by Louth Nick
“Bernard what was that awful crash!” I’m lying on the railway, my back in agony as Eunice thunders up into the loft. I open my eyes to see a mini-catastrophe. Four Great Western coaches lie on their side, one with its roof stoved in. The big tunnel is cracked as if by an earthquake, fragments of lichen everywhere. Further off, my prized Lima electric loco crashed into the water tank. The level crossing is destroyed, the tiny figures scattered like corpses.
Suddenly I feel a huge weight of shame.
Monday 21st August: All over Tanfield
Bought 10,000 shares in Tanfield at 30p. Even though current P/E is a hefty 30, the forward ratio is less than 10 for 2007, which meets the criteria I set at the start of the year. At least, being a milk float company, it should deliver.
Elevenses: Hot cocoa and a pear. Eunice is nursing me, having fallen for my excuse about changing the strip light. Still, the railway is in an awful mess. It will be months of work to get it sorted. My back hurts like blazes when I move.
3pm: Dot phoned. She says she’ll sell some shares, but she wants a sports car. After 45 minutes bargaining, and my reminder that she hasn’t got a licence, we settle for a mobility vehicle but: “It’s got to be more expensive than Hermione Watson’s.”
Chapter Thirty-One: Bernard Begins Hedging
Tuesday 22nd August: Tesco tongue pie
Awoke with back pain. Still suffering from my fall in the loft. Thinking about investing in Tesco. Not really expensive but still growing fast, especially overseas. Hardly risky plus decent 2.5 per cent yield. Trouble is, when I ever go to the supermarket (under sufferance) it’s always Waitrose. Haven’t seen inside a Tesco store for years. Feel I should do some research. However, Eunice smells a rat the moment I offer to do this week’s supermarket run: “Bernard, what are you up to?”
“What do you mean?”
“You would never willingly take on a chore without an ulterior motive.”
“What tosh. Still, I’m willing to solemnly swear, on a packet of plain chocolate digestives, not to get anything not on the list that you give me.”
Unable to work out what I’m up to, she reluctantly gives me permission. Return half an hour earlier than if I’d gone all the way to Waitrose. World War III begins the moment she sees me stagger in with armfuls of blue and white bags. She picks with distaste amongst my purchases, dismissing each in turn. “No. No. Awful. Wrong. No. Dreary. Shop-soiled.” She tosses a portion of Brie back in the bag. “Well, that’s rubbish. Oh dear. And I wanted the quilted Andrex, not that awful own brand.”
“It’s part of the Finest range, dear. Top quality. No chafing, and I saved £1.22.”
“Bernard, not everything comes down to price. Tesco is just a bunch of jumped-up barrow boys. I don’t patronise them.”
Elevenses: Filled fruit meringue from packet of two secreted in glove box of the Volvo! Did I break the rules? No, because eggs, fruit and sugar were all on the list. I merely combined them in one purchase.
Close of play: Spirent, which I sold in July for 33p is now 47p. Whereas Qinetiq, which I do own, has fallen to 167p. Seen nothing of the angelic au pair next door for a day or two, but the vision remains!
Wednesday 23rd August: A bruised portfolio
Gorgeous warm morning. Hear the scraping sound of Astrid setting up the sun lounger next door. Decide there and then on a spot of gardening. Eunice, of course, comes out and spoils the party.
“Bernard why are you trimming the leylandii? I thought you wanted to block out the O’Riordans.”
“Well, it’s not really fair to let it get so high. It probably blocks the light to their kitchen.”
“So? They didn’t care when they parked their giant motor caravan at the front, did they? Besides, that’s a good four feet you’re cutting off there. We’ll lose our privacy. They’ll be able to see me sunbathing from their bedrooms and we’ll…”
After a sudden pause, Eunice suddenly shakes the ladder. “Get down this minute and come into the house.” I can safely say that I have never had my face slapped so hard.
12.30pm: Arrive at the Ring o’Bells for share club and everyone just stares at me. Mystified, I go into the gents and look in the mirror. Rising purple bruise on my cheek, presumably caused by Eunice’s ring. What should my story be? Make up something about an altercation with a taxi driver. It is clear that Harry Staines, a veteran of many altercations from the Suez Crisis of 1956 to the ‘Incident in Ikea’ of 2005, doesn’t believe me.
When we get down to business, it’s clear no one is happy with the share club’s returns. BHP Billiton is still languishing around £10, Fortune Oil is going nowhere at 6p, and Martin Gale is still bleating on about iSoft. Dividends earned since inception: nil. I report back about Rank, which I believe could be a good contrarian play at 208p. They are so impressed with its strong dividend yield and break-up potential that Martin says. “Let’s buy it right now.”
K.P. Sharma gets out his laptop and powers it up. “We’ve got £1270.14 in the kitty. How much should we spend?”
“The lot,” everyone choruses. The club account is with an online broker, so Chantelle lets us into the pub manager’s tiny office where there is a grimy old PC, balanced on piles of magazines. There’s an internet connection, but no broadband, and we crowd around while geriatric online snails deliver the pages at a pixel per second. Finally we get a price, already up 2p at 210p. We can afford 596 of them. K.P. hits the buy button, and nothing happens.
“Come on, come on,” Martin shouts, grabs the mouse and clicks the buy button again.
“Don’t, you might buy it twice,” warns K.P.
“What with?” Harry says, as Chantelle seizes the mouse. Harry starts squeezing under the desk to look at connections, and in the mayhem, the monitor slides off its perch. Martin catches it, but the cable has come out of the back and the screen goes black. After the expletives die down, I observe: “Well, we’re certainly an investment force to be reckoned with, aren’t we?”
Close of play: After much palaver, Rank finally bought at 212p.
Chapter Thirty-Two: Obstinacy on the Dot
Friday 1st September: Airfix unstuck
Sad news that Airfix has finally come financially unglued. I remember a major part of my childhood building fiddly plastic Spitfires and Hurricanes and restaging the Battle of Britain on the bedroom floor. Ah, the reek of polystyrene cement, the tiny tins of Humbrol enamel and those sharp knives that children would no longer be trusted with. Airfix was new in the late ’50s. Much has changed since. I recall buying young Digby a basic Revell kit of a sports car for his eighth birthday this year. Initially excited, the grievous grandchild tore the box lid off and exclaimed “Urgh, it’s broken!”
“No it’s not. You just have to build it. I’ve got you glue and paint and brushes. It may take a week or two as it’s your first,” I replied gently. The malevolent mite looked at me as if I was mad. Perhaps I am. There’s nothing in his life that takes two minutes to complete, let alone two weeks. No wonder Airfix is struggling. The only high it could offer the Playstation generation would be sniffing the glue.
Elevenses: Two all-butter shortbread from an aged packet hidden in the garage. Weather rather bad for last week. No sign of the angelic au-pair. Eunice is still in a huff and watching me like a hawk.
Close of play: BAE Systems goes from strength to strength at 380p. Until I can eventually persuade Dot to do something sensible with her inheritance, this one share price matters more than all else put together.
Saturday 2nd September: Dotting the eyes, crossing the teas
Oh God, the bloody O’Riordans have returned! Their huge Winnebago, fresh from giving Britain’s arterial roads a coronary, is now parked in front, throwing our house into a Stygian gloom. The air is thick with bellicose banter as they unload. A brief glimpse of the au pair, carrying two suitcases in. Astrid is wasted on them. Absolutely wasted.
PM: Drove around M25 to see my mother, again. Thanks to my form filling, Dot now has an internet
-based stock market account holding her BAE shares, but has so far refused to give me authorisation to deal on her behalf. We badly need to diversify her inheritance of BAE shares, but she has hidden from me the letter that gives her account name and password.
“Come on Mum, you don’t have a computer so I need to operate it for you. Where is the letter?”
“I’m not telling you. You bullied me into this and I can’t follow what’s going on. I used to have a certificate to hold in my hand, and now I don’t.”
“It’s a nominee account, Mum. It’s safer, you can’t lose your shares this way.”
“So what’s this internet then?”
For the umpteenth time I try to explain, but she’s clearly baffled. I have tried to tempt her with the purchase of a mobility vehicle once she lets me access the account for her, but it’s no good. While she’s in the loo, I do a little reconnaissance. Aunty Vi’s Burmese teapot, the usual place for supposed safekeeping is awash in £20 notes each wrapped in elastic, but no letter. I do wish she trusted bank accounts. It isn’t under the mattress either, nor tucked behind the cuckoo clock. Giving up, I help myself to a chocolate finger from the tin, and there it is! Can’t think of a worse place to hide something from me, but in the bloody biscuit tin. Quickly, I scrawl down the account code and password before Dot finally emerges.
Sunday 3rd September: Curdistan invaded
Papers say Hornby may ride to Airfix’s rescue. Nostalgia says thank God, but is it a good business idea? Perhaps if it outsources all the kit production to China as it has done with railway rolling stock. Trouble is, who is buying the products at any price?
Elevenses: Walk in to my den, seeking an eccles cake only to find Eunice allegedly tidying up. All my Excel help sheets have been stacked up, and Prescott, that insufferable suede pig has been put in my chair. “Aha! Lemon Curdistan is under attack I see,” I tell her.
Eunice gives me a withering look. “Bernard, you would make a terrible criminal. The evidence of your sweet tooth is everywhere. I found two foil mince pie holders down the back of your desk, ancient crumbs under the keyboard and a Kwik Save receipt in the bin. The computer mouse is so sticky, I’m surprised you can use it.”
Monday 4th September: Mum’s the word
Up at 8am and try to get into Dot’s internet broking account. Password is invalid! Very strange. Am sure I copied it correctly. Can hardly ask Dot. Foolishly, I phone customer services, who respond that there is no authority for me on the account. They ask to speak to Dot, to verify her agreement and ask her some security questions. I concede that she isn’t around, and they then get very officious with me. Bugger. I’m really stuck now.
Chapter Thirty-Three: A Heroic Act
Tuesday 5th September: Penny wise, pound foolish
Phoned up Dot, finally tackling her about her stockbroking account and its strange invalid password. “Have you tried to use your account, Mum?”
“You mean, the interplane thing?”
“Internet, Mum. Have you spoken to them about it?”
“Oh no. I did ask Mrs Harrison, you know, from number 66, to help. She says her health visitor, Clive, is really good on the outernet.”
“Mum, this is very, very important. What exactly did you give her? I hope it wasn’t the letter with the account details and password.”
“No, Clive phoned up on Sunday evening and I told him those.”
“Why on earth did you do that? He could sell the shares and help himself to your money, you silly woman!” I was close to panic. There’s over half a million pounds worth of shares in that account.
“Don’t be silly, Bernard. He sounded ever so nice.”
“That much money could tempt a saint. What’s his phone number?”
She didn’t know. She didn’t know his address, or his second name. Mrs Harrison was not answering her phone. God, I could scream. Only last week Dot made me move her Welsh dresser to retrieve a five pence piece that had fallen behind, and here she is giving a complete stranger the keys to a veritable Fort Knox of family wealth.
Elevenses: Two Curtis Teatime Fancies from the pack I bought at Tesco, and hid in the Hornby drawer. Shh! That’s two crimes in one.
Close of play: Had a brief glimpse of the angelic Astrid from the bedroom window. Poor thing looks so harried now the bloody O’Riordans are back. Its amazing how much you can see from upstairs now that half of the leylandii hedge is trimmed to eleven feet or so (Eunice refused to let me complete the job). The bottle blonde Lisa O’Riordan sits in her conservatory painting her toenails a bilious metallic green, while directing Astrid to run around picking up tricycles, balls and plastic buses from the lawn. The youngest child, who I’ve still never heard addressed as other than You Little Tosser, is quietly pulling all the tape out of a Postman Pat videocassette.
Thursday 7th September: The mystery of Clive
Seems Mrs Harrison is away for a fortnight. Dot still refuses to let me call the brokers to change the password. Phone social services intending to ask about health visitors called ‘Clive’. They said call the NHS, but couldn’t tell me which primary care trust. Got nowhere in the end, which leaves me able to do nothing but sit out this enormous worry.
Elevenses: Box of fresh fudge from the bakery, on special offer as out of date. Shouldn’t have eaten the lot, though. Feel distinctly queasy.
Friday 8th September: Edgington torment
Peter Edgington phones up to say a Hornby buy tip has appeared in Chronic Investor magazine. About time too, I say. The price has already moved over 240p, which is almost ten times what I paid for them. If only I’d bought more than 200. As if to infuriate me, Peter mentions that he’s just bought twenty-bloody-thousand!!
For my cash-strapped self the Hornby purchases are now limited to repair and maintenance activities on the model railway after my Icarus-like fall. Acquired a GWR Brake Rhymney wagon for £8.75, and a track-repair crane plus ballast hopper, which I bought second hand at the local stockist for £12 the pair. Have modelled them with length of track suspended from cotton, and placed some maintenance figurines around, which makes a splendid diorama.
If only my back could be so easily fixed. Eunice nagging at me to see the chiropractor, but last time it was a £45 fiasco: twenty trouserless minutes listening to rain forest sounds on CD while an effeminate Ulsterman practised origami on me.
Thursday 14th September: Romance beckons
Breakfast surprise. Have just lifted a spoon of Sugar Puffs from my bowl when Eunice reveals she has booked a surprise trip to Paris for us both this weekend. While I’m still gathering my wits to react to this alarming piece of news, she begins her pitch with all the smoothness of a Downing Street spin-doctor.
“We’ve got three nights in a lovely old hotel in Montparnasse, near lots of romantic restaurants and bars. It is all arranged. Flights, hotels, transfers the lot. No need to tear your hair out trying to tap in your credit card details on the internet, because I’ve already used mine. Bernard, you are simply going to love it. We’ve even got a romantic four-poster bed!”
Eunice’s hand stole forward to stroke mine in an ominous fashion.
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” I responded uneasily. “How delightful.”
Oh Lord. A four-poster bed sends an unequivocal message: prepare for a safari through hippopotamus country. More coition, new and terrifying positions, but most exhausting of all the continuous pretence of passion. Two years ago in Barcelona, Eunice had put on the hotel’s pay TV and forced me to sit with her through an hour and 47 minutes of noisome Iberian grunting. The camera was so close the film could easily have been mistaken for an out-of-focus infomercial about the manufacture of chorizo. However, Eunice had already moved to head off any objections.
“Now I know you always love to moan about the cost of my little trips, so I’ve thought of that too. We’re flying out on EasyJet from Luton and it’s only going to cost £1.25 each. I couldn’t believe it! No wonder the big airlines are losing money.”
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br /> “Well, I’m sure there’s airport tax too.”
“Yes, and a credit card charge. But it’s still cheap.”
“And we do have to get there. You have to allow three hours to get to Luton at rush hour,” I pointed out. “It might wipe out the savings over Gatwick.”
“It’s not remotely rush hour.”
“Errr… what time is the flight?” I responded, with some alarm.
“Now let me see,” Eunice said, brandishing a booking confirmation. “06.05am outbound, and 23.52 on the way back.”
“But that will mean we have to check in at four in the morning!”
