Derek Corby clearly wasn’t convinced that the trickle-down advantages for the hospitality and entertainment industries were worth the human wastage at his branch of the Royal Lancashire, but he didn’t comment further. Instead he confined himself to a moody swig of beer.
Later on, at dinner, sitting on an outlying table which he and his wife had been squeezed on to alongside guests from the growing financial services industries of Romania and Serbia, Derek Corby switched from moody swigs of beer to moody swigs of wine and then Scotch.
‘Just because Jimmy’s insisted on giving us a car and driver,’ his wife whispered, ‘it doesn’t mean you have to get drunk.’
‘I’m not drunk,’ Jimmy’s father replied, but he knocked a glass over while he said it. Not one glass but a whole set, since it would have taken a very sober man indeed to knock over only one glass on that table. Each place setting was supplied with a plethora of them: champagne flutes, a white-wine glass, an enormous red-wine glass, a water glass, a dessert-wine glass and a cognac bubble you could have kept a goldfish in. Derek dominoed the lot. Had he been playing ten-pin bowling it would have been a terrific effort.
Just then, far away on the top table, Rupert rose to speak and so Nora Corby’s embarrassment was partially covered by the general scraping back of chairs and last-minute refills.
After thanking the politicians and Rod Stewart and Penny Lancaster for attending, Rupert went on to cover a great deal of the same ground as his friends’ conversation earlier. He extolled the virtues of the creative new banking sector and its massive contribution to the current pre-eminent position Britain held in the financial world. Indeed, anyone listening might have imagined that Rupert and his colleagues laboured principally in order to make Britain great again. The senior politician who had spoken earlier took much the same view and even went so far as to quote the Chancellor, Gordon Brown himself, when he spoke of the ‘courage’ that bankers and traders showed in their innovative and ground-breaking activities.
Rupert conceded that it was not merely the nation as a whole which was benefiting from the RLB’s extraordinary success. His first duty as chief executive officer was of course to his shareholders, and in that stern task he had not been found wanting. Indeed, if anything the shareholders had done better than the nation as a whole, seeing their individual share price jump from £3.50 to £9 in just four years. Rupert hoped his audience would not think him conceited if he pointed out that when he had taken over as CEO the share price had been just £2.50. These figures were greeted with waves of applause, as well they might since there were many shareholders present and Sir Rupert had effectively trebled their wealth.
This, however, was not the end of the man’s achievements. Sir Rupert also wanted his audience to be aware that he was proud to be at the helm of such an august and ancient institution as the Royal Lancashire Bank. It had been trading for over three hundred years, although never (he could not help but mention) as successfully as it was doing currently. Sir Rupert then chose to illustrate the longevity (and egalitarian nature) of the institution that he now had the honour to lead by pointing out that there was present at the dinner a local branch manager who had been with the bank all his life, having served with the RLB subsidiary the National City ever since leaving school.
It took Derek Corby a moment to realize that his son’s old university friend was referring to him, and that a spotlight had swung over the heads of the important diners at the front and was illuminating him and half of Nora.
‘Derek Corby,’ Sir Rupert continued, ‘is the father of one of my oldest friends. I’ve known him for fifteen years. I never imagined that I would ever be his boss, but after masterminding the takeover of the National City I find that I am. And I would like to thank you, Derek, for a lifetime of service to the industry we both love.’
Then a pretty young woman in a tiny black dress approached the table holding a magnum of champagne and an exciting-looking envelope.
There was applause. Derek Corby seemed somewhat frozen. Frozen like a shy bank manager in a spotlight. So much so that Nora had to reach forward and accept the gifts from the pretty girl.
The applause did not last long and was about to die altogether when Derek rose to his feet.
‘Sir Rupert,’ he said, blinking in the bright light and pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts, ‘you are a vandal and a first-class bastard!’
Derek swayed slightly but he did not fall. Instead he took a swig of Scotch from the glass in his hand and continued.
‘Let me tell you something,’ he said, pointing a finger across the marquee. ‘Your first duty is
not
to your shareholders. That is a modern idea which is trotted out whenever a job is cut or a service reduced. Business was not invented solely for the profit of shareholders. Your first duty and the duty of any employer is to your staff and to your customers, not to the bloody shareholders! Shareholders are sleeping partners. Their fortunes should rise and fall together with the fortunes of those who actually
make
the business in which the shareholders have chosen to invest. You and your like, Sir Rupert, have created a situation where shareholder profit is created at the
expense
of the staff and customers. They have become enemies. This is obscene! It’s madness! It’s completely barking! You have forsaken your duty, Sir Rupert, and I don’t want your bloody champagne!’
It was a stirring speech.
A brave and noble effort.
Unfortunately nobody heard it. Derek did not have a microphone and people had begun talking to each other the moment Rupert sat down. Even Nora Corby caught only the odd word in the babble that arose after Sir Rupert had taken his seat.
Watching from a table much nearer the front, Jimmy beamed with pride and Monica got quite teary.
‘Can you believe it?’ Jimmy said. ‘Dad getting honoured like that? Wish I could hear what he was saying, he looks really emotional.’
‘Yes,’ Monica replied, ‘that
was
nice of Rupert, wasn’t it?’
School leaver
Abbey Hall School was situated on Kensington High Street, along which Jimmy and Toby were crawling when Monica called.
‘Are you on hands-free?’
‘Yes,’ Jimmy lied, struggling with the phone and watching out for cops.
‘You must be on hands-free!’
‘I am on hands-free! What is it?’
‘Are you there yet?’
‘I’m trying to get close enough so I can let him out.’
‘You must be right by the gate and you MUST be actually on the kerb!’ Monica shouted. ‘He is NOT to cross traffic.’
‘I know, I know. But I can’t get to the kerb, can I?’
‘Well, then you’ll have to find a parking space. You might as well anyway because Mr Lombard’s secretary just called. They want one of us to pop in.’
‘Oh God,’ said Jimmy.
‘I know.’
This was the morning after Jimmy had learned that the Seventh Cavalry in the shape of a fat, unsecured loan from an old friend would not in fact come thundering over the horizon any time soon. If the head wanted to discuss the issue of Toby’s outstanding school fees then Jimmy knew he did not have a lot of answers.
Jimmy had no choice but to manoeuvre his way back out of the scrum of unforgiving metal clustered around the little school gate and try to punch his way into the residential streets south of the high street. Living in Notting Hill, he had a Kensington and Chelsea residents’ permit and was hoping to find a space. Inevitably there were none. There never were, and Jimmy was forced to swing his car into one of the numerous and much-resented diplomatic bays. He had no choice.
Hoping for the best, Jimmy took his son by the hand and walked back up to the school. It was past nine by the time they arrived and so both man and boy had to bear that horribly uncomfortable feeling of entering a school after classes have begun. Toby was clearly mortified and Jimmy did not feel much better, particularly after he noticed how dirty Toby’s shoes were. Abbey Hall set great store by a neat appearance, believing it to be an essential part of school discipline; it was one of the things that attracted parents like Jimmy and Monica. Jimmy knew that all the other boys would have shiny shoes. As shiny as Toby’s had been during the days when Jodie had done them for him. Jimmy himself had started to clean his own shoes at the age of seven but children just didn’t do that sort of thing for themselves any more. Just like they didn’t pick up after themselves either. The culture had changed. Kids had
everything
done for them and it wasn’t Toby’s fault that the support structure had suddenly disappeared from under him. The little boy was like the helpless survivor of a shipwreck, cast adrift in a wild new world for which he was equipped with zero survival skills.
Toby joined his class, who were just heading off to assembly. He looked like he wished he was dead. Jimmy took his aching heart in search of the headmaster’s office.
He had to wait in the secretary’s outer office until assembly was over and then wait again while the great man bustled past him, hymnbook still under his arm, and closed the door behind him. Finally Jimmy was invited in, feeling almost as if it was his own headmaster, not Toby’s, to whose office he had been summoned. And like an errant schoolboy, Jimmy tried to get his excuses in first.
‘Look, Mr Lombard,’ he began quickly, ‘I know that Toby’s been marked absent a number of times and . . .’
Mr Lombard interrupted him. ‘I’m afraid this is not about Toby’s absences, nor does it concern his homework. I’m afraid that what I need to discuss with you is non-payment of fees.’
‘Ah,’ said Jimmy.
He should have seen that coming. What else but unpaid fees would be on the mind of the head of a private school facing an impoverished parent? The establishment was, after all, first and foremost a business.
‘I need to enquire, Mr Corby,’ Mr Lombard continued, ‘whether you see any possibility of settling the balance of your account with Abbey Hall in the immediate future. As you know, you are in arrears by more than a term now and Toby is not a scholarship boy.’
‘No. Of course not. I understand that.’
‘And yet for some months Abbey Hall has been effectively educating him for nothing.’
‘Yes. That’s right. I can see that,’ Jimmy conceded, adding a rather pathetic ‘sorry’.
‘Were Toby to leave us now, Abbey Hall would not pursue you for the outstanding debt, but if he is to stay then we will expect your account to be settled in full. Not merely the arrears but also the advance payment which has now come due.’
The significance of this last point was not lost on Jimmy.
‘
If
he is to stay?’ Jimmy repeated. ‘What do you mean, Mr Lombard? You’re not saying . . . you’re not going to
expel
him, are you?’
‘Mr Corby, expulsion has nothing to do with it. Toby has done nothing wrong and of course won’t be disciplined. Your taking him out of school would be cause for regret on both sides and it is of course your choice, not ours.’
‘Choice?’
‘Abbey Hall is a fee-paying school, Mr Corby. If you choose not to pay the fees then clearly you do not wish your son to be educated here.’
It was a neat way of putting it but not one that Jimmy felt minded to put up with.
‘You mean you’re chucking him out?’ he asked.
‘Mr Corby, are you in a position to settle your account with Abbey Hall and pay for next term?’
‘Not if viewed within a specific short-term time frame.’
‘Is that a yes or a no?’
‘There are cash-flow issues still to be resolved.’
‘Mr Corby, I must have a banker’s order now.’
‘And I have every expectation of being able to satisfy that demand within a structured temporal framework.’
‘Does that mean now, Mr Corby?’
‘Now as pertains to the upcoming financial year, I very much hope so.’
‘But not now as in today?’
Jimmy had run out of vocabulary.
‘No.’
‘In that case I’m afraid that Toby can no longer keep his place at Abbey Hall.’
For a moment there was silence. It was all so sudden. Could this man really mean it? Toby was being thrown to the wolves.
‘But . . . he’s done so well here,’ Jimmy said quietly.
‘I don’t like this any more than you do, Mr Corby,’ the headmaster replied. ‘If it’s any comfort at all, I can assure you you’re not the only family in this position. It’s hard on us all.’
Jimmy looked the headmaster square in the eye.
‘Last Christmas I donated five thousand pounds to the new gymnasium wheelchair facility,’ he said.
‘And we were extremely grateful.’
‘Can’t you take that and use it for Toby’s fees?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it has already gone towards the gymnasium wheelchair facility.’
‘But I don’t care about that any more. Toby’s not disabled. Let the disabled kid’s parents pay for his bloody access to the gym.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Corby, but the two issues are entirely unrelated. Your generous donation was made almost a year ago and was spent soon afterwards. It has no bearing on the current situation. If you are unable to pay his fees, Toby must leave. I take no pleasure in this, in fact I deeply regret it, but although we have charitable status we are not a charity . . .’
‘Except when you’re asking for donations.’
‘We are not a charity and the facts are as I have described them.’
Jimmy was horrified. Toby had been so happy at Abbey Hall, at least until he had started turning up with dirty shoes, untreated nits and a builder’s lunch. He was getting a first-class education, a tried and tested route to Oxbridge and lifelong success among the nation’s elite. The alternative was almost too horrible to contemplate.
‘But what . . . what can we do?’ Jimmy enquired.