“I gather you’re all willing to give it a try,” he said, “and I’m very glad to have you here. We’ve got a roof over our heads and a certain amount of gear. What we want now is work. The more work we can get the more money we can make, and the more money we can make the more I can pay you. It’s as simple as that.”
“I’ve had a look at the local motor-car situation,” said Challen. “There’s plenty of work going. No doubt about it. Everything from battery charging to putting in complete reconditioned engines. The trouble is, we’ll be muscling in on an existing market. Most of the work goes to Snyder. He’s charging fancy prices and getting away with them too, because there isn’t any competition.”
“Fine,” said Oliver. “Now there is some competition. We’ll put advertisements in all the local papers and see what happens. If Snyder keeps his customers waiting, they’ll come to us.”
Everton said, “I’ve got a friend – he was a signaller with the gunners actually – he’s got a job in the QM’s department at Woolwich. He says there’s mountains of stuff there. A lot of it’s not actually being issued any more. Well, you remember those old No. 13 sets we had in the first year of the war–”
“The ones that never worked unless you could actually see the person you were talking to?”
“They weren’t a lot of use, but they had good parts in them. Get hold of a dozen of them and you’d be laughing.”
“I take it you’re not suggesting we send off a van and just help ourselves?”
Everton said, “Not quite, but they have auctions from time to time. Give me a lorry and a bit of cash and I’ll get all you want.”
McGlashan said, “What about sweets, eh?”
They all stared at him.
“You’ve got a chemical works here. I was told by a man in a chemist’s shop they were selling all sorts of things – cough drops and lozenges and pastels they call them, but they’re sweets really. People buy them on account of all the real sweets are rationed. You call these medical supplies; people can buy them without coupons.”
Oliver said, “I’m not sure that isn’t the best suggestion yet. It’s just the sort of thing we are geared for. We’ll have a look at the regulations. You’ve probably got to make them without using sugar, but that shouldn’t be impossible. Come in.”
A girl put her head round the door and said, “Mr Noogent?”
“That’s me,” said Oliver. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s Mr Strickland,” said the girl. “He’d like a word with you.”
“Would he though?” said Oliver. “You work for Mr Strickland, do you?”
“I’m his secretary.”
“He has excellent taste,” said Oliver lazily.
The girl blushed. She was disconcerted at finding five men in the room.
“If you’d care to come with me,” she said.
“There’s nothing I’d like more, in a general way,” said Oliver unmoving, “but this happens to be a very busy morning. Would you convey my apologies to Mr Strickland – that’d be Mr Arthur Strickland I take it–?”
The girl nodded. When anyone in that firm said Mr Strickland they naturally meant Mr Arthur Strickland.
“–and tell him that if he wants a word with me I shall be here for the next twenty minutes. After that I’ve got a date with my lawyer.”
The girl looked as if she would have liked to say something, swallowed it and disappeared.
“That’ll be about the right of way, I take it,” said Challen. “I had three truckloads go through this morning. I took the first one myself. I thought they looked a bit old-fashioned about it. Do you think they’re going to make a fuss?”
“I’m quite sure they are,” said Oliver, “and I think you’d all better clear out. We can’t have quarrelling in front of the children.”
Ten minutes later Arthur Strickland walked into Oliver’s office. He closed the door carefully behind him, and said, “I won’t waste a lot of your time. I understand you’re a very busy man.”
“Won’t you sit down?” said Oliver.
“This can be said quite quickly. I can’t have you using our passageway for loading. It interferes with our people. Both buildings have their own separate exits.”
“Both have separate exits. Ours is over a narrow bridge on to a cart track. Yours is direct on to the main road.”
“That’s the way it happens to be.”
“That’s the way it isn’t going to be in future,” said Oliver.
There was a moment of silence. Arthur Strickland’s already red face had turned a shade darker. He said, “I’m giving orders that the intervening door is to be bolted – on our side.”
“If you do that,” said Oliver, “you’ll be obstructing a legal right of way. I’m told I could sue you for damages and get an injunction to stop you, but that would all take time. So I’d better warn you that if you try to bolt the door I shall have it removed altogether, together with any other obstruction you may put up. I’ve got people here who could cut any door off its hinges with an acetylene burner in a tenth of the time it would take you to rig it up again. And then I shall leave you to sue me, if you can.”
Strickland took two quick steps forward. Oliver wondered if he was going to be silly enough to hit him, but all he said, quite quietly, was, “Where is Mr Nicholson?”
“My partner’s in London at the moment, but he’s given me full authority to conduct these negotiations. We should get on much better, I’m sure, if you’d sit down.”
“There are not going to be any negotiations,” said Strickland. As his spleen rose his voice got thicker. “I don’t care a row of brass buttons if you’ve got some legal right over that passage-way. If you try to use it I’m going to stop you, and if it causes trouble you’ll have brought it on your own head.”
He swung round, and as he did so Oliver leaned forward and clicked off a switch. Strickland stopped.
“What’s that you’ve got there?”
“Actually,” said Oliver, “it’s a tape recorder. As I gathered you’d finished, I was switching it off. Of course, I’ll turn it on again if you’ve got anything more to say.”
“Why – you–”
“If the matter comes to court the judge should be particularly interested in that last bit. Where you admit that we’ve got a legal right of way and threaten to obstruct it by violence.”
Strickland, as white now as he had been red before, turned on his heel and went out without another word.
“You hadn’t really got a tape recorder, had you?” said Dumbo.
“Don’t be silly,” said Oliver. “Of course I hadn’t. It was the switch on the flex of the desk lamp. I noticed the other day what a loud click it made. How did you get on up in London?”
“Not too well. The man I saw at the War Office couldn’t promise anything. He’d had no complaints about our stuff but they’re cutting down on suppliers. The general feeling is that the small ones like us will be the first to go. I don’t see that there’s much we can do about it.”
“I’m not sure,” said Oliver. “I ran into Blackett at my club the other day.”
“The CRA?”
“That’s right. He wasn’t too happy about his prospects. They’re cutting down on Brigadiers too.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“He’s tucked away in some corner of the War House on a desk job. Not the sort of thing an active and ambitious man like Blackett really fancies.”
“Blackett’s a career man all right,” said Dumbo. He remembered Bill Blackett, a dark, dry, efficient man, a modern soldier, the antithesis of the traditional Blimp. “What department have they shunted him into?”
“Oddly enough,” said Oliver, “it’s the department that deals with contracts and supplies.”
Dumbo stared at him for a moment then burst out laughing. “Cough it up,” he said, “I can see you’re mulling up something really filthy.”
“It’s common sense. Bill Blackett wants to get out
of the army and into business. He as good as told me so. We’ve got the sort of up-and-coming business that would suit him very well.”
“Up-and-coming?” said Dumbo, looking dubiously at the small, cluttered room and beyond it at the jumble of the workshop, the chemical kitchen and the packing department.
“Cheer up,” said Oliver. “Nuffield started in a bicycle shed. We’d have to give Bill a seat on the Board and a good salary, but if he can use his last few months in the War Office steering a long-term contract in our direction, he’ll be worth it ten times over.”
Challen put his head round the door and said, “Sorry to disturb you, gentlemen, but we’ve had a bit of trouble.”
“Stricklands again?”
“Not this time. It’s Snyder. Some of his garage men cornered Tommy Everton when he was minding his own business in the Duke at lunchtime.”
“Did they rough him up?”
“Not this time, but they made it pretty clear they weren’t going to stand much more from us.”
“We’re doing nothing illegal,” said Oliver. He looked relaxed and happy, as always, when a fight was in prospect. “All the same, you’d better warn the chaps. The main point is, they’re not to start anything. If Snyder’s chaps turn nasty we’ll have the police in fast. Understood?”
“I’ll tell ’em,” said Challen. “I hope they don’t start anything with McGlashan. You remember that jamboree we had with the US navy at Bari?”
Oliver found Mr Stackpool reading a letter and smiling.
“It’s from Headingly Hewson & Co.” he said. “A very well-known City firm.” He sounded like the manager of a works team that has drawn Manchester United in the fourth round of the Cup. “Judging from the reference on the letter we’re dealing with young Mr Headingly.”
“And what has young Mr Headingly got to say for himself?”
“It isn’t what he says, it’s what he doesn’t say. If he was sure of his position he wouldn’t still be arguing. He’d have instituted proceedings long ago. You’ll notice that the letter starts ‘We are surprised – ’ When a solicitor starts a letter like that it usually means that he doesn’t know what to do next.”
“Do you think he’d compromise?”
“I’ve a feeling he’d be very glad to if Stricklands would agree, but I’m afraid that pride is involved here.” Mr Stackpool rubbed his hands together gently. The pride of clients lined the pockets of the law.
“There’s a suggestion in this letter that you might share this access on an agreed basis. Do you think that’d work?”
“It might,” said Oliver, “with goodwill on both sides. Unfortunately that’s a commodity we’re a bit short on. I don’t think sharing’s the answer here.”
“There’s another point,” said Mr Stackpool. “I told you I heard Stricklands were planning to build. I’ve been doing a little research for you at the offices of the local authority. And it’s true. They’ve put in an application for development. It’s only in outline at the moment, but it’s clear that they’ll want to pull down most of the existing buildings and erect a single new block fronting on the main road. The way things are going here at the moment, a site developed like that could be very valuable. Very valuable indeed.”
“But he couldn’t do it without settling our right of way?”
“No, certainly not. He would come right across it.”
“Then his only course would be to make us an offer and buy out our rights.”
“It would certainly be one solution of his difficulties. If such an offer were to be made, had you any particular price in mind?”
“I should start by asking for ten thousand pounds. We could always settle for a bit less.”
Mr Stackpool beamed. Oliver was a client after his own heart.
“You’re setting the Thames on fire,” said Serena.
“We’ve been having quite a lively time these last few months,” agreed Oliver.
For the second time since he had been there spring had come to Elsfield Wood. Its few remaining open spaces were putting on a show of green, a brave but hopeless resistance movement in the teeth of the army of brick, cement and asphalt which was engulfing them.
“I believe you like trouble.”
“Nonsense,” said Oliver. “I’m too lazy to go looking for trouble. My ideal life would be to lie in a deckchair under a willow tree in the warm sun and have a beautiful woman bring me a succession of dry martinis. Omar Khayyám had much the same idea.”
“He wanted a book of verse too.”
“Reading’s such a bore. One might, perhaps, have an LP of modern verse babbling away somewhere in the background.”
“You don’t fool me,” said Serena. “You like work. You enjoy every minute of it. Dumbo says you sometimes stay in the office until nine and ten o’clock at night.”
They were sitting together in the front of Oliver’s car. They had driven Francis up to London. He was off on a selling trip to Sheffield, a trip which he had been putting off for weeks, but had at last been dragooned by Arthur into making. Now, on the way back, Oliver had stopped the car on the crest of the hill overlooking Elsfield Wood. A few lights were beginning to appear in windows as the spring evening closed in.
“Francis does hate it so, poor lamb. He’s not a bit like you – about work, I mean.” She shifted slightly in her seat, very conscious of Oliver beside her.
Oliver said, quite seriously, “I’m not mad about work for its own sake. I like it for what it can bring in. I’ve got plans. If they come off I’m going to make a lot of money. And I’m not aiming to save it, either. That’s a mug’s game. Can you think of anyone more pitiable than a rich man on his deathbed? It’s not dying he minds about so much, what makes him hopping mad is the thought of all the money he’s made by his sweat and blood slipping out of his fingers. A lot of it going to the State – horrid little civil servants who’ve been teasing him and taxing him all his life – and the rest to relatives who can scarcely wait for the last breath to go out of his body before they dip their fingers into the boodle. You know what the Emperors of Byzantium did? They had all their wives and family and household killed when they died and stacked on the same funeral pyre. Even the dogs and horses.”
“Horrible,” said Serena. “The dogs, I mean. They were probably the only ones who really cared.”
“So I decided, long ago. Anything I make I’m going to spend.”
“What on?” said Serena. It was the first time, in the whole of their acquaintance, that he had said anything as if he really meant it, and she was warmed and excited by the confidence.
“On myself,” said Oliver. “On soft lying and hard liquor. On French cooking and Havana cigars, and on all the vices I’ve been warned against.”
He slid his left arm under her back. There was a moment of resistance, then he felt her body lifting to accommodate him. He kissed her slowly. She tasted like toast and butter and honey.
When they got back to the house, a good deal later, Serena said, “You’d better not come in.” Somehow she managed to make it sound like a question.
Oliver pondered. Discretion said no. Desire said yes. Desire seemed to be mustering the more cogent arguments. In the silence they could hear the telephone ringing in the house.
Serena slipped quickly out of the car, opened the door of the house and went inside. Oliver sat on in the darkness. If he had been a cat he would have been purring.
The front door of the house opened suddenly, letting out a shaft of light. Serena pattered across the pavement, opened the car door and said, “It’s for you.”
“For me?”
“They’ve been looking for you all over the place. It’s Mr Challen. He says there’s been trouble with Snyder’s men. Smithy’s been hurt. They’ve taken him to hospital.”
6
Oliver found the lights on at the works and Challen, with McGlashan, Fisher and Everton in the office. They looked serious but excited.
“It was definitely deliberate,” sa
id Challen. “Not a shadow of doubt of it, sir.”
The fact that he said “sir” for the first time since the armistice gave Oliver an accurate summary of his feelings. It was war.
“All right,” he said. “Just tell me what happened.”
“About six o’clock this evening. It was getting a bit dark. Smithy was bringing one of our delivery vans back from London. You know that nasty corner right opposite Snyder’s? There was a transporter, with some heavy machinery on it, coming the other way. Smithy pulls into the entrance of Snyder’s place to let it get past. Well, Palmer was backing out, you see.”
“Wait a minute,” said Oliver. “Who’s Palmer?”
“Big chap with a red face,” said Fisher. “Drives Snyder’s breakdown van. He was very likely backing it out to go on a job.”
“He came straight out of the shed,” said Challen. “Didn’t stop. Put the crane arm through Smithy’s cab. Smashed in the door and smashed Smithy’s arm too.”
“Could it have been an accident?”
“It could have been but it wasn’t. Smithy says he could see him grinning at him in the driving mirror. Besides, he’s an experienced driver. He wouldn’t back out without looking, would he?”
“What he’ll say,” said Oliver, “is that he thought the entrance was clear, and anyway, Smithy was on their property where, strictly speaking, he hadn’t any right to be.”
“That’s what he’ll say tomorrow,” agreed Challen. “He’ll be very sorry about it too, I expect. Tonight he and the other boys are laughing their heads off about it.”
There was a growl from the other three.
“Where do they do all this laughing?” said Oliver.
Fred Fisher said, “Mostly after work they go to a caffay on the corner of Station Approach, Sam Shorter’s Snack Bar. Quite a nice place for a cuppa. Easy on the rations too. I been there myself.”
“Fine,” said Oliver. “I could just do with a nice cuppa. Why don’t we look in on Sam?” He thought for a moment whilst the others watched him, wondering how far he was prepared to go. “If they see the lot of us they won’t start anything. It’ll just turn into a slanging match. So I suggest we don’t all go in together. Only Challen and me. You three can happen to be passing by. You can join in when things warm up.”
The Dust and the Heat Page 5