Tiger Men (58 page)

Henry stopped pacing. ‘What, Reginald? What?’

‘The Jones Co-Operative could become the local agent for CSR.’ Reginald could see that Henry was unimpressed. ‘I know, I know,’ he added with a wave of his hand, ‘it’s not the ideal solution, but do give it some thought. You could carry massive stocks right here in the Old Wharf warehouses. Imagine what you’d save on delivery costs. And you’d not only have a ready supply for your own factory use, you’d have a healthy business on-selling to retailers.’ He noted that Henry was starting to look interested. ‘Just a thought, old man. I’ll leave it with you.’ He downed the last of his tea and placed the cup on the desk. ‘Now I really must be off.’

Reginald felt smug as he stepped out of the IXL building into the chaos of Old Wharf. Henry was bound to adopt the agency idea when his sugar beet proposal was again knocked back and, although he might not consider it the ideal solution, to Reginald it represented a small personal triumph. As one of Henry’s investors, some benefit would probably evolve from the agency proposition, but far more rewarding for Reginald was the sense of one-upmanship gained in the knowledge that Stanford Colonial had substantial investment in CSR, a fact of which Henry Jones was quite unaware.

He set off along Davey Street. It was late afternoon; dusk would soon be descending and, having left work, people were queued up at tram stops eager to get home to the suburbs. He would walk to Stanford House instead of catching the tram, he decided; it was not far and he would enjoy the constitutional. He had not driven to the meeting: he never did. The Rolls Royce was driven around Hobart purely for show, either by himself or by his chauffeur, after which the vehicle was always returned to the safety of its garage.

He wondered, while he walked, why he felt the need to best Henry Jones as he did. He had championed the man at one stage, congratulating himself on having discovered a winner. But Henry’s rapid rise to power now grated. It was probably because he was common, Reginald decided. Success like Henry Jones’s was the preserve of loftier men, in his opinion. Having to accept Henry as an equal was irksome. Surely when recognising an ally or competitor of any worth, one would wish him to be a man of some rank, and cut from a cloth finer than that of Henry Jones.

The moment Reginald set foot inside the front door of Stanford House, he heard the sound of boys’ voices echoing raucously from the breakfast room.

‘Hugh brought some friends home from the football match, I take it,’ he said to Clive Gillespie, who met him in the hall.

‘Yes, sir,’ Clive said, taking his hat and coat. ‘Boarders, sir, friends of young Master Wesley’s. Several members of the team, and they’re celebrating a win I’m glad to say.’

‘Excellent, excellent.’ Reginald sailed off to the breakfast room.

Clive was thankful the master hadn’t arrived home a half an hour earlier when he’d discovered the boys inspecting the Rolls Royce and even climbing in and out of the driver’s seat. They’d done no damage, admittedly – indeed, they’d treated the vehicle with great respect – but they would most certainly have been in trouble had the master caught them at it.

Clive had actually stood guard for the boys. ‘Five minutes, Master Hugh,’ he’d warned. ‘Five minutes and no more, then you are to lock the garage doors and return the key.’

‘Yes, Clive. Thank you.’

Hugh had known that he could trust Clive. Clive had been his ally in the past when he’d committed the odd misdemeanour. The only one to worry about, he’d thought, was Rupert.

‘Not a word to Father, Rupert,’ he’d made his brother promise. ‘Not one word.’

‘Not one word,’ Rupert had agreed and he’d clapped his hands over his mouth to show he understood.

Reginald was delighted that Hugh had invited some friends home, and members of the school team no less. Extending weekend hospitality to the Balfour boys had proved an excellent idea; young Wesley was setting a fine example in sportsmanship.

‘Well, well,’ he said jovially as he entered the breakfast room, where the boys were sitting around the main table scoffing their pasties and chocolate cake. ‘A win, I hear – my heartiest congratulations.’

The boys rose respectfully to their feet.

‘No, no,’ he said, ‘sit, sit.’ They did, and Reginald pulled a chair up to the end of the table. ‘Now who do we have here,’ he said beaming around, avoiding Rupert, who’d been into the chocolate cake, although for some strange reason Rupert had suddenly clamped both hands over his mouth.

Hugh made the introductions in descending order of age. ‘This is Gordie Powell, father,’ he said, ‘and David Powell, and this is Max Müller.’

Reginald leant across the table and shook hands with each one. ‘How do you do, lads?’ he said, the boys chorusing ‘How do you do, sir?’ back. Reginald’s smile was just a little fixed now. The boys are Powells, he thought, and they’re boarders. They would surely be members of the Huon Powells, but from which family, he wondered. ‘You’re brothers, I presume,’ he said, looking from Gordie to David.

‘No, sir,’ Gordie answered, ‘we’re cousins.’

‘I see. And I take it you’re from the Huon . . .’ he hesitated briefly, ‘. . . Gordon, was it?’ He was damned if he was going to call the oafish giant of a lad ‘Gordie’.

‘Yes, that’s right, sir, we’re from the Huon.’

‘I’m well acquainted with your family, Gordon,’ he said pleasantly, ‘and which particular branch do you happen to be from?’

‘My father is Franklin Powell, sir, of Powell Shipbuilding.’

‘Ah yes, of course, we’ve met on several occasions. I know your grandfather George well. He designed my favourite ship, the
SS Lady Evelyn.
And you, David?’ he said, turning to the younger lad. He knew the answer, of course – the boy was the spitting image of his lout of a father.

‘My father’s Thomas Powell of Charlotte Estate, sir, we grow apples.’

‘Yes, yes, so I’ve heard, and most successfully.’ Reginald didn’t bother addressing the nuggetty boy they’d called Max, who had the look of a peasant about him; there wasn’t any point. ‘Welcome to Stanford House, lads,’ he said as he rose, ‘I trust Hugh has looked after you well.’

‘Oh yes, sir,’ David said with a meaningful grin to the others, ‘Hugh’s been an excellent host.’

Reginald glanced around the table; was there insolence intended in the remark? ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said a little icily.

Gordie cast a warning glance at David. David’s cheekiness was always getting them into trouble. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, sir,’ he said, ‘the food was excellent.’

‘Yes, we’re very fortunate with our cook. It’s been pleasant meeting you lads. Feel free to stay as long as you like.’ Reginald gave a brisk nod to the group and took his leave.

Gordie, David and Max left only ten minutes later. They’d be in trouble, they said, if they weren’t back before curfew.

When they’d gone Hugh was summoned to his father’s study, where he stood to attention wondering why he’d been called.

‘I would prefer you did not invite those boys home again,’ Reginald said, pen in hand and without looking up from his papers.

‘Why ever not, Father?’ Hugh was bewildered. He’d always been encouraged to ask his friends back to the house. Perhaps he’s found out about the Rolls Royce, he thought, but if so surely I am the only one to blame. ‘They didn’t do anything wrong,’ he protested, ‘it was my idea –’

‘I’m fully aware they did nothing wrong, Hugh.’ Reginald put the pen down and looked up from his papers. ‘But you have no need to associate with boys like that.’

‘Boys like what?’

‘They’re a little uncouth, don’t you think?,’ he said pleasantly. He had no wish to alienate his son. ‘I certainly found them to be so. It is not surprising of course as they’re from the country, but –’

‘Wes and Harry are from the country.’

‘That’s true.’ Reginald maintained his patience, although he felt a flash of irritation: he was not accustomed to his son talking back to him in such a manner. ‘But Wesley and Harold are related, Hugh; they have Stanford blood in them. Which, I must say,’ he added with a smile intended to be humorous, ‘does not stop them from being a little rough about the edges. You must surely have noticed that.’

‘No.’ Hugh shook his head. ‘No, I haven’t noticed that.’

Reginald refused to lose his temper. Nothing was to be gained from snapping at the boy, who was clearly in need of guidance. ‘Sit down, Hugh.’

Hugh sat, and Reginald embarked upon his lecture. He was rather grateful to the Powell boys now for having triggered advice that appeared so timely.

‘School can breed a general sense of camaraderie, which is admirable,’ he said, ‘particularly on the football field and such, but one must never lose one’s abilities of discernment, Hugh. You have been born into a life of privilege and, as you get older, you will realise that you have a position in society that must be upheld . . .’

Hugh didn’t say a word, but he was shocked as he realised what he was hearing. His father was telling him he was better than others.

‘The Hutchins School attracts the finest families seeking the best education for their sons,’ Reginald continued, ‘and as such it presents the perfect opportunity for you to form bonds with those of similarly privileged background, bonds which will be of great advantage in the future. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, Father, I believe I do.’

‘Excellent.’ Reginald smiled fondly; he was so proud of his son. ‘All I’m saying, Hugh, is that you will cultivate a better class of friend if you’re a little more selective.’

‘Yes, Father, I know
exactly
what you’re saying.’

‘Good lad. Now go and get dressed for dinner. That is, if you can fit anything in after all those pasties and cake.’

Hugh left his father’s office a different boy from the one who had entered it. For the whole of his life he had been brought up to have the utmost respect for his father. Reginald Stanford was known as a man of immense integrity, a pillar of the community, a committed philanthropist. Never once had it crossed Hugh’s mind to question the judgement of such a man.

Now, on this day barely two months before his fourteenth birthday, he found himself not only questioning his father’s judgement but vehemently disagreeing with it. This was the day Hugh’s father fell from his pedestal, the day Hugh realised that the man whom he’d so respected and admired was a snob and a hypocrite. The realisation came as a shock, but it bred in Hugh a quiet rebellion. No-one would dictate to him his choice of friends: no-one.

A
N EXTRACT FROM
‘A T
IGER’S
T
ALE
’,
A
WORK IN PROGRESS BY
H
ENRY
F
OTHERGILL

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY,
1909

As young James Flood accompanied his host, Mr Haskel Slabodsky Junior, on a tour of his Fifth Avenue mansion on New York’s Upper East Side, he could only stare in awestruck amazement at the ‘trophies’ Mr Slabodsky Senior had collected throughout the last three psychotically violent decades of his life.

The stuffed animals were everywhere. Mostly they were heads, together with endless sets of horns and antlers, but dotted about in corners and alcoves the occasional complete stuffed beast looked forlornly out at the world from its own glass case. The trophies covered every spare foot of wall space in the absurdly large house where Haskel Slabodsky Junior solemnly stated he lived, ‘alone and haunted’.

‘My father killed every single one of them himself,’ Haskel said, peering about through thick horn-rimmed glasses and stroking the crown of his bald head in what James correctly assumed was a nervous mannerism. ‘All fifty-six rooms full, plus every hall, corridor and stairway. Thirty-five thousand dead animals in thirty years, Mr Flood. That’s roughly three creatures per day.’

‘But your father was a stockbroker, wasn’t he?’ James hurried to keep up with the little man. ‘Didn’t he found Slabodsky, Loewe and Partners?’

‘He did indeed found the company, Mr Flood, but I proved to be the financial wizard. It was I who bought and sold and traded and bartered, becoming in the process the eighth-richest person in the world, whilst my father at the age of forty-five suddenly and inexplicably pronounced himself a big-game hunter and took off around the globe killing defenceless animals for sport. He never even had the good grace to offer me, or more importantly my mother, an explanation.’ Haskel Slabodsky finally halted in his march through the labyrinthine halls of his house. ‘What do you say to that, sir?’

‘It does seem a little uncaring.’

‘My father was a monster, Mr Flood! A fiendish individual who killed unthinkingly, like a rabid dog!’ Haskel, aware of his escalating blood pressure, took a deep breath and held himself in check. ‘It is my avowed intention,’ he continued calmly, ‘to ensure that this monument to death serve some purpose, which is why I have summoned you here today.’

‘I don’t understand, sir.’

‘You are a zoologist. You are assistant to Mr William Temple Hornaday, director of the New York Zoological Park in the Bronx, correct?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I intend to donate this entire building and its sad ghosts to the City of New York as a museum. All profits will go to the American Bison Protection Society, which I recently founded with your Mr Hornaday and President Roosevelt. I intend also to fund other wildlife foundations upon request. As you can see, Mr Flood, I am determined my father’s monstrous legacy be put to good use.’

‘Most admirable, sir,’ James wondered where exactly he fitted into the scheme of things. ‘But I’m afraid I still don’t quite –’

’Mr Hornaday has strongly recommended that you be appointed the museum’s first director.’

‘Good heavens above.’ Young James Flood was overwhelmed. ‘I would be only too delighted to accept such an appointment, Mr Slabodsky,’ he said eagerly.

‘There is however, one proviso.’

‘A proviso?’

‘A Thylacinus cynocephalus.’

‘You mean an Australian marsupial wolf?’

‘Exactly, the so-called Tasmanian tiger. My informants tell me it could very well be on its way to extinction.’