Hugo cancelled Lockwood’s farewell party.
That younger man was Ray Compton, Lockwood’s deputy, who had only been with the company for a few months, and certainly hadn’t got his feet under the table. When he presented Barrington’s year results to the board, Hugo accepted for the first time that the company was only just breaking even, and agreed with Compton that the time had come to start laying off some of the dock labourers before the company couldn’t afford to pay their wages.
As Barrington’s fortunes dwindled, the nation’s future looked more hopeful.
With the German army retreating from Stalingrad the British people began to believe for the first time that the Allies could win the war. Confidence in the future started to seep back into the nation’s psyche as theatres, clubs and restaurants began to reopen all over the country.
Hugo longed to be back in town and to rejoin his social set, but Mitchell’s reports continued to make it clear that London was one city he’d be wise to steer clear of.
The year 1943 didn’t begin well for Barrington’s.
There were several cancelled contracts from customers who became exasperated when the chairman couldn’t be bothered to answer their letters, and several creditors began demanding payment, one or two of them even threatening writs. And then one morning, a ray of sunlight appeared that Hugo believed would solve all of the immediate cashflow problems.
It was a call from Prendergast that raised Hugo’s hopes.
The bank manager had been approached by the United Dominion Real Estate Company, who were showing an interest in purchasing the Broad Street site.
‘I think, Sir Hugo, it would be prudent not to mention the figure over the phone,’ Prendergast intoned slightly pompously.
Hugo was sitting in Prendergast’s office forty minutes later, and even he gasped when he heard how much they were willing to offer.
‘Twenty-four thousand pounds?’ repeated Hugo.
‘Yes,’ said Prendergast, ‘and I’m confident that’s their opening bid, and I can push them up to nearer thirty. Remembering that your original outlay was less than three thousand pounds, I think we can consider it a shrewd investment. But there’s a fly in the ointment.’
‘A fly?’ said Hugo, sounding anxious.
‘In the form of Mrs Clifton,’ said Prendergast. ‘The offer is conditional on you obtaining the freehold for the entire site, including her plot.’
‘Offer her eight hundred,’ Hugo barked.
The Prendergast cough followed, although he didn’t remind his client that had he taken his advice, they could have closed a deal with Mrs Clifton for four hundred pounds some months ago, and if she were ever to find out about United Dominion’s offer . . .
‘I’ll let you know the moment I’ve heard from her,’ was all Prendergast said.
‘Do that,’ said Hugo, ‘and while I’m here, I need to withdraw a little cash from my private account.’
‘I’m sorry, Sir Hugo, but that account is overdrawn at the present time . . .’
Hugo was sitting in the front seat of his sleek royal blue Lagonda when Holcombe pushed through the school door and began to walk across the playground. He stopped to speak to a handyman who was giving the front gates a fresh coat of lilac and green paint, the Merrywood school colours.
‘That’s a fine job you’re doing, Alf.’
‘Thank you, Mr Holcombe,’ Hugo heard the handyman say.
‘But I still expect you to concentrate more on your verbs, and do try not to be late on Wednesday.’
Alf touched his cap.
Holcombe began walking along the pavement and pretended not to see Hugo sitting behind the wheel of his car. Hugo allowed himself a smirk; everyone gave his Lagonda V12 a second look. Three young lads loitering on the pavement opposite hadn’t been able to take their eyes off it for the past half hour.
Hugo stepped out of the car and stood in the middle of the pavement, but Holcombe still ignored him. He couldn’t have been more than a stride away when Hugo said, ‘I wonder if we could have a word, Mr Holcombe. My name is—’
‘I’m well aware of who you are,’ said Holcombe, and walked straight past him.
Hugo chased after the schoolmaster. ‘It’s just that I felt you ought to know—’
‘Know what?’ said Holcombe, stopping in his tracks and turning to face him.
‘What your fiancée did for a living, not so very long ago.’
‘She was forced into prostitution because you wouldn’t pay for her son’s –’ he looked Hugo straight in the eye – ‘your son’s school fees, when he was in his last two years at Bristol Grammar School.’
‘There’s no proof that Harry Clifton is my son,’ said Hugo defiantly.
‘There was enough proof for a vicar to refuse to allow Harry to marry your daughter.’
‘How would you know? You weren’t there.’