This Was a Man (The Clifton Chronicles #7)(92)

‘But you’d still be in charge of foreign exchange, which is one of the bank’s most lucrative departments.’

‘And reports directly to the CEO, in case you’ve forgotten.’

‘Then I’ll make it clear that in future you report directly to me.’

‘That’s nothing more than a sop, and everyone will know it. No, if you don’t feel I’m up to being managing director, you’ve left me with no choice but to resign.’

‘That’s the last thing I want,’ said Sebastian, as his oldest friend gathered his papers and left the room without another word. Victor closed the door quietly behind him.

‘That went well,’ said Seb.





‘You’ve been putting it off for years,’ said Karin after she’d read the letter.

‘But I’m over sixty,’ protested Giles.

‘It’s the Castle versus the Village,’ she reminded him, ‘not England against the West Indies. In any case, you’re always telling me how much you wished I’d seen your cover drive.’

‘In my prime, not in my dotage.’

‘And,’ continued Karin, ignoring the outburst, ‘you gave your word to Freddie.’ Giles couldn’t think of a suitable reply. ‘And let’s face it, if I can run a marathon, you can certainly turn out for a village cricket match.’ Words that finally silenced her husband.

Giles read the letter once more and groaned as he sat down at his desk. He extracted a sheet of paper from the rack, removed the top from his pen and began to write.



Dear Freddie,

I would be delighted to join your team for . . .





‘Aren’t they magnificent?’ the young man said as he admired the seven drawings that had been awarded the Founder’s Prize.

‘Do you think so?’ replied the young woman.

‘Oh yes! And such a clever idea to take the seven ages of woman as her theme.’

‘Oh, I missed that,’ she said, looking at him more closely. The young man’s clothes rather suggested he hadn’t looked in a mirror before leaving for work that morning. Nothing matched. A smart Harris Tweed jacket paired with a blue shirt, green tie, grey trousers and brown shoes. But he displayed a warmth and enthusiasm for the artist’s work that was quite infectious.

‘As you can see,’ he said, warming to the task, ‘the artist has taken as her subject a woman running a marathon, and has depicted the seven stages of the race. The first drawing is on the starting line, when she’s warming up, apprehensive but alert. In the next,’ he said, pointing to the second drawing, ‘she’s reached the five-mile mark, and is still full of confidence. But by the time she’s reached ten miles,’ he said, moving on to the third drawing, ‘she’s clearly beginning to feel the pain.’

‘And the fourth?’ she asked, looking more carefully at the drawing, which the artist had described as ‘the wall’.

‘Just look at the expression on the runner’s face, which leaves you in no doubt that she’s beginning to wonder if she’ll be able to finish the course.’ She nodded. ‘And the fifth shows her just clinging on as she passes what I assume must be her family cheering. She’s raised an arm to acknowledge them, but even in the raising of that arm, with a single delicate line the artist leaves you in no doubt what a supreme effort it must have been.’ Pointing to the sixth drawing, he continued effusively, ‘Here we see her crossing the finishing line, arms raised in triumph. And then moments later, in the final drawing, she collapses on the ground exhausted, having given everything, and is rewarded with a medal hung around her neck. Notice that the artist has added the yellow and green of the ribbon, the only hint of colour in all seven drawings. Quite brilliant.’

‘You must be an artist yourself.’

‘I wish,’ he said, giving her a warm smile. ‘The nearest I ever got was when I won an art prize at school and decided to apply for a place at the Slade, but they turned me down.’

‘There are other art colleges.’

‘Yes, and I applied to most of them – Goldsmiths, Chelsea, Manchester. I even went up to Glasgow for an interview, but always with the same result.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘No need to be, because I finally asked a member of one of the interviewing panels why they kept rejecting me.’

‘And what did they say?’

‘Your A-level results were impressive enough,’ the young man said, holding the lapels of his jacket and sounding twenty years older, ‘and you are clearly passionate about the subject and have buckets of energy and enthusiasm, but sadly something is missing. “What’s that?” I asked. “Talent,” he replied.’

‘Oh, how cruel!’

‘No, not really. Just realistic. He went on to ask if I’d considered teaching, which only added salt to the wound, because it reminded me of George Bernard Shaw’s words, those who can, do, those who can’t, teach. But then I went away and thought about it, and realized he was right.’

‘So now you’re a teacher?’

‘I am. I read Art History at King’s, and I’m now teaching at a grammar school in Peckham, where at least I think I can say I’m a better artist than my pupils. Well, most of them,’ he added with a grin.