From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 59)

One of my best lines continues to be ‘You can tell me anything.’ Sometimes I whisper it gently into the ear of a trembling lady. Other times I say it, sitting by an open fire, to one of the patrons of my clubs. Or, I may say it to little Hope, who is always and endlessly asking me questions that, if her parents ever found out, would turn their hair white.

Before the war, and I expect afterwards, much of my stock-in-trade comes from after dinner conversations and the gossip circulating at dances. ‘You can tell me anything,’ is a powerful spell to conjure up information. There is something in those words, or at least the way I say them, that seems to lead people to believe that they are speaking to me in confidence. Although, in fact, I have never promised anything of the sort.

The astounding thing is that there is a never-ending stream of ladies and gentlemen who, if approached at the right time, or given the right trigger, will open up their hearts in an instant. Sometimes this is to the dashing Lord Milton but, more often than not, it is simply to me, a man they barely know and have no reason to trust. Never underestimate the weight that some secrets place on the human heart and soul.

Of course, there are occasions when one doesn’t exactly get what one hoped for. A man, who I barely knew, but who knew the private secretary of a minister that we were watching carefully, came up to me and told me that one of his toenails had turned a lurid green colour. He was a wheedling, avaricious little man, who feared a doctor’s bills might bankrupt him, and also feared being thought a coward over a trifling affliction. I had noted his limp, and wondered if it might be gangrene, so I asked him if any of the toes themselves displayed an ugly discolouration. At that point he confessed that four of them had, so I put him into a taxi to a reputable doctor at once. He now attributes me as being the reason they were able to save most of his foot. He lost three of his toes, but remained grateful to me, and became one of my slyest informants. I do remember though that I had booked an excellent dinner for myself that night at a Beefsteak House, and I had to cancel as I could not rid myself of the mental image of his rotting foot. What a fool!

Another time, a married lady, who I fear had mistaken me for a doctor, asked me a question about a sensitive part of the female anatomy. Fortunately, I was knowledgable enough about the area in question that I could answer her query, putting her at ease. She too remained most grateful to me and proved to be of use in a number of ways.

There are many other stories of this ilk I could recall, but what I am left with is the troubling notion that individuals in today’s society rarely talk to one another in anything more than the most superficial of ways. In fact, so insecure are they about their perceived status, they would rather entrust their troubles to a stranger than allow a close friend of many years to know that anything in their world is amiss. Still, all their insecurities are all grist to my mill.

I, myself, have no need of a confidante. I am entirely self-sufficient in such matters. Although, I admit, I do occasionally talk to Jack. For a dog, he is an excellent listener. Especially when he knows I have a treat hidden behind my back.