Fault Line - Retail (13 page)

‘Is that what you really believe?’

She nodded glumly. ‘Yes. I believe it. Don’t you?’

‘I suppose … I have to.’

I told her then about the pig’s egg, news which she received as if it was yet further confirmation of her brother’s elaborate campaign of mystification. ‘I wonder what he intended the Z to signify? The end, perhaps.’

‘You’re assuming he inscribed the Z.’

‘Oh, I think he did, yes.’

‘Would you like … to have it? I could …’

‘No. You keep it, Jonathan. It’ll be something for you to remember him by.’

‘I’m sure I’ll always remember him.’

‘Will you?’ She smiled weakly. ‘That’s nice.’

‘What are you going to do … between now and Cambridge?’

‘I’m going away.’ It was the answer I’d dreaded. The realization had begun to seep into me that we were here to say goodbye. ‘Mother and I are going to Egypt. I’ve always wanted to see the pyramids. It’ll be hot and dusty and completely different from
everything
I know. It’s what I need at the moment. A foreign land.’

‘When do you leave?’

‘Saturday.’

‘So soon?’

‘It has to be soon. I can’t stay here. After the funeral … I have to get away.’

Another silence, timed by the sussurous swash of the sea. It deepened around us as we stood there, two figures on a beach, that early evening of late August, when we were young and thought the future was unwritten.

‘I’m sorry, Jonathan,’ Vivien said at last.

‘Me too,’ I murmured.

TEN

OLIVER’S FUNERAL WAS
attended by large numbers of people he could barely have known. Greville Lashley gave a eulogy that skirted adroitly round the specifics of his stepson’s death. From my place towards the rear, all I could see of Vivien was the back of her head. I didn’t see much more of her at the gathering afterwards, held in the function room at the White Hart. She knew I was there, of course. But we’d already said all there was to be said. I didn’t linger.

And then she was gone. To Egypt, to Cambridge, to places out of my reach. I soldiered on at Cornish China Clays, where I got a crash course in computing and an insight into just how far behind the times Wren’s had really been. The takeover soon took effect. TO LET signs were up at Wren’s East Hill offices within weeks. Pete Newlove confounded his own pessimism by securing a clerical post at CCC and we had a drink at the General Wolfe to celebrate. He asked what I thought the chances were that I’d end up working at CCC after university. I put them at zero and he bet me five pounds I was wrong. I reckoned my money was safe.

Then I was gone too, to London. I had to return briefly to St Austell after a couple of weeks, though, to appear as a witness at the inquest into Oliver’s death. Vivien had supplied her evidence in writing. ‘Thought it best on medical advice not to have her relive the whole terrible business in court,’ Lashley explained to me over
lunch
at the White Hart. ‘She’s settling down well at Cambridge. No sense putting that at risk, is there?’ I was in no position to disagree. The verdict – death by misadventure – happily avoided the conclusion that Oliver had emulated his father by taking his own life. All in all, the outcome from his family’s point of view was, as Lashley described it, ‘Satisfactory – really quite satisfactory.’

I wrote to Vivien, reporting how the inquest had gone, wishing her an exciting time at Cambridge and floating the idea of visiting her there, as we’d once discussed I might. I phrased it merely as a possibility. She didn’t have to say yes or no. In the event, she said neither. My letter went unanswered. ‘I have to get away,’ she’d told me that last day at Porthpean. And now I knew for certain I was part of what she had to get away from.

Student life in London brought enough novelties to distract me from the loss of what I’d hoped might blossom between Vivien and me. Resilient, Lashley had called me. And maybe he was right. Or maybe I was just young and eager to expand my world. New friends; new scenes; new experiences: I welcomed them all. The LSE was a hotbed of student activism in those days and finding myself on the fringe of the Grosvenor Square riot was a revelation of just how stultifying my existence in St Austell had been. Other revelations followed. This was 1968, after all. And I was where it was happening.

I went home for Christmas with long hair, a ‘Hey, man’ drawl I cringe to recall and plenty to talk about – but none of it with my parents. I did a couple of weeks as a relief postman and it was on Christmas Eve, after finishing early and downing several pints in the Queen’s Head with my fellow posties, that I encountered Vivien, walking along Fore Street with an irritatingly good-looking young man who was introduced to me as Roger and had public school, not to mention Cambridge, written all over his fine-boned features. Our conversation was brief and on my part muddled. I was too drunk to be taken for sober, but not drunk enough to be
unaware
how oafish I must have appeared. A light rain was falling, I remember. My breath was misting in the air. A busker was strumming a soggy guitar outside the Midland Bank. The dank grey afternoon was suddenly heavy with unspoken regret. ‘Merry Christmas, Jonathan,’ said Vivien, kissing me on the cheek. And then they moved on, hand in hand, strolling along the street, bound for Nanstrassoe House, I assumed, and tea beside a roaring fire. I watched them go – and bade Vivien a silent farewell.

2010

ELEVEN

DR FAY WHITWORTH WAS
a slim, plainly dressed woman in her forties, with short, dark, grey-flecked hair, a calm, patient face, and brown, soothing eyes. Something in her tone and bearing conveyed practicality as well as intelligence – in ample doses.

We met in a chicly minimalist restaurant in Bristol’s tarted-up harbourside district. Intercontinental Kaolins were paying, of course, and I’d been happy to let her choose a more comfortable (and expensive) venue for our discussion than the university canteen. I’d spent many of the long hours of my journey from Augusta struggling to comprehend how and why Greville Lashley had allowed the stand-off with Dr Whitworth to develop and sat down to lunch with her exasperated by the conundrum – and by the need not to appear so.

‘I gather from Mr Beaumont’s PA that you’ve worked for Intercontinental Kaolins and Cornish China Clays before it for more than forty years, Mr Kellaway,’ Dr Whitworth said, as she perused the menu. ‘I’m glad your superior saw the sense of sending someone with experience that goes back so far.’

‘For more than forty years we’d have to count some casual spells as a student,’ I said, downing a mouthful of white wine. ‘But I do have a lot of experience, however you tot it up.’

‘It was implied to me that you’re the corporation’s senior troubleshooter.’

‘I’m not sure there is such a designation.’

‘But if there were, you’d be it?’

I smiled. ‘I’m certainly here to help solve your … research problem.’

‘And how do you propose to do that?’

‘It’d be useful if you told me the exact nature of the problem first. Presley – Mr Beaumont – was a little hazy on the particulars.’

‘It’s quite simple, really. I—’ She broke off as the waitress came to take our order. Dr Whitworth plumped for salad and white fish. I opted for something from the less healthy end of the menu.

‘So,’ she resumed, ‘my problem. Well,
our
problem. I’m bound to say it’s rather confirmed my reservations about becoming involved in commercially contracted work. In the academic world, you see, there’s a … presumption of cooperation … that’s been generally lacking in my dealing with IK, despite the fact that your own former chairman commissioned my study.’

‘The staff you’ve dealt with have been uncooperative?’

‘There’s certainly been some obstructiveness, camouflaged, quite convincingly at times, by smiles and sundry blandishments.’

Sundry blandishments, indeed. The mind boggled. ‘Could you be more specific, doctor?’

‘Please call me Fay. I never persuaded anybody in St Austell to drop the “doctor”. I hope for better from you … Jonathan.’

‘Well, Fay …’ I smiled. ‘Let’s hope you get it.’

She returned the smile. ‘Now, you asked, quite rightly, for specifics. I’m happy to supply them. I made it clear from the outset in accepting Mr Lashley’s offer that I’d only be able to spare a limited amount of time from my university commitments. To make best use of that time I needed to be able to conduct my research in discrete, concentrated packages. I proposed to start in Cornwall and move on to the American side of things later. As matters currently stand, however, my work in Cornwall is incomplete, suspended, if you like, with no prospect of resumption before I’m provisionally scheduled to visit Georgia.’

‘Have you met Mr Lashley, Fay?’

‘No, no. Discussions were conducted through intermediaries. I gather he’s quite infirm. But is it important whether I’ve met him
or
not? My clear understanding is that he wants the history of the company to be written and published, preferably while he’s still alive to read it.’

‘An old man in a hurry.’

She looked surprised, if not shocked, by my disrespectful tone. ‘Is that how you see him?’

‘It’s probably how he sees himself. He’s a realist if nothing else.’

‘Well, we can agree he wants me to make progress with the project, yes?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Good. So, after familiarizing myself with the general history of the china clay industry, I went down to St Austell to amass detailed information on the origins and development of Cornish China Clays. Of course, as you’ll know, that effectively means the origins and development of half a dozen separate companies that eventually became Cornish China Clays through a series of mergers and acquisitions. I was somewhat surprised to discover that Mr Lashley didn’t start his career at CCC, as I’d supposed, but with one of the smaller outfits they took over in the nineteen sixties: Walter Wren and Co.’

‘Why did that surprise you?’

‘Because, speaking as something of a specialist in the field of corporate studies – the reason Mr Lashley hired me, after all – it’s very unusual for the principal of an acquired entity to become the principal of the acquirer.’

‘That didn’t happen overnight.’

‘No. But that it happened at all is remarkable. And not just once. From Wren and Co. to Cornish China Clays. From Cornish China Clays to Intercontinental Kaolins. Of course, I appreciate his ascent to seniority at Intercontinental Kaolins was smoothed by his marriage to Jacqueline Hudson.’ She paused, perhaps hoping I’d make some unguarded comment on Lashley’s highly advantageous second marriage. When it became obvious I wasn’t going to, she went on. ‘No such factor applies to his rise within CCC, however.’

‘No one’s ever doubted Mr Lashley’s expertise. Or his energy.’

‘Indeed not. He’s fifty years old when CCC takes over Wren’s, an obvious candidate for back-numbering. Instead, he works his way to the top – and stays there. It’s remarkable. Quite remarkable.’

‘A testament to the man.’

‘I agree. Which is why I felt I should give Wren’s rather more attention than the numerous other small companies CCC bought out over the years. Happily, Wren’s records are archived along with CCC’s in St Austell, as you know.’

‘I’d have assumed they were, Fay, certainly. But there could have been all sorts of clear-outs and disposals I’d know nothing about. I haven’t been to the St Austell office in years.’

‘Too busy carving a hole the size of the Isle of Wight out of the Amazonian rain forest, I suppose.’

I winced. ‘I believe we’re both in IK’s pay one way or the other.’

‘You’re right, of course. IK’s ecological credentials – or the lack of them – are a subject for another day.’ She smiled appeasingly and the arrival of our starters consolidated the pacifying effect. I wondered as the waitress delivered our plates how Fay Whitworth was going to approach the thorny issue of environmentalism in her history of the company. Would the anti-deforestation protesters who’d disrupted the last AGM get a mention? I rather hoped so.

‘It’s ironic, don’t you think,’ I ventured, ‘that you’ve found researching a long defunct minnow of a company like Wren’s so troublesome, when IK is a worldwide concern employing thousands of people and turning over millions of dollars?’

‘Yes. It is ironic. Very. Any idea why it’s happened?’

‘None. How could I have? You still haven’t told me what went wrong.’

‘No. I haven’t, have I? Very well. I was directed to the Wren’s section of the archive and initially made good progress. Documentation from the early years of the company is surprisingly extensive. Walter Wren was an unusually good employer for the period. His pits worked throughout the clay strike of 1913, for instance, thanks to the higher wages he paid. But it was a small company and it stayed that way, so it was bound to be vulnerable when consolidation swept through the industry. I’d like to be able
to
attach some facts and figures to its vulnerability, but that’s where I struck a major snag. All the Wren’s material is box-filed by financial year: 1895/96 through to 1968/69. And all the box-files, neatly labelled, are there to be seen on the shelf. But those covering the last twelve years of the company, from 1956/57 to the end, contain mostly blank paper.’

‘Blank paper?’

‘Yes. Some inconsequential documents at the top, then reams of unused sheets of paper – the flimsy kind once used for carbon copies. It’s the same in every file. From CCC records I know Wren’s directors voted to accept the CCC takeover offer at a meeting held on the twenty-second of August 1968. But the report of that meeting, along with everything else during the run-up to the takeover, is missing.’

‘That … can’t be right.’

‘Those were more or less the same words used by Mr Newlove when I complained to him.’

‘Pete Newlove?’

‘Yes. You know him?’

It really shouldn’t have come as any surprise that Pete was still clinging to a desk in St Austell. He was the same age as I was and probably planned to soldier on until he was sixty-five. He was also, in all probability, the only former Wren’s employee still on the payroll. Other than me, of course. ‘Pete and I go back a long way,’ I admitted cagily.