It angered Geoffrey to admit it, but whoever had been responsible for dripfeeding snippets of dirt to the newspapers – he had a long list of suspects – hadn’t been too wide of the mark. The stories painted him in the worst possible light, but they all contained a hard kernel of truth. Yes, after Bob Downing’s death, Geoffrey hadn’t always sought or taken heed of advice. And yes, he had been aware that some of the equipment – essential to the core of the business – was coming to the end of its useful life. And no, he hadn’t put sufficient funds aside to replace it, but chose instead to take out a whacking great mortgage to buy Manor Farm. He suspected he had overstretched himself but carried on regardless, head in the sand, hoping it would all get better.
It got worse. Downings lost a big client to an Asian competitor, then another, then another. Geoffrey couldn’t compete with their prices. British manufacturing may have been amongst the best in the world, but thanks to high labour costs and a strong pound, it was also among the most expensive. He cut overheads to the bone, shaved profits to a sliver, but still they undercut him. An optimist by nature, and despite all evidence to the contrary, even then he believed that things would turn around. New orders, some government initiative to help small- to medium-sized enterprises, a low-interest loan from the bank.
Truth was, Geoffrey had never really had a head for the money side of the business. Bob had looked after the finances and once he had gone, Geoffrey was complacent enough to muddle along, convinced that he could manage. How difficult could it be? So when Arthur Heather had first alerted him to the growing pile of unpaid bills, Geoffrey almost accused him of fiddling the books. The man was a gambler – everyone knew that. But so, it transpired, was Geoffrey. Through a combination of ineptitude and poor judgement, he had unwittingly gambled with Downings’ future and lost.
Two shaven-headed bailiffs, one with an earring, the other with a snake tattoo on his neck, had turned up at the factory on May Day. Geoffrey had needed to do a few hours’ work first thing, before joining the village celebrations. Truthfully, celebrating was the last thing he had felt like, but there was the small matter of keeping up appearances.
A steady stream of final demands and solicitors’ letters had languished in a file on his desk. Naive and hopelessly out of his depth, he hadn’t realised the clock was ticking, that each debt was time-limited and there was no more time left. Nor did he realise that not all debts were equal. The debt that had brought these dark-suited thugs to Downings on a bank holiday Monday was non-payment of business rates. So it was the local authority that had been quickest off the mark – who would have thought? They plucked out the playing card that brought the rest of the deck crashing down around him.
Inexperienced in such matters, Geoffrey had been horrified to discover the extent of the bailiffs’ powers. In a few hours they had made an inventory of everything – machinery, desks, chairs, computers – that could be packed up, taken away and sold. When he asked how he could stop that happening, snake man said it was simple: clear the debt in full. Not simple at all. The overdraft was at its limit and there was a dearth of new orders. He wasn’t even sure he could meet that month’s payroll. ‘See you in seven days,’ called earring man as they let themselves out.
*
Ironic that May Day was International Workers’ Day. Celebrated as a medieval fertility festival, replete with maypole, morris dancers, beer tents and skittles, it had actually been co-opted in the nineteenth century by socialists fighting for an eight-hour day. This incarnation flourished with the rise of trade unionism and May Day became a bank holiday in 1978, when the Labour government decided to formally mark the working-class struggle against capitalism.
Bob Downing had explained all of this during one of their last Friday night sessions in the Lamb and Lion, just before Geoffrey took over Downings. Aren’t we the big bad capitalists? he had asked, supping on his third pint of Wild Hare. He remembered Bob’s reply because it was the first time Geoffrey had viewed himself through the lens of a responsible employer. We’re capitalists all right, but not big and not bad. We care about our workers and their families. It’s not just about profit; it’s about providing a livelihood, being at the heart of a community.
The memory stung. On that May Day Geoffrey had stood in the empty factory, the bailiffs’ cheap aftershave lingering and sour, and choked back tears of shame. Never had he missed his friend so keenly. Bob would have known what to do, but then Bob wouldn’t have got them into this mess in the first place.
Out of habit Geoffrey had locked up, then realised it didn’t matter if the place got robbed or burned to the ground – at least then he’d get the insurance money. For a second he even considered it. It took a vision of himself behind bars to bring him to his senses.
When he parked at the Rectory – closer to the May Day action than Manor Farm – and walked towards the green, he spotted Olivia chatting happily to Lorna and Johnny. Bob had been right; it was about so much more than profit. A lesson Geoffrey had learned too late. After twenty-five years at Downings – apprentice to skilled welder – Johnny was about to lose his job. Nearly half the village were about to lose their jobs.
Geoffrey had smiled, chatted, shook hands, pecked cheeks, all the time keeping this grenade of a secret to himself. Each time he saw one of his workers enjoying a day out with their family, he thought how they trusted him, relied on him to provide for that family. When he was called upon to present prizes – the raffle, best home-made jam, winner of the dog agility contest – it was in his capacity as a successful businessman. Soon they would all see him for what he was, and it wasn’t that.
In reading hour at school, Geoffrey had amused himself with the witticisms of Oscar Wilde. It was as near to literary as he cared to tread, but as he doled out raffle prizes he remembered something about ‘the curse of self-awareness’. He hadn’t understood it then, of course – what fourteen-year-old boy would? – but on May Day he had discerned a dissonance between the affable, beer-drinking, rugby-playing friend to all, and the fool who hadn’t thought about the collateral damage his commercial incompetence would inflict.
But as he had stood on the makeshift wooden podium – friends, employees and villagers looking up at him – the enormity of his conceit had become clear. It wasn’t just his own life he had gambled with; it was these people’s lives too.
*
He changed his mind about the sandwich and decided to go to the pub instead. A quick rifle through his pockets produced a ten-pound note and some change – enough for a few pints and a packet of crisps.
As he walked across the village green he thought again about how the Rectory, shabby and unmodernised though it was, represented prime real estate. Large rooms, high ceilings, original fireplaces and ornate plasterwork, country kitchen with an Aga, boot room, even an old-style pantry. The house stood alongside the green – which doubled as a cricket pitch in the summer – its acre of garden bordered by a drystone wall and five-bar gate. If he could persuade his mother to sell up and buy somewhere smaller and more manageable, his money problems would be solved.
Johnny Reed was at the bar with a pint, flicking through the jobs section of the Western Daily Press. Geoffrey wasn’t sure how he would be received, but approached him anyway. Lorna had told Olivia they didn’t blame Geoffrey for the factory going bust, but that was before the newspapers turned Parry-baiting into a blood sport.
It had started in the local papers – lots of human-interest stories about people like Johnny who had spent his whole working life at Downings. At least Johnny hadn’t given an interview. Others did, and were quick to report how things had gone downhill after Bob Downing’s death. They talked about him in glowing terms – a modest man who cared deeply about the welfare of his workers and their families. When asked about Geoffrey, it was his public-school education, his big house and flash car they spoke of. ‘It’ll soon be yesterday’s chip paper,’ Olivia’s dad had said. He had a point. Geoffrey reasoned that if he kept quiet and took it on
the chin, the papers would soon lose interest, turn their sights on some other poor bastard. But he hadn’t bargained on the national press.
The Guardian wanted to run a series of articles aimed at localising the global recession – ‘make the macro more micro’. They needed people who were deemed to have run small but vital businesses into the ground – even they had tired of writing about unaccountable bankers and hedge-fund billionaires – someone they claimed symbolised the greed and selfishness of the age. Geoffrey was one of the lucky winners. In a grossly unfair, one-sided polemic, he was pilloried for driving a new Mercedes (a picture of him at the wheel, captioned ‘All Right For Some’) and denounced for having a personalised number plate. Only ostentatious show-offs had personalised number plates, claimed the Guardian from the pulpit of self-righteousness. Braggarts desperate for attention. Olivia had warned him it was crass but he hadn’t listened. When had he ever?
‘Any luck?’ he asked.
Johnny turned the page. ‘Nope.’
Bert appeared from out the back, carrying a box of assorted crisps.
‘Usual?’ he asked Geoffrey.
‘Please, Bert. Johnny?’
Johnny took a swig from the near empty glass in his hand. ‘Go on then,’ he said.
Geoffrey put the ten-pound note on the bar and asked Bert for a pack of salt and vinegar.
‘Hope Edward didn’t outstay his welcome,’ said Geoffrey.
‘Huh?’
‘Half-term. He seemed to spend more time at your house than at home.’
Bert put two pints and the crisps on the bar, then gave him change from the ten-pound note.
‘Didn’t notice,’ said Johnny. ‘Wasn’t home much myself.’
‘Oh?’
Johnny took a few gulps of beer. He didn’t say why he hadn’t been home much. Geoffrey couldn’t stand this – the stilted sentences, the lack of conversation.
‘I saw you drop him off,’ he said. ‘Edward. You dropped him at the Rectory and drove away.’
Johnny’s gaze stayed fixed on his pint.
‘Why didn’t you come in – say hi, have a drink?’
Johnny made an ‘I dunno’ face. ‘Can’t remember. Lorna probably had dinner ready.’
‘Look, I’d really like to get past this. I don’t know about you, but I could use a friend right now.’
Johnny still hadn’t looked him in the eye. ‘I saw Manor Farm got sold,’ he said.
Geoffrey took a long hit of beer. ‘Yeah.’
‘Sorry, mate.’
Geoffrey wanted to sink the rest of his beer but didn’t have the money for another round.
‘At least that’s not something you and Lorna need to worry about.’
Their thatched cottage – originally a tied cottage, but purchased before Johnny was born – had been in his family for generations. The whole row of five had been built by the lord of Manor Farm to house those who worked on the land. The irony wasn’t lost on Geoffrey.
Johnny’s phone beeped. He fished it out of his jeans pocket, read the message on the screen and slipped the phone back. ‘Have to go,’ he said, finishing his pint in one gulp.
Shame. For the first time in a long time, Geoffrey had felt maybe, just maybe, they could salvage something of their friendship.
‘Thanks for the drink.’ Johnny patted him on the back and left with a wave to Bert.
Geoffrey counted out the change – enough for one more pint. He downed what was left of his first one, thirsty rugby-player style, and set the empty glass on the bar.
‘Put another one in there, would you, Bert.’
Johnny had forgotten his newspaper. Geoffrey glanced at the vacancies section and saw that two had been circled: both casual labouring jobs.
As a boy Geoffrey had hero-worshipped Johnny Reed. Five years older, cool and sporty, he had exactly the type of BMX dirt bike Geoffrey pleaded for each Christmas. Geoffrey was barely on Johnny’s radar until a young curate came to live at the Rectory and started up a branch of the Boys’ Brigade. Geoffrey was eight or nine so in the Junior section; Johnny and his friends in the Company section. For the most part Geoffrey was bored – between home and school, he got all the ‘Christian development’ he needed – but when the curate brought them together for joint activities, Geoffrey couldn’t have been happier. It meant he could watch Johnny at close quarters, study the way he spoke, walked, moved – all the better to copy him. Johnny must have noticed because he’d do this martial art thing, complete with Bruce Lee sound effects, pretending to kick-box him in the solar plexus. Geoffrey knew he was doing it to show off to the other Company boys but was euphoric just to be noticed.
Johnny was the curate’s favourite, always singled out by him for praise and attention. It was the first time Geoffrey understood the sin of envy – a wriggling snake inside of him that wouldn’t go away. On a camping trip to Exmoor, they sat in a circle round a campfire, toasted marshmallows and crumpets, and sang while the curate played the guitar. It had been the best night of Geoffrey’s young life. Cut loose from the reserved atmosphere at home and the rules and regulations at school, he could run free. But when the curate told them where to sleep and chose Johnny and another of the older boys to share his tent, Geoffrey could have wept with disappointment.
Olivia said it was a boy crush but it wasn’t. Geoffrey clowned around to get noticed, make himself popular, hide the loneliness of being an only child to older parents. They loved him but it felt formal, contained. Johnny was the big brother he prayed for. He knew it was impossible but that didn’t stop him yearning.
The young curate left soon after the camping trip, Geoffrey’s father disbanded the Boys’ Brigade and Johnny stopped coming to the Rectory. A great chasm of loss ripped Geoffrey’s world apart. It was as if the fake solar plexus kicks had never happened, as if Exmoor had never happened. Johnny ignored him when their paths crossed in the village. It wasn’t until Olivia and Lorna bonded over babies and book club that he and Johnny picked up again. Adults now, equals, Geoffrey’s star in the ascendancy. Public school, university, management material at Downings. Johnny was a welder and lived in a tiny cottage with twins. Not that any of that mattered. What mattered was that they were friends.
That was the problem with having nothing to do. It gave him too much time to dwell on things – wallow in nostalgia. Geoffrey had always been more of a doer than a thinker, but recently he found himself brooding for hours on end, reliving whole chapters of his life over and over in his head. What he should have done that he didn’t. What he had done that he shouldn’t. A spiral of fucked-up thinking if ever there was one.
The internet girls had provided a welcome distraction, but their appeal was starting to wane. How quickly he had become desensitised to their on-screen charms: too one-dimensional, their moves repetitive and predictable. He ached for a flesh-and-blood woman – one he could touch and taste and smell. And it had begun to disturb him that Olivia no longer played any part in his fantasies.
At night, as he lay in bed conjuring up his repertoire of arousing vignettes, Olivia was conspicuous by her absence. On an objective level he understood her sex appeal – the lean, toned body of a teenager, small firm breasts, trim bottom, a tumble of long blonde hair – but on a subjective level, familiarity hadn’t bred contempt, exactly, but it had dulled desire. He no longer cast her in his erotic daydreams – those roles went to the bank teller with the tight blouse, the girl in the baker’s whose sultry smile he felt sure offered more than a croissant or a French stick, the perky-bottomed weather girl who followed the BBC news. Or they had, until he found a new leading lady in Ruth Rutherford.
When he thought of her, he thought of wild sex in dangerous places, of discipline and threesomes. When he thought of Olivia, he thought of all the mistakes he had made. Through no fault of her own, Olivia had become the antidote to lust. In his fantasies at least, he wanted someone not as decent, not as sweet as his wife – someone a little bit nasty, a little bit dirty, and he was thoroughly as
hamed of himself.
His phone rang. Olivia. He almost didn’t answer but changed his mind just before it went to voicemail.
‘Can’t talk long,’ she said, chirpy and breathless. ‘Late for a staff meeting.’
‘Are you running?’
‘Walking briskly. Listen, a lot’s been happening here – I’ll explain later – but in the meantime, how would you feel about coaching rugby?’
‘What?’
‘Being rugby coach, here at St Bede’s. Part-time of course, and hopeless pay, but it might be fun – get you out of the house.’
He didn’t need to be asked twice. ‘When do I start?’
Seven
The Compton Cross book club met on the first Friday of the month. Olivia had missed October and tonight she would miss November too. She read the book just in case something changed at the last minute and she could make it after all. She knew she was kidding herself, but having another part of her life snatched away stirred an unhealthy bitterness towards Geoffrey and she needed to keep that under control.
What she wanted to know was this. Was Olympia Biddeford – heroine of Fortune’s Rocks – a good person who did a bad thing, or a bad person who did a good thing? This was exactly why Olivia hated to miss book club. It wasn’t just sitting around with her friends, drinking wine and chatting – although that was wonderful – it was the chance to get to the heart of a book, unpick the plot, the sub-plot, the characters and all their flaws.
Lorna and Ellie wouldn’t like it – too dense with flowery prose and period detail, a precocious young woman seduced by a married man, their illegitimate child spirited away, innocent lives ruined. Leslie and Jo, on the other hand, relished the drama of forbidden love, families ripped asunder by scandal, a newborn snatched from his unwed mother, only to be reunited years later.
An Unsuitable Marriage Page 10
