by Paul Henke
‘Yes sir.’
‘Grab a seat, Mr Griffiths, and tell me what I can do for you.’
Evan came straight to the point, just as John had instructed. ‘I don’t know what John told you in his letter . . .’Evan began, nodding at the folder on Fforest’s desk.
‘Very little. Only that you were a friend, had travelled in the first class section of the SS Cardiff, that you’re an astute businessman, prosperous and interested in starting a business over here.’
‘Not one business,’ Evan corrected him, ‘several.’ Evan looked across the desk into the shrewd eyes that seemed to be able to see him for what he was. ‘To come to the point, I would like a short term loan of twenty-five thousand dollars, say for three months with an option to extend to six months.’
‘That’s a fair amount of money. Do you mind telling me what you propose to do with it?’ A fair amount, not a lot, not too much. Fair.
‘Of course not. I intend buying fifty thousand dollars’ worth of general merchandise and shipping it here to St Louis.’
‘Ah, fifty thousand dollars’ worth, I see. And where will the rest of the money come from? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘From me. I’d intended putting up the total myself but other, what appear to be lucrative ventures, caught my eye and I find myself a little short of ready capital. John Buchanan was aware of the situation and suggested I see you.’
‘What exactly do you have in mind?’ Fforest continued.
The crunch question, thought Evan. Here goes. ‘I’ve carried out a study of your fair city and I’ve come to the conclusion that there is an opening for a general merchandise warehouse. Oh, I know what you’re going to say,’ he forestalled Fforest’s protest. ‘You were going to say that you already have warehouses down on the wharves which deal in all kinds of goods.’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what I had in mind.’
‘Look at what’s there. Warehouses dealing in cotton, sugar, wheat, meat, wood, furniture,’ he reached into an inner pocket and extracted a notebook. ‘Need I go on?’ he looked up at Fforest. ‘I’m proposing a general warehouse under one roof, dealing with all sorts of goods from meat and vegetables to furniture and imported silks and spices. My customers will be the small shop owners and only people who intend to retail the goods will be allowed in my place.
‘How will you able to tell who is who?’
‘Easy. They’ll be issued with a card which they’ll have to present to the cashier. To get the card they’ll need a letter from their local bank managers stating that they own a business.’
‘Hmmm, it’s an idea that’s certainly worth examining,’ Fforest mused aloud.
Evan smiled. ‘I’m sorry I can’t give you more time to examine it but I must be on my way tomorrow.’
‘Couldn’t you extend your stay, even by a day? That’ll give me time to think about what you’ve said. After all twenty thousand . . .’
‘Twenty-five,’ Evan corrected him.
‘Ah yes, twenty-five thousand is a lot of money. Surely it’s worth twenty-four hours of your time?’
‘It’s not such a lot. Only a fair amount, I seem to remember you saying. I’m sorry but I have to get back. I have a dinner engagement with Senator George Hughes and his wife. Oh yes, I think Eric Johnson will be there too. Do you know him? He’s a banker in New York.’
Fforest appeared to be impressed. ‘I met him once.’ He thought for a few moments. ‘If you come back – say at four this afternoon – I can have the necessary papers ready to sign.’
Evan, delighted and surprised at the speed of events, stood, shook hands with Fforest and left. The manager re-read the letter from John Buchanan, noted again the guarantee of any loan to Evan, along with the instruction not to mention it, and called for his assistant.
19
Evan rushed into the boarding house and found Meg in their room. Looking at his happy face she knew that he had been successful and flung her arms around him.
‘What happened? What did you say and what did the manager reply. Oh, tell me every word . . .’
Evan put his hand lightly to her mouth and said, ‘One question at a time. Let me sit down and I’ll explain exactly what happened.’ It didn’t take long. ‘Meg, I couldn’t believe it. Just like that . . . Twenty five thousand dollars borrowed on the strength of a letter of introduction from a mutual friend and the dropping of a few names. No check on me, nothing. Where’s the catch? I keep asking myself.’
‘The catch is, my love, that you have to take this money and turn it into a profit within three months. That isn’t exactly easy, you know,’ Meg said seriously, a frown on her brow now that the first flush of exhilaration had passed and the enormity of their undertaking hit home.
Evan smiled. ‘I know it isn’t easy but I think I can do it. Along with your help of course and that of Uncle James.’
The next morning Evan was at the station in plenty of time to catch the train for New York. Further along the platform stood Uncle James, a suitcase at his feet. In his pocket Evan had the draft for twenty five thousand dollars, two hundred in cash and had left nearly eight hundred with Meg for her side of the deal. Uncle James still had money though Evan was unsure how much.
While they were away Meg would conclude the deal on a warehouse they had already found, hire local help to whitewash the walls and build shelves. She would also start running adverts in the local newspaper before he returned from New York. For the twentieth time Evan read the draft. Pay the Bearer, Evan Matthew Griffiths the sum of twenty five thousand dollars, signed Andrew Z Fforest. He wondered briefly what the Z stood for. He looked again at the magic words – twenty-five thousand. He knew he was going to succeed.
Evan’s holdall contained list after list of the items the various store owners had said that they needed. There were hundreds of items, many of which had to be imported, such as spices, clothes and certain foods. Wines, carpets and furniture were wanted. Italian shoes and Swiss watches were in demand – the list went on and on.
Evan had a second class ticket in his pocked but climbed into the first class section when the train arrived. When it departed he went back along the carriages to find Uncle James. Both men were beginning to feel as if they had spent half their lives on a train. This time though, without having to keep the children amused, they could take a greater interest in the scenery they travelled through.
When they changed trains at Pittsburgh, Evan was no longer depressed by the place with its reminder of Wales. On the contrary he felt slightly exhilarated. I’ve beaten you, he thought. I’ve beaten every lousy, stinking mine in the world. You’ll no longer have me inside you, on my hands and knees, digging, hauling and living in fear, taking my health and leaving me to rot on a pittance. He looked at the whisky glass in his hand, downed it and said, ‘One more and we’d better get on the train, Uncle James. We don’t want to miss it. I couldn’t stand the thought of spending a night here.’
The train pulled into New York at ten o’clock in the morning. Carriage doors flew open, shrill voices yelled greetings, people jostled and shoved, all trying to go in different directions at the same time. The noise of other trains, the passengers, the hissing of escaping steam; that was the background of the high-vaulted, pigeon-infested building of New York Central Station.
Outside, Evan ordered a hansom to take them to Times Square. They enjoyed the sights of the city, no longer overawed by the height of the buildings but still impressed.
Suddenly Evan leaned forward and spoke to the driver. ‘If we pass that building a third time I’ll stop this cab, take your horse whip and use it on you. Do you understand?’
The man visibly started. ‘Yes sirree, sorry sir. We’re almost there.’
A few moments later he cut down a side street and entered Times Square. He pulled up at the sidewalk and said, ‘That’ll be two dollars, gents.’
Evan took out a single dollar bill and handed it over ‘Next time you try and take somebody for a ride I suggest y
ou find someone closer to your own size.’
The driver, in his early forties, a once muscular body turned to fat, looked at Evan, paused, spat at Evan’s feet carefully missing them and drove off. He was not too upset; he had received a dollar for a seventy five cents’ ride.
Evan and Uncle James walked along the street looking at the banks, hotels and shops. They passed Wall Street and reached Broadway. The theatre signs attracted their attention and with time to spare they ambled along, reading the advertisements for plays, musicals and shows. They found a restaurant and had dinner before they returned to Times Square, to a smart hotel where they took two rooms.
Evan lay on his bed for hours, unable to still his racing brain, knowing he needed rest but resenting the lost time. Eventually he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep that lasted through the night and into the middle of the next morning. When he awoke he lay still for a few moments gathering his wits and as the noise of the city penetrated, he threw back the bedclothes with a surge of joy, eager to go and exercise those same wits in his quest for a fortune.
He was in the dining room enjoying a cup of coffee, dressed in his grey suit and looking every inch a businessman when Uncle James joined him. They went over their plans for the day and then Evan left to find a bank.
‘How would you like the money sir, in thousands, five hundreds or smaller?’ asked the teller, Evan’s bank draft in front of him.
Evan hid his disappointment at the lack of reaction from the man at the size of the encashment. ‘Give me a mixture, please, right down to ones.’
Outside Evan hurried to the next bank, the National Bank of America and went in through its imposing doors. It was a large room, high ceilinged with a long counter down one side. There were four guarded entrances and at the far end six facing doors. There were four enclosed areas with desks, each with a man sitting at it. Three were busy with clients. Evan approached the fourth and stood at the low gate waiting for the man to acknowledge his presence. After a few moments, when it was obvious that he had been noticed but was being ignored, Evan leaned forward and spoke.
‘Listen you,’ he said in a soft voice that carried no further than the man in front of him. ‘I haven’t got all day so don’t keep me waiting and wasting my time.’
The man was startled. He had not been spoken to in that way for a very long time.
‘I . . . I’m terribly sorry, sir, I didn’t see you standing there.’ The man pushed his glasses up his nose, stood up and opened the gate for Evan. He was in his sixties, grey haired with a bald patch in the middle of his crown. He had a flabby, soft handshake.
‘How may I be of service?’ he asked, pulling his lips back in a caricature of a smile.
‘I would like to see your manager in charge of loans, please,’ Evan saw the man’s whole demeanour change. His voice was no longer so deferential. ‘Would you mind giving me your name, address and a few other particulars and if you give me the details of what you want the loan for I shall pass on your request and you shall receive a reply in the near future.’
Evan leaned forward, smiling pleasantly. ‘Are you the man to authorise a large loan?’
‘Eh, no, sir,’ he was disconcerted by Evan’s steady stare. ‘I would have to pass your request on.’
‘That’s what I expected. Now, go and tell the man who can authorise such a loan that Evan Matthew Griffiths is out here and would like to talk to him about a large loan over a short term. Also tell him I don’t have an account here but am willing to open one with an initial deposit of twenty thousand dollars.’
The man gulped, at a loss what to do for a few moments. It’s those eyes he thought, they seem to pierce right through me. ‘Fine sir, fine,’ he tried to sound affable once more. ‘I need certain particulars anyway so that I can pass them to Mr O’Brian. As soon as he’s free I’m sure he’ll see you.’
Evan nodded and sat back.
BOOK 3
Uncle James’s Story
1891
20
I was sixty-two when we arrived in America and I have never wished more that I was twenty again. The opportunities were greater than I had expected and I was gratified to see Evan and my newly adopted family reach out for them. That is, I always told the boys I’d adopted them but they always said: ‘No, Uncle James, we adopted you,’ with cheeky grins plastered across their faces. I didn’t do so much around the place as I used to, getting too old I guess. But I remember back in 1891 when we first started and Evan and me, we were in New York, working non-stop. No, working is the wrong word to describe it for either of us. We put in as many as eighteen hours a day some days and enjoyed every minute of it. I have to admit I sometimes found the going tough and had to leave some of it to Evan but most of the time I was with him.
He did tell me what happened at his meeting with the bankers but I don’t recollect all the facts. The one thing that does stick in my mind is him chuckling in his characteristically throaty way and saying: ‘From somewhere he got the impression I owned similar places in Europe. But I’m sure I didn’t come right out and say so.’ He shook his head at me. ‘Uncle James, look you, we’ve got to make this work. Now what luck did you have around the docks and shipping agents?’
At the time we were in a small restaurant on Broadway and I was eating something called spaghetti, with a meat sauce and a salad covered with some sort of oil. It was my first of many meals in an Italian restaurant and I was enjoying it more than any meal I could remember. Since leaving Wales I had been eating the richest and tastiest food in my life. The people back home just had no idea what they were missing, which is just as well, I guess, as they’d all want to come over. I remember I was making a right mess of trying to eat them long thin spaghettis with my knife and fork. The restaurant was quite small with about a dozen tables scattered around, all with the same red and white chequered tablecloths. There was a heavy, warm atmosphere made up of food smells and old wine. It was run by a fat Italian woman and her short though equally fat husband who did all the cooking. She was always laughing and joking with the customers though I seldom understood what they were saying. When she saw the mess I was making she came over, took the knife and fork out of my hands and showed me how to use a fork and spoon instead. Evan almost cried with laughter and gave her a glass of wine in appreciation of the lesson.
I told Evan what I’d arranged. ‘Tomorrow we’ve got appointments with six importers of different types of goods and the day after with the general manager of the railroad to St Louis.’
‘In that case we’re going to be pretty busy. What time is the first one?’
‘Nine o’clock, the second an hour later. The thing is they’re all in the same area so we can walk from one to the next in just a few minutes. Two are even next door to each other; the carpet place and a food place.’
We talked until nearly midnight when the previous week’s lack of sleep caught up with me in spite of the long rest the night before. That night I slept like the dead.
We were bowling along in our hansom or whatever the Americans called it when Evan said to me, ‘You know, Uncle James, I would never have thought this possible even a month ago. So much has happened and is happening . . . And do you realise it’s only the beginning?’ He paused. ‘You know I used to hate getting up at five to go down the mine. Now when I get up I find it exciting . . . I look forward to whatever the day brings, the challenge. Do you know what I mean?’
I grinned. ‘If you think that way, then how do you think I feel after more years than I care to remember down that stinking black hole?’ I shuddered. ‘I saw too many deaths, too many injuries not to enjoy this – more than you can possibly know. When I think back on a life time wasted, I tell you boyo live today like there’s no tomorrow and you’ll probably have the best life imaginable.’
‘Aye, I guess you’re right. Mind you, when I get back I’ll never go anywhere else again without Meg. I miss her too much.’
I nodded. There was nothing to say to that. It had been obvious
to me from the time I first got to know them that they had a marriage and a relationship that was one in a million. I envied him that. In fact, many people he met during the following years envied him more for his marriage than for his success.
The cabby pulled up. We were on the outskirts of dockland, a desolate area of rundown buildings some occupied, many empty. There were two heavy wagons parked further down the street, one of which was stacked high with goods. A couple of men in coveralls lounged against a wall but apart from that there was no activity that I could see.
‘They don’t use this place much,’ I explained to Evan. ‘They prefer to pass the goods to the customer as soon as they clear customs. That way they keep their overheads down. That’s what more than one man told me yesterday. Did I tell you one reckoned he couldn’t get enough goods to satisfy all his customers?’
Evan nodded.
‘I thought I did. An old man’s mind wandering.’
‘You aren’t old yet, Uncle James, not by a long way,’ Evan kidded me, and though I didn’t believe him it was nice to hear anyway. I coughed harshly, catching the phlegm in my handkerchief. Evan thought I was being polite, but I was doing it so he wouldn’t see the streaks of red.
I led the way up a rickety stair, uncarpeted, our footsteps a hollow tramping on the wood. The first door led to a sparsely furnished secretary’s office, a battered desk along one wall, filing cabinets stretching the length of the other and a stove in the corner next to the door. A connecting door on our right led to the boss’s office. The woman behind the desk was sixty, grey haired and as skinny as a starved ferret.
‘My name is Griffiths; we have an appointment with, eh, Mr Grundy for nine o’clock.’ The clock on the wall showed it was two minutes to the hour.
‘Yes, sir, Mr Grundy is expecting you. Just knock and go right in.’
If Evan was surprised at the informality he didn’t show it. A few moments later, the introductions over, we were seated opposite a florid faced gentleman who was somewhere between Evan’s age and mine. His office was as sparse as his secretary’s except for the fact that he had only one filing cabinet and the walls were decorated with horse racing prints.