‘Your arch enemy is in all sorts of trouble.’ So said Charlie whilst reading our great nation’s leading scandal sheet on her tablet. ‘Are we pleased?’
‘Buffy is probably just beginning to enjoy himself.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, he delights in thinking up ways of doing the opposite of what people expect, of disorientating them before going on the attack. Journalists, as well as the opposition, should always think twice before telling him there is something he can’t do.’
‘Sounds like he has ongoing authority issues.’
‘I say! There’s no call for that kind of language.’
En route to the Park, with Charlie as usual taking the wheel, I found myself ruminating on past times. ‘At our school it was a tradition, given the extensive private grounds, to give boys the opportunity to learn to drive at a ridiculously young age. However, the quid pro quo for all this, was that the Car…’
‘You don’t have to explain, I know, we had one at Beaconsfield, I was the only girl in our year’s team. We had a Moggy Minor, what did you have?’
‘A Triumph Vitesse.’
‘No way! Not a chance. I know what that is, I’ve seen under the bonnet. This is some kind of a cheat done for the posh boy’s school…’
‘Just, just... Hang on a minute. How it was done, is the whole point of the story.’
‘This had better be good.’
‘Now, originally, back in the nineteen thirties there had been an old Model T that started the tradition. It, as we know, was designed in such a way that a mechanically minded farmer stuck out in the Mid-west could do any kind of repair, ordering parts via the Sear’s catalogue or whatever! Then during the war, they moved up to a baby Austin. Post-war the school gets more ambitious, there was a Moggy at one time, a half-timbered traveller I believe…’
‘It would be.’
‘Before moving on to Minis. But by the early-eighties, the whole self-reliance, team working point of the exercise was rapidly losing relevance. Now it so happens, a new young master turns up who drives a low mileage Vitesse and parks in a carpark stuffed with Jaguars and the occasional Aston. But they are two-a-penny to the boys who have grown up with them all their lives. The new master says why not make it all about vintage, tradition etc. And offers his car, because he’s about to get one of the last TR7s - a decision he regretted for the rest of his life I think.’
‘What colour was it?’
‘Canary yellow.’
‘Not the fucking TR7...’
‘Oh, green, soft-top with red upholstery, quite close to a Great Western locomotive, Brunswick Green.’
‘Carry on.’
By this time, we had arrived and parked. ‘So, when we all arrived and started to absorb the legend, the old stable yard garage had a pit, benches down each side and a hand operated lift from an overhead joist. Our man had accumulated spares and a proper workshop manual, secondhand from a real garage - a ring binder thingy with added notes, drawings etc by real mechanics. Time passes and it becomes our turn for the Vitesse Challenge planned to last for twelve half-days, naturally competition is stiff for places, Gruber, MacIntosh and I are the core of it, but on the day, low and behold Buffy turns up, we all say “what the fuck”, after all he was already well into his Brideshead phase and didn’t know a torque wrench from a toffee apple…’
‘Nothing wrong with Evelyn Waugh.’
‘Sure, Sword of Honour and all that, but at fifteen - starting every sentence with; “My dears”, it’s a bit much.’
‘Are you seriously suggesting you stripped the entire car and put it back together?’
‘All right, but it was a damn good course with supervision; wheels, brakes, shock absorbers, electrics, the high point was to have the engine out at shoulder height, have the ritual celebration, then put the previous hours’ worth of reverse engineering into reverse, whilst we could still remember what we’d done. But my point is, Buffy…’
‘Yes, well, the whole point is to get lost, to have to share ideas, panic, tinker with parts that can tolerate a bit of tinkering. I’m not sure all that qualifies.’
‘But my point is - there really is a lot of tom boy, jolie-laide in you - Buffy, despite lounging and disporting himself all over the place the whole time, turned out to be some real use in the end. He’d started developing this thing, a leadership style I suppose, of staring intently at what’s going on, then saying once in a while; “Cat should be doing that”, or “Barmy’s best for that”. More often than not he was right. He really is the living embodiment of; “I don’t know, but I know a man who does”.’
‘Look out!’
Cat MacIntosh was heading across the carpark. ‘Are you two coming in? There’s a bit of a flap on as it happens.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Just come out of the membership committee. For the first time in ages, we are unresolved. No one forced a vote or anything, but no one really knows the guy, obviously one knows where he works, but even what he actually does is a bit of a mystery.’
‘To whom are you referring?’
‘A chap who goes by the name of Don Wooley.’
‘No! Really?’ So said Charlie with one of her smirks.
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He’s a journalist, works for that paper you delight in calling my scandal sheet. He’s an Aussie bruiser, but really rather camp with it. His by-line often has Executive Editor added, but I don’t know what that means.’
‘This is one of those situations Tony.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘What situations?’
‘Rare, but real. Where we, are stuck in our own world. We need you Charlie. What do we do?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘No! So okay, we know we’re talking to the right person, now help us out.’
‘Talk, to your arch enemy, he didn’t get where he is without help.’
‘Thank you, understood. Time for a little light lunch I think.’
I found a quiet spot alone in the grounds and phoned Carrie. ‘Tony darling! How are things?’
‘Fine, excellent in fact, yourself?’
‘Oh, baring up with the best of Christian fortitude I suppose, he’s got me practicing a sort of low key first lady act, just to keep me occupied until an election date is known. What’s your problem?’
‘I need a couple of minutes chat with Buffy on a non-official, private matter.’
‘Ah, well you may be in luck, he’s here with me in the flat, changing for an early run, God knows where they’ll take him today, I’ll pass this phone over.’
After a ten second mute; ‘Anthony, good news or bad?’
‘Information required, name of Don Wooley - never heard of him until ten minutes ago.’
‘You should have.’
‘That’s why it’s you I’m bothering.’
‘Aussie journo, works for our journal of record. Has a sort of strategic brief, outsider who can see the big picture, understands the changing readership, tell them when they’re missing the target. Quite fun to read too.’
‘That explains why he’s read by my Valette then.’
‘Ha! Love it. Next question.’
‘You know she spotted Frimley at Aberdeen, half a second of video with his back to the camera.’
‘Bloody hell! Still, we got away with it. He reckons we’ll lose in court though.’
‘Then rise above it, explain nothing, question their right to judge.’
‘Goodbye Anthony.’
‘Well?’ Charlie asked as I returned to the veranda bar.
‘I managed to get hold of him, he obliged, gave a short description of what your man is.’
‘What does he recommend?’
‘He, doesn’t recommend anything, anyway the conversation never happened. If formally asked by the committee for my opinion, I shall give my opinion.’
‘Wait here, I’ll see if they want a post-lunch recommencement.’ So said Cat before scurrying off.
‘So? What will you recommend?’
‘Let the bugger in!’
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