by Penny Jordan
Robert had stopped speaking. People shuffled politely, waiting for her to make the first move. Silently she did so, pausing as she emerged into the cold rawness outside the crematorium, her body stiff as she thanked people for coming and accepted their expressions of sympathy.
There had been few mourners there, few brave enough to admit that they knew the dead man. Was it that they feared that they might be contaminated by the failure which had destroyed him? Philippa smiled bitterly to herself.
‘Come along, my dear,’ her father urged her, taking hold of her arm. ‘We all understand how you must be feeling.’
Did they? She doubted it, Philippa thought savagely as she pulled away from him, ignoring his irritated frown and her mother’s displeased tutting.
Oh, she knew how they expected her to feel, the conventional emotion she was expected to betray. The shock, the tears, the grief.
But it was none of these she felt as she walked back to the car.
If she wept now it would not be for Andrew, it would be for herself, and they would not be tears of grief but tears of anger and resentment. Tears of admission of a helplessness she could not afford to feel—neither for her sons nor for herself.
CHAPTER SIX
PHILIPPA dressed apprehensively for her appointment with the bank manager. What did one wear for such an interview? Her black suit was probably the most appropriate and businesslike thing she had in her wardrobe, but she shrank from putting it on again so soon.
The only other formal outfits she possessed were the pretty silk dresses and matching jackets, the expensive silk and cashmere pastel-coloured separates which Andrew had always insisted on her wearing; the kind of clothes which looked fragile and luxurious. School open days and private garden and house party clothes, Philippa had always privately thought of them. Pretty clothes for a pretty woman; expensive and impractical clothes to show off and underline Andrew’s wealth and achievements.
And totally unsuitable for her to wear now; they would make her feel like a modern Marie Antoinette, flaunting her luxuries while others went without.
Now that she was over the initial shock of Andrew’s death, now that she had forced herself to admit the anger and resentment she felt at what he had done, she had started to broaden the scope of her thoughts and anxieties. She might not be responsible in any way for the fate of the factory, of those who worked in it, but that did not stop her feeling concerned, anxious, guilty almost, mentally comparing their fate with her own.
In the end she wore the black suit, crushing down her feelings of distaste as she put it on.
She had driven up to the school yesterday, Sunday, to see the boys, and her car would now need filling with petrol, she reminded herself as she left the house.
Both Rory and Daniel seemed to be coping well with their father’s death, but she suspected that the reality of it would not really touch them until they returned home for the Easter holidays.
Her appointment at the bank was not until ten o’clock and she had plenty of time, she assured herself as she pulled in at the garage where she always got her petrol. Andrew had an account there; it was one of those domineering male traits which she often resented in him that, while he always insisted on her having the best of everything, he did not like handing actual cash over to her. The bills for all her credit cards were sent to him; her car, her clothes, even their food were all paid for via these cards and the small amount of actual cash he allowed her carefully monitored by him. Not because he didn’t trust her, but, she suspected, because he enjoyed and needed to feel he was in control of her and of her life.
She filled her tank with petrol and then walked into the shop.
The woman behind the till was the wife of the garage manager. Philippa smiled at her as she asked her if she would put the cost of her petrol on their account.
The woman flushed uncomfortably and glanced uncertainly over her shoulder towards an open door that led into what Philippa presumed was an office. Then, even though there was no one else in the shop, she lowered her voice slightly as she leaned towards Philippa and asked awkwardly, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Ryecart, but could you possibly pay cash?’
Taken aback and flushing slightly herself in response to the woman’s embarrassment, Philippa reached automatically into her handbag, fumbling for her purse.
‘It’s the rules, you see,’ the woman was explaining uncomfortably. ‘The account was in your husband’s name and…’
‘Yes, yes, of course. I understand,’ Philippa assured her. She could feel her face starting to burn with embarrassed heat as she opened her purse. How much money did she have? Please God, let it be enough to pay for her petrol. Why on earth hadn’t she had the sense to realise for herself that this would happen? Andrew had always countersigned the petrol bill at the end of the month when he’d paid it and she ought to have recognised that with him dead problems might arise. The garage obviously had done.
Even as she felt the relief of discovering that she had enough cash with her to cover the bill, she was still furiously angry with herself and dismayingly aware of how dismally lacking in common sense and ordinary everyday awareness she must be not to have anticipated what might happen.
She could sign cheques on the joint account, a concession it had taken her many months to win, but only for amounts of fifty pounds at a time and never more than two hundred pounds in one month.
No doubt this was one of the reasons why the bank manager wanted to see her, she acknowledged as she left the garage and got back into her car.
Neville Wilson was a pleasant enough man, very much the archetypal bank manager type, worthy and perhaps a little on the dull side, addicted to his golf, and the type of man who enjoyed observing the conventions of small-town life and who would, in Philippa’s estimation, feel uneasy and out of his depth without them.
Andrew had often boasted to her that he was the bank’s biggest customer and that because of his flair and initiative, because of the way he had expanded the company, Neville’s stock had been increased with his head office.
‘It’s no wonder they’ve never promoted him,’ Andrew had told her after they had left one of the Wilsons’ dinner parties. Andrew had been in a good mood that night, boasting at the dinner-table about the new contract he expected to win.
‘He’s too cautious… too stuck in his ways. I keep telling him that these days to make money you have to spend it. His own boss agrees with me. In fact I’m beginning to think I should deal with the regional office direct and bypass Neville. I’d get much faster results that way. They understand how important speed is these days.’
Andrew had also been in an unusually expansive mood that night. He had made love to her when they went to bed, a sure sign that he was in good temper.
Made love… Philippa grimaced to herself at how very much her parents’ daughter she was at times. She and Andrew had not ‘made love’ at all—they hadn’t really even had sex; they had simply been physically intimate, physically but not mentally and certainly not emotionally.
She hadn’t seen Neville socially for several months after that, not until they had both been guests at a mutual acquaintance’s dinner party.
‘I’m sorry to hear that Andrew didn’t get that Japanese contract after all,’ he had said quietly to Philippa after dinner. ‘It must have been a disappointment to him. I know how much he was counting on it.’
Philippa hadn’t said anything. How could she have done? She had had no knowledge of the contract he was discussing and so she had simply smiled and changed the subject, asking him if he had managed to take time off to visit Wentworth to watch the golf—a special pro-am match which she knew would have appealed to him.
Now, as she remembered that conversation, her mouth twisted bitterly.
Had Neville perhaps been trying to warn her even then that things were going badly wrong for Andrew? But even if he had, what could she have done? She was the last person Andrew would have listened to or confided in.
Face
it, she told herself as she walked into the bank. Andrew would not have listened to anyone who tried to tell him something he might not want to hear. He was simply not that kind of man.
She was several minutes early for her appointment and, bearing in mind the fact that she had used virtually all her spare cash to pay for her petrol, Philippa was just about to draw some cash from their account when she remembered the humiliating situation at the garage and decided to wait until she had spoken to Neville and sorted out whatever paperwork was necessary to enable her to take over their accounts.
At one minute to ten a young woman walked into the banking hall, tall and dressed in a smartly discreet, soft caramel-coloured business suit and a toning cream silk shirt. She gave off an aura which Philippa immediately envied. Although physically she was extremely attractive it was immediately obvious to Philippa as she observed her that it was not her looks that gave her her enviable air of self-confidence and assurance, her unmistakable and enviable professionalism.
This young woman was all that she herself had never been, Philippa acknowledged as she watched her; there were perhaps eight years, maybe even less between them but Philippa felt that they were divided by a gulf not of time but of life’s experience.
She saw Neville coming out of his office, and stood up, but it was the girl whom he greeted first, before turning to Philippa and making an apology that he hadn’t been able to join the other mourners at the crematorium.
As he showed them both into his office, it was the girl again whom he showed to the more prominent of the two chairs, quickly introducing her to Philippa as the representative of the firm of accountants the bank had called in to handle the firm’s liquidation.
Thanks to Robert, she had been semi-prepared for such an announcement, but the gravity of Neville’s voice and the way he was frowning down at the papers on his desk still heightened her anxiety, the shock of hearing what she dreaded sliding coldly through her stomach, her body tensing.
Habit and training cautioned her simply to sit and listen, to retreat into the protection of a semi-frozen silence, but older instincts urged her to accept reality, warned her that it wasn’t just herself she had to protect and defend but her sons as well.
Neville was still frowning. He coughed and cleared his throat.
‘I realise this has come as a shock to you,’ he told her. ‘But it has to be discussed, I’m afraid.’
‘Yes… yes. I appreciate that,’ Philippa told him huskily. ‘It’s just…’ She could feel her throat beginning to close up, weak tears of fear and panic threatening to flood her eyes.
She couldn’t cry… she mustn’t cry… she was not going to cry, she told herself fiercely. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the expression on Deborah’s face and momentarily envied her.
She was young, so obviously self-confident and in control of her life, that faint hint of pity Philippa could see in her eyes making her feel worse rather than better.
Gritting her teeth, she lifted her head and looked directly at Neville.
‘Could you explain the exact situation to me, Neville?’ she asked him quietly. ‘I… Andrew didn’t discuss his business affairs with me. He wasn’t that sort of man and I——’
She broke off, her face hot, aware of how stupid she must sound and aware too of the covert message within her words, the in-built need to apologise for herself and ask forgiveness.
Neville Wilson watched her. She was still in shock, poor woman, and no wonder. This wasn’t the first time he had been in this situation and it wouldn’t be the last. He had warned Andrew about the risk he was taking, but Andrew had refused to listen and it was no surprise to Neville to hear that he had kept Philippa in the dark about his business affairs.
‘A lot of men are like Andrew,’ he told Philippa. ‘I sometimes suspect that it’s partly the excitement of the secrecy of keeping everything to themselves, of being totally in control that drives them on and makes them successful. Unfortunately, it’s the same need for secrecy and control that works so dangerously in reverse when things go wrong.
‘I tried to warn Andrew on several occasions about what he was doing but…’
‘But the bank still loaned him money,’ Philippa intervened quietly.
Neville gave a small shrug. ‘Things were different then. It was a time of expansion; head office wanted us to lend and Andrew had the collateral, or at least…’
‘Your husband’s business isn’t the only one to suffer,’ Deborah told Philippa. ‘One of the problems a lot of small businesses have had to face is that the value of their collateral, the means by which they secure the money they borrow, has sharply depreciated. Bankruptcies are very much on the increase at the moment…’
‘And suicide?’ Philippa asked sharply before biting her lip and apologising huskily. ‘I’m sorry… It’s just…’
She was here, after all, to listen to what Neville and this young woman had to say, not to give way to her own emotions or express the anger and resentment she felt at what had happened to her.
Deborah watched her. There was no mistaking the other woman’s shocked distress. Deborah actually felt sorry for her, her plight reaching out to her in a way she hadn’t expected. Would she have felt a similar empathy had Philippa been a man? She didn’t know, but then a man would not have been in such a situation, would he?
In the office and at home reading the bank’s file on the company and its owner, it had been easy to criticise and condemn, to be distanced from the effect that Andrew Ryecart’s financial ineptitude and arrogance had had on other people’s lives, but here, facing one of, if not the prime victim of Andrew’s overweening pride, Deborah suddenly realised exactly what Mark had meant when he had said that it was a side of their work he simply had no stomach for.
But it was her job to find the stomach for it, as Ryan would no doubt point out mockingly to her when she tried to express her present feelings to him.
Silently she listened as Neville Wilson explained the position to Philippa.
‘Andrew fell into the same trap as many other people during the eighties,’ he told her. ‘He bought the company when interest rates were low and then borrowed heavily to re-equip it, bringing in new plants and taking on extra men, secure in the knowledge that there was an increasing market for his goods. Over-trading is the term we bankers use for it,’ Neville told her drily. ‘But, unfortunately, men like Andrew very rarely listen to our words of caution. Additionally, matters were made worse in Andrew’s case by the fact that not only did interest rates rise steeply, but he had also gambled on winning an extremely large new contract and had expanded, borrowing extra money to spend on the plant and new buildings on the assumption that he would get this contract. At that time the value of his assets merited such a loan but, of course, now…’
‘I suspect that your husband’s accountants, like the bank, would have cautioned him to think very carefully about what he was doing,’ Deborah intervened. ‘We always counsel companies not to put too many of their eggs in the one basket, so to speak. Several small contracts are always much wiser and safer than one large one. Several small ones to provide the bread and butter and one large one for the jam are, of course, even better. Even if your husband had obtained this large contract he could still have been facing severe problems. What a lot of these large companies do is use their contracts as bait, and once they have their fish well and truly hooked and dependent on their contracts to stay in the business they use that power to force down the price of the goods or services they’re buying. It’s standard market practice but often, in the euphoria of obtaining a good new contract, even the most sensible of businessmen can forget that fact.
‘In your husband’s case, unfortunately, he was already over-committed financially before he expanded to take on this contract. Once he realised he wasn’t going to get it, the only way the business could have survived would have been via a very large injection of cash. He couldn’t borrow any more money. He had already borrowed up to the
full extent of his assets and as it is the bank will be very lucky to recoup all of its money.’
‘So there’s no way the company could be kept going?’ Philippa asked her.
Deborah shook her head. ‘No, I’m sorry, there isn’t. If there were, the bank, or more likely your husband’s accountants, would have recommended appointing receivers; they would have taken over the running of the company and tried to keep it working as a going concern until they could find a buyer…’
‘And there’s no way that still could be done?’ Philippa asked her eagerly. Perhaps if she talked to Robert, stressed to him how many people would be put out of work if the company closed down, played a little upon his pomposity… his public image and the acclaim he would receive locally if he ‘saved’ Kilcoyne’s… ‘If there were someone who could invest…’
Deborah shook her head again. Why was it that she felt so much pity and compassion for this woman? She was the antithesis of everything she was herself, pitifully defenceless and unaware, the kind of woman who probably never worried about anything other than what to serve at her next dinner party, whose knowledge of world affairs was probably limited to the name of Hillary Clinton’s dress designer and who was probably more familiar with the current cost of a Chanel suit than with the current state of the share index.
The kind of woman who almost exactly mirrored the type personified by her own mother.
Deborah frowned abruptly. Where had that thought come from?
‘Not unless this someone could come up with two million pounds,’ she told Philippa briskly.
Philippa could feel the colour leaving her skin, her blood felt as though it was being sucked back through her veins by some giant vacuum pump, leaving her physically shaking… physically nauseous.