Be Careful What You Wish For (The Clifton Chronicles 4)

Susan walked back into the bedroom, stood on a chair and pulled down Alex’s old school trunk from the top of the wardrobe. She dragged it out into the corridor, undid its straps and continued with her mission. The drawing room mantelpiece yielded a carriage clock, which Alex claimed was a family heirloom and three photographs in silver frames. She removed the photographs and tore them up, only packing the frames. She would have liked to take the television, but it was far too large and, in any case, her mother wouldn’t have approved.

* * *

Once the company secretary had closed the meeting, Alex didn’t join his fellow directors for lunch. He quickly left the boardroom without speaking to anyone, Peter Maynard following in his wake. Alex had been given two envelopes by Don Pedro, each containing £1,000. His wife certainly wouldn’t be getting the five hundred he’d promised her. Once they were in the lift, Alex took one of the envelopes out of his pocket.

“At least you kept your side of the bargain,” he said, handing it across to Peter.

“Thank you,” said Maynard gratefully, pocketing the money. “But what came over Susan?” he added as the lift door opened on the ground floor. Alex didn’t reply.

As the two men left Barrington House, Alex wasn’t surprised to see that his car was no longer in its usual place, but he was puzzled to find another car he didn’t recognize occupying his parking space.

A young man carrying a Gladstone bag was standing by the front door of the car. The moment he spotted Alex, he began walking toward him.

* * *

Finally, exhausted by her efforts, Susan entered Alex’s study without knocking, not expecting to find anything worthwhile to add to her spoils: two more picture frames, one silver, one leather, and a silver letter opener she’d given him for Christmas. But as it was only silver plated, she decided he could keep it.

Time was running out and she didn’t think it would be long before Alex returned, but just as she was about to leave, she spotted a thick envelope with her name scribbled across it. She ripped it open and couldn’t believe her eyes. It contained the £500 Alex had promised her if she attended the board meeting and voted for him. She’d kept her side of the bargain, well, half of it, so she slipped the money into her handbag, and smiled for the first time that day.

Susan closed the study door and quickly checked through the flat one more time. She’d forgotten something, but what was it? Oh yes, of course. She rushed back to the bedroom, opened the smaller cupboard and smiled a second time when she saw the rows and rows of shoes left over from her modeling days. She took her time placing them all in the trunk. Just as she was about to close the cupboard door, her eyes settled on a neat row of black leather shoes and brown brogues, all polished as if they were about to go on parade. She knew they were Alex’s pride and joy. All handmade by Lobb of St. James’s and, as he so often reminded her, they would last a lifetime.

Susan took the left shoe of each pair and dropped them into Alex’s old school trunk. She also took one right slipper, one right Wellington boot and one right gym shoe, before sitting on the lid of the trunk and fastening the straps.

Finally she dragged the trunk, two suitcases and two shopping bags out on to the landing, and closed the door of a home she would never return to.

* * *

“Major Alex Fisher?”

“Yes.”

The young man handed him a long, buff-colored envelope and said, “I’ve been instructed to give you this, sir.” Without another word, he turned, walked back to his car and drove off. The whole encounter was over in less than a minute.

A bemused Alex nervously ripped open the envelope and extracted a document of several pages. When he saw the words on the cover sheet, Petition for divorce: Mrs. Susan Fisher v. Major Alex Fisher, he felt his legs give way, and grasped Maynard’s arm for support.

“What’s the problem, old chap?”

CEDRIC HARDCASTLE

1959

13

ON THE TRAIN journey back to London, Cedric Hardcastle thought once again about how he’d ended up attending the board meeting of a shipping company in Bristol. It had all begun when he’d broken his leg.

For nearly forty-five years, Cedric had led what even his local vicar would have described as a blameless life. During that time, he’d built a reputation for probity, integrity and sound judgment.

After leaving Huddersfield Grammar School at the age of fifteen, Cedric had joined his father at Farthings Bank, on the corner of the high street, where you couldn’t open an account unless you were a Yorkshire man, born and bred. Every employee had drilled into them from their first day as a trainee the bank’s overriding philosophy: Take care of the pennies, and the pounds will take care of themselves.

At the age of thirty-two, Cedric was appointed the youngest branch manager in the bank’s history, and his father, still a counter clerk, retired only just in time not to have to call his son “sir.”

Cedric was invited to join the board of Farthings a few weeks before his fortieth birthday, and everyone assumed it would not be long before he would outgrow the little county bank and, like Dick Whittington, head for the City of London; but not Cedric. He was, after all, first and foremost a Yorkshireman. He’d married Beryl, a lass from Batley, and their son, Arnold, was conceived on holiday in Scarborough and born in Keighley. Being born in the county was a necessity if you wanted your son to join the bank.

When Bert Entwistle, the chairman of Farthings, died of a heart attack at the age of sixty-three, a vote wasn’t required to decide who should replace him.

After the war, Farthings became one of those banks that were often referred to in the financial pages of national newspapers as “ripe for takeover.” However, Cedric had other plans, and despite several approaches from larger institutions, all of which were rebuffed without discussion, the new chairman set about building up the bank and opening new branches, so that within a few years it was Farthings that was making the takeovers. For three decades, Cedric had spent any spare cash, bonuses or dividends, purchasing shares in the bank, so that by his sixtieth birthday, he was not only chairman, but the majority shareholder with 51 percent of Farthings.

At the age of sixty, when most men start thinking about retirement, Cedric was in charge of eleven branches in Yorkshire and a presence in the City of London, and certainly wasn’t looking for anyone to replace him as chairman.