and what aworthy champion he was, all
the more for the difficulties he
laboured under."

"Did Edward have anything to say?"

  "Toughest match he'd been in since
Monte Carlo and only hoped he would be
given the chance to avenge the defeat
next year.

  "But he wasn't," I said, looking up
again at the board. "He never won the
club championship."

  "That's right. After Roosevelt had
insisted we help you guys out in
England, the club didn't hold the
competition

                  80
                   
The Perfect Gcntlc~nan

again until 1946, and by then Edward
had been to war and had lost all
interest in the game."

"And Harry?"

  'Oh, Harry. Harry never looked back
after that; must have made a dozen
deals in the club that night. Within
ayear hewas on top again and even found
himselfanothercutelittle blonde. "

  "What does Edward say about the
result now, thirty years later?"

  "Do you know that remains a mystery
to this day. I have never heard him
mention the game once in all that
time."

  Eric's cigar had come to the end of
its working life and he stubbed the
remains out in an ashless ashtray. It
obviously acted as a signal to remind
him that it was time to go home. He
rose a little unsteadily and I walked
down with him to the front door.

  "Goodbye my boy," he said, "do give
Edward my best wishes when you have
lunch with him tomorrow. And remember
not to play him at backgammon. He'd
still kill you."

  The next day I arrived in the front
hall a few minutes before our appointed
time, not sure if Edward Shrimpton
would fall into the category of early
or late Americans. As the clock struck
one, he walked through the door: there
has to be an exception to every rule.
We agreed to go straight up to lunch
since he had to be back in Wall Street
for a two-thirty appointment. We
stepped into the packed lift, and I
pressed the No. 3 button. The doors
closed like a tired concertina and the
slowest lift in America made its way
towards the second

noon

  As we entered the dining room, I was
amused to see Harry Newman was already
there, attacking another steak, while
the little blonde lady was nibbling a
salad. He waved expansively at Edward
Shrimpton, who returned the gesture
with a friendly nod. We sat down at a
table in the centre of the room and
studied the menu. Steak and kidney pie
was the dish of the day, which was
probably the case in half the mens'
clubs in the world. Edward wrote down
our orders in a

                  81
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

neat and legible hand on the little
white slip provided by the waiter.

  Edward asked me about the author I
was chasing and made some penetrating
comments about her earlier work, to
which I responded as best I could
while trying to think of a plot to
make him discuss the pre-war
backgammon championship, which I
considered would make a far better
story than anything she had ever
written. But he never talked about
himself once during the meal, so I
despaired. Finally, staring up at the
plaque on the wall, I said clumsily:

  "I see you were runner-up in the club
backgammon championship just before
the war. You must have been a fine
player."

  "No, not really," he replied. "Not
many people bothered about the game in
those days. There is a different
attitude today with all the youngsters
taking it so seriously."

"What about the champion?" I said,
pushing my luck.

  "Harry Newman?- He was an outstanding
player, and particularly good under
pressure. He's the gentleman who
greeted us when we came in. That's him
sitting over there in the corner with
his wife."

  I looked obediently towards Mr.
Newman's table but my host added
nothing more so I gave up. We ordered
coffee and that would have been the
end of Edward's story if Harry Newman
and his wife had not headed straight
for us after they had finished their
lunch. Edward was on his feet long
before I was, despite my twenty-year
advantage. Harry Newman looked even
bigger standing up, and his little
blonde wife looked more like the
dessert than his spouse.

"Ed," he boomed, "how are you?"

  "I'm well, thank you, Harry," Edward
replied. "May I introduce my guest?"

  "Nice to know you," he said. "Rusty,
I've always wanted you to meet Ed
Shrimpton because I've talked to you
about him so often in the past."

"Have you, Harry?" she squeaked.

"Of course. You remember, honey. Ed is
up there on the

                  82
                   
Tic PcrScet Gentleman

backgammon honours board," he said,
pointing a stubby finger towards the
plaque. "With only one name in front of
him and that's mine. And Ed was the
world champion at the time. Isn't that
right, Ed?"

"That's right, Harry."

  "So I suppose I really should have
been the world champion that year,
wouldn't you say?"

  "I couldn't quarrel with that
conclusion," replied Edward.

  "On the big day, Rusty, when it
really mattered, and the pressure was
on, I beat him fair and square."

  I stood in silent disbeliefas Edward
Shrimpton still volunteered no
disagreement.

  "We must play again for old times'
sake, Ed," the fat man continued. "It
would be fun to see if you could beat
me now. Mind you, I'm a bit rusty
nowadays, Rusty." He laughed loudly at
his own joke but his spouse's face
remained blank. I wondered how long it
would be before there was a fifth Mrs.
Newman.

  "It's been great to see you again,
Ed. Take care of yourself."

"Thank you Harry," said Edward.

  We both sat down again as Newman and
his wife left the dining room. Our
coffee was now cold so we ordered a
fresh pot. The room was almost empty
and when I had poured two cups for us
Edward leaned over to me
conspiratorially and whispered:

  "Now there's a hell of a story for a
publisher like you," he said. "I mean
the real truth about Harry Newman."

  My ears pricked up as I anticipated
his version of the story of what had
actually happened on the night of that
pre-war backgammon championship over
thirty years before.

"Really?" I said, innocently.

  "Oh, yes," said Edward. "It was not
as simple as you might think. Just
before the war Harry was let down very
badly by his business partner who not
only stole his money, but for good
measure his wife as well. The very week
that he

                  83
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

was at his lowest he won the club
backgammon championship, put all his
troubles behind him and, against the
odds, made a brilliant come-back. You
know, he's worth a fortune today.
Now, wouldn't you agree that that
would make one hell of a story?"

                  84
                   
            One-Night Stand

l he two men had first met at the age
of five when they were placed side by
side at school, for no more compelling
reason than that their names, Thompson
and Townsend, came one after each
other on the class register. They soon
became best friends, a tie which at
that age is more binding than any
marriage. After passing their
eleven-plus examination they proceeded
to the local grammar school with no
Timpsons, Tooleys or Tomlinsons to
divide them and, having completed
seven years in that academic
institution, reached an age when one
either has to go to work or to
university. They opted for the latter
on the grounds that work should be put
off until the last possible moment.
Happily, they both possessed enough
brains and native wit to earn
themselves places at Durham University
to read English.

  Undergraduate life turned out to be
as sociable as primary school. They
both enjoyed English, tennis, cricket,
good food and girls. Luckily, in the
last of these predilections they
differed only on points of detail.
Michael, who was six-foottwo, willowy
with dark curly hair, preferred tall,
bosomy blondes with blue eyes and long
legs. Adrian, a stocky man of
five-foot-ten, with straight, sandy
hair always fell for small, slim,
dark-haired, dark-eyed girls. So
whenever Adrian came across a girl
that Michael took an interest in or
vice versa, whether she was an
undergraduate or barmaid, the one
would happily exaggerate their
friend's virtues. Thus they spent
three idyllic years in unison at
Durham, gaining considerably more than
a Bachelor of Arts degree. As neither
of them had impressed the examiners
enough to waste a

                  85
                   
A Q''iv~r Full of Arrows

further two years expounding their
theories for a Ph.D. they could no
longer avoid the real world.

  Twin Dick Whittingtons, they set off
for London, where Michael joined the
BBC as a trainee while Adrian was
signed up by Benton&Bowles, the
international advertising agency, as
an accounts assistant. They acquired a
small flat in the Earl's Court Road
which they painted orange and brown,
and proceeded to live the life of two
young blades, for that is undoubtedly
how they saw themselves.

  Both men spent a further five years
in this blissful bachelor state until
they each fell for a girl who
fulfilled their particular
requirements. They were married within
weeks of each other; Michael to a
tall, blue-eyed blonde whom he met
while playing tennis at the Hurlingham
Club: Adrian to a slim, dark-eyed,
dark-haired executive in charge of the
Kellogg's Cornflakes account. Both
officiated as the other's best man and
each proceeded to sire three children
at yearly intervals, and in that again
they differed, but as before only on
points of detail, Michael having two
sons and a daughter, Adrian two
daughters and a son. Each became
godfather to the other's first-born
son.

  Marriage hardly separated them in
anything as they continued to follow
much of their old routine, playing
cricket together at weekends in the
summer and football in the winter, not
to mention regular luncheons during
the week.

  After the celebration of his tenth
wedding anniversary, Michael, now a
senior producer with Thames
Television, admitted rather coyly to
Adrian that he had had his first
affair: he had been unable to resist a
tall, well-built blonde from the
typing pool who was offering more than
shorthand at seventy words a minute.
Only a few weeks later, Adrian, now a
senior account manager with Pearl and
Dean, also went under, selecting a
journalist from Fleet Street who was
seeking some inside information on one
of the companies he represented. She
became a tax-deductible item. After
that, the two men quickly fell back
into their old routine. Any help they
could give each other was provided
unstintingly, creat

                  86
                   
Onc-Night Stand

ing no connict of interests because of
their different tastes. Their married
lives were not suffering - or so they
convinced each other- and at
thirty-five, having come through the
swinging sixties unscathed, they began
to make the most of the seventies.

  Early in that decade, Thames
Television decided to send Michael off
to America to edit an ABC film about
living in New York, for consumption by
British viewers. Adrian, who had always
wanted to see the eastern seaboard, did
not find it hard to arrange a trip at
the same time as he claimed it was
necessary for him to carry out some more
than usually spurious research for an
Anglo-American tobacco company. The two
men enjoyed a lively week together in
New York, the highlight of which was a
party held by ABC on the final evening
to view the edited edition of Michael's
film on New York, "An Englishman's View
of the Big Apple".

  When Michael and Adrian arrived at the
ABC studios they found the party was
already well under way, and both entered
the room together, looking forward to a
few drinks and an early night before
their journey back to England the next
day.

They spotted her at exactly the same
moment.

  She was of medium height and build,
with soft green eyes and auburn hair -
a striking combination of both men's
fantasies. Without another thought each
knew exactly where he desired to end up
that particular night and, two minds
with but a single idea, they advanced
purposefully upon her.

"Hello, my name is Michael Thompson."

"Hello," she replied. "I'm Debbie
Kendall."

"And I'm Adrian Townsend."

  She offered her hand and both tried to
grab it. When the party had come to an
end, they had, between them, discovered
that Debbie Kendall was an ABC floor
producer on the evening news spot. She
was divorced and had two children who
lived with her in New York. But neither
of them was any nearer to impressing
her, if only because each worked so hard
to outdo the other; they both showed off

                  87
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

abominably and even squabbled over
fetching their new companion her food
and drink. In the other's absence they
found themselves running down their
closest friend in a subtle but damning
way.

  "Adrian's a nice chap if it wasn't
for his drinking," said Michael.

  "Super fellow Michael, such a lovely
wife and you should see his three
adorable children," added Adrian.

  They both escorted Debbie home and
reluctantly left her on the doorstep
of her 68th Street apartment. She
kissed the two of them perfunctorily
on the cheek, thanked them and said
goodnight. They walked back to their
hotel in silence.

  When they reached their room on the
nineteenth floor of the Plaza, it was
Michael who spoke first.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I made a bloody
fool of myself."

  "I was every bit as bad," said
Adrian, "we shouldn't fight over a
woman. We never have done in the
past."

  "Agreed," said Michael. "So why not
an honourable compromise?"

"What do you suggest?"

  "As we both return to London tomorrow
morning, let's agree whichever one of
us comes back first . . ."

  "Perfect," said Adrian and they shook
hands to seal the bargain, as if they
were both back at school playing a
cricket match, and had to decide on
who should bat first. The deal made,
they climbed into their respective
beds, and slept soundly.

  Once back in London both men did
everything in their power to find an
excuse for returning to New York.
Neither contacted Debbie Kendall by
phone or letter as it would have
broken their gentleman's agreement,
but when the weeks grew to be months
both became despondent and it seemed
that neither was going to be given the
opportunity to return. Then Adrian was
invited to Los Angeles to address a
Media Conference. He remained
unbearably smug about the whole trip,
confident he would be able to drop
into New

                  88
                   
Onc-Night Stand

York on the way to London. It was
Michael who discovered that British
Airways were offering cheap tickets for
wives who accompanied their husbands on
a business trip: Adrian was therefore
unable to return via New York. Michael
breathed a sigh of relief which turned
to triumph when he was selected to go
to Washington and cover the President's
Address to Congress. He suggested to
the head of Outside Broadcasts that it
would be wise to drop into New York on
the way home and strengthen the
contacts he had previously made with
ABC. The head of Outside Broadcasts
agreed, but told Michael he must be
back the following day to cover the
opening of Parliament.

  Adrian phoned up Michael's wife and
briefed her on cheap trips to the
States when accompanying your husband.
"How kind of you to be so thoughtful
Adrian but alas my school never allows
time off during term, and in any case,"
she added, "I have a dreadful fear of
flying."

  Michael was very understanding about
his wife's phobia and went off to book
a single ticket.

  Michael flew into Washington on the
following Monday and called Debbie
Kendall from his hotel room, wondering
if she would even remember the two
vainglorious Englishmen she had briefly
met some months before, and if she did
whether she would also recall which one
he was. He dialled nervously and
listened to the ringing tone. Was she
in, was she even in New York? At last a
click and a soft voice said hello.

"Hello, Debbie, it's Michael Thompson."

  "Hello, Michael. What a nice surprise.
Are you in New York?"

  "No, Washington, but I'm thinking of
flying up. You wouldn't be free for
dinner on Thursday by any chance?"

"Let me just check my diary."

Michael held his breath as he waited.
It seemed like hours.

"Yes, that seems to be fine."

"Fantastic. Shall I pick you up around
eight?"

                  89
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

  "Yes, thank you, Michael. I'll look
forward to seem" you then. "

  Heartened by this early success
Michael immediately penned a telegram
of commiseration to Adrian on his sad
loss. Adrian didn't reply.

  Michael took the shuttle up to New
York on the Thursday afternoon as soon
as he had finished editing the
President's speech for the London of
lice. After settling into another
hotel room - this time insisting on a
double bed just in case Debbie's
children were at home- he had a long
bath and a slow shave, cutting himself
twice and slapping on a little too
much aftershave. He rummaged around
for his most telling tie, shirt and
suit, and after he had finished
dressing he studied himself in the
mirror, carefully combing his freshly
washed hair to make the long thin
strands appear casual as well as cover
the parts where his hair was beginning
to recede. After a final check, he was
able to convince himself that he
looked less than his thirty-eight
years. Michael then took the lift down
to the ground floor, and stepping out
of the Plaza on to a neon-lit Fifth
Avenue he headed jauntily towards 68th
Street. En route, he acquired a dozen
roses from a little shop at the corner
of 65th Street and Madison Avenue and,
humming to himself, proceeded
confidently. He arrived at the front
door of Debbie Kendall's little
brownstone at eight-five.

  When Debbie opened the door, Michael
thought she looked even more beautiful
than he had remembered. She was
wearing a long blue dress with a
frilly white silk collar and cuffs
that covered every part of her body
from neck to ankles and yet she could
not have been more desirable. She wore
almost no make-up except a touch of
lipstick that Michael already had
plans to remove. Her green eyes
sparkled.

"Say something," she said smiling.

  "You look quite stunning, Debbie,"
was all he could think of as he handed
her the roses.

"How sweet of you," she replied and
invited him in.

Michael followed her into the kitchen
where she ham

                  90
                   
O - -Night Shad

mered the long stems and arranged the
flowers in a porcelain vase. She then
led him into the living room, where she
placed the roses on an oval table
beside a photograph of two small boys.

"Have we time for a drink?"

"Sure. I've booked a table at Elaine's
for eight-thirty."

  "My favourite restaurant," she said,
with a smile that revealed a small
dimple on her cheek. Without asking,
Debbie poured two whiskies and handed
one of them to Michael.

  What a good memory she has, he
thought, as he nervously kept picking
up and putting down his glass, like a
teenager on his first date. When
Michael had eventually finished his
drink, Debbie suggested that they
should leave.

  "Elaine wouldn't keep a table free for
one minute, even if you were Henry
Kissinger."

  Michael laughed, and helped her on
with her coat. As she unlatched the
door, he realised there was no
baby-sitter or sound of children. They
must be staying with their father, he
thought. Once on the street, he hailed
a cab and directed the driver to 87th
and 2nd. Michael had never been to
lE;laine's before. The restaurant had
been recommended by a friend from ABC
who had assured him: "That joint will
give you more than half a chance."

  As they entered the crowded room and
waited by the bar for the Mature d',
Michael could see it was the type of
place that was frequented by the rich
and famous and wondered if his pocket
could stand the expense and, more
importantly, whether such an outlay
would turn out to be a worthwhile
investment.

  A waiter guided them to a small table
at the back of the room, where they
both had another whisky while they
studied the menu. When the waiter
returned to take their order, Debbie
wanted no first course, just the veal
piccate, so Michael ordered the same
for himself. She refused the addition
of garlic butter. Michael allowed his
expectations to rise slightly.

                  91
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

"How's Adrian?" she asked.

  "Oh, as well as can be expected,"
Michael replied. "He sends you his
love, of course." He emphasised the
word love.

  "How kind of him to remember me, and
please return mine. What brings you to
New York this time, Michael? Another
film?"

  "No. New York may well have become
everybody's second city, but this time
I only came to see you."

"To see me?"

  "Yes, I had a tape to edit while I
was in Washington, but I always knew I
could be through with that by lunch
today so I hoped you would be free to
spend an evening with me."

"I'm pattered."

"You shouldn't be."

She smiled. The veal arrived.

"Looks good," said Michael.

  "Tastes good, too," said Debbie.
"When do you fly home?"

"Tomorrow morning, eleven o'clock
flight, I'm afraid."

"Not left yourself time to do much in
New York."

  "I only came up to see you," Michael
repeated. Debbie continued eating her
veal. "Why would any man want to
divorce you, Debbie?"

  "Oh, nothing very original, I'm
afraid. He fell in love with a
twenty-two year old blonde and left
his thirty-two year old wife."

  "Silly man. He should have had an
affair with the twentytwo year old
blonde and remained faithful to his
thirty-two year old wife."

"Isn't that a contradiction in terms?"

  "Oh, no, I don't think so. I've never
thought it unnatural to desire someone
else. After all, it's a long life to
go through and be expected never to
want another woman."

  "I'm not so sure I agree with you,"
said Debbie thoughtfully. "I would
like to have remained faithful to one
man."

  Oh hell, thought Michael, not a very
auspicious philosophy.

                  92
                   
On`-Nigh' Stand

"Do you miss him?" he tried again.

  "Yes, sometimes. it's true what they
say in the glossy menopause magazines,
one can be very lonely when you
suddenly find yourself on your own."

  That sounds more promising, thought
Michael, and he heard himself saying:
"Yes, 1 can understand that, but
someone like you shouldn't have to stay
on your own for very long."

Debbie made no reply

  Michael refilled her glass of wine
nearly to the brim, hoping he could
order a second bottle before she
finished her veal.

"Are you trying to get me drunk,
Michael?"

"lf you think it will help," he replied
laughing.

Debbie didn't laugh. Michael tried
again.

"Been to the theatre lately?"

  "Yes, 1 went to Evita last week. l
loved it" - wonder who took you,
thought Michael - "but my mother fell
asleep in the middle of the second act.
1 think 1 shall have to go and see it
on my own a second time."

"1 only wish 1 was staying long enough
to take you.

"That would be fun," she said.

  "Whereas 1 shall have to be satisfied
with seeing the show in London."

"With your wife."

"Another bottle of wine please, waiter.

"No more for me, Michael, really."

  "Well, you can help me out a little."
The waiter faded away. "Do you get to
England at all yourself?" asked
Michael.

  "No, I've only been once when Roger,
my ex, took the whole family. I loved
the country. It fulfilled every one of
my hopes but I'm afraid we did what all
Americans are expected to do. The Tower
of London, Buckingham Palace, followed
by Oxford and Stratford, before flying
on to Paris."

  "A sad way to see England; there's so
much more I could have shown you."

                  93
                   
A Suer Full of Arrows

  "I suspect when the English come to
America they don't see much outside of
New York, Washington, Los Angeles, and
perhaps San Francisco."

  "I agree," said Michael, not wanting
to disagree. The waiter cleared away
their empty plates.

"Can I tempt you with a dessert,
Debbie?"

"No, no, I'm trying to lose some
weight."

  Michael slipped a hand gently around
her waist. "You don't need to," he
said. "You feel just perfect."

She laughed. He smiled.

"Nevertheless, I'll stick to coffee,
please."

"A little brandy?"

"No, thank you, just coffee."

"Black?"

"Black."

  "Coffee for two, please," Michael
said to the hovering waiter.

  "I wish I had taken you somewhere a
littlequieter and less ostentatious,"
he said, turning back to Debbie.

"Why?"

  Michael took her hand. It felt cold.
"I would like to have said things to
you that shouldn't be listened to by
people on the next table."

  "I don't think anyone would be
shocked by plot they overheard at
Elaine's, Michael."

"Very well then. Do you believe in
love at first sight?"

  "No, but I think it's possible to be
physically attracted to a person on
first meeting them."

"Well I must confess, I was to you."

Again she made no reply.

  The coffee arrived and Debbie
released her hand to take a sip.
Michael followed suit.

  "There were one hundred and fifty
women in that room the night we met,
Debbie, and my eyes never left you
once."

"Even during the film?"

  "I'd seen the damn thing a hundred
times. I feared I might never see you
again."

94 .

Oni-Ni~k~ Sit

"I'm touched."

  "Why should you be? It must be
happening to you all the time."

  "Now and then," she said. "But I
haven't taken anyone too seriously
since my husband left me."

"I'm sorry."

  "No need. It's just not that easy to
get over someone you've lived with for
ten years. I doubt if many divorcees
are quite that willing to jump into bed
with the first man who comes along as
all the latest films suggest."

  Michael took her hand again, hoping
fervently he did not fall into that
category.

  "It's been such a lovely evening. Why
don't we stroll down to the Carlyle and
listen to Bobby Short?" Michael's ABC
friend had recommended the move if he
felt he was still in with a chance.

"Yes, I'd enjoy that," said Debbie.

  Michael called for the bill -
eighty-seven dollars. Had it been his
wife sitting on the other side of the
table he would have checked each item
carefully, but not on this occasion. He
just left five twenty dollar bills on
a side plate and didn't wait for the
change. As they stepped out on to 2nd
Avenue, he took Debbie's hand and
together they started walking downtown.
On Madison Avenue they stopped in front
of shop windows and he bought her a fur
coat, a Cartier watch and a Balenciaga
dress. Debbie thought it was lucky that
all the stores were closed.

  They arrived at the Carlyle just in
time for the eleven o'clock show. A
waiter, Bashing a pen torch, guided
them through the little dark room on
the ground floor to a table in the
corner. Michael ordered a bottle of
champagne as Bobby Short struck up a
chord and drawled out the words: "Geor-
gia, Georgia, oh, my sweet . .."
Michael, now unable to speak to Debbie
above the noise ofthe band, satisfied
himself with holding her hand and when
the entertainer sang, "This time we
almost made the pieces fit, didn't we,
gal?" he leaned over and kissed her on
the cheek. She turned and

                  95
                   
A Quiver Full oJArrows

smiled - was it faintly
conspiratorial, or was heJust wishful
thinking? - and then she sipped her
champagne. On the dot of twelve, Bobby
Short shut the piano lid and said,
"Goodnight, my friends, the time has
come for all you good people to go to
bed - and some of you naughty ones
too." Michael laughed a little too
loud but was pleased that Debbie
laughed as well.

  They strolled down Madison Avenue to
68th Street chatting about
inconsequential affairs, while
Michael's thoughts were of only one
affair. When they arrived at her 68th
Street apartment, she took out her
latch key.

  "Would you like a nightcap?" she
asked without any suggestive
intonation.

  "No more drink, thank you, Debbie,
but I would certainly appreciate a
coffee."

She led him into the living room.

  "The flowers have lasted well," she
teased, and left him to make the
coffee. Michael amused himself by
flicking through an old copy of Time
magazine, looking at the pictures, not
taking in the words. She returned
after a few minutes with a coffee pot
and two small cups on a lacquered
tray. She poured the coffee, black
again, and then sat down next to
Michael on the couch, drawing one leg
underneath her while turning slightly
towards him. Michael downed his coffee
in two gulps, scalding his mouth
slightly. Then, putting down his cup,
he leaned over and kissed her on the
mouth. She was still clutching on to
her coffee cup. Her eyes opened
briefly as she manoeuvred the cup on
to a side table. After another long
kiss she broke away from him.

"I ought to make an early start in the
morning."

  "So should I," said Michael, "but I
am more worried about not seeing you
again for a long time."

"What a nice thing to say," Debbie
replied.

"No, I just care," he said, before
kissing her again.

  This time she responded; he slipped
one hand on to her breast while the
other one began to undo the row of
little buttons down the back of her
dress. She broke away again.

                  96
                   
One-Night Stand

"Don't let's do anything we'll regret."

"I know we won't regret it," said
Michael.

  He then kissed her on the neck and
shoulders, slipping her dress off as he
moved deftly down her body to her
breast, delighted to find she wasn't
wearing a bra.

  "Shall we go upstairs, Debbie? I'm too
old to make love on the sofa."

  Without speaking, she rose and led him
by the hand to her bedroom which smelled
faintly and deliciously of the scent she
herself was wearing.

  She switched on a small bedside light
and took offthe rest of her clothes,
letting them fall where she stood.
Michael never once took his eyes off her
body as he undressed clumsily on the
other side of the bed. He slipped under
the sheets and quicklyjoined her. When
they had finished making love, an
experience he hadn't enjoyed as much for
a long time, he lay there pondering on
the fact that she had succumbed at all,
especially on their first date.

  They lay silently in each other's arms
before making love for a second time,
which was every bit as delightful as the
first. Michael then fell into a deep
sleep.

  He woke first the next morning and
stared across at the beautiful woman who
lay by his side. The digital clock on
the bedside table showed seven-o-three.
He touched her forehead lightly with his
lips and began to stroke her hair. She
woke lazily and smiled up at him. Then
they made morning love, slowly, gently,
but every bit as pleasing as the night
before. He didn't speak as she slipped
out of bed and ran a bath for him before
going to the kitchen to prepare
breakfast. Michael relaxed in the hot
bath crooning a Bobby Short number at
the top of his voice. How he wished that
Adrian could see him now. He dried
himself and dressed before joining
Debbie in the smart little kitchen where
they shared-breakfast together. Eggs,
bacon, toast, English marmalade, and
steaming black coffee. Debbie then had
a bath and dressed while Michael read
the New York Times. When she reappeared
in the living room

                  97
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

wearing a smart coral dress, he was
sorry to be leaving so soon.

"We must leave now, or you'll miss
your flight."

  Michael rose reluctantly and Debbie
drove him back to his hotel, where he
quickly threw his clothes into a
suitcase, settled the bill for his
unslept-in double bed and joined her
back in the car. On the journey to the
airport they chatted about the coming
elections and pumpkin pie almost as if
they had been married for years or
were both avoiding admitting the
previous night had ever happened.

  Debbie dropped Michael in front of
the Pan Am building and put the car in
the parking lot before joining him at
the check-in counter. They waited for
his flight to be called.

  "Pan American announces the departure
of their Flight Number 006 to London
Heathrow. Will all passengers please
proceed with their boarding passes to
Gate Number Nine?"

  When they reached the
"passengers-only" barrier, Michael
took Debbie briefly in his arms.
"Thank you for a memorable evening,"
he said.

  "No, it is I who must thank you,
Michael," she replied as she kissed
him on the cheek.

  "I must confess I hadn't thought it
would end up quite like that," he
said.

"Why not?" she asked.

  "Not easy to explain," he replied,
searching for words that would netter
and not embarrass. "Let's say I was
surprised that . . ."

  "You were surprised that we ended up
in bed together on our first night?
You shouldn't be."

"I shouldn't?"

  "No, there's a simple enough
explanation. My friends all told me
when I got divorced to find myself a
man and have a one-night stand. The
idea sounded fun but I didn't like the
thought of the men in New York
thinking I was easy." She touched him
gently on the side of his face. "So
when I met

                  98
                   
One,-Night Stand

you and Adrian, both safely living
over three thousand miles away, I
thought to myself "whichever one of
you comes back first' . . ."

                  99
 
              The Century

"Life is a game", said A. T. Pierson,
thus immortalizing himselfwithout
actually having to do any real work.
Though E. M. Forster showed more
insight when he wrote "Fate is the
Umpire, and Hope is the Ball, which is
why I will never score a century at
Lord's."

  When I was a freshman at University,
my room mate invited me to have dinner
in a sporting club to which he belonged
called Vincent's. Such institutions do
not differ greatly around the Western
world. They are always brimful of
outrageously fit, healthy young
animals, whose sole purpose in life
seems to be to challenge the opposition
of some neighbouring institution to
ridiculous feats of physical strength.
My host's main rivals, he told me with
undergraduate fervour, came from a
high-thinking, plain-living
establishment which had dozed the
unworldly centuries away in the flat,
dull, fen country of England,
cartographically described on the map
as Cambridge. Now the ultimate ambition
of men such as my host was simple
enough: m whichever sport they aspired
to beat the "Tabs" the select few were
rewarded with a Blue. As there is no
other way of gaining this distinction
at either Oxford or Cambridge, every
place in the team is contested for with
considerable zeal. A man may be
selected and indeed play in every other
match of the season for the University,
even go on to represent his country,
but if he does not play in the Oxford
and Cambridge match, he cannot describe
himself as a Blue.

My story concerns a delightful
character I met that even          101
                
A Quiver of Arrows

ing when I dined as a guest at
Vincent's. The undergraduate to whom I
refer was in his final year. He came
from that part of the world that we
still dared to describe in those days
(without a great deal of thought) as
the colonies. He was an Indian by
birth, and the son of a man whose name
in England was a household word, if
not a legend, for he had captained
Oxford and India at cricket, which
meant that outside of the British
Commonwealth he was about as well
known as Babe Ruth is to the English.
The young man's father had added to
his fame by scoring a century at
Lord's when captaining the University
cricket side against Cambridge. In
fact, when he went on to captain India
against England he used to take pride
in wearing his cream sweater with the
wide dark blue band around the neck
and waist. The son, experts predicted,
would carry on in the family
tradition. He was in much the same
mould as his father, tall and rangy
with jet-black hair, and as a
cricketer, a fine right-handed batsman
and a useful left-arm spin bowler.
(Those of you who have never been able
to comprehend the English language let
alone the game of cricket might well
be tempted to ask why not a fine
right-arm batsman and a useful
left-handed spin bowler. The English,
however, always cover such silly
questions with the words: Tradition,
dear boy, tradition.)

  The young Indian undergraduate, like
his father, had come up to Oxford with
considerably more interest in defeat-
ing Cambridge than the examiners. As a
freshman, he had played against most
of the English county sides, notching
up a century against three of them,
and on one occasion taking five
wickets in an innings. A week before
the big match against Cambridge, the
skipper informed him that he had won
his Blue and that the names of the
chosen eleven would be officially
announced in The Times the following
day. The young man telegraphed his
father in Calcutta with the news, and
then went off for a celebratory dinner
at Vincent's. He entered the Club's
dining room in high spirits to the
traditional round of applause afforded
to a new Blue, and as he

                  102
                   
The Ccatu~y

was about to take a seat he observed
the boat crew, all nine of them, around
a circular table at the far end of the
room. He walked across to the captain
of boats and remarked: "I thought you
chaps sat one behind each other."

  Within seconds, four thirteen-stone
men were sitting on the new Blue while
the cox poured a jug of cold water over
his head.

  "Ifyou fail to score a century", said
one oar, "we'll use hot water next
time." When the four oars had returned
to their table, the cricketer rose
slowly, straightened his tie in mock
indignation, and as he passed the
crews' table, patted the five-foot one
inch, 102-pound cox on the head and
said, "Even losing teams should have a
mascot."

  This time they only laughed but it was
in the very act of patting the cox on
the head that he first noticed his
thumb felt a little bruised and he
commented on the fact to the
wicket-keeper who had joined him for
dinner. A large entrecote steak arrived
and he found as he picked up his knife
that he was unable to grip the handle
properly. He tried to put the
inconvenience out of his mind, assuming
all would be well by the following
morning. But the next day he woke in
considerable pain and found to his
dismay that the thumb was not only
black but also badly swollen. After
reporting the news to his captain he
took the first available train to
London for a consultation with a Harley
Street specialist. As the carriage
rattled through Berkshire, he read in
The Times that he had been awarded his
Blue.

  The specialist studied the offending
thumb for some considerable time and
expressed his doubt that the young man
would be able to hold a ball, let alone
a bat, for at least a fortnight. The
prognosis turned out to be accurate and
our hero sat disconsolate in the stand
at Lord's, watching Oxford lose the
match and the twelfth man gain his
Blue. His father, who had flown over
from Calcutta especially for the
encounter, offered his condolences,
pointing out that he still had two
years left in which to gain the honour.

As his second Trinity term approached,
even the young

                  103
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

man forgot his disappointment and in
the opening match of the season
against Somerset scored a memorable
century, full of cuts and drives that
reminded aficionados of his father.
The son had been made Secretary of
cricket in the closed season as it was
universally acknowledged that only bad
luck and the boat crew had stopped him
from reaping his just reward as a
freshman. Once again, he played in
every fixture before the needle match,
but in the last four games against
county teams he failed to score more
than a dozen runs and did not take a
single wicket, while his immediate
rivals excelled themselves. He was
going through a lean patch, and was
the first to agree with his captain
that with so much talent around that
year he should not be risked against
Cambridge. Once again he watched
Oxford lose the Blues match and his
opposite number the Cambridge
Secretary, Robin Oakley, score a
faultless century. A man well into his
sixties sporting an MCC tie came up to
the young Indian during the game,
patted him on the shoulder, and
remarked that he would never forget
the day his father had scored a
hundred against Cambridge: it didn't
help.

  When the cricketer returned for his
final year, he was surprised and
delighted to be selected by his fellow
teammates to be captain, an honour
never previously afforded to a man who
had not been awarded the coveted Blue.
His peers recognised his outstanding
work as Secretary and knew if he could
reproduce the form of his freshman
year he would undoubtedly not only win
a Blue but go on to represent his
country.

  The tradition at Oxford is that in a
man's final year he does not play
cricket until he has sat Schools,
which leaves him enough time to play
in the last three county matches
before the Varsity match. But as the
new captain had no interest in
graduating, he by-passed tradition and
played cricket from the opening day of
the summer season. His touch never
failed him for he batted magnificently
and on those rare occasions when he
did have an off-day with the bat, he
bowled superbly. During the term he
led Oxford to

                  104
                   
Tic Century

victory over three county sides, and
his team looked well set for their
revenge in the Varsity match.

  As the day of the match drew nearer,
the cricket correspondent of The Times
wrote that anyone who had seen him bat
this season felt sure that the young
Indian would-follow his father into the
record books by scoring a century
against Cambridge: but the
correspondent did add that he might be
vulnerable against the early attack of
Bill Potter, the Cambridge fast bowler.

  Everyone wanted the Oxford captain to
succeed, for he was one of those rare
and gifted men whose charm creates no
enemies.

  When he announced his Blues team to
the press, he did not send a telegram
to his father for fear that the news
might bring bad luck, and for good
measure he did not speak to any member
of the boat crew for the entire week
leading up to the match. The night
before the final encounter he retired
to bed at seven although he did not
sleep.

  On the first morning of the three-day
match, the sun shone brightly in an
almost cloudless sky and by eleven
o'clock a fair sized crowd were already
in their seats. The two captains in
open necked white shirts, spotless
white pressed trousers and freshly
creamed white boots came out to study
the pitch before they tossed.. Robin
Oakley of Cambridge won and elected to
bat.

  By lunch on the first day Cambridge
had scored seventynine for three and in
the early afternoon, when his fast
bowlers were tired from their second
spell and had not managed an early
breakthrough, the captain put
himselfon. When he was straight, the
ball didn't reach a full length, and
when he bowled a full length, he was
never straight; he quickly took himself
off. His less established bowlers man-
aged the necessary breakthrough and
Cambridge were all out an hour after
tea for 208.

  The Oxford openers took the crease at
ten to six; forty minutes to see
through before close of play on the
first day.

                  105
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

The captain sat padded up on the
pavilion balcony, waiting to be called
upon only if a wicket fell. His
instructions had been clear: no
heroics, bat out the forty minutes so
that Oxford could start afresh the next
morning with all ten wickets intact.
With only one over left before the
close of play, the young freshman
opener had his middle stump removed by
Bill Potter, the Cambridge fast bowler.
Oxford were eleven for one. The captain
came to the crease with only four balls
left to face before the clock would
show six-thirty. He took his usual
guard, middle and leg, and prepared
himself to face the fastest man in the
Cambridge side. Potter's first delivery
came rocketing down and was j ust short
of a length, moving away outside the
offstump. The ball nicked the corner of
the bat - or was it pad? - and carried
to first slip, who dived to his right
and took the catch low down. Eleven
Cambridge men screamed "Howzat". Was
the captain going to be out - for a
duck? Without waiting for the umpire's
decision he turned and walked back to
the pavilion, allowing no expression to
appear on his face though he
continually hit the side of his pad
with his bat. As he climbed the steps
he saw his father, sitting on his own
in the members' enclosure. He walked on
through the Long Room, to cries of "Bad
luck, old fellow" from men holding
slopping pints of beer, and "Better
luck in the second innings" from
large-bellied old Blues.

  The next day, Oxford kept their heads
down and put togetLer a total of 181
runs, leaving themselves only a twenty-
seven run deficit. When Cambridge
batted for a second time they pressed
home their slight advantage and the
captain's bowling figures ended up as
eleven avers, no maidens, no wickets,
forty-two runs. He took his team off
the field at the end of play on the
second day with Cambridge standing at
167 for seven, Robin Oakley the
Cambridge captain having notched up a
respectable sixty-three not out, and he
looked well set for a century.

  On the morning of the third day, the
Oxford quickies removed the last three
Cambridge wickets for nineteen runs

                  106
                   
7~ Ccntu~

in forty minutes and Robin Oakley ran
out of partners, and left the field
with eighty-nine not out. The Oxford
captain was the first to commiserate
with him. "At least you notched a
hundred last year," he added.

  "True," replied Oakley, "so perhaps
it's your turn this year. But not if
I've got anything to do with it!"

  The Oxford captain smiled at the
thought of scoring a century when his
team only needed 214 runs at a little
under a run a minute to win the match.

  The two Oxford opening batsmen began
their innings just before midday and
remained together until the last over
before lunch when the freshman was once
again clean bowled by Cambridge's ace
fast bowler, Bill Potter. The captain
sat on the balcony nervously, padded up
and ready. He looked down on the bald
head of his father, who was chatting to
a former captain of England. Both men
had scored centuries in the Varsity
match. The captain pulled on his gloves
and walked slowly down the pavilion
steps, trying to look casual; he had
never felt more nervous in his life. As
he passed his father, the older man
turned his sun-burned Ace towards his
only child and smiled. The crowd warmly
applauded the captain all the way to
the crease. He took guard, middle and
leg again, and prepared to face the
attack. The eager Potter who had
despatched the captain so brusquely in
the first innings came thundering down
towards him hoping to be the cause of a
pair. He delivered a magnificent first
ball that swung in from his legs and
beat the captain all ends up, hitting
him with a thud on the front pad.

  "Howzat?" screamed Potter and the
entire Cambridge side as they leaped in
the air.

  The captain looked up apprehensively
at the umpire who took his hands out of
his pockets and moved a pebble from one
palm to the other to remind him that
another ball had been bowled. But he
affected no interest in the appeal. A
sigh of relief went up from the members
in the pavilion. The captain managed to
see through the rest of the over and

                  107
                   
A Quiocr Full of Arrows

returned to lunch nought not out, with
his side twenty-four for one.

  After lunch Potter returned to the
attack. He rubbed the leather ball on
his red-stained flannels and hurled
himself forward, looking even fiercer
than he had at start of play. He
released his missile with every ounce
of venom he possessed, but in so doing
he tried a little too hard and the
delivery was badly short. The captain
leaned back and hooked the ball to the
Tavern boundary for four, and from that
moment he never looked as if anyone
would prise him from the crease. He
reached his fifty in seventy-one
minutes, and at ten past four the
Oxford team came into tea with the
score at 171 for five and the skipper
on eighty-two not out. The young man
did not look at his father as he
climbed the steps of the pavilion. He
needed another eighteen runs before he
could do that and by then his team
would be safe. He ate and drank nothing
at tea, and spoke to no one.

  After twenty minutes a bell rang and
the eleven Cambridge men returned to
the field. A minute later, the captain
and his partner walked back out to the
crease, their open white shirts
flapping in the breeze. Two hours left
for the century and victory. The
captain's partner only lasted another
five balls and the captain
himselfseemed to have lost that natural
flow he had possessed before tea,
struggling into the nineties with ones
and twos. The light was getting bad and
it took him a full thirty minutes to
reach ninety-nine, by which time he had
lost another partner: 194 for seven. He
remained on ninety-nine for twelve
minutes, when Robin Oakley the
Cambridge captain took the new ball and
brought his ace speed man back into the
attack.

  Then there occurred one of the most
amazing incidents I have ever witnessed
in a cricket match. Robin Oakley set an
attacking field for the new ball -
three slips, a gully, cover point, mid
off, mid on, mid wicket and a short
square leg, a truly vicious circle. He
then tossed the ball to Potter who knew
this would be his last chance to
capture the Oxford captain's wicket and
save the match; once he had scored the

                  108
                   
Thecntu~

century he would surely knock off the
rest of the runs in a matter of
minutes. The sky was becoming bleak as
a bank of dark clouds passed over the
ground, but this was no time to leave
the field for bad light. Potter shone
the new ball once more on his white
trousers and thundered up to hurl a
delivery that the captain jabbed at and
missed. One or two fielders raised
their hands without appealing. Potter
returned to his mark, shining the ball
with even more relish and left a red
blood-like stain down the side of his
thigh. The second ball, a yorker, beat
the captain completely and must have
missed the off stump by about an inch;
there was a general sigh around the
ground. The third ball hit the captain
on the middle of the pad and the eleven
Cambridge men threw their arms in the
air and screamed for leg before wicket
but the umpire was not moved. The
captain jabbed at the fourth ball and
it carried tentatively to mid on, where
Robin Oakley had placed himself a mere
twenty yards in front of the bat,
watching his adversary in disbelief as
he set offfor a run he could never hope
to complete. His batting partner
remained firmly in his crease,
incredulous: one didn't run when the
ball was hit to mid on unless it was
the last delivery of the match'

  The captain of Oxford, now stranded
fifteen yards from safety, turned and
looked at the captain of Cambridge, who
held the ball in his hand. Robin Oakley
was about to toss the ball to the
wicket-keeper who in turn was waiting
to remove the bails and send the Oxford
captain back to the pavilion, run out
for ninety-nine, but Oakley hesitated
and, for several seconds the two
gladiators stared at each other and
then the Cambridge captain placed the
ball in his pocket. The Oxford captain
walked slowly back to his crease while
the crowd remained silent in disbelief.
Robin Oakley tossed the ball to Potter
who thundered down to deliver the fifth
ball, which was short, and the Oxford
captain effortlessly placed it through
the covers for four runs. The crowd
rose as one and old friends in the
pavilion thumped the father's back.

He smiled for a second time.

                  109
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

  Potter was now advancing with his
final effort and, exhausted, he
delivered another short ball which
should have been despatched to the
boundary with ease but the Oxford
captain took one pace backwards and
hit his own stumps. He was out, hit
wicket, bowled Potter for 103. The
crowd rose for a second time as he
walked back to the pavilion and grown
men who had been decorated in two wars
had tears in their eyes. Seven minutes
later, everyone left the field,
drenched by a thunderstorm.

The match ended in a draw.
                110
                
            Broken Routine

Septimus Horatio Cornwallis did not
live up to his name. With such a name
he should have been a cabinet
minister, an admiral, or at least a
rural dean. In fact, Septimus Horatio
Cornwallis was a claims adjuster at
the head office of the Prudential
Assurance Company Limited, 172 Holborn
Bars, London LCI.

  Septimus's names could be blamed on
his Other, who had a small knowledge
of Nelson, on his mother who was
superstitious, and on his
great-great-great-grandfather who was
alleged to have been a second cousin
of the illustrious Governor-General of
India. On leaving school Septimus, a
thin, anaemic young man prematurely
balding, joined the Prudential
Assurance Company; his careers master
having told him that it was an ideal
opening for a young man with his
qualifications. Some time later, when
Septimus reflected on the advice, it
worried him, because even he realised
that he had no qualifications. Despite
this set-back, Septimus rose slowly
over the years from office boy to
claims adjuster (not so much climbing
the ladder as resting upon each rung
for some considerable time), which
afforded him the grandiose title of
assistant deputy manager (claims
department)

  Septimus spent his day in a glass
cubicle on the sixth floor, adjusting
claims and recommending payments of
anything up to one million pounds. He
felt if he kept his nose clean (one of
Septimus's favourite expressions), he
would, after another twenty years,
become a manager (claims department)
and have walls around him that you
couldn't see through and a carpet that
wasn't laid in small squares of

 -  111

A Quiver Full of Arrows

slightly differing shades of green. He
might even become one of those
signatures on the million pound
cheques.

  Septimus resided in Sevenoaks with
his wife, Norma, and his two children,
Winston and Elizabeth, who attended
the local comprehensive school. They
would have gone to the grammar school,
he regularly informed his colleagues,
but the Labour government had stopped
all that.

  Septimus operated his daily life by
means of a set of invariant
sub-routines, like a primitive
microprocessor, while he supposed
himself to be a great follower of
tradition and discipline. For if he
was nothing, he was at least a
creature of habit. Had, for some
unexplicable reason, the K.G.B. wanted
to assassinate Septimus, all they
would have had to do was put him under
surveillance for seven days and they
would have known his every movement
throughout the working year.

  Septimus rose every morning at
seven-fifteen and donned one of his
two pin-head patterned dark suits. He
left his home at 47 Palmerston Drive
at seven-fifty-five, having consumed
his invariable breakfast of one
soft-boiled egg, two pieces of toast,
and two cups of tea. On arriving at
Platform One of Sevenoaks station he
would purchase a copy of the Daily
Express before boarding the
eight-twenty-seven to Cannon Street.
During the journey Septimus would read
his newspaper and smoke two
cigarettes, arriving at Cannon Street
at nine-seven. He would then walk to
the office, and be sitting at his desk
in his glass cubicle on the sixth
floor, confronting the first claim to
be adjusted, by nine-thirty. He took
his coffee break at eleven, allowing
himself the luxury of two more
cigarettes, when once again he would
regale his colleagues with the
imagined achievements of his children.
At eleven-fifteen he returned to work.

  At one o'clock he would leave the
Great Gothic Cathedral (another of his
expressions) for one hour, which he
passed at a pub called The Havelock
where he would drink a half-pint of
Carlsberg lager with a dash of lime,
and eat the dish of the day. After he
finished his lunch, he would once
again smoke

                  112
                   
Broken Routine

two cigarettes. At one-fifty-five he
returned to the insurance records until
the fifteen minute tea break at four
o'clock which was another ritual
occasion for two more cigarettes. On
the dot of five-thirty, Septimus would
pick up his umbrella and reinforced
steel briefcase with the initials
S.H.C. in silver on the side and leave,
double locking his glass cubicle. As he
walked through the typing pool, he
would announce with a mechanical
jauntiness "See you same time tomorrow,
girls", hum a few bars from The Sound
of Music in the descending lift, and
then walk out into the torrent of
office workers surging down High
Holborn. He would stride purposefully
towards Cannon Street station, umbrella
tapping away on the pavement while he
rubbed shoulders with bankers,
shippers, oil men, and brokers, not
discontent to think himself part of the
great City of London.

  Once he reached the station, Septimus
would purchase a copy of the Evening
Standard and a packet of ten Benson &
Hedges cigarettes from Smith's
bookstall, placing both on the top of
his Prudential documents already in the
briefcase. He would board the fourth
carriage of the train on Platform Five
at five-fifty, and secure his favoured
window seat in a closed compartment
facing the engine, next to the balding
gentleman with the inevitable Financial
Times, and opposite the smartly dressed
secretary who read long romantic novels
to somewhere beyond Sevenoaks. Before
sitting down he would extract the
Evening Standard and the new packet of
Benson & Hedges from his briefcase, put
them both on the armrest of his seat,
and place the briefcase and his rolled
umbrella on the rack above him. Once
settled, he would open the packet of
cigarettes and smoke the first of the
two which were allocated for the
journey while reading the Evening
Standard. This would leave him eight to
be smoked before catching the
five-fifty the following evening.

  As the train pulled into Sevenoaks
station, he would mumble goodnight to
his fellow passengers (the only word he
ever spoke during the entire journey)
and leave, making his way straight to
the semi-detached at 47 Palmerston

                  113
                   
k Quiver Full of Arrows

Drive, arriving at the front door a
little before six-forty-five. Between
six-forty-five and seven-thirty he
would finish reading his paper or
check over his children's homework
with a tut-tut when he spotted a
mistake, or a sigh when he couldn't
fathom the new maths. At seven-thirty
his "good lady" (another of his
favoured expressions) would place on
the kitchen table in front of him the
Woman's Own dish of the day or his
favourite dinner of three fish
fingers, peas and chips. He would then
say "IfGod had meant fish to have
fingers, he would have given them
hands," laugh, and cover the oblong
fish with tomato sauce, consuming the
meal to the accompaniment of his
wife's recital of the day's events. At
nine, he watched the real news on BBC
I (he never watched ITV) and at
ten-thirty he retired to bed.

  This routine was adhered to year in
year out with breaks only for
holidays, for which Septimus naturally
also had a routine. Alternate
Christmases were spent with Norma's
parents in Watford and the ones in
between with Septimus's sister and
brother-in-law in Epsom, while in the
summer, their high spot of the year,
the family took a package holiday for
two weeks in the Olympic Hotel, Corfu.

  Septimus not only liked his
life-style, but was distressed if for
any reason his routine met with the
slightest interference. This humdrum
existence seemed certain to last him
from womb to tomb, for Septimus was
not the stuff on which authors base
two hundred thousand word sagas.
Nevertheless there was one occasion
when Septimus's routine was not merely
interfered with, but frankly,
shattered.

  One evening at five-twenty-seven,
when Septimus was closing the file on
the last claim for the day, his
immediate superior, the Deputy
Manager, called him in for a consulta-
tion. Owing to this gross lack of
consideration, Septimus did not manage
to get away from the office until a
few minutes after six. Although
everyone had left the typing pool,
still he saluted the empty desks and
silent typewriters with the invariable
"See you same time tomorrow, girls,"
and hum

                  114
                   
Broken Rowing

med a few bars of Edelweiss to the
descending lift. As he stepped out of
the Great Gothic Cathedral it started
to rain. Septimus reluctantly undid his
neatly rolled umbrella, and putting it
up dashed through the puddles, hoping
that he would be in time to catch the
six-thirty-two. On arrival at Cannon
Street, he queued for his paper and
cigarettes and put them in his
briefcase before rushing on to Platform
Five. To add to his annoyance, the
loudspeaker was announcing with
perfunctory apology that three trains
had already been taken off that evening
because of a go slow.

  Septimus eventually fought his way
through the dripping, bustling crowds
to the sixth carriage of a train that
was not scheduled on any timetable. He
discovered that it was filled with
people he had never seen before and,
worse, almost every seat was already
occupied. In fact, the only place he
could find to sit was in the middle of
the train with his back to the engine.
He threw his briefcase and creased
umbrella onto the rack above him and
reluctantly squeezed himselfinto the
seat, before looking around the
carriage. There was not a familiar face
among the other six occupants. A woman
with three children more than filled
the seat opposite him, while an elderly
man was sleeping soundly on his left.
On the other side of him, leaning over
and looking out of the window, was a
young man of about twenty.

  When Septimus first laid eyes on the
boy he couldn't believe what he saw.
The youth was clad in a black leather
jacket and skin-tight jeans and was
whistling to himself. His dark, creamed
hair was combed up at the front and
down at the sides, while the only two
colours of the young man's outfit that
matched were his jacket and
fingernails. But worst of all to one of
Septimus's sensitive nature was the
slogan printed in boot studs on the
back of his jacket. "Hell Hitler" it
declared unashamedly over a
white-painted Nazi sign and, as if that
were not enough, below the swastika in
gold shone the words: "Up yours". What
was the country coming to? thought
Septimus. They ought to bring back
National Service for delinquents like
that. Septimus himself,

                  115
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

had not been eligible for National
Service on account of his flat feet.

  Septimus decided to ignore the
creature, and picking up the packet of
Benson & Hedges on the armrest by his
side, lit one and began to read the
Evening Standard. He then replaced the
packet of cigarettes on the armrest,
as he always did, knowing he would
smoke one more before reaching Seven-
oaks. When the train eventually moved
out of Cannon Street the darkly clad
youth turned towards Septimus and,
glaring at him, picked up the packet
of cigarettes, took one, lit it, and
started to puff away. Septimus could
not believe what was happening. He was
about to protest when he realised that
none of his regulars was in the
carriage to back him up. He considered
the situation for a moment and decided
that Discretion was the better part of
Valour. (Yet another of the sayings of
Septimus.)

  When the train stopped at Petts Wood,
Septimus put down the newspaper
although he had scarcely read a word
and as he nearly always did, took his
second cigarette. He lit it, inhaled,
and was about to retrieve the Evening
Standard when the youth grabbed at the
corner, and they ended up with half
the paper each. This time Septimus did
look around the carriage for support.
The children opposite started
giggling, while their mother
consciously averted her eyes from what
was taking place, obviously not
wanting to become involved; the old
man on Septimus's left was now
snoring. Septimus was about to secure
the packet of cigarettes by putting
them in his pocket when the youth
pounced on them, removed another and
lit it, inhaled deeply, and then blew
the smoke quite deliberately across
Septimus's face before placing the
cigarettes back on the armrest.
Septimus's answering glare expressed
as much malevolence as he was able to
project through the grey haze.
Grinding his teeth in fury, he
returned to the Evening Standard, only
to discover that he had ended up with
situations vacant, used cars and
sports sections, subjects in which he
had absolutely no interest. His one
compensation, however, was his cer

                  116
                   
Broken Routine

tainty that sport was the only section
the oik really wanted. Septimus was now,
in any case, incapable of reading the
paper, trembling as he was with the
outrages perpetrated by his neighbour.

  His thoughts were now turning to
revenge and gradually a plan began to
form in his mind with which he was
confident the youth would be left in no
doubt that virtue can sometimes be more
than its own reward. (A variation on a
saying of Septimus.) He smiled thinly
and, breaking his routine, he took a
third cigarette and defiantly placed the
packet back on the armrest. The youth
stubbed out his own cigarette and, as if
taking up the challenge, picked up the
packet, removed another one and lit it.
Septimus was by no means beaten; he
puffed his way quickly through the weed,
stubbed it out, a quarter unsmoked, took
a fourth and lit it immediately. The
race was on for there were now only two
cigarettes left. But Septimus, despite
a great deal of puffing and coughing,
managed to finish his fourth cigarette
ahead of the youth. He leaned across the
leatherjacket and stubbed his cigarette
out in the window ashtray. The carriage
was now filled with smoke, but the youth
was still puffing as fast as he could.
The children opposite were coughing and
the woman was waving her arms around
like a windmill. Septimus ignored her
and kept his eye on the packet of
cigarettes while pretending to read
about Arsenal's chances in the FA cup.

  Septimus then recalled Montgomery's
maxim that surprise and timing in the
final analysis are the weapons of
victory. As the youth finished his
fourth cigarette and was stubbing it out
the train pulled slowly into Seveneaks
station. The youth's hand was raised,
but Septimus was quicker. He had
anticipated the enemy's next move, and
now seized the cigarette packet. He took
out the ninth cigarette and, placing it
between his lips, lit it slowly and
luxuriously, inhaling as deeply as he
could before blowing the smoke out
straight into the face of the enemy. The
youth stared up at him in dismay.
Septimus then removed the last cigarette
from the packet and crumpled the tobacco
into shreds be

                  117
                   
A Quiver Fog of Arrows

tween his first finger and thumb,
allowing the little flakes to 611 back
into the empty packet. Then he closed
the packet neatly, and with a flourish
replaced the little gold box on the
armrest. In the same movement he
picked up from his vacant seat the
sports section of the Evating
Standard, tore the paper in half, in
quarters, in eighths and finally in
sixteenths, placing the little squares
in a neat pile on the youth's lap.

  The train came to a halt at
Sevencaks. A triumphant Septimus,
having struck his blow for the silent
majority, retrieved his umbrella and
briefcase from the rack above him and
turned to leave.

  As he picked up his briefcase it
knocked the armrest in front of him
and the lid sprang open. Everyone in
the carriage stared at its contents.
For there, on top of his Prudential
documents, was a neatly folded copy of
the EKning Standard and an unopened
packet of ten Benson & Hedges
cigarettes.

                  118
                   
            Henry's Hiccup

When the Grand Pasha's first son was
born in 1900 (he had sired twelve
daughters by six wives) he named the
boy Henry after his favourite king of
England. Henry entered this world with
more money than even the most blase tax
collector could imagine and therefore
seemed destined to live a life of idle
ease.

  The Grand Pasha who ruled over ten
thousand families, was of the opinion
that in time there would be only five
kings left in the world - the kings of
spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs, and
England. With this conviction in mind,
he decided that Henry should be
educated by the British. The boy was
therefore despatched from his native
Cairo at the age of eight to embark
upon a formal education, young enough
to retain only vague recollections of
the noise, the heat, and the dirt of
his birthplace. Henry started his new
life at the Dragon School, which the
Grand Pasha's advisers assured him was
the finest preparatory school in the
land. The boy left this establishment
four years later, having developed a
passionate love for the polo field and
a thorough distaste for the classroom.
He proceeded, with the minimum academic
qualifications, to Eton, which the
Pasha's advisers assured him was the
best school in Europe. He was gratified
to learn the school had been founded by
his favourite king. Henry spent five
years at Eton, where he added squash,
golf and tennis to his loves, and
applied mathematics, jazz and cross-
country running to his dislikes.

  On leaving school, he once again
failed to make more than a passing
impression on the examiners.
Nevertheless. he was

                  119
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

found a place at Balliol College,
Oxford, which the Pasha's advisers
assured him was the greatest University
in the world. Three years at Balliol
added two more loves to his life horses
and women, and three more ineradicable
aversions: politics, philosophy and
economics.

  At the end of his time in state
pupillari, he totally failed to impress
the examiners and went down without a
degree. His father, who considered
young Henry's two goals against
Cambridge in the Varsity polo match a
wholly satisfactory result of his
University career, despatched the boy
on a journey round the world to
complete his education. Henry enjoyed
the experience, learning more on the
race course at Longchamps and in the
back streets of Benghazi than he ever
had acquired from his formal upbringing
in England.

  The Grand Pasha would have been proud
of the tall, sophisticated and handsome
young man who returned to England a
year later showing only the slightest
trace of a foreign accent, if he hadn't
died before his beloved son reached
Southampton. Henry, although
broken-hearted, was certainly not
broke, as his father had left him some
twenty million in known assets,
including a racing stud at Suffolk, a
100-foot yacht in Nice, and a palace in
Cairo. But by far the most important of
his father's bequests was the finest
manservant in London, one GodErey
Barker. Barker could arrange or
rearrange anything, at a moment's
notice.

  Henry, for the lack of something
better to do, settled himself into his
father's old suite at the Ritz, not
troubling to read the situations vacant
column in the London Tinzes. Rather he
embarked on a life of single-minded
dedication to the pursuit of pleasure,
the only career for which Eton, Oxford
and inherited wealth had adequately
equipped him. To do Henry justice, he
had, despite a more than generous
helping of charm and good looks, enough
common sense to choose carefully those
permitted to spend the unforgiving
minute with him. He selected only old
friends from school and University who,
although they were without exception
not as well breached as he, weren't the
sort of fellows who

                  120
                   
Here's Hiccup

came begging for the loan of a liver to
cover a gambling debt. Whenever Henry
was asked what was the first love of his
life, he was always hard pressed to
choose between horses and women, and as
he found it possible to spend the day
with the one and the night with the
other without causing any jealousy or
recrimination, he never overtaxed
himself with resolving the problem. Most
of his horses were fine stallions, fast,
sleek, velvet-skinned, with dark eyes
and firm limbs; this would have
adequately described most of his women,
except that they were fillies. Henry
fell in and out of love with every girl
in the chorus line of the London
Palladium, and when the affairs had come
to an end, Barker saw to it that they
always received some suitable memento to
ensure no scandal ensued. Henry also won
every classic race on the English turf
before he was thirty-five and Barker
always seemed to know the right year to
back his master.

  Henry's life quickly fell into a
routine, never dull. One month was spent
in Cairo going through the motions of
attending to his business, three months
in the south of France with the
occasional excursion to Biarritz, and
for the remaining eight months he
resided at the Ritz. For the four months
he was out of London his magnificent
suite overlooking St. James's Park
remained unoccupied. History does not
record whether Henry left the rooms
empty because he disliked the thought of
unknown persons splashing in the sunken
marble bath or because he simply
couldn't be bothered with the fuss of
signing in and out of the hotel twice a
year. The Ritz management never
commented on the matter to his father;
why should they with the son? This
programme fully accounted for Henry's
year except for the odd trip to Paris
when some home counties girl came a
little too close to the altar. Although
almost every girl who met Henry wanted
to marry him, a good many would have
done so even if he had been penniless.
However, Henry saw absolutely no reason
to be faithful to one woman. "I have a
hundred horses and a hundred male
friends," he would explain when asked.
"Why, should I confine myself to one

                  121
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

female?" There seemed no immediate
answer to Henry's logic.

  The story of Henry would have ended
there had he continued life as destiny
seemed content to allow, but even the
Henrys of this world have the
occasional hiccup.

  As the years passed Henry grew into
the habit of never planning ahead as
experience - and his able manservant,
Barker - had always led him to believe
that with vast wealth you could
acquire anything you desired at the
last minute, and cover any
contingencies that arose later.
However, even Barker couldn't
formulate a contingency plan in
response to Mr. Chamberlain's
statement of 3 September, 1939, that
the British people were at war with
Germany. Henry felt it inconsiderate
of Chamberlain to have declared war so
soon after Wimbledon and the Oaks, and
even more inconsiderate of the Home
Office to advise him a few months
later that Barker must stop serving
the Grand Pasha and, until further
notice, serve His Majesty the King
instead.

  What could poor Henry do? Now in his
fortieth year he was not used to
living anywhere other than the Ritz,
and the Germans who had caused
Wimbledon to be cancelled were also
occupying the George V in Paris and
the Negresco in Nice. As the weeks
passed and daily an invasion seemed
more certain Henry came to the
distasteful conclusion that he would
have to return to a neutral Cairo
until the British had won the war. It
never crossed Henry's mind, even for
one moment, that the British might
lose. After all, they had won the
First World War and therefore they
must win the Second. "History repeats
itself" was about the only piece of
wisdom he recalled clearly from three
years of tutorials at Oxford.

  Henry summoned the manager of the
Ritz and told him that his suite was
to be left unoccupied until he
returned. He paid one year in advance,
which he felt was more than enough
time to take care of upstarts like
Herr Hitler, and set off for Cairo.
The manager was heard to remark later
that

                  122
                   
Hcay'sHiccup

the Grand Pasha's departure for Egypt
was most ironic; he was, after all, more
British than the British.

  Henry spent a year at his palace in
Cairo and then found he could bear his
fellow countrymen no longer, so he re-
moved himself to New York only just
before it would have been possible for
him to come face to face with Rommel.
Once in New York, Henry bivouacked in
the Pierre Hotel on Fifth Avenue,
selected an American manservant called
Eugene, and waited for Mr. Churchill to
finish the war. As if to prove his
continuing support for the British, on
the first of January every year he
forwarded a cheque to the Ritz to cover
the cost of his rooms for the next
twelve months.

  Henry celebrated V-J Day in Times
Square with a million Americans and
immediately made plans for his return to
Britain. He was surprised and
disappointed when the British Embassy in
Washington informed him that it might be
some time before he was allowed to
return to the land he loved, and despite
continual pressure and all the influence
he could bring to bear, he was unable to
board a ship for Southampton until July
1946. From the first-class deck he waved
goodbye to America and Eugene, and
looked forward to England and Barker.

  Once he had stepped off the ship on to
English soil he headed straight for the
Ritz to find his rooms exactly as he had
left them. As far as Henry could see,
nothing had changed except that his
manservant (now the barman to a general)
could not be released from the armed
forces for at least another six months.
Henry was determined to play his part in
the war effort by surviving without him
for the ensuing period, and remembering
Barker's words: "Everyone knows who you
are. Nothing will change," he felt
confi. dent all would be well. Indeed on
the Bonheur-du-jour in his room at the
Ritz was an invitation to dine with Lord
and Lady Lympsham in their Chelsea
Square home the follow. ing night. It
looked as if Barker's prediction was
turning out to be right: everything
would be just the same. Henry penned an
affirmative reply to the invitation,
happy with the

                  123
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

thought that he was going to pick up
his life in England exactly where he
had left off.

  The following evening Henry arrived
on the Chelsea Square doorstep a few
minutes after eight o'clock. The
Lympshams, an elderly couple who had
not qualified for the war m any way,
gave every appearance of not even
realising that it had taken place or
that Henry had been absent from the
London social scene. Their table,
despite rationing, was as fine as
Henry remembered and, more important
one ofthe guests present was quite
unlike anyone he could ever remember.
Her name, Henry learned from his host,
was Victoria Campbell, and she turned
out to be the daughter of another
guest, General Sir Ralph Colquhoun.
Lady Lympsham confided to Henry over
the quails' eggs that the sad young
thing had lost her husband when the
allies advanced on Berlin, only a few
days before the Germans had
surrendered. For the first time Henry
felt guilty about not having played
some part in the war.

  All through dinner, he could not take
his eyes from young Victoria whose
classical beauty was only equalled by
her well-informed and lively
conversation. He feared he might be
staring too obviously at the slim,
dark-haired girl with the high cheek
bones; it was like admiring a
beautiful sculpture and wanting to
touch it. Her bewitching smile
elicited an answering smile from all
who received it. Henry did everything
in his power to be the receiver and
was rewarded on several occasions,
aware that, for the first time in his
life, he was becoming totally
infatuated - and was delighted to be.

  The ensuing courtship was an unusual
one for Henry, in that he made no
attempt to persuade Victoria to
compliance. He was sympathetic and
attentive, and when she had come out
of mourning he approached her father
and asked if he might request his
daughter's hand in marriage. Henry was
overjoyed when first the General
agreed and later Victoria accepted.
After an announcement in TO Times they
celebrated the engagement with a small
dinner party at the Ritz,

                  124
                   
Hcrz~'s Hiccup

attended by one hundred and twenty close
friends who might have been forgiven for
coming to a conclusion that Attlee was
exaggerating about his austerity
programme. After the last guest had left
Henry walked Victoria back to her
&ther's home in Belgrave Mews, while
discussing the wedding arrangements and
his plans for the honeymoon.

  "Everything must be perfect for you,
my angel," he said, as once again he
admired the way her long, dark hair
curled at the shoulders. "We shall be
married in St. Margaret's, Westminster,
and after a reception at the Ritz we
will be driven to Victoria Station where
you will be met by Fred, the senior
porter. Fred will allow no one else to
carry my bags to the last carriage of
the Golden Arrow. One should always have
the last carriage, my darling,"
explained Henry, "so that one cannot be
disturbed by other travellers."

  Victoria was impressed by Henry's
mastery of the arrangements, especially
remembering the absence of his
manservant, Barker.

- Henry warmed to his theme. "Once we have
boarded the Golden Arrow, you will be
served with China tea and some
wafer-thin smoked salmon sandwiches
which we can enjoy while relaxing on our
journey to Dover. When we arrive at the
Channel port, you will be met by Albert
whom Fred will have alerted. Albert will
remove the bags from our carriage, but
not before everyone else has left the
train. He will then escort us to the
ship, where we will take sherry with the
captain while our bags are being placed
in cabin number three. Like my father,
I always have cabin number three; it is
not only the largest and most
comfortable stateroom on board, but the
cabin is situated in the centre of the
ship, which makes it possible to enjoy
a comfortable crossing even should one
have the misfortune to encounter bad
weather. And when we have docked in
Calais you will find Pierre waiting for
us. He will have organised everything
for the front carriage of the Fleche
d'Or."

  "Such a programme must take a
considerable amount of detailed
planning," suggested Victoria, her hazel
eyes

                   125
                    
A Quiver Full of Arrows

sparkling as she listened to her
future husband's description of the
promised tour.

  "More tradition than organisation I
would say, my dear," replied Henry,
smiling, as they strolled hand in hand
across Hyde Park. "Although, I
confess, in the past Barker has kept
his eye on things should any untoward
emergency arise. In any case I have
always had the front carriage of the
Fleche d'Or because it assures one of
being off the train and away before
anyone realises that you have actually
arrived in the French capital. Other
than Raymond, of course."

"Raymond?"

  "Yes, Raymond, a servant par excellence'
who adored my father, he will have
organised a bottle of Veuve Cliquot
'37 and a little Russian caviar for
the journey. He will also have ensured
that there is a couch in the railway
carriage should you need to rest, my
dear."

  "You seem to have thought of
everything, Henry darling," she said,
as they entered Belgrave Mews.

  "I hope you will think so, Victoria;
for when you arrive in Paris which I
have not had the opportunity to visit
for so many years, there will be a
Rolls-Royce standing by the side of
the carriage, door open, and you will
step out of the Fleche d'Or into the
car and Maurice will drive us to the
George V, arguably the finest hotel in
Europe. Louis, the manager, will be on
the steps of the hotel to greet you
and he will conduct us to the bridal
suite with its stunning view of the
city. A maid will unpack for you while
you retire to bathe and rest from the
tiresome journey. When you are fully
recovered we shall dine at Maxim's,
where you will be guided to the corner
table furthest from the orchestra by
Marcel, the finest head waiter in the
world. As you are seated, the
musicians will strike up 'A Room with
A View' my favourite tune, and we will
then be served with the most
magnificent langouste you have ever
tasted, of that I can assure you."

  Henry and Victoria arrived at the
front door of the general's small
house in Belgrave Mews. He took her
hand before continuing.

                  126
                   
Hazy's Hiccup

  "After you have dined, my dear, we
shall stroll into the Madeleine where I
shall buy a dozen red roses from
Paulette, the most beautiful flower girl
in Paris. She is almost as lovely as
you." Henry sighed and concluded: "Then
we shall return to the George V and
spend our first night together."

  Victoria's hazel eyes showed delighted
anticipation. "I only wish it could be
tomorrow," she said.

  Henry kissed her gallantly on the
cheek and said: "It will be worth
waiting for, my dear, I can assure you
it will be a day neither of us will ever
forget."

  "I'm sure of that," Victoria replied
as he released her hand.

  On the morning of his wedding Henry
leaped out of bed and drew back the
curtains with a flourish, only to be
greeted by a steady drizzle.

  "The rain will clear by eleven
o'clock," he said out loud with immense
confidence, and hummed as he shaved
slowly and with care.

  The weather had not improved by
mid-morning. On the contrary, heavy rain
was falling by the time Victoria entered
the church. Henry's disappointment
evaporated the instant he saw his
beautiful bride; all he could think of
was taking her to Paris. The ceremony
over, the Grand Psha and his wife stood
outside the church, a golden couple,
smiling for the press photographers as
the loyal guests scattered damp rice
over them. As soon as they decently
could, they set offfor the reception at
the Ritz. Between them they managed to
chat to every guest present, and they
would have been away in better time had
Victoria been a little quicker changing
and the general's toast to the happy
couple been considerably shorter. The
guests crowded on to the steps of the
Ritz, overflowing on the the pavement in
Piccadilly to wave goodbye to the
departing honeymooners, and were only
sheltered from the downpour by a
capacious red awning.

  The general's Rolls took the Grand
Pasha and his wife to the station, where
the chauffeur unloaded the bags. Henry

                  127
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

instructed him to return to the Ritz
as he had everything under control.
The chauffeur touched his cap and
said: "I hope you and madam have a
wonderful trip, sir," and left them.
Henry stood on the station, looking
for Fred. There was no sign of him, so
he hailed a passing porter.

"Where is Fred?" inquired Henry.

"Fred who?" came the reply.

"How in heaven's name should I know?"
said Henry.

  "Then how in hell's name should I
know?" retorted the porter.

  Victoria shivered. English railway
stations are not designed for the
latest fashion in silk coats.

  "Kindly take my bags to the end
carriage of the train," said Henry.

  The porter looked down at the
fourteen bags. "All right," he said
reluctantly.

  Henry and Victoria stood patiently in
the cold as the porter loaded the bags
on to his trolley and trundled them
off along the platform.

  "Don't worry, my dear," said Henry.
"A cup of Lapsang Souchong tea and
some smoked salmon sandwiches and
you'll feel a new girl."

  "I'm just fine," said Victoria,
smiling, though not quite as
bewitchingly as normal, as she put her
arm through her husband's. They
strolled along together to the end
carriage.

  "Can I check your tickets, sir?" said
the conductor, blocking the entrance
to the last carriage.

  "My what?" said Henry, his accent
sounding unusually pronounced.

  "Your tic . . . kets," said the
conductor, conscious he was addressing
a foreigner.

  "In the past I have always made the
arrangements on the train, my good
man."

  "Not nowadays you don't, sir. You'll
have to go to the booking office and
buy your tickets like everyone else,
and you'd better be quick about it
because the train is due to leave in a
few minutes."

                  128
                   
Heny'sH~NP

  Henry stared at the conductor in
disbelief. "I assume my wife may rest
on the train while I go and purchase
the tickets?" he asked.

  "No, I'm sorry, sir. No one is allowed
to board the train unless they are in
possession of a valid ticket."

  "Remain here, my dear," said Henry,
"and I will deal with this little
problem immediately. Kindly direct me
to the ticket office, porter."

  "End of Platform Four, governor," said
the conductor, slamming the train door
annoyed at being described as a porter.

  That wasn't quite what Henry had meant
by "direct me". Nevertheless, he left
his bride with the fourteen bags and
somewhat reluctantly headed back
towards the ticket office at the end of
Platform Four, where he went to the
front of a long line.

"There's a queue, you know, mate,"
someone shouted.

Henry didn't know. "I'm in a frightful
hurry," he said.

"And so am I," came back the reply, "so
get to the back."

  Henry had been told that the British
were good at standing in queues, but as
he had never had to join one before
that moment, he was quite unable to
confirm or deny the rumour. He
reluctantly walked to the back of a
queue. It took some time before Henry
reached the front.

"I would like to take the last carriage
to Dover."

"You would like what . . . ?"

"The last carriage," repeated Henry a
little more loudly.

"I am sorry, sir, but every first-class
seat is sold."

  "I don't want a seat," said Henry "I
require the carriage. "

  "There are no carriages available
nowadays, sir, and as I said, all the
seats in first class are sold. I can
still fix you up in third class."

  "I don't mind what it costs," said
Henry. "I must travel first class."

  "I don't have a first-class seat, sir.
It wouldn't matter if you could afford
the whole train."

                  129
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

"I can," said Henry.

  "I still don't have a seat left in
first class," said the clerk
unhelpfully.

  Henry would have persisted, but
several people in the queue behind him
were pointing out that there were only
two minutes before the train was due to
leave and that they wanted to catch it
even if he didn't.

  "Two seats then," said Henry, unable
to make himself utter the words "third
class".

  Two green tickets marked Dover were
handed through the little grille. Henry
took them and started to walk away.

"That will be seventeen and sixpence
please, sir."

  "Oh, yes, of course," said Henry
apologetically. He fumbled in his
pocket and unfolded one of the three
large white five-pound notes he always
carried on him.

"Don't you have anything smaller?"

  "No, I do not," said Henry, who found
the idea of carrying money vulgar
enough without it having to be in small
denominations.

  The clerk handed back four pounds and
a half-crown. Henry did not pick up the
half-crown.

  "Thank you, sir," said the startled
man. It was more than his Saturday
bonus.

  Henry put the tickets in his pocket
and quickly returned to Victoria, who
was smiling defiantly against the cold
wind; it was not quite the smile that
had originally captivated him. Their
porter had long ago disappeared and
Henry couldn't see another in sight.
The conductor took his tickets and
clipped them.

  "All aboard," he shouted, waved a
green nag and blew his whistle.

  Henry quickly threw all fourteen bags
through the open door and pushed
Victoria on to the moving train before
leaping on himself. Once he had caught
his breath he walked down the corridor,
staring into the third class carriages.
He had never seen one before. The seats
were nothing more than thin worn-out
cushions, and as he looked into one
half-full

                  130
                   
Hrn7y's Hiccup

carriage a young couple jumped in and
took the last two adjacent seats. Henry
searched frantically for a free
carriage but he was unable even to find
one with two seats together. Victoria
took a single seat in a packed
compartment without complaint, while
Henry sat forlornly on one of the
suitcases in the corridor.

  "It will be different once we're in
Dover," he said, without his usual
self-confidence.

  "I am sure it will, Henry," she
replied, smiling kindly at him.

  The two-hourjourney seemed
interminable. Passengers of all shapes
and sizes squeezed past him in the
corridor, treading on his Lobbs
hand-made leather shoes, with the
words:

"Sorry, sir."

"Sorry, guy."

"Sorry, mate."

  Henry put the blame firmly on the
shoulders of Clement Attlee and his
ridiculous campaign for social
equality, and waited for the train to
reach Dover Priory Station. The moment
the engine pulled in Henry leaped out
of the carriage first, not last, and
called for Albert at the top of his
voice. Nothing happened, except a
stampede of people rushed past him on
their way to the ship. Eventually Henry
spotted a porter and rushed over to him
only to find he was already loading up
his trolley with someone else's
luggage. Henry sprinted to a second man
and then on to a third and waved a
pound note at a fourth, who came
immediately and unloaded the fourteen
bags.

"Where to, guy?" asked the porter
amicably.

  "The ship," said Henry, and returned
to claim his bride. He helped Victoria
down from the train and they both ran
through the rain until, breathless,
they reached the gangplank of the ship.

  "Tickets, sir," said a young officer
in a dark blue uniform at the bottom of
the gangplank.

  "I always have cabin number three,"
said Henry between breaths.

                  131
                   
A Quiver of Arrows

  "Ofcourse, sir," said the young man
and looked at his clip board. Henry
smiled confidently at Victoria.

"Mr. and Mrs. William West."

"I beg your pardon?" said Henry.

"You must be Mr. William West."

"I am certainly not. I am the Grand
Pasha of Cairo."

  "Well, I'm sorry, sir, cabin number
three is booked in the name of a Mr.
William West and family."

  "I have never been treated by Captain
Rogers in this cavalier fashion
before," said Henry, his accent now
even more pronounced. "Send for him
immediately."

  "Captain Rogers was killed in the
war, sir. Captain Jenkins is now in
command of this ship and he never
leaves the bridge thirty minutes before
sailing."

  Henry's exasperation was turning to
panic. "Do you have a free cabin?"

  The young officer looked down his
list. "No, sir, I'm afraid not. The
last one was taken a few minutes ago."

"May I have two tickets?" asked Henry.

  "Yes, sir," said the young officer.
"But you'll have to buy them from the
booking office on the quayside."

  Henry decided that any further
argument would be only time-consuming
so he turned on his heel without
another word, leaving his wife with the
laden porter. He strode to the booking
office..

"Two first-class tickets to Calais," he
said firmly.

  The man behind the little glass pane
gave Henry a tired look. "It's all one
class nowadays, sir, unless you have a
cabin."

  He proffered two tickets. "That will
be one pound exactly."

  Henry handed over a pound note, took
his tickets, and hurried back to the
young officer.

  The porter was off-loading their
suitcases on to the quayside.

  "Can't you take them on board," cried
Henry, "and put them in the hold?"

                  132
                   
fiery's Hiccup

  "No, sir, not now. Only the passengers
are allowed on board after the
ten-minute signal."

  Victoria carried two of the smaller
suitcases while Henry humped the twelve
remaining ones in relays up the gang-
plank. He finally sat down on the deck
exhausted. Every seat seemed already to
be occupied. Henry couldn't make up his
mind if he was cold from the rain or
hot from his exertions. Victoria's
smile was fixed firmly in place as she
took Henry's hand.

  "Don't worry about a thing, darling,"
she said. "Just relax and enjoy the
crossing; it will be such fun being out
on deck together."

  The ship moved sedately out of the
calm of the bay into the Dover Straits.
Later that night CaptainJenkins told
his wife that the twenty-five mile
journey had been among the most
unpleasant crossings he had ever
experienced. He added that he had
nearly turned back when his second
officer, a veteran of two wars, was
violently sick. Henry and Victoria
spent most of the trip hanging over the
rails getting rid of everything they
had consumed at their reception. Two
people had never been more happy to see
land in their life than Henry and
Victoria were at the first sight of the
Normandy coastline. They staggered off
the ship, taking the suitcases one at a
time.

  "Perhaps France will be different,"
Henry said lamely, and after a
perfunctory search for Pierre he went
straight to the booking office and
obtained two third-class seats on the
Fleche d'Or. They were at least able to
sit next to each other this time, but
in a carriage already occupied by six
other passengers as well as a dog and a
hen. The six of them left Henry in no
doubt that they enjoyed the modern
habit of smoking in public and the
ancient custom of taking garlic in
their food. He would have been sick
again at any other time but there was
nothing left in his stomach. Henry
considered walking up and down the
train searching for Raymond but feared
it could only result in him losing his
seat next to Victoria. He gave up
trying to hold any conversation with

                  133
                   
A Quitter Fug of Arrows

her above the noise of the dog, the
hen and the Gallic babble, and
satisfied himself by looking out of
the window, watching the French
countryside and, for the first time in
his life, noting the name of every
station through which they passed.

  Once they arrived at the Gare du Nord
Henry made no attempt to look for
Maurice and simply headed straight for
the nearest taxi rank. By the time he
had transferred all fourteen cases he
was well down the queue. He and
Victoria stood there for just over an
hour, moving the cases forward inch by
inch until it was their turn.

"Monsieur?"

"Do you speak English?"

"On pea, un pcu."

"Hotel George V."

"Out, mais je ne peux pas mettre
toutes les valises dans le coffre."

  So Henry and Victoria sat huddled in
the back of the taxi, bruised, tired,
soaked and starving, surrounded by
leather suitcases, only to be bumped
up and down over the cobbled stones
all the way to the George V.

  The hotel doorman rushed to help them
as Henry offered the taxi driver a
pound note.

"No take English money, monsieur."

  Henry couldn't believe his ears. The
doorman happily paid the taxi driver
in francs and quickly pocketed the
pound note. Henry was too tired even
to comment. He helped Victoria up the
marble steps and went over to the
reception desk.

  "The Grand Pasha of Cairo and his
wife. The bridal suite, please."

"Out, monsieur."

Henry smiled at Victoria.

"You 'ave your booking confirmation
with you?"

  "No," said Henry, "I have never
needed to confirm my booking with you
in the past. Before the war I . . ."

  "I am sorry, sir, but the 'otel is
fully booked at the moment. A
conference."

"Even the bridal suite," asked
Victoria.

                  134
                   
Hcn~y's Hiccup

  "Yes, Madam, the chairman and his
lady, you understand." He nearly
winked.

  Henry certainly did not understand.
There had always been a room for him at
the George V whenever he had wanted one
in the past. Desperate, he unfolded the
second of his five-pound notes and
slipped it across the counter.

  "Ah," said the booking clerk, "I see
we still have one room unoccupied, but
I fear it is not very large."

Henry waved a listless hand.

  The booking clerk banged the bell on
the counter in front of him with the
palm of his hand, and a porter appeared
immediately and escorted them to the
promised room. The booking clerk had
been telling the truth. Henry could
only have described what they found
themselves standing in as a box room.
The reason that the curtains were
perpetually drawn was that the view
over the chimneys of Paris, was
singularly unprepossessing, but that
was not to be the final blow, as Henry
realised, staring in disbelief at the
sight of the two narrow single beds.
Victoria started unpacking without a
word while Henry sat despondently on
the end of one of them. After Victoria
had sat soaking in a bath that was the
perfect size for a six-year-old, she
lay down exhausted on the other bed.
Neither spoke for nearly an hour.

  "Come on, darling," said Henry
finally. "Let's go and have dinner."

  Victoria rose loyally but reluctantly
and dressed for dinner while Henry sat
in the bath, knees on nose, trying to
wash himself before changing into
evening dress. This time he phoned the
front desk and ordered a taxi as well
as booking a table at Maxim's.

  The taxi driver did accept his pound
note on this occasion, but as Henry and
his bride entered the great restaurant
he recognised no one and no one
recognised him. A waiter led them to a
small table hemmed in between two other
couples just below the band. As he
walked into the dining room the
musicians struck up "Alexander's Rag
Time Band".

They both ordered from the extensive
menu and the lan

                  135
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

gouste turned out to be excellent,
every bit as good as Henry had
promised of Maxim's, but by then
neither of them had the stomach to eat
a full meal and the greater part of
both their dishes was left on the
plate.

  Henry found it hard to convince the
new head waiter that the lobster had
been superb and that they had
purposely come to Maxim's not to eat
it. Over coffee, he took Victoria's
hand and tried to apologise.

  "Let us end this farce," he said, "by
completing my plan and going to the
Madeleine and presenting you with the
promised flowers. Paulette will not be
in the square to greet you but there
will surely be someone who can sell us
roses."

  Henry called for the bill and
unfolded the third five-pound note
(Maxim's are always happy to accept
other people's currency and certainly
didn't bother him with any change) and
they left, walking hand in hand
towards the Madeleine. For once Henry
turned out to be right, for Paulette
was nowhere to be seen. An old lady
with a shawl over her head and a wart
on the side of her nose stood in her
place on the corner of the square,
surrounded by the most beautiful flow-
ers.

  Henry selected a dozen of the longest
stemmed red roses and then placed them
in the arms of his bride. The old lady
smiled at Victoria.

Victoria returned her smile.

"six francs, monsieur," said the old
lady to Henry.

  Henry fumbled in his pocket, only to
discover he had spent all his money.
He looked despairingly at the old lady
who raised her hands, smiled at him,
and said:

  "Don't worry, Henry, have them on me.
For old time's sake."

                  136
                   
         A Matter of Principle

Sir Hamish Graham had many of the
qualities and most of the failings that
result from being born to a
middle-class Scottish family. He was
well educated, hard working and honest,
while at the same time being
narrow-minded, uncompromising and
proud. Never on any occasion had he
allowed hard liquor to pass his lips
and he mistrusted all men who had not
been born north of Hadrian's Wall, and
many of those who had.

  After spending his formative years at
Fettes School, to which he had won a
minor scholarship, and at Edinburgh
University, where he obtained a
second-class honours degree in
engineering, he was chosen from a field
of twelve to be a trainee with the
international construction company,
TarMac (named after its founder, J. L.
McAdam, who discovered that tar when
mixed with stones was the best con-
stituent for making roads). The new
trainee, through diligent work and
uncompromising tactics, became the
firm's youngest and most disliked
project manager. By the age of thirty
Graham had been appointed deputy
managing director of TarMac and was
already beginning to realise that he
could not hope to progress much farther
while he was in someone else's employ.
He therefore started to consider
forming his own company. When two years
later the chairman of TarMac, Sir
Alfred Hickman, offered Graham the
opportunity to replace the retiring
managing director, he resigned
immediately. After all, if Sir Alfred
felt he had the ability to run TarMac
he must also be competent enough to
start his own company.

                  137
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

  The next day, young Hamish Graham
made an appointment to see the local
manager of the Bank of Scotland who
was responsible for the TarMac
account, and with whom he had dealt
for the past ten years. Graham
explained to the manager his plans for
the future, submitting a full written
proposal, and requesting that his
overdraft facility might be extended
from fifty pounds to ten thousand.
Three weeks later Graham learned that
his application had been viewed
favourably. He remained in his
lodgings in Edinburgh, while renting
an office in the north of the city
(or, to be more accurate, a room at
ten shillings a week). He purchased a
typewriter, hired a secretary and
ordered some unembossed headed
letter-paper. After a further month of
diligent interviewing, he employed two
engineers, both graduates of Aberdeen
University, and five out-of-work
labourers from Glasgow.

  During those first few weeks on his
own Graham tendered for several small
road contracts in the central lowlands
of Scotland, the first seven of which
he failed to secure. Preparing a
tender is always tricky and often
expensive, so by the end of his first
six months in business Graham was
beginning to wonder if his sudden
departure from TarMac had not been
foolhardy. For the first time in his
life he experienced self-doubt, but
that was soon removed by the Ayrshire
County Council, who accepted his
tender to construct a minor road which
was to join a projected school with
the main highway. The road was only
five hundred yards in length but the
assignment took Graham's little team
seven months to complete and when all
the bills had been paid and all
expenses taken into account Graham
Construction made a net loss of œ143.
IOs.6d.

  Still, in the profit column was a
small reputation which had been
invisibly earned, and caused the
Ayrshire Council to invite him to
build the school at the end of their
new road. This contract made Graham
Construction a profit of œ420 and
added still further to his reputation.
From that moment Graham Construction
went from strength to strength, and

                  138
                   
A Matter of Principle

as early as his third year in business
he was able to declare a small pre-tax
profit, and this grew steadily over the
next five years. When Graham
Construction was Boated on the London
Stock Exchange the demand for the
shares was oversubscribed ten times and
the newly quoted company was soon
considered a blue-chip institution, a
considerable achievement for Graham to
have pulled off in his own lifetime.
But then the City likes men who grow
slowly and can be relied on not to
involve themselves in unnecessary
risks.

  In the sixties Graham Construction
built motorways, hospitals, factories,
and even a power station, but the
achievement the chairman took most
pride in was E;dinburgh's newly
completed art gallery, which was the
only contract that showed a deficit in
the annual general report. The
invisible earnings column however
recorded the award of knight bachelor
for the chairman.

  Sir Hamish decided that the time had
come for Graham Construction to expand
into new fields, and looked, as gen-
erations of Scots had before him,
towards the natural market of the
Bitish Empire. He built in Australia
and Canada with his own finances, and
in India and Africa with a subsidy from
the British government. In 1963 he was
named "Businessman of the Year" by The
Times and three years later "Chairman
of the Year" by The Economist. Sir
Hamish never once altered his methods
to keep pace with the changing times,
and if anything grew more stubborn in
the belief that his ideas of doing
business were correct whatever anyone
else thought; and he had a long credit
column to prove he was right.

  In the early seventies, when the slump
hit the construction business, Graham
Construction suffered the same cut in
budgets and lost contracts as any of
its major competitors. Sir Hamish
reacted in a predictable way, by
tightening his belt and paring his
estimates while at the same time
refusing one jot to compromise his
business principles. The company
therefore grew leaner and many of his
more enterprising young executives left
Graham Construction for firms

                  139
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

which still believed in taking on the
occasional risky contract.

  Only when the slope of the profits
graph started taking on the look of a
downhill slalom did Sir Hamish become
worried. One night, while brooding
over the company's profitand-loss
account for the previous three years,
and realising that he was losing
contracts even in his native Scotland,
Sir Hamish reluctantly came to the
conclusion that he must tender for
less established work, and perhaps
even consider the odd gamble.

  His brightest young executive, David
Heath, a stocky, middle-aged bachelor,
whom he did not entirely trust - after
all, the man had been educated south
of the border and worse, some
extraordinary place in the United
States called the Wharton Business
School - wanted Sir Hamish to put a
toe into Mexican waters. Mexico, as
Heath was not slow to point out, had
discovered vast reserves of oil off
their eastern coast and had overnight
become rich with American dollars. The
construction business in Mexico was
suddenly proving most lucrative and
contracts were coming up for tender
with figures as high as thirty to
forty million dollars attached to
them. Heath urged Sir Hamish to go
after one such contract that had
recently been announced in a full-page
advertisement in The Economist. The
Mexican Government were issuing tender
documents for a proposed ring road
around their capital, Mexico City. In
an article in the business section of
the Observer, detailed arguments were
put forward as to why established
British companies should try to
fulfill the ring road tender. Heath
had offered shrewd advice on overseas
contracts in the past that Sir Hamish
had subsequently let slip through his
fingers.

  The next morning, Sir Hamish sat at
his desk listening attentively to
David Heath, who felt that as Graham
Construction had already built the
Glasgow and Edinburgh ring roads any
application they made to the Mexican
Government had to be taken seriously.
To Heath's surprise, Sir Hamish agreed
with his project manager and allowed a
team

                  140
                   
A Maticr of Pnec~pk

of six men to travel to Mexico to
obtain the tender documents and
research the project.

  The research team was led by David
Heath, and consisted of three other
engineers, a geologist and an
accountant When the team arrived in
Mexico they obtained the tender
documents from the Minister of Works
and settled down to study them
minutely. Having pinpointed the major
problems they walked around Mexico City
with their ears open and their mouths
shut and made a list of the problems
they were clearly going to encounter:
the impossibility of unloading anything
at Vera Cruz and then transporting the
cargo to Mexico City without half of
the original assignment being stolen,
the lack of communications between
ministries, and worst of all the
attitude of the Mexicans to work. But
David Heath's most positive
contribution to the list was the
discovery that each minister had his
own outside man, and that man had
better be well disposed to Graham
Construction if the firm were to be
even considered for the short list.
Heath immediately sought out the
Minister of Works' man, one Victor
Perez, and took him to an extravagant
lunch at the Fonda el Refugio where
both of them nearly ended up drunk,
although Heath remained sober enough to
agree all of the necessary terms,
conditional upon Sir Hamish's approval.
Having taken every possible precaution,
Heath agreed on a tender figure with
Perez which was to include the
minister's percentage. Once he had com-
pleted the report for his chairman, he
flew back to England with his team.

  On the evening of David Heath's
return, Sir Hamish retired to bed early
to study his project manager's conclu-
sions. He read the report through the
night as others might read a spy story,
and was left in no doubt that this was
the opportunity he had been looking for
to overcome the temporary setbacks
Graham Construction was now suffering.
Although Sir Hamish would be up against
Costains, Sunleys, andJohn Brown, as
well as many international companies,
he still felt confident that any
application he made must

                  141
                   
A Qu'Dcr Full of Arrows

have a "fair chance". On arrival at
his office the next morning Sir Hamish
sent for David Heath, who was
delighted by the chairman's initial
response to his report.

  Sir Hamish started speaking as soon
as his burly project manager entered
the room, not even inviting him to
take a seat.

  "You must contact our Embassy in
Mexico City immediately and inform
them of our intentions," pronounced
Sir Hamish. "I may speak to the
Ambassador myself," he said, intending
that to be the concluding remark of
the interview.

"Useless," said David Heath.

"I beg your pardon?"

  "I don't wish to appear rude, sir,
but it doesn't work like that any
more. Britain is no longer a great
power dispensing largesse to all far
flung and grateful recipients."

"More's the pity," said Sir Hamish.

  The project manager continued as
though he had not heard the remark.

  "The Mexicans now have vast wealth of
their own and the United States,
Japan, France and Germany keep massive
embassies in Mexico City with highly
professional trade delegations trying
to influence every ministry."

  "But surely history counts for
something," said Sir Hamish. "Wouldn't
they rather deal with an established
British company than some upstarts
from - ?"

  "Perhaps, sir, but in the end all
that really matters is which minister
is in charge of what contract and who
is his outside representative."

  Sir Hamish looked puzzled. "Your
meaning is obscure to me, Mr. Heath."

  "Allow me to explain, sir. Under the
present system in Mexico, each
ministry has an allocation of money to
spend on projects agreed to by the
government. Every Secretary of State
is acutely aware that his tenure of
office may be very short, so he picks
out a major contract for himself from
the many available. It's the one way
to ensure a pension for life if

                  142
                   
A Matter of Princes

the government is changed overnight or
the minister simply loses his job."

  "Don't bandy words with me, Mr.
Heath. What you are suggesting is that
I should bribe a government official, I
have never been involved in that sort
of thing in thirty years of business."

  "And I wouldn't want you to start
now," replied Heath. "The Mexican is
far too experienced in business
etiquette for anything as clumsy as
that to be suggested, but while the law
requires that you appoint a Mexican
agent, it must make sense to try and
sign up the minister's man, who in the
end is the one person who can ensure
that you will be awarded the contract.
The system seems to work well, and as
long as a minister deals only with
reputable international firms and
doesn't become greedy, no one
complains. Fail to observe either of
those two golden rules and the whole
house of cards collapses. The minister
ends up in Le Cumberri for thirty years
and the company concerned has all its
assets expropriated and is banned from
any future business dealings in
Mexico."

  "I really cannot become involved in
such shenanigans," said Sir Hamish. "I
still have my shareholders to
consider."

  "You don't have to become involved,"
Heath rejoined. "After we have tendered
for the contract you wait and see if
the company has been shortlisted and
then, if we have, you wait again to
find out if the minister's man
approaches Us. I know the man, so if he
does make contact we have a deal. After
all, Graham Construction is a
respectable international company."

  "Precisely, and that's why it's
against my principles," said Sir Hamish
with hauteur.

  "I do hope, Sir Hamish, it's also
against your principles to allow the
Germans and the Americans to steal the
contract from under our noses."

  Sir Hamish glared back at his project
manager but remained silent.

"And I feel I must add, sir," said
David Heath moving

                  143
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

restlessly from foot to foot, "that
the pickings in Scotland haven't
exactly yielded a harvest lately."

  "All right, all right, go ahead,"
said Sir Hamish reluctantly. "Put in a
tender figure for the Mexico City ring
road and be warned if I find bribery
is involved, on your head be it," he
added, banging his closed fist on the
table.

  "What tender figure have you settled
on, sir?" asked the project manager.
"I believe, as I stressed in my report
that we should keep the amount under
forty million dollars."

  "Agreed," said Sir Hamish who paused
for a moment and smiled to himself
before saying: "Make it $39,121,110."

"Why that particular figure, sir?"

  "Sentimental reasons," said Sir
Hamish, without further explanation.

  David Heath left, pleased that he had
convinced his boss to go ahead but he
feared it might in the end prove
harder to overcome Sir Hamish's
principles than the entire Mexican
government. Nevertheless he filled in
the bottom line of the tender as
instructed and then had the document
signed by three directors including
his chairman, as required by Mexican
law. He sent the tender by special
messenger to be delivered at the
Ministry of Buildings in Paseo de la
Reforma: when tendering for a contract
for over thirty-nine million dollars,
one does not send the document by
first-class post.

  Several weeks passed before the
Mexican Embassy in London contacted
Sir Hamish, requesting that he travel
to Mexico City for a meeting with
Manuel Unichurtu, the minister
concerned with the city's ring road
project. Sir Hamish remained
sceptical, but David Heath was
jubilant, because he had already
learned through another source that
Graham Construction was the only
tender being seriously considered at
that moment, although there were one
or two outstanding items still to be
agreed on. David Heath knew exactly
what that meant.

  A week later Sir Hamish, travelling
first class, and David Heath,
travelling economy, flew out of
Heathrow bound for Mexico
International airport. On arrival they
took an hour

                  144
                   
A Matter of Princ~pk

to clear customs and another thirty
minutes to find a taxi to take them to
the city, and then only after the
driver had bargained with them for an
outrageous fare. They covered the
fifteen-mile journey from the airport
to their hotel in just over an hour and
Sir Hamish was able to observe at first
hand why the Mexicans were so desperate
to build a ring road. Even with the
windows down the ten-year-old car was
like an oven that had been left on high
all night, but during the journey Sir
Hamish never once loosened his collar
or tie. The two men checked into their
rooms, phoned the minister's secretary
to inform her of their arrival, and
then waited.

For two days, nothing happened.

  David Heath assured his chairman that
such a hold up was not an unusual
course of events in Mexico as the
minister was undoubtedly in meetings
most of the day, and after all wasn't
"Havana" the one Spanish word every
foreigner understood?

  On the afternoon of the third day,
only just before Sir Hamish was
threatening to return home, David Heath
received a call from the minister's
man, who accepted an invitation to join
them both for dinner in Sir Hamish's
suite that evening.

  Sir Hamish put on evening dress for
the occasion, despite David Heath's
counselling against the idea. He even
had a bottle of Fina La /na sherry sent
up in case the minister's man required
some refreshment. The dinner table was
set and the hosts were ready for
seven-thirty. The minister's man did
not appear at seven-thirty, or
seven-forty-five, or eight o'clock or
eight-fifteen, or eight-thirty. At
eight-forty-nine there was a loud rap
on the door, and Sir Hamish muttered an
inaudible reproach as David Heath went
to open it and find his contact
standing there.

  "Good evening, Mr. Heath, I'm sorry
to be late. Held up with the minister,
you understand."

  "Yes, of course," said David Heath.
"How good of you to come, Senor Perez.
May I introduce my chairman, Sir Hamish
Graham?"

                  145
                   
A Q'iwr Full of Arrows

  "How do you do, Sir Hamish? Victor
Perez at your service."

  Sir Hamish was dumbfounded. He simply
stood and stared at the little
middle-aged Mexican who had arrived for
dinner dressed in a grubby white
tee-shirt and Western jeans. Perez
looked as if he hadn't shaved for three
days and reminded Sir Hamish of those
bandits he had seen in B-Movies when he
was a schoolboy. He wore a heavy gold
bracelet around his wrist that could
have come from Cartier's and a tiger's
tooth on a platinum chain around his
neck that looked as if it had come from
Woolworth's. Perez grinned from ear to
ear, pleased with the effect he was
causing.

  "Good evening," replied Sir Hamish
stiffly, taking a step backwards.
"Would you care for a sherry?"

  "No, thank you, Sir Hamish. I've
grown into the habit of liking your
whisky, on the rocks with a little
soda."

"I'm sorry, I only have . . ."

  "Don't worry, sir, I have some in my
room," said David Heath, and rushed
away to retrieve a bottle of Johnnie
Walker he had hidden under the shirts
in his top drawer. Despite this
Scottish aid, the conversation before
dinner among the three men was somewhat
stilted, but David Heath had not come
five thousand miles for an inferior
hotel meal with Victor Perez, and
Victor Perez in any other circumstances
would not have crossed the road to meet
Sir Hamish Graham even if he'd built
it. Their conversation ranged from the
recent visit to Mexico of Her Majesty
The Queen - as Sir Hamish referred to
her- to the proposed return trip of
President Portillo to Britain. Dinner
might have gone more smoothly if Mr.
Perez hadn't eaten most of the food
with his hands and then proceeded to
clean his fingers on the side of his
jeans. The more Sir Hamish stared at
him in disbelief the more the little
Mexican would grin from ear to ear.
After dinner David Heath thought the
time had come to steer the conversation
towards the real purpose of the
meeting, but not before Sir Hamish had

                  146
                   
A Matter of Pry pie

reluctantly had to call for a bottle of
brandy and a box of cigars.

  "We are looking for an agent to
represent the Graham Construction
Company in Mexico, Mr. Perez, and you
have been highly recommended," said Sir
Hamish, sounding unconvinced by his own
statement.

"Do call me Victor."

  Sir Hamish bowed silently and
shuddered. There was no way this man
was going to be allowed to call him
Hamish.

  "I'd be pleased to represent you,
Hamish," continued Perez, "provided
that you find my terms acceptable."

  "Perhaps you could enlighten us as to
what those - hm, terms- might be," said
Sir Hamish slimy.

  "Certainly," said the little Mexican
cheerfully. "I require ten per cent of
the agreed tender figure, five per cent
to be paid on the day you are awarded
the contract and five per cent whenever
you present your completion
certificates. Not a penny to be paid
until you have received your fee, all
my payments deposited in an account at
Credit Suisse in Geneva within seven
days ofthe National Bank of Mexico
clearing your cheque."

  David Heath drew in his breath
sharply and stared down at the stone
floor.

  "But under those terms you would make
nearly four million dollars," protested
Sir Hamish, now red in the face.
"That's over half our projected
profit."

  "That, as I believe you say in
England, Hamish, is your problem, you
fixed the tender price," said Perez,
"not me. In any case, there's still
enough in the deal for both of us to
make a handsome profit which is surely
fair as we bring half the equation to
the table."

  Sir Hamish was speechless as he
fiddled with his bow tie. David Heath
examined his fingernails attentively.

  "Think the whole thing over, Hamish,"
said Victor Perez, sounding
unperturbed, "and let me know your
decision by midday tomorrow. The
outcome makes little difference to me."
The Mexican rose, shook hands with Sir
Hamish and

                  147
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

left. David Heath, sweating slightly,
accompanied him down in the lift. In
the foyer he clasped hands damply with
the Mexican.

  "Good night, Victor. I'm sure
everything will be all rightby midday
tomorrow."

  "I hope so," replied the Mexican,
"for your sake." He strolled out of the
foyer whistling.

  Sir Hamish, a glass of water in his
hand, was still seated at the dinner
table when his project manager
returned.

  "I do not believe it is possible that
that- that that man can represent the
Secretary of State, represent a
government mmlster."

"I am assured that he does," replied
David Heath.

  "But to part with nearly four million
dollars to such an individual . . ."

  "I agree with you, sir, but that is
the way business is conducted out
here."

  "I can't believe it," said Sir
Hamish. "I won't believe it. I want you
to make an appointment for me to see
the minister first thing tomorrow
morning."

  "He won't like that, sir. It might
expose his position, and put him right
out in the open in a way that could
only embarrass him."

  "I don't give a damn about
embarrassing him. We are discussing a
bribe, do I have to spell it out for
you, Heath? A bribe of nearly four
million dollars. Have you no
principles, man?"

  "Yes, sir, but I would still advise
you against seeing the Secretary of
State. He won't want any of your
conversation with Mr. Perez on the
record."

  "I have run this company my way for
nearly thirty years, Mr. Heath, and I
shall be the judge of what I want on
the record."

"Yes, of course, sir."

  "I will see the Secretary of State
first thing in the morning. Kindly
arrange a meeting."

"If you insist, sir," said David Heath
resignedly.

                  148
                   
A Matter of Princzpk

"I insist."

  The project manager departed to his
own room and a sleepless night. Early
the next morning he delivered a hand-
written, personal and private letter to
the minister, who sent a car round
immediately for the Scottish
industrialist.

  Sir Hamish was driven slowly through
the noisy, exuberant, bustling crowds
of the city in the minister's black
Ford Galaxy with nag flying. People
made way for the car respectfully. The
chauffeur came to a halt outside the
Ministry of Buildings and Public Works
in Paseo de la Reforma and guided Sir
Hamish through the long, white
corridors to a waiting room. A few
minutes later an assistant showed Sir
Hamish through to the Secretary of
State and took a seat by his side. The
minister, a severe looking man who
appeared to be well into his seventies,
was dressed in an immaculate white
suit, white shirt and blue tie. He
rose, leaned over the vast expanse of
green leather and offered his hand.

"Do have a seat, Sir Hamish."

  "Thank you," the chairman said,
feeling more at home as he took in the
minister's office; on the ceiling a
large propellor-like fan revolved
slowly round making little difference
to the stuffiness of the room, while
hanging on the wall behind the minister
was a signed picture of President Jose
Lopez Portillo, in full morning dress
and below the photo a plaque displaying
a coat of arms.

"I see you were educated at Cambridge."

  "That is correct, Sir Hamish, I was
up at Corpus Christi College for three
years."

"Then you know my country well, sir."

  "I do have many happy memories of my
stays in England, Sir Hamish; in fact,
I still visit London as often as my
leave allows."

"You must take a trip to Edinburgh some
time."

  "I have already done so, Sir Hamish.
I attended the Festival on two
occasions and now know why your city is
described as the Athens of the north."

"You are well informed, Minister."

                  149
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

  "Thank you, Sir Hamish. Now I must
ask how I can help you. Your
assistant's note was rather vague."

  "First let me say, Minister, that my
company is honoured to be considered
for the city ring road project and I
hope that our experience of thirty
years in construction, twenty of them
in the third world" - he nearly said
the undeveloped countries, an
expression his project manager had
warned him against- "is the reason
you, as Minister in charge, found us
the natural choice for this contract."

  "That, and your reputation for
finishing a job on time at the
stipulated price," replied the
Secretary of State. "Only twice in
your history have you returned to the
principal asking for changes in the
payment schedule. Once in Uganda when
you were held up by Amin's pathetic
demands, and the other project, if I
remember rightly, was in Bolivia, an
airport, when you were unavoidably
delayed for six months because of an
earthquake. In both cases, you com-
pleted the contract at the new price
stipulated and my principal advisers
think you must have lost money on both
occasions." The Secretary of State
mopped his brow with a silk
handkerchief before continuing. "I
would not wish you to think my
government takes these decisions of
selection lightly."

  Sir Hamish was astounded by the
Secretary of State's command of his
brief, the more so as no prompting
notes lay on the leather-topped desk
in front of him. He suddenly felt
guilty at the little he knew about the
Secretary of State's background or
history.

  "Of course not, Minister. I am
flattered by your personal concern,
which makes me all the more determined
to broach an embarrassing subject that
has . . ."

  "Before you say anything else, Sir
Hamish, may I ask you some questions?"

"Of course, Minister."

  "Do you still find the tender price
of $39,121,110 acceptable in all the
circumstances?"

"Yes, Minister."

                  150
                   
A Melts' of Pnnc~ple

  "That amount still leaves you enough to
do a worthwhile job while making a profit
for your company?"

"Yes, Minister, but ..."

  "Excellent, then I think all you have to
decide is whether you want to sign the
contract by midday today." The minister
emphasised the word midday as clearly as
he could.

  Sir Hamish, who had never understood the
expression "a nod is as good as a wink",
charged foolishly on.

  "There is, nevertheless, one aspect of
the contract I feel that I should discuss
with you privately."

 -   "Are you sure that would be wise,
Sir Hamish?"

  Sir Hamish hesitated, but only for a
moment, before proceeding. Had David Heath
heard the conversation that had taken
place so far, he would have stood up,
shaken hands with the Secretary of State,
removed the top of his fountain pen and
headed towards the contract - but not his
employer.

"Yes, Minister, I feel I must," said Sir
Hamish firmly.

  "Will you kindly leave us, Miss
Vieites?" said the Secretary of State.

  The assistant closed her shorthand book,
rose and left the room. Sir Hamish waited
for the door to close before he began
again.

  "Yesterday I had a visit from a
countryman of yours, a Mr. Victor Perez,
who resides here in Mexico City and claims
- "

"An excellent man," said the Minister very
quietly.

  Still Sir Hamish charged on. "Yes, I
daresay he is, Minister, but he asked to
be allowed to represent Graham Con-
struction as our agent and I wondered - "

  "A common practice in Mexico, no more
than is required by the law." said the
Minister, swinging his chair round and
staring out of the window.

  "Yes, I appreciate that is the custom,"
said Sir Hamish now talking to the
minister's back, "but if I am to part with
ten per cent of the government's money I
must be convinced

                    151
                     
A Quiver Full of Arrows

that such a decision meets with your
personal approval." Sir Hamish thought
he had worded that rather well.

  "Um," said the Secretary of State,
measuring his words, "Victor Perez is
a good man and has always been loyal to
the Mexican cause. Perhaps he leaves an
unfortunate impression sometimes, not
out of what you would call the 'top
drawer', Sir Hamish, but then we have
no class barriers in Mexico." The
Minister swung back to face Sir Hamish.

  The Scottish industrialist flushed.
"Of course not, Minister, but chat, if
you will forgive me, is hardly the
point. Mr. Perez is asking me to hand
over nearly four million dollars, which
is over half of my estimated profit on
the project without allowing for any
contingencies or mishaps that might
occur later."

  "You chose the tender figure, Sir
Hamish. I confess I was amused by the
fact you added your date of birth to
the thirty-nine million."

Sir Hamish's mouth opened wide.

  "I would have thought," continued the
minister, "given your record over the
past three years and the present situa-
tion in Britain, you were not in a
position to be fussy."

  The minister gazed impassively at Sir
Hamish's startled face. Both started to
speak at the same time. Sir Hamish
swallowed his words.

  "Allow me to tell you a little story
about Victor Perez. When the war was at
its fiercest" (the old Secretary of
State was referring to the Mexican
Revolution, in the same way that an
American thinks of Vietnam or a Briton
of Germany when they hear the word
"war"), "Victor's father was one of the
young men under my command who died on
the battlefield at Celaya only a few
days before victory was ours. He left
a son born on the day of independence
who never knew his father. I have the
honour, Sir Hamish, to be godfather to
that child. We christened him Victor."

  "I can understand that you have a
responsibility to an old comrade but I
still feel four million is - "

"Do you? Then let me continue.Just
before Victor's father

                  152
                   
A Matter of Pnnc~pl~

died I visited him in a field hospital
and he asked only that I should take
care of his wife. She died in
childbirth. I therefore considered my
responsibility passed on to their only
child."

  Sir Hamish remained silent for a
moment. "I appreciate your attitude,
Minister, but ten per cent of one of
your largest contracts?"

  "One day," continued the Secretary of
State, as if he had not heard Sir
Hamish's comment, "Victor's father was
fighting in the front line at Zacatecas
and looking out across a minefield he
saw a young lieutenant, lying face down
in the mud with his leg nearly blown
off. With no thought for his own
safety, he crawled through that
minefield until he reached the
lieutenant and then he dragged him yard
by yard back to the camp. It took him
over three hours. He then carried the
lieutenant to a truck and drove him to
the nearest field hospital, undoubtedly
saving his leg, and probably his life.
So you see the government have good
cause to allow Perez's son the
privilege of representing them from
time to time."

  "I agree with you, Minister," said
Sir Hamish quietly. "Quite admirable."
The Secretary of State smiled for the
first tinge. "But I still confess I
cannot understand why you allow him
such a large percentage."

  The minister frowned. "I am afraid,
Sir Hamish, if you cannot understand
that, you can never hope to understand
the principles we Mexicans live by."

  The Secretary of State rose from
behind his desk, limped to the door and
showed Sir Hamish out.

                  153
                   
     The Hungarian
Professor

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 obitu-
ary 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 new
in to Ferihegy Airport
on the Sunday night and
we were taken
immediately to the
Hotel If ushag. (I
learned later that the
word meant youth in
Hungarian). Having
settled in, most of the
team went to bed early
as 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

          155
           
A Quiver Full of Arrows

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
Nep 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 on to 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
callisthenics, 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.
Felkeszulni, Kesz - 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 Nep stadium to support
a friend of mine who was competing in
the semi-finals of the 400m 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
straight. I sat down on the wooden
bench

                  156
                   
The Hungarian Professor

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
finishing line, I stood and cheered him
heartily all the way down the home
straight. 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
programme. 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 threepiece suit that must
have been out of date when his father
owned it, and even lacked the possible
virtue that some day 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 maneither 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 moustache, 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 tram 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.

  "I t'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, Goodbye, I am lost, Help

"You are in the student games?"

                  157
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

  "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
sport, 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
pronouncement 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-on-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 1.

  "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."

                  158
                   
The Hungarian Professor

"Which is your favourite 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 net and so much of
the Midlands must now be spoilt by
sprawling towns. The Birminghams of
this world hold no appeal for me. But
in the end I come down in favour 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 party."

  "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. B.N.C. 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 B.N.C., is it
not?"

"That's right."

  The professor stopped talking while we
watched the next race, the first
semi-final of the 1,500 metres. The
winner was Anfras Patovich, a
Hungarian, and the partisan crowd went

                  159
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

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 semi-final
of the 1,500 metres which was won by
Orentas of the U.S.S.R. and the crowd
showed its disapproval more obviously
this time, clapping in such a way that
left hands passed by right without
coming into contact. I found
myselfjoining 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 goodbye 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?"

                  160
                   
7]c Hungarian Professor

"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
programme 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 looking over
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 grey slacks, hoping I
looked smart enough for my dis-
tinguished host. I locked my door, and
started towards the lift 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 block. 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,

                  161
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

dark corridor into his drawing room. I
was shocked by its size. Three sides
were covered with indifferent prints
and watercolours, depicting English
scenes, while the fourth wall was
dominated by a large bookcase. I could
spot Shakespeare, Dickens, Austin,
Trollope, Hardy, even Waugh and Graham
Greene. On the table was a faded copy
of the New Statesman and I looked
round 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 only
set for two.

  The old man turned and stared with
childish delight at my pile of
newspapers and magazines.

  "Punch, Time and the Observer, a
veritable feast," he declared
gathering them into his arms before
placing them lovingly on his bed in
the corner of the room.

  The professor then opened a bottle of
Szurkebarat and left me to look at the
pictures while he prepared the meal.
He slipped away into an alcove which
was so small that I had not realised
the room contained a kitchenette. He
continued to bombard me with questions
about England, many of which I was
quite unable to answer.

  A few minutes later he stepped back
into the room, requesting me to take a
seat. "Do be seated," he said, on
reflection. "I do not wish you to
remove the seat. I wish you to sit on
it." He put a plate in front of me
which had on it a leg of something
that might have been a chicken, a
piece of salami and a tomato. I felt
sad, not because the food was
inadequate, but because he believed it
to be plentiful.

  After dinner, which despite my
efforts to eat slowly and hold him in
conversation, did not take up much
time, the old man made some coffee
which tasted bitter and then filled a
pipe before we continued our
discussion. We talked of Shakespeare
and his views on A. L. Rowse and then
he turned to politics.

  "Is it true," the professor asked,
"that England will soon have a Labour
government?"

"The opinion polls seem to indicate as
much," I said.

                  162
                   
The Hungarian Professor

  "I suppose the British feel that Sir
Alec Douglas-Home is not swinging
enough for the sixties," said the
professor, now puffing vigorously away
at his pipe. He paused and looked up at
me through the smoke. "I did not offer
you a pipe as I assumed after your
premature exit in the first round of
the competition you would not be
smoking." I smiled. "But Sir Alec," he
continued, "is a man with long
experience in politics and it's no bad
thing for a country to be governed by
an experienced gentleman."

  I would have laughed out loud had the
same opinion been expressed by my own
tutor.

  "And what of the Labour leader?" I
said, forebearing to mention his name.

  "Moulded in the white heat of a
technological revolution," he replied.
"I am not so certain. I liked
Gaitskell, an intelligent and shrewd
man. An untimely death. Attlee, like
Sir Alec, was a gentleman. But as for
Mr. Wilson, I suspect that history will
test his mettle - a pun which I had not
intended - in that white heat and only
then will we discover the truth."

I could think of no reply.

  "I was considering last night after we
parted," the old man continued, "the
effect that Suez must have had on a
nation which only ten years before had
won a world war. The Americans should
have backed you. Now we read in
retrospect, always the historian's
privilege, that at the time Prime
Minister Eden was tired and ill. The
truth was he didn't get the support
from his closest allies when he most
needed it."

"Perhaps we should have supported you
in 1956."

  "No, no, it was too late then for the
West to shoulder Hungary's problems.
Churchill understood that in 1945. He
wanted to advance beyond Berlin and to
free all the nations that bordered
Russia. But the West had had a belly
full of war by then and left Stalin to
take advantage of that apathy. When
Churchill coined the phrase 'the Iron
Curtain', he foresaw exactly what was
going to happen in the East.

                  163
                   
A Quiocr Full of Arrows

Amazing to think that when that great
man said, 'if the British Empire should
last a thousand years', it was in fact
destined to survive for only
twenty-five. How I wish he had still
been around the corridors of power in
1956."

"Did the revolution greatly affect your
life?"

  "I do not complain. It is a privilege
to be the Professor of English in a
great University. They do not interfere
with me in my department and
Shakespeare is not yet considered
subversive literature." He paused and
took a luxuriant puff at his pipe. "And
what will you do, young man, when you
leave the University - as you have
shown us that you cannot hope to make
a living as a runner?"

"I want to be a writer."

  "Then travel, travel, travel," he
said. "You cannot hope to learn
everything from books. You must see the
world for yourself if you ever hope to
paint a picture for others."

  I looked up at the old clock on his
mantelpiece only to realise how quickly
the time had passed.

  "I must leave you, I'm afraid; they
expect us all to be back in the hotel
by ten."

  "Of course," he said smiling the
English Public School mentality. "I
will accompany you to Kossuth Square
and then you will be able to see your
hotel on the hill."

  As we left the flat, I noticed that
he didn't bother to lock the door. Life
had left him little to lose. He led me
quickly through the myriad of narrow
roads that I had found so impossible to
navigate earlier in the evening,
chatting about this building and that,
an endless fund of knowledge about his
own country as well as mine. When we
reached Kossuth Square he took my hand
and held on to it, reluctant to let go,
as lonely people often will.

  "Thank you for allowing an old man to
indulge himself by chattering on about
his favourite subject."

  "Thank you for your hospitality," I
said, "and when you are next in
Somerset you must come to Lympsham and
meet my family."

"Lympsham? I cannot place it," he said,
looking worried.

                  164
                   
The Hungarian Professor

  "I'm not surprised. The village only
has a population of twenty-two."

  "Enough for two cricket teams,"
remarked the professor. "A game, I
confess, with which I have never come
to grips."

"Don't worry," I said, "neither have
half the English."

  "Ah, but I should like to. What is a
gully, a no-ball, a night watchman? The
terms have always intrigued me."

  "Then remember to get in touch when
you're next in England and I'll take
you to Lord's and see if I can teach
you something."

  "How kind," he said, and then he
hesitated before adding: "But I don't
think we shall meet again."

"Why not?" I asked.

  "Well, you see, I have never been
outside Hungary in my whole life. When
I was young I couldn't afford to and
now I don't imagine that those in
authority would allow me to see your
beloved England."

  He released my hand, turned and
shuffled back into the shadows of the
side streets of Budapest.

  I read his obituary in The Times once
again as well as the headlines about
Afghanistan and its effect on the
Moscow Olympics.

He was right. We never met again.

                  165
                   
       Old Love

Some people, it is
said, fall in love at
first sight but that
was not what happened
to William Hatchard and
Philippa Jameson. They
hated each other from
the moment they met.
This mutual loathing
commenced at the first
tutorial of their
freshmen terms. Both
had come up in the
early thirties with
major scholarships to
read English language
and literature, William
to Merton, Philippa to
Somerville. Each had
been reliably assured
by their schoolteachers
that they would be the
star pupil of their
year.

  Their tutor, Simon
Jakes of New College,
was both bemused and
amused by the ferocious
competition that so
quickly developed
between his two
brightest pupils, and
he used their enmity
skilfully to bring out
the best in both of
them without ever
allowing either to
indulge in outright
abuse. Philippa, an
attractive, slim
red-head with a rather
high-pitched voice, was
the same height as
William so she
conducted as many of
her arguments as
possible standing in
newly acquired
high-heeled shoes,
while William, whose
deep voice had an air
of authority, would
always try to expound
his opinions from a
sitting position. The
more intense their
rivalry became the
harder the one tried to
outdo the other. By the
end of their first year
they were far ahead of
their contemporaries
while remaining neck
and neck with each
other. SimonJakes told
the Merton
ProfessorofAngloSaxon
Studies that he had
never had a brighter
pair up in the same
year and that it
wouldn't be long before
they were holding their
own with him.

During the long
vacation both worked to
a gruelling time

          167
           
A Quiver Full of Arrows

table, always imagining the other would
be doing a little more. They stripped
bare Blake, Wordsworth, Coleridge,
Shelley, Byron, and only went to bed
with Keats. When they returned for the
second year, they found that absence
had made the heart grow even more
hostile; and when they were both
awarded alpha plus for their essays on
Beowulf, it didn't help. Simon Jakes
remarked at New College high table one
night that if PhilippaJameson had been
born a boy some of his tutorials would
undoubtedly have ended in blows.

  "Why don't you separate them?" asked
the Dean, sleepily.

  "What, and double my work-load?" said
Jakes. "They teach each other most of
the time: I merely act as referee."

  Occasionally the adversaries would
seek his adjudication as to who was
ahead of whom, and so confident was
each of being the favoured pupil that
one would always ask in the other's
hearing. Jakes was far too canny to be
drawn; instead he would remind them
that the examiners would be the final
arbiters. So they began their own
subterfuge by referring to each other,
just in earshot, as "that silly woman",
and "that arrogant man". By the end of
their second year they were almost
unable to remain in the same room
together.

  In the long vacation William took a
passing interest in Al Jolson and a
girl called Ruby while Philippa flirted
with the Charleston and a young naval
lieutenant from Dartmouth. But when
term started in earnest these
interludes were never admitted and soon
forgotten.

  At the beginning of their third year
they both, on Simon Jakes' advice,
entered for the Charles Oldham
Shakespeare prize along with every
other student in the year who was
considered likely to gain a First. The
Charles Oldham was awarded for an essay
on a set aspect of Shakespeare's work,
and Philippa and William both realised
that this would be the only time in
their academic lives that they would be
tested against each other in closed
competition. Surreptitiously, they
worked their separate ways through the
entire

                  168
                   
Old Loon

Shakespearian canon, from Henry VI to
Hcny VIII, and kept Jakes well over his
appointed tutorial hours, demanding more
and more refined discussion of more and
more obscure points.

  The chosen theme for the prize essay
that year was "Satire in Shakespeare".
Troilus and Cressida clearly called for
the most attention but both found there
were nuances in virtually every one of
the bard's thirty-seven plays. "Not to
mention a gross of sonnets," wrote
Philippa home to her father in a rare
moment of self-doubt. As the year drew
to a close it became obvious to all
concerned that either William or
Philippa had to win the prize while the
other would undoubtedly come second.
Nevertheless no one was willing to
venture an opinion as to who the victor
would be. The New College porter, an
expert in these matters, opening his
usual book for the Charles Oldham, made
them both evens, ten to one the rest of
the field.

  Before the prize essay submission date
was due, they both had to sit their
final degree examinations. Philippa and
William confronted the examination
papers every morning and afternoon for
two weeks with an appetite that bordered
on the vulgar. It came as no surprise to
anyone that they both achieved first
class degrees in the final honours
school. Rumour spread around the
University that the two rivals had been
awarded alphas in every one of their
nine papers.

  "I would be willing to believe that is
the case," Philippa told William. "But
I feel I must point out to you that
there is a considerable difference
between an alpha plus and an
alpha~minus."

  "I couldn't agree with you more," said
William. "And when you discover who has
won the Charles Oldham, you will know
who was awarded less."

  With only three weeks left before the
prize essay had to be handed in they
both worked twelve hours a day, falling
asleep over open text books, dreaming
that the other was still beavering away.
When the appointed hour came they met in

                  169
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

the marble-floored entrance hall of the
Examination Schools, sombre in subfusc.

  "Good morning, William, I do hope
your efforts will manage to secure a
place in the first six."

  "Thank you, Philippa. If they don't I
shall look for the names C. S. Lewis,
Nichol Smith, Nevil Coghill, Edmund
Blunden, R. W. Chambers and H. W.
Garrard ahead of me. There's certainly
no one else in the field to worry
about."

  "I am only pleased," said Philippa,
as if she had not heard his reply,
"that you were not seated next to me
when I wrote my essay, thus ensuring
for the first time in three years that
you weren't able to crib from my
notes."

  "The only item I have ever cribbed
from you, Philippa, was the Oxford to
London timetable, and that I discovered
later to be out-of-date, which was in
keeping with the rest of your efforts."

  They both handed in their twenty-five
thousand word essays to the collector's
office in the Examination Schools and
left without a further word, returning
to their respective colleges
impatiently to await the result.

  William tried to relax the weekend
after submitting his essay, and for the
first time in three years he played
some tennis, against a girl from St.
Anne's, failing to win a game, let
alone a set. He nearly sank when he
went swimming, and actually did so when
punting. He was only relieved that
Philippa had not been witness to any of
his feeble physical efforts.

  On Monday night after a resplendent
dinner with the Master of Merton, he
decided to take a walk along the banks
of the Cherwell to clear his head
before going to bed. The May evening
was still light as he made his way down
through the narrow confines of Merton
Wall, across the meadows to the banks
of the Cherwell. As he strolled along
the winding path, he thought he spied
his rival ahead of him under a tree
reading. He considered turning back but
decided she might already have spotted
him, so he kept on walking.

                  170
                   
of ~M

  He had not seen Philippa for three
days although she had rarely been out
of his thoughts: once he had won the
Charles Oldham, the silly woman would
have to climb down from that high horse
of hers. He smiled at the thought and
decided to walk nonchalantly past her.
As he drew nearer, he lifted his eyes
from the path in front of him to steal
a quick glance in her direction, and
could feel himself reddening in
anticipation of her inevitable
well-timed insult. Nothing happened so
he looked more carefully, only to
discover on closer inspection that she
was not reading: her head was bowed in
her hands and she appeared to be
sobbing quietly. He slowed his progress
to observe, not the formidable rival
who had for three years dogged his
every step, but a forlorn and lonely
creature who looked somewhat helpless.

  William's first reaction was to think
that the winner of the prize essay
competition had been leaked to her and
that he had indeed achieved his
victory. On rejection, he realised that
could not be the case: the examiners
would only have received the essays
that morning and as all.the assessors
read each submission the results could
not possibly be forthcoming until at
least the end of the week. Philippa did
not look up when he reached her side -
he was even unsure whether she was
aware of his presence. As he stopped to
gaze at his adversary William could not
help noticing how her long red hair
curled just as it touched the shoulder.
He sat down beside her but still she
did not stir.

  "What's the matter?" he asked. "Is
there anything I can do?"

She raised her head, revealing a face
Bushed from crying.

  "No, nothing William, except leave me
alone. You depot rive me of solitude
without affording me company."

  William was pleased that he
immediately recognised the little
literary allusion. "What's the matter,
Madame de Sevigne?" he asked, more out
of curiosity than concern, torn between
sympathy and catching her with her
guard down.

It seemed a long time before she
replied.

                  171
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

  "My father died this morning," she
said finally, as if speaking to
herself.

  It struck William as strange that
after three years of seeing Philippa
almost every day he knew nothing about
her home life.

"And your mother?" he said.

  "She died when I was three. I don't
even remember her. My father is-." She
paused. "Was a parish priest and
brought me up, sacrificing everything
he had to get me to Oxford, even the
family silver. I wanted so much to win
the Charles Oldham for him."

William put his arm tentatively on
Philippa's shoulder.

  "Don't be absurd. When you win the
prize, they'll pronounce you the star
pupil of the decade. After all, you
will have had to beat me to achieve
the distinction."

  She tried to laugh. "Of course I
wanted to beat you, William, but only
for my father."

"How did he die?"

  "Cancer, only he never let me know.
He asked me not to go home before the
summer term as he felt the break might
interfere with my finals and the
Charles Oldham. While all the time he
must have been keeping me away because
he knew if I saw the state he was in
that would have been the end of my
completing any serious work."

  "Where do you live?" asked William,
again surprised that he did not know.

  "Brockenhurst. In Hampshire. I'm
going back there tomorrow morning. The
funeral's on Wednesday."

"May I take you?" asked William.

  Philippa looked up and was aware of
a softness in her adversary's eyes
that she had not seen before. "That
would be kind, William."

  "Come on then, you silly woman," he
said. "I'll walk you back to your
college."

  "Last time you called me 'silly
woman' you meant it."

William found it natural that they
should hold hands as

                  172
                   
Old Low

they walked along the river bank.
Neither spoke until they reached
Somerville.

  "What time shall I pick you up?" he
asked, not letting go of her hand.

"I didn't know you had a car."

  "My father presented me with an old MG
when I was awarded a first. I have been
longing to End some excuse to show the
damn thing off to you. It has a press
button start, you know."

  "Obviously he didn't want to risk
waiting to give you the car on the
Charles Oldham results." William
laughed more heartily than the little
dig merited.

  "Sorry," she said. "Put it down to
habit. I shall look forward to seeing
if you drive as appallingly as you
write, in which case the journey may
never come to any conclusion. I'll be
ready for you at ten."

  On the journey down to Hampshire,
Philippa talked about her father's work
as a parish priest and inquired after
William's family. They stopped for
lunch at a pub in Winchester. Rabbit
stew and mashed potatoes.

"The first meal we've had together,"
said William.

  No sardonic reply came flying back;
Philippa simply smiled.

  After lunch they travelled on to the
village of Brockenhurst. William
brought his car to an uncertain halt on
the gravel outside the vicarage. An
elderly maid, dressed in black,
answered the door, surprised to see
Miss Philippa with a man. Philippa
introduced Annie to William and asked
her to make up the spare room.

  "I'm so glad you've found yourself
such a nice young man," remarked Annie
later. "Have you known him long?"

Philippa smiled. "No, we met for the
first time yesterday."

  Philippa cooked William dinner, which
they ate by a fire he had made up in
the front room. Although hardly a word
passed between them for three hours,
neither was bored. Philippa began to
notice the way William's untidy fair
hair

                  173
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

fell over his forehead and thought how
distinguished he would look in old
age.

  The next morning, she walked into the
church on William's arm and stood
bravely through the funeral. When the
service was over William took her back
to the vicarage, crowded with the many
friends the parson had made.

  "You mustn't think ill of us," said
Mr. Crump,the vicar's warden, to
Philippa. "You were everything to your
father and we were all under strict
instructions not to let you know about
his illness in case it should
interfere with the Charles Oldham.
That is the name of the prize, isn't
it?"

  "Yes," said Philippa. "But that all
seems so unimportant now."

  "She will win the prize in her
father's memory," said William.

  Philippa turned and looked at him,
realising for the first time that he
actually wanted her to win the Charles
Oldham.

  They stayed that night at the
vicarage and drove back to Oxford on
the Thursday. On the Friday morning at
ten o'clock William returned to
Philippa's college and asked the
porter if he could speak to Miss
Jameson.

  "Would you be kind enough to wait in
the Horsebox, sir," said the porter as
he showed William into a little room
at the back of the lodge and then
scurried offto find MissJameson. They
returned together a few minutes later.

"What on earth are you doing here?"

"Come to take you to Stratford."

  "But I haven't even had time to
unpack the things I brought back from
Brockenhurst."

  "Just do as you are told for once;
I'll give you fifteen minutes."

  "Of course," she said. "Who am I to
disobey the next winner of the Charles
Oldham? I shall even allow you to come
up to my room for one minute and help
me unpack."

  The porter's eyebrows nudged the edge
of his cap but he remained silent, in
deference to Miss Jameson's recent
bereavement. Again it surprised
William to think that he

                  174
                   
Old Low

had never been to Philippa's room during
their three years. He had climbed the
walls of all the women's colleges to be
with a variety of girls of varying
stupidity but never with Philippa. He
sat down on the end of the bed.

  "Not there, you thoughtless creature.
The maid has only just made it. Men are
all the same, you never sit in chairs."

  "I shall one day," said William. "The
chair of English Language and
Literature."

  "Not as long as I'm at this
University, you won't," she said, as she
disappeared into the bathroom.

  "Good intentions are one thing but
talent is quite another," he shouted at
her retreating back, privately pleased
that her competitive streak seemed to be
returning.

  Fifteen minutes later she came out of
the bathroom in a yellow flowered dress
with a neat white collar and matching
cuffs. William thought she might even be
wearing a touch of make-up.

  "It will do our reputations no good to
be seen together," she said.

  "I've thought about that," said
William. "Ifasked, I shall say you're my
charity."

"Your charity?"

"Yes, this year I'm supporting
distressed orphans."

  Philippa signed out of college until
midnight and the two scholars travelled
down to Stratford, stopping off at
Broadway for lunch. In the afternoon
they rowed on the River Avon. William
warned Philippa of his last disastrous
outing in a punt. She admitted that she
had already heard of the exhibition he
had made of himself, but they arrived
safely back at the shore: perhaps
because Philippa took over the rowing.
They went to see John Gielgud playing
Romeo and dined at the Dirty Duck.
Philippa was even quite rude to William
during the meal.

  They started their journey home just
after eleven and Philippa fell into a
half sleep as they could hardly hear
each other above the noise of the car
engine. It must have been

                  175
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

about twenty-five miles outside of
Oxford that the MG came to a halt.

  "I thought," said William, "that when
the petrol gauge showed empty there
was at least another gallon left in
the tank.'$

  "You're obviously wrong, and not for
the first time, and because of such
foresight you'll have to walk to the
nearest garage all by yourself- you
needn't imagine that I'm going to keep
you company. I intend to stay put,
right here in the warmth."

  "But there isn't a garage between
here and Oxford," protested William.

  "Then you'll have to carry me. I am
far too fragile to walk."

  "I wouldn't be able to manage fifty
yards after that sumptuous dinner and
all that wine."

  "It is no small mystery to me,
William, how you could have managed a
first class honours degree in English
when you can't even read a petrol
gauge."

  "There's only one thing for it," said
William. "We'll have to wait for the
first bus in the morning."

  Philippa clambered into the back seat
and did not speak to him again before
falling asleep. William donned his
hat, scarf and gloves, crossed his
arms for warmth, and touched the
tangled red mane of Philippa's hair as
she slept. He then took off his coat
and placed it so that it covered her.

  Philippa woke first, a little after
six, and groaned as she tried to
stretch her aching limbs. She then
shook William awake to ask him why his
father hadn't been considerate enough
to buy him a car with a comfortable
back seat.

  "But this is the niftiest thing
going," said William, gingerly
kneading his neck muscles before
putting his coat back on.

  "But it isn't going, and won't
without petrol," she replied getting
out of the car to stretch her legs.

  "But I only let it run out for one
reason," said William following her to
the front of the car.

                  176
                   
Old LODC

  Philippa waited for a feeble punch
line and was not disappointed.

  "My father told me if I spent the
night with a barmaid then I should
simply order an extra pint of beer, but
if I spent the night with the vicar's
daughter, I would have to marry her."

  Philippa laughed. William, tired,
unshaven, and encumbered by his heavy
coat, struggled to get down on one knee.

"What are you doing, William?"

  "What do you think I'm doing, you
silly woman. I am going to ask you to
marry me."

  "An invitation I am happy to decline,
William. If I accepted such a proposal
I might end up spending the rest of my
life stranded on the road between Oxford
and Stratford."

"Will you marry me if I win the Charles
Oldham?"

  "As there is absolutely no fear of
that happening I can safely say, yes.
Now do get off your knee, William,
before someone mistakes you for a
straying stork."

  The first bus arrived at
five-past-seven that Saturday morning
and took Philippa and William back to
Oxford. Philippa went to her rooms for
a long hot bath while William filled a
petrol can and returned to his deserted
MG. Having completed the task, he drove
straight to Somerville and once again
asked if he could see MissJameson. She
came down a few minutes later.

  "What you again?" she said. "Am I not
in enough trouble already?"

"Why so?"

"Because I was out after midnight,
unaccompanied."

"You were accompanied."

"Yes, and that's what's worrying them."

"Did you tell them we spent the night
together?"

  "No, I did not. I don't mind our
contemporaries thinking I'm promiscuous,
but I have strong objections to their
believing that I have no taste. Now
kindly go away, as I am contemplating
the horror of your winning the Charles
Old

ham and my having to spend the rest of
my life with you."
                  177
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

  "You know I'm bound to win, so why
don't you come live with me now?"

  "I realise that it has become
fashionable to sleep with just anyone
nowadays, William, but if this is to
be my last weekend of freedom I intend
to savour it, especially as I may have
to consider committing suicide."

"I love you."

  "For the last time, William, go away.
And if you haven't won the Charles
Oldham don't ever show your face in
Somerville again."

  William left, desperate to know the
result ofthe prize essay competition.
Had he realised how much Philippa
wanted him to win he might have slept
that night.

  On Monday morning they both arrived
early - in the Examination Schools and
stood waiting impatiently without
speaking to each other, jostled by the
other undergraduates of their year who
had also been entered for the prize.
On the stroke of ten the chairman of
the examiners, in full academic dress,
walking at tortoise-like pace, arrived
in the great hall and with a
considerable presence at indifference
pinned a notice to the board. All the
undergraduates who had entered for the
prize rushed forward except for
William and Philippa who stood alone,
aware that it was now too late to
influence a result they were both
dreading.

  A girl shot out from the melee around
the notice board and ran over to
Philippa.

"Well done, Phil. You've won."

  Tears came to Philippa's eyes as she
turned towards William.

  "May I add my congratulations," he
said quickly, "you obviously deserved
the prize."

"I wanted to say something to you on
Saturday."

  "You did, you said if I lost I must
never show my face in Somerville
again."

  "No, I wanted to say: I do love
nothing in the world so well as you;
is not that strange?"

                  178
                   
Old Leon

  He looked at her silently for a long
moment. It was impossible to improve
upon Beatrices's reply.

"As strange as the thing I know not," he
said softly.

  A college friend slapped him on the
shoulder, took his hand and shook it
vigorously. Proxime accessit was
obviously impressive in some people's
eyes, if not in William's.

"Well done, William."

  "Second place is not worthy of
praise," said William disdainfully.

"But you won, Billy boy."

Philippa and William stared at each
other.

"What do you mean?" said William.

"Exactly what I said. You've won the
Charles Oldham."

  Philippa and William ran to the board
and studied the notice.

     Charles Oldham Memorial Price
   The examiners felt unable on this
occasion to award
   the prize to one person and have
therefore decided
      that it should be shared by

  They gazed at the notice board in
silence for some moments. Finally,
Philippa bit her lip and said in a small
voice:

  "Well, you didn't do too badly,
considering the competition. I'm
prepared to honour my undertaking but by
this light I take thee for pity."

  William needed no prompting. "I would
not deny you, but by this good day I
yield upon great persuasion, for I was
told you were in a consumption."

  And to the delight of their peers and
the amazement of the retreating don,
they embraced under the notice board.

  Rumour had it that from that moment on
they were never apart for more than a
few hours.

  The marriage took place a month later
in Philippa's family church at
Brockenhurst. "Well, when you think
about it," said William's room-mate,
"who else could she have married?" The
contentious couple started their
honeymoon in Athens arguing about the
relative significance of Doric and

                  179
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

Ionic architecture of which neither
knew any more than they had covertly
conned from a half-crown tourist
guide. They sailed on to Istanbul,
where William prostrated himself at
the front of every mosque he could
find while Philippa stood on her own
at the back fuming at the Turks'
treatment of women.

  "The Turks are a shrewd race,"
declared William, "so quick to
appreciate real worth."

  "Then why don't you embrace the
Moslim religion, William, and I need
only be in your presence once a year."

  "The misfortune of birth, a misplaced
loyalty and the signing of an
unfortunate contract dictate that I
spend the rest of my life with you."

  Back at Oxford, with junior research
fellowships at their respective
colleges, they settled down to serious
creative work. William- embarked upon
a massive study of word usage in
Marlowe and, in his spare moments,
taught himself statistics to assist
his findings. Philippa chose as her
subject the influence of the
Reformation on seventeenth-century
English writers and was soon drawn
beyond literature into art and music.
She bought herself a spinet and took
to playing Dowland and Gibbons in the
evening.

  "For Christ's sake," said William,
exasperated by the tinny sound, "you
won't deduce their religious
convictions from their key
signatures."

  "More informative than if s and ends,
my dear," she said, imperturbably,
"and at night so much more relaxing
than pots and pans."

  Three years later, with well-received
D. Phils, they moved on, inexorably in
tandem, to college teaching
fellowships. As the long shadow of
fascism fell across Europe, they read,
wrote, criticised and coached by quiet
firesides in unchanging quadrangles.

  "A rather dull Schools year for me,"
said William, "but I still managed
five firsts from a field of eleven."

  "An even duller one for me," said
Philippa, "but somehow I squeezed
three firsts out of six, and you won't
have to

                  180
                   
Old Lose

invoke the trinomial theorem, William,
to work out that it's an arithmetical
victory for me."

  "The chairman of the examiners tells
me," said William, "that a greater part
of what your pupils say is no more than
a recitation from memory."

  "He told me," she retorted, "that
yours have to make it up as they go
along."

  When they dined together in college
the guest list was always quickly
filled, and as soon as grace had been
said, the sharpness of their dialogue
would flash across the candelabra.

  "I hear a rumour, Philippa, that the
college doesn't feel able to renew your
fellowship at the end of the year?"

  "I fear you speak the truth, William,"
she replied. "They decided they
couldn't renew mine at the same time as
offering me yours."

  "Do you think they will ever make you
a Fellow of the British Academy,
William?"

  "I must say, with some considerable
disappointment, never."

"I am sorry to hear that; why not?"

  "Because when they did invite me, I
informed the President that I would
prefer to wait to be elected at the
same time as my wife."

  Some non-University guests sitting in
high table for the first time took
their verbal battles seriously; others
could only be envious of such love.

  One Fellow uncharitably suggested they
rehearsed their lines before coming to
dinner for fear it might be thought
they were getting on well together.
During their early years as young dons,
they became acknowledged as the leaders
in their respective fields. Like
magnets, they attracted the brightest
undergraduates while apparently
remaining poles apart themselves.

  "Dr. Hatchard will be delivering half
these lectures," Philippa announced at
the start of the Michaelmas Term of
their joint lecture course on Arthurian
legend. "But I can

                  181
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

assure you it will not be the better
half. You would be wise always to
check which Dr. Hatchard is
lecturing."

  When Philippa was invited to give a
series of lectures at Yale, William
took a sabbatical so that he could be
with her.

  On the ship crossing the Atlantic,
Philippa said, "Let's at least be
thankful the journey is by sea, my
dear, so we can't run out of petrol."

  "Rather let us thank God," replied
William, "that the ship has an engine
because you would even take the wind
out of Cunard's sails."

  The only sadness in their lives was
that Philippa could bear William no
children, but if anything it drew the
two closer together. Philippa lavished
quasi-maternal affection on her
tutorial pupils and allowed herself
only the wry comment that she was
spared the probability of producing a
child with William's looks and
William's brains.

  At the outbreak of war William's
expertise with handling words made a
move into cipher-breaking inevitable.
He was recruited by an anonymous
gentleman who visited them at home
with a briefcase chained to his wrist.
Philippa listened shamelessly at the
keyhole while they discussed the prob-
lems they had come up against and
burst into the room and demanded to be
recruited as well.

  "Do you realise that I can complete
The Times crossword puzzle in half the
time my husband can?"

  The anonymous man was only thankful
that he wasn't chained to Philippa. He
drafted them both to the Admiralty
section to deal with enciphered
wireless messages to and from German
submarines.

  The German signal manual was a
four-letter code book and each message
was reciphered, the substitution table
changing daily. William taught
Philippa how to evaluate letter
frequencies and she applied her new
knowledge to modern German texts,
coming up with a frequency analysis
that was soon used by every
code-breaking department in the
Commonwealth.

Even so breaking the ciphers and
building up the master

                  182
                   
Old Low

signal book was a colossal task which
took them the best part of two years.

  "I never knew your if s and ends could
be so informative," she said admiringly
of her own work.

  When the allies invaded Europe husband
and wife could together, often break
ciphers with no more than half a dozen
lines of encoded text to go on.

  "They're an illiterate lot," grumbled
William. "They don't encipher their
umlauts. They deserve to be misunder-
stood.,'

  "How can you give an opinion when you
never dot your i's William?"

  "Because, I consider the dot is
redundant and I hope to be responsible
for removing it from the English
language."

  "Is that to be your major contribution
to the scholarship, William, if so I am
bound to ask how anyone reading the
work of most of our undergraduates'
essays would be able to tell the
difference between and I and an i."

  "A feeble argument my dear, that if it
had any conviction would demand that
you put a dot on top of an n so as to
be sure it wasn't mistaken for an h."

  "Keep working away at your theories,
William, because I intend to spend my
energy removing more than the dot and
the I from Hitler."

  In May 1945 they dined privately with
the Prime Minister and Mrs. Churchill
at Number Ten Downing Street.

  "What did the Prime Minister mean when
he said to me he could never understand
what you were up to?" asked Philippa in
the taxi to Paddington Station.

  "The same as when he said to me he
knew exactly what you were capable of,
I suppose," said William.

  When the Merton Professor of English
retired in the early nineteen-fifties
the whole University waited to see
which Doctor Hatchard would be
appointed to the chair.

"If Council invite you to take the
chair," said William,

                  183
                   
A Quiver of Arrows

putting his hand through his greying
hair, "it will be because they are
going to make me Vice-Chancellor."

  "The only way you could ever be
invited to hold a position so far
beyond your ability would be nepotism,
which would mean I was already
Vice-Chancellor."

  The General Board, after several
hours' discussion of the problem,
offered two chairs and appointed
William and Philippa full professors
on the same day.

  When the Vice-Chancellor was asked
why precedent had been broken he
replied: "Simple; if I hadn't given
them both a chair, one of them would
have been after my job."

  That night, after a celebration
dinner when they were walking home
together along the banks of the Isis
across Christ Church Meadows, in the
midst of a particularly heated
argument about the quality of the last
volume of Proust's monumental works, a
policeman, noticing the affray, ran
over to them and asked:

"Is everything all right, madam?"

  "No, it is not," William interjected,
"this woman has been attacking me for
over thirty years and to date the
police have done deplorably little to
protect me."

  In the late fifties Harold Macmillan
invited Philippa to join the board of
the IBA.

  "I suppose you'll become what's known
as a telly don," said William, "and as
the average mental age of those who
watch the box is seven you should feel
quite at home."

  "Agreed," said Philippa. "Twenty
years of living with you has made me
fully qualified to deal with infants."

  The chairman of the BBC wrote to
William a few weeks later inviting him
to join the Board of Governors.

  "Are you to replace 'Hancock's Half
Hour' or 'Dick Barton, Special
Agent'?" Philippa inquired.

"I am to give a series of twelve
lectures."

"On what subject, pray?"

"Genius."

  Philippa flicked through the Radio
Times. "I see that 'Genius' is to be
viewed at two o'clock on a Sunday
morning,

                  184
                   
Old Lone

which is understandable, as it's when
you are at your most brilliant."

  When William was awarded an honorary
doctorate at Princeton, Philippa
attended the ceremony and sat proudly in
the front row.

  "I tried to secure a place at the
back," she explained, "but it was filled
with sleeping students who had obviously
never heard of you."

  "If that's the case, Philippa, I am
only surprised you didn't mistake them
for one of your tutorial lectures."

  As the years passed many anecdotes,
only some of which were apocryphal,
passed into the Oxford fabric. Everyone
in the English school knew the stories
about the "fighting Hatchards". How they
spent their first night together. How
they jointly won the Charles Oldham. How
Phil would complete The Times crossword
before Bill had finished shaving. How
they were both appointed to professorial
chairs on the same day, and worked
longer hours than any of their
contemporaries as if they still had
something to prove, if only to each
other. It seemed almost required by the
laws of symmetry that they should always
be judged equals. Until it was announced
in the New Year's Honours that Philippa
had been made a Dame of the British
Empire.

  "At least our dear Queen has worked
out which one of us is truly worthy of
recognition," she said over the college
dessert.

  "Our dear Queen," said William,
selecting the Madeira, "knows only too
well how little competition there is in
the women's colleges: sometimes one must
encourage weaker candidates in the hope
that it might inspire some real talent
lower down."

  After that, whenever they attended a
public function together, Philippa would
have the M.C. announce them as Professor
William and Dame Philippa Hatchard. She
looked forward to many happy years of
starting every official occasion one up
on her husband, but her triumph lasted
for only

                  185
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

six months as William received a
knighthood in the Queen's Birthday
Honours. Philippa feigned surprise at
the dear Queen's uncharacteristic lapse
of judgment and forthwith insisted on
their being introduced in public as Sir
William and Dame Philippa Hatchard.

  "Understandable," said William. "The
Queen had to make you a Dame first in
order that no one should mistake you
for a lady. When I married you,
Philippa, you were a young fellow, and
now I find I'm living with an old
Dame."

  "It's no wonder," said Philippa,
"that your poor pupils can't make up
their minds whether you're homosexual
or you simply have a mother fixation.
Be thankful that I did not accept
Girton's invitation: then you would
have been rr.arried to a mistress."

"I always have been, you silly woman."

  As the years passed, they never let
up their pretended belief in the
other's mental feebleness. Philippa's
books, "works of considerable
distinction" she insisted, were pub-
lished by Oxford University Press while
William's "works of monumental
significance" he declared, were printed
at the presses of Cambridge University.

  The tally of newly appointed
professors of English they had taught
as undergraduates soon reached double
figures.

  "If you will count polytechnics, I
shall have to throw in Maguire's
readership in Kenya," said William.

  "You did not teach the Professor of
English at Nairobi," said Philippa. "I
did. You taught the Head of State,
which may well account for why the
University is so highly thought of
while the country is in such disarray."

  In the early sixties they conducted a
battle of letters in the T.L.S. on the
works of Philip Sidney without ever
discussing the subject in each other's
presence. In the end the editor said
the correspondence must stop and
adjudicated a draw.

They both declared him an idiot.

   If there was one act that annoyed
William in old age about
                  186
                   
Old for

Philippa, it was her continued
determination each morning to complete
The Times crossword before he arrived
at the breakfast table. For a time,
William ordered two copies of the paper
until Philippa filled them both in
while explaining to him it was a waste
of money.

  One particular morning in June at the
end of their final academic year before
retirement, William came down to
breakfast to find only one space in the
crossword left for him to complete. He
studied the clue: "Skelton reported
that this landed in the soup." He
immediately filled in the eight little
boxes.

  Philippa looked over his shoulder.
"There's no such word, you arrogant
man," she said firmly. "You made it up
to annoy me." She placed in front of
him a very hard boiled egg.

  "Of course there is, you silly woman;
look whym-wham up in the dictionary."

  Philippa checked in the Oxford Shorter
among the cookery books in the kitchen,
and trumpeted her delight that it was
nowhere to be found.

  "My dear Dame Philippa," said William,
as if he were addressing a particularly
stupid pupil, "you surely cannot
imagine because you are old and your
hair has become very white that you are
a sage. You must understand that the
Shorter Oxford Dictionary was cobbled
together for simpletons whose command
of the English language stretches to no
more than one hundred thousand words.
When I go to college this morning I
shall confirm the existence of the word
in the O.E.D. on my desk. Need I remind
you that the O.E.D. is a serious work
which, with over five hundred thousand
words, was designed for scholars like
myself?"

  "Rubbish," said Philippa. "When I am
proved right, you will repeat this
story word for word, including your
offensive non-word, at Somerville's
Gaudy Feast."

  "And you, my dear, will read the
Collected Works of John Skelton and eat
humble pie as your first course."

"We'll ask old Onions along to
adjudicate."

"Agreed."

                  187
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

"Agreed."

  With that, Sir William picked up his
paper, kissed his wife on the cheek
and said with an exaggerated sigh,
"It's at times like this that I wished
I'd lost the Charles Oldham."

  "You did, my dear. It was in the days
when it wasn't fashionable to admit a
woman had won anything."

"You won me."

  "Yes, you arrogant man, but I was led
to believe you were one of those
prizes one could return at the end of
the year. And now I find I shall have
to keep you, even in retirement."

  "Let us leave it to the Oxford
English Dictionary, my dear, to decide
the issue the Charles Oldham examiners
were unable to determine," and with
that he departed for his college.

  "There's no such word," Philippa
muttered as he closed the front door.

  Heart attacks are known to be rarer
among women than men. When Dame
Philippa suffered hers in the kitchen
that morning she collapsed on the
floor calling hoarsely for William,
but he was already out of earshot. It
was the cleaning woman who found Dame
Philippa on the kitchen floor and ran
to fetch someone in authority. The
Bursar's first reaction was that she
was probably pretending that Sir
William had hit her with a frying pan
but nevertheless she hurried over to
the Hatchards' house in Little Jericho
just in case. The Bursar checked Dame
Philippa's pulse and called for the
college doctor and then the Principal.
Both arrived within minutes.

  The Principal and the Bursar stood
waiting by the side of their
illustrious academic colleague but
they already knew what the doctor was
going to say.

  "She's dead," he confirmed. "It must
have been very sudden and with the
minimum of pain." He checked his
watch; the time was nine-forty-seven.
He covered his patient with a blanket
and called for an ambulance. He had
taken care of Dame Philippa for over
thirty years and he had told

                  188
                   
Old Love

her so often to slow down that he might
as well have made a gramophone record of
it for all the notice she took.

  "Who will tell Sir William?" asked the
Principal. The three of them looked at
each other.

"I will," said the doctor.

  It's a short walk from Little Jericho
to Radcliffe Square. It was a long walk
from Little Jericho to Radcliffe Square
for the doctor that day. He never
relished telling anyone of the death of
a spouse but this one was going to be
the unhappiest of his career.

  When he knocked on the professor's
door, Sir William bade him enter. The
great man was sitting at his desk poring
over the Oxford Dictionary, humming to
himself.

  "I told her, but she wouldn't listen,
the silly woman," he was saying to
himself and then he turned and saw the
doctor standing silently in the doorway.
"Doctor, you must be my guest at
Somerville's Gaudy next Thursday week
where Dame Philippa will be eating
humble pie. It will be nothing less than
game, set, match and championship for
me. A vindication of thirty years'
scholarship."

  The doctor did not smile, nor did he
stir. Sir William walked over to him and
gazed at his old friend intently. No
words were necessary. The doctor said
only, "I'm more sorry than I am able to
express," and he left Sir William to his
private grief.

  Sir William's colleagues all knew
within the hour. College lunch that day
was spent in a silence broken only by
the Senior Tutor inquiring of the Master
if some food should be taken up to the
Merton professor.

"I think not," said the Master. Nothing
more was said.

  Professors, Fellows and students alike
crossed the front quadrangle in silence
and when they gathered for dinner that
evening still no one felt like
conversation. At the end of the meal the
Senior Tutor suggested once again that
something should be taken up to Sir
William. This time the Master nodded his
agreement and a light meal was prepared
by the college chef. The Master and the
Senior Tutor

                  189
                   
A Quiver Full of Arrows

climbed the worn stone steps to Sir
William's room and while one held the
tray the other gently knocked on the
door. There was no reply, so the
Master, used to William's ways, pushed
the door ajar and looked in.

  The old man lay motionless on the
wooden floor in a pool of blood, a
small pistol by his side. The two men
walked in and stared down. In his
right hand, William was holding the
Collected Works of John Skelton. The
book was opened at The Tunnyngof
Elynour Rummyug, and the word "whym-
wham" was underlined.

a 1529, Skelton, E. Rummyag 75

After the Sarasyns gyse, Woth a whym
wham, Knyt with a trym tram, Upon
her brayne pan.

  Sir William, in his neat hand, had
written a note in the margin: "Forgive
me, but I had to let her know."

  "Know what, I wonder?" said the
Master softly to himself as he
attempted to remove the book from Sir
William's hand, but the fingers were
already stiffand cold around it.

Legend has it that they were never
apart for more than a few hours.

If you have enjoyed A QUIVER FULL OF
ARROWS you will want to readJeffrey
Archer's books. Here, to whet your
appetite, are the opening pages of
FIRST AMONG EQUALS.

190

 FLIT
~$
JEFFREY ARCHER

~ T~omGU~
WEDNESDAY 10APRIL 1931

If Charles Gurney Scymourhad been born
nine minutes earlier he would have
become an earl, inherited a castle in
Scotland, ~,ooo acres in Somerset, and
a thriving merchant bank in the City
of London.

  It was to be several years before
young Charles worked out the full
significance of coming second in
life's first race.

  His twin brother, Rupert, only just
came through the ordeal, and in the
years that followed contracted not
only the usual childhood illnesses but
managed to add scarlet fever,
diphtheria and meningitis, causing his
mother, Lady Seymour, to fear for his
survival.

  Charles, on the other hand, was a
survivor, and had inherited enough
Seymour ambition for both his brother
and himself. Only a few years passed
before those who came into contact
with the brothers for the first time
mistakenly assumed Charles was the
heir to the earldom.

  As the years passed Charles's father
tried desperately to discover
something at which Rupert might
triumph over his brother- and failed.
When they were eight the two boys were
sent away to Summerfields where
generations of Seymours had been
prepared for the rigours of Eton.
During his first month at the Oxford
prep school Charles was voted form
captain and no one hindered his
advance en route to becoming head boy at
the age of twelve, by which time
Rupert was looked upon as Seymour
Minor. Both boys proceeded to Eton,
where in their first half Charles beat

Rupert at every subject in the
classroom, outrowed him on the river
and nearly killed him in the boxing
ring.

  When in ~947 their grandfather, the
thirteenth Earl of Bridgwater, finally
expired, the sixteen-year-old Rupert
became Viscount Seymour while Charles
inherited a meaningless prefix.

  The Hon Charles Seymour felt angry
every time he heard his brother
deferentially addressed by strangers
as 'My Lord'.

  At Eton, Charles continued to excel
and ended his schooldays as President
of Pop before being offered a place at
Christ Church, Oxford, to read
History. Rupert covered the same years
without over-burdening the examiners,
internal or external. At the age of
eighteen the young viscount returned
to the family estate in Somerset to
pass the rest of his days as a
landowner. No one destined to inherit
~c,ooo acres could be described as a
farmer.

  At Oxford, Charles, free of Rupert's
shadow, progressed with the air of a
man who found the university something
of an anticlimax. He would spend his
weekdays reading the history of his
relations and the weekends at house
parties or riding to hounds. As no one
had suggested for one moment that
Rupert should enter the world of high
finance, it was assumed once Charles
had left Oxford that he would succeed
his father at Seymour's Bank: first as
a director and then in time as its
chairman: although it would be Rupert
who would eventually inherit the
family shareholding.

  This 'best laid plan' changed,
however, when one evening the Hon
Charles Seymour was dragged off to the
Oxford Union by a nubile undergraduate
from Somerville, who demanded he
should listen to the Eights Week
motion, 'I would rather be a commoner
than a lord'. The President of the
Union had achieved the unique coup of
having the motion proposed by the
Prime Minister, Sir Winston Churchill.

  Charles sat at the back of a hall
packed with eager students mesmerised
by the elder statesman's performance.
Never once did he take his eyes off
the great war leader during his witty
and powerful speech, although what
kept flashing

across his mind was the realisation
that, but for an accident of birth,
Churchill would have been the ninth
Duke of Marlborough. Here was a man
who had dominated the world stage for
three decades and then turned down
every hereditary honour a grateful
nation could offer, including the
title of Duke of London.

  From that moment Charles never
allowed himself to be referred to as
'the Hon' again: his ultimate ambition
was now above mere titles.

Another undergraduate who listened to
Churchill that night was also
considering his future. But he did not
view proceedings crammed between his
fellow students at the back of the
crowded hall. The tall young man
dressed in white tie and tails sat
alone in a large chair on a raised
platform, for such was his right as
President of the Oxford Union.

  Although Simon Kerslake was the
first-born, he had otherwise few of
Charles Seymour's advantages. The only
son of a family solicitor, he had come
to appreciate how much his father had
denied himself to ensure that his son
should remain at the local public
school. Simon's father had died during
his son's last year at Lancing
College, leaving his widow a small
annuity and a magnificent MacKinley
grandfather clock. Simon's mother sold
the clock a week after the funeral in
order that her son could complete his
final year with all the 'extras' the
other boys took for granted. She also
hoped that it would give Simon a
better chance of going on to
university.

  From the first day he could walk
Simon had always wanted to outdistance
his rivals. The Americans would have
described him as 'an achiever', while
many of his contemporaries
thoughtoPhim as pushy, oreven
arrogant, according to their aptitude
forjealousy. During his last term at
Lancing Simon was passed over for head
of school and he still found himself
unablt to forgive the headmaster his
lack offoresight. Later that year,
some weeks after he had completed his
S-levels and been interviewed by
Magdalen, a circular letter informed
him that he would not be offered a
place at Oxford; it was a decision
Simon was unwilling to accept.

  In the same mail Durham University
offered him a scholarship, which he
rejected by return of post. "Future
Prime Ministers aren't educated at
Durham," he informed his mother.

  "How about Cambridge?" she Inquired,
to wipe the dishes.

"No political tradition," replied
Simon.

  "But if there is no chance of being
offered a place at Oxford, surely-?"

  "That's not what I said, Mother,"
replied the young man. "I shall be an
undergraduate at Oxford by the first
day of term. "

  After eighteen years of forty-yard
goals Mrs Kerslake had learned to stop
asking her son, "How will you manage
that?"

Some fourteen days before the start of
the Michaelmas Term at Oxford Simon
booked himselfinto a small guest
housojust offthe If fley Road. On a
trestle table in the corner of
lodgings he intended to make permanent
he wrote out a list of all the
colleges, then divided them into five
columns, planning to visit three each
morning and three each afternoon until
his question had been answered
positively by a resident Tutor for
Admissions: "Have you accepted any
freshmen for this year who are now
unable to take up their places?"

  It was on the fourth afternoon, just
as doubt was beginning to set in and
Simon was wondering if after all he
would have to travel to Cambridge the
following week, that he received the
first affirmative reply.

  The Tutor for Admissions at
Worcester College removed the glasses
from the end of his nose and stared at
the tall young man with a mop of dark
hair falling over his forehead. Alan
Brown was the twenty-second don
Kerslake had visited in four days.

  "Yes," he replied. "It so happens
that a young man from Nottingham High
School, who had been offered a place
here, was tragically killed in a motor
cycle accident last month."

  "What course- what subject was he
going to read?" Simon's words were
unusually faltering. He prayed it
wasn't Chemistry, Anthropology or
Classics. Alan Brown flicked

through a rotary index on his desk,
obviously enjoying the little
cross-examination. He peered at the
card in front of him. "History," he
announced.

  Simon's heartbeat reached 120. ''I just
missed a place at Magdalen to read
Politics, Philosophy and Economics,"
he said. "Would you consider me for
the vacancy?"

  The older man was unable to hide a
smile. He had never in twenty-four
years come across such a request.

  " Full name?" he said, replacing his
glasses as if the serious business of
the meeting had now begun.

"SimonJohn Kerslake."

  Dr Brown picked up the telephone by
his side and dialled a number.
"Niger?" he said. "It's Alan Brown
here. Did you ever consider offering a
man called Kerslake a place at
Magdalen?"

  Mrs Kerslake was not surprised when
her son went on to be President of the
Oxford Union. After all, she teased,
wasn't it just another stepping stone
on the path to Prime Minister -
Gladstone, Asquith . . . Kerslake?

Ray Gould was born in a tiny,
windowless room above his father's
butcher's shop in Leeds. For the first
nine years of his life he shared that
room with his ailing grandmother until
she died at the age of sixty-one.

  Ray's close proximity to the old
woman who had lost her husband in the
Great War at first appeared romantic
to him. He would listen enraptured as
she told him stories of her hero
husband in his smart khaki uniform - a
uniform now folded neatly in her
bottom drawer, but still displayed in
the fading sepia photograph at the
side of her bed. Soon, however, his
grandmother's stories filled Ray with
sadness, as he became aware that she
had been a widow for nearly thirty
years. Finally she seemed a tragic
figure as he realised how little she
had experienced of the world beyond
that cramped room in which she was
surrounded by all her possessions and
a yellowed envelope containing 500
irredeemable war bonds.

  There had been no purpose in Ray's
grandmother making a will, for all he
inherited was the room. Overnight it
became

his study - full of ever-changing
library and school books, the former
often returned late, using up Ray's
meagre pocket money in fines. But as
each school report was brought home it
became increasingly apparent to Ray's
father that he would not be extending
the sign above the butcher's shop to
proclaim 'Gould and Son'.

  Shortly after his eleventh birthday
Ray won the top scholarship to
RoundhaySchool. Wearing his first pair
of long trousers- turned up several
inches by his motherand hornrimmed
spectacles that didn't quite fit, he
set offfor the opening day at his new
school. Ray's mother hoped there were
other boys as thin and spotty as her
son, and that his wavy red hair would
not cause him to be continually
teased.

  By the end of his first term Ray was
surprised to find he was far ahead of
his classmates, so far in fact that
the headmaster considered it prudent
to put him up a form - "to stretch the
lad a little", as he explained to
Ray's parents.

  By the end of that year, one spent
mainly in the classroom, Ray managed
to come third in the form, and top in
Latin and English. Only when it came
to selecting teams for any sport did
Ray find he came bottom in anything.
However brilliant his mind might have
been, it never seemed to co-ordinate
with his body. His single greatest
academic achievement during the year,
though, was to be the youngest winner
of the prize essay competition in the
school's history.

  Each year the winner of the essay was
required to read his entry to the
assembled pupils and parents on Speech
Day. Even before he handed in his
entry Ray rehearsed his efforts out
loud several times in the privacy of
his study-bedroom, fearing he would
not be properly prepared if he waited
until the winner was announced.

  Ray's form master had told all his
pupils that the subject of the essay
could be of their own choosing, but
that they should try to recall some
experience that had been unique to
them. Thirty-seven entries arrived on
his desk by nine o'clock on the
closing date six weeks later. After
reading Ray's account of his
grandmother's life in the little room
above the butcher's shop the form
master had no inclination to pick up
another script. When he had dutifully
struggled through the

remainder he did not hesitate in
recommending Gould's essay for the
prize. The only reservation, he
admitted to its author, was the choice
of title. Ray thanked him for the
advice but the title remained intact.

  On the morning of Speech Day the
school hall was packed with 700 pupils
and their parents. After the
headmaster had delivered his speech
and the applause had died down, he
announced, "I shall now call upon the
winner of the prize essay competition
to deliver his entry: Ray Gould.''

  Ray left his place in the hall and
marched confidently up on to the
stage. He stared down at the mono
expectant faces but showed no sign of
apprehension, partly because he found
it difficult to see beyond the third
row. When he announced the title of
his essay some of the younger children
began to snigger, causing Ray to
stumble through his first few lines.
But by the time he had reached the
last page the packed hall was still,
and after he had completed the final
paragraph he received the first
standing ovation of his career.

  Twelve-year-old Ray Gould left the
stage to rejoin his parents in the
body of the hall. His mother's head
was bowed but he could still see tears
trickling down her cheeks. His father
was trying not to look too proud. Even
when Ray was seated the applause
continued, so he too lowered his head
to stare at the title of his
prize-winning essay: 'The first
changes I will make when I become
Prime Minister'.

Andrew Fraser attended his first
political meeting in a pram. True, he
was left in the corridor while his
parents sat on the stage inside
another draughty hall, but he quickly
learned that applause signalled his
mother would soon be returning. What
Andrew did not know was that his
father, who had made his name as
Scotland's finest serum-half since the
Great War, had delivered yet another
speech to the citizens of Edinburgh
Carlton in his efforts to capture a
marginal seat on the City Council. At
that time few believed Duncan Fraser
was more than a rugby hero, and
consequently he failed to win the seat
for the Conservatives, if only by a
few hundred votes. Three years later
Andrew, a sturdy four-year-old, was
allowed to sit at the back of several
sparsely filled halls as

once again he and his mother trailed
round the city to support their
candidate. This time Duncan Fraser's
speeches were almost as impressive as
his long pass, and he won his place on
the City Council by 207 votes.

  Hard work and consistent results on
behalf of his constituents ensured
that the marginal seat remained in the
hands of Councillor Fraser for the
next nine years. By the age of
thirteen, Andrew, a stocky wee lad
with straight black hair and a grin
that no one seemed to be able to
remove from his face, had learned
enough about local politics to help
his father organise a fifth campaign,
by which time neither party considered
Edinburgh Carlton a marginal seat.

  At the Edinburgh Academy it came as
no surprise to his fellow pupils that
Andrew was chosen to captain the
school debating society; however, they
were impressed when under his
leadership the team went on to win the
Scottish Schools debating trophy.
Although Andrew was destined to be no
taller than five-foot-nine it was also
widely accepted that he was the most
complete serum-half the Academy had
produced since his father had
captained the school side in 19~9.

  On matriculating from the Academy
Andrew took up a place at Edinburgh
University to read Politics, and by
his third year he had been elected
President of the Union and captain of
rugby.

  When Duncan Fraser became Lord
Provost of Edinburgh he made one of
his rare visits to London, to receive
a knighthood from the Queen. Andrew
had just completed his final exams
and, along with his mother, attended
the investiture at Buckingham Palace.
After the ceremony Sir Duncan
travelled on to the House of Commons
to fulfil an engagement with his local
member, Ainslie Munro. Over lunch
Munro informed Sir Duncan that he had
contested the Edinburgh Carlton seat
for the last time, so they had better
start looking for a new candidate. Sir
Duncan's eyes lit up as he savoured
the thought of his son succeeding
Munro as his Member of Parliament.

  After Andrew had been awarded an
honours degree at Edinburgh, he
remained at the university to complete
a thesis entitled 'The history of the
Conservative party in

Scotland'. He planned to wait for his
father to complete the statutory three
years as Lord Provost before he
informed him of the most significant
outcome the research for his doctorate
had produced. But when Ainslie Munro
announced officially that he would not
be contesting the next election Andrew
knew he could no longer hide his true
feelings if he wanted to be considered
for the seat.

  'Like father, like son,' read the
headline in the centre-page of the
Edinburgh Evening News, who considered
that Andrew Fraser was the obvious
candidate if the Conservatives hoped
to hold on to the marginal seat. Sir
Duncan, fearing the local burghers
would consider Andrew too young,
reminded them at the first selection
meeting that eight Scots had been
Prime Ministers and every one had been
in the House before the age of thirty.
He was pleased to find members nodding
their agreement. When Sir Duncan
returned home that night he phoned his
son and suggested that they should
have lunch at the New Club the
following day to discuss a plan of
campaign.

  "Think of it," said Sir Duncan, after
he had ordered a second whisky.
"Father and son representing the same
constituency. It will be a great day
for the Edinburgh Conservative party."

  "Not to mention the Labour party,"
said Andrew, looking his father in the
eye.

  "I am not sure I take your meaning,"
said the Lord Provost.

  "Precisely that, Father. I do not
intend to contest the seat as a
Conservative. I hope to be selected as
the Labour candidate - if they'll
adopt me."

  Sir Duncan looked disbelieving. "But
you've been a Conservative all your
life," he declared, his voice rising
with every word.

  "No, Father," replied Andrew quietly.
"It's you who have been a Conservative
all my life."

          C~T~8
THURSDAY 10 DECEMBER 1964

Mr Speaker rose and surveyed the
Commons. He tugged at his long black
silk gown, then nervously tweaked the
fullbottomed wig that covered his
balding head. The House had almost got
out of control during a particularly
rowdy session of Prime Minister's
questions, and he was delighted to see
the clock reach three-thirty. Time to
pass on to the next business of the
day.

  He stood shifting from foot to foot
waiting for the soo-odd members
present to settle down before he
intoned solemnly, "Members desiring to
take the oath." The packed assembly
switched its gaze from the Speaker to
the far end of the Chamber, like a
crowd watching a tennis match. There,
standing at the bar of the Commons,
was the victor of the first
by-election since the Labour party had
taken office some two months before.

  The new member, flanked by his
proposer and seconder, took four paces
forward. Like well-drilled guardsmen,
they stopped and bowed. l he stranger
stood at six-foot-four. He looked like
a man born with the Tory party in
mind, his patrician head set on an
aristocratic frame, a mane of fair
hair combed meticulously into place.
Dressed in a dark grey,
double-breasted suit and wearing a
Guards' tie of maroon and blue, he
advanced once again towards the long
table that stood in front of the
Speaker's chair between the two front
benches which faced each other a mere
sword's length apart.

  Leaving his sponsors in his wake, he
passed down the Government side,
stepping over the legs of the Prime

Minister and Foreign Secretary before
being handed the oath by the Clerk of
the House.

  He held the little card in his right
hand and pronounced the words as
firmly as if they had been his
marriage vows.

  "I, Charles Seymour, do swear that I
will be faithful, and bear true
allegiance to Her Majesty Queen
Elizabeth, her heirs and successors
according to law, so help me God."

  "Hear, hear," rose from his
colleagues on the benches opposite as
the new MP leaned over to subscribe
the Test Roll, a parchment folded into
book-shape. Charles was introduced to
the Speaker by the Clerk. The new
member then proceeded towards the
chair where he stopped and bowed.

  "Welcome to the House, Mr Seymour,"
said the Speaker, shaking his hand. "I
hope you will serve this place for
many years to come."

  "Thank you, Mr Speaker," said
Charles, and bowed for a final time
before continuing on behind the
Speaker's chair. He had carried out
the little ceremony exactly as the
Tory Chief Whip had rehearsed it with
him in the long corridor outside his
office.

  Waiting for him behind the Speaker's
chair and out of sight of the other
members was the leader of the
Opposition, Sir Alec Douglas-Home, who
also shook him warmly by the hand.

  "Congratulations on your splendid
victory, Charles. I know you have a
great deal to offer to our party and
indeed your country."

  "Thank you," replied the new MP, who
after waiting for Sir Alec to return
to take his place on the Opposition
front bench made his way up the steps
of the side gangway to find a place in
the back row of the long green
benches.

  For the next two hours Charles
Seymour followed the proceedings of
the House with a mixture of awe and
excitement. For the first time in his
life he had found something that
wasn't his by right or by effortless
conquest. Glancing up at the
Strangers' Gallery he saw his wife
Fiona, his father the fourteenth Earl
of Bridgwater and his brother, the
Viscount Seymour, peering down at him
with pride. Charles settled

back on the first rung of the ladder.
He smiled to himself: only six weeks
ago he had feared it would be many
more years before he could hope to
take a seat in the House of Commons.

  At the general election a mere two
months before Charles had contested a
South Wales mining seat with an
impregnable Labour majority. "Good for
the experience, not to mention the
soul," the vice-chairman in charge of
candidates at Conservative Central
Office had assured him. He had proved
to be right on both counts, for
Charles had relished the contest and
brought the Labour majority down from
,300 to ~O,IOO. His wife had aptly
described it as a 'dent', but it had
turned out to be enough of a dent for
the party to put Charles's name
forward for the Sussex Downs seat when
Sir Eric KQOPS had died of a heart
attack only a few days after
Parliament had assembled. Six weeks
later Charles Seymour sat in the
Commons with a ~,o,ooo majority of his
own.

  Charles listened to one more speech
before leaving the Chamber. He stood
alone in the Members' Lobby not quite
certain where to begin. Another young
member strode purposefully towards
him. "Allow me to introduce myself,"
the stranger said, sounding to Charles
every bit like a fellow Conservative.
"My name is Andrew Fraser. I'm the
Labour member for Edinburgh Carlton
and I was hoping you hadn't yet found
yourself a pair." Charles admitted
that so far he hadn't found much more
than the Chamber. The Tory Chief Whip
had already explained to him that most
members paired with someone from the
opposite party for voting purposes,
and that it would be wise for him to
select someone of his own age. When
there was a debate on less crucial
issues a two-line whip came into
operation, pairing made it possible
for members to miss the vote and
return home to their wife and family
before midnight. However, no member
was allowed to miss the vote when
there was a three-line whip.

  "I'd be delighted to pair with you,"
continued Charles. "Am I expected to
do anything of ficial?"

  "No," said Andrew, looking up at him.
"I'll just drop you a line confirming
the arrangement. If you'd be kind
enough to reply letting me have all
the phone numbers where you can

be contacted we'll just take it from
there. Any time you need to miss a
vote just let me know."

  "Sounds a sensible arrangement to
me," said Charles as a rotund figure
wearing a light grey three-piece suit,
blue shirt and a pink-spotted bow tie
trundled over towards them.

  "Welcome to the club, Charles," said
Alec Pimkin. "Care to join me for a
drink in the smoking room and I'll
brief you on how this bloody place
works."

  "Thank you," said Charles, relieved
to see someone he knew. Andrew smiled
when he heard Pimkin add, "It's just
like being back at school, old chum,"
as the two Tories retreated in the
direction of the smoking room. Andrew
suspected that it wouldn't be long
before Charles Seymour was showing his
'old school chum'just how the bloody
place really worked.

  Andrew also left the Members' Lobby
but not in search of a drink. He had
to attend a meeting of the
Parliamentary Labour party at which
the following week's business was due
to be discussed. He hurried away.

  Andrew had been duly selected as the
Labour candidate for Edinburgh Carlton
and had gone on to capture the seat
from the Conservatives by a majority
of 3,419 votes. Sir Duncan, having
completed his term as Lord Provost,
continued to represent the same seat
on the City Council. In six weeks
Andrew - the baby of the House - had
quickly made a name for himself and
many of the older members found it
hard to believe that it was his first
Parliament.

  When Andrew arrived at the party
meeting on the second floor of the
Commons he found an empty seat near
the back of the large committee room
and settled down to listen to the
Government Chief Whip go over the
business for the following week. Once
again it seemed to consist of nothing
but three-line whips. He glanced down
at the piece of paper in front of him.
The debates scheduled for Tuesday,
Wednesday and Thursday all had three
thick lines drawn under them: only
Monday and Friday had two-liners which
at last after his agreement with
Charles Seymour he could arrange to
miss. The Labour party might have
returned to power after thirteen years
but, with a majority of only four and
a full

legislative programme, it was proving
almost impossible for members to get
to bed much before midnight during the
week.

  As the ChiefWhip sat down the first
person to jump to his feet was Tom
Carson, the new member for Liverpool
Dockside. He launched into a tirade of
abuse against the Government,
complaining that they were looking
more like Tories every day. The
under-the-breath remarks and coughing
that continued during his speech
showed how little support there was
for his views. Tom Carson had also
made a name for himself in a very
short time, for he had openly attacked
his own party from the first day he
had arrived.

  "Enfant terrible, " muttered the man
sitting on the right of Andrew.

  "Those aren't the words I'd use to
describe him," muttered Andrew.
"Altogether too many letters." The man
with wavy red hair smiled as they
listened to Carson ranting on.

  If Raymond Gould had acquired any
reputation during those first six
weeks it was as one of the party's
intellectuals, and for that reason
older members were immediately suspi-
cious of him, although few doubted he
would be among the first from the new
intake to be promoted to the front
bench. Not many of them had really got
to know Raymond as the north
countryman appeared remarkably
reserved for someone who had chosen a
career in public life. But with a
majority of over TO,OOO in his Leeds
constituency he looked destined for a
long career.

  Leeds North had chosen Raymond to be
their candidate from a field of
thirty-seven, when he showed himself
to be so much better informed than a
local trade-union of ficial whom the
press had tipped as favourite for the
seat. Yorkshire folk like people who
stay at home and Raymond had been
quick to point out to the selection
committee- in an exaggerated Yorkshire
accent- that he had been educated at
Roundhay School on the fringes of the
constituency. But what really tipped
the vote in his favour had been
Raymond's refusal of an open
scholarship to Cambridge. He had
preferred to continue his education at
Leeds University, he explained.

Raymond took a first-class honours
degree in Law at

Leeds before moving to London to
complete his studies for the bar at
Lincoln's Inn. At the end of his
two-year course Raymond joined a
fashionable London chambers to become
a much sought-after junior counsel.
From that moment he rarely mentioned
his family background to his carefully
cultivated circle of Home Counties
friends, and those comrades who
addressed him as Ray received a sharp
'Raymond' for their familiarity.

  When the last question had been
asked, the party meeting broke up, and
Raymond and Andrew made their way out
of the committee room-Andrew for his
tiny office the second floor to finish
offthe day's mail, Raymond to return
to the Chamber as he hoped to deliver
his maiden speech that day. He had
waited patiently for the right moment
to express his views to the House on
the subject of widows' pensions and
the redemption of war bonds, and the
debate in progress on the economy was
an obvious opportunity. The Speaker
had dropped Raymond a note earlier in
the day saying he expected to call him
some time that evening.

  Raymond had spent many hours in the
Chamber, carefully studying the
techniques demanded by the House and
noting how they differed from those of
the law courts. F. E. Smith had been
right in his assessment of his
colleagues when he had described the
Commons as nothing more than a noisy
courtroom with over 600 jurors and
absolutely no sign of a judge. Raymond
was dreading the ordeal of his maiden
speech; the dispassionate logic of his
arguments had always proved more
appealing to judges than tojuries.

  As he approached the Chamber an
attendant handed him a note from his
wife Joyce. She had just arrived at
the Commons and had been found a seat
in the Strangers' Gallery so that she
could be present for his speech. After
only a cursory glance Raymond
scrunched up the note, dropped it into
the nearest waste-paper basket and
hurried on towards the Chamber.

  The door was held open for him by a
Conservative member who was on his way
out.

  "Thank you," said Raymond. Simon
Kerslake smiled back, trying in vain
to recall the man's name. Once Simon

was in the Members' Lobby he checked
the message board to see if the light
under his name was lit up. It wasn't,
so he continued on through the swing
doors to the right of the lobby on his
way down past the cloisters to the
Members' Car Park. Once he had found
his car he headed offinthe direction
of St Mary's, Paddington, to pick up
his wife. They had seen little of each
other during Simon's first six weeks
in Parliament which made the thought
of tonight even more enjoyable. Simon
couldn't see any easing of the
pressure until there was another
general election and one party had
gained a sensible working majority.
But what he feared mosthaving won his
seat by the slimmest of margins - was
that such a working majority would not
include him and he might end up with
one of the shortest political careers
on record. After such a prolonged
stretch of Tory rule the new Labour
Government was looking fresh,
idealistic and certain to increase
their numbers whenever the Prime
Minister chose to go to the country.

  Once Simon had reached Hyde Park
Corner he headed on up towards Marble
Arch thinking back over how he had
become a member. On leaving Oxford he
had completed two years' national
service with the Sussex Yeomanry,
finishing his military days as a
second lieutenant. After a short
holiday he had joined the BBC as a
general trainee. He spent five years
moving from drama, to sport, to
current affairs before being appointed
a producer on 'Panorama'. During those
early days in London he had rented a
small flat in Earl's Court and
continued his interest in politics by
becoming a member of the Tory Bow
Group. When he became the Group's
secretary he helped to organise meet-
ings, and had then progressed to
writing pamphlets and speaking at
weekend conferences before being
invited to work at Central Office as
personal assistant to the chairman
during the T959 election campaign.

  Two years later Simon met Elizabeth
Drummond when 'Panorama' carried out
an investigation into the National
Health Service and she had been
invited to be a participant. Over
drinks before the programme Elizabeth
made it perfectly clear to Simon that
she distrusted media men and

detested politicians. They were
married a year later. Elizabeth had
since given birth to two sons, and
with only a small break on each
occasion she had continued her career
as a doctor.

  Simon had left the BBC somewhat
abruptly when, in the summer of 1964,
he had been offered the chance to
defend the marginal constituency of
Coventry Central. He held on to the
seat at the general election by a
majority of gig.

  Simon drove up to the gates of St
Mary's and checked his watch. He was
a few minutes early. He pushed back
the mop of brown hair from his
forehead and thought about the evening
ahead. He was taking Elizabeth out to
celebrate their fourth wedding
anniversary, and had prepared one or
two surprises for her. Dinner at Mario
& Franco, followed by dancing at the
Establishment Club, and then home
together for the first time in weeks.

"Um," he said, savouring the thought.

  "Hi, stranger," said the lady who
jumped in beside him and gave him a
kiss. Simon stared at the woman with
a perfect smile and long fair hair
that turned up at the shoulder. He had
stared at her when she had first
arrived at the 'Panorama' studio that
night nearly five years before and he
had hardly stopped staring since.

  He switched on the ignition. "Want
to hear some good news?" he asked, and
answered his own question before she
could reply. "I'm paired for tonight.
That means dinner at Mario & Franco,
dancing at the Establishment, home and
. . .'

  "Do you want to hear the bad news?"
asked Elizabeth, also not waiting for
a reply. "There's a shortage of staff
because of the flu epidemic. I have to
be back on duty by ten o'clock."

  Simon switched off the ignition.
"Well, which would you prefer?" he
asked. "Dinner, dancing or straight
home?"

  Elizabeth laughed. "We've got three
hours," she said. "So we might even
find time for dinner."