by Mac Fletcher
Greg could barely contain his frustration. “He's just after our money when all’s said and done: if we tick the right boxes he’ll sell us a loan. That’s all he’s out to do; glorified shopkeeper!”
By the time the manager returned, Greg had tired of the treatment, and decided to take the initiative by asking if he intended advancing a loan or not. He'd noted that, up to that point, Weaver’s reply to every question had been “Quite… quite, quite.”
“With all respect, Mr Weaver,” said Greg seriously, “we need an answer as soon as possible.”
“Oh quite...quite, quite.”
"It's working," breathed Greg before continuing: “So we want to borrow as much of the total sum as possible.”
“Oh quite... quite, quite - but shall we say er...?”
Greg didn’t like the shift in tactics: he’d preferred the “Quite… quite, quites” without frills.
Weaver paused briefly, deep in thought, his eyes fluttering momentarily to produce a desired facial expression. He'd obviously never practiced in a mirror, thought Greg, or he'd have dropped it from his repertoire. As a lad, Greg had seen a cockerel dying after having been savaged by a dog; Weaver had just captured the look to a T. Its eyeballs had vanished with spasmodic flutters into the top of the sockets, and the lids had closed from the bottom - a trait peculiar to dying cockerels Greg had assumed. And now Weaver!
The manager in the meantime was employing a new tactic. He was talking sensibly; making unrehearsed statements without stock phrases. “Well, I can see that the business proposition is a viable one,” he droned, “and I’m sure the property and surrounding land are well worth the asking price - and more. If it were a simple mortgage application, then the wooden construction of the cabin may have presented a problem.” There’s hope, thought Jan and Greg. Weaver’s voice sank by a full octave. “But this is an application for a business loan.”
Weaver executed his dying cockerel look again before continuing pompously: “As I've known Miss Richards for a number of years, that allows me to say that - subject to certain guarantees - I would be prepared to offer a loan of half the total value.” Weaver tapped some figures into his laptop, whereupon an adjacent printer sprang to life.
"There you are." Seconds later he leaned over and took the printed document and slid it surreptitiously across the desk as though it was a royal straight flush. "The advance and repayments are all itemised."
Greg glanced at the figures, having allowed for the fact that, as an unknown, he'd be expected to find his share in hard cash.
All my savings and we're still ten grand short.
There was no way Greg was going to let it slip at that stage. He could smell chilli. Hear sausages spitting.
“I can't quite raise the remaining balance in cash, Mr Weaver,” he said optimistically, “can you extend the loan to Jan by ten thousand? After all, you have just said you'd loan Jan fifty percent of the value.”
“Well?” Weaver responded with a scratching session and a half-hearted flutter: not one of his best by a long chalk.
“Two local agents have already put the total value at forty thousand above the asking price. The offer made is based on land-only value, so Jan would be well guaranteed.”
“Fair comment,” agreed Weaver, “Point taken, then shall we say er...?” Greg knew instantly that Weaver was back on course: he’d stopped speaking sensibly and was linking platitudes again. Arrangements were made for the society's own surveyor to inspect the premises that week, and, subject to his approval, a loan was agreed.
***
Suddenly things seemed miraculously on course, but a giant hiccup almost threw things off beam. When they returned to the cabin, Jan went to her bedroom to collect Greg’s money. She returned seconds later in a state of utter distress.
“It’s gone!” she sobbed. “Your money’s gone!”
Jan pleaded her innocence, though there was no need: Greg trusted her implicitly.
"Have you told anyone? Anyone at all?” he asked urgently.
“I mentioned the package to Mick,” she said between sobs, “in case he found it by accident. But I didn’t tell him what was in it, and I’m sure he wouldn’t tell anyone.”
Greg winced at her naïveté. “I’m not worried about him telling anyone, Jan. Where does he live?” Greg grabbed Jan’s hand and pulled her upright. “D’you have a key to his flat? Come on, I want to pay him a visit! Now!”
On reaching the flat they were up the stairs and inside before Mick knew what was happening. Amateur as he was, he'd laid the cash out on the table for counting.
Greg hit Mick once. Hard, and below the belt. Such a savagely delivered blow it was a good thirty seconds before Mick could breathe again. When he spoke at last, neither Greg nor Jan wanted to listen to his hysterical babblings. "Thieving bastard," yelled Greg as he scooped up the money and handed it to Jan, anxious to escape the wails of self-pity.
“Don’t even think about calling me!” Jan called over her shoulder as they made for the door.
Jan never saw Mick again; she was glad to be rid of him, though Greg felt awkward with the one to one situation they were left in. Not that he didn’t like Jan: he loved her in a "sisterly sort of way," but was anxious that no-one - least of all Jan - should interpret the situation as that of a couple drawn together by fate. As for the theft itself, Greg was puzzled that Mick should be so stupid - though it was to be some time before he understood the full motive behind the theft.
The awkward situation apart, everything else went according to plan. Greg paid over the cash towards the cabin leaving himself with only a few hundred pounds, though he considered the money far better invested than hidden in wall cavities or the like. He felt no less daunted, however, as he paid over the remains of his hard-earned cash.
He and Jan still had plenty to do, though Greg felt at that stage he'd be best employed publicising the cafe’s existence. Disappointed that he was too late for registration in current camping and caravanning journals, he managed to procure spaces in provincial papers, as well as trade journals and guides.
“That’s where the money will be,” said Greg as he returned tired one evening, “a full field’s going to mean a captive market for the cafe - and site shop.”
“Site shop?” Jan smiled at Greg’s enterprise. “We've not even opened yet and we’re over-run.”
Both were excited at the prospect of opening at Easter, though remained keenly on the lookout for ways of surviving the leaner winter months - present and future.
Although Greg visited the Holly Tree regularly, he was careful to avoid being drawn into rounds. He learnt from his frequent visits that the prospective buyer for the estate was a man named Vance, a big name in the local holiday industry. He was reputed to own no fewer than six caravan and chalet sites in Cornwall and Devon, plus two holiday complexes on the Mediterranean.
“A hard man… but unfair,” was Eddy’s concise assessment, though Greg and Jan were pleased to learn Vance didn’t intend using the estate for anything other than private purposes. That wasn’t good news for the locals, though; they'd banked on the estate continuing to provide work.
Apparently, from Eddy’s drift, Vance had recently called into the Holly Tree on several occasions and, subject to a satisfactory deal, had already offered work to two locals.
“Wheeler and Gorby,” moaned Eddy. “As much use as a drain tap on a boat the pair of 'em, and pretty much the only villagers not already employed by the estate! They've obviously been chosen 'cos they’re too dim to twig Vance's underhand dealings.” There was a lot of ill will towards the pair as a consequence, the news only adding to the despondency that increased by the hour.
“I wish someone could win the lottery or find Penmaric’s stash before the sale goes through,” groaned Bart wishfully. “Summat'll turn up.”
"It did for Micawber," said Greg emptily, “pissed off to Australia as I recall. Don’t give up though - things are always in a state of flux. I hadn't a lot to sho
ut about when I returned from Spain last week. Now, to use one of Eddy’s expressions, I'm as naked as a lamb chop!”
Chapter Eight
On Thursday evening, almost two weeks since he parted company with Nigel, Greg called at the Holly Tree to find him there.
“Just got back?” he asked with surprise, then with a smile, “Good time?”
“Excellent!” Nigel looked relaxed. “Usual?”
“Shandy please. I’ve learnt a lesson since that binge in Perpignan.”
“I should think so too - you look much better for it I must say. You have eyes again.” Both men talked briefly about the journey and the old car, then Greg asked how Nigel had fared with Jacky.
“Brilliant!” said Nigel, “pity you weren't in the other night; she was in here. Almost fell in love with Fergal Haye – finds him fascinating."
"Whatever turns you on," said Greg with a grin. "I wasn't very receptive when I met Jacky, though I thought her immensely attractive."
"In every way once you get to know her. Matter of fact, we might be getting married.”
“Married?” Greg spluttered in amazement; he could never imagine Nigel marrying.
“That’s right,” he confirmed, “as soon as we get this estate business settled.”
“I thought it was resolved, near enough anyway?” pumped Greg. “I thought Vance was buying.”
“I’m not so happy with the deal. More to the point, I’m not happy selling to Vance. I'd have welcomed almost anyone else with open arms.”
“You obviously dislike the man?”
“Intensely! Uncle Lawson would never have sold to him; hated his sight!”
“They were acquainted?” pressed Greg, intrigued there was a new avenue to explore.
“Oh yes, acquainted is the word - never closer than that. Uncle never trusted the fellow either, you see. In fact, had I not known better, I'd have imagined Vance had something over my uncle as he tolerated him at all – let alone had dealings with him. Not that uncle was dishonest, mind.” He paused, and for some reason Greg felt Nigel was drawing him, rather than the other way round. Almost as if he was testing his knowledge; sounding him out.
"But…”
“But what?” asked Greg.
“Oh nothing, nothing. He may have forgotten to declare the odd thousand to the taxman of course.”
Greg nodded knowingly. “Lots of people do, but I can't imagine that giving Vance much of a lever: he can’t be terribly honest if he can buy Penmaric House outright.”
“Just a feeling." Nigel shrugged. "Anyway, if we can’t get another buyer we’ll have to settle for his offer. I just don’t intend making things easy for him, that’s all.”
“Still holding out hopes of finding pirate’s gold, eh?” said Greg, though Nigel just laughed and finished his drink before leaving.
Greg was about to leave also when Eddy called in for a pint on his way to the country and western club. He brought with him two of the most unlikely cowboys Greg had ever seen: two black youths from Plymouth, complete with dreadlocks, whom Eddy introduced as twin brothers Duane and Nathaniel.
“We’re a bit late clocking in tonight,” said Eddy with a cynical smile, “just called at a car-wash so the lads could brush their teeth.” The brothers just laughed good-naturedly as Eddy went on to explain that the pair had recently joined the group.
“Two good musicians, said the barman, “and good singers with it. Very keen on deep sea diving as well, but it knackers their instruments in no time.” The brothers rattled happily to each other as Eddy went on to tell Greg what happened last time he brought the twins into the pub. “That twat Gorby was here,” he recalled, “and he started taking the piss out of ‘em. Started on about their hairstyles - prat him! I thought one of 'em would fill him in. Would have served him right but they were too smart to bite. Anyway, I took him to one side and told him to cut it out. Told him they wore their hair like that 'cos they were Rastafarians. Know what he said?”
“Go on,” said Greg warily.
“Said they should put 'em on the next boat back to Rastafaria!”
“No class,” nodded Greg, “good job Fergal wasn’t in.”
The four chatted for a few minutes before Eddy and Co left for the club. “You should come with us one of the nights,” said Duane as they left.
“I will,” promised Greg, “as soon as I can get some decent stirrups.”
Greg was about to leave for a second time when Elaine, one of the summer season barmaids, appeared behind the bar, and Vi explained she was going to stay with her sick sister. On hearing the news, Greg decided to have another shandy... and keep Elaine company for a while.
"Is bar-work your full-time job?"
"Naaa." Elaine smiled broadly. "I work three nights on, three off at Charles Cross."
"Charles Cross?"
"Sorry; Police Enquiry Office, Plymouth. You not from round this way then?"
"No, but I'm hoping to make Trevelly my home." Greg paused as, for some reason, his ex-wife's debt collectors' sprang to mind. "I shouldn't ask this, but are you able to obtain details from registration numbers? I've lost someone's contact number and I'd like to get in touch."
"You sure that's all you're after?" Elaine grinned slyly. "I'm certainly not supposed to, but if it's genuinely for a friend…"
"Sorry," interrupted Greg, suddenly recalling that the number had been stored in his lost mobile. "I've just remembered I no longer have the number to check, but thanks anyway."
“OK, give me a shout if you find it then.” She winked temptingly. “I don’t do it for everybody.”
“I’m sure you don’t.”
The pair then engaged in what would almost certainly have become a cosy chat when they were joined, much to Greg's annoyance, by Hud and Ten. The pair were unusually patronising, Hud even insisting on buying Greg a drink, despite protests.
"I'm just about to leave, thanks," he maintained, but Hud insisted.
“OK then,” he consented eventually, “but you’ll have to excuse me for a minute. Shandy puts a strain on my system I’m afraid.”
“Put him a large vodka in there, Elaine,” whispered Hud as Greg left the bar, “and have the same yourself. The chap’s a bit short of the old readies at the mo, and he likes a drop of stuff, don’t he Ten?”
“That’s right.” Ten nodded slyly. “Don’t embarrass him by saying nothing.”
Blissfully unaware of the double negative, Elaine smiled and nodded knowingly as she offered her own glass to the optic; she always regarded getting someone tipsy as an act of kindness - with their approval or not. Besides, she rather liked the look of the slim, world-worn newcomer, and he might be fun after a few drinks, she considered.
“This shandy seems to have a tang to it,” said Greg when he returned to the bar.
“Could be that I put you lager shandy by mistake,” said Elaine with a grin.
“Could well be,” agreed Greg as he downed the remainder in one go and made to leave again.
“Have another,” insisted Ten, and for some reason Greg was a little more easily persuaded.
The group got into conversation for some time, and Greg felt obliged, after the hospitality he’d been shown, to stay and pay for a further round. In fact he insisted.
"Have another drink yourself Elaine." Hud muttered and nodded slyly to the barmaid. “And a little extra,” he whispered as she filled Greg’s glass, “I’ll settle later.”
Greg found it hard to believe a few shandies could have such an effect after a period of semi-abstention, but he felt too happy and relaxed to complain.
“So what the hell?” he laughed.
Elaine was looking more coarse and available with every minute - an endearing combination thought Greg - and Hud and Ten clearly weren’t the baddies he’d imagined. He'd obviously misjudged them, he decided.
When Hud started the round for the second time, Greg was feeling too bloated to drink more shandy; but was somehow coaxed into taking “a tot of vodka
.”
By about ten, despite having been systematically grilled by Hud for ages, Greg was oblivious to the other company in the pub and had fallen “madly…and irretrievably… in love with" Elaine. “And you two are my best friends in all the world,” he told Hud and Ten. "But I know nothing of any pictures, I swear."
He tried to focus on some folk at the other end of the bar, the only other occupants, but couldn’t recognise anyone. “Thought Billy and Simon would be in as it’s Thursday,” he muttered to Ten, “or is it Friday? Probably saving for Christmas or something.”
"We got it all wrong," concluded Hud, "as usual!" The shady twosome had by then conceded they weren’t going to extract any information from Greg.
"Even if he did find out anything from Nigel," added Ten, "he wouldn’t be in a fit state to remember. We've pumped him enough in the last hour or so."
The tuition Greg had received from Eddy enabled him to sum the situation up very aptly.
“You’re farting up the wrong entry, lads.” He giggled childishly at his funny, his tired head slumped almost onto Elaine’s bosom. Fortunately he was seated on a high stool against a wall at the bar end, and could lean back and take a nap as he decided who the two blurred men were. One of them, he concluded, was breaking in a set of teeth for Secreteriat.
"Bet you found 'em among the brass-plated coal scuttles and plastic flowers in a pound shop," he said to Ten. "Or Oxfam perhaps?"
“He’s completely out of his tree now,” mumbled Hud. “Fuller than a boardin' 'ouse poe.”
“Too true,” agreed Ten. “Cost us a fortune an’ knows sod all.” Ten lowered his voice further and leaned over to Hud. “I’ve told you the gist of the old man’s message - the clue to the whereabouts of those pictures is in the old car.”
“Oh not again!” grunted Hud. “If there was anything in it we’d have found it before it went to Spain.”