A Twist in the Tale

The accountant strolled round to the driver’s side, got in, revved up the engine and drove the champion home.

HONOR AMONG THIEVES

THE FIRST OCCASION I met Sefton Hamilton was in late August last year when my wife and I were dining with Henry and Suzanne Kennedy at their home in Warwick Squar

e.

Hamilton was one of those unfortunate men who have inherited immense wealth but not a lot more. He was able quickly to convince us that he had little time to read and no time to attend the theater or opera. However, this did not prevent him from holding opinions on every subject from Shaw to Pavarotti, from Gorbachev to Picasso. He remained puzzled, for instance, as to what the unemployed had to complain about when their dole packet was only just less than what he was currently paying the laborers on his estate. In any case, they only spent it on bingo and drinking, he assured us.

Drinking brings me to the other dinner guest that night. Freddie Barker, the President of the Wine Society, sat opposite my wife and unlike Hamilton hardly uttered a word. Henry had assured me over the phone that Barker not only had managed to get the Society back onto a proper financial footing but was also acknowledged as a leading authority on his subject. I looked forward to picking up useful bits of inside information. Whenever Barker was allowed to get a word in edgeways, he showed enough knowledge of the topic under discussion to convince me that he would be fascinating on his own subject if only Hamilton would remain silent long enough for him to speak.

While our hostess produced as a starter a spinach soufflé that melted in the mouth, Henry moved round the table pouring each of us a glass of wine.

Barker sniffed his appreciatively. “Appropriate in bicentennial year that we should be drinking an Australian Chablis of such fine vintage. I feel sure their whites will soon be making the French look to their laurels.”

“Australian?” said Hamilton in disbelief as he put down his glass. “How could a nation of beer-swiggers begin to understand the first thing about producing a half-decent wine?”

“I think you’ll find,” began Barker, “that the Australians—”

“Bicentennial indeed,” Hamilton continued. “Let’s face it, they’re only celebrating two hundred years of parole.” No one laughed except Hamilton. “I’d still pack the rest of our criminals off there, given half a chance.”

No one doubted him.

Hamilton sipped the wine tentatively, like a man who fears he is about to be poisoned, then began to explain why, in his considered view, judges were far too lenient with petty criminals. I found myself concentrating more on the food than the incessant flow of my neighbor’s views.

I always enjoy Beef Wellington, and Suzanne can produce a pastry that doesn’t flake when cut and meat that’s so tender that once one has finished a first helping, Oliver Twist comes to mind. It certainly helped me to endure Hamilton’s pontificating. Barker just about managed to pass an appreciative comment to Henry on the quality of the claret between Hamilton’s opinions on the chances of Paddy Ashdown reviving the Liberal Party and the future role of Arthur Scar-gill in the trade union movement, allowing no one the chance to reply.

“I don’t allow my staff to belong to any union,” Hamilton declared, gulping down his drink. “I run a closed shop.” He laughed once more at his own joke and held his empty glass high in the air as if it would be filled by magic. In fact it was filled by Henry with a discretion that shamed Hamilton—not that he noticed. In the brief pause that followed, my wife suggested that perhaps the trade union movement had been born out of a response to a genuine social need.

“Balderdash, madam,” said Hamilton. “With great respect, the trade unions have been the single most important factor in the decline of Britain as we know it. They’ve no interest in anybody but themselves. You only have to look at Ron Todd and the whole Ford fiasco to understand that.”

Suzanne began to clear the plates away and I noticed she took the opportunity to nudge Henry, who quickly changed the subject.

Moments later a raspberry meringue glazed with a thick sauce appeared. It seemed a pity to cut such a creation but Suzanne carefully divided six generous helpings like a nanny feeding her charges while Henry uncorked a 1981 Sauternes. Barker literally licked his lips in anticipation.

“And another thing,” Hamilton was saying. “The Prime Minister has got far too many Wets in her Cabinet for my liking.”

“With whom would you replace them?” asked Barker innocently.

Herod would have had little trouble in convincing the list of gentlemen Hamilton proffered that the slaughter of the innocents was merely an extension of the child care program.

Once again I became more interested in Suzanne’s culinary efforts, especially as she had allowed me an indulgence: Cheddar was to be served as the final course. I knew the moment I tasted it that it had been purchased from the Alvis Brothers’ farm in Keynsham; we all have to be knowledgeable about something, and Cheddar is my speciality.

To accompany the cheese, Henry supplied a port which was to be the highlight of the evening. “Sandeman 1970,” he said in an aside to Barker as he poured the first drops into the expert’s glass.

“Yes, of course,” said Barker, holding it to his nose. “I would have known it anywhere. Typical Sandeman warmth but with real body. I hope you’ve laid some down, Henry,” he added. “You’ll enjoy it even more in your old age.”

“Think you’re a bit of an authority on wines, do you?” said Hamilton, the first question he had asked all evening.

“Not exactly,” began Barker, “but I—”

“You’re all a bunch of humbugs, the lot of you,” interrupted Hamilton. “You sniff and you swirl, you taste and you spit, then you spout a whole lot of gobbledegook and expect us to swallow it. Body and warmth be damned. You can’t take me in that easily.”

“No one was trying to take you in,” said Barker with feeling.

“You’ve been keen to put one over on us all evening,” retorted Hamilton, “with your ‘Yes, of course, I’d have known it anywhere’ routine. Come on, admit it.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest—” began Barker.