This Was a Man (The Clifton Chronicles 7)

“If you had wanted to discuss the problems facing the Scottish agricultural industry, I can spare you five minutes. If it concerns Freddie, take your time.”

“Thank you. But I’ll get straight to the point. Freddie’s headmaster called me yesterday evening to say the boy failed his common entrance exam to Fettes.”

“But when I read his most recent end-of-term report, I even wondered if he might win a scholarship.”

“So did the headmaster,” said Archie, “which is why he called for his papers. It quickly became clear he’d made no effort to pass.”

“But why? Fettes is one of the best schools in Scotland.”

“In Scotland may be the answer to your question,” said Archie, “because he sat a similar exa

m for Westminster a week later, and came out in the top half dozen.”

“I don’t think we need to call on the assistance of Freud to fathom that one out,” said Giles. “So all I need to know is whether he wants to be a day boy or a boarder.”

“He put a cross in the box marked day boy.”

“It’s a long way for him to commute to Fenwick Hall and back every day, and as Westminster is a stone’s throw from our front door, I think he might have been trying to tell us something.” Archie nodded. “In any case, he’s already selected his bedroom,” Giles added as the phone on his desk began to ring.

He grabbed it and listened for a moment before he said, “Sorry, chief, something came up, but I’ll be with you in a moment.” He put the phone down and said, “Why don’t you join Karin and me for dinner in Smith Square this evening, and we can thrash out the details.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Archie.

“It’s me who should be thanking you.” Giles stood up and headed for the door. “It’s the only piece of good news I’ve had all day. I’ll see you around eight.”

“Any hope of discussing the government’s proposed grain subsidy at some time?” Archie asked, but Giles didn’t reply as he quickly left the office.

* * *

“What’s Cunard’s spot price this morning?” asked Seb.

“Four pounds twelve. Up two pence on yesterday,” replied John Ashley.

“That’s good news all around.”

“Do you think your mother ever regrets selling Barrington’s?”

“Daily. But luckily she’s so overworked at the Department of Health that she doesn’t have much time to think about it.”

“And Giles?”

“I know he’s extremely grateful for the way you’ve handled the family portfolio, because it allows him to pursue his first love.”

“Battling against your mother?”

“Something like that.”

“What about your aunt Grace?”

“She thinks you’re a vulgar capitalist, or at least that’s how she describes me, so I can’t believe she’d consider you any better.”

“But I’ve made her a multimillionaire,” protested Ashley.

“Indeed you have, but that won’t stop her marking her pupils’ homework tonight while nibbling on a cheese sandwich. But on her behalf, John, well done. Is there anything else we need to discuss?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to say there is, chairman, and I’m not quite sure how to handle it.” Ashley opened a file marked private and shuffled through some papers. Seb was surprised to see that a man who’d played front row for the Harlequins, and never hesitated to face any member of the board head-on, was now clearly embarrassed.

“Spit it out, John.”