The Money Makers Read online

  George had underestimated the volume of orders, but the system was coping. George’s marquee was one of the largest available in the country, usually used for national agricultural shows, and at a stroke it had solved the problem of space. Meanwhile, Darren and Dave, scouring the DIY shops of Leeds and Manchester, had purchased enough spray guns to brighten up a battleship.

  The labour force proved to be no problem either. George contacted all those he’d sacked back in the dark days before Christmas. He offered them a deal. The deal was: work night and day for three pounds fifty an hour, paid in cash. Once production levels had normalised, George expected to be able to rehire them or at least pay them the redundancy money they were owed. Everyone he spoke to accepted with pleasure.

  But it wasn’t only those he’d fired who helped. Sawley Bridge is a small community and everyone in it either worked at Gissings or had friends and relatives who did. The company’s financial plight was no secret, and it was the main topic of discussion in the pub and village shop. The community rallied to the cause with a will. Wives dumped their kids with a neighbour and came on over to the factory. Kids without enough to do in their long summer holidays drifted around the plant, until someone noticed their empty hands and shoved a spray gun into them. Retired craftsmen, fed up with daytime TV and sodden allotments, came back to lend a hand. Even the vicar turned up one day and spent a couple of hours spraying varnish straight on top of some still wet undercoat.

  In all, Val estimated that Gissings had a floating temporary workforce of more than two hundred people. Jeff Wilmot, the accountant, fussed about national insurance contributions, health and safety requirements and employers’ liability. George doled out cash in brown paper envelopes and at weekends plonked barrels of beer next to the tea urns. He told Wilmot to record the outgoings as ‘Consultancy Fees’ and the beer as ‘Client Entertainment Expenses’. Wilmot wrote a couple of strongly worded memorandums which George threw away, then did as he was told.

  Deliveries to customers were ahead of schedule.

  4

  Walters looked glum, which was commonplace, but Darren and Dave looked like death, and George was alarmed.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Ye’d better come and see for yourself.’ It was Walters who spoke.

  They walked quickly from George’s office to the museum which was being used as an overflow storage space. It was piled with furniture, most of it Bright and Beautiful.

  ‘Take a look at this.’

  George looked where Walters pointed. It was a Bright and Beautiful child’s desk destined for a primary school somewhere in Scotland. It should have been shipped weeks ago, but the school had asked to defer delivery after the headmaster had gone AWOL with the PE teacher and the school’s refurbishment budget. The desktop was painted in brilliant primary stripes, with a huge smiley face stencilled on by an ever-enthusiastic Sally Dummett. But the sealant, which should have been as smooth as glass, was wrong. It had begun to bubble and crack. Splits could be seen right across the surface of the desk. The smiley face was developing leprosy. George, his face like iron, dragged his thumbnail across the desk, leaving a furrow of splinters across the unhappy surface.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘We’ve used two different kinds of sealant. This is the quick-drying stuff, which we started using about four weeks ago to save time.’

  ‘How many are affected?’

  ‘About half what we have in storage, but we expect all of it to go too. Maybe a third of what we’ve already shipped.’

  ‘What can we do?’

  ‘Strip the sealant. Touch up the paintwork if we need to but not otherwise. Reseal with the right kind of sealant.’

  ‘Do we know who’s received this stuff?’

  ‘We’re working on a customer list right now. We’ll get that to you by the end of the day. We’ll also try to sort out a new production schedule once we know how much stuff will be coming back in.’

  George nodded, grim-faced and in shock.

  ‘Don’t worry about this, lads. It’s not your fault. I was on your backs to speed up the process and you did as I asked. I’m sure we’ll sort something out.’

  George wasn’t being honest. They were at maximum production already. Already, George could see that the enthusiasm, which had let the impossible happen, was wearing thin. The pensioners were drifting back to their TV and allotments. The mothers and children were drifting back to their family homes. If they had to redo four weeks of production as well as meet their existing commitments - well, the thing was impossible. And the cost of doing it would blow all the profit they had earned since the trade fair. And if they failed to make money out of the trade fair, then they might as well forget the whole thing. George had no intention of struggling for ever with a giant loan, regarding each day lived through as a triumph to celebrate. He’d sooner earn his living as a belly dancer. He was getting the stomach for it.

  Back in his office, Val was holding her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone.

  ‘It’s for you. It’s a Mr Evans of Brynmawr Furnishings. He sounds cross.’

  George took the phone.

  ‘Mr Evans,’ said George smoothly, ‘thank you so much for taking the trouble to return my call.’

  ‘I’m not returning your call. You haven’t called me.’

  This was perfectly true, but you wouldn’t have guessed from George’s demeanour.

  ‘I certainly tried you earlier in the week. I left a message, but perhaps it didn’t reach you. My fault, I expect. I’m always a bit hasty. But I’m pleased you called because I wanted to reach you urgently.’

  ‘Oh. It’s the paint surface, isn’t it? That’s why I was calling. A couple of the chairs you sent us are beginning to peel.’

  ‘That’s right. I don’t know how to apologise enough,’ said George. ‘Our supplier persuaded us to change our brand of sealant and it turns out we were given a duff supply. I’m afraid it’s more than just the chairs which will peel. The whole lot will go. What I had been calling to ask is whether we can bring the whole shipment back, at our expense of course. We’ll redo it, good as new, and get it back out to you as soon as we can. And as a sort of apology, we’d like to give you ten percent off your next order with us and a guarantee that this won’t happen again.’

  ‘Oh, well, I suppose that’s fair now.’ Evans had dearly been expecting a row. Looking forward to it, in fact. Now that George had given him everything he had been going to ask for, he wasn’t quite sure which direction to go. ‘But I don’t want to be left hanging around, mind.’

  ‘Of course not. We’ll give your shipment absolute priority when it arrives back here. We’ll have it out with you just as soon as we can.’ George sensed that Evans needed an outlet for his anger and supplied one. ‘The real criminals are the bloody sealant suppliers. They lie through their teeth to sell you the product, then when it fails, they’re nowhere to be seen. I don’t know how any small businesses survive in this country.’

  It was a lucky shot. Mr Evans had strong views about the treatment of small businesses in Britain. Twenty minutes later, George got off the phone, ears ringing with Mr Evans’ complaints about the government, Europe and the world at large, but also equipped with Mr Evans’ promise not to switch suppliers and the invitation to take as much time over the shipment as needed.

  One down, forty-nine to go, thought George. But there was one call he had to make before any of those, the real make-or-break.

  He called David Ballard, who, inevitably, was on his car phone. George wondered whether Ballard’s insurance company knew about its client’s habit of driving on winding Yorkshire roads at seventy miles an hour with one hand on the phone and one eye on the scenery.

  ‘David? It’s me, George. George Gradley.’

  ‘George? Well, blow me. You’re talking broad Yorkshire now. You should hear yourself.’

  ‘Well, I’m born and bred Yorkshire, what d’you expect?’

  ‘I expected an
old Etonian, Giorgio Armani, year­ round suntan, designer ponce, if you must know. But I prefer this one.’

  It was a backward sort of compliment, but George didn’t mind.

  ‘Yeah, well, I wasn’t phoning to get your views on my personal development, thanks all the same. I’ve got something to tell you.’

  ‘Hang on.’ There was a pause for a moment. George could hear a high-pitched squeal in the background.

  ‘Sorry about that. Bloody lorry almost hit me on the bend just then. No consideration for other drivers. Lucky I got back on to my side of the road in time. What were you saying?’

  ‘David. Slow down to subsonic speed and listen. We aren’t able to repay your loan. We’re going under.’

  There was a silence on the other end of the phone for a while. George wondered whether the signal had died. It’s amazing how the two percent of the country not covered by the phone company always seems to be where people want to call from.

  ‘OK.’ It was Ballard, again, but solemnly this time.

  ‘I’ve stopped the car and every slow-moving vehicle in the county is getting ahead of me again. So this had better not be a joke. What did you say?’

  George repeated himself slowly. He explained the problem.

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ complained Ballard. ‘Take the worst-case scenario. Say you don’t make a penny of profit this year. The company’s beginning to live again. There’s always next year or the year after.’

  ‘Yes, but I won’t stick around to watch. And if I’m gone, I wouldn’t give all that much for its chances.’

  ‘So why are you telling me this? D’you want me to call in the loan today? Put you out of your misery early?’

  ‘Well, there is one thing you could do for me.’

  George explained his idea in a few sentences. Ballard listened. A couple of times he asked questions which George responded to briefly and concisely. Eventually Ballard gave his verdict.

  ‘As it happens, I’m off to see them in a week or so. They’re one of my biggest clients, in fact. But they’re a sharp bunch and I don’t hold out much hope.’

  ‘But you’ll try,’ said George. He was stating a fact not asking a question. ‘That’s great. And remember something, David. I’ve only got a quid invested in this company. You’ve got half a million.’

  5

  ‘Zack, for Christ’s sake, you haven’t bloody seen her for more than a month. She’s had a complete nervous breakdown and you’re never bloody here.’

  ‘I’m busy, Josie. I’m literally averaging five hours sleep a night. I just don’t have time.’

  ‘So what’s more important, then? Dicking around in the City or looking after your mother? Get your priorities straight.’

  ‘My priorities are straight. I’m just doing the same as Matthew and George. We’re working our butts off to save our inheritance: Once we have it, it’ll all be different. Don’t pretend I’m the guilty party.’

  ‘Matthew’s in New York. George is in Yorkshire. Matthew phones every weekend and George comes down every second or third weekend. George is as poor as a church mouse, but he still sends money every month, more than he can afford. You live a couple of miles away on some fat banker’s salary and we never see you, let alone get money from you.’

  Zack started to protest. He loved his sister and his mother at least as much as he loved anyone else, himself apart. But these three years were critical. Pissing around in Kilburn with a long face and a box of tissues wasn’t going to make anyone happy. Not when thirty or forty million quid of their money went to endow some bloody children’s home.

  ‘Listen, Josie,’ Zack began, but Josie had slammed the phone down. ‘Yeah, I love you too,’ he added sourly.

  For now, Josephine could think whatever she wanted. Zack was busy. For one thing, he saw Sarah as often as he could. It wasn’t all that often, but he hoped it was enough. He’d been down to Ovenden House a couple more times, and last time had actually managed to stay seated as his horse went over one of Sarah’s jumps, albeit on its lowest setting. She’d laughed her clear laugh at him and said he’d never make a horseman, though Lord Hatherleigh said he had ‘the makings of a fine fly fisherman’. He still desired Sarah with gale-force intensity, while she remained apparently immune. Zack was in a frenzy of greed, frustration and desire.

  Meantime, he was busy. He was working on three separate energy deals for Amy-Lou Mazowiecki. If each of them completed successfully, he’d have earned five and a half million dollars for the bank. He only had to find another half million dollars from somewhere and he’d have met his annual target for a first-year vice president. Mazowiecki was pleased with him and kept shoving good deals his way. He’d make the six million easily.

  But Zack wasn’t interested in making six million.

  He wanted to make partner, and for that he needed to make a splash. Mazowiecki had told him that the normal hurdle rate was thirty-five million, but that was for people the bank already knew well. If Zack wanted to make it to partner in the next twenty-three months, he’d have to blow their socks off. He wasn’t aiming to make thirty-five million, but seventy. They couldn’t refuse him if he made seventy.

  This train of thought led him where it always did: to two names pinned to the noticeboard above his desk. He forgot about Josie and settled down to work.

  6

  Matthew filled out the last of his trading tickets. He made sure they were easily legible, as every screw-up in settling a trade could cost the bank five grand. What a day! What a week! The market had tossed around for five days and ended back where it started. Despite thin markets, Matthew had done more trades that week than in any other so far, but he was still down $20,800. Typical August trading, Rosenthal said.

  He tidied his desk, grabbed his jacket and headed out.

  On the way, he passed by Alan and Rick’s alcove.

  ‘Coming for a beer, guys? I’m buying.’

  Al and Rick were busy with some computer print­ outs. Alan perspired as he always did, his dustbin over­ flowing with junk food wrappers. His bin was usually full, but not overflowing. He’d had a bad week too. Rick wiped his head with his sleeve. Maybe he thought he was pushing a hair back into place, but he had no hair. Maybe he was polishing.

  ‘Buying a drink, huh, big shot? Don’t tell me you’ve had a good week, ’cause I’ve seen your trading tickets. Sorry, pal. I’ve another hour’s work here. So’s Rick.’

  Rick nodded. He didn’t get chattier with longer acquaintance. Matthew was disappointed. On the training programme, he’d spent every spare minute either working or with Sophie. He had no friends in New York of his own, and he was finding it tough to make friends on the trading floor. He still missed Sophie too much to make a serious effort with other women, and that ruled out the sort of social interaction he knew best.

  Scott Petersen left the room amidst a large and noisy group, mostly female. He’d recovered, then.

  ‘Y’all have a good one,’ he called.

  Matthew and Alan called something back. Rick nodded and polished. The trading floor began to grow quiet, but it was Matthew’s best friend in New York. He felt lonely.

  A movement behind Alan and Rick alerted Matthew to somebody else’s presence. It was Fiona Shepperton, who had been sitting down at a window, reading some documents. She stood up and handed something back to Rick when she noticed Matthew.

  ‘Did I hear you offering to buy me a drink?’ she said.

  ‘Sure, if you like.’

  ‘I’m tied up tonight, but I’m free tomorrow.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Matthew, whose evenings were all too free these days. ‘Where would you like to go? You name the spot.’ An evening with the ball-crusher wasn’t Matthew’s idea of fun, but it beat microwaving a frozen lasagne for one.

  ‘I’ll have a think and give you a call lunchtime tomorrow.’

  Matthew confirmed the arrangement and left the bank, feeling low.

  7

  David Ballard studie
d the figures in front of him. He had to admit they were impressive. He had to admit it to himself, that is. What he said was rather different.

  ‘Your profit margins are coming under a bit of pressure, I see. And how do you explain the slowdown in domestic furnishings?’

  Mike and Eileen Asperton looked at him startled.

  They were chief executive and chairwoman respectively of Asperton Holdings. Married for twenty-five years, they were alike as two peas, just as round and almost as small. Mike Asperton was never without a cigar, his wife never without a hanky to flap at the smoke. Their double act was famous throughout Lancashire, and a highly successful act it was too. Through two and a half eventful decades, the company had prospered. Ballard had long been an admirer of the company and had consistently supported its growth with loans and advice. His signs of doubt now were hard to interpret.

  ‘Pressure? We’ve grown our sales by thirty-five percent,’ said Mike Asperton, ‘and our margins have slipped only one point three percent. Frankly, we’re delighted with that performance. As soon as we slow down a bit, our margins will be back up. And as for the domestic furnishings - well, as you know, we’ve decided to concentrate on the office and light industrial markets, which is where we think our strength lies.’

  Ballard looked dubious.

  ‘Mmm. I agree that if you just look at the bottom line, these results are good, but I am worried about how you got there. Margins slipping with sales racing away - it’s the classic recipe for cash flow crisis.’