A Quiver Full of Arrows by Jeffrey Archer

nibbling a
salad. He waved expansively at Edward Shrimpton, who returned the gesture with
a friendly nod. We sat down at a table in the centre of the room and studied
the menu. Steak and kidney pie was the dish of the day, which was probably the
case in half the mens’ clubs in the world. Edward wrote down our orders in a neat
and legible hand on the little white slip provided by the waiter.
    Edward asked me about the author I was
chasing and made some penetrating comments about her earlier work, to which I
responded as best I could while trying to think of a plot to make him discuss
the pre-war backgammon championship, which I considered would make a far better
story than anything she had ever written. But he never talked about himself
once during the meal, so I despaired. Finally, staring up at the plaque on the
wall, I said clumsily:
    “I see you were runner-up in the club backgammon
championship just before the war. You must have been a fine player.”
    “No, not really,” he replied. “Not many
people bothered about the game in those days. There is a different attitude
today with all the youngsters taking it so seriously.”
    “What about the champion?” I said, pushing
my luck.
    “Harry Newman?- He was an outstanding
player, and particularly good under pressure. He’s the gentleman who greeted us
when we came in. That’s him sitting over there in the corner with his wife.”
    I looked obediently towards Mr.
    Newman’s table but my host added nothing
more so I gave up. We ordered coffee and that would have been the end of
Edward’s story if Harry Newman and his wife had not headed straight for us
after they had finished their lunch. Edward was on his feet long before I was,
despite my twenty-year advantage. Harry Newman looked even bigger standing up,
and his little blonde wife looked more like the dessert than his spouse.
    “Ed,” he boomed, “how are you?”
     
    “I’m well, thank you, Harry,” Edward
replied. “May I introduce my guest?”
    “Nice to know you,” he said. “Rusty, I’ve
always wanted you to meet Ed Shrimpton because I’ve talked to you about him so
often in the past.”
    “Have you, Harry?” she squeaked.
    “Of course. You remember, honey. Ed is up
there on the Tic PcrScet Gentleman backgammon honours board,” he said, pointing
a stubby finger towards the plaque. “With only one name in front of him and
that’s mine. And Ed was the world champion at the time. Isn’t that right, Ed?”
    “That’s right, Harry.”
    “So I suppose I really should have been the
world champion that year, wouldn’t you say?”
    “I couldn’t quarrel with that conclusion,”
replied Edward.
    “On the big day, Rusty, when it really mattered,
and the pressure was on, I beat him fair and square.”
    I stood in silent disbeliefas Edward
Shrimpton still volunteered no disagreement.
    “We must play again for old times’ sake,
Ed,” the fat man continued. “It would be fun to see if you could beat me now.
Mind you, I’m a bit rusty nowadays, Rusty.” He laughed loudly at his own joke
but his spouse’s face remained blank. I wondered how long it would be before
there was a fifth Mrs.
    Newman.
    “It’s been great to see you again, Ed. Take
care of yourself.”
    “Thank you Harry,” said Edward.
    We both sat down again as Newman and his
wife left the dining room. Our coffee was now cold so we ordered a fresh pot.
The room was almost empty and when I had poured two cups for us Edward leaned
over to me conspiratorially and whispered:
    “Now there’s a hell of a story for a
publisher like you,” he said. “I mean the real truth about Harry Newman.”
    My ears pricked up as I anticipated his
version of the story of what had actually happened on the night of that pre-war
backgammon championship over thirty years before.
    “Really?” I said, innocently.
    “Oh, yes,” said Edward. “It was not as
simple as you might think. Just before the war Harry was let down very badly by
his