by Graham Hamer
Richard looked around the room and nodded. “Well I must admit, old boy, judging by the state of this office, you look as though you could do with a bit of help.” He scratched his chin. “Listen, I've got some urgent business to attend to, but what about if Ronald stays with you for an hour or two and helps to get you sorted out and up to date?”
Dave pursed his lips. Much though he disliked Ron Scott, the offer seemed too good to turn down. “As long as Ron doesn't mind,” he said.
“Don't mind at all,” said Ron Scott. “I'd be glad to help. Perhaps though it would be better if you didn't tell Ian about it. He'll only think I'm interfering. Why not just surprise him with your efficiency, eh?”
FRIDAY 5 APRIL
“Uhu, here comes Mr Grumpy and Mr Fatty,” Ian said, loud enough for Dave to hear in the adjacent office.
“And Scott the Snot,” Dave called back, as a third figure emerged from the back seat of the faded red Nissan.
There were no greetings.
“And what can I do for you gentlemen today?” Ian asked when all three were seated.
“I thought you'd like to know, Ian, that, as from next week, either you'll be looking for another job, or you'll be running the company on your own terms,” Tweedle said, flicking his ash where he thought an ashtray should have been. “Your attitude over the past three months, particularly last Monday, leaves me with little option but to either find another builder for Headland View, or surrender my shares in Snaefell Homes to you. Since finding another builder would result in an unacceptable loss of time it seems that I have no option but to give way to your demands for my shares.” He glanced at his brother. “I have to add, though, that Frank and I are very disappointed, very disappointed indeed, with your ingratitude and selfishness. I think it will take a long time to rebuild the trust that we had in you before.”
Ian steepled his fingers under his chin and tried not to look smug. “I'm glad you've chosen to settle this sensibly. I'm sorry you think I've been unreasonable, but there's no point in going over old ground again. So far as I'm concerned, I'm only asking for what's fair.”
Tweedle scowled the scowl of an oppressed victim.
“I've only asked for the two percent shareholding that currently gives you control,” Ian continued. “When, at some time in the future, the company moves into profit, you'll still share in that profit. I would also reiterate that, when you inject the capital into Snaefell Homes that you promised three years ago, I'll be glad to give you back your shares and relinquish responsibility for guaranteeing the firm's borrowing.”
“There's no need to labour the point,” Tweedle muttered. “You've won and that's that. Now let's discuss the fine details. First of all, Garfield is making a site visit a week today, that's Friday the twelfth. He has to assess what stage we're at on the various houses. He'll want to talk to Frank and me privately, so we'll need to use your office. Oh, and incidentally, his assessment is because Frank and I are stretching to the limits to pay the company everything we owe. We won't be in a position to make any transfer until Garfield's visit is complete.”
Ian nodded. Whatever and whenever the payment was, it would be no later than he had become used to.
“At that time,” Tweedle continued, flicking his ash again, “I shall verify the land ownership of your house, so that Garfield can take his security. After that, he'll want to deal with you privately, so I would suggest that you either take him to your home, or bring your good lady wife to the site. He'll need her signature too. Whatever you choose to do, it does not involve Frank or me so we'll leave you to it. I shall merely ask Garfield to confirm to me that you have completed your side of the bargain. Agreed?”
“Agreed. What about the share transfer?”
Ron Scott reached down to the floor at the side of his chair, picked up a leather briefcase and removed some papers. “I've already written out the new certificates. So it's just a question of you or Richard signing them as Director, and then I counter-sign as Company Secretary. I haveve also completed the necessary transfer form, which will be deposited with the Official Registrar.” He leaned forward and lay the three documents and a manila envelope facing Ian.
Ian scrutinized the papers with caution and paid attention to Scott's every word as he explained them to him. He didn't trust Scott. Never had. Scott had never considered the truth to be a constraint if his purposes were better served with a lie. But the documents were straightforward enough and eventually Ian placed his signature alongside Ron Scott's, though he couldn't help feeling that there had to be a snag somewhere. There always seemed to be a snag in matters relating to Tweedle. Ron Scott folded the Transfer Document and slid it into the pre-addressed envelope. “That's all there is to it,” he said, as he handed one of the Share Certificates for Richard to take.
Tweedle shook his head. “No, Ronald, you hold my other certificates, so you might as well just keep that one for me as well.”
Scott looked at Ian. “Shall I put that certificate with your other one?”
Ian held it in both hands. “I'll hang on to it for the time being. It will assure Nancy that everything's been tied up legally.”
Scott nodded, sniffed and scratched his crotch all at the same time. “No problem,” he said. “Let me have it back when you're ready and I'll put it with the others.”
Tweedle pushed himself out of the chair and scowled. “Well it looks like you won after all. I guess I'll just have to write this one down to experience.”
“It's not a question of winning or losing,” Ian said. “It's a question of what's right and fair.”
“Well I just hope that you now play fair and sign the bank guarantee.”
“As long as the boundary question is resolved to Old Garfield's satisfaction, you have my word on it.”
Tweedle grunted and helped Frank from his chair. As they turned for the door, Scott picked up the manila envelope from the desk. “I'll post this on my way.”
Ian held out his hand. “If you don't mind, Ron, I'll post it myself.”
Tweedle wheeled to face him. “What's the matter, Mr Gidman? Don't you trust us? We're trusting you, you know.”
“In that case,” he said, “you can trust me to post a letter for you.”
FRIDAY 12 APRIL
Denise sat transfixed, canopied by the blue sky, the soft sea breeze blowing in her long, dark hair. The spring air was pure and fresh, like new wine, and she watched as cormorants folded their wings, dived into the water and emerged moments later with a silvery fish in their beaks. The sea eased onto the beach, caressing the pebbles and shells before falling back gently to swallow itself.
“Penny for them,” Pete said, nudging her arm.
“Sorry,” she said. “I was miles away.”
“I know. What were you thinking about?”
“Just things.”
“What things.”
She picked up a pebble and tossed it into the water. She kept her back to him, staring out to sea. “My mum,” she said, in a whisper as gentle as the waves. “She drowned in a swimming accident on this beach.”
“I know, love. You told me.”
“Yes, but I only told you part of it - there's so much more to tell.”
“It can wait till you're ready.”
“I think it's time, Pete. This beach seems just right. It's so quiet and —”
“Secret?”
“Yes, secret.”
He touched her arm. “You don't have to if you don't want to, you know.”
“I know, Pete, but you've taken the day off and we've got it all to ourselves so maybe it's a good opportunity. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you everything before. It was just too difficult. It'll be easier now we know each other better. You see, I was only seven when Mum died and my dad, Richard that is, sent me away to a boarding school. I was about twelve when he told me about it.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Well that's the thing. He said there'd been an accident, then refused to tell me more
. The more I asked, the less he said about it. That's what made me curious. That's why, when I was older, I started digging and doing a bit of research in the newspaper offices.”
“Is that where you found out about Ron Scott?”
“Sort of. Like I told you before, the police were suspicious but nothing was ever proved. Scott's name was mentioned once or twice because he was the only other person on the beach when my mum disappeared. But that's only a tiny bit of the story. There's more. A lot more.”
They both stood up from the rocks they had been sitting on. Pete put a comforting arm round her shoulder and they started to amble along the shoreline, going nowhere in particular.
Denise took a deep breath. “My Mum's name was Moira. But then I've already told you that. She moved to the island from Liverpool when she was about twenty and did various jobs cleaning and fetching and carrying and stuff like that. Richard was one of her clients.” She stared down at the pebbles and lowered her voice. “Anyway, they became lovers. I think he was maybe less arrogant in those days.” It was discomforting to be apologizing that her mother actually liked Richard.
“And that's how you were born,” Pete said. There was no question mark at the end.
“You're not being too subtle, Pete, but yes.”
“Okay, your parents weren't married. So what? It's not that uncommon.”
“It was less common at the time. Anyway, that's not the point.”
“Why? What is the point?”
A larger wave rushed over the pebbles towards them, chasing them a few steps up the beach. They strolled on in silence before Denise continued.
“Back then,” she said, choosing her words with great care. “It seems that Frank was a good deal more athletic than he is now and something of a ladies' man. It seems he grew fond of my mum and she became his lover as well. When Richard found out, he threw a wobbly and Frank moved off the island until a few years ago.”
“Whoops!”
“Yeah, quite. My mum was a bit of a girl. In fact, in the newspaper reports when she disappeared it suggested she already had one child from another man.”
“But that's not your fault.”
“Oh, I know. I've got used to that idea. It's just that — that my mum and Frank were lovers before I was born.”
“So what?”
“Don't you see, Pete? There's no guarantee that I'm even Richard's daughter.”
Pete looked thoughtful for a moment “I get your point, but what makes you think that?”
“A hunch,” she said. “Call it intuition if you like. Richard is a stranger to me. A stranger in character I mean. On the other hand, Uncle Frank is basically a decent man. I know he's weak and gullible but he's not a bad man.”
They stopped walking and Pete picked up a flat pebble. “How do you know about your father and Frank both being your mother's lovers?”
“I got it from Kate Qualtrough, the cleaning lady. We get on pretty well and she and I chat over cups of tea. When Uncle Frank came back from England about four years ago, Mrs Qualtrough overheard a conversation at the house. It seems that Richard was trying to convince Frank to sink his money into the development at Headland View. Uncle Frank didn't want to, until Richard reminded him of their past – of my mother. He threatened Uncle Frank that he would tell me all about it if he didn't finance the business.”
Pete let out a low whistle and skimmed the pebble across the water. “So why didn't Frank just let him go ahead and tell you?”
“Because Frank also thinks he's my father. He cares for me and didn't want me to be hurt. He felt that, since I'd grown up thinking of Richard as my father, it would be better if I never knew the truth.”
“So your uncle trusted his money to your father - to Richard, that is - so that you wouldn't learn the truth?”
“Exactly. Richard has put nothing into the Company, Pete. He's got no money to speak of. From what Kate Qualtrough tells me, the only financial contributor to either Bishops Road or Snaefell Homes is Uncle Frank.”
Pete looked at her and raised his eyebrows. “Bugger me, Den. He's quite a character, your dad.”
“Richard Tweedle is a lying thieving phony, that's what Richard Tweedle is. He's also the owner of the roof that covers my head and that's why we've got to keep our relationship secret from him a little while longer.”
“Get your point.”
They walked on in a comfortable silence until a granite outcrop blocked their way, when they turned to retrace their steps.
“There is one other thing,” Denise said. “It's just that I think you should tell your dad.”
Pete frowned. “What. Tell him everything you've just told me?”
“No, not everything. You don't have to tell him about my mum, just the bit about the money. I think he's got a right to know before he gets involved any deeper. He's always been kind to me, Pete, and I don't want to see him hurt.” She smiled at him. “Anyway, I might escape soon.”
“Escape from what?”
“From the house. Didn't your Mum tell you?”
“I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about, Den.”
“William Wormald-Welch's firm need a secretary and I've got an interview next Friday. Your Mum thinks I stand a good chance.”
* * *
Nicholas T. Garfield had served The Island Bank for thirty-eight years. For the first thirty-four of those years his record had been impeccable, Not a 't' was left uncrossed and not an 'i' was left undotted as he meticulously followed all directives that his superiors lavished upon him. His reward had been early managerial promotion and a distinguished career as a responsible banker and upright member of the community. In fact, when the vicar of his church had retired a few months previously, he had seen fit to mention the years of stalwart support that he had received from his loyal churchwarden.
The last four years, however, had been a private hell for Nicholas T. Garfield, and it had all begun so innocently as he had leaned over a nubile, raven-haired, young cashier to display his prowess at adding a column of figures. Regrettably for him, it was not the only prowess that he had eventually displayed to her. The matter should have been resolved as they had been before: a rapid transfer for the young lady to Head Office, to be promoted to the same job on a higher salary, and everything would have been back to normal.
He hadn't, however, reckoned upon the young lady's friendship with a certain H. Ronald Scott, who came knocking on his door a few months later. Since that day, Scott and his mentor, Richard Tweedle, had caused Garfield to break every rule that had ever been written about good banking. Loans had been made upon securities that were, to say the very least, flimsy. Overdraft limits had been stretched and re-stretched, and the most harebrained, sooterkin schemes had been put to him for his 'valued consideration'.
Consequently, when the bank's head of Human Resources had suggested the possibility of early retirement, to make way for younger blood, he had readily agreed. Today was Friday, the twelfth day of April and Nicholas T. Garfield had only seventeen more days to serve before he was rid of H. Ronald Scott and Richard Anthony Tweedle forever. Regrettably, he had been required to meet with them one last time before being able to consign them to the dustbin of his memory and, in the late afternoon, he had departed the bank for Headland View in melancholy mood.
As he had stepped from his car, the bank's car, he had known instinctively that the money to which the bank was committed was a great deal more than the value of land and property that had stood before him. His misery had been further compounded by the fact that he was required to prepare his report in such a manner that his lending appeared to comply with the bank's rules and did not seem to be a complete work of fiction when, at some future date, his successor made a similar site visit. He had been grateful for Ian Gidman's decision to secure the borrowing of Snaefell Homes upon his house: it had at least given him an outside chance of retiring with honour and with his respectability intact.
Contrary to normal procedure, his
meeting with The Tweedles had been completed smoothly and efficiently and all that had been left to do was to complete the guarantee document with Ian Gidman and his wife. Whilst following Ian's car to their home, he had rehearsed the procedure to which he was well used. Just two signatures on a piece of paper and he could look forward to peace of mind as he spent the long summer days in his favourite deck chair in the garden.
Thus the smile on his face as he prepared to leave the Gidman home ten minutes later, was the smile of a death-row prisoner with a signed pardon and a large compensation cheque to boot.
“Was everything settled on the extra strip of land that we bought from Richard?” Ian asked.
Garfield nodded. The Tweedles and Scott had been most obliging, having had all the necessary legal documents appertaining to the additional land at the Gidman domicile prepared and ready to sign, ensuring that the security on the Gidman home was acceptable to the bank. Not only had they increased the bank's collateral, they had not even asked for additional funds. “Yes,” he replied, honestly. “There was no problem there at all. I have the documents here in my briefcase. So far as the bank is concerned, everything is now in place.”
“Oh, good. So there are no problems then?”
“None at all,” he beamed, “everything is all above board and in perfect order. You might, however, like to make contact with Tweedle. He asked me to tell you that he had a query on last month's figures.” He shrugged his shoulders, indicating that he had no further knowledge of the details. “I don't suppose it's anything much. You know what Tweedle's like, don't you.”
“I most do indeed.”
Ian watched as Garfield's car disappeared up the road. He turned and stepped back into the lounge. “That was good, wasn't it,” he said. “All signed, sealed and delivered in ten minutes.”
“Good would not be my choice of word,” Nancy snapped. “I've just agreed to sign away our home. We might just as well have just signed away our marriage.”