Thursday

by David Ridgway

  Michael Varley, on the other hand, was not feeling so bright. He knew that he had to prepare for a conference that was scheduled for Thursday morning, when he would make the opening speech of welcome. This would require his staying over in town on the Wednesday evening, as his colleagues and guests would be arriving throughout Wednesday afternoon and would be wining and dining all that evening. He wondered whether Alice might stay over as well. They had created a bit of a relationship when he had taken her to the Gloucester Palace Hotel just before Christmas, but he didn’t understand why, since then, she had been a bit distant. He had put it down to employer/employee relationships. Perhaps I should give her a rise, he thought.

  He left home, leaving David to make his own way to school, and caught the train to Waterloo before taking the Waterloo and city link to Bank. Emerging on the north side he walked briskly to his office on London Wall. As he emerged from the lift on the fifth floor, he found the lights already on. Alice was in the little kitchenette brewing up coffee. She had also bought a couple of chocolate croissants.

  “Morning, Alice,” Michael called out as he came through the door into the small lobby. His mouth began to water as he could smell the croissants and the coffee.

  Instead of turning to his left, towards his office, Michael turned to his right, dumping his brief case and coat on a chair by the reception desk. He walked down the corridor listening to the coffee percolating. He saw Alice, squatting down on her heels in front of the small fridge, putting away the milk. She was wearing a wraparound dress which had split open and was exposing more of her thighs than he might have expected. She also had on a cardigan and had obviously spent more than a little time with her make up that morning. Her eyes were subtly enhanced by eyeliner and eye shadow, bringing out their deep blue colour and sparkle. She had also taken great care with her eye lashes, which were long and inviting. Her dark blonde hair was lustrous, falling onto her shoulders.

  “Did you have a good weekend?” Michael asked ingenuously.

  “Surprisingly, it turned out really well,” she replied, as she stood up. The dress hung just above the knee, with a tie in a bow on the left-hand side, just on her hip. She was also wearing skin-colour stockings which, with their natural musculature, made her long legs look magnificent. “Are we expecting Trevor today?” she asked guilelessly.

  “No. He’s still in Paris and is scheduled to come back on Wednesday. In time for the conference on Thursday,” he added.

  Trevor Le Grove was Michael’s partner. He had set up Le Grove Investments back in the 1980s when Margaret Thatcher’s Conservatives were in power and the Stock Market had rocketed forward. Unlike many similar companies, however, he had survived the later difficulties of Gordon Brown’s Labour administration at the turn of the century, because his portfolios were not singularly linked to stocks and shares and he had moved much of the investments into cash at the right time. Michael had joined him, just as Gordon Brown was taking over from Tony Blair at Number 10. He had helped to steer the firm through that rocky period, when so many banks fell foul of the subprime lending fiasco. Too small to attract serious investigation, large enough to be attractive as a bolt hole for a number of wealthy clients and sensible enough to keep those clients fully appraised of the changing market place, Le Grove Investments had built up an enviable reputation for solid rather than spectacular returns, for safety rather than speculation.

  With this in mind, Michael had continued to build the client listing and, with the Brexit vote in 2016 having initially revitalised the city, somewhat to the surprise of the Bank of England and the Government, he was able to further enhance the bank’s reputation, even maintaining a reasonable profit level over the turbulent years that had followed. He was now keen to take the bank even further. Like Trevor, albeit some twenty years younger, Michael had created a reputation of fairness and caution, which was now playing well for his own plans.

  “I’ll bring in the coffee in a couple of minutes,” Alice announced. She didn’t really like Michael coming into the kitchenette, believing that it was her domain. “Oh, and by the way, there was a telephone message left yesterday from a Sebastian Fortescue Brown. I’ve typed up the details and put it on your desk.”

  “Right. I’ll go and deal with it.” And with that, he turned on his heel and strode up to his office at the other end of the corridor, collecting his briefcase and coat on the way.

  Sitting behind his large traditional desk, he picked up the message.

  Hello. My name is Sebastian Fortescue Brown and I am the owner of the Gloucester Palace Hotel in Kensington. This message is for Mr Michael Varley. We met a couple of months ago, when you booked a room at the hotel and we had an opportunity to speak for a few minutes, during your stay. I understood that you are a money broker and I was wondering whether you might be interested in investing some capital on my behalf. The hotel is generating good profits now that I have introduced new marketing ideas and up to date accounting facilities.

  I will telephone on Monday morning in order to arrange a meeting with you.

  That sounds interesting, thought Michael. I remember that’s the hotel where I took Alice back in December. They were very discreet and looked after us very well. Maybe we should try to stay there again on Wednesday night before the conference.

  He looked at the message again and saw that there was both an email address and a telephone number. Glancing at his watch, he noticed that it was already past nine o’clock, so he decided to call. Before he could pick up the phone, there was a gentle knock on the door and Alice came in with the coffee and croissant on a tray. She placed the tray on a well-polished sideboard.

  “This looks quite interesting,” Michael remarked holding up the message. “I was just about to call him.”

  “Isn’t that the hotel where you took me in December?” asked Alice, as she poured Michael’s coffee.

  “Yes, I believe it is.”

  Alice picked up the cup and saucer, together with a small jug of milk and came round Michael’s desk to put them just to the right of his leather-bound blotter. As she put the cup down, Michael put his hand on her waist.

  “As you know, I have to make the welcome speech to the bloody conference first thing on Thursday morning,” he remarked. “And I was wondering if you would help me finish the final draft on Wednesday evening. We could have dinner and then stay at the Gloucester Palace again.” His hand moved down from her waist, over her hip, to the top of her thigh. She didn’t flinch or move away. She turned and looked at him.

  “It’s something to think about. I’ll have to check to see that I’m free on Wednesday,” she murmured. “Do you want me to contact Mr Fortescue Brown to make the appointment? Would you prefer it here or in Kensington?” She stepped back, breaking the contact with him.

  “Ah, yes!” he replied. “I think it would be better if you did that. And, on balance, it may well be better to meet here.” He handed her the message.

  Alice looked down at him with a half-smile, gave him the briefest of nods, turned and left his office.

  She went back to her own desk. She had her own office behind the reception area, with a direct view of the door. She put down the message and made the call.

  At the hotel, Sebastian was mildly surprised to hear his telephone ring quite so early on a Monday morning. Arrangements were quickly made for him to attend Le Grove Investments at 11.00 am that morning. He did a quick mental check of his assets, put some papers on one side, ready to be placed into his briefcase and decided that he would travel by taxi.

  He called Andy Greene, to book the ride. Fortunately, Andy was free and said he would arrive at 10.15. This left Sebastian with a clear half hour to get his thoughts in order.

  Alice put her head round Michael’s door to tell him that Mr Fortescue Brown would be arriving at 11.15 am. That’ll put him in a fix, she thought as she walked back to her desk. I’ll go back into his office at quarter to eleven to find out exactly what he wants me to do on Wednesday. The thou
ght of setting him up made her heart pump faster.

  David had walked to school, fully expecting his day to be filled with revision for his various exams. As he entered the school grounds, he bumped into his science teacher.

  “Good morning, Mr Smith.”

  “Good morning to you, Varley,” Mr Smith replied. “What’s the latest on the weather front?”

  "Well, sir, last night, I checked the passage of the two depressions in the Atlantic. They both appear to be stalled at the moment, probably because the anti-cyclone over northern Europe and Russia is so strong. That’s actually causing all the cold weather and the frost. I guess we were lucky to get the match played on Saturday afternoon.

  “Anyway, the two depressions are rather like the fists of a boxer, waiting to deliver the old ‘one two’, as soon as the time is right.” David would have continued, but Mr Smith held up his hand.

  “What do you think is going to happen?” he asked.

  “Weather forecasting is notoriously difficult,” David replied. “But instead of reducing the intensity of the depressions, this anti cyclone appears to be making them deeper. The wind speeds have increased and the forecasts for all the fishing areas to the west of the British Isles are pretty grim. So, if they start to move eastwards again, they will both bring some pretty severe weather right across the country.”

  “Will that mean snow, or just high winds?” Mr Smith persisted.

  “Well, I don’t really know, but I would expect the weather to change by tomorrow evening and because this cold from Russia has been so severe, then any moisture driven into the country will first fall as snow. Actually, thinking about it, there should be heavy snowfall at first, with drifting in the high wind, but this will quickly change to rain as the temperature rises. That could lead to localised flooding as the snow melts on the hills and, of course, with the water table still so high from all the rain we had in the autumn, any floods might be quite severe.”

  “There’s one other matter you might want to look at,” remarked Mr Smith. “When are the next spring tides due?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. What are they?” asked David.

  "The passage of the moon around the earth has an effect on the height of the tides and particularly in the spring and the autumn. The moon has the tendency to pull and push the sea, especially when it’s closest to the earth. This can have a dramatic effect on the ebb and flow of the tides.

  “So, if the water table is high, making the rivers run in speight and if the tides are high as well, there might be nowhere for the water to flow into the sea. I can see you think this is a bit far-fetched, so I suggest you research Canvey Island in 1953.”

  David was a little sceptical at this notion, but decided that, as soon as he returned home that afternoon, he would look into it, just to check whether there was any credence in Mr Smith’s comments.

  Martin Havers was at a loose end. He had all but finished ploughing the top field on Sunday afternoon. There was only a small patch right at the bottom, where the ground had still been too wet. The frost had again put paid to any thoughts of ploughing anywhere else on the farm. He had already walked through the cowsheds and checked over the cattle. It was warm in the shed and smelled of hay, making Martin reluctant to leave. The cows seemed content, having had their first feed. Several were pregnant and everyone was looking forward to seeing the new additions to the herd, come the spring.

  He walked into the workshop. There was his old tractor, in bits, at the far end of the shed, waiting for some love and affection. It had been a good workhorse and, really, he should have had it sold for scrap years ago, but like most farmers, he was loath to do so on the basis that it might be useful one day. In the corner, behind the old tractor, was a neat pile of corrugated iron, which had come from an old barn that had been demolished some twenty years before.

  This place needs a real clear out, thought Martin. I’ll get onto it, as soon as the weather improves.

  He walked out of the shed and stood, looking over his land, sweeping down towards the Thames. The sky was clear and pale blue, with the sun making everything sparkle, but there was no warmth in it. He looked towards London but couldn’t make out the clouds that he had seen on the horizon the day before. There was a keen wind blowing in from the east.

  All the way from the Urals, I expect, he thought. He turned and made his way back into the warmth of the kitchen.

  Milton was on an early start on that Monday morning. He was up at 5 am and on his way to work by 6 am. This was the first of three days of early starts. That never put him in the best frame of mind. Today, however, it wasn’t so bad because Pamela was very much on his mind. He now considered that it was a stroke of genius to make contact, because the time they spent together was so easy and relaxing. He had forgotten how good it can be, just to share time with another person.

  After walking to Westminster station, they travelled together back to Waterloo, where they decided to eat in a local curry house, before walking back to Pamela’s home. At the door, he thanked her for such a wonderful day and asked whether they might be able to do it again sometime soon. She readily agreed and, after giving him a quick peck on the cheek, she disappeared behind her front door. Milton turned away with his heart singing and walked back to his own home, happy and content.

  For her part, Pamela wondered whether he was wanting to come into her home, ostensibly for coffee. She was surprised and, she admitted to herself later, rather disappointed that he let her peck him on the cheek at the door, before she closed it. She was very content at the way the afternoon had developed. It could have been like a tourist trip round the parks of London, but she didn’t feel like that. Milton made it all sound so interesting, so much so that she was looking forward to seeing him again. She decided to send him a text.

  Thanks for a great afternoon, Milton, she wrote. I had a super time. Look forward to seeing you again soon. Pamela x.

  When the message pinged on his mobile, Milton jumped. In his rush to answer it, he nearly dropped the phone onto the kitchen floor. He wondered how best he should respond.

  Red Watch, at Poplar Fire Station, was also on earlies. Fred Shemming took over at eight o’clock, after an early breakfast at home. He bought a paper from Rajinder on his way to the Fire Station and was now settling down to read it. There were no incidents in the night and everything was calm. At about ten o’clock, a Fire Service van arrived, carrying the internal mail. There was a personal letter for Fred from Human Resources, inviting him to consider studying for a potential promotion to Watch Officer. This had happened before and when Fred had followed it up, it soon became apparent that the Service was wanting him to consider moving to North London. That wasn’t in his plans at all. He and Dinah were really happy in Poplar and the boys were doing well in school, so a move would not have been welcome.

  I’d better see what this is about, he muttered to himself, picking up the phone.

  After a good conversation with the head of HR, Fred now understood that both Watch Officers at Poplar were about to be promoted and moved to other parts of London. This would mean that two replacements were a necessity and, to cover in the short term, two temporary Watch Officers would be appointed.

  However, it was well known and appreciated that Fred knew his area and its residents better than any other Fire Officer in the London Fire and Rescue Service. Because of this, the head of Human Resources had made it absolutely plain that, should he pass the exams and gain the necessary promotion, he would be first in line for one of the two posts. And this would, of course, attract a reasonable increase in salary.

  Fred stood there, wondering if he should discuss this with Dinah first. She was always able to read between the lines and to understand whether there were any other, possibly detrimental, agendas. But, to him, it all seemed pretty straightforward. He wouldn’t have to move; he would get a promotion; and he would get more money. He went to the computer and typed an email, accepting the proposal.

  At quarter to eleve
n, Alice took a fresh pot of coffee through to Michael. His chair was pushed back from the desk and he was reading a financial journal. She collected the dirty cup and saucer and the milk jug from his desk.

  “Mmm, thanks!” he murmured, looking up at her. “Have you given any thought to my suggestion?”

  “Actually, I have,” Alice replied.

  She poured coffee into a fresh cup at the sideboard and then took it, together with a small jug of milk, to his desk. As she bent over to place it on the place mat, he put an appreciative hand on her right buttock. She remained quite still as his hand travelled down the outside of her leg to the hem of her dress. He put his hand onto her stockinged leg and began to run it up, inside the dress. She leant gently to her right, allowing her to move her left foot slightly to the left. When his hand reached the top of her stocking, he continued upwards to her buttock and her hip. To his surprise, he encountered no knickers and, as if to prove it to himself, he ran his hand over her bare buttocks and up towards the small of her back. She turned, using her left foot as a pivot, to face him and with the same half smile giving her features a look of calm control, she bent her right knee before lifting her right leg over his knees. If any confirmation of the state of her underwear was needed, Michael was no longer in any doubt.

  Sitting on the edge of the desk, with her legs either side of his, Alice looked into his eyes and began to undo the belt on his trousers. She followed this by loosening the trousers themselves, pulling the zip right down. She could already feel Michael hardening under her touch, as she pulled up his shirt and began to caress him through his underpants. He started to undo the bow at the side of her dress, but she stopped him. Instead, still looking him firmly in the eyes she raised both her hands to her shoulders and, with her thumbs, she slowly drew back the silken fabric to the tops of her arms, letting the sleeves drop to her elbows. This allowed the garment to gape at the front, exposing both her small, but perfectly formed breasts.