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drop into a culvert, and Will saw his chance. It was his home constituency. He stood as an Independent, and romped home.”
    “He was in luck there,” I said. “It was a by-election. That’s when personalities pull in votes. At a general election it’s the party ticket every time.”
    “Maybe. My guess is he’d have got in at a general election. But I agree he’d have had to declare his allegiance in advance. As it was, he reached Westminster without any pre-commitment, which not many people have done since they abolished the University vote.”
    “And as soon as he got there, he accepted the Government whip.”
    “That was sensible too. He couldn’t have done much on his own. What you’ve got to understand about Dylan is that he’s a practical man. He doesn’t believe in shouting slogans or nailing doctrinaire colours to the mast or laying down a lot of rules as though politics was a game of county cricket.”
    I said, “That sounds like a sentence from your profile, Patrick.”
    Patrick had the grace to blush. He said, “I’d back a man like Dylan every time, because whatever methods he uses, his motives are sound. He believes in equality of opportunity. And so do I. Do you think we could get a third glass out of that bottle?”
    I poured him out a third glass and he rolled it appreciatively round his tongue. He saw nothing incongruous in talking about equality while he was drinking a bottle of wine which cost as much as the average housewife’s shopping for the week. Mutt is like that too. I’ve known her make an impassioned plea for the underpaid agricultural worker while spraying herself with Madame Rochas’ Audace. Like her brother, she’s perfectly sincere. I guess it’s just a matter of compartmentalizing your feelings.
    The discussion was on the point of disappearing into the mists of politics warmed by the red glow of wine. I dragged it back ruthlessly. “What we want you to do, is to slip in a word next time you have a session with Dylan. Tell him that a small olive branch might be a good investment.”
    “I couldn’t possibly say that.”
    “Why not?”
    “It’s a mixed metaphor.”
    “Don’t be tiresome. You know what I mean. He’s a big man, and you say he’s a practical man. Jonas is a small man, and a copper-bottomed crank with an obsession. I believe that all he really wants is a gesture of reconciliation. Couldn’t Dylan slip in a word in one of his interviews with you? Say that he realizes now that Jonas was technically correct–”
    “I’ll try,” said Patrick. “But if Killey is going to press criminal charges it will be almost impossible for Dylan to climb down. If he did, wouldn’t he be admitting that he was guilty?”
    It’s never satisfactory to have someone else explain to you something you know to be correct and don’t want to face. I said, “You’ve got to do something to justify that burgundy.”
    “It was a lovely wine,” agreed Patrick. “I’ve got a date with Dylan at the House at four o’clock. Do you think we’ve got time for a glass of port?”
     
    Will Dylan said, “The way you spell it out, amalgamation’s a dirty word. That’s the message, is it?”
    “It’s not the amalgamation. It’s the jobs we lose, lad,” said Jacob Brown. He was the leader of the deputation, and Vice-Chairman of the West Sheffield constituency association.
    “All right, Jacob. Let’s look at it that way. Two firms get together. Some of the jobs overlap. Some men are made redundant. But the joint firm’s more efficient. Increases its turnover, grabs more of the market. Takes the extra men back, but uses them properly.”
    “There’s no guarantee of that,” snapped the thin man who sat next to Jacob. The right sleeve of his jacket was pinned to the lapel. He had lost an arm when an overhead conveyer belt had slipped and dropped a hundredweight of scrap metal on to his right shoulder.
    “Nothing’s certain in this life, Martin. But I’ll make you a