Gold

by Brian Freemantle

  Where did he regard as home? wondered Collington. The Rhodesian farm, maybe, when he and Hannah lived there in the first years of their marriage. And the house in Pretoria, before the separation. Now he had no feeling of permanence anywhere. Perhaps it was the sub-conscious affect of an orphanage upbringing. It had been months since he’d thought back that far. If he were Metzinger, he supposed he would have paid investigators to probe through the records and discover who his parents were; sought them out, to discover if he were an orphan through death or illegitimacy. The idea had actually occurred to him, fleetingly, years before. And he had discarded it just as quickly. If they were dead, he would have found strangers to mourn. If he were illegitimate, he would have been an embarrassing reminder of his mother’s mistake. It was best left as it was. Unlike Metzinger, Collington was more concerned with the future than the past. And Simpson’s death made the future uncertain.

  ‘I dropped Janet off on the way back,’ said Metzinger. ‘She’s taking it very well.’

  ‘Walter had been ill for some time,’ reminded Collington. He would have liked to have known more of the discussion between Metzinger and Janet Simpson on their return from the funeral.

  ‘Still a shock, though.’

  ‘Yes.’ Metzinger was playing with him, decided Collington. He’d been right in anticipating a difficult meeting.

  ‘The others are in the boardroom,’ said the deputy chairman.

  ‘We’d better go in then,’ said Collington. He strode across the room towards Metzinger. For a moment he paused beside his father-in-law, creating the comparison. The nickname ‘Tiny’ had first been given to Collington in the Barnado’s home when, at the age of seventeen, he had been six feet tall. It had stuck when he joined British Rail with a uniform two sizes too small because they only came in stock sizes, and it was permanent by the time he entered the army for his National Service. His growth had stopped there. Army records had listed him at 6′ 6″: they’d had trouble with the uniforms there too. The tailoring was better now, but Collington never tried to minimise his height. Rather, he saw it as an advantage, conscious of the impression it created. Metzinger used his size the same way.

  There was a momentary hesitation and Collington gestured the older man to precede him. The other directors were arranged at the conference table like opposing armies in some biblical encounter, drawn up on either side of a valley, English to the right, Afrikaners to the left. He nodded, generally, and there were answering gestures in return.

  Collington took his place at the head, looking down at the others present. He purposely looked to the left first. Immediately beside him was Metzinger, as deputy chairman. Next to Metzinger was Louis de Villiers, a thin, bespectacled man who had begun his career as an accountant and spent too much time at meetings scrutinising accounts. The third Afrikaner was Jan Wassenaar, a company lawyer. He was a sparse, reserved man, rarely allowing any emotion or feeling to reach his face. He reminded Collington of the dried-out trees he and Paul had photographed when he had taken his son on safari near the Kalahari. They’d been together as a family then, remembered Collington; his predominant recollection was how much he and Hannah had laughed. It seemed so long since they had found anything to laugh about. Collington put aside the reflection, continuing down the table. Rupert Brooking occupied the seat to his right. He was a languid, indulged man whose accountant had recommended he buy his way into a directorship of the Witwatersrand mining company years before, rightly feeling that the man might otherwise squander his inheritance. His elevation to the parent board had occurred almost automatically. Simpson had recognised Brooking as pliable and kept him under tight control. But now Simpson was gone. Which meant Brooking was a weakness, someone who would always sway with the majority, anxious for the easiest way out.

  The Englishman next to him was Henry Platt. He was an accountant, like de Villiers. And like de Villiers, he looked it. But they were quite different men. De Villiers constantly imagined trickery. Platt’s only interest was profit and he was impatient with any extenuating circumstances which might temporarily prevent it. Several times he and Collington had clashed over Platt’s automatic reaction to cut off or close down any of their enterprises which was suffering a decline.

  The chair in which Walter Simpson had always sat on such occasions had been left empty, as a mark of respect. Bruce Jamieson sat beyond. Collington smiled briefly at the man with whom he had developed the Zimbabwe gold mine and Jamieson smiled back. It was a paradox, thought Collington, that he regarded Simpson as having been far closer to him than Jamieson, whom he had known much longer. There had been house visiting and parties, more in Salisbury than here, but Collington had always found it difficult to think of the man as anything more than a business partner. There was an element of puritanism in Jamieson, which would account for his reserve towards Collington since the marriage break-up. Reminded of Hannah again, Collington thought back to the funeral and the surprise approach from his wife. It had been two months since their last contact and this time there had been none of the former hostility; she’d actually appeared pleased to see him.

  Her invitation, just as he was leaving, had momentarily confused him, so that he had fallen back on the half excuse about pressure of work and said he didn’t know if he could manage the visit she suggested. The confrontation had added to a day of uncertainties. He’d been lying about the work, he realised. There wasn’t any reason why he shouldn’t go out to Parkstown later, apart from the apprehension at what she might say.

  The fifth chair which Richard Jenkins, the other English director, should have occupied, was empty. Jenkins’ inability to get there from London was a complication he didn’t need. Jenkins was a blunt, plainspeaking man whose support would have been useful against the pressure Collington was anticipating.

  ‘Apology for absence,’ began Collington formally. ‘Richard Jenkins is kept in London. He sends his regrets.’

  ‘I would have thought the circumstances demanded the effort,’ said Wassenaar, needing to score at the smallest opportunity.

  ‘He had apologised,’ repeated Collington.

  ‘What voting indication?’ demanded Metzinger.

  ‘Proxy, vested with the chairman,’ said Collington. He passed sideways the authority that Jenkins had sent so that the Afrikaner could see it. Metzinger read it carefully and then returned it. First Wassenaar, now Metzinger; they were declaring themselves immediately.

  Collington indicated the empty chair to his right. ‘The death of Walter Simpson has created a vacancy upon this board,’ he said, still formal. ‘I have convened this meeting to consider replacements.’

  ‘Any nominations?’ asked Brooking at once. He was given to neutral questions so that he could appear to be contributing, but rarely said anything that could be construed as controversial.

  ‘Several,’ said Collington, moving to circulate the names around the table.

  ‘Is there a necessity for a replacement?’ asked Wassenaar.

  ’Necessity?’ echoed Collington. He would have expected this challenge to come from Metzinger. Perhaps they had rehearsed the attack.

  As if in confirmation, Metzinger said: ‘There is no stipulation in the minutes governing the composition of the parent board that there should be nine directors.’

  There wasn’t, Collington knew. He had checked, the day of Simpson’s death, and realised the oversight that was too late to correct. He’d been right in his anticipation of the Afrikaner pressure.

  ‘Surely the composition is established by fact,’ he said, aware of the weakness of the argument.

  De Villiers, with his clerk-like mind, had been studying the replacement nominations. He looked up, coming to the support of the other South Africans. ‘No one on this list has sufficient qualifying shareholding in any of the subsidiary companies,’ he said. ‘There would have to be a share adjustment.’

  ‘Little more than a formality,’ said Collington. He was not a man who liked unsound arguments and was irritated by
the hollowness of what he was saying.

  ‘A great deal more than a formality,’ corrected Metzinger. He paused, challenging Collington to resume the argument. When Collington remained silent, Metzinger took several sheets of paper from his briefcase and laid them out before him. When he looked up, there was a faint smile of satisfaction. The bastard had undertaken a lot of preparation, thought Collington.

  ‘Witwatersrand ‘A’ shares are an essential for a place upon this board,’ insisted Metzinger. He took a gold pen from an inside pocket, making tiny ticks against the names listed in front of him. ‘Of the voting shares in Witwatersrand the chairman and Jamieson hold one fifty each, Platt one hundred, with Jenkins apportioned thirty and Brooking twenty ….’ Metzinger looked up, again inviting Collington to argue. Collington stared back, expressionlessly. He knew what Metzinger intended to do. And like the forgotten share inheritance he had realised after Simpson’s death, he was powerless to dispute it. Why hadn’t he recognised earlier the possible danger? Simpson had been ill for almost six months. And for the last two of those it had been obvious that it was terminal.

  His preoccupation with Hannah and Ann? He frowned at the thought. If that were the case, then he was guilty of stupidity, as well. Before he had always been able to keep his private life absolutely separate from any business consideration.

  ‘As founder shareholder, the late Walter Simpson held two hundred shares. I have one hundred and fifty and Wassenaar and de Villiers hold fifty each,’ continued Metzinger.

  The challenge came down to simple arithmetic, just like the lunch all those years ago at the Connaught, Collington recognised. With Simpson alive and as a result of the secondary share adjustment at the time of the gold lode take-over, the English side of the board had held overwhelming superiority with four hundred and fifty shares against the South African two hundred and fifty. But if Simpson’s two hundred shares were switched, the division would be reversed, the Afrikaners controlling four hundred and fifty against the English three fifty.

  ‘Simpson’s shares become available,’ said Platt, taking the lure that Metzinger intended. ‘We merely apportion to Mrs Simpson sufficient non-voting shares to compensate for the capital represented in those necessary for transfer to the next nomination.’

  Metzinger didn’t speak at once, prolonging his enjoyment. At last he announced. ‘Mrs Simpson does not wish to dispose of her voting shares. Although not seeking board nomination, she intends to retain possession.’

  From the English side there was the silence of complete awareness.

  ‘A temporary reluctance, surely,’ came in Brooking, forgetting his usual caution. ‘Confusion of grief, that sort of thing. Once the situation is explained, she’ll understand she’s not being deprived of any income ….’

  ‘It has been explained,’ cut off Metzinger impatiently. ‘Mrs Simpson is withstanding the grief remarkably well. It was she who raised the subject with me. She asked me to make it quite clear at this meeting that she will not surrender the voting shares she has been left in Simpson’s will.’

  Brooking, like Jamieson before him, looked to Collington for guidance. Collington was gazing beyond the man to Platt. The accountant made a brief calculation on the pad before him, hesitated uncertainly and then said, ‘There could be a disposal between directors Metzinger, de Villiers and Wassenaar, to enable a new director to be brought on to the board.’

  ‘Why from the South African representation?’ challenged de Villiers logically and at once. ‘Why can’t there be an adjustment from the English side of the board?’

  No reason at all, thought Collington. Except that it would further diminish their share control. So what was more important, share strength or directorship superiority? He looked down at the list of nominations he had prepared. Not one upon whom he would be able to rely for unquestioned support. So all he was considering was numbers. And numerically he was still in control.

  ‘This is not a discussion I consider should be continued in the absence of a director,’ said Jamieson, speaking for the first time and moving the talk away from a direct confrontation.

  Collington looked towards the man gratefully. ‘It is not a decision that has to be made now,’ he said. ‘It could be left for the annual meeting.’

  He knew Metzinger would also have anticipated this possibility. By the time they faced the shareholders, Metzinger would have ensured sufficient votes against the parent board being increased, unless the nominee was an Afrikaner.

  As if aware of Collington’s thoughts, Metzinger said, ‘We would be quite happy for the matter to be considered then.’

  The meeting was ending far more quickly than Collington had expected. He wouldn’t propose it at the shareholders’ meeting, he decided. He’d have to content himself with the reduced strength.

  ‘Director nomination was the only purpose of this meeting,’ said Collington. ‘Is there any other business?’

  ‘I think a formal letter should be written to Mrs Simpson, inviting her to dispose of her voting shares,’ said Jamieson.

  Metzinger turned quickly to the man. ‘Are you doubting me?’ he said. It was the first time since the stan of the meeting that the Afrikaner had given way to anger. It was a thoughtless lapse.

  ‘Of course not!’ said Jamieson, emphasising his astonishment to heighten the other man’s mistake. ‘It would be a proper thing for this board to do.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Collington quickly. ‘Is that a formal proposal?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the man.

  ‘I second,’ said Platt.

  ‘In favour?’ persisted Collington. Just like a biblical encounter, he thought again. The Afrikaners sat still. Every hand went up on the English side.

  ‘Carried, with the proxy vote of Jenkins,’ said Collington. It was a pointless victory but he still felt some satisfaction. ‘Any other business?’ he invited again.

  From around the table there were varying gestures, but Collington rose to end the meeting. The South Africans came up in a group, de Villiers and Wassenaar looking to Metzinger for direction. Metzinger hesitated and for a moment Collington thought he was going to speak. Instead the man jerked his head in a swift gesture of farewell and led the other two from the room.

  The four English directors stood about, unsure what to do. Collington remained silent, considering what had happened. He had been outmanoeuvred and that hadn’t happened for many years. He was both irritated and worried by the realisation.

  ‘It’ll be important for none of us to miss any meetings in future,’ said Jamieson.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Collington.

  ‘I’m surprised Walter Simpson didn’t foresee the attack,’ said Platt.

  ‘We should all have anticipated it,’ said Collington, coming to the immediate defence of the man. ‘And me more than most. I made a mistake and I’m sorry for it.’

  ‘Worried?’ asked Platt.

  Collington hesitated for a moment. ‘Maybe I’d grown complacent,’ he said.

  ‘We’re all equally to blame,’ said Platt. ‘We let things become slack; it’s been too easy for too long.’

  ‘Little point in jumping at shadows,’ said Jamieson objectively. ‘They’ve won a battle, not the war.’

  Platt began gathering his papers into his briefcase. ‘Don’t forget how they fought the Boer War,’ he said. ‘Guerrilla tactics, all the time.’

  And that would be a strategy Metzinger would know about better than any of them, reflected Collington.

  Ann had been in conference with Richard Jenkins when the call came from Pretoria, so she had known at once who it was. It would have been easy to get on to the line, to go to her own office and instruct the switchboard to transfer the connection when the first conversation was over and then tell Collington of Metzinger’s pressure and about Peter whom she needed for companionship but didn’t love and admit she was in a mess and ask for help and forgiveness. She’d even half rehearsed the phrases, for the letters she hadn’t written and the telephone
calls she hadn’t made. And then, as she left Jenkins’ room for her own in the SAGOMI building just off Threadneedle Street, she thought again of the photographs and the reports in the manila envelopes that Metzinger had left and sat staring at the telephone until she knew Collington had gone.

  The summons from Jenkins had been immediate and the concern was obvious; there was no embarrassment between them about their ended affair. It had resolved into a friendship and Ann knew he trusted her completely, which heightened her feeling of helplessness. He briefed her on what had happened in South Africa and itemised Collington’s concern, actually asking her to prepare position papers on any activities within their British division of the corporation which might be vulnerable in the Afrikaners’ attack. Initially Jenkins was too preoccupied with his own reaction to what had happened in Pretoria to notice her dispirited response, but finally he looked up, frowning, and said, ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Why?’

  Jenkins shrugged. ‘You seem a little odd, that’s all.’

  ‘Could control of the company actually switch, because of this?’ she asked, to move the conversation on.

  ‘Too early to say,’ said Jenkins. ‘We’re going to have to watch ourselves.’

  ‘Richard …’ she blurted impulsively, wanting to tell him.

  Jenkins had gone back to the notes he had made during his conversation with Collington. He looked up, frowning again. ‘What?’

  For several moments they stared at each other. Then Ann said, ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘James can handle it,’ said the man, misunderstanding the reason for her attitude and coming as close as he ever had to acknowledging the relationship he knew existed between her and Collington. ‘He’s worried, but he’s sure he can handle it.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  Ann had been back in her own office for thirty minutes when the telephone sounded and momentarily she thought it was Jenkins, with something he had forgotten. And then she became aware of the nasal intonation and recognised Metzinger’s voice.