The Money Makers

by Harry Bingham

  ‘Yes. Quite. I wouldn’t have mentioned it, except ... well, perhaps ... I apologise, anyway.’

  George relented a little. Just because he felt bad most of the time didn’t mean that Wilmot had to.

  ‘Don’t worry, Jeff. You did the right thing. Anything which helps the company is allowed round here, even asking impertinent questions.’

  Wilmot nodded his gratitude and began to round up the trail of crumbs.

  ‘Now I’ve got a question for you, Jeff,’ said George. ‘If the Aspertons launch another attack on the company, how long could we survive?’

  ‘Survive? How long would we survive?’ Wilmot felt the pressure of the question. ‘Hard to say ... It would depend on a number of factors, primarily commercial ... I could prepare some scenario analysis ...’ He babbled away until George interrupted.

  ‘OK. Let me put it another way. If we made a loss this month, instead of a profit. Say the Aspertons attacked us again and we lost ten thousand pounds after interest this month, next month, and the month after. Would we survive as long as the summer?’

  Wilmot relaxed a bit. That was easy.

  ‘Given our current cash position, there’s no way we could survive for that long.’

  George shook his head, but he was in agreement. It was as he thought. Gissings’ health would remain precarious until the debt was paid off or until the Aspertons were called off for good. George looked at his watch. It was one minute past two.

  George had just opened his mouth to ask Wilmot another question, when a clatter of feet coming down the passageway outside interrupted them. It was Darren and Dave with a group of their workmates, from the sound of it just back from a long and enjoyable liquid lunch. The group stopped outside Wilmot’s office, to get some crisps and drinks from the archaic vending machine which stood outside.

  ‘No. You don’t need to put any bleeding money in,’ screeched Darren. And, as George watched through a glass pane in the door, Darren wiggled a key around in the coin slot while thumping the machine with his fist. A scream of triumph greeted the first can of Coke to tumble. Darren immediately started instructing the others in how to repeat the trick.

  ‘Better watch out for the guv’nor,’ said one.

  ‘Watch out for Georgie Porgie?’ laughed Darren. ‘I don’t think so. With his gut, you’d hear him coming a mile off.’

  Darren pulled a fire blanket off the wall and stuffed it up his T-shirt. He puffed air into his cheeks and scrunched up his eyes.

  ‘Hello, lads,’ said Darren, imitating George’s heavy tread and uneven Yorkshire accent. ‘Stealing crisps from the vending machine again? I wouldn’t mind a few dozen packs myself.’

  The drunken group sniggered. It wasn’t a bad impression, though not exactly complimentary. Darren enjoyed the impact he was having and cast around for ways to keep the laughter going.

  ‘I know, how about this?’

  He tore the ring pull from the Coke can and shoved it up his nose to make a nose ring. He assaulted the vending machine for a liquorice wheel, uncurled it and stuck it into the back of his trousers, a curly black pig’s tail.

  ‘I’m Georgie Porgie,’ puffed Darren in his George accent. ‘Getting a bit porky. Must be all those crisps I’m stealing.’

  George watched the scene with tight lips. Wilmot, who could hear everything, was frozen with embarrassment. Outside, Darren was getting down on all fours, patting his fire blanket belly and oinking. The laughter was unstinting but nervous, but Darren had lost all sense of caution. He was on a roll. Then George opened the door.

  The group fell silent. Darren was the last to see anything, but when he looked up, he stayed where he was.

  ‘Hi, George,’ said Darren.

  ‘You’re fired,’ said George.

  Darren’s departure was swift and final. Pink with anger, George virtually dragged him from the building and ordered him never to return. But though gone, he wasn’t forgotten. Dave mooned around the building like a teenage lover. There was muttering on the shop floor, where Darren had been popular. Even Andrew Walters drew Sally Dummett and Jeff Wilmot into his office to discuss the incident behind a tightly closed door.

  The consensus of opinion was that Darren had been out of line, but George’s reaction had been unforgivable. You couldn’t just sack somebody for one incident like that, especially after all the devotion that Darren had shown. There was a mood of creeping hostility but, typically, the only person to speak up about it was Val, for once stepping out of her self-appointed role as silent secretary.

  ‘How dare you? How dare you fire that young man for taking the piss?’

  ‘I didn’t fire him for taking the piss. I fired him for stealing company property, for vandalism to important safety equipment, for exceeding his authorised lunch hour and for being under the influence of alcohol while on duty.’

  ‘What?’ Val was briefly nonplussed. She hadn’t heard about any theft or vandalism.

  ‘Darren stole from the vending machine and showed others how to do it. He took a fire blanket from the wall and clearly had no intention of replacing it.’

  Val breathed out deeply. So it was just as she had thought.

  ‘You are the most self-righteous self-centred bastard I’ve ever met. I can’t believe you would be willing to wreck that young man’s future just because he once took the mickey out of you and I hate the fact that you have to lie about why you sacked him. I think it’s despicable.’

  She had started to cry. George took a handkerchief from his pocket and twisted it in his hands. He wanted to offer it to her, but knew she would reject it.

  ‘Val, listen -’ he began.

  ‘No, you listen to me. After you came back from chasing your French princess or whatever she is, I vowed I would never have anything to do with you again. But I admit - dear God, I can’t believe it - I admit I had started to waver. I really was making up my mind to give you another chance.’ Val was weeping profusely now. George’s watching face bore the conflicting emotions of concern, hardness and love, but Val wasn’t looking.

  ‘But now you do something like this. It’s so unbelievably petty. I realise you really don’t give a damn about anything in the world except yourself. And I will never, never, never allow myself to come dose to you again.’

  George opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it and bit his lip instead. The conversation was over.

  2

  Zack climbed the spiral staircase running up the tower. The old steps looked like they were melting in the deceptive April sun, sagging where centuries of feet had worn them down. They were polished and slippery and Zack ascended carefully.

  The door at the top was closed but not locked, and it swung open at the push of Zack’s hand. With a sudden rush and lift, the stifling darkness gave way to the airy brightness of day. A flight of birds dived past his shoulder as he tiptoed gingerly out, shading his eyes to see where he was going. His leather-soled shoes were precarious on the leaded roof and, for the first time in his life, Zack felt a touch of vertigo. It was said that from the top of Ovenden House you could see the sea on a clear day, but Zack left the sea to its own devices and focused on finding the viscount without falling over. After an increasingly giddy traverse, he found two men leaning over the parapet at the end of the west wing.

  ‘Jack! I thought I’d never find you.’

  ‘There you are, Zack. Glorious day, isn’t it? We’ll see the sea if the cloud lifts over there. Let me introduce you to Jimmy Glass. Jimmy looks after our buildings for us.’

  Jimmy Glass, the servant, and Zack Gradley, the future son-in-law, shook hands. It appeared that the stonework on the parapet was worn in places and Hatherleigh wanted it restored or replaced throughout. Glass promised to get some estimates, but offered his own guess of about eighty thousand.

  ‘That little?’ said the viscount. ‘Perhaps we should think about seeing to the front at the same time. No point getting people in, if there’s nothing for them to do.’


  Glass walked off across the roof, promising to think about other jobs that needed doing, and Hatherleigh turned to Zack.

  ‘Splendid view, isn’t it? I keep meaning to get a telescope fitted up here, but I forget as soon as I come down.’

  ‘Yes, wonderful,’ panted Zack, hugging the parapet and looking anywhere but the sunlit lands rolling away into the distance.

  ‘This is a good spot to plan your wedding reception from. Over there’s the village church. We need to use that one, the house’s own chapel isn’t big enough. You’ll drive back here. Sarah insists on using her great­ grandmother’s horse-drawn carriage. My grandpa swore Grandma wanted a Rolls, but there’s no telling that to Sarah. The carriage will bring you back to here,’ Hatherleigh pointed to a spot at the end of the west wing, ‘and we’ll have the receiving line in Sarah’s rose garden or the ballroom if it’s raining.

  ‘We’ll put a marquee on the lawn there and serve a decent dinner with a band and dance floor for later on. We’ve never had a dance after a wedding before, but it seems a good idea. A rare case of the younger generation improving things. By the way, when you and Sarah want to leave, you may as well borrow my helicopter. It’ll save time.’

  ‘Thanks, yes,’ said Zack. Right now, the thought of being airborne just added to his giddiness, but he clutched the parapet and imagined himself face down on the great lawn, breathing the cool air between the grass, with nowhere to fall.

  ‘And family, Zack. We must meet your family. I know they’re not used to all this,’ Hatherleigh waved his hand over his house and grounds, and the woods and fields beyond, ‘but don’t let that put you off. Or them. We’re more democratic now than in the old days, and any family of yours is our family too. No exceptions.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  ‘Cobblers. That’s elementary courtesy, but I mean it. We mean it. Zack, my boy, I regret sometimes that I don’t have a son to carry on the title, but Elizabeth and I never wanted to go on chugging out babies just to hang on to it. All I’ve ever really wanted is to make sure that the next generation to look after the house and estate is competent to do it. Happy and competent. Sarah’s a bloody good girl, but I haven’t always gone for her suitors. That chap Leighton, I never really liked and I’m pleased he’s a goner. And frankly, Zack, I’m pleased she’s settled on you. She’s very happy, plus you bring a bit of commercial blood into the family. I’ll feel happy trusting you and Sarah with all of this. I think you’ll do a bloody good job.’

  Hatherleigh had enough of the traditional aristocrat in him to find this kind of speech difficult, and his blue eyes dug into the distance throughout. But as he ended, his eyes came to rest on Zack and his lean face nodded approval of his words.

  ‘Thanks. I couldn’t be more pleased with the family I’m marrying into either,’ said Zack, with truth.

  He might have added, though he didn’t, that he was becoming pretty impressed with his future father-in-law’s commercial acumen as well. Hatherleigh was convinced that things were going to get worse for South China over the next year or so. Instead of plunging right in with a bid, Hatherleigh wanted to hold back and wait for the price to fall. So far the share price had dropped just half a dollar to forty-six dollars a share, but Hatherleigh and Scottie were adamant that the price would come down more. And Zack was forced to do nothing, whilst ensuring that his team was in a continual state of red alert. If it were possible for anyone to get their money’s worth from forty million bucks, then Hatherleigh was the man.

  ‘There’s one other thing I ought to mention. Money. Sarah’s a rich girl. As far as I remember, she holds about fifty million pounds’ worth of shares in Hatherleigh Pacific. Up to now, she’s chosen to reinvest the dividends to build up her stake, but when you’re married the two of you can do whatever you like.

  ‘There are just two things in particular I wanted to say. The first is, when I die, Sarah will get the house and a trust fund for the maintenance costs. There’s plenty of money there, but it takes desire too.’

  Hatherleigh’s words made a statement, but his sideways look, almost shy, asked a question.

  ‘Of course,’ said Zack. ‘Sarah’s passionate about the house and I’ve come to love it too. We’ll care for it as it demands to be cared for.’

  Zack was surprised by his own ardour. He really spoke for a moment as though he expected to be here still in decades to come, lord of all he surveyed. But he didn’t really believe that. Sarah was a nice girl, but deep down he and she were very different, weren’t they? Zack reminded himself that this was a marriage with a limited shelf life.

  ‘The other thing I wanted to say was this. When I settled the Hatherleigh Pacific shares on the two girls, I made it a condition that they enter into a prenuptial agreement before marriage. It sounds terrible, but I’d like you to sign something which says that Sarah’s money stays with her if you two split up, as God forbid you should. And for the first five years, all the money and all the shares stay with Sarah. No joint accounts, nothing like that. I don’t want to seem suspicious, because I’m not. But our wise old family lawyer made me promise him that I’d do it, because he knew I’d chicken out if I got the chance. So I promised and, after all, there’s no harm in taking precautions.’

  ‘None at all. Quite right. Of course, that makes sense,’ gasped Zack.

  His dizziness leaped up like a wave of nausea and he had to press himself into the parapet to avoid shaking like a leaf. The air, birds, sun, tower, the great house itself, all swung wildly about his field of vision. Had all this been for nothing? All the flowers, the dinner parties, the romancing, the wedding? Even in his giddiness, Zack would have volunteered to walk tightrope between the wings of Ovenden House rather than sign a prenuptial agreement, but he had no choice. Short of calling the wedding off then and there, he could only nod his assent.

  ‘You really don’t mind?’

  ‘Really not. If you hadn’t mentioned it, I was going to bring it up. As your financial advisor, I’m obliged to keep your financial interests uppermost in my mind.’ The viscount chuckled as he walked back with Zack towards the tower. He couldn’t have hoped for a better son-in-law. Zack wondered how soon he could get to a loo. He needed to vomit.

  3

  Ed Deane was a keen trader, but a passionate gardener. His desk, like Matthew’s, was devoted to trading: phones, computer screens, research reports, spreadsheets, yellow post-it notes, coffee cups, sandwich wrappers. His filing cabinets, however, supported a different land­ scape. Amidst the surrounding mayhem, a bonsai forest grew. Bending down and staring horizontally, you could almost believe that miniature birds were about to fly from bonsai oak to bonsai elm. At night, you half­expected tiny squirrels to forage crumb-sized acorns among the twisted trunks.

  Deane was fiercely proud of his creation and he tended it with as much love as he did his trading portfolio. But the centrepiece of his collection was not a bonsai, but a dwarf apple tree. It had full-sized leaves, bore full-sized fruit, but it stood no more than three feet high. Matthew had watched it blossom, form tiny hard green apples, and watched those apples grow larger and redder as they slowly gained in ripeness. Unfortunately, despite the bank’s puritanical air-conditioning system, a disease had crept in and blighted the fruit. Deane had sprayed, fed and cleaned to no avail. Five apples had been lost, as Deane anxiously cut off the diseased stalks and dabbed tenderly at the wounds with plant antiseptic.

  Only one apple was left, intact and healthy. And Deane watched it lovingly as it slowly developed into a perfect fruit.

  Ed Deane was the third member of Fiona and Matthew’s trading group. He was a little senior to Matthew and had proved to be an outstanding trader and a sure. judge of company prospects and problems. Matthew realised that McAllister had picked some of his most able traders for the group and he felt complimented at having been chosen. A couple of months into the group’s existence, McAllister had come clean about his ambitions.

  ‘The bank doesn’t want to run t
his group like a normal trading operation, a glorified bureau de change. We want to invest our own money in large amounts. We want you to bet big time and win big time. I’ve told my bosses to expect returns of thirty percent a year. But I’m telling you that I won’t be satisfied with less than fifty.’

  They had started work in January, in their own private little room some distance from the main trading floor. They were special and what they did was secret. The information systems had been ready in February. In March, they had gone live with their first trade. And from March to April they had slowly but surely grown in confidence as their experience of the market grew. As their confidence grew, so did the size of their trading activity. Earlier, they had been happy to buy small stakes and watch to see if their guesses about the market had been right. Now they were sure of their judgement and were increasingly ready to go in big time.

  The group researched companies which had hit bad times, companies whose share prices had gone from being measured in pounds to pence. Anyone who had lent money to these companies in their good times was terrified now that bad days had come. And anyone in a state of terror was a perfect candidate for the kind of therapy offered by Fiona, Ed and Matthew.

  In their best deal to date, they had called up one of the big high-street banks, which had lent fifty million pounds to a fashionable menswear retailer. The chief executive had turned out to be a crook, the company’s accounts turned out to be fairy tales, and the share price had nosedived.

  The high-street bank was convinced it would never get a penny back on its loan and the executives who had authorised the deal were in despair. Then a very professional woman from Madison called up. Fiona Shepperton. She offered to buy the fifty million pound loan off the bank for twenty million. The bank would be getting forty pence in the pound, which was pretty bad - but, hey, anything was better than nothing. The despairing executives agreed gratefully. The deal was closed within a matter of days.