Borrowed Time (19 page)

I promised to say nothing, even though I wasn’t sure keeping Rowena in the dark was either feasible or sensible. Too many secrets were piling up for my liking. Presumably, Sir Keith still didn’t know about her suicide attempt. Now she wasn’t to know about Henley Bantock’s alternative explanation for her mother’s death. If and when she found out, the efforts to shield her from it might give the theory some of the credibility it didn’t deserve. “It’ll end in tears,” my mother would have said. And I’d have been bound to agree with her. Tears. Or something much worse.

Vindication of my scepticism came within a matter of weeks. It was heralded by a telephone call at work from a researcher for the television series
Benefit of the Doubt
. I’d heard of it, of course, and seen it a couple of times. Nick Seymour, the presenter, set about drawing public attention to a possible miscarriage of justice during a thirty-minute assessment of the evidence that had sent one or more people to prison. He’d helped bring about acquittal and release in several cases and become a minor celebrity in the process. Now he planned to devote a future edition to the Kington killings—and the conviction of Shaun Naylor. As a witness at Naylor’s trial, would I be prepared to record an interview for the programme? I said no. But Seymour wasn’t the man to leave it there. A couple of days later, he rang me personally at home.

“I’m trying to get as full and fair a picture as possible, Mr. Timariot. All I’d want you to do is repeat what you said in court. Set the scene for the viewer. Give your first-hand impression of Lady Paxton’s state of mind on the day of the murders.” His voice was rounded and reasonable. But there was an edge of impatience in it as well. He didn’t like being turned down.

“The problem is, Mr. Seymour, that I have to assume you’ll be trying to suggest Naylor’s innocent. And I simply don’t believe he is.”

“Have you read this new biography of Oscar Bantock?”

“
Fakes and Ale?
Yes. And if Henley Bantock’s unsubstantiated theories are what—”

“They’re part of it, of course. But if you’re so sure they’re unsubstantiated, why not say so on TV? I’m offering you that chance.”

“But the programme will be geared to backing Henley’s interpretation, won’t it? Otherwise you wouldn’t be doing it.”

“True. But look at it this way. Naylor claims Lady Paxton picked him up that night. If you think he’s lying, why not tell it on air the way you saw it? After all, you’re the only other person who met her that day. Apart from her daughter. And I don’t really want to bother her. Unless I have to, of course. Unless you leave me no choice in the matter.” The pressure was subtle but definite. I wasn’t warming to Mr. Seymour. But I was beginning to think I’d better cooperate with him. If only for Rowena’s sake.

“How do I know you’d transmit what I said? I can tell you now none of it would help you paint Naylor in a sympathetic light.”

“Then I might not use it. But at least I couldn’t say you’d refused to talk to me, could I?”

“All right, Mr. Seymour. You can have your interview. For all the good it’ll do you.”

The interview was fixed for Thursday the twentieth of May. Seymour and a cameraman would come to Greenhayes at six o’clock that evening and be gone again within the hour. They’d be punctual and I’d be put to minimum inconvenience. So Seymour assured me, anyway. And I believed him. I also believed he wouldn’t want to linger after he’d heard what I had to say.

At the time I scribbled the appointment in my diary, Thursday the twentieth of May seemed just one handy blank in an otherwise busy week. But it didn’t turn out to be. Adrian was supposed to return to the office on Monday the seventeenth after a fortnight in Australia. The trip was a last ditch attempt to strike some kind of deal with Bushranger Sports. Adrian believed—unlike the rest of us—that he might still be able to sweet-talk Bushranger’s notoriously hard-nosed chairman, Harvey McGraw. And McGraw had agreed, apparently, to let him try. I arrived at Frenchman’s Road on the seventeenth expecting to hear Adrian’s account of his failure. Instead, his secretary announced his return had been delayed by forty-eight hours. Whether that was a good sign or not he’d declined to tell her. We’d just have to wait and see.

Adrian was home by Wednesday. But nothing was seen of him at the factory. He phoned in to say jet-lag had claimed him, but he’d be fit to chair an informal board meeting on Thursday morning to which he’d report the outcome of his trip. By now, I was beginning to smell a rat—or the marsupial equivalent. Simon and Jennifer were as puzzled as me. And so was Uncle Larry, who called me that night. “Why does Adrian want me to attend this blasted meeting, Robin? What’s he up to?” I couldn’t tell him. But we didn’t have to wait long to learn the answer.

It rained that morning. All that day, as it turned out. The rain ticked at the boardroom windows and ran in reflected rivulets down the glazed face of Joseph Timariot. He seemed to be listening to us as we conferred. Measuring our achievements against his. And taking silent note of the disparity.

We were expectant and uneasy. All of us were uncomfortable, though some more obviously so than others. Even Adrian looked strangely abashed. As if what he had to report was something worse than simple failure to strike a deal with Bushranger Sports. And so it was. Far worse. It was what he called success. But success often has a higher price than failure. And he was about to invite us to pay it.

“I spent quite a long time with Harvey McGraw. I got to know the man pretty well. He
is
hard. But fair. He made me an offer which, after I’d thought about it, I realized was both of those things. Hard to accept. But fair. And in the circumstances, the best we can hope for. As I’m sure you’ll agree when you’ve reflected on it. I don’t want instant reactions. That’s why I’ve kept this meeting informal. I want your mature thoughts when you’ve mulled it over.”

“Mulled what over?” asked Simon impatiently. But by now, I suppose, we all had an inkling of what was coming.

“McGraw’s offering to buy us out.”

“Of Viburna? The guy must be—”

“Not Viburna. Not just Viburna, anyway. McGraw wants the whole operation.”

“You mean Timariot & Small?” put in Uncle Larry.

“Yes.”

“Good God.”

“But you told him we’re not for sale, didn’t you?” I asked disingenuously.

“Not exactly. He knows we’re in the mire. He knows we have to listen.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a good offer. He’ll cover Viburna’s debts. And pay us two and a half million on top.” Adrian risked a smile. “Pounds, that is.”

There was momentary silence. Then Uncle Larry said: “Am I to take it that you’re recommending acceptance?”

“I am.”

Uncle Larry stared at him in stupefaction. “You’re advocating the sale of this business? After more than a hundred and fifty years of independent trading? To an Australian? Good God almighty, Harvey McGraw’s great-grandfather was probably in chains on a convict ship bound for Botany Bay when my great-grandfather—”

“Reciting the firm’s history isn’t going to help,” snapped Adrian. “We’re staring crippling losses in the face.”

“But we wouldn’t be, would we?” I couldn’t help asking. “Not if we hadn’t bought Viburna in the first place.”

Adrian glared at me, but didn’t speak. Instead, Jennifer tapped her pen on her note-pad and said: “It’s a good offer. From a strictly financial viewpoint. It’s more than we’re really worth. At the moment. And for the foreseeable future.” She turned to Adrian. “Any strings?”

“None.”

“There don’t have to be, do there?” said Simon. “Bushranger can make a go of Viburna thanks to their deal with Danziger’s. And they can use us to expand over here just like we planned to use Viburna to expand over there. When we dipped our toe in Australian waters, I thought we might get it bitten off. I never expected we’d be swallowed alive, though.”

“I had reservations about the Viburna takeover,” I said, looking accusingly at Adrian. “But you trotted out some cliché about having to get bigger if we weren’t to get smaller. Now it seems what you mean by getting bigger is going out of business.”

“Recriminations won’t help,” said Jennifer, ever the conciliator.

“Nor will acquiescence. We’re being asked to sell the workforce down the drain to pay for our mistakes. The mistakes of some of us, anyway.”

Adrian was angry. That last shaft had hit home. I could tell by the tic working in his cheek. But not by the tone of his voice. It stayed calm and reasonable. “Bushranger wants to take us over, not close us down. The workforce will be fully protected. Timariot and Small will become a subsidiary of Bushranger Sports, that’s all. In some ways it’ll be a bigger and more challenging operation. We’ll be marketing Bushranger’s products along with—”

“Who’s
we
? Who’s going to head this subsidiary? Our current chairman?”

Adrian flushed. “Perhaps. But—”

“No doubt a seat on the Bushranger board will go with the job. I can see you’ll have done very well out of taking this company from profit into self-inflicted loss.” I was angry too. Angrier than I could ever have foreseen at the terminal consequences of my smooth-talking wide-horizoned brother’s leadership. And at my own naïvety. I should have nipped his ill-considered ambitions in the bud long ago. I should have known better than to trust him with stewardship of the values and traditions bound up in Timariot & Small. I should have realized he saw them merely as a stepping-stone to something bigger and grander. Bigger and grander, that is, for him.

“Your share of two and a half million won’t be a bad return for three years’ exile from the fleshpots of Brussels,” said Adrian, his face darkening.

“Won’t? Don’t you mean wouldn’t?
If
we compounded your errors of judgement by accepting this offer?”

He sat back and composed himself, refusing to let me draw him into open confrontation. “I’m confident this board
will
accept the offer, when it’s had time to consider its merits. For the moment, that’s all I’m asking it to do. Though I should tell you I stopped off in France on my way back from Australia. I visited Bella in Biarritz and put her in the picture. She, like me, favours acceptance.”

So there it was. The virtual declaration of his victory. Between them, he and Bella controlled more than 40 per cent of the company’s shares. If Jennifer voted with them—as her guarded remarks had suggested she would—Adrian would be home and dry. Simon was bitter enough when I cornered him in his office later. But he was already becoming philosophical. “This could net me more than three hundred thou,” Rob. Enough to keep Joan at bay and then some. I’ve got to go for it. You do see that, don’t you?” Oh, I saw. I saw all too clearly. “Anybody who votes no will get the chop if it goes through. That’s obvious. And it will go through. You know it will. So why fight it?”

Why indeed? It was hard to explain to somebody who didn’t understand. Uncle Larry understood, of course. I went out with him for a long lugubrious lunch at the Bat & Ball on Broadhalfpenny Down, the cradle of organized cricket. Afterwards, we stood outside in the rain, gazing over the fence at the famous ground, its old thatched pavilion and memorial stone bearing witness to the legendary exploits of the Hambledon club more than two hundred years ago.

“John Small played here many times,” said Uncle Larry. “Old John, I mean. He was a bat maker for more than seventy years, you know.” I knew very well. He was also grandfather of the John Small who’d gone into business with Joseph Timariot in 1836. “I suppose you could say he was our founder in a sense.”

“I shall vote against,” I solemnly declared.

“So shall I. But we’ll lose, won’t we? Adrian has his children to consider. Simon needs the money. Jenny can’t stop thinking like an accountant. And to Bella it’s all antediluvian nonsense. Our goose is cooked.”

“But not served or eaten. Not yet.”

I drove straight home from Broadhalfpenny Down and telephoned Bella. But she wasn’t in. Instead, Sir Keith came on the line.

“Anything I can do for you, Robin?”

“I don’t think so. I wanted to talk to Bella about the Bushranger bid.”

“Ah yes. Your brother told us all about it. Seems a neat way out of the hole you’ve dug yourselves into. Bella certainly seems to think so.”

“Does she?”

“I suppose you’re mightily relieved.”

“Not exactly.”

“You should be. Salvation of this order doesn’t often present itself. I’m glad you called, by the way. My solicitor tells me that TV programme
Benefit of the Doubt
is going to take a sceptical look at Naylor’s conviction. Have you heard anything from the producers?”

“No,” I heard myself lie. “Not a thing.”

“Well, if you do—”

“I’ll know what to tell them.”

Looking back, I can see why it happened. My anger at the probable demise of Timariot & Small and my frustration at being unable to do anything to prevent it had to find an outlet. I didn’t think it through on a conscious level. I didn’t plan to lash out at Bella by upsetting her husband’s cosy assumptions. But that’s what I did. I’d spent a couple of hours at Greenhayes, drinking scotch and watching the rain sheet across the garden, when Seymour and his cameraman arrived, dead on time, at six o’clock. I’d worked up a fine head of resentment by then. Resentment of the greed that had dragged down Timariot & Small; of the ease with which Adrian and the rest seemed able to turn their backs on the labour of four generations; of the readiness I and others had displayed to mould the memory of Louise Paxton to fit our requirements. The ends seemed to have justified the means once too often. I wanted to give honour and tradition a solitary triumph over commercial expediency; honesty and sincerity a single victory to savour. I wanted to speak my mind without tailoring my words to their audience and my thoughts to their results. I wanted my own blinkered form of justice. And Nick Seymour gave me the chance to have it.

I’d expected to dislike him. In the event, his self-deprecating humour and affable manner won me over. He had wit and patience. The wit to see I was in the mood to talk. And the patience to let me. He had a long list of questions to ask. I saw them typed out on a sheet of paper in his hand. But he didn’t need to reel them off. I answered them without prompting. I tried—for the very first time—to describe my meeting with Louise Paxton fully and accurately. I had enough sense not to contradict or withdraw anything I’d said in court. But I also had enough courage—or stupidity or recklessness or all three rolled together—to try to define what it was that had lodged in my mind after our fleeting encounter on Hergest Ridge.