Chasing Paper

by Graham Hamer

  “Good conclusion, old chap.”

  It hadn't been a conclusion but the point seemed to be lost on the others as the atmosphere relaxed. Richard offered his cigarettes to everybody, including Frank, who had never smoked in his life. “Be a good chap, Ron, and go and ask Denise to make some drinks,” he said, a stream of smoke pouring from his nostrils.

  “Not for me,” Ian said, “I've got to be going.”

  “So we can look forward to a little restructuring of our finances then, dear boy?”

  “I guess so. I'm going to have to talk it over with Nancy first, but she usually goes along with things without too much fuss.”

  “Good, good. It's all for the best, old chap. I'll get the bank to transfer thirty thousand straight away, then you can get the suppliers off your back.”

  Ian turned to leave, ignoring Ron Scott's outstretched hand. Richard accompanied him from the room and, as he opened the front door, placed an arm round his shoulder. “Don't worry, old boy, it will all work out all right. As soon as we extract ourselves from the clutches of the bank, you'll be able to release your home again.”

  As he walked back towards his car, and the house door closed behind him, Ian sensed eyes boring into his shoulder blades - eyes that perched above a pointed nose, a dirty collar and a royal blue bow tie. His head and neck ached, and he wondered if he'd made the right decision. Or had a decision been made for him? He couldn't decide.

  FRIDAY 21 DECEMBER

  Having begun life as an isolated farmhouse, The Pilgrims Reach had, over the years, metamorphosed first into a restaurant and then into a pub-with-grub. Regular licensing hours were not a strong point at The Pilgrims. Ann Patterson, the jaunty landlady, took the view that the bar was open so long as there were customers who wanted a drink. 'Service with a smile' she would joke as she rang up the cash register. Tonight, though, her cash register was at rest. The establishment was closed to the public for a private function, and Ian Gidman would settle the tab at the end of the evening.

  The windy December evening struggled to gatecrash the party each time a new guest arrived, but door-opening was kept to a minimum and the violent gusts were left to start the Christmas holidays with only the heather and gorse for company. Ensconced inside in the warm, the couple stood at the end of the long bar, greeting their dinner guests. His scuffed leather bomber jacket had been exchanged for a neat grey suit, while a long, blue velvet evening dress did nothing to attract attention to his wife's fuller figure.

  The door slammed.

  “William, welcome,” Ian called, raising his hand to the new arrival.

  The skeletal figure of William Wormald-Welch, one of Ian's school peers and esteemed solicitor, edged his way through the growing assembly of guests. He shook hands with Ian as he spoke. “Hello Ian, good evening Nancy. How are you both?” He bent to kiss Nancy's cheek; her five foot two being insufficient to match his six foot three. “How's my favourite client?” he asked, making as if to flick back hair that was so closely cropped there was no flick in it.

  Nancy replied, “Well, since you're addressing me, William, I'm healthy and happy, thank you.”

  “I'm going to leave you two together,” Ian said, as the door opened again. “Nancy, get William a drink will you? I must go and greet and mingle.” He moved away from the bar to continue his duties as host.

  “So, how's my favourite bachelor?” Nancy asked.

  “Busy but content.”.

  “Busy, I believe. Content? Who knows, Mister William, who knows? It seems to me that your continued lonely existence should be cause for concern.”

  “Well, dear lady, it doesn't concern me, so you shouldn't fret over it. My continued lonely existence, as you put it, has its moments you know.”

  She blushed – but not enough for anyone to notice. “Your new glasses suit you,” she said, with a smile.

  He took a clean white handkerchief from his pocket and commenced to polish his frameless spectacles. “Not my own choice, Nancy, but I have to admit that everyone seems to approve of them,” He regained his legal exterior by replacing his glasses onto ears that stood at an angle to his head, like the part-open doors of a car.

  Nancy didn't need to ask: she ordered him a large gin and tonic. He tasted his drink and settled against the bar next to her - she a little plumper than she would like and he a gangly beanpole of a man.

  “William, I know this is the wrong time and the wrong place, but can I talk business with you for a few minutes? There's something that's bothering me and I need your opinion.”

  “Nancy, you know that, for you, there'll never be a wrong time or wrong place. Fire away.”

  Ian was chatting with the firm's plumber and his wife when another slam of the door announced a new arrival.

  “Party started without me has it, boss?”

  “Not quite, Dave. Let's get you a drink before we go through to eat.” He turned, as if to lead to the bar, then stopped and faced his friend again. “No Irene?”

  “'Fraid not,” Dave Kelly said. “She's been getting a few little twinges so thought it would be best if she stayed home tonight. Baby's due in a few days but you know better than me that things could happen at any time.”

  “Never mind,” Ian said, above the litany of conversation. “You can sit with us.” He leaned against the mahogany bar, resting his foot on the polished brass rail below and glancing at the growing assembly and their surroundings. The line of the low ceiling was broken at irregular intervals by heavy oak timbers that supported the crooked floor joists above. On the walls, original brass lamps retained their wicks and were dutifully replenished and lit each evening. Either side of one of the tiny windows, the polished copper face of a long-handled bed warmer shimmered with the distorted reflection of the open log fire, which blew a huge cloud of wood smoke back into the room each time an angry gust of wind rocked the chimney above.

  As Ian looked to his right, he noticed that Nancy was deep in conversation with their solicitor while Suzy, the barmaid, was serving another Guinness to Pat Murphy. Known to all just as 'Murph', he had, at the previous firm's party, left the table without warning part way through the meal, rushed out of the room and vomited over the flower garden. There had been nothing wrong with the food, just with the quantity of Guinness that Murph had imbibed. The workmen had found it amusing but Nancy had thought it quite offensive; a view shared by their solicitor.

  “Steady on the black stuff, Murph, you know what it does to your stomach,” Dave said. Pat Murphy grunted a two-word reply and turned to rejoin his group - Dave squeezing into the vacant space.

  “What'll it be Ian?” asked Suzy, one hand on the beer tap.

  “Oh — er — what do you want, Dave?”

  Dave leaned his elbow on the copper bar top and angled his head with exaggerated interest towards the barmaid's prominent bosom. “Dunno. A big 'un of something. Second thoughts make that an extra large one.”

  Suzy leaned forward generously. “I shouldn't need to remind you sir that it's your duty to provide the extra large one. I only serve the drinks.”

  Dave chortled with glee. He ordered a vodka and tonic, and Ian left the two to continue their verbal somersaults, having noticed the last minute arrival of the Tweedles.

  “Good evening Richard, Frank. Hi Denise. Can I offer you all a drink?”

  “Don't mind if I do, old boy. Double Scotch would go down well.”

  * * *

  Claire drew her breath in disbelief as her brother led her into the elegant private dining room above the crowded street level restaurant. She settled back into the sumptuously padded chair and glanced out of the window to the splendour of the Chateau of Versailles opposite. Hugo, the restaurant owner, a fit looking fifty-five year old with a groomed moustache that turned upwards at each end, flicked open a white linen napkin and offered it to her lap. He lit the pristine candles with a well-used gold Dupont lighter, took their aperitif order and went about his business.

  “Philippe,” Claire sai
d, returning her brother's smile, “you really are the best. This place is absolutely — perfect.”

  “I'm glad you like it, sis. From the sound of your phone call, you needed cheering up, and I knew you'd appreciate coming here.”

  Claire's bottom lip quivered, though she said nothing.

  “Is it getting that bad Claire?”

  She snuffled and took a handkerchief from her purse to wipe her nose. “Yes. It's bad. It's very bad. And being here with you makes reality seem so much worse. I know I have to go back to the nightmare again. Oh, I'm sorry, Philippe, I've no-one else to share it with.”

  Hugo returned with their drinks and a crystal bowl full of green olives stuffed with fresh almonds. He passed each of them a leather-bound menu, and melted away. Claire took a sip of her Martini Bianco as Philippe popped an olive into his mouth.

  “Do you want me to bore you now so that I don't spoil the meal?” Claire asked, her voice more even now.

  “You're not going to bore me, Claire, but if getting it off your chest will help make your evening more pleasant, then bore away.”

  She paused. Her hand trembled, as she replaced her handkerchief in her bag. “Philippe, how much do you know about our relationship, Jean-Pierre and me?”

  “Only as much as is obvious,” he said. “He's a philanderer and your success scares him.”

  “Right on both points. As you already know, he tried everything to stop me from practicing medicine. He was afraid that I would be more successful than him. He always claimed it was so we could start a family, but I think that was just to keep me in the house, so I soon went off the idea. Even my move from General Practice into Pharmaceuticals was so I could spend more time at home. And now I'm Directeur Médical - a job that usually requires testicles - he doesn't like that either.”

  “So when did he start seeing other women?”

  “I don't know. Eight years ago - ten perhaps. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I don't care what he does any more.”

  “You're saying it's over then?”

  “Well and truly. I can't take the hypocrisy any longer. We're leading false lives, Philippe, and I'm fed up living my life as a lie.”

  “So you're definitely going to leave him?”

  “Yes, definitely.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Hey, hang on. What is this, a quiz show?”

  Philippe leaned forward, speaking slowly and emphatically. “Listen, Claire. You're my only sister and I love you dearly. But if you really have made your mind up to leave, then leave. Don't keep postponing it.”

  “I'm not postponing it, I just —”

  “Yes you are. Tell me, when did you first think about leaving him?”

  She shuffled in her seat and paused before answering. “That's not the point, Philippe.”

  “Yes it is,” he said. “It's very much the point. I wouldn't mind betting a thousand euros that you first thought of leaving him when you found out that he was being unfaithful - if not before.”

  “Yes but thinking of leaving him and actually doing it are two different things.”

  “Exactly. So when are you going to stop thinking of leaving him and start doing it?”

  “Oh hell. You do ask the most awkward questions.”

  “All part of the service,” he said, sitting back. “You asked me for my advice and I'm giving it to you. If you really plan to leave him, which I believe you do, then stop thinking about it and start planning it. Start now. Tell me exactly what you're going to do.”

  “It's not — it's just so — oh God, what's stopping me?”

  “You! You're what's stopping you. Your misplaced sense of loyalty to the man. Wake up and smell the roses Claire. You're thirty-five and you've got your whole life ahead of you. Grab it with both hands and start living. Now! Before it's too late.”

  She was about to say something when the proprietor approached.

  “Sorry, Hugo, not quite ready,” Philippe said. “Just give us a few more minutes.”

  “Of course,” said le patron. “There's no hurry. I'll come back in a moment.”

  They deferred the rest of their conversation and deliberated over the menu. The choices, as Claire would later swear, ranged from extravagant to very extravagant. After a moment’s discussion, they both settled on Foie Gras to start, followed by a main course of Ortolans Rotis - delicate ortolan buntings served on canapés. Philippe chose the wine for them both. He nodded to Hugo, who returned to take their order. When the owner left, pleased with their choice, Claire kissed the tip of her finger and leaned across the table to touch the end of her brother's nose.

  “What was that for?”

  “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “Thanks for the best bit of advice anyone has ever offered me.”

  “So you're not mad at me for being blunt?”

  “Not at all. It's exactly what I needed. You're right of course, I've got to get on with my life.”

  “And your mind's made up?”

  “Completely. I'll go and see a notary as soon as I get back to Dijon.”

  “Good. If there's anything I can do to help, anything at all, don't be afraid to ask.”

  “Thanks, but you've done enough already. I've ruined your Christmas for a start, turning up virtually unannounced this afternoon.”

  Philippe chuckled. “Not at all, Claire, I'm just beginning to enjoy myself.” He raised his glass. “A ta santé. To your health.”

  She raised her own glass. A decisive smile spread across her face, stopping only when it bumped against her ears. “No, Philippe,” she said. “A notre santé. To our health.”

  * * *

  Pete Gidman, Ian's nineteen-year-old son, was blessed with mixed fortunes. To his delight, his father had asked him to sit with Richard's daughter, Denise, since they were both unaccompanied and of about the same age, and the pair now nestled together on one side of a table for four. Their good fortune had been tempered by the fact that Richard and Frank Tweedle sat facing them, on the opposite side of the table. It hadn't, however, stopped Denise pinching Pete's butt while he was in polite conversation with Frank. Just two young people enjoying each other's company.

  Ian had made sure that the table at which he and Nancy sat allowed him eye contact, if not verbal contact, with his guests. Since the twenty-odd couples had divided themselves into small groups, only Dave Kelly and William Wormald-Welch remained without dining partners and the Gidmans were glad, for different reasons, to have them sat at their table.

  Ann Patterson and two waitresses scurried about taking orders for wine. The food had already been decided and, in his culinary prison, the chef was preparing veal and creamed mushrooms with a selection of vegetables on the side; a menu agreed with Ian as being universally acceptable.

  When the first course arrived, a cheer went up and friendly arguments broke out as to who should be served first. Suzy, the barmaid, began opening and dispensing the wines to each table. When she served the Gidman table she stood close to Dave, despite the fact that it was William, sitting diagonally opposite him, who was tasting the wine.

  The irregular tap of knives and forks on plates replaced the friendly hum of conversation as the diners began their meal, and Ann, ever the thoughtful host, asked Suzy to select some background music. Quietly and unobtrusively, Paul Nicholas began to sing 'Don't Wanna Go Home Alone'.

  At twenty to ten, the old grandfather clock struck six times - and then twice more - and the waitresses finished clearing the last plates from the tables before taking orders for after-dinner drinks. Some of Ian's guests decided to take their coffees through to the bar, whilst others moved around the room from table to table, chatting and laughing. The evening had gone well and The Pilgrims Reach had surpassed even its own high standards.

  Dave Kelly excused himself from the table, opting instead to sit at the bar and chat to Suzy as she served drinks. William folded his serviette in a precise square whi
le he waited for his brandy. He removed his spectacles and polished the lenses with his handkerchief. “So all these men work for you, do they, Ian?”

  “Most of them,” Ian answered. “Some are subcontractors.”

  “Quite a responsibility.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “How did you come to get involved with Richard Tweedle?”

  Ian shrugged. “It just sort of happened,” he said, though he knew it was more complex than that – much more complex. “Tweedle wanted plans drawn up for the Headland View development and we ended up starting Snaefell Homes.”

  “And do Snaefell Homes do work for anybody else?”

  “We're free to do so, but we've not much else on just at the moment.”

  William studied him, then said, “And the Tweedles have not been too regular with the payments recently, have they.” There was no question mark at the end.

  Ian looked from William to Nancy and back. He scowled at the obvious conspiracy. “What's this? The third degree?”

  The casual veneer fell away as William grappled with his words. “Well — to er — to be honest with you, Nancy and I were chatting at the bar, and er — she just happened to mention that you were planning to give the bank security on your house to guarantee the company borrowing.”

  “So what of it?”

  “I know you would probably have come to see me about it at some stage, but Nancy just grabbed the opportunity while I was there in front of her, so to speak.”

  “Yeah, okay, go on.”

  “It's just that Nancy thought you could both do with a little informal and impartial advice.”

  “And?”

  “And I think you may have a problem. Listen, Ian, I know you've not asked for my advice but you and I go back a long way. If I didn't tell you just how concerned I am, I wouldn't be doing you any favours either as your solicitor or your friend.”

  “So okay, hit the bottom line,” Ian said, folding his arms. “Tell me what the problem is, as you see it, then we can enjoy the rest of the evening and I can go and mingle with the rest of my guests.”