by Jana Petken
She looked up and realised that Mrs Baxter was still waiting patiently for her to speak.
“Mrs Baxter,” she said slowly and deliberately. “Joseph has his faults, but I’m sure he wouldn’t knowingly endanger himself, the farm, or me. If, and I say if, he’s got himself into trouble, then as his wife, I’ll stand by him. You must understand that I can’t talk about this with you … or with anyone else, for that matter. I appreciate your silence, and I have to ask you again not to say anything to anybody in the village. Rumours are dangerous. They can destroy a man’s reputation just by being spoken.”
Having to defend Joseph was intolerable, she thought later. She knew it was true, all of it. Mrs Baxter would never lie to her. This time it wasn’t just idle gossip. There had been no smugness in Mrs Baxter’s voice, only concern. Celia hadn’t wanted to shut her out or defend Joseph in any way, but she remembered her aunt’s words: “Celia, silence is your only weapon.”
In bed that night, she thought some more about the conversation that afternoon. Joseph was only a trustee. He didn’t own the farm, so at least the estate was safe. She wondered if Mr Ayres knew about this situation. He hadn’t said anything up to now about the farm’s financial state. Was he concerned?
She recalled an incident from her childhood. Her father had taken her to Tom Butcher’s farm, and he had paid money to some men to stop them from taking furniture away. She later found out that the men were called bailiffs. Her father had paid the debt. Could these men turn up at her door? Could they take her possessions or maybe even the livestock or farm equipment? Thank God her aunt Marie was coming to see her. They would get to the bottom of this mess together. Her aunt would find out everything they needed to know. She had a way about her, and she had earned a huge amount of respect in Goudhurst. She’d built the school and the community centre. She’d even sent clothes to the summer fairs and had kept some families alive with food parcels in the terrible storms of 1902, which had ruined many a good crop. She would get the dirt on Joseph, and then she’d use it against him; things were beginning to happen.
Sunday lunch had been prepared, laid out on the table, and was still piping hot when Joseph suddenly appeared at the door, smelling as though he’d fallen into a vat of cheap cologne.
The mood at the table darkened. Celia had been looking forward to her aunt’s visit all week, but the promise of a pleasant day had now faded. She glared at his masked faced, enraged at his untimely arrival; as usual, he hid his true self behind a wall of niceties. Smiles replaced his sneering lips and cold eyes, she thought. Manners replaced his brutish vulgarism, and affection replaced his simmering hatred:
“Potatoes?” she asked him, avoiding looking directly at him.
Yes, Celia thought, as she dished some potatoes onto his plate, he was a master of disguise, worthy of a prize on a West End show.
“Peas?” she asked him.
“Yes, please, Celia … So, Marie, how’s things in the big city?” Joseph asked Marie with his smile still firmly planted.
“Things are well enough, a bit better than here at Merrill Farm, it seems. I couldn’t help noticing on my way up to the house that the hop gardens don’t look very well prepared for the season, considering May’s upon us.”
“Yes, well, they’ll flourish soon enough. They’re just a bit late, that’s all.”
“Are you still employing the regulars?”
Joseph nodded his head, not looking at her.
Marie said, “I ask because I know they are experienced men, so it is hard to believe that they’ve allowed the crop get into such a terrible state. Your hops will contract wilt if you’re not careful, and you know what a dreadful disease that is. It could put you out of business for two or three years!”
“Actually, mentioning business, I was wondering if we could talk, seeing as you’re here,” Joseph said.
“Talk about what?” Marie asked him, knowing fine well.
“Business, of course. You see, I’m in a spot of bother at the moment. I’ve got a bit of a problem with my cash flow, accounts and stuff like that. The books are taking up a lot of my time …”
Joseph piled the mashed potatoes into his mouth and then continued speaking with it still half-full.
“You knew Peter as well as anyone, Marie; he was never very good at sums. Anyway, it seems that my cash flow is a bit tied up. I’m in the red, to tell you the truth, and to make matters worse, Derek Pike and John Sweeny have left me in the lurch. There’s just no loyalty nowadays.”
Joseph silenced Marie with his hand when she tried to speak. “Marie, before you ask, I did get some more men in, but they didn’t have a clue. In fact they were next to useless, so I got rid of them.”
Celia watched the scene unfold. Joseph drank his wine as though he had the thirst for water on a hot steaming day, and her aunt didn’t interrupt him in her usual fashion. She listened to Joseph’s jumble of words and business terms that were no doubt aimed to confuse her. She was surely smiling inwardly, as she was no fool when it came to business.
Joseph continued, smoothly dropping the words into place. “You know, it’s not been easy training the bines on my own. There’s just not enough hours in the day … I’m knackered, as it happens, and I can’t be expected to be in two places at once, can I? I have to look after the herd as well … and bulls will be bulls, as they say. Anyway, Marie, I was wondering if you might consider giving me a small financial loan.”
“I’ll pay you back, of course, just as soon as I get the crop going again. The fields will be full of men in no time, believe me, and you’ll have the money back by the end of June, first of July at the latest. Well, what do you say?”
Marie put down her knife and fork but still didn’t trust herself to look at Joseph. The pathetic creature grovelling at her feet was more than her full stomach could take, she thought, pushing her half-eaten dinner away. She focused her eyes on the plate and neatly placed the knife and fork in its centre. She could feel Joseph’s eyes on her, but she would not be rushed. He was waiting, wondering what her response would be, but she remembered what Simon had told her. She was to appear shocked but not too much, angry but not enough to dismiss him completely, and calm just enough to encourage him. Simon was so clever, she thought, proud of his analytical mind. He had predicted this conversation to the letter of accuracy weeks before and had coached her well. She finally looked up.
“Joseph, I’m quite at a loss for words,” she told him. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing … John Sweeny and Derek Pike gone? What did you do to them to make them leave Merrill Farm? They’ve been here since they were boys; so were their fathers before them. And no hop pickers, you say? My boy, the crops will be ruined, lost along with thousands of pounds. Don’t you know that? How did you get yourself into such a mess? Are you not the trustee? Did Peter not leave the farm to your care?”
Joseph gripped the hem of the tablecloth and wrung it like a chicken. “You don’t understand …”
“What is there not to understand? That the accounts are in a shambles, that there’s no money in the bank, or your stupidity?” She paused and drank some wine. “Now, why don’t we go through the books together and see if we can’t sort them out, because as far as I can remember, Peter was a good bookkeeper and his sums always added up. What does the bank say, exactly?”
“They say I’m in a bit of trouble.”
“Yes, dear, I gathered that.”
“The bank manager won’t give me another loan.”
“What?” Marie asked, genuinely surprised. “Are you telling me that the bank has already given you money?”
“Yes. Why not? Up to a few weeks ago, the farm was doing well. The bank must have thought I was worth the risk. In fact, they offered me the money!”
“Well, I don’t know what the bank manager was thinking, because it’s certainly not doing well now, is it, Joseph? I’ve never seen it in such a neglectful state. Peter will be turning in his grave. And please remember one thing: this is no
t your farm, and you have no right to borrow money against it. That was made perfectly clear at the reading of the will when you signed for the trusteeship.”
Celia kept her head down, listening to every word. Joseph was no match for her aunt Marie, she thought. Her aunt was winning the discussion at every turn, but she was worried about one thing: Joseph was becoming angrier by the minute. He hid it well, but she knew the signs. If she had spoken to him like that, she’d be on the floor by now …
“Now wait a minute, Marie. This farm is my responsibility!” she heard Joseph say with probably a little more force than he intended. “And you don’t need to remind me that the farm’s not mine. I’m reminded of that every bloody day, but I’m the one up at the crack of dawn, working my arse off to put food on the table! I’m the only one providing for a pregnant wife, and it’s me that knows best when it comes to men’s work … Anyway, the money I got was a personal loan, nothing to do with the farm’s accounts.” He emptied the remaining wine into his glass and thumped the crystal decanter on the table. “I just wish you had as much faith in me as the bank has, Marie!”
“There is a difference between faith and fact, dear,” Marie told him.
“Yes, well, the fact is that this is all going to get sorted out, and at the end of the day, it would only take about five hundred pounds or so to put things right. I’m only asking you for the bloody loan because of Celia here. You do know that, don’t you? I mean, you wouldn’t want her to go without, would you?”
“Celia will never go without, by God she won’t!” Marie suddenly laughed, and it was laced with sarcasm. “Joseph, I’ve just realised that you said five hundred pounds. Did my ears deceive me?”
Joseph shook his head. “No.”
“How could you go through such a large amount of money in such a short period of time? How could you possibly owe that amount of money? The farm was making a good profit, right up to Peter’s death. Where’s the money gone? In the name of God, boy, what have you done with it?”
Celia stifled a giggle that threatened to gurgle over into full-blown laughter. Joseph’s skin had turned a shade of purple; his left eye was twitching, making his eyebrow jump up and down; and his hands shook like a frightened schoolboy’s. He was embarrassed and humiliated, and she hadn’t felt so satisfied in a long, long time.
Chapter 14
Celia settled back into an uneventful routine. Mrs Baxter had the good sense not to mention the subject of Joseph’s gambling debts, and she made sure that she always kept her thoughts to herself. Joseph had given her no reason to fear him since her aunt’s last visit. He was polite in Mrs Baxter’s presence, making an effort at conversation, lacking warmth but also lacking in the usual vulgarities. She could only surmise that his improved character was due to the five hundred pounds he’d received from her aunt the week before. Mr Ayres had accompanied the money, insisting that Joseph sign some papers. She couldn’t understand why her aunt Marie had agreed to the loan, and Mr Ayres had told her nothing, except to say that she was not to worry and that it was for the best. Her aunt’s and Mr Ayres’s secrecy angered her sometimes. She was not a child but they kept her in the dark about so many things and treated her like a fragile porcelain doll. The only thing she knew for sure was that her aunt’s generosity did not stem from any personal benevolence, and that was good enough for her.
Joseph arrived at the pub in Sevenoaks just in time for the start of his biggest poker game in months. He walked through the smoky bar towards the far corner and took a sly look behind him before pushing open the dark-wooded door that was hidden from view by a large potted plant, looking curiously out of place in the predominantly masculine environment. The decor inside the anteroom was opulent and overstated. Gold leaf framed paintings of Kentish farming scenes hung on the walls. The walls themselves were a dark red burlesque, more commonly seen in dance halls and theatres. A small bar was set up in the corner of the room, serving beer, champagne, and whisky only, and a few men mingled there with cigars and pipes, which clouded the whole room in smoke that had nowhere to go but the blackened ceilings. The Seven Oaks’ Den, as it was known, was full to the brim with men willing to part with every penny, every hope, and every sliver of self-dignity in order to chance their luck on winning the big prize at the poker table. They hailed from all over the county, and Londoners of high standing were regular visitors.
The boys from the county were already seated, and they greeted Joseph in unison. Joseph waited for a pint to arrive and looked around the faces at the table; the big guns were there from Canterbury and Sidcup. Thank God he had brought some standby cash, he thought. He’d been doing quite well these past few weeks. His luck was finally changing for the better. He’d been astonished when Ayres turned up with Marie’s money. In fact, he still couldn’t believe it. The cash had allowed him to pay off his most pressing debts, which of course he’d paid in order of priority. He’d sorted out the bookmaker at the racetrack; that wasn’t a good place to be in debt. Then he handed over the amount in full to the two men who ran the card game. He’d had to make a choice between the blacksmith and the vet in Tonbridge, and in the end, he’d settled on the vet, with whom he often played cards. Things were picking up; these people were not only off his back, they were friends with him again. They’d even offered him some more credit if he needed it.
He understood human nature: that’s why he was such a great poker player. He had a talent for reading people’s minds, their body language, and their moods; and not many people could instil trust the way he could. The rich bastards of this world thrived on power and wealth, and they generally went from strength to strength, for money begot money, it seemed to him. The poor, on the other hand, spent part or even most of their lives searching for and then trying to hold on to their measly pennies. He was in between, but he wouldn’t be there for long. He was going up the ladder, right to the top. He’d be in the rich club soon, richer than Marie bloody Osborne. He’d never hated anyone as much as he hated Celia, but Marie Osborne came in a close second. He hated her smug wrinkled old face. He hated the power she wielded over him and Celia just because she had more money, more connections, and probably more balls than any man he’d ever met. She was a legend in this piss hole of a village, and he would never be able to get the better of her, but he didn’t care about any of that right now. He had outsmarted her, and that was all that mattered.
His eyes scanned the room and settled on the bar. A bottle of champagne, opened only for the most important patrons, was about to go pop. The cork flew into the air at that moment, and soft foam spilled out of it and onto the bar counter before being plugged into the bottle by an apologetic bar tender. This was the sort of life he wanted to live. He wanted to be served champagne and treated with respect. He’d never been rich, but he’d never been poor either. He’d always used people to get what he wanted. It was so easy to manipulate vanity. Men empowered themselves with benevolence; they believed they were better than those they helped. They thought they could dictate, domineer, and exert terrible revenge just because they owned a debt. He’d been helped by just about everyone he’d ever met. He had a unique power to gain trust, but the key to his success was that he only ever paid back money if it was really necessary. Usually it wasn’t.
He waved to the bank teller who had refused him money the week before; the bank could wait. He’d fobbed off Smilling, the bank manager, with a promise to get the money by the end of the month, although he’d paid a high price for even showing his face there. He’d been made to sit through a lecture for almost an hour, and the snotty git had made it clear that he would not be advanced another loan under any circumstances. He’d been humiliated enough recently, and he’d wanted to punch the patronising little sod in the mouth. He had the biggest farm in Kent and was made to sit and listen to a pile of shit from the mouth of a pea-brained desk clerk who wasn’t worth a shilling of his time. Old Smilling would be crushed under the pile of money he would put there one day.
Joseph
looked towards the bar again. It was now crowded, but he noticed a few new faces. He had heard through his contacts at the racecourse that it would be a good game tonight, with a lot of money being brought in from London. He counted his money under the table; he was in a good position. He still had about eighty pounds left from the five hundred he’d got from Marie Osborne, and he calculated that if he kept his head screwed on, he could walk away with four or five times that amount tonight. He was well overdue a winning streak, and as he had no intention of paying the old hag back, the money he won here would be profit, pure profit!
At the end of the night, Joseph leaned against the bar and called for a whisky. He was back to his indestructible self. He’d won back most, if not all, of the money he’d lost in the last few weeks. He was too good for these clowns; he was in a class of his own. He counted out the notes in his hand and then put a roll of them in his pocket. He’d decided a while back that it was time for him to enter a bigger arena. Winning was good, but bigger winnings were even better. The surrounding towns were full of small people, small pockets, and small minds. He was much too good for the other players he frequently came across.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Joseph eyed the man who’d just asked him the question and quietly decided whether the answer should be yes or no. He’d never seen him before, but he had an arrogant, wealthy air about him, a combination that he despised.
“Why, do I know you?” he asked him, barely hiding his contempt.
