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  Robin was reading the morning paper when he heard a knock on the door.

  ‘I have a recorded delivery for you, Mr Chapman,’ said the postman. ‘I’ll need a signature.’

  Robin signed on the dotted line, recognizing the crest of the Royal Jersey Golf Club stamped in the top left-hand corner of the envelope. He ripped it open and read the letter as he returned to the kitchen, and read it a second time before he handed it across to Diana.

  THE ROYAL JERSEY GOLF CLUB

  St Helier, Jersey

  9 September 1946

  Dear Sir,

  We have reason to believe that at some time in the past you applied to become a member of the Royal Jersey Golf Club, but unfortunately all our records were destroyed during the German occupation.

  If you still wish to be considered for membership of the club, it will be necessary for you to go through the application process once again and we will be happy to arrange an interview.

  Should your application prove successful, your name will be placed on the waiting list.

  Yours sincerely,

  J. L. Tindall

  (Secretary)

  Robin swore for the first time since the Germans had left the island.

  Diana could do nothing to console him, despite the fact that his brother was coming across from the mainland to spend his first weekend with them since the end of the war.

  Robin was standing on the dockside when Malcolm stepped off the Southampton ferry. Malcolm was able to lift his older brother’s spirits when he told him and Diana all the news about the company’s expansion plans, as well as delivering several messages from their children.

  ‘Kate has a boyfriend,’ he told them, ‘and—’

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Robin. ‘Am I that old?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Diana, smiling.

  ‘I’m thinking of opening a fourth branch of Chapman’s in Brighton,’ Malcolm announced over dinner that night. ‘With so many factories springing up in the area, they’re sure to be in need of our services.’

  ‘Not looking for a manager are you, by any chance?’ asked Robin.

  ‘Why, are you available?’ replied Malcolm, looking genuinely surprised.

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ said Diana firmly.

  By the time Malcolm took the boat back home to Southend the following Monday, Robin had perked up considerably. He even felt able to joke about attending the interview at the Royal Jersey. However, when the day came for him to face the committee, Diana had to escort him to the car, drive him to the club and deposit him at the entrance to the clubhouse.

  ‘Good luck,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek. Robin grunted. ‘And don’t even hint at how angry you are. It’s not their fault that the Germans destroyed all the club’s records.’

  ‘I shall tell them they can stick my application form up their jumpers,’ said Robin. They both burst out laughing at the latest expression they’d picked up from the mainland. ‘Do they have any idea how old I’ll be in fifteen years’ time?’ he added as he stepped out of the car.

  Robin checked his watch. He was five minutes early. He straightened his tie before walking slowly across the gravel to the clubhouse. So many memories came flooding back: the first time he had seen Diana, when she had walked into the bar to speak to her brother; the day he was appointed captain of the club – the first Englishman to be so honoured; that missed putt on the eighteenth that would have won him the President’s Cup; not being able to play in the final the following year because he’d broken his arm; the evening Lord Trent had asked him to sail him to the mainland because the Prime Minister needed his services; the day a German officer had shown him respect and compassion after he had saved the lives of his countrymen. And now, today . . . he opened the newly painted door and stepped inside.

  He looked up at the portrait of Harry Vardon and gave him a respectful bow, then turned his attention to Lord Trent, who had died the previous year, having served his country during the war as the Minister for Food.

  ‘The committee will see you now, Mr Chapman,’ said the club steward, interrupting his thoughts.

  Diana had decided to wait in the car, as she assumed the interview wouldn’t take long. After all, every member of the committee had known Robin for over twenty years. But after half an hour she began to glance at her watch every few minutes, and couldn’t believe that Robin still hadn’t appeared an hour later. She had just decided to go in and ask the steward what was holding her husband up when the clubhouse door swung open and Robin marched out, a grim look on his face. She jumped out of the car and ran towards him.

  ‘Anyone who wishes to reapply for membership cannot hope to be elected for at least another fifteen years,’ he said, walking straight past her.

  ‘Are there no exceptions?’ asked Diana, chasing after him.

  ‘Only for the new president,’ said Robin, ‘who will be made an honorary life member. The rules don’t seem to apply to him.’

  ‘But that really is so unfair,’ said Diana, bursting into tears. ‘I shall personally complain to the new president.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, my dear,’ said Robin, taking his wife in his arms. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’ll take any notice.’

  THE UNDIPLOMATIC DIPLOMAT*

  10

  PERCIVAL ARTHUR Clarence Forsdyke – his mother called him Percival, while the few friends he had called him Percy – was born into a family which had played its part in ensuring that the sun never set on the British Empire.

  Percy’s grandfather, Lord Clarence Forsdyke, had been Governor General of the Sudan, while his father, Sir Arthur Forsdyke KCMG, had been our man in Mesopotamia. So, naturally, great things were expected of young Percy.

  Within hours of entering this world, he had been put down for the Dragon prep school, Winchester College and Trinity, Cambridge, establishments at which four generations of Forsdykes had been educated.

  After Cambridge, it was assumed that Percy would follow his illustrious forebears into the Foreign Office, where he would be expected at least to equal and possibly even to surpass their achievements. All might have gone to plan had it not been for one small problem: Percy was far too clever for his own good. He won a scholarship to the Dragon at the age of eight, an election to Winchester College before his eleventh birthday, and the Anderson Classics Prize to Trinity while he was still in short trousers. After leaving Cambridge with a double first in Classics, he sat the Civil Service exam, and frankly no one was surprised when he came top in his year.

  Percy was welcomed into the Foreign and Commonwealth Office with open arms, but that was when his problems began. Or, to be more accurate, when the Foreign Office’s problems began.

  The mandarins at the FCO, who are expected to identify high flyers worthy of being fast-tracked, came to the reluctant conclusion that, despite Forsdyke’s academic achievements, the young man lacked common sense, possessed few social skills and cared little for the diplomatic niceties required when representing your country abroad – something of a disadvantage if you wish to pursue a career in the Foreign Office.

  During his first posting, to Nigeria, Percy told the Minister of Finance that he had no grasp of economics. The problem was that the minister didn’t have any grasp of economics, so Percy had to be dispatched back to England on the first available boat.

  After a couple of years in administration, Percy was given a second chance, and sent to Paris as an assistant secretary. He might have survived this posting had he not told the French President’s wife at a government reception that the world was overpopulated, and she wasn’t helping matters by producing so many children. Percy had a point, as the lady in question had seven offspring and was pregnant at the time, but he was still to be found packing his bags before lunch the following day. A further spell in admin followed before he was given his third, and final, chance.

  On this occasion he was dispatched to one of Her Majesty’s smaller colonies in Central Africa as a deputy consul. Within six months he had manag