Maggie's Boy

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘Rotten bugger,’ he wept. ‘I trusted that man, Ali. I would have trusted him with my life – my life, do you realise that? – and he does this to me. Just walks out. Walks out. How am I supposed to manage without a partner? Tell me that. It’s bloody illegal for a start. We’re registered as a two-partner company. I’m not supposed to trade on my own. I shall end up in prison. Oh Christ, Ali, what am I going to do?’

  ‘Could you find another partner?’ she suggested tentatively, in case it was the wrong thing to say.

  ‘And have him run out on me next? Oh yes, that’d be lovely. That’s just the sort of thing I want.’

  ‘Well it would have to be someone you could trust,’ she agreed. ‘Someone you’ve known a long time.’

  ‘There’s only one person I can really trust,’ he said, looking straight at her, brown eyes bloodshot, ‘and that’s you.’

  ‘I’d do anything for you,’ she said passionately. ‘You know that.’

  Even through the fog of misery and alcohol, he recognised the truth of that. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do. I do know that. If only you’d been my partner none of this would have happened.’

  ‘But I couldn’t have been your partner, could I? I haven’t got any money.’

  He looked at her for a long time. ‘You could now though,’ he said at last.

  ‘Could I?’

  ‘Yes. If you could bear to.’

  Touched by the compliment he was paying her and glad that one of his problems had been sorted out so easily, she kissed him lovingly. ‘Well that’s settled then,’ she said. ‘What do we have to do about it? Do I have to sign something?’

  ‘No,’ Rigg said, cheering visibly. ‘It’s very simple really. All I have to do is to substitute your name for his, and give you one of the shares.’

  The idea of being a shareholder pleased her. She’d been his business partner in everything but name ever since they married. Now she would be his partner legally.

  Rigg got up and peered into the kitchen. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to eat have you? I’m starving.’

  She cooked him her last two rashers of bacon and two eggs. And afterwards they went to bed and made love most tenderly, as though nothing had ever been the matter. In the morning he came down to breakfast with the kids and left the house at the same time as they did, like all the other fathers in the road.

  Much encouraged, Alison ventured an invitation. ‘Sunday dinner?’ she asked, as he switched on the ignition in his shiny BMW. Cooking a special meal for him would make amends for that tea party.

  ‘Great,’ he said, giving her his most loving look.

  It wasn’t until she’d pushed the buggy half way to the holiday camp that she remembered that Morgan was coming down on Sunday. Oh well, she thought. It can’t be helped. I’ll just have to phone him up and arrange some other time for his visit. He won’t mind.

  He minded quite a lot, although he was careful not to tell her or to reveal how he was feeling by the tone of his voice. It was the first time this husband of hers had put in an appearance on a Sunday. Although he’d always known that he would have to step down if that happened, now that the moment had come it filled him with unaccountable jealousy. It was far too strong a feeling for such a gentle friendship but it was undeniably jealousy and most unpleasant. Feeling rather ashamed of himself, he agreed at once that some other time would do and returned to his work. It was better that way.

  Partly to assuage her conscience and partly to spoil her husband, Alison made a special effort with that Sunday dinner, treating the family to roast chicken and all the trimmings and one of her lemon meringue pies. If Harry Elton really had run off with all the money, there could be other problems to solve as well as the partnership. So Rigg could do with petting. Good food always makes you feel better and the one thing she was sure about was her prowess as a cook.

  The day wasn’t a success, although it began well: Rigg arrived clutching Alison’s company share and handed it to her with a kiss and a joky, ‘Howdy pardner!’ But after that nothing went right. Jon spilled orange juice all over the carpet and Emma did nothing but grizzle and pick at her food. To make matters worse, it started to rain and there was no hope of going out for a walk to put them in a better humour.

  Finger paints are the only answer, Alison thought. That’ll keep them occupied while I wash up. And she got them out of the cupboard. It was a bad mistake.

  Rigg watched in horror as his children dipped their fingers in the pots and smeared colour all over two sheets of sugar paper. ‘Ali!’ he yelled. ‘Have you seen the mess they’re making?’

  Alison didn’t even look up. ‘They’re all right,’ she said.

  After a minute or so, Emma started to paint her face, circling her eyes with green and daubing her lips black. It was more than Rigg could bear. ‘Don’t do that, you naughty little thing!’ he said. ‘Use the paper.’

  Emma was annoyed. ‘No,’ she said doggedly. ‘I paint me face.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ he said, seizing her hands and grabbing a tissue from the table to clean them. ‘You don’t paint your face and you don’t use your fingers. Haven’t you got a brush?’

  ‘We don’t use brushes,’ Jon said. ‘They’re finger paints.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Rigg said crossly. ‘All children use brushes. I always did. And I wasn’t allowed to make a mess with them either.’

  Now that Rigg’s attention was on her brother, Emma returned to the paint pots, dipped all ten fingers in the red paint and began to print red spots on the paper.

  Her father pounced on her. ‘What did I tell you, Emma?’

  ‘I do it,’ the child said fiercely. But when he advanced on her with another handful of tissues she lost her nerve and began to scream. And at that, Alison left the dishes and came out of the kitchen to rescue her.

  ‘What’s the matter with them?’ Rigg shouted into the din. ‘Why can’t they play properly?’

  ‘They are playing properly,’ Alison said, picking Emma up and cuddling her.

  ‘They’re not normal,’ Rigg said. ‘There’s something the matter with them.’ They’d made him feel an absolute wally. Children ought to obey their parents. He hurled the box of tissues into the corner and stormed out.

  ‘I think Daddy’s horrid,’ Jon said, matter-of-factly, picking up a piece of meringue that had been left behind on the table and putting it into his mouth with his paint-daubed fingers.

  ‘So do I,’ Emma sniffed.

  ‘We mustn’t be nasty to Daddy,’ Alison defended. ‘He’s worried.’

  ‘Why?’ Jon said.

  ‘Because a nasty man’s stolen all his money.’

  ‘Let’s go down on the beach and see Morgan,’ Jon said.

  ‘Morgan’s not coming today,’ Alison told him. ‘And anyway, it’s raining.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ the little boy said. ‘He always comes on Sunday.’ His mouth was drooping, ready for tears.

  I must nip this in the bud before they’re both crying, Alison thought. ‘Get your hands washed,’ she said, ‘and put your anoraks on, and I’ll take you to the swings. You’ll get wet but you’ll have to put up with it.’ I’ll make my peace with Rigg, she thought, the next time he rings.

  There was no communication with Rigg for the next two days, which was disappointing. Wednesday was Alison’s afternoon off and she took the kids down to the video shop to see what was going on there. Now that she was a partner it was the least she could do.

  The shop looked exactly the same as it had been the last time she saw it. The same scruffy-looking blonde was sitting by the till, there were customers drifting in and out, the sweets stand was well stocked. A bit too well stocked. Emma and Jon saw something on it that they wanted at once.

  ‘Not this week,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got enough money for sweets this week.’ Extra bacon and a larger chicken had played havoc with her housekeeping.

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Jon said automatically, but having made hi
s protest, he allowed himself to be led away and didn’t argue.

  The blonde girl was serving a customer. Alison waited until the deal was completed and then stepped forward.

  ‘I’ve come in to say good morning,’ she said. ‘I thought you ought to know I’m the new partner. I’m Mrs Toan.’

  The blonde wasn’t interested. ‘Oh yes,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve taken over from Mr Elton.’

  The blonde’s voice was even more vague. ‘Oh yes.’

  Alison felt a bit downcast that her presence in the shop meant so little. But she pressed on. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked, feeling she ought to take an interest.

  ‘Marlene.’

  ‘I know Mr Toan has a lot of people working for him.’

  ‘Yes. He does.’

  ‘Perhaps I could have a list of your names and addresses and the hours you work. As I’m a partner.’

  ‘I’ll draw one up for you if you like,’ Marlene offered. ‘There’s not much else to do here of a morning.’

  As Alison left the shop, pushing the buggy before her, the sea breeze fluttered the tail of her blue shirt. I’ve made an effort, she thought. I’ve started being a partner. Now we’ll sort out all these debts together. They can’t be that bad.

  Then – because the sun was shining, the sea was green, and the breeze was ruffling the in-coming tide into a flurry of white-crested waves – she put Rigg, Harry Elton and the shop right out of her mind and increased her speed towards the sands.

  Chapter Ten

  Back at Rings and Things Rigg wasn’t thinking about his debts at all. His friend, Francis, had roared up in a wonderful new Porsche 911. He was full of himself, as quick talking as ever, with his wallet crammed with tens and twenties and news of a party in Dorking that evening.

  ‘The Crayfords’ place,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you’ve met him, have you? Fantastic guy. Hop in. I’ll give you a spin. See you got another BMW. You really ought to go for a Porsche next year, you know. They’re fabulous cars.’

  Bliss, Rigg thought, as the Porsche gathered speed and began to eat the miles. This is the life. Those bloody bills can wait. If I haven’t got the money I can’t pay them. That’s all there is to that. Anyway, it’ll sort itself out in the end. It always does.

  ‘What d’you think of it, eh?’ Francis said, nodding at the dashboard.

  ‘Fabulous,’ Rigg said. ‘You’re right. I shall have one next year. It’s about time I moved up-market.’

  This was where he belonged, out on the open road in a luxury car, turning the other drivers green with envy and heading for a party in a luxury house where the guests would be rich and successful. It was the style he deserved. The life he was born to.

  ‘What are they like, your Crayfords?’ he asked, taking a cigar from Francis’ glove compartment.

  ‘Actually it’s only old Charlie Crayford,’ Francis said. ‘He ditched his wife about ten years ago. Got a bit of a bore by all accounts, so she had to go. You know how it is. You’ll like him. He’s a great guy.’

  He also lived in the sort of house Rigg had yearned for all his life. Set on a slope of the north downs, hidden from the world by an enormous hedge of rhododendrons, and surrounded by acres of grounds, it was a Tudorbethan pile, built in the twenties, with the recent addition of a Victorian conservatory, a billiard room and a magnificent indoor swimming pool, with a jacuzzi and a sauna on one side of it and a full-length bar on the other. And Mr Crayford was exactly the sort of man Rigg admired, expensively dressed, shrewd, bluff, with the full-fleshed, well-oiled ease that only comes with years of rich feeding. The current girl-friend was pretty tasty too, beautifully rounded with a mass of thick, red-gold, frizzy hair. And wonderfully attentive to her Charlie, hanging on to his arm and his every word. Oh yes, Charlie Crayford was undoubtedly a great guy.

  Rigg and Francis were welcomed with champagne and Rigg was introduced to so many guests he couldn’t remember a third of them. There were plenty of pretty girls though, and a lot of them seemed available. But, as it turned out, what he picked up that evening was a great deal more useful to him than a one-night stand.

  Like many self-made men, Charlie Crayford had an opinion on most things. That night he laid down the law about the Common Market – absolutely intolerable what those French johnnies get up to … Mrs Thatcher – what a magnificent women, the saviour of the nation … the poll tax – can’t see what all the fuss is about; it’s perfectly fair; we all pay the same … protesters – ought to be locked up, every man jack of ’em … and bankruptcy, which he pronounced to be ‘totally unnecessary.’

  Rigg edged into the circle to hear more. ‘I don’t quite see that,’ he said, deferentially. ‘I mean, if you’ve used up all your capital and you can’t raise any more, then surely bankruptcy is the only way you can go.’

  ‘Not no more,’ Charlie said, beaming at him. ‘Not now the law’s been changed. And about bloody time too, eh Jock?’

  The man called Jock agreed that it was and for a few minutes everybody in the group spoke out in favour of the change, which, as far as Rigg could make out, had been brought about by a new insolvency law.

  ‘Sorry to be naive,’ he said when he could get a word in, ‘but I’ve never heard of this new law and there’s a friend of mine…’

  ‘Insolvency Act, 1986. Section 252.’ Charlie Crayford boomed above the din. ‘What’s he done this friend of yours? Run foul of the law? Or is it just the creditors?’

  ‘Creditors,’ Rigg said, adding quickly, ‘as far as I know.’

  ‘Tell him to find himself an insolvency consultant. That’s my advice. They’re the fellers. Find an insolvency consultant and apply for a voluntary arrangement. That’s what he wants to do.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a licence to steal,’ Charlie said, chuckling. ‘That’s what it is. A licence to bloody steal. Right fellers? Works this way – you ask your creditors to let you have a couple of years to pay them. Not all the debt mind, but a nice heavy dividend, fifty per cent, say, or sixty, even seventy five per cent. It doesn’t matter much because you won’t have to pay it. Or not all of it anyway. In two years most of the buggers’ll be bust themselves. Or they’ll have taken the insurance money. Just so long as they vote to keep you out of the bankruptcy courts. One meeting, good consultant and Bob’s your uncle. Nothing to pay and they can’t do anything about it.’

  It sounded too good to be true. ‘Do they really do it?’ Rigg asked. ‘Vote like that I mean.’

  ‘If they think they’re going to get a bigger cut,’ Charlie said. ‘Greed, boy. That’s what makes the world go round. Am I right or am I right?’

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find one of these insolvency consultants, would you?’ Rigg persisted. ‘For my friend I mean.’

  ‘Got a card somewhere,’ Charlie said. ‘In my address book probably.’ He turned to the butler who was circulating with the champagne. ‘Bring me my address book from the study, will you Kenwood?’

  Three minutes later the card – and salvation – was in Rigg’s hand. After that, the rest of the party was an irrelevant noise.

  Elsie Wareham was very surprised to find such a bulky envelope lying on her doormat. At first she thought it was junk mail of some kind and made a face because it was such a waste. Then she saw that it was addressed to her personally, so she carried it off to the kitchen to read it over her first cup of tea.

  It was a dreadful shock. Six pages of closely typed print, entitled ‘R.L. Toan in voluntary arrangement’, full of incomprehensible legal jargon and detailing so many dreadful debts that it made her head spin. After a lifetime spent in the shelter of Bob’s daily caution over money, it seemed quite incredible to her that any young married man could have run up so many terrible debts, leave alone their nice handsome Rigg. She glanced through the list of creditors, which ran to four pages. If you totted up all the figures it would be thousands and thousands of pounds. Even with her limited grasp of math
s she could see that. Did Ali know? she wondered. She must be worried out of her wits.

  She turned to the next page and read it carefully. It informed her that there was going to be a meeting of creditors in the Ship Inn in Brighton in three weeks’ time and that she was invited to ‘prove her claim’ – whatever that meant – and attend the meeting. I can’t do that, she thought. What if the boys were to find out? They’d be furious with me, giving away their dad’s money like that. Except that I wasn’t giving it away, was I? I was only loaning it. And now it says I’ll only get sixty per cent of it back.

  Her toast lay on her plate uneaten, she stirred her tea and discovered she could not drink it, the announcer was saying something on the wireless and she couldn’t make sense of the words. There was only the enormity of those figures, making her throat prickle. What was she going to do?

  A ring at the doorbell brought her to her senses. Milkman, was it? She found her purse, tidied her hair and went to attend to it. But it wasn’t the milkman. It was Rigg, smiling at her in his most charming way.

  ‘I had to come and see you,’ he said, as he walked in. ‘You’re going to have a document sent to you…’

  ‘It came this morning,’ she said, leading him into the kitchen. ‘I was just reading it.’

  ‘Then I’ve come in the nick of time,’ he said. ‘I thought I ought to pop round and explain it to you, otherwise you might worry.’

  ‘I am worrying,’ she said. ‘It’s dreadful, Rigg.’

  He sat down opposite her at the kitchen table, caught her hands and held them between his own. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ he said. ‘Honestly.’

  ‘But all those debts, Rigg. All that money.’

  ‘I don’t owe all that,’ he said. ‘How can I explain it to you? It’s sort of like a photograph. I had to list all the people I hadn’t actually paid at the moment the list was drawn up. Doesn’t mean a thing really. All the little ones’ll be paid as soon as I’ve sold enough.’