“None of us will suffer when he ends up paying my costs plus massive damages.”
“But you could lose,” said Carol. “Then we would end up with nothing—worse than nothing.”
“That’s not possible,” said Michael. “He made the mistake of saying all those things in front of witnesses. There must have been over fifty members in the clubhouse this morning, including the president of the club and the editor of the local paper, and they couldn’t have failed to hear every word.”
Carol remained unconvinced, and she was relieved that during the next few days Michael didn’t mention Philip’s name once. She hoped that her husband had come to his senses and the whole affair was best forgotten.
But then the Hazelmere Chronicle decided to print its version of the quarrel between Michael and Philip. Under the headline “Fight breaks out at golf club” came a carefully worded account of what had taken place on the previous Saturday. The editor of the Hazelmere Chronicle knew only too well that the conversation itself was unprintable unless he also wanted to be sued, but he managed to include enough innuendo in the article to give a full flavor of what had happened that morning.
“That’s the final straw,” said Michael, when he finished reading the article for the third time. Carol realized that nothing she could say or do was going to stop her husband now.
The following Monday, Michael contacted a local solicitor, Reginald Lomax, who had been at school with them both. Armed with the article, Michael briefed Lomax on the conversation that the Chronicle had felt injudicious to publish in any great detail. Michael also gave Lomax his own detailed account of what had happened at the club that morning, and handed him four pages of handwritten notes to back his claims up.
Lomax studied the notes carefully.
“When did you write these?”
“In my car, immediately after we were suspended.”
“That was circumspect of you,” said Lomax. “Most circumspect.” He stared quizzically at his client over the top of his half-moon spectacles. Michael made no comment. “Of course you must be aware that the law is an expensive pastime,” Lomax continued. “Suing for slander will not come cheap, and even with evidence as strong as this”—he tapped the notes in front of him—“you could still lose. Slander depends so much on what other people remember or, more important, will admit to remembering.”
“I’m well aware of that,” said Michael. “But I’m determined to go through with it. There were over fifty people in the club within earshot that morning.”
“So be it,” said Lomax. “Then I shall require five thousand pounds in advance as a contingency fee to cover all the immediate costs and the preparations for a court case.” For the first time Michael looked hesitant.
“Returnable, of course, but only if you win the case.”
Michael removed his checkbook and wrote out a figure which, he reflected, would only just be covered by the remainder of his redundancy pay.
The writ for slander against Philip Masters was issued the next morning by Lomax, Davis and Lomax.
A week later the writ was accepted by another firm of solicitors in the same town, actually in the same building.
* * *
Back at the club, debate on the rights and wrongs of Gilmour v. Masters did not subside as the weeks passed.
Club members whispered furtively among themselves whether they might be called to give evidence at the trial. Several had already received letters from Lomax, Davis and Lomax requesting statements about what they could recall being said by the two men that morning. A good many pleaded amnesia or deafness but a few turned in graphic accounts of the quarrel. Encouraged, Michael pressed on, much to Carol’s dismay.
One morning about a month later, after Carol had left for the bank, Michael Gilmour received a call from Reginald Lomax. The defendant’s solicitors, he was informed, had requested a “without prejudice” consultation.
“Surely you’re not surprised after all the evidence we’ve collected,” Michael replied.
“It’s only a consultation,” Lomax reminded him.
“Consultation or no consultation, I won’t settle for less than one hundred thousand pounds.”
“Well, I don’t even know that they—” began Lomax.
“I do, and I also know that for the last eleven weeks I haven’t been able to even get an interview for a job because of that bastard,” he said with contempt. “Nothing less than one hundred thousand pounds, do you hear me?”
“I think you are being a trifle optimistic, in the circumstances,” said Lomax. “But I’ll call you and let you know the other side’s response as soon as the meeting has taken place.”
Michael told Carol the good news that evening, but like Reginald Lomax, she was skeptical. The ringing of the phone interrupted their discussion on the subject. Michael, with Carol standing by his side, listened carefully to Lomax’s report. Philip, it seemed, was willing to settle for twenty-five thousand pounds and had agreed to both sides’ costs.
Carol nodded her grateful acceptance, but Michael only repeated that Lomax was to hold out for nothing less than one hundred thousand. “Can’t you see that Philip’s already worked out what it’s going to cost him if this case ends up in court? And he knows only too well that I won’t give in.”
Carol and Lomax remained unconvinced. “It’s much more touch and go than you realize,” the solicitor warned him. “A High Court jury might consider the words were only meant as banter.”
“Banter? But what about the fight that followed the banter?” said Michael.
“Started by you,” Lomax pointed out. “Twenty-five thousand is a good figure in the circumstances,” he added.
Michael refused to budge, and ended the conversation by repeating his demand for one hundred thousand pounds.
Two weeks passed before the other side offered fifty thousand in exchange for a quick settlement. This time Lomax was not surprised when Michael rejected the offer out of hand. “Quick settlement be damned. I’ve told you I won’t consider less than a hundred thousand.” Lomax knew by now that any plea for prudence was going to fall on deaf ears.
It took three more weeks and several more phone calls between solicitors before the other side accepted that they were going to have to pay the full hundred thousand pounds. Reginald Lomax rang Michael to inform him of the news late one evening, trying to make it sound as if he had scored a personal triumph. He assured Michael that the necessary papers could be drawn up immediately and the settlement signed in a matter of days.
“Naturally all your costs will be covered,” he added.
“Naturally,” said Michael.
“So all that is left for you to do now is agree on a statement.”
A short statement was penned and, with the agreement of both sides, issued to the Hazelmere Chronicle. The paper printed the contents the following Friday on its front page. “The writ for slander between Gilmour and Masters,” the Chronicle reported, “has been withdrawn with the agreement of both sides but only after a substantial out-of-court settlement by the defendant. Philip Masters has withdrawn unreservedly what was said at the club that morning and has given an unconditional apology; he has also made a promise that he will never repeat the words used again. Mr. Masters has paid the plaintiff’s costs in full.”
Philip wrote to the Colonel the same day, admitting perhaps he had had a little too much to drink on the morning in question. He regretted his impetuous outburst, apologized and assured the club’s president it would never happen again.
Carol was the only one who seemed to be saddened by the outcome.
“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 nervo
usly 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 but only wondered who 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 onto 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 at the highest tax 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.”
CHRISTINA ROSENTHAL
THE RABBI KNEW he couldn’t hope to begin on his sermon until he’d read the letter. He had been sitting at his desk in front of a blank sheet of paper for over an hour and still couldn’t come up with a first sentence. Lately he had been unable to concentrate on a task he had carried out every Friday evening for the last thirty years. They must have realized by now that he was no longer up to it. He took the letter out of the envelope and slowly unfolded the pages. Then he pushed his half-moon spectacles up the bridge of his nose and started to read.
My dear Father,
“Jew boy! Jew boy! Jew boy!” were the first words I heard her say as I ran past her on the first lap of the race. She was standing behind the railing at the beginning of the home straight, bands cupped around her lips to be sure I couldn’t miss the chant. She must have come from another school because I didn’t recognize her but it only took a fleeting glance to see that it was Greg Reynolds who was standing by her side.
After five years of having to tolerate his snide comments and bullying at school all I wanted to retaliate with was, “Nazi, Nazi, Nazi,” but you had always taught me to rise above such provocation.
I tried to put them both out of my mind as I moved into the second lap. I had dreamed for years of winning the mile in the West Mount High School championships, and I was determined not to let them be responsible for stopping me.
As I came into the back straight a second time I took a more careful look at her. She was standing amid a cluster of friends who were wearing the scarves of Marianapolis Convent. She must have been about sixteen, and as slim as a willow. I wonder if you would have chastised me had I only shouted, “No breasts, no breasts, no breasts,” in the hope it might at least provoke the boy standing next to her into a fight. Then I would have been able to tell you truthfully that he had thrown the first punch but the moment you had learned that it was Greg Reynolds you would have realized how little provocation I needed.
As I reached the back straight I once again prepared myself for the chants. Chanting at track meetings had become fashionable in the late 1950s when “Zat-o-pek, Zat-o-pek, Zat-o-pek” had been roared in adulation across running stadiums around the world for the great Czech champion. Not for me was there to be the shout of “Ros-en-thal, Ros-en-thal, Ros-en-thal” as I came into earshot.
“Jew boy! Jew boy! Jew boy!” she said, sounding like a Gramophone record when the needle has got stuck. Her friend Greg, who would nowadays be described as a preppie, began laughing. I knew he had put her up to it, and how I would like to have removed that smug grin from his face. I reached the half-mile mark in two minutes seventeen seconds, comfortably inside the pace necessary to break the West Mount High School record, and I felt that was the best way to put the taunting girl and that fascist Greg Reynolds in their place. I couldn’t help thinking later bow unfair it all was. I was a real Canadian, born and bred in this country, while she was just an immigrant. After all, you, Father, had escaped from Hamburg in 1937 and started with nothing. Her parents did not land on these shores until 1949, by which time you were a respected figure in the community.
I gritted my teeth and tried to concentrate. Zatopek had written in his autobiography that no runner can afford to lose his concentration during a race. When I reached the penultimate bend the inevitable chanting began again, but this time it only made me speed up and even more determined to break that record. Once I was back in the safety of the home straight I could hear some of my friends roaring, “Come on, Benjamin, you can do it,” and the timekeeper called out, “Three twenty-three, three twenty-four, three twenty-five” as I passed the bell to begin the last lap.
I knew that the record—four thirty-two—was now well within my grasp and all those dark nights of winter training suddenly seemed worthwhile. As I reached the back straight I took the lead, and even felt that I could face the girl again. I summoned up my strength for one last effort. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed I was already yards in front of any of my rivals, so it was only me against the clock. Then I heard the chanting, but this time it was even louder than before, “Jew boy! Jew boy! Jew boy!” It was louder because the two of them were now working in unison, and just as I came round the bend Reynolds raised his arm in a defiant
Nazi salute.
If I had only carried on for another twenty yards I would have reached the safety of the home straight and the cheers of my friends, the cup and the record. But they had made me so angry that I could no longer control myself.
I shot off the track and ran across the grass over the long-jump pit and straight toward them. At least my crazy decision stopped their chanting because Reynolds lowered his arm and just stood there staring pathetically at me from behind the small railing that surrounded the outer perimeter of the track. I leaped right over it and landed in front of my adversary. With all the energy I had saved for the final straight I took an almighty swing at him. My fist landed an inch below his left eye and he buckled and fell to the ground by her side. Quickly she knelt down and staring up, gave me a look of such hatred that no words could have matched it. Once I was sure Greg wasn’t going to get up, I walked slowly back onto the track as the last of the runners were coming round the final bend.
“Last again, Jew boy,” I heard her shout as I jogged down the home straight, so far behind the others that they didn’t even bother to record my time.
How often since have you quoted me those words: “Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, for sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.”
Of course you were right, but I was only seventeen then, and even after I had learned who he was I still couldn’t understand how anyone who had come from a defeated Germany, a Germany condemned by the rest of the world for its treatment of the Jews, could still behave in such a manner. And in those days I really believed her family were Nazis, but I remember you patiently explaining to me that her father had been an admiral in the German navy, and had won an Iron Cross for sinking Allied ships. Do you remember me asking how you could tolerate such a man, let alone allow him to settle peacefully in our country?
You went on to assure me that Admiral von Braumer, who came from an old Roman Catholic family and probably despised the Nazis as much as we did, had acquitted himself honorably as an officer and a gentleman throughout his life as a German sailor. But I still couldn’t accept your attitude, or didn’t want to.
A Twist in the Tale Page 17