A Twist in the Tale

“I know, but the dog belonged to the last owner.”

“That bitch didn’t belong to the last owner, and I refuse to believe Carol fell for that old chestnut.”

“She believed it because it was the truth.”

“The truth, I fear, is something you lost contact with a long time ago. You were sacked, first, because you couldn’t keep your hands off anything in a skirt under forty and, second, because you couldn’t keep your fingers out of the till. I ought to know. Don’t forget I had to get rid of you for the same reasons.”

Michael jumped up, his cheeks almost the color of Philip’s tomato juice. He raised his clenched fist and was about to take a swing at Philip when Colonel Mather, the club president, appeared at his side.

“Good morning, sir,” said Philip calmly, rising for the Colonel.

“Good morning, Philip,” the Colonel barked. “Don’t you think this little misunderstanding has gone quite far enough?”

“Little misunderstanding?” protested Michael. “Didn’t you hear what he’s been saying about me?”

“Every word, unfortunately, like any other member present,” said the Colonel. Turning back to Philip, he added, “Perhaps you two should shake hands like good fellows and call it a day.”

“Shake hands with that philandering, double-crossing shyster? Never,” said Philip. “I tell you, Colonel, he’s not fit to be a member of this club, and I can assure you that you’ve only heard half the story.”

Before the Colonel could attempt another round of diplomacy Michael sprang on Philip and it took three men younger than the club president to prize them apart. The Colonel immediately ordered both men off the premises, warning them that their conduct would be reported to the house committee at its next monthly meeting. And until that meeting had taken place, they were both suspended.

The club secretary, Jeremy Howard, escorted the two men off the premises and watched Philip get into his Rolls-Royce and drive sedately down the drive and out through the gates. He had to wait on the steps of the club for several minutes before Michael departed in his Mini. He appeared to be sitting in the front seat writing something. When he had eventually passed through the club gates, the secretary turned on his heels and made his way back to the bar. What they did to each other after they left the grounds was none of his business.

Back in the clubhouse, the secretary found the conversation had not returned to the likely winner of the President’s Putter, the seeding of the Ladies’ Handicap Cup, or who might be prevailed upon to sponsor the Youth Tournament that year.

“They seemed in a jolly enough mood when I passed them on the sixteenth hole earlier this morning,” the club captain informed the Colonel.

The Colonel admitted to being mystified. He had known both men since the day they joined the club nearly fifteen years before. They weren’t bad lads, he assured the captain; in fact he rather liked them. They had played a round of golf every Saturday morning for as long as anyone could remember, and never a cross word had been known to pass between them.

“Pity,” said the Colonel. “I was hoping to ask Masters to sponsor the Youth Tournament this year.”

“Good idea, but I can’t see him agreeing to that now.”

“I can’t imagine what they thought they were up to.”

“Can it simply be that Philip is such a success story and Michael has fallen on hard times?” suggested the captain.

“No, there’s more to it than that,” replied the Colonel. “Requires a fuller explanation,” he added sagely.

Everyone in the club was aware that Philip Masters had built up his own business from scratch after he had left his first job as a kitchen salesman. Ready-Fit kitchens had been started in a shed at the end of Philip’s garden and ended up in a factory on the other side of town which employed over three hundred people. After Ready-Fit went public the financial press speculated that Philip’s shares alone had to be worth a couple of million. When five years later the company was taken over by the John Lewis Partnership, it became public knowledge that Philip had walked away from the deal with a check for seventeen million pounds and a five-year service contract that would have pleased a pop star. Some of the windfall had been spent on a magnificent Georgian house in sixty acres of wooded land just outside Hazelmere: he could even see the golf course from his bedroom. Philip had been married for over twenty years and his wife, Sally, was chairman of the regional branch of the Save the Children Fund and a JP. Their son had just won a place at St. Anne’s College, Oxford.

Michael was the boy’s

godfather.

Michael Gilmour could not have been a greater contrast. On leaving school, where Philip had been his closest friend, he had drifted from job to job. He started out as a trainee with Watneys, but lasted only a few months before moving on to work as a rep with a publishing company. Like Philip, he married his childhood sweetheart, Carol West, the daughter of a local doctor.

When their own daughter was born, Carol complained about the hours Michael spent away from home so he left publishing and signed on as a distribution manager with a local soft drinks firm. He lasted for a couple of years until his deputy was promoted over him as area manager, at which decision Michael left in a huff. After his first spell on the dole, Michael joined a grain-packing company, but found he was allergic to corn and, having been supplied with a medical certificate to prove it, collected his first redundancy check. He then joined Philip as a Ready-Fix kitchen rep but left without explanation within a month of the company being taken over. Another spell of unemployment followed before he took up the job of sales manager with a company that made microwave ovens. He seemed to have settled down at last until, without warning, he was made redundant. It was true that the company profits had been halved that year, and the company directors were sorry to see Michael go—or that was how it was expressed in their in-house magazine.

Carol was unable to hide her distress when Michael was made redundant yet again. They could have done with the extra cash now that their daughter had been offered a place at art school.

Philip was the girl’s godfather.

* * *

“What are you going to do about it?” asked Carol anxiously, when Michael had told her what had taken place at the club.

“There’s only one thing I can do,” he replied. “After all, I have my reputation to consider. I shall sue the bastard.”