10 lb Penalty

Eleven

After Christmas that year several things happened that changed a lot of lives.

First of all, on New Year’s Eve, a wide tongue of freezing air licked down from the Arctic Circle and froze solid all of Canada, all of northern Europe, and all of the British Isles. Weathermen stopped agitating about global warming and with equally long faces discussed permafrost. No one seemed to mention that when Stonehenge was built around 3000 B.C. the prevailing climate was warm, and no one remembered that in the nineteenth century Britain was so cold in the winters that on the Thames in London, they skated, held fairs and roasted oxen.

In the houses of that time people huddled in wing chairs with their feet on footstools to avoid drafts, and women wore a dozen layers of petticoats.

In the winter when I was twenty-two it rained ice on top of snow. People skated on their lawns and built igloos for their children. Diesel oil congealed to jelly. All racing came to a halt, except on a few specially built all-weather tracks, but even they had to be swept clear of snow. Owners cursed as their training bills kept rolling in, professional jockeys bit their fingernails and-amateurs were grounded.

Claims for frost damage avalanched into Weatherbys, and in the middle of all this Evan, my boss, announced that he was leaving the firm to join a growing insurance company as managing director. I expected Weatherbys to replace him, over my head, but instead they told him to spend his three months’ notice teaching me his job. I thought I was too young, even by Weatherbys’ standards, but they seemed oblivious to my date of birth and merely told me that in following Evan I had a great deal to live up to.

Evan, tall, thin and with a birdlike head on a long neck, had taken over a department that had formerly acted mainly as a convenience for racing’s owners and trainers, and in five years had fertilized it with imagination and invention into an agency major by any standard.

In his last three months, in addition to our ordinary busy work, he took me to meet personally all the underwriters he fixed deals with on the telephone, so that in the end I could wander around the “boxes” at Lloyds, knowing and being known in the syndicates and speaking their language.

He taught me scams. “Beware the friendship scam,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Two friends conspire,” he told me, amused. “One friend has a horse with something fatally wrong, a kidney ailment, say. OK? Instead of calling in a vet, Friend A sends his sick fellow to the sales. Friend B buys the sick animal at auction, insuring his purchase onwards from the fall of the hammer. Fall-of-the-hammer insurance was introduced to cover accidents like a million-dollar colt stumbling on its way out of the sale ring and breaking a leg. Fall-of-the-hammer insurance comes into effect before a vet’s inspection, see? So Friend B buys and insures a dud horse from the fall of the hammer. Friend A acts all innocent... ‘Would never have sold such a horse if I’d known...’ Friend B humanely kills his dud and collects the insurance. Friends A and B split the proceeds.” He laughed. “You’ve a nose for crooks, Ben. You’ll do all right.”

During that same three months my father became the front man in an ongoing fish war, discussing at international high level who could take how many fish of such and such a species of such and such a size out of any particular area of the world’s oceans. With wit and understanding, and by going to sea himself in freezing, salt-crusted, net-festooned seasickness factories, he learned the gripes and the legitimate arguments of men who lived close to Davy Jones and his ever-ready locker.

The press took notice. Headlines appeared: “Juliard Hooks Agreement,” and “Juliard in Japan.”

People in insurance began to say, “This Juliard person — no relation of yours, I suppose?”

“My father.”

“Seems to be doing a good job for my fish and chips.”

Fish and chips — the potatoes in agriculture — put my father on the map.

A television station sent a cameraman to sea with him: the cameraman, though sick the whole time, shot fearsomely memorable footage of my father hanging half-overboard in oilskins above the breaking waves and grinning.

Schoolchildren recognized pictures of “the Fish Minister” instantly: his Cabinet colleagues didn’t like it.

One of the top tabloids dug up the five-year-old stunning photograph of my father in mid-jump from the burning constituency offices and printed it big in a center-page spread extolling virility and presence of mind and the “hands-on” policy out on the deep blue sea.

Even the prime minister didn’t much like that. George Juliard as a relative newcomer with a normally quiet department in his charge was fine. George Juliard on the fast track upwards in public acclaim was a threat.

“One mustn’t make a minister a cult, ” the prime minister said in a television interview: but others talked of “leadership qualities” and “getting things done,” and Polly advised Dearest George to damp it down a bit and not let his success antagonize his colleagues.

My father therefore paid lavish tribute to the army of civil servants behind his fish-war solutions. “Without their help...” and so on and so on. He did a lot of modest groveling in Cabinet.

Towards the end of the long winter freeze the racing papers — frantic for something to fill their pages after weeks of near stagnation — gave a lot of space to the news that Sir Vivian Durridge, at seventy-four, had decided to retire from training.

The article, full of sonorous clichés like “long and distinguished career,” detailed his winners of the Derby (four) and other great races (“too numerous to mention”) and listed both the chief owners he’d trained for (“royalty downwards”) and the chief jockeys he’d employed (“champions all”).

Tucked away near the end came the riveting information that according to the form book, “Benedict Juliard had for two years ridden the Durridge horses as an amateur.”

End of Vivian Durridge. A happy retirement, Sir Vivian.

It seemed the freezing temperatures had put a brake even on adultery. Usher Rudd, still active with his telephoto lens and his mean spirit, had hit a dry patch in his relentless pursuit of the unfortunate opposition front-bencher, whose progress from bimbo to spanked bimbo (with the odd choirboy for variety) either had temporarily ceased or he had gone into hiding.

Usher Rudd, sacked by the Hoopwestern Gazette as a sleaze generator and definitely now non grata under many flags, had all the same as a freelancer found a market in weekly sex magazines on the edge of perversion.

The motto he everlastingly lived by: Sleaze Sells.

And where it doesn’t exist, invent it.

The opposition front-bencher killed himself.

Shock reverberated through Parliament and shivered in many a conscience.

He had been the “shadow” chancellor, the one who would have written the country’s budget if his party had been in power. Rudd, for all his digging, had found no cent out of place.

Leader writers, hands raised in semi-mock horror, pointed out that though adultery (like suicide) might be a sin, it was not, under British law, a crime. Hounding a man to despair — was that a sin? Was that a crime?

Usher Rudd, smirking and unrepentant, repeated his credo again and again: if people in the public eye chose to behave disgustingly in private, the public had a right to know.

Did they? What was disgusting? Who should judge? Chat shows discussed it endlessly.

Usher Rudd was either “the watchdog of the people” or a dangerous voyeur.

My father, walking with me in the woods around Polly’s house, believed Usher Rudd would now be looking for another target.

“Until he’s safely locked on to some other poor bastard,” he said. “Just you remember how he listened to us in The Sleeping Dragon, so be very careful. He had a go at us then, and we got him sacked.”

“Yes, but,” I said, “I’m certain you’ve stuck to what you wrote that day in those pacts, that you would do nothing shameful or unlawful and would cause no scandal. Usher Rudd can’t therefore touch you.”

He smiled. “Those pacts! Yes, I’ve kept my bargain. But a small thing like innocence wouldn’t stop that red-haired shit. Have you found your side of the promise difficult to keep?”

I shook my head. “I’ve kept it.”

It was undoubtedly true, though, that the pact I’d written myself had shaped and inhibited what one might call my sex life. More accurately, my lack of sex life. I’d had two brief but pretty satisfactory interludes, one at university, one in racing, but both times I’d drawn back from any deep involvement. As for promiscuity, Usher Rudd had proved a bigger threat than AIDS.

When the sun at last shone warmingly on the house in outer Wellingborough where I lived in a “granny flat” built for a dear-departed granny, the ceilings first drizzled rain from burst pipes in the attic and then fell down completely. As major replastering was obviously required, I packed my stuff again in nomadic boxes and drove them to the office, storing them in the leg room under my desk.

Evan was stripping the office of the clutter of his five-year tenure. Pinups, long lusted over, disappeared. He arranged a thousand files in easy order and gave me an index. He bequeathed me three straggly green plants suffering from sunlight deficiency.

“I can’t manage without you,” I said.

“You can always phone me.” His birdlike head inspected his non-personalized end of the room. “You won‘t, though. You’ll make your own decisions. If anyone thought you couldn’t, you wouldn’t be taking my place.”

He left in a flurry of farewell beers, and I spent the whole summer at first tiptoeing and then striding into new responsibilities, and in six swift months shed the last remnants of boy and grew in confidence and perhaps in ability until I had settled into the person I would be for the rest of my life.

When I mentioned how I felt to Polly, she said the change was obvious and that I was lucky: some people weren’t sure who they were till the far side of thirty.

My father, who’d known who he was at nineteen, had during the early summer consolidated himself in the Cabinet, and by conscientious work had converted his colleagues’ jealousy into acceptance, if not admiration. George Juliard had arrived as a political fact.

I asked him about Alderney Wyvern.

My father frowned. “I haven’t seen Wyvern anywhere since Christmas, but he’s somewhere about — though the prime minister still won’t hear a word against him. I’d say both Hudson Hurst and Jill Vinicheck are voting to his tune. They’re both apt to say on one day that they haven’t made up their minds on a point of discussion, but a couple of days later their minds and opinions are firm, and they always agree with each other... and I think those opinions are Wyvern’s, though I’ve no way of proving it.”

“And are they good opinions?”

“Sometimes very good, but that’s not the point.”

Parliament went into summer recess. Polly and the member for Hoopwestern spent the first part of the break in the constituency, living in Polly’s house and working with Mervyn and Orinda. The four of them had settled into an energetic and harmonious team to the great benefit of all the voters, floating or not.

My father then took Polly around the world with stopovers in capital cities to learn about famine and fertilizers and freaks of climate, and came back with a fair understanding of how a billion people fed themselves on the blue planet.

I in my little world at Wellingborough computed numbers and risks and moved back into my granny flat when the new ceilings were dry.

Usher Rudd began stalking a bishop. Everyone except His Reverence sighed with relief.

I rode a winner in August and another in September.

Beneath this surface, although none of us knew it, little upheavals were growing and coalescing like cumulonimbus. My father had once said that they always killed Caesar, and when Parliament reconvened, the knives were ready to drive into the toga.

My father, worried, told Polly and me that Hudson Hurst intended to challenge the prime minister for the leadership of the party. Hudson Hurst was cozying up to each Cabinet member in turn to ask for support. With his now polished manner he was smoothly saying that the party needed a tougher, younger leader who would galvanize the nation to prepare for the big buildup towards the next general election, three years ahead.

“Alderney Wyvern,” I said, “is writing the script.”

Polly said, horrified, “He couldn’t.”

My father said, “It’s been Wyvern’s aim all along, to rule by stealth.”

“Then stop him,” Polly exclaimed.

But Hudson Hurst resigned from the Cabinet and announced to the world that a majority of the party in power was dissatisfied with the decisions being made in its name and that he could do better.

“Stop him,” Polly said again. “Oppose him.”

The three of us, sitting around the kitchen table in Polly’s house, were silenced by the suddenness and size of the task. Sure, my father had aimed if possible one day to be prime minister, but had thought of acceding peacefully after a resignation, not as a contender for the Ides of March.

My father, considering loyalty to be a paramount virtue, went to Downing Street and declared himself the prime minister’s man. The prime minister, however, seeing that the party wanted a change, decided it was time to go just as soon as a new leader was elected. The way was now clear for my father to declare himself as a candidate for the ultimate job. The battle was now joined.

On a harmless-looking Tuesday morning in October I went into Weatherbys as usual and found that no one would look at me. Puzzled but unalarmed, I made my way into my office and found that someone had kindly — or unkindly — left on my desk a copy of SHOUT! open at the center pages.

SHOUT! was the weekly magazine that regularly printed Usher Rudd’s most virulent outbursts.

There was a photograph, not of my father, but of myself, dressed as a jockey.

The headline in huge letters read, DOPE!

Underneath it said, Jockey son of George Juliard, self-aggrandizing minister of agriculture, fisheries and food, was fired for snorting cocaine, says trainer.

In disbelief I read the trailing paragraphs:

His father, the magazine pointed out, had entered the ring in the power struggle currently rending apart the Cabinet. How could George Juliard proclaim himself a paragon of all the virtues (including family values) when he had failed as a parent himself, as his only child was a drug addict?

I felt as I had in Vivian Durridge’s study on that morning five years earlier; numb from the ankles down. It hadn’t been true that I had ever sniffed glue or cocaine or anything else, and it still wasn’t true, but I wasn’t fool enough now to think that everyone would believe me.

I picked up the magazine and, with eyes speculatively following every step I took, went to see the chairman, the working boss of Weatherbys, in his office. He sat at his desk. I stood before him.

I needn’t have taken the magazine with me. He had a copy of it already on his desk.

“It’s not true,” I said flatly.

“If it’s not true,” the chairman asked, “why on earth would Vivian Durridge say it is? Vivian Durridge is one of the most highly respected men in racing.”

“If you’ll give me the day off, I’ll go and ask him.”

He stared up at me, considering.

“I think,” I said, “that this is an attack on my father, more than on myself. This article was written by a journalist called Usher Rudd who tried to discredit my father once before, in fact five years ago, when he first stood for Parliament in a by-election. My father complained to the editor of the newspaper and Usher Rudd was sacked. This looks like revenge. You’ll see that this article says my father is involved in a power struggle in the Party and, well, he is. Whoever wins the struggle will be the next prime minister. Usher Rudd is determined it won’t be George Juliard.”

The chairman still said nothing.

“When I applied here for a job,” I said, “Sir Vivian sent you a reference about me, and, oh” — I remembered in a blinding flash of joy — “he sent me a letter, which I’ll show you.” I turned towards the door. “It is actually here in this building, in the insurance office.”

I didn’t wait for him to comment but hurried back to the long insurance office and retrieved the cardboard box full of my stuff from under my desk. I simply hadn’t bothered to take it back to my reconstructed room and clutter the place up again with bits and pieces. Somewhere in that box were my father’s wedding photos with wives one and two.

In the frame behind the picture of himself and Polly the letter from Vivian Durridge was as clean and fresh as the day I received it.

As a precaution, I made several copies of the letter and put them in one file among hundreds, and took the original to the chairman.

He had already, fair man that he was, retrieved from his records the short “To whom it may concern” reference that Sir Vivian had spontaneously sent. It was lying on his desk on top of the magazine.

I handed him the letter, which he read twice.

“Sit down,” he said, pointing to the chair opposite his desk. “Tell me what happened.”

“Five years ago” — it seemed a lifetime — “like it says in the letter, my father wanted to make me face the reality that I would never be a top jockey.”

I told the chairman about the car and the chauffeur, and the hotel in Brighton facing the sea. I told him that my father had asked me to give him family background to help with his by-election campaign.

The chairman listened and at the end asked, “Who, besides you and your father, knew that Vivian Durridge had accused you of drug taking?”

“That’s just it,” I said slowly. “I certainly told no one, and I don’t think my father did, either. Will you let me go and find out?”

He looked at the letter again, and at the reference and at the magazine article with its malice and lies, and made up his mind.

“I’ll give you a week,” he said. “Ten days. Whatever it takes. Before you came, Evan was second in command to an insurance specialist who is now on our board of directors. He will do your job until you come back.”

I was grateful and speechless in the face of his generosity. He merely waved me away with a gesture towards the door and, looking back as I left, I saw him slide the magazine, the letter, and the reference into a drawer in his desk and lock it.

Back in my own office the telephone was ringing. My father’s voice said, “What the hell’s going on? What does Vivian Durridge think he’s doing? I can’t get any answer from his telephone.”

The reason he couldn’t get any answer from Vivian Durridge’s telephone, I discovered three hours later, was because he was not in his own home.

The gravel in the drive was tidily raked. The porticoed front of the near-mansion spoke as usual of effortless wealth, but no one answered the doorbell.

Along in his stable yard there were no horses, but the head groom, who lived in an adjoining cottage, was pottering aimlessly about.

He recognized me without hesitation, though it was over five years since I’d left.

“Well, Ben,” he said, scratching his head, “I never knew you took drugs.”

He was old and small and bandy-legged and had loved and been loved by the great beasts in his care. The life he’d lived in their service had pathetically gone, leaving him without anchor, without purpose, with only a fading mental scrapbook of victories past.

“I never did take drugs,” I said.

“No, I wouldn’t have thought so, but if Sir Vivian says...”

“Where is he?” I asked. “Do you know?”

“He’s ill, of course.”

“Ill?”

“He’s gone in the wits, poor old man. He was walking around the yard with me one day at evening stables, same as usual, when all of a sudden he clapped a hand to his head and fell down, and I got the vet to him.”

“The vet?”

“There’s a telephone in the tack room and I knew the vet’s number.” The head groom shook his own old head. “So, anyway, the vet came and he brought with him the doctor and they thought Sir Vivian had had a stroke or some such. So an ambulance came for him, and his family, they didn’t want to say he was gaga, but he couldn’t go on training, poor old man, so they just told everybody he’d retired.”

I wandered around the yard with the once-supreme head groom, stopping at each empty stall for him to tell me what splendid winners had once stood in each.

All the owners, he said, had been asked to take their horses away and send them somewhere else temporarily, but the weeks had passed and the old man wasn’t coming back; one could see that now, and nothing was ever going to be the same again.

“But where,” I asked gently, “is Sir Vivian at this moment?”

“In the nursing home,” he simply said.

I found the nursing home. A board outside announced Haven House. Sir Vivian sat in a wheelchair, smooth of skin, empty of eye, warmed by a rug over his knees.

“He’s confused. He doesn’t know anyone,” the nurses warned me; but even if he didn’t recognize me, he garrulously talked.

“Oh dear, yes,” he said in a high voice, not like his own gruff tones. “Of course I remember Benedict Juliard. He wanted to be a jockey, but I couldn’t have him you know. I couldn’t have anyone who sniffed glue.”

Sir Vivian’s eyes were wide and guileless. I saw that he now did believe in the fiction he had invented for my father’s sake. I understood that from now on he would repeat that version of my leaving him because he truly believed it.

I asked him, “Did you yourself ever actually see Benedict Juliard sniffing glue, or cocaine, or anything else?”

“Had it on good authority,” he said.

Five years too late I asked him, “Whose authority?”

“Eh? What? Whose authority? Mine, of course.”

I tried again. “Did anyone tell you that Benedict Juliard was addicted to drugs? If anyone told you, who was it?”

The intelligence that had once inhabited the Durridge brain, the worldly experience that had illuminated for so long the racing scene, the grandeur of thought and judgment, all had been wiped out by a devastating hemorrhage in some tiny recess of that splendid personality. Sir Vivian Durridge no longer existed. I spoke to the shell, the chaos. There was no hope that he would ever again remember anything in detail, but he would be forever open to suggestion.

I sat with him for a while, as it seemed he liked company and, even if he didn’t know who I was, he didn’t want me to go.

The nurses said, “It settles him to have people near him. He was a great man once, you know. And you’re the second person, outside his family, who has been to see him recently. He is so pleased to have visitors.”

“Who else came?” I asked.

“Such a nice young man. Red hair. Freckles. So friendly, just like you. A journalist, he said. He was asking Sir Vivian about someone called Benedict Juliard, who had ridden his horses for him once. Oh, my goodness,” the nurses said, clapping hands to surprised mouths. “Benedict Juliard... isn’t that who you said you were?”

“That’s right. What would Sir Vivian like that he hasn’t got?”

The nurses giggled and said, “Chocolate biscuits and gin, but he isn’t supposed to have either.”

“Give him both.”

I handed them money. Vivian Durridge sat in his wheelchair and understood nothing.

I telephoned my father.

“People believe what they want to believe,” I said. “Hudson Hurst will want to believe your son is a drug addict and he’ll go around asserting to your colleagues that that makes you unfit to be prime minister. Well, you remember what I wrote that day when we made the pacts... that I would do my best to keep you safe from attack?”

“Of course, I remember.”

“It’s time to do it.”

“But, Ben... how?”

‘I’m going to sue him for libel.”

“Who? Hurst? Usher Rudd? Vivian Durridge?”

“No. The editor of SHOUT!”

After a pause my father said, “You need a lawyer.”

“Lawyers are expensive. I’ll see what I can do myself.”

“Ben... I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I. But if I can make a charge of libel stick to SHOUT! Hudson Hurst will have to shut up. And there’s no time to lose, is there, as didn’t you say the first internal vote in the party for a new leader is next week?”

“It is, yes. Monday.”

“Then you go back to your fish and chips, and I’ll take a sword to Usher bleeding Rudd.”

From Durridge’s place in Kent I drove across much of southern England, down the M4 to Exeter and around to the training stables that to me seemed like home, the domain of Spencer Stallworthy.

I arrived at about six-thirty, when he was just finishing his round of evening stables.

“Hello,” he said, surprised. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“No...” I watched him feed carrots to the last couple of horses and wandered over to look into the stall that had held Sarah’s Future for three splendid years. It was inhabited now by a long-necked gray, and I grieved for the simple happiness of days gone.

Jim was there still, closing the stalls for the night, checking that the grooms had filled the hay nets and positioned the water buckets: all so familiar, so much missed.

The evening routine finished, I asked if I could talk to them both for a while, which meant a short drive to Stallworthy’s house and an issue of well-remembered sherry.

They knew my father was in the Cabinet and I explained about the power struggle. I showed them the center pages of SHOUT! which shocked them back to the bottle.

Jim blinked his white eyelashes rapidly, always a sign of disturbance, and Stallworthy said, “But it’s not true, is it? You never took drugs. I’d have known it.”

“That’s right,” I said gratefully, “and that’s what I’d like you to write for me. A statement that I rode from your stables for three years and won races and showed no sign of ever being interested in drugs. I want as many affidavits as I can get to say that I am not a drug addict and never was as far as you can possibly tell. I’m going to sue this magazine for libel.”

Both Stallworthy and Jim were outraged on my behalf and wrote more fiercely in my defense than I could have asked for.

Stallworthy gave me a bed for the night and a horse to ride in the early morning, and I left after breakfast and drove along the familiar country roads back to the university.

The two years since I’d graduated seemed to vanish. I parked the car in the road outside the Streatham Campus and walked up the steep path to the Laver Building, home of the mathematics department. There, after a good deal of casting about, I found my tutor — the one who had written for me the reference sought by Weatherbys — and explained to him, as to Stallworthy and Jim, what I was asking of him.

“Drugs? Of course, a lot of the students experiment, and as you know we try to get rid of the hard core, but you were about the last student I would have suspected of getting hooked. For a start, drugs and mathematics don’t mix, and your work was particularly clear-headed. This magazine article is all rubbish.”

I beseeched him to put those views in writing, which he did with emphasis.

“Good luck,” he said when I left. “These journalists get away with murder.”

I hiked back to my car and drove across country to my old school at Malvern.

There on its hillside campus, steep like Exeter University, though not so big, I sought out the man who had taught me mathematics. He passed the buck to my onetime housemaster, who listened and sent me to the head.

The headmaster walked with me down the broad familiar stone-floored passage in the main building and up the stone stairs to his study, where I showed him a copy of SHOUT! and also a copy of Vivian Durridge’s letter.

“Of course I’ll support you,” he said without hesitation, and wrote, and handed me the handwritten page to read.

It said:

I looked up, not knowing quite what to say. “I admire your father,” the headmaster said. “I’m not saying I agree with him all the time politically, but the country could certainly do worse.”

I said “Thank you” rather feebly, and he shook hands with me on a smile.

Onwards I went to Wellingborough, where I briefly called in to see the chairman to tell him what I’d been doing and what I proposed to do. Then, taking a couple of the photocopies of Vivian Durridge’s letter and his reference from their folder, and making copies of all the letters I’d collected, I drove to Wellingborough station and, tired of the roads, I caught the train to London.

SHOUT! emanated, it transpired, from a small and grubby-looking building south of the Thames. The editor wouldn’t in the least want to see me but, late in the afternoon, I marched straight into his office shedding secretaries like bow waves. He was sitting in a sweatshirt behind a cluttered desk, typing on a keyboard of a computer.

He didn’t recognize me, of course. When I told him who I was, he invited me to leave.

“I am going to sue you for libel,” I said, opening the copy of SHOUT! at the center pages. “I see from the small print at the beginning of this magazine that the name of the editor is Rufus Crossmead. If that’s who you are, I’ll be suing Rufus Crossmead personally.”

He was a small, pugnacious man, sticking his chest out and tucking his chin in like a pugilist. I supposed briefly that dealing with wronged and furious victims of his destructive ethos was a regular part of his life.

I remembered how, five years earlier, my father had pulverized the editor of the Hoopwestern Gazette, but I couldn’t reproduce exactly that quiet degree of menace. I didn’t have the commanding strength of his vibrant physical presence. I left Rufus Crossmead, however, in no doubt as to my intentions.

I laid down in front of him copies of the strong letters from Spencer Stallworthy, Jim, my Exeter tutor and the headmaster of Malvern College, and I gave him finally a copy of the letter Vivian Durridge had sent.

“The only good defense in a libel suit,” I said, “is to prove that the allegations are true. You can’t use that defense, because you’ve printed lies. It will be easy for me to establish that Sir Vivian Durridge is now hopelessly confused after a stroke and doesn’t know what he’s saying. Usher Rudd must have been aware of it. He was trying to revenge himself for my father having got him sacked from the Hoopwestern Gazette. No reputable paper has employed him since. He suits your style, but he’s dropped even you in the shit.”

Rufus Crossmead gloomily read the various papers.

“We’ll settle out of court,” he said.

It sounded to me as if he’d said it often before, and it wasn’t at all what I’d expected. I wasn’t sure it was even what I wanted.

I said slowly, “I’ll tell you what I’ll settle for...”

“It’s up to the proprietors,” Crossmead interrupted. “They’ll make you an offer.”

“They always do?” I asked.

He didn’t exactly nod, but it was in the air.

“Then you tell the proprietors,” I said, “that I’ll settle for a retraction and a statement of sincere regret from you that your magazine’s accusations were based on incorrect information. Tell your proprietors that I’ll settle for a statement appearing very visibly in next Tuesday’s issue of SHOUT! In addition, you will send immediately — by registered mail — a personally signed copy of that retraction and statement of regret to each of six hundred fifty or so members of Parliament.”