As Doug had just begun a six-year sentence and was back to earning £12.50 a week as the prison librarian, he was hardly in a position to offer an opinion. However, even he was impressed when, the following year, Sally declared an income of £37,000, which included her added sales bonuses. This time, the accountant advised her to purchase a third lorry.
Doug was eventually released from prison having only served half his sentence (three years). Sally was parked outside the prison gates in her Vauxhall, waiting to drive her husband home. His nine-year-old daughter, Kelly, was strapped into the back, next to her three-year-old sister Sam. Sally had not allowed either of the children to visit their father in prison, so when Doug took the little girl in his arms for the first time, Sam burst into tears. Sally explained to her that the strange man was her father.
Over a welcome breakfast of bacon and eggs, Sally was able to report that she had been advised by her accountant to form a limited company. Haslett Haulage had declared a profit of £21,600 in its first year, and she had added two more lorries to their growing fleet. Sally told her husband that she was thinking of giving up her job at the estate agent’s to become full-time chair of the new company.
‘Chair?’ said Doug. ‘What’s that?’
Doug was only too pleased to leave Sally to run the company, as long as he was allowed to take his place behind the wheel as one of her drivers. This state of affairs would have continued quite happily, if Doug had not once again been approached by the man from Marseilles – who never seemed to end up in jail – with what he confidently assured him was a fool-proof plan with no risks attached and, more important, this time his wife need never find out.
Doug resisted the Frenchman’s advances for several months, but after losing a rather large sum in a poker game, finally succumbed. Just one trip, he promised himself. The man from Marseilles smiled, as he handed over an envelope containing £12,500 in cash.
Under Sally’s chairmanship, the Haslett Haulage Company continued to grow, in both reputation and below the bottom line. Meanwhile, Doug once again became used to having cash in hand; money which did not rely on a balance sheet, and was not subject to a tax return.
Someone else was continuing to keep a close eye on the Haslett Haulage Company, and Doug in particular. Regular as clockwork, Doug could be seen driving his lorry through the Dover terminal, with a full load of sprouts and peas, destined for Marseilles. But Mark Cainen, now an anti-smuggling officer working as part of the Law Enforcement Unit, never once saw Doug make the return journey. This worried him.
The officer checked his records, to find that Haslett Haulage was now running nine lorries a week to different parts of Europe. Their chairman, Sally Haslett, had a spotless reputation – not unlike her vehicles – with everyone she dealt with, from customs to customers. But Mr Cainen was still curious to find out why Doug was no longer driving back through his port. He took it personally.
A few discreet enquiries revealed that Doug could still be seen in Marseilles unloading his sprouts and peas, and later loading up with crates of bananas. However, there was one slight variation. He was now driving back via Newhaven, which Cainen estimated must have added at least a couple of hours to Doug’s journey.
All customs officers have the option of serving one month a year at another port of entry, to further their promotion prospects. The previous year Mr Cainen had selected Heathrow airport; that year he opted for a month in Newhaven.
Officer Cainen waited patiently for Doug’s lorry to appear on the dockside, but it wasn’t until the end of his second week that he spotted his old adversary waiting in line to disembark from an Olsen’s ferry. The moment Doug’s lorry drove onto the dock, Mr Cainen disappeared upstairs into the staffroom and poured himself a cup of coffee. He walked across to the window and watched Doug’s vehicle came to a halt at the front of the line. He was waved quickly through by the two officers on duty. Mr Cainen made no attempt to intervene as Doug drove out onto the road to continue his journey back to Sleaford. He had to wait another ten days before Doug’s lorry reappeared, and this time he noted that only one thing hadn’t changed. Mr Cainen didn’t think it was a coincidence.
When Doug returned via Newhaven five days later, the same two officers gave his vehicle no more than a cursory glance, before waving him through. The officer now knew that it wasn’t a coincidence. Mr Cainen reported his observations to his boss in Newhaven and, as his month was up, made his way back to Dover.
Doug completed three more journeys from Marseilles via Newhaven before the two customs officers were arrested. When Doug saw five officers heading towards his truck, he knew that his new impossible-to-be-caught system had been sussed.
Doug didn’t waste the court’s time pleading not guilty, because one of the customs officers with whom he had been splitting the take had made a deal to have his sentence reduced if he named names. He named Douglas Arthur Haslett.
The judge sent Doug down for eight years, with no remission for good behaviour, unless he agreed to pay a fine of £750,000. Doug didn’t have £750,000 and begged Sally to help out, as he couldn’t face the thought of another eight years behind bars. Sally had to sell everything, including the cottage, the carpark, nine lorries and even her engagement ring, so that her husband could comply with the court order.
After serving a year at Wayland Category C prison in Norfolk, Doug was transferred back to North Sea Camp. Once again, he was appointed as librarian, which was where I first met him.
I was impressed that Sally and his two – now grown-up – daughters came to visit Doug every weekend. He told me that they didn’t discuss business, even though he’d sworn on his mother’s grave never, ever again.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Sally had warned him. ‘I’ve already sent your lorry to the scrapyard.’
‘Can’t blame the woman, after all I’ve put her through,’ said Doug when I next visited the library. ‘But if they won’t let me get behind a wheel once I’m released, what am I going to do for the rest of my life?’
I was released a couple of years before Doug, and if I hadn’t been addressing a literary festival in Lincoln some years later, I might never have discovered what had become of the chief librarian.
As I stared down into the audience during questions, I thought I recognized three vaguely familiar faces looking up at me from the third row. I racked that part of my brain that is meant to store names, but it didn’t respond. That was, until I had a question about the difficulties of writing while in prison. Then it all came flooding back. I had last seen Sally some three years before, when she was visiting Doug accompanied by her two daughters, Kelly and, and . . . Sam.
After I’d taken the final question, we broke for coffee, and the three of them came across to join me.
‘Hi, Sally. How’s Doug?’ I asked even before they could introduce themselves. An old political ploy, and they looked suitably impressed.
‘Retired,’ said Sally without explanation.
‘But he was younger than me,’ I protested, ‘and never stopped telling everyone what he planned to do once he was released.’
‘No doubt,’ said Sally, ‘but I can assure you he’s retired. Haslett Haulage is now run by me and my two daughters, with a backroom staff of twenty-one, not including the drivers.’
‘So you’re obviously doing well,’ I said, fishing.
‘You clearly don’t read the financial pages,’ she teased.
‘I’m like the Japanese,’ I countered, ‘I always read my papers from back to front. So what have I missed?’
‘We went public last year,’ chipped in Kelly. ‘Mum’s chair, I’m in charge of new accounts and Sam is responsible for the drivers.’
‘And if I remember correctly, you had about nine lorries?’
‘We now have forty-one,’ said Sally, ‘and our turnover last year was just under five million.’
‘And Doug doesn’t play any role?’
‘Doug plays golf,’ said Sally, ‘which doesn’
t require him to travel through Dover, or,’ she added with a sigh, as her husband appeared in the doorway, ‘back via Newhaven.’
Doug remained still, as his eyes searched the room for his family. I waved and caught his attention. Doug waved back and wandered slowly across to join us.
‘We still allow him to drive us home from time to time,’ whispered Sam with a grin, just as Doug appeared by my side.
I shook hands with my former inmate, and when Sally and the girls had finished their coffee, I accompanied them all back to their car, which gave me the chance to have a word with Doug.
‘I’m delighted to hear that Haslett Haulage is doing so well,’ I volunteered.
‘Put it all down to experience,’ said Doug. ‘Don’t forget I taught them everything they know.’
‘And since we last met, Kelly tells me that the company’s gone public.’
‘All part of my long-term plan,’ said Doug as his wife climbed into the back of the car. He turned and gave me a knowing look. ‘A lot of people sniffing around at the moment, Jeff, so don’t be surprised if there’s a takeover bid in the near future.’ Just as he reached the driver’s side of the car, he added, ‘Chance for you to make a few bob while the shares are still at their present price. Know what I mean?’
HENRY PRESTON, HARRY to his friends – and they didn’t number many – wasn’t the sort of person you’d bump into at the local pub, meet at a football match or invite home for a barbecue. Frankly, if there was a club for introverts, Henry would be elected chairman – reluctantly.
At school, the only subject in which he excelled was mathematics, and his mother, the one person who adored him, was determined that Henry would have a profession. His father had been a postman. With one A level in maths, the field was fairly limited – banking or accountancy. His mother chose accountancy.
Henry was articled to Pearson, Clutterbuck & Reynolds, and when he first joined the firm as a clerk he dreamt of the headed notepaper reading Pearson, Clutterbuck, Reynolds & Preston. But as the years went by, and younger and younger men found their names embossed on the left-hand side of the company notepaper, the dream faded.
Some men, aware of their limitations, find solace in another form – sex, drugs or a hectic social life. It’s quite difficult to conduct a hectic social life on your own. Drugs? Henry didn’t even smoke, although he allowed himself the occasional gin and tonic, but only on Saturday. And as for sex, he felt confident he wasn’t gay, but his success rate with the opposite sex, ‘hits’ as some of his younger colleagues described them, hovered around zero. Henry didn’t even have a hobby.
There comes a point in every man’s life when he realizes I’m going to live forever is a fallacy. It came all too soon for Henry, as he progressed quickly through middle age and suddenly began to think about early retirement. When Mr Pearson, the senior partner, retired, a large party was held in his honour in a private room at a five-star hotel. Mr Pearson, after a long and distinguished career, told his colleagues that he would be retiring to a cottage in the Cotswolds to tend the roses and try to lower his golf handicap. Much laughter and applause followed. The only thing Henry recalled of that occasion was Atkins, the firm’s latest recruit, saying to him as he left for the evening, I suppose it won’t be that long, old chap, before we’re doing the same sort of thing for you.’
Henry mulled over young Atkins’s words as he walked towards the bus stop. He was fifty-four years old, so in six years’ time, unless he made partner, in which case his tenure would be extended to sixty-five, they would be holding a farewell party for him. In truth, Henry had long ago given up any thought of becoming a partner, and he had already accepted that his party would not be held in the private room of a five-star hotel. He certainly wouldn’t be retiring to a cottage in the Cotswolds to tend his roses, and he already had enough handicaps, without thinking about golf.
Henry was well aware that his colleagues considered him to be reliable, competent and thorough, which only added to his sense of failure. The highest praise he ever received was, ‘You can always depend on Henry. He’s a safe pair of hands.’
But all of that changed the day he met Angela.
Angela Forster’s company, Events Unlimited, was neither large enough to be assigned to one of the partners, nor small enough to be handled by an articled clerk, which is how her file ended up on Henry’s desk. He studied the details carefully.
Ms Forster was the sole proprietor of a small business that specialized in organizing events – anything from the local Conservative Association’s annual dinner to a regional Hunt Ball. Angela was a born organizer and after her husband left her for a younger woman – when a man leaves his wife for a younger woman, it’s a short story, when a woman leaves her husband for a younger man, it’s a novel (I digress) – Angela made the decision not to sit at home and feel sorry for herself but, following our Lord’s advice in the parable of the talents, opted to use her one gift, so that she could fully occupy her time while making a little pin money on the side. The problem was that Angela had become a little more successful than she’d anticipated, which is how she ended up having an appointment with Henry.
Before Henry finalized Ms Forster’s accounts, he took her slowly through the figures, column by column, showing his new client how she was entitled to claim for certain items against tax, such as her car, travel and even her clothes. He pointed out that she ought to be dressed appropriately when she attended one of her functions. Henry managed to save Ms Forster a few hundred pounds on her tax bill; after all, he considered it a matter of professional pride that, having heeded his advice, all his clients left the office better off. That was even after they’d settled his company’s fees, which, he pointed out, could also be claimed against tax.
Henry always ended every meeting with the words, I can assure you that your accounts are in apple-pie order, and the tax man will not be troubling you.’ Henry was only too aware that very few of his clients were likely to interest the tax man, let alone be troubled by him. He would then accompany his client to the door with the words, ‘See you next year.’ When he opened the door for Ms Forster, she smiled, and said, ‘Why don’t you come along to one of my functions, Mr Preston? Then you can see what I get up to most evenings.’
Henry couldn’t recall when he’d last been invited to anything. He hesitated, not quite sure how to respond. Angela filled the silence. ‘I’m organizing a ball for African famine relief on Saturday evening. It’s at the town hall. Why don’t you join me?’
Henry heard himself saying, ‘Yes, thank you, how nice. I’ll look forward to it,’ and regretted the decision the moment he had closed the door. After all, on Saturday nights he always watched film of the week on Sky, while enjoying a Chinese takeaway and a gin and tonic. In any case, he needed to be in bed by ten because on Sunday morning he was responsible for checking the church collection. He was also their accountant. Honorary, he assured his mother.
Henry spent most of Saturday morning trying to come up with an excuse: a headache, an emergency meeting, a previous engagement he’d forgotten about, so that he could ring Ms Forster and call the whole thing off. Then he realized that he didn’t have her home number.
At six o’clock that evening Henry put on the dinner jacket his mother had given him on his twenty-first birthday, which didn’t always have an annual outing. He looked at himself in the mirror, nervous that his attire must surely be out of date – wide lapels and flared trousers – unaware that this look was actually back in fashion. He was among the last to arrive at the town hall, and had already made up his mind that he would be among the first to leave.
Angela had placed Henry on the end of the top table, from where he was able to observe proceedings, while only occasionally having to respond to the lady seated on his left.
Once the speeches were over, and the band had struck up, Henry felt he could safely slip away. He looked around for Ms Forster. He had earlier spotted her dashing all over the place, organizing everything from
the raffle and the heads-and-tails competition to the ten-pound-note draw and even the auction. When he looked at her more closely, dressed in her long red ball gown, her fair hair falling to her shoulders, he had to admit . . . Henry stood up and was about to leave, when Angela appeared by his side. ‘Hope you’ve enjoyed yourself,’ she said, touching his arm. Henry couldn’t remember the last time a woman had touched him. He prayed she wasn’t going to ask him to dance.
‘I’ve had a wonderful time,’ Henry assured her. ‘How about you?’
‘Run off my feet,’ Angela replied, ‘but I feel confident that we’ll raise a record amount this year.’
‘So how much do you expect to make?’ asked Henry, relieved to find himself on safer ground.
Angela checked her little notebook. ‘Twelve thousand, six hundred in pledges, thirty-nine thousand, four hundred and fifty in cheques, and just over twenty thousand in cash.’ She handed over her notebook for Henry to inspect. He expertly ran a finger down the list of figures, relaxing for the first time that evening.
‘What do you do with the cash?’ Henry asked.
‘I always drop it off on my way home at the nearest bank that has an overnight safe. If you’d like to accompany me, you’ll have experienced the whole cycle from beginning to end.’ Henry nodded. ‘Just give me a few minutes,’ she said. ‘I have to pay the band, as well as my helpers – and they always insist on cash.’
That was probably when Henry first had the idea. Just a passing thought to begin with, which he quickly dismissed. He headed towards the exit and waited for Angela.
‘If I remember correctly,’ said Henry as they walked down the steps of the town hall together, ‘your turnover last year was just under five million, of which over a million was in cash.’
‘What a good memory you have, Mr Preston,’ Angela said as they headed towards the High Street, ‘but I’m hoping to raise over five million this year,’ she added, ‘and I’m already ahead of my target for March.’
The New Collected Short Stories Page 37