And Thereby Hangs a Tale

Mr. De Ath produced several sheets of thick parchment. He turned them over until he had reached the last page of the contract, where his name was written in what looked a lot like blood. The chairman didn’t bother to read the small print—he usually left that to his team of lawyers and in-house advisors, none of whom was available on this occasion.

He signed the document with a flourish and handed the pen to Mr. De Ath, who topped and tailed it on behalf of a lower authority.

“What happens now?” asked the chairman.

“You can get dressed,” said the doctor.

The chairman put on his shirt as the doctor examined the X-rays. “For the moment the cancer seems to be in remission,” he said. “So, with a bit of luck, you could live for another five, even ten years.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard in months,” said the chairman. “When do you think you’ll need to see me again?”

“I think it would be wise for you to continue with your usual six-monthly check-ups, if for no other reason than to keep your colleagues happy. I’ll write up my report and have it biked over to your office later today, and I shall make it clear that I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t continue as chairman for a couple more years.”

“Thank you, Doctor, that’s a great relief.”

“Mind you, I do think a holiday might be in order,” said the doctor as he accompanied his patient to the door.

“I certainly can’t remember when I last had one,” said the chairman, “so I may well take your advice.” He shook the doctor warmly by the hand. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

Later that afternoon a large brown box was delivered to the surgery.

“What’s this?” the doctor asked his assistant.

“A gift from the chairman.”

“Two surprises in one day,” said the doctor, examining the label on the box. “A dozen bottles of a 1994 Côtes du Rhône. How very generous of him.” He didn’t add until his assistant had closed the door, “And how out of character.”

The chairman sat in the front seat of his car and chatted to his chauffeur as he was driven back to the bank. He hadn’t realized that, like him, Fred was an Arsenal supporter.

When the car drew up outside the bank, he leaped out. The doorman saluted and held the door open for him.

“Good morning, Sam,” said the chairman, then walked across reception to the lift, which a young man was holding open for him.

“Good morning, Chairman,” said the young man. “Would it be possible to have a word with you?”

“Yes, of course. By the way, what’s your name?”

&

nbsp; “Rod, sir,” said the young man.

“Well, Rod, what can I do for you?”

“There’s a vacancy coming up on the Commodities floor, and I wondered if I might be considered for it.”

“Of course, Rod. Why not?”

“Well, sir, I don’t have any formal qualifications.”

“Neither did I when I was your age,” said the chairman. “So why don’t you go for it?”

“I hope you know what you’re up to,” said the senior clerk when Rod returned to his place behind the reception desk.

“I sure do. I can tell you I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life on the ground floor like you.”

The chairman held open the lift doors to allow two women to join him. “Which floor?” he asked as the doors closed.

“The fifth please, sir,” one of them said nervously.