This Was a Man (The Clifton Chronicles #7)(72)

‘I’m going to join a gym and lose half a stone.’

‘But that was your resolution last year!’

‘I know,’ said Emma, ‘and now I need to lose a stone.’

‘Me too,’ said Giles, ‘but unlike Emma at least I’ve achieved last year’s resolution.’

‘Remind us?’ said Harry.

‘I swore I’d get back on the front bench and be offered a challenging portfolio now that Michael Foot had finally resigned and made way for someone who actually wants to live in Number Ten.’

‘Which portfolio has Mr Kinnock asked you to shadow?’ asked Grace.

Giles couldn’t help grinning.

‘No,’ said Emma, ‘you wouldn’t dare! I presume you turned him down?’

‘I couldn’t resist it,’ said Giles. ‘So my New Year’s resolution is to frustrate, harass and cause as many problems as possible for the government, and in particular its minister for health.’

‘You’re a rat!’ said Emma.

‘No, to be fair, sis, I’m a rat catcher.’

‘Time out,’ said Harry, laughing. ‘Before you two come to blows, who’s next?’

‘Freddie, perhaps?’ suggested Karin.

It had been Freddie’s first Christmas at the Manor House, and Jessica had mothered him like an only child, while Jake never seemed to be more than a few steps behind his new friend.

‘My New Year’s resolution,’ said Freddie, ‘will be the same this year, and every year, until I have achieved it.’ Freddie may not have intended to, but he’d caught everyone’s attention. ‘I shall score a century at Lord’s, and emulate my father.’

Giles turned away, not wishing to embarrass the boy.

‘And once you’ve done that, what next?’ asked Harry, when he saw his oldest friend close to tears.

‘A double century, Sir Harry,’ said Freddie without hesitation.

‘It won’t be difficult to work out what you’ll want the following year, once you’ve achieved that,’ said Grace.

Everyone laughed.

‘Now it’s your turn, Karin,’ said Emma.

‘I’ve decided to run the London Marathon, and to raise money for immigrants who want to go to university.’

‘How far is a marathon?’ asked Samantha.

‘Just over twenty-six miles.’

‘Rather you than me. But put me down for five pounds a mile.’

‘That’s very generous, Sam,’ said Karin.

‘Me too,’ said Sebastian.

‘And me,’ added Giles.

‘Thank you, but no thank you,’ said Karin, taking a notebook from her pocket. ‘I already had Samantha down for five pounds a mile, and the rest of you will be expected to give the same proportion of your income.’

‘Help,’ said Sebastian.

‘I’ll be coming to you last,’ said Karin, smiling at Seb before consulting her list. ‘Grace is down for twenty-five pounds a mile, Emma and Harry fifty pounds each, and Giles one hundred. And Sebastian, as you’re chairman of the bank, I’ve got you down for a thousand pounds a mile. That adds up to –’ she once again consulted her notebook – ‘thirty-one thousand, nine hundred and eighty pounds.’

‘Can I put in a plea on behalf of an immigrant art student from the new world, who isn’t at all sure who her parents are, and has unfortunately lost her scholarship?’ Everyone laughed. ‘And what’s more, Freddie, Jake and I would each like to give ten pounds a mile.’

‘But that would cost you seven hundred and eighty pounds,’ said her father. ‘So I have to ask, how do you intend to pay?’

‘The bank will be requiring a portrait of its chairman to hang in the boardroom,’ said Jessica. ‘Guess who they’re about to commission, and what her fee will be?’

Harry smiled, delighted that his granddaughter had regained her irreverent streak, along with her acerbic sense of humour.

‘Do I have any say in this?’ asked Seb.

‘Certainly not,’ said Jessica. ‘Otherwise what’s the point of being a father?’

‘Bravo, Karin,’ said Grace, ‘we all applaud you.’

‘Wait, wait, wait,’ said Seb. ‘There will be a sub-clause attached to the contract. Not a penny will be paid if Karin fails to finish.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Karin, ‘and my thanks to you all.’

‘Who’s left?’ asked Emma.

Everyone turned their attention to Harry, who couldn’t resist making them all wait for a few more moments.

‘Once upon a time there was a remarkable old lady, who, just before she died, wrote a letter to her son suggesting that perhaps the time had come for him to write that novel he had so often told her about.’ He paused. ‘Well, Mother,’ he said, looking towards the heavens, ‘that time has come. I no longer have any excuse not to fulfil your wish, as I’ve just completed the final book in the William Warwick series.’

‘Unless of course your wicked publisher,’ suggested Emma, warming to the theme, ‘were to offer his susceptible author an even larger advance that he found impossible to resist.’

‘I’m happy to tell you that won’t be possible,’ said Harry.