Professor Leighton Vaughan Williams

The Problem with Teddy – A Short Story

By Leighton Vaughan Williams

It was difficult to argue with Teddy. Whether he was right or wrong, I could never be sure. But I was sure of one thing, that if he said something was going to happen, it did. That was the problem with Teddy. He never got it wrong. And soon that would become a problem for me.

Chapter 1
The problem with language

A dog can expect its master. That is certainly true. But it can’t expect its master next Tuesday,” said Teddy. “Why not?” I asked. “Because a dog has no concept of time?” “No,” responded Teddy, “it is because a dog has no concept of language.” “So can a lion expect a meal when it sees its wounded prey?” I enquired. “You could ask it,” he said, “but you would never understand the answer. Because even if a lion had language, it would be no language we could ever understand.”

“You see,” said Teddy, “language is how we experience the world, as well as the way that we choose to represent it.”

“So language represents the boundaries of what we can know?”, I asked. “You have said it,” he exclaimed. “In clear, plain language.” “This doesn’t mean that nothing exists that can’t be expressed in language, only that it is outside the limits of our philosophy. “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” I offered. “Yes, than in all our philosophies”, he assured me. “But we can never use philosophy to find or explain them.”

“Can you be sure of that?”, I asked. “There is no way to verify that. And if a statement can’t be verified it is meaningless. That’s the test of a meaningful statement.” For a brief moment I felt clever.

“Why do you say that an unverifiable statement is meaningless?’” Teddy asked me. “In that case your own statement is meaningless.”

It was difficult to argue with Teddy. Whether he was right or wrong, I could never be sure. But I was sure of one thing, that I had never shown him to be wrong. Not to myself or to anyone else. That was the genius of Teddy, but it was also the problem.

Chapter 2
The problem with probability

“Even a double-headed coin can come down tails,” said Teddy when he entered our shared workspace, displaying his particularly sprightly gait. And his tap, tap, tap of ebony stick. Now, he didn’t need the walking stick. But he did like to tap, tap, tap it along the floor. That was another problem with Teddy.

“I don’t see how a double-headed coin can come down tails,” came my instant riposte. “It’s all about probability,” he said. “It’s a very low probability, but in the quantum universe, a double-headed coin can definitely come down tails.” I assumed he was right, but I couldn’t see how.

He read a lot, and was proud of what he’d learned. “The man who DOES NOT read the great thinkers has no advantage over the man who CAN NOT read them,” Teddy once told me. “The same goes for a woman,” I said, trying to sound enlightened. I liked to sound enlightened in front of Teddy. I don’t know why. I never did. Even when I said something that I thought made some kind of sense. A glance from Teddy always made that abundantly clear.

But I did admire Teddy’s uncanny ability to distinguish what was going to happen from what was not. He had the gift of what some call prescient foresight but what others might call knowing a sure thing.

You see, when Teddy said something would happen, it happened. Like when he called double-six on the pair of dice I had brought from home. That’s a 35 to 1 chance, logic told me, but in my belly I knew it would happen. I knew that as soon as Teddy said six-six. And six-six it was. I guess you could call it a trick, or you could call it magic. I don’t know about that, but I did now something for sure. If Teddy said it would happen, it would. Never bet against Teddy. That was my watchword. Until I did.

Chapter 3
The problem with wagers

“It’s usually best to back the favourite”, I told Teddy. “I had read it in a book. A book by an expert.” “That’s true if you’re talking probabilities,” said Teddy. So now I knew it was true. “But if you know something is going to happen, that doesn’t apply,” he said.

And so we went on Sunday night to the casino, at the insistence of the man who knew when things would happen. We never met at the weekend, but today there was a reason, said Teddy. He knew I would win.

“Let’s play roulette,” he said. And produced a wad of notes, a very big wad of notes. “”Red or black,” he asked. “You choose.”

I chose black. “I would choose red,” he said. “It’s your money,” I said. “No, it’s not,” he replied. “It’s yours now, a thousand pounds, to lose, to double, or to keep.”

“Can I just keep the thousand pounds?” I asked, and not risk it on red, or black. It was a joke, of a kind. Teddy was not a generous man, and certainly not generous enough to gift me a grand. And to me it was a lot of money, money I needed to live.

“You’ve struck lucky in the quantum world,” said Teddy. “The thousand is yours. To keep or to spin. I say red, and I say it’s a sure thing.”

“One spin of the wheel, for the lot, or take it home. Your choice.”

Now, when Teddy said something would happen, it did. And he was saying it was going to be red. But my common sense told me that Teddy could not know. The wheel had not yet even started to spin.

“I’ll keep it,” I declared. A thousand pounds. “OK, cash it in,” he said. “It’s yours.” I protested – what if we share it, I said? But he declined. Teddy didn’t need the money. Knowing what would happen had already made him a rich man. And he was not the kind to share. “Good night,” he said, and tap, tap, tapped off into the gathering twilight.

So to the next day, and I asked him how he knew the ball would have landed on red. “I knew we’d never find out,” said Teddy. “Because I knew you’d never wager a thousand pounds on the spin of the wheel.” “But what if I had spun the wheel?” I asked. “Then you would have won,” he said. “A universe in which you would spin that wheel is a universe in which you would be sure to win.” I thought I understood what he meant.

Chapter 4
The problem with money

“Does it make you happy, knowing what’s going to happen?” I asked. “Isn’t it a burden?” “I don’t always know what’s going to happen,” he corrected me. “But when I know for sure that something will happen, it does,” he said. “It’s not at all the same thing.”

“But that’s enough to make you a lot of money,” I said. “Knowing some things for sure that others think are unsure has made you so much money.”

And so he told me the tale of Thales, the Greek philosopher, who made his fortune by the application of modern day principles of analysis to ancient day Greece. The story involved forecasts and finance and options on olive presses. I honestly can’t recall all the details. But Teddy could. “Which shows,” he concluded, “that it is much easier for a philosopher to become rich than for a rich man to become a philosopher. But the ambitions of philosophers are of another kind.” It was clear he was talking about himself.

As for me, I just wanted to be rich like Teddy. I knew I would never be as wise.

But all of his great knowledge, great insight, great wisdom – was a burden to him? He seemed to read my mind.

“Great wisdom does not necessarily bring great happiness,” was his now detached observation. “Nor does great riches.”

“So maybe I’m better off being ignorant old me,” I said. “Just seeking the simple things in life, and enough money to enjoy them.”

He shook his head now, disapprovingly.

“Which is better?”, he asked me, “to be a human being dissatisfied or a pig satisfied, to be Socrates dissatisfied or a fool satisfied?” He was quoting one of the great philosophers again. I could tell that by the way he spoke his syllables. But I didn’t really understand the question, let alone the answer. That, I am afraid, was the problem with me.

Chapter 5
The problem with cars

We shared coffee and lunch that day, accompanied by the walking stick, the shiny ebony walking stick. I plucked up courage to ask him about the walking stick, why it accompanied him wherever he walked. “This is not a walking stick,” he replied. I did not ask again.

“So what if I told you that I am sure you will be knocked down by a car tomorrow?”, he now asked me.

“You can’t be sure of that,” I said. “I might not go anywhere near a car.” I suspected he was joking. Not a pretty joke, but Teddy and good taste didn’t always see eye to eye.

He reminded me that there was no way of reaching the office without crossing a road. “I’ll be extra careful,” I said.

“You will be knocked down by a car tomorrow,” he repeated, ” and you will be crippled for life.”

He was deadly serious and now I was scared, because when Teddy knew that something was going to happen, it always did.

“It can’t be inevitable,” I said. “What if I don’t even step outside my front door?” “You won’t do that,” he replied. “You are too curious to see if I’m right.” “Nobody’s that curious,” was my instant response. But I was, because I couldn’t see how he could know this. It was like predicting where the roulette ball would land before the wheel even started spinning. I told him so. “Or like predicting six-six on the dice,” he said. I shuddered – and suddenly felt cold.

How could he know? Had he heard of a plot to harm me? Did he know people who knew? Or was he planning to harm me himself. But if so, why warn me? I could make no sense of the problem, no way through the maze. What would Socrates make of this, I wondered. And what advice would he have for the fool?

I asked Teddy for evidence, for proof. He offered none. He said he knew but said he could not explain. Not to me. He gave no reason, but this told me nothing, because he never did. He never told me how he knew that something would happen, but I knew that it always did.

I turned to close friends, close family. Ignore it. Play safe. He’s just trying to frighten you. Maybe he knows something. A mix of opinions, but nothing to help. Not one of them knew Teddy, nor his ebony stick. And not one of them knew that when Teddy knew something, he knew it for sure.

That was the problem with Teddy. And now it had become a very real problem for me.

Chapter 6
The problem with fate

The day wore on and soon a decision had to be made. A choice to make. A choice between the evidence of my experience, that Teddy was never wrong, or my experience of the evidence, of which there was none. I asked Teddy one last time before we retired to our separate homes. Should I stay home all the next day, or should I brave life’s fate? Could I change destiny?

“All fates are possible,” said Teddy, “but the universe where you will come to no harm is not the universe in which you currently live.” I was thinking back now to that spin of the roulette wheel. In a universe where I spun the wheel, I felt sure I would have won. I chose not to. But I could have done. Surely this meant that life’s events were not pre-destined, written in stone and waiting to simply unfold. I could do something about it. I could have spun that wheel. But that would have been a different universe, where everything would be different. Would it even be me on that universe? I wanted to go back, to ask myself to spin that wheel. But I could never meet myself, because yesterday I was a different person, as are we all. We can never go back and meet ourselves, only meet ghostly shadows of who we were, shadows that made us what we are and who we might have been.

I no longer saw things as they were, asking why. I saw things now as they might be, asking why not.

“I can change the world,” I told Teddy. “I can spin that wheel.”

“Yes, we can change our destinies,” he said. “We have the freedom of will to choose.”

It was approaching six and the caretakers came to shut up the building. It was not the perfect arrangement, but it suited us.

He picked up his ebony stick and set off, with his usual jaunty gait. “You are quite the philosopher now,” he called back, “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”

“But …” I started to say. He was gone already. That was the problem with Teddy. Always too quick on that stick.

Chapter 7
The problem with thinking

I woke up at dawn next morning and thought of the double-headed coin that might come down tails. But I knew that I could do nothing about that. The quantum world was out of my control.

But some things were within my control, and one was the choice of whether to change life’s plan, to spin the wheel, to change the course of fate.

This could mean staying home, behind closed doors, away from the rush of traffic. This is what it meant to Teddy. But this is not what it meant to me.

Teddy saw things as they were, and he saw things that would be. I now saw things differently. I saw a world as it might be. Where I had the choice to use reason and faith and hope. To conquer fear, on my own terms.

But reason told me that Teddy’s foresight of my fate was not to be overlooked lightly. Teddy didn’t make that kind of mistake.

But Teddy’s universe wasn’t the one I had to inhabit. I could change my destiny. I could stay home, shuttering out the summer day. But I was becoming a philosopher. And the ambitions of philosophers are of another kind.

“A dog can expect its master, but it cannot expect its master next Tuesday,” Teddy had once explained. I thought of that now as I realised that Teddy was not expecting me today. I had become a philosopher, a thinker. Teddy would soon see.

So I called a taxi, all the way to my front door, and asked to be dropped off at the back entrance to our shared workplace. No cars to knock me down. I would be straight into that taxi, approached from the back. I would ask for the back door of the taxi to adjoin the back door of the workplace. I would give an excuse. Security. And the same when I returned home. Reason over fear. No room for error.

Until the taxi, en route from home to work, came to a halt. On the busy dual carriageway. Something rattling. So Teddy was right. Terrifyingly right. Could I get out and help him identify the noise, asked the driver. No, no, no, I screamed! He looked at me as if I was slightly mad. But this madness had method. To spin the wheel, to save life and limb.

And soon we got going again, me firmly in back seat.

So it was with some surprise, and my almost crazed relief, that we arrived at the door. To park with back door adjoining back door came as a curiosity to the driver. But he nodded sympathetically and I tipped him in thanks.

I skipped up the steps to our plush interconnecting offices, where Teddy wrote software, and I helped him do it. He heard my steps and tried to shut the door, but I was through first. “How are you here?” he shouted. “You’re at home!” Evidently not, I might have replied. Instead, I just stood there, in openmouthed shock at the scene that unfolded before me.

Chapter 8
The problem with Teddy

Every drawer had been emptied, every cupboard laid bare, ornaments and accessories opened or turned upside down. If something had been hidden, it would by now have been found. “What is happening?” I would have sat down, but the seats were upturned, and I had no stomach to right them.

“A burglary,” he said. But I didn’t believe him. “Why would burglars turn everything upside down and take nothing?” I asked. “That beggars belief.”

“I disturbed them,” he said, “took about them with my stick. They fled.”

“Let’s call the police,” I insisted, “Check the CCTV.” “No,” he said sharply. “Let’s not.”

A short pause. “Is it safe?” he asked. “Is it safe?”

“Is what safe, Teddy, is what safe?”

He seemed unsure now, what to say or do. “They were my numbers,” he said, “I suggested the numbers. They came up on Saturday night. I know that you keep it here, you always keep your ticket here until you check the numbers on a Wednesday. And I know you never sign it. Be fair, Charlie, let’s share it.”

He looked at me menacingly. Teddy, I knew, was not the sort of man who shared anything. It was all about Teddy. The gift of the thousand pounds now made sense. He had made his case, that I should spin the wheel, that I could re-arrange fate. But a gift so generous. Now I saw. It was his back-up plan.

“No, Teddy, it isn’t safe. I didn’t buy a ticket last week. There’s nothing to share.”

Teddy lunged at me, screaming, before collapsing to the floor, thrashing around. Yet still looking up at me, the look of sheer menace still etched on his face.

I was relieved that I hadn’t bought a ticket. He would have found it, signed it, cashed it, if it had existed. I would not have seen a penny. He had suggested some numbers, but for once this was blind chance. He had not seen the future, the future had grasped him invitingly by the hand. Or so he had thought. And now he sought control, control of what was to come.

I peered now yet further into his soul, and saw it for what it was. I had glimpsed it before. But what I saw now was yet darker. Consciousness without conscience. A man with no love for anything higher or other than himself.

And I saw now how the things he forecast always came true. Because he made them come true. Until now. He was the sort of man who would sell shares in cruise liners and then plant an iceberg, if he could.

“But you would have been rich too!” cried the man who was already rich. The man who lived in a mansion and looked down on the homeless. The man who liked to rip up the charity envelope.

“What shall it profit a man if he should gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” I asked him now. “Answer me, Teddy!” But no answer came from the man who knew when bad things were going to happen, who knew because he made those things so.

I picked up his stick. I wanted to hit him, to beat him with that shiny, ebony stick. He cowered. A coward, infused with consciousness, but devoid of conscience. I put it down again. It would have given me satisfaction. But it would have made me more like Teddy. For Teddy, his own personal satisfaction was all that mattered.

That was the problem with Teddy. I didn’t want it to be the problem with me.

I sat on the floor, and considered my options.

“I have something to report,” I told the operator. About some bad things that have happened, some things unexplained. Can I speak to the police?”

Bertie’s Big Idea – A Short Story

By Leighton Vaughan Williams

Albert ‘Bertie’ Simpson Sinclair was a man who in earlier days might have been described as a bounder and a cad, albeit an immensely likeable and charming member of that sub-species. The problem for Bertie was that he was, as such, a hopeless, if heroic, failure. But Bertie was an optimist, a man who believed in the philosophy of ‘one more push’, of the sure triumph of unsound hope over all too sound experience. And he had an idea which he believed would make him rich. This is the story of Bertie and his magnificent idea.

Bertie’s Dream

Mr. Bertie Simpson Sinclair liked to think of himself as an ideas man. And an ideas man he certainly was. He had plenty of ideas, albeit none of them good. But his latest idea was going to be different. Of that he was sure. He had envisaged, in one giant midsummer night’s dream, a scheme to make himself rich, without making others commensurately poor. To this extent, it was an unusual idea for Bertie, for whom all previous schemes consisted of persuading others to part with their money in pursuit of an apparent though negative actual benefit. Bertie called such schemes win-win. By this he meant that he would win twice, first by taking their money, then by virtue of the scheme into which they had invested. The problem for Bertie was that every such scheme remained a dream, for all his boundless wit and charm. Even his plan to sell tips on the horses, then persuade his followers to place their own money on these gems of advice and share with him half the winnings, but none of the losses, failed when faced with the cold light of reality. There were so many others, including Bertie’s ‘Grow rich while you sleep’ manual, his ‘Learn while you doze’ method, his ‘Snooze yourself slim’ prospectus, his ‘Succeed while you slumber’ pamphlet. Bertie reasoned that alert, wakeful people were out of his reach, which left the more reposed segment of the population as his natural target audience. It was not just the fact that he himself was neither rich, learned, successful nor svelte. The real problem for Bertie was that he had singularly failed to convince even one other member of the human race that he could help them become what he so evidently was not. But that, decided Bertie, was about to change. Because of his midsummer night’s dream.

Bertie’s Idea

Bertie liked to think of himself as a clubbable man, a sociable ‘bon viveur’ who could mix with natural ease and grace with ladies and gentlemen of refinement. To this end he sought membership of tennis clubs, golf clubs, health clubs, focusing on the most exclusive of each. But Bertie had not grown rich while he slept. On the contrary, he had grown increasingly poor even as he dreamed of growing rich. As such, he was unable to actually gain entry to any of these clubs of the clubbable, as he thought of them. It was all an unrequited dream. But then came the big dream, that midsummer night, the night that inspired Bertie’s big idea. He had dreamed that he was at the door of one of these desirable clubs of the clubbable, begging inwardly to be allowed in, when an elegantly attired gentleman, upon exiting, had spotted the less than svelte figure of the unlearned though charming Bertie, and spoken to him, softly.  “Sir,” he had quietly ventured, “what are you doing waiting at the door? Did you not know that this is a club reserved only for the clubbable?” Taking immediate offence, Bertie’s dreamworld person had risen quickly to his own defence. “I AM a clubbable man,” he had expostulated, invoking his own claims to that most cherished status in society. But something within him had turned, something that was stirred by the well-dressed accuser. And so awoke Bertie, with his brand new big idea, an idea which he had instantly concluded would make him rich.

Bertie’s plan

A club for the unclubbable! That’s what he would create. He would create the world’s first club which would only accept members who didn’t want to join, members who were truly unclubbable. He would in other words create a club for those unwilling to join any club that would accept them as a member. The idea was one thing, turning it into a practical scheme was quite another. But that, for Bertie, was the challenge. And the rewards beckoned for Bertie like a shining beacon on a golden hilltop. At least that’s the way that Bertie visualized things. But he knew he was at base camp and the climb that lay ahead was steep and possibly long.

He was not a gifted thinker, but he did have thoughts, and the first of these was to place an advertisement in the local newspaper. Although a man of strictly limited means, it was his only hope of starting the climb which would take him to that shining beacon atop the golden hilltop. The advert was quite simply stated. “Would you join any club that would accept you as a member? If so, we’re wrong for you. We are the world’s only club for the unclubbable. We accept all and only those who don’t wish to join us.”

It was more words than Bertie could really afford, but he had seen that beacon atop the glittering hill and this was his one-time chance to glimpse its light. In the face of that shining lamp, he was steadfast. He would not blink. He waited. For the first response. It arrived by mail the very next day. Addressed to Mr. A. Sinclair, the envelope contained one sheet of blue vellum notepaper. In neat lettering, it was from a Mr. Charles Bone, who simply enquired whether there was an active membership of the club. If so, he was not interested. If not, he might be. Bertie replied with alacrity.  “There is no active membership, so we do not wish to accept you as a member.” By return of post, Mr. Bone accepted membership of this club that didn’t wish to accept him as a member, on one condition. “I am not an active man, and have no wish to be involved with active people. I will join on this condition,” wrote the first and thus far only member of the world’s first club for the unclubbable.

By the same post came an enquiry from a Miss Edith Spratt, who declared herself unwilling to join the club because, while she had been told of the advert, she was not from the local area. As such, she could not make use of its services, even if she wished to, which she did not. Bertie was delighted to accept her as a member, because she was so clearly unable and unwilling to benefit from membership. He wrote to tell her so. On this basis, Miss Spratt became the second member of Sinclair’s club for the unclubbable.

No fee was asked, and none given, by either Mr. Bone or Miss Spratt. But they served their purpose. Neither could in any way reasonably be classed as active members of the fledgling club, but there was now at least a club in existence, and in their different ways both of its members were of the unclubbable kind. There were no further replies to the advertisement, but Bertie was not discouraged. He had left base camp and set forth up the golden hill. He would not turn back.

And so came to Bertie his next idea. If he could introduce Mr. Bone to Miss Spratt, they might help him spread the word through what he conceived as some form of human chain letter that would spread forth and gather together the great unclubbable hordes, brought together into one vast club composed of only those unable and unwilling to join a club.

“Do you possess transport?” Bertie now wrote to Miss Spratt. “Yes”, came the one word reply. Seizing upon this positive news, Bertie devised a plan to bring together the only members of his brand new club. He offered, though he could ill afford it, to pay the cost of fuel for what would be a 70 mile journey for Miss Spratt. The response from Miss Spratt was quick in coming and even quicker in its message. “Dear Mr. Sinclair, my transport is an electric wheelchair. Yours sincerely, Miss E. Spratt”.

To Bertie, that hilltop was starting to look further away than ever.

Bertie’s vision

Was Bertie’s vision turning into a mirage? It was a question that might have deterred many, but not a question that deterred Bertie. If Miss Spratt could not come to Mr. Bone, then Mr. Bone must be brought to Miss Spratt, reasoned Bertie with impeccable rigour. Without further ado, he grabbed his quill-like pen, and rushed off a letter. “Dear Mr. Bone, I would like you to meet Miss Edith Spratt.  Like you, she is totally unsuited to the life of a club. In short, she is totally unclubbable. Yet she is a member of the club to which you belong. I think this remarkable coincidence is too great to be overlooked. For that reason, I would like you to meet Miss Spratt. She lives some distance away, but this has the advantage of offering you a pleasant journey even if the meeting is less pleasant than might reasonably be hoped. I hope you reply affirmatively. Yours sincerely, Albert Simpson Sinclair.”

Mr. Bone responded immediately, posing just one short question. “Is Miss Spratt an active member of the club?” Bertie was eager to re-assure. “No, Miss Spratt is not an active member of the club. I trust this reassures you.” It did. The following day, Bertie received the acceptance of his invitation. All that remained was to persuade Edith Spratt to accept the same invitation to meet Mr. Bone. “Dear Miss Spratt,” wrote Bertie, “I would like you to meet Mr. Charles Bone. He is not a clubbable man, and by natural inclination not an active man, but he shares with you membership of the club which I am proud to manage. I trust this remarkable coincidence offers sufficient grounds for you to accept this invitation. Yours sincerely, Albert ‘Please call me Bertie’ Simpson Sinclair.

The letter of response arrived by return of post. Addressed to Mr. Bertie Sinclair, and written in exquisite script, it was simply expressed. “Dear Bertie, I accept your invitation. Please be so kind as to bring Mr. Bone to me. Yours truly, Edith.”

And so was arranged the meeting between Mr. Charles Bone, retired undertaker, and Miss Edith Spratt, lady of leisure, to take place the following Wednesday at the home of Edith Spratt. Thursday and Friday came and went, as did the weekend, but no news leaked out. For several more days, Bertie rushed each morning to pick up the morning mail. But no letter arrived from either Mr. Bone or Miss Spratt. After two weeks had elapsed, which seemed like three months, Bertie reached for his pen and wrote to Mr. Bone. “Dear Mr. Bone, I hope and trust that your meeting with Miss Edith Spratt went well. Perhaps your meeting went so well that you have had little time to write letters. If so, I would be delighted to hear of this happy news, which you might perhaps share much more widely. Yours expectantly, Albert Simpson Sinclair”.

Sooner rather than later a letter arrived, addressed to Mr. A. S. Sinclair.

“Dear Mr. Sinclair,” it read, “Thank you for arranging the meeting between myself and Miss Spratt. You assured me, however, that the lady was not an active member of the club. I cannot agree with your assessment. Could you in future introduce me to one of your less active members? Yours sincerely, Mr. Charles Bone.”

The human chain letter, it seemed, had come apart at the first link.

Bertie took pen to fresh paper, addressed to Miss Edith Spratt.

“Dear Miss Spratt, I understand that no developments arose out of your rendezvous with Mr. Charles Bone, and that you are no longer in contact. Can you confirm my impression? With sincere regards, Albert (Bertie to you) Simpson Sinclair.”

Two days passed, while Bertie fretted. And then it came. The envelope was coloured pink and addressed to Bertie Sinclair. On matching pink notepaper, it simply stated. “Apparently I was too active for the liking of Mr. Bone, or so he told me. Please do, however, feel free to introduce me to someone from your club rather more active than Mr. Bone. Hoping to hear further. Yours in anticipation, Edie.”

Bertie’s day

Bertie had lost interest in Mr. Bone, but not in his project. He still possessed the vision of a network of clubs composed entirely of unclubbable people. But the vision was starting, even to Bertie, to flicker a little. His only hope now, he reasoned, lay with Miss Edith Spratt. But he had nobody else to introduce her to, active, inactive or semi-active. Except himself. And so he resolved to visit Miss Spratt at her residence, disguised as a member of his club for the unclubbable. He wrote as follows.

“Dear Edie (if I may), I am sorry to hear that you were too active a member for Mr. Bone. I prefer to see it from a different perspective – that he was not active enough for you. That can easily be remedied. I have on my books a very unclubbable man, who likes his own company, but who I can assure you is a very active member of the club. I will send him to you next Wednesday, if that is convenient. Kindest regards, Bertie.”

Wednesday did prove convenient, and soon a disguised Albert Sinclair, replete with flowing beard, heavy horn-rimmed spectacles and extravagant moustache, was entering the country residence of the wealthy widow newly self-described as Miss Edith Spratt. Introducing himself as Archibald Henry, former solo arctic explorer, he was at once able to tick two boxes, as both a private man and an active man. Miss Spratt was impressed to meet an explorer, less so a former explorer, and even less so a man who had clearly given up the athletic lifestyle at some distant corner in time. They had little in common, so she asked him whether it was cold in the Arctic. Yes, very cold, he said, and there the discussion of his days as an explorer froze. It was only when he spoke of the club that she lit up, asking him whether he had ever met Mr. Bertie Sinclair. She was disappointed to hear he had not, sharing with him her secret crush on this exciting innovator who had created a wonderful club for the unclubbable, and whose charm and good manners flowed out of every word he committed to paper in his delightful letters. She confided in the former explorer how she secretly wished Bertie would visit.

What had he done? This lady of wealth and refinement wanted him, Bertie, and he had entered her life disguised as a hairy arctic explorer. What should he do? Should he discard the disguise and reveal himself, like some sort of superhero, to be the witty, charming man of her dreams? He thought better of it, if only because he wanted more time to think. He bid her farewell and returned the 70 miles to his small suburban bedsit.

He had not spotted the electric wheelchair she had spoken of, but he had been dazzled by the vintage Mercedes sports car gracing her ample driveway. It somehow made her all the more attractive. He slept fitfully that night, rising at dawn to do what he had to.

Drawing from his battered desk the fine stationary he used for only the most important of communications, he applied modern quill to traditional vellum. “Dear Edie,” he wrote, “Mr. Henry, who visited you at my invitation, has contacted me to express his great pleasure at the making of your acquaintance. He tells me, however, that he is not worthy of your notice, and has asked me to convey his great good wishes to you in all you do. Although I am persuaded that I also am not worthy of your notice, I would be happy to follow in the estimable footsteps of our arctic adventurer in order to make your personal acquaintance, should that be your wish. I remain, with the greatest respect, your humble servant. Bertie.”

The next day dragged heavily on Albert Sinclair, as he waited and hoped for a positive reply. He was waiting at the door next day for the arrival of the postman. A quick reply should mean good news, a slow reply worse news, and no reply the worst news of all. The pink envelope arrived at the first opportunity. He opened it gently, hardly daring to read it. “Dear Bertie. I did have some regard for Mr. Archibald Henry, and believed that under his hirsute exterior probably lurked a fine, attractive gentleman. Still, I expect the excess of hair served him well in the cold arctic climate, and he has now grown well accustomed to it. Yes, I would indeed welcome a visit from your fine self. For a man of your considerable talents as gifted entrepreneur, your humility is a further charming sign of the true gentleman that you so clearly show yourself to be. With regards from your friend, Edie.

Bertie could not contain all the excitement shooting through his body. All that stood between him and the wealthy, attractive widow, it appeared, was the removal of his pencil moustache. As such, he would turn up at the elegant doorway, and introduce himself, Albert Simpson Sinclair, to the lady who would clearly not be able to resist his very considerable charms. Wednesday at noon was the agreed time.

Bertie’s meeting

She was waiting for him at the door, and extended her hand to him in such a way that he was not sure whether she was expecting him to shake it or kiss it. He shook it. “It is a pleasure and a delight to make your acquaintance in person,” he opened. “Tea or coffee,” she asked. “Coffee, please”. “White or black?” As a man who had not had either tea or coffee made for him for quite some time, he was not used to being questioned about his preferences in such detail. “Black, please, with milk,” he said. She looked at him quizzically. “Yes, plenty of milk,” he confirmed. Decaffeinated, please.

There was no conversation while the coffee was prepared, and after it was served, little more. The series of awkward silences, interrupted by sips of caffeinated coffee, was eventually interrupted by the chime of the grandfather clock standing in the corner of the room, alerting them to the fact that it was 12.30. It presented a much-needed natural break.

“I must take my leave,” said Bertie, “I have so much business to attend to.” There was a further moment of silence, while Miss Spratt rose to her feet, pointing accusingly at him. “What have you done with Bertie?” she asked. “Tell me NOW, what have you done with Bertie?” He was sure he had misheard her. “What have I done with WHAT?” he asked.

“What have you done with Bertie?” she persisted, in an increasingly strident tone. “But I AM Bertie!” “You, Sir, are NOT. You are Mr. Archibald Henry, former arctic explorer. Do you really think you could trick me into thinking you were my Bertie by shaving off your formerly abundant facial hair.” “No,” she continued, “Mr. Archibald Henry minus beard, moustache and large-rimmed spectacles is still Mr. Archibald Henry. Now tell me what you have done with Bertie, or I shall call the police to have you arrested.”

“I AM Albert Simpson Sinclair,” he insisted, “Archibald Henry does not exist.” At these words, Edith Spratt reached urgently for the telephone. “So you are now saying that you, Archibald Henry, do not exist, even though you stand right before me. Is this your defence to the charge of abducting Mr. Sinclair, or worse? A defence of insanity.”

Bertie could see his Big Idea unravelling before his eyes, the dream giving way to stone cold reality. Maybe he was insane, to hope that any idea of his could come true, maybe he was insane to still dream that one day he could persuade people that they could grow rich while they slept, succeed while they slumbered, learn while they dozed, slim while they snoozed. Maybe he was insane to believe that he could create a club for the unclubbable. But he was not insane in the way that Edith Spratt thought he was, and certainly not criminally insane.

For perhaps the first time in many years, he now decided upon a plan at odds with every instinct in his bones, a plan to tell the truth.

“It was I, Albert Simpson Sinclair, who came to your home last week disguised as the fictional arctic explorer, Archibald Henry. It is I, Archibald Simpson Sinclair, who stand before you now. I throw myself upon your good graces. I can do no more.” He paused. “Edie,” he half sobbed now, “I am Bertie.”

Edith Spratt said nothing but put down the telephone she had been wielding with increasing menace. “Mr. Sinclair,” she said quietly. “I am not sure whether you are a good man or a bad man, a sound man or an unsound man, and I am not really concerned to find out.” Bertie winced. “But”, she continued, “I do know the difference between a good idea and a bad idea, a sound idea and an unsound idea. And I am rather attracted to your big idea.” “A club for the unclubbable?” piped up Bertie, excitedly. “Quite so,” declared Miss Edith Spratt. “I shall turn this idea into reality, and because I am a lady of honour and refinement, you shall be rewarded with a respectable share in its fortunes. But be assured, Mr. Sinclair, this shall become my vision, the vision of Edith Evadne Spratt.

And so began a new dawn for Mr. Bertie Sinclair. Employed to use his considerable wit and charm to help expand the Spratt chain of clubs for the unclubbable, his big idea had become reality. He knew now that he would never grow rich while he slept, nor succeed while he slumbered, but he would indeed grow rich, by working hard while awake, and he would succeed. But much more importantly, Mr. Archibald Simpson Sinclair had now achieved a station in life which neither money nor worldly success could alone bestow. Bertie Sinclair, one-time conman, cad and bounder, had been transformed. Eminently clubbable, he had finally become a gentleman.