Over the next hour or more she consumed the detail. She questioned his figures, made notes, offered her immediate thoughts. He also told her of the early contacts that he had made during the months just past. He told her that he had already applied for the voluntary redundancy package on offer. He explained that by registering his acceptance it would be goodbye to the high calibre white collar work, and, the company car. But, he countered this by assuring her that he would finally be in control of his own destiny; for better or worse. He concluded by asking her, inviting her, to be a part of his... future. He almost said ‘dream’. Without hesitation she committed herself to the cause.
However, as for the ‘other matter’ Jacqueline casually asked Curtis if he had had any thoughts on a date for their forthcoming nuptials. To which the only answer, after some hesitation, was, ‘Oh!’ Then after a further hesitation he said, ‘So, would you, by any chance be free on Saturday for,’ he paused again as a big smile lit up his face, ‘for a ‘finger’ fitting?’
Jacqueline smiled too, her head moved slowly up and down, but she said no more.
Chapter 20 : Leap of Faith
Barely a year had passed. Curtis and Jacqueline were again resident in their beloved Northern Ireland. Not however, in the town they both called home but further north, in the city of Derry. Before departing English shores and to avoid the issues their mixed-religion marriage would raise back home, a very private, secular ceremony had been celebrated. While the weather didn’t play ball the radiance of a beautiful bride more than compensated. During their reception, when the new Mrs Cardinali passed on even a sip of champagne, it was a deliriously happy, but slightly suspicions Phyllis who clicked all her cogs into place...
Curtis had already picked up a senior position within one of the key manufacturing employers within the northwest conurbation. Mrs Jac Cardinali too had found work, albeit a temporary position. It was within the finance department of the local hospital. It was a far cry from what she had been doing in England, but it helped pay the rent.
For Curtis, plumb position or not, he still hankered after self-sufficiency. Driven by this need and after a time, he set up his own small engineering side-line. Fabrication, welding, design. A sort of ‘nuts & bolts’ sub-contracting service to the rural business community.
He found a tumble-down red brick north-light building a bit off the beaten track. It was a near derelict unit within a small privately owned industrial area – previously a World War Two military installation. Crucially for Curtis, the unit which had served as a concrete mixing plant and a builder’s merchant had a three phase power source. It overlooked the River Foyle but from high up on the south side of the city. Scenically it was well placed, but in winter – freezing.
It fitted his needs though. Cheap rental and it contributed to their living overheads. Equipment, second-hand and sourced on a need-by-need basis had been used to fit-out his fledging operation. It was neither pretty nor ‘state-of-the-art’ but as a package, it appeared to be working. Orders for the most part originated from the agri-sector but every now and again an enquiry requiring input from his technical brain would appear.
First of all it was just him and another bloke, then another, and another. Suddenly he was paying wages for half-a-dozen people with various skill sets. On one hand he remained confident that it wouldn’t impact on his day job whilst wondering if perhaps he could actually expand it into a ‘proper’ engineering outlet, a business that could allow him to leave his employer and go it alone.
As well as chasing up Government assistance grants he was looking at the private sector. Ideally, he wanted to find a sympathetic entrepreneur come philanthropist to take a leap-of-faith and finance his business plan; a yet to be written plan but the idea was there.
In the meantime his ‘sideline’ started to create issues. There had been a sufficiency of orders and a steady flow of enquiries, but the income remained negligible. Curtis, as a consequence of his wife’s nagging had uncovered a pressing need for a concentrated credit control strategy. There was no credit control! Having qualified with a first in business and economics, the pregnant Jacqueline drafted herself in to the business.
However, behind the scenes, and likely as a direct result of Curtis snubbing requests for donations to an organisation called ‘the prisoner’s welfare fund’, the dark realities of life within Northern Ireland in the mid 1970s were, unbeknown to him, gathering a menacing momentum.
⁎ ⁎ ⁎
The huge glow had been clearly visible from the river bank to anyone who had been out in the early hours of the morning. Later, as the misty dawn lifted the starkness revealed itself. The remnants of the Cardinalis’ first business venture lay in the still smouldering red brick building. Its tangled roof of twisted metal rafters now minus its asbestos and Georgian wired glass roof.
Curtis and Jac’s dual salaries allowed some leeway in the winding up of the destroyed venture. They had also managed to sub-contract out most of the unfulfilled orders. This relieved at least a modicum of customer pressure. However, Jacqueline had found a raft of very different issues; debts and that lack of credit control, only the start!
Taking no prisoners she hit each issue head-on. With diligence and a technical efficiently she quickly clawed back outstanding revenues. As for the ‘professional’ non-payers, their details were summarily passed onto a debt collection agency. Invoicing, together with a firm management stance had been something that Curtis never paid enough attention to. As was his way, he would engross himself in the design & build aspect of orders, leaving the mundane to his manager to manage. Evenings in for the couple had, for some considerable time thereafter consisted of long paperwork chases.
With a hung head memories of his father and his mother’s telling of the Cardinali Transport tale came to mind. They had had the effect of spurring Curtis into action. He didn’t want to be remembered as a ‘like father-like-son’ failed business man. Confirmation of his determination whispered within him; I will make you proud dad, you’ll see.
Jacqueline’s investigations started to raise further financial questions as she continued to untangle the mess. Much as she would have liked to, she never for a moment queried her husband’s management methods. He, realising the error of his ways was astute enough to carry a low profile throughout her investigations... most of the time.
One issue would not go away. She had exposed the activities of a couple of workers that he had trustingly employed. They had been with him right from the start. Jacqueline had presented a conservative estimate of the missing cash that she figured they had pocketed. ‘...Stolen from you Curt!’
Although she felt strongly she was eventually over-ruled on the issue, both by Curtis and their accountants. In real terms, they all agreed that the costs of pursuing a prosecution would quickly outweigh unaccounted for moneys. It nagged at both of them. There was also the shadow of the paramilitaries still hanging around them. It was obvious the fire-bombing had been the result of paramilitary activity. With the books as balanced as she could make them the next task was the submission of compensation claims. The whole episode was eventually filed away, under, ‘How not to run a business’.
However, and stained by the whole debacle his inner self was telling him that it was time to move on. To where, he hadn’t a clue. Like everything throughout his young life, fate it seemed had intervened with a positive hand to play. Curtis had again moved into ‘waiting mode’. While making the best of a job that paid the bills but no longer drip-fed his creative talents he commenced the search for alternatives and a new opportunity.
As well as waiting for responses from employment agencies, he waited for Thursday’s edition of the Belfast Telegraph; the ‘jobs section’.
Chapter 21 : Cue Opportunity
The solace of a morning stroll along the banks of the River Foyle ended with Curtis opening his front door to the shrill tone of the bright green Trimphone on the slim hallway table.
‘Hello. Curtis Cardinali speaking
.’
‘Ah, Mr. Cardinali, yes?’ asked the female voice.
‘Yes, speaking,’ Curtis replied, with a slight waiver in his voice.
‘Mr. Cardinali, please hold I have a call for you.’ The line went silent...
‘Oh, hi there. Curtis, is that you?’ said a male voice.
‘Yes, this is Curtis, Curtis Cardinali, err, who’s speaking please?’
‘Curtis. Oh super, is it okay to call you, Curtis?’
‘Err…Yeah…that’s fine.’
Curtis waited, wondered. He stood expectant of what was coming next, and from whom. He wondered if this was some kind of wind-up. He wondered if it was Simon doing his mimic act. He recalled in that micro moment that his mate had been quite the expert at doing a posh English accent. Yes, he’d sort of recognised the voice. He knew that Simon had done well for himself since moving back home, but a private secretary? For once he had held back; if it isn’t Simon, who the heck is it?
‘Curtis, you probably don’t remember me. Russo. Toni Russo. Yes? No?’
‘Oh goodness yes, of course, Mr Russo. I certainly do. How could I forget?’ The line crackled and Curtis waited for it to clear. ‘Oh; I’m sorry Mr Russo, I didn’t fully catch that.’
‘OK Curtis, not a problem. Look, I’m going to be over in your part of the world in the coming weeks. Any chance we could meet up for a coffee? I have something that might be of interest. Oh dear, I’m sorry about this but I have another call incoming. It’s from Taiwan. I need to catch this guy. I’ll get my secretary to contact you, to arrange things. Good to talk to you Curtis. Goodbye.’
As Curtis fumbled to agree, or even disagree, the line had gone dead.
Gathering up his thoughts while allowing his head to race, curiosity had rendered Curtis static. Russo eh? All those years ago there was me around that mahogany table, spell-bound, I remember the exact moment he introduced himself as the CEO. Jeez, small world. But, why me? He needed to get further away from the city confines. He needed time to think, to understand the phone conversation, brief as it was. A drive might help clear his thoughts.
Not long after, he found himself parked up directly across from a scene of contrasting commercialism. Ships offloading cargo onto dirty quaysides, stacks of wrapped pallets, mountains of coal. He was on the picturesque Culmore Point opposite the quays. He’d strolled there before with his wife. It remained one of their favourite spots.
Several sailboats were landing on a slipway. His thoughts at that moment hankered back to his lake sailing in England. Spurred on by an overture of crackling sailcloth he briefly recalled how and where he’d met and fallen for the now, love of his life. He got into conversation with some of the sailors stepping ashore. Curtis’s head was buzzing.
While he relished being around boats, large or small, his perfect scenario would have been being afloat with, as he had nicknamed Jac, his ‘gear-stick-chick’. The expanses of Lough Foyle to his left would have offered perfect sailing waters. Just as sailing was a non-starter for her, he was no fan of her motor club’s events; exciting, but far too dangerous for Curtis. Before she hooked up with him, she had competed on several occasions in English forest rallies with her university crowd, even picked up a trophy or two – no wooden spoons...
He drove home and told Jac about the caller.
‘Well, here’s hoping he lets us know what he wants,’ she said, ever the pragmatist.
Days passed, then a week, followed by another. Still there was no word from Toni Russo. By now Curtis had mentally deleted the conversation as just another passing post of tittle-tattle. He was somewhat dejected as he returned to reading the classified pages every Thursday. On the up-side though, a couple of the agencies that he’d signed up to had produced interview opportunities; but alas, nothing of any real significance.
* * *
The phone was ringing in the hallway. It was Sunday morning and Curtis leapt from a long lie-in to grab the receiver.
‘Ah Mr. Cardinali, I’m glad I’ve caught you. Sorry to disturb your weekend,’ the voice said with no actual trace of an apology. ‘Mr. Russo would like to meet with you on Friday of next week. Would the Europa Hotel in Belfast, be convenient for you?’ The line went silent.
‘Hello, Mr Cardinali – are you still there?’
‘Oh sorry, yes. Yes, I’m still here. Just checking my diary,’ Curtis said, and scratched his bare backside for a moment. ‘Yes, that seems fine. Oh, what time please?’
And so, the Russo mystery was voyaging towards a conclusion; an unveiling. The two-way discussion over their evening meal was, wide, varied and mostly speculative. During this, Curtis realised that his first priority on arriving at his office the next morning needed to be to book Friday off.
The next handful of days prior to the Russo meeting coincided with a particularly busy period at work. It kept his buzzing mind pre-occupied. Back at home though, Curtis’s mood swings were becoming insufferable. Finally, Jacqueline had had enough. She let rip!
The upshot of which was a Curtis counter move. Very much in the spoiled brat category, he slammed down his knife and fork onto the oak topped dining table Then he upped and stormed off out into the night, saying; ‘I need to think!’ Sometime later and sheepishly, he returned. A bunch of yesterday’s forecourt flowers was gripped in one hand and Germany’s finest, or at least a reasonable attempt at a wine in Black Tower, in the other. It paved the way towards an apology.
Jacqueline with a dagger-stare, glared. Then, while looking down at the pathetic posy she shook her head dismissively. Then as was her way, she burst into laughter. Curtis stood gormless, as was his way at times. Times, when he found himself between a rock and a hard place, stumped or, out-manoeuvred.
After sipping the wine, she spoke. ‘Right then, big lad, speak to me. Tell me what this is all about. Tell me what your strategy is for tomorrow’s meeting. But first, will it be a car or train, or a bus journey down to the big smoke? And another thing, what’s the dress code; suit, shirt and tie, or smart casual?’ Having sipped again, she declared. ‘I say babe, this really is a rather nice bottle.’
* * *
Curtis was far too early. Having parked in the first carpark he came across, he used the time to (re)familiarise himself with the city of Belfast. It had changed from the last time he had wandered its streets. Quite a lot of the changes were down to the bombs. Burnt out buildings and empty squares of land seemed to dominate his eye line.
His first task was to locate the Europa Hotel. That done, he strode off in the direction of Belfast’s City Hall. It was completed he read on the exterior information board, in 1906. That ticked off, his sightseeing continued. He strolled down Royal Avenue and through the massive security gates, manned by Royal Ulster Constabulary constables, British Army soldiers and a few civilian searchers. Everyone was frisked with an efficiency that betrayed how long the Troubles had lumbered on for. With a final glance back at the magnificence of Alfred Brumwell Thomas’s architecture he turned left into the Queen’s Arcade. Next task was to locate a café for a much needed Ulster Fry; it had been an early start. He had time on his hands, having calculated what the walking time between his current location and the Europa would be.
With his last gulp of thick brown tea and the remnants of bacon picked from his back teeth, a Belfast morning paper returned to its rack, it was time to be away. A quick ten minute dander, made with an increasingly churning stomach thanks to the fat content of his Ulster Fry, and he was back in front of the Europa. Towering high into the sky it over-shadowed but could not underwhelm the majesty of the neighbouring Grand Opera House. He was still far too early. Shit, what now?
He stood for a time studying the diversity of the surrounding buildings. The Crown Bar to his left had yet to open. Then he headed off in the general direction of the Dublin Road, his stomach still demanding its say. With a hint of embarrassment he looked around; none of the passing pedestrians it seemed had heard. On reaching Shaftesbury Square he allowed memories of his youth
to regenerate. Straight on, he knew would take him to Queens University and the student’s union. Although he never got the chance to go up to university he nevertheless sampled student social life before the Troubles had killed it off.
He turned away. A glance across the busy junction took in the sad sight of vacant shops and peeling posters on unwashed windows. Onwards he trod, killing more time. Further on down Victoria Street and past more derelict properties the Europa once again towered above the roadside vista. He rechecked the time while stealing his reflection in a furniture shop window. It confirmed that Jacqueline’s preference for a charcoal grey suit, pale blue shirt and the sailing club tie that he had bought prior to coming back home, placed him comfortably within the ‘ready to do some serious business’ category.
Finding himself back outside the Crown Bar he casually mulled over if a quick vodka would settle his nerves; no – no chance Curtis. The sound of bleeping and the visual of the ‘green man’ signalled that it was time to move, regardless of the time. He had little choice, for as it seemed to him at that moment, the entire population of Belfast had opted to cross this street.
At twenty minutes past eleven Curtis Cardinali prepared to enter the hotel. He’d never been inside it before; no reason to. He could sense the pounding within his chest. He could also taste the acid in his throat. Through the revolving doors he coasted to his left and with some trepidation he climbed the curved staircase to the first floor lounge.
Scanning the tables, chairs and alcoves he felt that it was all a bit theatrical, superficial even. The reality was however, that regardless of his personal views the countdown for the ‘unveiling’ of the Russo mysteries would soon commence.
Still lost in his random thoughts, he didn’t actually hear the call. With another one of his nerve induced dithers Curtis found himself standing in front of, none other than, Mr. Toni Russo. An outstretched hand welcomed him. The other gestured towards a quiet and reasonably private area.
A Letter to a Lucky Man Page 15