‘Has she, be damned. Well, you can tell her that two hundred pounds is my final offer. That woman has never had a brass farthing to her name, so I don’t expect we’ll have to wait too much longer before she comes to her senses.’
Prendergast gave a slight cough that Hugo remembered well.
‘If you succeed in purchasing every property in the street except Mrs Clifton’s, four hundred pounds might turn out to be quite reasonable.’
‘She’s bluffing. All we have to do is bide our time.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so. And in any case, I know exactly the right man to convince the Clifton woman that she’d be wise to settle for two hundred pounds.’
Prendergast didn’t look convinced, but satisfied himself by asking, ‘Is there anything else I can do to assist you?’
‘Yes,’ said Hugo, removing the lid from the shoebox. ‘You can deposit this money into my personal account and issue me with a new cheque book.’
‘Of course, Sir Hugo,’ said Prendergast, looking into the box. ‘I’ll count it and issue you with a receipt and a cheque book.’
‘But I’ll need to make an immediate withdrawal, as I have my eye on a Lagonda V12.’
‘Winner of Le Mans,’ said Prendergast, ‘but then, you’ve always been a pioneer in that particular field.’
Hugo smiled as he rose from his chair.
‘Give me a call the moment Mrs Clifton realizes that two hundred pounds is all she’s going to get.’
‘Do we still employ Stan Tancock, Miss Potts?’ Hugo asked as he marched back into the office.
‘Yes, Sir Hugo,’ replied his secretary, following him into the room. ‘He works as a loader in the stock yard.’
‘I want to see him immediately,’ said the chairman, as he slumped down behind his desk.
Miss Potts hurried out of the room.
Hugo stared at the files piled on his desk which he was supposed to have read before the next board meeting. He flicked open the cover of the top one: a list of the union’s demands following their last meeting with management. He had reached number four on the list, two weeks’ paid holiday each year, when there was a tap on the door.
‘Tancock to see you, chairman.’
‘Thank you, Miss Potts. Send him in.’
Stan Tancock walked into the room, removed his cloth cap and stood in front of the chairman’s desk.
‘You wanted to see me, guv?’ he said, looking a little nervous.
Hugo glanced up at the squat, unshaven docker, whose beer belly didn’t leave much doubt where most of his wage packet went on a Friday night.
‘I’ve got a job for you, Tancock.’
‘Yes, guv,’ said Stan looking more hopeful.
‘It concerns your sister, Maisie Clifton, and the plot of land she owns on Broad Street, where Tilly’s tea shop used to stand. Do you know anything about it?’
‘Yes, guv, some geezer offered her two hundred quid for it.’
‘Is that right?’ said Hugo, removing his wallet from an inside pocket. He extracted a crisp five-pound note and laid it on the desk. Hugo remembered the same licking of the lips and the same piggy eyes the last time he’d bribed the man. ‘I want you to make sure, Tancock, that your sister accepts the offer, without the suggestion that I’m in any way involved.’
He slid the five-pound note across the desk.
‘No problem,’ said Stan, no longer looking at the chairman, only at the five-pound note.
‘There will be another of those,’ Hugo said, tapping his wallet, ‘the day she signs the contract.’
‘Consider it done, guv.’
Hugo added casually, ‘I was sorry to hear about your nephew.’
‘Don’t make much odds to me,’ said Stan. ‘Got far too big for his boots, in my opinion.’
‘Buried at sea, I was told.’
‘Yeah, more’n two years back.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘Ship’s doctor came to visit me sister, didn’t he.’
‘And was he able to confirm that young Clifton was buried at sea?’
‘Sure did. Even brought a letter from some mate who was on board the ship when Harry died.’
‘A letter?’ said Hugo leaning forward. ‘What did this letter say?’
‘No idea, guv. Maisie never opened it.’
‘So what did she do with the letter?’
‘Still on the mantelpiece isn’t it?’
Hugo extracted another five-pound note.
‘I’d like to see that letter.’
34
HUGO THREW ON the brakes of his new Lagonda when he heard a paperboy shouting his name from a street corner.
‘Sir Hugo Barrington’s son decorated for gallantry at Tobruk. Read all about it!’
Hugo leapt out of his car, handed the paperboy a halfpenny and looked at a photograph of his son when he was school captain of Bristol Grammar that dominated the front page. He climbed back into his car, turned off the ignition and read all about it.
Second Lieutenant Giles Barrington of the 1st Battalion, the Wessex, son of Sir Hugo Barrington Bt, has been awarded the Military Cross following action in Tobruk. Lt Barrington led a platoon across eighty yards of open desert, killing a German officer and five other soldiers, before over-running an enemy dugout and capturing 63 German infantry men from Rommel’s crack Afrika Korps. Lt/Col. Robertson of the Wessex described Lt Barrington’s action as displaying remarkable leadership and selfless courage in the face of overwhelming odds.
2/Lt Barrington’s platoon commander, Captain Alex Fisher, also an Old Bristolian, was involved in the same action, and mentioned in dispatches, as was Corporal Terry Bates, a local butcher from Broad Street. Lt Giles Barrington MC was later captured by the Germans when Rommel sacked Tobruk. Neither Barrington, nor Bates, is aware of their award for gallantry, because both of them are currently prisoners of war in Germany. Captain Fisher has been reported as missing in action. Full story pages 6 & 7.
Hugo sped home to share the news with his mother.
‘How proud Walter would have been,’ she said once she’d finished reading the report. ‘I must call Elizabeth immediately, in case she hasn’t heard the news.’
It was the first time anyone had mentioned his former wife’s name for a long while.
‘I thought you’d be interested to know,’ said Mitchell, ‘that Mrs Clifton is wearing an engagement ring.’
‘Who would want to marry that bitch?’
‘A Mr Arnold Holcombe, it seems.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘A schoolmaster. Teaches English at Merrywood Elementary. In fact, he used to teach Harry Clifton before he went to St Bede’s.’
‘But that was years ago. Why haven’t you mentioned his name before?’
‘They’ve only recently met up again, when Mrs Clifton began attending evening classes.’
‘Evening classes?’ repeated Hugo.
‘Yes,’ said Mitchell. ‘She’s been learning to read and write. Seems she’s a chip off the young block.’
‘What do you mean?’ snapped Hugo.
‘When the class took their final exam at the end of the course, she came top.’
‘Did she now?’ said Hugo. ‘Perhaps I should visit Mr Holcombe and let him know exactly what his fiancée was up to during the years he lost touch with her.’
‘Perhaps I should mention that Holcombe boxed for Bristol University, as Stan Tancock found to his cost.’
‘I can handle myself,’ said Hugo. ‘Meanwhile I want you to keep an eye on another woman, who just might prove every bit as dangerous for my future as Maisie Clifton.’
Mitchell removed a tiny notebook and pencil from an inside pocket.
‘Her name is Olga Piotrovska, and she lives in London, at number forty-two Lowndes Square. I need to know everyone she comes into contact with, particularly if she’s ever interviewed by any members of your former profession. Spare no details, however trivial or unpleasant you may consider them.’
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Once Hugo had finished speaking, the notebook and pencil disappeared. He then handed Mitchell an envelope, a sign that the meeting was over. Mitchell slipped his pay packet into his jacket pocket, stood up and limped away.
Hugo was surprised how quickly he became bored with being chairman of Barrington’s. Endless meetings to attend, countless papers to read, minutes to be circulated, memos to be considered, and a stack of mail that should have been replied to by return of post. And on top of that, before he left every evening, Miss Potts would hand him a briefcase bulging with even more papers that had to be gone over by the time he was back behind his desk at eight the following morning.
Hugo invited three chums to join the board, including Archie Fenwick and Toby Dunstable, in the hope that they would lessen his load. They rarely showed up for meetings, but still expected to receive their stipend.
As the weeks passed, Hugo began turning up at the office later and later, and after Bill Lockwood reminded the chairman that it was only a few days to his sixtieth birthday, when he would be retiring, Hugo capitulated and said that he’d decided Lockwood could stay on for another couple of years.
‘How kind of you to reconsider my position, chairman,’ said Lockwood. ‘But I feel that, having served the company for almost forty years, the time has come for me to make way for a younger man.’
Hugo cancelled Lockwood’s farewell party.
That younger man was Ray Compton, Lockwood’s deputy, who had only been with the company for a few months, and certainly hadn’t got his feet under the table. When he presented Barrington’s year results to the board, Hugo accepted for the first time that the company was only just breaking even, and agreed with Compton that the time had come to start laying off some of the dock labourers before the company couldn’t afford to pay their wages.
As Barrington’s fortunes dwindled, the nation’s future looked more hopeful.
With the German army retreating from Stalingrad the British people began to believe for the first time that the Allies could win the war. Confidence in the future started to seep back into the nation’s psyche as theatres, clubs and restaurants began to reopen all over the country.
Hugo longed to be back in town and to rejoin his social set, but Mitchell’s reports continued to make it clear that London was one city he’d be wise to steer clear of.
The year 1943 didn’t begin well for Barrington’s.
There were several cancelled contracts from customers who became exasperated when the chairman couldn’t be bothered to answer their letters, and several creditors began demanding payment, one or two of them even threatening writs. And then one morning, a ray of sunlight appeared that Hugo believed would solve all of the immediate cashflow problems.
It was a call from Prendergast that raised Hugo’s hopes.
The bank manager had been approached by the United Dominion Real Estate Company, who were showing an interest in purchasing the Broad Street site.
‘I think, Sir Hugo, it would be prudent not to mention the figure over the phone,’ Prendergast intoned slightly pompously.
Hugo was sitting in Prendergast’s office forty minutes later, and even he gasped when he heard how much they were willing to offer.
‘Twenty-four thousand pounds?’ repeated Hugo.
‘Yes,’ said Prendergast, ‘and I’m confident that’s their opening bid, and I can push them up to nearer thirty. Remembering that your original outlay was less than three thousand pounds, I think we can consider it a shrewd investment. But there’s a fly in the ointment.’
‘A fly?’ said Hugo, sounding anxious.
‘In the form of Mrs Clifton,’ said Prendergast. ‘The offer is conditional on you obtaining the freehold for the entire site, including her plot.’
‘Offer her eight hundred,’ Hugo barked.
The Prendergast cough followed, although he didn’t remind his client that had he taken his advice, they could have closed a deal with Mrs Clifton for four hundred pounds some months ago, and if she were ever to find out about United Dominion’s offer . . .
‘I’ll let you know the moment I’ve heard from her,’ was all Prendergast said.
‘Do that,’ said Hugo, ‘and while I’m here, I need to withdraw a little cash from my private account.’
‘I’m sorry, Sir Hugo, but that account is overdrawn at the present time . . .’
Hugo was sitting in the front seat of his sleek royal blue Lagonda when Holcombe pushed through the school door and began to walk across the playground. He stopped to speak to a handyman who was giving the front gates a fresh coat of lilac and green paint, the Merrywood school colours.
‘That’s a fine job you’re doing, Alf.’
‘Thank you, Mr Holcombe,’ Hugo heard the handyman say.
‘But I still expect you to concentrate more on your verbs, and do try not to be late on Wednesday.’
Alf touched his cap.
Holcombe began walking along the pavement and pretended not to see Hugo sitting behind the wheel of his car. Hugo allowed himself a smirk; everyone gave his Lagonda V12 a second look. Three young lads loitering on the pavement opposite hadn’t been able to take their eyes off it for the past half hour.
Hugo stepped out of the car and stood in the middle of the pavement, but Holcombe still ignored him. He couldn’t have been more than a stride away when Hugo said, ‘I wonder if we could have a word, Mr Holcombe. My name is—’
‘I’m well aware of who you are,’ said Holcombe, and walked straight past him.
Hugo chased after the schoolmaster. ‘It’s just that I felt you ought to know—’
‘Know what?’ said Holcombe, stopping in his tracks and turning to face him.
‘What your fiancée did for a living, not so very long ago.’
‘She was forced into prostitution because you wouldn’t pay for her son’s –’ he looked Hugo straight in the eye – ‘your son’s school fees, when he was in his last two years at Bristol Grammar School.’
‘There’s no proof that Harry Clifton is my son,’ said Hugo defiantly.
‘There was enough proof for a vicar to refuse to allow Harry to marry your daughter.’
‘How would you know? You weren’t there.’
‘How would you know? You ran away.’
‘Then let me tell you something you certainly don’t know,’ said Hugo, almost shouting. ‘This paragon of virtue that you’re planning to spend the rest of your life with has swindled me out of a piece of land I owned in Broad Street.’
‘Let me tell you something you do know,’ said Holcombe. ‘Maisie paid off every penny of your loan, with interest, and all you left her with was less than ten pounds to her name.’
‘That land’s now worth four hundred pounds,’ said Hugo, immediately regretting his words, ‘and it belongs to me.’
‘If it belonged to you,’ said Holcombe, ‘you wouldn’t be trying to buy the site for twice that amount.’
Hugo was livid that he had allowed himself to reveal the extent of his interest in the site, but he wasn’t finished. ‘So when you have sex with Maisie Clifton, do you have to pay for it, schoolmaster, because I certainly didn’t.’
Holcombe raised a fist.
‘Go on, hit me,’ goaded Hugo. ‘Unlike Stan Tancock, I’d sue you for every penny you’re worth.’
Holcombe lowered his fist and marched off, annoyed with himself for having allowed Barrington to rile him.
Hugo smiled. He felt he had delivered the knockout blow.
He turned round to see the lads on the other side of the road sniggering. But then they’d never seen a lilac and green Lagonda before.
35
WHEN THE FIRST cheque bounced, Hugo simply ignored it and waited a few days before he presented it a second time. When it came back again, stamped ‘Refer to Drawer’, he began to accept the inevitable.
For the next few weeks, Hugo found several different ways of getting around the immediate cash problem.
He first raided the of
fice safe and removed the £100 that his father always kept for a rainy day. This was a thunderstorm, and the old man had certainly never had to resort to the cash reserve to pay his secretary’s wages. Once that had run out, he reluctantly let go of the Lagonda. However, the dealer politely pointed out that lilac and green weren’t this year’s colours, and as Sir Hugo required cash, he could only offer him half the original purchase price, because the bodywork would have to be stripped and repainted.
Hugo survived for another month.
With no other available assets to dispose of, he began to steal from his mother. First, any loose change left lying about the house, followed by coins in purses and then notes in bags.
It wasn’t long before he bagged a small silver pheasant that had graced the centre of the dining-room table for years, followed by its parents, all of which flew to the nearest pawn shop.
Hugo then moved on to his mother’s jewellery. He started with items she wouldn’t notice. A hat pin and a Victorian brooch were quickly followed by an amber necklace she rarely wore, and a diamond tiara which had been in the family for over a century and was only worn at weddings or ceremonial occasions. He didn’t anticipate there being many of those in the near future.
He finally turned to his father’s art collection, first taking off the wall a portrait of his grandfather by a young John Singer Sargent, but not before the housekeeper and the cook had handed in their notice, having received no wages for over three months. Jenkins conveniently died a month later.
His grandfather’s Constable (The Mill at Dunning Lock) was followed by his great-grandfather’s Turner (Swans on the Avon), both of which had been in the family for over a century.
Hugo was able to convince himself that it wasn’t theft. After all, his father’s will had stated and all that therein is.
This irregular source of funds ensured that the company survived and only showed a small loss for the first quarter of the year, that is, if you didn’t count the resignation of three more directors and several other senior members of staff who hadn’t received their pay cheques on the last day of the month. When asked, Hugo blamed the temporary setbacks on the war. One elderly director’s parting words were, ‘Your father never found it necessary to use that as an excuse.’