The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1) (11 page)

Greg, glossing over the less savoury details, recounted his reception when he turned up at the villa whilst Jan listened sympathetically - though without surprise.

“I'm sure,” she consoled, “in a few years, when your children can stand back and see the whole picture clearly, they’ll understand what happened. At the moment - hard as it is to take in - they probably feel you let them down somehow.”

Greg agreed, and went on to add that he was relieved in an odd way. “If I’d found they were bitterly unhappy and lost without me, I’d have felt far more responsibility towards them. As it is, empty as I feel, I can get on with my life now.”

Jan then filled Greg in on events during his absence, keen to inform him that Sarah had been to see her during the week with news that she'd a definite buyer for the estate.

"Prepared to pay well over the asking price – in cash apparently, and provided Nigel’s agreeable she’s ready to sell.” Sarah, she continued, saw no mileage in getting further into debt – especially as the unnamed buyer had offered far more than was expected! “She still doesn’t want to go, but can you blame her? Having said which, I feel terribly for the families on the estate.”

“But as I said, legally they can’t just sling them out,” protested Greg.

“Suppose not, but it’s the thin end of the wedge. As you’ve said yourself, there’s more than one way of skinning a cat.”

“Mmm.” Greg nodded thoughtfully and frowned. "I suppose the cabin’s off as well?”

“No,” Jan brightened suddenly. “I’ve been saving the good news. She’s offering us the lot at a land-only price: selling it as a domestic or business residence would be too complicated, apparently. I’ve already spoken to Weaver at my building society, and he was quite encouraging…" she paused. “As encouraging as blokes like him can be, that is.”

Greg’s face lit up with the first good news he’d heard for a week - the tonic he needed. “I can't believe they'll let it go for a land
only
price” He gaspe
d
incredulousl
y
. “Are you
sure
you haven’t made a mistake?”

“Positive.” Jan laughed at Greg’s dumbfounded expression. “Someone up there must like us.”

"Seems so,” replied Greg knowingly. “Best get up and see Sarah before someone changes her mind.”

“Not before you've had some proper food.”

*

 Sarah confirmed everything Jan had said, but added that the prospective buyer, already in the holiday business, had been "curious" when she’d first informed him the cabin wasn’t included.

“I told him it was spoken for.” said Sarah firmly, “I would have given it away rather than go back on my word. His accountant seemed quite happy though, and didn't see the "narrow strip of land" as much of an asset by comparison. So it’s all resolved.” She paused momentarily. “I never said this, but I’ve a feeling the buyer might make you a worthwhile offer at some future point.”

“Fingers crossed! We’ve got to get past Weaver first,” said Greg as he turned to Jan. “We’ll need it all drawn up properly as a joint venture.”

At that Jan insisted that she couldn’t leave Jamie unattended any longer, and left Greg talking to Sarah. “I’ve got a little job I need doing...” Jan heard Sarah say as she was leaving.

Greg had a good idea what the
little job
might be, and was happy to oblige.

"In the library, I thought," suggested Sarah with a glint in her eye. "Save us getting stale."

“Whatever turns you on.” Greg sighed as the pair undressed between Volumes of Public Speech and The Complete Works of Shakespeare, before draping a huge towel over a Bengal-tiger rug that had last sown wild oats the preceding century.

Pink and grateful as ever, Sarah rolled onto the appropriately threadbare carpet and purred, “Don’t worry if you can’t get a loan, I’m sure I can arrange something. The price we’re getting for this...”

“If we can’t buy and make it pay by fair means,” interrupted Greg firmly, “then I'd rather not bother, and I’m sure that goes for Jan, too.” Greg liked Sarah – a lot - but he didn’t want to be in the pocket of a
sugar momma
, however enticing the prospects.

Sarah seemed put out, but chose the moment to ask the question Greg was expecting.

“Did you learn anything from Nigel?”

“No,” replied Greg flatly, “and I honestly don’t think he knows of any
inheritance
- or even that one exists.”

Sarah sat up and began dressing. “I didn’t think you'd have any luck. Worth a try though."

*

It was still early afternoon as Greg locked
Lucy-Ella
in one of the old coach buildings now housing the estate vehicles. It was mild for early March, a spring-like feel on the breeze as he set off for a late-lunchtime pint. As Greg walked, he reflected on what a roller-coaster ride the week had been. He'd sunk from a high just over a week ago to a point where he couldn't imagine feeling happy again. Now, suddenly, he could think of no better way of spending his life than selling sandwiches, chilli, chips and cream teas; and wandering up to the Holly Tree on long summer evenings after a hard day. Life seemed promising again, even if it entailed sleeping in the caravan, and fetching kettles of water every time he wanted tea or a shave.

 The lads were pleased to see Greg, though he remained vague when quizzed about the journey, and after a few pints of “good honest beer,” he slept the rest of the day away with his beloved Red. It felt warm in the 'van as late sun filtered through onto his bunk, the spring-like feel lingering through the evening and into Monday as Jan and Greg made their way up to the building society.  Jan had phoned at nine to say that she'd taken Jamie to play-group and had arranged an appointment for eleven: the sleepy branch was never overloaded with business – least of all at that time of year.

Although they arrived on time, Weaver used the privilege apparently bestowed on all bank managers and their ilk by keeping them waiting until twenty past, so both were rather edgy when they were ushered into his office.

“I’m sure it’s a tactic used by all professionals,” remarked Greg from experience.

“To make us feel like underdogs?” whispered Jan.

“Mmm - the street urchin syndrome again: Bisto Kids my dad called them.”

Weaver’s ploy worked: they remained uneasy as he stared weasel-like at each in turn. An itchy, scratchy, ferret of a man, frequently rummaging in places that made Greg and Jan feel uncomfortable. Despite his belief to the contrary, Weaver’s vocabulary was limited to platitudes like:
point taken; fair comment; don’t we all; shall we say - er;
and a host of boring stock phrases strung together to form sentences.

"Like a verbal string of sausages," muttered Greg impatiently, the constant scratching of privates
only adding to his annoyance - more so when Weaver exercised another divine right by leaving the room without explanation.

Greg could barely contain his frustration. “He's just after our money when all’s said and done: if we tick the right boxes he’ll sell us a loan. That’s all he’s out to do; glorified shopkeeper!”

By the time the manager returned, Greg had tired of the treatment, and decided to take the initiative by asking if he intended advancing a loan or not. He'd noted that, up to that point, Weaver’s reply to every question had been “Quite… quite, quite.”

“With all respect, Mr Weaver,” said Greg seriously, “we need an answer as soon as possible.”

“Oh quite...quite, quite.”

"
It's working
," breathed Greg before continuing: “So we want to borrow as much of the total sum as possible.”

“Oh quite... quite, quite - but shall we say er...?”

Greg didn’t like the shift in tactics: he’d preferred the “Quite… quite, quites” without frills.

Weaver paused briefly, deep in thought, his eyes fluttering momentarily to produce a desired facial expression. He'd obviously never practiced in a mirror, thought Greg, or he'd have dropped it from his repertoire. As a lad, Greg had seen a cockerel dying after having been savaged by a dog; Weaver had just captured the look to a T. Its eyeballs had vanished with spasmodic flutters into the top of the sockets, and the lids had closed from the bottom - a trait peculiar to dying cockerels Greg had assumed. And now Weaver!

The manager in the meantime was employing a new tactic. He was talking sensibly; making unrehearsed statements without stock phrases. “Well, I can see that the business proposition is a viable one,” he droned, “and I’m sure the property and surrounding land are well worth the asking price - and more. If it were a simple mortgage application, then the wooden construction of the cabin may have presented a problem.”
There’s hope, thought Jan and Greg
. Weaver’s voice sank by a full octave. “But this is an application for a business loan.”

Weaver executed his dying cockerel look again before continuing pompously: “As I've known Miss Richards for a number of years, that allows me to say that - subject to certain guarantees - I would be prepared to offer a loan of half the total value.” Weaver tapped some figures into his laptop, whereupon an adjacent printer sprang to life.

"There you are." Seconds later he leaned over and took the printed document and slid it surreptitiously across the desk as though it was a royal straight flush. "The advance and repayments are all itemised."

Greg glanced at the figures, having allowed for the fact that, as an unknown, he'd be expected to find his share in hard cash.

All my savings and we're still ten grand short.

There was no way Greg was going to let it slip at that stage. He could smell chilli. Hear sausages spitting.

“I can't quite raise the remaining balance in cash, Mr Weaver,” he said optimistically, “can you extend the loan to Jan by ten thousand? After all, you
have
just said you'd loan Jan fifty percent of the value.”

“Well?” Weaver responded with a scratching session and a half-hearted flutter: not one of his best by a long chalk.

“Two local agents have already put the total value at forty thousand
above the asking price.
The offer made is based on land-only value, so Jan would be well guaranteed.”

“Fair comment,” agreed Weaver, “Point taken, then shall we say er...?” Greg knew instantly that Weaver was back on course: he’d stopped speaking sensibly and was linking platitudes again. Arrangements were made for the society's own surveyor to inspect the premises that week, and, subject to his approval, a loan was agreed.

***

Suddenly things seemed miraculously on course, but a giant hiccup almost threw things off beam. When they returned to the cabin, Jan went to her bedroom to collect Greg’s money. She returned seconds later in a state of utter distress.

“It’s gone!” she sobbed. “Your money’s gone!”

Jan pleaded her innocence, though there was no need: Greg trusted her implicitly.

"Have you told anyone? Anyone at all?” he asked urgently.

“I mentioned the package to Mick,” she said between sobs, “in case he found it by accident. But I didn’t tell him what was in it, and I’m sure he wouldn’t tell anyone.”

Greg winced at her naïveté. “I’m not worried about him
telling
anyone, Jan. Where does he live?” Greg grabbed Jan’s hand and pulled her upright. “D’you have a key to his flat? Come on, I want to pay him a visit! Now!”

On reaching the flat they were up the stairs and inside before Mick knew what was happening. Amateur as he was, he'd laid the cash out on the table for counting.

Greg hit Mick once. Hard, and below the belt. Such a savagely delivered blow it was a good thirty seconds before Mick could breathe again. When he spoke at last, neither Greg nor Jan wanted to listen to his hysterical babblings. "Thieving bastard," yelled Greg as he scooped up the money and handed it to Jan, anxious to escape the wails of self-pity.

“Don’t even think about calling me!”  Jan called over her shoulder as they made for the door.

Jan never saw Mick again; she was glad to be rid of him, though Greg felt awkward with the one to one situation they were left in. Not that he didn’t like Jan: he loved her in a "sisterly sort of way," but was anxious that no-one - least of all Jan - should interpret the situation as that of a couple drawn together by fate. As for the theft itself, Greg was puzzled that Mick should be so stupid - though it was to be some time before he understood the full motive behind the theft.

The awkward situation apart, everything else went according to plan. Greg paid over the cash towards the cabin leaving himself with only a few hundred pounds, though he considered the money far better invested than hidden in wall cavities or the like. He felt no less daunted, however, as he paid over the remains of his hard-earned cash.

He and Jan still had plenty to do, though Greg felt at that stage he'd be best employed publicising the cafe’s existence. Disappointed that he was too late for registration in current camping and caravanning journals, he managed to procure spaces in provincial papers, as well as trade journals and guides.