by Graham Hamer
“Your problem is that Mr Tweedle appears not to keep his promises. To begin with, from what Nancy tells me, he sold you an extra strip of land in addition to the land that you bought off him to build your house - a cash deal I gather.”
“Well yes,” Ian replied, looking at Nancy. “But the plans for the house just sort of - grew.”
“Okay, I understand that and I don't want to sound disdainful, but I do wish you'd said something to me about it at the time. I could have got the deeds for you.”
“Yeah but it was cash,” Ian said, shuffling in his chair.
“No matter. As it stands now, part of your home is built on land that belongs to Tweedle. We've no reason to suspect that he won't complete the deal, particularly since he's had his money, but you'd be in a most difficult situation if he refused. You've nothing in writing from him, and he can deny ever having been paid.”
Ian nodded. He knew the dangers but, despite prompting, Tweedle had never produced any documents. He wanted to tell the solicitor that, if Nancy hadn't been in such a hurry to move up-market, he could have finished the house plans before completing the land purchase from Tweedle, then they could have bought what they needed without having to go back and negotiate for more. As the thoughts passed through his mind, he noticed Richard and Frank Tweedle leaving. Richard appeared to be having difficulty walking and was being supported by his brother.
“On the other hand,” William continued, “if you do go ahead and give the bank security on your home, they'll insist on tying up the documentation so, if Tweedle wants you to raise additional funds in that manner, he'll have to release the land to you.”
Ian nodded.
“The other broken promise is in relation to capitalizing your building company. I understand from Nancy that Tweedle's promised injection of funds into Snaefell Homes has never materialized.”
Ian nodded again. “Yeah. We're working on a bank overdraft, which Tweedle guarantees.”
“And that's where the problem lies,” William said. “If you now guarantee Snaefell Home's overdraft by offering your home as collateral, he'll be guaranteeing nothing, yet he will still hold the majority of the shares in the company. If something were to go wrong and the company collapsed, he would lose nothing - not a single penny.”
Ian sat up like a prairie dog. “Damn!”
“What?”
“Damn it. That's the bit I couldn't see.”
“See what?” Nancy asked.
“The other week when they were talking about restructuring and so on. I knew something was wrong but I just couldn't put my finger on it.”
“On what?”
“The shares. It's like William says. If Tweedle removes his bank guarantee, he will have put bugger all cash or support into the Company but will still hold fifty-one percent of the shares.”
“But what about the money to build the houses?” Nancy asked. “Isn't that capital he's put in the company?”
“No,” William said, “that's working capital which has come from Bishop's Road Developments, the company he owns with his brother. From what I understand, Snaefell Homes works on a bank overdraft and Tweedle has never injected any actual cash into it.”
“And now he wants us to guarantee the bank,” Nancy said.
“So what's the best bet?” Ian asked.
“How bad are things with the bank?” William asked.
“We're well over our limit, as Nancy has no doubt told you. Richard and Frank claim that all their assets are already being used as guarantees for both companies.”
William thought for a moment. “If I were in your shoes, I would consider whether there isn't some way that you could persuade him to relinquish at least some of his shares in Snaefell Homes.”
“That's not going to be easy, knowing Tweedle.”
“Well, you don't have to go at it like a bull in a china shop. My advice to you both is to go slowly. Take it one step at a time and see how things develop.”
At that moment Pat Murphy, the carpenter who had disgraced himself at the previous Christmas dinner, was indeed taking it one step at a time. He was engaged in an urgent search for the toilets. Any toilets would do, just so long as he found somewhere to empty his stomach, the contents of which were fighting a winning battle to escape through his clenched teeth. The room was spinning out of control and darkness was descending on his unfocused eyes. As he staggered through the doorway from the bar, and across the dining room, Nancy just had time to raise her arms and scream “Oh no —”
Her cry caused Ian to instinctively duck. When, a moment later, he looked up, it was to see his solicitor, peering into his glass. It was unlikely that the poor man could see very much since his new, rimless glasses were splattered with Murph's indiscretion. Ian looked at his wife. She held her hands over her face, her pretty evening dress matching William's newly-decorated suit.
Nancy gagged, then began to sob. “The dirty bastard. What the hell's the matter with him?” But nothing was the matter with Pat Murphy anymore. He lay unconscious on the stained carpet, a sincere smile of gratitude on his untroubled face.
Pete and Denise rushed from their table, where they had been chatting with their heads close together. Pete grabbed a tablecloth off one of the empty tables as he hurried across the room. He began to wipe the mess off his mother's hands and arms while Denise comforted her at arm's length.
Ann Patterson darted from the kitchen, alerted by the noise. She strode towards the sobbing lady who, a few moments earlier, had been a valued client. The other guests who had remained in the dining room had rounded up napkins and any other item that would serve to wipe the weeping Mrs. Gidman. William had cleaned his glasses as best he could, and was removing his stained jacket when Ann took control.
“Pete, pop in the kitchen and get someone with a mop and a bucketful of disinfectant through here. Denise, take Nancy upstairs - the bathroom's the first on the right. Get that dress off her, and I'll join you in a minute and find something she can wear to get home. Ian, show your gentleman guest through to the men's room and get him cleaned up.” She paused for breath. “Who owns this?” she said, giving the comatose Murph a resounding kick.
“I think he's just been disowned,” Pete said.
“Well someone's got to get rid of it, I'm not having it spending the night on my floor.”
“I'll get it sorted in a moment,” Pete said, as he headed to the kitchen to organize the mop and bucket brigade.
* * *
The selection that Hugo placed before Claire and her brother was amongst the best of France's four hundred different cheeses. A ripe Camembert, hand-made in a Normandy farmhouse; the crumbly rind leaking its succulent paunch onto the plate. A Chèvre from the foothills of the French Alps; black ashes on the outside and pure white on the inside. A fruity Cantal from Augervne. A chalk coloured Beaufort from the Savoy region. Cabécou from the Périgord.
“Hugo, these are all hand-made,” Claire said, with the reverence that only a French person could perfect.
Hugo chuckled in obvious delight at the astonishment of his new client. “Would Madame prefer something else?”
“Madame would like to sit here all night and sample them all.”
“Then please be my guest. As your brother knows, this room of our establishment only closes its doors when the last of our diners chooses to leave. A good meal should not be hurried, else why take the time and trouble to prepare it?”
As he turned and left them alone once more to savour their gourmet delights, Claire smiled at her brother. “Philippe, where did you find him? He's an absolute treasure.”
“I didn't find him,” he said, examining the cheeses. “He found me. One does not invite oneself to Hugo's inner sanctum. It is an honour that only he can bestow.”
Claire elected to try the Brie de Melun first. She was indebted to their host for providing a wide knife, the cheese being ripe to perfection; runny and succulent. Choosing a generous slice of the crusty brown 'pain paysan' from the wic
ker breadbasket, she tore off a small corner and loaded it with the ivory coloured fromage.
“My God,” she sighed after the first taste, “this is delicious.”
“You'll not find anything like them in the shops,” Philippe said. “Hugo has his own sources.”
“So it would seem.”
She took another mouthful of cheese and savoured its taste and texture as she waggled her toes, unseen by all but Hugo, who stood near the door watching over his flock. A moment later, she noticed for the first time that music was playing in the background. It was Jacques Loussier playing variations from Bach; one of her all-time favourites. For a moment the meal lay untouched on her plate as she leaned back in her chair and gazed through the window across the open square to the glorious Chateau or Versailles opposite. The sublime bronze statue of Louis XIV, mounted on a magnificent horse, stood sentinel in the cobbled courtyard. Snow had begun to fall in large, white flakes that floated like tiny feathers to earth.
“Penny for your thoughts, Claire.”
“I think, Philippe, that this is going to be the best Christmas ever.”
* * *
The red, hand-built Morgan cut through the crisp night air. “How are you feeling now?” William asked.
“Bloody angry,” Nancy muttered, through clenched teeth. “You would have thought Ian might have at least made the effort to take me home.”
“It's difficult for him, Nancy. He has his other guests to consider. And anyway, since I have to get out of these evil-smelling clothes, it's no hardship for me to run you back.” He changed gear to slow the car for the bend ahead. “Let's get you home for a shower. You'll feel a bit more human then.”
“I doubt if I shall ever feel human again. I mean, how bloody degrading.”
“I share your sentiments, my dear, but what's done can't be undone. Let's just try to make the best of it.”
“How on earth does one make the best of being vomited on?” she asked.
“We'll see,” he said, his voice as comforting as an old woollen shawl.
Pat Murphy's slumbering cadaver had been lifted, limp and stinking, into the back of his car. With windows wide open despite the December chill, his wife sped down the hillside, overtaking William's red Morgan. As she threw the Volvo hard into the bend, Murph's head rolled and cracked against the door. Unaware of the newborn bruise, he dribbled on his chin and burped.
“Oh you go ahead and belch while you can, you uncouth Irish git,” his wife muttered, “Because tomorrow, you're going to really suffer. And that's a promise.”
It was almost two hours later when the last of Ian's guests bade their host a fond good night. There were cries of “Happy Christmas” as they trekked across the parking area to reclaim their transport home. Ann and Ian sat chatting at the table near the dying embers of the fire while Pete and Denise whispered together in their own little world at the other end of the room. At the bar, Dave Kelly finished his drink while Suzy cleared some of the remaining glasses from the tables.
“Leave them Suzy,” Ann said. “I'll finish them off in the morning. Do you want to call yourself a taxi?”
“No, I'm fine thanks. My chauffeur is going to get me home.”
Ann nodded. She wasn't a judgmental person, so had no difficulty with her barmaid's habits. Suzy did her job well, so her private life was her own affair.
Dave jumped down from the barstool and strolled to the fireplace. “Good night folks. Thanks boss, for a great evening. If I don't see you before, I'll see you in the new year when we get back to work.”
“Sure Dave.” Ian stood up and the two men shook hands. “Hope all goes well with the baby. Keep us in touch.”
The barmaid took Dave Kelly's arm and led him to the door. They donned their coats and, with a final 'Good night' to anyone who cared to listen, disappeared into the night.
“Suzy's alright,” Ann said, reading Ian's thoughts. “Just dreadfully oversexed. Anyone for a nightcap?”
Half an hour later, the black Audi pulled to a halt outside the house. Ian could see the hue of the living room light, shining on the curtains. “Pete, don't bother getting your car out,” he said. “Take mine. But take care.”
“No problem,” said his son from the back seat.
“And do me another little favour will you?”
“What's that?”
“Don't rush back. I think I may have to do a little grovelling when I get in. If we're still up when you get back, try to just sneak up to bed will you?”
“Sure, Dad. I understand. Good luck.”
“Thanks for a lovely evening Ian,” Denise said, stirring from the secret comfort of Pete's arm.
“Glad you could come. I take it we'll be seeing a bit more of you now you've gone public.”
Pete coughed. “Not sure what you mean, Dad.”
“You're a bit transparent at times, Pete The two of you have been dating in secret for months, though God knows why the secret. Why did you want to keep it clandestine anyway?”
“My father,” Denise said. “He wouldn't be too chuffed if he knew we were meeting. He likes to think he's on a different social status.”
“I know what you mean,” Ian said, stepping out of the car. “Well, your secret's safe with us. You're welcome at the house any time you want, Denise. You shouldn't have to go hiding round corners.”
“Thanks, Ian,” Denise said, climbing into the front passenger seat as Pete took the steering wheel.
As the car moved away from the house, she said, “Well at least we don't have to hide from your parents now.”
“We never did,” Pete replied. “It's only your obnoxious father who might disapprove.”
Denise let out a gentle “Hmmph” and stared at the road ahead. “I keep telling you that I've got a complicated past, Pete. Some day I'll tell you everything but, just for the moment, be satisfied with what you already know eh?”
Pete changed gear then stroked the back of her hand. “Sure,” he said. “Tell me when you're ready.”
Ian watched the young couple drive into the night. The smile disappeared as he turned, fearful of his reception, to the house. When he closed the door behind him, he was aware only of the silence. He would have expected to have heard the muffled sound of the television or the stereo, but there was only an ominous calm and a ticking clock. He took off his coat and hung it in the cupboard below the stairs. Entering the living room, he was surprised to find it empty. He glanced into the kitchen and then in the dark conservatory, but Nancy wasn't there.
The bedroom was in darkness but he could sense that the bed was occupied. He tiptoed to the shower room, which was connected to the bedroom by an arched doorway. As his hand touched the handle, Nancy's voice came from the bed.
“Is that you, Ian?”
“Yes,” he whispered, “go back to sleep.” He heard the bedclothes rustle and then the bedside lamp illuminated the room. He screwed his eyes against the light, waiting a moment for them to adjust. “Nancy, go back to sleep. I'll be there in a minute.”
“Aaah — It's alright,” she yawned, “I wasn't asleep anyway - just sort of dozing.”
He crossed the room and sat on the bed, kicking off his shoes and throwing his jacket onto the chair nearby. “I'm sorry about tonight. I'd have come home with you but William —”
“Don't worry, dear,” she mumbled. “It wasn't your fault.”
“Yes, but it's not been much fun for you, here all on your own, has it?”
“Oh that's okay, I kept myself amused.”
She turned over and pulled the covers up to her chin. Ian gave a mental shrug. He had expected a confrontation, yet his wife seemed strangely content. You can just never tell with women, can you? As he turned off the light, he whispered, “Nancy?”
“Yes dear?”
“I hope you remembered to thank William for bringing you home.”
“Yes dear, of course I did. Good night.”
THURSDAY 3 JANUARY
The gale was bitter, blow
ing from the north across the Irish Sea, which crashed against the headland, turning into a crucible of deadly white foam. Even the high cliffs could not shelter the site from the violence of the weather. The storm was driving the spray like a fine mist; permeating men, machines and mood. For the moment though, the raw, biting wind and dank air was locked outside, as the workmen held their mugs of steaming tea in both hands and stamped their mud-caked feet, taking shelter in the Portacabin tearoom.
'Tearoom' was a far from accurate euphemism. Scattered around in disarray, were a few mismatched kitchen chairs and, in the far corner near the cracked window, a small refrigerator relied on the outside wall for support. One of its rusted feet had been replaced with a collection of beer mats, long since rotted and serving no further purpose. The once white cabinet was storage for anything vaguely edible, whether perishable or not. It at least kept the mice at bay. A box of Earl Grey – Ian's own special choice, a small carton of milk, a large carton of ice tea, coffee, bread, butter. The 'fridge door closed itself with a little help from the gravitational pull that effects all leaning objects. It was futile to ask whether the light turned itself off after the door closed, since it had never worked anyway.
Next to the 'fridge, a chipped Formica work top supported the few other effects needed to sustain life on a building site; a battered electric kettle, three tea-stained spoons and a bottle of washing-up liquid. Everybody used whatever they wanted, except the ice tea, which was Richard Tweedle's most recent fad food. Coffee didn't figure heavily in Richard's diet, since too much caffeine was sure to prove fatal, he had read. He seemed to ignore the fact that ice tea contained caffeine and that chain smoking was not going to improve his health either. But then Richard Tweedle was well endowed with contradictions, as those who knew him well could testify.
“Where's the new dad?” asked Stitcher, the digger driver, to no one in particular.
“In the boss's office,” replied one of the young labourers, stirring his tea with a bent spoon. “He said he'd be here in a minute and to make him a cuppa.”
“What does Dave think we are? (sniff) The bloody tea boys?” queried another youth.