The Fall and Rise of Gordon Coppinger. David Nobbs
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of my expenses. They have rather piled up. If they could be … er … processed …’ Fred Upson didn’t quite have the courage to use the verb ‘paid’. ‘… I’d be very grateful. Not that I … but … you know.’
‘Absolutely. Helen will be processing them even now, if I know Helen.’ Sir Gordon was almost tempted, just to see Fred Upson’s face, to add, ‘And I do know Helen. In the biblical sense.’ But he resisted it. Mustn’t give employees ammunition.
‘Right. The most important matter is dealt with.’ Sir Gordon smiled at Fred Upson, to show that this was, and at the same time wasn’t, a joke. Fred Upson’s expenses were a legend in the Stick of Celery. ‘Everyone in my employ is the best at something,’ Sir Gordon had once said. ‘And in Fred Upson’s case it’s expenses.’
‘So! To business! How are things at good old SFN?’
‘You know how they are, Sir Gordon. They never change.’
‘True.’
‘I read that article about our results being disappointing. Strange that SFN should be mentioned at all, but rather reassuring.’
‘I wondered if they meant you were going to declare a profit.’
‘Oh my God, no.’
‘Actually, Fred …’
The phone rang. It was part of the ritual.
‘Sorry about this.’
That was part of the ritual too. Sir Gordon wasn’t at all sorry. In fact, he had instructed Helen to send through as many phone calls as possible during Fred Upson’s visits. It was his little joke, for his own amusement only. Power can be boring, and absolute power can be absolutely boring. Fred might suspect that she was doing this, but he couldn’t know it.
Helen didn’t always do Sir Gordon’s bidding. In fact, she was becoming less and less compliant. He couldn’t sack her, unfortunately, or she would rearrange the vowels and issue a complaint. One unwise Tuesday he’d had sex with her for seven minutes and he’d regretted it for eleven years. But she did what he asked with regard to Fred Upson. She too found pleasure in annoying him. Mother Teresa herself would have found the temptation hard to resist.
‘Coppinger,’ he announced briskly into the phone.
‘Me too.’
‘Oh, hello Hugo.’ He mouthed, ‘My brother. Won’t be long,’ to Fred. ‘How are you, Hugo?’
Hugo went straight to the point. Phones weren’t made for small talk.
‘Can you do lunch? The Intrepid Snail, one o’clock. A.A. Gill slated it, so it can’t be bad.’
‘Well, yes, but … any reason? Not that it matters.’
‘No reason, except … well, two things, only one of which I would dream of mentioning on the phone.’
‘Do you think your phone may be being hacked?’
‘They wouldn’t dare. No, I think your phone may be being hacked.’
‘So what’s the reason you can mention?’
‘Jack. We must do something about him.’
‘Ah. The Intrepid Snail, one o’clock, right.’ He put the phone down and smiled insincerely at Fred Upson.
‘Sorry about that, F.U. Where were we?’
‘Your tone changed and became serious and you said, “Actually, Fred …”’
‘Ah, yes. Yes. Actually, Fred …’
The phone rang again.
‘Oh good heavens, so sorry about this.’ He picked up the phone. ‘Coppinger.’
‘It’s me, Dad.’
‘Luke!’ He mouthed, ‘My son. Won’t be long,’ to Fred.
Fred gave him an ‘I understand. It doesn’t matter. He’s family. I’m not. I’m just an employee’ look which irritated Sir Gordon so much that he felt tempted to have a really long chat, except that no good could come out of a long chat with Luke. These thoughts had the suitable accompaniment of at least three vehicles rushing through the windy streets around Canary Wharf with sirens blaring.
‘Is it a bad time?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘That’s a miracle.’
‘So, how can I help?’
‘I don’t know if you can.’
Sir Gordon looked across to Fred Upson, sitting there so patiently, seemingly content to be ritually humiliated, and suddenly all irritation left him. He felt a stab of sympathy for the man. This wasn’t good, he wasn’t at home with sympathy the way he was with irritation, but he found himself wondering about Fred’s home life, was he married, could he be married, what sort of woman could possibly … and then he realized that he hadn’t heard a word of what his son was saying. This was awful. Get a grip, Gordon.
‘So what would you advise, Dad?’
‘Luke, I have a big problem here …’ He shook his head several times, trying to tell Fred that the problem was nothing to do with him, or that the problem was a fiction. ‘… and I’m afraid I … I didn’t fully catch what you said.’
‘Well, how much did you catch?’
‘Luke, it might be better just to tell the whole story again.’
‘Are you all right, Dad? This isn’t like you.’
‘I know. I don’t seem to be terribly like me today.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. Get on with it.’
Sir Gordon felt that he was in danger of raising his voice, of losing his rag, and he never did that in the office. Well, never anywhere, but particularly not in the office.
‘OK,’ continued Luke. ‘Look, you know my painting of the Garden of Eden?’
‘Not specifically.’
‘Well, I showed it to you last time you visited us, and you asked if it was Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons.’
‘Oh, that one. Yes, vaguely. Sorry.’
‘Well, you may not like it, but Carmarthen Art Gallery think it’s pretty wonderful. Or was.’
‘What? “Was”?’
‘It’s been vandalized.’
‘What?’
‘Horrid words daubed all over it.’
Another siren. You’d have thought the world must be ending somewhere, but it was just another routine London day.
‘What horrid words?’
‘Well … sorry, Dad … “Fuck off”.’
‘“Fuck off”?’ Sir Gordon smiled apologetically at Fred.
‘Yes. And … “Ffycia bant”.’
‘“Ffycia bant”?’
‘Yes. That’s Welsh.’
‘Welsh for what?’
‘Welsh for “Fuck off”.’
‘I see. So somebody’s told you to fuck off in two languages.’ Good for them. Almost worth learning another language just for that. ‘I think that’s carrying nationalistic sensitivity a bit far.’ He smiled apologetically at Fred once again. ‘Not very friendly to you.’
‘Not just to me, Dad.’
‘What?’
‘There’s