by Nevil Shute
The young man flushed with pleasure. ‘I’d like nothing better, as you know. But I’d want to work at any business I go into — not just attend a meeting once a month.’
Warren nodded. ‘That’s what I want you for. I can’t be up in Sharples all the time myself; I’ve got to keep things spinning round down here. I want you to be vice-chairman and work in the business.’
The other frowned. ‘I don’t want to be a passenger. And there’s one small point you seem to have forgotten; I don’t know anything about building ships.’
‘I know. But I’ve got to have someone there that I can trust, who can make a team out of the staff I’m going to take on. And with your position in the county, the Company will have prestige that it will need, in the difficult years at first.’
The other grinned. ‘Pull my weight as a figurehead until I’ve learned to talk sense about the business? All right, I’m on. I never thought I’d earn my living as a guineapig.’ He paused. ‘But who is going to build the ships? We’d better get in somebody, one man at any rate, who knows something about the job. Just for the sake of appearances, what? I mean, the public will expect it.’
Warren laughed, and told him about Grierson. ‘Then I’ve got a really good man, Jenkins, for a secretary,’ he said. ‘Grierson has his staff pretty well planned. It’s all further advanced than you think.’
He considered for a minute. ‘I’m going to put Grierson on the Board,’ he said, ‘as managing director — as soon as I’m sure of him. In six months’ time, perhaps. It’s a pity we can’t do it now, but I wouldn’t take the chance until we know him better. That means going to the public without much technical strength on the Board ... make the underwriting difficult. We’ll have to meet that point.’
Cheriton said, ‘I could put it up to old Sir David Hogan.’
Warren mused. ‘He’s a very good name — the public would like that. But he was a shipowner, wasn’t he? Not a builder?’
‘I believe he’d jump at it, all the same.’
‘I daresay. How old is he?’
‘Seventy-three. But he’s still hale and hearty. He’d like it from the point of view of getting something done for Sharples.’
‘It’s a good idea, that,’ said Warren. ‘Let me think about it for a day.’
Two days later, his Board complete, Warren set about his underwriting contracts. Heinroth wagged his head. ‘I can’t tell what to make of you, Warren,’ he said. ‘It’s second sight, or something. I thought that last Laevatian thing of yours would leave us all stuck in the soup, and it was taken up three times. But still, old boy — a shipyard, in these days! I wouldn’t pick that for a winner, on my own.’
‘Do as you like,’ said Warren equably. ‘I’m in it up to the neck, myself — and not for a squashed sausage, either.’
Mr Heinroth eyed him narrowly. ‘You think we’re on the turn, I suppose.’
‘Stick to the business in hand,’ said Warren. ‘Do you want any of this thing?’
‘I’ll take a walk around,’ said Mr Heinroth. ‘Give you a tinkle later on this afternoon.’
He took his walk around, to Mr Castroni and to Mr Todd. ‘I’ve given up using my own judgement,’ said Mr Todd resignedly. ‘I’ll take twenty-five thousand, if that’s what you’re doing. I believe that Laevol thing went off on Warren’s name alone, you know.’
‘This one’ll do the same,’ said Mr Castroni. ‘I never mind much what the issue is, so long as it’s handled right. And that man’s never made a bloomer yet.’
Mr Heinroth gave his tinkle, satisfactorily. Other people did the same, in three days the underwriting was satisfactorily arranged.
Warren rang up Grierson in Sharples. ‘We’re all set now,’ he said. ‘You’d better come up here tomorrow, and stay while we make the contract with Laevol.’
They laboured for a week upon the various contracts necessary before the Hawside Ship and Engineering Company went to the public for subscription. Then Grierson went back to the Yard, with Jenkins the new secretary.
He called his nucleus of foremen together in his office.
‘Well, lads,’ he said. ‘We’ve got three ships to build — oil tankers of ten thousand tons. You know what that means to Sharples, and you can thank Mr Warren for it, and nobody else. Just you remember that. And another thing. There’s work for eighteen months in these three ships, but if they are not built at a profit there’s an end of it, because the Yard’ll be bust again. Just keep that in your nappers. If we want more work after this lot’s over, we’ve got to get these ships out cheap.’
The foreman riveter said, ‘That’s a bloody fact.’ The others grunted inarticulately.
One said, ‘Will we be able to tell this in the town now, Mr Grierson?’
He nodded. ‘Aye, the cat’s out of the bag now. Materials are all on order, and plates due here next week. There’s a plan of the ships that you can see on Mr Sanders’ board up in the drawing office. Now get along with you, and start to reckon what you’ll want. Be back here for a meeting at three o’clock.’
‘We’ll dae our best, Mr Grierson,’ said one awkwardly. ‘Eh, but it’s a grand oppaortoonity for the toon.’
They filed out of the office.
That week appendicitis removed Miss Sale, Warren’s personal stenographer, from his business. In the final drafting of the prospectus of the Hawside Ship and Engineering Company he was compelled to use a new, exotic acquisition of the firm, Miss ffolliot-Johnson. He did not know where Miss ffolliot-Johnson had come from; within a couple of hours he was past caring where she went.
He rang the buzzer for Morgan. ‘You’d better fire that girl,’ he said sharply. ‘I don’t want to see her here again — she’s no damn good to us. She can’t write English, she can’t spell, she can’t type, and she stinks like a drain. Get her out of the place at once.’
It was, of course, unfortunate that the door was open, and every word he said could be heard in the main office.
With that contretempts, the prospectus was drafted to his satisfaction, and the satisfaction of the underwriters. Knowing the moods of the investing public, he paid special attention to the paragraph about prospective profits. He wrote:
‘The orders which are now in hand are taken at a price which should be profitable, after allowing an ample margin for contingencies. These orders will not be completed in the first financial year. It is anticipated that the profit on the work completed in the second year will be sufficient to permit a dividend appropriate to the two years of working.’
Morgan read this with an impassive face. ‘A little definite, sir, is it not?’
Warren shrugged his shoulders. ‘We shan’t get underwriting for it otherwise. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. You’ve got to commit yourself these days, if an industrial issue is to be put over at all.’
The secretary said no more.
Cheriton passed it without comment. Sir David Hogan passed it with the observation, in writing, ‘As regards the profits, one can only trust to the technical staff. I understand that you have checked their estimates in detail, and as no one can do more I am content to let the prospectus go forward in its present form. Indeed, I think it is a very good one, and I see no reason why we should not make this Company a great success.’
Warren sat for a long time motionless, this letter in his hand. Before him on his desk lay the acceptance notes of underwriting, neat in a file. He now had only to send the prospectus to the printers, and set in hand the distribution to the banks and stockbrokers.
He buzzed for Morgan. ‘I’m going out,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back after lunch.’
He felt the need of exercise to clear his mind. He took a taxi to the House Guards Parade, dismissed it, and began to walk along beside the lake. Half consciously, he was looking for a sign.
It was a raw November day. Upon the bridge that spans the lake a few children with their nursemaids were feeding the ducks with bread, children of means, warmly attired in new, clean o
vercoats and little scarves, flushed with excitement; such children as he might have had himself. He passed them and went on, across the Mall and on through the Green Park towards Hyde Park Corner, walking with nervous haste, uneasy and irresolute. He crossed the Corner and went through the gates into Hyde Park, and walked for a time westwards towards the Serpentine.
And presently, a little tired and footsore in his City shoes, he dropped down on to a park seat, facing the lake. At the other end of the seat there was a man, shabby and motionless, without an overcoat.
Warren sat for a time, staring out over the lake. Half consciously he took out his cigarette case and lit a cigarette with his lighter. He exhaled a long blue cloud, soothing his worried nerves.
He became aware that the man at the far end of the seat was watching him hungrily. He offered his case.
‘Cigarette?’
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said the man awkwardly. Warren leaned across and lit it for him; as he did so, for a moment he studied the lean, sensitive face, the capable, sinewy hands, the rotten boots. They smoked in silence for a time.
‘Out of a job?’ asked Warren.
The other nodded without speaking.
‘Long?’
‘Eleven months.’
‘What’s your job?’
‘Cabinet maker. I was in the furniture trade.’
‘Bad luck.’
The man said very quietly. ‘All very well, to say bad luck. But you’ve got a home, and that. It’s seven months now since I saw my wife. I wish that I was dead.’
He got up and walked away.
Warren sat for a time, and watched him till he disappeared. Then he flung his cigarette into the lake, walked down towards the Albert Hall, and took a taxi to the city.
‘You can get these printed right away,’ he said to Morgan. ‘The issue is on Tuesday week.’
This time the issue was more doubtfully received. The Argus said, ‘Whether the present can be regarded as a fit time for a shipyard issue must remain a matter for debate, as must the prospects of the company in spite of the prospectus statements. The names upon the Board are good, however, and with the initial orders in hand the company may well be carried to success.’
The Daily Toiler struck a different note. ‘While we cannot but deplore the system of finance which governs industry in the country, we welcome the establishment of more employment on the north-east coast. This issue will bring much relief to Sharples, and for that reason we recommend it to our readers.’
Which, as Mr Heinroth ruefully observed, was not a great relief to him.
Mr Grierson received a copy of the prospectus in his office in the Yard the day before the issue, and read it with attention. Before he had finished, Jennings had come into his room.
‘You’re reading our prospectus?’
The manager sucked at his pipe. ‘Aye,’ he said slowly. ‘I was just reading the bit about the profits that we’re going to make.’
They stared at it in silence for a time.
‘It’s not right,’ said the manager at last. ‘I’ve told him different all along, that we should make a loss.’
The secretary sighed. ‘Yes. Of course, he wouldn’t get his money if he told the public that.’
‘I don’t like it,’ said Grierson. ‘I don’t like it at all.’
The secretary shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s too late now to make a song about it. Better to let it go. He may have something in his mind that we don’t know about.’
‘Aye,’ said the manager, ‘it may be so. But I wish I could know what it was. It’d save me a good few sleepless nights.’
Canon Ward-Stephenson received a copy — Mr Castroni saw to that — and applied again for his six hundred shares. He had some faith in that particular multiple, founded upon a tangle of beliefs about the Trinity and the known luck of the figure three.
Miss MacMahon got hold of the prospectus with some difficulty, and put in for a hundred pounds.
Miss ffolliot-Johnson also got hold of a copy, but did not apply for any shares. Instead, she took it to a bedroom in the boarding house in Kensington that she lived in, and read it with some care. Then she got up and took from her handkerchief drawer a letter, written by Grierson, that she had removed from a drawer in the desk of her late employer. She compared the two documents carefully, with tightened lips.
Then she put them away together.
The issues of shares in the Hawside Ship and Engineering Company was about twenty per cent over-subscribed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
IN THE NEXT month Sharples stirred and woke to life. It was difficult to tell the moment of awakening. More labourers were taken on each day. A few riggers were started, and a couple of crane hands. The boiler and the power house squads were taken on, and reported gloomily about their Augean stable. One day a ganger and a plate-laying squad appeared upon the railway siding leading to the Yard, tapping the rails and grumbling at the lack of wedges in the chairs, taken for firewood long before. A few days later a tank engine puffed along the line with five bogie waggons laden with steel plate, and three days after that the rattling clamour of a pneumatic riveter burst from the yards.
The women crowded to their doors, and stood listening entranced to that sweet symphony. ‘That’s a riveter, that is,’ they said. ‘Just fancy ...’
The man driving the rivets in the keel plate dropped the tool thankfully when the whistle blew for dinner, and surveyed the burst and bleeding blisters on his palms. ‘Christ,’ he said to his holder-up, ‘this is a bloody caper, no mistake.’
Grierson, critically examining the work, heard the remark and saw the hands. ‘Get along to the first aid and get that dressed before you go to dinner,’ he said resignedly. ‘Then go and draw a pair of gloves before you start again.’
He went quickly to the storekeeper. ‘Nip up into the town and get a dozen pairs of hedger’s gloves,’ he said. ‘I want them for the riveters, until their hands get hard.’ Working to build a ship in kid gloves, he thought bitterly. But what else could one do?
Under his tireless drive, however, the work progressed. By the end of the month he had a hundred men employed, still largely on preparatory work. In addition, he had made a good start with his organization; buying, progress, and rate-fixing were all established as a nucleus, and his stores were falling into line.
‘It’s only that everyone’s so willing makes it possible at all,’ he said to Cheriton one evening. ‘When I go round and see those men in gloves it makes me want to cry.’
‘It’s only for a time,’ said Cheriton. ‘They’re getting hardened up already.’
‘Aye. That first chap’s left his off, I’m glad to see.’
On Christmas Eve, when the Yard closed for the holiday, the numbers of employed had gone up to a hundred and seventy-nine weekly wage earners. The small, returning ripple of prosperity had not passed unnoticed in the district; a shop, long closed, re-opened to sell meat pies, cooked meats, black puddings and other delicacies. It did a good trade over Christmas. Small articles began to be sold at the door for the first time for many years; a man who gleaned a sack of holly in the country lanes disposed of it within an hour, a penny for a spray. A hot roast chestnut barrow came upon the streets, and did good trade.
A dairyman, apologizing for a shortage at the hospital about this time, observed that he was selling three times what he had six months before; he didn’t know where to turn for milk, really and truly. Mr Williams reprimanded him severely and sent him away.
‘It’s quite true, what he said, you know,’ observed the Almoner. ‘There’s more milk being bought now in the town than ever before.’
Mr Williams grunted. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Soon as they get a little money they go and spend it.’
‘On their children.’
‘Aye. But they spend it, instead of saving for the next time.’
‘I wouldn’t quibble about what they spend on milk,’ said Miss MacMahon. ‘I suppose you can tell how prosperous a t
own is by the amount it spends on milk. Mr Warren ought to know about that; he deals with commodities.’
She told him about it next time he came to lunch with her. He came to Sharples once a week, arriving upon Friday afternoon, staying the night with Cheriton, lunching with her on Saturday at the hospital, and going back to London on an evening train. He missed one Saturday; when next he came she thought him looking worn and ill. He told her he had had a touch of influenza.
‘You’re looking rotten,’ she remarked. ‘Come up to the fire and get warm. How long have you been out of bed?’
‘About two days,’ he said.
She eyed him for a minute. ‘You ought to take a holiday. Didn’t your doctor tell you that?’
‘I didn’t have one. All I had was a sort of feverish cold.’
‘You’re going to have one now.’ She lifted the telephone receiver and spoke into it. ‘Would you ask Dr Davies if he would be good enough to come along to my room when he’s done his lunch?’ She laid the receiver down.
He frowned. ‘That isn’t necessary in the least.’
She laid her hand upon his arm. ‘Don’t be cross. I’d like it if you’d let him look you over. He’s house physician here, quite good at his job. He’ll make you up a tonic to take back with you.’
He laughed. ‘Serves me right for putting my nose inside a hospital.’
Davies, a serious-minded, sandy-haired young man, took him to an adjoining room and stethoscoped him thoroughly. ‘You had this operation here, last March, didn’t you?’ he enquired. ‘And you’ve had no rest since then. You went straight out of here and went to work at once.’
Warren pulled on his coat. ‘Very silly of me, I suppose.’
The young doctor smiled faintly. ‘Not altogether the best thing you could have done.’
He laid his stethoscope upon the table. ‘I should take a good long holiday now, if I were you. Go somewhere where it’s warm — the south of France, perhaps — and don’t take things too energetically. In a month you’ll be a different man.’