Heads You Win

When Ted Heath sat down at the end of the debate, Sasha was no nearer to deciding which party he felt more in sympathy with. The Prime Minister’s speech had been competent and workmanlike, but lacked passion, even though he was speaking on a subject he felt passionately about. Despite the recent success of his campaign to secure Britain’s membership in the Common Market, some people were unable to stifle the occasional yawn, including one or two of his own supporters.

Michael Foot, who opposed the motion on behalf of the Labour Party, was in a different class altogether. His brilliant oratory mesmerized the undergraduates, although he clearly didn’t have the same detailed knowledge of the subject as the proposer of the motion.

Sasha, like Heath, believed in a stronger Europe as a counterforce to the communist bloc, so he ignored Ben’s advice and voted for the motion, not the man.

“I thought Heath was brilliant,” said Ben as they left the building following the post-debate dinner.

“No, you didn’t,” said Sasha. “He may have known the subject backward, but Foot was by far the more persuasive of the two.”

“But who would you rather have running the country?” demanded Ben. “A brilliant orator or a—”

“A grocer?” said Sasha. “The jury’s still out, so I’ll stand as an independent.”

“Then we’ve got a busy weekend ahead of us.”

“Doing what?”

“Delivering your manifesto to every college, putting up posters on all the noticeboards, and when no one’s looking, removing your rivals’.”

“You can forget that, Ben. As you well know, it’s against Union rules to take down or deface your opponents’ posters. If you were stupid enough to do that, I could be disqualified. And I wouldn’t put it past Fiona to produce a photograph of you caught in the act, because nothing would give her greater pleasure than to see me fail a second time.”

“Then we’ll have to be satisfied with putting your posters on top of your opponents’.”

“Ben, you’re not listening, and what’s worse, I won’t be around to keep an eye on you.”

“Why not?”

“Charlie and I are spending the weekend with her parents to celebrate our engagement, and my mother will be meeting them for the first time.”

“Where’s this historic meeting taking place?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I’ve only experienced your mother’s cooking once, and I can’t wait to be invited to sample it a second time.”

“You won’t have long to wait, because you’re going to be best man at our wedding.”

Sasha enjoyed the rare experience of his closest friend being lost for words.

* * *

“Call me Mike,” said Mr. Dangerfield.

“That may take a bit of getting used to, sir,” said Sasha, as his host closed the study door and ushered him to a seat by the fire.

“I’m glad to be able to have a moment alone with you, Sasha, because I need to seek your advice.”

“I hope it’s nothing to do with antiques, sir, because I’ve only recently learned how old a piece has to be before it can even be described as an antique.”

“No, it doesn’t concern an antique, but a client of mine who may be in possession of what we in the trade call a once-in-a-lifetime discovery.” Sasha was intrigued, but said nothing. “I recently had a visit from a Russian countess, who offered to sell me a family heirloom that, if it’s genuine, would set the antique world alight.” Mr. Dangerfield rose from his chair, crossed the room, and bent down in front of a large safe. He turned the dial first one way, and then the other, before he pulled open its heavy door, reached inside, and extracted a red velvet box that he placed on the table between them. “Open it, Sasha. Because I can assure you, you won’t need any knowledge of antiques to realize you’re in the presence of genius.”

Sasha tentatively flicked up the clasp and opened the box to reveal a large golden egg encrusted with diamonds and pearls. His mouth fell open, but no words followed.

“And that’s only the wrapping,” said Mr. Dangerfield. He leaned forward and split the egg open to reveal an exquisite jade palace, surrounded by a moat of blue diamonds.

“Wow,” Sasha managed.

“I agree. But is it, as the countess claims, an original Fabergé, or a brilliant copy?”