When he rang the bell, Janey came to let him in.
“There you are. I thought you’d got lost.”
She wore her jeans and a red pullover and her dark hair was bundled up and fixed with a tortoiseshell clip.
“I’ve been taking exercise.”
Janey closed the door.
“One would have thought a wet Sunday in Richmond Park might have lasted the week. How did you get on? Lunch with the Chairman, I mean.”
“It was all right. I’ll tell you but not at this moment.” He handed her the lilies.
“These are for you. A house present for a kind hostess.”
“Thank you. You didn’t have to bring me flowers, but I’m glad you did. And lilies. They make the whole house smell like heaven. Come into the kitchen and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
Pausing to take off his coat and hang it up on a peg along with a lot of small overcoats and anoraks, he followed her, hefting the carrier-bag with the bottles. He put the brandy into Neil’s wine cupboard and the champagne in the fridge.
“Champagne.” Janey was filling the kettle, plugging it in.
“Does that mean a celebration?”
“Maybe.” He pulled out a chair and sat with his elbows on the table.
“Where are Daisy and Leo?”
“Upstairs, watching television or playing computer games. They’re allowed to, once they’ve done their homework.”
“Delicious smells in this kitchen.”
“It’s dinner. I have gloomy news. We have another guest.”
“What’s so gloomy about another guest?”
“This one’s a pain.”
“Why ask him?”
“I didn’t. He asked himself. He’s an old acquaintance of my parents, and he’s in London on his own and he’s at a loose end. He telephoned and sounded pathetic, so I felt I had to invite him. I’m really sorry, because I wanted it to be just us three. I’ve already told Neil. I rang him at the office, and he’s livid, but he’s going to try to get home a bit early, to do the drinks and lay the table and light the fire.”
“I could do all that for you.”
“You’re the guest. You have to go and have a shower and a rest and make yourself beautiful.”
“I suppose, to impress your unwanted friend.” Janey made a face.
“Come on, what’s so gruesome about him?”
She had found a large flowered ewer, filled it with water, and was now engaged in arranging her lilies.
“He’s not really gruesome. Just a bit boring. Likes to be thought of as an old roue. When he’s around, one instinctively whisks one’s behind out of reach of his fingers.”
Sam laughed.
“One of those.”
“You could say so. He’s been married three times, but he’s on his own right now.”
“Where does he come from?”
“I think he was at school with my pa. But now he lives in the Bahamas or Barbados or somewhere. He’s been out there for ages.”
“What’s he doing in London?”
“Not sure. En route for France, I think. He’s going to spend Christmas in Nice.”
“He sounds interesting.”
“He isn’t. There. Those look lovely. Thank you again. I’ll put them, pride of place, in the sitting-room.” The kettle boiled and she reached for the teapot.
“I’m longing to hear about today, but I can’t concentrate when I’m cooking, and I’ve still got to make a pudding.”
“It can wait.”
“It was all right, Sam? It was good?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“Too exciting. I am pleased.”
He drank his tea, and then, shooed out of her kitchen by Janey, went upstairs. He found Daisy and Leo in their playroom. They had switched off the television and were sitting at a battered table littered with sheets of paper, which they seemed to be in the process of cutting up. As well as scissors, they had assembled tubes of glue, felt pens, a ball of coloured string, and a few scraps of gauzy ribbon. Some form of handcraft was clearly taking place.
They looked up.
“Hello, Sam.”
“Hi. What are you up to?”
“We’re making Christmas cards,” Daisy told him importantly.
“My art teacher showed us today, and I’m teaching Leo. You paint glue, and then spill glitter and it sticks. But we’ve got to draw something first.”
“Like what?”
“Well, a Christmas tree. Or a stocking. Or a house with lighted windows. The only thing is it’s a bit messy, and the glitter gets everywhere. Leo calls it tinkle. Now, Leo, you fold the paper like this, very neaterly…. It mustn’t be all skew-wiff….”
It was made obvious that they were in no need of his help. He left them and went to his room, stripped off his clothes, and took a shower.
Have a shower and a rest and make yourself beautiful. He had brought The Times upstairs with him, and after his shower he put on the to welling robe and collapsed on his bed, intending to read it. But concentration drifted, and he let the paper slip to the floor and simply lay, staring at the ceiling. Sounds emanated from beyond the closed door. The children’s voices; a telephone ringing; Janey’s footsteps as she went to answer it.
“Hello,” he heard her say. He caught the mouthwatering smell of dinner being prepared, and later heard taps turned on for the children’s bath.
It was a long time since he had been embraced into the bosom of a proper family, and felt so cherished and wanted. Investigating this line of thought, he realized that Deborah’s withdrawal had started months before her announcement that she was leaving, but Sam had been too preoccupied to notice the gradual erosion of their relationship. The breakup of a marriage, he knew, could never be one partner’s fault. The other half, one way or another, had to shoulder some part of the blame.
He found himself remembering Radley Hill, because the atmosphere of this ordinary London house, where Neil and Janey were raising their children, brought back secure and comforting memories of the place where Sam had spent his boyhood. Always the welcome, the lighted fire, the scent from the kitchen of delicious and robust food. Boots on the porch, tennis rackets littering the hall, the voices of the youngsters who were his friends, the sound of their footsteps clattering down the stairs. He wondered if he would ever achieve such a haven of family life. Up to now, in that respect, his efforts had met with failure. He and Deborah could have had children, but she had never been particularly keen on the idea, and he was reluctant to force the issue.
Which, the way things had turned out, was just as well. But the house on East Seventieth Street, with just the two of them, had never been more than simply a place to live. True, the living-room had been the envy of all their friends, so immaculately decorated in cream and beige, with modem sculptures and cunningly lighted abstracts on the walls. And the kitchen was a marvel of modern convenience, but nothing much had ever emerged from it except a slice of melon or a microwaved pizza. Deborah, partying, preferred to entertain in restaurants.
Radley Hill. Looking back across the frantic, pressurized years of urban life-the wheeling and dealing, the late nights, the long days, the smells of subways and car fumes-he remembered Yorkshire, saw the solid stone unpretentious house, the terrace, the lawns, his mother’s rose borders. He thought of the little town where stood his father’s mill, where the wind swept aslant the smoke of chimneys, and the river, flowing down from the hills, slipped along between the tree-shaded streets and under curved bridges. The sound of water running over rocks was so familiar, so part of his life that one-simply stopped hearing it. He thought of the surrounding countryside, and long Sunday hikes with his father; of fishing in the remote dark tarns that lay cupped in the moors, where the air was cold and clean, and the empty spaces were pierced with the cry of curlews…. Outside, in the street, a car drew up beneath his window. The front door was opened and slammed shut. He heard Janey’s voice.
“Neil? Hi, darling.” And he kne
w that his friend was home.
He heaved himself off the bed, shucked off the towel robe, and proceeded to dress himself in a suitable fashion for the evening which lay ahead. Pressed chinos, a clean shirt, a navyblue cashmere sweater, no tie. Cream socks, polished loafers. He brushed his hair, splashed on a bit of aftershave, went downstairs. The sitting-room door stood open, and he went in and found Neil, in shut-sleeves, engaged in polishing up some glasses to set out on the drinks table. The room looked festive, prepared for entertaining. Magazines and books squared off, cushions fattened, the fire lighted. The lilies Sam had given Janey stood in their jug on a round, polished table, surrounded by an arrangement of Battersea boxes. Their scent, in the warmth, already filled the air. The clock in the middle of the mantelpiece stood at a quarter past seven.
He said, “Hi.”
Neil turned from his task.
“There you are. Did you have a good kip?”
“I should have been beavering away, helping you.”
“Not at all. Sneaked home early to perform my hostly tasks.”
“I gather we have company for dinner.”
Neil pulled a face.
“Stupid old bugger. Janey should have put him off, but she’s got too kind a heart.” He gave a final swipe at the last glass, set it neatly down, and tossed the tea-towel aside.
“There, that’s it. All done and dusted. Let’s have a drink, and sit down for a peaceful moment. I want to hear all about everything before our guest arrives and we have to start listening to him. Scotch? Soda or water? Or on the rocks? You see, I have all the right phraseology, in case you’ve forgotten how to speak the language.”
“Soda sounds good. Where’s Janey?”
“Whipping cream.”
“And the kids?”
“In bed, I hope. Reading books. If not, there’ll be trouble.” He poured their drinks, added ice, and brought the tumbler over to Sam. Then, with a relieved sigh, he thumped himself down into one of the comfortable chairs that stood at either side of the fire.
“So, tell me, how did the lunch go?”
Sam sat himself down in the opposite chair.
“All right, I suppose.”
“Nothing gruesome? No kindly suggestion of redundancy?”
Sam laughed. It was a good feeling to have someone come straight to the point, to be with a man he had known for most of his life, and from whom he had never had a single secret.
“The very opposite.”
“Really? A new job, then?”
“Yeah.”
“In the States?”
“No. Here. UK.”
“Whereabouts?”
Sam did not answer at once. He took a slug of his drink, cold and crisp and smoky on his tongue, and then set down the glass on the low table alongside.
“Ever heard of McTaggarts of Buckly?”
“What-the tweedy people in Sutherland?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Well, of course. Any country gentleman worth his salt wears a shooting suit made of Buckly tweed. My father had one, or should I say has. Built like a bloody suit of armour.” He chuckled at the thought.
“Don’t tell me they’re in trouble.”
“Have been. But Sturrock and Swinfield bought them out a few months ago. I’m surprised you didn’t pick it up, but perhaps you don’t read The Financial Times”
“Every day, but I missed that one. Textiles don’t come into my line of business. Extraordinary, McTaggarts going down the drain.” He twisted his mouth into a rueful smile.
“Mind you, probably the eternal-light-bulb scenario. Can’t expect to make money on a product that lasts forever.”
“That, of course, was one of their problems. And they never diversified. I suppose, an oldfashioned set-up, and saw no need. But even for the classic tweeds, the market has shrunk. Great estates sold up, and shooting-lodges standing empty. No longer a call for tweeds for the gamekeepers and the foresters. But they’ve had other setbacks as well. Old McTaggart died a couple of years ago, and his two sons weren’t interested in the business. One was already into computers and the other running a huge garage on the outskirts of Glasgow. They had no desire to return. I suppose life in the Far North had lost its appeal.”
“How extraordinary.” Neil let out a sigh.
“Oh, well, I suppose everyone has different aspirations. So what happened then?”
“Well, first the sons did a bit of asset-stripping, selling off all the mill houses; then they put the whole place on the market. When there wasn’t much interest forthcoming, the workforce approached the local Enterprise Company and together they undertook a management buy-out of the business. Problem is, there’s not a bottomless source of employment in that area, as you can well imagine. Anyway, they’re all skilled workers, they’ve been in the trade father and son-weavers, spinners, dyers-you name it.” Sam drained the last drops from his glass.
“So, they were ticking along all right, getting a few new orders, exports to the States, that sort of thing-then, bang, disaster struck. It rained nonstop for two months; the river broke its banks and flooded the mill to the height of a man’s head. They lost everything-their stock, their computers, most of the machinery. And that was it. The banks foreclosed, the LEC got their fingers burnt, and the workforce faced up to a future without employment.”
Neil got to his feet and came over to Sam and took his glass.
“God, that was really hard luck.”
“I know. So, in desperation, they approached Sturrock and Swinfield. David Swinfield carried out a fairly extensive feasibility study on the place, and it was duly rescued. The mill’s still in a hell of a mess, though. It hasn’t been in operation since the flood, and all but three of the workers are laid off.”
Neil handed him his replenished glass.
“So, what’s your part?”
“I’m to go and get it back on its feet again. Run the place.”
“Just like that? Straightaway?”
“Not quite. Even before the flood, the mill was pretty run-down. Most of the machinery was probably put in at the time of the Ark. So it’ll be a year before it’s all up and going again.”
“I’m surprised that Swinfield’s feasibility study showed that there was any financial viability at all in the place. I mean, do you think it’s still possible to make something of an industry in such a remote location? To be quite honest, I wonder if it’s really worth the hassle.”
“Oh, I think so. Of course, we’ll have to diversify, but re| member, the name of McTaggarts has terrific good will| throughout the world. It’s worth a hell of a lot if we’re to < look closer at the luxury markets.”
“What? Not the end of the good old heavyweight thorn-proofs for country wear surely? That would be tragic. You’ll have to keep making those.”
“Of course we will-and tartans too. Those are McTaggarts’ stockin-trade. Tradition. But they’ll form only a part of our production. We’ll be concentrating more on lighter, more colourful textiles. Jacketing fabrics for the Italian market, for instance. Shawls, scarves, throws, sweaters. You know, the fashion industry. Both expensive and expendable.”
“Cashmere?”
“Of course.”
“So, forays into darkest China are on the cards?”
“David Swinfield already has agents in Manchuria.”
“And what about machinery?”
“Probably source it in Switzerland.”
“Which will mean a total retraining programme for the workforce.”
“Yeah, but it’ll be carried out on-site by the supplier’s commissioning team. What unfortunately it will mean is a reduced workforce.”
Neil was silent, assessing all this. Then he sighed and shook his head, looking a little bemused.
“It sounds exciting, but it’s hard to see you settling down to life in a peat bog. After London and then New York. It sounds on a par with being posted as British Vice-Consul to the Andaman Islands. Hardly a leg up.”
“Salary?”
“Upped.”
“Bribery.”
Sam smiled.
“Not at all. Simply a bonus.”
“And what will you do with yourself? Your leisure time? When you’re not working flat out on the mill floor, or trying to get books to balance. I hardly think Buddy is going to be a hive of local gaiety. You may well be forced to take up bingo.”
“I shall fish. Remember fishing with my father? And I shall play golf. There are at least five wonderful links in the neighbourhood. I shall join clubs and make friends with old gentlemen in soup-stained pullovers.”
“More likely to be all kit ted up by Nick Faldo.”
“Whatever.”
“So you don’t feel all this is a bit of a regression?”
“I’m going back to my roots, if that’s regressing. And oddly enough, I relish the prospect of being a troubleshooter. As well, I know about running a small mill. I learned it all from my father. And he truly loved the business. He loved his machines the way other men loved their cars. And he used to touch great bales of tweed as though he were caressing them, for the pleasure of feeling the woven wool beneath his fingers. Perhaps I’m the same. I only know I’ve had enough of marketing. I can’t wait to get back to the factory floor, back to the start of it all. Right now, I feel it’s exactly what I need.”
Neil eyed him across the hearth. He said, “Don’t be offended, but I am not sure whether your chairman isn’t being paternalistic.”
“You mean because my personal life has fallen apart.”
“Frankly, yes.”
“Don’t worry. I asked him the same question over the Stilton. But I’d been earmarked for the Buckly Mill job long before he heard about Deborah.”
“Of course. Silly question, really. Sir David Swinfield didn’t get where he is by having a soft heart. When do you go?”
“Soon as possible. But there’s a lot of planning and thrashing-out to be done before I take off. A meeting’s set up for tomorrow morning with the financial chaps. A time schedule of reinvestment. That sort of thing.”
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