The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [91]
“What’s the matter, darling?” asked Michael. “We’ve won, and what’s more it’s solved our financial problems.”
“I know,” said Carol, “but is it worth losing your closest friend for one hundred thousand pounds?”
On the following Saturday morning Michael was pleased to find an envelope among his morning post with the Golf Club crest on the flap. He opened it nervously and pulled out a single sheet of paper. It read:
Dear Mr. Gilmour,
At the monthly committee meeting held last Wednesday Colonel Mather raised the matter of your behavior in the clubhouse on the morning of Saturday, April 16.
It was decided to minute the complaints of several members, but on this occasion only to issue a severe reprimand to you both. Should a similar incident occur in the future, loss of membership would be automatic.
The temporary suspension issued by Colonel Mather on April 16 is now lifted.
Yours sincerely,
Jeremy Howard (Secretary)
“I’m off to do the shopping,” shouted Carol from the top of the stairs. “What are your plans for the morning?”
“I’m going to have a round of golf,” said Michael, folding up the letter.
“Good idea,” said Carol to herself as she wondered whom Michael would find to play against in the future.
Quite a few members noticed Michael and Philip teeing up at the first hole that Saturday morning. The club captain commented to the colonel that he was glad to observe that the quarrel had been sorted out to everyone’s satisfaction.
“Not to mine,” said the colonel under his breath. “You can’t get drunk on tomato juice.”
“I wonder what the devil they can be talking about?” the club captain said as he stared at them both through the bay windows. The colonel raised his binoculars to take a closer look at the two men.
“How could you possibly miss a four-foot putt, dummy?” asked Michael when they had reached the first green. “You must be drunk again.”
“As you well know,” replied Philip, “I never drink before dinner, and I therefore suggest that your allegation that I am drunk again is nothing less than slander.”
“Yes, but where are your witnesses?” said Michael as they moved up on to the second tee. “I had over fifty, don’t forget.”
Both men laughed.
Their conversation ranged over many subjects as they played the first eight holes, never once touching on their past quarrel until they reached the ninth green, the farthest point from the clubhouse. They both checked to see there was no one within earshot. The nearest player was still putting out some two hundred yards behind them on the eighth hole. It was then that Michael removed a bulky brown envelope from his golf bag and handed it over to Philip.
“Thank you,” said Philip, dropping the package into his own golf bag as he removed a putter. “As neat a little operation as I’ve been involved in for a long time,” Philip added as he addressed the ball.
“I end up with forty thousand pounds,” said Michael grinning, “while you lose nothing at all.”
“Only because I pay tax at the highest rate and can therefore claim the loss as a legitimate business expense,” said Philip, “and I wouldn’t have been able to do that if I hadn’t. once employed you.”
“And I, as a successful litigant, need pay no tax at all on damages received in a civil case.”
“A loophole that even this chancellor hasn’t caught on to,” said Philip.
“Even though it went to Reggie Lomax, I was sorry about the solicitors’ fees,” added Michael.
“No problem, old fellow. They’re also one hundred percent claimable against tax. So as you see, I didn’t lose a penny and you ended up with forty thousand pounds tax free.”
“And nobody the wiser,” said Michael, laughing.
The colonel put his binoculars back into their case.
“Had your eye on this year’s winner of the President’s Putter, Colonel?” asked the club captain.
“No,” the colonel replied. “The certain sponsor of this year’s Youth Tournament.”
THE HUNGARIAN PROFESSOR
Coincidences, writers are told (usually by the critics) must be avoided, although in truth