For The Love Of Money - Brian Doswell (speed reading book .TXT) 📗

club on Mondays; ladies days were not his forte. The reason for Harry’s presence was the memory of the bronze coloured Bentley that was always parked in the Captain’s reserved place on Mondays.
Sir William Williams, Chairman of Williams Fine Homes plc, usually called into the club on Mondays to sign off the weekend’s scorecards in his capacity of Club Captain. Most serious golfers would also say that Sir Billy, as he preferred to be called within the confines of the golf club, was also quite fond of paying his respects to the various ladies in the club bar, and what better time to do that than a Monday.
Harry had a handicap of seven which was good enough to keep him on the list for club competitions without being a threat to any of the serious scratch golfers. He had met and shaken hands with Captain, Sir Billy on many occasions but knew very well that he was never likely to get onto the great man’s list of amigos. Today, Harry had a different plan.
Harry installed himself in the club bar, two stools along from the unofficially reserved ‘Captains Stool’. He ordered a large whisky and soda and commandeered a fresh bowl of cachou nuts. Sam, the barman, stopped to chat occasionally between pouring spritzers and fruit juices for the waitress who scuttled between lunch tables piled with lettuce leaves and rye bread crackers. Harry bided his time until Sir Billy appeared from his office and then struck up a conversation with Sam in a voice which he judged loud enough to be heard by anyone passing by.
“ . . . . . . So it seems I’m sitting on twenty-seven acres of prime building land which I didn’t know were there. Well I sort of knew, but I’d totally forgotten about. According to Three Trees, the Council are desperate to go along with this new government directive on affordable housing, so you’d better get used to seeing me in here a bit more often.”
Sam looked at Harry and Harry winked at him in what he hoped was a conspiratorial fashion. Sam continued to polish the glass in his hand with a tea towel emblazoned with the club crest.
Sir Billy ordered a gin and tonic and coughed politely. “I couldn’t help over hearing about your conversation with Three Trees. Arthur Evans is an old friend of mine. If he says the Council are after your land he will be damned right.”
Harry had no idea who Arthur Evans might be, but his ploy had worked well enough. Sir Billy was undoubtedly on the hook.
“Ah, good morning Captain, or is it afternoon already?”
“Afternoon, I say, never drink in the mornings, clouds the mind.”
“Good afternoon it is then.”
Sam served Sir Billy’s drink on a club coaster, taking care to ensure that the club emblem was the right way up. Sir Billy lifted his glass,
“Cheers, first today.”
“And your good health.” Harry lifted his glass in response and waited for the next question that he knew would come sooner or later, especially as Sir Billy stayed at his side rather than drifting off towards the ladies in the restaurant area.
“What do you plan to do with this little treasure of yours?”
“Early days Captain. I need some extra industrial storage units first but my architect seems to think I need gold plated palaces guessing by the price he’s quoting me. The fool thinks they’re worth £2.6 million.” Harry sensed that the bait had been successfully cast on the waters.
“2.6 Million, Eh! Have you spoken to my office, I’m sure they will beat that price, gold plated or not.” Sir Billy produced a business card, “Call that number and I’ll personally see you get all the help you need.”
“You’re very kind; I will most certainly do that very thing.”
“Better yet, why don’t I get my architect to call on you and work something out? Tomorrow morning be OK with you?”
“That would be fine. Make it after ten would you.”
“Certainly Henry.” Sir Billy was never good at names.
“It’s Harry, Captain, Harry Joyce.” Harry deliberately fumbled for the business card that he had slipped into his pocket in anticipation.
“Harry, of course, Harry. Nice to catch up with you.” Sir Billy strode off to find a lady to smile on leaving Harry quietly chuckling into his whisky.

§§§§§

By eleven the following morning, Harry sat back in his chair, clutching his all-day tea mug with both hands like a kiddie’s comfort blanket. On his desk lay a pile of Williams Fine Homes brochures depicting everything from industrial units to five bedroom executive dwellings in ‘neo-everything’ style. On top of the pile was a Williams Fine Homes quotation for four industrial units. The total price to include all planning permission and project management costs, £1,500,000. A second sheet of paper, stapled to the quote, offered a rental agreement for 150,000 cubic yards of secure storage space in Rickmansworth at Williams Fine Homes depot, at a peppercorn rent of £1,000 per annum until the building project was completed.
“Sandra, will you call Andersons and tell that girl I want to see her on Friday, not before. Then fix a lunchtime beer with Roy Jones at Three Trees, soon as he can make it. Oh! And one other thing, call that Julian bloke with the long hair and tell him not to bother.”
Sandra smiled to herself; her sort of Harry was back in the chair. She’d keep the computer to herself in future.


INDIAN SUMMER

Did you know that an Indian Summer is an old American term? George Padworth held court, leaning casually on the balustrade of his terrace overlooking the broad expanse of stripped lawns behind his elaborate 1900’s, Arts and Crafts house in Sunningdale. George enjoyed entertaining and his annual end-of-season garden parties were legendary for his generous hospitality. He continued without pausing, clearly not expecting an answer to his question.
“It comes from the same derivation as Indian Giver. You know the idea, someone who gives you a gift that they take back or use to advantage. So, there you have it; an Indian Giver is a false giver and an Indian Summer is a false summer.”
Those assembled, nodded their heads, accustomed to receiving George’s titbits of information from the seemingly bottomless pit of trivia that he carried round in his head. As Chairman of Wilkinson’s Investment Corporation, George was accustomed to those assembled hanging on his every word.
“Where on earth do you find these things?” Lucy McAllister smiled up at George with a look that could easily, and quite correctly, have been interpreted as pandering to her husband’s new boss. “Why don’t you show me the rest of your garden?”
The little group parted to allow George, with Lucy on his arm, to lead off towards the central stone steps leading from the terrace down onto the lawn.
“Don’t get lost out there.” Andrew McAllister called after his wife, his expression deliberately intended to give her tacit approval to flatter George as much as she wished. Both Andrew and Lucy were well aware that George had rescued them after the collapse of Coulter Brothers. He turned to Sue Padworth,
“I’m sure George will bring her back safely.”
Sue had been married to George for nearly twenty-five years. They had met at university and never parted. Those who knew her well also knew that when she and George joined Wilkinson’s as junior traders, she had been the more successful of the two. However, since having the children, she had given up city life, especially the crack-of-dawn commuting into the city, without regret. George had risen through the firm, high and fast enough to give them a comfortable life style and, in any case, Sue vastly preferred her charity work, pottering in the garden and playing golf.
Sue took a firm hold on Andrew’s arm. “You mustn’t mind George, he’s harmless really.”
“Oh, I guess I’ve known him long enough to trust him, most of the time.” They both laughed in the familiar way that old friends do. Andrew and George had known each other for more than ten years and had met socially on many occasions. The difference now was that this was the first time they had worked for the same firm, George’s firm.
“Andrew,” Sue drew him away from the party, “does Lucy play golf?”
“She used to be quite good but she hasn’t played recently. Why do you ask?”
“I’m playing in a ladies match at Northolt next week. Sunningdale will win of course, but I’d like to take Lucy along. I want to get to know her better now that you are both on board. It would be nice to make up a Wilkinson’s Ladies Team for next season.”
A waitress in crisp white blouse and straight black skirt, offered a tray of bubbling champagne glasses and Andrew swapped both his and Sue’s for full ones.
“I’m sure that Lucy would be up for it if she can find time for the lessons. I’ll ask her to call you about Northolt and perhaps you could talk her into the team idea for next year.”
Sue lifted her face towards Andrew and placed a kiss on his cheek. “Do what you can Andrew, I have a feeling we will be seeing more of each other in the near future.”
Before he could reply, she turned and walked towards the nearest group of guests, bursting in on their conversation with the easy, confident manner of an accomplished hostess.
Andrew lifted a finger to the moist spot his cheek where Sue’s lips had been. It was common enough among his friends for women to kiss each other on the cheek. Normally he would not have given it another thought, except this kiss rested a little too long and pressed a little too hard. He would have thought nothing of an ‘air kiss’ but this was somehow different. His eyes followed the slim curves of Sue’s back as she walked away from him. She could be five or ten years older than him, of course, she would be George’s age, but she was a good looking lady and her kiss had flattered his ego.
He drained his glass and stole a replacement from the waitress before wandering down onto the lawn where a group of familiar faces were attempting to play croquet. Andrew stopped next to a young woman dressed in a flowery print dress with a neckline that plunged much further than it should have.
“You’re Chrissie aren’t you? I’m Andrew McAllister.” He held out his hand to her. “I’ve seen you in the office but we’ve not met.”
“Obviously, but I’ve heard all about you.”
“You’re in Futures aren’t you? George told me that you pulled off a bit of a coup on the oil prices last month. You’re his rising star, you know.”
Chrissie realised that he was not going to go away. “Oh, I thought that was you. Rising star I mean. No one even knew we needed a Head of European Desk until you arrived. However, welcome to Wilkinson’s and a quick tip for you, George does not like shop talk at home.”
“Oops, sorry Chrissie. Is it OK to call you Chrissie? I don’t know any other name.” Andrew chose not to inform Chrissie that he and George went back a few years. He was more interested in how the firm had viewed his sudden appointment.
“Chrissie is fine. That’s my husband James, playing the yellow ball.” Chrissie pointed to a tall suntanned man wielding his mallet like a woodman’s axe.
“So what else should I know about George?” Andrew tried a leading question while trying desperately not to drool into her cleavage.
Chrissie sensed that she might have overstepped the mark as it dawned on her that she was about to dish the