by Maggie Ford
‘I hate it, having you always giving me money for whatever we do together.’
It was then she made up her mind – she would invest in a few shares for him, just enough so that he wouldn’t have to feel so dependent on her, embarrassed every time she sought to finance him. So long as it didn’t suddenly yield an unexpectedly huge profit as sometimes happens – not often, but possible – suddenly providing him with enough money in his pocket to go off and leave her, maybe for someone else? It could happen. Being left on her own again – she didn’t think she could stand it a second time…
She pulled her thoughts up sharp. He wouldn’t do that. Not after all she’d done for him. That night, they made love and she knew her fears were totally unfounded.
Even so, she’d go for small-yielding stock. She knew what she was doing – her eye on one particular small company, its shares modestly on the rise. She had already studied the company, weighed the degree of risk attached very carefully. There was always a certain degree of risk in everything but she herself would stand that, her own portfolio healthy and sound. She’d developed a sort of sixth sense about these things – when to take risks and when not to – and so far she’d always done well, give or take a few minor hiccups.
But where Ronnie was concerned she would be cautious about taking risks, judging carefully when the time was right for him to sell. He must not benefit so much that he’d begin to feel independent of her, start to feel his feet, decide to go off into the blue without her.
She was being silly, of course. He loved her, yet always that fear of once again being left all alone sat on her shoulders. But she was judging him before the act. Her fears were completely unfounded. She only had to see the look in his dark eyes when he gazed at her to know that.
The following day she told him what she aimed to do. His protests allayed her fears even more. ‘I can’t let you do that, Madeleine. Your money…’
‘To do with as I like,’ she interrupted. ‘And what I’d like is to see you with a bit of money of your own. Everyone should have money of their own.’
The look of gratitude on his handsome young face made her heart go out to him with all the love in her body.
George Foster, when she told him what she had in mind, was not so happy.
‘I’m virtually your financial adviser as well as your partner,’ he said, ‘and my advice is to think before you do anything. From what you tell me, he seems to take you a little too much for granted for my peace of mind.’
She was shocked by his statement. ‘I thought you liked him. I still remember all the nice things you said about him when you introduced us.’
‘He’s a likeable chap,’ Foster said, sitting at his desk, seeming very much intent on shuffling through papers lying there while she sat on the opposite side of the desk watching the exercise.
‘All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t indulge him so, paying for every little thing,’ he said as he looked up at her.
‘And even after all this time you… we… don’t know all that much about him. We still don’t know who his parents are or why they never come to see him, though that’s none of my business.’
‘No, it’s not,’ she countered testily.
‘All I wish to do,’ he went on in his quiet voice, ‘is see you OK. I promised James, your late husband and my old partner, that I’d keep an eye on you, make certain you were safe. And it has worked well so far. But this idea of using your own money – not his – to invest in shares in his name and his letting you do it – his reaping the benefit, well, it’s—’
‘This was my idea, not his,’ she cut in.
‘Maybe, my dear, but he’d be better being out there and finding work for himself. Most young men want to stand on their own two feet rather than be beholden to someone else. It does make me wonder.’
‘That’s probably my fault,’ she said huffily.
Having him refer to her as ‘my dear’, the way James used to made her cringe as it had often done when she was with James. But he was still speaking.
‘Millicent and I haven’t seen him since that Christmas we introduced him to you. Then we’d felt sorry for him. We’d befriended him and wanted to help him, a young man little more than a boy, all alone in the world, whose parents appeared to have forsaken him. I expect you felt the same. But now you two seem to be all over each other, you practically keeping him – or so it would look to the world. And now this – it’s too much, my dear.’
He seemed to be totally against him and she couldn’t understand why. Even now she couldn’t believe how a person’s opinion could change so drastically, as if Ronald was his worst enemy and yet the Fosters hadn’t lain eyes on him for three years other than on a couple of occasions attending one of her parties.
‘What have you got against him?’ she challenged now. For answer, he lifted his shoulders in a small shrug.
‘I haven’t seen enough of him recently to have anything against him. I’m just saying you should be cautious about using your own money buying shares for others. It’s different taking risks on our own behalf, but with others…’
He let his voice die away, leaving her feeling uneasy. In the end she decided that in this particular case she would use another financial adviser – far less embarrassing – less hassle.
Twenty-Eight
Ronnie was becoming impatient. ‘Why are we waiting so long? They’re making a nice profit. Shouldn’t we be cashing in on them? I hate it, still having to rely on you to buy me everything.’
‘You have to learn to be patient,’ she told him. ‘You’ve only had them for three months. Give it time.’
They were lying in each other’s arms this morning, having made love with no need to get up until midday after a late night at a party.
It was September. By her estimation another couple of months would see his investment rise at least another quarter of its worth. George Foster had said so.
‘If I were you I should sell then. By what you tell me, you don’t want that young man to get too carried away,’ he’d advised darkly, going on to say, ‘I have it on good authority that they could drop a little round about autumn. If you want to, and feel sure of him, you can buy in again.’
But he was chafing at the bit, anxious she imagined to have his own money in his pocket. It was that which worried her. Until now he’d relied on her but what if he were to make a killing; no longer needing her? He could walk out of her life, leaving her alone again. If that happened, what would she do? But surely he’d never do that. He was so lovely, so grateful to her, at every turn showing his gratitude. And he loved her.
‘According to you, I only had to wait a few weeks,’ he said, his tone somewhat sharper than she’d have liked, or was it just her imagination?
‘Sometimes, yes,’ she told him as evenly as she could. ‘But you have to learn to bide your time. It will come.’
She was biding hers too, closely watching a buoyant market that had risen at a fine pace throughout the summer, instinct telling her to wait – that next month, as they began to reach their threshold, would be the time to sell.
‘When it does,’ she told Ronald, ‘we can talk about whether or not you want to sell. Just bide your time. Patience – you need to be patient.’
‘And if they drop, suddenly, before I can do that?’
‘Trust me, darling. Give it one more month. You’ll see.’
‘What if the company suddenly goes bust and the price suddenly drops without warning?’
‘The company’s doing well. Why should it suddenly drop?’ But his words seemed to hold a prophetic ring to them, causing the tiniest of shivers to run through her veins, a feeling which she hurriedly shook off.
‘You have to trust me,’ she said again emphatically. ‘You wait, my love, things will start moving around autumn. It often does and you’ll be pleased that you bided your time. We’ll both be pleased.’
Now it was October and he was again beginning to fret. ‘It’ll be Christmas soon,’ he
remarked this Thursday as they sat at home over a welcome cup of tea and slice of cake after having been out shopping all afternoon. She loved having him with her when she bought things. He had a good eye for fashion and it was so nice having a second opinion from someone she trusted.
Most women were either tight-lipped, perhaps trying to hide their jealousy at the money she spent on the latest fashions, or they would be all over her, saying: ‘Oh, my dear, that looks simply wonderful on you!’ no matter how dubious she felt about the garment. Ronnie she could trust. But time was passing. Christmas was rushing towards them and she needed to find something really beautiful and special for the festive season. As always, her Christmas Eve party would be the biggest and best in London if she had any say in it.
‘Investors all need money for Christmas,’ he was saying. ‘Won’t there be a rush to cash in? The market could drop and I won’t make as much as I’d hoped. Maybe we should do something about it now before it’s too late.’
She was about to remind him of patience, that she had her eye on the market and to give it just a couple more weeks and then they’d be laughing, when the phone rang. Casually she got up to answer it. It was Foster. His voice was high and panicky.
‘Madeleine – have you got the wireless on?’
‘No. Why?’
‘The New York stock market – it’s chaos over there!’
Her mind went immediately to some spectacular bull market, prices escalating like some wildfire, and her heart soared. Some of her shares were connected with the market there. She had been drawn to that market when James had taken her to New York and they’d both spent a little time off from sightseeing to dabble. Now George Foster sounded beside himself and her thoughts instantly flew to what marvellous luck she seemed to have with her dealings – or was it skill? Those that didn’t make money were trivial to her mind, easily recovered by other triumphs.
‘Did you say chaos?’ she queried excitedly down the phone. It was nearly six o’clock and George Foster was still at his desk.
His voice came in staccato spasms: ‘Complete madness! Going crazy over there, selling… every last man jack – selling – for whatever they can get… The market there has crashed! Everyone’s going berserk – shares are tumbling, falling like rocks!’
She was having problems trying to catch his words, he was gabbling so – a man who always had control over himself no matter what, a soothing influence always.
‘I don’t understand,’ she stammered.
‘Then bloody well try to, Madeleine!’
Immediately controlling the outburst he began to voice his next words as if with an effort – slowly, deliberately, painfully even. ‘The American Stock Market in New York has crashed. It’s panic over there. People are selling – everything they have for anything they can get. Still going down as I speak. Do you understand what I am saying?’
Her earlier elation had plummeted and she found herself incapable of responding immediately, already seeing the implications, a disaster that could echo across the world. But what of her own investments, surely they wouldn’t be affected, not here in this country? She asked this question of him now.
‘We’ll have to wait and see.’
‘Should I consider selling?’ There was a long pause. ‘What are you thinking about your own portfolio?’ she pushed.
The pause lengthened then he said as if talking to himself. ‘Selling might be adding to the panic. It could be just a hiccup. Shares might easily recover by this evening. The only fear is that if they rise again after one’s got rid of them, one would look a fool – a broke fool. I don’t know.’
She’d never known him to be so uncertain. Fear caught hold of her. ‘What should I do?’ she said, her voice high and tiny.
There was another moment of silence before he said, ‘I can’t advise you, my dear, not in this instance.’
‘Then what do you intend doing?’
More silence. Then he said, slowly: ‘I think I’ll wait, see what happens. Trading may pick up later. You can never tell. It’s still around midday over there – still quite a few hours to go until the market closes. A lot can happen between now and then.’
His voice faded away leaving her wondering if she should trust in his superior judgement. She always had and had always profited by it, with very few exceptions, but this…
Perhaps tomorrow would see the market straightened out again and, come Monday, it would all be back to normal trading.
She relayed his words to Ronald. ‘Wait a while – see what happens over the next few hours.’
But he was being stubborn. ‘I feel I should sell now. I don’t care what he says,’ he said bullishly in the face of all her efforts to convince him, until she was near to losing her temper with him, something she had never done before.
‘All right, if that’s what you want,’ she snapped. ‘I’m done with trying to help and guide you. If you refuse to listen, I can’t make you.’
She was prepared to wait. If she made the wrong decision, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Her money was of course with her bank and more than healthy, able to deal with small setbacks. In the investment world one had to take into account the likelihood of a setback at any time; taking chances was all part of the game. But if Ronnie wanted to be silly it was up to him.
In her annoyance she vowed to wash her hands of helping him any more, moments later to ditch that decision. He would come to her, no doubt full of apologies and she, of course, would renew his losses, continue to fund him, as she’d always done. But he would have learned to take more note of what she said in future. In a way it gave a feeling of control.
But it was worrying, she and George Foster standing in the office reading the newspapers, all of them reporting what was happening on the other side of the Atlantic:
‘… an unprecedented wave of fear, confusion and panic – nearly thirteen million shares changed hands on the New York Stock Exchange today – dazed brokers waded through a sea of paper clutching frightened investors’ orders to “sell at any price”.’
Another paper reporting: ‘The market has ceased to function as such,’ and another: ‘mad clamour of salesmen looking for non-existent buyers. Stocks being dumped overboard for whatever they can bring.’
Yet another saying: ‘The spree of easy money and overconfidence is now ended, crushing the dreams of an army of small investors who have lost everything. Eleven said to have committed suicide.’
‘I think you should sell while you can,’ Foster said suddenly, his tone instantly alarming her even more.
The London market having opened, their tape machine was already showing a small drop in share prices. Yet something kept telling her not to yield to panic. Come tomorrow she would kick herself for yielding to a knee jerk reaction. What if she rushed out and sold huge parcels of shares at lower prices only to find that by Monday they would have gone up. To lose all that much over a moment of panic was stupid; to have to buy back at their higher price would be unthinkable. No, it was best to wait.
He didn’t argue. But she knew she was right and wondered at him for panicking. It wasn’t like him. Stubbornly she resisted the thought that he knew more than she and she’d be wise to take his advice as she had always done. He’d already dealt with Ronnie’s request, Ronnie all chirpy when she came back home, seeing a nice bank balance. So was she being a fool?
On Saturday she felt that she had made the right decision. Yes, her shares had dropped a little, but not drastically, not enough for her to have sold them. In fact trading was slow on the Stock Exchange. Neither had George Foster, after thinking about it, sold any of his.
‘I think I’ll hang on for a while,’ he said to her over the phone which made her feel better about her own decision. Ronnie, however, was looking downcast. She let him stew. Later she would sort him out to his delight.
Sunday’s newspapers showed earlier pictures of crowds and crowds of anxious speculators thronging downtown New York – a sea of trilby hats – car
owners desperately trying to sell their vehicles to people who didn’t want them, could no longer afford to buy a bit of furniture much less a car.
Monday brought a rude awakening. The moment the stock market opened, the fears of investors here were realized as the first shock wave from Wall Street really hit them. Along with every other punter, Madeleine saw her shares fall so sharply as to take her breath away. She should have sold. She should have followed those wise ones who’d got rid of most of their stuff at the first glimpse of disaster and now be buying back at lowered prices.
Yet what if they continued to fall, so far as to be worthless? The bank taking fright would call in their loans, contact her to honour her debts as soon as possible, as she had always used them to finance her dealings.
Hitherto it had never seemed a problem that her money was tied up in her account; that she had bought and sold without a care; that they held the purse strings and if anything went wrong they would call the tune.
She’d taken heart when Friday morning’s papers had reported a rally on the New York Exchange the previous afternoon: thanks to an emergency meeting of several big banks and their reassuring statements to prop up the market, there was an actual improvement on the day. The crash was blamed on the inadequacy of the ticker-tape system to cope with a sudden massive volume of trading. But like everyone else, her relief was short-lived. Reports were saying that the spree of easy money and overconfidence was over. The bear market had returned with a vengeance, crushing everyone’s dreams of wealth everlasting; and Madeleine one of them.
Ronnie, who’d refused to rely on patience, didn’t look so stupid now with money in his pocket. But she had no time to think what that might mean as she found herself at her wits’ end on how to deal with her bank’s demands for her to settle up, her bank manager no longer her smiling friend.
