by David Carter
She’d joined the family business while considering her career path, but the grain had hooked her. It often did. The excitement of it, tracking the graphs, buying the cereals, forecasting prices, testing the corn in the fields, the whole social scene, and particularly meeting the hunky farmers’ sons.
But more important than any of that, was her ability to create wealth, for she had inherited the Ridge talent for doing so. It was said in the grain trade that once a trader, always a trader. You never left the business, for it’s impossible to find greater satisfaction elsewhere. It was also said no one worthwhile ever left the grain trade and had gone on to better things. Persia understood why. She was addicted, hooked as firmly as any crack addict. She was twenty-two, and she’d stay in the business until she was carried out.
‘It looks like it got a little out of hand,’ teased Messine.
‘Of course it didn’t. Drop it, will you!’
Midge wasn’t there to hear the fractious conversation; he was in the study feeling great now that Lisa was safely home, as he talked aggressively on the phone to an early bird London broker about Argentinian Sorghum. He returned a moment later and nodded at Persia to get moving if she wanted a lift. He kissed his mother on the cheek and Lisa on the top of her head.
She stood up and took his arm and led him to the front door to wave him goodbye. Messine rose too and checked her make-up in the hall mirror. Coral, the youngest sister, was still fast asleep upstairs. She hadn’t arrived home until four in the morning. She’d been exercising her newfound freedom to stay out late and get laid whenever she chose. It would be some time before she tired of the trend.
The Mercedes roared into life and sped down the drive. Lisa watched them depart, the two of them in the car in animated conversation, no doubt gabbling about the yen or the dollar, or the attractively named pork belly futures market they were always sniggering about.
Messine followed, crawling past Lisa in her red Toyota sports. The window buzzed down and she said, ‘See ya later.’
Lisa nodded and forced a smile, breathed out heavily through her nose, shook her head and went inside.
THREE WEEKS LATER SHE was sitting at her desk in Heswall, a half eaten tuna sandwich curling up under her nose beside the unopened can of diet Pepsi. She glanced back at the file before her. It was crammed with papers and headaches. It was headed Wilson and Birtwistle, and related to a proposal to build a hundred new homes down on the foreshore at Neston. Her brief was to précis the report to one-third its length without losing an important fact.
She couldn’t keep her mind on the job. Fact was, she’d barely started. She gazed through the window at the small bus station outside. An out-of-condition green Crosville single decker bus swerved into the depot, spewing thick diesel fumes over the few hardy souls sitting there. One of the potential passengers coughed and wafted a hand at the floating black poison.
Lisa sighed. She was late, her period, she was bloody late, and she was never late. She spoke to Valerie, her supervisor, and made an excuse that she’d forgotten to go to the bank, and could she slip out. Valerie tut-tutted, and reminded her to do that in her lunch hour in future. Lisa skipped down the stairs, crossed the road and entered Boot’s the chemist. She meandered aimlessly up and down the aisle in no hurry to return to work. Collected some toothpaste and headed towards the personal hygiene shelves. She picked up a Boot’s pregnancy testing kit, but not before she’d double checked there was no one in the shop she might know.
She hid it as best she could behind the toothpaste and waited for the new girl on the till at the front of the store to come free. When she had, Lisa hurried towards her and placed the items in the basket. The girl lazily picked up the kit and passed it over the scanner. Another one, she thought, and that was the seventh that day. There must be something in the air, or the water, or the alcohol.
She glanced into the attractive girl’s face. It was always the same look. Anxiety, pure and simple, fright too, but primarily anxiety. She’d never get herself in that situation. What a stupid cow, and so pretty too. Some girls reaped all they deserved. Lisa paid the money and dashed back to the office. She went to the Ladies’ room where she hurried into a cubicle, sat down, juggled the box in her hand, and read the instructions.
Easy to use, 99% accurate, and the result in just 2 minutes!
Two minutes later Lisa Greystone was 99% certain she was pregnant.
‘Oh, hell!’ she wailed, but forced herself not to cry. The question was, who was the father? Nicoliades? The kid? Or God forbid the old man? She still wasn’t sure whether he’d managed it or not. She tried to banish hideous memories from her mind, and hid behind the thought it could still be Midge’s child. But what were the chances of that? Somehow, she knew it wasn’t. And if it wasn’t, she knew sooner or later he’d find out. Her mother used to say: The truth has a way of coming out, it always does. Lisa knew her mother was right. ‘Oh God, what am I going to do?’ she whispered, as she flushed the toilet and hurried back to work.
Valerie glanced up from her clients’ statements.
Lisa had been a long time at the bank.
‘Did you get it all right?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The money?’
‘Oh yes, fine, thanks.’
‘Are you all right? You seem a little under the weather.’
‘Yes, just a bit, err... I’m on, you know.’
Valerie nodded and looked at her through expressionless eyes.
‘Try to concentrate on your work, Liz. It’ll take your mind off things. That usually works for me.’
Lisa half smiled and returned the nod and retreated to her tiny office. The green polluter had fled, rumbled off back down towards Birkenhead. She gazed down at the file, but nothing on earth could persuade her to start reading. Her mind was too scrambled.
She thought of Midge and all the girly Ridges, and of Nicoliades, and that crazy day in his filthy house on that godforsaken island. Heaven knows how much she hated that man. How could she have done such a stupid thing? It beggared belief. She’d give anything to keep Midge. She wanted to cry, but she wouldn’t, not then, not ever. Tears never solved a thing. Something drastic needed to be done, and soon. But what?
Chapter Fifteen
IN 1974 VIMY ENJOYED his time in Egypt where he found the people friendly and welcoming, but left the country disappointed. The cotton had not been up to the standard he’d expected, a situation made worse by asking prices being way too high.
If he bought there, he’d be lucky to sell it for a plus. Perhaps it had been a poor year, but whatever the reason, Vimy decided to leave it for someone else.
He flew Turkish Airlines across the eastern end of the Mediterranean, landing once in Cyprus to re-fuel and collect a few stragglers. It was a nightmare flight. The plane was an old British built turbo prop, and made slow headway battling a headwind. The ride was rickety and the passengers nervous, made noticeably worse when halfway through the flight an unidentified jet fighter appeared on the starboard wing.
There was an audible sigh of relief as it peeled away with a howl and disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, and everyone felt happier when the ancient airliner landed safely at Adana aerodrome in south-eastern Turkey. Adana, the city that bore the name of the famous crop that came from the surrounding countryside. Adana cotton, said by many to be the best cotton in the world.
Vimy had cabled ahead his e.t.a. and had arranged for Bulent Tarsus to meet him at the airport. Bulent was well known to many of the travelling buyers from the important Liverpool Cotton Exchange. When it came to fixing raw cotton prices, Liverpool was the key shipping destination, and one of the main trading centres for Cottonopolis itself, Manchester. Any buyer from Liverpool or Manchester was treated as if they were royalty.
Bulent was forty-six and boasted a long pencil-thin moustache, a neat black line splitting his slim, angular face. His head was topped with thinning, straggly black hair. It was a caricature of a face, like a puppet
from an American kid’s TV show. He smoked continually, pungent local cigarettes that had yellowed his teeth. But he was good company and understood the needs of the weary traveller.
He drove an ancient orange Mercedes saloon and as they headed out of Adana they turned eastwards and began crossing the flat fertile Çukurova plain, heading for the sign-posted town of Osmaniye, some sixty miles distant. Bulent tuned the radio to a local music station and began singing; aggravating the nervous headache Vimy had collected on the plane.
Vimy tried closing his ears; tried feigning sleep, yet all the while he squinted through the dusty windows, desperate not to miss a thing. He was surprised at how backward the area was. Once they’d left the city it was almost biblical, and this was modern day 1974.
The only concessions to modern life were the mish mash of vehicles that raced along poor roads, and the two fingered aerials poking from the roofs of ancient stone houses, all pointing north-westwards, like worshipping hands towards the new religion of television, and the distant broadcasting stations of Ankara and Istanbul.
Osmaniye was a typical provincial town, as far away from Istanbul as it was possible to be while remaining in Turkey. It was barely forty miles from the Syrian border and retained the feeling of a frontier town, unusual dying languages, and mutual suspicion, restless unemployed men standing in doorways whispering amongst themselves, smoking, having a bet, checking out strangers, muttering of deals, customs duties to be paid, or avoided, or of smuggling. It was the gateway to the east, and the last town that bore any resemblance to being European, though they were on Asia Minor.
Vimy caught the feeling the moment he stepped from the car. There was a deal to be struck and money to be made. It was as if his trading radar had automatically switched on. Bulent dropped him outside the Five Fishes Hotel, a small establishment, yet the grandest in the town. He promised to pick him up at eight-thirty sharp in the morning. Vimy smiled, grateful to be away from the tinny radio, and thanked him again. ‘Salaam Bulent, salaam!’
‘Salaam, Meester Reedge!’
He watched the Turk scurry back to the car, jump in as if there wasn’t a moment to lose, throw it in reverse, and hurry away in his own personal dust storm to God knows where. Vimy turned and retreated to the hotel. The wind was freshening and he could hear it rushing down from the distant mountains, cooler air that would revitalise the place. His room was on the second floor at the back of the building. It didn’t boast a bathroom, just a cracked sink, cold water, a tiny black-and-white TV, and a single bed that had seen better days. The television carried two channels of Turkish soaps and he switched it on and off in quick time, and unpacked his bag.
There was a decent bathroom three doors along the corridor, and it was usually vacant. He ate in the hotel, spicy but decent, and gratefully retreated to his room, and collapsed on the bed and slept soundly, or so he thought. He didn’t remember his dream of the fighter shooting down the old turboprop, the air-to-air missile slipping from its tube and inserting itself in the fuselage of the ancient plane just below his feet, and a millisecond later a blinding flash, and icy blackness.
He was woken by an aggressive cock crowing from a nearby village. It was half-past six. He lay still for a moment, wondering where he was, gathering his thoughts. He wondered too what his father would have done in the same situation. Would he have bought Egyptian cotton? But he knew the answer was no. Vimy leapt from the bed and shaved, and from somewhere close by, he smelt fresh bread. It made him hungry, and he danced down the stairs to follow his nose.
Bulent surprised him by arriving at eight-thirty on the dot. He’d washed the Mercedes, though it was already dusty again. He’d applied fresh cologne and trimmed his moustache. It seemed he meant business, and it promised to be an interesting ride.
The dusty town was soon behind them, and they were back in the countryside, the road bordered by wide flat fields smothered in fast ripening cotton. Bulent waved his arms at the maturing crop as if it belonged to him, sometimes with both hands off the wheel, a manoeuvre that unnerved Vimy. Bulent never stopped talking. Another half hour passed before they pulled off a farm track on the left side and bumped along for ten minutes. The ground rose steadily towards the barren mountains.
They arrived at a complex of modern two-story farm buildings set out neatly at right angles. The main building had a gently sloping blue roof and silver metallic walls, reflecting the hot morning sun.
Bulent pulled the Mercedes to a halt behind a convoy of three ageing Romanian rigid trucks. They were being loaded with bales of cotton; all proudly stamped in English, Adana Cotton. The BEST Cotton in the World. Bulent beckoned at the wording and grinned. ‘See, I tell you; this is the cotton for you.’
‘Where’s this going, Bulent?’
‘England, of course, Liverpool!’
Vimy nodded and wondered which of his rivals had been there before him. He couldn’t imagine Harold Jackson swanning around, but someone had, and a crazy thought crossed his mind. Could it have been his father? He could not remember him being absent from the markets, or returning with a tan.
They entered the warehouse and Bulent shouted a greeting that was returned by several of the moustached men working there. But they went off about their business, leaving Bulent and Vimy to roam about unhindered to the sampling room at the back. It was a long narrow room where a bench had been erected along the full length of one wall. Above the bench was a window that had recently been washed. There was no sound from the room other than an imprisoned wasp lurking bad-tempered at the base of the glass.
At the bench a short, slight man in a white coat was examining cotton samples, tearing the raw material apart, checking for impurities.
Bulent hurried towards him, his hand outstretched, as he spoke excitedly in Turkish. The man turned and replaced the cotton on the bench. He took the hand and hugged Bulent, slapping him firmly on the back, and as he did so, he checked out the smart young Englishman loitering in the background in the lightweight suit. He looked vaguely familiar. This was Norman Ridge’s rebellious offspring.
Vimy glanced back and tried a soft smile. The man boasted thick curly hair, overlong in the modern fashion, but thinning at the temples; and his dark brow was covered in droplets of sweat. His glasses needed cleaning, Vimy guessed they often did. The man removed them and wiped them and stood away from the bench, waiting to be introduced.
‘This is Mr Vimy Ridge, from Liverpool,’ said Bulent.
Vimy stepped forward and shook his hand.
‘I know your father,’ said the Turk.
‘Everyone seems to.’
The man smiled again. ‘How is he?’
‘He’s well, working hard, as ever.’
‘Rumour has it there has been a difference of opinion.’
It was Vimy’s turn to laugh. ‘News travels fast, and far.’
‘This is Mr Melouk,’ said Bulent, embarrassed he’d been slow in introducing their host. ‘He is the owner of Red Triangle Adana Cotton.’
‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Melouk.’
‘Come, let’s take coffee,’ he said.
The drink was strong and sweet and the cotton amazing. Vimy reined in his enthusiasm, for he knew energetic haggling would be expected, and it was vital he should start from a disinterested position. He’d read a book on the plane entitled Successful Buying Using the Bazaar Mentality and he hoped the writer knew his subject.
‘You are thinking of buying Egyptian cotton?’ teased Melouk, sipping his drink.
‘Maybe, I’ve just come from Cairo.’
He scoffed and pulled a face.
‘Really? Rumour has it they have had a poor year.’
Vimy said nothing; there was no point in confirming something they all knew.
‘Egyptian cotton is...’ Melouk let the sentence die on his lips. He’d made his point.
The haggling continued for most of the day, as they toured the facility, and at every opportunity the Turk demonstrated the quality of the
product. It would be foolish to belittle it, and Vimy knew that, and Melouk appreciated he didn’t try.
Vimy never had a doubt the Lancashire spinners would gobble up every bale they could lay their hands on, so long as the price was right. At ten minutes to four they shook hands on a fixed price with Bulent receiving one percent introductory commission from each party. Bulent wrote the price in his large black diary and showed it to either man. They derided the figure, Melouk saying, ‘Too cheap, I’ve sold it too cheap!’
Vimy muttering, ‘I’ve paid that much, really? I must be mad!’
They smiled and laughed, inwardly content with the deal, for the business had been conducted in a truly Turkish way; an honourable way, the bazaar way. The book had been accurate. They’d played the game to perfection, and both parties knew they’d make good profit.
Vimy bought five hundred bales of Turkish cotton as an initial trial shipment, with an option for a thousand more at the same price. He already knew he would exercise that option. All he had to do was hurry home and sell it before someone else queered the pitch.
ON THEIR RETURN TO Adana, Bulent drove the car more aggressively than before. Vimy recognised the signs of increased adrenalin activity. It had happened to him many times. The devil takes over the vehicle, and there would be no point in asking Bulent to drive more carefully, not for an hour or two. He couldn’t, even if he tried.
Other than some sweet biscuits that accompanied the coffee, they hadn’t eaten since breakfast and the Turk belched. ‘Are you hungry?’
Vimy bobbed his head and said, ‘Starving.’
‘Let’s go for a meal, a celebratory dinner, my treat, on me.’
Vimy grinned and nodded again.
He liked Bulent more with each passing hour.
‘I know just the place. A small restaurant, quiet, but the quality is...’ and he removed his right hand from the wheel and placed his finger and thumb together and kissed them with a flourish. ‘Fresh spiced lamb and small sweet new potatoes from Cyprus, and a glass of the local sweet red wine. No?’