by Ivan B
Once again Mark read my face in the way that only brothers and wives can. He sighed.
“It’s a wedding present, you don’t go and sell wedding presents, especially when it’s the only one you’ve got.”
I felt terrible, “Sorry Mark, if I’d known I would have…”
He cut across me.
“Don’t get me wrong, it’s a lovely present and Effie is over the moon with it. She’s even got plans to turn the leather case into a hat box, not that she ever wears hats.” He grinned again, “And don’t worry, sense will prevail and we will sell the krugerrands, especially as I won’t be working for a while – it’ll give us a good start.”
“Feel bad?”
“Like an inside out jellyfish.”
“Any ideas what you’ll do?”
He shrugged and looked miserable.
“No idea, done a lot of things in different places, but never honed in on one area, rather I did what was available.”
Effie suddenly appeared from out of the spiral staircase, she looked like a zombie with a hangover. At some unseen agreement Mark and I changed the subject. Effie muttered something in her incomprehensible native tongue and Mark smiled.
“I’m OK, I took it easy down the stairs and I haven’t bust any stitches.”
I made another cup of coffee and pushed it in front of Effie, she managed a thin smile. I stood up, time, I judged, to leave them alone.
“Sorry I’ve got to go, I’m taking the Fiat and the Land-Rover is insured for any driver so if you want to go into town just use it. I looked at Effie.
“If you want to buy vacuum cleaners and the like I’ve got an account at the three big stores we visited yesterday – they’re really all one group.”
Mark shook his head in disbelief.
“My brother with accounts at large stores, unbelievable.”
Effie suddenly came to life, well a reasonable semblance of life.
“Mind if I buy a sandwich toaster and a filter coffee machine as well?”
“Be my guest, whatever suits your lifestyle.”
Effie rubbed her hands over her face.
“Yolande won’t be offended?”
I thought I had a bright idea.
“Yolande’s working in Ipswich this week at some place called Enterprise Court, she might be able to shop with you if you’d prefer that. He phone number is on the card stuck on the side of the telephone.”
I went to the loo and as I walked back through the kitchen Mark was contentedly reading through the history of Grant Radios while Effie had her head on her arms and was gently snoring.
My first stop was the little jewelers at Aldeburgh where I showed the resident jeweler my tiny selection of uncut diamonds and insisted that I just wanted a swift valuation. After half an hour he shook his head in the manner of dodgy builders giving a cost-estimate.
“Difficult, very difficult.”
“Then give me a ball-park figure,” I insisted.
He made a sour face.
“No less than £20,000, may be as high as £30,000. They are very good and a bit out of my league.”
I left his little shop feeling a little happier than I had when I had entered.
My next stop was to visit Sam the sound engineer, oddly enough our proposed venue was the self same hotel where we had been snowed in as he was setting up for some sort of English Folk evening. Thus I entered into the same large room we had sung in to find it festooned with microphones, fold-back speakers and a sound desk the size of the QE2. Same gave me a sort of gaucho smile a pointed to an overworked coffee machine in the corner. We helped ourselves and sat down on some alluminium crates. We exchanged a few pleasantries and he gave me his sad eyed look. I decided to take the initiative.
“Why the text message Sam, you said there were a couple of problems?”
He carefully put his cup down well away from any cables. He licked his lips leaving a few drops of saliva on his moustache.
“We did the deal on a handshake, do you still want to stand by it?”
“Of course, a deal is a deal, why should I want to change it?”
He gave a slow smile.
“Because sales for your CD have gone through the roof. There was the Radio 2 record of the week saga plus I mistakenly published details of your record in a magazine for the over 70s, the response was spectacular.”
He might as well have hit me with a brick.
“Can’t be that high, surely?”
“So far we’ve got orders for 800,000 CDs and have shipped 400,000 already, that makes it a million seller.”
I felt like I was dreaming, over a million CDs and counting?
“What’s our cut?” I managed to gasp.
He gave another smile.
“Pruned to the bone, I really thought that we’d have to have a loss leader to get your names in the market place. We get between us a mere 33p per CD.”
I did a calculation.
“That’s £396000, with £79,200 for you and £316800 for us.”
“Make that £190,080 so far and £47,520 after tax. Now you see why I ask, I never wanted to do you short.”
I took a sip of coffee to steady my nerves.
“A deals a deal Sam, we’d never have anything but for you; your 20% stays.”
He gave a sudden grin.
“That brings us to the second problem, my mate at MaddPunk is going ballistic. I told him it would be a print run of a couple of hundred thousand at the most, as it is he’s fighting a loosing battle.”
“Can’t he contract out?”
Sam gave a short barking laugh.
“No fear, the sort of establishments that can easily cope with the volume would also like your name on their label, so they only offer ridiculous prices.”
I wondered where this was leading.
“So?”
“So to cope he’s had to suspend producing punk music and concentrate on your CD; while he appreciates the profits you bring he did rather set up the label to promote alternative music, not Easy Listening.”
I tried raising an eyebrow, it elicited some more information.
“He’ll cope this time, but for the next record he’d like to build up stocks first, but doesn’t want to take the financial risk.”
It all became clear and I shook my head.
“He’s making the profit, how he furnishes the CDs is his problem, that is unless he wants us to walk?”
Sam looked horrified.
“No, no he doesn’t want you to walk, your contribution will probably ensure the longevity of punk music well past it’s euthanasia date. In any case I agree with you, he must be making twice as much as us, so you can easily work out his profit.”
I finished off my coffee.
“Anything else?”
“Ah,” he said slyly, “we just have the problem of your fan-mail.”
Now I was stunned.
“Fan-mail?”
“And requests for appearances, lyrics of your songs etc. etc.”
He turned his brown eyes upon me.
“I’ve done my best, but my part of our agreement was about getting the record to market, not management and aftercare.”
Now I could see where he was coming from, he was embarrassed that he was earning large amounts of money while not wanting to become my manager. I patted him on the arm.
“And you’ve done a wonderful job and exceeded my wildest dreams, get the other stuff sent to my home address and I’ll get it dealt with.”
He flashed me a smile.
“Piece of cake, you’ve got your own post-code and I’ll have the mail delivered to your door.”
“My own post-code!” I involuntarily exclaimed.
Sam smiled like a lunatic.
“You’re a million seller, the Post Office know all about the problems of sending mail to pop-stars so they offer free post-codes to recording artists who sell over a million records. It’s probably easier for them and it’s certainly easier for you as it keeps your
real address secret.” He fished in his back pocket and passed over a slip of paper, “Your post-code is YRH 111.”
This I couldn’t wait to tell Yolande.
Next up was another visit to SCABS. I must confess that I’d rather have entered a viper’s nest than faced the sour-faced receptionist, but she totally surprised me by giving me a wonderful smile. I should have smelt a rat at that point, but as usual I walk where angels have long since fled. Tom was waiting in a large and more opulent interview room and the coffee was in bone china cups, even then warning bells didn’t ring. We passed a few pleasantries and then Tom got down to business.
“Got the fax from your solicitors confirming the probate and that you are Mr Grant’s sole beneficiary. I was then able to check out Mr Grant’s accounts with us.”
He flashed me a disconcerting smile.
“Do you want the good news or the bad news?”
Foolishly I was still relaxed, after all Tom was an old friend.
“Good first, always the good first.”
“The good news is Mr Grant did have a small account with us, at present it has,” he fished out a piece of paper, “£120.23p”
I took a sip of coffee.
“And the bad news?”
Tom flashed me a smile again.
“And the bad news is that Mr Grant wasn’t only an account holder with the Royal and Ancient, he was also a Name.”
It took a few moments to sink in.
“A Name, you mean like Lloyds of London?”
Tom sipped his coffee clearly enjoying the moment.
“Exactly, he was one of the five thousand personal backers and guarantors of The Royal and Ancient Bank of Scotland, fortunately for them unlike Lloyds their liability could not exceed a million.”
Tom stopped speaking and I swear it was so quiet I could hear my own heart beating. I closed my eyes for a second to focus my mind, I spoke it a sort of croaking whisper.
“Remind me, just before SCABS took them over weren’t they in some sort of financial trouble?”
Tom raised an eyebrow, on him it was a hateful gesture.
“They were almost bankrupt as their liabilities grossly exceeded their assets due to some radically incompetent trading in futures and the re-valuing of some East Asiatic currencies.”
I sipped some coffee to grab some time before the Sword of Damocles fell.
“So what was his hit?”
Tom didn’t blink, “£568,345.89p”
I almost gasped for breath.
“Did he know?”
Tom raised his hands in an offhand gesture.
“We’d sent him some mail, he hadn’t replied.”
Some modicum of my brain was still functioning and I heard myself say.
“I’ve been through his letters for the last four years, there was nothing there.”
Tom dismissively waved his hands again.
“I can only say what I’ve been told.”
He leant forward to pour another coffee.
“Do you think you could give us a cheque,” he murmured.
A cheque! He wanted a cheque for over half a million quid! Now, on the spot?
“Surly when SCABS took over they bought out the Names?”
He reached for a biscuit, was he enjoying this?
“They sure did, to the tune of £431,654.11p each, hence the £568,345.89p.”
Part of my brain, that part which was not totally numb, was screaming something at me, but I couldn’t focus on it. I decided on the need to get a few minutes space and time to think so I casually asked where the nearest loo was. Two minutes later I was sitting on the toilet lid and taking some deep breaths, £568,345.89p would completely wipe me out, even with my new found wealth from the record company. I tried to focus on the message my brain was trying to tell me, but to no avail. In the end I left the toilet cubicle and sluiced my head under the cold tap, it was then I had a déjà vu moment. I recalled some woeful course the bank had sent me on in their seemingly eternal endeavour to train me into some sort of worthy bank official; I’d had a dodgy curry the night before it started and had had to retreat to the loo to compose myself half-way through the first morning. The course had been on the peculiarities of banking law in England, Scotland, The Channel Islands and the Isle of Man and one of the main case studies had been of The Royal and Ancient Bank of Scotland and their legal fight to get money out of their Names. I couldn’t remember the details – I never could that’s why I was useless at banking – but I could recall the outcome.
I re-entered the interview room sat down and poured myself another coffee.
“Can I see copies of your correspondence with Mr Grant?”
Tom became vague.
“Sorry, I haven’t got it, in fact I’m not sure where his file is.”
I munched on a custard cream allowing the extra sugar to give me inner strength.
“So you don’t know if he voluntarily relinquished his status as a name following the Scottish High Court ruling that The Royal and Ancient could only seek redress from it’s Names as a last resort, not a first resort, and that as they had been taken over by SCABS before the matter had entered court, if the Names voluntarily relinquished their status they could not be held liable by SCABS.”
Tom made a sour face.
“As I said he never answered our letter.”
I grinned as I felt I was now nearing solid ground.
“But it wasn’t letters was it? SCABS tried to do it all by e-mail saying that if the Names couldn’t access e-mail that was their fault, but the court ruled against them in no uncertain manner. So all their deadlines to relinquish status were deemed void – in fact if I recall the case properly the judge was so incensed at the Attitude of the SCABS lawyers she made a ruling that the Names had to be individually approached in person and offered the chance to relinquish their status in return for zero liability.”
Tom began to look like he’d swallowed a pepper pot and I decided to push my luck.
“So are you actually offering me the chance to relinquish my inherited Name status?”
Wordlessly he pushed across a letter addressed to me. I read it, signed it and passed it back. Anger began to well within me.
“And I thought you were a friend.” I said harshly.
He tried for an escape by shrugging his shoulders.
“Nothing personal mate, it’s just that there’s an automatic bonus for anybody managing to hold onto a Name and getting them to pay up.”
I stood up and decided to walk out before I hit him and that’s when disaster struck. I was so incensed that he had tried to cream me for the sake of a petty bonus that for some unknown reason I walked down the wrong side of the open door onto the street and hence tried to walk out through a plate glass window. In fact it was worse than that as SCABS, following a ram-raid, had fitted all their branches with armoured glass, so I can personally assure you that in a battle between a moving being and armoured glass the glass always wins. Thankfully I remember little, I remember walking ‘out’ in a huff and then seemingly coming up hard against nothing. Thankfully I didn’t pass out, but I was extremely groggy, in fact dazed enough for the sour-faced receptionist to call for an ambulance.
As usual the paramedics – a pair I had not seen before – were excellent. After some humming and hawing they decided that I didn’t have to go to hospital, but warned me that I would both have a beautiful black eye and a severely swollen lip. I turned out that they were right on both counts.
To my surprise Yolande was not the paragon of sympathy that I expected as once she had ascertained that I was really OK she almost broke a rib through laughing.
Chapter 27
Fan Mail and Gigs
The following Monday I no longer had a dull ache in my cheekbone or a throb in my temple, but no matter how I felt Yolande had programmed me for a busy day. On our first shopping expedition she had ordered some lounge furniture and on the day I wantonly walked into armoured glass she and Effie had shopped
again. I hadn’t yet seen the accounts from the shops involved, but I’m glad I don’t have a weak heart. In any case on both shopping trips this Monday was specified as delivery day. The first delivery, a dining room table that looked like it had been designed by Isombard Kingdom Brunel, was at 8:34am, the last, a pile of made to measure curtains, arrived at 5:05pm. In-between were countless other deliveries, so much so that when my first delivery of YRH 111 mail arrived I took up Mark’s offer of sifting through it for me. Thus he became my de facto manager not through dint of any real decision, but because he was available, though to tell the truth I don’t think I could have managed without him in the coming months. What stupefied me was the range of letters from the simple ‘Thank you for a wonderful album’ to the difficult to answer, ‘How did you managed to compose a set of chord changes from A# to Eb via G##?’ That plus a succession of gig invites that we could never possibly fulfill, but that all had to be answered, that meant the 20% Mark and Effie eventually agreed to accept for running our singing careers was money well invested. However, that day stands out in my mind not for the reasons of furniture delivery or abdication of fan-mail, it stands out in my mind because that Monday evening Yolande and I decided to name the actual wedding day and pottered around the corner to see my Julius Caesar vicar to make the arrangements. For me it removed one of my great fears, namely that somehow I would lose Yolande to some handsome stranger. However, as usual in the Holme’s household one gigantic step forward was usually followed by one pitfall usually to be fallen into. Thus on Tuesday I had a sudden premonition of impending disaster when…
As the dressing room door opened and Yolande entered wearing a stunning pale green off the shoulder ball gown Richard turned off the Dictaphone. Through the open door there was the faint sound of many people talking at once. Yolande waltzed across the floor and Richard kissed his wife and headed for his pre-show visit to the loo. Yolande looked at the Dictaphone and smiled, she picked it up and turned it on.
“It all started when I was at school and had a teenage crush for the boy who played the piano. I hated the violin, but I kept it up just to be with him as he accompanied me at every school concert. I must have put my music teacher and my parents through hell. Little did I know that years later our paths would cross again and I would meet him in what was to become our home.”