“Mr. Speaker,” the minister began, as he gripped the dispatch box, “I rise to inform the House which route has been selected by my department for the proposed motorway extension that will run through the county of Shropshire.”

If the word SILENCE hadn’t been displayed in bold on the wood-panelled walls, Seb would have leapt in the air when the minister referred to the outskirts of Shifnal, including Shifnal Farm, as a section of the route for the proposed new motorway.

Once the minister had dealt with several questions from local members, he resumed his place on the front bench to allow a debate on foreign affairs to begin.

Seb and Vic had no interest in whether the government intended to impose economic sanctions on South Africa, so they slipped quietly out of the Strangers’ Gallery, made their way downstairs to the central lobby, and out onto Parliament Square. That’s when Seb leapt in the air and screamed, “We did it!”

*   *   *

Samantha was reading the Guardian when a sleepy Sebastian appeared for breakfast the following morning.

“Where were you last night?” she asked. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”

“Vic and I were out celebrating. Sorry, I should have called to let you know.”

“Celebrating what?” asked Sam, but Seb didn’t answer as he helped himself to a bowl of cornflakes.

“Could it possibly be that Mr. Swann worked out that the new motorway would go straight through the middle of Shifnal Farm and, to quote the Guardian,” said Sam, looking down at the article in front of her, “make a small fortune for a handful of speculators?” She handed the newspaper to Seb, who only glanced at the headline.

“You have to understand,” said Seb between mouthfuls, “this means we’ll now have enough money to buy a house in Chelsea.”

“But will there be enough money left over for Mr. Swann to build his theatre in Shifnal?”

“That depends…”

“On what? You gave him your word that if the information he supplied turned out to be correct, you would pay him the £8,234 he needed to complete his theatre.”

“But I only earn four thousand a year,” protested Seb.

“And you’re about to be given a bonus of forty thousand.”

“On which I’ll have to pay capital gains tax.”

“Not on a charitable donation, you won’t.”

“But there was nothing in writing.”

“Seb, did you hear what you just said?”

“In any case,” added Seb quickly, “it’s Mr. Kaufman who will make the small fortune, not me.”

“And it was Mr. Kaufman who took the risk in the first place, and could have lost a small fortune. Whereas you had nothing to lose, and everything to gain.”

“You don’t understand—” began Seb.

“I understand only too well,” said Sam as Seb pushed his bowl aside and got up from the table.