Free to Trade

by Michael Ridpath

  Cash’s blue, piggy eyes looked at me questioningly for a moment. Then he coughed uncomfortably, and looked at his hands clasped in front of him.

  ‘I’m sorry, client confidentiality. I understand,’ I said, although I didn’t quite understand.

  With that, the meeting broke up.

  As soon as the lift doors had closed on Cash and Cathy, Rob turned to me. ‘Phew! Don’t you think she’s gorgeous? Can you believe those legs?’

  I couldn’t argue about the legs. I could argue about the girl.

  ‘She’s all yours, Rob. Talk about arrogant. She makes Cash look as sweet as a kitten.’

  ‘You just didn’t like her showing you up like that,’ said Rob. ‘She obviously knows her stuff. Beautiful, and intelligent too. I’m sure she was looking at me all through that meeting. I think I’ll give her a ring and see what she’s doing tonight.’

  ‘You must be out of your tree. She’ll eat you alive,’ I said. But I knew it was no use. When it came to women, Rob was definitely out of his tree, and he would probably enjoy being eaten alive.

  As we walked back into the office, Hamilton called me over. ‘How did it go?’ he asked.

  ‘Pretty well,’ I said. ‘I’ll need to do a fair bit more work on it, but I may well get comfortable with the credit in the end.’ I told him some of the details of our discussion. ‘It certainly will be worth while seeing the owner. Cash also invited me to their high yield conference in Phoenix. He said there would be a number of companies that issue junk bonds present. What do you think?’ Hamilton could be tight on expenses and I feared the answer would be no.

  But I was wrong. ‘You should go. I’d like to begin buying a few junk bonds soon, and it will be a lot easier if you have seen the managements speak. You might learn something from other investors, too. It’s always worth gathering information.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. The idea of going to Arizona appealed, although I wasn’t sure whether I would be up to prolonged exposure to Cash’s geniality and Cathy’s lectures.

  ‘Whilst you are over there, you may as well stop off in New York. It’s always worth finding out what’s going on there.’

  ‘I will. Thank you very much.’

  I had been to New York before, but I had never visited any of the investment banks there. Their trading rooms were legendary, the centre of the world financial markets.

  I went back to my desk, and opened the Tahiti documentation. I could use some help with this.

  ‘Debbie?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you feeling helpful?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would you do me an enormous favour?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘See what you think of this.’ I tossed her the prospectus for the Tahiti. ‘I’ll do the numbers, but see what you think of the covenants.’

  ‘Oh great, thanks,’ she said, waving at the pile of prospectuses already surrounding her. ‘I’ll squeeze it into the half-hour between when I go to bed and when I get up.’

  For all her complaining, I knew she would do a thorough job. And although she would never admit it, she approached the Tahiti documents with obvious enthusiasm.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, ‘did you see the Gypsum of America stock price is up to thirteen dollars. Not bad, eh?’

  ‘Not at all bad,’ I smiled.

  At least that little investment seemed to be going right.

  4

  I was approaching home. The road became wilder as it made its way up the dale where I was born. Gently sloping banks grew into towering hillsides, a tartan of close-cropped grass, bracken and heather. It had rained earlier in the day, but the clouds had disbanded leaving a pale blue sky. The bright green of the grass and the bracken glistened in the sunlight; even the usually dour dry-stone walls shone like streaks of silver along the hillside. This drive up the dale never failed to invigorate me, no matter how long I had been cooped up in the car.

  Eventually I came to a T-junction with a sign pointing straight up the hillside, announcing ‘Barthwaite 3’. I turned up an impossibly steep road. In five minutes I topped the crest of a hill and looked down into the small valley in which the village of Barthwaite nestled. I drove down past the hard grey stone cottages, brightened up here and there by geraniums or lobelia sprouting from window boxes. I slowed down as I passed a narrow lane which led down to a large farm. The words ‘Appletree Farm’ were clearly painted on the white gate. It looked just as well kept as it had when I had lived there as a child. A new cattleshed, some modern machinery, but otherwise the same.

  I drove on through the village, crossing the small river and up the hill on the other side. I stopped outside the last cottage, where village turned to moorland. I walked through the small front garden, brimming with hollyhocks, lavender, roses, gladioli and a host of colourful flowers whose names I did not know, and rapped the iron knocker of the front door, which was guarded by half a dozen tall foxgloves.

  The small, bustling form of my mother was in the doorway in a moment.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ she said. ‘Sit yourself down. Did you have a good journey? Can I get you a cup of tea? You must be tired.’

  I was ushered in to the living room. ‘Why don’t you sit in Dad’s chair,’ she said, as she always did. ‘It’s nice and comfortable.’ I sank into the old leather armchair and within a moment I was plied with scones and strawberry jam, both home-made. I commented on the garden and we spent a few minutes chatting about my mother’s plans for it. Next came the village gossip, where I caught up on the latest scandalous activities of Mrs Kirby, Barthwaite’s answer to Pamella Bordes. Then there was a long story about the problems my sister Linda was having getting the right covering for her settee, and the usual mild nagging that I hadn’t dropped in to see her.

  My mother didn’t keep still for a moment during this conversation. She illustrated every point with elaborate hand movements and every minute or so got up to refill my cup, straighten up something in the room, or rush out to the kitchen to get some more cakes. Her face was slightly flushed as she talked rapidly on. She was a very energetic woman, throwing herself into everything that went on in the village. Everyone liked her. Despite her tendency to be a busybody, most of what she did or said was motivated by kindness or a genuine desire to help. And people still felt sorry for her. Seventeen years is not a long time in a Dales village.

  The afternoon passed pleasantly. Then, after she had come back from the kitchen with some more tea, she said, ‘I do wish your father would write. He has been in Australia a while now. You would have thought he could write. I’m sure he has found a lovely sheep farm. I saw one on telly last week which I am sure would do for us.’

  ‘I am sure he will write soon. Let’s go out and see the garden,’ I said, trying to change the subject. But it was no use.

  ‘It really is inconsiderate of him, you know. All I need is a quick letter. I know it’s expensive to phone from that distance. Have you heard from him?’

  ‘No, Mum, I’m afraid I haven’t,’ I said.

  Nor was I likely to. My father hadn’t gone to Australia. Or Argentina, or Canada, as my mother had suggested over the years. He had died.

  It had happened when I was eleven, and although I hadn’t actually seen it, what I had seen would always remain with me. Something had caught in the combine harvester on our farm, and he had tried to free it. But he had left the engine on. I was kicking a football against the wall on the other side of the barn. I had heard a shout over the noise of the engine, which cut off abruptly. I ran round the barn to find what was left of my father.

  Eventually I had come to terms with the shock. My mother never did. She had been devoted to my father and could not accept his death. She had created another world for herself, one in which he was still alive, and one in which she could be comfortable.

  My father was the tenant of one of the largest farms on an estate, and was respected by everyone in the village. This had made the lives of my mother, my older sister
and me easier. Lord Mablethorpe, the owner of the estate, had spent a lot of time on my father’s farm, discussing with him ever more efficient ways to get the maximum yield from it. They had become firm friends. When my father died, Lord Mablethorpe had given us a tied cottage to live in, promising it to my mother for as long as she lived. My father had taken out a generous life-insurance policy which gave us enough to live on, and the neighbours were all kind and helpful.

  My father was a good man. I knew that because everyone always said so. I remembered him as a big, fierce man with a strong sense of right and wrong. I had always done my best to please him and I had usually succeeded. On the occasions when I failed to meet his expectations, there was all hell to pay. At the end of one term I had come home from school with a report criticising me for playing the fool in class. He had given me a lecture on the importance of learning at school. I was top of the class the next term.

  His death, and the effect it had on my mother, seemed so unfair, unjust. I was stricken by my inability to do anything about it. It made me angry.

  It was then that I had started running. I ran for miles over the hills, pushing myself to the limit that my small lungs could bear. I would battle my way through the cold wind and gloom of a Yorkshire winter, seeking some solace in the lonely struggle against the moors.

  I also worked hard at school, determined to live up to what I imagined my father would have expected of me. I had struggled into Cambridge. Despite spending so much time on athletics, I had managed a respectable degree. By the time I started my Olympic campaign, determination and the desire to win had become a habit. It would be wrong to say that I had driven myself to an Olympic medal just for him. But I secretly hoped he had seen me crossing the line for my bronze.

  My mother had never come to terms with my ambitions. Whilst my father was ‘away’, she had wanted my sister to marry a local farmer, and me to go to agricultural college so that I could look after the farm. My sister had obliged her, but I had not. After the accident, I could not face farming. But, in order to make her world habitable, my mother had decided that I was studying at an agricultural college in London. At first I had tried to contradict her, but she hadn’t listened, so I gave up. She had been proud of my achievements on the track, but worried in case they were interfering with my studies.

  ‘It’s a lovely afternoon,’ I said, to try to change the subject. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

  We left the cottage and struck up the hillside. My mother was a regular walker and we soon made it to the saddle between our valley and the next. We looked down on to Helmby Hall, an austere mansion built at the beginning of the twentieth century by an earlier Lord Mablethorpe with the profits from his textile milling interests.

  My mother paused for breath. ‘Oh, I didn’t tell you, did I? Lord Mablethorpe died last month. A stroke. Your father will be sad when he finds out.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said.

  ‘So am I,’ she said. ‘He was always very good to me. And to lots of people in the village.’

  ‘Does that mean his moronic son has taken over Helmby Hall?’

  ‘Paul, really. He’s not daft. He’s a charming young gentleman. He’s clever too. He works in a merchant bank in London, I believe. I hear he is still going to spend most of his time down there. He’ll just come up here at weekends, like.’

  ‘Well, the less he has to do with Barthwaite, the better,’ I said. ‘Has Mrs Kirby met him yet? I wonder what she thinks of him,’ I asked my mother innocently.

  My mother laughed. ‘I wouldn’t put even that past her,’ she said.

  We got back to the cottage at about seven, tired but contented with each other’s company.

  Then, just as I was getting in the car for the drive home, she said, ‘Now then, make sure you study hard, dear. Your father told me before he left that he was sure you would make a good farmer, and I am sure you can prove him right.’

  I drove home as I often drove home after visits to my mother, sad and angry at the unfairness of life and death.

  I was sitting at my desk early on Monday morning when Rob arrived, a huge grin on his face. I knew that grin of old. He was in love again, and things were going well.

  ‘OK, what happened?’

  He was bursting to tell me. ‘Well, I rang Cathy yesterday and persuaded her to come out with me. She made all sorts of excuses, but I wasn’t going to let her get away with any of them. She finally gave in and we went to a film she said she had wanted to see for years. It was some French rubbish by Truffaut. I thought it was extremely boring and lost all track of what was going on, but she was glued to the screen. Afterwards we had dinner. We talked for hours. She really seems to understand me in a way no other girl ever has.’

  Or at least not since Claire last month and Sophie three months ago, I thought a little cruelly. Rob could get quite carried away when he poured his heart out to girls. The funny thing was, often they would get carried away too. But I wouldn’t have put Cathy down as a push-over for Rob’s technique.

  ‘So what happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Rob smiled. ‘She’s a nice girl. She doesn’t go in for that sort of thing on a first date. But I’m seeing her on Saturday. I’m going to take her sailing.’

  ‘Good luck,’ I said. This was shaping up to be like Rob’s other affairs. He was at the pedestal-building stage, I thought. You had to hand it to him, though. He seemed capable of cracking even the toughest nut.

  The light flashed on my phone board. It was Cash.

  ‘I got a couple of things,’ he began. ‘First, are you coming to our conference?’

  ‘Yes, I’d love to come. Thank you very much,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ Cash said. ‘And I promise I will set up a meeting with Irwin Piper when he is over. Now, I have another suggestion. Would you like to come to Henley as a guest of Bloomfield Weiss? The firm has a tent every year, and I hear it’s a blast. Cathy and I will be there. Bring someone from the office if you like.’

  My heart sank. I had no interest in rowing. And I had no interest in this kind of corporate entertainment. It would involve lots of drinking with a crowd of people I didn’t know, and didn’t want to know. The only good thing was no one would be paying any attention to the rowing. I wanted to say no, but it was always difficult to say no to Cash.

  ‘Thank you very much, I’ll have to check whether I am doing anything that weekend. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘OK. Give me a call.’

  I hung up. Effusive American meets polite Englishman, and neither is comfortable with the result, I thought, feeling slightly guilty.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Rob.

  ‘I’ve been invited to Henley by Bloomfield Weiss, and I feel bad about saying no.’

  Rob perked up. ‘Bloomfield Weiss, eh? Will Cathy be there?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I think you should go. And I think you should take me with you.’

  I protested, but it was useless. The persuasive powers of Rob and Cash combined were too much for me. I rang Cash back to say I would be delighted to come, and I would bring Rob. Cash sounded pleased.

  I was sitting at my desk watching the market struggle through the summer doldrums, ably assisted by Debbie. I was bored and irritated. Debbie seemed quite happy with the situation. I watched her work her way through the Financial Times crossword. I was struggling to keep myself busy. I scanned our portfolio, hoping for some ideas.

  There were one or two bonds with NV after their name. That reminded me.

  ‘Debbie.’

  ‘Not now, can’t you see I’m busy,’ she said.

  ‘Did you check the Netherlands Antilles issues? Do we have to worry about those changes to the tax treaty?’

  Debbie put down her paper. ‘Amazingly enough, I did.’ She pointed to a pile of prospectuses. ‘I’ve checked over all our portfolios, and we are all right. None of our bonds is affected. The only Netherlands Antilles bonds we hold are trading below a hundr
ed, so we will make money if the issuer calls them at par.’

  ‘That’s a relief. Well done. Thanks very much for doing all that,’ I said.

  ‘Hang on a moment. We may be OK on the tax legislation, but I have stumbled across one bond that smells fishy, very fishy indeed.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s this one.’

  She put a bond prospectus down on to the desk in front of me. I picked it up and looked at it. Written on the cover in bold was ‘Tremont Capital NV secured 8 per cent notes maturing 15 June 2001’, and underneath in slightly smaller type ‘guaranteed by Honshu Bank Ltd’. Beneath that was ‘Lead Manager Bloomfield Weiss’.

  ‘Well, what’s wrong with this?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s difficult to say exactly,’ Debbie began. Then she sat up bolt upright in her chair. ‘Christ! Did you see that?’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘On Reuters.’ She read from the screen in front of her, ‘ “Gypsum Company of America announces agreed offer from DGB …” Who the hell are DGB?’

  ‘It’s a German cement company, I think,’ I said. ‘We were right. There was something going on.’

  The lines began to flash. I picked one up. It was David Barratt.

  ‘Did you see DGB has bid for Gypsum?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Reuters suggests it’s a friendly. Any reason why the bid shouldn’t go through?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said David. ‘DGB doesn’t have any US operations, so there won’t be any anti-trust problems.’

  ‘What’s DGB’s credit like?’ I asked. If DGB was a strong credit, then the risk on our Gypsum bonds would be much less. The bond price would soar.

  ‘Double A minus,’ said David. He was like a computer when it came to the details of even the most obscure companies. ‘Hold on, my trader is shouting something.’ I could hear a fair amount of noise in the background. ‘He says DGB is paying for the acquisition with cash and a share placing. That shouldn’t harm the credit.’

  ‘Where are the bonds trading?’ I asked.