‘THESE ruddy stairs don’t get any easier.’
Garry reached the bottom and composed himself for a second.
He raised his voice to be heard upstairs: ‘I’ll fall down the bloody things one day and be found in a crumpled heap.’
Still shaking his head, he walked into the kitchen and straight to the back door. He fiddled with the key, then finally managed to get it to turn.
‘Those roses need dead-heading,’ he told himself, casting a practised eye over the patch he’d tended for so long. ‘and it wouldn’t hurt to cut the grass.’
He watched a House Sparrow land on the feeder, cock its head and peck hopefully at the empty wire mesh before giving up and taking wing again. ‘Sorry, lad. Nowt for you there today. That’s another job to think about.’
Shaking his head again, he closed the door and surveyed the kitchen. A quick glance in the bread bin and the fridge told him that breakfast had to be delayed until after a trip to the shops.
‘I’ll need a coat,’ he told himself, shrugging on a slightly disreputable brown-suede jacket. Then, noticing his slippers on his feet, kicked them off and bent to tie the laces on his good, black shoes.
‘Nearly went out with my slippers on,’ he called upstairs and then listened for a reply for a moment before stepping out of the door into the street.
Bickley Street was the same as ever. Terraced houses each side. Cars packed in tightly taking advantage of the resident parking. Bits of paper blown about in the wind, a few trees more clinging on more than thriving – ‘you and me both,’ Garry muttered to one of the more battered examples as he wandered past.
‘Do you think it’s going to rain?’
Garry’s gaze was pulled back from the tree to the woman standing in front of him with a shopping trolley at her feet.
‘Morning,’ he smiled, and then surveyed the sky. ‘Might be a few drops, but I reckon we’ll be alright.’
‘I didn’t want to take any chances,’ she nodded at the trolley. ‘Got my few bits early, just in case.’
‘Better safe than worry,’ Garry answered. ‘Sorry,’ he corrected himself, ‘better safe than sorry.’
‘How are you keeping anyway? Haven’t seen you about much. You’re looking a bit on the skinny side. Are you sure you’re eating properly?’
Garry patted his stomach proudly. ‘You noticed, eh? Been looking after myself. Cutting out the naughties and keeping busy.’
She looked him up and down dubiously. ‘Maybe you’ve been cutting a bit too much. You look like you could do with a good steak pie.’
Garry laughed, ‘Yer just jealous. Anyway, I’m just off for a bit of breakfast now. So, you needn’t worry.’
‘Good. I might just bring a pie round anyway tomorrow. It’s as easy to make two as one. Anyway,’ she looked up at the sky, ‘I’ll be off. I reckon it is coming on to rain.’
Garry watched her go, then headed in the opposite direction, turning on to the main road. He patted his head as he walked past the hairdressers, looked in the windows of the stationers and kebab shops without much interest and headed straight into Mehmet’s café to be met by a warm fug and an aroma that only 20 years of frying eggs and brewing tea could create.
‘Tina!’ Garry said as he made it to the counter and surveyed the cakes under a glass dome.
‘Tina, Garry? the dark-haired woman feigned a pout. ‘Do yer not even remember my name anymore? Tina left three years ago. I’m Ela.’
Garry laughed and reached out to hold the woman’s hand and for a moment gazed at how smooth and delicate it looked in his heavily-lined, liver-spotted paw. ‘You know you’re the only girl for me, Ela. I just lost my bearings for a minute I was so dazzled by your beauty.’
She called out over her shoulder: ‘Hey Mehmet, there’s a fella in here won’t let go of my hand and says I’m beautiful.’
A stocky bloke in his early 50's bustled through the door connecting the kitchen to the café, waving a cleaver in one hand. ‘Oh, it’s you again, is it?’ he said, eyeing Garry with a grin, ‘coming in here and harassing the womenfolks. Sit down and behave yourself before I have to throw you out.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Garry protested, ‘I haven’t ordered anything yet.’
‘You’ll have what Ela brings and like it,’ Mehmet told him.
‘Alright, alright. I wouldn’t want to cause an incident,’ Garry retreated to a nearby table, ‘but please give a thirsty man a cup of tea.’
‘I can’t manage all this.’ Garry looked up from a plate piled high with sausages, bacon, eggs and chips at Ela.
‘Eat up,’ she grinned back at him, ‘there’s a nice slice of apple pie with your name on it when you’re ready.’
Garry looked round the room smiling and passing a few words with strangers and acquaintances, as he worked his way through the food.
Ela presided over affairs with a word of welcome for everyone and Mehmet kept an eye on things as he appeared from the kitchen carrying more plates. Tea was sipped, fry-ups demolished, horses picked, gossip shared and the news picked-over as the morning headed towards lunchtime.
Eventually, Garry heaved himself from his seat and headed to the counter. ‘Thanks love,’ he smiled. ‘What do I owe you?’
‘I’ll just pop it on your tab, Garry,’ she smiled back. ‘Pay me next time.’
‘I’ve got money,’ he protested, reaching for his wallet.
She put her hand on his. ‘No, really, next time,’ she leaned in closer. ‘Between you and me, we’re having trouble with the till,’ she glanced at the machine over her shoulder, ‘damn thing only opens when it feels like it.’
‘Oh,’ he took a couple of coins out of his wallet, ‘in that case, give these to the kids.’
He stepped away from the counter. ‘Got to get on, busy day. Bye.’
Garry glanced at the sky as he closed the door behind him. ‘Maybe Mags was right.’ he said to himself, buttoning his jacket, ‘it might come on to rain, at that.’
The road had got busier in the hour he’d been in Mehmet’s. Office workers hurried along looking for somewhere to get an early lunch, Deliveroo riders zipped up and down taking lunch to those unwilling to go out themselves, and late-risers stirred heading out into the world.
Outside The Antelope a young man was crouching in front of a blackboard chalking up reasons why visitors should visit.
‘That’s not how you spell nite,’ Garry pointed out
The man looked over his shoulder. ‘Garry, hi. How are you?’
‘Fine. That’s still not how you spell nite.’
The youth looked at the board. ‘It is Garry. Quiz Nite. We always spell it like that.’
‘You always spell it wrong then, which is ironic for a quiz night.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘It is, it’s spelled n.i.g.h.t.’
‘No, it isn’t Garry. I mean it is, but n.i.t.e. is an accepted variation for occasions like this. But it isn’t ironic if it was spelled wrong anyway.’
‘No?’
‘No. It would be ironic if it was a spelling contest. I can’t think of what might be an ironic error in a sign for a quiz night – perhaps if it was wrong about the date? If it said Quiz Nite on Tuesday, but it was actually Wednesday. Would that be ironic or just wrong?’
‘I don’t know, lad. Are you open?’
‘All day, every day. Garry. Fancy a drink?’
‘I think I’d better,’ he smiled.
The youth held the door open and Garry walked in to the big, familiar room. A few people were dotted around, sitting at round tables over drinks. A TV hung on a wall in a corner broadcasting sports news to an audience of none. Two blokes sat silently on stools at the bar watching the landlord Malcolm drying glasses and lining them up on shelves.
‘Afternoon Garry,’ Malcom welcomed him. ‘Usual?’
‘Pint of Best, please.’ Garry bellied up to the bar and started fishing out his wallet as Malcom filled a glass with low-alcohol lager and placed it in front of him.
Garry picked it up and took a swallow. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, waving the glass at the landlord.
Malcom leaned forward. ‘New promotion, Garry. From the brewery. They want me to test it out on my best customers. What do you think?’
Garry took another sip and ran it judiciously around his mouth. ‘Not bad. Quite strong.’
Malcom pretended to study the tap on his side of the bar. ‘Not too strong,’ he replied.
Garry nodded. ‘It’ll do. What do I owe you?’
Malcom leaned into him. ‘Special promotion, Garry. No charge.’
‘In that case, cheers!’ Garry saluted with his glass.
‘I’ll have one of those free drinks,’ the man at the other end of the bar called out.
‘No, you won’t,’ Malcolm replied over his shoulder. ‘Best customers.’
A few minutes later Garry finished his drink, called out his farewells and headed outside. A few minutes later he ducked down into the Tube station and pulled out his newspaper to pass the journey.
Garry blinked as he exited the Tube at Liverpool Street. Tall glass and chrome buildings dominated the skyline and at street level smartly dressed office workers flitted here and there at lightning pace. Not for the first time, he was glad his working life had not been spent here.
This was the seventh quarterly meeting he’d attended, but he still had to consult his A-Z to find his way through the streets which seemed designed to frighten off the casual visitor. A few minutes and a couple of wrong turnings later he pushed on the glass revolving door and headed, under the watchful eye of a security guard in the cheapest suit that ever passed through this elegant foyer, to the reception desk and waited to catch the eye of the young woman perched behind the wooden counter.
After a few moments she looked up from a screen and pasted on a welcoming smile.
‘Good afternoon,’ Garry glanced at the clock above her head on the wall, ‘I’m a few minutes early. I have an appointment with Katharine Ross and Danny Wilding of HerbertScarrow.”
She smiled back. ‘With HerbertScarrow?’ she confirmed, ‘the financial and legal consultancy?’
‘That’s right,’ Garry confirmed. ‘I’m due at 1.30 PM.’
She nodded. ‘Your name please sir?’
‘Garry Edwards.’
‘Please take a seat. I’ll let them know you are here.’
Two minutes later a smart young man arrived in a grey suit, white shirt, pink tie. Nicely shined shoes, hand held in front of him.
Garry heaved himself up.
‘Mr Edwards,’ the man said as they shook hands, ‘Danny Wilding.’
‘Garry,’ Garry replied. ‘Nice to meet you. I wore my best shoes too.’
A confused look crossed Danny’s face as he glanced to the floor. ‘Right,’ he replied. ‘We’ll just get the lift and see Katharine. We’re on the 13th floor, but our luck’s holding out so far,’ he added the joke with a bright smile that did not hide the fact he’d used the line before. More than once.
‘Nice lift this,’ Gary said as they glided upwards, ‘I might get one in my place.’
‘This way,’ Garry indicated to his left as they reached their destination. ‘Just in here. I’ll go and tell Katharine we’re here.’
Garry wandered to the window and gazed out across London as he waited. A few moments later Danny reappeared with a woman in her early 30s, honey-blonde hair, knee-length grey skirt and matching jacket.
‘Please sit down,’ she said, indicating a chair at the end of the table and shaking hands and introducing herself .
‘Nice to meet you,’ Garry said. ‘No Samantha today? It was Samantha last time and, I think, Marcus before that.’
‘No,’ Katharine confirmed. ‘You’re stuck with me and Danny today.’
She flipped open the file. ‘So, we’re here to reassign the investments and look to leverage your not inconsiderable asset base into a potentially higher yield.’
Garry looked at her, and then fished around in his jacket pocket. Finding a scrap of paper, he read the top line and then smoothed to it on the table.
‘I’ve written it all out,’ he said. ‘Here.”
He pushed the paper across the table towards the advisers. who gingerly turned it round so they could read it.
They scanned the lines. ‘These are your instructions, Mr Edwards?’
‘Garry,’ he replied. ‘No problem, is there?’
The advisers looked at each other. Katharine took a deep breath. ‘We are talking about a lot of money. Almost £ 8 million. You do understand that?’
‘Oh yes. The lottery win. That’s why you’ve got it. Looking after it.’
‘We don’t look after money, Garry. We invest it.’
Garry looked surprised. ‘The contract your colleague, I have his name somewhere, got my wife Mary to sign. The contract he laid out on the tray in front of her, in bed, in the hospital. The contract she signed with the pen he pressed into her hand, the day before she died. Of cancer. So filled with painkillers that she didn’t know who I was when I came back with two cups of tea 10 minutes later. Didn’t know who I was and us married for 44 years. Married straight out of school. Didn’t recognise me.
‘That contract that she signed a few hours before she died states, quite explicitly, that you do look after money and only take an investment fee when you make an investment that’s right, isn’t it?
Katharine nodded. ‘But you must understand, Mr Edwards, that just looking after the money costs us money, and we’re a business. We may have to terminate the arrangement.’
Garry looked at her and nodded. ‘I see.’ He looked out of the window and pointed. ‘That building,’ he turned to the two advisers behind him, ‘that’s News UK’s office, isn’t it? And, I suppose,’ he went as though musing to himself, ‘the Solicitors Trade Association and the people who keep an eye on financial advisers, companies such as yourselves, they would be easily found, wouldn’t they?’
He turned from the window and looked at them again. ‘In fact, you could probably find their contact details for me, couldn’t you?’
‘Let me fetch you a cup of coffee, Garry,’ Katharine turned on her heels and left the room.
Danny walked to the window. ‘Quite a view, isn’t it?’
‘It is that, son,’ Garry smiled at him. ‘Great city London. But you have to keep your wits about you. Keep records. There are people out there who don’t have your best interests at heart.’
A man walked briskly into the room, followed by Katharine, who placed a tray containing coffee cups and biscuits on the table.
‘I’m Tobias Marchant,’ he stretched out an immaculately manicured hand and Garry took in the tailoring on the navy suit as they shook.
‘Garry, good to meet you at last. Let’s sit.’ He motioned at the chairs and then poured four cups of coffee, pushing them across the table towards everyone.
‘Now, Garry,’ Tobias fixed him with a friendly smile that almost reached his eyes. ‘To business. Leaving such a large sum of money in an ordinary savings account isn’t, well, it isn’t good business.’
‘No?’ Garry smiled back.
‘We could make so much more with a proactive investment policy.’
‘You could?’
‘Yes. And we really can’t just go on as we are. It’s a drain on us financially, you must understand.’
Garry stood. ‘In that case, I’ll be off then.’
‘Off?’ Tobias looked up at him. ‘You want to close your account?’
‘Well, not today,’ Garry met his gaze. ‘Today I’m popping in to the News UK building over there and the solicitors trade body and the financial regulators. I’m sure the nice girl at your front desk will be able to help with their details. They’ll all be very interested in how much money it’s costing you to honour a contract you made with a delirious woman on her deathbed.’
Tobias gazed up at Garry and then, for the first time, really smiled. ‘Please sit down. How can we help you today?’
Garry got out his crumpled sheet of paper.
‘First, Mehmet’s café. Please put £5,000 in their account. For their children’s schools. Then there’s a barman at The Antelope. Young lad, name of Zac. Lovely young fella, give him a couple of thousand. He’s paying off his student loan, and times are tough these days for youngsters. In fact, make that five too.’
‘How will we find their details?’ Katharine asked.
‘They’re both on the High Street. You’ll find them, no trouble.’
He paused. ‘Now the next one may take a bit of trouble. There’s a bit of scrubland on Melchior Road, owned by the council. I want it turned into a nice park. You know, the whole thing play area for the kids, somewhere to kick a ball round, basketball hoop, benches. And flower beds. My Mary liked flowers. I know that’ll take a bit of work buying the land, hiring contractors, upkeep, what have you. But I don’t mind that.’
Tobias nodded. ‘It’ll need a perpetuity bequest. To secure future maintenance.’
Garry nodded. ‘You do the details. I know you’ll manage.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Yes.’ Garry stood again. ‘No. One more thing. A friend of mine, Mags. Lives near me. Well, long story short, she goes to one of those day centres for the old folks, you know the sort of thing?’
Tobias nodded.
‘They’re not for me. Full of old people, but some like ‘em. So, I saw her this morning and she had a really nice shopping trolley. Buy a couple of hundred of them and distribute them through all the old folks homes. They really help with the shopping.’
Tobias sagged. ‘Is that all?’
‘Well, while you are there, it would be nice to make them nice, wouldn’t it? New furniture, bit of a wash and brush-up. Nice, easy job. Make sure you use local tradesman. And buy what you need in the borough.’
He headed for the door. ‘Right, I’ll be off. See you in three months. You know where to find me, if you need me. Look after yourselves and thanks for the coffee.’
Outside, he stood for a moment on the pavement as workers scurried by. ‘Don’t look like that, Mary,’ he glanced upwards. ‘I’m not interested in Mags.’
DoubleSpeak 