The Green Flash

by Winston Graham

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No, no, I am not offering you one now. I mean you would do well to give up smoking; it destroys the finer senses.’

  He began to talk. I sat back and sipped water and thought how difficult it must be for him to shave, with all those nooks and crannies about his mouth and chin.

  ‘I am sure, David, you will have learned to take no notice of trade journals, textbooks, published formulas; because no good firm will ever divulge the whole of its knowledge to an inquirer. The most essential ingredient of all is secrecy.’

  ‘And at the end of it all,’ I said, ‘more than half of a success is not content but psychology.’

  Carreros shoved up his heavy glasses. ‘ Madame, I think, tends to underrate the chemists’ work at times. It is an inescapable fact that it is from the small laboratories such as ours that there have issued some of the finest perfumes on sale in Europe today.’

  It was time for lunch, but he didn’t seem to notice. I was hungry. I began to perceive that, whatever Mme Shona thought about her business, John Carreros was the dedicated technician.

  He was going boringly on about Dryad, the research, the experimentation, the fine ingredients, etc. I interrupted him by saying: ‘Yes, I’m sure. But you have to face facts. I’ve been working them out. A half-ounce bottle of Dryad perfume costs £14. How much of that is ingredients? You know as well as I do: probably about seventy pence. It’s not a large part for your chemists to play, is it.’

  He stiffened. ‘You think it overpriced? But, David, you know well that that sort of percentage is the norm. For every pound the public pays for Dryad, how does it go?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Do I need to? Of every one hundred pence the retailer takes forty-five. That I agree with you is excessive, but we cannot change that without a total upheaval of the retail world. So we are left with fifty-five pence. Is that it?’

  ‘That is it.’

  ‘Of that, thirty or thirty-one pence goes in advertising, promotion, overheads, administration, particularly the great cost of maintaining and paying the girls in the big public stores. Fourteen pence is roughly the cost of the making of the perfume, of which about ninepence is spent on the packaging and, as you truly remark, only fivepence on the ingredients. Shocking! On every pound the woman buyer lays down she only receives five-pennyworth of perfume. But what is our profit? Tenpence. That is correct, is it not?’

  ‘About that, I’d reckon.’

  ‘And is a ten per cent profit before tax so much? And without the skill of the chemists, without their strict quality control, their extraordinary care, it can quickly turn into a heavy loss. Let me tell you, five years ago a mistake was made in our laboratory in the blending. When that is done there is nothing to save the consignment, nothing to do with it but pour it away. We made a sixty thousand pounds loss on that one consignment – half our profits for the year were gone.’

  John Carreros, I decided, was a man without, humour, and a man with a mission – the mission being to please women, to enhance their beauty, to preserve their skin; to be a public benefactor – at a price – to half the human race.

  Even now, for heaven’s sake, he was not done. He rang the bell and the girl came in again with a new set of smelling papers.

  ‘Just tell me what you think of these, David.’ He stretched his legs indulgently and sat back in his chair. ‘Take your time.’

  I held the first paper up and sniffed it. ‘Jasmine. But something else.’

  ‘It’s benzyl alcohol. Very good. It is a delicate scent, is it not?’

  I tried the second. ‘Dog dirt,’ I said.

  There was silence. He adjusted his spectacles again.

  ‘That is musk,’ he said. ‘ Or a composition of musk … Go on.’ I took the next paper and smelled gently. ‘Cat’s piss,’ I said. Another silence. John Carreros was looking at me. ‘And Number

  Four?’

  I tried again. ‘ Lavatory paper after use.’

  After a few moments he climbed to his feet. ‘I think you have

  done enough for today. It is time for lunch. I cannot unfortunately

  lunch with you as I have another appointment.’

  IV

  It was two or three days after this that Shona called me into her office on some unimportant routine question. After a couple of minutes she said: I hear you have been to the factory with John.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He is pleased with your nose. But not so pleased with your general attitude.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Why did you try to – what is the vulgar phrase? – to take the mickey out of him?’

  ‘Is that how he sees it?’

  ‘Oh, come. Don’t fence with me, David.’

  ‘At the time I happened to be getting hungry.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  After a minute I said: ‘He takes it all too seriously. The sermon began to drag.’

  ‘So you just felt like being offensive.’

  ‘Not at all. If you ask silly questions you get silly answers.’

  ‘It is not your business here to be silly.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I said. ‘You must know that many of these basic smells are pretty rank. That third thing he gave me at the end. What did he think he was playing at? I knew at once it was civet resinoid. If that doesn’t smell like cat’s pee, I don’t know what does!’

  She went to the window, looked out at the traffic. She was in working clothes today: tailored slacks and an expensively casual V-neck shirt, flat leisure shoes, a ponytail. Moving as she usually did with the speed of a Force Seven wind, she gave the impression of being about twenty-five.

  ‘And you are upsetting Alice Huntington. By being too clever, too sarcastic.’

  ‘Alice Huntington is ready to break out in a rash at anything that might seem to threaten her place in the firm.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe you are too clever, though, too arrogant … But tell me – you have now been here more than two months. If you despise Alice Huntington, whom else do you despise? Everyone? What is your view of the staff as a whole?’

  ‘Dedicated. Old-fashioned. Totally reliable. Totally unlike me.’

  ‘At least you know your faults. And how do you see the firm generally?’

  I hesitated. ‘Fine, as far as it goes.’

  ‘And how far do you think it goes?’

  ‘Well, you’re like a manufacturer of hand-built motor cars, aren’t you?’

  ‘Pray go on.’

  ‘You’ve recognized it yourself. You don’t need me to spell it out.’

  ‘I don’t need it, maybe. But yours is a fresh eye.’

  ‘Look at the factory at Isleworth. Apart from the little laboratory and the testing room, just one big room, the size of a women’s institute. Apart from your husband and young Parker, there are eighteen employees, aren’t there, who do all the labelling, the packaging. What do they turn out in a year? I’d guess a million pounds’ worth of perfumes, soaps, creams, lipsticks. It’s fantastic. What are your net profits? – well over a hundred thousand a year? You’ve got a gold mine!’

  She was still standing, slim and tall, frowning out at the day. Nobody spoke for a while. Then I went on: ‘ But it’s what you said in November: you have to choose between carrying on at the present level, with demand always exceeding supply, living regally but pretty well unknown outside this country and in the second division here – and expanding into an international business, able to challenge the biggest and the best … But I rather assume you wouldn’t have engaged me if you hadn’t that idea in mind.’

  ‘To have it in mind is not to act on it,’ she said indifferently.

  ‘Too true. Well, there’s no half way, is there?’

  She looked at me then. ‘ Isn’t there?’

  ‘How can there be? It’s in the nature of the problem that you have to go the whole hog or not at all. I haven’t seen your balance sheets yet – or anything else, but …’

  �
�You may do so. There’s nothing secret.’

  ‘I know of course that you’re a private company.’

  ‘Yes, John and I own ninety per cent of the business.’

  ‘What’s your overdraft limit?’

  She lit a cigarette, considering if the question were impertinent, if the questioner had this right.

  ‘A hundred thousand.’

  ‘Which you probably don’t use.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, to expand in any substantial way you’d need vastly more than that.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt.’

  ‘A million at least – and that just to begin.’

  She waved the cigarette smoke away from her face as if it displeased her.

  ‘You would have to say all this to John.’

  ‘If he’ll take it from me. After all he’s twice my age and I’m the intrusive new boy.’

  ‘We would both have to consider your intrusiveness.’

  What was the use, I thought? Why not get out at this stage? But she still interested me.

  ‘Well, if you want me to look at it more closely I’ll have a shot. Of course the best way of raising the money would be to go public.’

  ‘I don’t think John would ever consider that. It might lead to a takeover.’

  Sometimes this morning she seemed to be bringing in the name John deliberately. In the short time I’d been around I’d come to the conclusion that he didn’t count for a lot when it came to major decisions made by the firm. Perhaps she was paying me out for my flippances.

  ‘It wouldn’t lead to a takeover,’ I said, ‘ if you kept sixty per cent of the shares.’

  ‘Ah, well, I prefer to borrow from the bank, David.’

  I shrugged. ‘You wanted my views …’

  She said: ‘The more you borrow from a bank, the more concerned they become for your welfare. It is one of the paradoxical facts of financial life.’ Her lips moved in a brief smile. ‘I have no doubt I could get finances if we decided to proceed. My reputation over eight years. And the name of Shona.’

  ‘Oh, they’d welcome a sound investment, sure enough. But in the one case you’d be paying a hundred thousand pounds a year for the use of their money. In the other the new shareholders would pay you enough to expand free of any cost except only, say, a third share in your declared profits.’

  ‘Where did you learn all this, David, in your young life? I do not think it can have been so dissolute after all.’

  ‘You forget that I have a stepfather who is a lawyer.’

  ‘And you learned this from him?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘No, probably not. It is not that sort of knowledge that a boy usually gets from his stepfather. Let me see, how old were you when your own father died?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘And your mother remarried soon after?’

  ‘The following year.’

  ‘Ah, so. I wonder if that explains anything?’

  ‘What is it supposed to explain?’ I said.

  ‘I mean, that a fatherless boy is sometimes like a ship without a rudder … Perhaps ideally all fathers should die when their children are about twenty-five. By then the ship is launched and has taken its true course. After that you do not want two hands at the helm …’

  ‘But I thought you said you had a father still alive.’

  ‘Indeed, yes. And I would not be without him. There are exceptions to the rule. Had he died when I was eleven …’

  ‘You might have turned out the same sort of irresponsible miscreant that I am.’

  ‘Who knows? But we have wandered from the subject, have we not?’ She put out her cigarette, which had only been to her lips twice. ‘I still have doubts as to the future of Shona, particularly in the small hours. For a huge expansion … There are still not enough people of taste in the world.’

  ‘Helena Rubinstein would have taken you up on that.’

  ‘Oh, I know. She created her own market. As others have.’

  ‘You have to educate people,’ I said. ‘Precious few can really judge for themselves what is absolutely the top, in anything. They get persuaded to want it. That’s not so difficult.’ I stopped. ‘But look, it’s up to you, isn’t it? You’re riding high as you are and nobody is going to push you into this unless you really want it. I’m certainly not. There are other slots in the business world I could slide into without running the risk of tangling with the fuzz again. After all, Roger Manpole did make me an offer.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘if I do decide to go ahead, you should come with me to talk to the bank manager.’

  ‘God forbid! You’ll need to keep me under wraps for the time being. A man with a record is not likely to inspire the confidence you need.’

  She continued to stare me out.

  ‘Tell me one thing. Was that your first conviction?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said. It was very unlikely that she could ever find out. Or that anyone could find out, unless I came up into the courts again. Anyway the previous convictions had all been for very small things.

  V

  Small things, but read out in court after the verdict as if the last trump had just sounded. A two-pound fine for stealing a horse; put on probation for attempted theft; a month’s detention centre for breaking a window ‘with intent to steal’; one day’s imprisonment for ‘assaulting a policeman’. All notably achieved before I was twenty-one. Petty as could be, but drawing a picture for the judge of a prime social delinquent. I wonder if Shona would have been shocked or amused if I told her.

  Chapter Four

  I

  There has never seemed any percentage to me in doing anything whatever that didn’t take my immediate fancy, so I suppose I must have found some satisfaction in that first year doing my bit for Madame.

  Not surprisingly, John Carreros was against the expansion; he dragged his feet in whatever way he could, and although Shona really ruled the roost, his hesitation and reservations held us up. But eventually the first fell steps were taken. At great expense a lease was bought on premises in Bond Street; the Wigmore Street shop given up. Isleworth was vacated and a much larger place bought in Stevenage, in the new town. The tiny output of Shona & Co. was increased tenfold, with only half the capacity utilized. The bank had financed the development: neither Shona nor John would countenance going public.

  I suppose the fact that I had never had this sort of responsibility before ministered to my vanity. It seemed likely that if I stayed in line and played the choirboy I was all set for a highly successful career in the perfumery trade. Did I want that? No. But I still wanted her.

  And I saw a lot of her: the guard began to drop on both sides. But I made no other move yet, and she certainly did not invite one.

  We had to engage new staff, and one day I said to her: ‘We need an extra van man. Somebody who knows London like a taxi driver and doesn’t keep on picking up parking tickets. I think I have the man. Like me to engage him?’

  ‘Of course. You do not need to ask me that.’

  ‘I thought I should. His name is Arthur Morris. Familiarly known as ‘‘Crack’’.’

  ‘ ‘‘Crack’’?’

  ‘I shared a luxury flat with him in Pentonville.’

  She looked up. ‘You mean … So?’

  ‘He’s only just out and looking for a job. I promised his mother I’d try to do something for him.’

  ‘And what does the nickname ‘‘Crack’’ mean?’

  ‘What it says.’

  ‘Well, I do not think I want him here if he is going to come in and crack our old safe.’

  ‘I have a feeling he won’t if I ask him not to.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘ It is not very nice, David.’

  I said: ‘When I was in there he did a lot for me. Cushioning the shock to my genteel nature, as it were. Gratitude is not my strongest point, but I think this would be a moment to put a little on the line.’

  ‘At our expense
?’

  ‘No, my expense if it goes wrong. After all, if he starts filching the parcels, you’ll throw the hatchet at me.’

  She hesitated again. ‘Well, the choice is yours, this time. But no more, please. I do not want our trademark to be changed to a broad arrow.’

  So Arthur Morris joined the firm. He was a thin, hard young man with too many lines on his cheeks. At my suggestion he dropped the nickname of ‘Crack’ and became known as ‘ Van’.

  Early in the second year Shona and I travelled by train to and from Birmingham together. There was a trade show in which I had pressed her to take part.

  I’d also pressed her to book a whole first-class carriage – which one can do – with a bar at the end for entertaining journalists and publicity people on the way there and back; but she had refused.

  ‘It is not the money, David; it is to me just a little vulgar.’

  ‘The other ladies in our profession – the Rubinsteins and the Ardens – would never consider travelling any other way.’

  ‘Ah, that I know. And ours is a business which demands – what is it you say? – the razzmatazz. Nevertheless I think I shall not follow them all the way. There is a discretion – there should be some dignity in it also.’

  As it happened, on the way back we were in one of those dreadful new BR first-class carriages – chairs obstructed by immovable tables, no control over heat or air, no privacy; anyone walking down the centre of the carriage can cannon into your shoulder – and I made disparaging remarks about it.

  She eyed me, then shrugged. ‘Maybe you are right. For me at least it is easier than travelling on the couplings.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Have you ever travelled on the couplings of a train, David? It is an interesting experience. Especially a train that stops with a jerk and starts with a jerk five or six times every hour; but you are afraid ever to let go lest someone else should steal your place. And more especially when you are starving hungry too.’

  She so seldom made any reference to her past history that all this time I knew little more than I’d done at the kick-off.