Maggie's Boy

by Beryl Kingston

  Norrie examined her fingernails, making it clear that she wasn’t amused.

  ‘Did he take the car?’ Alison asked. (If he’s left the car behind, he’ll have gone to Spain.)

  ‘Don’t ask me. Could ha’ done. How would I know?’

  ‘Is it in the yard?’

  ‘He don’t keep it in the yard,’ Norrie said scathingly. ‘Not since he took to living at the flat. You won’t find it in the yard. If it’s anywhere it’ll be in the garage.’

  Garage? Alison thought. I didn’t know he’d got a garage. But she didn’t let Norrie see her surprise. ‘If you’ll show me where this garage is,’ she said, ‘I’ll have a look and see if it’s there.’

  ‘It’s locked,’ Norrie said. ‘He keeps everything locked.’

  For the second time Alison was deflated. ‘Do you know who he hires it from?’ she asked, doing her best to be patient.

  ‘The farriers, I think. Mr Kauffman.’

  ‘Well there you are then. He’ll have a key.’

  Norrie wasn’t interested in the car or the key. ‘What about my wages?’ she said.

  ‘They’ll have to come out of the till, I expect. Is that how he usually does it?’

  ‘If they could ha’ come out the till,’ Norrie said wearily, ‘I’d ha’ done it myself like I did last time when he went to London. There in’t enough in the till to cover one week’s wages, leave alone three. It might be Christmas, but trade’s terrible.’

  ‘Well it’ll have to come out of the bank then.’

  ‘I only got paying-in slips. I can’t take money out. That’s why I wrote to you.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ Alison said. ‘I’ll sort it out for you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Norrie said, ‘only I got me rent to pay Friday. And with Christmas coming up an’ everything. You need a lot a’ money this time a’ year.’

  Don’t I know it, Alison thought. She’d been struggling for weeks to put enough aside to buy presents for the kids, hoping against hope that Rigg would put in an appearance and offer to go halves, as he sometimes did.

  ‘I’ll see about the car first,’ she said. ‘And then I’ll deal with the wages.’ If the worst came to the worst, she reckoned she could raid the till in the video shop. Just this once. It would make a muddle, but she could hardly leave Rigg’s employees unpaid. That wasn’t proper or fair.

  She retrieved the key from Mr Kauffman and unlocked the garage. And the car was there, just as she’d suspected, beautifully polished and covered with a sheet, like a boat laid up for the winter. So he was in Spain. But why hadn’t he told her he was going?

  ‘I’ll post your wages to you this afternoon,’ she promised Norrie. ‘It’ll be the first thing I do when I get home. I’m sorry you’ve had all this trouble.’

  She was being so kind that Norrie felt rotten about having to give her more bad news. But it had to be done. She couldn’t just ignore all those bills. Sooner or later someone would want to know why she hadn’t handed them on.

  ‘These come for Mr Toan,’ she said, fishing out the bundle from the shelf under the counter. ‘I been hanging on to ’em till he come back. But if he’s in Spain, you’d better have ’em, I suppose.’

  Alison took the letters and stuffed them into her shopping bag. A quick glance revealed that the majority of them were bills and she knew she couldn’t pay them – but she couldn’t leave them with Norrie either.

  ‘Time to go home,’ she said to her sleepy daughter, and eased the buggy out of the shop.

  For the last few days she’d been thinking hard about the voluntary arrangement, wondering whether it was going to work and how Rigg was getting on and if he’d earned enough money to pay the Inland Revenue. It was more than eight weeks since the meeting and she hadn’t heard a word about it. Nothing from Rigg, nor from anybody else. Just Norrie’s postcard that morning. And now he’d shot off to Spain without telling anybody.

  Of course he’d obviously gone there to sell the flat, if he could. But, as she knew very well, pulling off a sale in the middle of a recession was terribly difficult, particularly if it was a house sale. Now, and a bit late, she wished she’d paid more attention to what had been said at that meeting. There’d been some talk about conditions being imposed by the Inland Revenue, and if he was going to be out of the country she really ought to know what they were. She ought to visit the bank too, if she was going to be responsible for paying Norrie and the stream of boys and girls who staffed the video shop. And that was another thing, if Rigg had been in Spain for the last three weeks who’d been paying them?

  Ah well, she thought, as the Hampton bus turned into the bus station, with a flurry of rain patterning its green sides, first things first. As soon as I’ve given Emma some lunch I’ll go down to the video shop and sort out Nome’s wages. Then ‘I’ll write to Rigg, and then ‘I’ll see what else I ought to do.

  The video shop was being manned that morning by one of the young men she’d seen there before. He had lank hair and pimples, and was wearing two holey jerseys, one more or less on top of the other. He put down the book he was reading and opened the till.

  ‘There’s some letters come for Mr Toan,’ he said, when she’d taken out the cash she needed and written an IOU to put into the till. ‘Is he coming in?’

  ‘I’ll see to them,’ she said, holding out her hand. When he hesitated, she added. ‘It’s all right, I’m his business partner.’

  ‘I wish I’d known that yesterday,’ the boy said. ‘There was a bloke in here asking for Mr Toan, wanted to know if there was a partner.’

  Alison felt her heart sink. ‘What sort of bloke?’ she asked.

  ‘Official-looking. In a suit.’

  ‘I see,’ Alison said, picturing the man with foreboding. ‘If he comes in again, send him on to Shore Street, will you? Ask him to make it after five o’clock, if he wouldn’t mind, and then I shall be back from work. Now tell me, who’s been paying your wages?’

  ‘We take it out the till,’ the boy said. ‘Mr Toan knows.’

  That’s not very satisfactory, Alison thought. All those hands in the till.

  ‘Who banks the takings?’ she asked.

  ‘Whoever’s here on Friday and Saturday.’

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I’ll come in and do it from now on. Then I can pay you all at the same time. Will you tell the others?’

  Outside the shop, the sky was bruised with storm clouds and the sea was leaden grey, with a strong tide rolling west towards Selsey Bill. The beach was deserted and strewn with flotsam, long strands of black weed, plastic bottles, rusty cans. Gulls wheeled and screamed above the shingle, their plumage bedraggled by the rain. The beach huts had been taken down for the winter and the two remaining kiosks were dark with damp, their bright summer paintwork peeled to the boards and their shutters creaking in the wind. This seascape gave no comfort to her at all.

  And there were still the letters to attend to. That evening when the kids were asleep she took them out of her bag and read them one after the other, with a steadily sinking heart. They were all bills and most of them were second demands. She couldn’t understand why they’d been sent. Surely the whole point of the voluntary arrangement was that it was supposed to put a stop to bills being sent until Rigg could afford to pay them? There must be a mistake somewhere.

  She rubbed her eyes and looked through the letters again. Then she noticed that there were two final demands from Customs and Excise for payment of VAT which did not make sense either because they were for different amounts. So there was a mistake there too. Had to be. But the next letter she looked at was the worst of the lot. It was a summons to attend court for non-payment of a VAT bill for £3,669. And the date of the hearing was long past.

  She made a pile of the bills on the table in front of her, as if neatness would help her solve the problem. The shock of seeing so much money owing to so many people had blocked her ability to think. She wanted to phone Mum or Mark and ask them for advice. If it had been anythin
g other than the shop she would have done. But she couldn’t tell them about Rigg’s business affairs. Those were her worry. Nobody else’s. It would be disloyal to talk to anyone else about them. The only person she had the right to call was Rigg and since there wasn’t a phone in the flat, she couldn’t do that either. But she could write to him. In fact, she had to write to him to tell him about the VAT summons. She couldn’t ignore that.

  The next day was a working day, but she spent her coffee break writing the letter and mailed it on her way back to the office. Then it was simply a matter of waiting for Rigg’s reply.

  He didn’t phone and there wasn’t a letter. She gave him three days’ grace, because the letter might have gone astray or he might have gone to Madrid or somewhere else and missed the post. Then she wrote again. And just to be on the safe side, she sent a third letter the following day, with a postscript begging him, please phone.

  But the only phone calls she received were from her mother to say she’d got a lovely little coat for Emma’s Christmas present and how about coming round and helping her put up the decorations that afternoon? And from Morgan asking her whether she’d like him to book seats for the kids to see a pantomime in the New Year.

  Unable to concentrate on anything except those awful bills, she was distant with both of them. Worry filled her days with tension and kept her awake at night. Something had got to be done. But what? What?

  Eventually, on her next day off, she phoned the Ship Hotel at Brighton and asked them if they knew where Harvey Shearing could be found. They gave her an address in Ashenridge and the fax and phone numbers to go with it.

  Feeling guilty to be making a fuss, she dialled the number, and, rather to her surprise, got through to Mr Shearing at once. She explained the situation as calmly as she could.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I should think you’re right. He probably is in Spain, selling the flat. So what’s the problem?’

  ‘I’ve written to him three times, but he hasn’t answered.’

  ‘That is a little odd,’ his voice soothed. ‘However you don’t need to worry about the bills. Either keep them until your husband comes home or post them to me.’

  Alison swallowed with relief. ‘All of them?’ she asked.

  ‘Well not the ones appertaining to the video shop, naturally. As I understand it, that’s a limited liability company and outside the terms of the voluntary agreement.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. I find a hope and it’s dashed straight away.

  ‘Mr Toan had a partner, I believe,’ Mr Shearing went on.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then that’s the person who should deal with it, according to the law.’

  The word ‘law’ was beginning to sound like a threat.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m the partner,’ she said weakly.

  His answer was cool. ‘Mr Toan did tell me something to that effect.’

  ‘Look Mr Shearing,’ she said. ‘I don’t know where to begin in all this. There’s a terrible VAT bill outstanding and I haven’t got any money to pay it. If Rigg made a profit on the sale of Baubles, couldn’t I have a sort of loan on that for the video shop?’

  ‘That’s outside my brief I’m afraid. I couldn’t authorise payment from profits on Mr Toan’s jewellery store, even if there were any, which I’m sorry to say is not the case.’

  ‘Not the case?’

  ‘No. He’s been running at a loss for several months. The kitty is empty.’

  ‘You mean there’s nothing in his bank account?’

  ‘A few pounds. No more.’

  ‘What about the money he got when he sold Baubles?’

  ‘Baubles hasn’t been sold, Mrs Toan, as far as I’m aware. The owners can’t find any takers.’

  That was a surprise. ‘What owners?’

  ‘Solicitors in Worthing, I believe.’

  Alison had half expected to be told that the sale had made very little but not that the shop didn’t belong to Rigg after all. He’d always spoken so grandly about ‘my three outlets.’ And she’d always believed he owned them.

  ‘I thought Rigg was the owner,’ she said. The trapped feeling was getting worse.

  ‘Oh no, no, no. Rigg only leased the place and he was behind with the rent, as I understand it. Very few small businesses actually own their own premises, you know. All three of your husband’s were leased.’

  Disappointment turned into shock. ‘Oh dear,’ she whispered, as energy drained away from her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mr Shearing said.

  ‘Yes, well. I suppose I shall have to deal with the VAT bill then.’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Toan.’

  I shall have to sell the car, she thought. There’s nothing else I can do. He’ll be terribly angry, because he loves that car so much, but I’ve got no choice. There’s nothing else I can do.

  But, as it turned out, even that wasn’t possible.

  Alison waited until Monday in case there was a reply to her last letter, without much hope because if Rigg hadn’t answered by now it had to be because he wasn’t in the flat. It was cold and dark by day, the evenings were fraught with anxiety, and tension was making her careless. She burnt her fingers taking the supper out of the oven, forgot she’d left a sharp knife at the bottom of the washing-up bowl and gashed her thumb and, finally, as she carried the ironing upstairs late on Sunday evening, she knocked her most precious ornament off the shelf with the corner of the pile and smashed it beyond repair.

  Tomorrow, she promised herself, tomorrow I’ll ring the nearest BMW dealer and see what he’ll offer me. I can’t go on like this.

  But the next morning there was a letter from a finance company which put paid to her hopes completely. It regretted to inform Mr Toan that, due to non-payment of more than £5,000, the hire agreement between themselves and Mr Toan was now no longer valid and that unless he sent any monies owing within the next three days, they would have no alternative but to repossess the BMW he’d rented from them.

  Alison was forced to read the letter twice before she could take it in. She had just poured milk on to her cornflakes but her throat was so swollen with rage and disappointment that she couldn’t eat. Fortunately Jon and Emma were busy demolishing their toast and marmite and paying very little attention to what she was doing.

  The letter trembled in her hand. It can’t be true, she thought. It just can’t. All through this awful business she’d kept herself going with the knowledge that, if the worst came to the worst, Rigg would be able to raise money on the car. He’d said it himself, over and over again, to her, to the solicitor. I can always sell the car.’ And all the time he’d been deliberately lying to her. Deliberately lying. She was shaking with anger at his cruelty. Because it was cruel. He’d led her on, allowed her to think she had money to fall back on and then run off and left her to find out it was all lies. How could he have done such a thing? He’d cut the last piece of solid ground from under her feet. It was hideous. Despicable.

  But she had to face facts. There was no money at all, not from the sale of the shop, not in the bank account, not from the car. Rigg didn’t own anything. He’d never owned anything and he owed the VAT man all that money and there was no way he could raise it. No way she could raise it. What on earth was she going to do?

  That afternoon, while Jon was at school and Emma was playing an involved game with her dolls, she phoned the number listed on the larger VAT demand and asked to speak to the officer who had signed it.

  He was patient but adamant.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s no mistake. The first demand is covered by the voluntary arrangement and refers to your husband’s jewellery shops. That will be paid in full from the sale of a property in Spain. The other is the VAT outstanding on Hampton Videos.’

  Oh God, Alison thought. No wonder the figures didn’t balance. They’re two different bills. ‘But we’ve only been opened for six months,’ she said.

  ‘Two quarters,’ the man told her, ‘and neither of them paid and, as
I need hardly point out, with considerable debts outstanding on both Mr Toan’s other businesses.’

  There was no arguing with that. ‘How much do we owe on the video shop?’ she asked.

  ‘£3,669.’

  ‘My husband’s in Spain,’ she started to explain.

  ‘So you tell me,’ he said. ‘However, that doesn’t concern us unduly. His business partner is liable,’

  ‘That’s me,’ she said, her heart sinking. ‘In other words, I’ve got to pay this bill.’

  ‘I’m afraid so, as your husband isn’t here to pay it and you can’t contact him. That is the law.’

  ‘But I haven’t got any money. I’m on family credit.’

  ‘You’ve got stock,’ he said implacably. ‘If you can’t pay the bill, we are entitled to constrain the stock.’

  The severity in his voice was making her belly shake. ‘What does that mean?’ she asked, her voice husky with fear.

  ‘It means we send a bailiff to your shop and take possession of everything in it which we then sell at whatever price we can command, and use the proceeds to pay off your debt and any interest you may have run up and the bailiff’s fees and so forth.’

  She was horrified at the brutality of the process. ‘You can V do that,’ she said.

  ‘We not only can, Mrs Toan, we often do. We live in bad times. Your husband isn’t the only one to refuse to pay his bills.’

  She was too busy to argue about Rigg’s intentions. ‘How long have I got?’ she asked.

  ‘Hold the line just a minute and I’ll check.’

  She held the line, and her breath, for what seemed more like ten minutes than one.

  Then he spoke again. ‘It went to court six weeks ago, as I expect you know. Your husband didn’t attend the court. We kept him notified. You have till Monday next week. That’s Christmas Eve. If you can get the money to the office by first post Christmas Eve no further action will be taken,’

  She thanked him, as the condemned man thanks the executioner, so stunned by the shocks she’d sustained in the last terrible days that she was beyond tears. She was almost beyond reaction. Only her mind was working, quietly and with surprising calm, almost as though it didn’t belong to her.