“I certainly did. I telephoned to them to send a man, and he came and took it.”
“You silly child, don’t you see you’ve destroyed my credit? We shan’t be able to buy a thing in Hudley except for ready money. They’ll all know; they’ll all send their accounts in. You’ve destroyed my credit. Why, it might even affect the mill.”
“What’s credit?” jeered Carol sulkily. (She was rather frightened, however.)
“I must put that right. I must go and pay for the telly this afternoon. For heaven’s sake give me some lunch,” said Lucius irritably. “I must get on to this. I shall have to go down to Hudley. Now you stay in this afternoon and wait for them to bring back the television set.”
“How about the children?”
“Fetch them later. You must stay in till the man’s brought the set back.”
“How will you get the money, Lucius?” murmured Carol, subdued by his angry tone.
“Leave that to me.”
“I’m sorry if I did wrong, Lucius,” said Carol, weeping.
“Whitehead,” said Lucius in a peremptory tone to the cashier when he got back to Ramsgill that afternoon, “I shall have to have some money from the petty cash.”
“Yes, Mr. Lucius. Is it for expenses?”
“No, it’s a personal loan. Put it down to me. I’ll settle it with my grandfather when he comes back.”
“Yes, Mr. Lucius,” agreed the old man without hesitation. “How much did you want?”
“How much have you got?”
“We never keep more than £50 in the petty, sir; Mr. Hardaker is very particular about that. We might have a couple of pounds or so more, but that would be all. I’ll just look and see, shall I?”
“I’ll take fifty,” commanded Lucius.
Mr. Whitehead’s eyes widened, but he made no comment.
“Certainly, Mr. Lucius,” he said in a deferential tone.
It was near the end of the month and Lucius’ personal bank account was low, but with the aid of the Ramsgill loan he paid the television account and had the set sent back at once to Hill Royd.
“I’m sorry we’ve caused you all this trouble,” he said in his pleasant voice and with his pleasant smile to the owner of the firm as he wrote out the cheque. “But my wife is just a little off colour at the moment—a trying time, you know; though we have two already—and these whims sometimes take her. I’m sure you understand.”
“Oh certainly, certainly, Mr. Hardaker,” said the man with an air of relief. “We thought it must be something of that kind, if you’ll excuse me saying so. I hope Mrs. Hardaker will be—” he could not think of a sufficiently delicate phrase to cover the situation, and ended rather lamely—“all right.”
“Thanks,” said Lucius, smiling and nodding as he left the shop.
Beneath his affable exterior he was in a fury; to have to play up his wife’s pregnancy to a shopkeeper in order to re-establish his credit seemed to him a degradation to which his grandfather ought not to have subjected him.
* * *
Pale and cross, Mr. Hardaker propped up on pillows surveyed his grandson.
“They tell me I shall have to stay here a few weeks.”
“Don’t you think you’d better have a nurse, grandfather?”
“No. Your mother will look after me. She’s a good nurse.”
Mrs. Hardaker beamed. Armchair and tapestry abandoned, hair dishevelled, harmonies of dress forgotten, carrying a tray of excellent invalid food prepared by her own hand, she was truly happy. To nurse, to nourish, to cherish, was her natural maternal function, which she loved to exercise.
“You’ll have to get yourself a white coat, mother,” Lucius teased her, pleased by her alert and cheerful look.
“Nay, don’t encourage her; she’s nurse enough already,” said his grandfather, smiling however. “You and Edward will have to sign the cheques. It’s the twenty-fifth next week, think on.”
“That rule doesn’t operate with spinners now, grandfather. But I won’t forget, trust me,” promised Lucius.
“With a wife and two children to support, you’d better not,” scolded Hardaker, grimly joking to conceal his own lapse of memory.
“True enough. And we’ve another coming, it seems,” said Lucius.
“Really, Lucius?” said his mother eagerly.
“Seems so.”
“When?”
“Now, Mildred,” said Mr. Hardaker irritably. “Lucius and I are having a business talk. Come to think of it, Edward can’t sign the cheques. He isn’t a director.”
“Do they need two signatures?”
“Of course they do, Lucius! Don’t you remember the arrangements when you were made a director when you were twenty-one? Have some sense, boy!”
“Now don’t excite yourself, Mr. Hardaker,” purred Mildred. “Lucius can bring the cheques up here for you to sign, can’t you, Lucius?”
“Of course.”
Mr. Hardaker gazed at his grandson and sighed. A fine handsome fellow, warm-hearted, affectionate, and since his marriage quite hard-working, but no grasp of finance. No real feeling for cloth, either; though that didn’t matter so much now they had Oates. “Heaven knows what a mess he’ll make of Ramsgill while I’m away,” thought the old man, as his mind roved over the multitudinous complex pieces of business he had had in hand before his collapse. “And I’m going to be away a long time, I can tell.”
“What do you say we make Edward a director, Lucius?” he said at length. “Then you two could sign the cheques.”
“Yes. I think he deserves it,” agreed Lucius.
“Now that he has a son and all, it seems the right thing, perhaps. Edmund’s your father’s grandson the same as your two, think on.”
“Of course.”
“Well—we’d better have a special general meeting of shareholders,” said the old man wearily. “We’ll have it here, in my bedroom. Let’s see now, who are they; me, you, your mother, your sister. Did we give Edward a few shares on his marriage? Seems to me we did.”
“Yes, we did,” said Lucius.
“Edward has been hinting to him about the annual dividend,” guessed Mr. Hardaker. “Well, tell old Whitehead to get out the notices for a shareholders’ meeting, quickly,” he said aloud. “Nay, what am I thinking about? It’s the Board of a company that makes appointments. You ought to have reminded me, Lucius. The Board—at the moment that’s only me and you. Still, we’d better have formal notices. They have to be sent out so many days before the meeting, I think—I don’t remember how many, but Whitehead knows. Get them out this afternoon. Don’t delay. We’ll make you managing director in my place, and Edward a director. I’ll stay chairman—for the present.”
“Grandfather,” said Lucius, colouring. “If I’m to be promoted I hope it will mean more salary. I need a rise.”
“For heaven’s sake, Lucius!” protested Mr. Hardaker, irritated by this (to him) untimely intrusion of a minor matter. “You draw far more than you’re worth already. Your salary was raised when you married.”
“I’ve two children now,” said Lucius stubbornly.
“And a third coming. I know. Well, it’ll have to wait till I get back to the mill and see how things stand.”
“But how long are you going to be away, grandfather?” burst out Lucius, a look of concern appearing on his open face.
“How should I know?” snapped the old man, too much vexed by this stress, as he thought, on a point about which he felt an uneasy uncertainty, to take Lucius’ meaning. His mind was on his own failing health, not on his grandson’s income. “You’ll have to get used to being without me. You’ll have to lose me some day.”
Lucius was left with the impression that his grandfather was shortly about to die.
Naturally he communicated this impression to Edward, who, delighted, returned at once gleefully to driving Elizabeth’s car.
The following week Edward Oates became a director of Messrs. J. L. Hardaker.
* * *
“It seems we have to congratulate you, Mr. Oates,” purred Mr. Whitehead, beaming at Edward over his half-spectacles.
“Seems so,” agreed Edward, smiling. (Yes, and you’ll find it out, you old bastard, he thought.) “Would you care to explain the Ramsgill finances to me now that I’m a director, Mr. Whitehead?” he said in a half-joking tone. (I mean it though, so watch out.)
“Certainly, certainly, Mr. Oates,” replied the cashier, beaming. “Of course you understand that on the previous occasion when you made the same request I wasn’t empowered to comply. I’m sure you understand that.”
“I understand perfectly, and you were absolutely right,” said Edward with his best air of conviction. “But now, if you wouldn’t mind—you will have to take it slowly with me, Mr. Whitehead, I’m afraid, because I’m not familiar with operations on this scale. I rely on you to inform me fully and keep me straight.”
The flattered Mr. Whitehead gave an exposition both clear and detailed. The old buzzard knows his stuff, thought Edward; he’s sharper than you’d think. Disappointment, disillusionment, near despair, crossed through his mind as he listened. There seemed almost no loophole through which he could get his hands on some of the Ramsgill money which he needed with such terrible urgency. A few pounds from the petty cash, of course, he could now get hold of by alleging some necessary entertainment of customers; where old Mr. Hardaker would have demanded to see the bills, that kindly dunderhead Lucius would take Edward’s word for the expenditure. But the amount he could glean from that source was not worth the trouble. The Ramsgill weekly wages bill, approximately four thousand pounds, looked more attractive, but on enquiry proved, at any rate at first sight, to be invulnerable. Edward had hoped that the fact that some members of the Ramsgill labour force were on piecework, their earnings therefore varying from week to week, would give scope for drawing more than was necessary from the bank, leaving a surplus which Edward could perhaps fiddle; but this, it seemed, was impossible; the calculation of the wages bill was a terrific task which occupied Mr. Whitehead and an assistant for a whole day; when it was accomplished, a telephone call to the bank stated the exact form in which the money would be drawn; so many notes, so much silver; Lucius then drove Mr. Whitehead to the bank to obtain this requested currency. The time of departure, and the car used, were varied in deference to the many grab raids which were a feature of the times; but in fact, Edward decided sardonically, nothing would be easier than to conk old Whitehead on the head and snatch his old-fashioned black bag. But though he would have enjoyed doing it, any physical assault of this kind was useless to Edward, who wished to retain the appearance of a thoroughly respectable citizen. (For such a robbery accomplices would be necessary, and these were out of the question, because of blackmail.) He observed with pleasure, though, that the monthly statement from the bank showed only the serial number of each cheque drawn and its amount, omitting all mention of the person or company in whose favour it was drawn. The counterfoil of course would show this name. But surely there was a gleam of hope here.
Edward thought continually on the subject; he kept a close watch on all the firm’s monetary transactions and apprised himself of the largest cheques which Ramsgill customarily drew. The spinner’s cheque he dare not touch, nor did he in general wish to operate any scheme which might damage the Ramsgill credit. It would be better, of course, to wait until Mr. Hardaker died and then borrow the sum he needed from Lucius openly. But the old man tiresomely lingered on while Edward’s difficulties accumulated.
There came a morning when Edward said firmly to himself that he couldn’t wait a day longer. Money he must have by the morrow, or his whole situation would blow sky-high.
The day was Thursday; Mr. Whitehead, looking harassed and frowning, was immersed in piecework wages calculations. He gave Edward the merest glance, irritable enough but very brief, when the young man approached his desk and stood behind his shoulder. By the greatest good fortune there lay on the desk a rate note from the Hudley Corporation, demanding a payment of some £1800 for the year; the moiety, the half of this sum, was now due; if desired, the whole sum could be paid at once and discount secured.
“I’ve an appointment at the Borough Treasurer’s office to discuss our rateable value again, Mr. Whitehead,” said Edward in his light brisk tones. “I’ll take this note with me, if you don’t mind, and the cheque.”
“Certainly, Mr. Oates,” said the cashier crossly. He opened the top drawer of the desk and drew out the current cheque book, then looked about wistfully for an unoccupied area on which to put it down.
“Oh, don’t let me disturb you—I’ll do it,” said Edward. He walked off with note and cheque book, followed by the cashier’s look of relief.
In the office he now shared with Lucius—they had moved into old Hardaker’s—he sat down at his desk, made out a cheque for the required sum payable to Edward Oates, and its counterfoil as paid to the Hudley Corporation. (If his hand shook a little, his writing was still perfectly clear.) He then closed the office door rather carefully, and going over to Lucius’ desk placed both his hands on its flat surface, and leaning on them said calmly:
“Lucius, lend me twelve hundred pounds. I owe it.”
Lucius started and coloured. “My dear fellow!” he exclaimed. “I should be delighted to help you out if I had the money. But I haven’t. I’m hard up myself. Only the other week I had to borrow fifty quid from the petty cash.”
“Really!” said Edward, simulating surprise although he was aware of the transaction.
“But why are you so deep in?” continued Lucius. “Elizabeth has her dividends.”
This was the aspect of the case which presented itself first to his mind, because he had privately often envied Edward for this agreeable addition to his housekeeping.
“I had nothing at all when I married Elizabeth,” said Edward with precision. He had made up his mind that the only way to secure Lucius’ aid was by absolute frankness. “My car—the engagement ring—our household furniture and so on—I had to borrow money for the lot. Edmund’s delicacy,” he added with simulated reluctance, “has not assisted me in my difficulties.”
He thought this appeal to Lucius on behalf of his sister’s son would not fail, and he was right. Lucius’ colour deepened and he shifted uneasily in his handsome revolving chair (once the property of old Mr. Hardaker’s grandfather).
“I’m truly sorry you’re in trouble, Edward,” he said sincerely. “What is so maddening is that Ramsgill could easily afford to clear us both, only my grandfather is so pigheaded about not depleting the reserves. Of course, when—” he paused; he could not quite bring himself to say that on his grandfather’s death the matter could be accommodated.
“I can’t wait,” said Edward briefly. “I’ve struggled—I’ve done everything I can.”
“Can’t you borrow it? The bank would grant an overdraft, I’m sure.”
“I’ve borrowed this money already—I owe it—my creditors won’t wait—I must have the money.”
“What about your Ramsgill shares?”
“They’re already with the bank as security.”
Lucius was horrified. That any of the Ramsgill scrip, so traditionally sacred, should be pledged and in danger of leaving the Hardaker family, opening the way for an intruder into the family firm, was to him an outrageous, impossible situation, which must be rectified at once.
“We’d better just draw a cheque on the Ramsgill account, to cover both of us,” he said hastily.
“Yes. Mr. Whitehead of course will go straight to Mr. Hardaker.”
Lucius looked alarmed. “The shock might kill him,” he said.
“I’ve thought of a way by which the transaction might be concealed for a time.”
“Oh, really?” said Lucius, relieved. “How could that be done?”
Edward laid the cheque book, open, on Lucius’ desk. Lucius took so long to read cheque and lying counterfoil, or at any rate so long to understand their purport, that Edw
ard trembled with vexation.
“I don’t quite see,” began Lucius.
“We can hold back the rate-demand note to the Corporation, and cash the cheque for ourselves,” explained Edward. “Of course; they’ll send us a second notice eventually, but there’ll be a delay of several weeks. By that time—”
He paused, not wishing to be the first to mention the eventuality of Mr. Hardaker’s death which would bring about Lucius’ accession to the majority of the shares and the control of Ramsgill. His meaning, however, was sufficiently clear.
“By that time we may be free to explain to Whitehead that we conducted the little manoeuvre in order to spare your grandfather from shock. If we are not free by then, we can point to the counterfoil and say we sent the cheque. There’ll be correspondence and further delay.”
“What would you do with the demand note?”
“Lose it. Of course we should have to pay it eventually.”
“It seems to me,” mumbled Lucius, embarrassed, “like cheating, you know.”
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Edward indignantly. “We shall pay the sum back gradually—with interest if that is preferred—after all it’s your own firm, Lucius. It’s merely a temporary accommodation.”
“If I were sure old Whitehead wouldn’t go to my grandfather, I’d rather sign a cheque for each of us, straight out. I might forbid Whitehead to tell grandfather. Yes, I think—”
“But Whitehead’s such an old fusspot, he’d take the first bus up the hill to your grandfather’s bedside,” urged Edward, mindful of the fact that the sum he intended to allocate to himself from the cheque was twice that allotted to Lucius. He knew what Messrs. Whitehead and Hardaker would think of that.
“He’d never forgive us if we lied on a counterfoil, Edward. Whitehead, I mean.”
The brutal words We can sack him rose to Edward’s lips, but he held them back. Instead, he said mildly: “He won’t either way. Whether we take the money outright or by this method.”
“That’s too true.”
“Of course, if you prefer to tackle your grandfather yourself.”
Lucius paused.
Tales of the West Riding Page 17