This Was a Man

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Do you have an idea, a subject, or even a title?” pressed Seb as they entered Le Caprice.

  “Yes, yes, and yes,” said Harry, “but that’s all I’m willing to tell you at the moment.”

  “But you’ll tell me, won’t you, Grandpops?” said Jessica, as she produced a pencil drawing of Harry kneeling before the Queen, a sword touching his right shoulder.

  Harry gasped as the rest of the family smiled and applauded. He was about to answer her question, when the maître d’ stepped forward and rescued him.

  “Your table is ready, Sir Harry.”

  3

  “NEVER, NEVER, NEVER,” said Emma. “Do I have to remind you that Sir Joshua founded Barrington’s Shipping in 1839, and in his first year made a profit of—”

  “Thirty-three pounds, four shillings, and tuppence, which you first told me when I was five years old,” said Sebastian. “However, the truth is that although Barrington’s managed a reasonable dividend for its shareholders last year, it’s becoming more and more difficult for us to go on challenging the big boys like Cunard and P and O.”

  “I wonder what your grandfather would have thought about Barrington’s being taken over by one of his fiercest rivals?”

  “After everything I’ve been told or read about the great man,” said Seb, looking up at the portrait of Sir Walter that hung on the wall behind his mother, “he would have considered his options, and what would be best for the shareholders and employees, before coming to a final decision.”

  “Without wishing to interrupt this family squabble,” said Admiral Summers, “surely what we should be discussing is whether Cunard’s offer is worth the biscuit.”

  “It’s a fair offer,” said Sebastian matter-of-factly, “but I’m confident I can get them to raise their bid by at least ten percent, possibly fifteen, which frankly is as much as we could hope for. So all we really have to decide is do we want to take their offer seriously, or reject it out of hand?”

  “Then perhaps it’s time to listen to the views of our fellow directors,” said Emma, looking around the boardroom table.

  “Of course, we can all express an opinion, chairman,” said Philip Webster, the company secretary, “on what is unquestionably the most important decision in the company’s history. However, as your family remain the majority shareholders, only you can decide the outcome.”

  The other directors nodded in agreement but it didn’t stop them offering their opinions for the next forty minutes, by which time Emma had discovered they were evenly divided.

  “Right,” she said, after one or two directors began repeating themselves, “Clive, as head of our public relations division, I suggest you prepare two press statements for the board’s consideration. The first will be short and to the point, leaving Cunard in no doubt that while we are flattered by their offer, Barrington’s Shipping is a family company, and is not for sale.”

  The admiral looked pleased, while Sebastian remained impassive.

  “And the second?” asked Clive Bingham, after writing down the chairman’s words.

  “The board rejects Cunard’s offer as derisory and, as far as we’re concerned, it’s business as usual.”

  “That will lead them to believe that you might just be interested if the price was right,” warned Seb.

  “And then what would happen?” asked the admiral.

  “The curtain will go up, and the pantomime will begin,” said Seb, “because the chairman of Cunard will be well aware that the leading lady is doing no more than dropping her handkerchief on the floor in the expectation that the suitor will pick it up and begin an age-old courting process that just might end with a proposal she feels able to accept.”

  “How much time have we got?” asked Emma.

  “The City will be aware we’re holding a board meeting to discuss the takeover bid, and will expect a response to Cunard’s offer by close of business tonight. The market can handle almost anything, drought, famine, an unexpected election result, even a coup, but not indecision.”

  Emma opened her handbag, removed a handkerchief, and dropped it on the floor.

  * * *

  “What did you think of the sermon?” asked Harry.

  “Most interesting,” said Emma. “But then, the Reverend Dodswell always preaches a good sermon,” she added as they left the churchyard and made their way back to the Manor House.

  “I’d discuss his views on Doubting Thomas, if I thought you’d listened to a word.”

  “I found his approach fascinating,” protested Emma.

  “No, you didn’t. He never once mentioned Doubting Thomas, and I won’t embarrass you further by asking you what he did preach about. I only hope Our Lord will be understanding about your preoccupation with the possible takeover.”

  They walked a few more yards in silence before Emma said, “It’s not the takeover that’s worrying me.”

  “Then what?” said Harry, sounding surprised. Emma took his hand. “That bad?” he asked.

  “The Maple Leaf has returned to Bristol and is docked in the breakers’ yard.” She paused. “Demolition work will begin on Tuesday.”

  They continued walking for some time before Harry asked, “What do you want to do about it?”

  “I don’t think we have a lot of choice, if we’re not going to spend the rest of our lives wondering…”

  “And it might finally answer the question that’s bedeviled us for our entire lives. So why don’t you try and find out if there’s anything in the ship’s double bottom as discreetly as possible.”

  “Work could begin immediately,” admitted Emma. “But I wasn’t willing to give the final go-ahead until I had your blessing.”

  * * *

  Clive Bingham had been delighted when Emma asked him to join the board of Barrington’s Shipping, and although it hadn’t been easy to take his father’s place as a director, he felt the company had benefited from his experience and expertise in the public relations field, which it had been sadly lacking until his appointment. Even so, he had no doubt what Sir Walter Barrington would have thought about a PR man joining the board: like a tradesman being invited to dinner.

  Clive headed up his own PR company in the City, with a staff of eleven who had experienced several takeover battles in the past. But he admitted to Seb that he’d been losing sleep over this one.

  “Why? There’s nothing particularly unusual about a family company being taken over. It’s been happening a lot recently.”

  “I agree,” said Clive, “but this time it’s personal. Your mother had the confidence to invite me to join the board after my father resigned, and frankly it’s not as if I’m briefing the trade press on a new shipping route to the Bahamas, or the latest loyalty scheme, or even the building of a third liner. If I get this one wrong—”

  “So far your briefings have been pitch perfect,” said Seb, “and Cunard’s latest bid is almost there. We know it, and they know it, so you couldn’t have done a more professional job.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so, Seb, but I feel like a runner in the home straight. I can see the tape but there’s still one more hurdle to cross.”

  “And you’ll do it in style.”

  Clive hesitated a moment before he spoke again. “I’m not convinced your mother really wants to go ahead with the takeover.”

  “You may well be right,” said Seb. “However, there is a compensation for her that you might not have considered.”

  “Namely?”

  “She’s becoming more and more involved with her work as chairman of the hospital, which, don’t forget, employs more people and has an even bigger budget than Barrington’s Shipping and, perhaps more important, no one can take it over.”

  “But how do Giles and Grace feel? After all, they’re the majority shareholders.”

  “They’ve left the final decision to her, which is probably why she asked me how I felt. And I didn’t leave her in any doubt that I’m a banker by nature, not a shipping man, and I’d rather
be chairman of Farthings Kaufman than of Barrington’s. It can’t have been easy for her, but she’s finally accepted that I couldn’t do both. If only I had a younger brother.”

  “Or sister,” said Clive.

  “Shh … or Jessica might start getting ideas.”

  “She’s only thirteen.”

  “I don’t think that would worry her.”

  “How’s she settling down in her new school?”

  “Her art teacher admitted she’s letting it be known before it becomes too obvious that the school has a third-former who’s already a better artist than she is.”

  * * *

  When Emma returned from the breakers’ yard late on Monday evening, she knew she had to tell Harry what Frank Gibson and his team had found when they prized open the Maple Leaf’s double bottom.

  “It turned out be exactly as we’ve always feared,” she said as she sat down opposite Harry. “Even worse.”

  “Worse?” repeated Harry.

  She bowed her head. “Arthur had scratched a message on the side of the double bottom.” She paused, but couldn’t get the words out.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” said Harry, taking her hand.

  “I do. Otherwise we’ll just go on living a lie for the rest of our lives.” It was some time before she managed, “He’d written, ‘Stan was right. Sir Hugo knew I was trapped down here’ … So, my father murdered your father,” she said between sobs.

  It was some time before Harry said, “That’s something we can never be sure about, and perhaps, my darling, it’s better we don’t—”

  “I no longer want to know. But the poor man should at least have a Christian burial. Your mother would have expected nothing less.”

  “I’ll have a quiet word with the vicar.”

  “Who else should be there?”

  “Just the two of us,” said Harry without hesitation. “Nothing can be gained from putting Seb and Jessie through the pain we’ve had to suffer for so many years. And let’s pray that’s an end to the matter.”

  Emma looked across at her husband. “You clearly haven’t heard about the Cambridge scientists who are working on something called DNA.”

  WE’RE ALMOST THERE, SAYS

  BARRINGTON’S SPOKESMAN

  “Damn,” said Clive when he had read The Financial Times headline. “How can I have been so stupid?”

  “Stop beating yourself up,” said Seb. “The truth is, we are almost there.”

  “We both know that,” said Clive. “But we didn’t need Cunard to find out.”

  “They already knew,” said Seb, “long before they saw that headline. Frankly, we’d be lucky to milk more than another percentage point out of this deal. I suspect they’ve already reached their limit.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Clive, “your mother won’t exactly be pleased, and who could blame her?”

  “She’ll assume it’s all part of the endgame, and I’m not going to be the one to disabuse her.”

  “Thanks for the support, Seb. I appreciate it.”

  “It’s no more than you gave me when Sloane appointed himself chairman of Farthings and then sacked me the next day. Have you forgotten that Kaufman’s was the only bank that offered me a job? And in any case, my mother might even be pleased by the headline.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m still not convinced she wants this takeover to succeed.”

  * * *

  “Is this going to harm the takeover?” asked Emma after she’d read the article.

  “We may have to sacrifice a point, possibly two,” said Seb. “But don’t forget Cedric Hardcastle’s sage words on the subject of takeovers. If you end up with more than you expected, while the other side feel they’ve got the better of the deal, everyone leaves the table happy.”

  “How do you think Giles and Grace will react?”

  “Uncle Giles is spending most of his spare time running up and down the country visiting marginal seats in the hope that Labour can still win the next election. Because if Margaret Thatcher becomes our next prime minister, he may never hold office again.”

  “And Grace?”

  “I don’t think she’s ever read the FT in her life, and she certainly wouldn’t know what to do if you handed her a check for twenty million pounds, remembering her present salary is about twenty thousand a year.”

  “She’ll need your help and advice, Seb.”

  “Be assured, Mama, Farthings Kaufman will invest Dr. Barrington’s capital most judiciously, well aware that she’ll be retiring in a few years and hoping for a regular income and somewhere to live.”

  “She can come and live with us in Somerset,” said Emma, “Maisie’s old cottage would suit her perfectly.”

  “She’s far too proud for that,” said Seb, “and you know it, Mama. In fact, she’s already told me she’s looking for somewhere in Cambridge so she can be near her friends.”

  “But once the takeover goes through, she’ll have enough to buy a castle.”

  “My bet,” said Seb, “is that she’ll still end up in a small terraced house not far from her old college.”

  “You’re getting dangerously close to becoming wise,” said Emma, wondering if she should share her latest problem with her son.

  4

  “SIX MONTHS,” said Harry. “The damn man should have been hanged, drawn, and quartered.”

  “What are you going on about?” asked Emma, calmly, as she poured herself a second cup of tea.

  “The thug who punched an A and E nurse, and then assaulted a doctor, has only been sentenced to six months.”

  “Dr. Hands,” said Emma. “While I agree with your sentiments, there were extenuating circumstances.”

  “Like what?” demanded Harry.

  “The nurse concerned wasn’t willing to give evidence when the case came to court.”

  “Why not?” asked Harry, putting down his paper.

  “Several of my best nurses come from overseas and don’t want to appear in the witness box for fear the authorities might discover that their immigration papers are not always, let’s say, in apple-pie order.”

  “That’s no reason to turn a blind eye to this sort of thing,” said Harry.

  “We don’t have a lot of choice if the NHS isn’t going to break down.”

  “That doesn’t alter the fact that this thug hit a nurse—” Harry checked the article again—“on a Saturday night when he was obviously drunk.”

  “Saturday night is the clue,” said Emma, “that William Warwick would have discovered once he’d interviewed the hospital matron and discovered why she turns on the radio every Saturday afternoon at five o’clock.” Harry raised an eyebrow. “To hear the result of the Bristol City or Bristol Rovers match, depending on which of them is playing at home that day.” Harry didn’t interrupt. “If they’ve won, it will be a quiet night for A and E. If they’ve drawn, it will be bearable. But if they’ve lost, it will be a nightmare, because we simply don’t have enough staff to cope.”

  “Just because the home team lost a football match?”

  “Yes, because you can guarantee the home fans will drown their sorrows and then end up getting into fights. Some, surprise, surprise, turn up in A and E, where they’ll have to wait for hours before someone can attend to them. Result? Even more fights break out in the waiting room, and occasionally a nurse or doctor tries to intervene.”

  “Don’t you have security to handle that?”

  “Not enough, I’m afraid. And the hospital doesn’t have the resources while seventy percent of its annual funding is spent on wages, and the government is insisting on cutbacks, not handouts. So you can be sure we’ll face exactly the same problem next Saturday night should Rovers lose to Cardiff City.”

  “Has Mrs. Thatcher come up with any ideas for solving the problem?”

  “I suspect she’d agree with you, my darling. Hanged, drawn, and quartered would be too good for them. But I don’t think you’ll find that particular policy highli
ghted in the next Conservative Party manifesto.”

  * * *

  Dr. Richards listened to his patient’s heartbeat, 72 bpm, and ticked another box.

  “One other thing, Sir Harry, said the doctor, pulling on a latex glove. “I just want to check your prostate.

  “Hmm, he said, a few moments later. “There may be a very small lump there. We ought to keep an eye on it. You get dressed now, Sir Harry. All in all, you’re in pretty good shape for a man approaching his sixties. An age when many of us are considering retirement.”

  “Not me,” said Harry. “I’ve still got to deliver another William Warwick before I can get down to my next novel, which could take me a couple of years. So I need to live until at least seventy. Is that understood, Dr. Richards?”

  “Three score years and ten. No more than the Maker’s contract. I don’t think that should be a problem,” he added, “as long as you’re still exercising.” He checked his patient’s file. “When I last saw you, Sir Harry, you were running three miles, twice a week, and walking five miles, three times a week. Is that still the case?”

  “Yes, but I have to confess I’ve stopped timing myself.”

  “Are you still keeping to that routine between your two-hour writing sessions?”

  “Every morning, five days a week.”

  “Excellent. In fact, that’s more than many of my younger patients could manage. Just a couple more questions. I take it you still don’t smoke?”

  “Never.”

  “And how much do you drink on an average day?”

  “A glass of wine at dinner, but not at lunch. It would send me to sleep in the afternoon.”

  “Then, frankly, seventy should be a doddle, as long as you don’t get run over by a bus.”

  “Not much risk of that, since our local bus only visits the village twice a day, despite Emma regularly writing to the council to complain.”

  The doctor smiled. “That sounds like our chairman.” Dr. Richards closed the file, rose from behind his desk, and accompanied Harry out of the consultation room.

  “How’s Lady Clifton?” he asked as they walked down the corridor.

  Emma hated the courtesy title of “lady” because she felt she hadn’t earned it, and insisted everyone at the hospital still call her Mrs. Clifton or “chairman.” “You tell me,” said Harry.