by Peter Rimmer
Everyone was trying to be cheerful but everyone knew Richard was lying dead upstairs in his room. Barnaby knew it was not going to be a good Christmas after all. Taking a hot mince pie from the silver tray on the sideboard, he wandered across the room to meet his new brother-in-law, the enigmatic painter. The poor fellow was looking petrified.
Robert watched his youngest brother across the room and wondered what he was smirking about. The boy had the look of the cat that had licked the cream. Granny Forrester was beckoning to him. When he stood in front of her she just smiled and kissed him on both cheeks.
Chapter 12: June to December 1914
Jack Merryweather rarely looked at the financial pages of the newspaper. He knew his income was grossly in excess of his expenditure and saw no point in watching what other people had done for him. When he was sick he went to a doctor. A legal problem found him with his solicitor. Pick a man in his profession and trust him and mostly it had worked. His money was entrusted to five stockbrokers and one of them was Jared Wentworth. Jack had concluded a man who hated his job could still be good at it. The man was honest, the most precious ingredient for Jack in a money manager. The connection with Elephant Walk helped. Mostly when he visited Jared's office in the City they talked of Harry and Elephant Walk. Sometimes the portfolio of shares was worth more than the last time. Sometimes less. Over the years the profile had made a steady six per cent rise which among the five stockbrokers was the best return on his money.
"Do you feel like a gamble," said Jared, taking a prospectus from his desk drawer.
"You've never suggested one before," said Jack.
They had talked about the looming war and the dead archduke in Bosnia. He had been pleased to hear Sara Wentworth had still not married Fishy Braithwaite and would relay the information to Harry Brigandshaw in his next letter. They had both agreed long ago Sara would make the perfect colonial wife for Harry. Jack had been about to stand up in preparation to leaving Jared's office when the surprising question was asked. Jack raised a quizzical eyebrow and kept his seat. He was thirty-three years old and had mastered the art of raising a quizzical eyebrow.
"Don't look so shocked. I have not gone off at a tangent." Flicking the prospectus so it landed on the desk facing Jack, Jared leaned back in his chair and smiled.
Jack was forced to read the heading. "Serendipity Mining and Explosives Company! This must be a joke."
Jared was amused to watch Jack climb up on his high horse, his own smile making Jack climb a little higher.
"Blue chips, Jared. Don't you remember my first instructions? Those South African mining companies have been known to float and sink in the same day. They salt the mines, damn it. In a proper world they would lock up people who float these companies."
"People did well enough out of Cecil Rhodes and Barney Barnato." Jared was openly smiling.
"Take that grin off your face," said Jack.
"Have a look at the names of the directors."
Jack did and looked up sharply. "Lord Kenrick, Earl of Pembridgemoor, is a professional company director. He'd go on any board for five thousand a year provided he doesn't have to attend a board meeting. The college of heralds has not confirmed his inheritance. There have been rumours for years his elder brother is still alive. I wouldn't put a penny anywhere near Rowland Kenrick despite the fact that he's a member of my club. Someone tried to shoot him in a duel for cheating at cards. Dreadful man. Years ago, of course."
"Look at the names of the two executive directors."
"Why?"
"Because you'll recognise them."
"Well, I'll be blowed," said Jack.
"I propose you buy five thousand pounds worth."
"There's no mention of Lily White on the board. Albert Pringle, yes. But who's S J Barker?"
"Sallie Barker. Used her initials to hide she's a woman. She's the brains, Jack. Take the prospectus home. Read it."
"Why do you want me to invest?"
"To have some fun. He was your valet, for God's sake. Now he's floating gold mines on the London Stock Exchange. Where's your sense of adventure? The goldmine may be a gamble. They always are. But the explosive factory with a war round the corner. They'll be making artillery shots before you can turn round. Mines for the navy. The offer will be five times oversubscribed. When these shares reach the exchange they'll be twice the listing price. Perfect timing. Your valet is going to be a rich man."
"Better make it fifty thousand pounds."
"You haven't read the prospectus."
"You have."
"So you do have a soft spot for Sallie Barker!"
"I'm a confirmed bachelor. You know that. No, I'd like to see Sallie put two fingers in her mother's eyes. If the shares list well it will be my pleasure to point out S J Barker to her mother."
"Fifty thousand pounds is a lot of money to gamble."
"You said have some fun. Let's have some fun. If you're wrong I'll fire you as my broker… Buy the shares in a nominee. Keep quiet until we know what happens. I wonder what they did with Lily White. Shows what can be made in life from rough beginnings. The three of them were running a whorehouse in Johannesburg." Jack was now smiling.
"It doesn't say that in the prospectus," said Jared, worried for his biggest account.
"If they can run a whorehouse successfully, this will be a piece of cake. Thank you Jared. I am having fun. And I will read the prospectus when I get home. But put in for fifty thousand quid's worth to the offer broker. If you're right we'll only get ten thousand… Sallie Barker. She had the most perfect dark eyes and long black ringlets past her ears. That was the first time I saw her. Well, I'll be blowed."
Outside on the pavement Jack felt happier than he had done for a long time. And there was no sign of boredom nagging at the back of his mind… He had even forgotten the pending war.
Lifting his rolled umbrella, he pointed it imperiously at a roving taxi, one of the new ones propelled by an internal combustion engine. The contraption stopped and he got in. It was five o'clock in the evening. He should have asked Jared to come over for a drink at the club. Instead he gave the driver the address of his new mistress. She was eighteen years old. At that age, he had found, they were not so cynical of life. She did not have the size of the bosom of Lily White but she did have a more pleasant disposition. She was more fun. She made him feel younger. By the time he reached her small flat in Sutherland Avenue, Paddington, he had forgotten all about Lily White and Sallie Barker. He would phone his new valet from the girl's flat and tell him he would not be home for supper. With everything in perfect order in his life, he began to climb a flight of wooden stairs to the small door with a small brass knocker. He gave one wallop on the knocker and the door flew open and the pretty little thing ran straight into his arms.
"Oh Jack! Now I'm happy." She gave him a big kiss. "What have you been doing?"
"Buying gold shares."
"Come in and tell me all about it and then we can drive to Regent Park and go for a walk. It's such a lovely afternoon. Oh, I'm so happy."
It was like eating a soufflé when he wanted a proper meal; all fluff and no substance. It wasn't good enough. She tried so hard to amuse him and he tried so hard to be amused. Trivia. Trivia… And more trivia. The pretty little girl parroted bits of the books he had given her to read, moving her eyes round his face to see if what she said was the right thing for the moment. Everything she did centred around keeping her job as his mistress, the void outside the comfort of the small flat he paid for always in her mind, the terrible alternative. There was fear in the chatter, that found him wishing he had gone to the club. She tried too hard and all Jack could see were dark, almost black eyes and black bouncing ringlets in his mind. It made him feel lonely and bored at the same time but he had no heart to hurt the girl prattling at his side. Would she really want to hear about another woman six thousand miles away? Could he talk about the emptiness in his life that had gone so long from one indulge
nce to the other? That nothing lasted. That there was no real importance in chit-chat or grand meals or plays in vogue; some new singer everyone told him had to be heard; some new amusement to counter his boredom. How lucky Sallie Barker had been when her telegram lay stuck at the back of the Elephant Walk mailbox in the Salisbury post office. He would have paid of course. They might even have started an affair. Whatever they had done, he doubted if it would have compared to a public share listing on the London Stock Exchange. She had been doing something while all the time he had drifted through his life of luxury to the echoed time of boredom. He envied her. She had something to think about other than satisfying the bodily whims.
They went back to the Paddington flat after an expensive dinner in a favourite restaurant, where he drank enough to bring his mind down to the present. They had gone home after their walk in the park so she could change. Because she so wished to please him they made love in the big double bed. She would have been mortified had he left without taking what he had paid for. It would have been like beating a dog that wanted to play.
She wanted him to stay but he went home. His new valet, the fourth since Albert Pringle, was asleep in the chair in the hall. The man was obsequiously subservient.
"I said to go to bed if it was after ten," said Jack standing at the front door.
"Oh, sir. It's my duty. I must be ready whenever you come home. Is there anything you require, sir?"
"No, Bradford. Go to bed."
"The whisky decanter is in the lounge."
"It always is at this time of night, Bradford."
"As you say sir."
"And good night."
"A very good night to you, sir. And may it not be too presumptuous of me to wish you pleasant dreams… Pleasant dreams, sir."
"Thank you Bradford."
"It is always my pleasure."
In the lounge behind the closed door, he poured himself a whisky and went to his writing desk, which he opened, having pulled out the wooden arms that supported the mahogany lid that came down to a table, tooled green leather making a pleasant writing surface where it was smooth in the centre. Jack took a clean sheet of paper from a small drawer and took up his pen. He thought for a while, removing the irritation of Bradford from his mind. Then he forgot his mistress. For a moment before he began to compose the first verse of a new poem he thought of the looming war and wondered if he would be too old to join the army. He hoped not. Even though he knew the piece of paper would end up in the wastepaper basket to the right of his bureau, he began to write. It was his only therapy. The one time he was not bored with his life.
The most stupid thing a whore could ever do was fall in love with the patron. He had made love to her that night because he felt sorry for her and no other reason. Feeling even sorrier for herself at the thought she went back to having a good cry. Then she blew her nose and made herself a cup of tea. It was a very nice flat. She worried too much. She was still young.
The day before war broke out between Germany and England, Serendipity was oversubscribed five and a half times when it floated on the London Stock Exchange. Jared phoned Jack the news.
"One pound, eleven and sixpence for a share you paid one pound for. How many do we sell?" Jared was very cheerful and very relieved. He had told the senior partner about his predicament some days before.
"Goodness, Wentworth! Why jeopardise the account of Merryweather. You'll be fired if you lose him of course. South African mining shares! Were you out of your mind? You should leave the company now, of course. We can't change your mistake but we would have a defence. Merryweather might just stay with us."
"He won't. He said so. May we wait to see what happens?"
"Very well. Don't do it again. We are here to make commission when we buy and sell shares. We don't make an extra penny if Merryweather makes a bundle."
"We both know the executive directors."
"Why didn't you tell me? You know something! Buy me a thousand shares. You have to have inside information to make money."
"Neither of us know anything. All I have is the prospectus."
"Now I see it. Tell the floor to make it two thousand shares. My private account. Only a fool would jeopardise his job. Well done, Wentworth. No, make it five thousand. I see what you're up to. 'Methinks the lady protesteth too much', to make a hash of Shakespeare."
"But, sir."
"Out. Wentworth! Five thousand shares."
The phone had gone quiet. "Are you there, Jack?"
"I'm here. Just the world's gone mad. How many shares did I get if it's oversubscribed?"
"Eight to ten thousand I should think. It's up to the directors' discretion but they usually allocate in proportion to the oversubscription. How many do I sell?"
"None of course. Let me know the allocation. We'll also be at war by tomorrow."
"Looks like it. Don't you want to sell the few to cover your bet?"
"No. And if it's any help for your sleep, whatever they do now is my fault, not yours… Are you going to join the army?"
"The navy. I think. I've been playing around in small boats all my life. And you, Jack? You don't have to go."
"Too old, ha ha! My foot. I'll lie. Say I'm twenty-five."
"They won't believe you."
"They will when they get desperate."
"It'll all be over in six months."
Jack was not so optimistic. Austria had declared war on little Serbia for shooting its archduke. The man who had shot him, Gavrilo Princip, was a fanatic. Russia mobilised in support of Serbia so Germany declared war on Russia and France. The rest of the world was waiting its turn. All the pieces of Europe were being thrown into the air, and everyone who was anyone was getting into position, so when the pieces came down again they could grab as much as possible for themselves. The spoils of war. Jack wondered if there would be any if all the pieces going up in the air were shot to pieces before they hit the ground; war was part of man; nothing had changed; they were all taking sides, hoping they'd taken on the right one. Jack doubted if anyone in power or on the streets had given a thought to the real right or wrong of anything. Once in a regular while the world wanted blood. Charles Darwin would have understood, Jack thought, walking from his house in Baker Street to his club in the Mall. Evolution. Survival of the fittest. He had seen it so often in Africa. All the male animals fought with each other to see who would mate with the female. Only the best strain survived. Man was an animal. They just dressed up better. Or so they thought.
In the club, the Earl of Pembridgemoor was buying everyone a drink.
The next day, after Germany invaded little Belgium, England declared war on Germany. Japan declared war on Germany. Britain's colonies stood ready to join the war. Jack, in his club on the Mall, where he had been all day with the excitement building by the moment, put a phone call through to Jared Wentworth. He wanted to try to make the day as normal as possible, but like everyone else, he wondered if anything would ever be the same again.
"What's the share price, Jared?"
"One pound seventeen, shillings and sixpence. On the floor they think they'll go to two pounds by the close. Gold as a monetary hedge. Explosives to blow up the Hun. What a combination! I've been trying to reach you at your home since one o'clock. Had a wire from the company's Johannesburg office. Rather unusual, I'd say. The directors have given you what you asked for. Fifty thousand shares. You own five per cent of the company and will double your money within a week."
"Was there a personal note to the telegram?"
"No."
"I'll be damned. That lunch I paid for with Ernest Gilchrist was the best investment I ever made in my life."
"You'll have to find yourself another broker."
"Whatever for, Jared?"
"I go down to Dartmouth on tomorrow's train. I've joined the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve… There's a war on," he said into the silence.
There's nothing worse than a guilty conscience that w
on't go away. Albert Pringle and Sallie Barker had argued for a week. Ever since the closing date, when all the application forms had been received in London with bank guaranteed cheques pinned to the forms. All share requests for one hundred or less shares were to be filled in full. Details of share applications for more than one per cent of the company had been telegraphed to the Serendipity office in Johannesburg for review; which had started the row.
It was Albert Pringle's chance to make up for running away without even speaking to Jack Merryweather. He had not even written him a letter.
"Don't be bloody stupid, Albert, he'll think it's me," said Sallie Barker the day before the shares were due to float on the London Stock Exchange. "He'll think I'm after him again. The shares can still flop and then he won't thank us."
"You forget. Without Jack Merryweather none of this would have happened. Your mother had her eye on Jack for you. He paid my passage to Africa and I left him in the lurch."
"You're being sentimental."
"He's our talisman."
"Now you are being superstitious."
"Please, Sallie. I've never asked for much. You know the shares are going to open higher than a quid. We know how much we're oversubscribed. Please. I'll go on my knees. Someone's going to make the money. Why not Jack?"
There had been more to Albert's relationship with Jack. Without the master-servant impediment, and coming from a different class, he fancied they would have been friends. Good friends. They understood each other. Talked to each other about their families and in the end he had let him down. Taken the boat trip and thrown it in his face. This would make them even.
So much loyalty thought Sallie and smiled.
"Thanks," said Albert without her having to speak. The smile was enough. "But we keep quiet. Let him think it's normal company policy to have large shareholders. You think he'll want to come on the board?"
