by Paul Torday
Charlie learned that Stanton was the family name of Henry and Sarah and that Newark was a title conferred on an earlier Stanton by Queen Victoria; he learned the name of several other families in the area who might be expected to ensure that their dogs had the best of everything. He went and looked at the names of former Stantons in St Mary’s Church, engraved on tombstones laid down among the stone flags of the church floor or else mounted on tablets of marble set into the church wall. It was obvious that the Stantons were still a power in the land; or at least in this corner of it.
Friday night was quiz night, and Charlie decided to attend as a spectator. The quiz, once it started, was a lively affair with much banter from the audience. The vicar was by far the strongest member of the home team, and a handsome lady no longer in the first flush of middle age, who was addressed by the quizmaster as ‘Mrs Bendy’, the weakest. The quizmaster was more democratic in his address to other members of the team: even the vicar, the Reverend Simon Porter, was called Simon, and others were Bert, or Dave, or Kevin. Charlie deduced that Mrs Bently did not like too much familiarity. She was dressed with rather more care than most other people in the room, wearing black trousers, a cardigan over a white blouse, and a silk scarf. Spectacles hung around her neck on a black cord. Charlie thought she looked rather elegant: ‘ladylike’ was the term he used to himself. She carried herself with a certain poise.
‘What is the capital of Peru?’ asked the quizmaster, announcing the next question. Then he read out various answers supplied by the team players. Mrs Bently’s answer was ‘Alpaca’. There was some laughter when this was read out.
‘It’s “Lima”, I’m afraid, Mrs Bently,’ the quizmaster said.
‘Oh, what can I be thinking of, then? I’m sure alpaca has something to do with Peru. That’s where this cardigan comes from.’
It was then explained to her that an alpaca was an animal that looked like a cross between a sheep and a camel.
‘Oh, of course,’ said Mrs Bently, laughing. ‘How silly of me! But alpacas live in Peru, don’t they? That must have been what I was thinking of.’
Charlie wondered whether Mrs Bently was a dog owner.
The quiz came to an end and, in the cheerful scrum that followed as people got up from chairs and replaced their drinks with fresh ones, Charlie found himself standing next to Mrs Bently. He smiled at her and was surprised when she smiled back.
‘Are you Mr Summers-Stanton?’ she asked. ‘Forgive me, but I saw your name in the hotel guest book. The Stanton Arms has so few visitors we tend to notice the ones who come.’
Charlie realised she must have misread the entry in the book. He had written, or rather scrawled, his name and then the name of the village as his address. She had assumed a hyphen between the two. He did not, however, correct the error.
‘Charlie Summers, I’m known as,’ was all he said.
‘But you must be related to Henry and Sarah Newark. Stanton’s their family name too, as you may know.’
‘Yes, I was staying with them before I came here,’ said Charlie, avoiding a more precise analysis of his relationship to the Stanton family.
That was all the conversation there was on the subject at the time, but from then on Charlie became aware of a revision of his status in the village. His account at the village shop was addressed to ‘C. Summers-Stanton Esq.’, and in general he found that more people were ready to stop and exchange a word with him than before.
The following week Charlie moved out of the Stanton Arms to a very small cottage which was available by the month, rented for a good deal less than he was paying at the pub. Charlie felt a residential address was important. One could not run a major pet food business from the top floor of a public house. He had some headed notepaper and business cards designed:
Charles Summers-Stanton
Piggery Cottage
Stanton St Mary
Glos.
This didn’t seem quite right, and he was a bit worried about the addition of Stanton to his surname, which he felt might be drawn to the attention of the Stanton family themselves. Far better to be known simply as Charlie Summers; he could always drop hints about grand relations from time to time. The next revision was more satisfactory. It read:
Charles Summers Esq., FRSDN
Dog Nutritionist
Piggery Farmhouse
Stanton St Mary
Glos.
The initials after his name added a touch of class, Charlie felt: they stood for ‘Fellow of the Royal Society for Dog Nutrition’, an institution that, if it did not yet exist, certainly ought to have done.
By this stage, Charlie was ready to start his new venture. It was time to earn an income. His outgoings had been modest so far, but some investment, as with all new businesses, had been unavoidable, and not all of it could be obtained on credit.
A card appeared in the window of the village shop. It said:
Coming Soon!!
Yoruza
Balanced Nutrition For Dogs
This was followed by advertisements in the local newspapers, which were reproduced as a single-page direct mail-shot sent to every manor house, farmhouse and cottage that Charlie could find the address of, within twenty miles of Stanton St Mary. The advertisement showed a picture of a black Labrador, absolutely glowing with health and good humour. Underneath were the words:
Feed him on Yoruza —
Because he’s worth it!
Charlie was particularly proud of the slogan. He had heard it or seen it somewhere in a different context, but felt that this was the first time it had been used in reference to dog food - certainly dog food that came from Japan. Beneath the heading were some statements, suitably vague, about a secret formula concocted by the monks of Yokohama, involving kelp and other alginates, and rich in potassium and a number of other minerals essential to the health of dogs.
With what headroom remained to him on his credit card, Charlie rented a pick-up truck. He had a transfer created for the door and side panels with the words ‘Yoruza’, ‘Balanced Nutrition for Dogs’ and a mobile phone number prominently displayed.
Charlie Summers was back in business.
*
Charlie bagged up the food in his rented premises in Gloucestershire. I doubt that any of it originated in Japan. Charlie was wary, he later told me, of any repeat of the dolphin-meat fiasco. Besides, someone had told him that in Korea, if you asked for dog food, what you got was food made from dogs. Charlie remembered from school that Korea was quite near to Japan. He felt that, rather than run any risk, and bearing in mind the problems with minced dolphin he had experienced with previous shipments, it would be better to mix the food himself from locally available ingredients, and present it in the Japanese manner. As a result, it looked very much like all the other dog food you find in your local cash-and-carry at the less expensive end of the range, but it was mixed with some scraps of dried vegetable that were described on the label as ‘specially selected alginates from the Sea of Japan’. The profit margin, even with these cost-saving measures, was exiguous.
The bags, which Charlie weighed and filled himself, were a masterclass in marketing. The familiar slogan and the brand name ‘Yoruza’ were prominent; smaller script declared that the product was ‘manufactured in Yokohama for Summers Pet Food Industries’, and there was some Japanese script on one corner of the bag that Charlie’s printer had copied from somewhere. He wasn’t sure what it meant. He loaded the bags into the back of his pick-up, and drove around the county fulfilling the orders that were beginning to roll in.
Henry Newark met Charlie outside the Stanton village shop a week or two after Charlie’s career as a dog nutritionist had been renewed. It was the first time they had met since Charlie’s unannounced visit to Stanton Hall. Henry told me he had been quite careful not to meet Charlie, but it was inevitable they should bump into each other sooner or later.
After a preliminary greeting, Henry asked, ‘And how’s the dog food business going?’
/> ‘Very well, Henry,’ said Charlie, ‘people are being very supportive.’
‘Why’s it called Yoruza?’
‘Oh. Well, Yoruza was a samurai’s dog who starved to death on his master’s grave. The Japanese rather admired him for his loyalty,’ explained Charlie.
‘It seems a bit odd to name a dog food after an animal that starved to death,’ said Henry. Feeling he might have been a trifle unkind he felt compelled to add, ‘You’d better let me have a couple of bags, then. What will that set me back?’
Charlie told him. Henry winced, but pulled a handful of twenty-pound notes from his wallet and counted out what he owed Charlie.
‘Not cheap,’ he said.
‘It’s the shipping costs from Japan,’ Charlie explained.
‘But you’ll find your dog has never looked better. Give it a week or two, and then you’ll see a difference. After all, you get what you pay for in this world, don’t you think?’
*
That evening Charlie went to the pub, feeling he could afford a night out. Cash flow had improved recently. He had even been able to make a small payment to reduce the balance on one of his credit cards.
He was greeted by a number of people as he entered the Stanton Arms. By now Charlie had become an accepted part of the local landscape. Wearing either his shiny blazer, or a very old wax jacket that looked as if it had been recovered from the corpse of a poacher, or - for pub evenings - a rather tight-fitting beige cardigan, he was always cheerful, and took in good part a certain amount of the teasing that came his way. He was prepared to stand the occasional round of drinks, too, and did so this evening.
‘You mus’ be a millionaire by now, I s’ppose,’ said Kevin, as he accepted a pint of bitter. Kevin worked as a butcher’s boy selling sausages and chops from the back of a van.
‘People seem to like the stuff,’ said Charlie.
‘Or their dogs do,’ said Kevin. ‘It’s not people what has to eat it, is it, Charlie?’
There was some laughter at this; it was felt that Kevin had scored a point.
‘You’re in the wrong business, mate,’ continued Kevin. ‘Now, the way to make money these days is buy-to-let.’
There were expressions of interest from Kevin’s immediate entourage. Charlie listened with an expression of polite indifference. Sufficiently encouraged, Kevin continued: ‘All you have to do is find a property what’s a little run down - a student flat, like that. You goes to the bank or the building society. They have these special buy-to-let mortgages. They’ll give you the full price of the flat without a deposit, or not much of one. You add a lick of paint here and there, put an ad in the papers, get a tenant, and that’s all there is to it.’ ‘Simple as that?’ asked Charlie doubtfully.
‘Simple as that, Charlie: you pays six per cent on your mortgage, interest only. Your rent pays your mortgage, the value of the flat goes up by ten or twenty per cent per year, and there you are. I know people what don’t do anything else. That lad that owns the paper shop in Stanton St John, Mohammed, he says he owns five flats in Cheltenham now.’ ‘Does he?’ said half a dozen admiring voices from around the bar.
Dave, who was apprenticing to be the village undertaker, said, ‘Of course, Kev, if you want to pay six per cent on your mortgage you can do, but I’ve heard it’s better to borrow in euros and that only costs three per cent, and a bit.’
‘I’m getting my Single Farm Premium in euros,’ said Cleggie, who had five hundred acres of wheat and barley a mile or so from the village. ‘I reckon the pound is going to fall against the euro. Stands to reason, doesn’t it?’
No one quite knew what the reason might be, so this remark was accepted as being the last word on exchange rates.
There was a lively discussion around the bar for a moment concerning interest rate differentials, currency futures, hedges, and the like. If the Governor of the Bank of England had been in the bar, he would have struggled to keep up with some of the more technical observations. At length Charlie broke in and said, ‘If it’s that easy, Kevin, why aren’t you doing it now? Why are you still selling sausages from the back of a van?’
Kevin looked hurt.
‘I’m laying me plans, Charlie, laying me plans. You just look me up this time next year, and you’ll see how easy it is to make money for them what knows how. Watch and learn, Charlie; watch and learn.’
Charlie excused himself, saying he was going outside to have a smoke. On the doorstep of the pub he met Mrs Bently, who was puffing away at a cigarette in a long ebony holder. It was a sight that would have been more congruous in the lounge of the Ritz Hotel thirty years ago, rather than outside the Stanton Arms in rural Gloucestershire. Whatever she was smoking was fragrant, and reminded Charlie of his childhood.
‘Good evening, Mrs Bendy,’ said Charlie. ‘What a nice smell your cigarette has.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Bently. ‘Mr Summers-Stanton. I didn’t realise you were in the pub tonight. Do you like the scent of the tobacco? It’s Egyptian.’
‘Please call me Charlie,’ said Charlie. Once back inside the pub, matters arranged themselves so that Charlie found himself sitting at a corner table with Mrs Bently, having bought her a fresh gin and tonic (large), and another pint of bitter for himself.
‘How is your dog food business going?’ asked Mrs Bently.
‘Surprisingly well,’ said Charlie. ‘People in this part of the world obviously care enough about their dogs to spend just that little bit extra to make sure their pets have a proper diet.’
‘So brave of you to come and start a new business in a new place,’ said Mrs Bently. ‘Have you always been in dog food?’
‘No, not always,’ said Charlie. He could not think of an acceptable way to summarise the last twenty years of his varied career, so he said, ‘I was in the army for a while.’
This was a complete lie. Charlie was no more of a soldier than I was a brain surgeon.
Mrs Bently looked at him with a trace more enthusiasm in her gaze. Not only was Charlie a relation of the Newarks, but he was clearly a member of the officer class as well.
She said, ‘My ex-husband was in the Coldstreams for a while. What regiment were you in? We used to meet a lot of soldiers at one time; although that was many years ago.’
Charlie had thought, until then, that Coldstream was the name of a river, or a town. He temporised.
‘I was in Special Forces. We’re not really supposed to talk about it, even after we’ve left.’
Mrs Bently now looked at him with frank admiration.
‘I imagine you could tell some tales if you were allowed to, Mr Summers-Stanton.’
Charlie shook his head modestly, and sipped his glass of bitter. There was a pause. Then he said, ‘Do you have a dog, Mrs Bently?’
‘No, I’ve never thought about it,’ she admitted.
‘They are such good company,’ said Charlie. He had never personally owned a dog, but felt confident enough in making this assertion. His acquaintance of local dogs was widening by the week.
*
Conversation over a drink led to an invitation to call on Mrs Bently for a cup of tea a few days later. It might be more truthful to say that the suggestion had been Charlie’s, and that Mrs Bently had not felt able to turn him down flat.
Stanton House was approached by a short drive with grass pasture on either side. At the end of the drive was a large farmhouse, adorned with bay windows and Virginia creeper, with a stable block at the back around three sides of a cobbled yard. Though not in mint condition the house was well looked after, the yard was free from weeds and there was an air of money somewhere in the background which warmed Charlie’s heart.
He was welcomed by Mrs Bently at the door. He thought he detected in her expression some hesitation, as if she might have forgotten he was coming or, perhaps more likely, was now wondering why she had agreed to the idea.
‘Do come in, Mr Summers-Stanton.’
‘Please call me Charlie,’ said Charlie.
He followed his hostess into a small hall where a long-case clock ticked away. A bowl of autumn crocuses was flowering on top of a polished oak chest. They passed on into a drawing room, which was large and filled with afternoon sunshine. Through the windows was a view of a well-tended garden. Charlie was offered a seat, and sat down on the edge of a sofa. Mrs Bently disappeared for a moment and Charlie looked around him. The walls of the room were hung with small oil paintings, and a few watercolours with floral themes. The furniture was good and smelled of wax polish: there was a small breakfront bookcase, a tallboy and two mahogany side tables. Mrs Bently returned with a tray of tea things, and poured Charlie a cup.
‘It’s Earl Grey,’ she said, ‘I hope that’s all right.’
‘My favourite,’ said Charlie.
‘Men so often like Indian tea.’
‘We always used to drink Earl Grey at home,’ said Charlie, inaccurately.
‘Oh? Where was home?’ asked Mrs Bently.
‘My people came from Middlesbrough,’ said Charlie. He did not offer any further elaboration but dropped four lumps of sugar into his tea and stirred it vigorously. ‘Have you always lived here, Mrs Bently?’
‘It was my parents’ home,’ she said. ‘My father bought it from the previous generation of Newarks just after the war, when they had to sell off some property to pay death duties. I grew up here and, when my husband and I were married, we moved to Stanton St Mary after my mother died. Now I live on my own except when my daughter and her husband come to stay, which I’m afraid isn’t very often. He has a large estate in Scotland, you know. It keeps them very busy.’
‘Is your husband still alive?’ asked Charlie.
‘We were divorced a long time ago. He lives in France now. He remarried.’
Mrs Bently sounded bitter. Time had not healed all, thought Charlie. There was a silence.
