The Fall and Rise of Gordon Coppinger. David Nobbs
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me, but that’s what we’re here to find out.
‘Winchester, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Like it?’
‘I think it was great. I felt privileged.’
You are.
A barge hooted urgently on the sullen river. Sir Gordon never found time to stand at his great picture window and look at the boats. All he saw when he looked at the window were the window cleaners’ bills.
‘Good school motto, Winchester. “Manners maketh man.”’ Most stupid bloody motto in the history of mottoes. Manners concealeth man. ‘We certainly set great store by manners here.’
‘I can see that, sir.’
You can see nothing.
‘So why do you want to work in the City?’
‘It would be stupid to pretend that I didn’t like the idea of making a lot of money, sir, but I honestly do think it would be the right career path for me.’
‘It doesn’t worry you that you might be setting out on this … “career path” … at a time when it may be turning into a rather rocky road?’
‘I hardly think working for you could ever be described as being on a rocky road, sir.’
Too smooth for his own good. Could be quite clever, though, could fancy making a name for himself. Keep him well away from Gordon Investments.
‘I’m going to offer you a job, Martin, but … you’re going to have to prove yourself.’
‘I would expect nothing else, sir.’
‘Good. Good. If you accept it, you’ll have to move to Stoke.’
That’ll teach you for being six foot five.
‘Stoke?’
‘On-Trent.’
‘Oh yes, sir, I know of it. The Potteries.’
‘Exactly. Arnold Bennett country.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m not with you.’
‘Arnold Bennett was a famous man from that region.’
‘Oh, really. What did he … what was he famous for, sir, exactly?’
‘He invented a very well-known omelette.’
‘Good heavens.’
‘Full of smoked fish.’
‘Good Lord.’
‘I know.’
Sir Gordon swivelled idly from side to side in his large executive chair, as if he was weighing up what to say next, though he knew perfectly well what he was going to say next.
‘I daresay you dream of getting rich overnight, but I want to test your mettle in manufacturing, Martin.’
‘Manufacturing, sir?’
‘Yes. I have factories that actually make things. I’m not just a money man, you know.’
‘Oh, I know, sir.’
The first lie. Oh well.
‘Have you heard of Porter’s Potteries Pies?’
‘I can’t say that I have, sir.’
Avoided a second lie. Well done. Not a bad lad, sadly.
‘Well, I have a finger in many pies, and they happen to be one of them.’
Didn’t even smile. No sense of humour? That could be a problem, working for Porter’s Potteries Pies.
‘Porter’s – they’re the Wedgwood of the pie.’
‘Ah.’
‘Cut your teeth on them, and the world could be your oyster.’
‘Thank you, sir. Do you … um …’ A roguish look spread over Martin Fortescue’s face. ‘Do you ever put oysters in your pies? I know people used to.’
‘Arnold Bennett, probably. No, we never have. Maybe you could explore the possibility.’
‘Thank you, sir. I certainly will.’
Sir Gordon sent Martin on his way and immediately telephoned his father. Martin’s father, not his own. No point in telephoning his own father. Not compos mentis. No longer wise. Very sad. Terrible, actually.
‘Julian?’ He was relishing this moment. He only wished he could see Julian Fortescue’s self-satisfied face when he told him he was sending his precious son to a pie factory in the Potteries. ‘I’ve seen your son, Julian, and I’m offering him a job. In my pie factory. In Stoke.’
‘Stoke?’
‘On-Trent.’
‘I know where Stoke is, Gordon. Oh, Gordon, pies, that’s marvellous, that’ll take the smile off his face. And Stoke. All the way to Stoke. We were wondering how the hell we could ever persuade him to leave home. I can’t thank you enough for this, Gordon.’
It was going to be one of those days.
‘I really have shocked myself’
His second meeting was with Fred Upson, MD of SFN Holdings.
Fred was one of those people who irritated you by their passivity, and then irritated you even more by their passive acceptance of your right to irritate them. He was one of life’s natural victims, and Sir Gordon, like most other people, couldn’t resist a little bit of ritual humiliation.
He had to be careful, however, very careful. Fred knew where the body was buried, the body in this case being SFN Holdings. He would be committing professional suicide if he alienated Fred. Fred might perhaps suspect that he was being humiliated at these Monday meetings, but he must never be allowed to know it for certain. The relationship was on a knife-edge, but then the edges of knives were Sir Gordon’s favourite territory.
He also had to pay Fred extremely well.
He moved the hard chair to an obscure corner of the room, and brought forward one of the soft chairs.
His meetings with Fred were always scheduled for nine-thirty, just early enough to make it impractical for him to get to Euston from Dudley that morning, and so forcing him to spend a night in the London that he loathed so much.
Fred was on time, of course, exactly on time, on the dot, as always. How irritating was that?
Sir Gordon indicated the soft chair.
‘Make yourself comfortable.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘Had coffee at the hotel, thank you. Vile. Put me off the stuff for weeks.’
‘Something stronger, then?’
‘Oh no. No, no. No thanks. Bit early for me.’
Fred had a drink problem. Offering him something stronger was just perfect – right on the edge of the knife.
‘So, hotel not good?’
‘Disgusting.’
‘I thought we’d got you a new one, F.U.’
The edge of that knife again. Fred could hardly complain, they were his initials, but he must have resented it. He didn’t show it at all, though, which of course made Sir Gordon want to say it all the more.
‘You did, Sir Gordon. I’ve now tried the Ibis, the Travelodge, the Travel Inn, the Kwality Inn, the Premier Inn, the Outside